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Chapter Text

Griffin.

The word clattered through Merlin's head, chasing away every other thought. Gaius' bestiary had not done it justice; not at all. The creature towered over him, its wings spread and mantled as its paws cleaved into the soft forest loam. A croaking scream escaped its throat. The stench of foul meat and piss clouded around it as wisps of steam rose from its sweating flanks.

Fear blanked his mind, leaving him breathless as his magic coiled under his tongue. He could feel it surging in his veins and pressing against his teeth, but before he could utter a single syllable, another roar echoed through the air.

A race of thudding footsteps: the clang of iron and grunts of exertion.

Merlin could only stare as the stranger harried the creature, driving it back. That hooked beak parted around a scream of outrage, its wings flapping in annoyance. A moment later, the blade connected with the animal's side. He expected blood and fury. He got it half right. Unfortunately, there was little in the way of damage except a few sliced feathers and a broken sword to show for the man's efforts.

'Run!'

The griffin's squawk of triumph almost drowned out the stranger's desperate urging, but Merlin obeyed him all the same. He grasped the warm hand that helped him to his feet before tearing across the forest floor, scattering mud and leaves in his wake. They darted around trees and scrambled through the undergrowth, his new companion always barely half a step behind him.

The thunder of the griffin's pursuit gained ground with every moment, and Merlin snatched in a breath as they broke out into a clearing. Up ahead, a vast trunk lay in their path: deadfall from last winter. As shelter went, it was a pitiful offering, but he would be happy to get anything between his vulnerable back and that beast's murderous claws!

He vaulted over the crumbling wood, scrambling to hide in its shadow, his right hand flung out to urge the stranger into the same feeble sanctuary. Merlin bit his lip, his chest heaving and sweat cooling between his shoulder-blades. He cocked his head, listening to the stamp of paws and the rustle of wings as the griffin croaked its annoyance.

He could feel it: its power. They were both creatures of magic, and like called to like. Still, he doubted the beast would claim any kind of kinship with him. Not when he was such a tasty, defenceless morsel. Besides, now he had an audience to any spells he might perform. All he could do was lie there, panting, repeating the same plea over and over in his head.

Go away. We're too much trouble. Too bony to be worth the hunt. Go away!

A handful of thudding heartbeats later, the griffin got the message. The boom of its wings announced its departure, stirring up a tempest of dead leaves. The trees trembled and creaked their farewell, and Merlin let out a gusty sigh.

'It's gone.' He twisted, craning his neck to check the coast was clear before turning to his would-be rescuer with a grin. Slumping back against the tree, he sighed in relief before sticking his hand out in welcome. 'I'm Merlin, by the way.'

The man looked at him, his dark eyes gleaming with weary amusement before he clasped Merlin's palm in his own. 'Lancelot.' He shifted his weight as if to stand, pausing as a chalky pallor washed over his face. Merlin frowned, watching beads of sweat pop out across Lancelot's brow as his hand went to his side.

A smear of blood stained his threadbare tunic, and Lancelot's blunt, competent fingers shook as he pressed his palm over the wound. His lips parted, quivering around an in-drawn breath. His brown hair clung to his temples.

Merlin knew he would pass out a moment before his eyes rolled back in his head.

Lunging forward, he grabbed Lancelot's shoulder as he tried to gauge the severity of the injury. There were no good manners to be found in undressing an almost-stranger, but needs must, and he shoved aside the thin fabric of his tunic to take in the damage. It was deep, but not fatally so. A narrow gash let forth a wanton dribble of blood, staining Lancelot's skin with its accusation. The griffin must have caught him a glancing blow with its talon, and he pursed his lips as he considered his options.

He reached for the neckerchief that normally graced his throat before rolling his eyes, remembering he'd left it behind. The warm weather made it a nuisance, and now he felt its lack. The hem of his tunic would have to do instead, and he ripped the well-worn, softened linen into strips so that he could pad and bind the wound.

A rough sound of discomfort caught in Lancelot's throat, and Merlin dithered. They needed Gaius, but how could he get him to Camelot? He'd left his horse in the stables, having walked into the woods for herbs and mushrooms. He had not been expecting to haul an unconscious man back with him. Lancelot may be a touch shorter than Merlin, more Arthur's height than his own, but he was still built like a knight, strong and stocky. Merlin doubted he had the strength to do more than drag poor Lancelot over the forest floor. He certainly couldn't carry him.

Not unless he used magic.

He could almost feel the weighty disapproval of Gaius' eyebrow. His uncle had put it to good use since Merlin's arrival at Camelot a few months ago. It conveyed disappointment, disbelief and outrage without a single word being uttered. If he knew he was contemplating using a spell on a complete stranger, Gaius would not hesitate to bring it to bear.

Still, what the old man didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Biting his lip, Merlin spread his hand, remembering the mantra of word, intent, power that Gaius had drummed into him. Some of his abilities lay beyond such structure, responding more to his unspoken whim, but Merlin had soon realised the best way to cast a spell with any finesse was to follow the simple lesson. After all, he only wanted to lift Lancelot a small distance off the ground, not fling him to the treetops.

'Getæslican āhefe.'

Power whispered through his veins, gentle as a summer breeze as it rippled outwards, finding its focus on Lancelot's supine form. To Merlin's relief, he levitated gently upwards to about waist-height, light as a feather and free from the snarling roots of the forest floor.

With great care, he guided his fallen friend – for what else could he be, after the adventure they had shared? – towards the edge of the woods. He watched for onlookers and listened for the first sign of Lancelot stirring back to wakefulness. Every sense unfurled, attuned to the world around him as he sought out the flickers of life and checked the path ahead.

By the time Lancelot gave a quiet moan, pain drummed at Merlin's temples. His magic still surged beneath his skin, but the effort to control its influence wore at him, and he lowered Lancelot to the ground with a sigh of relief. He would have had to stop soon anyway. The closer they got to the road, the greater the chance of discovery. With any luck, they could limp back to Camelot together.

'Are you all right?' he asked, reaching for the waterskin tied to his belt. He held it up to Lancelot's lips, letting him drink. It would not be the freshest, but it should help. 'We need to get you to the court physician.'

Lancelot groaned, shaking his head. 'Can't afford it.'

'Don't be stupid. You saved me from that griffin. Besides, he's my uncle, and I'm his apprentice. You won't have to pay.' In truth, Merlin knew Gaius would never deny anyone aid simply for lack of coin. He took what the rich could spare and, more often than not, ended up giving it to those worse off. Merlin could admit he was much the same.

Lancelot blinked, his face softening as a smile curved his mouth. 'I hardly saved you,' he pointed out. 'I did nothing more than break my blade, but I thank you for your kindness, Merlin.'

'Come on.' He placed his hand under Lancelot's elbow, easing him to his feet and giving the man a moment to gain his balance. 'Lean your weight on me. It's not too far.'

They probably made a sorry sight as they approached the city, the two of them smeared in mud with dead leaves in their hair. Yet with every step, Lancelot's face brightened, some of his seriousness falling away as he took in the citadel towering before them. 'I have long wished to find myself within these walls,' he confided, his dark eyes gleaming.

Was that what he had looked like, Merlin wondered, when he walked through the gates that first time? If so, his awe had soon faded, left for dead by the swoop of an executioner's axe upon a sorcerer's neck.

'Why's that?'

'I want to be a knight.' He lifted his chin as if daring Merlin to laugh. 'To serve my king and protect the people of these lands.'

Merlin could see it all too easily. Brave and humble, strong and of good heart, Lancelot embodied all the ideals that Arthur looked for in his knights. All, he suspected, except one.

'You're not of noble birth, are you?'

He knew he wasn't wrong. Nobles, even kind ones, had an air of superiority about them that they simply could not shake. The privilege they enjoyed each day left hints of entitlement, and Lancelot bore no such faults. A lord could dress like a peasant, but they could never behave like one: not truly. They did not know hunger or poverty, and they could not mimic the scars those trials gave a man.

'No – I... No.' Lancelot bowed his head, and Merlin both hated and recognised the shame that pinched his gaze. He felt it himself whenever anyone reminded him that he was just a bastard servant boy. As if the circumstances of anyone's birth made them somehow less human. 'Does it matter?'

Merlin guided him around a cart full of squawking chickens, picking his way towards the southern gate that marked the boundary between the Low Town and the richer, more resplendent streets surrounding the castle. 'To me? No. To the king?' He shook his head. 'He only allows men of noble birth to become knights. Some rubbish about loyalty to the crown being in their blood.'

Lancelot's expression crumpled, his joy extinguished as if his greatest dream lay shattered at his feet. Perhaps it did, and Merlin felt like pond scum for being the bearer of such grim news. 'Then my journey is for nothing.'

'Not nothing.' Merlin paused, checking that the bloodstain on Lancelot's tunic had not spread further before they entered the courtyard and turned towards Gaius' chambers. 'I can't make any promises, but I'm the prince's manservant. Maybe...' He shook his head, his mind already racing. 'Maybe there's something I can do.'

'You would help me?'

He blinked, meeting Lancelot's wide-eyed surprise with a crooked smile. 'Of course.'

'Then you are right. This journey is not for nothing. Not if it has brought me a friend such as you.' He squeezed Merlin's shoulder, firm and sure, and his ears turned warm as he ducked his head.

'Good. Come on. Let's get you seen to.'

He left Lancelot in Gaius' care, amused by his calm acceptance. Anyone would think Merlin bringing home injured strangers was an every-day occurrence. 'It was a griffin,' he called over his shoulder as he departed, just in case it made any difference to treatment. He did not think it mattered, but you could never be too careful when it came to magical maladies. 'I'll be with Arthur.'

Grabbing his jacket from behind the door, he shrugged it on, checking it hid the ragged hem of his tunic. He darted around others in the corridor, offering smiles to servants and ducking his head to anyone of higher rank that might take offence. Mostly, he got waves and chuckles in return. At this time of day, the truly noble were busy elsewhere, and those who took joy in keeping servants in their place had better things to do than haunt the castle's halls.

He could hear the ring of swords as he stepped outside, coupled with distant shouts and jeers. Arthur would be on the practice field, no doubt testing the latest crop of would-be knights. Every evening for a fortnight he had listened as Arthur complained about the quality of young men he had been sent: and young they were, many barely out of boyhood. At twenty, Arthur was hardly a veteran, but compared to the bold, brash fools he had been trying to train, he was a consummate professional.

'Right, this is your final test.' Arthur's voice rang out, carrying over the wind that toyed with the pennants on the castle wall. 'Pass this, and you're a knight of Camelot. Fail, and you're no one.'

Merlin rolled his eyes.

'You face the most feared of all foes: the ultimate killing machine.' Arthur paused, adjusting his glove with complete indifference before levelling a cool gaze at his opponent. 'You face me. Your challenge is to last to the count of a hundred in free combat.' He shifted, bracing his weight and lifting his sword. 'Begin!'

Merlin rested against the fence as he settled in to watch. The grass had been torn to mud by the constant stomp of knights' boots, but those upon it seemed not to care. They were lost in a haze of glory, desperate to prove themselves: all flash and no substance. Even Merlin could see that. Their movements were too big and grandiose, lacking any of the efficiency on which Arthur relied. His opponent was disarmed and on the ground in less than twenty heartbeats as the spectators politely applauded.

Arthur pursed his lips, shaking his head as he stalked across the practice ground, stripping off his gloves and throwing them at Merlin. He caught them in one hand, tucking the fine leather in his belt and grimacing as Arthur began to fight his way free of his gorget, spaulder and gardbrace. A moment later, his arms were full of plate armour, all of it in need of a good polish.

'That's the third to fail this month,' Arthur muttered, shaking his head as he led the way back towards the castle. 'How am I meant to defend Camelot with these – these children?'

Merlin sighed, shifting his burden as he hurried to keep up. He understood Arthur's frustration. Ideally, there would be no need to train new warriors because the city would be at peace, but he could not see such a thing happening in Uther's time. There were always skirmishes and bandit attacks, magical beasts and invading armies. The kingdom went through knights swiftly, and they took all their hard-earned skills with them to the grave.

'Maybe I can help?'

'You, Merlin? You haven't the faintest idea what it takes to be a knight.' Arthur glanced over his shoulder, his gaze raking Merlin's slender form and clearly finding it wanting. 'You'd not last a morning on the training field, let alone in battle.'

Merlin bit his tongue, letting the insult slide over him like water from a duck's back. 'I'm not volunteering. I've got more sense than that,' he replied, putting just enough mockery in his tone to ruffle Arthur's feathers while avoiding being sent to the stocks. 'I'm definitely not knight material, but I know someone who is.'

'Oh, really?' Arthur stopped, turning to face him and folding his arms, one eyebrow lifted in disbelief. 'And who might that be?'

'Lancelot. He's brave, strong and loyal: everything you could want.'

'He sounds too good to be true.' Arthur smirked. 'Lance-a-lot. That's not a name I've heard mentioned in court.'

'Yeah, about that.' Merlin winced. 'He's not of noble birth.'

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. 'The First Code...'

'Isn't fair.' He bit his lip, knowing there was a fine line between simple disagreement and treason. King Uther's word was not to be questioned; at least, not directly. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his voice. 'Not fair to those who wish to serve, and not to Camelot. Why should the kingdom have to satisfy itself with the limited talent available within the ranks of the nobility: they only have so many sons to give!'

'Oh, so it's Camelot you're worried about. Not your friend?'

'Just meet him. Let him go up against you and see what he can do.' Merlin cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as he tried to read Arthur's expression. 'Then you can decide for yourself if he's worth the trouble or not, but I guarantee he's better than any of the others you've tested this month.'

For a long moment, Arthur simply stared at him, the silence dragging on until Merlin's arms began to ache from the burden he carried. He shifted his feet but refused to look away. Arthur might be a prat, but he did listen, and he had to know that what Merlin said made sense.

'If I do this,' Arthur replied at last, 'you will owe me.'

'Of course, Sire.' Merlin grinned, watching Arthur's expression melt in grudging defeat. 'I'm yours to command.'

'Of course you are, Merlin; you're a servant. Tell your friend to meet me at the barracks tomorrow at noon, not the practice field. There's space there, and no audience beyond those that I trust. We'll see if he's as worthy as you claim.'

'You won't regret it!'

'I already do.' Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Right, my pauldron needs cleaning, the stables need mucking out, my chambers are a state and every sword in the armoury is blunt. ' He clapped a hand on Merlin's shoulder with a smirk. 'Hop to it. Oh, and your friend better at least have a weapon and some armour to his name!'

'Can't he borrow some?' he called after Arthur's retreating form.

'Not until he's an actual knight!'

'Prat,' Merlin muttered, huffing out a breath. Arthur was just trying to throw up stumbling blocks in Lancelot's way. Well, he wouldn't succeed. Not if he had any say in it.

With a quick detour to Arthur's room, he left the armour by the hearth before turning to contemplate the mess. Arthur did it on purpose, he was sure. Still, he would likely be with the existing knights a while longer, discussing strategy or whatever it was they did. The twist of the key locked the door, keeping out unwanted spectators as he raised one hand and let his magic flow.

He did not dare do this very often. The risk of being caught hung over him like a sword raised to strike the death blow, but sometimes, when Arthur demanded the impossible, Merlin took grim pleasure in exceeding his expectations. Now, the bed made itself in a flurry and dirty clothes whipped their way towards the basket. Boots scurried across the floor to jump in the wardrobe, and the flagstones swept themselves clean. A whirl of wind then deposited the fluff and dust into the kindling that lay in the fireplace.

'Forbærne!'

Merlin nodded, satisfied as golden light dappled the walls and the flames in the grate chased away the chill. The rest of his chores could wait. He'd stay up all night doing them if he had to, but he wasn't about to let Lancelot miss his chance.

Rushing back towards Gaius' room, he burst through the door, flushed and out of breath. 'How is he?'

'I'm very well, Merlin,' Lancelot answered with a smile. 'Nothing that won't mend.'

'He was fortunate,' Gaius added. 'It was little more than a graze, which meant the somnolent poison on the griffin's talons did not have too great an effect. A shame I wasn't there, really. The stuff makes wonderful sleeping potions.'

Merlin pulled a face at the idea of harvesting venom from a griffin's claws. He doubted the beast would give it up willingly. 'Are you well enough to fight Arthur?'

'Arthur? As in Prince Arthur?'

'It's how he tests would-be knights.' Merlin took a deep breath, hurrying to explain. 'He knows you're not noble, and maybe he will never change the First Code, but he's willing to see how good you are.' He shrugged. 'I know it's no knighthood, but it's a start.'

'More than I could have hoped for!' Lancelot got to his feet, clasping Merlin's arm in thanks. 'I would spar with him even if I lay at death's door. Nothing could keep me from the honour.'

'Except a lack of decent equipment. We need to get you a weapon and some armour; thankfully, I know just who to ask. Come on.'

The walk to Tom's forge was a quick one, and he smiled to see Gwen with her father, her shawl cast aside thanks to the heat of the fire. She waved in greeting, beckoning the two of them closer to the anvil as Merlin made introductions.

'Lancelot, this is Tom and his daughter Gwen, who is also the Lady Morgana's maid. Tom's the best smith in Camelot.' His grin took on an apologetic slant as he met Gwen's gaze. 'We need your help.'

'Anything for you, Merlin,' she replied, her face flushing becomingly as she stammered. 'I mean, well, not anything, but I'm sure we have what you need.'

Lancelot shook Tom's hand and pressed a kiss to Gwen's knuckles, his soft "My lady." making her eyes sparkle. 'I'm afraid Merlin may have forgotten my lack of coin,' he apologised.

'Lancelot wants to be a knight. Arthur's agreed to let him spar.'

'Forgive me!' Gwen dropped into a curtsy. 'I did not realise...'

'No, my lady, there is no need. I'm not of noble birth.'

'But, the Code...' Tom raised an eyebrow. 'Prince Arthur is willing to overlook it?'

'I asked him to,' Merlin explained, ignoring the way Tom's eyes widened as Gwen hid a smirk behind her hand. 'And he agreed. Sort of.'

'Sort of?' Gwen asked.

'He's not about to challenge his father, not until he knows it's worth it. Which he will, as soon as he sees you fight.' He clapped Lancelot's shoulder. 'The problem is, he has no chainmail, and he broke his sword on a griffin's hide just this morning. He saved me from it.'

'Well, I wouldn't say –'

Merlin nudged him with his elbow. There was a time and a place for modesty, and now wasn't it. Tom's expression was one of admiration and Gwen looked positively enraptured. 'Do you have anything he can borrow, just for a while?'

Tom scratched the back of his head, giving a quick nod as he surveyed his stockpile. 'I think I've got some bits that'll do. It won't be a perfect fit, but it should save you from the worst of the prince's strength.'

Merlin retreated as Tom and Gwen both took charge, offering Lancelot a hauberk and aventail, as well as a gambeson to wear beneath. Tom pressed swords into Lancelot's hand, judging the result with the eye of a master-craftsmen. Three had already been rejected, not by Lancelot but by Tom himself. At last, he settled on a sword that looked just like all the rest to Merlin's eye.

'That's better.' Tom nodded, satisfied by some quality Merlin could not see. 'Much better.'

Lancelot sheathed the blade reverently before sketching a bow. 'Thank you.'

'Think nothing of it. If anyone admires my work, just send them my way.'

'Consider it done. My lady.' Lancelot bowed again, lower this time, to Gwen, before allowing Merlin to guide him back through the bustle of the town.

'I have never seen someone so beautiful,' Lancelot murmured, the expression on his face very similar to the one he'd worn when he first arrived; starry-eyed and reverent. He hesitated, wetting his lips. 'Though I fear her heart may belong to another?'

'Er, no. No, I don't think so.'

'So, you and she are not...' Lancelot made an odd rolling motion with his hands. Merlin flushed hot, thinking of the occasional flirtations and Gwen's shocked, chaste kiss when he had recovered from the poison of the Mortaeus flower.

That was all they had shared, however, and neither one of them had made an effort to take it further. He loved Gwen, but not in a way that he wanted to bed her. It meant that telling the truth was that much easier.

'No. She's my friend. No more than that.'

'She is lovely.'

Merlin smiled. Normally such raptures were reserved for Morgana's stark, cool beauty. It was nice to hear someone praising Gwen. She was Merlin's first friend in all of Camelot, and he'd not missed the way she looked at Lancelot, all amazement and warmth. 'Focus on dealing with Arthur,' he urged. 'Win a knighthood, then win her heart.'

'You think I could do such a thing?'

'You'll never know until you try.' He shrugged. He could not speak for Gwen, but nor could he let the desperate hope in Lancelot's voice go unanswered. 'I have to see to my chores. Return to Gaius; let him get you fighting fit for tomorrow.'

'I will, and Merlin?' Lancelot stepped back, his handsome face kind and genuine. 'Thank you, my friend, for everything you've done.'

'Beat Arthur,' Merlin urged him with a grin. 'That's all the thanks I need.'

Chapter Text

The barracks training ground was a small affair, shielded from the prying eyes of Camelot's court and common folk alike. It was here that Arthur had first learned to swing a sword, and where he still came to practice new moves without fear of being judged.

Now, as the noonday bell rang out across the citadel, he knew he had made the right choice. If news of this got back to his father, there would be questions, and he did not have any of the answers necessary to appease the king's brutal curiosity.

'Why am I doing this?' he muttered to himself. It was no secret that Camelot needed more knights than the nobles could offer, and this was the perfect opportunity to prove that commoners were inferior fighters to anyone else, but neither reason rang true. No, he was doing this because Merlin – his hapless, useless, infuriating manservant – had looked at him with dark blue eyes agleam with hope. Never, in all his days, had Arthur met someone so disgustingly earnest. If it weren't so charming it would be repulsive.

Heaving a sigh, he glared at the man who approached the training field, taking in the armour that fit across his chest and the pale tabard that marked all would-be trainees. The sword in the scabbard upon his hip was plain but functional, a far cry from the ornate and gaudy monstrosities others brought to the ring.

He moved well, too, each footstep firm and confident, but with just the right amount of deference carried in the angle of his shoulders. There was no cock of the walk swagger and no sneer tilted his lips. Dark hair curled around his brow and ears, and serious eyes regarded Arthur solemnly. Yet a glimmer of fire lingered in their depths. Good. A knight was nothing if he did not have some passion and pride in his craft.

'My lord, I thank you for this chance. My name is Lancelot.'

That was not a name he was likely to forget in a hurry, and he felt a glimmer of petty pleasure at mocking it yesterday. He liked to think he was better than that, but there had been something about Merlin's breathless praise of the man that set Arthur's teeth on edge.

'Well met.' He reached out, shaking his hand without thinking. Lords and knights were, of course, entitled to such respect. As a commoner, Lancelot required no such niceties, but the idea of not welcoming this man – one who rose to Arthur's challenge with neither arrogance nor fear – felt like an insult.

'Before we begin, I must emphasise that this is not an official test for knighthood. My father's rules are clear, but when my manservant mentioned your skill with a blade, I wanted to see it for myself. I can offer you no more than this.'

He expected Lancelot to turn away. Many others of Arthur's acquaintance would have done so, dissatisfied at the prospect of putting forth so much effort for so little gain. It was a pleasant surprise when the man unsheathed his sword, raising the blade in salute.

'You honour me, my lord. By what rules do we spar?'

'Last to the count of a hundred against me, if you can. We fight to test skill, not to cause harm or dishonour. Sir Leon will be the judge and let us know when the time is up, should we both still be standing.'

Lancelot turned to offer Leon a bow, and Arthur freed his sword, looping the blade around in a silver arc to loosen his wrist before raising his voice. 'Begin!'

Within no more than a handful of heartbeats, he came to a dazzling realisation: Merlin was right. Lancelot was an excellent fighter, falling victim to none of the grandiose gestures and bold swipes that so many nobles favoured. Sweat trickled down his back as he parried time and again, lunging for openings in Lancelot's defence only to see them vanish before he could make a hit. All the while Lancelot harried him, taking advantage of every minuscule weakness Arthur possessed.

They ebbed and flowed across the practice ring, the clash of their swords echoing around them as they gave and won ground in equal measure. It was the best fight Arthur could recall, and by the time Sir Leon's voice rang out, he was panting hard, stunned by the sheer skill Lancelot put on display. With training and a wider variety of drills under his belt, he could be as good as Arthur.

Probably better, though Gods forbid he utter that out loud, least of all to Merlin.

Lancelot's expression was one of triumph and delight, and Arthur could see reflections of his own joy in those features. 'I do not think I've ever fought anyone more skilled than yourself, my lord,' he gasped, his chest heaving as he reclaimed his breath. From many, it would be shallow flattery, but from this man it sounded as honest as the sun in the sky.

'And you far exceeded my expectations. Come.' Arthur beckoned him over to where Leon waited, a water-skin in each hand. They both swigged greedily, quenching their parched throats. Arthur finished first, propping his sword against a nearby barrel before turning to face Lancelot, looking him over with a critical eye.

He had clearly done all right for himself before he came to Camelot. A stocky frame, well-nourished without giving way to a paunch, suggested he'd survived with neither land nor lord to call his own. Merlin had said nothing of how they met, and Arthur narrowed his eyes as he considered the possibilities. 'Tell me: why do you want to become a knight?'

'It's been my purpose for almost as long as I can remember. My village was attacked by bandits, and I swore to myself I would never stand helpless in the face of tyranny again.'

'A noble sentiment,' Arthur conceded. In truth, it was better than most others he'd heard, which came more down to familial expectation than any sense of calling or duty. 'Which village?'

'Lianham, on the northern border.'

'Oft disputed lands. I'm sorry that Camelot's forces could not protect you.'

Lancelot shook his head, his expression solemn. 'It was in Mercian territory at the time, Sire.'

'That does not render us without blame.' Arthur sighed, hating how, even now, he could not help this young man. 'I'm sorry, Lancelot, that there is not more I can do. You may not have been born a knight. You may not look like one or speak like one, but you fight like one. If it were down to me, that is all that would matter.'

Lancelot's smile dimmed, becoming wry at its edges as he allowed his gaze to drop. 'I understand, my lord. I expected nothing more than this. It was an honour to test my skills against you.'

'An honour I share,' Arthur promised, reaching out to shake his hand once more. His heart languished, heavy, as Lancelot bowed and turned away, slipping out of the training ground and off into the citadel.

Arthur's father had spent many years impressing upon him the differences between the favoured nobles and everyone else, claiming the virtue of the former and embellishing the sins of the latter. Even now, waited on hand and foot, Uther did not see the servants of the castle as people. He could rarely be bothered to recall their names or the circumstances of their existence.

Until recently, Arthur knew he had been just the same. It was not until a loud-mouth boy with big ears had stood up to him in the marketplace that he had begun to question his father's teachings. He still slipped into his old ways of thinking often, but at least now he could see them for what they were: prejudice, plain and simple.

It galled him that he could not fly in the face of Camelot's laws, but it was out of his hands. Being a skilled fighter would never be enough to earn Lancelot his father's mercy, and bringing him to Uther's attention now could well be disastrous.

'A shame,' Sir Leon murmured, his voice kind. 'He would have been a good knight.'

'Better than many who currently call the barracks their home, no doubt.' Arthur sighed, taking up his sword. 'Worse for too much rich food and drink, with little to recommend them.' He shook his head. He may be the prince, but his influence began and ended on the training field.

'Is there nothing you can do?'

Arthur cuffed his knuckles over his brow. 'You know the First Code, Leon, and how my father sticks to it. No, we'll have to search through the nobles' sons and hope we find some half as good as Lancelot.'

He lifted one hand in farewell, striding across the grass and shouldering his way into the armoury. The deserted room gleamed with weapons and chainmail, all placed neat and tidy on racks and stands. He eyed the empty corners, surprised that Merlin seemed to have done as he was told and stayed away. Arthur had instructed him to clean his chambers. He had wanted to see Lancelot by himself, without Merlin's influence in the background.

Besides, he did not like the idea of Merlin cheering on someone other than him. He was Arthur's manservant, after all. His loyalties should be unwavering.

Arthur snorted to himself, making his way out into the corridor and clattering up the stairs, nodding to the guards who stood sentry. He made sure to steer clear of the throne room, lest his father saw him and started asking questions. Servants bobbed curtsies and bows as he passed, heading for his chambers. There were a few candle-marks yet before he had to sit on the council, and he intended to make the most of it by soaking in a long, hot bath.

'Merlin. Get me a –'

Arthur blinked, pausing on the threshold to stare at the copper tub full of water where it steamed softly near the fire. Merlin, he reminded himself, was the worst servant in all of Camelot. Just because he had managed to beautifully anticipate Arthur's needs did nothing to change that. In fact, the rest of his room looked as if it had been ransacked by inept bandits, precisely as he had left it that morning.

'Are you all right, Sire?' Merlin stood by the bed, absently fluffing a pillow with one eyebrow lifted in puzzlement.

'Yes, I'm fine. I thought I told you to clean my rooms.'

'Sorry. I've been busy.'

Most other servants would be bowing and scraping, falling over themselves in their need to apologise. Merlin, on the other hand, sounded unconcerned by his failure to see to his basic duties. The waiting bath, however, forestalled Arthur's irritation. Besides, what could he do, throw Merlin in the stocks again? The punishment barely made an impression, and he had been in them so often that the townsfolk had stopped throwing rotten fruit and started making friends with him instead.

'Help me out of this, will you?' he ordered, gesturing to his armour and holding out his arms to the side, giving Merlin the space he needed to get to work.

He remembered how hesitant he'd been back at the very start, when Uther awarded Merlin the job for saving Arthur's life. Neither of them had been enthused about the decision, and they had made no effort to hide it. Merlin had been clueless, and Arthur had no patience for incompetence.

Except it seemed that Merlin was the exception to that rule.

To his credit, he was a fast study. He knew some squires who struggled for months to remember how to correctly layer armour, but Merlin had managed to get it right within a couple of days. He must have practised, that brow furrowed and those blue eyes intent, going through it all like a knight moving through his drills.

He'd learnt what Arthur deemed to be the most important things. He could suffer through an unmade bed and late breakfasts so long as he had a sharp sword and strong armour to protect him. Besides, Merlin had survived the first, furious month of his servitude, despite Arthur's best efforts to drive him away with ludicrous demands, unfair punishments and curt, casual cruelty. Now, he had to admit they had found a grudging tolerance for one another. Merlin wasn't going anywhere, and Arthur realised he wouldn't want him to.

'How was the fight?'

Arthur sighed in relief as Merlin lifted off the pauldron before giving him a considering look. His curiosity seemed innocent enough, but he was no fool. Just because he'd not caught Merlin near the practice ground didn't mean he had not been peeking, despite Arthur's orders to the contrary. The chaos of his rooms rather backed up that theory, and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

'He was awful.'

'He was not!' Merlin yanked Arthur's tabard off over his head none-too-gently.

'So you were watching.' Arthur jammed his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows as Merlin spluttered excuses. 'You disobeyed me!'

Merlin wrinkled his nose. 'No!' He shifted his weight, grabbing the hem of the chainmail and pulling it over Arthur's head, pinning his arms briefly by his ears as he did so. 'I might have glanced in on the way to the kitchens, that's all.'

'Hah! I knew it.' He shook his head as Merlin stepped back to grab the privacy screen, arranging it in front of the bath so that he could finish getting undressed. He never asked for it, not even when Merlin first came into his service. When you spent a lot of time around the knights, casual nudity did not turn heads, but Merlin was oddly shy at times, and Arthur didn't argue against it. In a way, it was nice to be out from under the feeling of constant scrutiny that seemed to haunt his every moment: a small sliver of privacy that was utterly his own.

He slid in with a sigh, wincing at the heat's intensity. It was almost too much, but at the same time just right. He did not know what tricks the servants employed to manage such a feat, but in that moment, he could not possibly be more grateful. Only once he was settled did Merlin shift around the screen, pouring another jug of warm water over Arthur's head and reaching for the soap.

'He impressed you.'

Arthur opened his eyes, taking in Merlin's appearance: flushed from the steam and with the fine hairs at his nape starting to twist in the humidity. He kept his eyes turned away as he ran a cloth along Arthur's shoulders and over his back, chasing away the sweat and grime of a hard morning's training. He moved onto his arms, scrubbing with smooth, strong swipes that left Arthur both relaxed and breathless, his eyelids heavy and his body torpid.

'Yes, he did.' He swallowed, trying to pull himself together. This was nothing new, but lately Merlin's assistance in the bath had become less perfunctory and more thorough, as if Arthur were something fine worthy of great care. He couldn't recall any other servant touching him in quite the same way, and it left him almost dizzy.

'You were right,' he croaked, realising Merlin was waiting for him to continue. 'Lancelot's a good warrior. Better than most I've seen this year.'

Emotion flashed across Merlin's face, an odd combination of pride and pain that curved his mouth even as it turned his eyes flat and glassy. 'But you won't make him a knight.'

Arthur sighed, taking the cloth from Merlin's grasp. The first day of his service, he had firmly established the boundary that anything below the water was not his concern. He was capable of bathing himself, after all, and he had never been comfortable with the idea of servants washing him everywhere. Now, he was glad of his own insistence.

'No.' He sat forward; sensing Merlin move away as he finished his toilette. 'I can't. My father's rules have stood firm for longer than I've been alive. Overturning them is impossible. If it were only a matter of his skill with a sword, it would be different, but there's more to it than that.'

'Yeah, because "nobility" makes all the difference.'

'It does!' Arthur sighed, standing up and reaching for the bath-sheet that Merlin had draped over the top of the privacy screen. 'Camelot needs knights who can be trusted to act on their word. Men whose honour has been proven beyond a doubt.'

'Men like Lancelot!'

'Yes! No! Merlin...'

'Are you honestly telling me that he is less noble and honourable than men like Sir Locke and Sir Kirrion? Men who drink themselves sodden, gamble and steal? Men who mess with the serving girls without so much as a by-your-leave?'

'What? I’ve received no such reports!' Arthur protested, stepping back out into the chamber proper. He'd heard no such accusations, but he wondered, with a sinking feeling in his gut, if a servant would dare accuse a knight of such a heinous act.

Merlin clenched his jaw tight enough to make the muscle in his cheek twitch. 'I'm only saying that just because a man is born noble, it doesn't automatically mean he is a man of honour. Many commoners would claim that nobility is more a vice than it is a virtue.'

'And they would be wrong.' Arthur lowered his voice, keen to bring this conversation to an end. 'I'm sorry, Merlin, but my answer remains the same. Lancelot cannot be a knight of Camelot.'

The thud of Arthur's boots hitting the floor echoed around the room, and Merlin all but thrust Arthur's clean clothes into his arms before turning his back. 'If that will be all, my lord?'

'What? No. Merlin, I need you to –!'

The door slammed shut before Arthur could finish, leaving him dripping on the flagstones in uncomfortable solitude.

'Well,' he said to himself, eyeing his tunic with a wry grimace. 'That could have gone better.'

Chapter Text

Merlin spent the afternoon attending to Gaius and his chores, pointedly ignoring Arthur's very existence. He even begged off his evening duties, sending George to cover for him. He did not think he could face Arthur again, not today, not after what had passed between them following Lancelot's demonstration of skill.

Of course Arthur would follow his father's edicts and believe, blindly, that the nobility were superior. Of course he would decide Lancelot was somehow lacking because of the status of his birth. Merlin was a fool for every hoping otherwise, and his heart was broken by the realisation.

Lancelot, at least, seemed content with Arthur's decision, and the sight of his calm acceptance left Merlin hollow. Even by the time the next day dawned, he felt prickly and tense, rubbed raw by Arthur's ignorant proclamations. Perhaps that was why, as he was serving him breakfast, the same argument began anew.

'You're making a mistake.'

'Mer-lin.' Arthur sighed, tipping his head back as if praying for patience. 'If he were a noble, it would be different, but to have a commoner among the knights? It's out of the question.'

'Why?' Merlin dropped a basket of clean laundry on the table with a thud, causing Arthur's cutlery to rattle on his plate. 'What makes you think that some pompous boy who has never known any trouble or strife is more valuable to you?'

'Because they have sworn their fealty to Camelot and to the king. Their word is bond.'

'And a commoner's isn't?' Merlin waved his hands around, exasperated. 'If I got on my knees and swore myself to you, would it mean nothing just because I was born a peasant?'

'I didn't say that.' Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair, his jaw rock hard.

'Yes, you did.'

'That's enough.' He sat back, snatching his water from the table and taking a healthy gulp as he glared at Merlin over the cup's rim. 'I am a prince, in case you have forgotten. You'd do well to watch your tongue.'

Merlin bit his lip, fighting the desperate urge to stick his tongue out, even if it would mean he ended up spending the day in the stocks. Instead, he held his silence, making his disapproval known by folding Arthur's clothes aggressively and banging cupboard doors.

'As I said yesterday, Lancelot is an excellent fighter. No one who has seen him could deny it,' Arthur began at length. If Merlin didn't know better, he would say he was trying to appease his temper, but that made no sense. What did Arthur care that Merlin was in a strop? 'But the law is the law. I do not yet have the power to change it, and my father will not do so.'

'Would you?' Merlin challenged, looking up from what he was doing to meet Arthur's gaze. 'If you could, would you change things?' He held his breath, suddenly feeling as if they were talking about so much more than just Lancelot and the knights. Would Arthur really break from his father's traditions once he was king, or would he follow Uther's well-trodden path of tyranny and control?

Arthur took another drink, straightening his shoulders as he considered the question. Merlin could almost see the whirl and bluster of his thoughts before he finally inclined his head. 'I would change any law that had become a detriment to Camelot. No kingdom is able to thrive if it is set in stone, but until that day, Merlin, there's nothing I can do for Lancelot.'

Merlin huffed, his anger seeping away like ale from a tapped barrel. He had not known how much he needed that quiet assurance: a promise that the world would not always be this way. The Great Dragon's prophecies of a golden age may please the ear, but with every passing day they seemed harder to believe. Maybe now, at last, he could have a little faith in the future.

Arthur's future.

'Thank you,' he murmured. 'For taking Lancelot seriously, I mean,' he clarified when Arthur frowned. 'It means a lot to him.'

'And to you, for some reason.'

Merlin paused, wondering if he had imagined a hint of something in that voice. Judgement, maybe? It sounded almost teasing, but not quite, like a joke that missed its mark. Unease traced a finger down Merlin's spine, and he cocked his head in curiosity.

'He's my friend?'

'Really?' Arthur pushed his plate aside, propping his elbows on the table and watching him over his clasped hands. 'How long have you known him?'

Merlin bit his lip, considering the answer and wincing in dismay. No matter how he worded it, it didn't sound good. 'Not long,' he managed, as vague as possible. 'Why?'

Arthur looked at him, his face unreadable. 'And tell me, Merlin, how long is that, exactly?'

The problem with lying was that once you started, it was hard to stop. Besides, he didn't need even more stories to keep straight. It was challenging enough hiding his magic. The burden of it dragged him down at unexpected moments, and he had no wish to add to that weight. No, there was no point in fibbing, not about something as meaningless as this.

'A couple of days.' He lifted his chin, eyes flashing, daring Arthur to laugh. Which of course he did: the great git. It was a half-stifled chuckle, but Merlin scowled all the same.

'Two days, and you're already sticking your neck out for him?' Arthur shook his head in disbelief. 'I know you're just a peasant, Merlin, but you can't be that naive. How do you know he's not just using you to gain favour? Not claiming your friendship to get what he wants?'

Because most people wouldn't risk their lives via griffin merely to further their own ends, Merlin thought, but he couldn't say that, not to Arthur. Instead, he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 'If he's using me, then that says more about his character than it does about mine.'

He turned back towards the table, his skin crawling with the urge to be away from that patronising, baffled stare. Arthur said it like he couldn't imagine Merlin being worth anyone's time or affection unless there was something in it for them: something other than the dubious gift of Merlin's own regard, and the thought of Arthur thinking that made his chest hurt.

'If that's all, my lord?'

Arthur frowned, his lips parting as if he had more to say, but he shook it away as he flicked his fingers towards the door. 'You're dismissed.'

Merlin strode over the threshold, his jaw clenched and his hands twisted into fists at his side. Why did Arthur do that? Why did he always seem to know exactly what to say to make Merlin feel like the smallest, most insignificant creature in the world? "Just a peasant"! As if no peasant had ever made a difference.

At least he could find the good in people. Arthur looked at others and saw only carrion birds fighting for a piece of him, as if he were some corpse to be torn up between them. He didn't see individuals with hopes and dreams and desires. He wouldn't know friendship if it hit him around the head!

Which was a bit sad, now that Merlin thought about it.

He paused at the end of the corridor, looking back over his shoulder towards Arthur's rooms. Being a prince may come with its privilege, but it was a lonely role. Arthur had the knights, but they were not his. Not truly. He had not selected them to follow him. Instead, they were inherited from his father's nobles, and the only relationship he had with them seemed to be the basic camaraderie of knights everywhere. Even that was stilted by the restrictions of class they retained.

Merlin would change that, if Arthur would let him. He could see them hammering out a friendship between them, especially if Arthur got his head out of his arse, but they needed more. Arthur needed more. He needed people he could really, truly trust. People who would always watch his back, and Lancelot was the perfect place to start.

And if he couldn't be a knight because he was not a noble? Well then, Merlin would figure out a way to make him one.

The castle hallway rang with his footsteps as he set off towards the library, his mind already awhirl with possibilities. Perhaps amidst all Geoffrey's boring, dusty tomes there would be something to help. New nobles had to come from somewhere, and not just as the result of two existing nobles begetting them. There had to be some way he could take this whole stupid First Code and turn it on its head: make it so even Uther couldn't argue against Arthur's choice of Lancelot.

Up ahead, the library door stood open, and Merlin bit his lip. He and Geoffrey of Monmouth had not got off to the best start. Geoffrey didn't like people pawing through his rare and valuable books for no good reason.

Initially, he suspected Geoffrey thought he couldn't read, and then his interest in subjects that stepped perilously close to the forbidden realm of magic did him no favours. Now, whenever he was in that shelf-lined space, he found himself subject to hard stares and harder suspicion: something that only made Merlin more determined to pore over every volume in the place.

Perhaps it was time to call a truce. After all, Uther's library may be a cobweb haunted mausoleum of knowledge, but it was the only one of its kind for miles around. Now was the perfect moment to try and wheedle his way into Geoffrey's favour, or at least out from beneath the cloud of his disdain.

Food would not do it; the librarian hated anything that might spill grease or otherwise besmirch his papery charges. Merlin was not rich enough to ply him with gifts; it would be a blatant bribe, anyway. No, the best thing he could do was appeal to Geoffrey's ego. After all, there was no man in the castle as learned or wise, especially in the convoluted ways of Uther's court. With any luck, he would give Merlin precisely the answers he needed.

Stepping over the threshold, he cleared his throat to announce his presence, pinning what he hoped was a winning smile upon his face. The look he received over Geoffrey's wire-rimmed spectacles could only be described as withering, and Merlin tried not to quail beneath its ferocity.

'Prince Arthur has sent me to fetch some information,' he explained, lying through his teeth. He wet his lips, watching Geoffrey shift his weight upon his ample posterior and tilt his head in disbelief.

'Indeed? And what, pray tell, does the prince require?'

Merlin stood up a little straighter, squinting into the middle-distance as if trying to remember something complicated. He couldn't very well blurt out "Arthur wants to know how to make a peasant into a knight". He had to get this right!

'Ordinances.' He nodded to himself. That sounded good. 'On the nobility, particularly about the acquisition and dismissal of – er – them?' He swallowed, hoping that Geoffrey would assume he was being bumbling rather than quietly panicking.

'Current or historical?'

'Both, if possible.'

Merlin tried not to sweat beneath Geoffrey's unblinking stare. Honestly, for all that he was getting on in years, he had a glare like a basilisk. For one, horrible moment, Merlin thought he would be dismissed, or worse, told that such information was restricted for the use of royals. Would Geoffrey tell Arthur, or the king? Would Merlin have to do some fast talking to try and explain why he, a nobody, had requested such things in Arthur's name and without his knowledge?

At last, Geoffrey leant back in his chair, removing his spectacles as he hauled himself to his feet with a groan. 'Well, the dismissal of the nobility often occurs at sword-point, and the lands are stripped from the estate-holders by the crown using any and all force necessary. As for the rest of it...' He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick roll of what looked like vellum, its edges flaking with age. 'You should find all you need in here.'

He narrowed his eyes as Merlin held out eager hands. 'Normally I would insist it remain within this room, but since his highness has requested it, I will give you a writ of permission. I expect it back as soon as the prince is done with it. It should be shielded from naked flame, water, damp and other foulness. If it is damaged, then on your head be it!'

Merlin swallowed, thinking he'd heard actual curses uttered with less ferocity than Geoffrey's warning. 'Of course, sir. I understand.'

'I doubt that,' Geoffrey muttered, scrawling something on a piece of parchment before handing both to Merlin, who fought not to grin like a complete fool. 'Was there anything else?'

'No, sir.'

'Then get away with you.'

Merlin did as he was bid, cradling the scroll against his chest as he scurried off. He couldn't look at the thing in Arthur's chambers without arousing suspicion; he would have to go to Gaius. If Lancelot could read, then he could help. If not, then maybe he wouldn't mind doing some of Merlin's chores while he got his head down and unpicked what looked like several centuries' worth of royal decrees.

The familiar smell of Gaius' tower rooms welcomed him, and he drew a deep breath of the herb-laden air. The fragrance settled some of the fretful fluttering in his stomach, and he smiled as Lancelot and his uncle both called out in greeting.

'Arthur been keeping you busy?' Gaius asked, frowning in confusion at the scroll in Merlin's arms. 'What's that you've got there?'

'Something that might help Lancelot.' Merlin set it down and began to clear space on one of Gaius' long workbenches, mindful to mop up spills or stains. Geoffrey's threats still rang in his ears, and he quickly put glass guards over the nearest candles. 'The only thing stopping Arthur making you a knight is your status.'

'Merlin –' Lancelot began.

'So we change it. It's as simple as that. Make you a noble: a proper one. No lies. No tricks. Then Arthur will have no choice.'

'And you're doing this at the prince's command, are you?' Gaius asked, doubt thick in his voice as Merlin tried not to look guilty. 'No, I thought not. The First Code exists for a reason –'

'– And cannot be changed. I know. I know. So, we don't change it; we change Lancelot. What's a noble anyway, but someone the king says is so?' He raised an eyebrow, daring either of them to argue. 'The only difference between you and Arthur is that he was born in a castle and you weren't.'

Lancelot exchanged a helpless glance with Gaius as he got to his feet, reaching out to clasp Merlin's shoulder. 'You honour me, my friend. Not every fight is won with swords.' He gestured to the scroll. 'But I will not smear my name with deceit.'

'It's not deceit if we're obeying the rules.' Merlin grinned. 'Trust me, Lancelot. I'll figure something out.'

'I fear you may be in for a disappointment, my boy.' Gaius sighed, the soft, defeated sound of a man who knew when Merlin's mind was made up. 'What can we do to help?'

A rush of fondness swept through him like a tide, and he offered a bright grin before he began to speak.

'Help me unroll this. Lancelot, can you read?' Any noble being asked such a question would take offence, but Merlin knew that he was unusual among the people of Ealdor. Most children didn't learn their letters, not unless they came from a wealthy house.

Lancelot ducked his head. 'Yes. Well enough for most things, but this?' He gestured to the scroll: tight-packed calligraphy, fading with age. 'I fear I may be of little help.'

'And my eyes aren't what they used to be,' Gaius added, reaching for his magnifying lens to peer at what they were uncovering. 'What is all this?'

'It's the laws of Camelot about what it takes to create a knight. If I read it, can you take notes?' He looked at Lancelot, who nodded, murmuring his thanks as Gaius directed him to quill and parchment. 'We'll need to make it simple for Arthur.'

'He strikes me as an intelligent man.' Lancelot frowned when Merlin scoffed. 'An able fighter and a quick thinker.'

'Maybe, but he's not patient.' He shook his head, his eyes scanning the lines as he skimmed back and forth, looking for relevant passages. 'He needs facts to build strategies, not long-winded explanations. It's just the way he works.'

'You know him well.'

The tips of Merlin's ears heated, and he scratched the nape of his neck. 'I'm his manservant. I spend more time in his company than I'd like.' He pursed his lips, hoping that Lancelot would change the subject, but luck was not on his side.

'Being manservant to the prince is a position of power.' Lancelot shifted where he sat, stroking idly at the barbs of the quill. 'I would not want to abuse your influence.'

'Influence?' Merlin looked up, his smile fond. 'I wouldn't go that far. Arthur occasionally listens, but not very often. He's a prat like that.'

Lancelot made a strangled noise at Merlin's casual insult of the man next in line for Camelot's throne. 'Yet you are close enough to him to ask for such favours. Close enough that he listens, when you really need him to.' He sighed. 'I would not wish you to endanger your friendship on my account.'

Merlin looked up, seeing the very real concern painting its way over Lancelot's face. His blithe response died on his tongue, unsaid. 'Don't worry. I'm a servant, that's all. There's nothing to risk. Besides, I want to help. You're more deserving of a knighthood than any of the idiots who've been through the training grounds lately. Now write this down.'

They worked until the changing of the second watch. Gaius had long since gone to bed, snoring upon his mattress as Merlin and Lancelot whispered to one another, picking apart the mess of law and requirements. Yet in the end, they had a single page scribed with the bare essentials: a basic recipe for knighthood that even Uther himself would struggle to argue against.

'So simple,' Lancelot murmured, 'but impossible all at once.'

'That depends.' Merlin took the parchment from his grasp, folding it and putting it in his pocket.

'Three acres of land or holdings, Merlin, and the royal favour. I have neither of those things, and nor am I likely to find them.' Lancelot slumped over the desk, his head in his hands and his face twisted, dark eyes desolate in the meek candlelight.

Merlin straightened, wincing as his back creaked from where he'd been bent almost double over the scroll. A dull ache pounded at his temples, beating in time with his heavy heart. 'Hey, don't give up.' He sat down opposite Lancelot, pouring a cup of water and pushing it towards him. 'Royal favour's not easy, but if you could prove yourself in battle or something.' He bit his lip, wondering what mighty deed would get the king's attention.

'And the land? Nobles do not surrender that easily.'

Merlin narrowed his eyes as he shook his head. 'I'm not sure yet, but I'll think of something.' He glanced out of the window at the sickle of the moon, which had long since crested its zenith. 'You must be tired after your fight with Arthur today. Take my bed.'

'I couldn't. Not again.'

'You can and you will,' Merlin promised. 'I'm used to sleeping on the floor. Besides, you're still injured, and this way I won't fall over you when I dash out to get Arthur his breakfast.'

Lancelot looked like he wanted to argue, but a great, grumbling snore from Gaius cut through the room, making them both glance towards the slumbering old man. 'All right,' he whispered, easing himself to his feet. 'But only for tonight. You're not the only one used to sleeping on the floor.'

Merlin grinned, happy to revel in his small victory. Besides, if he had his way, Lancelot would not be sharing his room for much longer. He'd been in the barracks with the other knights.

Right where he belonged.

Chapter Text

Dining with his father and Morgana always felt more like precarious peace talks than a family meal. Arthur could not recall a time when they had shared food while truly relaxed and enjoying one another's company. The king sat at the head of the table, presiding over his son and his ward as if they were criminals to be judged.

That left Arthur to face Morgana's cool green gaze.

She was beautiful, there was no denying it, but she was sharp and clever, her tongue cutting even if her lips were sweet. They had grown up sniping at each other, both silently fighting against the expectation of the court that they would one day marry. Thankfully, his father seemed less than keen on that idea. No doubt he thought he could secure them both a better, more political marriage in due time and expand Camelot's influence all the more.

Arthur picked at his meal, watching Morgana push her food around her plate and take the occasional delicate morsel. She always looked pale, but there was an unhealthy translucence to her tonight, made worse by the sallow candlelight. The only colour in her face came when she smiled, not at Arthur, but at someone behind him.

Merlin. Of course it was Merlin. Did everyone in this whole damn citadel like his manservant more than they liked Arthur himself?

Draining his cup, he held it out for more wine, waiting for Merlin to fill it before settling back in his chair. He shook a few drops from his knuckles and raised an eyebrow in Morgana's direction, wrinkling his nose when she pulled a face at him.

'Don't you think so, Arthur?'

'Of course, Father.' He kept his voice smooth, wracking his brain for a clue as to what he might be agreeing to. 'Lord Ealing would do well to remember his loyalties lie with Camelot.'

'Quite so.' Uther smiled indulgently, but it did not reach his eyes, which moved steadily from Arthur to Morgana and back again. 'You've both been very quiet tonight. I usually struggle to hear myself think over your bickering. Are you unwell, Morgana?'

'No, my lord,' she demurred, her earrings sparkling in the candlelight as she tilted her head. 'I fear my sleep has been disturbed these past few nights. Nothing more.'

'Have you seen Gaius? I'm sure he could find some remedy for you.'

'I did not want to bother him. but if you think it best.'

'Do so. I would not have you suffer.' He reached out to pat Morgana's hand, clasping her slender fingers in his palm. 'And you, Arthur? You seem troubled.'

Cool eyes settled on him, as heavy as plate armour. Arthur hesitated, torn between a pretty platitude and honesty. One would see him escape his father's attention; the other would probably bring the meal to an abrupt and stormy end.

Well, he'd never considered himself a coward.

'I've been attempting to seek a solution to our problem with the knights.'

'Yes. It had reached my ear that two more had failed your final test. Nidden and Merith, wasn't it?'

'Indeed, Father. They simply do not have the skill or discipline to fill our ranks. I fear they would fall before the year was through.' He drew a deep breath, taking another fortifying gulp of wine before he ploughed on. 'In fact, all of the prospective knights so far have been lacking in both age and ability, while our numbers continue to dwindle.'

'Then perhaps you should lower your standards,' his father suggested, his rings gleaming as he let go of Morgana's hand to prop his elbow on the table. His fingers curved over his lips as he stared at Arthur. 'Not everyone can benefit from the training you've experienced. Maybe you ask too much of them?'

'That they stand against me for a hundred heartbeats is all I require. If they cannot last that on a practice field, then they stand no chance against an enemy in the midst of a skirmish. Their panic will be their downfall. I would rather not send our nobles' sons to the slaughter.'

'It is their honour to serve us in the defence of Camelot.' Uther leaned back in his chair, waving a dismissive hand.

Arthur hid a grimace at such casual indifference to human life. He doubted any parent would find much comfort in knowing their dead son had done his duty. Besides, the guilt of a knight falling in battle was hard enough to bear without the knowledge that they had never been ready to fight in the first place. That was what he would have to carry upon his shoulders if he approved any of the new recruits for knighthood. That was the price he would pay for lowering his standards, as his father suggested.

'There is one other option,' he said, hearing a quiet hiss of surprise behind him. 'I could always look for new blood outside of the nobility.'

Silence, thick and absolute, fell around them. It felt like it went on forever, undisturbed as the world held its disbelieving breath.

The crash of the king's fist on the table shattered the illusion to pieces. Morgana jolted in her seat, and Arthur thought he heard the faint sound of spilt wine as Merlin fumbled the jug in his grasp. That commanding voice rang out, echoing up to the distant rafters. 'Have you taken leave of your senses?'

Arthur did not flinch, his eyes burning with the urge to look away even as he held that sword-blade stare. Their meals sat forgotten as his father's shoulders heaved in a sigh of frustration: a pantomime of disappointment at Arthur's expense. 'The First Code is irrefutable! You know this!'

'Then the First Code is wrong!'

'No! I will not hear of this. Camelot has always taken knights from the nobility – families of good breeding who we can trust. You propose we make knights of – of tailors and blacksmiths? Servants?' He waved a hand in Merlin's direction, and Arthur tried not to visibly bristle. He said worse to Merlin every day, but it was galling to see him become the target of his father's disdain.

'But –'

'I will hear no more of this, Arthur.' The king rose abruptly, his chair scraping across the flagstones. 'I expect to be dispatching new knighthoods by the end of the week. Do not disappoint me.'

He left in a swirl of fabric, his cloak whipping behind him as he walked away, effectively silencing any arguments that Arthur could have made. In his wake, the room seemed to tremble as everyone let out the breath they had been holding. Behind Morgana, Gwen shifted her weight on her feet, her shoulders rounded.

'We should go,' Arthur murmured. Etiquette dictated that the meal was over when the king finished eating.

'I'm still hungry,' Morgana decided, attacking her dinner with renewed vigour and a sparkle in her eye. For once, she did not seem to be mocking Arthur himself. In fact, she almost looked as if she approved. 'I'm surprised. I never thought I'd hear you telling Uther to abandon his precious code.'

'I have no intention of abandoning it. I merely wish to make some exceptions for the good of Camelot. You've not seen these new knights, Morgana. They're useless.'

'Hmmm.' She twiddled her fork in her hand, watching the candlelight play off the pewter. 'Does this have something to do with that young man I've noticed in the courtyard. Lancelot?'

'What?'

'Gwen pointed him out to me. She was quite adamant in her praise.' Morgana glanced towards her maidservant, who gave her a polite yet reproachful look in return. 'She mentioned a griffin.'

A clatter and a curse behind Arthur suggested Merlin had dropped the jug entirely, and he shifted in his seat, turning to cast an arch look in his servant's direction. 'A griffin?' he asked. 'Now why is it I'd not heard about this before, Merlin, hmm?'

'Er...?' Merlin screwed up his face, shaking his head as he mopped the spilt wine up from the flagstones. 'It didn't seem important?'

Arthur blinked, unsure quite what he could say. Here Merlin had been, singing Lancelot's praises every time Arthur cared to listen. Yet he'd completely neglected to mention that said would-be knight had apparently confronted a monster and not been eaten for his trouble. 'Did you not realise I might want to know of this?'

'He broke his sword upon its hide, um, Sire.' Gwen looked flustered, but she pressed on, her eyes sparkling. 'Lancelot saved you, didn't he, Merlin?'

'Yeah, yeah definitely.' Merlin straightened up, setting the jug down by Arthur's plate. 'It decided we were too much trouble and flew off. If he hadn't shown up when he did, it might have made a meal of me.' Those bony shoulders shifted in a shrug, as if being devoured was just one of the many risks of living in Camelot and its surrounding lands. 'Did Lancelot not mention it?'

'No,' Arthur retorted, his voice flat. 'He did not.' It seemed modesty was yet another virtue in Lancelot's possession, and he held back a sigh at the notion of letting such a promising candidate slip through his fingers. 'He would be an asset to our ranks, but since he is not a noble, then he is not eligible.'

Morgana set her cutlery neatly upon her plate, sipping the last of her wine as she watched him thoughtfully. Finally, she put her goblet aside and offered a smile. 'It does you credit that you even considered him in the first place. I wonder what inspired you?' Her gaze flickered past him to Merlin once more, and Arthur willed the heat not to rise in his cheeks. Merlin had asked, and despite his better judgement, Arthur had obliged.

He did not wish to examine his motivations as to why.

'Well, I believe after all that excitement, I shall retire for the evening.' Morgana rose gracefully to her feet and held out her arm for Gwen. 'Good luck with your little problem, Arthur. I'm sure you'll think of something.'

'Good night, Morgana.'

'Good night, my lady,' Merlin added, giving a better bow than he ever deigned to offer Arthur. He shot a glare at his manservant, trying not to notice how those ridiculous ears were a touch flushed.

'What?' Merlin demanded when he caught the look Arthur sent his way.

'You have absolutely no chance with her.' He ignored Merlin spluttering in his wake as he swept out of the hall, leaving the other servants to clear the table. 'Come on, do keep up. I need you to tell me about this griffin.'

'I already did,' Merlin complained, following Arthur towards his chambers. 'There's nothing more to it than what I told Morgana.'

'I doubt that. Now it turns out there's more to all this than your so-called friendship. I thought you had taken to him rather quickly.'

'He is my friend!'

'Because he saved you. Other than that, he is practically a stranger.'

'I know him well enough to realise he would be a good knight.' Merlin shrugged, following Arthur into his rooms and going over to the fireplace, stirring the dimming embers and throwing another log in the grate. 'That's all that matters.'

Arthur sighed, wondering how anyone could be so tender-hearted. Merlin was, he acknowledged, rather naive. He'd demonstrated that in his first days at Camelot when he'd called Arthur a prat before he knew who he was, leaping to the defence of a servant he didn't know.

Even then, once he realised that Arthur was the prince, it did not stop him speaking his mind: more courage than sense. If he were a noble, people would call him principled. As it was, he was just a peasant who made friends as easily as other men put on their boots.

Wasn't Merlin afraid of being hurt or betrayed? Didn't he know there were those who would use him and cast him aside without a second thought?

He did not voice the questions out loud, choosing instead to shrug out of his doublet and roll up his shirt sleeves before facing the mess of paperwork strewn across his desk. His father had wanted him to go over the grain tallies from the harvest, and he'd been putting it off for days. Now he stared grimly at the numbers and wondered if he dared to pretend he had misplaced them.

Shuffling them to one side, he hesitated, coming across another sheet of parchment. There was not much on it, just a few brief lines in an unfamiliar scrawl. 'What's this?' he asked, flicking it with his fingers and waiting for Merlin to stop next to him, reading over his shoulder.

'Oh, that's some notes Lancelot helped me with.'

'"Requirements for nobility",' Arthur read aloud. It was a surprisingly short list. 'Where did you find this?'

'The library. I also looked up the First Code to double-check the wording. It does not say "of noble blood" or "son of a noble" or anything like that. So, if we could figure out how to make Lancelot a noble, you could knight him and the First Code would be fine.'

Arthur huffed a wry laugh, shaking his head. Some courtiers would be offended at such presumptuousness. It was not a servant's place to offer what could constitute advice, yet here Merlin was, unapologetic as he apparently spent time digging around for solutions to Arthur's problems.

Reaching out, he patted his arm, wincing as Merlin staggered beneath the force. Arthur forgot just how skinny he was under those baggy clothes, sometimes. 'I appreciate it, but it's not that easy. Royal favour requires some great deed to earn it, and the lands are even more of a challenge. My father doles out titles very rarely indeed, and he is unlikely to make an exception for a man such as Lancelot.'

Merlin stifled a sigh, ducking his head. 'I know. I just thought it might be worth a shot. I wanted to say thanks, by the way.' He wet his lips, looking up to meet Arthur's eyes with sincerity burning in his gaze. 'For asking Uther about the knights at dinner. You didn't have to.'

'A fat lot of good it did us.' Arthur sighed, slumping into the chair behind his desk. 'I should have known my father would not respond well to the suggestion. He is set in his ways.'

'If anyone can make him think twice, it's you.'

Arthur blinked. People did not praise him often, as a rule. Part of him, the portion that sounded like his father, hissed that such kindness and faith from a servant was meaningless, and how dare Merlin presume that his thoughts on Arthur's behaviour were relevant? Yet the other part, the young man who had spent so long hoarding every crumb of pride Uther bothered to cast his way, was struck speechless by the simple gift of Merlin's belief in him.

'Thank you,' he rasped at last, clearing his throat and trying to act unaffected, 'but I think you give me too much credit. It's a rare occasion that I've changed my father's mind, especially on something as integral as this.'

He cocked his head, regarding Merlin as he flitted back and forth around the room. He tidied up in a haphazard manner that seemed to involve pushing Arthur's possessions around rather than putting them away. None of his manservants had ever lasted this long before. After a few weeks of Arthur doing his best to drive them away, they normally took the hint.

Merlin, on the other hand, was stubborn. He'd soldiered on through, throwing back every insult Arthur dished out and being despicably disrespectful. They couldn't be friends; the sheer disparity of their station made sure of that, but they were... something.

'Don't think too hard; you'll strain yourself.'

'Shut up, Merlin.' Arthur shook his head, casting aside his circling thoughts and focusing on the matter of the evening that had truly caught his attention. 'You said you and Lancelot almost became a meal for this griffin creature. Could it be what's been taking people from the surrounding villages?'

'People? Not livestock?'

'No, it's been leaving the animals alone.'

'I mean, it seemed pretty keen on us. We only got away from it because we hid.' Merlin pulled a face, his eyes narrowed and his brow pinched as if he were trying to remember something elusively beyond his reach. 'Gaius' bestiary had an entry on it, but I can't recall what is said it ate.'

'What does it even look like?' Arthur wrinkled his nose at Merlin's amused expression. 'Not everyone has access to Gaius' barely legal books. Should you be reading them?'

'They're about animals. Not magic.'

'Magical animals,' Arthur muttered before rolling his hand in a "carry-on" gesture.

'A lion with the head and wings of an eagle.' Merlin spread his arms wide. 'Big, really big. Bigger than a horse. Bigger than a bear. Just...'

'Big?'

Merlin snorted. 'Four paws, a lot of claws, a very sharp beak and a pair of wings to top it off. It flew away when it decided Lancelot and I were too much effort, but it wasn't very far from the castle. A candle-mark on foot, no more.'

Arthur straightened in his chair, a shudder of alarm racing down his spine. 'So close? The villages attacked were on our borders.'

'That's no distance at all for a creature that can fly though, is it?' Merlin shrugged. 'I can't be sure if the griffin's the cause of the problems or not, but it's still out there, and it has to eat something.'

The chair scraped over the floor as Arthur rose to his feet, peering through the window at the citadel spread out below him. Braziers cast their glow in the twilight, and beyond that the silhouettes of the town sprawled, safe within the encircling walls. Smoke curled from thatched roofs, steel grey against the evening sky.

'And you think it will come to Camelot?'

'I couldn't say, Sire.' Merlin stood at Arthur's shoulder, his thoughts casting shadows across his face. 'What will you do if it does?'

'The only thing we can do.' Arthur met Merlin's eye. 'We fight.'

Chapter Text

As it turned out, they did not have to wait long for the griffin to make an appearance. Not two days after Arthur's fraught dinner with his father, the peal of the warning bells rang through the citadel. They resonated through the corridors, their dire notes carried by the stone itself. The calm of the castle scattered like mist before a gale, leaving its occupants breathless with fear.

Merlin did not even hesitate when Arthur leapt up from his chair, dashing across his bedroom and out into the corridor. There was no time to ask questions, not when Camelot called her prince to her aid. Merlin followed him to the armoury, moving with rare confidence as he helped Arthur prepare for battle.

This, at least, they knew how to do. Merlin clad Arthur in his armour, ensuring chain and plate alike were cinched firm and comfortable around him. The buckles slid on well-oiled leather, and the chainmail chimed softly as it fell into place. There was no time to admire Arthur's form, though. All Merlin could do was thrust shield and sword into his prince's arms before he was off, calling upon the other knights to defeat whatever had dared to attack.

Merlin knew he shouldn't follow: he had no armour, no protection, and was useless with a blade, but the dragon's words kept ringing in his head. He was supposed to protect Arthur however he could, and if that meant facing what was out there, then so be it.

The familiar, enraged squawk of the creature overwhelmed the screams of the townspeople, and Merlin swore as he saw the same griffin that had chased him and Lancelot swooping through the air. Massive claws scratched along the tiles, and the beat of its wings sent dust swirling across the pavers. It clattered its beak at the knights swarming below it, apparently unimpressed by the red flutter of their tabards and the gleam of their swords.

'On me!' Arthur yelled, holding his sword aloft as the other men moved around him, forming a defensive ring. The citizens had fled the courtyard, taking shelter where they could lest they became the creature's next meal. However, Arthur and his knights were not the only ones facing down the griffin.

Lancelot had joined them. He may not have the crimson heraldry of the others, but he still looked as if he belonged amidst their ranks, his armour shining and his sword in hand. No one questioned him, not even Arthur, who barely offered more than a glance and nod in his direction. They would not turn aside extra help: not when faced with a monster such as this.

'Defence!' Arthur ordered, his command clear as the griffin circled, watching the figures below with vivid, amber eyes. Merlin could sense it from where he hunkered down behind one of the pillars: its hunger and its power, its ferocity and rage. Every beat of its wings made his magic resonate within him, until he felt that he was practically humming with it, filled to the brim.

The griffin tilted its pinions, its body moving in a graceful swoop before it plunged, claws outstretched towards the circle of knights below. With a mighty crash, it sent them flying, scattering them to the ground. Merlin bit his lip, seeing Arthur roll out of the way of that ferocious beak before stumbling to his feet and reaching for a fallen spear.

Behind him, the others scrambled to form an offensive triangle, their swords bristling as they hunkered low, watching the griffin land and stalk towards them. Lesser men would have baulked before it – thrown down their weapons and fled – but they did no such thing. Each man stood firm, and Merlin smiled to see that Lancelot was right there at Arthur's left shoulder, sharing a quick nod of understanding as they braced themselves for the assault.

'Charge!'

Merlin sucked in a breath, wetting his lips as he watched Arthur jab towards the griffin, beating it back. Yet for every thrust, the beast would rear, carrying it out of reach of the weapon. It fluffed its feathers and pawed at the flagstones, its throat swelling with a warbling roar as the spear Arthur had grabbed from the ground finally made contact.

And broke without drawing so much as a drop of blood.

Merlin did not need to see Arthur's horror. He could feel an echo of it chilling the air. Everyone was caught in the same awful moment of realisation: this monster could not be beaten.

Sucking in a breath, Merlin looked around, trying to find something he could use. At last, his gaze settled on an unlit torch tucked into a bracket. Immediately, it erupted into flame, his magic unravelling without any kind of command as it leapt to obey his will. Snatching the stem, he hoisted it up to his shoulder, not daring to look as the griffin lunged for the knights again, knocking Arthur flat and scattering the others.

'Arthur!'

The torch flew in an arc, landing on the paving stones. The beast roared in Merlin's direction, mantling in annoyance as Arthur dragged himself to his feet, snatching up the stem and waving the flame before him like a banner. A moment later, Lancelot grabbed another torch from the wall, lighting it in the glow of Arthur's before adding to the chaos. The other knights took the hint, and before long the creature was in retreat, its eyes narrowed to slits of fury as it backed away from the fire it beheld.

With a final cry, it launched itself into the air, knocking tiles from the roof with a spiteful swipe of its forepaw before it wheeled off out of sight.

Arthur watched it go, his gaze tracking its departing form. The torch hung at his side, still blazing merrily, and he shifted it in his grip as he turned to face his men. 'Is everyone all right? Any injuries?'

'A few bruises, Sire,' Leon explained. 'Nothing more. We were fortunate indeed.'

'Quite so. Lancelot? With me.' He raised his voice, looking over to where Merlin surveyed the scene. 'You too, Merlin.'

He approached warily, taking the torch from Arthur's hand and restoring it to the nearest bracket before doing the same for Lancelot. Neither one of them spoke as he did so, the silence lengthening to the point of awkwardness before Lancelot cleared his throat.

'My lord, forgive me. I could not let you fight alone.'

'You are not a knight,' Arthur pointed out, picking up his sword from where it had fallen to the ground and sheathing it at his hip. 'It is not your duty to protect Camelot.'

'No; it is my honour.'

Merlin hid a smirk. From anyone else it would sound false, but even Arthur could not argue with the forthright, earnest tone of Lancelot's voice. He meant his words with all his heart.

'Well said,' Arthur acknowledged. 'I must report to my father. Attend me.'

Lancelot glanced at Merlin, who could only shrug his shoulders in response. He might know Arthur by now, but he could not read his mind.

'Of course, my lord. Gladly.'

'Come along, Merlin.'

The castle rang with the sound of their footsteps as they strode towards the throne room. Guards parted to let them pass, and the great doors swung inwards to reveal the man beyond.

King Uther stood waiting, his arms folded across his dark tabard and his burgundy cloak cascading from his shoulders. The burnished gold crown upon his brow gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that poured in through the windows, while the chains and medallions around his neck glinted wickedly, shifting with every breath he took.

'You said your knights are the best in the land, Arthur,' he called out, his deep voice clear as he strode across the room before slapping a hand down on Arthur's back. 'You proved that today.'

Merlin saw how Arthur's face brightened at the praise. It made him look painfully young: eager and a little breathless. Yet it did not last. He would not put his people at risk, and he spoke the truth with quiet certainty. 'It's still out there, Father.'

'Then let us not wait for it to return. We must launch a pursuit. This creature cannot be permitted to terrorise our kingdom.'

'It's a griffin.'

Uther scowled. 'A what?'

'Sire, if I may?' Gaius stepped forward, his stooped frame as straight as he could manage in the presence of his liege. 'I have been researching this beast since reports first reached us. The prince is right. We are dealing with a griffin: an animal of magic.'

Uther's brow drew down in a frown, his mottled eyes turning dark with annoyance. He lifted his chin, his gaze sharp. 'Are you certain?'

'I am, Sire. Something of this nature cannot be destroyed by a mortal weapon. It needs magic.'

The king straightened where he stood, offering a dismissive shake of his head. 'That cannot be so. I refuse to believe it.'

Arthur stepped forward, his jaw tense. 'I think there is some merit to what Gaius is saying. Our blades could not touch it. We drew no blood and cleaved no flesh, despite our best efforts.'

A scowl clouded Uther's face, the bright light of his pleasure dimming as swiftly as it had dawned. 'Perhaps your best efforts were not good enough.'

Merlin sucked in a breath, his heart aching as he saw the flash of pain in Arthur's eyes, hastily subdued. The hands at Arthur's sides clenched into fists, and Merlin saw any joy he might have felt at his father's initial praise vanish like a candle flame beneath the sea.

'Forgive me, Your Majesty, but Prince Arthur speaks the truth.'

'And who are you?' Uther demanded, his lips quivering in a sneer as Lancelot stepped forward, his bow low and courtly. 'You are not one of the knights.'

'No, Sire. I came to the aid of Prince Arthur and his men.'

'For what purpose?'

'To protect Camelot, Your Majesty.'

Uther huffed. 'Speak, and be quick about it. What do you have to add, boy?'

'I crossed paths with the same griffin on my way to Camelot only a few days ago. My sword broke upon its breast, despite a direct hit. I was forced to flee it and hide. The same happened today in the courtyard. Neither spear nor bolt nor blade would pierce it.'

'Even fire only drove it off,' Arthur added, his back stiffening with resolve as he offered a brief, thankful nod in Lancelot's direction. 'I fear we will not succeed.'

'Nonsense.' Uther waved a dismissive hand, casting aside all their arguments. 'It has tasted Camelot iron once. The next time will be its last. How soon can your knights be ready to ride again?'

Arthur pursed his lips, blinking twice in quick succession as he swallowed back whatever protests were no doubt lining up behind his teeth. A good idea. Merlin knew there was no point in fighting Uther when he got like this; he would not listen to reason. 'A candle-mark. Maybe two.'

'Very well. Finish this.'

Uther swept away, leaving the three of them standing in silence. Arthur drew in a deep breath through his nose, straightening his shoulders as he turned to Lancelot.

'Thank you.' He cleared his throat as if he were struggling to find the words. 'My father is an imposing man. It takes fortitude to speak your mind in front of him.'

Lancelot inclined his head. 'I am only sorry I could not convince him, my lord.'

'I cannot ask more of you than you have already done, and I cannot make you a knight of Camelot. However, if you choose to face this griffin with us, you will have my gratitude, for whatever that is worth.'

'It would be my privilege to fight at your side, Your Highness.'

Arthur inclined his head, taking another steadying breath before turning to Merlin. 'Ready horses for myself and Lancelot. We ride as soon as possible. Leon!'

The knight commander stepped forward from where he hovered at the doorway. 'Sire?'

'Ensure the men are armed with spears and lances. We need weapons with range. No crossbows. There's a good chance we'll be fighting in the dark and we do not want to lose our own to friendly fire.'

'Of course, Sire.'

Arthur spread his hands, raising an eyebrow when he saw Merlin still standing in place. 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

'Yes, Sire!'

The stable yard was a chaos of men and horses, saddles, bridles and lances. Grooms scurried back and forth, obeying the knights' orders as they prepared for the battle ahead. Hengroen snuffled a welcome as Merlin led the gelded destrier from his stall. He equipped the horse as quickly as he could, checking the saddle girth and bridle twice over. Lancelot's mount, a borrowed grey named Thirriken, received the same attention, and by the time the prince made his appearance, both were ready.

'I'm coming with you.'

'No, you're not.' Arthur shook his head in disbelief. 'It's too dangerous.'

'You're no soldier, Merlin, nor a swordsman,' Lancelot added, his voice kind as he mounted up and held out his hand to receive his lance. 'I would not wish to see you come to harm.'

'But you need all the help you can get!'

'And what help would you be?' Arthur demanded, waving dismissively as Merlin spluttered. 'Lancelot is a good fighter, but you are not. You will be a burden to us.' He tightened his fingers around the reins. 'I'm sorry.' He jammed on his helmet, effectively ending any argument as he tapped his heels to Hengroen's side.

Merlin stepped back as the horses rode out, his nostrils flaring. Of all of them, he was probably the only person who stood half a chance of slaying the griffin, and here he was, left behind without a second glance!

'Bastards.'

He wasted no time, almost throwing a saddle on Llamrei, Arthur's svelte bay mare, before trotting off in pursuit. Catching up with them would only earn him a day in the stocks for his disobedience. Besides, technically, Arthur was right. As far as they knew Merlin was useless in a fight. It wasn't like he could use his magic on the griffin with the knights of Camelot watching. He'd have to try and approach them and their quarry unseen.

A cold fog wisped along the ground, blanketing Llamrei's hooves and the path before them. It was a treacherous night for riding, and Merlin bit his lip as he peered ahead, looking for any sign of Arthur or the griffin.

An abrupt screech rewarded him, followed by the clash of armour and swords. It rang through the air like a tempest, everywhere at once, and he swallowed hard as he gathered his courage. Yet still a cold sweat burst along Merlin's brow as he slipped down from the saddle. He picked his way through the undergrowth as Arthur's cry of 'For Camelot!' echoed through the woods around him.

The griffin screamed in defiance, and Merlin's heart leapt in his throat as he heard yells of battle turn into cries of pain. He lunged forward, tripping over tree roots. Branches scratched at his face, drawing blood as he erupted into the clearing.

'No.'

The rocky ground was littered with knights, their forms amorphous in the darkness. The griffin had stalked off, and Merlin counted the fallen, grateful to see it hadn't made a meal of anyone. Maybe it thought their armour was too much effort. He scurried forward, his eyes darting left and right in case the griffin were to return.

The familiar flash of gold hair nearby made him pause, and he dashed to Arthur's side, his fingers shaking as he pressed them beneath that warm jaw. A steady rhythm answered his quest, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not dead, then, and no great gashes or wounds seemed to mark his frame. If he had to guess, he would say the griffin startled the horses, who in turn threw their riders and bolted. Arthur's helmet lay on the ground as if it had been dislodged, and a gentle poke of his head yielded a bloody lump under his hair.

'Prat,' Merlin whispered, looking up as another sound reached his ears.

A bleary, wheezing groan cracked the air, and he got to his feet, craning his neck to see Lancelot sprawled in a cushion of undergrowth. The man was moving, struggling to get himself upright like a crab stuck on its back. Merlin reached in, hauling him to his feet and holding him steady.

'Merlin?' Lancelot blinked at him. 'What are you doing? Arthur ordered you to stay behind.'

'And what would you do if I had?' he demanded. 'Besides, Arthur should know better. I never do what I'm told.' He grinned, giving Lancelot's shoulder a quick shake. 'Are you all right?'

'Dazed and winded, but unharmed. The griffin?'

'Can't be far off. Come on. You can use my horse.'

Lancelot grunted, picking up his helmet and jamming it back on his head before lifting the visor. 'Tis no small feat, killing this beast,' he muttered. 'We must have hit it a dozen times over, and it neither bleeds nor dies.'

Merlin whistled long and low, smiling when Llamrei trotted obediently to his side. Her coat gleamed in the moonlight, and he gestured for Lancelot to climb into her saddle. 'We still need to try.' He thought of his magic and the way it rose up in the creature's presence. He had never successfully enchanted a weapon before, but he knew if they were to slay the creature, he would have to manage it, otherwise all this was for nothing. 'Up you get.'

He helped the knight back into the saddle before handing up his lance, a prickle of fear shuddering through him as he heard the griffin's angry screech nearby. 'Are you ready?'

'As ready as I will ever be.'

Lancelot straightened, his eyes widening as the griffin swooped down, a monstrous leviathan stirring in the mist. The trees groaned as it landed, tail lashing. Clearly, all the other knights had managed to do was infuriate it. In the past it had been fearsome, but now it was a creature of wrath and ruin. Merlin could feel it, and he stepped back from Llamrei as Lancelot lowered his visor and seated his lance.

'Go on,' he whispered, his heart in his throat as Lancelot kicked Llamrei's flanks, urging her into a gallop even as the griffin leapt. He clenched his fists at his side, closing his eyes to draw on the energy surging within him before letting it sweep outward.

'Bregdan anweald gafeluc!'

Merlin's heart hammered as the magic coiled and fell, useless. His tunic stuck to his back as the fog curled tendrils over his cheeks and the chill nipped at his nose. Still Lancelot charged, a true knight going to meet his doom if Merlin did not get this right!

Frantically, he pictured the weapon in Lancelot's hand, the long seek body and the pointed tip. He imagined its heft and its power, and then he envisioned it as something more. Still a weapon, yes, but more than the sum of its parts. 'Bregdan anweald gafeluc!'

A bead of blue light unfurled from the point of the lance, wreathing its way along the weapon in a glorious halo of ethereal flame. To his credit, Lancelot neither dropped it nor cried out in alarm. Rather, he urged Llamrei forward, bracing his weight in the saddle.

The creature's scream shook the forest as the lance struck it, ghastly and visceral. The thud of its body as it went down rumbled up through Merlin's feet. He shifted, trying to keep his balance even as elation soared through him. His heart lifted high in his throat, and he spun around once in giddy relief as his mouth split in a wide, breathless grin.

It didn't matter if Arthur never knighted Lancelot. In Merlin's mind, there had never been anyone more deserving of the title.

He sprinted towards where Llamrei stood, skirting the steaming body of the griffin before racing up to the mare's quivering flank and clapping Lancelot on the leg. 'It's dead. You did it!'

Lancelot let out a shivering breath, his brown eyes wide before he looked down at Merlin. 'Not I, Merlin. You.'

His joy vanished, doused beneath a fresh flash of fear.

'What? No...'

'You.' Lancelot got down from the saddle, staggering on shaky legs and dropping the lance before clapping his hands on Merlin's shoulders. 'You, and your magic.'

Those eyes were dark, serious and worst of all – knowing. A dozen excuses crowded his throat, and his face felt like hoar-frost, white and brittle. The desire to run surged through his thighs as he shook his head, desperate to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. They choked him like a noose as visions of a gleaming axe and flames dancing upon a pyre darted through his mind.

Lancelot knew, and this was how it all finally came undone.

The press of a sweat-slick brow to his own made him blink, and he shuddered where he stood, too lost in panic to even think of running away. All of Gaius' dire warnings rushed back to him, and it took him a moment to realise that Lancelot was still speaking, his voice low and soft as if he were talking to a spooked horse.

'Fear not, my friend. I'll not tell a soul,' he murmured, shifting his gloved hands to cradle Merlin's face. Those dark eyes sparkled, bright and certain.

'Your secret is safe with me.'

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned to Arthur in increments: the cool, hard earth at his back; the bright spark of pain at his temple; the ache of a body thrown forcefully to the ground. His lashes fluttered, his eyes flickering behind their lids as memory assailed him. His father's arrogance washed over him anew, and dread came hot on its heels. He remembered leading the knights out into the shadowed forest. The scent of saddle-soap and horse sweat still lingered in his nostrils, edged now with the tang of iron.

The griffin.

His eyes flew open, his muscles taut as he tried to struggle upright only for pain to surge through him. His skull throbbed a warning and nausea clenched in his stomach. No one called out or came rushing to his aid. Perhaps there was nobody left to hear him. Maybe his groan of misery had not been as loud as his own ears suggested?

Cautiously, he turned his head. The world made little sense from this sideways angle. Thin vapours wove their ribbons across the uncertain ground, the mist clinging to vague shapes he did not dare look at too closely. There was something big as well, lying on its side, the wind ruffling its – fur? feathers? – in ways Arthur could not quite comprehend. A bay horse stood nearby, its tack jingling as it looked on.

He frowned, squinting as a shape resolved itself into two figures. One was agleam in armour, the other more slender, his pale face topped by a mop of dark hair that Arthur would know anywhere. Merlin, who he had ordered to stay behind at the castle. Merlin, who never bloody well did as he was told. Merlin... and Lancelot, standing as close as lovers and sharing whispers that he could not hear.

Something clenched beneath Arthur's belly button, a tight, hot knot of emotion that shoved aside the threat of sickness. Anger, he decided a moment later. Nothing more. Merlin had disobeyed him and was now exchanging sweet nothings with Lancelot while he was injured and his knights were...

Oh, Gods. The knights.

This time, Arthur's heartfelt groan could not be missed. His armour scraped against the stony ground as he struggled to sit up, his body protesting every inch of the way. A moment later, the scurry of racing feet thudded in his ears, followed by a hand on his pauldron, holding him steady. Merlin's face swam into better focus, pallid with concern. Good, he thought bitterly; let him worry.

'The griffin?' Arthur rasped, grunting as Merlin rested two fingers on the pulse beneath his jaw. He seemed reassured by whatever he found, because he sat back, gesturing through the gloom to the hulking silhouette.

'Dead, thanks to Lancelot.'

Now that he was upright, Arthur could make out more of its ungainly sprawl. He had known it was big, but downed, its sheer size sent a chill through his blood. Amber eyes stared, glassy and vacant, over a beak that could disembowel a man with a single blow. 'Lancelot?' he repeated, dragging his gaze upwards to meet that solemn, dark stare. 'Is that true?'

Lancelot shifted his weight, his armour clattering, and Arthur did not miss the way his gaze lingered on Merlin a touch too long, as if he were looking for guidance. Not that he would get any. Merlin was fussing over Arthur like a mother hen, and he squashed a flicker of spiteful glee. The blow to his temple must have addled him; surely that was the only explanation for these ridiculous feelings?

'It is, Sire. It will plague us no more.' Lancelot dropped to one knee at Arthur's side. 'Are you badly hurt?'

He paused, considering the question. His head throbbed something fierce and the rest of his body echoed it, but nothing felt broken beyond repair. 'I'll live. My men?'

'Mostly unconscious,' Merlin murmured, 'though there are some who fell victim to an awkward fall.'

Arthur sighed, the heat of his anger vanishing beneath a cool, slick tide of guilt. 'What about the horses?'

'They bolted.' Merlin bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder. 'We're not far from the castle. They've probably gone straight back to their stables. If not, they'll be there by dawn.'

Arthur nodded without thinking, stifling a groan as pain clanged its warning. He pressed one hand to his temple as he reached out to Lancelot with the other. 'Take Llamrei and head for Camelot. Tell them that the griffin is dead, but that we need horses and carts for the wounded. Have Sir Leon inform my father. I will report to him after I've seen to the men.'

'Of course, Your Highness.' Lancelot inclined his head, faultless, as he hurried off to do as he was bid.

'Merlin, I –' Arthur shifted, trying to get his feet under him only to find that his legs would not cooperate. Everything felt strangely boneless, and he took several clear, deep breaths, attempting to get himself under control. Injured or not, he was still the prince. By the gods, he had a duty!

'Stay there,' Merlin ordered, the weight of his hand on Arthur's shoulder pinning him in place. 'Just rest for a bit. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.'

It was tempting to remind Merlin who, exactly, was supposed to be the one in charge, but Arthur knew his complaints would fall on deaf ears. Besides, for once, his servant might have a point. There was no dignity in finding his feet only to lose the contents of his stomach over the forest floor. Best not to risk it, at least not for another minute or two.

Instead, he listened to the sounds of Merlin dashing around the clearing and the occasional groans of his men. Arthur answered each as they called out to him, sharing the news of the griffin's death and the promise that help would soon be with them. A few were able to pick their way over to join him, and he offered smiles that felt ill-fitting upon his face as Merlin came rushing back to his side.

Firewood. He'd been collecting firewood, and as the flames caught, Arthur let out a sigh of relief. Their glow offered a halo of sanctuary from the forest's dark chill, and the light peeled away the shadows, burnishing armour with its touch.

'Check the others,' Arthur ordered, moving his head out of Merlin's reach. He would not put his own wellbeing before the knights who still lay motionless on the ground. For once, blessedly, Merlin didn't argue, and Arthur watched as he stopped by each man's side, feeling out their pulses and patting his hands gently over their limbs. Most seemed to satisfy him, but some made him bow his head and tug at their cloaks, pulling the red fabric over their faces: a mark of respect for the dead.

'How many have we lost?' Arthur croaked.

'Four.' Merlin sighed. 'And I'm not sure how long Sir Kirrion will last. He has taken a mighty blow. Possibly from his horse as it fled.'

A curse boiled in Arthur's throat, and he closed his eyes, ignoring the sharp bite of tears at the seam of his lashes. He could not afford to give in to such weakness, but hollow misery clawed at his chest, scratching against his ribs in a desperate bid to escape. They may not have been men of his own choosing, these knights, but they were his brothers-in arms. Some had even been mentors during his training, and now they were gone.

They had known the risks, but it did not make their loss any easier to bear.

'Here.'

Arthur looked up, surprised to find Merlin right there, his neck bare and the red cloth that so often adorned his throat instead folded in his hand. He reached out, pressing the fabric to Arthur's gashed temple. A wince flickered over his features as Arthur hissed in discomfort.

'Sorry.'

'Don't. I'm fine.'

'Yeah, I think we'll let Gaius be the judge of that.' Merlin grinned, holding steady pressure to stem the flow of blood. Arthur knew he probably looked a sight, but he could not feel much for himself. Not when others lay suffering nearby.

'That's enough, Merlin.' Arthur reached up, his fingers wrapping around the turn of Merlin's wrist and easing him away. 'There are those here who are more needful of your attention.'

'Without bandages and Gaius' herbs, there's not a lot I can do.' Merlin grimaced, taking Arthur's hand and guiding it to his own temple, bidding him to hold the makeshift bandage in place. 'We have to get them to Camelot. At least the king will be happy the griffin's been dealt with.'

'At what cost?' The words bathed Arthur's tongue in acid, but he did not call them back. As their commander, he would take the blame for the deaths of the men who had perished tonight. It was his honour and his duty, but the truth rang hollow beneath his heart. If his father had listened to the guidance offered by others, those knights might have gone home to their warm beds rather than to a cold grave.

A shout from the road made him look up, and tremulous relief rushed through him. Bobbing torches approached through the forest. Now Arthur paid attention, he could hear the rumble of cart wheels over the feeble crackling of the fire. Those knights that were able rose to their feet, calling out in greeting, but there were far fewer voices than Arthur would like.

'I'll lead them as close as I can,' Merlin promised, giving his shoulder a quick pat before racing off to meet those who came to offer aid; his figure as sleek as a bolting deer. Arthur could hear him filling in their rescuers and offering what guidance he could. For all that Merlin was young and far below them in rank, Arthur did not miss the way the soldiers deferred to him. Perhaps it was his position as Gaius' apprentice, rather than Arthur's manservant, that earned him their respect?

'Can you ride?' Merlin asked, reaching out a hand to help him to his feet, his posture poised as if he half-expected him to collapse in a heap. In truth, it was not an unfounded fear, but the spinning in his head had settled and blood no longer ran down the side of his face. 'Be sure, Sire.'

'I'll manage. There's not enough space in the carts for all of us, and it's not far.' He offered a confident smile, though Merlin's doubt made it clear it had missed its mark. 'Stop fretting so,' he chided, inching towards the nearest horse. 'I've suffered worse than this on the practice ground!'

By the time they reached Camelot, he regretted his brash dismissal of Merlin's concerns. The ride through the forest took a chilly eternity, jostling every bruise that painted itself on his flesh. Even once they were inside the walls, the clatter of hooves on the cobbles made his head ring, and those knights like him who were fit to ride all looked as if they were regretting their choice to climb back in the saddle.

They entered the stable yard to familiar chaos. Leon surged forward as Arthur dismounted, followed at a more stately pace by Gaius. The old physician appeared remarkably calm for having been pulled from his bed at such a dismal hour, and his gnarled hands were gentle as he tilted Arthur's chin to the light to get a better look at him.

'Could be worse,' he promised, offering him a crooked smile and turning to Merlin. 'What about the rest of them?'

'Mostly, they're like Arthur: bruised and with blows to the head. Two need their ribs looked at, and I reckon Sir Havant's arm is broken. Sir Kirrion's the most dire. I don't know if he'll survive the night.'

'I'll do what I can.' Gaius opened his satchel, rummaging inside and pulling out a pair of glass bottles. 'The prince should be well enough. His wound is shallow, but sore. Ensure it is clean and apply a compress of arnica and yarrow to take down the swelling. Come and get me immediately if he falls into an unnatural sleep.'

'Don't you need Merlin to help with the others?' Arthur asked, frowning as Gaius shook his head.

'No, Sire. Lancelot and the soldiers can assist me well enough, if you are happy to have Merlin tend to you?'

If his father were here, he would have insisted that only Gaius had the skill to look after Arthur, despite other knights being in more dire need of his care. For his part, Arthur was glad of his absence. That was one battle he didn't have to pick tonight. 'Merlin will do fine. Thank you.'

'Prince Arthur?'

He turned, smiling to see Sir Leon standing at the ready. He had chosen to leave him behind when facing the griffin, and it was clear he had made the right decision. It meant that at least one of the knights still had their wits about them.

'The king sends his congratulations. He was delighted by the news.'

'Delighted?' Arthur repeated. His father rarely demonstrated such effusive emotion. 'I'll take your word for it. I assume he wants a full report?'

Leon paused, his grey eyes narrowing and his bearded lips curving in a faint smile. 'I may have implied that you would be best equipped to satisfy his curiosity after you'd had the night to rest and recover. I believe he is satisfied with the essentials I was able to provide.'

Arthur breathed a soft sigh of relief, thanking whatever spirits might be listening for the blessing of Leon's quick thinking. Of all the existing knights, he had Arthur's respect, not just for his skill with a sword but for his sharp mind. He, more than anyone else, seemed capable of handling the king's volatility. That alone made him more than worth his weight in gold.

'Thank you.' He gripped Leon's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. 'I appreciate it.'

'I suggest you retire, my lord. Leave the rest of the men to me. If you wish, I'll report all I know in a candle-mark so you can put your mind at ease.'

Arthur inclined his head. 'See to it.' He hesitated, almost tempted to remain silent on who had earned all the glory that evening, but he refused to allow himself to succumb to such pettiness. Lancelot deserved the credit, and Arthur would not rob him of it. 'Make sure it is known that it was Lancelot who felled the beast. If he were not there, things could have turned out very differently.'

'Of course, Your Highness.' Leon offered a quick bow before leaping into action, leaving Arthur feeling spent and useless. Only Merlin's gentle hand on his elbow gave him any direction, and he allowed himself to be led into the castle. Familiar corridors passed in little more than a blur, and before long, he found himself standing in his chambers. Someone had taken the time to light the fire for his return, and Merlin stood him in front of the grate, allowing the heat to bathe him as he began helping Arthur free of his armour.

'My helmet?' he asked, realising he'd not seen it since he fell from his horse.

'In the armoury. I'll hammer out the dents tomorrow,' Merlin promised. 'For now, we should get you fixed up. There's a bath on its way. It will be good to soak your muscles after taking that tumble. Do you need anything for the pain?'

'No.'

Arthur swallowed as Merlin eased his tabard off, guiding the rough fabric carefully over his battered head before doing the same with the chainmail. The cool metal barely even touched Arthur's skin, nor did it tangle in his hair. He could not recall Merlin ever being so gentle before, and he could not decide whether to be gratified or annoyed by the attention.

'I'm fine. I won't break,' he protested, his voice flat.

'No, but I'd rather not get blood on the floor. I'd only have to clean it.' Merlin's eyes sparkled, and Arthur's belly twisted itself in knots. He kept thinking of the glimpse he'd seen of Merlin and Lancelot, their brows pressed together in trembling intimacy, closer even than he and Arthur were now.

Had it been what it looked like? It made sense, now he came to think of it. Why else would Merlin champion Lancelot as a knight so thoroughly? He'd lost his heart to him, and it seemed those affections were returned, if Arthur's glimpse of that moment was anything to go by.

Why did the thought sit so ill? What did it matter what Merlin and Lancelot shared with one another?

'Sire?'

He blinked himself back to reality, realising he was standing in his tunic and breeches, his gambeson and boots long gone. A handful of servants filled the bath with clean, warm water, and Merlin stood watching him, caution lining every inch of his features.

'Are you sure you're all right?'

'Yes.' Arthur wet his lips, shaking his head as everyone but Merlin made their exit. 'Tired, nothing more. Tonight was hardly my finest moment.'

'You were up against an unbeatable enemy.'

'And Lancelot wasn't?' He regretted his sharpness as soon as the words escaped him. He would have to be blind to miss the flicker of something akin to fear that skated through Merlin's eyes: a brief flash of panic, hastily subdued. 'He killed the griffin when no one else could. Even though Gaius said it could only be slain with magic.'

'Maybe he managed to hit a weak spot?' Merlin managed at last, his voice thin and faint. 'Gaius could have been wrong.'

Arthur bowed his head, looking towards the bath before stripping off the last of his clothes. There was nothing he could say to that. Anything more would be tantamount to accusing Lancelot of sorcery, and in this kingdom, even a whisper of magic was a death sentence. He would not bring that down on Lancelot's head.

He slipped into the water with a hiss, wincing as aches flared anew. Submerged almost to his chin, he opened one eye, belatedly realising that Merlin still hovered, pale and anxious, some distance away.

'I don't care how Lancelot killed the griffin,' he explained, too tired to tease Merlin for his fears. 'Whether he ran it through with a stick or blasted it with magical fire, he did Camelot a great service.'

'You don't doubt him?'

Arthur considered it, his eyes narrowed against the wreathing steam as the steady sound of Merlin's approaching footsteps echoed in his ears. 'No. My father's laws on magic are clear, but I would not condemn a man who saved us. Not even if the proof of it was staring me in the face. Besides, it's probably just as you said. Gaius was wrong, and Lancelot found a weak spot. No magic involved. That is what I intend to tell my father.'

'Yeah, yeah of course.' Merlin cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. He looked troubled in a way Arthur couldn't begin to comprehend. Maybe on a better day he might have been able to give Merlin's behaviour his full attention but now, tired and sore, he felt like he was barely holding on to his composure. There was too much he was trying not to dwell on: the health of his men and the death of the griffin, Lancelot's capability as a knight and his lack of noble blood, the king's laws and all they entailed...

'Here, let me sort that.' The gentle press of a damp cloth to his temple made Arthur tense, but the pain was a mere whisper of what it had once been. It helped that Merlin moved with care, less brusque and perfunctory than Gaius had ever been in Arthur's youth. He blotted away dried blood as if Arthur were something precious, and he could not bring himself to complain.

By the time Merlin was done, the water had taken on a delicate pinkish hue, but Arthur's scrapes were clean and his hair free of gore. Tense muscles had found their respite: he only had to contend with the exhaustion weighing down every limb. His night clothes had been warming by the fire: a minor comfort, and he was already halfway into bed before he remembered what Leon had said about a report.

'I need to know about the knights.'

'You also need sleep.' Merlin took a clean strip of linen, soaking it in the tincture Arthur had seen Gaius surrender to him. A woody fragrance stirred the air, and Merlin waited for him to settle back on his pillows before placing it against the bruise at his temple. It stung for a moment before the strange, cooling sensation stole even that away. 'If you hold that there, I'll find out what's going on. I won't be long.'

He wanted to protest. He was not some invalid, but at the same time the thought of Leon delivering his report while he lay beneath the bedcovers raised his hackles. He hated to feel vulnerable, and like this, he hardly conveyed an image of power and strength. 'Be quick about it.'

He half-expected Merlin to get distracted with other duties upon his departure. Time trickled by, the world growing more hazy at its edges. He had just started to doze in the nest of his blankets when the door creaked on its hinges. He recognised the cadence of Merlin's footsteps and cracked open one eye, glaring weakly as he peeled away the compress from where it had stuck to Arthur's skin. He tipped Arthur's head towards the nearest candle flame, nodding approvingly.

'You'll have a good bruise tomorrow, but the swelling's gone down.'

'And my knights?' he rasped.

'Five dead. Sir Kirrion has joined the other four. All other injuries are not life-threatening, but there's to be no bouts on the practice yard for a few days: Gaius' orders. Head wounds take time to heal. Three others have fractured bones.' Merlin's voice turned soft. 'It could have been worse,' he pointed out. 'It could just as easily have been you with a broken neck as anyone else.'

'Perhaps then my father would have felt the loss,' he snapped, scrubbing a hand over his face. 'As it is, I'm sure he'll decide it was a worthwhile sacrifice. Five lives for the death of a griffin.' Bitterness laced his words, and he swallowed the taste of it, scowling up at the canopy as his thoughts chased themselves in guilty circles. They only scattered when Merlin uncorked a small glass bottle, holding it out for Arthur to take.

'What's this?'

'Gaius says you should drink it. It should help you sleep and dull any pain overnight. You can have another in the morning if you need it.'

'I don't need it now,' Arthur sulked.

'Physician's orders.' Merlin spread his hands, helpless.

'Prince outranks physician.'

'Do you want to tell Gaius that?' Merlin raised his eyebrows, smiling as Arthur grimaced and knocked back the awful elixir. The vile taste coated his tongue, and he shuddered, practically burying himself in his blankets to avoid any other concoctions Merlin may have brought with him. Thankfully, he was spared further ministrations, and he watched the world find peace as Merlin banked the fire and put out the candles.

The comforting noises lulled him back towards slumber. It was there, lost in the place where dreams and reality bled together, that Arthur thought he heard it: a soft confession spoken to the shadows of the night.

'It wasn't Lancelot's magic,' the whisper came to him. 'It was mine.'

Chapter Text

Merlin crept out of Arthur's room, his heart hammering in the base of his throat and his lips burning from the passage of his confession. Arthur hadn't heard him, he was sure of it. Exhausted from the fight with the griffin, the prince had been asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Perhaps that was why he had the courage to confess his magic with the shadows as his only witness.

It felt wrong, somehow, that Lancelot knew Merlin's biggest secret and Arthur did not. They were – he didn't know what they were. Him and Arthur. Friends, of a sort, for all Arthur's protests to the contrary. They'd saved each other's lives, their initial squabbling giving way to something mostly fond. Yet even with those reassurances bubbling through his mind, Merlin couldn't find the courage to utter the truth to Arthur's face.

Not when it might cost him his life.

He wanted to believe Arthur would never do such a thing: consign him to the executioner's block or the pyre, but he couldn't be certain. Uther would do it in a heartbeat and without a flicker of remorse. The king would feel righteous in removing yet another magical blemish from Camelot's presence, and Arthur..? Would he do as his father expected, or would he live up to Merlin's hopes? Would he choose his father's laws or go against them?

His indifference over how Lancelot had killed the griffin was more than Merlin had ever expected. There had been no condemnation, only a bone-deep, weary relief in Arthur's words. It was a glimmer of possibility where he thought none had existed, but it was not enough to spark his courage into a flame. Besides, one person had already unearthed his secret tonight. That was plenty to be going on with.

Swallowing hard, Merlin trotted down the steps, weaving through the castle towards Gaius' chambers swallowing down the tremulousness that shivered in his chest. He was tired, that was all, and more than a little afraid. Lancelot had promised he would never utter a word of Merlin's abilities. He believed it, too. Lancelot was an honourable man through-and-through. He would not betray him, not unless there was no other choice.

But the fact that he knew still shook Merlin to the core, stirring up every warning his mother had ever uttered and sending them swarming around his head. It was like the time he did magic in front of Will all over again: breathless hope and quivering terror.

'There you are.' Gaius smiled at him, his old face lined and weary. 'I'm glad you're not hurt.'

'I'm fine.' Merlin managed a crooked smile. 'How are the knights?'

'Those that live are back in their barracks with strict instructions to rest. Lancelot's taken your bed again, I'm afraid. He was a great help, but rather spent after all the night's excitement.'

'I'm not surprised.' He slumped onto the stool at the scarred little table he and Gaius shared, humming his thanks when a bowl of stew materialised in front of him.

'Eat up. I doubt you had a chance for dinner before you dashed off to save Arthur. What happened? Lancelot didn't have the time to tell me much of it.'

Alarm bubbled in Merlin's throat and he blinked hard, stirring his spoon through the gravy without taking a bite. 'Lancelot knows.' He cleared his throat, trying not to fidget. 'About my magic, I mean.'

The fire crackled, the cheap, green wood hissing. Merlin could feel Gaius staring at him, but he didn't dare look up and meet his eye. He felt as if he'd betrayed something unspoken; a confidence he and Gaius had borne together within Camelot's walls. Besides, it wasn't just him who was in danger if the truth about his magic came out. Nobody would believe Gaius didn't know. He would stand accused at Merlin's side, doomed to an equally awful fate.

'Does he, now?'

Merlin winced, looking up to see Gaius watching him, one eyebrow cocked and his lips pursed in disapproval. 'Turns out that if you enchant a lance while someone's holding it, they notice.'

'I suppose that's no surprise.' Gaius' creased face twitched as he looked towards Merlin's closed bedroom door, his expression grim and serious. For the first time, he wondered just how far Gaius would go to protect him. He swallowed hard, thinking of the wide array of poisons that lived, side-by-side, with various cures upon the physician's shelves.

'He swore he wouldn't tell a soul,' Merlin explained, dropping his spoon in his bowl with a splash and holding up his hands. 'It's just... he knows.' He breathed out, the air shivering between his lips as the truth sank in. Lancelot knew, and he had not turned away. He had not looked at Merlin with hatred and disgust, nor had any fear carved its legacy across his face.

Lancelot knew he had magic, and he was still his friend.

'I take it you believe him?' Gaius asked.

'Don't you?'

A hearty sigh stirred the air. 'Against my better judgement, I suppose I do, but Merlin, you must be careful. Lancelot is quite unlike anyone else I've ever met. Most others would not accept your magic with such ease.'

'That's because people don't see the good that it can do.'

'And nor are they likely to,' Gaius pointed out. 'Think no more of it, and eat your stew. All of it. You're all skin and bone no matter how much I feed you.'

Merlin smiled, ducking his head and devouring his very late dinner as Gaius described the specifics of the knights' various injuries. He took it all in, knowing that Arthur would be keen to hear every little detail. He did not care about his own health, but the welfare of the men under his command was one of Arthur's highest priorities.

'Oh, and before I forget.' Gaius got to his feet, shuffling over to his workbench and rummaging through a pile of papers. 'Geoffrey came by with this earlier. He said Arthur had requested it?' He pulled free a slip of paper, holding it out for Merlin to look at. 'Though why the prince wants to know about his estates is beyond me. It's all managed for him. To be honest, I'm not even sure that Arthur knows how much land he owns!'

'You're probably right.' Merlin read the details, a tired smile spreading across his lips. 'He's not had them long, has he? His father gifted them to him at his last natality.'

'I believe so.'

Merlin nodded, his weary thoughts sparking like wet kindling as he folded the paper away and slipped it in his pocket. Arthur had never requested such a thing. It had been Merlin who'd asked Geoffrey to track down how much land Arthur could call his own. The deeds were his, which meant that there was no way Uther could try and reclaim them. 'I'll make sure he sees it. Thanks, Gaius.'

'Think nothing of it, my boy. Now, off to bed with you. I've put an extra blanket on your pallet on the floor, though if Lancelot is staying with us much longer then we must see if we can find another cot for you. My old bones ache to watch you lying on that cold stone.'

'I'm used to it,' Merlin promised, rising to his feet and smothering a yawn. His stumbling footsteps carried him towards the room that had been his since he first arrived at the castle. Pokey and untidy, it was his own little slice of space. Now, though, Lancelot took up a good chunk of it, his armour arranged on the rickety chair and his frame sprawled in Merlin's bed. He snored softly, his hair fluttering against his face as he did so, and Merlin bit back a rueful grin.

Slipping into his nightclothes, he burrowed into his nest on the floor, grateful for the thin mattress that at least spared him the worst of the chill. The pillow wheezed sadly as he lay down his head, and Merlin shut his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him.

All too soon, the night waned, chased away by dawn's silver seam upon the horizon. Exhausted as he was, Merlin didn't even stir until Lancelot shook his shoulder, dragging him from slumber with whispered apologies. 'Gaius said to tell you that you would be late if you didn't get up.'

Merlin groaned, pulling the blankets over his head and wishing he could hide in his dark cocoon for a little while longer. If he did, he'd have to miss out on breakfast, but he could always steal something from Arthur's plate, couldn't he? He just needed a few moments more.

'Come on,' Lancelot urged, scrubbing a hand through Merlin's messy hair. 'You can't keep the prince waiting.'

'Yes I can,' he rasped, gasping as Lancelot ripped off his blanket, leaving him shivering in his sleep tunic. 'You arse!'

Lancelot laughed, his eyes sparkling as he helped Merlin to his feet before pushing him in the direction of his clothes. 'Go on, get dressed. Breakfast's on the table.'

The door shut behind him, and Merlin sighed, stumbling about as he washed himself with cold water and a wet rag before getting dressed. At least the chill chased away some of the cobwebs, but his eyes burned as he staggered out into the main room.

'Lancelot was just telling me about the griffin.' Gaius passed Merlin a steaming hot bowl of porridge and guided him onto the nearby bench. 'I might have to venture out and see what I can harvest from it. Some very powerful remedies can be made from such things.'

'It's not far away, and other than the blow that killed it, the carcass is intact,' Lancelot replied.

'I will have to be quick. I've no doubt Uther shall order it burned as soon as he has the opportunity.' Gaius reached for his bag and picked up the roll of wicked, surgical implements that were the tools of his trade.

'Maybe I should come with you?' Merlin suggested. The idea of his elderly uncle wandering a dawn-lit forest by himself sent chills down his spine. 'You know, help you carry stuff?'

'And what would Prince Arthur say to that?' Gaius shook his head. 'No, he'd have you in the stocks for a week.'

'I'll do it.' Lancelot picked up his scabbard and belt, strapping his sword to his hip. 'I'm happy to offer my aid. Besides, I wouldn't mind a closer look. It was all a bit of a blur last night.' He glanced at Merlin before clearing his throat. 'I can also make sure there's no, um, unusual evidence left lying around. Just in case anyone decides to investigate.'

Merlin scraped up the dregs of his porridge, swallowing it down before ducking his head. 'If that's all right with Gaius?'

'It's an excellent idea.' Gaius smiled at Lancelot. 'Besides, Merlin, it's probably best if you do not return to the scene of the crime, so-to-speak. Have you thought of how to explain the griffin's death, since admitting the truth will see you both behind bars before the day is out?'

Merlin gulped down some water before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'I already told Arthur that you must have been wrong and Lancelot hit a weak spot.' He shrugged as Gaius sputtered. 'I didn't know what else to say!'

'Very well. I suppose my reputation can take the blow.' Gaius tutted in fond amusement. 'Anyway, you'd best be off if you don't want to have Arthur yelling at you all morning.'

'On my way, and please, try not to bring the whole griffin back with you? It's getting cramped enough in here as it is!'

With a quick wave, Merlin hurried out of the door, checking the level of the sun through the windows as he raced towards the kitchen. With autumn well under-way, the nights would soon be drawing in and the mornings dragging their heels. He would be getting up in the dark before long, rising before the dawn could be bothered to show its face. Such were winters in Camelot.

Ducking into the bustling kitchen, Merlin tucked himself back against one wall, keeping out of the way of serving boys and scullery maids, as well as the ferocious head cook. She wielded her ladle with a skill that put the knights to shame, and her arms bulged beneath her smock. She would hand him Arthur's breakfast tray when she was ready and not before.

'Merlin!'

Gwen ducked around Michael, one of the scullery boys, and came to a stop at his elbow, her brown eyes agleam and her smile dimpling her cheeks. 'I heard Lancelot killed the griffin! It's all over the castle.' She bit her lip, her brow folding into a frown. 'Not that I pay much attention to gossip, but...'

Merlin grinned. 'Yeah, yeah he did. It won't be bothering us anymore. Lancelot saw to that.'

'He's so brave.' Gwen pressed her fingers to her lips as if trying to contain her praise. 'I can't imagine how terrifying it must have been for him, but to find the courage to kill it anyway?' She shook her head. 'I could never have done such a thing.'

'Oh, I dunno about that. You're braver than you think.'

She arched an eyebrow, flushing at the compliment even as she took in Merlin's tired frame with knowing eyes. 'Almost as brave as you. I heard that Lancelot wasn't the only one still on his feet to face the griffin. Some of the knights were singing your praises, saying you saw to it that everyone got home safe.'

'I didn't do much.'

'You went.' Gwen reached out, clasping her hand over his forearm and giving it a quick squeeze. 'You had no armour, no weapon and I heard that Arthur had told you to remain behind, but you followed him anyway. That seems pretty brave to me.'

Warmth glowed beneath Merlin's ribs. He didn't mind running around after Arthur without a word of gratitude, but it was nice to know that other people had noticed some of his efforts. 'Thanks, Gwen.'

'Boy! The prince's breakfast's 'ere. Get along with you!'

Merlin jolted forward, snatching at the tray and adjusting his balance so the plate didn't end up on the floor. He offered Gwen a quick roll of his eyes, smiling in farewell even as he strode away. It felt as if he'd only left Arthur's bedchamber a short while ago, yet here he was, walking the familiar path and trying to run up far too many stairs without spilling anything or giving in to the temptation to steal a sausage.

A wordless spell and a flicker of subtle magic made sure the meal remained piping hot, and he slipped into Arthur's room, putting it on the table before he crossed towards the curtains.

'Up you get!' he called, smiling to himself as Arthur gave a moan of disgust, rolling over in his ridiculous feather quilt and burying his head under his personal mountain of pillows. 'Let's be having you. The king will want your report on the griffin before long.'

Arthur swore, low and crass and mostly muffled by his bedding, but Merlin picked out the gist of it, none of which was very complimentary. At last, he lifted his head, his hair going like a haystack in every direction and the bruise on his temple fully formed.

Merlin winced at the sight, knowing it wouldn't be the only hurt painting its story on Arthur's body. The vial of pain elixir from the previous night sat where had he left it, and he snatched it up, placing it by Arthur's breakfast tray and pouring him some fresh water before turning to the wardrobe.

Behind him, he could hear Arthur getting up, shuffling over to the dressing screen like an old man. No doubt everything hurt from the beating he'd taken. As good as sleep could be for the body, it also gave joints the opportunity to seize up. Arthur had probably faced worse over the course of his youth, but that didn't lessen his current discomfort.

Quickly, Merlin selected some of Arthur's favourite clothes: ones that made him feel confident. Not that he would ever admit that his garments had any effect on his mood, but Merlin had noticed the difference. In his armour, Arthur was a man of duty, honour and constant tension, as if he feared the men around him were judging his performance as both a warrior and a commander. In his royal regalia, he felt ill-at-ease, stuck in his father's shadow and unable to break free of it.

It was in his more casual clothes that Arthur seemed happiest: a plain tunic, breeches and his leather hunting coat. A truly alarming amount of his wardrobe was coloured in the typical Pendragon red, which was to be expected, but Merlin personally favoured the dark blues and rich browns among the bright vermilion.

If it were up to him, that's how he would dress Arthur: in clothes that spoke more of the man than the prince or the knight. Unfortunately, a meeting with Uther demanded certain concessions, so Merlin set about doing what he could to compromise.

He grabbed a red tunic with subtle embroidery at the collar and cuffs, as well as some dark brown breeches. Arthur's best boots, freshly polished, would go over his socks. Last came a new leather coat: a gift from Morgana. It hung just below his hips and was lined with some ludicrously smooth and expensive fabric, once again dyed bloody crimson.

He heard the splash of the ewer and Arthur's quick inhale as the ice-cold water touched his face. If nothing else, it would wake him up. Merlin suspected he would need his wits about him to contend with Uther today.

He waited patiently for Arthur to don his basic layers before stepping around the screen to assist him with the rest. He liked to tease Arthur mercilessly about not being able to dress himself, but the truth was that even simple outfits in the royal wardrobe were hard to put on without creasing delicate fabric. Either that or they had ridiculous and numerous fastenings.

Merlin worked in silence, straightening Arthur's collar and securing laces, helping him into his jacket and pulling the seams straight over his shoulders. He wielded the comb more gently than he normally would, mindful of his bruises, and eyed the gleam of his stubble. It would not be long before he asked for another shave, but for now he would manage well enough.

'The knights?' Arthur's voice was still rough with sleep. It was to his credit that his waking thought was of his men, and Merlin smothered a smile.

'Healing,' he promised, gripping Arthur's shoulders and steering him towards his waiting breakfast. 'The pain tonic will ease your aches but won't cloud your mind. Eat first, and then take the dose. Gaius' orders.'

Arthur pulled a face but did as he was told, putting away his meal with the neat proficiency of a man who could not ignore the demands of his belly. He was never at his best when he was hungry, and Merlin busied himself with making the bed as he waited for Arthur to properly join the waking world.

In truth, he liked mornings like this, when Arthur was still sleep-fuzzed and gentle. It made him seem more like just a man rather than a prince who would one day rule a kingdom. It was better than the alternative, which was normally Arthur in a fearsome temper and, sometimes, prone to throwing things at Merlin's head.

After a while, he realised he could feel the weight of Arthur's gaze burning the back of his neck. It prickled and chafed, sending the hairs on his nape quivering upright. Merlin glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in the face of Arthur's stare. 'Is everything all right, Sire?'

'What did you say last night?'

Merlin's hands froze in the act of fluffing the pillows, his pulse leaping in his throat. A surge of blood turned his fingers clumsy, and he wet his lips. Arthur could not mean what he had said about his magic: it had been a whisper, nothing more, and he had been lost to sleep's shallows.

Hadn't he?

'When?' Merlin swallowed, smoothing out the creases in the rich red sheets and trying not to think about how they looked like fresh blood spilled around the executioner's block. Surely if Arthur had heard even a hint of his confession, he would not simply sit there eating his breakfast? He would call the guards, order Merlin's arrest, and take him before his father in chains. This was not what he thought it was.

'As I was nodding off, I could have sworn you said something.'

Fuck.

'I just wished you good night.' Merlin bit his tongue, glad that Arthur could not see his face. He was certain the lie of his words was painted all over his features. He had to add something more, or Arthur would be relentless in his pursuit of the truth. 'That's all. Why, what did you think I said?'

He screwed up his courage and turned around, cocking his head curiously in Arthur's direction. It took all his willpower not to let his fear show and to ignore the way his thighs ached with the desire to run. He had got up this morning thinking it would just be another day, one that would maybe bring Lancelot a step closer to knighthood. Now Merlin wondered if this was the moment in which everything fell apart.

Arthur watched him, the haze of slumber gone. His gaze was sharper than any blade, and Merlin tried not to quail beneath it as they looked at each other across the stretch of the table. The silence twisted like a noose, and with every passing moment, Merlin's heart picked up its cowardly pace.

'Never mind.'

Merlin coughed to cover his blatant sigh of relief, stepping forward and liberating a sausage from Arthur's plate. He got a growl of protest for his trouble, but that was rather restrained for Arthur, and he tried not to fret about it. Arthur had not heard anything, not really. It was just his own guilty conscience making him worry. He fought to calm his body and mind as he busied himself by the grate, casting around for a way to change the subject.

'It's all over the castle, about Lancelot and the griffin.' He clanged the poker against the stonework and winced at the racket. 'I suppose the knights have been talking.'

'My father will still want to hear it from me.' Arthur leaned back in his chair with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his brow and wincing as he aggravated his bruise.

'And what do you plan to tell him?'

'The truth, Merlin.' Arthur frowned, as if the thought of twisting the facts to give the real knights of Camelot some of the glory had never crossed his mind. Perhaps it hadn't. 'Lancelot slew the griffin single-handedly. It was quite a feat.'

'One worthy of royal favour?'

The question hovered in the air between them, and Merlin risked a glance back in Arthur's direction, seeing that his expression had shifted, torn between exasperation and something almost fond. 'Mer-lin...'

'I mean, technically, he did a great deed for Camelot, didn't he?'

'Yes. I don't think there's anybody who would argue with that, except perhaps my father.'

Merlin set the poker aside and straightened up, folding his hands behind his back. 'If anyone could convince him of it, it would be you.'

Something complicated twisted over Arthur's features. 'This really matters to you, doesn't it? Lancelot becoming a knight?'

'I'd do the same for any person who showed such promise. Compared to the "men" you've been putting through their paces –'

'Careful, Merlin. Those are nobles, and you are just a peasant. As is Lancelot. If people hear you speaking like that, you'll wish they only put you in the stocks.' Arthur dragged a hand over his face before pushing out his chair and standing up, jerking his head towards the door. 'Come on. I can't make any promises about Lancelot and my father's favour.'

'But you'll try?' Merlin struggled not to bounce on his feet, absurdly proud of the man before him, not just for his bravery in battle, but for the courage he showed in court. Arthur might hate it, but he always spoke up for what he believed was right.

'Yes, Merlin,' Arthur promised at last. 'I'll try'

Chapter Text

If he were a less honourable man, Arthur would have downplayed Lancelot's achievements to the king. Honesty did not earn him any favour with his father, who had swiftly demanded to know in their too-short meeting why it was not Arthur himself who had claimed the glory.

There was no pride to be found in explaining that he had been unconscious, or that a handful of knights had lost their lives. There was nothing chivalrous in the petty thought that if only his father had listened, perhaps those same men would be alive when the dawn came.

Instead, when he left the throne room, it was with the familiar, sick sensation of failure dogging his heels. Uther's praise was rare at best, and his censure never failed to wound. It was bad enough that he would have to tell Merlin that the king had decided a paltry purse was an adequate reward for Lancelot's bravery. Perhaps the man himself would be grateful, but Arthur could not bear the idea of Merlin's face, pinched and pained, as if he felt Lancelot's disappointment twice as harshly.

He thought back to what he had seen when the griffin was slain: the two men standing toe-to-toe, Lancelot's hands firm and sure around Merlin's shoulders. Arthur had been too addled and far off to make out what he was saying, but he knew the tone well: heartfelt and rich with sincerity, he employed it himself when making his most solemn oaths. Whatever Lancelot had spoken of to Merlin, he had meant every word, and something deep in Arthur's gut panged at the possibilities.

Then there was what he thought he had heard last night, on the very cusp of slumber. A dream, he had decided: a blow to the head and a stressful battle ganging up on him, but why that? Why had his fuddled mind imagined Merlin confessing to magic?

He shoved the notion aside before it could take root. He refused to give it any consideration. Camelot was a lethal place for anyone to come under the suspicion of sorcery. Even a hint of it was enough to sentence a man to death.

Enough to sentence Merlin.

He paused, reaching out one hand to brace it against the wall as he took a steadying breath, trying to calm the fretful race of his heart. What was wrong with him? Merlin was a servant, and he was bound by all the laws of Camelot, the same as anyone else. If he broke them, he would bear the consequences, which was why it was just as well that Arthur had clearly dreamt that whispered confession last night.

No more needed to be said.

With a groan, he cuffed his fingers through his hair as he slogged up to his chambers. He was not sure what to expect when he opened the door, but it was reassuring to be greeted by the same chaos as usual. If nothing else, he could rely on Merlin being truly useless at almost every aspect of his job.

Arthur paused, looking towards the window where Merlin sat in a sunbeam, Arthur's sword across his lap as he sharpened the blade. In that, at least, he did not shirk his duties. He may forget to keep Arthur's cup full at dinner and rarely bothered to tidy his chambers, but when it came to keeping Arthur safe, his dedication was absolute. He might not have learnt the fine art of delegating to lower servants or that of knocking on the door, but he had prioritised understanding how Arthur wore his armour and which weapons he preferred.

In all honesty, that was why Merlin was still here. He had soon realised that Arthur saw a creased tunic as an inconvenience, but that a damaged hauberk could cost him his life. Merlin had not let him down in that respect, not once. He looked at Arthur and saw not a powerful man whose favour he should curry, but someone worth protecting.

Arthur did not know what to do with that notion. Nor did he know what to do about his stupid, dizzy heart, which flipped at the sight of Merlin gilded by the sunlight. It caught the angle of those cheekbones and cast inky highlights through that mess of hair. True, it emphasised the unfortunately large ears, but it also made Merlin look like something untouchable and out of reach: precious in ways Arthur could not get his head around.

Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat, closing his door with a bang and turning resolutely towards his desk. There were grain reports and weapons requisitions awaiting his attention. Then there were the letters he had to write: missives to the kin of the knights who had lost their lives fighting the griffin. His sympathies were poor recompense, even if they were accompanied by a bag of gold. The thought of it only further soured his mood, and he slumped into his chair with a huff.

To Merlin's credit, he did not immediately jump on Arthur about the prospect of Lancelot and his non-existent knighthood. Arthur could almost feel him vibrating with curiosity from the other side of the room, but he kept it to himself, filling the air with the sibilant glide of the whetstone along the blade. It was only when he was finished that he even glanced in Arthur's direction, one eyebrow lifted in mute enquiry.

He grimaced, pretending he had not been half-hypnotised by the elegance of those lithe, long fingers over his sword as Merlin worked. He was tired, that was all, and possibly still concussed. There was no other reason for his distraction.

'My father will award Lancelot with a modest purse for his actions against the griffin. Nothing more.' He said it quickly, as if it might reduce the sting. To Arthur, his father's so-called generosity felt insulting at best. Of course, he had hardly expected anything else, but it chafed at him that a few gold pieces were all Lancelot would get for his troubles when any noble would be given additional tracts of land and favour at court.

He pursed his lips, daring to meet Merlin's eyes rather than staring fixedly at the wall to his left. He had anticipated disappointment and anger. He was not prepared for the thoughtful tilt of Merlin's head or the hint of cunning that gleamed in his gaze. It was a shocking reminder, should Arthur need it, that Merlin was not half as stupid as he seemed.

'You know, it's not only a king who is able bestow the favour needed for a knighthood. Any member of the royal family can do it.' Merlin got to his feet, sliding Arthur's sword home in its scabbard before wandering over to a basket of laundry, freeing clean garments and folding them haphazardly. He did not push or fuss or make any sort of demand, which was just as well, because Arthur would refuse on principle. Instead, he left the statement hanging in the air like an ornament for Arthur's consideration.

'How do you know that?' he asked, fascinated despite himself.

'Oh, I picked it up somewhere, I suppose.'

'Really?' Arthur allowed the doubt to drip from that single word. 'You just happened upon a highly relevant piece of obscure legislation while performing your chores, did you?'

'Something like that.'

Merlin was the worst liar he had ever seen. He had a habit of pinching his left ear-lobe when he fibbed. Not to mention how he would shift his weight from one foot to the other, swaying forward and back again before remembering himself. It only made Arthur's dream about confessed magic all the more ludicrous. There was no way Merlin could keep a secret of such enormity when he could not even lie about something so inconsequential.

'So, you didn't tell Geoffrey I had asked for the old laws on acquiring knighthoods and the First Code, then?'

It was a shot in the dark, but worth it to see how Merlin's fingers tightened in one of Arthur's tunics, guilt's twitch condemning him as surely as any words could. Still, most people caught out in an untruth would usually dig themselves a deeper hole out of fear of the consequences. Merlin, at least, knew when he was beaten, and he turned around to look at Arthur, his lips pursed.

'Well, someone had to do it. You didn't seem interested.'

Arthur snorted, not wanting to admit that the idea had not even crossed his mind. His father said "impossible" and Arthur believed him, because it was easier to obey than put up a fight, at least when it came to Uther's sweeping proclamations. It was a bitter realisation, made all the worse for its sudden clarity, and he rubbed a hand across his mouth. Any prince worth the name would have done exactly what Merlin had suggested. He would not surrender when first confronted with a problem. He would seek out a solution, and yet here he was, shrugging his shoulders and doing the bare minimum.

Still, he was not about to confess as much to Merlin, who was watching him with a thoughtful frown pleating his brow. Instead, Arthur got to his feet, walking around his desk to lean back against its edge, one hand bracing his weight as he gestured to Merlin. 'Go on, then. What else did you find? I saw the scrap of paper, royal favour and lands...'

'Both of which are in your power to bestow.' Merlin crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin as if daring Arthur to scoff. 'A man need only be gifted with three acres of land and royal favour to meet the criteria for nobility. Your father gave you Pentrose for your natality. It's a hundred-and-fifty acres, entirely under your control, to do with as you wish. That includes dispensing it to others. The only way Uther could stop you is if he disinherited you.'

Arthur realised he was staring, his mind wiped blank with the shock of it. He recalled his father gifting him Pentrose: a large estate near Camelot's border with Gawant. It was good land, under the careful care of a steward and his team.

It provided him with some annual income, the first payment of which he would receive in a few months. He did not know how much and had not spared it a great deal of thought. At the time, it had seemed more symbolic than anything. Now, he realised that there was an inherent power imparted with the lands.

Did his father realise the meaning of what he had given Arthur, or had he, too, forgotten the details of what it took to turn a commoner into a noble?

'Sire?'

'Disinheritance is still a possibility,' he said faintly, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Are you sure about this, Merlin? You've not made some mistake, or read an old law my father rewrote when he became king?'

'Check it with Geoffrey.' Merlin's eyes were wide and imploring. 'He'll know better than me, but from everything I've found, it's that easy.'

Arthur turned it over in his mind, something thrilling reaching up to twine around his heart. The urge to march down to the throne room and fling the triumph at his father's feet was a living thing within his veins, but he reached for restraint. That was the reaction of a boy eager to prove himself, and those days were beyond him. He was a man, a knight, a leader trained in the art of strategy, and he would not rush this. There was just one thing he wanted to know.

'Why go to all this effort for Lancelot?' he asked, swallowing the faint edge of trepidation that honed his words. 'He's a man you've only known a few days, and yet you've done all this for him.'

Arthur braced himself for the moon-struck look in Merlin's eyes. He doubted his manservant would be anything less than foolish in love. Yet when he met Merlin's gaze, there was nothing but a hint of bafflement squirrelling his features.

'I'm not doing it for him, you prat.' Merlin went back to sorting the washing as if he expected to find the secrets of the universe within its folds. Still, for all that he had turned away, his voice was steady as he continued. 'All you've done since I came in to your service is complain about the quality of knights you've been given. It's been months, Arthur, and it's not getting any better. You need good, strong fighters, and Camelot's chewed through everything the nobles have to offer.' He sighed, glancing over his shoulder. 'A decent knight might save your life one day, and the manner of his birth doesn't mean a damn thing.'

'Leon's a fine swordsman. Loyal, true and talented.'

'And who else?' Merlin shook his head. 'Name one other who you would trust at your side in battle.'

You, Arthur thought, swallowing the confession before it could breach his lips. It said far too much. Merlin was no knight. He could not be trusted to wield a blade without doing more harm to himself than the enemy, yet when it came to loyalty, there was no one better. Not even Leon.

'That's not the point.'

'It really is. Your father already sends you out on dangerous missions on a weekly basis, and while the knights who go with you are good enough, you don't lean on them as you should. You need more than Sir Leon can offer.'

'And you think Lancelot is the answer, do you?'

Merlin tilted his head, his lips pursed in a look of exaggerated thought. 'Part of it, at least. I mean, he is only one man. We might be asking a bit much of him to handle you all by himself.'

Arthur longed to argue – to say that Merlin's judgement was clouded by sentiment – but the words would not come. In all honesty, he had long felt that something was missing. The men who sought his company were, more often than not, sycophants and hangers-on, eager to be in his inner circle purely for what they could gain. Leon was the only exception, but looking at it with an honest eye, Arthur could see the truth about Lancelot. He would not tell Arthur what he wanted to hear, speaking sweet lies to stroke his ego. A king was only as good as the court with which he surrounded himself, and a crown prince was no different.

Maybe Lancelot was the answer after all.

He pushed away from his desk, surrendering to the urge to pace as his mind raced. Yet underneath the steady spin of his thoughts, gratitude bloomed deep in his chest. He had not asked Merlin to solve the problem of his knights, and it was not as if he had merely suggested a likely candidate. Instead, he had spent time combing through the tedious laws and restrictions of the First Code, unravelling the complicated knot of dry, legal text. He had come to Arthur with something that, even if it wasn't the solution to all his problems, might be a damn good start.

'Fetch Sir Geoffrey,' he ordered, flapping a hand towards the door. 'We need to make sure your findings are accurate. My credibility is on the line if you're wrong.'

'It would be better to go to him.' Merlin pitched the last of the washing aside, facing Arthur with his hands resting loosely on his hips. 'People pay attention to who visits your chambers. No one's fussed about who goes in the library except Geoffrey himself.'

Arthur grimaced, realising he was probably right. The last thing they wanted was word of anything unusual getting back to his father before they were ready to act. Their success depended on Uther being taken by surprise. If he was forewarned, Arthur had no doubt he would try and change the rules to stop them.

'Come on then,' he urged, marching towards the door and ushering Merlin across the threshold. 'And you mustn't tell anyone of this, not even Lancelot. Not until we're ready.'

Merlin pulled a face, wrinkling his nose before ducking his head in a nod. 'All right.'

'You're okay with that? Keeping secrets from him?'

'Well, it's not like it'll do him any harm, is it? At least this way he won't be disappointed if it doesn't go according to plan.'

Arthur chewed his tongue, turning Merlin's words over in his mind. Something unsettled twisted in the pit of his belly: a guilty pleasure that Merlin's greater loyalty lay with him. Of course, any tender feelings between the two men were painfully new; Merlin had only known Lancelot a week at most. Even if he had lost his heart to him in so short a time, it was a relief to know that Arthur still came first in Merlin's priorities, at least for now.

The walk to the library was a quick, silent affair, and Merlin stepped back at the threshold, allowing Arthur to lead the way. For a moment, he was baffled by the display of deference, but he only had to see how Geoffrey watched Merlin with deep suspicion to realise it was more about Merlin sparing himself the librarian's wrath than anything else.

'Your Highness.' Geoffrey ducked his head, as much of a bow as his ageing bones would permit. In his youth, Arthur had resented the scholar for taking him away from sword practice, but in recent years he had come to appreciate him far more. It was a war wound that had retired Geoffrey here, to the archives, and behind that balding pate and snowy white beard there was a sharp and tactical mind. Even better, Geoffrey always greeted him with a genuine smile – not the sallow, sickly things of court – but something almost fond. 'What can I do for you?'

'I hoped you might be able to confirm a matter for me,' Arthur began, stepping closer to the well-guarded fire to soak in some of its warmth. 'I've been looking into the First Code, trying to find ways to broaden the field of new recruits for knighthood, and I want to ensure I've got it right. In the end, it seems that if I want to make a commoner a knight, I must first make him a noble, for which I need to grant royal favour and three acres of land.'

'That is correct.' Geoffrey watched him, his dark eyes intent. 'You believe that this is the way forward? To make more nobles?'

'I think we have drained the lords of Camelot's lands dry. Some of the sons I am being sent to train are little more than boys because their elder brothers have already laid down their lives for our kingdom. I cannot, in good conscience, keep robbing the noble families of their children. If it were up to me, I would choose our battles with more care.' Arthur pursed his lips, knowing his words skirted dangerously close to treason. 'Instead, I will do what I must.'

Geoffrey nodded, his gnarled fingers sweeping over his desk and tugging free a piece of parchment. 'After the enquiries of your servant, I took the liberty of checking the pedigrees to see how many families have been elevated during your father's reign. The number was not insignificant. This is of little matter, except that it sets a precedent. He has used the laws you mentioned as his guide. Should he try to argue against them now, he would have to reissue patents of nobility to seventeen different lords. Men who would not take the slight kindly.'

'So, if he tries to tell me it cannot be done...'

'He will be deeply inconvenienced, and I would advise him against it. Laws can rarely be changed without consequence.' There was a sparkle of amusement in Geoffrey's eye, though a moment later, it fled beneath a warning look. 'That is not to say this will be easy, Prince Arthur. I suspect your father, in his wisdom, will do much to see that it fails.'

Arthur wished he could claim otherwise, but his father was a petty man. He might not be able to stop Arthur making Lancelot a knight, but there was a great deal he could do to throw obstacles in their path. 'I will handle any issues as they arise,' he promised. 'The first step is putting this particular law to use. Do you have any advice for me?'

It warmed his heart to see Geoffrey swell with pride simply to be asked his opinion, and Arthur listened as the old man nodded: a single, quick jerk of his head.

'Do not do this privately, Your Highness. The king will call you into council within the next few days to discuss matters of the griffin and other military concerns. Mention it then.' He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'Many of the lord councillors have lost sons to Camelot's army over the past few years. They would be eager to see that burden displaced elsewhere, and that could only work in your favour.'

Something thrilled deep in Arthur's chest, a moment of triumph as delicious as it was addictive. When he glanced at Merlin, the sensation increased a hundred-fold, stoked higher by the gleam of unfettered approval in his gaze. He looked at Arthur as if he had hung the sun in the sky, and Arthur was struck with the desperate desire to never lose that simple, earnest respect.

'Thank you, Sir Geoffrey,' he managed at last, forcing his attention back to the old scholar. A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes, as if he suspected the true source of this notion was Merlin himself, rather than Arthur. 'Your support in this matter will not be forgotten.'

'I shall do everything I can to ensure your success, Your Highness.' He bowed again, leaving Arthur to turn away and usher Merlin along before him. At least with Arthur right there, Merlin couldn't knock over a pile of scrolls and leave Geoffrey's good temper in tatters.

Neither of them spoke as they hurried back towards Arthur's chambers, moving at a pace just shy of unseemly. One or two guards looked their way, their faces solemn and their eyes indulgent, but it wasn't until Merlin shut the door behind them that Arthur allowed a grin to break out across his face.

For the first time in his life, he felt as if he had wrested some small bit of control from his father. In an ideal world they would work together for the betterment of the kingdom, but in truth, Uther saw everyone as a threat to his authority: even his heir. An anxious thrill took root in Arthur's stomach at the thought of wielding his own power, but determination gilded his concerns. Some things were worth fighting for, and Camelot needed good, strong men to be her knights.

'So, are you going to do it?' Merlin asked, his eyes bright and his lips tilted in a crooked smile.

'Yes, Merlin.' Arthur let out a breath, relishing a surge of unshakeable certainty. 'I'm going to make Lancelot a noble, and a knight, and there's nothing my father can do to stop me.'

Chapter Text

Keeping their plans a secret from Lancelot was a horrible sort of torture. The words kept bubbling up in Merlin's throat, pressing hard against the back of his teeth whenever Lancelot let out a wistful sigh. At first, he had worried that the would-be knight might decide to leave Camelot before he and Arthur had a chance to put their plan into action. Thankfully there was more that had caught Lancelot's attention than the glory and honour of serving the realm.

'If you stay, will you court her?' Merlin asked, hiding a smirk as Lancelot startled out of his Gwen-based reverie. He blinked large, dark eyes, as if he were struggling to focus on anything as mundane as Merlin. 'Actually get to know her, rather than just staring at her like a love-sick calf?'

'And why would she consider courting a man such as me, with little to his name but the clothes on his back?'

Personally, Merlin suspected Gwen would agree to court Lancelot no matter his circumstances, but he kept that thought to himself. He also heroically resisted the urge to mention the fact that Arthur was in a meeting that could secure his knighthood even as they spoke. He had wanted to be in attendance, but in the end, he had been over-ruled by the king's proclamation: no servants in the council session. His only comfort was that Sir Leon, at least, would be there to intervene if anything went spectacularly wrong.

'Because she doesn't care about that kind of thing.' Merlin sighed, checking the recipe Gaius had him mixing and peering doubtfully at the crushed herbs. He'd done it right; he just couldn't see what a few bits of leaf and twig were going to do for Sir Meriadoc, who was suffering a raging infection from the wounds he had sustained in their fight against the griffin. If they didn't do something, another knight would be lost to them, and Meriadoc was not yet eighteen: a tragic waste.

A quick flash of magic glimmered over the contents of the grinding bowl, and Merlin nodded to himself. He did not know what he had done, but his power had helped, somehow. Maybe now the young knight might stand a chance.

'How often do you do that?' Lancelot's voice was closer than Merlin had thought, and he jerked in surprise, turning to see the worried frown pleating his brow.

'What?'

'Use magic? Anyone could have walked in that door to bear witness, and then where would you be?' Lancelot folded his arms, lowering his voice. 'On the pyre, or with your neck bound over the headman's block.'

Merlin swallowed, pulling a face. He was glad Lancelot knew. Really, he was, but unfortunately it seemed he had joined forces with Gaius, offering endless urgings about keeping his secret safe and grim proclamations about what would happen if he didn't.

They were not wrong. It was just that his power liked to be useful – he liked to be useful. Wasn't that part of why he was still here? Kilgharrah had offered him a purpose: protect Prince Arthur. Back then, Merlin had not seen much worth keeping safe, if he was honest, but he'd stayed all the same, because for the first time in his life someone was telling him his abilities were more a blessing than a burden.

Now, months later, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. For all its faults, Camelot was his home; for all his denials, Arthur was his friend, and for all of its dangers, his magic was a part of him.

'I'm careful,' he retorted, his tone harsher than he intended, sharp with true annoyance, 'but I don't have it in me not to help those in need. If I have to use my particular talents to do so, then I will.'

'Even if it costs you your life?'

'Even then.'

He turned away, adding the boiling water to make the tisane. The ripples carried an unnatural glimmer before they faded, becoming completely ordinary to the eye. Only Merlin knew that his magic still thrived within the elixir, and he doled some out into a large bottle before stoppering it with a cork. 'I need to get this to Sir Meriadoc. Are you coming?'

Lancelot reached out, his hand wrapping over Merlin's arm to pull him up short. 'I'm sorry. I did not mean to lecture you. Gaius worries about you every moment of the day, and sometimes it is hard not to fall into the same way of thinking. It is not safe for you in Camelot.'

'It never has been.'

'I don't merely mean your magic. Some of the knights...' Lancelot clenched his jaw as if he were loath to speak ill of men who he had hoped to call his brothers-in-arms. 'They utter things that no honourable man should give voice. Not within the hearing of Prince Arthur or Sir Leon, but in the tavern where they think they are safe from the ears of those who command them.'

'I know.' Merlin opened the door, unsurprised when Lancelot followed him. 'It's not only the knights. Some of the courtiers are just as bad. You learn who to avoid.'

'But it shouldn't be that way! How can they claim to be honourable? The nature of a man shows itself in his behaviour towards those he thinks are lesser than him. The only thing that makes them better than bandits is the quality of their armour.'

Merlin hesitated, ducking into an alcove and pulling Lancelot after him. 'Careful. If any of them hear you talking like that, they'll leave you lying in the street with a sword through your gut.'

He sighed, wondering for the first time if Lancelot was actually too good to be a knight of Camelot. It was not that they were all awful men, but there were one or two amidst the ranks who tainted the rest with their callous cruelty. It reminded him of Arthur, tormenting a servant for his own amusement the day he had met him. In some ways, it was remarkable how Arthur had changed in just a season or two – though there were occasions when he still threw things at Merlin's head and didn't try too hard to miss.

'Look, most knights are born to follow. One of the reasons Uther sticks to the stupid First Code is because nobles have too much to lose to question his orders. They're not paid to think, and that's not good for anyone. Not for Camelot or its people.'

'All knights must take oaths of loyalty,' Lancelot protested.

'But that doesn't mean blind obedience. Believe me, that's not what Arthur needs. He needs good knights with stout hearts who will both support and challenge him. What he's got is a load of green boys and, in amongst them, those who would turn around and stab him in the back if Uther ordered it. If he could get just one or two decent men, they could lead by example.'

Lancelot's brown eyes gleamed, a spark of amusement lifting the veil of grim concern that had drawn across his features. 'If you speak of me, my friend, I think you give me too much credit. Besides, the First Code stills stands. I'm no knight of Camelot. Nor will I ever be.'

Merlin bit his tongue, forcing down a smile as he jerked his head towards the barracks. 'Then you've got plenty of time to spare to help me out, haven't you?'

'Of course, but Merlin, promise me something?'

'Hmmm?'

'Just... be careful.'

'I always am.'

Lancelot gave him a look of supreme doubt, which Merlin thought was a bit unfair, but he said nothing more as they hurried onwards. Thankfully, the knights' rooms were mostly empty at this time of day, with men either out on patrol or set about their other duties. Only the wounded or unwell lingered, and Merlin quickly surrendered the tisane to Meriadoc's squire, giving him strict instructions before following Lancelot outside.

They were just crossing the courtyard when Gwen darted out of the laundry room, something bundled in her hands. Her hair was tumbling down from the knot at the back of her head, and she staggered to a halt in front of them, thrusting her burden into Lancelot's arms. 'Put this on!' she urged. 'You have an audience with the king!'

'What?' Lancelot almost dropped her offering in surprise, and Merlin snatched it from his grasp, sweeping the velvet jacket around Lancelot's shoulders. He scrambled into it gracelessly, his hands getting caught in the cuffs even as Merlin began to do up the fiddly little buttons on the front in record-time.

It was a perfect fit, and he cast a quick glance in Gwen's direction. She always did have a bit of an eye for that kind of thing, but it seemed she's been paying particular attention to the breadth of Lancelot's shoulders and chest. He'd tease her about that, when he got the time. Now, though, he had to get Lancelot to the throne room.

'Hurry up,' he ordered, tugging the jacket straight and nodding in approval. He had spent about a candle-mark while Lancelot slept last night polishing his boots, just in case. Courtiers rarely looked at the details, and they would not notice the slightly care-worn aspect of his breeches. They would see plush fabric and shiny shoes and decide Lancelot was one of them. 'Let's go!'

'What's this all about?'

'I don't know,' Gwen replied, her eyes dancing. She might not be sure, but Merlin knew she at least suspected, and they shared a quick flash of a grin. 'I only heard that Prince Arthur and the king have been in council since this morning and that things might have got a bit – well – not heated, exactly, but tense.'

'Is it about the griffin?' Lancelot asked, his bootsteps echoing along the halls as they entered the castle and dashed across the flagstones.

'Perhaps?' Gwen smiled as two guards pulled open the door to the throne room, stepping back by Merlin's side so that Lancelot could lead the way. All eyes were on him, weighing and assessing: not just the council, but the court as well. Merlin winced in sympathy as he and Gwen ghosted in unnoticed, hiding themselves away amongst the crowd.

Uther sat upon his throne looking fierce and resplendent. Yet Merlin could see that the rigid mask of his expression hid something more turbulent. That cold gaze darted more than once to Arthur, who stood at the foot of the dais. Of course, the king would not argue with his heir in such a public forum, but there was a tightness around his eyes that suggested he would not take his defeat with grace. Not that Merlin had expected him to.

In comparison, Arthur looked utterly poised, his armour gleaming and his shoulders straight. His right wrist was draped lazily over the pommel of his sword, and when Lancelot dropped to one knee in front of the throne, Merlin noticed the flicker of approval in Arthur's gaze. Lancelot may not be a noble, but he knew how to act like it when necessary.

'Lancelot,' Arthur began, his voice carrying with ease to all corners of the room. 'For your services to Camelot, I have chosen to award you my royal favour, and a small holding of twelve acres from my personal lands at Pentrose.'

'Thank you, Your Highness.' Lancelot's confusion restrained itself to a faint puckering of his brow, one that vanished a moment later.

'In doing thus, I bestow upon you an additional prize: a patent of nobility.' He drew his sword, resting the flat of the blade carefully on Lancelot's right shoulder, then his left, the metal tracing a brief silver arc through the air above his head. 'Arise, Sir Lancelot.'

Applause broke out across the chamber, polite in some places and enthusiastic in others as Lancelot wobbled to his feet. He looked stunned as Arthur stepped forward to shake his hand. Behind them, Uther narrowed his eyes but said nothing, content to let the court have its moment.

Beneath the steady rhythm of clapping hands, Merlin could hear the buzz of whispers. Some seemed delighted by this change, while one or two of the older lords grumbled about the dilution of the nobility. Cautiously, he took note of the faces that held themselves rigid or allowed themselves the freedom to frown. He had known right from the start this wouldn't be easy. Making Lancelot a knight was a far cry from having him accepted by Camelot's court, and he doubted the king would be the only one to try and turn Arthur's victory into a different sort of defeat.

'We shall hold a feast in three days' time,' Uther said at last, benevolence a forced edge in his voice, 'to celebrate Sir Lancelot's elevation.' He rose from his throne, pausing only to murmur something in Arthur's ear.

Merlin did not need to hear the words to know that nothing kind or proud escaped Uther's lips. His eyes gleamed, and there was a tension in that square jaw that gave away his anger. Yet Arthur did not so much as bat an eyelash at whatever his father said to him, inclining his head in a single gracious nod as the king swept out of the throne room and the court became a crowd of clamouring intrigue.

Arthur and Leon both stayed close to Lancelot's side, offering words of congratulations and a healthy dose of reassurance. For his part, Lancelot looked stunned, as if he could not believe the turn of his luck, yet even from this distance Merlin could see the man's quick mind at work. He knew that there was nothing simple about what he had been given. He comprehended that, for it to happen, there had to be some fundamental shift in the politics of Camelot, and his dark eyes soon turned to the crowd, seeking out Merlin in the space of a heartbeat.

The gratitude and loyalty agleam in that gaze warmed Merlin's heart. He had not done this for any other reason than to help Arthur and make Lancelot happy, but in that moment, he understood the truth of it.

If there was ever any doubt about Lancelot keeping his secret, it faded to nothing. He would take it to the grave if he had to, and a shiver of relief uncoiled down Merlin's spine. Lancelot's single, steady nod carried a wealth of meaning: thankfulness and promise, joy and understanding. After all, he knew full-well who had set Arthur on this path. He had been there as Merlin tried to unravel Camelot's laws. It was simply that, until now, Lancelot had not believed it would make any difference.

Merlin's gaze flickered to Arthur, and he blinked to realise Lancelot wasn't the only one watching him. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say Arthur was observing them both, some undefined emotion bracketing his lips.

If it were anyone else, he would define that expression as troubled, but in the space between one heartbeat and the next it smoothed away, vanishing from sight as if it had never existed in the first place. A benign mask settled over Arthur's features, his gaze guarded and his mouth fixed in a faint curve that revealed nothing.

'I can't believe it,' Gwen breathed at his shoulder, looking up at him with a smile that lit the whole room. 'I never thought I'd see a day like this.' Her gaze turned knowing, and she cocked her head as she scrutinised him. 'Though I have to say, since you arrived in Camelot, things have got a lot more interesting.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Before you showed up, I don't think Arthur had a firm idea of who he was or what he believed in.'

'He was a prat,' Merlin muttered, low enough for only Gwen to hear him. 'He still is.'

'Only sometimes.' She nudged his shoulder. 'He would never have dreamed of doing this if not for you. He would have accepted Uther's word on the First Code as law, and that would have been that.' Her shrug spoke volumes of a life lived at the mercy of a ruler who cared little for the common-folk.

'He's a good man.' Merlin pursed his lips. When he had walked through Camelot's gates, he would never have thought to say such a thing. Arthur had seemed to embody everything expected of an arrogant prince, but Merlin could see that for what it was, now.

Arthur had been beneath his father's thumb and influence for far too long. The knights who had been his companions back then – men who, Merlin had noticed, were no longer part of Arthur's inner-circle – had fed into that: sycophants and toadies. Still, he couldn't take the credit. Arthur had been ready to grow into the king he would one day become. He'd just needed a nudge in the right direction.

'He doesn't need me.'

Gwen gave an unladylike scoff and shook her head. 'If you think that, then you really are a fool. Now, come on. They'll be busy sorting out knightly things, and you and I have to help prepare for a feast.' They both rolled their eyes in unison. The courtiers may be delighted at the prospect of another banquet, but for the servants it merely meant more hard work. The kitchens would no doubt be in uproar, and every servant, no matter their normal duties, was expected to pitch in.

The two of them slipped out of the hall and lost themselves in the whirl of various chores: scrubbing and cleaning, gathering laundry and making beds. By the time George found them both, their bright moods had darkened considerably. Merlin's feet ached from dashing around all day, and his belly growled, reminding him he'd had little to eat since breakfast.

'Prince Arthur and the Lady Morgana require you to attend them before their meal with the king in a candle-mark.'

'Another one?' Merlin grimaced, sharing a quick, nervous look with Gwen. Twice in seven days was far from normal. Before now, these so-called family meals had occurred perhaps once a month. Somehow, he doubted it would be any more peaceful than the last repast they had shared. In fact, it might be considerably worse.

'We'd better hurry.' Gwen hitched up her skirt a fraction, ducking out of the room and moving at a fast clip. She did not sprint, but it was a near thing, and Merlin didn't blame her. Arthur's clothes might be irritating, but they had nothing on Morgana's gowns, and both prince and ward would be expected to dress well in Uther's presence.

'See you in a bit,' he said in farewell, trotting further along the corridor to Arthur's chambers before elbowing his way into the room.

'Knock, Merlin,' Arthur complained from where he sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on a sheaf of parchment. 'What if I'd had company?'

Merlin flung open the wardrobe, hiding his grimace as he surveyed Arthur's clothes. Of course, he might have meant a meeting with Sir Leon or some other adviser, but Merlin's mind instantly went to company of a different variety, and a feeling he refused to consider too closely curdled in the pit of his stomach. He'd not knocked since the first day of his service, and so far, he'd not interrupted Arthur tumbling anyone. Thank the gods.

'Need to keep you on your toes, Sire.' He grabbed the velvet doublet in Pendragon red, glad he'd had the forethought to clean it. 'Assassins don't knock, after all.'

'Nor do they barge into people's bedchambers like a herd of wild horses.' He could feel the weight of Arthur's gaze raking down his back. 'Is there any reason you're thinking of assassins?'

'Because you have dinner with your father in less than a candle-mark, and it's my throat he'll slit if you don't turn up on time.' He tilted his head in acknowledgement. 'Not that he'd bother being stealthy about it, I suppose.'

Arthur made a thoughtful noise, and Merlin ducked deeper into the cupboard, searching for one of Arthur's nicer belts. The one he preferred was a serviceable, worn thing, and Uther glared every time he noticed it. The king was already going to be in a foul mood. The less he had to complain about, the better.

'What are you doing?'

Merlin gasped in a breath. He had not heard Arthur rise to his feet or cross the chamber, but now his voice was warm and near, sending a prickle of awareness racing through him and making his magic flutter under his skin. He looked at him, realising that Arthur leant against the door to the wardrobe, his arms folded as he watched Merlin rummage in its depths. Like this, half-turned towards him, his shoulder almost brushed Arthur's chest, and he found himself staring at the hollow at the base of his throat, revealed by the disarray of his laces.

'Getting you ready?' he managed at last, glad that his voice sounded steady even if his body felt anything but. He was used to being smacked around the head with moments of desire in Arthur's presence – he was a good-looking man, after all, strong and broad-shouldered without being menacing – but his moments of desire weren't usually this intense.

'Hmmm.' Arthur narrowed his eyes at the red cloth hung over the door before dismissing it with a flick of his fingers. 'The blue. No amount of dressing in his colours will appease my father. If I must endure a stilted dinner and a lecture to go with it, I would rather be comfortable.'

Merlin hesitated, torn between pride at Arthur's oh-so-subtle rebellion and doubt over the wisdom of that particular choice. Still, as George kept pointing out, Arthur was his master, and he should not even think to question him.

'You sure?'

'Yes, Merlin. Hop to it.'

Arthur shifted, wandering over to the privacy screen and ducking behind it as Merlin gathered his scattered wits. He was tired, that was all, and still revelling in his pleasure that Arthur had listened to his suggestions about making Lancelot a member of the nobility. Was it any wonder that he'd reacted more intensely than usual to their proximity, his body humming like a plucked lute string? There was, after all, something intoxicating about being able to help, and being respected for his efforts in turn.

It was how he wished Arthur would react, should he ever find out about his magic. Not with disgust or fear, but with awe and intrigue.

That, at least, was nothing but a fantasy, and Merlin shook the daydream from his head as he began to assist Arthur in getting changed.

In many ways, even this was like preparing for war. The garments may be linen and wool, rather than iron, but they still clad Arthur in protective layers. Perhaps they would not stop the plunge of a knife, but maybe the dark blue and brown tones of Arthur's favourite clothes would spare him from the sharpest edge of Uther's tongue.

The black leather belt that Merlin had unearthed looped neatly around Arthur's waist, its buckle gleaming in the fading light. It matched the ring on Arthur's finger, the one he rarely took off and the only piece of jewellery he wore habitually. Other things – the occasional medallion on a cord or the loop of a cuff upon his wrist – all came and went, but that band of silver and gold remained: steadfast.

Merlin stepped back, giving him a quick once-over before reaching out to straighten Arthur's collar and adjust his shoulder seams. He'd be happier if Arthur wore the crimson, but he had to admit, for all the Pendragon red caught the eye, there was something about blue. It brought Arthur into focus, dragging him out of the trappings of his father's rule and letting him stand on his own two feet.

And wasn't that precisely what he needed? Wasn't that what all this with Lancelot had been about, right down at its heart?

'Stay still.'

'What –?' Merlin stiffened in surprise when Arthur grabbed his jaw, his fingers firm but not bruising as he reached for the cloth where it was draped over the ewer and dashed it across Merlin's cheek. 'Arthur!'

'What have you been doing, rolling in dust?'

'Chores. You know, like a servant's supposed to?'

Arthur muttered something, reaching up a hand to flatten Merlin's hair before giving him a critical look. 'You'll do,' he decided. 'Just... try not to draw attention to yourself. Don't spill anything. Don't speak.'

'What about breathing? Can I do that?'

'Merlin.' Arthur's jaw tensed. 'My father is furious about what I've done. He could not berate me in council. He will do so at dinner, in front of servants who are beneath his notice and Morgana, so he can make an example of me. Yet all he can do is bang and shout. I am his heir, and his councillors – like Geoffrey – hold too much rank and significance for him to retaliate by alternative means. You have no such protection.'

A chill shot down Merlin's spine as he realised exactly what Arthur was saying. 'If he finds out it was my idea...'

'He won't.' Arthur lifted his chin, his blue eyes clear and sure. 'Just don't do anything tonight to draw attention to yourself. If you do, at best you'll end up in the stocks and at worst? It really doesn't bear thinking about.'

The evening bell rang before Merlin could summon a response. They stood there, locked in a moment of mutual understanding before, finally, Arthur stepped away. 'Come on. We'll do ourselves no favours if we're late.'

Merlin nodded, falling into step a pace behind him: the vision of subservience. Contrary to popular belief, he did understand etiquette. He merely thought that such polite distance was not what Arthur needed. Now, though, it was a matter of survival. The very last thing he wanted was to be subject to Uther's scrutiny. A small, scared part of him longed to run and hide, but he refused to listen to it.

Whatever the evening brought, he and Arthur would face it together.

Chapter Text

Arthur had expected many things of the meal, ranging from a bellow that rattled the rafters to being led from the table in chains. This – a bottomless bleak silence, interrupted only by the scrape of cutlery – was not what he had imagined. It was not the calm tranquillity of a family at peace. Uther kept pointedly stabbing the succulent slices of pheasant breast on his plate, his steely gaze boring into Arthur's profile.

He did not dare look across the table to catch Morgana's eye. To do so would imply she was complicit, and he did not wish to drag her into the world of trouble he knew was coming his way.

She was dressed immaculately, but modestly, doing nothing to draw Uther's attention. She barely seemed to breathe between mouthfuls, and Arthur felt a stab of sorrow at causing her such discomfort. She may enrage him with her sniping at times, but she was an unwilling victim to this suspicious pantomime of family.

Both Guinevere and Merlin stood well away from the table, attempting to blend in with the shadows at the edge of the room. That, at least, was a blessing. Guinevere would be all right, but Arthur would not put it past Uther to punish Merlin, thrashing him when he could not raise a hand to Arthur out of propriety. He had almost asked for George to serve him tonight instead, but Merlin had given him a cold look when he had dared suggest it. In truth, Arthur was glad of it. Merlin's subtle presence was a comforting weight at his back.

The only person who seemed unbothered was Hoel, Uther's personal servant, who had to have developed a thick skin to the king's casual cruelties by now. Yet even he kept a judicious distance, stepping forward only to gracefully refill Uther's cup.

'I suppose I should be proud of you.'

The words were shocking after the peace of the past half candle-mark, and Arthur carefully swallowed his mouthful, making sure to keep his face neutral. Once, the very mention of his father's pride would have had him breathless and giddy, but the days of seeking Uther's approval had faded, recently. Perhaps he had finally accepted that such a prize would never be his.

'I had despaired that you would ever apply that strategic mind of yours to the workings of court. Now I see that you merely needed the correct motivation.' Uther's nostrils flared, his lips pressed tight, white with anger. 'I would applaud you, Arthur, if I did not feel you were bringing the very foundations on which this kingdom is built tumbling down around our ears!'

It took all of Arthur's concentration to neither roll his eyes nor show any outward sign of disagreement. His father was not worried about his realm; he was concerned about his power. He did not understand that loyalty was earned. When he made nobles, it was to further cement his own control, and Arthur had turned the tables against him.

He had known the king would view this as a challenge, but he did not regret it. Uther acted for his own gain – he could see that now. Perhaps his motives were not much better, but at least he considered what was best for Camelot.

'With that in mind,' Uther continued, apparently uninterested in making a debate of the subject, 'I cannot, in good conscience, lend any financial support to this endeavour. Any supplies for your knight, and any others like him, will be funded from your purse, Arthur: armour, weapons, and lodgings, as well as a portion sent to the kitchens for food.'

A splintering smile curved Uther's lips, all teeth and little joy. 'Oh, and since you have reminded me so pointedly of the existence of your own estates, I think the time has come for you to stop relying on the weekly stipend I have been giving you. Pentrose should be enough to sustain you; assuming you do not give it all away.'

He rose from the table, stately and calm, his anger easing as the delight of victory sparkled in his eyes. 'As you have, in fact, done your research into the legalities, I will ensure there is a document drawn up stating your responsibilities.' He strode off, his voice drifting back over his shoulder. 'It's time you learned there is more to politics than quick thinking, Arthur. In the end, it all comes down to coin.'

The door banged in his wake, and Arthur let out a gusty breath, setting down his cutlery to scrub one hand over his face. In retrospect, he should have known his father would not resort to anything so brutish as physical punishment.

'I hope you have some coin saved,' Morgana managed from where she sat. Her face was pale, but now Uther had left, a hint of colour returned to her cheeks. 'Equipping a knight is no small expense.'

'I have some.' Arthur grimaced, regretting commissioning new chainmail at Beltane. 'Not enough.'

'What about Pentrose?'

'The profits are an annual release. I won't see a glimmer for several months yet.'

Morgana popped a piece of carrot in her mouth, checking that Hoel had left with Uther. 'Your father has never been graceful in defeat. Nor is he above underhanded tricks to keep you in your place. If I were him, I would be seeing what I could do to limit what Pentrose can offer. He can't take it away from you, but with the right man in the right place, he can make sure it's unprofitable. He could even ensure it is a drain on your coffers.'

Arthur bit back the urge to swear, though judging from the sparkle in Morgana's eyes, she knew it. 'I'm glad you find this amusing.'

'Oh, I don't.' She blotted politely at her lips with a napkin. 'I find it challenging. Arthur, you have done the right thing. The whole court knows it. You have no idea how many families have already lost sons and how they fear for their surviving children. What you did today won you a lot of good will. A lot of favours, if you know who to ask.' She reached across the table to grip his wrist. 'Uther thinks he is victorious. I'm looking forward to you proving him wrong. I'll help if I am able.'

'You shouldn't,' Arthur warned. 'It's better if you stay out of it.'

Morgana scoffed. 'I don't intend to be obvious about it, but he took away your stipend, not mine. I have so many jewels and gowns he'll never notice that I'm not buying new ones. As long as I am still able to pay Gwen, there'll be gold to spare.'

The reminder of payment made Arthur wince, and he glanced over his shoulder at Merlin, who looked amused. 'Your wages are drawn from my stipend. Or they were.'

'I know.' Merlin shrugged. 'Focus on Lancelot. Gaius and I can make do on the Court Physician's earnings for a bit, at least until the Pentrose money comes in.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, grimly wondering what else Merlin would sacrifice for Lancelot. His time and his paltry wealth he had already given freely. Was this how Merlin was in love, generous to a fault?

'Assuming it does.' He turned back to Morgana. 'What do you suggest?'

'Riding out yourself will show your hand, but you need somebody who understands how estates work. Someone who is keenly honourable, with lands of their own to manage.'

'Sir Leon,' Guinevere said, immediate and sure. 'He's the lord of Whitemarch, and it's one of the most prosperous estates in Camelot. You could at least speak with him.'

'Didn't Leon recommend the steward currently in place at Pentrose?' Morgana asked, tilting her head.

'Yeah, he did.'

'Good. Talk to him. Explain what Uther has said and your concerns. Leon might have made his oaths on Uther's sword, but his loyalty is with Camelot and its future.'

'In other words, you.' Merlin stepped forward, setting down the wine jug and planting himself in the seat to Arthur's left. Uther would have an apoplexy if he knew, but Arthur could only smile as Guinevere daintily did the same at Morgana's side.

'Lady Morgana's right. Uther can't legally touch Pentrose. He cannot take it from you, but that doesn't mean he won't try and sabotage it somehow. If Leon recommended the steward, then he can at least warn him to look out for anything unusual and verify all communications he receives in your name.'

'You think my father would stoop to forging my instructions?' Arthur raised his eyebrows when Merlin merely shrugged. He wished he could argue in defence of Uther's honour, but it would be nothing but a bold-faced lie. 'I'll talk to Leon. He was making quiet comments about needing to attend something at Whitemarch, and Pentrose isn't far from its borders.'

'I suppose it's too much to hope that the king will forget to make you sign anything?' Guinevere asked. 'Perhaps it's an empty threat?'

'No. My father doesn't do those.'

'Besides, we want it in writing.' Merlin's grin was sharp and a little wild. 'He's forgotten, or maybe he never knew in the first place, but there's a reason that, in any given court, it's the king's coffers that funds the knights. It's to ensure loyalty in a legal sense. A knight paid by the king must answer to the king's orders. A knight paid by the prince, on the other hand...'

He looked at Arthur. 'They would be completely yours. You would have the final say in everything. They would, technically, be yours to command without any oversight from the king. Your army. Not his. It's why so few rulers allow their children to fund fighters of any kind. If Uther remembered that, he would never have done this. He thinks he's punishing you. Instead, he's just giving you more power.'

Stunned silence followed Merlin's proclamation. Arthur swore he could have heard a pin drop.

'Where did you learn all this?' Morgana asked, sounding awed. He didn't blame her. He could barely believe what Merlin was telling him.

'It was Merlin who found out how to make Lancelot a noble, and therefore a knight,' he murmured, not missing the way Guinevere and Morgana both shot Merlin a look of firm approval. 'Are you sure about this?'

'I spent so long reading the stupid laws on knights and nobility that it's a miracle I didn't go blind. The writing may be small, Sire, but it's there. You're not as powerless as Uther would have you believe.' He winced, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. 'You still need the gold, though. If you accept coin directly from the kingdom's coffers, then it's the king's money, and the knights are his.'

'It's not as if I'm planning on overthrowing my father,' Arthur muttered, careful to keep his voice low. Even a whisper of something treasonous could spell trouble if it met the wrong ear.

'No, but if Uther can't stop Lancelot becoming a knight and can't stop you equipping him, what's the next thing he'll do?'

'He'll send Lancelot somewhere dangerous.' Guinevere sounded grim. 'He'll hope it's a problem that sorts itself.'

'And there are some knights in the barracks who would be happy to make sure he meets with an accident if the king commands it,' Merlin added. 'If Lancelot is yours by right, you can protect him. He is not bound to obey Uther's orders without your leave to do so. Let Uther draw up that paperwork. Sign it. We'll figure out a way to provide for Lancelot.'

'I can stitch tabards, cloaks and clothes,' Guinevere promised. 'My father's work is not as expensive as the royal armourer's, but it's just as good.'

'Besides, you can guarantee that Uther will have a word with the craftsmen. If they are willing to make anything for you at all, it will be slow and costly.' Morgana lifted her chin. 'You need to think sideways, Arthur, and you need to think hard. Uther is going to do everything in his power to ensure this fails, one way or the other.'

'Tell Lancelot, Sire,' Guinevere urged. 'He already understands there's more to all this than meets the eye. If he knows, he can protect himself, and he might have an idea or two of his own.'

'I will. He and Leon will both be informed of the situation. Guinevere, I'll take you up on your father's offer, if he is happy to help. I'll pay what I'm able in advance, of course. I do not want him out of pocket for this.'

'I'll let you talk to him about that,' she demurred. 'He likes you. He likes Lancelot, too.' A faint blush warmed the rich brown of her skin. 'He might be willing to hold off on payment for a short while at least.'

Arthur glanced in Merlin's direction, a frown tugging at his brow. However, if he cared that Guinevere seemed more than a little sweet on Lancelot, he showed no sign of it. Arthur didn't pay much attention to the gossip, but he knew there was often feuding among the servants over matters of the heart.

Ruthlessly, he squashed down the flicker of relief that danced in his chest, refusing to look at it too closely. If he was any sort of friend, wouldn't he want to see Merlin happy, rather than hope that whatever tender feelings had bloomed between his manservant and his new knight would wither?

Morgana nudged her plate aside, the scrape of pewter against the wood interrupting his thoughts. She beamed at Merlin when he filled up her empty goblet from the jug before raising it to take a graceful sip. 'Lodgings are going to be a problem,' she murmured. 'You can't put him in the official barracks, not when they're owned by the king.'

'As is almost every building in Camelot. Only the courtiers hold their own property.' Arthur tapped his finger against his lips, thinking over various lords and ladies. 'You said what I did today bought me a lot of favour at court. Enough for one of them to go against my father and rent out an empty house to act as barracks?'

Morgana's smile was sharp and proud. It felt like they were children again, conspiring mischief. He had forgotten how much he missed that: how distant Morgana had become as they'd both grown up.

'I imagine so. Lord and Lady Bracefere, in particular. Their eldest son died in battle and Uther has been pushing them to send their second, and last, into service. They are younger than average, more open to change. I would start with them, but not yet. Wait until your father's committed and the agreement is signed.'

'There are plenty of townsfolk looking for jobs: cooks and maids and grooms,' Guinevere added, pulling a face. 'Your father did not mention the stables.'

'I have horses of my own at least,' Arthur replied, 'but I can see my father being difficult about it. Better we assume the worst and avoid any pitfalls. The problem is, I cannot afford even half of this until the money from Pentrose comes in. Armour and such is one thing. I might be able to scrape together the funds, but ongoing costs like lodgings, stables and staff is another matter.'

Merlin shifted in his seat, tapping his finger twice on the table. His lips were pinched and his eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to remember something. 'Maybe you won't need to pay anyone rent. What about your mother?'

Arthur tensed, a prickle of unease racing down his spine. His father never spoke of her: as such, her name had become almost forbidden within Camelot's halls. For Merlin to mention her so casually felt nearly as daring as whispering treason. 'What about her?'

'Well, surely when she became betrothed to your father there would have been gifts? Not just jewels and things, but maybe property here in Camelot?'

'If there were, wouldn't they go back to Uther when she died?' Guinevere asked, her voice cautious, as if she thought she were treading on thin ice: wary of the ground giving way beneath her feet.

'No.' Morgana straightened in her seat. 'Not if there was a child.' She gestured to Arthur. 'Anything she had should be Arthur's by right.' She tilted her head. 'Geoffrey will know. He's made himself too useful to Uther to be pensioned off to a distant estate. He's the only one that can find their way around that archive.'

'He's already risked enough helping with the laws on Pentrose,' Arthur protested. More than anything, he was aware that this was a narrow, dangerous line he walked. His father was unlikely to attack him, but there were plenty of others who could suffer the king's wrath.

'He seemed happy to do it, though.'

There was something in Merlin's eye that made Arthur think of how this had all started. He'd never asked him to solve the problem of Camelot's knights, yet a chance meeting had sent them all spinning down this path. He suspected that if he didn't ask Geoffrey about his mother's legacy, whatever it may be, then Merlin would simply do it for him and leave his findings somewhere obvious for Arthur to fall over.

'Many of the courtiers and councillors, like Sir Geoffrey, have the coin and reputation to weather Uther's disapproval.' Morgana's slippered foot jabbed him in the shin, and Arthur looked over at her, realising with some embarrassment that he had been watching Merlin with fond exasperation. 'Not everyone is so lucky.' She glanced pointedly in Merlin's direction. 'I would not wish to speak ill of the king –'

'You do. Constantly. You're the only one who does.' Arthur smiled as Morgana rolled her eyes.

'He's not above being petty, Arthur. You need to protect all your assets.'

Back when he had first met Merlin, he would have sneered at the very idea of him being an asset. Sitting here now, he realised how very right Morgana was in her assessment. He had been relieved when Uther left the room because he had not glanced Merlin's way once, but that didn't mean the threat had passed. If his father ever found out about Merlin's role in all this...

'I will.' He was not sure how, exactly, but in that, at least, he realised he now had an ally. He and Lancelot may only know each other from a shared fight and moments in the heat of battle, but he understood that Lancelot was a man of strong, dependable character, and one who was just as concerned for Merlin's safety as Arthur himself.

When he spoke to him of this whole situation, he would be sure to mention it. After all, Lancelot could defend himself and his honour without impunity. As a knight and now a noble, he need not rely wholly on the king's judgement. He could call out any insult on the duelling ground.

Merlin did not have that luxury, and even if he did, it was not as if he could wield a blade with any skill. Arthur had never seen him fight. He could not even claim with any confidence that Merlin was able to throw a punch without breaking his hand.

He would have to do something about that.

'I'd best go and start counting my coin,' he said with a sigh, his chair scraping over the flagstones as he got to his feet.

'I will see what I have that can help that won't be missed.' Morgana rose with more grace than Arthur had the strength to muster, her green gaze sweeping around the huge, high-ceilinged hall and lingering on the large fireplace roaring in one wall. 'If you're going to succeed in beating your father at his own game, we will need to work together. Not just you and I, but Lancelot and Sir Leon. It might be best if we meet in a more private location.'

'I'll try and find somewhere out of the way,' Guinevere promised, 'but not so unusual that it will raise eyebrows if anyone notices us gathering there.'

'Can't we use my chambers?'

'No, Arthur. Who comes and goes from your rooms is noted by everyone from the soldiers to the servants.' Morgana tilted her head before sweeping towards the door, calling her parting words over her shoulder, just as Uther had done. 'Leave it to us!'

'I don't know why I fool myself into thinking I have any authority,' Arthur grumbled, tucking his chair in and turning to Merlin. 'Morgana could have the whole court dancing to her tune.'

As could Merlin, he suspected. It was a bit startling to realise that a young man he'd written off as loyal but hapless was actually quick-witted when he put his mind to it. He was left wondering just how much of Merlin's easy-going, clumsy foolishness was genuine. Was it all a mask to hide unfathomed depths? Was it a natural state that he played up for his own benefit so that people would overlook him?

That's what Arthur had done, and in that moment, he promised himself he would not fall for it again. Let others dismiss Merlin as nothing but a servant. He would not make the same mistake twice.

The trip to his chambers was conducted in silence, Merlin's presence at his side its own kind of reassurance. At the start of the year, he had been going through manservants at the rate of one a week. Now, he could not imagine Merlin being absent from his side. Some part of him almost resented that he had managed to worm his way into Arthur's life not only so quickly, but so thoroughly. Another, larger portion felt nothing but relief, as if he had found something he had never known that he was missing.

His chambers were quiet and cool when they entered, and Merlin got to work on the fire immediately. He may be haphazard at best when it came to laundry, but he never failed to get the flames going on the first try. He had some sort of knack for keeping it burning all night, too, which Arthur still had not quite worked out. A servant trick, he supposed.

The candles chased off the encroaching shadows as he took the ring of keys off his belt, unlocking the trunk he kept by his desk and reaching for the small coffer within it. He understood the importance of coin – knew that it was a driving factor for kings and commoners alike – but he had to admit his personal wealth had never before been so relevant.

He paid Merlin's wages, true enough, though even that was a touch unusual. His father had decreed it back in the early days of summer, after the whole Morteaus flower incident. Arthur suspected he had hoped Merlin would be released from Arthur's service. He had not counted on Arthur taking on the responsibility.

Other than that, he used it to commission weapons, armour and new clothes when he needed them. Now, he would be commissioning a knight, and that was no small expense.

He sat at his desk, counting quietly, pulling faces at the numbers as the evening fell to true night. He was aware, on the edge of his hearing, of the sound of Merlin sharpening his sword and tending his armour, turning down the bed and retrieving his nightshirt to hang it over the privacy screen. They were comfortable, safe noises, and it eased some of the tension that kept trying to tie knots in Arthur's shoulders.

It was only when he became aware of Merlin hovering before him that he looked up from his mathematical efforts. The first thing he noticed was that Merlin was leaning his hands on his desk, as comfortable and familiar as you please. The second was that he was reading through Arthur's maths upside down.

No other servant would dare, but then, none of them were Merlin, were they?

'It's the right thing to do,' Merlin said quietly. 'Camelot needs better knights.'

'And now I need the coin to pay for them.'

Merlin tilted his head, his smile a sympathetic flicker of acknowledgement. 'We'll work something out.'

He sounded so confident, as if he had complete faith in Arthur's abilities to outwit his father in this. He longed to ask Merlin how he could be so sure. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down. He would rather take Merlin's belief at face value than challenge it.

'Do you need anything else from me tonight, Sire?'

It was tempting to conjure up a list of additional chores, but Arthur bit back the urge, offering a smile and a shake of his head. No doubt Merlin was eager to spend some time with Lancelot. Even yesterday, he might have given in to his selfish desire to keep Merlin at his side, but Morgana's warning about his father's pettiness rang in his ears like a reprimand. Every day he grew more certain that he did not wish to follow Uther's example: not as a man and not as a king. If that meant conquering some of the worst aspects of his own nature, then he would try his best to do so.

'No, it's fine. Good night, Merlin.'

'Good night, Sire.'

The door closed in his wake, and Arthur bent his head back to the figures before him. Yet when he curled up in bed and shut his eyes, it was not the sadly inadequate numbers than danced across his mind. Instead, it was the curve of Merlin's smile and the gleam in his eye: more precious than all the gold in Camelot.

Chapter Text

Camelot's market was always busy. As one of the largest citadels in the Five Kingdoms, there were few merchants who did not make the journey to trade at least once a year. The open road may be dangerous, but the risk was worth it. Now stalls crowded the square, pressed cheek by jowl to fill the space with brightly coloured cloth and fresh caught game, glittering trinkets and lush herbs.

It was always a bombardment on the senses, and Merlin revelled in it. He did not know why, but it made his magic hum. He could practically feel it dancing ghostly fingers through fine silk and stirring up the fragrant air as it curled in the incense smoke, heady and addictive.

Or perhaps that was merely Arthur's presence.

He looked particularly good today, dressed not in Pendragon red but a rich blue tunic with his favourite brown leather coat thrown on top. Merlin had spent an uncomfortable morning trying to ignore how perfectly it fit over Arthur's shoulders. Him finding Arthur nice to look at was hardly new, but there was more to it now than just his appearance.

It had been ten days since Arthur had made Lancelot his knight and seven since he signed Uther's edict taking responsibility for funding his own men. Sir Leon had left for Whitemarch and Pentrose three days ago, the better to protect Arthur's income from anything the king might attempt.

And he would try something. Of that, Merlin was sure. Sooner or later, he would realise the power he had sacrificed in the name of his pride by demanding Arthur take financial responsibility. When he did, Merlin suspected things would get ugly, and they needed to be braced and ready for it, whatever it may be.

Yet if anything, all that had come to pass only succeeded in making Arthur more confident. Not in the arrogant way he had been when Merlin met him, all smirk and swagger, but something stronger and subtle. He looked steadier than he ever had before: not a boy trying to fill the role his father dictated, but a man content to do what it took to find his own place in the world.

It only served to make him more attractive, and Merlin had spent most of the morning trying not to stare.

'You're sure about this?' Arthur asked, looking brief askance at Morgana and Gwen where they walked with them. 'You don't have to. We can manage.'

'You cannot.' Morgana's eyes flashed, daring him to argue. 'Let me help. Please?'

It was the same debate they'd had three times already since meeting in the marketplace at the chime of the morning bell. Arthur and Morgana had decided it best they weren't seen leaving the castle together. The court was always thick with rumour, and the less gossip that got back to Uther, the better. Not that Merlin could blame the nobles for their chatter. They made a striking pair, even if they did argue like cat and dog at the slightest provocation.

'Let Merlin meet with the merchant, or Guinevere. There's no need to involve yourself.'

'And have them brought before the guard accused of stealing?' Morgana shook her head fiercely, her voice a whisper. 'No. These are my jewels, and if anyone is going to barter them away, it should be me.'

'Morgana...'

'You can pay me back one day, when you have the funds to spare.' She shot him a look. 'No more arguments.'

Merlin hid a smile as Arthur rolled his eyes up to the sky as if he were praying to the triple goddess for patience. Yet they needed Morgana's help, and he knew it.

'At least take Merlin with you as well as Guinevere. I wouldn't trust a merchant not to rob you blind.'

'They might try,' Morgana murmured, casting a dazzling smile in Merlin's direction. 'We'd be honoured by Merlin's company. Meet us at Gwen's father's forge at the noon bell? And Arthur? Watch your coin-purse, won't you?' It was a jest and warning all in one, and Merlin watched him nod in grudging understanding, slipping through the crowd towards where Lancelot waited nearby.

Morgana looped her arm through Gwen's as she led the way, shaking her head in amusement when Merlin attempted to stay a respectful half-step behind. She slowed her pace, giving him no choice but to match her amidst the bustle.

'How is he?' she asked at length. 'Really?'

Merlin drew in a breath, glancing over his shoulder at where Arthur stood, golden and glorious. 'Better than I expected. He's not happy about it, but that's more about having to turn to others for help than anything else, I think.'

Morgana hummed. 'Sadly, requesting aid has never been one of Arthur's strong suits.'

'That's why I don't wait for him to ask, my lady.'

Her laugh was far from courtly, and Merlin felt the glances people threw their way, drawn by the sound of her mirth. 'You don't, do you?' Morgana's hand rested briefly on his forearm: nothing close to impropriety, but warm and friendly. The look she gave him was pure approval. 'You know, Merlin, I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to Arthur.'

The compliment lit a glow like an ember beneath his ribs, and he fought the blush that he could feel heating the tips of his ears. 'I haven't done much.'

Gwen shot him a disbelieving look from Morgana's opposite side, her rueful smile rounding her cheeks. 'You're wrong,' she said softly. 'I've never seen the prince like this. Despite everything – all the obstacles the king is throwing in his way – he seems genuinely happy. It's as if someone has opened his eyes to the fact that he doesn't have to be on the throne to start making changes.'

'And that someone is you,' Morgana added. 'Do not let anyone, least of all Arthur, tell you differently. He won't admit it, possibly not even to himself, but you're his friend.' She tilted her head, a flash of something protective gleaming in her eyes. 'Maybe the first he's ever had. I trust you won't hurt him, Merlin.'

Merlin considered his magic: the secret living beneath his skin. He thought of Lancelot, who knew, and Arthur, who didn't, and tried not to let his guilt show on his face. 'I wouldn't dream of it, my lady.'

'Good.' Morgana approached one of the market stalls where a man, white-haired and stooped with age, watched his glittering wares like a hawk. There were only a few pieces on display, the better to reduce the risk of theft. Not that many were needed to show off his skill. His competence was clear in the glimmer of polished metal and the sultry sparkle of carefully cut stones.

'Lady Morgana,' he greeted, his voice surprisingly deep for his age. 'My favourite customer!'

'I bet you say to all the ladies of court,' Morgana replied, her smile indulgent before she leaned forward, her lashes dipping low and her gaze taking on a shy, cautious slant. 'Master Price, I wonder if I might speak to you somewhere more quiet. I have a favour to ask of you.'

Price nodded, his expression lined with both interest and concern. With a swiftness of long practice, he scooped up the few wares on display and secured them about his person before pulling aside the canvas of his stall. The parting fabric revealed a small, enclosed workroom behind it, timber-framed and away from prying eyes. 'This way, my lady, and I shall do what I can to assist you.'

Merlin glanced around, taking in the strange, intricate tools of the jeweller's trade. Some of them looked almost surgical in nature, like those knives Gaius used for his most delicate efforts at mending the ills of the human body. A quick flicker of his magic told him that all was as benign as it seemed, and some of the tension slipped out of his shoulders. He followed Morgana and Gwen, standing politely behind them at they took a seat at a small, round table covered in a dark cloth.

'I have been much favoured with gifts of late,' Morgana began, her voice smooth in a way that suggested she had given great thought as to what she should say. 'As fine as they are, there are only so many jewels I need.'

Price gave a sage nod. 'You are hoping to sell, my lady?'

'At the very least, I would like to know the value of what I have.' She smiled sweetly, reaching into the folds of her skirt and retrieving a number of small bags. She appeared to struggle, and Merlin mutely held out his hand, allowing Morgana to place the largest in his palm before she lay the rest on the table. Only one remained in her grasp, the supple leather gripped tight.

'Then let us see what we have.' Price eased each piece free, humming to himself as he drew a candle with a clear, crisp flame closer to the light. His brow creased into a frown as he examined one trinket, then another, setting each aside as deep lines bracketed his mouth.

'They are pretty baubles to be sure, my lady, but I'm afraid they are more flash than substance.' He sounded deeply apologetic as he gestured to what looked like a rich sapphire pendant. 'The stones in all these pieces are glass, and the metal is, by my estimate, nothing of real value.'

Price shifted his weight, looking awkward as Morgana's polite smile became fixed and her cheeks grew pale. 'The craftsmanship is remarkable, but I'm afraid that alone does not make up for the lack of precious metal and gems when it comes to their worth.'

'They're all like it?' she asked, turning to pluck the bag from Merlin's palm and spilling rings and decorative hair combs onto the table.

Price bent his head to the task at hand, hemming and hawing before getting a sheet of parchment and rubbing one stone into it with some force, revealing the colour that it left in its wake. 'I encourage you to get a second opinion, of course, but these,' – he gestured to a large pile of various adornments – 'are not something I can buy. The pearl pins and enamel combs, however, I will take off your hands if you wish.'

Morgana's lips were a thin red line, little more than a wound in her pallor as she nodded, fiddling with the leather pouch in her hand. At last, she undid the drawstring, tipping out the object inside. 'And what about this?'

Even Merlin could see the necklace was worth something. It sparkled in the candlelight, crimson gems set in a golden band that would fit tight around a woman's slender throat. The noise Price made only confirmed his suspicion. He cut a glance at Morgana, his heart stuttering as he saw the gleam of tears in her eyes.

'Yes, this is very fine indeed. Exquisite.' Price was clearly not one of those men who believed that women should not trouble themselves with negotiations, but if he thought Morgana would not drive a hard bargain, he was very much mistaken.

Any sign of misery was wiped clean from her features as they bartered back and forth. By the time she was done, Morgana's smile was all teeth, and Price looked like a man who had raced around the marketplace, his snowy hair dishevelled from running his hands through it. At last, he nodded his assent, disappearing through a door further into the rear of his shop to retrieve the coin.

'My lady...' Gwen sounded heartbroken, and Merlin frowned, casting a questioning look in her direction. 'That necklace was your mother's.'

'It was,' Morgana acknowledged. 'I did not know her well, but my father always said that she was a strong woman: one who would have laid down her life for her lands and her people. What Arthur is doing... it's for Camelot.' She lifted her chin, daring Gwen to protest. 'A good knight is more rare and valuable than trinkets.' She cast a disgusted look at the false jewels arrayed before her. 'Especially, it seems, in Uther's realm.'

She put away the items Price had not bought, her movements jerky and furious as she tied the bags closed. Merlin could not blame her for her rage. She was not being a spoiled child disappointed by the value of Uther's gifts to her. A lady's jewels were often her dowry, or failing that, a safety net should she find herself no longer living a sheltered life under a lord's protection.

Looked at with a cynical eye, the fact that Uther gave her glass and brass rather than gold and gemstones was yet another effort at subtle control.

'Do not tell Arthur about my mother's necklace. He needn't know that particular detail.' Morgana fixed him with a sharp green gaze, all flashing ferocity. 'Swear it to me, Merlin. It is my choice, and Arthur will not permit me to honour it.'

'Perhaps that is because he knows what it is like to have so little left of your mother, my lady?' he pointed out, sighing when Morgana merely squared her jaw. She wasn't wrong. Arthur was reluctant to take her coin as it was. If he learned she had bartered away one of the last mementos she had of her old life, he would march into Price's shop and buy it back.

'All right,' he conceded. 'I won't tell him, but if he asks me directly, I can't disobey him. He is my master.'

'You disobey him three times before breakfast,' Morgana replied, smirking when he had no argument to offer. Her expression softened when Price returned, a fat coin purse in his grasp. He counted it out in front of them before returning it to the pouch and holding it out for her to take.

Merlin nearly dropped it in surprise when she thrust it into his hands, the weight of it undeniable. 'You're less of a target for pickpockets,' she explained, inclining her head and murmuring her thanks to Price as he showed them out, waving them off as they slipped away into the crowd.

With a grunt, he looped the cord around his neck, ignoring the way it bit into his skin. It was safer to have it next to his heart than hanging from his belt, and while there might be a tell-tale bulge under his jacket and tunic, it was not like anyone could filch it without him noticing. In the middle of the day and in a well-guarded market square, no one was likely to rob them at knifepoint. Especially since he was with the king's ward. The risk was simply too great.

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when they approached the forge where Lancelot, Arthur and Tom were in deep discussion about different armour and weaponry. Gwen kissed her father's cheek as Merlin handed the coin purse back to Morgana. It was her place to give it to Arthur, not his, and she surrendered it with a challenge writ large on her face.

'Don't argue. I'm furious, and you're as good a target for my anger as any,' she warned.

'Why? What happened?'

Morgana glanced around, her gaze fond but thoughtful as it touched on Lancelot and Tom. Merlin wondered if she was thinking of protecting Uther's reputation, but if she considered it, she soon cast it aside.

'All the jewels your father has given me over the years are practically worthless. They're glass.' She wet her lips. 'All except one piece, and a few hair things.' She waved her fingers dismissively towards her own curls. 'That's all you're getting out of me, I'm afraid.'

Arthur looked stunned, his face slack with shock. He knew as well as any other courtier that a lady's jewellery was about far more than mere appearances. 'Morgana, I can't take this, not if my father has been deceiving you!'

Morgana held up her hand and shook her head. 'You know that it is more an unwritten expectation among the court than anything. In truth, he made me no promises, and I was foolish enough to assume the best of him.'

Arthur's gaze slid to Merlin, and he feigned intense interest in some of Tom's tools. If he met Arthur's eye now, his promise to Morgana would last less than a few thundering heartbeats. He would know that there was something that remained unsaid, and he'd have it out of Merlin in no time.

'As soon as we have income from Pentrose, Morgana, I'll repay you.'

'Then you had better hope the estate brings in good money.' Her smile was brittle at its edges. Merlin wondered if she was thinking that, no matter if she had the coin, her mother's necklace would be long gone by then.

Morgana was right; it was her choice to make, but that didn't mean Merlin couldn't try and do something about it. The question was, what?

Around him, the conversation drifted from armour and swords to jewellery and back again, but he paid it no mind as his thoughts circled the issue of coin. If there were a way to magic up gold, sorcerers would be rolling in wealth. Illusions were one thing, but they faded within a day, and he had no wish to rob honest merchants like Price with such tricks.

In the end, he could only shut his eyes and send out a faint tendril of his magic. It was little more than intent given form, a hope that, one day, the necklace would find its way back into Morgana's hands. That was the best he could do.

Lancelot's grasp on his shoulder stirred him back to the forge, and he raised his eyebrows in question. 'Are we done?'

'Yes, Merlin,' Arthur chided, jerking his eyes away from Lancelot's hand, his mouth tense before he seemed to shrug off whatever thought had crossed his mind. 'Something you would realise if you didn't have your head in the clouds.'

'I was thinking, Sire. Something you rarely bother with yourself.'

He ducked the playful swipe of Arthur's hand, moving judiciously out of the way as he offered a cheeky grin. Behind him, Lancelot made a choked noise of shock while Morgana and Gwen both stifled their laughter. 'Where to now?'

'I'm tempted to send you to the stocks for that,' Arthur growled as they stepped out of the forge, but his anger was a veil over his amusement, his eyes sparkling as he shot a glance in Merlin's direction. 'Into High Town. There's something I need to look into.'

'Shouldn't we get that pouch somewhere safe first?' he murmured, jerking his head towards the purse in Arthur's grasp.

'I'm the crown prince, Merlin. If someone tries to rob me they will soon regret it.'

Merlin wrinkled his nose, but he had to admit Arthur had a point. It would take either serious courage or immense stupidity for anyone to try their luck. His sword swung from his hip, and there was more than one dagger concealed about his person. Then, to add to the generally lethal impression, there was Lancelot, who Merlin noticed watched the crowd with a calm, measured gaze, drinking it all in.

'What will we find in High Town?' Morgana asked, lifting the hem of her gown as they traversed the cobbles.

'I've been spending some time with Geoffrey looking over my mother's estate, or what remains of it.' Arthur pursed his lips. 'Any gold she had, such as her dowry, was absorbed into my father's wealth. It's inaccessible now. However, there is a townhouse, though Geoffrey made no secret of the fact it has been left untouched since my mother's death. It might be uninhabitable. The deeds are in my name.' He sighed. 'For better or worse.'

'Maybe it won't be that bad?' Morgana managed, her voice encouraging as they followed Arthur's lead.

Here, closer to the castle, the streets were wider and less busy. Large houses nestled like jewels in their walled gardens. Most were formed of the same pale stone as the citadel itself, their small, leaded windows speaking volumes of the wealth of those who made their home here.

Mostly, it was lords and landed families who resided in these streets, though one or two properties belonged to very successful merchants. At this time of day, most were elsewhere, either in court or attending to business. The people who offered bows and curtsies were instead their servants, gathering what they needed from the market or fetching and carrying whatever their households required.

Yet though Merlin paid the passers-by some mind, most of his attention was on Arthur. Where he had been relaxed and happy in the marketplace, his shoulders now grew more tense with every passing step. His smile had vanished, wiped clean as a frown pleated his brow, and Merlin knew it was not merely concern about finding somewhere for his new knight to rest his head.

Like Morgana, Arthur had very little left of his mother. There was the ring he wore, but beyond that, much of Ygraine had been hidden away. Never, in all the months he'd been Arthur's manservant, had he heard Uther speak of the woman who had borne him an heir. Nor did Arthur volunteer information about her. Merlin had seen her portrait. He knew that Arthur's golden hair and his blue eyes were hers, but other than those few echoes, Arthur had nothing.

And now, a house: one Uther had left to fall into ruin in his grief.

He bit his lip as they stopped in front of a thick oak gate set in a tall garden wall. It was too high for anyone to climb, but though it still stood firm, he could see the mortar had crumbled, bitten out by frost and the passage of the years. The hinges were dark with rust, and Merlin watched as Arthur pulled a ring of keys from his belt, slipping one into the keyhole.

His knuckles bleached as he twisted it in the lock, the mechanism groaning in protest. Finally, it freed itself from its socket, leaving them all standing there, breathless with anticipation in a moment of unexpected significance. The last time anyone had set foot in these grounds, the queen had been alive. It seemed only right that, now, this long forgotten place would bear witness to her son's return.

Merlin watched as Arthur straightened his shoulders and pulled open the gate, striding out of his father's realm and into the one small slice of Camelot that had truly belonged to Ygraine, where neither kingdom nor throne nor crown held sway. Even if not for Merlin's magic, he would have felt the peace that filled the air, so at odds with the chaos of the town.

This place was more than a house, he realised as he followed in Arthur's footsteps, his heart tremulous with soft joy and a spark of magic. He only had to look at Arthur's face to see that expression soften with something like wonder. Tense shoulders found their ease, and the glimmer of a grin curled the corner of that mouth.

In that moment, Arthur looked as if he had finally found his way home.

Chapter Text

Arthur's heart pressed against the base of his throat: his pulse trembling as he slipped through the gate and into the overgrown garden beyond. So little of his mother's possessions remained, and until a few days ago, he had not even known this house existed. He had passed its high walls a dozen times and not realised the significance of the building that lay tucked behind their shelter.

Geoffrey had not been lying when he said that his father had left it untouched. The land had run wild. Beds of herbs were a froth of green and woody stems. A pair of fruit trees had been left unchecked, their boughs becoming a gnarl that stifled the bounty upon their branches. Once intricate brick pathways were chipped away by frost and the passage of the years, yet there was beauty in its neglect.

Wildflowers offered up splashes of colour, and the air was rich with heady perfume. Autumn colour touched the leaves, and the rose that rambled over the stonework was in full bloom, its flowers a lush burgundy several shades darker than Pendragon red.

Nearby, Merlin bent down and pulled free a leaf from one of the plants, turning it over in his fingers as he gave the flowerbeds a thoughtful look. Those lips pursed, and for all that he acted like the fool, Arthur could see that well-hidden mind at work.

'What is it?'

'Nothing. I expected a kitchen garden, but I don't think that's what this was.'

'How can you tell?' Guinevere asked, staring at the chaos. 'It looks as if it has run to weeds.'

Merlin shook his head. 'The mint's gone mad, but it always does. Under that, though, these aren't just herbs for seasoning. They're medicinal, and they’ve been properly cultivated. Look, you can still see where some of it was planted in rows.'

Now Merlin had pointed it out, there was an outline of order to the chaos. Arthur was no herbalist, but he understood enough about plants to make sure he did not eat anything poisonous while out on patrol. He at least knew Belladonna to avoid it, and yet here it grew in his mother's garden, vibrant and lush.

'Sire, over here!'

Lancelot had approached a large gateway set in the house wall. There were no panels – perhaps there never had been – and the arch yawned like an open mouth. On its other side sprawled a sizeable yard, surrounded on three sides by the wings of the house. A modest stable stood at the far end, and the intervening space was filled with overgrown cobbles.

'Look at the size of it,' Morgana murmured. 'You could lift half of this and fence off a practice ground big enough for a dozen knights.'

'There's no well,' Guinevere muttered, shaking her head and staring around. 'That doesn't seem right.'

'What about that?' Merlin gestured to a large, round basin, the stone marked with algae. There was a capped hole at its centre, and a narrow gutter cut across the courtyard.

'It looks like a spring of some kind,' Lancelot mused. 'Maybe if we unblocked it...'

'Perhaps we should check the inside of the house first,' Arthur suggested. 'There is no point setting the grounds to rights if this place is beyond saving.'

As one, they all turned to look at the building that held the courtyard in its embrace. The tiny panes of glass that made up the windows were grimy, but intact, and though the brickwork was weathered, it still looked hale and hearty. The tiles of the roof did not slump over the eaves, and there were no obvious signs of collapse.

Stepping forward, he dug out the other key Geoffrey had given him and jammed it into the keyhole, grunting as the lock flaked and squealed before finally giving up. The hinges groaned, and they all winced at the racket before cautiously crossing the threshold.

Gloom shrouded the hallway, and Arthur pushed the door wider, letting the daylight peel back the shadows. Guinevere and Merlin both moved to the windows, opening shutters and pushing aside mouldering curtains. The glow through the glass was milky at best, revealing the damage – or the lack of it.

The house was filthy, he could not deny that, but under the grime it appeared that strong foundations remained, and he bit back a sigh of relief. For all that Uther had abandoned the place, it seemed as if the household had taken time to prepare the building for a long period of vacancy. Furniture still stood, draped in sheets. Tapestries had been rolled and wrapped to protect them from moths and sunlight. A glance in the kitchen showed pans and plates stacked on the table.

It was as if the mistress of the house had gone away, and the whole place sat here, awaiting her return.

How long would it have stood empty, he wondered, if not for him needing somewhere for his new knight to lay his head?

Morgana's slippered feet pattered up the staircase, and her footsteps shifted over the boards above them. More than one groaned under her weight, and he could hear her opening doors and counting bedrooms.

'It's going to take weeks to get this place clean,' Guinevere said, pursing her lips and looking in Merlin's direction. 'Even if we close off the rooms not initially in use.'

'I can help.' Arthur folded his arms over his chest. Merlin's incredulous look, he expected, but Guinevere's was far from flattering.

'Do you know which end of a mop is which?' Merlin asked.

Arthur glared at him, but Guinevere's appeasing hand stopped him before he could tell Merlin precisely where to stick the aforementioned mop.

'Sire, you have other duties to attend to, from council meetings to training sessions. This isn't the kind of job you can do in a spare afternoon.' She rolled her shoulders, shaking her head before jamming her hands on her hips. 'I think you might have to find somewhere else for Lancelot to stay, at least until you're able to hire some staff to put this place to rights.'

'Lancelot's been sleeping in my room since he arrived at Camelot,' Merlin pointed out, his voice echoing as he ambled through to take in some of the other rooms. 'He can share a while longer.'

Something sharp twisted in Arthur's guts, clenching and uncomfortable. He had not given much thought to where Lancelot might be finding his rest. Now, he shied away from the notion of he and Merlin together in such close quarters. It seemed only further proof, should he need it, that they were lovers. He had seen the messy slice of space Merlin called a bedchamber, little more than an old storeroom, barely big enough for a narrow cot.

It unsettled him to think of them twined around each other in that tiny bed, and he distracted himself by poking through a pile of tapestries as he reluctantly turned the thought over in his mind.

The notion of two men lying together was not new to him, in theory or in practice. Some kingdoms frowned upon such things, but Camelot had never been one of them. Perhaps it was rather the age-old prejudice his father had instilled in him about the separate classes. In Uther's court, at least, it was improper for a nobleman – a knight – to tie themselves in any way with someone of a lower rank, but until a scant few days ago, Lancelot and Merlin had been equals.

Besides, he was not so naive that he could not see the hypocritical slant of his own thinking: happy to elevate a man to the nobility when it suited him and choosing to dismiss his origins. That was not how he wanted this to go. He had colluded to abide by the First Code not because he supported its ideals but because there was no way around it while his father sat upon the throne. One day, that would change.

No, when it came down to it, his unease had bloomed when he had awoken after the griffin, concussed and groggy. He had seen them standing close, Lancelot's hands cupping Merlin's shoulders and their brows almost touching. That had spoken of far more than the meeting of lips and hips. That spoke of lost hearts, and his own pulsed fretfully at the thought.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. What Merlin and Lancelot were to each other was irrelevant so long as it did not interfere with their duties. That, he told himself firmly, was the end of it.

'It might not be that bad,' Merlin called back from where he was clattering around in the kitchen. 'I bet we could have it habitable within a week.'

'Who is "we"?' Guinevere asked, suspicious. 'I'm needed to serve my lady, just as you are required to tend the prince!' She gestured sharply at Arthur, only to grow flustered when she realised he was watching her. 'I apologise, Sire, I mean no disrespect.'

'Please, disrespect Merlin all you like.'

'Prat!' Merlin's insult sounded even further away than before. Really, it was a miracle he could hear what they were saying, and Arthur turned to follow his meandering footsteps. He should investigate. There was no telling what trouble he could get into if he remained unattended for too long.

He left Guinevere and Lancelot to explore, trotting down the steps to the kitchen. It was a good-sized space, easily capable of hosting whatever a queen may require. He could almost picture it: the fire roaring in the chimney and a pig roasting on the spit as a cook shouted out her commands. Had it been a lively place, back in its day, full of all the bright hopes for the future?

Had his mother stood here, he wondered, young and unwed yet? With a long life before her untouched by tragedy?

Arthur swallowed the sharp taste of his own bitterness, following the trail of Merlin's footsteps in the dust. They picked their way towards another short flight of stairs, and Arthur blinked at the mellow glow of lantern-light seeping up from what was probably the cellar. Of course, he supposed Merlin carried a flint and steel. He must do. How else would he have managed to ignite the candle?

Pressing his hand to the wall for balance, Arthur noticed how the stone was dry and in good repair as he descended, feeling his way along in the semi-darkness until he discovered the level floor once more. Around him were various casks, though a quick tap rewarded him with only a hollow echo. Whatever they had once contained was long gone.

'What have you found?' he asked, not missing Merlin's guilty little twitch of surprise. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur, blinking owlishly before lifting the lantern higher. In front of him, an iron gate stood, rusted but firm. sealing off what appeared to be a stone passageway that led onwards down into darkness.

'The siege tunnels, perhaps?' Arthur suggested. 'It makes sense that whoever initially built this place might have wanted to be able to escape it in a hurry.' He huffed as Merlin wrapped his fingers around the bars and gave them a tug, as if expecting it to squeak open at his touch despite the massive lock that thrust its way into the wall. Yet when he looked, there was something in Merlin's eyes that made him hesitate. Gone was the honest happiness that so often seemed to paint his face. Now, he appeared thoughtful and more than a little bit suspicious.

'Come on,' he urged, scruffing the back of Merlin's tunic like he would a wayward dog and peeling him away from his scrutiny. 'Guinevere is right. If you're to make this place habitable, then you had best get started.'

'Now?' Merlin squawked, sounding horrified.

'There's no time like the present!'

Of course, it was not that simple. For all that the house still stood firm, there were no brooms or mops or rags. Nor, as Guinevere's keen eye had spotted, was there a nearby well. If they did not want to be hauling buckets back and forth, that needed to be resolved.

As far as Arthur was concerned, water just turned up. If he wanted to bathe or required a drink, a servant brought it. Of course, in theory, he knew it had to be retrieved from the various wells that tapped into the aquifer below the castle, but he'd never really had to consider the logistics of it, before.

He was busy supervising as Merlin and Lancelot poked at the large stone basin in the courtyard when Morgana approached, her eyes sparkling and the hem of her gown an inch deep in dust. 'Ten bedrooms, not including the servant's quarters,' she said, folding her arms across her chest. 'That could be enough for twenty knights, if they don't mind sharing.'

'Morgana...'

'All I'm saying, Arthur, is that this?' She gestured at Lancelot, her smile a gleeful slice of triumph. 'This is just the start. Many of Camelot's knights are good men, but are they yours?'

'I cannot afford to commission one knight, let alone a dozen or more.' He shifted his weight, shaking his head as he considered the possibility and dismissed it almost in the same breath. He felt fortunate enough to have achieved this victory over the king, small as it was. In many ways, he had proven to himself that he was his own man, able to step out from beneath the canopy of his father's will and make decisions for himself.

There was an uncomfortable thrill to it, one that grew less from defying Uther in his role as king, but that of "father". He had spent so long trying to mould himself into something acceptable, and now that he had given up that fight, he felt almost dizzy with the liberation. Even if the end result was cost and worry and the deep, abiding knowledge that his father was happier fighting him than supporting any effort at independence.

'You can do this.'

He glanced at Morgana, seeing the strength in her eyes, as well as a fierce, sharp pride that left him blinking and a touch embarrassed. Her hand rested lightly on his arm like a rider soothing a fretful horse.

'You really can. It might not be easy, but Arthur, do you even understand how big a step you've taken? Six months ago, you would never have considered this. It would not have crossed your mind.'

Her gaze darted to Merlin, and Arthur knew she was crediting his presence with Arthur's change of heart. Part of him longed to scoff at the ridiculousness of it. He had always hidden his uncertainty behind brashness and bluster before, but in front of Morgana, at least, it felt disingenuous.

She liked nothing better than being right, and although Arthur rarely allowed her the satisfaction, this time was different. After all, he had noticed the change in her that these last couple of weeks had wrought. She looked like a woman who had found her hope, and he had been shocked to realise that she'd lost it in the first place.

Besides, he was not so blind that he could not see his own growth. A ludicrous, gawky boy with big ears had stood up to him, hideously irreverent, indifferent to punishment, looking at Arthur with a mocking twist to his lips – and then promptly saved his life. That sort of honesty was not a common thing in Camelot. People were always playing games in the shadows, nudging at others to sway their influence. Very little of it was genuine, and then there was Merlin, who appeared to have no ulterior motives whatsoever.

'There's more at stake than mere money and honour,' he pointed out, lowering his voice. 'You know that, or you wouldn't constantly be warning me to be mindful of Merlin's safety. You're afraid of what my father might do.'

Her nod was steady as she pursed her lips. 'Always.' That single word seemed to hide a wealth of meaning, and when she looked at him, her green eyes were dark and serious. 'He's an ambitious man, Arthur, and petty with it. He will not relinquish his control over you easily. Don't let him win. I know there's an easy road: one of capitulation, but it will only ruin you in the long run.'

'It's not me I'm worried about.' He meant it. For now, at least, his position was secure. Perhaps that would change, in time. Maybe his father would set aside his belief that power ran in the blood and choose himself an heir from the nobility, or perhaps he had a bastard son that he could legitimise, but so far, that did not appear to be Uther's plan. There were other avenues of possibility he would consider first – pressure points he would exploit to encourage Arthur back into line.

'Lancelot knows the dangers.' They'd had a brutally frank conversation, one where Arthur had apologised for placing his new knight in the middle of a political mess. He doubted this was what the man had hoped for when it came to a knighthood. Instead of a brotherhood of compatriots, he found himself an outsider. Yet rather than regret, Lancelot's dark eyes had gleamed with purpose, and he had heeded Arthur's warnings well. 'So does Merlin.'

'But one can defend himself while the other cannot.'

'I know.' Arthur folded his arms over his chest, drawing in a deep breath. 'You seem particularly worried about Merlin.' He did not mean for the words to sound quite like that, edged with suspicion. His brief hope that Morgana might not pick up on his tone was a futile one. Her expression changed, touched at its very corners with a hint of knowing amusement.

'If something happened to him, who else would bring me flowers?' she asked innocently.

'Flowers?' Arthur scoffed, briefly distracted. He did not spend much time in Morgana's chambers. To do so would only invite speculation, which neither of them wanted. He had noticed, during those times he had lingered on her threshold, that there always seemed to be a fresh bouquet on her dressing table, but he'd thought that was one of Guinevere's touches – not gifts from Merlin of all people.

Whatever Morgana was going to say in response was overwhelmed by the rasp of the capstone finally lifting beneath Merlin and Lancelot's combined efforts. It groaned, the tight, snug fit meaning it moved in the tiniest of increments before slipping free. There was an odd gurgling noise, and the two of them barely had time to move out of the way before the water spouted from the central pillar, a trickle rapidly growing to a font of water about three feet high. It splashed happily into the bowl, steadily filling it.

'There must be a wellspring underneath it,' Merlin reasoned, grunting as he and Lancelot set the heavy capstone on the cobbles and stood back.

'But won't it just overflow?' Morgana asked, watching dubiously as the leaves and mulch that had filled the fountain over the years swirled in the water.

'Actually, no!' Guinevere hurried across the courtyard where she'd been exploring the stables and other buildings at the far end. 'Well, yes, but it's meant to.' She pointed to the gully that carved its way over the cobbles, and now Arthur looked properly at the terrain, he noticed it was subtle sloped away from the house. 'When the fountain fills up, the water comes down here, and you can turn this.' She patted another small stone pillar with odd fin shapes at its base. It rested at a branch in the gutter, and it took a moment for Arthur to understand its purpose.

'It turns?' he asked, reaching for the handle and shoving with all his might. It was stiff from disuse, but slowly, he got it to move, seeing how it would divert the water one of three ways.

'The laundry and a bathhouse,' Guinevere said, pointing to the left before shifting her arm to go straight onwards. 'The stables and a small forge.' At last, she swung to the right, where there was a large culvert running through the garden and beyond. 'And then out into the river. It's ingenious!'

'It's like its own little castle. Your mother would have had everything she needed here.' Morgana narrowed her eyes. 'I'm surprised your father let her keep it.'

'From what I've found, she did not live here at all after she was wed.' Arthur grimaced. 'Perhaps it never became an issue. Either way, it suits us very well now. Stables for horses and a forge to help repair and maintain armour, a laundry, a kitchen, and space that can be renovated for training. We just have to get it cleaned up.'

'I can do it.' Merlin shrugged. 'I don't have to act as chaperone to you the same as Gwen does to Lady Morgana. You can make do with one of the squires during practice and George can serve you at meals.'

Arthur tried not to pull a face at that particular notion. George was an incredibly efficient servant – everything a courtier should require – but there was never that same sense of comfort and ease that Merlin brought with him. 'You should still attend me first thing in the morning and last thing at night,' he decided, thinking fast. 'You know what the servants are like for gossip. I don't want them deciding you've left my service entirely.'

'You can't do all this on your own,' Guinevere added, gesturing to the impressive expanse of the building.

'Gwen and I have more spare moments in the day than Arthur. We'll come and assist you when we have the time,' Morgana decided.

'I won't be on my own. There are plenty of older kids in the Lower Town who don't mind a bit of hard work for a coin or two.' Merlin shrugged. 'There's nothing of real value to steal, should they be so inclined, and it's not like you need any particular skill to wield a broom. I'm owed a favour here and there. I can call them in for some extra help.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, wondering what favours, precisely, Merlin had managed to amass. Immediately, he chided himself for being cynical. When it came down to it, Merlin was a compassionate man by nature. He never hesitated to aid others, and it endeared him to many in the citadel and beyond. He suspected all Merlin would have to do was give people that cheeky grin of his and they would be falling over themselves to assist him.

'All right. We'll start first thing tomorrow.'

He looked back at the house, his heart fluttering with a heady mixture of anticipation, hope, and the faint shadows of grief. This place, which had once offered shelter and comfort to his mother, was a gift of fate itself. Yet it felt like more than serendipitous convenience to Arthur. It was as if he were always meant to find it – to step through the front door and claim this fraction of his heritage that, if his father had his way, Arthur would never have known existed.

This place, despite its genteel layer of grime, felt more like home to him than the castle in which he had been born and raised. Perhaps it was a foolish thought, but some part of him wondered if they were saving each other. This house could offer respite from his father's machinations, while Arthur freed it from the shadows of ruin and obscurity.

His mother may be dead, but her legacy lived on. All they had to do was bring it back to life.

Chapter Text

The key Arthur had given him grudgingly turned in the lock, the hinges squealing as the door parted from its frame. Merlin winced at the din before closing it in his wake. He'd spent some time yesterday ordering cleaning supplies: buckets, mops and rags, as well as firewood to get the stove going so they could heat water for scrubbing. Now, it all waited to be put to use, but first...

He took a deep breath, slipping the reins off his power and letting it spool out of him, directionless. It trailed invisible fingers over the walls and seeped into the floor, curling like smoke between the rafters and ever upwards to press against the roof tiles. It escaped out into the garden to play amidst the rambling weeds and danced through the branches of the apple trees.

Everywhere it touched, it found an answering magic slowly stirring from its slumber.

He'd sensed it the moment he walked through the gate the previous day: an odd sort of expectancy. That was why he had come back here alone, rather than enlisting help just yet. He needed to understand what slept within the walls. He feared the worst, yet it wasn't threatening. No trap lay in wait to ensnare them in its jaws. The power here felt steady and kind, as natural as the ground beneath his feet.

It was also old. Far older than Arthur's parents or even his grandparents, and Merlin got the distinct impression that it had seeped into the fabric of the house, which was not as modern as it looked at first glance.

Carefully, he prodded at the magic, sifting through it to search for intent. There were hints and shadows to it, like old spells that had long ago unravelled. He'd half-expected curses, which littered Camelot with their darkness: a heaving, contradictory mess that robbed them of any strength except their malice. What he sensed here, however, was both protective and nurturing.

It felt like a large dog dozing in front of a warm fire, rousing itself to its master's call. Even as he contemplated it, Merlin could feel an answering awareness. It was not alive, precisely, but he had the distinct feelings that there was a power here that had merely been waiting for new inhabitants to find it.

He let his magic sweep over the presence, just once, even as he promised himself he would plumb the depths of Geoffrey's library. The more they knew about their new home, the better. There was no safety in ignorance.

Slipping the key into his pocket, he headed to the kitchen, lighting the blaze in the large hearth with a flick of his hand. He could have the whole place gleaming in a morning if he could use his magic to do all of it, but that would only raise questions he couldn't answer. Still, that didn't mean he was about to do everything the normal way, at least when he was alone.

Gathering his supplies, including a bucket enchanted to clean the hot water in its confines, he considered his options. It was tempting to start with the kitchen, but it would be pointless. Dirt would only drift down from the top floor, and then he would have to clean everything twice.

The attics were, in theory, where the servants would have slept. More than one narrow flight of stairs climbed upwards into the roof-space, and he bit his lip as the steps creaked underfoot. Still, none of them collapsed beneath his weight, and he set down his tools with a sigh before moving to a small, round window and pushing it open, letting the sun stream in unimpeded.

He had braced himself for tattiness – few nobles gave any thought to the living conditions of their servants – and he was pleasantly surprised when whitewashed plaster walls, rather than bare rafters, met his gaze. The floorboards were mostly sound, although one or two would need replacing, and the expanse of the attic had been partitioned off into small chambers. None were large, taking up about as much space as Merlin's little ex-storeroom, but they were private, which was more than most commoners could boast of their living quarters.

There were no cots or pallets, the old furniture long gone. Merlin gave each bare chamber a critical look and shook his head, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the work ahead of him. At least their emptiness meant there was nothing in the way of his cleaning, and he quickly set about opening every window, letting in as much light as he could before casting a subtle spell to stir the air. It was cheating, he knew that, but he found himself unwilling to care. Magic could deal with the surface dust, though removing the cobwebs and scrubbing the walls would have to be done by hand.

It was steady, boring, repetitive work, putting out the spiders and soaping the old whitewash. He could not be bothered to refill the bucket from the cauldron downstairs. His power bubbled in him as joyfully as the fountain in the courtyard, banishing the grimy water and replacing it with ease. The steam rising from its surface made Merlin's hair curl, and the exertion heated his skin until he'd rolled up his sleeves and stripped off his neckerchief, tying it around his head to keep his fringe off his brow.

More than once, he sneezed at a cloud of dust, and he smirked as he saw the sparkles of magic flaring each time he did so. It was the old power in this place responding to the presence of a sorcerer, and he found he quite liked its company.

As much as he hated the drudgery of cleaning, he had to admit it was satisfying to banish the patina of filth from the walls and floor. As he worked, he admired the wealth of the house itself. Most grand places didn't bother with the bits that weren't on display, and while the windows, he supposed, could be seen from the outside, it wasn't as if anyone would be up here except the servants. No one else would notice the small touches, like the carved scrollwork on the doorframes, or the brass handles that only needed a little effort to make them gleam.

The more he worked, the more he doubted this place had been built for Ygraine's use. It felt too old for that, and there was a sense of timeless style that didn't quite fit. If Uther were trying to impress his bride-to-be, it would be flashy rather than stately. Superficially beautiful instead of functionally elegant. No, he didn't think Uther had commissioned it, but something in him fancied that Ygraine had chosen it for herself: a home during her courtship.

By the time he heard footsteps on the stairs, he was almost done with the last room, and he winced, wondering if he should have moved a bit more slowly. It should probably have taken him longer than half a morning to scrub the space so thoroughly, leaving polished boards and clean, white walls in his wake.

'Oh, Merlin!' Gwen's voice sounded more than a little stunned. 'You did all this already?'

'It wasn't as bad as I thought,' he lied, poking his head around the door and seeing her staring in surprise. 'Just cobwebs, mostly.'

'You should see the filth that's come down through the floorboards,' Morgana commented, sweeping up the stairs with her usual grace. The gown she wore was practical: dark, sturdy linen rather than silk and gauze. Her hair was braided away from her face, and no gems sparkled amidst her curls or at her throat. It struck Merlin how that didn't matter. She may be dressed plainly, but Morgana still carried herself like a noble. 'Where should we start?'

Merlin exchanged a quick look with Gwen, speaking silent volumes. Her expression told him that she had already politely suggested that rooting around in the dust was no place for a lady, only to be ignored. He doubted he would have any better luck, so he shrugged his shoulders. 'You can see what's in the attic of the west wing. It might be more servant's quarters like this, but I've not looked, yet.'

Gwen pursed her lips, but she didn't argue, no doubt resigning herself to an evening spent scrubbing Morgana clean from the grime of this excursion. 'Tomas is going to bring us lunch,' she said. 'And I've given him instructions to try and find a few helpers in the Lower Town: some of the older children, like you said. It's his day off and he doesn't mind.'

Merlin nodded. Tomas was a scullery boy of thirteen summers, and one who frequently came in with bruises half-hidden beneath his clothes thanks to his brute of a father. Even on his rare days off, he did his best to avoid going home. 'Thanks, Gwen. I'll join you as soon as I'm done here.'

He smiled, listening to the two women talking to each other as they departed, their words losing their definition until they might have been nothing more than a happy memory seeping from the walls. He waited until they were out of earshot before emptying his bucket with magic once more, swabbing out the rag and scrubbing the final room until it gleamed. Even with the help of sorcery, his arms were aching from the unaccustomed exercise. It was one thing to maintain a state of moderate cleanliness in Arthur's chambers, and quite another to try and scrub decades of ingrained dirt out of the plaster.

He was fairly sure his magic had helped, brightening the whitewash until it sparkled like fresh snowfall. It was also, he feared, responsible for the fact that the dodgy floorboards appeared to have healed themselves, and for the rich stain that now darkened the planks. They had not been that colour when he came in, had they?

Merlin bit his lip. He would have to be careful. It was not that he was losing control, exactly. Rather, it was as if the house was making his power sing, brighter and more vivid than ever. There was plenty of magic lingering in Camelot, but much of it was malevolent: the last hateful wishes of sorcerers sent to their doom. The only other place that felt similar was Gaius' tower room, where kindness and that special, natural power of a healing body went hand-in-hand.

He shook himself out of his musings as he collected up his cleaning things, putting them near the stairs before closing the windows one-by-one. They sparkled in the noonday light, their glass free of fly-dirt and grime. Merlin admired the tiny leaded panes, coloured with hints of washed out rose and gold, as if they had once been stained and the hues had faded beneath the glare of the sun.

The stairs did not squeak and groan as he made his descent. If he concentrated, he could feel how the wood had cast off its rot, swelling sure and firm once more until it was as good as new. He hoped, for his sake, everyone else would be too busy to notice the subtle ways the house appeared to be healing itself, or he was in for a world of trouble.

Cleaning out the bucket, he refilled it with hot water the non-magical way before carrying it up the stairs to the west wing. The attics were separated, accessed only by specific staircases. He could not walk from one side of the house to the other via the roof-space, though the rest of the building had no such barriers. It made sense, he supposed, but it had not slipped Merlin's notice that there didn't appear to be a route into the central attic. He'd looked from the outside, and there were windows nestled in the eaves, but as far as he could tell there was no way in: as if it had been sealed off.

The idea rankled him, but short of ripping a hole in the ceiling, there was nothing he could do. Maybe something would turn up as they started to learn the secrets of this place, or perhaps it was simply an empty, hollow space. Either way, he didn't have time to explore now. Not when he could hear Morgana and Gwen banging about above his head, making occasional exclamations of surprise.

Natural sunlight poured in through the windows, which had been opened to let in the fresh air. Dust motes sparkled in the sunbeams as Gwen diligently scrubbed the glass, flinching occasionally as a spider fled before the tide of soapy water.

It was Morgana who strode about the echoing space, taking the edges of dustsheets and folding them up carefully so as not to make the mess worse. Beneath them, she revealed various objects: trunks with gleaming locks, a hardwood bedframe in pieces, a case of strange glassware that looked like the kind of thing Gaius used for his more delicate experiments, and crates full of books.

There were also silver candlesticks and platters, tarnished but decent, and Merlin caught himself wondering how much they were worth and whether they could be sold to make up for their distinct lack of funds. A closer look made him wince, recognising the DuBois family crest. They were not merely old plates but relics from Ygraine's life. The idea of selling them sat with him as badly as the one of Morgana giving up her mother's necklace. Still, he knew Arthur would do it, matching her sacrifice and hiding the pain it caused him.

'We're going to need to stack it to one side to scrub the floor before moving it back and cleaning the planks it was sat on.' Gwen huffed, rolling up her sleeves and cuffing her hair from her forehead. 'We cannot get lost in exploring what's in every single box.' That last bit was said fondly, and Morgana gave a guilty grin as she stopped trying to open a locked trunk.

'Merlin and I will shift the crates, and you can mop?'

'Agreed.'

They worked for ages, bending and shoving, swabbing and scrubbing. At some point, Tomas appeared with a basket full of food, and they fell upon it with little dignity. Even Morgana barely took time to wipe her dusty fingers before taking a huge bite out of a bread cob, not bothering with anything so delicate as cutlery.

'No gossip, Tomas,' Gwen pleaded when she caught the lad watching them with wide eyes.

'No m'm.' He grinned when she offered him a fruit tart as bribery. 'I asked around in the Lower Town. Got some good un's for you. Happy to start tomorrow.'

'Their parents don't mind?' Morgana asked.

Tomas shook his head before turning his gaze to the floor, no doubt flustered at being spoken to by a member of the royal house. As a scullery boy, he rarely saw outside the kitchen, and he had probably never talked to anyone of higher rank than the head cook. 'Glad to have them out from underfoot, m'lady. I have a couple more to ask. I can bring them over in the morning.'

'Thanks, Tomas.' Merlin grinned as the lad bobbed a bow and retreated, his boot-steps pattering down the stairs as he made his way out. 'They're going to need more than coin. We'll have to feed them.'

'We'll focus on the kitchen next,' Gwen decided. 'I can get food from the market, rather than taking it from the castle stores.'

Morgana huffed, cuffing her brow and smearing a grey pall across her skin. 'This is ridiculous.' She pursed her lips and shook her head. For the first time, Merlin noticed the dark circles that shadowed her eyes. She looked as if she had barely slept a wink. 'How is Arthur meant to sustain this? It's not just armour and a sword and a horse. He has to provide everything and then pay Lancelot's wages on top of that. Uther has effectively demanded that he set up an entire household and then deprived him of the funds to do it!' She pressed her fingers to her temple, her shoulders sagging.

'Leon should be back from Pentrose before the end of the week. I'm sure that he and Arthur can work something out.' Gwen cupped a hand around Morgana's arm and rubbed gently.

'It was the right thing to do,' Merlin added, knowing Morgana would understand better than anyone else what Arthur had achieved. 'It's not about petty rebellion. Camelot needs good knights, and Uther keeps throwing them away by picking fights.'

'I don't deny that.' Morgana sat straighter, brushing her hand over the lid of the trunk on which she had taken her perch. 'I have watched him struggle in his father's shadow for years, striving for praise that is as fleeting as morning mist.' She let out a shuddering breath. 'But this is not how it should be. They should be united in their care for this realm. Instead...' Her hands knotted in her sensible skirt. 'It just angers me to see Arthur reduced to this. He is trying to do what is right, and rather than rewarding him, Uther does everything he can to bring him back into line.'

Merlin grimaced, acknowledging the truth of that. He had always known the king was a controlling man. At first, he thought it came with the territory of crown and throne, but looking at him, he suspected it would have been the same regardless of his station.

His expectations for his son were both narrow and exacting, and his response when Arthur reached for any sort of independence was merciless. He knew that Uther had forced these financial constraints on him hoping that he would fail, but when Arthur triumphed, he would not be impressed. He would only escalate his efforts to bring the prince back under his authority.

Once, not so long ago, Merlin thought Arthur would have obliged. He would have clenched his teeth and fallen in line with his father's demands. As far as he could make out, rushing off in pursuit of the Mortaeus flower was the first time Arthur had acted in true defiance, and he had suffered as a result. Gwen had told him how she had gone to Arthur in the cell where he had been imprisoned. How she had been the one to smuggle the bloom to Gaius, because Uther had no qualms about letting a servant die to teach his son a lesson.

And people called sorcerers "monsters".

'He has us.' Merlin shrugged, licking a bit of jam off his thumb. 'He has this house. He has an estate that will earn money enough to cover costs, and the next knight won't be nearly so expensive.'

'The next one?' Morgana raised an eyebrow, some of her anger fading as a spark of amusement gleamed in her eyes. 'Are you planning to build him an army, Merlin?'

'No, my lady.' He stood up, brushing crumbs from his lap and reaching for the bucket, intending to fill it with fresh water. 'But isn't Uther always encouraging Arthur to select his own court? Pushing those useless little lordlings at him? Simpering boys who will grow into men who follow their fathers' beliefs?' He grinned, shaking his head. 'I think he can do a lot better than that, and Lancelot's just the start.'

The delicate line of Morgana's brow arched in surprise, and the look she offered him felt as if it dove beneath his skin to rummage around in the cave of his ribs. 'I knew there was a reason I liked you,' she said at last. 'Sometimes I think Uther really stabbed himself in the foot when he gave you to Arthur. He did not anticipate your loyalty, and he saw nothing of your wits.'

'That could be because he does such a good job of keeping them hidden,' Gwen teased, smiling at Merlin as she got to her feet. She pressed her hands to her hips and surveyed the room. 'Come on, then. If we're really hoping to make this place a home, then we have plenty of work to do.'

They toiled long into the afternoon, mopping up grime and throwing away filthy water. They took the various sheets Morgana had pulled off the things up in the west attic and shook them out in the garden, raising great, swirling billows of dust that made them all sneeze. It would have been better to wash them in the laundry, but they did not yet have the supplies to get the room up and running.

'I'll put these back if you make a start on the kitchen?' He bundled the hefty fabric in his arms. 'Unless we need to return to the castle?' He squinted at the sun, trying to judge the lateness of the day.

'We have a bit of time. Astrid promised she would let me know if the king demanded a family dinner, and we would have heard by now.'

Merlin breathed a short sigh of relief at Gwen's reassurance. As long as Uther hadn't decided on yet another tortuous shared meal, both Arthur and Morgana would normally take their dinner in their chambers. That meant a shorter evening routine and more time spent working on the house. 'All right. I'll come and help you in a little while.'

'Don't dawdle!' Gwen called after him. 'The kitchen's in a terrible state!'

Merlin gave her a promise for his prompt return as he shambled up the stairs, wincing at the ache in his thighs and lower back. Once he was in the attic, he looked over his shoulder, checking the coast was clear before he dumped the sheets on the floor and spread out his hand.

'Loðan.'

The fabric moved in quick sweeps and undulations as it tucked itself, neat and tight, around the various trunks and crates that had already been uncovered. Those that they had not removed ruffled their edges like birds twitching their wings across their backs, and Merlin cast them a brief, golden look.

'Druh āsele!'

Immediately, thick grey ribbons rose from each one, drifting like smoke as any lingering dust billowed out of one of the open windows to be dissipated by the breeze. A faint, gold haze drifted across the room before fading from sight, and Merlin breathed in the scent of clean, fresh air.

It chafed at him that he could not do this for the whole house, his secret a constant shackle. If Gaius knew he was doing even this much, there would be a scolding of prodigious proportions, but Merlin couldn't keep it in. Not when his power sang beneath his skin, stirred to life by the magic that lay thick upon this place.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself one, brief moment to revel in it. He reached out, and it seemed as if the very bricks of the house reached back. The mortar shone in his mind's eye. The foundations thrust into the ground like tree roots, as if the walls had grown here rather than being built. He could feel the buoyant delight of life persisting in the garden and the stately steadiness of the beams. It was more than just a house; it was a sanctuary, waiting for those that needed its protection.

It may have its secrets, but they were not bones waiting to tumble out into the light. Instead, Merlin sensed it like the gleam of something precious in the dark. Yet there was no sense of urgency. Instead, there was a feeling of exquisite peace. It was not a castle from which to rule, but a house in which to live, protected and cherished.

And in a kingdom that would see him dead for nothing more than the power he'd had since the moment he was born, that felt more precious to him than all the gold in Camelot.

Chapter Text

The art of ignoring his father's disapproval was one Arthur had yet to master. Perhaps, on the outside, he looked indifferent. That, at least, was his intention. There was nothing private, after all, about any sort of dispute between a king and his heir. It was the gossip of the court.

Once, he had been afraid of causing a scandal – bastard children, maybe, or being caught in a married woman's bed. He had imagined the scathing scrutiny of the council should such a thing ever come to pass.

He had not envisioned anything quite like this.

It was subtle, mercifully, but where there had been a group of people resolutely united behind his father and his ideals, there were now tiny, hairline fractures. Nobody was obvious. There was too much at stake, but Arthur caught more than one nod of approval aimed in his direction. Councillors carefully left windows in the topics of discussion for his input, and some courtiers took a moment to approach, offering him small talk when before they would have held back.

Now and then, a hint of a whisper reached his ears, deriding him as a weak man, an upstart, a troublemaker... Those were Uther's loyalists, and he made careful note of their faces while maintaining a stiff mask of indifference.

A sigh of relief escaped him as he finally stepped out of the council chamber. George had served him, tending his cup in steady silence. There had been no words murmured in his ear, and no warm presence standing slightly too close to his chair. It had all been very proper.

Arthur hated it.

Perhaps that was why his pace picked up as soon as he gained the hallway, offering quick nods of acknowledgement to a few of the councillors as he hurried towards the doors to the castle. He had gone only a meagre distance before Lancelot fell in at his side, steady and companionable.

Any awkwardness between them was distinctly short-lived. It seemed Lancelot noticed and acknowledged his rank, but was happy to put it aside if he deemed it necessary. Such behaviour was bold. He was a strange blend of Leon's politeness and Merlin's stubbornness, which was something Arthur had never known he needed.

'Is everything all right?' he asked, checking him over with the sweep of his gaze. He was no fool, and nor was Lancelot. They both understood there were risks to all this, and Lancelot was frequently thrust into bouts with men who might decide to do their liege a favour and run him through. The last thing Arthur wanted was for an unfortunate "accident" to take away one of the most promising warriors he had seen in months.

'Yes, Sire.' Lancelot's dark eyes seemed fond. 'It is, perhaps, not as bad as you imagine. Most of the knights are honourable.'

'But not all.'

Lancelot sighed. 'No, not all. I know who to avoid, and there are several who aid me in that: Bors, Owain, Pellinor...'

Arthur absorbed the names, nodding. They were good men. Bors and Owain were second and third sons respectively. They had lost brothers to Camelot's wars. Pellinor was the only son of his family, though he had a shocking seven sisters, the youngest of whom was only two years old. They all came from families who had either already suffered their bitter griefs, or who stood to lose too much if the war-machine of his father's kingdom did not take a new path.

'Good. If I can, I will find a moment to offer each of them my thanks. Stick with them when you are able to do so. What of those who you think might give you trouble?' He waited as the silence grew, huffing when he glanced at Lancelot to see his face was stoic and unmoving. 'If there are men without honour among the knights I command, I need to know.'

'But that is it, Sire. You may be their commander, but ultimately, they answer to the king.' Lancelot's hand drifted to the pommel of his sword, his boots clattering down the castle steps and across the courtyard as they made their way into High Town. 'I already see the difficulties taking me on as a knight has caused. I will not add to that burden.'

'It is my responsibility –'

'And I can defend myself.' Lancelot said it with absolute certainty. If he had not seen him fight, Arthur would have decided it was bravado. After all, the current knights had been trained by Arthur himself, and they were all distinguished warriors. Yet there was something more to Lancelot, a natural talent where most men built their skills on a foundation of duty – an honourable passion in his heart, where others carried mere obligation. It was part of what made him such a rarity.

'You do not have to struggle alone,' Arthur said at last, suspecting it was the only concession Lancelot would accept. 'I'm sorry that your entry into the knighthood had been so fraught.' He gave a small, mirthless laugh, kicking at a pebble and sending it skittering into the gutter. 'I sometimes suspect you're regretting the day Merlin ever offered his help.'

'It is... an adventure,' Lancelot decided at last, giving a fond, genuine smile. 'One I would not turn aside. I am fully aware I would not be here if not for Merlin's –'

'Interference?'

'Assistance.' They walked in silence for a dozen paces or so, the conversation finding a natural lapse. Lancelot didn't seem like the type to chatter, but it was clear his thoughts were occupied.

'Speak freely. I do not punish people for saying what's on their mind.'

At length, Lancelot did. 'You put Merlin in the stocks the day before yesterday.'

'Yes, and it made a radical difference to his temperament and behaviour,' Arthur replied sarcastically. 'They don't throw things at him anymore. I think he's started treating it as a break from work, if I'm honest.' He shook his head. 'Merlin's usual manner is borderline treasonous. I have to at least give the appearance of keeping it in check.'

'And yet he is still your manservant. How did that even come about?' Lancelot's expression made Arthur smother a smile. He looked baffled, as if he could not imagine things following their normal course. He was right. Nobody was worse suited to the job than Merlin, and yet, to his occasional horror, Arthur had begun to think that there was no one he preferred more. An afternoon with George had only reinforced that notion.

'It was a reward from my father. Merlin stopped an assassination attempt by a sorceress and was given the role. Neither of us were particularly thrilled.'

'A sorceress? Does such a thing happen often?'

'My father's Purge has made Camelot a target, and his continuing enforcement of the law against sorcery only feeds the anger of the magical community that remains. Those that have not fled for more sympathetic realms regard my father and, by extension, me, with an unfavourable eye.' He cleared his throat, idly looking over his shoulder to make sure no one could overhear before adding, in a quieter voice, 'I cannot blame them for their rage.'

That got him a measured, steady look: the kind that peeled aside every mask and read the truth beneath. If his father had heard Arthur say such a thing, issuing even the smallest fragment of sympathy, he would have roared himself hoarse. It was why Arthur kept such thoughts to himself. Uther would see the splinter of compassion as nothing more than weakness: one to be beaten out of him by any means necessary.

'There was a woman in our village, before the bandits came,' Lancelot said at last. 'We were on Mercian land. The king is less... stringent, particularly in outlying settlements. She saved us during a bad winter when the crops failed. She fattened the animals and multiplied the grain. Repairs that would have taken three strong men days she did in mere moments. She rescued a child when they near-drowned in the river: pulled the water right out of their lungs.'

'What became of her?'

'Cut down in the raid. My point is, while I have yet to hear your father's rhetoric on sorcery, from my experience, magic can be a force for good.'

'Not that I have ever seen,' Arthur acknowledged. 'Though I don't doubt you. Perhaps if my father's executions were limited only to those who attacked the citadel or its people, I would understand. That is not the case. It does not matter what the power is used for: the consequence is death.'

He reached out, placing a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. He thought of the griffin that Gaius said could only be killed by a sorcerer. He recalled the dream where Merlin had whispered a confession: one that Arthur had tried to forget ever since. The recollection stirred something small and tremulous to shuddering life in the hollow of his belly, something he did not know how to face and so chose to ignore. Magic, in all its forms, would always be a tense subject in Camelot.

'Best you do not mention the witch from your village. Even sympathisers can find themselves on the block.'

Lancelot watched one of the soldiers ignite a nearby brazier. The nights were drawing in, the dusk steadily encroaching. The flames cast deep shadows and stark relief across his features. His brown eyes were soft and curious as he tilted his head, as if trying to see Arthur from a different angle.

'Do you ever think that Camelot has stabbed itself in the foot, cutting out magic? There are some who might say it has put itself at a disadvantage, both strategically, and when it comes to the safety and comfort of its people.'

'Then they had best speak of such things quietly.' Arthur let his hand drop after a single firm squeeze of warning. 'Have a care, Lancelot. My father is looking for any excuse to remove your knighthood, and he won't be put off by doing the same to your head.'

He pursed his lips, hating to speak with such finality. Perhaps that was why he cleared his throat, lowering his voice until it was little more than a murmur. 'But yes. I do. The griffin is a case in point, though we got lucky there. So much of the dangerous magic that would see Camelot brought to its knees can only be fought with similar power, and we have nothing with which to combat it. Besides, after my father's persecution, who with an ounce of magic to call their own would fight for Camelot, rather than against it?'

Lancelot had no answer for him but a gleam of something in his eye. A glimmer that Arthur could not parse and so left unquestioned.

They rounded the corner, the high wall of his mother's house coming into view. The sight eased some of the tension in Arthur's muscles, unravelling the knots that had set up camp between his shoulder-blades. The garden beyond the gate was dark and quiet, but the lamps along the frontage and inside the arch had been lit, their mellow glow welcoming.

Arthur aggressively refused to think of the price of oil and tallow that would also fall to him. He prayed Leon rode back from Pentrose with news of prosperity, or all this would be for naught.

The sound of Merlin and Guinevere's laughter ghosted on the breeze, and something in Arthur's belly jolted at the noise: a stirring of happiness. This place felt as if it were made for mirth, and it had been too long without it. He quickened his pace, moving through the large arch to the central courtyard, where the door to the kitchen was propped open. There were buckets and mops by the fountain's bowl, and the gutter channel gurgled as it took the excess water to the stream.

'It's just like you to turn up when all the hard work's done for the day,' Morgana said when she saw him at the threshold. She had muck smeared across her forehead and her curls escaped their practical braid, but there was a healthy flush of colour on her cheeks. She sat with Guinevere and Merlin around the clean kitchen table. The floor had been mopped and the surfaces wiped, but the stone of the walls still carried its patina of filth.

'And how much of that did you actually do?' he challenged, raising an eyebrow as he dropped onto the bench.

'About the same as me, Sire,' Guinevere said, getting to her feet and beginning to load plates. There was pie of some sort and cold cuts of meat, no doubt all bought from the market that day. Things that had already been cooked, since the kitchen wasn't yet up to the task. 'It was Merlin who did most of it. The attics are completely clean! I thought it would take days!'

'Oh, so you are capable of hard work?' Arthur asked, turning to Merlin, who was sprawled in a chair like a man defeated. It put the long line of his throat on display, and Arthur absently noted the scarf was missing from its habitual place. Instead, it was tied around his head, keeping the dark hair off Merlin's brow. When he'd first arrived in Camelot, it had been a short-cropped cap of black. Now it was long enough to curl, since neither Gaius nor Merlin were as quick to reach for the shears as Hunith had been.

'Of course I am. I look after you every day, don't I?'

'Hardly,' Arthur scoffed, dutifully ignoring the way Guinevere almost choked on her sip of water and Morgana smirked in delight at Merlin's cheek. 'Is there anything I should know?'

'The servant's quarters are in the attic of the east wing,' Morgana began, more than happy to take the lead. 'There are a number of individual rooms, enough for a full household staff if necessary. The west wing is a storage space.' Her gaze softened. 'You should have a look. I think some of the things there belonged to your mother. There isn't a way to get to the middle of the roof space. I suspect it's a void.'

'Some of the older children from the Lower Town will be here tomorrow to help, but it's more than just cleaning.' Guinevere sounded apologetic. 'We need someone to check the forge isn't cracked, and the stables should be inspected. My father can help with the former, but you might have to talk to some of the grooms. We're going to need a carpenter for furniture and things like feed troughs for the horses... There's a lot to do.'

'But we've already made a start.' Merlin's smile was reassuring despite the tiredness that outlined his frame. 'Besides, a lot of it's not as bad as it looks. By the time Leon gets back from Pentrose it might almost be habitable.'

Guinevere gave a little huff of disbelief as she sat down, but she didn't argue. 'Only if you can clean the rest of it as quickly as you did the attic.'

'I can try.' Merlin shrugged, and Arthur didn't miss the way he deliberately didn't look at Lancelot, who was casting a worried frown in his direction.

'Just don't forget you have other duties,' Arthur pointed out, polishing off his slice of pie. 'I can delegate some of it, but too much and it'll cause questions. We can't keep this from my father indefinitely, but the less chance he has to interfere, the better, at least until we're more settled in.’

They chatted among themselves as they ate, Morgana and Guinevere speaking in equal measure of what they had found and their future plans for this place. Lancelot and Arthur joined in, practical suggestions rapidly spinning out into wild dreams, until they had turned the new house into a secondary castle.

The only one who didn’t say much was Merlin, who looked at serious risk of falling asleep in his chair. Still, he smiled as he listened, and Arthur tried not to be too captivated by the bow of his lips and the occasional sparkle in his eyes.

'We need to prioritise essential structural work: the stables, the forge and the kitchens,' Arthur decided at last, glancing out of the window to realise that the twilight had thickened to true night. 'My father cannot take this place away from us, but he could impede repairs. Anything we do not have the skill to do ourselves needs to be attended to first.'

'We'll see to it tomorrow,' Guinevere promised, pressing her palms to the table and rising to her feet. 'Now, however, we must be going. We should tend to my lady's bath, since she looks as if she has been rolling in the mud.' She cast a look at Morgana, who sighed in grudging agreement. 'Don't stay up too late.'

Arthur did not miss how her smile softened when she looked at Lancelot, nor how the knight's features seemed to lose some of their tension, the faint lines upon his brow vanishing from sight. Perhaps he should be more concerned over the fickle nature of Lancelot's affections. Instead, he found himself parting his lips, issuing his next command without a second thought.

'Lancelot, if you're finished with supper, please see the Lady Morgana and Guinevere safely back to the castle.'

Perhaps it was a test, or maybe it was a selfish desire to have Merlin to himself after a tiresome day apart. Either way, Lancelot's agreement was eager, and Arthur could not quite tamp down the flutter of relief that whispered through his chest. If there was going to be heartbreak, he decided, then better it be done quickly. Merlin would recover soon enough, especially if Arthur kept him busy.

Maybe it would be more favourable to talk about it, but he shied away from the notion. He might think of Merlin, grudgingly, as a friend. It was hard not to, after they had saved one another's lives, but that did not mean he could start speaking so freely on matters of the heart.

They weren't girls, after all.

'I'll return as soon as they're safely home.' Lancelot sketched a bow, already more perfunctory than it had been when he'd first claimed the mantle of his knighthood. Uther would be furious. Arthur, for his part, approved. He needed obedience from his knights more than obeisance, but above all else he required men with minds and morals of their own. Ones that could both complement and challenge him when the need arose.

'Don't push Arthur down any stairs, Merlin,' Morgana called over her shoulder. 'He might deserve it, but he's a terrible invalid.'

'Harpy,' Arthur muttered under his breath, ignoring the flurry of farewells. 'I want to see the attic. The one for storage.' He cleared his throat. 'Maybe there are items up there worth selling.'

It was not a lie, precisely, but the moment Morgana had mentioned the potential cache of his mother's possessions, something young and desperate had blazed bright in Arthur's chest. He knew so little of her. The discovery of this house had already left him breathless, his heart beating fast at the thought of walking the same floors she once trod.

The look Merlin gave him suggested he wasn't fooling anyone. Arthur's motives were less about filling their empty coffers and more about offering something up to the void that had lived inside him since infancy: the one where a mother's love should be.

He was far from the only child to have only a single parent left alive. Arthur knew that. Yet it was a personal tragedy that had writ itself large in the kingdom's conscience. Ygraine haunted Camelot with her absence, and he had struggled his whole life with the knowledge that it was his entrance into the world that had seen her depart from it.

He understood his father's pain only found solace in silence. She was not spoken of, and Arthur was left to wonder at the woman who had nurtured him in her belly. He would never have more than this: crumbs and scraps, and so he hoarded what little he could claim.

'This way.'

Merlin scooped up a couple of lanterns, their glass so snug that the flames inside did not even flicker. He pressed one into Arthur's hands before taking the lead. The stairs offered no protest underfoot, and Arthur saw that they had been polished, the treads unblemished as if they had been cut only yesterday.

'It looks like these were barely used,' he murmured. 'No stains or wear.'

'I suppose –' Merlin cleared his throat. Was it Arthur's imagination, or did he look, briefly, a touch panicked? 'Maybe they didn't come up here often, if they were only taking stuff in and out of storage?'

'You could be right.' Arthur frowned to himself, but dismissed the niggling feeling in the back of his mind. In truth, it was chased away as he reached the top of the stairs and took in the wide space beneath the roof.

He had heard Guinevere and Morgana say they had cleaned it, but he had not imagined it to be like this: white-washed plaster walls and floorboards that gleamed with polish. The dust sheets were tucked neatly around everything, creating ghostly shapes in the lantern light, and Arthur reached up, hanging the lamp from a hook embedded in the ceiling for that precise purpose.

'You never keep my chambers this clean,' he managed at last, surveying the scene in disbelief.

'Your rooms are a pigsty,' Merlin replied. 'I do what I can. As I said to Gwen, it really wasn't that bad, considering how long it's been left unoccupied.'

'Are you calling me a pig?' Arthur asked, his awe vanishing like a snuffed-out candle in the wake of Merlin's audacity.

'I wouldn't dare.' Merlin's grin was a flash. His eyes crinkled at their corners in a manner that suggested the insult was heavily implied. Arthur reached out to cuff him around the head, smirking as Merlin grumbled in complaint at the so-called brutality.

'Come on. Let's see if there's anything in here that'll help pay Lancelot's way. Morgana's contribution helped. I was able to pay to have some of my old maille altered for him. It also commissioned new boots. Tom helped us out with weaponry, improving Lancelot's own sword rather than kitting him out with a new one, but he still needs to be fed and paid, not to mention the cost of a horse and tack.'

'You can't use your own?'

Arthur grimaced. In truth, he had plenty of mounts, but most were gifts from his father, and they came with strings attached. Even if he sold them for coin, Uther would find a way to claim some sort of ownership. 'It would just be another point of contention. Most of the animals in Camelot's stables are from the king's stud. We would need to go further afield to buy new horseflesh, and then there is no guarantee of the quality...' Arthur cuffed a hand through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose. Why did his father have to make this so hard?

'What about the lords of court? Is there anyone among them who you could talk to? Surely they all have horses – probably more than they need. I bet there are some who would be eager to help. Not everyone likes your father's way of doing things. They look forward to better times.'

He glanced over at where Merlin was untucking spotless dustsheets, easing tight corners and peeling them back to reveal what lay underneath. Most servants would never dare speak so brazenly about the king and his court, but then Merlin was not like any other servant.

The old temptation to chastise him for his loose tongue bubbled in Arthur's chest, but he set it forcefully aside. It was instinct – habit – a teaching from his father that Arthur was quickly realising had no real place in his life. It was Uther who had told him a prince could not have friends, and Merlin who had proved the king wrong in no short order.

Half a year, he thought to himself, and Merlin had turned everything on its head.

'They would still need some measure of coin. There's only so much I can indebt to my standing in court, and there is a risk in going against my father.'

'So you pick someone powerful. Someone he dare not punish. As for gold, there's this?' He stood aside, letting the light from their lanterns gleam off the metal stacked in the crate. The DuBois crest was etched on platters and goblets, and Arthur reached in, picking one up. Judging by the weight, it was solid silver rather than plated pewter, which was heavier in the hand. Tom would be able to tell him, and Arthur nodded in satisfaction.

'Good. Is there anything else?'

'You –' Merlin grimaced. 'You don't think maybe you should keep it?'

There was a wealth unspoken beneath that question, things that hinted at sentiments Arthur had no wish to look in the face. 'It is plates and goblets, Merlin. I doubt my mother treasured them. Even if she did, others are making sacrifices to help Lancelot and whoever else I decide to elevate to knighthood. Why should I be any different?'

'I thought you'd say that.' A glimmer of something fond and approving lit Merlin's gaze, although Arthur didn't miss the shadows of sadness that pinched the edges of his smile. 'I can get it checked by Tom. If it's pure, we can melt it down. The silver's where the value is.'

'Of course.' Arthur sighed, stepping back and looking around. It was easier to stare at the cloth-wrapped stacks than meet Merlin's eye. 'Thank you, by the way. For this.'

'Cleaning?'

'And the rest of it. Don't be coy, Merlin, it doesn't suit you. I would never have thought to manipulate the First Code to my advantage. Without you, Lancelot would not have become a knight, and he knows it.'

'I expect it would have come about, one way or the other.' There was a sigh, and when Merlin spoke again, it was in a quieter tone, as if they were sharing a secret between them. 'You're welcome, Arthur.'

The use of his given name by a servant, even in a moment such as this, should have been a source of outrage. He was a prince. Once, no one but his closest kin – Uther and his ward – dared address him as anything else. It was the way things were meant to be, but it was also lonely. His rank stood between him and anyone else he spoke to. Even Merlin, for all his gross breaches of etiquette, normally managed to give some acknowledgement towards his position in Camelot. In between the insults, of course.

It was rare indeed that he had called him "Arthur".

He must be more tired than he thought, because he liked the way his name sounded on Merlin's lips: soft and fond and perhaps just a little bit proud.

Clearing his throat, he turned away, his eyes roving the attic before they settled on a shape looming in the shadows. It was large and flat, as tall as he was and about half as wide. The dust sheet had been tied around it with twine, which was clean and tightly spun, as if it had just been cut from the spool. 'Do you know what this is?'

'No, Morgana didn't get that far. We needed to focus on mopping and things.'

'Give me a hand, will you?'

Merlin set his lantern down safely on a stack, making sure it was stable before doing as Arthur bid. The slice of Arthur's dagger made short work of the string. The sheet shifted under their questing fingers, falling away to reveal the canvas that had been lovingly stored beneath.

His breath left him in a rush, driven out of him as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

There was only one portrait of Ygraine, hung in the castle amidst the other members of their lineage. Normally, it was covered in black linen, shrouded from sight. Arthur had only seen it once, a few years ago. He had regarded the face of his mother – her solemn, noble expression – and felt nothing but a pang of disappointment.

She looked like any other queen, beautiful and distant. There was little there in the way of humanity. She was a woman dressed in the trappings of power: a figurehead.

This one...

She was younger, and she was smiling. Those were the two things he noticed first. The gown she wore was simple, and she sat on a bench in a garden. The artist, who was clearly skilled, looked as if he had stumbled upon her amidst the flowers and painted her in a moment.

He captured the sparkle in her eyes, as if she were laughing at a shared, secret joke. The curve of her smile revealed a glimpse of her front teeth, and a jolt of surprise raced through Arthur as he noticed that one was slightly crooked, the same as his own. Her hair was not restrained in a net or caught back from her face. Instead, it tumbled over her shoulder.

She was not yet a queen, Arthur realised. She was just Ygraine. His mother.

'You look like her.'

Merlin's words were soft. Arthur could have chosen to ignore them if he wished. He could have pretended that nothing was said, but it felt wrong to hold his silence. Besides, Merlin was right. He had her full mouth, her eyes, her hair, her teeth... No wonder his father sometimes struggled to look him in the eye. Her legacy was writ upon his very skin. He had known it, to some extent, but he had never realised quite how much of her showed itself in his appearance.

'I know. Everyone says so, when they dare speak of her at all.' He drew in a shuddering breath. 'Is it madness, to miss someone you never knew?'

'Gods, no.'

The swiftness of Merlin's response made him blink. Then, he recalled the fact that he did not even know his father's name nor whether he yet lived. There was a mirrored hole in Merlin's life that matched the one in Arthur's: an absent parent.

Arthur stared at the portrait, glad for once that Merlin did not try and fill the silence. His thoughts ebbed and flowed like a storm-swollen sea, the waves forming whirlpools that circled around a single certainty.

The memory of the Queen of Camelot was carved in stone and written within the annals of history, where the only thing that made her notable was the heir she produced. Yet there was so much more to it. Up there, within the castle's walls, she was her crown and little more. Here, in the shelter of this place, her true legacy lay.

It would have been left to rot if Uther had his way. This portrait and the house in which she had lived would have withered beneath the passage of the years, unknown and unacknowledged.

All this had almost slipped through his fingers, because in the shadow of his grief, Uther had consigned her to darkness. He had wanted to forget his wife, and in pursuit of that, he had robbed Arthur of everything but the tiniest fragments of his mother.

And in that moment, Arthur found himself resolved. He would not let her be forgotten. He had already defied his father and the First Code. In comparison, this seemed like a small matter. He would no longer respect his father's desire to allow Ygraine to fade, no more than a phantom losing definition year-on-year.

As trite as it may sound, Arthur understood that she lived on in him. He would never meet her. He would never feel her touch or hear her laugh, but he would do his very best to learn more of the woman she had been.

And perhaps in doing so, he would discover the truth about himself and the man he had become.

Chapter Text

Merlin had never been so tired. Not only did he have to try and balance chores for Gaius with his role as Arthur's manservant. Now, he spent a good chunk of every day attempting to make Ygraine's house liveable.

It would not have been so bad, if not for the effect it had on his magic. Something within those old brick walls called out to him, plucking at the threads of his restraint until he ached. He was constantly tense, holding himself rigid as he tried to stop his power flooding out of him like a tide.

Not that it worked. Not entirely. So far, no one had noticed that the lanterns and braziers around the courtyard seemed to light themselves, or that, once clean, the rooms stayed spotless. Perhaps it was because there were so many people now, boys and girls a few years younger than him, eager to help out for a bit of extra coin. Maybe each thought the other responsible, but Merlin feared it was only a matter of time before someone started asking inconvenient questions.

Lancelot, at least, knew, and while he didn't chastise Merlin, he was certain that the lines of concern etching his brow hadn't been there before he came to Camelot. It wasn't as if he could help it! The spells rose unbidden, though even Merlin wasn't sure whether that made things better or worse.

He'd not been this out of control since he was fifteen and his power had grown as much as his body: huge, golden wings stretching inside him until he thought his skin might burst. It would surge up in him until he was sure he must be lit from within, as bright as any beacon. He felt like a wrung-out rag: exhausted. Perhaps if he could let go of his restraint, just for a moment, it would be all right, but he couldn't.

It wasn't safe.

Instead, he was here, hiding in the hayloft above the stables. The carpenters had been by and declared the building to be in surprisingly good condition. The roof was sound, the beams were strong and the stalls were secure.

Hay had appeared. Merlin had been forced to make up an excuse, telling Arthur he was storing the excess for the royal stables. Now, he sat there twirling a gleaming, golden piece between his fingers, trying to ignore the way it leaked memories of a long summer in the fields.

'Merlin?'

Arthur. He had been here at every possible opportunity. Not to muscle in on the cleaning – though Merlin found he could not blame him for that. Instead, he'd been here to supervise and keep an eye on the ever-increasing size of the bill. Leon was due back today, and Merlin prayed that he brought good news. Or better yet, solid coin.

There was a huff of irritation, followed by the clomp of boots up the rungs of the ladder. There had been three broken ones yesterday. There weren't, anymore, thanks to the magic.

Gods.

'Lazing around on the job?' Arthur demanded as he stuck his head over the edge. Whatever he saw, however, was enough to inspire some element of pity. The teasing scowl ebbed from his brow as he clambered up the last couple of steps and nudged Merlin's hip with the toe of his boot. 'You're not ill, are you?'

He could say yes, but that would mean going to Gaius. So far, he'd done a masterful job of avoiding his uncle, and he only felt a bit guilty about it. Early mornings and late nights meant they'd barely spoken three words to each other all week. Merlin missed him, but he also knew Gaius would take one look at him and know. He didn't think he could face a lecture. He definitely couldn't withstand The Eyebrow.

'Just tired,' he managed, pinning a smile on his lips that only made Arthur narrow his eyes at him. It wasn't a lie. He peeled himself from unconsciousness and the warm embrace of his bed every morning to prepare Arthur for the day, making sure he was clothed and fed and filching a make-do breakfast off Arthur's tray. Then he was here, toiling and directing their helpers and trying desperately to stop his magic ripping out of him and setting everything to rights in the blink of an eye. Between that, he checked in with Arthur now and then, helping him a bit so that George did not harbour any ideas about being a permanent replacement.

In the evening, he attended Arthur again, which was secretly the favourite part of his day. In the morning, Arthur was stroppy about the whole issue of having to get out of bed and was hardly a sparkling conversationalist. At night, he was another creature entirely: one that seemed to glow with his own quiet triumph over his father, a man coming into himself and finding that there was more strength in him than he realised. They talked about Arthur's hopes for Camelot and the future, hesitant at first, and then with growing ease. It meant Merlin spent long evenings in Arthur's chamber and rarely left them before the midnight bell.

If he went straight to bed, he might have a handful of candle-marks to claim for sleep, but the shadowy depths of the night were the best time to raid the library without Sir Geoffrey's knowledge. He was a good man at heart, Merlin knew. He had helped Arthur immensely, but he had a natural and not entirely unreasonable suspicion of Merlin being in close vicinity to the written word. It was far easier to avoid his temper than attempt to deflect it.

He had been researching this place, or trying to, starting with maps so old they crackled under his touch. They illustrated the sprawl of Camelot over the centuries, from its humble beginnings as little more than a hamlet to the citadel that was now the jewel in its crown. They, at least, had confirmed Merlin's suspicions that this building was not as new as it appeared. It lay close to the heart of the oldest settlement, and it had grown to match it: built and rebuilt as the kingdom grew around it.

Even this version, for all that it looked relatively modern, appeared to have been here for several centuries. Yet that was not what had caught his attention. Instead, it had been the name of it, etched in the world's tiniest writing upon the chart.

'It was called the "Miracle Court".' He blinked owlishly at Arthur, who gave him a baffled look at the bizarre change of subject. 'This house. I did a bit of digging. I don't think your father commissioned it for your mother. I think she chose it.'

The small, private smile that bloomed on Arthur's features was a sight to behold, easing away all the stiff edges of his demeanour that he had cultivated as a prince. He sat in the hay at Merlin's side, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He could smell the scent of healthy sweat and the hints of soap on Arthur's skin from his morning wash. It took all of Merlin's frail willpower not to just slump sideways and breathe him in.

'She had good taste. It's like a little fortress all of its own. Independent.' A puzzled frown creased his brow. 'Why the "Miracle Court"?'

Because it was a home of magic: a beating heart of power, long-ignored. It lived still, thrumming through him as if it could pluck a new melody on the strings of his soul. Sometimes it felt familiar, as if he had been here before in a dream, all hazed at its edges. He could not tell Arthur that, of course, but Merlin screwed up a fraction of his courage, keeping his eyes fixed ahead as he put his suspicions into words.

'I think, a long time ago, it was the official residence of the court sorcerer. Maybe the miracle bit was to do with the magic?'

Arthur made a noise. Not one of disgust, as Merlin half-feared, but something more darkly amused. 'My father can't have known that. He would have had it burned to the ground. He would certainly never have let my mother live in it.'

'It doesn't bother you?' Merlin snuck him a sideways glance, watching Arthur through the sweep of his lashes. His heart hitched itself high in his throat, hammering out a hopeless, desperate rhythm. 'You don't think it needs to be put to the torch?'

'Gods, no. It's not as if the sorcerers who once lived in it are still here. Besides, where else would I be able to house my knights?'

Merlin lifted his knees to his chest, hiding a grin in their peak. Not just because Arthur did not go into a froth at the mere mention of magic, but because he had said knights, plural. As if, despite his protests about the expense, he had every intention of adding more good men to his company.

'We should probably make sure my father doesn't find out that particular detail,' Arthur continued. 'It's the perfect excuse. He'll say it's enchanted and take it apart brick-by-brick.'

He would be right, Merlin thought, though if he was honest, he would love to see Uther try and destroy this place. There was something about it: a stubbornness that suggested it could be scorched to nothing but ash and it would still rise up from its foundations a few days later. Amidst the sterile, mundane throng of Camelot, it felt like a banner of defiance, and while he might be knackered from trying to resist its call, Merlin could not deny that part of him thrilled at its rebellion.

'It's not easy to find. I discovered the name on one of the maps, and then a mention of it and its occupants in a census from a couple of centuries ago.'

'It doesn't look that old,' Arthur commented, a frown pinching his brow.

'Maybe it was rebuilt in a more modern style, but kept the name? You know what rich people are like.'

Arthur, a rich person himself – in theory if not reality – gave him a cool look, but he didn't argue. The nobility were always racing one another for the latest fashion, with little concern for the gold they threw around to attain it. Nor was it merely limited to their clothing, but their houses and the furnishings within it. It made sense that some previous owner had upgraded the Miracle Court, though Merlin suspected they had used magic, rather than money, to make it happen.

'It feels... nice.'

Merlin looked over at Arthur in surprise, biting back a laugh. A flush had raced up the prince's neck to stain his cheeks, as if he were embarrassed to show even the slightest bit of emotional awareness.

It was obvious that Uther had spent most of Arthur's young life eradicating anything that could be seen as a weakness. He had bred himself a son who would fight and rule, and it seemed Uther believed that any genuine emotion other than anger would merely be an obstacle to that end goal. It was another way, Merlin supposed, that Arthur took after his mother, because despite Uther's best efforts, a compassionate heart still beat in his chest.

He cared deeply for his people, but he rarely admitted to any more personal feeling. He neither touched others nor sought their affection, though Merlin would bet a month's non-existent pay that there were times that Arthur craved it. To hear him talk about this place with such fondness was a rare display of that oft-hidden heart, and Merlin could do nothing to mock it, even in jest.

'It does. Friendly.' He looked down at where his hands were linked over his shins, hugging his knees to his chest. 'I'm glad you found this house, and not just because Lancelot snores.'

Arthur huffed a little laugh before his face fell into a thoughtful slant. 'I was thinking, it would not be very fair to leave Lancelot here by himself. It's a big place for one person, and my chambers...' He trailed off, shaking his head before straightening his shoulders. 'I might take up residence as well, at least while there's space to do so.'

Gods, Uther wouldn't like that. He would see it as Arthur striving for yet another bit of independence. It was a terrible idea, and it was also exactly what Arthur needed.

'Is this your way of telling me I need to pack?'

'Yes. Your things, in addition to mine.'

Merlin ran his tongue over his teeth, trepidation fluttering in the pit of his belly. Part of it was about leaving Gaius and the little home he had made for himself in the healing rooms since his arrival in Camelot. Mostly, however, it was about the thought of living here, where his magic constantly fought to rise to the surface.

This place did not want him to keep his secret. It wanted him acknowledged, fully, in a kingdom that would gladly see his head separated from his shoulders if the truth ever got out. Arthur may not mind that the Miracle Court had once housed sorcerers, but Merlin doubted he would be so forgiving of the one in his midst.

And yet, he longed to be a part of this. He could sense the potential for what Arthur was building: a new foundation on which the edifice of Camelot could stand, one where the contents of a man's character mattered far more than his lineage.

'All right. You realise it might be a bit simple compared to what you're used to?'

'I'm sure I'll manage,' Arthur replied with all the confidence of a man who slept on cold, hard earth when he went out on patrol. 'I need the distance,' he confessed a moment later, his voice dropping to little more than a murmur. 'From my father, I mean. I shall still be at his beck and call, close enough that he will not be able to isolate me from the court, but I will not be under his roof.'

'What are you going to tell him?'

Arthur's shoulders shifted, his tunic straining at its seams. 'That I am settling in my new knight, perhaps.' He shook his head. 'In truth, there is a danger of creating a rift within the nobility if the current king lives in the castle and the future ruler does not. That is not what I want, but…'

He shook his head. 'I plan to treat this house as an extension of the castle: one over which my father has little legal purview. I will train all the knights both here and there. New terrain offers different challenges, and it will be to everyone's benefit. I want to step away from my father's ideals of rule, Merlin, but I do not wish to alienate the court in the process.'

There was no point in telling him it would not be easy – that Uther would snarl and fight for every bit of control. Arthur knew that already. He was not trying to remove himself from the castle and the intricacies of ruling a kingdom. He would still attend council and arbitration and all the other duties to which he could lay claim, but by removing himself from his chambers, Merlin saw Arthur seeking a sanctuary. Not to mention a connection to the mother he had never known. He could not deprive him of that.

'All right. I suppose I'd better get started.' He let out a quiet grunt as he straightened out his legs in preparation to stand. Only Arthur's hand on his arm made him hesitate, and he blinked in surprise as deft fingers gently plucked at his hair, liberating a few bits of hay that had decided his curls were a good nest. Arthur's lips tilted in a fond little smile, and Merlin pursed his own, dragging his eyes forcefully away from the sight of Arthur looking so soft and content. 'Thanks.'

'I do have an image to maintain, Merlin. I can't have my manservant running about half-wild.'

The steady clatter of hooves in the yard saved Merlin from having to answer. Both he and Arthur shared a glance before hurrying down the ladder to take in the approach of the new arrival.

Sir Leon rode his horse Abraxis through the large arch, looking around with obvious admiration. The two of them were smeared with dust from the road. Abraxis' flanks twitched beneath its itch, and Leon's normally gleaming hair was dulled with grit, but nothing dimmed the smile on his face as he swung down from his stirrups.

'Please tell me you have good news, Sir Leon.'

The man inclined his head and liberated the saddle bag. The leather strained with the weight of its contents, and Merlin heard the distinct clink of shifting coins. 'I believe I do, Sire. Pentrose is an incredibly prosperous estate. The steward is an honourable soul, and when I told him what was happening, he was quick to come up with strategies to protect your assets, and those of your new knights.' He nodded a greeting at Lancelot, who had emerged from the house upon hearing his approach.

'I am grateful for it. As much as I appreciate the gift of land, I would have no idea what to do with it.'

'I intend to have legal documents drawn up,' Arthur assured him. 'My steward will tend those acres gifted to my knights and will apportion the profits fairly. I also bade him to select which portions you get, as it would be unfair if one knight found themselves, through sheer poor luck, with a less profitable piece of the terrain.'

'Sire...'

Merlin hid a laugh when Arthur glared in Lancelot's direction, forcing him to bite off any protests. He should have known that, even in this, Arthur would be ruthlessly fair. He could have made the knights estate holders in name only and kept the profit for himself. Instead, he was giving Lancelot assistance that would, in time, elevate him in both wealth and status.

'This is a small percentage of the profits, the rest of which will be with us in a month or so. I also took the liberty of adjusting the payment schedule. You'll receive the funds from Pentrose every three months, as opposed to once a year.'

'Not at the expense of the estate's people, I hope.'

'No. This is the gold that remains after the estate has taken the money it needs to flourish. It is yours, Sire, by all the rights of law.'

'Thank you.' Arthur accepted the saddlebag, and Merlin would have to be blind to miss the way relief peeled back the veils from his features, allowing him to breathe easier. 'There's plenty of good use for this. More to the point, I appreciate that you took the risk of doing as I asked. It is not likely to win you any favour with my father.'

Merlin watched as Leon inclined his head respectfully. He occupied a strange place, Uther's knight in theory but close enough to Arthur to be a peer. They had grown up together, with Leon a few years older, and they shared a steady sort of loyalty that helped ground Arthur when he might otherwise be buffeted by the whims of the court. He had figured out very early on that Leon had quietly disapproved of the sycophants who had surrounded Arthur, and that there had been a distance between them: a rift that was now mended, it seemed.

'I can weather your father's disapproval, Sire. What you're doing is the right thing for Camelot. I am not the only one who sees it, and this place...' He looked at the huge courtyard, clearly intrigued. 'I'm assuming it is to be the barracks?'

'And more besides. Come, let me put these riches away and show you around. Merlin? I'll give you two days to prepare my chambers. I plan to move here by the end of the week.'

'Anything else, Sire?' Merlin asked, putting just enough disbelief into his voice to make Arthur smirk. Two days was not much time to sort out all of Arthur's things and cart them out of the castle. That, and he had to procure the essentials of a bed chamber. He doubted Arthur would tolerate sleeping on a pallet on the floor.

'I think it should be enough to keep you out of trouble, don't you?'

'Yes, Sire.'

With a sigh, he turned away, leaving the others behind as he jogged through the garden. He took a moment to relish the scent of green, growing things at their fullest bloom before stepping out into the streets of High Town.

A fresh wind skipped along at his heels, hinting at the threat of winter that lay on the far-off horizon. The leaves had changed out in the woods, emerald giving way to banners of red and gold, and it would not be long until the first frosts began to unfurl. For now, however, the days were giving their last, warm gasp, and Merlin rolled up his sleeves as he clattered up the castle steps, his mind whirling with a thousand chores to be done.

'You, boy!'

Merlin blinked, turning to see Sir Locke striding his way. He was a man with a sharp look about him, his nose a blade and his shoulders still broad, despite his advancing years. He had survived the worst of Camelot's battles. Perhaps he had not always been so hard and with a bent towards cruelty, but Merlin normally tried to avoid him. Despite being shorter than Merlin, he managed to loom, and there was a look in his eye that made him feel like he needed a bath after one stare.

The moustache on his lip bristled as his mouth twisted. 'You're called before the king.'

Ice rushed down Merlin's spine, locking his thighs in its shroud and raising shivers in its wake. Fear caused his breath to stutter. Did he know? Had Lancelot betrayed him, or had Arthur actually heard his whispered confession? Had something given him away? It took painful, long moments for logic to intercede. If Uther knew of his magic, he would not be "called before the king". He would already be in chains and bound for the pyre.

'Well?' Sir Locke barked, making Merlin jump.

He ducked his head in a quick bow, following Locke's pointing finger towards a chamber not far from the throne room. It was a sumptuous space with a large fireplace, a huge oak desk and a window overlooking the courtyard. It was where the king attended to things when he was not in front of the court. Austere and luxurious, it was a reflection of everything Uther attempted to project to the world. The only part that seemed remotely soft and welcoming was his wolfhound, who raised her muzzle from the hearth rug and wagged her tail as Merlin slipped through the door.

'You wished to speak with me, Your Majesty?'

Arthur would probably faint dead away if he could see Merlin at the moment, mustering every single fraction of servile humility he could manage. Arthur didn't need another cowering servant; he needed a friend. However, when it came to standing before Uther, such behaviour was a matter of self-preservation. He remembered not to meet his eyes, to use his title – to do as little as possible to offend.

He kept his hands tucked behind his back so that Uther wouldn't notice how badly they shook and miserably wished that Arthur was here.

The silence dragged on, and when he dared to risk a glance up from under the fall of his hair, it was to find the king watching him. Those eyes, pale and striking, seemed to see far too much, and Merlin swallowed. Uther stood by the window rather than sitting at his desk. His body, still strong and unyielding despite his age, was turned slightly towards him. For too long, the only noise was the crackle of the fire, and Merlin tried not to shift as a nervous sweat itched between his shoulder-blades.

'When I placed you in Arthur's service after you saved his life, I did not expect you to last a week. Yet here you are. More surprising still, it seems he has taken you into his confidence. When you foolishly drank poison, he risked a great deal to retrieve the antidote.'

And suffered the consequences, Merlin thought to himself. He had not forgotten that Uther had ordered Arthur not to go, nor that he had imprisoned him in the dungeon on his return before he could give Gaius the Mortaeus flower. If not for Gwen, there was a good chance Merlin would not have survived. His death would have been another hard lesson Arthur learned at Uther's command.

'However, all loyalty has its limits. He has not been paying you. He cannot afford to, with a new knight to care for. As I told him, in the end, everything comes down to gold.' The rings on his right hand gleamed as he reached out for a large, squat coffer, pulling back the lid and retrieving something from inside it. The leather pouch clinked as he plucked it free from the depths and set it down on his desk. 'That is yours, in exchange for information.'

Merlin blinked, staring stupidly at the fat purse as his mind raced. Uther never had thought much of servants. They were, at best, tools to him: things to be picked up and discarded. Even their loyalty was bought and sold. He suspected that this effort was more a statement of what Uther believed of the lower classes rather than him personally, but it took all of Merlin's self-control not to visibly sneer.

When he did not immediately reach for the coin, Uther's top lip curled in amused distaste. 'This is neither a trick nor a trap. Arthur has been reaching for his independence. For now, it is trying but ultimately harmless. Still, I wish to be kept informed. You are his manservant: aware of all his nearest concerns. You will report anything of interest to me. I already know that he is setting up his own barracks, and where. The expense of that alone will no doubt be enough to cripple him. However, if there is any change...'

Uther left the words hanging, tilting his head in consideration as he realised that Merlin had straightened from his ducked, cowed cringe in front of the desk. Now, they were meeting each other's gaze, neither one of them flinching.

The gods alone knew what Uther could read in his face, but it was enough to shutter his expression, his eyes narrowing as he indicated the coin-purse once more. 'Take it. The offer will not stand forever, and I have other ways of getting the information I require out of you.' His smile held no trace of kindness. 'Of your options, this is by far the most painless.'

He did not need to explain further. Merlin understood all too well. He'd seen the room in the dungeon, the one full of objects designed to break a man of his secrets. He'd had nightmares about them being used on him, tearing the truth of his magic from him by force. Now, something told him that Uther would not hesitate to put them to use if it meant tightening his control over Arthur.

Merlin would just be a piece of collateral damage. Nothing more.

Running his tongue over his teeth, he dredged his voice up from the soles of his boots, trying not to let it snarl in his throat as he reached out and picked up the coin purse from the desk. Its weight dragged at him, damning, as he caught it in the white-knuckled curl of his fingers.

'Good boy,' Uther murmured, as if he were a dog who had managed a simple trick. 'Now, what can you tell me?'

And slowly, carefully, Merlin began to speak.

Chapter Text

Leon's enthusiasm for the Miracle Court was both obvious and unapologetic. Arthur was used to the sycophantic delight of lackies. He knew when people were merely telling him what he wanted to hear. Yet Leon did not limit himself to platitudes. He discussed possibilities for adapting the courtyard into a training ground and the limitations of the building, his hands moving in concise gestures as he got caught up in his ideas.

And underneath that, there was a glimmer of pride that Arthur could not help but relish. He was used to Leon being a somewhat distant figure of late. He had always been supportive, but as Arthur had grown older and more people had vied for his attention, Leon seemed to have taken a step back. Now, it was like reclaiming a friend he had not realised he had lost, and something in Arthur's heart trembled with quiet relief.

'It is a brave thing you have done, Sire,' he commented as they sat at the table in the kitchen. Days of hard work and the help of the children hired from the Lower Town had set the house to rights. The white-washed walls around them shone and the clean quarry tiles gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

'Brave, or stupid?'

'The two do occasionally go hand-in-hand.' Leon leaned back in his chair, a smile curling amidst his cropped beard. 'However, you are Uther's only heir, and the people have already begun to try and ascertain what kind of ruler you will be. This sends a clear message that you are open to change – to moving Camelot forward.'

'It is not what everyone wants.'

'Of course not, and you'll never be able to please them all, but those with sense to call their own realise that it's what the kingdom needs.' Leon lowered his voice, mindful that while they were alone in the room, there were still others in the house who could potentially overhear him. 'They know that Uther's Camelot is not something that can be sustained. People crave peace, Arthur. They want their sons to grow up and inherit, rather than laying down their lives for another man's glory.'

'Is that how you feel?'

'I would like to live long enough that my sword grows rusty and my belly fat,' Leon admitted with a grin, patting at the flat line of his waist. 'As would most men, I believe. The break you have made with your father, most of which is of his own doing, shows the townsfolk that the future might be a better one.'

Arthur inclined his head in steady acknowledgement. If he was honest, it was a hope he also harboured. He wanted his kingdom thriving and at peace, not constantly throwing itself into battles large and small. He did not want his army whittled away until they were a wraith of their former strength, all to appease his father's First Code. 'It's created a rift within the court, which I regret but cannot bring myself to try and mend.'

'You shouldn't.' Leon spoke with absolute certainty. 'The gossip is already in your favour. Your father has made no secret about how much of what is happening is of his own choice. He is the one pushing the divide. Your actions so far are, by the majority, being seen as for the good of Camelot and its people, while still retaining obedience of your father's wishes. He told you that any new knights not of noble blood would be your responsibility, both literally and financially. Everything you are doing is in deference to his command.'

Arthur ran his fingers over the grain of the table. 'I've instructed Merlin to have chambers set up for me, as you heard.' He indicated the courtyard and the brief conversation that had taken place on the cobbles. 'While there's space, I intend to sleep here, rather than in the castle.'

It felt like a confession. Perhaps it was. Arthur had his reasons. He wished he could believe that his father would not stoop to cold-blooded murder, but he could not quite shake the notion of how unsafe Lancelot would be here, all alone.

An easy target.

That was what he told himself, anyway. In truth, a large part of him simply wanted a space that was his own. He had lived in his father's shadow all his life, and perhaps he always would, but some small distance felt as if it might ease some of the burden that bowed his back day-by-day.

Leon propped his elbow on the table, a loose fist curled over his lips as he considered Arthur over the curve of his knuckles. It was a gentle scrutiny, free of judgement. 'Your father won't like that but, if you play your cards right, I doubt there is anything he can do to stop you.'

He dropped his hand, drumming his fingers in a quick tattoo. 'I understand the temptation would be to keep it under wraps and plot your escape, but it won't work in your favour. You're due in council soon, aren't you? Make a statement about needing to be nearby should any issues arise as you develop the new barracks. Take control of the narrative, Arthur, or your father will spin it to your detriment.'

'You think saying it with an audience might limit the damage?'

'Absolutely. Your father's reaction will be tempered by his need to save face in front of the lords and ladies of the court. It will –'

The sound of hurrying footsteps interrupted him, and they both looked towards the door in surprise as Guinevere and Lancelot tumbled over the threshold. They were both tousled and panting, their shoes and hems splattered in mud.

'Merlin!' Guinevere managed, pressing a hand to her chest as she struggled to get her breath back.

A prickle darted down Arthur's spine. He stood, his chair scraping over the floor as he braced his hands on the table. 'What about him? Is he hurt?'

'He was called before the king. A private meeting.' Lancelot looked sallow, his dark eyes snapping with anger, which was alarming. So far, he had been the epitome of calm: courteous and eager to meet any challenge.

Now, Arthur saw clearly that what it took to rile him to a temper was a threat to someone he cared about. Not that he could argue about his assessment of the king. Morgana had warned him that Merlin was his weakness: a frailty at which Uther could strike with impunity. Yet there was something else behind the fire in Lancelot's eyes: a depth of fear Arthur could not comprehend, but that called to him in kind.

It was Leon who managed to speak words of reason while Arthur's voice was held captive by the briar in his throat. He rose gracefully, poised despite the road-dust that still besmirched his clothes. 'We should hurry. Council is due to start at any moment. Arthur is expected in his seat, and Merlin will be there to tend him.'

'And if he is not?' Lancelot demanded, folding his arms across his chest. He spoke to Leon not as a commander but as an equal. Another man would have felt it necessary to put him in his place, but Leon's expression was one of firm respect.

'Then the prince will remain at council while the rest of us find out what has become of him.' He glanced in Arthur's direction, seeking agreement rather than permission. He offered both with a single nod of his head, scrabbling together his scattered wits and trying not to give in to the chatter of his fear.

'Then we had best move.'

'I'll stay here and make sure all the helpers have left,' Gwen decided. 'I'll join you as soon as I've locked up.' She held out a hand as Arthur surrendered the key. Her slender fingers rested, tentative, over his forearm. Her squeeze of reassurance was fleeting but heartfelt before she bobbed a curtsy and stepped aside.

'Thank you, Guinevere,' he murmured, mustering a smile he didn't feel as he followed Lancelot and Leon through the arch and out into the streets of High Town.

The Miracle Court was not far from the castle proper, and his quick stride ate up the cobbles as the three of them marched up the slope of the broad main road. He barely noticed the bows that the townsfolk offered him, acknowledging them automatically as his mind whirled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lancelot's face, noticing the tic in his jaw and the pinch of fretful anger that shadowed his eyes. Yet despite his obvious emotion, he was not lost to it. Instead, he seemed to use it to fuel his own steadfast determination.

Merlin was fortunate, Arthur thought, to be the recipient of such powerful devotion. It was utterly unapologetic. Newly knighted, there had been the possibility that Lancelot would be changed by his elevation in status, but nothing could be further from the truth. He didn't try and claim that whatever he shared with Merlin was impossible due to their new disparity in rank. It didn't seem to even cross his mind, and Arthur found himself envious of that freedom.

It forced him to look at his own interactions with Merlin – his constant efforts to push him away and his endless denials of the possibility of a friendship – with a fresh, disdainful eye. He had been taught from a young age that a prince did not have friends. Every relationship was political. Each connection he forged must, one way or another, serve the kingdom and the crown, and what possible use could a servant be to him? Merlin should be beneath his notice in every aspect, and instead...

Instead, here he was, racing towards the castle with his heart high in his throat, fearful of what he might find. What if his father had learned that it was Merlin who'd armed Arthur with what he needed to elevate Lancelot to the knighthood? What if he had decided that Arthur had become too attached? What if he had noticed how quick Merlin was to make him smile, these days, and decided to punish Arthur by proxy? What if...?

'Merlin!' Blatant relief filled Lancelot's voice, and Arthur felt him sag at his side, his tension washing away. 'What happened? Are you all right? We heard that the king commanded your presence.' His hands rested over the hub of Merlin's shoulders, and he looked for all the world like he wanted to hug him.

Arthur schooled his features, painfully aware of Leon standing to his right. He was an observant man, and even now Arthur's skin prickled with the subtle weight of his gaze. He did not want to think that Leon knew him well enough to read the tiny flickers of his expression, hastily stifled, but it was not a risk he was about to take. His bizarre, conflicted feelings on the whole Lancelot-and-Merlin business were already challenging. He did not need someone else weighing in with their opinion.

'What happened?' he demanded, wincing inwardly to hear the arrogant tone in his voice. 'What did my father want with you?'

Merlin blew out a breath, glancing over his shoulder. That smile, normally so quick to emerge, was nowhere in sight, and he looked a touch paler than usual, robbed of his vitality. 'Not here,' he murmured, reaching out to tweak the fabric of Arthur's tunic at his elbow. 'Come on. Council's in a few minutes. We need to get you ready.'

'We don't have time for -' Arthur protested, his words dying on his lips as Merlin rolled his eyes and man-handled him through a narrow doorway into what looked like a storeroom for clothes. The scent of laundry soap was overwhelming, and Lancelot sneezed as he and Leon followed them over the threshold. The door banged in their wake, and Arthur sighed, sincerely hoping nobody had noticed them slip in here.

'Well?' he asked as Merlin rummaged through various wicker baskets before retrieving one of Arthur's jackets. It was a sombre garment, lacking the frivolity of what he might wear at a feast. The deep burgundy was embellished with subtle bits of embroidery and the high collar would hide the fact that his tunic had seen better days.

Merlin sighed, pulling something off his belt and throwing it at Arthur. It hit his chest with a solid thump, hard enough to leave a bruise. He caught it on instinct, frowning down at the hefty weight of the purse. 'It's probably mostly coppers, but you might as well add that to the gold you got from Pentrose. You father decided to pay me for information.'

'And you... gave it?' Lancelot pulled a face, his nose wrinkled and his lips twisted in doubt.

Arthur knew how he felt. The idea of Merlin being bribed was ludicrous. He could not believe that he would agree to such an act, and one look at Merlin's expression confirmed it. Anger traced subtle lines over his features and lit sparks in those blue eyes.

'I was given some unappealing choices. It was heavily implied that if I didn't take the money, I'd be sent to the dungeon and... encouraged.'

Arthur made a noise, shifting his weight before reaching out a hand, stopping Merlin's fidgeting with a single touch. 'My father threatened you?' It was not that he thought Merlin a liar. He could see it all too easily, but the fact that Uther had the audacity to do so – and to state as much to Merlin's face! There was no subtlety whatsoever, and in his cruel attitude there lay the unmistakable stain of tyranny.

Realisation followed hot on the heels of Arthur's incredulity. Uther had expected to cow Merlin into submission – to terrorise him into being a perfect, quiet little spy. He'd looked at him and seen nothing more than an interchangeable servant, his loyalty the product of a simple mind that didn't know any better than to trust its superiors. He failed to observe Merlin's quick intelligence or his devoted heart – and he'd under-estimated him as a result.

'I was told this was the "most painless" option.' He gestured to the purse still in Arthur's grip before pulling back, holding up the jacket meaningfully and raising his eyebrows. 'Dress and talk at the same time. You'll be late.'

Arthur smothered the urge to remind Merlin who, exactly, should be giving orders. Such a statement felt cruel in light of Uther's treatment. Instead, he shoved his arms into the sleeves as he forced himself to focus all his chattering worries on the matter at hand. 'What did you say?'

'I complained. A lot. About how you're not paying me. How you're working me to the bone. You know, servant stuff.' Merlin's grip on his shoulders turned him around, his hands slipping to Arthur's belt to remove his sword and scabbard before tightening it anew. He passed the weapon to Leon, who accepted it with good grace. Swords were not allowed at council. Things became heated enough without adding sharp iron to the mix.

Merlin's long fingers danced over the stupid, fiddly buttons. He watched him while he worked, taking in everything from the faint frown of concentration to the way Merlin's jaw was set, grim and irritated. He looked like he'd rather have beaten Uther to death with the coin purse than anything else, and Arthur's heart gave a giddy little flutter.

If he'd ever had doubts, his father's bribery attempt had hammered home the truth: Merlin was his.

'You didn't tell him about my plan to move into the Miracle Court?'

Merlin snorted, looking up with a flicker of a grin. 'No. You'll announce it at council, won't you? Make it about what's best for Camelot so he can't argue. I'll just have to act very surprised.'

Behind Merlin's back, Arthur saw Leon raise his eyebrows, their golden arch vanishing beneath his fringe. Of course, he'd not had any experience of how Merlin's mind worked. He'd made the same mistake as every other courtier and assumed Merlin was just a servant, with little input beyond the basic necessities of his chores. He did not know that this whole First Code situation was Merlin's idea, and that he'd been the one to ferret out the information to make it possible.

It was gratifying to watch the shift of assumptions in that pale gaze. Leon looked at Merlin as if seeing him properly for the first time, and Arthur had to stamp down hard on the little curl of pleased pride that tried to unravel through him.

'He'll expect you to report to him about my comings and goings,' Arthur pointed out.

'And I can tell him whatever you want him to hear.' Merlin's grin flourished. 'I won't be the only spy he has, but I think I can keep him on his toes.'

'That's a dangerous game, Merlin,' Leon warned him at last, speaking with genuine concern. 'If Uther realises you've lied to him –'

'Only by omission, so far.'

'Do you believe that's a distinction he will make?' Lancelot asked. He had folded his arms across his chest, and the look he was giving Merlin held a world of worry.

It shamed Arthur to realise that someone who dreamed of knighthood and the honour of serving a good, just king was instead getting a view into the complex, often corrupt politics at Camelot's heart. He wished his father could have been a kind, benevolent ruler who cared for his people more than his coffers, but then they would never have been in this situation in the first place.

'Lancelot's right,' Arthur murmured, swallowing when Merlin's fingers reached his collar, brushing the skin of his throat. 'It's dangerous. My father would not hesitate to punish you, and nor would he be lenient.'

'If he had not made it an order, I wouldn't consider it, but he's going to expect something from me. If he doesn't get information of some sort, it won't end well.' Merlin shrugged. 'We might as well make the best of a bad situation.'

'You really think you can keep a secret like this from my father?' Arthur asked.

Something darkly amused skated across Merlin's face. 'I can try.' He stepped back, giving Arthur a quick look over before seeming to decide his appearance would suffice. 'Come on. The council is waiting.'

Arthur nodded, shooting a glance at Leon and Lancelot. Neither was permitted in the council room unless invited by the king, and while he would dearly love to have their support, he knew he should not ruffle any feathers. His pronouncement would cause enough trouble. In contrast, his instinct was to send Merlin away and shield him from Uther's view, but to do so would only raise suspicion. No, the best thing to do would be to act as if everything was normal.

'Lancelot, you already mentioned some knights were more open-minded to the changes than others. I want to know those who are not. I have no wish to treat Camelot's own men as the enemy, but the more aware we are of potential issues, the better we can protect against them. I'd like you both to draw up a list of likely troublemakers.'

The pair of them ducked their heads in acknowledgement, and Arthur did not miss the way they looked at each other: assessing. He suspected that, with a bit of patience, a strong friendship could be fostered there. He wanted that. He was a fool to have allowed the distance to stretch between himself and Leon. Now, he quietly hoped to bring him back into the fold. He was an ideal lynchpin between Uther's Camelot and the future Arthur wished to build: trained traditionally but young enough not to be set in his ways.

He waited for Merlin to pull open the door before stepping out into the corridor. It was mercifully empty of witnesses, which was just as well. Arthur bid Leon and Lancelot farewell with a quick nod before striding towards the council chamber, aware of how Merlin fell in a bare half-step behind.

He should be further back, as etiquette dictated, but it seemed that Camelot as a whole had given up on trying to drum such lessons into him. The courtiers either treated Merlin with a sort of amused tolerance or endeavoured to ignore him completely. If he started acting servile now, people would notice.

'Just try not to draw attention to yourself,' Arthur murmured, his voice pitched low. 'Don't spill the wine or roll your eyes or whatever it is that you do behind my chair that makes my father look like he's considering murder.'

'I'm not doing anything,' Merlin protested. The sigh that followed his pronouncement sounded grudging. 'I'll be on my best behaviour.'

Arthur grunted. 'I'll believe that when I see it.'

Council had not yet started. Lords milled around the long table, chatting among themselves. Those favoured by the royal family sat closer to the king, while those viewed with an unkind eye were banished to the far end. The tide was constantly changing. It was another bit of political theatre that Arthur loathed.

If he were anything other than the prince, he suspected he would be opposite his father, as distant as possible. As it was, his rank protected him. He took his usual seat at Uther's right hand as Merlin picked up a wine jug and attended his cup before stepping back towards the wall.

Arthur did not miss the way Uther's grey-green gaze followed his movements, nor the faint hint of a smirk that tilted the corner of that thin mouth. It was a smug look, as if Uther thought he had taken something of value from Arthur. It made him marvel anew that his father, who could be so staunch and unwavering on the political battlefield, could underestimate someone because of their class. The king was not an idiot by any means, but in some areas, he was fatally short-sighted.

The council convened, and he focussed his attention on the issues at hand. Camelot was a strong kingdom with plenty of land to its name, and that brought problems from both within their borders and beyond them. Whatever personal struggles may be happening between himself and the king, Arthur did not want the concerns of the realm to slip beneath their notice.

The conversation twisted through various issues. Some were dismissed out of hand while others got more attention than he felt they deserved. It was only at the end of the session that he straightened in his seat, anxiety thrashing in his belly as he found his voice.

'As many of you know, after being left empty for years, my mother's old house is once more in use as a supplementary barracks. It's a large project, requiring much of my attention, but one I hope will benefit Camelot's knights as a whole. With that in mind, I intend to set up temporary residence there. It is near enough to the castle that it won't interfere with my duties, and I shall remain accessible to the court and nobility. However, it will allow me to focus my attentions where they are most needed.'

He met his father's gaze, careful to keep his face impassive as the councillors around him began to speak. Some murmurs reached his ears – uncertainty and doubt – but there were others that made no effort to hide their support.

'It is a good thing to see our prince taking such a personal concern in the defence of our realm,' Lord Brethan boomed from his customary place, far from Uther's side. He was a large man in both body and character, his jolly demeanour a mask for the sharp mind that dwelt within.

His seat on the council was part of a deal Uther had made in his youth, one that Arthur knew his father regretted, as Brethan held opposing views on almost all of Uther's policies. Even better, because he was such a loud personality, he gave others the confidence to speak up when the king's disapproval may have otherwise cowed them to silence.

'A strong commander knows to make the welfare of his knights a priority,' Lord Bracefere added, making no effort to blunt the sharp edge of his pointed comment as others voiced their thoughts or offered Arthur sly, subtle smiles.

It was not idle praise in the hope of currying favour. This whole issue of the First Code and Lancelot had shone a light into dark corners, peeling back the shadows to reveal wounds that had festered for far too long. His father's Purge and his aggressive stance with other kingdoms pushed them into conflict time and again. It put a huge strain on the people of the kingdom, one which did not spare the nobility. They understood, to a man, that Uther would not change his ways. Now, Arthur suspected they looked to him and the future he might build.

Yet nor were they incautious. It was not merely their own standing in court that would suffer Uther's displeasure. There was much in the king's power. People could lose far more than their titles, and Arthur had no wish to push his realm into civil war.

If Uther refused his permission, he would have to cede to his command. However, even that was a political matter. Uther had his reputation to consider. The lords of the realm were not to be trifled with. Many a kingdom had been overthrown when the nobles grew tired of the king's rule. Perhaps, once, Uther would have thought himself strong enough to face such a prospect, but now?

Now, their army had been weakened year-by-year, and their loyalties shaken. When it came down to it, his father could not afford to act as rashly towards his court as he had done with Arthur. While ultimatums were within his power, it would be a poor course of action, and he knew it.

'I see.' Uther's mask was a masterpiece, lines crinkling at the corners his eyes and bracketing his mouth as he smiled. 'Very good, Arthur. Do you know the duration of your temporary absence from your chambers here in the castle?'

'Not yet, Father.'

'They will, of course, remain open to you.' He said it kindly, all benevolence, but at the same time it was a reminder of what he could do, should he wish. Just as he had barred Arthur from Camelot's treasury, so he could exile him from the rooms that had been his since he was a boy. They were not home, exactly, but they were the closest thing he'd ever had to it on the citadel's public stage. 'I'm afraid your manservant will be busy with such a task. I cannot spare the staff to assist you with it.'

'Nor would I wish you to,' Arthur replied, his smile as hollow as Uther's own. 'Merlin can see to it.'

Uther's gaze darted behind him once more, and Arthur's stomach clenched. He forced his face to remain impassive, praying silently that Merlin managed to pull off a convincing rendition of surprise. He was happy to let his father believe that there were splinters in the relationship between them – that Merlin's loyalty had been conditional on pay and nothing more. For now, the benefit of feeding Uther information outweighed the danger, but the moment that changed, Arthur would put a stop to it.

There were many things in this world that he would risk for the sake of Camelot, but Merlin was not one of them.

Chapter Text

Merlin's muscles ached from hauling trunks of clothes, armour, weaponry and books through the corridors. His shoulders burned and his wrists whined their complaints. A new urgency had stolen over Arthur once he had told the council he planned to move into the Miracle Court. Perhaps he was keen to claim his freedom before Uther could conjure up an excuse to go back on his word.

He remembered the way that gaze had alighted upon him, cold and hard like iron, when Arthur made his plan known. Merlin had done his best to look both surprised and irritated, but it would probably be better for everyone if they were both out of from beneath the king's watchful eye sooner, rather than later.

'Tonight, if you can manage it,' Arthur had murmured in his ear.

'You'll be sleeping on the floor,' Merlin warned.

'I'll survive.'

Of course, that was easier said than done. It wasn't just that Arthur needed a new room set up, he required the furniture to go in it. Taking anything from the castle itself would conjure that same argument about what, technically, belonged to Uther. The trunks, Merlin had decided, they could get away with, but the bigger things like the desk, bed and wardrobe were another matter. Arthur would have to cope with living out of a pack for a while – at least for a day or two.

He borrowed a cart from the stables, thanking Lindon, the groom, profusely for his help and the loan of a donkey. The creature was mercifully cooperative as he guided it through the streets to the Miracle Court, the light of the setting sun turning everything to molten gold as they trotted through the gate.

Gwen had made copies of the house key, and Merlin pulled his free from his pocket. The lock eased open obligingly, and he set about unloading various bits and pieces into the hall. All the while, he puzzled through the problem of where to put Arthur. There were plenty of rooms, but none of them were particularly big, at least in comparison to his old chambers. They were larger than the accommodations Merlin could boast, of course, but that was no challenge. Moving to the Miracle Court would be an upgrade for him, but Arthur had certain expectations they may struggle to meet.

It was only as he brought in the last trunk of armour, his back clamouring in protest at the weight, that he sensed something. It was a whisper of sensation, gossamer soft, but it made his power sit up and hum beneath his skin. His eyes burned hot, and he blinked swiftly, hoping they had not burnished themselves gold. There was no one here to witness it if they had, but he'd rather not lose control of his magic. In this house, it always felt more alive anyway. Now it was like a hunting dog having spotted its quarry: all aquiver.

Setting the trunk down, he put his hands on his hips and let his lashes flutter closed. He pushed his other senses open wide as he focussed, sifting past the ambient magic that seemed to impregnate the walls of the building and seeking whatever it was that had stirred itself to life so abruptly.

It did not take him long to find it. Like a cold draft seeping under a door, he felt the tingle of a spell. It was old, intricate, beautiful work, like the finest embroidery wrought in delicate stitches. It would have lain dormant and hidden, Merlin suspected, if not for his magic resonating alongside it.

His gaze focussed on the stairs. They were not as wide and sweeping as the ones in the castle, but they were still grand in their own way. A single flight climbed upwards before reaching a small landing where they branched in two, each going off at right-angles to the separate wings of the house. The wall at the top was blank and unassuming. It would, he had thought idly while cleaning, have been a good place to hang a portrait. That was what the building had wanted him to think.

Now he watched the stonework ripple, peeling back to form two pillars that framed the newly revealed stairs. They carried on up from the small landing, and Merlin knew, in the same way he understood that fire was hot, that he'd found the entrance to the attic in the middle of the house.

He blew out a breath, glancing over his shoulder at the front door and wondering how he was meant to explain the sudden appearance of another set of stairs. Arthur might be distracted, but he wasn't stupid. It was not like it would pass beneath anyone's notice, and Merlin's ability to lie only went so far.

Cautiously, he tweaked at the edges of the spell, realising that they would move for him. If he wanted to, he could draw the illusion back into place and hide it from sight. He could pretend this had never happened. It would be the safe thing to do, and yet...

He'd never been very good at leaving his curiosity unsatisfied.

The stairs did not so much as creak under his weight as he took them two at a time, spreading out his magic as he slipped through the space where the wall had been. His power ghosted up the steps, settling into joints and seams. With a grim smile, he noticed there was no dust to disturb. The sunset streamed in through the window, one of the larger ones towards the roofline of the house. The tiny panes painted patterns over the floor, scattering diamonds across the boards.

There was a door to the left and right at the top of the stairs. Both were framed in beautifully carved vines, and Merlin swore he saw one of the etched flowers unfurl out of the corner of his eye. Magic filled the air like warm steam. It wasn't something active, angry and sharp with its power. Instead, it was like a beating heart. There was nothing dangerous awaiting him beyond the doors, and he reached out, parting the first from its frame and sticking his head around it.

The large room had a window at each end and a fireplace opposite the door, cold and dark, but big enough to heat the room. Empty bookcases lined the walls, and a sizeable desk sat at one end, the wood gleaming. There was also a round table, adequate to seat ten or twelve people, with dining chairs arranged around it. Thick rugs, their colours still rich and bright, dotted the floor, but best of all was the air of peace that pervaded the space. Every room in this house felt good – friendly – more a home than anything else. Yet up here there was something extra to the air: something that made Merlin's heart squeeze and flutter.

In a city that would happily see him kneel before the axeman if they knew what he was, this place felt safe, as if no harm could come to him.

Turning towards the other room, he smiled at the size of it. There was no bed, but a wardrobe and changing screen stood ready. There was another, smaller desk, such as a wealthy woman might use to keep up her correspondence, and Merlin realised with a jolt that Ygraine probably slept in here. It was not quite as big as Arthur's chambers, but it was still grand: suitable for a lord or lady.

There was a small room off the main chamber, which was no surprise. A servant was meant to be near-to-hand after all, in case their master or mistress had want of something. He and Gwen were both fortunate that Morgana and Arthur had never demanded they stay close by. Now, though, there was nothing that was going to keep Merlin from sleeping here if he could. It felt good, right, and when he stepped into the more diminutive space, the word that came to mind was not "servant" but "apprentice".

Of course, before Ygraine, before the Purge, a sorcerer had lived here. Magic had lived here, and it had never left.

'Merlin?'

The voice made him jump in surprise, and he spun around, wincing as he heard more than one set of footsteps. So much for hiding this place away again. Not that he would have done, but his heart hurried into a staggered pace as he tried to think of an excuse that didn't involve bits of the house appearing by magic. In the end, though, he came up blank, and he let out a ragged sigh as he realised he'd have to tell the truth. Not about his role in it, but about the spell that had hidden these rooms.

Sucking in a deep breath, he headed back towards the stairs. Arthur, Lancelot, Morgana and Gwen stared up at him from the hall, baffled and confused.

'I found the way into the central attic,' he managed, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

'Those weren't there before.' Morgana looked a touch pale, her hand resting on the banister like a dove taking its perch. 'Where did they come from?'

'Um... They just sort of... appeared?' Merlin winced, glad that no one was looking at Lancelot's face. He had gone a sallow colour, as if he was contemplating hauling Merlin over his shoulder and fleeing the citadel, his vows be-damned. 'I think they were hidden by someone after the queen moved into the castle. Someone with magic.'

Arthur watched him, his jaw clenched tight. 'And you found them?'

Any trace of accusation was carefully edited from that voice, each syllable measured. Behind his back, Lancelot closed his eyes as if in prayer, and Merlin swallowed, glad that he could at least answer Arthur with almost complete honesty. He didn't know if it was his power that had brought the spell down, but he had not done it on purpose.

'If by "found them" you mean I happened to be here when they fell away, then yeah. I was wondering where to put your stuff, and the wall that used to be here sort of... opened.' He shrugged.

'And you decided to investigate this apparent sorcery?' Arthur asked. 'By yourself. Unarmed? What if something horrible had been waiting for you? What if it was a trap? What if it closed behind you and locked you in? How would we have ever known where you were? How would we have got you out again?'

'I could probably have just smashed a window.' Merlin shook his head, trying not to be charmed by the concern that bled into Arthur's words. If he was suspicious, it seemed to be more of the magic than Merlin himself. 'I don't think there's anything bad here, Sire. It certainly looks normal enough.'

'I want to see.' Morgana swept up the stairs, her feet pattering on the wood and her hem whispering with each step. 'They must have been hidden for a reason.'

'I'm not sure why.' Merlin eased aside to let her pass, smiling at Gwen as she followed her mistress. 'They feel all right to me.' Belatedly, he realised that he should have no knowledge on the potential quality of magic the house might possess. 'You know, not creepy or anything. No blood coming out of the walls or whatever.'

Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'I suppose, considering that it used to be the residence of the court sorcerer, it's no real surprise that a little bit of power lingers. We'll just have to hope that there's nothing malicious waiting for its moment.'

Merlin wished he could tell Arthur the truth. He longed to explain his own confidence in the notion that the Miracle Court would never allow them to come to harm. It had lain dormant for years, and it relished having people within its walls once more. It was not alive, but there was a sense of presence here: soft and nurturing, strong and stalwart.

Still, it was hopeless to want such things. There were times he doubted that there would ever be a day he could speak to Arthur openly of magic, especially his own. It was not as if he'd had much personal experience of the benign side of sorcery. At least, not that Arthur knew of. He had no way to know what Merlin had already done in his name. He saw only creatures like the griffin and Nimueh's tricks, sorcerers screaming their curses and Uther's constant paranoia.

The fact that he had not turned his back on this place and set it to the torch was the only glimmer of hope that Merlin possessed. He clung to it as Arthur climbed the stairs, joining Morgana and Gwen as they poked around to see what the house had revealed.

'Are you all right?' Lancelot's hand was a warm weight on his shoulder, his voice low and his grip firm.

Merlin nodded, letting out a small, shaky breath. So far, everyone seemed to have bought his quick excuses and deemed him blameless. Of course, Lancelot was the one who knew differently.

'I wasn't lying,' he murmured, bending his head closer to Lancelot so they wouldn't be overheard. 'I didn't do anything. It just... appeared. This whole place is amazing, but it makes it harder to hide my magic.'

'And Arthur plans for you to live here with us.' Lancelot let out a breath. 'I know you're tired of hearing it, but please be careful. I may not have known you long, my friend, but I do not think I could bear to lose you.'

'I will. I promise.' Merlin grinned, nudging his elbow into Lancelot's side. 'As best I can, anyway. Here, help me with some of this, yeah? It's heavy.'

'You're thinking Arthur will sleep up there?' Lancelot asked. 'Despite the magic?'

Merlin barely had to think about it. 'He will if he doesn't want to sleep in the castle. It's not like he's got any other choice. Also, if I get his things up there, I can complain about having to carry them back down again if he decides against it.'

'He'll make you do it anyway,' Lancelot warned.

'He can try.'

Between the two of them, they hauled the heaviest trunks of clothes and armour up the stairs, setting them down in the bedchamber. 'I'll have to sort out a mattress tomorrow,' Merlin decided. 'He'll have to sleep on the floor.'

'And you?' Lancelot asked as he poked his head into the antechamber and noted a similar lack.

'I've spent every night since you arrived on a nest of blankets. One more won't hurt me.' Merlin sighed, rubbing his hands against his aching back as he wandered through to the other room, where Morgana, Gwen and Arthur were all exploring with varying levels of caution. Morgana seemed the least bothered, her eyes gleaming and her shoulders relaxed as she ran her finger along the empty shelves. Gwen eyed the chamber in general, her brow pinched and her lips pursed.

'It's so clean,' she said, turning to Merlin. 'You can't have done all this before we got here. You didn't have time.'

'No. It was like this when I found it. No dirt. No dust. I suppose whatever spells kept it hidden also kept it tidy.'

'But why conceal it?' Arthur stood by the desk, looking as if he were dealing with some great internal struggle before he perched in the chair behind it. Merlin did not miss the way he settled against the padded back with a little sigh, comfortable but puzzled. 'It doesn't make any sense.' He leaned forward, pulling open drawers and rummaging through the scraps of paper that remained.

Merlin wondered if it had been less about the chamber concealing itself and more about it waiting for someone worthy – someone who needed it. Still, saying as much out loud wouldn't help his appearance of innocence, so he kept the idea to himself. Instead, he tilted his head to the fireplace. 'If you're planning to sleep here tonight, Sire, I'd best get some wood. You'll have to make do with a pallet until I can find a bed for you, unless you'd rather spend another night in the castle?'

Arthur huffed, closing the last drawer. He propped his elbow on the desk and rested his chin in his hand. 'Gods, no. I don't trust my father not to lock me in and claim I've come down with something infectious. Or gone mad.'

'That's probably exactly what he would do,' Morgana agreed, sitting down at the round table and running her fingers over the runes scribed around the circumference. They were not in any language Merlin knew, yet it was as if his magic understood their intent. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that she had sat in the seat associated with harbingers and foresight? Considering how adamant she had been about Sofia's treachery, and how right she had been, he suspected not.

That was something else he would have to watch for. Morgana seemed determined not to be left out of Arthur's rebellion, and if she lingered too long in this house, then it was likely that her magic would respond just as his had done. He did not know what that might mean for her, but he would have to bear it in mind. He very much doubted that Uther would allow her to relocate to the Miracle Court, and Arthur's freedom felt too tenuous for Morgana to try her usual tricks. However, even if she spent her nights in the castle and her days here, he suspected it would take its toll.

It was hard enough for him, and he had known about his magic all his life. Morgana was still in the dark about her abilities, and Merlin bit his lip, trying not to worry. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. Or so he hoped.

'This place is a real find, Arthur. Never mind the magic.'

'My father would have an apoplexy if he knew,' Arthur pointed out, leaning back in the chair with a sigh and blinking up at the ceiling. 'Yet my mother lived here before she was married. He must have known that some old magic lingered? Unless she hid it from him?'

'Maybe it's her power?' Morgana suggested, calm and quiet, as if she knew she might be treading on thin ice. Merlin had thought the same thing, but he didn't dare say so. 'Perhaps the spells lingering in this house are as much a part of her legacy as the bricks and mortar? You know your father has not been able to touch anything that belonged to Ygraine. He cannot destroy it; his grief will not allow it. Instead, he leaves it to rot. Maybe, in doing this, she was protecting her own memory?'

Arthur did not answer that. There were no vitriolic denials, only a thoughtful silence. It carried him through the rest of the day, his conversation quiet and brief, right up until that night in his chamber. The fire had been stoked to chase off the chill that had settled in the house through the long years of its vacancy. He and Arthur had set bedrolls on the floor to make the most of its heat, sleeping crown-to-crown. It was there, in that uncertain light, that Arthur's questions came out of the shadows, soft and small, like a child's.

'Do you think my mother had magic?'

Merlin wet his lips before pursing them, swallowing his instinctive response. There was something pale and hurting in Arthur's words, some great blister that Merlin could not understand. Was it best left alone, untouched, or should it be lanced and drained, the better to heal? Should he acknowledge the edge to some of the spells he found in this house: light and laughter and joy, a young woman's blonde hair blowing in the breeze and her bright blue eyes?

'I don't think she was a sorceress, if that's what you mean.' He spoke carefully, trying to impart everything he could detect in the air around him without giving away that he had any special skill in that particular direction. 'She wasn't here studying magic while they stitched her wedding gown.'

'But?' The blankets rustled as Arthur turned over, and Merlin looked up at him, awkward and upside-down. Arthur had rolled onto his belly, propping himself on his elbows as he looked down into Merlin's face. It meant Merlin had a great view up that straight, pompous nose, and he moved to mirror Arthur's position, to spare himself such a sight.

'But I think she might have had some power, or someone who lived here with her did. Nothing big or bad, just magic how it often is. A little helping hand.'

Arthur snorted at that. 'All the magic I've ever seen has been a source of calamity.'

'That's because no one is going to risk the axe or the pyre for something small, like sweeping up the dust, are they? Not unless they're mad.' Or him, Merlin acknowledged in the privacy of his mind, but he'd been thinking his sanity was a bit suspect for weeks, now. 'But back before the Purge, people would have used it for chores all the time. To clean or repair things, to entertain each other or make life easier in a hundred little ways.'

Arthur looked at him, one half of his face bathed in golden light from the fire, the other cast in blue and grey by the shadows of the night. It was a long, slow, thoughtful gaze, the kind that Merlin would usually tease him about. Yet right now he could not fish up the usual pieces of their banter. His breath kept getting caught in his chest, making each little gasp feel inadequate, and his skin prickled with a nervous thrill of warning.

More than once, Arthur opened his mouth as if to speak before thinking better of it. Except he did not subside back into silence. Instead, a question eked itself out of him, slow and unsure, as if Arthur thought he would be happier not hearing the answer. 'How do you know so much about it?'

It was hard not to let his eyes twitch away to hide the shadow of his half-truths. It was one thing to lie by omission, but fibbing right to Arthur's face had always been more challenging. If his life didn't depend on it, he would never make the attempt, but this was not some small, innocent secret.

'It wasn't illegal in Ealdor.' Merlin said it carefully. 'People didn't like it, but using it didn't come with the threat of death. I knew some folk who practised magic, or who had used it, before the Purge. Even Gaius talks about it, sometimes.' He shrugged, feeling small and hot and awkward, like the truth was written all over his skin for Arthur to see. 'People remember how things used to be. It wasn't that long ago that it happened.'

'A lifetime.'

'For you. Not for everyone.' The idea of it – of knowing how things had been before Uther tried to rip magic out of the very fabric of Camelot – made his heart stutter and squeeze. Yet Merlin bit his tongue, doing his best not to let any of that hopeless desperation show on his face. He doubted he could explain that to Arthur with anything but the truth, and he liked having his head attached to his shoulders. 'I know what you've been told – what you've seen – but magic can be a force for good. This place is proof of that. You can feel it. I know you can.'

It was in the way Arthur's shoulders relaxed as soon as he walked through the front door. It was in the brightness of his eyes as he took in the home his mother had made her own before her marriage. It wrote itself in his restraint, and how he questioned his father's rhetoric rather than blindly following it.

Arthur gave him another long, slow look before lying on his bedroll once more, his spine to the floor and his gaze fixed on the ceiling. At first, Merlin thought he was simply declaring the conversation over by going to sleep, but he soon realised that maybe Arthur found it easier to speak here, in the dark, where he did not have to witness Merlin's responses.

'I've wondered, sometimes, if my mother had some power – if that's part of why my father hates it so – because it's just another reminder of the love he lost.'

Merlin grimaced. He could see how that was a comforting thought to have. Hatred stemming from devotion felt, if not more acceptable, then more understandable, but the truth was that no one really knew why the Purge had started. He suspected Gaius was privy to the details. Merlin would notice the sad, hollowed out light that haunted those old eyes sometimes, but he had never dared to ask him about it.

'Maybe.' He turned on his back, mirroring Arthur's position as he stared up at the ceiling, watching the dance of the firelight across the white-washed plaster. 'I don't know why the Purge happened. I only know that not all magic is bad.'

'It corrupts,' Arthur pointed out, a bit like a man pressing carefully at a bruise to see if it hurt. 'Even if people start off meaning well, they fall to darkness in the end.'

Merlin swallowed. 'Are you sure about that?'

Am I a monster?

He had asked Gaius that, when he first got here, and though the old healer had been quick to deny it, just like his mother had done, the fear still lingered. He recalled all the times in Ealdor that people had been scared of him, even as a child. Maybe in Essetir the king would not have brought him to justice, but there were occasions when the villagers had tried it themselves.

Here, in Camelot, no one would question Arthur for putting a sorcerer to the sword. They would commend him for his decisive courage in executing the blight upon the kingdom. If he ever confessed, would Arthur see anything except an enemy when he met Merlin's gaze?

'It's what my father has always said.'

Merlin pursed his lips, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders and bundling himself into a cocoon. A handful of months ago, he might have thought that Arthur was devoted to Uther's ideals, but these past few weeks had changed all that. Arthur had shown, with dazzling clarity, that he was able to think for himself. With Merlin's help, he had bent the rules of the First Code and had ceded his place at his father's side, not cleaving the bonds, but stretching them, giving himself space to stand alone.

It was a small crumb of hope to have, a mere morsel, but Merlin clung to it anyway. Perhaps Arthur would never be ready to accept magic for what it was: a tool to wield, rather than a curse upon the kingdom. Still, that didn't mean that it wouldn't be there, right by his side, protecting him from whatever trials the world threw his way.

Merlin would make sure of it.

Chapter Text

It was remarkable, watching the Miracle Court grow and change day-by-day. Perhaps if Arthur were a more indifferent royal, he would ignore the obvious hard work that Guinevere, the army of helpers and especially Merlin had put into making the place habitable. Every morning, it seemed there were new additions to different rooms. Lancelot's cot was joined by a serviceable trunk, an armour stand, a small desk and a vase of flowers.

Arthur's own chamber populated itself in a similar manner, the bare posts of the bed sprouting a canopy in a soft slate blue. The freshly stuffed mattress was not as fine as the one in the castle, but he found it luxurious simply because it was distant from his own father. Bits and pieces of furniture materialised, waxed and polished, though he did note, torn between concern and amusement, that there were no flowers left for him.

The rest of the house began to take on a new lease of life. The portrait of his mother had been hung in the entrance hall, and Arthur found himself standing before it multiple times a day, looking into the face he had never known but felt a kinship for all the same.

Some rooms remained sealed away – surplus to requirements, at least for now – but elsewhere, simple comforts began to appear. There were tapestries on the walls, cushions on the chairs and rugs upon the bare boards and flagstones of the floor.

And all the while, just as Merlin said, there was a faint presence of magic tickling Arthur's awareness.

The first week of his occupation, he had grimly waited for something terrible to befall them. It did not matter that all his instincts whispered of sanctuary; he had seen too much of magic to believe it could be as harmless as Merlin claimed. Yet each day, the house continued to be stalwart and calm, and Arthur's concerns grew quieter.

With every sunset, he found himself grateful to have this space away from his father's ire, and with each new dawn he awoke feeling alive with the possibilities. For the first time in all his twenty years of age, he felt as if he had some say in his own life: more than a mere extension of Uther's ambition.

And it seemed that, with his own growing ease, the house itself became more bold. There was nothing overt about it – not since the shocking revelations of the hidden upstairs rooms – but sometimes he would think longingly of a fresh cup of wine. The next time he looked, his goblet would be full almost to the brim, and yet nobody had attended it with a jug.

It was surprising. He had never seen magic being helpful before. Normally it was all hissing curses and fire raining down upon their heads. It had not been like this, almost puppy playful about offering its assistance.

He suspected that Leon and Lancelot had also noticed a few strange goings on and were pointedly doing their best to ignore them. That, he decided, was preferable to them working themselves into a froth of paranoia. Part of him felt that, as their commander, they should have come to him with such concerns, but it made sense that they feared his reaction. He would have to broach the topic himself, and he had not yet found his courage.

Not that the magic scared him; not anymore. Instead, he dreaded opening that particular door. He was not ready to confront the expectations of how he – son and heir to Uther Pendragon – should act in the face of such obvious enchantments. He was not prepared to defend his inaction, and so he said nothing.

Then, there was the matter of Merlin.

He seemed... Arthur wasn't even sure he could put his finger on it. Since moving into the Miracle Court, he appeared both exhilarated and exhausted, like a man desperately trying to keep from tipping over the precipice but thrilling in the risk of balancing on the edge.

There were times his gaze was almost feverishly bright, his grin dimpled and unapologetic. He was quick to laugh, and yet when he fell into his bed he was like a snuffed-out candle. Sometimes he was mid-sentence when dreams rose up to claim him, still clothed upon his cot. It made Arthur nervous with concern.

Then, there was the matter of the pack hidden under Lancelot's bed, not an empty skin of a bag, but one that bulged with clothes: some Merlin's, some Lancelot's own. Arthur had not been snooping. Not really. He'd tripped over the strap that lay coiled across the floor, and the truth had made itself known. He had tucked it all away again, pressing it out of sight, but he could not unlearn the knowledge, and it brought with it a dozen questions.

Because it seemed as if his new knight was ready to run with Merlin at his side, and Arthur didn't understand why. Especially in light of how Lancelot looked at Guinevere sometimes, as if he was breathless and dying and she was the only person in the world who could bring him back to life.

Arthur sighed, throwing his quill down and smattering ink across the accounts he was working through. The knot of uncertainty in his belly slipped tighter, and questions roared through his mind. He kept thinking that there was something fundamental to the whole Guinevere-Lancelot-Merlin situation that he was missing – a puzzle piece that would bring him some clarity. Yet while his thoughts swarmed and buzzed, his heart quivered and quailed with the possibility that one day he might turn around and find Merlin gone.

Morgana's soft footfalls made him lift his head from where he was cradling it in his hands, and he looked up to find her squinting at the figures he was working on, reading them upside down. 'Those don't look too bad,' she decided at last. 'Nothing to start tearing your hair out over. It seems that the money from Pentrose is going a long way towards filling your coffers.'

'For now,' Arthur acknowledged. 'What are you doing here, Morgana?'

'Escaping Uther,' she said, blunt and to the point as she settled in the chair opposite his desk. 'He's not in the best mood, though perhaps it's contagious. What's got you looking like the back end of a horse if not the accounts?'

He pulled a face at her description, scowling when she gave him a sharp little grin. She was dressed in green today, and she relaxed into the seat with a sort of artlessness Arthur rarely saw. Morgana was a creature of poise, and it eased something in him to see her so calm. Automatically, he checked that the door was open. Not that he thought she would ever try to entrap him into marriage, but rumour was a vicious beast.

'I would call Gwen to act as chaperone,' Morgana murmured, apparently reading his mind, 'but the last I saw, she was being charmed by Lancelot, and I don't want to interfere.'

Arthur grimaced at that, and the ebony wing of one of Morgana's eyebrows lifted towards her hairline. Her eyes took on a penetrative quality, and Arthur tried not to shift where he sat beneath the scrutiny.

'You disapprove?' There was an archness to her voice: a subtle threat lingering within her words. 'If you are about to kick up a fuss because the knight you elevated from obscurity has taken a liking to my lady's maid, I will make your life miserable. Don't be a hypocrite, Arthur – not like your father.'

'I'm not.' He sat back in his chair, holding up his hands in surrender. 'I'm concerned, that's all.' He chewed on his lip, wondering if he should say anymore. Judging by the look on Morgana's face, he should explain if he didn't wish to take a beating. 'The night the griffin was killed, I saw Merlin and Lancelot sharing an embrace. A close one. More than mere friendship might inspire.'

His father would probably be horrified that he was speaking of such things to his precious ward, but that was because Uther lived in a fantasy realm when it came to Morgana. She played the role of the innocent maiden well, but Arthur knew better. She knew far more about the ways of the world, in theory, at least, though hopefully not in practice. He did not want to have to call someone out in the duelling ring for compromising her virtue. She would understand his implication.

'Hadn't you just hit your head? Perhaps you saw something that wasn't really there?' She gave him a doubtful look, as if to suggest she questioned the sanctity of his wits even on a good day, let alone when he'd taken a tumble from his horse.

He sighed. 'I did not imagine it. I know what I saw.'

'Then maybe you misinterpreted?'

'And everything that's come since?' He reached for his quill, fiddling with the barbs of the feather. 'Merlin's a soft-hearted fool, sometimes, but he practically ripped apart the old laws of Camelot to find a way to make Lancelot a knight: a man he'd known a bare few days! There is something there, and I do not like to think that Lancelot is the kind of person who would toy with the hearts of others.'

'He is not. Not if he knows what's good for him.' A scowl clouded Morgana's brow, and Arthur winced. She was fiercely protective of those she considered her friends, and if Lancelot hurt Guinevere, he would suffer for it. Yet she did not leap into a fury. Instead, she sat, turning the implications over in her mind. He watched the play of her thoughts across her features. How his father could ever believe she was nothing but an ornament in his court, Arthur could not fathom. Not when all that intelligence was right there to see for any man who cared to look.

'Have you seen Merlin and Lancelot sharing kisses? Anything to prove beyond a doubt that they are lovers?'

'No! It's not like I'm sneaking around spying on them! I just – I've noticed that they are close. What happened with the griffin I could put down to the exuberance of survival.' Though he had not received any sort of embrace, despite being injured in the process of the hunt.

That last was a mere thought, but perhaps it had written itself on his face, because Morgana's lips curved into a smirk, her eyes sparkling. 'Are you sure you're not just jealous that Merlin has friends other than you?'

Arthur scoffed at that. 'He's a servant, Morgana. Not my friend.'

'Liar.' It was said so easily, a single, glib word, but what came next was spoken more softly, and urgency thrummed in her voice. 'Arthur, your father has been squeezing you into the role of a prince and heir all your life. He has been trying to hammer you into a shape that you cannot possibly fit into, not without losing parts of yourself. He has deceived you – taught you that you can rely on no one but yourself. Don't throw away what people offer just because you think Uther would not approve.'

She straightened where she sat, rearranging the line of her skirt. 'Merlin is not like those wretched toadies Uther threw in your direction. He will never flatter you in the hopes of his own advancement. A servant sees to your armour and fetches your meals. He doesn't drink poison to save your life and find solutions to your problems without being asked. Denying your care for him doesn't do credit to either of you, and no one believes a word of it.'

Gods, sometimes, he hated Morgana. She had a terrifying knack for ripping aside a man's masks and striking at the heart of him. It left him feeling flayed and raw, eager to hide his vulnerabilities but desperate not to draw further attention to them. His whole body felt stiff, like a quarry seizing in fear at the hunter's approach, but he could not deny her logic, nor the truth behind it. He could refute it all he wanted, but Merlin's overtures of friendship inspired reciprocity. His affection was so unapologetic that Arthur had no choice but to return it in kind, despite his better judgement.

And these past few weeks had buried any lingering doubts he may have had. He saw how Merlin stepped up. He witnessed the sharp mind he had kept well-hidden and the solid determination that drove him through each day. More to the point, he remembered Merlin's words about how he had not sought to bend the First Code for Lancelot's sake, but for Arthur's.

And yet he saw how Lancelot and Merlin were with each other, easy and unrestrained, and he still did not know what to make of it.

'I am not jealous.' He pretended he was not saying it through clenched teeth. 'This whole situation is difficult enough without some bizarre crisis of the heart surrounding Lancelot.'

'And you don't want to see Merlin get hurt.' Morgana smirked, but there was a fond glow in her eyes as she did so. 'Because he's your friend.'

'All right, fine. Yes. He is my friend. Happy now?'

'Immeasurably.' She waved a dismissive hand. 'Have you asked Merlin about it?'

'What? No!' His skin crawled at the very thought, as if his spirit were trying to shed its earthly bounds and flee to somewhere very much not here. 'And I have no intention of doing so.'

'Why not?' Morgana tapped her fingernails on the arm of her chair. 'What are you afraid of?'

That Merlin would tell the truth and admit his love for Lancelot. That he'd say they were just friends, and that Arthur would be left struggling to believe him. Or worse, that his question would inspire the kind of answer to which he could not turn a blind eye. One that explained why a griffin that could only be defeated with magic was dead, and why there was a bag under Lancelot's bed, packed and ready for a hasty departure.

For a single, dizzy moment he thought of telling Morgana about that little discovery, if only to watch her try and puzzle it through, but he held his tongue. He couldn't speak of it, because he knew the implications – ones which he had been desperately trying to ignore. To voice his suspicions – that magic was at work in more than just the house he had claimed as his own – was equivalent to an accusation in Uther's Camelot. It would be a condemnation that could lead both Lancelot and Merlin to the block. One for the sorcery, and the other for helping to hide it, though Arthur could not be sure which crime might belong to which man.

His mind shied away from those considerations, rearing back like a startled horse. It felt as if to contemplate it, even for a moment, would bring his father's attention bearing down upon the Miracle Court and those that made it their home. It would be just what Uther wanted: a way to end Arthur's bid for freedom and to reaffirm the insidious nature of magic at the same time. He would claim his son had been enchanted and led astray. Better his heir be mindless than have a single original thought of his own.

He forced his thoughts smooth and placid as he offered Morgana a courtly smile, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes.

'I am not afraid.' He huffed out a sigh, shaking his head and pressing his palms to the desk, pushing back the chair and getting to his feet. He felt the urge to pace and relieve some of the fretful energy that had coiled tight around his bones, yet when he turned, his gaze fell on the window and the two men in the garden below.

Merlin had decided to make the most of the good weather and had set to work vanquishing the weeds and undergrowth. He'd been at it for most of the morning, toiling with a distracted, haphazard sort of determination. Now, he stood with Lancelot, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a faint, fond smile on his lips as they spoke. Arthur couldn't hear the words, and he dared not try and open the window to eavesdrop. He was a prince. Such things were beneath him. Besides, he suspected the squeal of the hinges would give him away.

Instead, he could only observe, trying to read the truth in the slant of their bodies and the expressions that coloured their faces. He heard Morgana move, standing up to approach his side, and Arthur felt the sudden, desperate urge to shield them from her. It was a wild, scrabbling feeling in the pit of his belly, as if he feared she might cast an unfair judgement. Or perhaps see something he'd rather she did not.

Yet he did not retreat or try and lead her away. Instead, the two of them stood, watching the scene unfurling below.

Merlin, for his part, appeared the same as he had since moving into the Miracle Court, both jittery and exhausted, as if he didn't know whether he was coming or going. There were no shadows under his lashes, but he still looked as if he were existing under some great, physical strain Arthur didn't understand.

Lancelot was talking, the two of them standing toe-to-toe. They were not loud – Arthur couldn't make out the words – but there was something animated and urgent in the way Lancelot spoke. Tension hardened his jaw and creases of concern pinched the corner of his eyes. Both hands rested on Merlin's shoulders, not a restraint so much as an anchor. His grip wasn't white-knuckled. It looked tender, an impression that only grew stronger when he clasped a hand over Merlin's nape and gave him a gentle shake.

Merlin said something: a single, dismissive phrase, judging by the way he shrugged. Whatever it was, it did nothing to appease Lancelot. The worry etching furrows into his brow only seemed to intensify, and his lips pursed tight. He glanced at the house, but thankfully didn't look up at the window before turning his attention back to the man in front of him.

Arthur's heart lurched as Lancelot leant closer. For one, horrified moment, he wondered if Morgana would get the proof she'd asked for: a kiss shared between them. The very idea left him feeling hot and prickly all over, inspiring an ache in the pit of his belly and the cavern of his ribs.

Instead, Lancelot rested his brow against Merlin's: a gentle tap as he murmured something else, offering a fond grin. Merlin reached up, grasping one of Lancelot's forearms and giving him a reassuring squeeze, retreating with a smile. He said something that made Lancelot turn as red as the apples that hung on the branches of the trees nearby before laughing: a bright, joyful sound of mirth.

A small noise caught in Morgana's throat, and when Arthur turned to look at her it was to find her frowning in puzzlement. She toyed with her necklace, the glassy gems sparkling in the light as she brushed her fingertips over the facets.

'Do you see what I mean?' he asked, pulling a face as she looked at him.

'They're not like us, raised in the court where every display of affection is just another negotiation.' She took a breath. 'Still, considering that they only met a short time ago, they've grown very close, very quickly. ' She trailed off, giving a shake of her head before resting a hand, chaste, on his forearm. 'I think you're wrong. I don't believe they are lovers, but you'll never know for sure unless you ask. Maybe then you'll get some answers.' She gave him a look, her lips pursed in brief disapproval. 'Be discreet. If you say anything to embarrass Gwen, I will make you regret it for the rest of your days.'

Arthur sighed. She was right, though he would never admit as much. He had spent too long watching and wondering, living with the growing dread that Merlin was somehow slipping from his grasp. He could confront him – ask him outright about Lancelot, and the pack of clothes, and whatever else was going on with him, but something in him quailed at the thought. He did not want to give Merlin the opportunity to lie to him, and while he trusted him with his life, lately Arthur had begun to wonder if he was ever completely honest.

No. When it came down to it, the course of action was obvious.

He needed to speak with Lancelot.

Chapter Text

Merlin watched Lancelot go, his heart wobbling unhappily in his chest. He knew he'd been strange since they moved in to the Miracle Court. His magic had gone from being something he could do to something he was. It felt as if it had spread out from the usual place where it dwelt beneath the hollow of his ribs to gild his skin. Some mornings he woke up surprised he didn't glow with it. He didn't mean to worry his friend or make the lines on Gaius' forehead deeper. He wasn't doing it on purpose!

Still, if he couldn't get it under control soon, Arthur was sure to notice. More than he already had, anyway.

He ran his fingertips over the frothy leaves of the feverfew growing in the flowerbed, thinking of how Arthur looked at him some mornings, his head tilted to the side as if he were some puzzle he couldn't quite comprehend. More than once, Arthur had got in his way, those strong hands settling on his shoulders as he asked, all grudging earnestness, if he was falling ill and whether he needed to take a break.

He shouldn't be surprised. Arthur wasn't like Uther, happy to work a servant into the grave and then replace them without batting an eye. He cared for his people, even if he struggled to show it.

Still, it wasn't like Merlin could confess the truth – that there was nothing wrong with him at all. Instead, it was this place; it felt the magic in him, and it implored him to be as free and easy with his power as the sorcerers of old, regardless of the consequences. It whispered to him of a time when all the strength he could claim would have made him a jewel within the court, rather than consigning him to the shadows of secrecy. Not that he cared about that. He wasn't bothered about rank or status, but the haunting dream-cum-memory of that freedom was an enticing one.

With a sigh, he finished what he was doing, peeling back the rambling mint and looking over his shoulder. He checked for witnesses before whispering a tiny spell: something to keep the plant from running amok, as was its wont. He'd collected the weeds in a bucket for the pigs, and he picked it up before he ducked out of the gate and headed for the castle.

It was a short walk, and the sows snorted happily as he dumped the greenery in their trough. He kept the bucket in his hand. After all, if he set it down, it would probably be collected by some enterprising servant, and it was one that had been bought specifically for the Miracle Court. He'd even engraved a small "A" at its rim, so he'd know it belonged to them.

To many, he was sure it looked ridiculous, claiming ownership of a bucket, but how else was he meant to stop it being absorbed into Camelot's supplies? The castle, after all, would not notice the appearance of another bucket, but the Miracle Court would certainly feel its absence.

He swung it in his grip, the iron handle clanking gently as he made his way towards the healing tower. He would not deny feeling a tiny bit homesick. Not that his small chamber near Arthur's was lacking, but over the time he'd been here in Camelot, the storeroom had become a sanctuary. He missed the sound of Gaius snoring and mumbling in his sleep. The fragrance of fresh herbs and dubious unguents did not flavour the air of the Miracle Court. Still, he looked on the bright side. The leech tank was no longer his concern, and he got fewer scoldings from Gaius per day simply because he saw him less.

The door squeaked on its hinges as he pushed his way inside, managing a smile as Gaius glanced up from something he was stirring over a flame, the Eyebrow in full effect.

'You seem tired,' he said without fanfare. 'More so than yesterday, if that's possible.' His murky gaze raked Merlin's frame, no doubt noticing the twitching, restless movements at complete odds with the slump of his shoulders. 'I take it matters have not improved?'

'No.' Merlin set down the bucket and straddled the bench, covering a massive yawn with his hand. 'I sleep from the moment my head hits the pillow, but it feels like – I don't know. Like I'm waiting for something.'

'One of your "funny feelings"?' Gaius asked, removing the crucible from the heat and shuffling over to perch opposite him.

'No, not – not really.' He wrinkled his nose. Those were sinking, clammy sensations: aimless dread. This was more anticipatory. It reminded him of about five or six years ago, when he'd grown like a weed and his power had surged in size as his body did the same, striking out in the direction of manhood. It felt as if something in him, previously docile and easy, had roused itself to excitement, and if he wasn't careful, he would burst with it.

'Hmm.' Gaius leaned forward, resting a cool, dry palm on Merlin's brow. 'You're warm.' He said it accusingly. 'A touch feverish, perhaps. I don't think that continuing to ignore this issue is the best path.'

'What else can I do?' He shrugged, shaking his head. 'I can't move back into the castle, not without leaving Arthur's service!'

'At this juncture, I'm not certain it would solve the problem at hand.' Gaius sighed, getting to his feet and pottering around, first doling out some warm cider into a cup and pressing it into Merlin's hands before reaching for a few bundles wrapped in cloth. 'I remember that house from when Ygraine lived there. I recall how it felt, even to a sorcerer of negligible talent such as myself. Like home and sanctuary, all at once. Yet I knew little of its history, so I did a touch of digging.'

Merlin frowned. He'd rummaged around in the library as much as he could, but finding anything amidst the ancient scrolls had been a challenge. The papers were stored using a system known only to Sir Geoffrey, and while the old man was happy to help Arthur and had even warmed somewhat to Merlin, he did not dare risk his anger by making a mess of things.

Gnarled fingers plucked at the cloth, pulling it back to reveal a thick volume. Yet this was not a mouldering, split-spined revenant. There was no charring on the edge of its pages. Instead, it was bound in leather, still gleaming as brightly as the day it had been first oiled. The bindings were solid and sure, and a brass catch held its covers closed. Even from here, he could feel the protective magic on it. Not harsh and brimming with warning, but something soft and silken, turning aside the ravages of time.

'What did you find?'

'Why don't you see for yourself?' Gaius surrendered the book into his grasp, watching him carefully as he skimmed his fingers over the hide that bound it, feeling the dimples and ridges of the decorative embellishment. Even as he stared at it, he could feel his magic responding, whispering truths in his ear. The volume looked new, but what was written within it was older than its covers. Older than most things found in a library. He could sense the weight of the centuries upon it, and he wet his lips, abruptly nervous.

'This isn't going to unleash anything horrible, is it?' he asked, feeling the need to make sure. It didn't seem bad, but he'd been deceived by appearances before.

'I think that is unlikely,' Gaius replied. Normally, he made a good show of sounding certain. Now, he watched almost hungrily, a sharp mixture of hope and fear shadowing his expression.

Merlin opened the cover, looking down at the map that had been sketched with dazzling care upon the first page. It was not Camelot as he knew it. The castle was little more than a roundhouse, and the wall was absent. The buildings were smaller and fewer in number. This, he suspected, was the settlement that stood in the time before the Romans. Yet even then, he could see a building occupying the same location as the Miracle Court, and he got the strange impression that it had been there long before any lord or king.

Turning the page, he blinked at the unusual alphabet that greeted him. He knew his letters, but this series of etchings was not familiar to him. They weren't based on anything he had learned, not even Latin or Greek, which he'd picked up with alarming speed under Gaius' haphazard tutelage, and yet...

He could not decipher them with his eyes, but his magic had no such difficulties.

'Oh.' He blinked aside a sudden surge of dizziness, pulling one leg up under him as he began to study. The first page was a spell, simple and blunt, and he lifted his gaze to Gaius' face. 'You couldn't read this, could you?'

'No,' he admitted, sounding both fond and tired. 'I believe there are few left living who could. Yet I understood, when I picked up the book, that it was not for me. The map was my only clue that it might be relevant. Beyond what lies before you, the rest of it is blank.'

Merlin shifted it in his arms, fanning through the sheafs and sucking in a breath as the plain parchment blossomed with striking dark ink and bright colours. Some were nothing but dense black text, but others gleamed with impossible dyes: blue and green and gold.

Spells. Hundreds of them, all written in different hands, etched into the paper and then hidden away.

'Gaius...' Merlin shook his head, blinking stupidly as he turned the book around so he could see. 'It's not empty.'

The old healer let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he managed a faint smile in Merlin's direction. 'I had wondered if that might be the case. For you, it shows itself. For you, the house awakens. It is like a lock and key.'

'But why? I'm just – me.' Merlin pursed his lips, thinking of the dragon's words when he had first arrived in Camelot: sweeping statements about destiny. Back then, he was not sure he had believed him, but he had been desperate for a purpose. It was one he clung to grimly every time Arthur reverted to being a prat, which even now happened far more often than Merlin would like.

'Your power is unlike any that I have ever seen,' Gaius said, not unkindly. 'Before Uther's reign, as you already know, that house was the domain of the Court Sorcerer, but I do not believe that was a matter of chance. That place has always been tied to magic. I suspect there is more at work there than perhaps meets the eye.'

Merlin ran his fingers over the strange text, feeling how it hummed beneath his skin. 'It's a crossroads. Or a point where rivers meet.' He wet his lips. 'Not the building itself, but the earth on which it stands. It's like gold buried in the ground, but it will never run out.' His voice sounded odd, his but not, as if the book spoke through him. A fresh wave of dizziness rocked him where he sat, and he pressed one hand to his left temple. 'It's where the magic lives.'

Gaius' hands were gentle upon him, grasping his wrist and easing the tome away before pressing the mug of cider back into Merlin's palms. He bade him to drink, the hot, faintly alcoholic liquid slipping down his throat. When Merlin found his focus again, it was to see that familiar face riddled with worry.

'I'm all right. That was... weird.'

'Though perhaps not entirely unexpected,' Gaius murmured, looking like a man who had unearthed a secret he would rather have left buried. He looked at the book as if it were a live serpent: not dangerous, exactly, but unpredictable. 'I suspect there are plenty of mysteries yet to be discovered, but from what you just said...' He folded his hands neatly in his lap. 'There are sites in the world where the magic seems to gather, forming knots and pools. Many become sacred: stone-circles and druid groves.'

'And on this one, somebody built a house.'

'It explains why your magic is rising to the surface against your will. Like calls to like, and in you, it senses someone who can put it to good use after years of lying dormant.'

Merlin let out a shivery breath, looking down into the dregs of his warm cider before draining the cup dry. 'So, how do I stop it?' He shrugged when Gaius cast a look in his direction. 'I can't do nothing! I feel as if I'm about to burst out of my skin! My magic keeps doing things without being asked! Sooner or later, someone else is going to find out. Arthur is going to find out, and there's no way that ends well for anyone.'

Gaius hummed, rising stiffly to his feet as if he needed to be on the move. He wrapped the book back in its oilskin before slipping it in the bucket Merlin had brought, adding a few other innocuous bits and pieces to hide its presence. Merlin would have to put it under his bed. He'd enchanted a new nook in the Miracle Court, beneath the floorboards, and the house seemed happy to offer his magical possessions sanctuary, at least for the time being.

'I am not in any way advocating revealing your secret to the prince,' Gaius began, 'but he may surprise you. Six months ago, I would have thought you had run mad, but then I never imagined we could end up here, with Arthur striking out on his own. As for what is happening to you, my boy, I can only continue to advise caution.'

Merlin sighed, running a hand through his hair before leaving it clasped at the nape of his own neck, pressed against the tense muscles there. He grimaced to himself, his mind racing as he looked at the wrapped book. 'It needs to be used,' he murmured. 'My magic, I mean. It's like an overflowing well. If I could just do something, it would be easier to control.'

'And yet you cannot. Not without risking your very survival. If you were seen...'

Merlin bit his lip, closing his eyes with a sigh. 'I can't keep this up. Arthur thinks I'm sickening with something, Lancelot spends more time fretting over me than training, and...' He shook his head. 'They need me at my best, Gaius. Not dealing with whatever this is and struggling to keep what I am hidden. It's not been this bad for years.'

'All I ask is that you have a care.' Gaius' weathered hand rested on his shoulder before moving to cup his cheek. 'I have grown remarkably fond of you, my boy. I would hate to see you come to harm.'

'I will. I promise. And you will tell me, won't you, if there's anything weird going on in the castle? Or Morgana's struggling, or...?' He trailed off, pursing his lips. As much as he liked the Miracle Court, there was no denying he was cut off from the general gossip. Not all the news of monsters or difficulties were announced in the throne room. Sometimes it was carried on the whisper of rumour, and Merlin felt terribly out of the loop now that he was no longer grabbing Arthur's meal from the kitchens or hanging around in the corridors.

'You have my word,' Gaius promised. 'The Lady Morgana is happier than I've ever known her, and I suspect you see her more often than I do. As for the rest? You remain well-connected to the servants, thanks to Guinevere, and the court due to the presence of Sir Leon and Lady Morgana. It is not as if Arthur has been exiled, and he seems to have made it his main priority to ensure that he misses nothing.'

That was true. Merlin couldn't deny how Arthur threw himself into his duties with renewed vigour, not only training the various knights, but his attendance at council and arbitration. In theory, his move to the Miracle Court could have led to his isolation. Instead, this past week, Merlin had noticed that nothing could be further from the truth.

People approached Arthur of their own accord, discussing their concerns. He'd even had one of the downstairs rooms furnished like a small meeting chamber: somewhere he could invite troubled courtiers to share their news, offering them comfort and hospitality in exchange for their courage.

Before he could reply, there was a hurried tap on the threshold, and they both turned towards the sound. At Gaius' invitation to enter, Gwen opened the door, looking as if she'd just run up the spiral stairs. She panted for breath, her hair fluttering as she managed to stammer out her news. 'Arthur's been called before the king. I think he's being commanded to ride out.'

'Where, do you know?' Merlin asked, already reaching for the bucket as Gaius straightened out his robes and followed in his wake. He locked the door to the healing rooms behind them as they hurried down the stairs.

'No. It's a public audience. The court are all there.' She tangled her fingers in her skirt as they made their way towards the throne room.

'It's probably just a patrol,' he murmured, glancing down at the bucket. He had hoped to take it straight back to the Miracle Court. Now it seemed he'd have no choice but to carry it into the presence of the king. He couldn't tuck it somewhere out of sight and collect it later, not without risking someone else stumbling across it. 'There's been nothing to suggest there's trouble, has there?'

Gwen shook her head, saying not a word as they slipped into the throne room, melting seamlessly into the crowd. From here, Merlin could see Arthur in front of the king, just rising from his bow. Lancelot was off to his right, between Sir Leon and Sir Pellinor. From the back, Merlin couldn't read his expression, but he noticed the tension in his shoulders, held firm and strong as the atmosphere of the court clamped around them, breathless.

'Arthur. Good. We have had reports of raids on our northern border with Mercia. I need a small force to find out if there is any truth to the matter, and if so whether it is bandits or Mercian men at fault. I thought it an ideal opportunity to test your new knight.'

'I will ensure he is a member of the party,' Arthur replied, his voice clear and, on the surface at least, unconcerned. Merlin didn't believe that for a minute, and he shifted the bucket, easing his way carefully around the edge of the room so he could take in Arthur's profile.

At first glance, he looked as relaxed as he sounded. No tension stiffened his jaw or narrowed his eyes, but Merlin could see the tell-tale impassivity of a controlled expression. Whatever Arthur truly felt, he hid it neatly behind a mask suitable for a royal court.

'This must be done discreetly. Even a modest force approaching the border could inflame tensions with Mercia, which are already challenging after the incident with King Bayard.'

Merlin grimaced. The memory of the Mortaeus flower and his own prominent role in it was still fresh in the minds of the court. He felt the weight of more than one staring eye upon him and tried valiantly to ignore them.

'Your new knight and one other, Arthur. No more.'

A murmur went through the crowd, soft, like the wind blowing through long meadow grass. A normal patrol was at least six knights. For one to be made of half that number was almost unheard of.

'Nor are you to wear Camelot colours. The less there is to give away your origins, the better. I am not expecting you to engage with whoever you find troubling our villages. You are merely to report back what you discover. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Sire.'

'Sire?' Leon's voice rang out, unfaltering. 'I would like to volunteer myself as that extra knight.'

Merlin sucked in a breath, gratitude welling in his chest. From the expression on Uther's face, he had intended to choose the third member of their party for himself. No doubt it would have been one of those who was loyal to the king first and Camelot second. Now, he could see the brief twitch of consideration across those regal features. This whole situation had backed Uther into a corner. He had to try and balance his own disdain for Arthur's independence with the opinion of the court. He needed an excellent reason to decline Leon's request, and it was obvious in those few, tense moments that none came to mind.

'I thank you, Sir Leon,' he managed at last. 'You will ride out with Prince Arthur at dawn tomorrow. Fair travels to you all.'

Merlin groaned quietly to himself, because an early departure meant he would be up well before the sun, packing provisions and checking the horses. Though he supposed, at least, that since this patrol was on the king's command, the castle kitchens would supply the food. Maybe he could delegate that bit to George...

A pointed elbow jabbing him in the ribs made him glance down at Gwen, who watched him with a knowing eye. 'You're not going,' she told him. 'The king said a knight and one other. That's Sir Leon.'

'The king doesn't think servants count,' Merlin reminded her. 'I'll ride out with them. Arthur's not going to cook his own breakfast out in the woods.'

Gwen's eyes sparkled, her lips curving into that beaming smile as her cheeks dimpled. 'You know, he went on patrols before you came along and never took a manservant with him.'

Merlin made a non-committal sound at that. The truth was, Arthur had never asked him to join the party when they mounted up. Merlin simply imposed himself, and no one had yet bothered to complain. 'I'll need you and Morgana to keep an eye on the Miracle Court while we're gone.' He lowered his voice further. 'I don't trust Uther not to try something while we're away.' The building, he suspected, could look after itself, but he still felt ill-at-ease at the notion of it standing empty.

Perhaps that was because, to Merlin's ears, the patrol Uther had ordered sounded like little more than an excuse to get Arthur out of the way.

'Of course,' Gwen vowed, resting a hand on his forearm. 'As long as you promise to look after them.'

'All of them? Or just Lancelot?' He grinned to see the subtle touch of colour flare across her cheeks. 'I'll not let any of them out of my sight if I can help it.'

'Good, and Merlin?' she called after him as he moved to depart. 'Be careful, won't you?'

He flicked a quick wave of agreement in her direction, knowing her concern came from the heart. She had started fussing about him going out on patrols with Arthur. In Gwen's view, a servant's role was both sweeping and restricted, and it should not involve riding into trouble with nothing more than worn linen to protect him from the edge of a blade. More than once since, she had tried to convince him to stay in Camelot. So far, she had not succeeded.

Where Arthur went, Merlin followed. That was not about to change.

Chapter Text

The jingle of tack marked their steady progress through the Darkling Woods, the old trackways leading ever onwards towards the northern border. Usually, Arthur experienced a feather-light relief at being out of the city, far from the reach of his father. This time, however, things were different. Unease simmered in his stomach, because now it felt as if he were leaving part of himself behind.

It was ridiculous, he knew, to grow attached to a place. It was unlikely that anything would happen in his absence, and yet a subtle dread gilded the edge of every thought. Of course, that could have something to do with the nature of this patrol. It was an unusual request, even by Uther's standards. He had scouts and spies aplenty. Any one of them would have been better equipped to judge the problems on Mercia's border. Yet here he was, with two knights to his name, dispatched to assess the situation.

Once, it might have filled him with pride to think that Uther trusted his opinion. Now, he could not bring himself to be so naive. The king had little remaining faith in him. It was far more likely that this was a test of some kind, or perhaps an ambush. In theory, the sole heir to a kingdom should be too valuable to send on such a mission. Maybe Uther had merely meant to signal to the court that he had no need to protect his dynasty, but would he be so short-sighted? Also, if it was truly a matter of discretion, why announce it before the gathered nobles?

He felt like he had a handful of broken pieces, and try as he might, he could not put them together to form a cohesive picture.

A sigh whispered past his lips as he pushed his thoughts aside. Uther's motives mattered less than the situation on the ground. He could not control the vagaries of the king's decisions; they were not within his sphere of influence. All he could do was make sure that they all came back from this safe and sound: a prince, two knights of the realm and one disobedient manservant.

He pursed his lips, eyeing Lancelot and Merlin up ahead. Normally, he would be in the lead, but some prickling instinct had urged him to bring up the rear. The wilds of Camelot, it seemed, were more of a known quantity to him than the citadel they had put to their backs. They rode two-abreast, and at least this vantage gave him a chance to check how Lancelot fared on horseback.

'He keeps a good seat in the saddle,' Leon said softly, so that his words would not carry, 'yet the circumstances of his life cannot have given him much opportunity to ride.'

Arthur looked at the man at his side, smiling to see that pale gaze lit with sharp analysis. Leon was a superb knight; one day he would be an excellent commander. He had the ability to look at a man and parse his strengths and weaknesses in the blink of an eye.

'I'm only grateful that he is better on a mount than Merlin.'

He could not blame him; he knew that. From everything Merlin had said, Ealdor was so poor that they could barely afford a single pig among the whole village, let alone a horse. He had never even sat in a saddle when he came to Camelot, and it showed. Arthur had done what he could, giving him opportunity to practice as much as possible without raising eyebrows. He had mocked him all the while, of course; gods forbid Merlin consider that Arthur might be doing him a kindness. The end result was a tolerable horseman, or at least one who didn't fall off his steed every mile or so.

'Even he is much improved.' Leon's gaze shifted to Merlin, and Arthur followed it, taking a moment to really look. It was easy, once he grew familiar with something, to miss all the small, intricate details and the story they told. True enough, Merlin looked confident, his body relaxed and poised, moving with the horse rather than bracing himself against the jostle. 'It only makes me realise how right it is to question the fundaments of the First Code.'

'I confess, I'm not sure I ever believed my father's rhetoric that nobles possessed innate qualities that made them better knights. I merely think that they had opportunities and resources that enabled them to practice the relevant skills. What he values in them more than anything is that they are in his power. They dare not question him for fear of what they may lose.' Arthur stifled the writhing in his gut as he confessed, 'That is not how I wish to rule.'

For a short while, there was silence, and when Leon spoke again, it was more in the voice of a friend than a fellow knight. 'And it is what gives me hope for Camelot's future.'

Warmth bloomed in Arthur's chest, soft and desperate. The praise was honestly delivered, without any lingering threat or judgement, and something in him lurched with gratitude. 'Well, let's not speak too soon. My father has not taken my decision about the First Code with good grace. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that he will disinherit me and validate an illegitimate heir.'

'I would not be so sure, Sire. The mood at court is subtle, true, but there would be many who would protest such an action. Even a year ago, Camelot's position was far stronger than it is today. Your father needs the support of his courtiers. The last thing he wants is a divided nobility. Kings can be overthrown; that is a risk he will not take. If he acts against you, I believe it will be in a more covert manner.'

'A knife in the back.' Arthur grimaced. 'The question is, will it be figurative, or literal?'

Leon's gauntlets creaked as they tightened on the reins, and a serious frown creased his brow. His beard bristled over his clenched jaw. 'I wish I could say. It is with that in mind that I have some thoughts on how to proceed, if it pleases you, Sire?'

'Go on.'

'I realise that it might be tempting to soften the blow to your father by acting hesitantly, but I do not believe that is the way forward. There is safety in numbers and in genuine loyalty. Two knights can only protect you from so much.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, relieved to hear how easily Leon included himself within that number. Nor was it a matter of nothing but words. Even if not for his help with Pentrose, Leon had sided with Arthur not only in volunteering for this patrol, but in gifting Lancelot the mount he rode. The beautiful grey mare, Delilah, was from Whitemarch's stables: a filly of placid nature, perfect for a beginner but spirited enough to carry a man through the miles, days and years.

'You're saying I need more?'

'I am saying that, should the opportunity present itself, you should not hold back in the hopes of easing your father's temper.' Leon's gelding Abraxis tossed his head, snorting as if in agreement. 'Your efforts won't meet with success, and your caution could put you at greater risk. You have proven that the law can accommodate such recruitment. It paves the way for others, should you find any such men who you think could lend their swords.'

'There are limits. If nothing else, Pentrose is only so big.'

'I am not implying that you should build yourself an army, Sire. Merely a cohort of trusted people who see you for more than the crown that will one day grace your brow.' Leon shifted in the saddle, seeking his comfort. 'Besides, it is not only knights that can offer their aid. There are lords and ladies of the court who are happy to assist, encouraged, perhaps, by the Lady Morgana. Then, there are the tradespeople and servants.'

'What about them?'

'Guinevere and her father Tom have been quietly asking around the Lower Town for those who can provide supplies for the Miracle Court and your knights. There is favour there. As to the rest, Merlin is well-liked. People are eager to offer him assistance because they know he will give his in turn, should they ever need it.'

Leon ran the reins through his hands idly, his gaze fixed straight ahead. 'What I am trying to say is that there is more to all this than armour and swords. I would not wish you to think that those who dwell in the Miracle Court stand alone. A king is more than his army and council. Or he should be. The same applies to a prince.'

Arthur nodded, taking the advice on board. It was easy, as a ruler, to overlook the broad foundation of the common folk that supported the lofty position of rule. His father saw Camelot's people as little more than a source of taxes. It was a stance Arthur had never favoured, and he understood the general thrust of Leon's argument. There were plenty of allies to be had, should he ever require them, and he should not restrict himself to seeking them out among young men who were able to wield a sword. There were, at times, greater weapons in life than a stout heart and a strong iron blade.

A laugh from up ahead interrupted his thoughts, and he tried not to scowl as Merlin shoved at Lancelot's shoulder, rocking him in his saddle. He had not yet found time to act on Morgana's advice and speak with him about – that. He had been called into court before he had the opportunity, and Arthur's temper threatened to sour at their easy interactions.

It was tempting to offer some kind of reprimand, but he managed to bite his tongue. Perhaps if he thought the two of them were messing about at the expense of monitoring their surroundings, he would have had his say, but the truth was obvious. Lancelot was alert to the world around them: calm, yet aware. More to the point, so was Merlin. Neither man seemed particularly tense, but nor were they oblivious, easy targets.

That was just as well. The Darkling Woods may be on Camelot's lands, but they were not safe by any means. The griffin alone had been proof of that, and far more mundane dangers could stalk the trees: bandits and rogues.

Yet nothing interrupted their first day's ride, and by the time they made camp that evening, they were all grateful to be out of the saddle. Merlin had collapsed in his bedroll the moment the dinner dishes were clean and the horses settled for the night. Perhaps he had only meant to lay down to rest his eyes, but within moments he breathed in that steady, deep rhythm that suggested he was lost to the waking world.

'Is he always able to sleep like that?' Leon asked, raising an eyebrow when Lancelot responded.

'No. Make no mistake, he's no admirer of rising early, but nor does he normally lose himself to dreams with such ease.'

Arthur grunted in agreement. 'He fidgets, or he used to. He's been like this since we started staying at the Miracle Court. I had thought it was because he was overworked. Guinevere claims he's done the lion's share of the cleaning, but...' But it wasn't just the depths of Merlin's slumber that sent alarm prickling through Arthur's body. It was the manic gleam in his eye that glowed throughout the waking hours, as if something unseen drove him ever onwards, pushing him through exhaustion and into the glassy wastes that lay on its far side.

'The house is certainly... unique.'

Leon's words were spoken from where he sat with his spine pressed to the bole of a pine tree. His head was tilted back as he watched the bats flit through the gloaming. He did not meet anyone's eye, but instead left an opening in the conversation, like a door cracked ajar.

It was a choice, Arthur realised, and one that was his alone to make. No doubt Leon and Lancelot had their own views on the occasional odd occurrence that happened within the Miracle Court. So far, they had not voiced a word of it, but now he suspected that Leon, at least, sought to test the waters of either Arthur's ignorance or his ambition.

Part of him was tempted to leave it unaddressed. After all, as long as the matter remained unspoken, he could continue to ignore it: both the practical and personal implications.

A year ago, he would have decried any sorcery immediately. It was how he had been raised, and he had not thought to question his father's word. Yet for the first time, these past few months, he had seen magic in different ways.

He recalled the benevolent light in the Forest of Balor, guiding him out of the darkness. He thought of hidden rooms within the house revealing themselves when they were needed. He considered the small touches of comfort – a full goblet and a fire that no one had struck to life – within the Miracle Court.

And Arthur wondered if, like the First Code, perhaps his father's laws on magic were more about cementing his own power then benefitting the kingdom.

'The building pre-dates the Purge, possibly by more years than any of us realise. It should not offer any surprise that magic makes its home there.' He settled by the fire, staring into the dancing silk of the flames as he considered his words with care. 'I have no doubt that my father would use that knowledge as an excuse to drive us out, if he could, but I have yet to see any real cause for disquiet.' He pulled up his knees, draping his arms over their peaks as he watched the two men opposite him. 'My mother was content there, and so am I.'

'It does not trouble you.' Lancelot's words were a statement, not a question, and the glimmer of pride in his dark eyes was unmistakable. 'Forgive my surprise, Sire. I assumed you would share your father's views.'

'They are not King Uther's alone,' Leon said, his voice carrying a word of warning. 'There are many realms in which magic is forbidden.'

'Because my father made those restrictions integral to those kingdoms that wished to treat with us.' Arthur shook his head. 'I have seen the harm sorcery can do. I have witnessed good men slain and innocents brought low by magic's touch, but in my experience, nothing in life is straightforward.'

He thought of a druid camp, its occupants massacred. He had not been much more than a boy, and yet he had looked upon their bodies and found none of the villainy his father had proclaimed. They had been people of Camelot, and they lay dead at his hand.

He watched Lancelot continue to tend his weapons: the humble sword Tom had offered and two daggers, mismatched but functional. His hands moved over the blade with a whetstone, careful and competent. The noise was sibilant, but comforting, reminding him that Camelot was a long way behind them. 'The house does not trouble me; at least so long as it seems bent on help, rather than harm.' He glanced back at Merlin, his thoughts churning. 'Perhaps it is not the same for Merlin. Has he said anything? Is he unhappy?'

Lancelot blinked at him across the fire. 'How do you mean, my lord?'

Arthur shrugged, realising he was clutching at straws. All he knew was that Merlin's current temperament had developed when they moved out of the castle. 'It occurs to me that I have never asked about his stance on magic. I do not know whether Ealdor was more accepting, or if Merlin has had his own run-ins with sorcerers in the past that might have coloured his views. Perhaps he's ill-at-ease?'

It would be better if he sounded convinced of his own reasoning, and he pursed his lips, glaring into the flames rather than meeting the eyes of the men around him. As prince, he should not care one way or the other about his servant's wellbeing. Merlin should be so far beneath him as to be irrelevant. The fact that he mattered was frankly terrifying, but it didn't change the truth. Whether he admitted it in so many words, Arthur was worried, and he suspected both his companions knew it.

'Essetir is, to my knowledge, less stringent in its control of magic,' Leon began, sounding like a man selecting each word with care. 'They hold no treaties with Camelot, but suspicion pays no heed to borders.'

'I cannot speak for Merlin' – Lancelot set his blades down – 'but he has not seemed disquieted or upset. He is as happy as ever, at least as far as I've seen.' He trailed off, waving his hand in the direction of Merlin's bedroll and the man lost to oblivion within its depths. 'Perhaps Guinevere is right. Maybe he is simply overworked?'

Arthur recalled the bag, packed with clothes, beneath Lancelot's bed. Once more, like a phantom that haunted the corners of his mind, he thought of that whispered dream. Merlin's words curling through the still night air: a soft confession of magic. He considered a house, redolent with subtle power, and wondered what that might do to any sorcerer who made their home within its walls...

No. It was like an iron door slamming in his mind, cutting off the meander of his considerations. There were thoughts he could not entertain, not even for a moment. He was Camelot's prince, and while he may have learned to flex against his father's laws, there were some that stood, immutable. If he gave his growing suspicions a heartbeat's credence, then his duty would be writ plain and there would be no way to avoid it.

'Then let us hope that a few days away from the worst of his chores puts him to rights,' Arthur said at last, trying not to feel like a coward for closing off the conversation. If Merlin were awake, he would be quick to point out that Arthur was the worst of his chores, and therefore he was getting no break at all. Yet he slept on, oblivious. 'We should get some rest. It's a long ride to Mercia. Lancelot, are you all right to take first watch?'

The man gave a confident nod, promising to wake Arthur for second while Leon offered him a fond look. With so few of them, they would split the night into two, rather than three, allowing at least one knight to keep all his wits about him during the day.

Of course, just because he was intending to sleep, Arthur didn't bother to make himself comfortable beyond the basics. His nondescript armour stitched a chill next to his skin as he wrapped his plain cloak tight around him. His sword stayed free of its scabbard, and the sparse bedroll offered a meagre bit of succour. He was used to it, true enough, but it took more time than he would like to drift off, and when he did his dreams were scented with smoke and blood.

A gentle hand shook him awake at some indeterminate point, and Arthur stifled a groan. He preferred first watch, yet he rarely took it for himself, hoping to spare his men the trial of waking from too little sleep, or at least defer it for them until the morning. Now, he tried to scrape together adequate intelligence and coordination to free himself for his bedroll and brace himself for standing guard.

'Curl up there,' he told Lancelot, indicating the space he'd just left as he hefted his sword. 'You may as well be warm, at least.'

'Thank you, Sire.' Lancelot's movements were limber, suggesting he'd had the good sense to keep moving, rather than sitting still and seizing up. Faintly darker shadows pressed themselves beneath his eyes as he added another log to the fire, but he did not appear eager for his bed. Instead, he crouched by the flames, tending them in silence. It was a thick, expectant kind of peace, but it was also an opportunity: one to put Morgana's advice to use while Lancelot was too tired to prevaricate.

'You and Merlin.' Arthur wet his lips, poking through last year's leaf fall with the tip of his sword. 'You seem very close, for men who did not know each other a month ago.' He realised too late that his words were, at best, an insinuation, rather than a question. They left room for a non-response, but something in him quailed at asking his new knight anything more explicit.

'I consider myself very fortunate indeed to have met him.' A smile curled itself in Lancelot's voice, soft and sure. 'He's done much for me, but even if he had never helped me obtain a knighthood, I would think myself lucky to call him a friend.'

'Is that all he is? A friend?'

Arthur's guts felt like they had risen up beneath his ribs to catch his heart in their coils, squeezing and sick. Perhaps he should have attempted to come at it sideways, but something in him rejected the idea. Leon had spoken to him of men he could trust, and in Arthur's eyes at least, that meant being able to reach for honesty. Still, it did not make him feel more comfortable under Lancelot's slow, steady scrutiny.

No man, he decided, so newly minted to court and Camelot both, should be capable of inflicting such a look upon the prince. It was both intense and thoughtful, as if Lancelot were peeling aside Arthur's very skin and rummaging around in his insides to assess all his secrets. The silence stretched, devoid of an answer, and Arthur was not sure he appreciated the faint shadows of sympathy that clouded that expression.

Yet whatever thoughts dwelt in Lancelot's mind remained unsaid. His features mellowed into something like resolve, and his voice was low and kind as he finally gave his response.

'We are good friends,' he promised, settling down in the space Arthur had vacated and wrapping his cloak around himself. Yet he did not shut his eyes and draw a line beneath the conversation. Instead, he continued to speak softly, and Arthur leaned closer to hear him. 'Some may think me fanciful, but I have always believed that there are people in life we have been destined to meet since before the day we were born. Friends, beloveds, even enemies. They are part of our life's story. Have you ever felt such a thing?'

Nothing in all the world could have stopped Arthur's gaze slipping, thoughtful, to where Merlin lay sleeping. He had railed against the notion of friendship with him – this upstart peasant boy who neither knew nor cared enough to respect his rank. Yet how else could he explain his own actions since? Not just his daring rush to save Merlin from the poison, braving his father's disapproval, but all that had come after: his manipulation of the First Code... his promise to even see Lancelot fight!

Yet he looked back on that initial meeting and thought of how his heart had jolted, sharp and sure, in his chest. At the time, he'd told himself it was sheer outrage at being spoken to in such a dismissive, disrespectful manner. Now, with Lancelot's words forefront in his mind, he wondered if there was more to it than that. Six months ago, he would have scoffed at the very notion, but then, cynicism's roots stemmed from his role as prince and his teachings during childhood.

No one, Uther had told him, would care for him as Arthur. To them, he was no more and no less than their king, and that was all he could ever be.

He leaned back against the tree trunk, refusing to fidget under Lancelot's scrutiny as he dug deep in himself for the words he needed. This – knights of his own and an inner circle – required trust, and such a thing rarely grew on its own. It had to be nurtured and fed in order to thrive, and that meant speaking with some measure of honesty.

'It is challenging,' he managed at last, 'for someone in my position to trust friendship when it is offered. So many people have an ulterior motive. They think of what I can do for them as prince. Nothing more. Perhaps the result is that, when I see an easy friendship in others, I struggle to understand it.'

He wished he could claim credit for his own insights, but he remembered a stiff, fraught conversation with Gaius when he was thirteen, trying to be the prince his father needed and yet feeling so alone. He had been ferocious in his envy of the comradery of others. In the end, he had resigned himself to the realisation that such a thing would probably never be in his reach.

Now, thanks to Merlin, he wasn't so sure.

Lancelot nodded as if every word made perfect sense. No shadows of judgement cast their doubt upon his face as he settled deeper in to the bedroll, shifting around in a vain effort to find comfort while still dressed in chainmail. 'What I share with Merlin, I value deeply, but we are not... courting.' He sounded as if he selected that word with some care. 'He will hold a piece of my heart forever, I am certain, as all my friends do.'

He said it as if such depth of feeling were perfectly natural. Perhaps, Arthur could see, after years of life side-by-side, that would be the case. Yet the little he knew of Lancelot suggested that, while he may not trust foolishly, he did so swiftly and with absolute certainty.

At complete opposites to Arthur.

He thought of what he had seen, that night with the griffin: two men sharing murmurs, their brows almost touching and their hands upon one another, chaste, but carrying some unknown desperation. That moment had been the spark that ignited his circling suspicions, and despite Lancelot's explanations, it still felt like a puzzle piece that did not quite fit.

Yet there was nothing in Lancelot's demeanour that hinted at deception. He had answered his questions plainly, and Arthur found himself envious of his new knights' ability to be so open with his feelings.

Lancelot was able to reach out and touch Merlin without couching it in the guise of horseplay: rough-and-tumble affection concealed behind a mask violence. Lancelot could merely rest a hand on his shoulder or pull him into an embrace, and Arthur envied that.

'Thank you,' he murmured, his words little more than an embellishment on the night air. 'For your answers, and your honesty. You should get some sleep. We still have a long ride ahead of us.'

Lancelot's smile was a small thing: a glimmer to be treasured, because it was genuine, and Arthur wished he could be so open with his emotions.

Instead, he had to make his care known in his actions. They told their story in his dedication to his duty, and he did not falter. He would guard his knights as they took their rest. He would keep them safe through the hours of darkness so that they could meet the challenges of the days ahead.

Together.

Chapter Text

The borders of Mercia were, to Merlin's surprise, much like the rest of Camelot. Nothing wrote itself in the land to betray where one kingdom ended and the other began. The Darkling Woods thickened, earning their name, yet the trees remained the same in bark and leaf: oak and hazel, beech and rowan, interspersed with the occasional pine. Resin fragranced the air, and the wild magic rose up from the roots to meet him, more intense than ever before.

He was used to the feel of it: the breeze like silk and the hum of life in his ears, but now it was as if the world had slipped beneath his skin. There was a faint sense that, if he wasn't careful, he might come apart at the seams. Perhaps it should have been uncomfortable, but there was no pain. He just felt full – sated. As if some unknown hunger deep within him had been satisfied and he could finally find a little bit of the focus he'd lost since moving into the Miracle Court.

Unfortunately, that only made him more aware of how long he had been in the saddle. His thighs had set up a steady ache, and his backside didn't much appreciate its lot, either. There was a blister on his left hand where a nick in the reins had chafed against his skin, and the blue sky had surrendered to the threat of rain. He did not fancy another night beneath the stars any more than he looked forward to another day on horseback.

And judging from the way Lilac snorted now and then, the feeling was mutual.

'There's a town about three miles to the east. We should stop at the inn.'

The knights would never say it. They would wait for Arthur to make the suggestion, rather than utter it out loud. They weren't allowed to whine or complain. Technically, he wasn't either, but that was one of the many so-called rules he ignored whole-heartedly.

'I'm sorry, Merlin, I didn't realise you were leading this patrol,' Arthur retorted, his voice rich with sarcasm. 'Or that you'd seen a map.'

He hadn't. He didn't need some painstaking chart to let him know where civilisation made its home. He could feel it. Humanity's industry was bigger and louder than that of the forest, and he could sense where loamy soil gave way to cobbled streets like a piece of flint in the back of his mind. Not that he could say as much.

'The tavern would be a good place to get the lay of the land. If there are problems with raiders, the locals of the border towns will be the ones who know the most.' Leon smiled from where he rode besides Merlin, one eyelid fluttering in the briefest, conspiratorial wink. He did not speak a lie, but he did offer Arthur a valid reason to accept Merlin's demand.

'We could also see how they are faring. This far from the citadel, it would take a long time for word to reach the king that they need aid,' Lancelot added. 'We may not be here in an official capacity, but that is not to say we cannot assist, should they require it.'

'Supposedly, we are not here at all,' Arthur reminded them. 'We are gathering information only.'

Merlin coughed to hide a snort of disbelief. Arthur might be an absolute prat sometimes, but if there was one thing he'd learned since coming into his service, it was that he had a core of honour that went right through the heart of him. If his people had need of him, he would not be found wanting: damn Uther's orders to the contrary.

'Bridgend occupies a crossing point over the Tyr River. It's a prime location for raids thanks to its rich trade.'

And that, Merlin realised with a grimace, meant it had probably been their destination all along. Arthur simply had not chosen to share that much. Perhaps he had been testing Lancelot to see if he'd break after days in the saddle. If so, he should have known better. Lancelot would ride a horse until his thighs were worn to the bone and never say a word. Merlin, on the other hand, had his limits.

And so did his magic. He'd been subtly filling their supplies here and there when he thought he could get away with it, multiplying the oats for the horses to ensure they did not run short. Still, the hunting had been sparse, because he drew the line at luring animals into the sights of Arthur's crossbow, and even he could admit he'd rather not have pottage for dinner again.

'Think we can get there before it rains?' he asked, squinting doubtfully up at the clouds.

'Not if we carry on at your pace,' Arthur retorted, pressing his heels to Llamrei's flanks, coaxing her into a trot. The other horses picked up on the change instinctively, their legs finding a steady, faster stride. They made it to Bridgend's gate just as the sky unleashed its downpour, and by the time he slithered, weak-kneed and aching, from the saddle, Merlin was drenched through to the skin.

He pinned in a sigh, trying not to scowl at the thought of the long evening ahead. Seeing to the horses, at least, wouldn't fall to him, but if he was wet, then so were the knights. His clothes would dry easily enough, but their chainmail was another matter. It would need to be tended to prevent rust. His magic could do it in a heartbeat, but somehow, he doubted he could get away with that here.

The stable boys were only too happy to tend to their mounts in exchange for the coin Arthur offered, and Merlin hid a smile when Lancelot took his own saddlebag, leading by glorious, thoughtful example. Often, when it was Arthur and other noble knights, Merlin was left to be the mule. Now, Leon did the same without a second thought, grabbing his own pack and hoisting it with ease. Perhaps it was an attempt to maintain his cover, but he liked to think that maybe Lancelot could teach the nobles a thing or two about humility. Just because they had servants didn't mean they couldn't occasionally do their own carrying.

Arthur's jaw tightened, and Merlin didn't miss the fact that he slid a sideways glance in his direction before retrieving his own possessions. 'Only because we're meant to be discreet,' he muttered. 'Don't think this is the way things will be once we're back in Camelot.'

'Of course not, Si – Arthur.'

He bit off the title before it could escape him, rolling his eyes when Arthur pulled a very unprincely face. In his view, it didn't matter whether he called him "Sire" or not. People might not realise he was the prince, but they would know he was something. It was written into the meat of him: a quality that Leon shared and Lancelot did not. Their armour was mediocre and their boots may be mud-splattered, but it was as if nobility gilded the pair of them.

The innkeeper had two rooms to offer, and Merlin had never been so grateful to see a bed in his life. Not that he'd had any trouble sleeping on the ground, but his bones needed a reprieve. A solid ache made a nest in his right hip, and his back felt like an iron bar. There were a pair of narrow cots in each chamber, and the fire had been heaped high, blazing cheerfully. He urged the knights to surrender their chainmail and set about buffing it with dry rags: anything to soak up the water that had seeped into the links.

If Arthur was wearing his usual maille, it would not be an issue. Merlin had spent ages working the subtlest of charms into the metal. Rain would not dare intrude and weaken its protection. Still, in an effort not to pronounce their rank and station to everyone they passed, they were clad in the basic armour that the watch favoured, and there were no enchantments to make Merlin's job any easier.

Later, when the others were asleep, he would give it a little magical nudge. For now, he did it the hard way before settling the gleaming hauberks before the grate, lying them flat on the floor to take advantage of the heat.

Turning around, he squawked as a wodge of fabric whacked him in the face. It took a moment of stupid blinking to realise they were dry clothes, spared the rain thanks to the oiled canvas of the packs.

'Change,' Arthur ordered, peeling himself free of his gambeson and the damp tunic beneath. At least his various layers meant he wasn't drenched through. 'You'll only catch a cold, otherwise, and I don't want you complaining all the way home.'

For the space of two heartbeats, Merlin considered being stubborn about it, but he wasn't a knight with some manly pride to tend. Instead, he turned his back – the only sliver of modesty the small chamber would allow – and shrugged out of his jacket before scrabbling at his belt. He peeled his tunic over his head, shivering despite the fire's heat. The clean shield of fresh clothes was a blessing. Only his smalls and socks had been spared, and he shucked out of his wet breeches before wriggling his way into a dry pair with a faint sigh of relief.

When he turned around, it was to find Arthur watching him, his lips pursed and a frown pleating his brow.

'What?'

'You've been in Camelot for a while now, and you're still as skinny as a rake. Does Gaius not feed you?'

'Not anymore. That's your job,' Merlin pointed out, 'since I live at the Miracle Court instead of Gaius' chambers. Besides, I eat plenty.'

The doubtful noise Arthur made was far from flattering, but he shook his head, dismissing the conversation. Yet it did not slip beneath Merlin's notice that the frown lingered, dense and thoughtful.

'Don't strain yourself, thinking that hard.'

'I'm surprised you recognise the signs.' Arthur sniffed. 'It's not as if you bother.' He waved a dismissive hand before grabbing Merlin's elbow and steering him from the room. The click of the lock punctuated their departure, and he eased himself free of Arthur's grip as they clattered down the stairs.

'Find out what you can from the servants whenever you have the opportunity,' Arthur urged. 'They're more likely to talk to you than me. Get some ale and a hearty meal for us all. Yourself included.' He pressed a few coins into Merlin's hand, enough to cover the cost of dinner without much to spare. Not because he didn't trust Merlin not to fritter his gold, but because it was unwise to flaunt any kind of wealth in a strange town, and a servant with his master's coin purse made a nice, vulnerable target.

He nodded, taking note of the table where Leon and Lancelot awaited them before heading for the bar. The rain had driven people to seek their comfort, and the raucous cheer of men who were done with their day's toil filled the air. Most were gathered in groups of two or three, or clustered around playing dice, strangers united by the game at hand. A couple of labourers lingered by the bar, focusing on their tankards, but it was the man at the end who caught his eye.

He faced the room, one elbow propped behind him as he watched the tavern's other occupants. There was nothing sharp and predatory in his gaze, but rather a faint hint of amusement, as if he were laughing at a joke the rest of them hadn't heard. He had hair that almost brushed his shoulders, a stubble-darkened chin and a smiling mouth: good-looking by any standards, though that wasn't what caught Merlin's eye. At first glance, the man's clothes were simple and worn, his posture easy, but there was something about him. Something that warned Merlin he was not what he seemed.

Not a commoner, at least, not exactly.

Dark eyes met his, gleaming with the kind of mischief that spelled nothing but trouble. Merlin raised an eyebrow as the man threw a jaunty wink in his direction, returning it with a quick grin before he gave the innkeeper his full attention.

The owner of the tavern nodded along with his request and took his coin gratefully. He was surprisingly soft-spoken, and Merlin had to lean in to hear him as he poured four foaming tankards. 'Come far, have you?'

'Far enough,' he replied, not bothering to keep the rueful note of a put-upon servant out of his voice. 'Seeking work in Mercia. We plan to cross the river at daybreak.'

There was something in the innkeeper's face: a tightness around his eyes that suggested troubled thoughts. He finished pouring the ale before drumming his fingers on the hewn surface of the bar, his gaze raking the room before he leaned in. 'I wouldn't, lad. Not if your master can be convinced otherwise. There's been raids on the road that runs along the north bank of the Tyr. Traders slaughtered. Villages robbed and burned. So far, they've not crossed the water, but I doubt it will be long.'

Merlin nodded, allowing his eyes to grow wide and ducking his head a fraction: feigned fear. 'Bandits?'

Uncertainty riddled the innkeeper's expression. He wiped away spills, the muscles in his burly arms flexing as he did so. 'Mercians?' He shrugged. 'Least that's what folk say, but towns the other side of the border tell a different story. They say it's brigands in Camelot colours raiding their stores and murdering on their roads.' The man shook his head. 'I don't know, lad. All I can say is, there's them dying, and them doing the killin', and you and your master would be better off out of it.'

Merlin ducked his head in thanks. He grasped the tankards, two in each hand, and making his way back to the table, his mind churning all the while. It was not unheard of for so-called noble knights to turn into murderous bastards, raiding a neighbouring land with or without the tacit approval of their liege-lord.

More often than not, greed was the driving force, though sometimes knights had little choice as their coffers dwindled through poor leadership and famine-wracked estates. Still, what the innkeeper had said made him uneasy. If whoever was behind this was not merely turning their coat, but trading it out, dressing as if they hailed from Mercia one day and Camelot the next, it suggested there was more to all this than basic banditry.

He set the drinks down before perching on his seat, breathing a sigh of relief as the fireplace at his back covered his shoulders in a mantle of heat. 'Kitchen will be right out with dinner,' he promised, taking a gulp of his ale. He was not in the tavern nearly as often as Gaius claimed, but he did appreciate a drink now and then, and this brew was noticeably better than what they served in the Rising Sun. Licking the foam from his lip, he hastily explained what he'd had from the innkeeper, making sure to keep his voice hidden beneath the chatter all around them.

The three knights listened with an air of patient and studied indifference. None of them, not even Lancelot, let a trace of suspicion show on their faces. The only sign of Arthur's curiosity was a faint tightening of his jaw, barely distinguishable as he leant forward with the relaxed ease of a man glad to be out of the rain and the saddle both. 'You're sure that's what he said? Men from Mercia and Camelot?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Normal raiders would not take that risk. It draws too much attention,' Leon pointed out. 'Worse, by wearing the colours of two kingdoms, it puts twice as many eyes on them.'

'They may not have thought that far ahead,' Lancelot murmured. 'It could be they are merely disguising themselves to throw people off the scent and have not realised how it may look. In my experience, most bandits are not known for their sense of strategy.'

'Where are their targets? Where have they struck?' Arthur's hands were wrapped around his ale, but he'd yet to drink any of it. Instead, he stared into the pale beer as if he were attempting to scry the answers from its depths.

Before Merlin could respond, their dinner arrived, and the smell of rabbit stew hit him like a battering ram. The young woman had balanced four plates in her grasp with enviable skill. She met his gaze; her smile pinked her cheeks as her eyes sparkled invitingly.

He got that look in Camelot now and then. Not that he had much chance to do anything about it, considering he spent every waking moment either helping Gaius or tending Arthur. Sadly, that wasn't about to change, especially when he caught sight of Arthur's disbelieving glare across the table.

'What?' he muttered defensively. The prat was only jealous because it was normally him being looked at from beneath coyly lowered lashes. Merlin's included, sometimes. Not that Arthur needed to know that.

'Some people have very questionable taste,' Arthur sniped, stabbing a bit of rabbit with unnecessary vehemence.

'What else did the innkeeper say?' Leon's interruption was smooth, and Merlin didn't think he imagined the faint edge of fond weariness to his tone as he brought them back on track. He was using the rough cutlery as if he were at court, carefully selecting morsels from his plate.

'The road the other side of the river is the problem for now. Villages have been hit, but he doesn't believe it will be long before they try their luck here.'

'What about numbers? Did he say?' Lancelot frowned when Merlin shook his head. 'If they were merely attacking merchants, it could be nothing but a small band, as little as a half-dozen, but if they're going after settlements –'

'–Then it's more likely to be a score or more.' Arthur sighed. 'We need details, and we should be careful. If my father has thought to send men to the border to get a better idea of the situation, then it stands to reason Bayard may have done the same.' He shook his head, turning his attention to his meal and devouring it with gusto.

'We should take our rest. I plan to set out at first light.' Arthur shifted his grip on his spoon. 'A handful of years ago, the river marked the border. A new treaty with Mercia gave Camelot the road on its far bank and a small stretch of land beyond. We should see what these raiders have left in their wake.'

Merlin pulled a face, wondering if there would be anything to find. They all knew how easily the settlements on the edge of a kingdom fell through the cracks. Lancelot had personal experience, and Ealdor was not much better. Camelot's border with Mercia was long. It shifted at the whims of the kings in charge, with little thought to the people who scratched out a living. It made them tempting, easy targets.

Eventually, their plates were clean and their ale mugs empty. Merlin leant back in his chair, resting a hand over his belly and giving a contented sigh. The truth was, he barely had time to sit down anymore. He'd been so busy since moving to the Miracle Court. He only remembered to eat because Gwen threatened him, and even then, he rushed through it. Now, for once, there was nothing urgent demanding his attention, and he let himself relax, just a little bit.

'Don't go to sleep.' Arthur kicked his foot none-too-gently, startling him out of his post-dinner stupor. 'Take the plates back to the kitchen and get some hot water brought to the room. I want to at least wash off the dust from the road before climbing into bed.'

Merlin rolled his eyes, holding out his hand. A jug of warm water would be considerably cheaper than a bathful, but it still cost coin. Arthur handed it over grudgingly. His gaze darted to the bar, settling on someone for a moment before he turned away.

'Don't be long, Merlin.'

'I'll get one for you two as well. Anything else you need?'

Lancelot offered him a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder. 'Thank you, my friend, and no. We'll be all right. Do not dally.'

'Couldn't if I tried.' Merlin grinned, nodding goodnight to Leon before stacking plates and cups. It wasn't really his job; the kitchen-maid could have done it, but he suspected there was more behind Arthur's pompous orders than met the eye.

Unlike the three of them, Merlin could blend in well enough here thanks to his rank and ask questions without raising suspicion. Though what more he could find out remained to be seen. It wasn't like he could start grilling the innkeeper on the state of the bandit's armour or their precise numbers. The man was unlikely to know the details, and a servant such as him shouldn't be interested.

The quiet man accepted his coin, promising to have jugs taken up to the rooms. 'Did you manage to change his mind?' he asked, offering Merlin a sympathetic smile when he merely shook his head. 'Ah, well. You'll be safe as anyone else in these parts, at least.'

There was a haunted edge to his voice as he said it: the dread of living a long way from the king's army making itself plain. Now that Merlin looked, there were hints of it in almost every face, half-hidden behind laughter and friendship. The people here were scared, but they carried on as best they could. 'A bit safer, maybe. Your masters look handy with the swords on their belts.'

Merlin uttered a non-committal noise, not sure what else he could say without giving away that Arthur and the others were more than they let on. The innkeeper had already made his own assumptions, he suspected, but he would not confirm or deny them. 'If I'm honest, I'd rather turn back, but...' He shook his head, offering a rueful smile.

'Good luck, lad. You might need it.'

Merlin grinned in thanks, noticing a pair of serving girls approaching the stairs with two large ewers of warm water. He ambled off in their wake, his ears open for snatches of conversation as he wended his way among the other patrons. Some of it was just idle gossip, who was tumbling whom behind another's back: that sort of thing. However, now and then he'd catch snippets of something more fearful: unease writ plain. It felt as if there was a storm brewing, sending crackling cold darting beneath his skin. His stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and Merlin wet his lips.

He'd had "funny feelings" before: his magic stirring to warn him of impending trouble. It was never specific – just a nameless, faceless dread that spread out from the core of him, urging him to take care. This felt a bit like that, except there was more flavour to it: metal on his tongue and shadows in the corner of his vision. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his next breath stalled in his lungs.

Yet nothing happened. No cries of alarm stirred the night. The clamour of the tavern continued, uninterrupted. The world went on, and he was left to shake himself free of the strange sensation, bullying himself towards the stairs and up to the rooms where the knights would take their rest.

Maybe if he were a different man – a more stupid one – he would ignore his own instincts, but Merlin was not about to fall into that trap. Perhaps he couldn't tell the others the truth, but he could at least make sure they were prepared for a rude awakening.

He darted into Arthur's bedchamber, ignoring his questioning look as he retrieved Leon and Lancelot's maille to carry it back to their fireside. 'Just in case,' he said by way of explanation as he shouldered his way into their room, spreading the hauberks before the flames and stirring the fire higher.

It was a matter of a moment, while fussing over the sinuous, metal links of the armour, to will his magic into each one, banishing lingering moisture and strengthening any weaknesses with the amber flicker of his gaze. Leon had his back turned, anyway, though judging from Lancelot's worried frown, he'd noticed a glimmer and realised it wasn't the firelight in Merlin's eyes.

Arthur's own armour received the same treatment once he'd returned to the other room. His power wove joyfully through the metal, bathing it in subtle strength. Part of him knew it was foolish – dangerous – to use his magic with the prince of Camelot standing right there, but he refused to leave anyone vulnerable. Something was going on here at the border where Mercian land met Camelot's holdings, and he did not think that any of it was quite what it seemed.

He did not know what the night ahead might hold. He could only try and ensure that his friends were ready to face it, one way or the other.

Chapter Text

Darkness cloaked the pokey little room, alleviated only by the embers of the fire. The flames had died down to nothing but a sullen glow, and the rain drummed down beyond the window. Arthur should be asleep. He had told his men to take their rest and prepare for a long day tomorrow. He should follow his own advice, yet slumber eluded him. He could not stop the steady churn of his mind ruminating over the ruffians who had plunged the region into fear.

It was a palpable thing, impossible to miss even in the rambunctious, crowded tavern. He had seen it in the strain pressed into the patrons' faces. Their suspicion had been clear the moment they set foot through the door: strangers with swords were probably not unusual, but in these trying times, no doubt they were unwelcome.

It was why he'd urged Merlin to ask questions. Partly, it was because he was a peasant himself, his clothes simple and unthreatening. Yet it was also because, whether Arthur liked it or not, people found him easy to talk to. He made friends with everyone, and it appeared he had done just that.

Not only the innkeeper, who had offered the information, but the serving girl who hadn't looked even once in Arthur's direction. She had eyes for Merlin alone, and she wasn't the only one.

Irritation prickled in his chest, and he turned over, beating the thin pillow into shape. He'd watched Merlin while he was at the bar. Someone had to, since he had a bizarre talent for getting himself into trouble.

He'd noticed the man, his age, or thereabouts, with brown hair that brushed his shoulders and a fine sword hanging from his belt. He bore the appearance of a commoner but held himself like a fighter. Arthur knew that stance – a battle-readiness that wove itself through a warrior, even when he was at ease. Yet that hadn't been what made him scowl. It had been the wink he'd thrown Merlin's way and the grin he'd received in return.

He jerked his head to the side, attempting to dismiss the image. It was an irrelevance. His concern over what might bloom between Merlin and Lancelot had mattered, or so he had told himself. They did not need any additional complications when it came to his newest knight; that was the start and end of the matter. What Merlin did in his own time – be that with pretty serving girls or roguish men with ridiculous hair – was nobody's business but his own.

At least they would leave this place soon. Arthur would rather unravel the mystery of the brigands along the border than investigate the sharp ache that curdled in the hollow of his chest.

A sudden gasp from the bed opposite made him look over in surprise, his lips parted around a question he never got to give voice. Even as he stared at Merlin's figure, bolt upright as if he had lurched from a nightmare, the shrill clamour of the town's warning bell clattered through the air. Tinny and sharp, the noise was nothing like the solemn cry of Camelot's alarm, and yet Arthur reacted instinctively, hurling himself from his nest as Merlin struggled free of the blankets.

Merlin may fail in many aspects of being a manservant, but Arthur could not fault him when it came to this. His hands were deft and sure upon his body, helping him shrug his gambeson over his tunic and darting over the laces. His chainmail was next, falling to rest mid-thigh over the breeches Arthur had left on in bed. He had no plate to add to the outfit, and Arthur rested his hand on his sword as he marched from his chamber, unsurprised to see Lancelot and Leon stumble from theirs in the same moment.

'Stay here,' he ordered over his shoulder, scowling as he saw Merlin shove his bare feet into his boots and grab his jacket and scarf. 'Merlin –'

'No time.' He squeezed past, pausing only when Arthur pressed his hand to his chest.

His tunic was rough under his palm, and he fought the urge to clench his fingers into a fist. The desire to argue boiled beneath his ribs, but he crushed it ruthlessly. Instead, Arthur shook his head, just once, speaking through gritted teeth. 'Then stay behind me. You're not even armed.'

The scream of a horse made them bolt for the stairs, their footsteps pounding on the planks before they reached the main tavern floor. The innkeeper was pale and breathless in his nightshirt, a club gripped tight in his hands, and Arthur met the poor man's eye. 'Get everyone into the cellar, now. You'll be safest down there. Do not come out until the noise has faded or I tell you otherwise.'

His voice rang with command, and he did not wait to see if he had been obeyed as he threw aside the bar on the tavern's door and stepped out into the street.

Smoke fragranced the rain-drenched air, acrid as it plumed into the night sky. The orange of the flames cast a ruddy glow as the fire devoured the tarred thatch of the buildings closest to the gate. He could hear the clatter of horses' hooves upon the time-worn cobbles and the distant chime of swords as those occupants who were able made the effort to fight back.

'This is more than a raid,' Leon breathed, wincing as another building fell victim to the flames. 'Your orders, Sire?'

'Merlin, get our mounts out of the stable and make sure they're safe. We'll head for the gate and try and bring a stop to this.'

'What? There are only three of you!' Merlin protested, as if he thought Arthur proposed nothing but madness. 'The gods alone know how many raiders there are!'

'Then we will find out. My father wanted information, but I cannot stand idly by while my people suffer. Now stop arguing and do what you are told.'

He whirled away, breaking into a sprint. His sword was a familiar weight in his hand: his burden to bear. Each breath parched his throat, the air tainted as it was by smoke's choking touch. The street was cloaked in dancing shadows, the fires silhouetting the people: attacker and victim made one in the gloom.

Arthur skidded to a halt, his orders falling thick and fast from his lips. 'Have a care. If the raiders are armed and armoured like us, the townsfolk may attack us by mistake. Raise your blade against them no further than is necessary for your own defence. Stay near each other. Do not become separated. A lone fighter in this mess is an easy target. Aim for and unhorse the riders first.'

A battle such as this with green recruits was far too often a killing ground. It was a bloody, intimate, fear-stained affair: enough to shake the nerves of even the most seasoned knight. Yet Lancelot never faltered. He was a presence at Arthur's left just as Leon never wavered from his right, the three of them pressed into a clumsy back-to-back, never more than a few paces away from a friend as they set about putting their lives on the line for Camelot.

Arthur darted forward, his sword raised to block the blow that threatened to rain down on his head. He shoved his left hand under the rider's stirrup and hauled with all his might. The horse, already prancing and twitching, took advantage of her freedom, bolting for the darkness. Leon's blade plunged into the fallen man's chest, pinning his death to the cobbles. The acrid smoke carried a subtle, metallic scent of blood as they progressed, surging onwards to take the clots of raiders by surprise.

Somewhere, a horn blew: the call to muster. Arthur swore under his breath as more figures emerged, stepping from the shadows as if they were little more than ghosts. He had hoped these men rode leaderless, with no strategic thought beyond the urge to attack. Alas, someone out there had the sense to realise that the three of them were a threat: one better neutralised if the raiders concentrated their efforts.

There was no army of knights at Arthur's back. No Camelot standard waved high upon the wind. They were vastly outnumbered, and Arthur cursed as he surveyed the gathering bandits. 'Fight with all you have,' he commanded, his heart pulsing hard in the hollow of his throat. 'Hold nothing back. There is no room here for hesitation or mercy.'

Every muscle in his back hardened, braced to heft the blade in his hand. Aches dwelt in his biceps, easily ignored. If these men had any sense, they would keep their distance and harry them in an effort to make them break their defensive little tangle. They would try and get them on their own: vulnerable targets, neatly surrounded and overwhelmed.

They did not get the chance.

Arthur heard it before he saw it: the clash and slice of a sword, distant from them but working in tandem with their desperate, bloody fervour. Cries of surprise and roars of outrage made him long to turn, but he could not take his eyes off of the men in front of them. He had to leverage every advantage in his possession, lunging forward when one slipped on a patch of ice to slash his throat, gutting a second who dropped his blade in a panic.

Something collided with his shoulder: a warm expanse, solidly braced as a voice reached him over the din. 'Thought you could use a hand!'

Arthur noted, faintly, the brogue that touched those words, the same as he saw two bodies fall out of the corner of his eye, struck down by the man's sword. There was no time for more than that. 'Glad of it,' he ground out, making room with ease, three becoming four as if the man had simply claimed a space that had always had his name on it.

They fought well. As near to seamless as they could get, considering one of them was a stranger. There were knights among his father's command who had never gelled so perfectly at Arthur's side, and he thought a silent prayer of gratitude for small blessings.

Not that the stranger at his shoulder was the only boon offered that night. The numbers around them were thinning, and not merely because the bandits had fallen to their blades. Clearly, they were a cowardly lot. More than one dropped his sword, recoiling as if the hilt had burned his palm before turning tail and fleeing into the darkness. The ground under their boots seemed treacherous, even though Arthur and the others were sure of foot. It was as if the ice itself had a vendetta against those who had made Bridgend a target.

He could not say who called the retreat. No horn rang through the air. It was as if, all at once, the raiders realised their luck had run out. It was the turning of the tide. If he had been on horseback, Arthur would have given chase and cut them down. Instead, they were shadows that disappeared, fading from sight as if returning to the hell that had spawned the cruelty in their hearts.

'Hold,' he ordered as Leon twitched forward, his own desperate desire to offer pursuit etched into his face. 'We do not have the men, and Bridgend needs us more.' He turned to the stranger, taking in the roguish grin and the long hair. He really should have known. He had been able to read the fighting spirit in the man that winked at Merlin from where he sat. If there was anyone in this border town likely to voluntarily answer a call-to-arms, it was one with battle writ upon his bones.

'You have my thanks...'

'Gwaine.' He held out his hand, clasping Arthur's arm as if he considered them now brothers, bathed in the same blood. Though there was a gleam in his eye that suggested such an opinion was under constant reassessment. His faith, Arthur suspected, was not like Lancelot's, but far more conditional.

'Arthur,' he replied. 'There are not many who would take on such odds.'

'Ah, well, your man Merlin asked me, and I've never been able to say no to such a pretty face.'

'Is he well?' Lancelot looked around with feverish uncertainty, the blood on his sword oily black in the uncertain light of the fires that still burned.

'I'm fine.' Merlin stepped forward from the mouth of the nearest alley, and Arthur let out an aggravated breath. He should have known that he would not have stayed with the horses, hopefully out of harm's way. He had a bloody lip, and a bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone. The knuckles of both fists were bleeding, and he favoured one side over the other, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. 'We need to get these fires under control. Our mounts are safe for now, but they won't be if the whole town goes up in flames.'

'I ordered people to take shelter in the cellar of the inn. We'll get who we can to assist us. Leon, Lancelot: check the gate. See if we are able to repair it. I doubt anyone will come back tonight, but we cannot leave this place vulnerable to further attack. Merlin –'

A sudden movement of shadow caught his eye. One of the felled bandits reared up from where he was slumped on the cobbles, something silver gleaming in his grasp.

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking so hard he nearly lost his footing, and a string of curse words coloured the air. Arthur raised his sword, but there was no point. The bandit had used the last of the life in his frame to deliver the blow, one that may well have sundered Arthur's mail and bitten into the tender flesh at the hollow of his hip. Instead, Gwaine had pulled him out of the way, catching the blade in his thigh on its downward arc.

Leon's shoulder was immediately under Gwaine's arm, supporting his weight as he threatened to pitch over and crack his head on the cobbles. Arthur took the other side, steering them towards the inn with the quick, practised ease of someone used to making a hospital out of a battlefield.

Nor was he the only one to move with such confidence.

'Put him on the table,' Merlin ordered, sweeping the nearest of the long benches clear of the tankards and plates that remained, relics of another life. 'He's losing a fair bit of blood. I'll need to stitch it. Anyone else wounded, send them here. I'll do what I can.'

Arthur drew breath to question what good an apprentice healer of only six months could do, especially when most of Merlin's time had been divided between Gaius' tutelage and Arthur's servitude. Yet he choked back the voice of doubt. If nothing else, he had learned by now that Merlin had startling fits of capability when he least expected them. Besides, people needed certainty in moments such as these, not seeds of doubt watered by fear.

With quick strides, he went to the cellar hatch, hammering his fist against the wood and calling out, 'Those bandits who have not perished have fled. We need every able hand to see to the fires and tend the wounded.'

There was a rattle as someone threw back the interior bolt, and the panels swung ponderously back on their hinges. A dozen or so pale faces looked up at him from the gloom, and Arthur desperately hoped that the population of Bridgend had not been so reduced. The town was a good size. Surely there must be other survivors? Houses the bandits did not reach?

Quickly, he began organising them, falling back on hard-learned lessons. No one questioned him: in desperate times, people were usually grateful for leadership. The men he sent out to douse fires and restore braziers, retrieve the wounded and count the dead. The women he urged to help Merlin, and they did so with brisk capability, though he did not miss the fear that haunted their collective gaze.

'Will he be all right?' he asked, jerking his head to Gwaine. Merlin had untied his scarf, lashing it tight around his wounded thigh. There were bruises on the column of his throat, as if someone had tried to throttle him, and Arthur stamped down on the fierce, protective surge that rose in his belly.

'He'll need stitches.'

'I'll need a drink,' Gwaine managed through clenched teeth. 'By the gods!'

'Go.' Merlin gave Arthur a quick grin. 'I've got this. People out there need you more.'

Arthur nodded, beckoning to Lancelot and Leon as he turned on his heel. Perhaps he should have argued or reminded Merlin of his place: a servant, even amidst all this blood and destruction, but he did not have it in him. Besides, something in Arthur appreciated being treated not like a commander, but as an equal – as if he and Merlin were in this together.

It was a long night. One of grim grief and ceaseless toil. In the midst of battle, far too many details had slipped his attention. Now, it was as if all those questions had decided to demand their answers. Dawn honed the horizon when Lancelot and Leon found him, leaning under the eaves to have a moment out of the rain with his thoughts. The two men flanked him as if they had both been doing so every day for years, finding a brief sliver of respite.

'Someone let them in.' Leon's words were kept low, so as not to go beyond the three of them. 'The gate is whole. It was unlocked from the inside. There was a corpse at the threshold: a boy of sixteen winters, perhaps? I prefer to believe he had been deceived as to their intentions.'

'Or paid. His clothes were poorer than most here. His body lean.' Lancelot shrugged, his chainmail chiming as he did so. They were, each of them, soaked to the skin. Puddles formed around their boots. Arthur's socks were wet. So were his smalls. 'It would not be the first time a good heart has been swayed by hardship and an offering of coin.'

Arthur sighed, nodding once in understanding. 'They went for the wealthier houses first. Gold was definitely their aim, though they had no qualms about slaughtering anyone who got in their way. This was a considerable force. There are nearly thirty dead, not including townsfolk, and there were plenty left to flee.'

'How many casualties? Do we know?' Leon murmured.

'Almost twice that number. They were shown no mercy.' Arthur swallowed. Bridgend was not a village, but nor was it a city. It was a small settlement, walled only because of its proximity to the border and because there was wealth to protect. 'They will not forget this day in a hurry. Most of the dead were among the watch or men hoping to defend their households. Their loss leaves this town vulnerable to a second attack. We cannot let this go unanswered. We cannot leave them sitting here, ripe for the plucking, waiting for a massacre.'

'Your lord father...'

Arthur's lips trembled around a voiceless snarl. Once, back in his youth, he would have believed Uther would do what was right for his people. Now, he knew differently. Perhaps the king had underestimated the situation. It was possible that he would send out a patrol at Arthur's request, but even if he did, it would take time. It would have been better by far to order a score of men to scour the border and put down any banditry they found, and yet he had not.

He waved a hand, dismissive. It would be foolish to ride out now. They were wet, miserable, and bruised from their battle. All of them needed a chance to breathe before selecting the best way forward.

'The flames, at least, are contained.' Lancelot's voice lifted with a touch of optimism. 'In that sense, I suppose the rain was a blessing.'

Arthur hummed, because in truth, the weather was something he was trying to ignore. When they had taken to their beds, the wind had howled its accusations as the storm lashed down. Yet now the air was utterly still. So it had been since the bandits attacked. No breeze stirred the smoke to a stinging, clinging haze, and the steadiness of the downpour, aided by bucket chains, meant the fire did not spark and spread.

And yet... their enemy had slipped on icy cobbles. He had recalled the faint crackle of impossible frost. No ice should form on a night made mild by cloud and rainfall. No storm should lose its voice so utterly between one moment and the next, the wind dying as surely as the raiders upon his blade. In the heat of battle, such details had been beneath his notice, but now his mind picked at them as if they were a scab.

He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as a cut high on his temple stung at the contact. None of them carried any grievous injuries, but they were each battered in their own way. Now, at least, Bridgend had been made as secure as they could manage. The dead could wait a few more hours. The living could not.

'Back to the tavern,' Arthur ordered, peeling himself away from the wall and grimacing as water from the thatch ran down his neck. 'Let's see how our heroic saviour is faring.'

'It took courage, doing what he did.' Leon's boots squelched comically as he kept pace. 'Most men would have left us to our fate.'

'One which I doubt would have been as kind without his interference.' Lancelot pushed open the door, brushing his sopping hair back from his face and breathing a sigh of relief as the warmth enveloped them. The flames in the large hearth had been built high, and the tavern had become an impromptu healing room.

Gwaine himself snored beneath a blanket, a bit pasty, but otherwise hale. There were others, here and there, taking their rest, and Arthur noticed a number of bottles from what looked like an apothecary lined up on the bar. Many had their corks loose, as if the elixirs had been pushed into hasty service. There were bandages, as well as needle and thread for stitching, and in the middle of it all was Merlin, looking as if he had barely survived a war of his own.

His sleeves were rolled up, and there was blood almost to his elbows. Smudges of it marked his face, a gruesome epitaph. Those long fingers were wrapped around a mug of something hot, and he clung to it as if for dear life.

'Excuse me.' Arthur hailed a passing serving girl, realising belatedly it was the one who'd fluttered her lashes so temptingly at Merlin. 'We have need of a bathtub.' In an ideal world, he'd order himself, his knights and Merlin one each, but he doubted that Bridgend's tavern was so well-graced. The rest of them would have to make do with a cloth and ewer. At least the rain had washed away the worst of it. 'And if someone could see that the fires are built high in our rooms, I would be grateful.'

She bobbed an obliging curtsy and scurried off to do his bidding as Arthur walked over to where Merlin sat, dropping into the chair to his right.

'You look like a drowned rat,' Merlin murmured, cracking open one eye. A few heartbeats later he added a very tired 'Sire.' as if he were an individual possessed of actual manners.

'And you look like a butcher who is very bad at his job. How's Gwaine?'

Merlin took a sip of whatever was in the tankard, wrinkling his nose before seeming to notice the state of his hands for the first time. 'Stitched, bandaged and a bit drugged. I put a sleep tonic in his ale. It's easier to sew people up when they're not flinching.'

'Is that all his?' Leon asked, gesturing to Merlin, his horror and confusion writ large.

'No. Most of what came in here was walking wounded. Stitches, binding: nothing I couldn't deal with, but there was one. A man – he...' Merlin shook his head, pursing his lips. Those blue eyes carried a haunted shadow in their depths. Arthur clenched his hands into fists, resisting the urge to reach out and cup his shoulder. If it were Lancelot or Leon, he would not think twice, but something in him twitched from the notion like a horse shying from some unseen danger.

'Gut wound,' Merlin managed at last. 'A bad one: sliced deep – insides not where they should be.' He let out a breath, looking up at the rafters as if trying to blink back tears. 'There was nothing I could do.'

His tone of voice made it sound as if he'd been repeating that to himself time and again. He might not be a knight, but Arthur could see how the healing rooms were their own kind of battle. Merlin may not have wielded a blade, but he had waged war all the same, beating off death where Arthur had brought it down upon others. He would look around at his triumphs – patients who would recover thanks to his skills. Yet Arthur knew that it would be the solitary defeat, the man he could not save, which would haunt him.

'You did well.' The praise slipped out of him, unstoppable, and Arthur was a little shocked by how much he meant it. Any servant with an ounce of common sense would have sought to save their own skin, but Merlin had never been like that. People had commented, more than once, about the fact he rode at Arthur's side without armour or a weapon with which to protect himself. He could have stayed with the horses. He could have hidden in the cellar with the others. Instead, he'd pitched in, fighting with fists and wits alone. Arthur could not ask for more.

'I think you've done all you can. Let's get you cleaned up.'

'In a moment.' Merlin peeled his hands away from the tankard, grimacing at the tacky blood that had dried on his palms. He set it to one side before rising to his feet and stumbling across the room. Arthur followed, his pace slowing as he approached the body on the table.

He was a broad man, closer to his father's age than their own. Dark hair streaked with silver cushioned his head, subtly curled and long enough to fall to his shoulders. A beard, more wild than groomed, shadowed his jaw. His clothes were simple but well cared for, and his frame bore the signs of one who had once been strong but had fallen upon hard times – not weakened but honed. The wound on his stomach had been covered, hidden from sight. If it weren't for his grey pallor, Arthur could almost have imagined he was sleeping.

Merlin stared down at him, a faint frown pleating his brow. There was grief there, and regret, but there was also some emotion Arthur couldn't name. He looked troubled, and Arthur glanced back at the stranger's face. 'Did you know him?'

It seemed unlikely. Bridgend was miles from Ealdor and Camelot, and something in his chest ached when Merlin gave a slow, steady shake of his head.

'No, I... No. He lived outside the walls, apparently. He came to help. The people here knew him. Said he was kind. Decent.'

'Did they have a name for him?'

'Balinor.' Merlin reached out, pulling the sheet up to cover the dead man's face, sealing him away from the prying eyes of the world even as his voice strained in his throat. 'His name was Balinor.'

Chapter Text

The door to their chamber closed behind his back, and Merlin blinked stupidly at the room. Someone had been in, heaping the logs high in the grate and smoothing the tangle of the bed covers. Candles had been lit, chasing off the grey dawn beyond the windows. Droplets raced each other down the tiny, leaded panes, and he swallowed hard as he tried to marry the chaos of the night with the reality of the breaking day.

A bath stood by the fire, steaming softly and smelling of lavender thanks to the dried sprigs floating in it. Of course it made sense that Arthur wanted to soak after a fight like that. The reminder was enough to make Merlin blink himself back to life. He grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the water, wiping the worst of the blood from his hands before reaching out to assist Arthur with his armour.

'It's going to take more than that to get you clean,' Arthur murmured, sounding grim. His hair had started to dry, no longer slicked to his head but curling a touch at the nape of his neck. He was soaked through, and Merlin bit his lip. The last thing any of the knights needed was to fall ill now. He had not even checked the prince over for injuries! He had been too distracted by those who required healing and by the man who had died.

Arthur had asked if he'd known him. Merlin had answered honestly, yet there was something deep in his heart that trembled at the sight. There had been no opportunity to speak. The man had been on the brink of death even when he had been brought into the tavern, his wound to grievous to bear. Yet Merlin's power had keened in recognition, mourning the stranger's loss; he did not know what to make of that.

Then there was the surge of what he had felt upon the man's passing: fire like a funeral pyre in his blood and the taste of brimstone on his tongue. He knew magic well enough to know its touch, but there had been no threat in that power. It simply settled into him, assuming its rightful place.

And he had no idea what that meant.

'Merlin?'

He blinked, realising he was standing there with Arthur's chainmail in his grasp, staring at it blankly as his mind wobbled and spun.

'Sorry,' he rasped, setting it aside to dry. 'I'm just tired.'

'That's no surprise.' Arthur's voice was muffled by his gambeson as Merlin peeled it over his head, struggling with the heavy, wet padding. His tunic was no better, and he tried not to stare at the fabric slicked to Arthur's chest by sweat and rainwater. 'It's not like any of us got more than a paltry bit of sleep.' Gentle fingers tugged the gambeson free of Merlin's grip before those strong, firm hands landed on his shoulders and urged him towards the bath. 'Strip off and get in,' Arthur ordered. 'You're filthy, considering you've not been in the middle of a fight.'

'You're letting me have your bath?' He blinked, wishing his mind felt better than stale porridge, all claggy in his head.

'No, Merlin. I'm letting you have your bath. Go on, quick, before it gets cold.'

He was too tired to protest. Even the lack of a privacy screen barely registered as he wriggled free of his clothes. His breeches, at least, had been spared. His jacket he'd taken off while down in the tavern, but his tunic had seen much better days. There was blood and worse smeared on the front and caught at the edges of the rolled-up sleeves. It was fit for nothing but the fireplace.

'What are you huffing about?' Arthur asked as Merlin eased himself into the bath. It was a fine thing made of copper, not a splintered, wooden affair, though he'd have been grateful for even a barrel to bathe in.

'Tunic,' he replied, too weary for more than that. 'I've only got three. Two now.'

'That's all you packed?' Arthur grumbled.

'That's all I own.' Merlin shut his eyes, ignoring the sudden silence, only punctuated by the rustle of cloth as Arthur stripped himself down to his skin and changed into dry things. There was an awkward edge to the air, and part of him felt spitefully vindictive about it. Arthur deserved to remember, sometimes, that not all of them were princes, their wardrobes bursting with new garments and a tailor on-hand.

He did not expect any sort of apology, and he didn't get one. Instead, he listened to Arthur patter about in his socked feet, spreading things out to dry and prodding at the logs in the grate. The tranquillity settled over the room like a cloak, and Merlin sank deeper into the water, letting the heat work its magic on his neck and back. He'd been stooped over wounds, placing stitches and checking the damage. He may be years younger than Gaius, but he still felt the effects of too much tension in his frame. He was just lingering on the cusp of a doze when Arthur's voice came again, his question low and careful.

'What do you know about magic?'

Merlin jolted, spluttering as a wave of bathwater invaded his nose. Arthur's snort of amusement didn't help, and Merlin coughed hard, sitting up straighter and turning to blink at him. 'What?'

'You heard me.'

Panic's clamouring bells struck in the back of his head, and his gaze darted to Arthur's sword, sheathed safe in its scabbard on the other side of the room. Faintly, he wondered if Arthur had waited until he was in the bath – naked and vulnerable and unable to run away – to ask such a question. Yet a closer look suggested this wasn't any kind of trap. There was no grimness in Arthur's face, nor any accusation. Instead, he looked almost guilty, as if he had done some huge wrong by even asking. Expectation filled the air: a door left ajar. Merlin felt that maybe, this far from Camelot, there might be freedom enough for a touch of honesty, if he could find his courage.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and he stared down at his hands, feigning intense interest in getting the blood out from under his nails. 'Officially? Nothing.'

'And unofficially?' Arthur's voice was cautious, as if he was also feeling out this odd new frontier between them.

'I know a bit.' It was tempting to say that Gaius had some books, or add more to his explanation, but he did not dare. He had no wish to incriminate his uncle. 'Why do you ask?' He finally found the courage to look at where Arthur had pulled a chair up to the fireside. He was angled away, potentially to give Merlin a sliver of privacy, but more likely to make the most of the flames' heat. He could only discern his profile, and what he saw on those features was more perplexed than troubled.

'Can it follow someone?'

'How do you mean?'

Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair, the gold tresses slipping between his knuckles. 'Strange things happen at the Miracle Court. That, I had grown used to, but when we were fighting today...' He shook his head. 'Ice should not have formed on a mild night, but the bandits slipped on it more than once. The wind was howling when we went to bed but did not so much as gasp a breath while the fires burned. Now...'

As if to back up his point, a gust swept through the town, slamming the rain against the window. Merlin ducked his head to hide his wince. All he had wanted was to try and make things easier. Even in the chaos, someone would have noticed him being too overt with his magic. A servant armed with nothing but his bare fists shouldn't be able to get in more than a lucky punch against a bandit. So he had lingered in the shadows, turning rainwater to ice with the flicker of a golden gaze and heating the handles of swords. He had created opportunities, confident that Lancelot and the others would take advantage.

He had not thought Arthur would notice; more fool him.

Belatedly, he realised Arthur was still waiting for an answer, but everything Merlin could think of to say sounded far too incriminating, as if he might as well write "Yes I'm a warlock" over every inch of his bare skin.

Clearing his throat, he reached for the cake of soap, banishing the gore and grime from his arms. He was tempted to lie outright and comment on the unpredictability of the weather, but somehow he doubted Arthur would buy that reasoning. Besides, the natural world had its limits. 'You think the magic from the Miracle Court came with us?' he asked, deliberately keeping his voice light and hoping he didn't sound too choked.

Arthur huffed, as if he realised how ridiculous it sounded when Merlin put it into words. 'It seemed like a reasonable explanation. I assume, since you're not giving me a direct answer, that you don't think it's likely?'

'I –' He bit his lip, glad that Arthur wasn't looking in his direction. 'I couldn't say. The Miracle Court is unlike anything I've ever read about. It's... different. And you're right, I can't think of any other explanation, really.'

'No.' Arthur poked at the fire again. 'The only alternative, I suppose, would be the presence of a sorcerer.'

Merlin felt like a rabbit caught in the hunter's sights, hunkered in the bushes as he waited for the nocked arrow to take flight. Greasy nausea shifted uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. Yet Arthur had not jumped to his feet and reached for his sword. He did not charge out of the room to hunt down the suspected mage. Uther would have done so at the merest hint of sorcery, but his son remained where he was, staring into the flames as if they held answers to whatever troubled his mind.

Quickly, Merlin washed the lingering scent of smoke from his hair before reaching for the bath-sheet. He was clean enough, and he felt the pressing need for the thin protection that clothes might offer. Like this, as naked as the day he was born, he was far too exposed.

Silence coiled through the room as he blotted the water away, donning dry garments before turning to face Arthur once more. He dithered where he stood before going to the table, where a modest repast of bread and cured meat awaited them.

'Here,' He loaded a plate and nudged Arthur with his elbow, stirring him from his thoughts. 'You must be hungry. From what Leon said, the four of you killed a good number.'

A grunt was his only reply, and he chose to answer the cries of his growling belly rather than push. Sometimes, Arthur could be dragged out of his moods, but Merlin got the impression that he needed to sit with this one for a bit. Clearly, something weighed on his mind, though whether that was the organised bandits attacking Bridgend or the subtle magic he had witnessed, Merlin couldn't be sure.

'If my father were here, he would start a manhunt through the town at even the slightest inkling of witchcraft.' Arthur looked down at his plate, picking at his meagre meal. 'He would not rest until he had found someone to blame.'

Merlin swallowed hard. 'And you?' he croaked, reaching for a cup of water to try and wash down the fear that had caught in his throat.

Those strong, capable hands scrubbed over Arthur's face as if he were trying to banish his own exhaustion, and when he spoke, his voice was soft with secrecy. 'I think these people have suffered enough for one night. We are a long way from Camelot, and the situation was desperate. Besides, as you said, the Miracle Court is unique. There's no saying for certain that we didn't bring it with us.'

Arthur snuck him a sideways glance, as if trying to assess what Merlin thought of his less than fervent devotion to his father's laws. If he was looking for outrage, then he would be disappointed. All Merlin felt was relief, because he could not have done that to these people. If Arthur had started marching the streets, all fire and glory, hunting for a sorcerer, then Merlin would have had no choice but to confess. If there was one thing he had known all his life, it was that he could never let someone else take the blame for what he was.

'You should get some rest, Sire.' He gestured to the beds, which may be humble, but looked luxurious through the lens of his exhaustion. It had been a long night, sharp with concern as the battle raged and then honed with concentration as he put the healing arts he knew to good use. In the aftermath, he felt weirdly light, and the nest of blankets was calling his name.

'As should you.' A hand cuffed him on the shoulder, rocking him where he sat, and the two of them struggled back to their feet, shuffling over the uneven floorboards. Merlin just had enough sense to close the shutters, blocking out the meek glow of the gathering day before he collapsed onto the straw-stuffed mattress with a grunt. Covering himself in the blankets was a trial for his faltering concentration, and he nosed at his pillow, trying to force the lingering tension from his muscles.

Behind him, he could hear Arthur puttering about, doing something with his chainmail and then climbing into bed. Yet there was a pointed, wakeful edge to the silence, and Merlin knew that if he cracked open an eye to take a look, he would find Arthur staring at the ceiling.

'I wouldn't do it.'

He managed a vaguely questioning murmur, scrabbling together enough consciousness for a single word. 'What?'

'If it was a sorcerer today, and I found him, I wouldn't condemn him to the pyre. A bandit would have taken my head off if he'd not slipped on that ice. Another would have got me in the gut. If a knight saved me from a fatal blow, he could expect repute and reward. Not punishment. Why should it be any different just because magic was put to use?'

That got Merlin to open his eyes, hope surging fierce and wild within his chest. He had heard, more than once, Uther Pendragon's rhetoric on the bane of sorcery. Until now, Arthur had remained pointedly silent on the matter. If pressed, Merlin would have said that the prince agreed with his lord father's way of thinking. For the first time, he wondered if he had been mistaken.

'You don't think it's... evil, or whatever?'

For a while, only silence met his question, deep and still. This felt like dangerous territory, as if he was giving away his secret with every word he uttered. Merlin clutched the blankets tighter around himself, as if their wool might be enough to hide the truth that he feared was shining out of his skin: impossible to ignore.

'No.' Arthur sounded as if he were tasting the flavour of his response, slow and certain. 'I'm not sure I ever did. The house... My mother lived there, and I've spent several weeks within its walls. The magic has never shown any sign of being something to fear. It simply is. My father speaks of it as if it's some great, corrupting force, but... I don't know. I just don't see it. Most of the sorcerers that have lashed out at Camelot have done so in revenge. He says it was different before the Purge, that there were mages who played games with the lives of men, but...'

'Maybe there were,' Merlin murmured. 'But should everyone who wields magic be punished for what they did? That's like killing all the knights because one of them hurt an innocent.'

The ebbing crackle of the fire defined the brief peace. There was a rustle as Arthur turned to face him, meeting his gaze in the soft gloom. 'You know, Merlin, that was almost wise. Insightful, even.'

'And sometimes, you're almost tolerable, my lord.'

'I take it back. You're an absolute fool.' The smile on Arthur's lips belied his words, and his next order was little more than a murmur. 'Go to sleep.'

He meant to argue that the only reason he wasn't already dead to the world was because Arthur was having some sort of philosophical epiphany, but he could not bring himself to do so. If Arthur was questioning his father's ideas on magic, then Merlin would not be the one to stop him. Not when it lit such a fierce beacon of hope in his heart. Perhaps if not for years of being told by his mother to keep his secret, he might have found the strength to confess: not a whisper to the dark while Arthur slept, but something real and true, yet the same old fears rose up in him.

It was one thing for Arthur to speak of mercy towards a hypothetical sorcerer. The reality was another matter entirely. No, mentioning his secret now was madness, but perhaps, in time, Arthur's change of heart would find a firm foundation. That was what he needed, something strong enough to survive the revelation of Merlin's magic.

Slumber came upon him in increments, but Merlin never truly sunk into the depths. His mind turned sluggishly, staining his doze with odd fragments of dreams. When someone shook him awake, he groaned in protest, wondering how it was possible he felt even worse.

At least Lancelot looked suitably apologetic. 'If you sleep any longer, you'll suffer for it tonight.'

Merlin's noise of disgust made his opinion of such thoughtfulness perfectly clear, and he batted weakly in Lancelot's direction. 'Go away.'

'I cannot, my friend. I'm under orders from the prince to retrieve you. Besides, I thought you would like to know that Gwaine survived.'

'I'd worry if he hadn't. His injury wasn't that bad.' He scrubbed at his gritty eyes, sagging deeper into his bed in brief surrender before heaving himself out with a groan. 'How long has His Royal Highness been up and about?'

'A candle-mark, perhaps. I suspect he did not rest easy. He seems to be a man with much on his mind.'

Merlin grunted at that. He'd slept in his clothes, which at least made getting ready for the day a brief affair. He splashed water on his face and dragged wet fingers through his hair in an effort to tame it. His mother had kept it cut short, but he and Gaius had been less hasty to reach for the scissors since his arrival. As such, the black cap was starting to curl at the nape of his neck and around his ears. Going to bed with it damp had left it more reminiscent of a haystack than anything else, judging by Lancelot's amused expression.

'Allow me?'

Merlin laughed as Lancelot did his best, straightening one or two particularly wayward curls. Will had sorted him out, back in Ealdor, though usually that was to remove leaves and twigs so that Hunith didn't know they'd been traipsing about in the woods rather than doing their chores. It was only when Lancelot's fingers dropped to rest against Merlin's throat that he raised an eyebrow in question.

'Bruises.' Lancelot sighed. 'Someone grabbed you, I'm guessing?'

'Gwaine made them regret it. He hit them over the head with a jug of beer.'

'He's a good man, to watch out for a stranger. A good fighter, too.'

'You all did well. Nothing worse to boast than a couple of scrapes.'

Lancelot cast him a knowing look. 'While I was fortunate in the company of my brothers-in-arms, I believe we had help.'

'I don't know what you mean,' Merlin replied, a picture of innocence as he tied his belt around his waist and grabbed his spare scarf. The first one had fallen to the fate of being a makeshift bandage for Gwaine: he doubted it could be salvaged. 'I didn't do anything obvious.'

'Arthur noticed.'

'Yeah, but ...' He remembered what Arthur had said the previous night, about magic being more nuanced than his father would have him believe. 'Maybe that was a good thing? He doesn't know who is responsible, but he saw how it helped in the fight.' He was halfway through tidying the beds before he realised there were servants to do that for him. Still, he finished the chore anyway. No doubt the maids would not be at their best. Who knew how many of them had lost kin to last night's raid? He would not make their day any harder.

'So, what's the plan?' he asked before Lancelot could say anything else about magic in general and Arthur in particular. 'Are we riding out?'

'Not today. Arthur wants to ensure the town is secure. He plans to pay one of the townsfolk to take a message to Camelot requesting more knights be sent out, considering what we found.'

'You think Uther will do what Arthur asks?' They shared a long, loaded look. If nothing else, Merlin was glad he was not alone in his suspicions. The back of his neck prickled, and his stomach swooped and ached: one of his "funny feelings" making itself known. It was not the shrill, alarmed sensation of immediate attack, but a whisper in the shadows of his mind that warned him there was more to all this than met the eye.

'I cannot say.' Lancelot stepped towards the door, holding it open before closing it in their wake. 'I am not familiar with the machinations of court, but it is obvious that this First Code business has caused tension.'

'You're not blaming yourself for that, are you?'

'I am the one who wished to be a knight.' He shrugged, his tunic whispering with the motion. No doubt he and Leon had set their chainmail aside: it would need Merlin's attention before long. 'If not for me, none of this would have happened.'

'And Camelot would be worse for it.' Merlin did not credit Lancelot's words with more than that. 'I don't know what game Uther is playing, if he is playing one at all, but whatever happens, I think we have to watch each other's backs. Something's not right about all this.'

Lancelot's hand on his shoulder was warm and companionable: an anchor amidst his growing worry. 'Fear not, my friend. I promised upon Arthur's blade to fight for him until my last breath. If necessary, that is exactly what I plan to do.'

'Yeah,' Merlin muttered, letting out a weary sigh. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'

The inn was quiet, brimming with that melancholy peace that so often followed tragedy. Someone sobbed in the kitchen, their frame hidden from sight but their grief a constant presence. The tables, pressed into hasty service for the wounded, had been scrubbed clean. Arthur and Leon sat at one of the largest, and they were not alone. Gwaine was with them, his injured limb propped on a chair and his arms folded across his chest. The moment he saw Merlin his whole face brightened, that mischievous grin blooming in full force.

'Merlin! There you are!'

'How's the leg?'

'It'll be right as rain in a day or two.'

Merlin shook his head. 'A week. Probably more. The wound was small, but deep. It needs time to mend.'

'Well, I suppose I wouldn't want to undo all your hard work.' He shifted his leg and patted the chair at his side. 'May as well sit. Arthur here was just telling me how he fancies himself an idiot and plans to go bandit-hunting.'

'The best way to deal with the problem is to dig it out at the source. A group this big aren't camping in the woods.' Arthur clenched his jaw, and Merlin wondered how much it was killing him that Gwaine wasn't showing him even an ounce of respect. There was no trace of deference in him, and not out of ignorance. Like recognised like, and he had no doubt that Gwaine had caught on to Arthur's nobility. He knew he had rank, he just didn't know how high it was. Nor, he realised with amusement, did he seem to care.

'I think Arthur's right.’ Leon sighed. ‘The dead were not men half-starved and desperate. Their weapons were common, but of fair quality. Those that wore armour kept it well-tended. That requires a forge. They've taken shelter somewhere.'

'We scout ahead, find its location, and then return here,’ Arthur decided. ‘By then, if we are lucky, there should be a patrol waiting and we can launch an attack.'

'And if they don't arrive?' He could not mention Uther, nor Camelot, assuming they wished to keep their cover. Still, he knew Arthur didn't miss the implication.

'Then we shall reconsider our strategy. Our orders were to scout, and we cannot do that from Bridgend. We ride at first light.'

Merlin smothered a sigh, knowing that the rest of his day would be spent seeing to the horses and packing provisions. Scouting was slow and tiresome, especially since they had no real target in mind. The rain would have washed away the most obvious tracks. With their luck, they would be hunting ghosts.

Yet all he had to do was look around him to understand the necessity. Bridgend had been decimated by those raiders. If Arthur hadn't been here, there would be nothing left of the town other than smoking ruins and corpses. The people were lost in their grief and pain. To leave them to the next twist of fate seemed like cruelty, pure and simple.

'I'll make sure we've got everything we need,' he promised, silently hoping the kitchens here could provide for them. 'Do we actually know where we're going, or do we plan to ride off into the woods and hope we fall over them?'

'The innkeeper mentioned there are three old forts nearby,' Leon explained, pointing out marks on the crude, sketched map that lay before him. 'If we cannot pick up any tracks, then we head for those. If nothing else, we can eliminate them from our search.'

There was a quiet sigh from Gwaine, who stared down at the chart with a knowing eye as he ran his thumb along his bottom lip. He had the appearance of a man struggling to choose between his desires and his duty. His gaze flickered around the table before settling, at last, on Merlin, who tilted his head in question.

'Terrain on the other side of the river's rough as shite. Main road to Mercia's good, but the rest? Rockfalls block them on the regular, and you can get lost in the blink of an eye.'

'That's nothing we can't handle.'

Gwaine's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he shifted his shoulders in a shrug. 'Your choice, Princess. You can spend weeks wandering the woods looking for raiders and forts, or I can take you straight to them. Easy as pie.'

Arthur's eyes narrowed at the moniker, while Merlin coughed to hide a laugh, trying not to meet Lancelot's eye. Leon simply offered Gwaine a cool sort of look, as if he was rethinking any praise he may have uttered about the man's fighting ability.

'But I want to know exactly who I am helping. What lord do you serve, and don't lie. Two of you, at least, are noble.' Gwaine gave Lancelot a speculative, shrewd glare. 'You, I'm not so sure about.'

Arthur's face took on that sour expression it got when his personal feelings came into direct opposition with his common sense. A guide would make their lives a hundred-times easier, and Gwaine fought side-by-side with them as if he'd been doing it for years, but at the same time he was rough and roguish, at least on the surface. He was also angry, underneath all that good cheer. At the world in general, maybe, or at something in particular. Merlin couldn't be sure.

'Camelot.' Arthur's confession was quiet, pitched just right to slip beneath the sounds of an inn, even one that was lost to the muted misery of grief. 'Lancelot and Leon are knights.'

'And you?' Gwaine settled more comfortably in his chair with the air of a man who had no intention of moving until he received an answer. 'Don't know much about Camelot, except it's a troubled place. I give it a wide-berth. Still, these two, at least, defer to you. Merlin's got more sense.' He winked in his direction, which only hardened Arthur's glare.

'Merlin wouldn't know deference if it bit him.' Arthur clenched his jaw before blowing out a breath. 'I am Prince Arthur. My father ordered us to scout the area when he received reports of trouble.'

Gwaine's expression was torn between apparent delight – probably, Merlin suspected, because the "princess" jibe had landed so very close to the mark – and a sort of repulsed horror. His face twisted, and maybe if not for his leg he would have stood up and stomped away. 'Royalty. Bugger me,' he muttered to himself, cuffing a hand over his brow and glancing towards the door, as if he were giving serious contemplation to putting Bridgend to his back. 'If I'd have known that, I'd never have offered.'

'Because of Camelot?'

'Because of "prince". Nothing good comes from nobility.' His sneer was a twist on his face, honed by Leon's faint sound of protest and Lancelot's sharp-drawn breath. Yet even as he said it, Merlin could see the crease of confusion marring his expression, as if he were putting all the pieces together in his head and only coming up with more questions.

The silence dragged on, and Merlin scowled before glaring at Arthur and kicking him in the ankle. Blue eyes pinned him in place, and Merlin subtly pinched his thumb against his fingers and rubbed them together, knowing Arthur would get the message.

'I can pay you,' Arthur managed through clenched teeth, looking as if it physically pained him to say it. 'I am not asking for a pledge of loyalty, but I could use your help. Not for myself, but for the people of Bridgend.'

'They don't deserve to live in fear,' Lancelot added.

Gwaine pursed his lips, clearly trying to look as if Lancelot's appeal to his better nature had no effect. It would have been more believable if his eyes hadn't slid towards the kitchen, where exhausted sobs still wavered on the air. At last, he sighed before ducking his head. 'All right. I'll get you to the forts and back. After that, you're on your own.'

And as Arthur and the others all murmured their agreement, Merlin ducked his head and stifled a smile. A warm feeling tickled his guts, the faintest premonition of something good, for once. Arthur and Gwaine could argue all they liked, but this was the start of something.

If nothing else, it was a chance for them to prove to each other, and maybe to themselves, that there was far more to both of them than met the eye.

Chapter Text

By the next day, the rain had ceased its bombardment, leaving a dripping, drenched world in its wake. Here, beneath the trees, the air was full of the sounds of life stirring once more after the storm. Birds called to one another and squirrels bounded along the boughs, setting free short showers of water to fall on their heads.

The ground underfoot was wet, but the narrow path they followed was packed hard enough that it did not turn to sucking mud. Now and then, the sun broke through the clouds, but it could not chase off the chill. Arthur pulled his drab, plain cloak tighter around his shoulders and shivered in its depths.

The storm had washed away almost every trace of the bandits' passage. All they had found was one point, about a mile into the woods, where it was clear a number of men had gathered and paced, leaving boot-prints. It was not the steady poise of people planning an attack, but a chaotic mess of defeat. Arthur could picture it well: those who had escaped Bridgend banding together to make their retreat.

That alone spoke volumes: organised threat, rather than a roaming rabble. If it were the latter, each man would have gone his separate way, cutting his losses. Even Gwaine had noted it was unusual behaviour, his brogue soft and his brow heavy with a frown.

Arthur scowled as he considered the newest addition to their little group. It was only temporary, for which he was thankful. Everything about him set his teeth on edge, from his complete disrespect to the near-permanent smile that tilted his lips.

At first glance he looked like a man who thought the world was a joke and he was laughing at everyone else's expense. It was only now and then that he permitted a glimpse of anything deeper: his disdain for nobility and his well-concealed care for the plight of others. Arthur would be lying if he claimed that did not spark his curiosity, but it was one he intended to leave unsated.

No, the sooner Gwaine was gone, the better. Then, at least, he would not have to deal with the way he kept touching Merlin.

It was ridiculous! His hand was always on his shoulder or arm, plucking at his sleeve and dragging at Merlin's attention. Worse, he seemed more than happy to reciprocate. The two men had fallen together as if they were the oldest and best of friends. Of course, Merlin did that with everyone. He was not exactly discerning. He'd known Lancelot for next to no time at all before he turned all of Camelot on its head and made him a knight.

Subtly, he glanced to his right, wondering how Lancelot was taking the arrival of this interloper, effectively ousting him from Merlin's affections. The pair of them were up ahead, Gwaine leading the way while Merlin rode at his side, chattering away blithely. It left Arthur, Lancelot and Leon bringing up the rear, riding in an awkward little huddle where they could just about pass conversation back and forth.

Yet if Lancelot was at all disheartened, he hid it well. Instead, he watched Merlin and Gwaine with something like happy acceptance, unperturbed. A long silence passed before he spoke up, murmuring so that his words would not travel beyond Arthur and Leon. 'I think Merlin may have chosen another knight for you, Sire.'

Arthur recoiled in his saddle, reaching out to pat Llamrei's neck in apology when she snorted in protest. 'No. Merlin can try all he likes. There will be no knighthood for Gwaine.'

'I do not believe he would want one, even if it were offered,' Leon interceded from behind him, urging Abraxis forward so that his gelding's head was on-level with Llamrei's hind-quarters. 'He appears to not hold much regard for rank and nobility: strange, considering both his general bearing in the saddle and his skills with a blade.'

A pang of regret knocked at Arthur's belly. He was a big enough man that he could admit Gwaine's talents with a sword were unusually good. There was a touch of the brawler in his style. He had a propensity for flourishes and liked to distract his target, but all that was lain atop the sort of foundation Arthur drilled into his knights day-after-day. Nor was it incidental training. It was writ in Gwaine's bones. That kind of skill only came with years of practice.

'Someone trained him, and they trained him well,' he acknowledged. 'That's not one season of drills. It's a lifetime.' He was also comfortable in the saddle, despite the fact the horse was not his and the wound in his leg remained sore. The mare had belonged to the bandits. Her flanks carried scars of mistreatment. She should have been a tremulous wreck of a creature, but she was as placid as could be. Arthur had caught Merlin with his brow pressed to her blaze, murmuring something too quiet to hear: endearments, probably. He was soft like that.

'You think he used to be a knight?' Lancelot asked. 'You fear he may have betrayed his king?'

Leon gave a hum of consideration, and Arthur twisted in the saddle. He knew that look: thoughtful and intelligent. 'It's possible, but if he were exiled, why would he not become an errant? With those talents, he could be winning tourneys if he could prove his lineage.'

'Or was willing to acknowledge it,' Arthur reminded him. Still, Leon had a point. Knights-errant often turned to jousts and other work selling their sword. Technically, Gwaine had done the latter, accepting payment from them. Though it had not slipped beneath his notice that he had not negotiated a price nor demanded coin in advance.

'If he showed up on the training ground of Camelot and I saw him fight, I would be happy to enlist him, right up until he opened his mouth. There is more to being a knight than fighting well. There is a code of honour and an expectation of respect. Whether Gwaine has the former is highly doubtful, and he definitely does not have the latter.'

'Respect takes many forms,' Lancelot pointed out, pursing his lips before pressing on. 'While I acknowledge that he does not give his immediately, as rank may demand, maybe it can still be earned?'

'And why would I bother myself with that?'

Merlin would have called him a prat for such a response, but Lancelot, at least, had manners. 'Perhaps you will not, but it is a possibility,' he replied with a smile. 'Gwaine made a very good first impression on us all. It would be a shame to let our second thoughts get in the way.' With that parting shot, he eased back, allowing Leon to slip more comfortably into place at Arthur's side.

'He isn't wrong,' Leon pointed out after a few moments of blissful silence, giving him an apologetic look when Arthur glared in his direction. 'For a man to join others in battle and move with them that seamlessly? There are knights I have trained for years who cannot manage it.' He looked ahead, thoughtful. 'I merely suggest, Sire, that you keep an open mind and encourage Gwaine to do the same, through deeds, if not words?'

Arthur did not offer any response beyond a reluctant inclination of his head. Perhaps it would help if Gwaine's glances did not make him feel like a callow youth again, facing the taunts of peers who assumed everything he had was given to him because he was the prince. It was a lasting belief: one he'd had to fight against all his life.

His father had made him earn every ounce of recognition and each too-small glimmer of pride. Until recently, his actions had been designed to earn his father's approval: a goal of which it felt he always fell short. Now Gwaine was there, looking at him as if being prince meant the world landed in his lap. Meanwhile, the part of Arthur that was that same, striving boy ached from the constant battle to prove himself.

'Here!' Gwaine's call dragged him from his thoughts, and he nudged Llamrei forward, following his pointing finger. Off the path, the undergrowth was flattened, woody stems snapped as if something had blundered through. Many somethings. Arthur could pick out several different paths, meeting and converging anew. With a grunt, he swung out of the saddle for a closer look, mindful of where he put his boots.

Beneath the trees, the downpour had been lessened in its ferocity. It meant the tracks were still present: boot-prints of varying size, deep set where the ground was softer. 'People,' he acknowledged. 'Heading further west.'

Gwaine grunted, easing himself down from horseback. Arthur noticed how he favoured his leg, even as he took a knee at Arthur's side. Merlin had sworn he was able to travel, and no sweat of fever marked his brow. Still, it probably hurt enough to make him regret his offer of assistance. 'If it was them, then they might be heading for Caludahn.'

Lancelot made a discontented noise, pausing in his careful, spiral search pattern around the footprints.

'You know it?' Arthur asked.

'I do. A large, empty fortress on top of a drumlin. It's a hill surrounded by open grassland. Approaching unseen? I suppose it depends if the bandits are watching, but it will be no easy feat.'

'And we do not wish to be noticed,' Arthur murmured. 'Not by raiders or anyone else. We're in Mercian territory, now.'

'I thought we'd passed the border before we got to Bridgend?' Merlin asked absently. He was some distance away, his head tilted as he looked at something in the undergrowth.

'It twists like a serpent,' Leon explained. 'Mostly, it follows the river, but there are bulges here and there: land claimed in conquest and treaty. So far, we have moved from Camelot to Mercia and back again several times. If we are found by a Mercian patrol...'

'We won't be,' Arthur promised. 'Part of the reason there's trouble here in the first place is because neither my father nor Bayard have been paying this region much mind. Mercia is troubled at their northern border, and Camelot is focussed on Essetir and Lothian.' He tilted his head in brief acknowledgement. 'Still, it pays to be cautious. Is there anything that can tell us for certain that it was the bandits who left these tracks?'

'Well, there's him?'

He looked over his shoulder at Merlin, following the wave of his hand towards the deeper shadows under one of the trees. At first, he saw nothing of note amidst the bracken. Yet all it took was the shift of the dappled shade, and what he'd thought was mere daylight and shadow resolved into a more human shape.

The corpse lay reclined, as if the man had lain down to take his ease and never risen once more. His arm was draped across the bloodied wreck of a belly wound: a stab, not a slash. It had been bound tight by clumsy hands, but that would only delay the inevitable. Arthur grimaced in sympathy. It could be an awful, slow way to die: leaking foulness into a man's own body. He'd known knights to live weeks and still succumb. This one, though, had died quick. The ground around him was stained with spilt blood.

'Poor bastard,' Gwaine murmured, looking surprised when everyone else nodded in agreement. 'Definitely seems like one of them. They've taken his armour, though.'

'His sword, too, assuming he did not lose it in Bridgend.'

'Campfires,' Leon pointed out, gesturing up ahead. 'I think they stopped here to rest on their return, then proceeded west. I suppose this man did not survive the night.'

Arthur looked down at the body, the slackness of his mouth and face, the limpness of his form. He was young, he realised with a start. A year or two older than Arthur himself, at most, his skin marred by grime and sweat. It was hard to imagine him as a living man, wielding a sword and slaughtering innocents. In the aftermath of such atrocities, it was always humbling to look at the aggressor and realise they were just like you.

The bracken crackled as Merlin hunkered down beside the corpse. He may occasionally sniffle over the animals they killed for their dinner, but he was not squeamish. Perhaps that was down to his training with Gaius as a healer, but it had not passed beneath Arthur's notice that Merlin treated death with the same calm regret as the veteran knights. There were no hysterics: he did not pull faces or turn away, but met it head on.

'What was he doing with a load of bandits?' Merlin looked up at him, raising his eyebrows when Arthur merely blinked and shrugged. 'Look at him. It's not as if he fits the type, is it?'

Arthur's only comfort was that the others seemed equally baffled by Merlin's question. He stared at the victim, trying to pick out what Merlin was talking about, but he saw what he expected: thuggery, now covered by the patina of death.

'Look at his hands,' Merlin ordered, 'his clothes? His boots?' He shook his head in disbelief. 'They're dirty, sure, but you don't see bandits in gear like this very often.'

'It's not as if he's wearing velvet, Merlin, mate,' Gwaine protested.

'No, he's dressed like you.' Merlin raised one eyebrow, gesturing to Gwaine's garb. 'Travel-worn, but sturdy. The stitching fits perfectly across the shoulders, so they were made for him, not robbed off some corpse. Not cheap, either. Good linen, wool and leather. Boots are the same: splattered in mud, but there are no holes or rips. They fit him well. No colours or heraldry anywhere, because he doesn't want to be noticed, and he's got hands like Arthur.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Arthur suspected there was an insult in there somewhere.

'It means he's probably never done a day's hard work in his life.' Merlin flashed him a grin. 'Except sword-work, and even then, not much of it. That gut wound? It's not a lucky shot; he's been stabbed. Also, I'm not sure he was wounded at Bridgend. This much blood on the ground? It's possible one of the bandits attacked him and left him here to die. He tried to bind it himself.'

Merlin gestured to the ripped hem of his long tunic, sacrificed to make a clumsy bandage. Those blue eyes looked at the man's slack face, all regret. 'You don't recognise him, do you?'

'I don't normally associate with thugs, no.' Arthur squinted at that face, trying to see whatever Merlin had noticed. 'Do you?'

'This is Lord Aldane's son. Laughed like a donkey? Didn't last the time on the duelling ground? Though I suppose that doesn't narrow it down much. He tried to copy your stupid sword twirl thing and nearly took a chunk out of Leon. Is that ringing any bells?'

'Osgar.' Arthur blinked, and it was as if the fog had melted away beneath the heat of the sun. Where the body before him had been a stranger, he now saw the young man he had turned away: good-natured and affable, but clumsy and ill-suited to court. Not a soul born for battle, nor for banditry. Not a criminal, by any means. That had been back in the spring. He had assumed he had returned to Broadoak: the Aldane estate. Instead, he was here, dead on Mercian land having taken part in a raid on a Camelot town.

'By the gods...' Leon's horror coiled around them. 'What is he doing here?'

'Maybe he got bored,' Gwaine retorted. 'Or ran out of coin. Who knows? Who cares?'

'I do.' Arthur shot a sharp glance in his direction, seeing how Gwaine narrowed his eyes, all doubt. 'Not just for his own sake, but for that of the kingdom. We do not know the circumstances behind this. Was he here on orders, and if so, where did they originate? Are his actions indicative of his family's loyalties, or did he seek to set himself apart from his lord father?'

He shook his head, biting his lip as the clamour of his questions grew louder. 'Perhaps everything is as it seems. Maybe he decided to walk this path of his own accord, but I will not settle into that belief without question.' He clenched his jaw before he added, 'I will not simply assume the worst of Osgar. Even if it appears that way at first glance.'

Merlin leaned forward, patting over the dead man's chest, avoiding the bloody, stinking wreck of the wound. There were no flies, just yet, but there would be soon.

Something made him hesitate, and he murmured what sounded like an apology as he peeled back cloth and slipped his hands into the folds of the man's tunic. 'His coin purse is gone. So are his rings.' He jerked his head towards pallid fingers, which showed, faintly, marks of where metal had once banded them. 'Taken off his corpse, probably, but there's something here. A pocket inside his vest.'

The others all shifted closer, hopeful, perhaps, that he might retrieve some damning evidence from its hiding place. Instead, a small gold pendant glimmered in Merlin's palm, marked with the heraldry of Aldane.

'If he were eager for money and had split from his family, would he not sell that before turning to thievery?' Lancelot asked.

Gwaine ducked his head in acknowledgement of the point. 'True.'

'Take it, Merlin. His father should have it. I'll certainly have some questions for him when we return to Camelot.'

'And Osgar?' Leon straightened his shoulders in a way Arthur recognised. There were times, as a knight, when compassion ran headlong into practicality, losing itself in the clash. The wood was too wet to burn, they had nothing but one small trowel used for digging latrines, and the soil was too sandy to make a cairn.

'Though I wish otherwise, we must leave him where he lies.' Arthur reached up to unclasp his cloak. It was not the crimson testament of Pendragon red, nor was it fine cloth, but he still spread it neatly over Osgar's body, tucking it beneath him on one side as Merlin did the same on the other. It was a makeshift shroud: the best they could do.

They searched the rest of the campsite, counting fires and checking cool ashes, trying to make something out of the footprints that remained. Yet in the end, they had no clear idea of numbers. They merely had a heading: west, onwards to Caludahn.

It was a solemn party that set off from that place, their horses walking in neat single file as they wended through the trees. Gwaine led, with Arthur just behind him. There was no chatter, now, and when Arthur looked back along the line, he saw Merlin in the rear, looking over his shoulder at the way they had come. There was a brief, breathless feeling in the air, a curl in the wind, there and gone again. It prickled the hair on Arthur's nape and curled between the links of his chainmail, making him shiver.

Perhaps if he had not lived in the Miracle Court, he would not have thought to mark it. He would have dismissed it as one of those odd moments that caused a ripple in the humours of the body. Now, he drew a breath, because it felt like that same, kindly magic that he had grown to find comforting.

He did not know what had been done. He only knew not to question it.

They reached the edge of the forest as darkness fell. This close to Samhain, the days had not yet grown timid nor the nights bold, but there was a chill in the air that nobody could deny. They all huddled around the campfire, relishing its warmth as they supped on rabbit, courtesy of Lancelot, and sipped from a wineskin, grudgingly offered by Gwaine. Merlin checked the latter's injury, which was high on his thigh and involved the removal of both boots and breeches.

Arthur endeavoured not to watch Merlin's fingers on Gwaine's leg, nudging aside the soft cloth of his braes as he unbound the wound. He told himself that the tenderness he saw in that touch was the kindness of a healer, nothing more, ignoring the dull pang in his chest.

Gwaine's murmured flirtations and Merlin's laughter stirred their little camp. Arthur chose to stare into the fire, rather than acknowledging how those two dark heads bent together: as if allied by more than mere circumstance.

'I assume he's not about to die on us?' he asked when Merlin was done, trying not to appear too disappointed by Gwaine's continuing survival.

'He's fine. It's clean, no swelling, and the stitches have held. As long as it stays that way, he'll have nothing worse than a scar to remember it by.'

Arthur managed a grunt, which he endeavoured to make sound satisfied, rather than petty. After all, the wound had been taken in the course of saving him from something more grievous. Although he doubted Gwaine would have troubled himself if he had known his real identity. On and off, all through the day, Arthur had found himself the target of those dark eyes, the mirth in them a mask for whatever seethed beneath.

Now, Merlin busied himself with the horses, leaving Arthur's side to do so. Gwaine hobbled over to fill it, mercifully back in his trousers, though his boots he had left slumped like the vanquished in battle, discarded to one side. At first, he said nothing, merely making himself comfortable, but at length he looked at Arthur, that brow wrinkled and his mouth pinched in thought.

'You're not what I expected.'

Arthur hesitated with the wineskin halfway to his lips, casting Gwaine a sharp, sideways glare. 'Is that a compliment?'

'I wouldn't go that far.' Gwaine turned to stare into the fire, grabbing a stick to poke at it. 'Most nobles never look beyond what's right in front of them. They don't see those who serve them as people. They're just... things. Necessities. Resources to be used up and discarded. Today, with that bloke Osgar, you didn't assume the worst.' Gwaine jabbed at a burned log, watching it fall to ash. 'I thought you would.'

Arthur resettled the cork in the wineskin, passing it back to Gwaine, who took it with no small amount of eagerness. 'I might have done, once,' he admitted at last, scratching at the side of his nose. 'Perhaps not even that long ago. However, I have learned that doing what is easy, is rarely what is right. The same goes for what you believe. It would be simpler, by far, to say that Osgar worked from nothing more than his own ambitions. That his presence with those bandits was a personal choice, but I cannot ignore the possibility that there is more to it.'

'You might not like where that path leads you.' Gwaine sounded like a man prodding at a bruise, testing the flesh to see where it would pain him.

'No, but I must walk it anyway, and right now, it seems to be taking us to Caludahn.' He sighed, reaching for his sword where it lay next to him and bullying himself to his feet. 'We should get some sleep. I'd like to ride at dawn. The first watch is mine.'

'Wake me for the second, Sire,' Leon urged, indifferent to his own self-sacrifice, which would offer him a broken night of slumber. 'Lancelot can take the third.'

Merlin and Gwaine jibed at them and one another, lost in the happy delight of a solid night of dreams ahead of them. There was the general kerfuffle of men preparing to wrestle sleep into submission, and Arthur sat down, propping himself against the bole of a nearby tree as he looked out into the night.

It wasn't until a presence at his side made itself known that he glanced back, surprised by the sudden flurry of fabric as Merlin wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. Lithe fingers pulled at the collar until it lay flat to his satisfaction. It blocked the cold zephyrs of air from Arthur's nape and promised to cocoon him through the long hours of darkness.

'I didn't realise we had any to spare,' he murmured.

'I found it in the bottom of one of the saddlebags.' Merlin glanced away. It made Arthur wonder if he was fibbing and why he would lie about the provenance of a cloak. 'It's not for you, really. It's for the rest of us. So we don't have to put up with you being cold and grumpy in the morning.'

He grinned as Arthur shoved at him, rocking him where he crouched. He might have fallen over if not for Arthur tightening his grip on the shoulder of Merlin's jacket. For a brief moment, they simply looked at each other as the trees stirred and the fire crackled.

'Thank you, Merlin.'

The quick show of gratitude, fleetingly given yet heartfelt all the same, earned him nothing more than a curious look before Merlin's lips curved into a faint smile. 'Goodnight, Sire.'

Arthur was left to lean against the tree. He turned his head away from the camp, ostensibly to keep watch but mostly so he could inhale the soft fragrance that haunted the fabric.

It was not the worn leather smell of the saddlebags, nor that of stale cloth, rarely washed. Instead, the weave was haunted by the perfume of wet grass, warm sunshine after a storm and the herbs with which Merlin worked on a regular basis. It made him think of early morning hunts, where there were no greater concerns to trouble him than whether the tracks he followed would lead him to a buck or doe.

Keeping watch was a tiresome business, one where a man must always be ready to challenge the night and the foes it could disgorge, but for once, Arthur found himself comfortable in the duty.

His mind might be plagued with questions, but here, in the folds of the cloak that Merlin had given him, he discovered a fragment of peace to call his own.

Chapter Text

Caludahn stood out on the landscape like a boil erupting from otherwise flawless skin. It sat in the middle of a flat plain, the long grass rippling as the wind raked it this way and that. The distant scream of a hawk pierced the air, and Merlin glanced up at the sky, squinting against the milky afternoon light.

'Whoever dwells there is hardly trying to make a secret of their presence,' Leon murmured. 'Smoke from the courtyard. Banners hung from the ramparts...' He squinted as if he could hope to discern any heraldry or allegiance from such a distance. All they could see was the distant flap of cloth, white with a black emblem, but they were too far off to distinguish any detail. 'Bayard cannot know of this: he would never allow it.'

'Unless they work on his orders,' Gwaine muttered. 'Kings are more than the crown and robes they wear. Always playing games.'

'And why would it benefit Bayard to have bandits raiding Camelot and Mercian towns?' Arthur asked. 'He has trouble enough without causing tension with us.'

'Is it not more likely to be a third kingdom? We had reports of men changing the colour of their coats between Mercian blue and Camelot red.' Lancelot's armour chimed as he shrugged. 'Who would benefit from turning two realms against one another?'

Arthur let out a sigh. 'We have no proof that's their aim. Certainly, whoever attacked Bridgend did not do so under any banner, unless you saw something that slipped my notice?'

Merlin pursed his lips as the others held their silence, watching the expression on Arthur's face. The scowl that furrowed his brow was one he knew well. Arthur wanted answers, and he would not be satisfied until he had them. He may not share his father's more brutal, prejudiced ways, but he had that same Pendragon tenacity. Other men would have looked at the odds and seen nothing but an impossible situation. Arthur merely saw a challenge.

'If we return to my father with what we have, nothing will come of it. The people of Bridgend will be left unprotected, along with everyone else in these border towns. One more raid might be enough to finish them. We need to know of their numbers, their armaments and their allegiances.'

'And for that, we'll have to get inside.' Gwaine grinned, wild and a little mad. Neither man would like to hear it, but he and Arthur were more alike than they would ever admit. Arthur's core of nobility was on display while Gwaine tried to ignore his, but they were not the type to shy away from overwhelming odds: reckless, in a bad light.

'We were only meant to scout,' Merlin pointed out, doubting anyone would listen to him. 'If we get caught...'

'We won't.' Arthur's gaze raked the scene. 'They may have a clear line of sight during the day, but once night falls, they won't be able to see our approach. Besides, we are a small party. We sneak in and see what we can find: the size of their force; where they're getting their supplies; who, if anyone, is pulling their strings. And if we can discover why Osgar counted himself among their number, all the better.'

'And if we get a chance to do something about them?'

Merlin saw the look Arthur and Gwaine exchanged, the former grim, the latter poised, braced for one response and hoping for another.

'We take it,' Arthur replied at last. 'I would like to believe that I can rely on my father to do what is right: to heed my warnings and send help to Bridgend, but considering our recent differences...' He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. 'I dare not pin my hopes on his assistance. If there is an opportunity to end this threat, we should act upon it.'

Merlin worried at his bottom lip, his heart squeezing beneath his ribs. It was useless to point out that there were only five of them, one of whom was, as far as Arthur knew, only a servant. If the others were aware of his magic, he could put it to use. Maybe he didn't know many actual spells, but his power knew how to act. Where once, it had spoken to him in soft whispers of what it could do, now it sang its melody in his head, promising him the world if only he asked for it. Yet all he could do was hold his silence as the last veils of daylight ebbed from the sky.

They secured the horses, and there was a brief period where the three Camelot knights debated whether to leave behind their chainmail. Stealth would be easier without it, but if they faced a confrontation, they would be unprotected. In the end, they decided to keep it on, but that was not the decision that caught in Merlin's craw.

'You're staying here.'

'What?' He boggled at Arthur, unable to believe that something so stupid could fall out of his mouth. He should not be surprised, considering Arthur's occasional stunning lack of intelligence, but it struck at him like a viper rearing from the grass. 'You cannot be serious!'

'Merlin, that's an order.' Arthur straightened his back, putting on that familiar, haughty expression that meant there would be no arguing with him. 'You have no armour, no weapon and even if you did, you'd be more likely to hurt yourself with it than anything else. I cannot have you dividing the focus of my knights with worry over your welfare.'

Merlin clenched his jaw, noticing how Arthur didn't include himself in that particular concern. No doubt he would barely notice if Merlin were torn apart by bandits right in front of him. No, he was more concerned about Lancelot and Gwaine, who were both giving him the same, regretful look. Lancelot because he did not want Merlin put in the position where he would have to use his magic, and Gwaine because he probably believed Merlin was as pathetic as Arthur described.

'So it's just going to be four of you against however many are in there?'

'We'll be back by dawn, and Merlin, if you follow us...'

'Stocks?' He did not bother to keep the sneer out of his voice.

'You will wish I only put you in the stocks.' Arthur's words hummed as he took one step closer, his jaw tight and his eyes ablaze. They stared at each other, Arthur determined and Merlin mulish, his arms folded and his weight canted back. His hands clenched into fists, the scabs on his knuckles stinging in protest.

He could argue, except he honestly wouldn't put it past Arthur to tie him to a tree and be done with it. 'Of course, Sire.' He placed as much disdain into the title as he could muster, knowing it would find its mark. 'I'll just wait here then, shall I?'

Arthur looked like he was tempted to clout him, but he restrained himself, turning away before jerking his head towards the waiting fort. 'Let's go. Remember, unless an opportunity presents itself, we are only there to scout. Merlin, if we do not come back, ride for Camelot. Tell my father where we were last seen.'

He hesitated, dithering a moment before reaching down to his boot and unsheathing a dagger, holding it out hilt first for him to take. 'Just in case anything stumbles upon the camp. Stick the pointy end in other people rather than yourself.'

As peace offerings went, it was both grudging and pathetic. Merlin took it with bad grace, watching the three knights and Gwaine fade off into the gloaming. He shifted his fingers around the hilt of the dagger. He had no sheath in which to slide it home, but he felt stupid simply standing there waiting for something to go wrong. The horses snorted happily at their pickets, content with their lot, and he cast a quick glance towards them before steeling his shoulders and reaching for his magic.

Normally, he teased free a tendril of it to use, but now it was like a river into which he plunged his hands up to the elbows, calling on power that came to him as easily as breathing. A fire crackled to life, the magical flames offering him light to chase off the darkness, yet it would not be seen by an outsider. They could walk within a dozen paces of it and never know it was there.

A scabbard whispered into existence, the black leather gleaming softly. He could feel how the magic longed to deck it in gold and jewels, to pour beauty into its shape, but Merlin held it back. If anyone saw it, he intended to say he'd taken it off a dead bandit, and rubies might be hard to explain.

Fastening the dagger to his belt, he hesitated before sitting cross-legged on the ground. Here, on the fringe of the woods, the grass did not hold court. He took his rest among the leaf-litter as a ward charted around their small encampment, as soft as starlight. It would not do any harm to anyone who came upon it. Instead, it would merely turn them away, keeping what lay within safe.

Keeping him safe.

After all, he would not be here to watch his own back.

He had read, in the spellbook Gaius had given him, about sorcerers who were able to leave behind their mortal frame and travel the world, unheard and unseen: silent witnesses to whatever they wished.

The cramped, narrow text, faded with age, had spoken of the challenges as well as the risks. Mages could become lost or trapped, held at bay from their own bodies as the flesh withered. It had been little more than a paragraph, but it had lodged itself in Merlin's mind. There had been no instruction, just a statement of possibility, but right now it was just what he needed.

And his magic knew what to do.

It felt strange, like stripping off his garments and leaving himself exposed to the night air. He had no skin with which to feel and no eyes with which to see, and yet nothing escaped his attention. He could detect the bugs that made their home in the grass and the deer drowsing in the forest. He could sense the flutter of moth's wings and the long grass whipping all around him.

It was as if someone had peeled him out of his skin. It took time to settle into it – to sort through everything that bombarded him and pick out what he was looking for: four stars creeping across the grassland, and up ahead of them, the galaxy of light that was the fort and the lives inside it.

More than three-hundred men made their home within those walls, a nest of vipers, and Arthur and the others were walking right into it.

The distant surge of his own heart in his chest was a strange, ghostly pressure. He sensed how his own tongue wet his lips, his body still connected enough to reflect his uncertainty. He should warn them, but it was impossible. Even if he slipped back into his skin and raced out to follow them, how would he explain the knowledge? No, the best he could do was slither on ahead of them, seeping through the grit and old stone of the walls into the hallways beyond.

He could sense, below the feet he did not have, the labyrinthine twist of the dungeons and storerooms, but he was more concerned with what was above ground.

Life filled the fortress. The courtyard was the hub of it all, along with the barracks off to the south. That was where most of the men took their rest or sought their pleasures. Here and there, he could detect other, outlying constellations: sentries, if he had to guess. These were not bandits treating the place as a make-shift camp. They were a community of their own, and this was their home.

There was discipline where he would have expected none, and a rash of unease wound through him.

Whatever Arthur and the knights were expecting to find, he doubted this was it. There were no shadowy parts of the fortress in which to hide. Perhaps they could claim to be new recruits looking to join. Even their nobility might not stand out too much, but if there were others like Osgar – men from Camelot – they would be recognised in a heartbeat.

Merlin stretched, touching banners and tabards, the heraldry seeping into his consciousness: Camelot's red and gold; Mercia's blue and silver. Crossed black swords upon an ivory background. He found casks of wine and crates of food, as well as sacks of grain. Some had clearly been looted, but many crates bore the stamp of a bull's head. Either there was a prime raiding site nearby or someone was actually keeping these men supplied and fed.

Briefly, he considered trying to taint the supplies, but the spell slithered out of his grasp: impossible. In fact, he couldn't work magic on anything around him. He did not understand why, but something told him it was because he was spread thin, his body too distant from the rest of him to feed that power. Instead, he could only observe, and the longer he looked, the more obvious the truth became.

Whatever was going on here, it had nothing to do with mere banditry.

A sensation like the prickle of a scald made him pull up short, freezing like a deer in the hunter's sights. It took him a moment to realise the feeling wasn't coming from his distant body, safe and sound behind a ward, but from the fragment of his being that lingered within the fort. It scraped along one edge of him, and he focussed his attention upon it, trying to understand what his magic was telling him.

He was not the only sorcerer here.

Merlin folded in on himself, dragging the sprawling edges of his awareness down to a pinpoint, little more than a mote. Around him, a single corridor faded into view. If he were in a human body, he would have held his breath as he crept along. Now, he did not have to worry about his physicality. He had none to give him away. Instead, it was his power that the other mage had sensed and sought. He could feel the magic passing back and forth: a great, frantic shadow.

It would swallow him whole if he let it.

For a while, he merely hunkered close to the wall, making himself as small and subtle as possible. It gave him time to observe, and what he saw would have made his breath catch in his throat if he'd had anything as solid as lungs. While the gloom fluttered around like a cloud of smoke, all choking threat, he could see a cord tethering it to the person who cast it. It led away, a slender, inky tendril, and Merlin followed it without thinking twice.

Progress was painstaking. He kept having to freeze or hide, and more than once he smelled the hot-tar and blood fragrance of the spell as it brushed past him. Finally, after what felt like an age of the earth, he found stairs leading up to a doorway.

The wood was no barrier to him. It passed him in a splintery rush to reveal the room beyond. It looked similar to Gaius' chambers on a particularly bad day. There were... things: organic and pale, innards of some kind. Herbs hung from rafters, though Merlin doubted that there was anything there for healing. A man stood, poised, at the workbench, his eyes glowing. It was not gold or amber, but a reddish bronze. It reminded Merlin of the power of the Sidhe, yet he could see it was different. Human still but touched with something more.

His face was not old, yet not young, either. Chestnut hair gleamed in the candlelight. He looked well-fed and tended. His skin was the same golden brown that Arthur's went after a long summer training outdoors, though something told Merlin that the hue would not fade. There was nothing about him that indicated he was a prisoner: he looked like a commander, from the rings on his fingers to the fine sword upon his hip.

A noise caught Merlin's attention, and he saw a shape shift where it was huddled in a corner. A pale face lingered in the shadows, moon white. A chain clanked against the stone, and Merlin felt dizzy with shock. The boy looked small and young, bony in a way that spoke of too much hunger. A cap of matted hair crowned his head, and his clothes were little more than rags, torn to reveal a druid mark upon his shoulder. Yet it was his eyes that caught Merlin's attention, silver and huge in that pale face.

And they were looking right at him.

Chapped lips moved around something he could not hear, but a matching voice whispered in his head.

'Emrys?'

Beyond the room, he heard a sudden clash and clamour: sword-strike and swearing. He turned his gaze to see the four stars of Arthur and the others surrounded by a heaving galaxy of motion. It was the flicker of a thought to leave the boy behind, a promise to return for him drifting on the air as he raced downwards, ducking beneath the questing darkness and seeping through the floor to find the source of the commotion.

Arthur, of course.

The prince was pressed down onto his knees, the blade of a sword resting against his neck as he glared at his captor. Behind him, the others had been similarly subdued. They glowered and swore under their breath, sweaty and blood-stained but not grievously hurt. Blue eyes blazed up at the men who stood around him, shifting from one to the next as if searching for a face he might recognise.

A bolt of panic shot through Merlin, and his magic sizzled like fat dripping from a spit into the flames. He was desperate to cause a distraction, but the spells refused to work. He could not set a fire nor cause a collapse: nothing that would give Arthur and the others a chance to escape. He could only watch as one of the men looked down into Arthur's face before speaking with a voice of command.

'Lock 'em up. We'll talk to Rýne. See what he wants done with them.' The speaker was a bear of a man, his hair shaved along the sides and long on top, tied at the nape of his neck with a cord. His armour was plain and well-tended; his hands bore the scars of a warrior who fought hard. Merlin stared at him, memorising that face even as someone else spoke up.

'You sure, Eadric?' The tone of the question was light and soft, but sharp. The woman who stepped forward had multiple daggers hanging from her belt. Her face was lined and her iron-grey hair was braided around her head like a crown. 'These ones were at Bridgend.'

Eadric tilted his head in consideration, the leather of his armour creaking as he breathed. 'Do it, Tsala. They'll get what's coming to them, but Rýne might have a use for them first. Information. Leverage. We'll let him have the final say.'

Gwaine swore up a storm as they were dragged to their feet, his voice a clamour of fury. Arthur was mulish in his silence, and Merlin didn't miss how he was always looking, counting, strategising. Lancelot's jaw was set firm, his brown eyes blank with indifference, while Leon appeared calm, accepting their fate.

It was an act, of course, something to hide any potential weakness. All four of them were fighters. If there was an opportunity for their escape, they would make use of it. Not that Merlin thought that one would fall into their laps, not without a little outside help.

In the blink of an eye, he was back with the horses, the smoke-less fire nibbling happily on wood that never diminished. He reeled where he sat, his limbs stiff and uncooperative as he clawed his way upright. He knew something like this would happen! Every time Arthur insisted that Merlin stayed behind, he ended up having to get him out of trouble. He was alone, more than a day's ride from anyone who might help, and he doubted Arthur and the others had that kind of time.

Wetting his lips, Merlin turned away, stalking towards the waiting hulk of Caludahn. The wards around the camp would keep it safe. No wolves would terrorise the horses and no untrustworthy souls would disturb the peace. Its sanctuary would be waiting for them when they returned.

He did not allow himself to consider the prospect of failure.

The long grass grew wild, the seed heads almost as tall as his elbows when he stood upright. The wind combed the hair from his face as he approached. Stealth would only get him so far, and he did not dare try and use an enchantment to make people look away from him. The other sorcerer's magic practically hummed, lighting up the night sky. A spell from Merlin would be like the ringing of an alarm bell: something best avoided.

He could feel how many bandits made the place their home, but there was shelter to be found in anonymity. Dressed as he was, he'd draw attention, but if he could find some armour and blend in? No one would look at him twice. All he needed was a suitable victim.

The front gate loomed. Ivy rioted up the crumbling masonry and sentries guarded the entrance. They laughed and talked among themselves, passing a skin of wine back and forth, but there were too many for him to confront: a good half-dozen. They stood in pools of torchlight, shifting their weight and bragging about conquests and loot. Now and then they would scuffle with one another, and Merlin rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this!

At last, his patience was answered when a lone figure staggered off, stumbling into the gloom with his hands on the laces of his breeches. He ducked around the corner, and Merlin eased forward, waiting for him to fish out his cock and start pissing against the wall before lashing out.

He gripped a handful of blond curls and smashed the man's head against the rough-hewn masonry, wincing at the awful crack of bone. Perhaps someone more skilled and less desperate would have been able to incapacitate him, but Merlin had neither the time nor the grace for that. Blood – made inky by the twilight – painted the man's face as he sagged back into Merlin's arms, and he hastily dragged him back into the long grass in case his friends came looking.

There was no way to hide the trail of his presence, not without using magic. He had to silently pray that the other bandits would be too lazy or indifferent to puzzle through the disappearance of their brother-in-arms.

It was short work to strip him out of his armour: not tough plate but supple leather. Merlin tried not to grimace at the warmth that lingered in the hide. The man wasn't dead, not yet, but his breathing sounded thin and stuttering. He'd seen enough head injuries as Gaius' apprentice to know that they were tricky at best. Sometimes a patient could make a full recovery only to drop a week later. This one, though... Merlin was no expert, but he didn't think he'd be getting up again any time soon.

Guilt stabbed through him, but he swallowed tightly, pressing it down and away. This was not a moment for regrets. Instead, he dressed himself as best he could in the armour, slipping his arms in the long sleeves and fastening the buckles to cinch it tighter around his frame. It was too big, which was no surprise. He had not been picky about his disguise. Still, he did not intend to give anyone the chance to look at him too closely. Donning the sword belt seemed like a good idea. He might not know how to wield it, but its absence would raise eyebrows.

Sucking in a deep breath, Merlin straightened his shoulders, forcing himself not to creep and skulk. He did not aim for the main door but instead angled towards one of the side entrances, where he had seen a few small parties come and go. It was easy to think of Gwaine's swagger and Arthur's confidence – to wear them both like a mask as he approached, moving with an air of purpose. The two guards nearby barely even looked at him twice.

'Nothing to report?' one asked, giving a satisfied huff when Merlin shook his head. 'Get in with yer.'

Relief threatened to weaken Merlin's knees, but he held himself firm as he sauntered past them, acting like a man in no hurry whatsoever. He had hoped there would be too many men taking shelter in Caludahn for the sentries to know every face, but he was still thankful to be proven right. Even the fact he was alone hadn't been of any note. That suggested there were a great number of people coming and going, and his heart thrilled in trepidation.

Pausing at a junction in the hallway, he considered his options. All castles were much the same, their layout following a general theme. The dungeons would be down in the cellars, the fort nestled over it like a hen upon her eggs. The problem was that there would be guards, locks and all manner of obstacles. Each would be easily dealt with if he could summon his magic, but he did not dare. Not now that the sorcerer in the tower knew he was here and was no doubt waiting for Merlin to give himself away.

No, he had to use his wits. He needed a distraction: one big enough to get everyone's attention. He needed the dungeon unguarded so he could free Arthur and the others, but they were not the only ones who required his help. He could not leave the child he had seen behind, shackled and pale.

They were counting on him – the boy, Arthur and the knights – and Merlin had no intention of letting them down.

Chapter Text

Arthur ran his hands through his hair, clenching his teeth so tight that his jaw ached. How could he have been such a fool? He should have scouted the fort more thoroughly; it had been his intention, right up until he had seen a patrol of men wearing Camelot colours making their return. The blood upon their skin told its own story of brutality, and he had allowed his anger to get the better of him.

This was the result: the four of them disarmed and dishonoured both, shoved in a pair of dank cells somewhere in the darkest recesses of Caludahn's cellars. Yet they had not been forgotten. Leering guards patrolled the corridor but spoke not a word. Isolation was the first step in any interrogation. A wise man gave a captive time to soak in his own fears. Perhaps, on others, that would work, but Arthur was more furious than terrified.

'I did not recognise any of their faces,' Leon murmured, speaking softly. He and Gwaine were in the cell next door, separated only by a panel of bars. They were a makeshift addition. This was not the old ruin's original dungeon, and he wondered what had become of it. 'Not a man among them seemed to come from Camelot, not even those wearing our colours.'

'That helps how?' Gwaine demanded, waving a hand towards the passageway. He was busy tying off his injured leg, which had begun to bleed once more during the fight.

'It means that no one will recognise us,' Arthur replied. 'At best, they might have noticed that our swords are more fine than most.' He waited, making sure the guards were out of earshot. 'I suspect if they realised my identity, at least, things may have gone differently.'

'Better, or worse?'

'The latter, most likely. They do not seem like the type to credit rank, do they?'

'Confident, too,' Lancelot added, shifting so that he and Gwaine sat back-to-back, the iron bars pressed between them. It was a mute display of solidarity and meant that Lancelot could keep watch one way while Gwaine eyed the opposite approach. 'They used their names, did you notice? Rýne, Eadric, Tsala... They made no effort to hide their identities.'

'They could be monikers selected for themselves rather than those given to them at birth?' Leon suggested, catching Arthur's eye and jerking his head, urging him to mimic the posture of the other two knights. Part of him railed against the notion, but he could see the sense in it. They were all in this together, and his distance only put a challenge on the fledgling bonds of camaraderie that grew between them. There was a time for action, but this was not one of them. Their captors wanted them panicked, and Arthur did not intend to give them the satisfaction.

He sat on the floor at Lancelot's side, their shoulders pressed close in mutual support. It was easy to stretch his legs out in front of him and fold his arms, affecting disinterest while his belly roiled and squeezed. This was hardly his finest moment, and he would not blame a single one of his knights if they looked upon him unfavourably for his actions. He should have been more cautious.

'How many do you think make their home here?' The tone of Leon's voice suggested he had his own notions, and Arthur knew what he was doing. By inviting the others to speak, he gave them a chance to be active participants in this scenario. It was easy, in such situations, to fall into the trap of passivity: to decide that your fate was sealed and succumb. Gwaine, Arthur suspected, would scoff and complain. It was a pleasant surprise when he made a thoughtful tutting sound.

'More than I thought would be holed up here,' he acknowledged. 'I've ridden by this place more than once over the past few years. There were no signs of life the last time I came through, back in the spring. Now? Hundreds of the bastards.'

'Well armed, too. Did you notice?' Lancelot's voice was thoughtful. If he had any concerns about their current situation, he kept them hidden. 'Even a conscientious bandit will make do with what blade is to hand. The ones they carried were functional, perhaps, but sturdy.'

'And all the same.' It had caught Arthur's eye when he was forced to his knees. Normally, mercenaries or rogues used whatever weapons they could claim. The resulting armoury was a hodgepodge of implements. To see so many men all bearing the same blade? It spoke of organisation.

It made him think of an army, but to what realm did they pledge their allegiance, and what was their purpose? What was going on?

'What are the chances of Merlin staying in the camp like you told him?'

Arthur grimaced at Gwaine's question, and he knew he did not imagine Lancelot's quiet huff of laughter, hastily stifled. Nobody had questioned his command except for Merlin himself, but nor did anyone labour under the illusion that he would do what he was told.

'He is alone. He cries when we kill animals on hunts and does not know one end of a sword from the other,' he murmured. 'For his sake, I hope he followed my orders for once in his life.'

'And for ours?' Lancelot gave him an apologetic smile before gesturing to the threshold of their cell. 'I do not think we are getting out of here without some help. Those hinges are capped and welded; we cannot simply lift the door off its pins. The bars are relatively new. There is no rust that may facilitate an escape.'

'And the bastards prowling the halls don't have keys on their belts,' Gwaine added. 'They must have left them on the table up ahead. Maybe when they come and drag us to this "Rýne", we can rush 'em?'

'It might be our only choice. We cannot rely on Merlin for a rescue. Any aid he could summon is days away, and if he tried to infiltrate this place by himself, he would be dead within moments. They would not hesitate to run him through and be done with it.' Arthur's heart gave a worried little shudder at the thought, and he drew up his knees, propping his arms upon their peak as he considered their limited options.

It was tempting to raise a fuss: to force their captors' hands and hasten the attention of Rýne, but Arthur could see a dozen ways in which it might go wrong. A good commander knew when to make sacrifices, but he was damned if he was going to risk anyone's life.

If they became unruly, the guards were just as likely to stab them through the bars as they were to open the cells and break up a fight. Nor, he suspected, would they bat an eye if someone feigned some sort of dire injury. When it came down to it, they only needed one man for information. That meant the other three were superfluous and could well be treated as such.

Gods, what a mess.

A sudden "thump" echoed up through the fort, the ground beneath his backside shuddering with the force. Arthur blinked, turning to share a look with Lancelot. Their eyes met for a single, baffled second before a monstrous "boom" pulsed through the air. It was a cacophony of sound, battering the ears and rattling his lungs in the cage of his ribs. He had never heard anything like it. It reminded him of summer storms where thunder held reign. Yet this was not the bass rumble of a tempest. It was splintered stone and the crackle of flames, distant screams and panic.

Up ahead, the guards took off with a clatter, though whether they ran to help their brothers-in-arms or fled to save their own skins, Arthur could not be sure. He bolted to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the bars and pressing his face to the space between, trying to see along the corridor.

'What in the name of the gods was that?' Gwaine sounded almost grim in his amusement, as if he had challenged the world to make his day worse and then regretted his decision. He limped over to the door, giving it a futile tug before shaking his head. 'We're trapped like rats, and somehow I don't think anyone's in a hurry to let us out.'

Arthur groaned, pursing his lips. 'A pity the Miracle Court's magic seems to have its limits,' he muttered, loud enough for Lancelot to hear. 'Surely if it could make frost on a warm night, it could unlock a door.'

His father would have an apoplexy if he heard Arthur speaking in such a manner, yet it was not a mere passing comment. If Lancelot did have any sorcery to his name, he hoped the knight would take it as tacit permission. A hint, perhaps, that Arthur was content to look the other way if it meant they were saved. However, there was no responding glimmer of light. Instead, Lancelot paused, cocking his head to one side and inhaling deeply.

'Does anyone else smell smoke?'

A shiver of unease crawled down Arthur's spine, and he swore softly as he realised Lancelot was right. It was a faint, acrid hint on the air: a harbinger of their fate if they could not find their way out.

It seemed the others all came to the same realisation. It was Leon who raised his voice first, calling out as he rattled the cell door in its frame. Gwaine and Lancelot soon joined him, hollering with all their might. Arthur wished he could believe that their captors would take mercy on them, but he doubted they would be so fortunate. It was far more likely that they would be left down here to succumb to whatever calamity had befallen the fort.

There was a faint noise from near the stairs that led down to the makeshift dungeon. Arthur held up a hand, silencing the others with nothing more than a gesture. They all froze, breathless, tensing as the sound of footsteps reached their ears. There was just one set, moving with haste, and Arthur coiled like a snake waiting to strike, ready to grab at the shadowy figure as it lunged past.

His grip tangled in leather armour as he yanked with all his might, making his victim grunt and swear as he collided with the bars. Dark hair, starting to curl, crowned his head, and a strip of cloth was wound roughly over his mouth to protect him from the smoke. Yet all it took was one look into familiar blue eyes for recognition to hit Arthur like a battering ram.

'Merlin?'

'Ow, you prat!' Merlin yanked himself out of Arthur's grip and help up a key. 'Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?'

'Stop asking questions and get us out,' Arthur demanded, hiding his relief behind impatience. 'What happened? What's going on out there?'

Merlin yanked the cloth down from his face as he unlocked the doors. 'I couldn't get close to you with the guards hovering around. I caused a distraction. It was.... more successful than I expected.'

'You started the fire?'

'Yeah, but...' He grimaced. 'I don't know what happened. It was just meant to be flames and smoke. Instead, half the fort collapsed.'

Now Arthur looked closer, he could see that Merlin was a touch scorched, as if he'd stood too close to an open blaze. Soot streaked his cheeks and smeared his hands, but his eyes were bright and focused as he nudged the door aside, standing back to allow them over the threshold of each cell.

'Perhaps that is not such a bad thing. Well done, Merlin.' He clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a rough shake.

'Does that mean no stocks?' Merlin asked hopefully, his grin a white flash in the gloom.

'We'll see.'

'We need to leave,' Leon interrupted before Merlin could utter more than a quiet squawk of outrage. 'Anyone who has not already fled will probably be attempting to control the fire. It will be like a kicked ant's nest. We should seize the opportunity to make our escape.'

'You go on ahead. There's something I have to do first.'

'What? Wait.' Arthur grabbed Merlin's wrist, pulling him up short. 'What are you doing?'

Merlin huffed out a breath, his shoulders sagging as he hurried to explain. 'There's another prisoner. A boy. He needs help. He's up in one of the towers. I can't leave him behind.'

'How do you know about him?' Gwaine asked, light and curious. He nudged Arthur in the side, handing him his sword as he returned his own blade to its place on his hip.

'I – I overheard some of the bandits talking about him. Apparently, their sorcerer keeps him close by.'

'Sorcerer?' Arthur turned that revelation over in his mind, examining it from every angle. He may not know much about magic, but surely a mage would have better luck getting a fire under control than mere men with a bucket chain? 'If he helps extinguish the blaze –'

'– Then we have even less time on our aside.' Merlin thrust his arm along the corridor. 'Go that way. There's a narrow flight of stairs. It'll take you away from here. I'll be right behind you.'

'You are not going anywhere alone.' Arthur folded his arms, clearing his throat against the dry rasp of smoke that threatened to steal his voice. 'You three return to the camp. We'll meet you there.'

Gwaine snorted. 'Good luck with that.' He grinned, his dark eyes creasing at their corners. 'I don't have to follow your orders, and I doubt these two fine knights are going to do what they're told, either.'

'We cannot leave you behind,' Leon added, his voice brooking no argument. 'Merlin, lead the way.'

He rolled his eyes in disbelief, but no protests made themselves known as he darted off, leaving them to follow in his shadow. The steps were slick and worn with time, but they carried them safely up to ground level where chaos held sway.

Smoke wreathed the air, casting everything in a blue-ish pall. A glimpse out of an open archway showed Arthur the ruin of the courtyard. One mighty wall looked as if it had been smashed apart from the inside, the stone broken into shards. There were bodies lying where they had fallen, and others raced back and forth: darting shadows in front of an inferno.

'What did you do?' Arthur hissed, staring at Merlin in disbelief when he shrugged.

'Threw a torch on some barrels. It was fine at first, just fire, but then it reached the beams and whatever was on the floor above fell in...' He shook his head. 'I don't know what it was, but at least no one's bothered about us anymore.'

'And this sorcerer?' Lancelot asked, the look he gave Merlin heavy with some meaning Arthur could not grasp. 'I do not fancy running into him unexpectedly.'

'He's no prisoner of theirs.' Merlin wet his lips, his eyes darting off and to the side. 'To hear the bandits speak of him, I got the feeling he was in charge. He'll be out there somewhere – trying to save what's left of his fort, but we have to hurry. The east tower is this way.'

It was a breathless, frantic rush through the corridors, but the journey took them further from the vociferous flames. There were no more patrols within the hallways. The bandits had succumbed to their panic, and those few who stumbled into their path were hastily dispatched. Arthur wasted no time in searching the corpses, taking personal effects and making notes of any heraldry that marked their clothes.

'It's not just Mercia and Camelot,' Gwaine grunted, pulling a leather cord free from around one man's neck. 'Isn't this the mark of Deorham?'

'Alined's kingdom.' Leon frowned, baffled. 'What game are they playing?'

'I don't know.' Arthur straightened up, seeing Merlin haunting the bottom of a spiral staircase. He looked like a dog straining at its leash, eager to pursue its quarry. His head was tilted to one side as if he were listening to something only he could hear, and his gaze did not stray from the shadowed climb in front of him.

'Let us go first,' he warned, reaching out to grab Merlin's elbow before he could launch himself upwards. 'Your prisoner might not be alone; you could have been deceived. We can't put our faith in the words of bandits.'

Merlin stared at him, his jaw working, but at last he seemed to bow to Arthur's wisdom, albeit reluctantly.

'We shouldn't hang about,' Gwaine warned. 'That fire is spreading, and the wind's picked up. If we're not careful, this whole place will be consumed and we'll be caught in the middle.'

'Are you all right?' Leon asked him. 'Your leg...'

'It's a scratch. Popped a stitch during that scuffle. I'll live.'

'I'll check it once we're done,' Merlin promised as he took up position at the rear, climbing the stairs with an awkward, sideways twist to his body so that he could look over his shoulder.

So far, nobody had stumbled across their empty cells and raised the alarm. Arthur suspected that, even if they did, the bandits who had made this place their home had bigger problems than a few fleeing prisoners. Still, he had to praise Merlin's common sense and ingenuity. He had successfully infiltrated Caludahn when Arthur and the others had failed. He'd caused a distraction and helped them escape. It was another one of those alarming glimmers of realisation, growing ever more frequent, that suggested there was more to Merlin than met the eye.

Arthur shook the thought aside, promising to look at it more closely later. For now, he had to pay attention to what lay ahead. He moved around the tight curve of the stairs with as much grace as he could muster, constantly braced for a cry of alarm. The gloom was lit by candles in the wall, but the flames never wavered with their passing. The tallow looked old and brittle, as if the heat did not touch it, and Arthur realised magic had to be at play.

By the time he reached the threshold at the top, a nervous sweat slicked the nape of his neck and each breath was no more than a sip between his lips. His knuckles cramped around his drawn sword, and he held up his left hand in a fist, silently bidding the others to halt. He listened intently, trying to pick out any sounds of occupation in the room beyond the threshold, but all was silent and still. The door stood ajar in its frame, and he peered through the gap, seeing capering shadows from the fire in the hearth and little else of note.

With a jolt, he surged forward, thrusting his way into the room and raising his blade in preparation to attack. His gaze skimmed his surroundings, absorbing everything before settling on the boy cowering in the corner.

He was a scrap of a thing, his pale brown hair lank and silver eyes huge in his face. He was dressed in what had once been robes but were now little more than rags. Through a tear, Arthur saw the glimpse of ink that stained his shoulder: a druid tattoo.

Lowering his sword, he crouched down, making sure to keep his distance so as not to frighten the child further. He already bore the hollow, lost look of one who had seen too much. Arthur would not add to that burden if he could help it.

'Is there a key?' he asked softly, gesturing towards the odd chains that manacled the boy's wrists. They carried a strange, oily glow to them, and were far more delicate than standard prison fare. The links looked like they might snap with a bit of effort, but Arthur could guess that all was not what it seemed.

Those pale grey eyes flew upwards, that gaze pinning someone over Arthur's shoulder. There was an odd, intense gleam to the boy's expression. Arthur twitched in surprise when Merlin strode to the fireplace, patting his fingers through the oddments upon the mantel before retrieving a spiky key. 'It's here. I'll get him sorted. Why don't you have a look around? Maybe we can find something that explains what was happening in this place.'

'Orders, Merlin?' Arthur asked, already turning towards the large desk in the centre of the room.

'Suggestions.' Merlin's grin was a fey thing, there and gone again. Arthur watched him out of the corner of his eye as he approached the boy, noting how he kept his shoulders rounded and his hands in front of him.

His voice was a constant murmur of comfort, and Arthur knew he was not the only one dividing his attention. The knights were the same, braced and ready. Prisoners could react unpredictably upon rescue. Just because the child was a waif, it didn't mean he wasn't a threat. Most druids had some magic to their name, and Arthur had no desire for Merlin's compassion to be repaid with violence.

Yet even he could see how gentle Merlin was being. He did not rush or pressure the child but invited him to be a part of his own rescue, never grabbing for him or acting with any haste. The response was obvious. That narrow body uncurled, no longer hunkered and guarded, but blooming like a flower. A bony wrist was proffered, and Arthur heard the boy's sigh of relief as the metal that imprisoned him yielded and fell to the floor.

Turning his attention more fully to the desk, Arthur stripped off his gauntlets before he began to rummage through the paperwork, frowning at the scribbles that marred the surface of the parchment. It looked like some kind of code, and he cursed to himself as he shoved them to one side. There was some odd, black powder kept under a glass cloche, and various sigils had been carved into the wood: ones that would send his father into a froth about sorcery.

'There's a map,' Lancelot called out, unfurling a brittle roll and frowning down at it with his lips pursed. 'There are places marked: raids, maybe? I'm not sure.'

'Bring it with us. Anything else?'

'Books. Lots of them; the kind that would see a man burned in Camelot.' Leon held one up, its leather cover gleaming an odd burgundy in the firelight. 'Merlin did say there was a sorcerer.'

'And it looks like he was in charge of the place.' Gwaine hefted a bundle of cloth, more tabards and pennants: heraldry from various kingdoms across Albion. 'Or maybe he was just the brains behind whatever they were doing.'

'Rýne.' The voice that spoke was soft, little more than a whisper, and Arthur turned towards the boy. He was rubbing at his wrists over and over, as if trying to scrub himself clean of imprisonment's stain. He stared at the floor, but Arthur saw the moment he gathered his strength and dragged his eyes upwards to meet Arthur's own gaze. 'His name is Rýne.'

'And what is yours, my friend?' Gwaine asked, casual and easy, with no expectation. He did not coddle him, but treated him as if they were already good friends who had simply skipped the formality of an introduction.

The boy's eyes darted, quick and nervous, to Merlin, who gave him an encouraging nod. 'I am Mordred.'

'I'm Gwaine, that there is Arthur, Lancelot and Leon. The one beside you is Merlin.' A crack and the sound of collapsing stone made him wince, and he cast a sharp look in Arthur's direction. 'We'll get you out of here; assuming you're done?'

'Almost. Grab a bag; take whatever you can find that looks relevant.' Arthur snatched an empty pack from the floor where it lay like the shed skin of some animal, pilfering everything he could carry. The mystery of what was going on at Caludahn remained shrouded in shadow. He felt as if he had the broken, jagged edges of his suspicions and little more to go on.

He was so intent on looking for something that might unlock the puzzle that he jumped out of his skin when Mordred let out a high, thin cry of fear. He had no time to do anything but flinch before Merlin lunged, a blade gleaming in his hand as he slammed it deep into the surface of the desk.

Leon cursed in shock as a huge serpent melted into view, its long, iridescent body writhing in the death throes. Merlin's dagger had gone right through its skull, pinning it to the wood. Arthur twitched as he yanked out the knife and neatly severed its head.

'We need to go, now.'

He had never heard Merlin sound quite like that before, firm and commanding as he wiped the dagger off on the sleeve of his armour. Arthur's voice was caught somewhere beneath his ribs, choking on questions and tangled in curses. How had Merlin known the snake was there? What would have happened if it had struck, as it clearly intended? What sort of magic could create such a creature, far bigger than any viper Arthur had seen in Albion before?

'He's right,' Mordred added, his voice a squeak. 'That was Nithral. Rýne's familiar. He'll know you're here.' His eyes shifted to Merlin. 'He'll know what you did.'

'Then let's not linger to meet him.' Leon held out a hand to help Mordred to his feet, looking him over with a firm eye. 'Can you walk? We may need to move swiftly. One of us can carry you, if –'

'No. I'll manage.' Mordred cast the remains of Nithral a spiteful, satisfied sort of look before he darted towards the door. 'There's a tunnel. It will bring us out a good distance from the fort. We won't have to try our luck beyond the walls.'

'That could work in our favour. The fields around this place must be full of fleeing bandits. They may be frightened, but they're opportunistic. We could find ourselves fighting running battles. It will slow us down.' Lancelot stood aside, shouldering one of the bags and gesturing towards the door. 'Lead the way, Mordred. With your permission, Sire?'

Arthur nodded, just once, hefting the pack and skirting the body of the snake, still eyeing it with receding horror. It was twice as long as a man was tall and as thick as Arthur's thigh. The inky iridescence of its scales were marked with odd, sickle shapes all down its spine. He was certain that no such creature could be found in nature. Then there was what Mordred had said: a familiar. He had heard of such things only in whispers, and now his ignorance chafed at him like coarse sand.

'Are you all right?' Leon asked as they brought up the rear of their little party, following Mordred's lead as Gwaine and Lancelot ensured their safety. For once, Leon's courtly manners were buffed away. The look he gave Arthur was that of a friend, and despite the long day, he was glad of it. 'I seem to recall that you find snakes particularly distasteful.'

'I'm fine. Better than I would have been if not for Merlin's quick action.' In truth, it was a small blessing that the creature had been invisible. There had been no time for fear to seize him. It had all happened so quickly that he felt only the residual shudder of horror over what might have been. It was a terror that had lived with him since the mists of childhood. As a man, he had learned not to simply flee but to force himself through it. Still, the creatures left him deeply uneasy in a way that was unbecoming of any knight of the realm.

Yet Leon's kindness was well-meant. He did not seek to remind Arthur of a weakness but hoped to offer reassurance.

'Yes, I have to admit that Merlin has been full of surprises, lately.' Leon adjusted the pack on his shoulder, making sure it would not tangle with his sword if he needed to put it to use. 'There was what he did over the First Code, then how he responded to Uther's efforts to enlist him as a spy. His disobedience of your order to stay in camp is no surprise, but he did not blunder in blindly in an effort to rescue us.' Leon tilted his head, keeping his voice soft. 'I confess, I have underestimated him.'

Arthur grunted. 'You're not alone in that,' he acknowledged, wincing as the bite of smoke began to scratch his throat and nip at his eyes. Up ahead, he saw Merlin pull the cloth back over his face as Mordred pressed his ragged sleeve to his mouth. Gwaine and Lancelot ducked lower to avoid the worst of the fume. The stairwell remained surprisingly clear, and Arthur wondered if magic played its part in that, protecting the room at its peak.

'Quickly,' Mordred urged, heading for the steps that would take them back down to the cellars. 'This way.' He took off like a rabbit, light on his feet, and the knights were left to lumber along behind, half-blind and choking.

The cool air of the dungeons was not so hazy, the smoke drifting above ground rather than coiling down the stairs, yet even here its scent perfumed each breath. From the sounds of it, the fire still burned: a starving beast denying all efforts to bring it under control. Had the bandits abandoned their attempts, or did they continue to try and master the blaze?

There was no time to investigate further, and Arthur was happy to put this place at his back. He followed Mordred and Merlin down past the cells to where the passageway grew narrow. The crisp lines of the masonry fell away, revealing rough-hewn rock: a tunnel that snaked downwards into the dark.

Mordred whispered something, and an orb of light drifted up from his palm. It was about the size of a large apple and silvery in colour, but Arthur was struck by a sudden wave of familiarity. He had seen such a thing before, though it had been larger and shaded in hues of blue. The same sort of glow had guided him out of the cave in the Forest of Balor, sparing him a grisly and ignoble end. It was the first time he had witnessed magic as a source of aid rather than strife. Now, Mordred's enchantment lit the way ahead, and the knights followed it eagerly through the oppressive darkness.

Nobody seemed alarmed by the spell. Leon barely batted an eyelash, and Lancelot was equally indifferent. The only person who showed any faint alarm was Gwaine, and it was not at the magic being cast. Instead, he shot a quick glance in Arthur's direction, as if judging his reaction and bracing himself to leap to Mordred's defence if necessary.

Those dark eyes assessed him, narrowed in thought before Gwaine turned back to face the way ahead. Arthur wondered what the man thought – this stranger who had slotted himself into their group with such ease. Perhaps later, he would get the chance to ask him, but for now there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Only the steady ache in his thighs indicated they had begun to ascend, and when they stumbled out of a cave mouth, it was to find the first seam of dawn's light stitching the horizon. Behind them, the night blazed orange and red, choked with smoke, and Arthur turned to take in the sight.

Flames streaked the sky, more fearsome than he had imagined, and the surviving masonry was little more than a silhouette against their veils. He wondered how many men had been caught inside, trapped in collapses or killed outright.

The he remembered the massacre at Bridgend. Too many innocents had died to feed the greed of the bandits who made their home within those walls. To him, at least, this seemed like justice.

Caludahn burned, and Arthur could not bring himself to regret it.

Chapter Text

The camp was as he had left it: a pool of tranquillity after the chaos of the night. The magic of the ward was subtle, so much so that no one other than Mordred noticed its presence upon their return. He shot a quick look in Merlin's direction, his voice echoing in his skull.

'They really don't know?'

'No.'

Merlin winced at the ache in his head. It was instinct, speaking to Mordred in such a manner, but it was like an unused muscle, weak and wobbly.

Thankfully, the boy had not tried a similar method of communicating with Arthur or any of the knights. He wasn't sure if it didn't work on them or if he was simply exercising caution amidst strangers. Merlin, on the other hand, appeared to have won Mordred's trust immediately, for reasons he couldn't quite pin down.

Mordred watched him for a long moment, confusion painting his grimy face. At last, he gave a little shrug, one which soon became an all over shudder as a cool wind ruffled through the camp.

It was Arthur who stepped forward, wrapping him quickly in a cloak. 'I'm afraid we don't have any clothes that will fit you,' he murmured, dropping to one knee so that he wasn't looming. 'Do you have family? Kin? Do you have a home nearby?'

Mordred swallowed hard, his face twisting as he shook his head. 'Rýne killed them,' he whispered. 'Him and his men. There weren't many.' He shrugged. 'Now there's just me.'

Gwaine swore softly, rummaging through the saddlebag on his horse and pulling free some dried meat. It wasn't much, but he offered it to Mordred in an instant. 'Eat that while we pack up camp. I'm guessing you don't plan to linger?' That was addressed to Arthur, who shook his head.

'We need to put some distance between us and Caludahn.'

Sleep was a distant memory, but Arthur had a point. It would not be safe to remain so near the burning fort. His magic protected them, but it might also act like a beacon for Rýne. He'd kept watch for that dark, choking power as they'd fled. So far, it hadn't touched upon him again, but he wasn't about to push his luck. Just because they seemed to have made their escape, that didn't mean Rýne wouldn't give chase.

'Did he say why he imprisoned you?' Merlin asked softly, reaching for a water-skin and holding it out to Mordred. He had wolfed through the meat Gwaine had given him, eating in that hand-to-mouth way of the truly hungry, barely stopping to chew. He drank with that same desperation, as if he had suffered too much deprivation.

'He said children are useful,' he managed at last. 'That I wasn't too old yet. I don't know what for.'

Merlin grimaced, not liking the sound of that. Magic could be abused just like any tool of power, and there were some spells that no decent person would put to use. Many of them involved the sort of ritual where the price was a visceral reality: blood and bone. That of an innocent, or a mage, could have additional properties. Morded, he imagined, fit that mold.

'You're safe now,' he promised. 'We won't let him get you again.'

Arthur made a quiet noise, as if he wanted to warn Merlin against making promises he couldn't keep. Still, it was worth it for the look of absolute faith in Mordred's eyes. He had the drained, exhausted expression of a kid who had lived too long on the brink of disaster and now could not believe that fortune had chosen to smile on him. 'Rest here a minute. I just need to check Gwaine's leg before we try and ride anywhere.'

'It's fine,' Gwaine protested, grumbling when Merlin merely gave him his best glare. 'A bit of blood's no trouble.'

'You already lost plenty back at Bridgend. Breeches off.'

Gwaine waggled his eyebrows but he did as he was told, dragging them down to his knees so Merlin could see the bandage. It was stained but not sopping, which was a good sign, and he quickly got it unravelled, grimacing as he realised one of the sutures had broken. The rest appeared able to take the strain, however, and it seemed better to bind it than try and wield a needle and thread out here in the wilds.

It was the work of a moment to douse it in vinegar, grinning as Gwaine gritted his teeth in an effort not to curse. Maybe if Mordred weren't present, he would have allowed his voice to find its freedom, but he managed some restraint as Merlin bound it in clean linen strips.

'Anyone else injured?' he asked, looking around at the other knights, who all considered the question before deciding they were better off spared his attentions. He gave each man a critical glare, but they appeared honest in their assessments. As far as he could see, they had escaped with nothing worse than a couple of bruises to their name.

'We should mount up as soon as we are able. We will not make it back to Bridgend tonight, but the town should be our aim.' Arthur spoke with clear authority, and Merlin saw how the men straightened, each of them finding strength in the orders. Even Gwaine appeared glad of the direction, because he nodded his head in quick approval.

'Good call, Princess. We'd do well to check on them.'

'We can see if reinforcements have arrived.' Lancelot sounded so hopeful, and Merlin didn't have it in him to burst his bubble. Somehow, he doubted Uther would bother to prioritise the border town.

'It's a long ride from Camelot,' Leon began, his voice soft. 'It could be that any assistance won't have had the time to reach them yet.'

It was an excuse for Uther's potential indifference. Merlin knew it, and he suspected Lancelot did as well, but they all clung to the words as if they meant something.

It was Lancelot who urged Mordred towards the horses, introducing him to each in turn as the others set about packing away the bedrolls they'd had no opportunity to use. Merlin went through the motions with the ease of long practice, dousing the fire and burying the ashes beneath a quick cairn of hastily gathered stones. The grassland was too wet to burn, but he did not want to add to the calamity that was the blaze at Caludahn.

'He has magic.'

Arthur's voice took him by surprise, pitched low and secretive so only Merlin could hear. He twitched to realise that Arthur stood at his shoulder, fiddling with the strap of his pack. 'He uses it as easily as one of us might take our next breath.'

Merlin waited, offering him the space to follow the path of his thoughts as he took in the slant to his features. Back at the start of the year, he would have been convinced that the very sight of magic, no matter how benign, would have been met with swift punishment. Arthur would have done his duty. Yet he had not reacted negatively to Mordred's power at all. He had seen him, down in the tunnels, staring at the mage-light with fascination rather than horror. Not once had he reached for his sword.

'My father says that magic corrupts from the first moment someone uses it. That it stains them until killing them is practically a mercy.'

'Do you believe him?' It took all his strength to keep any trace of judgement out of his voice, but the effort was worth it to see Arthur glance in his direction, a rueful smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

'I might have, once. Now? It doesn't make sense. I've lived in the Miracle Court for weeks, and the power there is... There's nothing dark about it. Not any more than there was about Mordred's little light. But then you have people like this "Rýne"...' Arthur trailed off, shaking his head. 'It seems to me that it's not the magic that corrupts the mage, but the other way around. Just as a cruel knight brings dishonour to the code, so sorcery can be twisted to a more sinister purpose by the one who wields it.'

He huffed a mirthless laugh. 'Yet if that is true, then my father has slaughtered hundreds, maybe even thousands of innocents, and for what? Does he really believe his own words, or is it just a shield for something else?'

Once, not so long ago, Arthur would never have contemplated questioning his father's assertions. However, since encouraging him to challenge the First Code, Merlin could see how he had found new depths to his courage.

The prince was not cowardly, but when it came to Uther, Arthur had learned the benefits of taking the easy path. He could not blame him for that, and yet his words offered Merlin a glimmer of hope for what the future might hold. One where Arthur took all his father's teaching and held them up to the light so that he could see their flaws.

'I don't know why he believes that,' he said at last, wetting his lips. His own confession felt like a stone in his throat, painful to restrain but stuck all the same. 'I only know I've not seen any proof of it.'

At Arthur's quick look, he shrugged, bending to check the pack at his feet and speaking to its contents. 'It wasn't illegal in Essetir. Frowned upon, maybe, but people still used it.' He pursed his lips. 'It helped when nothing else would. I think all power risks twisting those who use it. How many times have realms seen a good king become callous and indifferent in time?' He stopped, not daring to utter another word. He spoke close enough to treason as it was.

'So you're saying the truth perhaps lies somewhere between the two extremes?'

'Isn't that often the way?'

Arthur shifted his weight onto his right leg, folding his arms over his chest and giving Merlin an inscrutable look. In a good light, it might have been admiration, but he was rarely open with his praise. 'You know, Merlin, that almost sounded like wisdom.'

He grinned down at what he was doing. 'Sorry, Sire. I don't know what came over me. It won't happen again.' He straightened up, rocking on his heels when Arthur shoved him playfully, his fingers tangling in his borrowed armour to steady him.

'Come on. We should get on the road. Are you keeping that?'

'Servants aren't meant to have armour,' Merlin pointed out. 'Unless their lord demands it.'

'Then consider it demanded. It's decent, and not a terrible fit. It'll do until I can commission you something better.'

'Please tell me you're not planning on making me a knight?'

Arthur threw back his head and laughed. 'No, definitely not. I've seen you with a sword. It was painful to watch.' He jerked his chin towards Merlin's hip, indicating the dagger on his belt. 'Still, the armour might be a good idea, and keep that. You proved yourself not entirely useless with it.'

They rejoined the knights, who were having a spirited discussion over who got the privilege of having Mordred ride with them. The boy himself looked awestruck at the attention, and Merlin's heart panged at the sight.

In the end, Leon won by dint of his gelding Abraxis being the biggest and most able to bear the additional weight. Merlin had to admit he agreed with his choice. Of all the mounts in the stables, Abraxis was the most steady. He matched his rider in that respect. He'd seen the gelding react to situations with no more than a flick of his ear while the other horses fled. He would not let Mordred fall.

They set off from Caludahn, leaving behind the haze of smoke and the consuming flames. Merlin watched it over his shoulder, always waiting for the moment when Rýne's magic chased after them, but there was nothing. He supposed it was too much to hope that he was as dead as his snake.

'I wonder what made it burn like that?' he mused. 'I've never seen fire behave so strangely.'

'Maybe it was their stash of moonshine!' Gwaine called out cheerfully. 'Some of that stuff burns in a heartbeat. Better than oil, though it doesn't last as long.'

'It was the powder.' Mordred's voice was quiet, but they could all make him out. 'Black powder. Rýne was making it. It doesn't just burn. It...' He shrugged before pointing back in the direction they'd come. 'It does that. Knocks down walls and things. It's like bursting fire and drops new flame wherever it touches.'

'By the gods,' Leon murmured. 'Imagine what it could do in warfare. A castle's siege would be broken in moments. You would not even need to dig beneath the ramparts in the hopes of causing a collapse. You could simply blast them apart.'

A shocked silence followed his pronouncement, and Merlin grimaced in horror. Suddenly, he felt fortunate to be alive. From the sounds of it, he was lucky the powder had been stored in the room above where he had set the blaze. It had given him time to get away before the whole thing blew up and took half the fort with it.

'What did he want it for?' Lancelot tapped his heels against Delilah's flank, urging her forward. 'Do you know?'

'He did not speak of it often, but he was always making more.'

Arthur ran Llamrei's reins through his palms, his jaw tight and his expression thoughtful. 'Is it magic?' he asked. 'Made with spells?'

'No. He uses muck from the stables. Piss from the men. Keeps it in barrels until the stink is something awful. Mixes it with ash and charcoal.' The boy shook his head and shrugged. 'I think there's more to it than that. What you destroyed today took him more than a year to make.'

'Good.' Arthur gave a quick nod of approval. 'Then it is likely that we have at least delayed his plans. It will take him time to replenish his supply. Time in which we can hopefully gain an understanding of his intentions.'

Merlin chewed his lip, shifting in the saddle and reaching out to pat Lilac's neck when she huffed her disapproval. 'He's a sorcerer. If an army marched on Camelot with a mage, the curtain wall would fall in moments. He doesn't need it for himself.' Panic sliced through him, quick and sharp. After all, what was he meant to know about sorcery? 'I imagine, anyway.'

'True. It is part of the reason the ban on magic is extended to our neighbours, and why my father feared the notion of Cenred enslaving sorcerers, though I've heard no more of that particular strategy for some time.'

'Cenred is too weak to launch an attack. There's been flood and famine, and he doesn't give a shit. He's happy to sit in his castle and let his people starve. Some of the border towns do better, but he's in no fit state to fight.' Quiet fury underscored Gwaine's words, giving them a subtle tremor. 'Most won't dare take on Camelot. Your father's proven the kingdom's strength enough times in the past to make it a risky prospect, but if some of your enemies got hold of this black powder?'

'They would still have to face our knights.' Arthur grimaced, shaking his head. 'Such as that remain, anyway. No, we need to know what this is about. There are not many kingdoms who could match us, even with this new weapon. Mercia, perhaps, but Bayard wouldn't dare. None of the others could do it alone.'

'It does suggest, however, that he might be making it for someone else,' Lancelot pointed out. 'Or planning to sell it to whoever can pay the most.'

There was a long stretch of silence, interrupted only by the jingle of tack and the horses' hooves. Every man was lost in his thoughts, considering the possibilities.

'You said these bandits were turning their coats?' Gwaine mused. 'What if they're trying to stoke resentment between realms?'

'Hoping to start a war?' Lancelot suggested.

'A captive market for the black powder. If you can set the rulers of the five kingdoms to in-fighting, then you can sell that stuff to all of them. That leaves Rýne rolling in gold and the land in disarray.'

'Which would be perfect for bandits,' Leon added. 'They're like crows picking over the remnants of battle.'

'And they are not the only ones who would benefit. If the five kingdoms were at each other's throats, they would be too busy defending against each other to protect their borders.' Arthur cuffed a hand over his brow. 'Any other land seeking to gain territory would reap the rewards. Those on our flanks are the most likely. Essetir to the east, Caerleon to the west.'

Merlin pursed his lips, noticing how Gwaine had stiffened at the mention of the latter domain. He tucked that observation away for later.

'Once we're in Bridgend, we will plumb the depths of what we recovered from Caludahn. Perhaps that will give us some firm answers.'

'And once you have them, I suppose you'll tell your father?' Gwaine turned in his saddle, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted. However, if he expected a ringing response, he was in for a disappointment. Even Merlin was surprised by Arthur's hesitation, and he watched him closely, trying to read some sense in the blank mask Arthur had pressed across his features.

'That depends, I think, on what we find. The moment my father learns a sorcerer's role in this, he will lose all perspective. It is not that he would fail to see the bigger political picture; he would simply refuse to credit it. Whatever he is told, it should be done with care.' He looked at both Leon and Lancelot, as if trying to impress his words into their bones. 'We cannot act incautiously nor speculate too wildly. The wrong word in the wrong place could plunge the five kingdoms into war.'

Gwaine frowned as if he did not know quite what to make of Arthur, his expression creased and thoughtful. 'You really are not what I expected. Any of you. Except Merlin of course. He's exactly what I thought he'd be. Everyone knows the servants are the smart ones.'

'I've seen him do some truly stupid things,' Arthur protested.

'Still not as stupid as you, Sire.' Merlin laughed, leaning over in his saddle to avoid the swipe of Arthur's hand. It was a break in the tension, something that allowed the conversation to move more comfortably in its flow. It was not that they abandoned their fears, but they spoke of them with greater comfort. It meant that, as the day went on, they each seemed to find the strength to face the challenges before them.

They camped in the shelter of the woods and awoke to discover that the first frost had embellished the leaves with the promise of ice. The hues of evening cloaked the sky by the time they trotted into Bridgend, returning once more to the inn that had sheltered them, where repairs had begun.

New thatch was being laid to protect against the winter months, though Merlin didn't miss the murmurs in the tavern. The townsfolk wondered what the point was if they would only face more raids. Of support from Camelot, there was no sign, not that he had expected any differently. Yet Merlin could not ignore the flicker of a shadow across Arthur's expression, as if he had hoped for better.

'Everyone's on-edge,' Lancelot murmured, his voice full of pity as they climbed the creaky stairs towards the rooms they had rented. 'You can feel it in the air.'

'Can you blame 'em?' Gwaine grumbled, ushering Mordred on ahead of him. 'Their dead are barely ash on the wind. The memory of that night is fresh. They'll not feel safe here for a while. If ever.'

Merlin pursed his lips, remembering how it could be in Ealdor after the bandits came. Once the slaughtered were buried and the homes repaired, everyone was always looking over their shoulder. He recalled the shadows under his mum's eyes and her grip on his arm, tight like she was trying to stop him being swept away. They had been the lucky ones. They had survived to rebuild, like Bridgend. Some villages weren't so fortunate.

'You didn't stay, did you?' He had never asked Lancelot much about his past, but he knew some. 'After what happened in Lianham?'

'No. In truth, no one did. The raiders did not leave behind enough of my home to save.' His expression was more tired than anything else, the gleam in those dark eyes subdued. 'To my shame, I have days where I wonder if that was for the best. I had nothing to hold me back. It was a dire sort of freedom.'

'But a tenuous way to live.' Leon opened the door to one of the rooms and they all traipsed inside. Merlin craved the comfort of a real bed, but Arthur no doubt wanted to pore over what they had found in the keep, Besides, Mordred needed food, a good wash, clean clothes and a safe nest. Not necessarily in that order.

'I did all right for myself.' Lancelot set down his saddlebag with a sigh, straightening out a kink in his back before turning to help Merlin with his burden. 'People are always stronger than you might think. Resilient, when they have to be. Bridgend will recover. With any luck, the surviving bandits from the fort have scattered. They'll be less of a threat.'

'Or so we hope.' There was no table on which to spread out their finds, but the rough floorboards offered a blank canvas. The knights worked together, emptying out the packs as Merlin set about dealing with the more practical aspects of their situation, such as seeing everyone fed.

He slipped out of the door and trotted down to the tavern, speaking quickly to the barkeep. It seemed their heroics the other day were good for something, because he did not even have to turn on any charm. By the time he went back upstairs, he'd secured food and drink, a bundle of clothes for Mordred and several basins of hot water.

'Here.' He handed over a tunic and breeches, clean smalls and thick woollen socks with a smile, looking into those pale eyes. 'You must be eager to get out of those things. Do you have any hurts I need to know about?' It was a struggle to keep the tension out of his voice. He had no idea how long Mordred had been a prisoner, nor what might have happened to him.

'He wouldn't let anyone touch me,' Mordred promised. He snatched at the clothes as if he thought they would be stolen away, his fingers tight in the fabric. A tap at the door heralded the arrival of the warm water, and Merlin carried a bowl behind the privacy screen, bidding Mordred to clean himself before getting changed.

The splash of water provided an unlikely harmony to the rustle of paper and the crackle of wood in the grate. The boy who emerged a short while later looked a good deal more human. No more grime stained his face, and his garments were plain, whole and serviceable. He had kept the cloak, not that Merlin blamed him. Mordred had that bird-like, coltish look of a child who had not eaten enough, and the cold had to gnaw upon his bones.

'Eat that,' he urged, handing over a bowl of stew and a hunk of steaming bread fresh from the oven. 'Then try and get some sleep. You can go next door where it's quiet or stay here if you want the company. Either's fine.'

There was a kind of hunger in Mordred's gaze that had nothing to do with food. It was for the simple safety of having someone else to watch his back. To rest without having to keep one eye open, always braced for an attack.

'I'll stay,' he whispered, the first faint curl of a smile tilting his lips as Merlin nodded. It soon dimmed, and those spidery fingers shifted around the wooden bowl in his grasp. He hesitated, as if he were afraid to ask whatever question plagued him. Yet Merlin had to admire the boy. For all he had been through, it seemed he still had courage to spare. 'What's going to happen to me?'

Merlin grimaced, uncertain. They were, all of them, running on too little sleep and an abundance of battle-readiness. There had been neither the time nor space to consider Mordred's future, but their choices were limited. They could attempt to find some druids, except they would be strangers with no ties to him but that of their culture. They could take him to Camelot, where he would be in constant danger of discovery, or they could leave him here in Bridgend and hope the townsfolk showed him kindness.

None of those options seemed like a dazzling choice, and Merlin could feel the weight of Arthur's gaze on the back of his neck. 'How about we think about that tomorrow?' he said, dodging the question and hating himself for it. In the end, Mordred's fate would no doubt lie in Arthur's hands, although he wouldn't put it past the boy to do what he wanted regardless. Underneath that fear and uncertainty, Merlin got the feeling he had a stubborn streak a mile wide.

He rose to his feet, doling out stew from the cauldron the maid had brought and handing out bowls of it, stifling a smile as the knights fell upon it like ravening beasts. The night out in the forest had given them all a chance to find their dreams, but Merlin wasn't sure how much rest they had claimed. He knew he'd stayed awake, his mind racing even as his body lay there in exhausted defeat. Now they shored up their reserves as they examined the fragments they had been able to pull from the wreckage of Caludahn.

Gwaine had no difficulty reading, Merlin realised, his suspicions settling atop another firm foundation. Between his skill with a sword, his comfort in the saddle, the state of his clothes and his obvious education, it was increasingly clear that he was some sort of disgraced noble. More to the point, he suspected he wasn't the only one who had noticed.

He saw Arthur watching the man out of the corner of his eye, a hint of something enigmatic curling his lips. They had struck sparks off each other at first. Now they made Merlin think of a pair of dogs, circling each other warily as they tried to decide whether the other was friend or foe.

Both seemed equally possible, though he hoped for the former. Lancelot was polite and charming with a spine of steel, happy to show obeisance where he felt it was deserved. Gwaine didn't give a shit about rank or title. His respect had to be earned. Arthur could use someone like that, in Merlin's mind. Someone who made it clear that they stood by his side, not for their own gain, but because it was where they wanted to be.

Now if only he could get Gwaine and Arthur to agree with him...

A wink from Gwaine broke through his reverie, and he grinned as he realised he'd been staring, lost in his thoughts. 'Sorry. Tired.'

'You'll get no complaints from me.' That roguish grin was predictable and utterly harmless, but Merlin didn't miss Arthur's reaction. He gave a fierce scowl before hastily stuffing his expression behind one of those aggravating royal masks, all smooth and unreadable.

'Perhaps we should all seek our rest and look at this with fresh eyes in the morning,' Leon suggested.

'It certainly looks like Mordred's got the right idea.' The smile in Lancelot's voice was impossible to miss, and Merlin followed his gaze, seeing that Mordred had made a nest for himself within the blankets. The empty bowl of stew rested on the floorboards, and his eyes flickered madly beneath the veils of their lids. He hoped whatever dreams he had tonight were sweet ones. The boy deserved that much.

'Poor kid.' Gwaine's sympathy was genuine, for all that they knew worse things befell children every day. The world was a harsh place, and true safety was a privilege. 'He's out like a candle, and he's stolen your bed, Merlin. You'll have to share with me.'

'Merlin stays here.' Arthur's voice was quiet but flat, brooking absolutely no argument, and Gwaine's eyes sparkled with mirth as he spread his hands in surrender.

'If you say so.'

'There's room for you with us, Gwaine,' Lancelot promised, clasping his shoulder and steering him towards the door. 'I'll even let you have one of the cots, since you're still injured.'

'You are kindness itself, Lancelot, my friend.'

The three men eased across the threshold, talking quietly among themselves. Merlin did not miss the amused look Lancelot shared with Leon, as if they both knew something he didn't. Of course, all this time he'd been thinking of how the new knights could benefit Arthur, he had not stopped to consider that the pair of them might find a friend in one another. Not that he could complain about that. It felt right, watching Lancelot and Leon forge a connection: as if it was how it was meant to be.

'I am eager to put Bridgend, and Gwaine, behind us,' Arthur grumbled as Merlin tiptoed around, hoping not to disturb Mordred as he tidied up the bowls.

'You know he doesn't mean it. I think he's like that with everyone.'

The look Arthur gave him was thick with doubt, but he remained silent as Merlin stepped forward. The silver shimmer of Arthur's chainmail still clad him, and Merlin grabbed the hem, making sure that the links did not scrape his face as he removed it.

He wasn't expecting Arthur to reach out, plucking at the buckles that held Merlin's stolen armour in place. They'd all slept in it the previous night, too aware of their vulnerabilities to go unprotected. Now, Merlin stood motionless as Arthur freed him of its chrysalis.

His fingers were warm through Merlin's tunic as he eased aside the leather, dragging it off his shoulders. He'd grown used to its weight, but it was a relief to be free of it. So much so that it made him dizzy. Or perhaps that was just Arthur's odd, quiet intensity. That gaze lingered, catching on something, and a moment later Arthur's touch brushed, oh-so-lightly, against Merlin's throat.

'Do they hurt?'

'What?'

'The bruises.'

Merlin sucked in a breath, easing back and offering a crooked grin as he tried to dispel the sudden, strange tension. Arthur was simply being kind, for once. That was all. He really must be tired, because for a moment he'd almost thought...

It didn't matter what he'd thought.

'They're fine.' They'd stained his skin when one of the bandits had grabbed him by the throat during the attack on Bridgend. They had to be fading by now, turning to shades of blue and green, rather than black and purple. Yet Arthur's gaze lingered upon them as if he could read the story of brutality writ within their presence, and Merlin was left to endure the prickling heat of his scrutiny.

Briefly, he wondered if Arthur might say something. Those full, pink lips parted to do so, but he swallowed back whatever he had been about to utter. Instead, he turned away, setting down the armour and opening a trunk at the foot of the bed, retrieving extra blankets and thrusting them into Merlin's arms.

'You should get some sleep,' he rasped. 'You'll have to make do with the floor.'

That was no surprise, and Merlin stifled a wry smile as he ducked his head, eager to claim a little bit of distance. He felt like he might be losing his mind, half-drunk with the heady sensation of Arthur's presence. Instead, he focused on building himself a nest on the hearth rug, and a soft sigh escaped him as he crawled into its cocoon.

'Good night, Sire.'

The sounds of Arthur getting ready for bed came to a halt, and the reply that drifted back was not harsh with indifference, but soft with something fragile and unspoken.

'Good night, Merlin.'

Chapter Text

Arthur slid into bed, his body sagging into the dubious comfort of the mattress. It was a step up from the floor where Merlin took his rest, but it was far from the lap of luxury. The wool blankets scratched his chin as he drew them up, and the thin pillow offered little in the way of support.

It made him think longingly of his bed in the Miracle Court, with its soothing blue hangings and its down-stuffed bedding. He had never been the type of man to miss such comforts, but even Arthur could admit he was eager to return. Not to the towering monstrosity of the castle and his father's disapproval, but to the house that had once been his mother's.

To the place that, more than any other, felt like home.

His thoughts turned gently this way and that, drifting from one subject to another. He contemplated what they had found in Caludahn, turning the possibilities and the worrying prospect of the black powder over in his mind. Part of him wanted to claw at the problem, rending it into manageable pieces, but life was rarely so simple. Perhaps if he were more like his father, he would claim the fort's destruction was the end of the matter and move on, but Arthur was not so arrogant.

No, there was more going on in these lands than met the eye, and he would not be content until he had his answers. Though something told him they would not be easily unearthed.

That was not the only mystery that teased at his considerations. It was easy to dismiss Gwaine, with his brash charm and flirtatious ways. Arthur longed to label him as a superficial rogue with little to recommend him, but there were depths there, barely hidden, that spoke of something more. Leon had warned him, as they rode to Caludahn, not to judge him too hastily. They were words he had heeded, and he was glad of it.

Gwaine was not an open man, not that Arthur could blame him. They had known each other but a few days. Still, in that time they had fought side-by-side twice, and what Gwaine did not give voice wrote itself in the way he wielded a blade and rode a horse.

He may dislike nobles, but he had been one, once. He might dress like a commoner, but the cut of his cloth was too fine for a life of poverty. Perhaps Arthur might have believed he was the son of a merchant: it would explain his ability with letters and numbers, but not his sword-work. Even the way he spoke, roughened though it was, carried a hint of courtly civility within its brogue.

Which court Gwaine had once known was another matter. Not one of the five kingdoms, if Arthur were to guess. There was a story there, but it was a tale he was far more likely to divulge to Merlin than offer anyone else.

A tight sigh escaped his lips, and he nestled deeper into his bedding as a scowl gathered on his brow. Perhaps Gwaine's general attitude might have been easier to bear if he did not seem quite so intent on winning Merlin over with his charms. It was not just the flirtations which set Arthur's teeth on edge; it was the touching. Gwaine's hand was always on Merlin's shoulder or arm, claiming his attention time and again.

He did not hesitate to hold back with compliments, either. Merlin had claimed he was like that with everyone, but Lancelot and Leon did not inspire the same behaviour. He did not give them jaunty winks, nor gaze at them with dark, sparkling eyes and curling lips. He did not watch anyone else as if he was picturing them naked in his bed.

Unbidden, the image of Merlin lounging amidst Arthur's sheets flashed across his mind: all lithe limbs and a wicked smile. A jolt of heat surged through his belly and down his thighs, and he let out a shivering breath as he hunched tighter beneath the blankets.

His annoyance with Gwaine had nothing to do with jealousy; it didn't. He was more concerned for Merlin's foolish heart, which he seemed to give away readily. He was willing to concede he had misread the situation with Lancelot, but nobody could deny how quickly Merlin threw himself into friendships. One day, that would come back to bite him, and it would be Arthur left picking up the pieces.

Steadily, the whirl of his thoughts slowed, becoming a lazy eddy of considerations that grew foggy at their edges. The sounds of the room – Merlin's breathing and Mordred's soft snores – lost definition as sleep drew its veils across his mind. It was not a deep slumber: Arthur never rested well in strange territory. Instead, he dabbled about in the shallows of his dreams, never quite succumbing to the depths.

Perhaps that was why he woke so readily, blinking in the thick darkness. Merlin had sealed the shutters so that only the ruddy embers of the fire leant any definition to the room. No silhouette stalked the floor; no intruder made themselves known, but something had disturbed him. A moment later, it came again: a tight, frightened pulse of sound. Over on the other bed, Mordred twitched, and Arthur swore quietly, throwing back his blankets and padding across the intervening space.

Sweat plastered the boy's fringe to his brow and fear twisted those features. His eyelashes fluttered madly. He did not thrash, the bonds of sleep restraining him, but Arthur could not leave him to suffer. He knew the terrors the night could carry within its folds, and he reached out, pressing his palm to Mordred's shoulder and shaking him awake.

He roused in a flurry of movement, the gasp of his breath suggesting an aborted shout as he lunged forward. Arthur braced himself, expecting a punch for his trouble. He did not anticipate the weight of that slender, warm body to almost knock him off his feet. Mordred clung to him as if he were a piece of driftwood in a stormy sea, his panting breaths catching on sobs that never quite found fruition. He shook from head to foot like a frightened rabbit, his face buried in Arthur's tunic.

Shock rendered Arthur motionless, too surprised to do anything but hold himself steady. People did not touch him, as a rule. They certainly did not embrace him. He had to go back into the misty years of his childhood, when he was younger than Mordred was now, to find any recollection of warm arms around him.

If it were anyone else, he might have tried to shrug them off and reclaim his distance, but all his father's teachings about compassion being a weakness faded to irrelevance. Mordred was just a boy, frightened and alone. He wanted comfort, and unfortunately for him, he only had Arthur's unpractised efforts.

It was painfully tempting to wake Merlin. After all, he was probably a hundred times better at this, but something stayed the words in his throat. Instead, he clumsily wrapped his arms around Mordred's narrow back, not caging him, but offering him support as he struggled to reclaim his courage.

'It was a dream,' Arthur promised, his voice no more than a whisper. Not because he wished to shame Mordred for his fears, but because he knew how it mattered, sometimes, to have someone help define the realities of terror. He was not trying to tell Mordred he should not be afraid, but merely to remind him that he was safe. 'You're in Bridgend. Do you remember?'

Mordred's hair rustled against Arthur's tunic as he nodded, but he did not seek his escape and Arthur did not withdraw. Instead, he held himself steady and patient, his body locked in an awkward half crouch at Mordred's bedside. His thighs soon began to ache, but he weathered the discomfort, waiting for the moment when the boy appeared to regain some of his resolve.

He leaned back, cuffing at his face with shaking hands. Those wide, silver eyes darted about the room, his next breath framing a whispered word. Perhaps if Arthur had not seen the little ball of light before, he might have flinched. Now, he held himself motionless as it bloomed into being, peeling aside the deepest shadows that surrounded them.

He watched, fascinated, as Mordred snatched it from the air, holding it close to his own chest as if it brought him comfort. Arthur hadn't realised it was something that could be touched, and he stared as Mordred's fingertips traced idle patterns across its surface.

Part of him was sorely tempted to return to his bed, but he couldn't bring himself to be so callous. Arthur had seen enough fear in the face of his knights to recognise its lingering shadow. Instead, he heaved a sigh, nudging gently at Mordred's shoulder. No doubt sleep would not find either of them again, but he could at least give his aching body some respite.

'Move over,' he commanded, waiting for Mordred to do what he was told before settling on the mattress, his back to the wall at the bed's head and his feet crossed at the ankle. They had both gone to sleep clothed, the better to combat the chill. Now Mordred nestled under the blankets while Arthur lingered above them. He did not speak, but offered a gentle silence, hoping that Mordred would fill it.

'I didn't mean to wake you.'

Arthur looked at him out of the corner of his eye, seeing his pallor and his misery. He might not know the fullness of what Mordred had suffered, but he could guess. The boy had lost whatever kin he could call his own to Rýne's murderous ways. That was enough to darken anyone's nights.

'Think nothing of it. I would rather be awake to aid you than have you suffer alone.' He jerked his chin towards the orb of light in Mordred's hands. It was about the size of a grown man's head, this time: not meagre by any means. 'Does it help?'

Mordred ran his fingers over it before nodding, just once. He looked at Arthur, his eyes red-rimmed still, but carrying a piercing intelligence. Arthur got the impression he saw far more than he let on, and he forced himself not to fidget beneath the scrutiny. At last, Mordred cupped the orb in one palm and held it out. He did not thrust it upon Arthur, but offered it up to be examined or ignored.

He did not know how much Mordred knew of Camelot. Surely, if he bore the druid mark, he would have heard of raids on camps and Uther's loathing of sorcery? Was it ignorance that drove his actions, or hope?

Arthur tightened his hand into a quick fist. Then, before he could think twice, he held out his palm, his muscles tense as Mordred relinquished the light into his grip.

He had expected heat, though in hindsight, that was a ridiculous fear. After all, Mordred had cuddled it close without suffering any ill effects. There was very little substance to it at all: like clutching warm mist. Its depths were marbled with ribbons of silver in different intensities. It made Arthur think of snow and frost: the cold edge of winter's blade. Yet it did not nip at him. There was no feeling of cruelty or disdain. It simply was, and he found himself fascinated.

'I've seen one of these before,' he confessed, his voice a whisper. Six little words and he knew he had Mordred's attention. Speaking of his nightmares would probably bring him no comfort, but sharing this felt as if it mattered in ways Arthur could not define. 'Merlin, fool that he is, drank poison to save me. He would have died without an antidote. I rode to the Forest of Balor, searching for a flower. There were... beasts, and a woman in red, a cave so dark it felt like death itself. I thought I would be lost forever, nothing more than bones to be picked over, but then a light came to show me the way out.'

He hesitated, speaking to the orb's dappled hues, knowing the boy at his side would hear. 'I have been raised to fear magic, but in that moment, I felt as if a friend had reached out to help me. It saved my life, I think, and I doubt I will ever forget it. It was blue: like the sky on the first day of spring.'

Mordred pressed his finger to the interface of the spell; it grew brighter, the illumination coalescing against his skin. 'They're different for every mage: the colour's unique.'

'And it must be cast? They can't just... appear?'

Mordred shook his head. 'Someone wanted to keep you safe.'

A year ago, he might have scoffed at the notion of a sorcerer wishing him anything but harm, but he had learned a lot in that time. It was easy to pretend that he had only noticed magic's kindness recently: the slain griffin and the sanctuary of the Miracle Court, but the Forest of Balor had happened before all that.

Before Lancelot had ever set foot in Camelot.

It was the sort of realisation that emerged like a beam of sunshine on an overcast day, the clouds parting to offer him the revelation. He remembered soft words whispered in Merlin's voice: a confession he had told himself time and again was nothing but a dream. He thought of Lancelot, imprisoned alongside him in Caludahn, offering up no sorcery to help them escape. He considered all the little puzzle pieces strewn throughout his life since Merlin had walked into it: a trail of breadcrumbs that led him to one, inevitable conclusion.

Merlin had magic.

Shock rattled through him like gravel skittering over a frozen lake. He felt as if he had been carved from ice, locked up in his own uncertainty. In his hand, the orb glowed and hummed, but his eyes were on the man still curled up on the hearth rug, lost happily to the depths of sleep. He took in the lines of that face, the dark hair that tumbled across his brow and the curve of his lips. He thought of the sorcerers who had screamed their spells, hatred underscoring each word, and tried to see Merlin in that same light, but it defied his every attempt.

No, he couldn't believe it, and yet nor could he deny the possibility: not any longer. Merlin clad him in armour and brought him breakfast. He followed him on quests even when he was commanded to stay behind. He was always there, right at Arthur's side, and despite all his protests to the contrary, Arthur had begun to consider him a friend.

Was it all a lie? The subtle affection Merlin put on display, the gentle teasing, the moments of soft regard? Was it a performance designed to deceive? Was there some great plot behind all this that Arthur had not yet glimpsed, with Merlin pulling the strings?

He fought off the urge to jump up from the bed – to shake Merlin awake and demand his answers. The desire surged through him, as hot as one of Uther's pyres, and it took several deep breaths to steady himself. That was an old way of thinking coming to the fore – the teachings of his childhood whispering their promises in his ear. To follow through with those beliefs was, this time, painfully tempting – the simplicity of black and white a promising prospect. Yet he restrained himself, reaching for the better parts of his character.

He had not set the Miracle Court to the torch when the magic had made itself known. Now, he sat holding a spell of Mordred's own creation. However, none of that felt personal. Even his mother's house, steeped in sentimental value, was something he could keep at a distance and examine with a clear mind. Merlin had wormed his way into his life. He had challenged Arthur's perceptions and found ways to manipulate the First Code. No matter what doubts he harboured, Arthur could not bring himself to believe that there was a sinister motive behind such decisions. Not unless Merlin was a far better actor than Arthur had ever believed...

Gods, what a mess.

He took a deep breath, surprised to feel the tightness in his chest. Black spots danced across his vision, and he was suddenly, sharply aware of Mordred watching him. Those pale eyes were eerie in the gloom, but Arthur met them head on, trying to control his expression as he scrambled together his scattered wits.

There was much that he did not know. Perhaps, once, he would have lashed out in his ignorance, but those days were behind him. No, even if his suspicions were right – even if Merlin was a sorcerer – he could not act thoughtlessly. He had been willing, when he suspected Lancelot, to offer him the benefit of the doubt. Merlin deserved the same.

Maybe the thought of his deception left him shaken, but Arthur could not – would not – respond rashly. That was not who he was, not any longer. He had come a long way since he had chased an impudent peasant around the marketplace with a mace. He owed it to himself to gather all the facts.

'Are you all right?' Mordred's hand hovered above the sleeve that covered Arthur's arm, as if he wanted to touch him but was unsure such a thing was wise. Arthur was forced to duck his head and muster up a reassuring smile as he handed the orb of light back to the boy.

'A passing thought. That's all,' he promised, deliberately smoothing some of the battle-readiness that had locked his limbs in its grasp. It was a skill of long practice: another little performance, but one he put to quick use. He did not wish to scare Mordred. He had no idea how much he knew of Camelot or even if he was aware that Arthur was the prince. Had any of them spoken of it? He could not recall.

Now, with thoughts of Merlin and his sorcery swirling around his head, the notion of Mordred sitting so close – shoulder-to-shoulder but unaware of Arthur's true identity – sat ill with him. The lie struck at him with a sharpened edge, no matter how inadvertent it had been.

'What do you know of Camelot?' The words ghosted past his lips, nothing more than a murmur. The issue with Merlin was not one he could put to bed with ease, but he would rather face an uncomfortable conversation with Mordred than allow his thoughts to linger on his secrets. That felt like an open wound, pained and seeping, and Arthur preferred to turn his mind away from it than acknowledge the breach.

Mordred fidgeted, the blankets rustling around him. His fingers traced slow swirls over the orb, leaving trails of silver in their wake. 'Magic is banned there, because the king is mad.' He sounded like a child repeating a parent's explanation. 'Some druids left years ago, but others didn't want to be forced from their homes. They stayed, living wild on the lands. Now and then the king tries to hunt them down. Sometimes he succeeds.' Mordred's chest shifted as he inhaled, as if gathering strength for his next words. 'I was born within the kingdom's borders. I lived there right up until the day Rýne found us.'

There was a sniff that plucked at Arthur's heartstrings. 'They died there. My family.'

'I'm sorry.' The sentiment felt pathetic: a poor consolation for what Mordred had been through. Arthur's only frail comfort was that it had been Rýne who had slaughtered the boy's kin, rather than one of the knights of Camelot. Still, that didn't change the fact that, if any of Uther's men had found a druid camp, they would have done their duty. A year ago, so would he. His regret and horror would have been no salve to anyone who suffered beneath his blade.

'The king is my father,' he said, staring straight ahead at the wall rather than meeting Mordred's gaze.

'I know, and the druids might call him mad, but he isn't. Not really.'

Arthur sighed, inclining his head. 'I can see how his actions could look like insanity. In a way, it would almost be better if he was. A mad king cannot rule.' Yet his father remained of sound, sharp mind. His prejudice and cruelty was not a product of wandering wits, but simply the result of his character. Arthur did not know what had given rise to those beliefs and nor could he question it. Not if he wished to avoid inciting his father's rage. The situation in Camelot was already tenuous without unbalancing it further with impolitic questions.

'I want to go with you. Not just over the kingdom's borders. I want to go to the citadel.'

Mordred's quiet statement made him twitch in surprise, glancing down at the boy at his side. He had not realised he was watching Arthur's profile, reading the-gods-knew-what in his expression. Now, he saw the stubborn set of his jaw and the pleat in his brow. He recognised that look: a knight's determination spreading its nascent light across Mordred's face. He got the sinking feeling that whatever he said would not matter. Mordred would either ride into Camelot with the rest of them or follow on behind.

It was a dangerous choice, and fear tightened its noose around Arthur's throat. He remembered the bag stashed under Lancelot's bed, ready and waiting in case he needed to help someone flee. He recalled his father's speeches and how even the most innocuous spell was enough to condemn a man. He thought of himself, and how in Uther's eyes, he was probably already a traitor for saying nothing of the magic that lived in the walls of his mother's house.

His gaze snagged on Merlin's sleeping form once more, and when he spoke, it felt as if the words were coming from far away. 'If you are caught, it is not just you who would be punished. It is anyone who knew about your abilities. Everyone you had ever spoken to would fall under suspicion. My father is merciless when it comes to the pursuit of sorcery.'

'But you're not.' Mordred released the orb of light in his palm, letting it float upwards to hover above them. It seemed like a pointed gesture. A reminder, should Arthur need it, of just how much magic he had witnessed and allowed to pass unchallenged.

'I would not be able to protect you from him, not if he found out what you are.' His own words hurt, cutting at him. He had never enjoyed admitting he was powerless. It was not a feeling he experienced often, but when it came to Uther's reaction to sorcery, he knew nothing could weather that storm and survive it. The realisation only made his heart quiver in his breast, wringing itself this way and that.

'But you would try.'

It wasn't a question. Mordred spoke it as if he were writing it into law, firm and sure, and Arthur did not feel worthy of the belief gleaming in that young face. His eyes darted back to where Merlin lay, oblivious, and when he answered, it felt as if he were making a tremulous promise to them both.

'Yes, I would.'

Mordred's shoulders jerked in a shrug, as if that was the end of the matter. 'You are the only person left in the world who would. You and Merlin.' It was a sad little truth, and Arthur let out a quiet sigh, knowing Mordred was right. He had no one else to turn to, and he was hardly the first orphan child forced to rely on the kindness of strangers. How many, over the course of his father's Purge, had found themselves alone, struggling to survive when they should still be under a parent's care? How many had perished? It was not just the sorcerer who suffered from an execution. Their families did to.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing at his tired eyes. 'There's really no one else? No family friends? Druids? Anyone?'

Mordred shook his head, slow and sombre. 'They are strangers.'

'So are we.'

'You saved me,' he pointed out with the irritating logic of children everywhere. 'Most people would have left me behind.'

Arthur grunted at that, because in truth, if not for Merlin, he would never have known Mordred was there. He had been the one to lead the charge – to break the chains and set the boy free. Yet their responsibility did not end there. Maybe other men would have been happy to dump Mordred with some druids and ride off once more, but Arthur could not bring himself to be so callous.

'It is not the kind of promise I can make lightly,' he said at last. 'I need time to consider how we could keep you safe.'

Mordred's face lit up like the dawn, the shadows of fear staining his features dwindling. He looked at Arthur with bright, guileless eyes, and he could not find an ounce of regret over his choice. Maybe he could not do anything about Mordred's past. He could not make it so that his kin had never died, nor undo his captivity, but he could at least offer him a fragment of hope for the future.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

They lingered in Bridgend for another couple of days, lending their aid to set the town to rights. At least, that's what Arthur claimed. For his part, Merlin suspected that he was waiting for the reinforcements to arrive from Camelot, hoping that his father would do the right thing. Still, perhaps he wasn't best positioned to judge the prince's motivations, because things lately had been... strange.

It was not that Arthur spent significant time in quiet conference with Leon, debating something in hushed voices. Nor was it the way he had approached Gwaine, offering him a coin purse for his troubles and smiling, just a touch, when Gwaine declined it. No, it was how he treated Merlin that had him all twisted up inside, baffled and off-balance and second-guessing everything.

The first morning, after he had awoken to find Arthur and Mordred talking softly in the light of an insipid dawn, he had helped Arthur into his armour as usual. It should have been unremarkable, but there had been a moment of hesitation. Arthur had paused, giving him an unreadable sort of look before permitting him to assist.

Even then, there had been something reluctant about it, as if he was going against his own better judgement. There were no teasing jibes. Arthur's hand did not pluck his sleeve or cuff him on the shoulder. Instead, he kept his distance, and when he spoke to Merlin it was to give him an order, nothing more.

It left him feeling shaken and on-edge. Although maybe that was because, while Arthur may not be speaking to him, he was always watching. That blue gaze was a constant, prickling weight throughout each day. Yet whenever Merlin glanced over it was to find him lost in conversation with Leon. If he was honest, it was making him jumpy and paranoid, which made the whole situation worse.

'What's got his smalls in a twist?' Gwaine asked, leaning against the bar and nursing the dregs of his mead as he watched Merlin fill the packs. Arthur intended to ride out tomorrow, and this was their last chance to make sure that they were provisioned for the journey home. 'He's been watching you like a hawk since we got back to Bridgend.'

Merlin shrugged, pasting a smile onto his face. 'Nobles. Who knows what goes on inside their heads?'

Gwaine gave him an unimpressed look. Clearly, he didn't buy a word of Merlin's light-hearted dismissal. 'Had a lover's tiff?'

That made Merlin wrinkle his nose, his breath catching awkwardly. Was that what this was about? Had he put his heart on display in some unguarded moment? Had Arthur seen? Was this his way of trying to rebuild all the boundaries between them that Merlin had steadily knocked aside since he came into Arthur's service?

'We're not like that.' It sounded a bit more snappish than he intended, but Gwaine didn't seem to take offence. Instead, he merely offered that same, cheeky grin. When they first met, it had been a shallow thing, little more than a mask that Gwaine slipped on for his own satisfaction. Now, there was genuine amusement behind it. The sparkle in his eyes had real depth, and beneath the ease of his sprawl there was something poised, as if he had found a hint of purpose in his life.

Gwaine gave a doubtful little hum, but thankfully he didn't push the matter. Nor did he tease. Maybe he sensed Merlin wasn't in the mood for it, slower to smile and carrying a constant, perplexed frown on his brow. Instead, he shifted closer, nudging him with his elbow. 'Hey, you know if you ever end up bored of Camelot, you can always come find me, yeah?'

'Or you could just come with us?'

That got a scoff out of him. 'Playing soldier? No thanks. Don't get me wrong, this has almost been fun, but it's not for me. Besides, I'd rather go my separate ways before people end up sick of me.'

'I'm not sick of you,' Merlin promised, smiling properly for what felt like the first time in ages. 'I'd miss you, and you'd definitely make Camelot more interesting.'

'Not sure that's what the place needs, from what I've heard.' Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder. 'No, mate. I'm better off keeping my distance.' He tilted his head. 'Though maybe I'll drop by now and then. As for you, you should attend to his highness before his eyes burn a hole in my skull.'

'He's not even looking this way,' Merlin said, checking with a glance.

'Oh, he was. Believe me.' Gwaine hesitated before holding out his hand to shake. 'Tell the others goodbye from me. It's time I hit the road.'

'Now?' Merlin made no effort to hide his disappointment, grinning as Gwaine laughed at his downcast expression.

'Aye. Safe travels, Merlin.'

He slipped away, stepping through the tavern door and into the afternoon daylight, whistling all the while. Merlin's heart gave a sad little pang, but he soon set the feeling aside. Foresight may not be his strength, but his gut told him they'd meet again someday.

'Taken his leave, has he?' Arthur asked when Merlin approached the table, the bulging packs dragging at his shoulders. Mordred and Lancelot were checking on the horses, no doubt sneaking them apples as they did so.

'Yeah. I suppose he's got somewhere to be.'

'A shame,' Leon murmured, picking up his tankard and draining the last of it. 'I've rarely fought alongside someone so capable.'

'He would have been nothing but trouble,' Arthur protested, subsiding slightly beneath Leon's quelling look. 'Besides, we're already returning to Camelot with one new face.'

Merlin pursed his lips, tremulous unease fluttering in his belly. It was not that he didn't want Mordred to come with them. In his heart, he knew it was the only compassionate course of action. He just worried that the boy would end his days on a pyre. All it took was a glimmer of suspicion in Camelot to bring everything crashing down.

'Are we sure it's a good idea?' he asked, unable to stop himself.

A faint sigh whispered between Arthur's lips. 'No, Merlin, but it's all we've got. Unless you would have me throw him upon the mercy of strangers?' He arched one eyebrow. 'He'll be safe as long as he's careful. It's not like he's going to stand in front of my father and shout out his secret, is it?'

There was something almost pointed about that comment, and Merlin blinked, remembering all too well when he had confessed in the hopes of saving Gwen from Uther's wrath. It had only been Arthur's quick talking that had spared him. Merlin hesitated, trying to figure out why he was bringing that up now, but Arthur carried on speaking before he could get his words in order.

'The Miracle Court is big enough. We'll simply say he is a foundling from the town who we have enlisted to help. He need never cross paths with my father, and he knows how dangerous it would be to be discovered.'

Merlin pursed his lips, swallowing his protests. Arthur was clearly in no mood to hear them. Besides, he could not accuse him of being thoughtless in his good deeds. He had listened as Leon and Arthur plucked over the issue, not ignoring the problems but picking them apart until they had an answer for every situation. If he was honest, it warmed his heart to see Arthur approach the matter as he might a battlefield, considering each permutation. It made him think that, if Arthur could go to so much effort to give Mordred hope and keep him safe, then perhaps his reaction to Merlin's own secret would not be so bad.

Then he remembered his mother's whispered pleas. He recalled the stain of blood and the smell of smoke, and his fear rose up to choke him anew.

Besides, Mordred was a young, orphaned child who had been honest about his nature from the first moment he and Arthur had met. He had never concealed the truth, unlike Merlin himself. While Arthur's reaction might give him a fraction of hope, he could not pretend that his situation wasn't a hundred times more complicated. Arthur would not only have to accept his magic, but all the lies he'd told to hide it.

'We'll put plans in place to help him escape if needed,' Leon added, his voice quiet but earnest, as if he did not speak treason simply by uttering as much. 'We do not go into this blind and, given Mordred's circumstances, I believe it really is the only suitable option. It would not sit well with me to leave him behind. If nothing else, we do not know if Rýne will still seek him out.'

'And him being sequestered in Camelot might make him change his mind,' Arthur added. 'There are few sorcerers mad enough to hide themselves in my father's citadel. The only people who know of Mordred's nature reside in this tavern, with the exception of Gwaine, who does not seem like the sort to spread around secrets for entertainment. As long as you have no intention of telling my father...?'

'No, of course not!' Merlin set the packs down, pushing aside all his protests with a shake of his head. 'Speaking of the king, what exactly do you want me to tell him? He's going to expect something from me on our return.'

Arthur scowled, as if he did not like to be reminded of Merlin's so-called spying. His right hand tightened around his tankard. 'Perhaps it is foolish for us to continue that particular charade,' he muttered, staring into his drink.

'I don't think I've got a choice.' Merlin grimaced, remembering Uther's not-so-subtle threats. 'If I try and stop now, it won't end very well for me.'

'He is right.' Apology lay thick in Leon's voice. He leaned towards Arthur, speaking soft and firm. 'Besides, with all that we've discussed, the less opportunity your father has to examine the situation closely, the better. With Merlin's help, we can control where your father's eyes fall. We can keep his gaze away from Mordred. You know as well as I do that allowing a sorcerer into Camelot is as much treason as wielding the magic yourself.' He reached out, resting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'We are all with you, Sire, but we should do all we can to lessen the risk of discovery.'

A muscle popped in Arthur's cheek as he clenched his jaw, his teeth shifting as if he were chewing over his words. He shifted where he sat, a restless movement hastily stifled. It was almost painful to watch the mask descend upon his face: a façade of forced indifference.

'I plan to tell him as much as I can without leading him down a path of paranoia. That means no mention of sorcery. I could paint Rýne as a healer, perhaps, or an alchemist, if I speak of him at all. My father does not look on the latter too kindly, but he at least doesn't not lose all sense. I can report a sizeable conclave of bandits using the cloth of different realms to disguise themselves during raids. It will inform the king of the potential problems and avoid the risk of starting an all-out war.'

'Ideally, he should call together the five kingdoms so that they can discuss their concerns.'

Merlin pulled a face, knowing that Leon spoke with hope, rather than belief. To discuss it openly, even with allies, would be a show of weakness. At least, that's how Uther would see it.

'Mercia has only just attended Camelot and relations are already strained.' Arthur shook his head, setting aside his tankard with a clank. 'My father will not wish to show any kind of vulnerability. He will either increase patrols along our borders in the hopes of quashing any further difficulties, or he will decide the problem is beneath him.'

'The former would offer the people of the outlying settlements some reassurance but could also be misconstrued by our neighbours as aggression. The very act of increasing our presence could inflame tensions.' Leon's chair creaked as he sagged against its back, his gaze unfocussed, too intent on his own thoughts to give credit to his surroundings. 'Yet if he ignores what we have discovered, the situation may fester until it is beyond the reach of amendment.'

Arthur nodded, just once, his shoulders straightening beneath his chainmail. 'I wish that it could be a simple matter of disclosing the truth and trusting my father's judgement, but that's not the case. We need to alert him to the potential difficulties without causing alarm. As it stands, what happened at Caludahn should have bought us some time to learn more. Once we have solid facts about what Rýne was planning and the evidence to go with it, we can take it to my father. Informing him of assumptions could be disastrous. Merlin, I'll make sure you're present when I give my report. That way, you'll know exactly what to tell him.'

'I can't just agree with you. He'll suspect something's wrong.'

'Then think of something to throw him off the scent. Lie. You're good at that.' Arthur's eyes narrowed, but the arrival of Lancelot and Mordred prevented him from saying anything else. Mordred's piping voice was bright and happy, mercifully oblivious to the subtle tension that braided the air.

Leon met Merlin's gaze across the table, one eyebrow lifting in question. Clearly, Arthur's remark had not passed beneath his notice. Merlin could only shake his head and shrug, his response mute as his heart raced in his chest. He rubbed fitfully at the patch of worn fabric on the knee of his breeches, wiping his sweaty hands on the cloth before murmuring a quick excuse about needing to gather more supplies.

It was a fib; their packs were bulging, but he needed to get away. He wasn't like Arthur, able to smooth out his expression and hide his feelings. Not when they were like this. His stomach roiled beneath his belt and a cold sweat prickled down his spine as he pushed his way into the kitchen. Maybe, if he were a stranger, someone would have challenged his presence. Now, the people of Bridgend were familiar with him, and he got nothing more than a smile from the distracted cook, who urged him to help himself from the pantry.

That was what he needed, somewhere cold and dark and quiet to get his thoughts in order, because that? What Arthur had said? That made it sound like he knew, and Merlin felt sick at the very possibility. He shut the door behind him, leaning back against its panel. A couple of guarded lanterns pushed aside the gloom, and he breathed in the earthy smell of root vegetables and the faint tang of ageing cheese.

Letting out an unsteady breath, he sank to the floor, hunching his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as he tried to think through the clamour in his own head. A part of him – the one that had watched the arc of the executioner's axe or the slow creep of the flames – urged him to grab a horse and run, to ride as far as he could. Maybe, back when he'd first arrived at Camelot, that was what he would have done. He'd have damned the dragon's prophecies and fled, but now...?

Arthur hadn't accused him of anything, not in so many words. He hadn't held him at sword point or slit his throat. He had not thrown the challenge down at Merlin's feet. Instead, it was just the occasional snide comment: enough to set alarm bells ringing in Merlin's head. For all he knew, Arthur was talking about something else entirely. Something that had nothing to do with his magic! He could be worrying for no reason, and yet...

Gods, he didn't know.

He cuffed a hand over his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as he fought for one, steady breath. It took time, but gradually, he managed to get himself back under control. The tense desire to flee bled away from him, leaving him lax and aching in its wake. Clouds of panic dissipated, giving him space to think, and he chewed his lip, ignoring the iron tang of blood against his tongue.

Once, he would have been confident of Arthur's reaction to his sorcery, but that was before all this with the Miracle Court. It was before Arthur had learned to look at magic with intrigue, rather than blind prejudice. These days, he asked questions about it instead of turning his back. That had to mean something, didn't it?

But was it enough? Was it proof that Arthur wouldn't drag him to the pyre or cast him into exile? Or was that just Merlin's hope clouding reality?

He rested his brow against the peak of his knees, wishing he was brave like Lancelot or carefree like Gwaine. He even caught himself experiencing a flash of childish jealousy towards Mordred, because Arthur knew exactly what he was and hadn't turned him away. More than that, he was making an effort to keep him safe!

'So why can't I just tell him?'

The question hovered in the air around him, young and helpless. He sounded as if he were a child again, trying to understand his mother's fear. He could remember the look in her eyes, all deep sorrow with a heart of iron at its core. His mother loved him, and she would not see him lost.

'Even those you call your closest friend may come to hate what you are. Better that they never know.'

Merlin rubbed at his nose, steadily uncurling from his defensive hunch. Maybe if he knew for sure that Arthur was aware of his magic, he would make his confession, but what if he'd got it wrong? What if Arthur was sniping at him over some other slight? Then he'd just be stabbing himself in the foot. No, he would take his mother's advice. He would hold his silence. If Arthur asked, then perhaps he would answer honestly, but otherwise?

Otherwise, nothing had to change.

The decision sank like a rock in the pit of his belly, sharp and uncomfortable. He did not enjoy lying to Arthur. It was why he had whispered his confession, all those weeks ago, because it sat ill with him that Lancelot knew and Arthur did not, but there had been no risk, then. Arthur hadn't been awake. It had been a sop to Merlin's conscience. He didn't have the courage for anything more.

One day it would be different, but for now, that was the only promise Merlin could offer himself.

With a sigh, he climbed back to his feet, trying to ignore the way his knees still shook as he looked around the pantry. He couldn't walk out of here empty-handed, not without raising a few eyebrows, and he ambled further into the depths, looking for the bushel of apples he had noticed earlier.

The inn was well stocked with food, from salted meats to bags of flour, cheeses, vegetables and fruit. There were things pickled in vinegar, and row upon row of barrels, but it was one crate in particular that caught Merlin's attention. Not for its size, which was unremarkable, but for the bull's head stamped on its lid.

Just like the ones back at Caludahn.

Grabbing a few apples, he shouldered aside the door and waited patiently for the cook to acknowledge him, offering what he hoped was a winning smile. 'Just taking these,' he promised, holding up his spoils. 'Um, I couldn't help but notice the crate with the bull on it. I've never seen that mark before.'

The woman snorted, shaking her head. 'Not surprised. We're not meant to trade with 'em, but sometimes we've got no choice.'

'Trade with who?'

'Caerleon, of course. Dunno the merchant's name, but he hails from those lands. Makes no secret of it, neither.'

'What does he sell?'

'All sorts.' She shrugged, offering him a puzzled frown. 'Why do you care?'

'Curious, that's all.' He'd get no more answers out of her, that much was clear, and he quickly turned on his heel, picking his way back to the table where the knights and Mordred had made themselves comfortable. Outside, the afternoon was turning to shadow as the gloaming settled over the land. The days were getting shorter as winter began its march. He shuddered at the idea of a cold ride home, slipping the apples into one of the packs.

Leon and Lancelot were teaching Mordred how to play dice while Arthur observed, his arms folded across his chest and his expression distant. No doubt he wasn't really watching the game. He was lost in whatever was going on in his head, and Merlin ruthlessly shoved aside the trepidation that tried to thrill through him. Instead, he sank into the chair at his side and tapped Arthur's boot with his own.

'Back at Caludahn I saw some crates marked with a bull's head,' he began, speaking quickly so that Arthur wouldn't have a chance to interrupt. 'There's some just like it in the storeroom here. I asked the cook: the merchant who uses the mark is from Caerleon.'

Leon had paused in his game, his eyebrows lifting. 'It could be he was one of the bandit's victims?'

'There was more than one cartload of his wares back at Caludahn. If he was being raided so often, he'd stop coming, wouldn't he? What if Rýne kept some of his trade legitimate? After all, he didn't want anyone looking too closely at was going on up here. Some raids on border towns are expected, but too many would lead more than a paltry patrol to his doorstep. It'd bring an army.' Merlin pursed his lips, wondering if he'd said too much. Considering Arthur's current mood, it felt dangerous to speak at all, but he couldn't hold his silence.

Arthur gave him a long, steady look, something unfathomable agleam in his eyes. At length, he folded his arms across his chest. 'What else did you see?'

Merlin shrugged and shook his head. 'Not a lot. Mostly I was looking for you, but I took a couple of wrong turns. They were well-stocked; I know that much.'

'Preparing for the winter, maybe?' Lancelot suggested, rattling the dice in his hand as he considered it. 'There were many men to feed, and bandits are not known for their loyalty. They'd only stay with Rýne if it was worth their while.'

Mordred uttered a doubtful noise, fidgeting nervously as he became the centre of attention. 'He used to invite Eadric and Tsala up for drinks. He'd always slip something in their goblets. It made them agree with everything he said.'

Merlin grimaced at that; he shouldn't be surprised.

'They acted like leaders,' Lancelot pointed out. 'If Rýne was somehow influencing them to stay, and they had the support of the men who followed them...'

'Trust only goes so far,' Arthur murmured, 'as does loyalty. Both have their limits.' He shook his head, letting out a defeated sigh. 'I feel like we are missing a piece of this puzzle. If Merlin is right and Rýne was buying in supplies, where was he getting the gold? Not from the black powder, which he was stockpiling. Not from raids, either. That level of theft would have come to my father's attention much sooner, and we would have heard if another kingdom had difficulties.'

'Would we?' Leon spread his hands. 'Your father is not alone in his attitudes. Few realms wish to be open about their vulnerabilities.'

'I think they would struggle to hide it. The amount of coin Rýne would have needed... No, perhaps he used the raids to supplement his funds and to keep the bandits content, but he must have another source of wealth. Whatever he was doing, he was finding ways to fund it. If we knew how, this whole thing might start to make sense.'

Silence settled over the table as they all contemplated the possibility. They had spent the morning raking through what they had found at Caludahn, but it was hard to see the wood for the trees. They had scooped up everything they considered of interest: letters and books, accounts and notes written in a text Merlin didn't understand. Nor was he the only one. All the knights had been baffled, and Mordred could only shrug and shake his head. Merlin wasn't sure if it was code or an unknown language, but the end result was nothing but frustration.

Leon opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, the door to the tavern slammed open. Several patrons jumped. Even Arthur dropped his hand to his sword before he recognised the man striding towards them.

'Back already, Gwaine?'

'Princess, you've got a problem.'

Merlin's heart sank. There was no glimmer of amusement on that handsome face. His hair was windswept as if he had ridden hard, his cheeks chafed and pink. Anger glimmered in those dark eyes, but it was an aimless emotion, not directed at anyone within the tavern's four walls.

'What is it?' Merlin asked, already dreading the answer. 'Gwaine, what's happened?'

'I was following the river, heading east. I found the Camelot patrol.'

'So they're on their way?' Well, that's something.' Arthur frowned. 'Except you wouldn't have returned here to tell me that. What's going on?'

'I'm sorry, Arthur.' Gwaine pursed his lips, looking as if he would rather be anywhere but here: the bearer of bad news. 'They're dead.'

Chapter Text

The sensible thing, in the wake of such news, would have been to stop and think. Arthur should have paused to gather his wits about him. A good commander knew he had to act, not react, but in that moment all he could picture was the knights he had trained, lying dead and abandoned on the road. Everything instinct screamed that he had to attend them. He needed to know details, from what had befallen them to who could be to blame.

His chair scraped the floor as he lunged to his feet. Only Merlin's hand on his arm made him hesitate. It was a bold touch; all sign of Merlin's earlier uncertainty had fled. Instead, those blue eyes blazed with urgency. 'What if it's a trap?'

'What?'

'There are bandits all around here wearing the colours of different kingdoms. What if the dead aren't from Camelot at all? Gwaine's not going to know the faces of our knights.'

'But we will. I cannot turn my back on them, Merlin. Do not ask it of me!' His pulse banged in his temples, his entire body primed for a fight. He did not realise he'd taken a challenging step into Merlin's space until the man flinched: a subtle twitch that threw a bucket of water on the blaze of his temper. He shook his head, just once, reaching out to squeeze the slender arm in its baggy sleeve: a mute fraction of apology.

Not that he could blame Merlin for his uncertainty. Arthur's suspicions about him having magic had proven impossible to ignore. He had found himself watching him with a chilling sort of intensity, looking for any signs of sorcery. He kept waiting for... He wasn't sure. Miniature miracles or the glimmer of gold in his eyes. Confirmation, if nothing else. Instead, he was left with more questions than answers.

Now this.

'It wasn't just their cloaks,' Gwaine murmured. 'There was armour, too. They looked like men who had been born in it.' He folded his arms and shook his head as he shifted his weight: a hunting dog eager to chase its quarry. Arthur knew the feeling. 'Maybe I don't know faces, but I know proper knights when I see them. These were the real deal, I'm sure of it.'

Leon stepped forward, resting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. It was a single point of contact amidst the storm of his doubts, and he allowed the sensation to anchor him. A few months ago, Leon would not have dared touch him in such a manner. He would not have assumed such a relationship. Now he did so without question. It spoke volumes of where his loyalties lay, and Arthur could not be more grateful.

Gwaine's news may have thrown him into disarray, but he had good men around him to help set things right.

'We need to make sure they're actually our knights, and if so, we will do what we can for them.' He shot a glance towards the window and the twilight unfurling its cloak beyond the panes. 'We should leave now, before full dark. How far off are they?'

'A candle-mark at a brisk trot, maybe.' Gwaine frowned, his hair brushing his shoulders as he shook his head. 'Longer, if we're riding blind. I know you'll refuse, but I've got to say it. It'd be safer to wait for the dawn.'

'And what might have happened to them by then?'

'Better we tend the dead than join their number, isn't it? There's no moon tonight. We're as likely to break our necks as anything else.'

'I can light the way.' Mordred spoke through bloodless lips. He fiddled with the cuff of his borrowed tunic, but he did not back down as they all looked at him. Yet rather than speak further, he merely held his hand palm down and wriggled his fingers, like a conjurer about the perform his tricks. Arthur had to give him credit for subtlety. Even here, in Bridgend, he was building a habit of caution.

'Thank you, Mordred. I would never normally ask this of any of you, but we must find out what befell the patrol and time could be of the essence. Get to the horses. We leave immediately.'

He grabbed one of the packs, hauling it over his shoulder as he strode towards the stables, his stride quick and his mind awhirl. Yet a moment later, someone fell in at his side – too big to be Merlin. A swift, sideways glance told him it was Gwaine, but while he expected further protests, he was pleasantly surprised when Gwaine offered a more thorough report, instead.

'It was a bloody mess,' he began, grim and apologetic. 'I dunno what happened to their horses. There was no sign of them.'

'What about their weapons?'

'Dropped where they fell. I checked the bodies. They weren't yet cold. I must've come across them not long after they were struck down.' A vein of regret pulsed beneath Gwaine's words. He may have little respect for the nobility, but Arthur knew he would not have left the knights to battle alone if he had stumbled upon the conflict. 'I searched for any sign of their attackers. I thought they might have got a couple of 'em, but if they did, their friends dragged them away.'

Arthur murmured his thanks to the stable-boy as he handed over Llamrei's reins. His fingers went through the motions of securing the packs by rote before moving on to adjust the girth strap of the saddle. It was dangerous enough riding out in the gathering dark. He would not compound the issue by failing to check the basics of his tack.

'Thank you.' He smiled to himself as he heard the straw rustle beneath Gwaine's boots, betraying his twitch of surprise. 'You did not have to ride back and tell me what you found. You could have simply carried on.'

'I really couldn't.' Gwaine gave a gusty sigh, as if mourning his own honour and the trouble it caused. 'Look, don't read too much into it, Princess. It would have bothered me the whole journey if I didn't return. I did it for myself, not for you.'

Arthur inclined his head. If Gwaine needed his excuses, he would let him have them. Still, he was grateful. They may never have known what became of the patrol if not for his actions. They would simply have been lost somewhere in the wilds of Albion. Their families would have been left to wonder at their fate, consigned forever to that awful space where hope met with fear.

He glanced around at the others, taking in their preparations. Merlin slipped in last, glancing over his shoulder before approaching his mare. He was wearing his usual clothes, looking more travel-worn than most, considering he had so few spares. Arthur pursed his lips, dithering a moment before stepping away from Llamrei with a sigh.

'Where's that armour you got at Caludahn?'

'In the pack.'

'And what good will it do you there?' He folded his arms when Merlin rolled his eyes, as if the notion of wearing armour was tiresome rather than an essential. 'Get it out. I'll help you into it. We don't know what we might face on the road. That dagger, too. It's yours now.'

'Sire...'

'That was an order.' He watched, hawkish, as Merlin grudgingly did as he was bid. In truth, his protests were not without good cause. Servants were not meant to be armed or armoured; it was not their place. Yet few of them rode into danger time and again at Arthur's side. Most remained safe in the citadel rather than traipsing through the woods and razing bandit nests. Maybe he would have been less insistent if he didn't know that brave, Camelot men lay dead in the road. That fate could as easily be theirs, and if he could spare Merlin the bite of some blade or other, then he would do so.

If nothing else, all the times Merlin had seen Arthur in and out of his maille had given him some experience when it came to cladding himself in armour. He'd put it on well enough back at Caludahn, but the supple leather was different from the drape of cold iron. There were no buckles to adjust, but there were laces to help shape it around Merlin's frame. Arthur picked at them, lashing it tighter at the hip, shoulder and forearm.

If he was honest with himself, it was not a terrible fit, considering it had not been made for Merlin himself. The shoulders were cut too broad and the torso a couple of inches too short, but it was a start. His mind ambled off down considerations of commissioning something: leather for flexibility and scale in between – an added protection from the sharp edges of the world. Merlin was not a knight and never would be, but that didn't mean others would not see him as a target, both beyond Camelot's walls and within them.

Especially if Arthur's fears about his magic were correct.

The thought wormed its way into his mind, drifting like smoke beneath a door, all curling, malicious tendrils. He had watched him, during their time in Bridgend, searching for any sign of the power he suspected Merlin may hold in his grasp. He had plucked apart everything Merlin said, looking for falsehoods. In the silence of his head, he had questioned every action as he sought out ulterior motives, yet none came to light. So far, he had seen nothing to prove his suspicions nor to indicate that there was anything false in Merlin's friendship.

It was no elegant construction – a mask to deceive. It was honest and brash, constrained only by the fading boundaries of master and servant that lay between them. It left Arthur baffled, unsure what to think. He needed time and space to consider the whole sorry mess, and the world seemed determined to deprive him of that luxury.

A sigh whispered past his lips as he shook his thoughts aside. So far, Merlin had done nothing to prove himself in any way false. It was that fundamental truth to which he clung as he tightened the last lace, nodding in swift satisfaction. 'Mordred will be riding with Leon, but I need you to keep an eye on him. He's the most vulnerable of us. Can you do that for me?'

Merlin ducked his head, his smile a flash, there and gone again. 'Of course, Sire. Do you think we might come across whoever harmed the knights?'

'It's a possibility I cannot ignore. Besides, he was no prisoner of coincidence. From all that he has told me, Rýne wanted Mordred for something. He held him captive for a purpose. We may be some distance from Caludahn, but I do not wish to be caught off guard.'

'Could Rýne be able to detect you?' Leon asked quietly, speaking to Mordred where he stood waiting patiently by Abraxis' flank.

Mordred pursed his lips before nodding his head. 'It takes a lot of practice, but he definitely knows how to search for a mage's power.' His pale eyes pinned Merlin in place, though Arthur didn't know quite what he hoped to convey with such a meaningful look.

'Perhaps using Mordred's light isn't such a good idea?' Lancelot suggested. 'If it makes him obvious to the likes of Rýne...'

Mordred shook his head, speaking quickly. 'You don't understand. In Caludahn, he had wards and things to alert him to magic of any kind that wasn't his. They're gone now. He would have to be actively looking for me, and the range of the spell for that isn't very good. He'd need to be really close.'

Arthur grimaced, blowing out a breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. This was hardly the first time his own, painful ignorance about the workings of magic had proven to be a weakness. His father's crusade against all things sorcerous had left them more vulnerable than Uther could ever admit. Perhaps sorcery itself was not their foe, but those who would bring about Camelot's downfall wielded it without a second thought. How was he meant to keep his men, his people, his kingdom safe when he did not know the first thing about sorcery?

'How close?'

Gods bless Lancelot and his common sense. Maybe it was because he had spent time outside Camelot, while Arthur and Leon had been raised within its confines, but he showed no hesitation when it came to learning more. Arthur himself had to fight against his father's voice, forever whispering in his ear of the evils of magic. It made him hesitant to dig deeper, despite their obvious need.

'Maybe fifty paces away? No more than that.' Mordred straightened where he stood, and for one so young, he spoke with authority. When it came to Rýne, after all, he knew the most, and Arthur was happy to rely on any glimmer of understanding he could offer them.

'The bit of road where I found your lads was fairly open. Not much tree-cover. People would struggle to sneak up on us, even in the dark.'

'They got to the knights without difficulty,' Leon pointed out, spreading his hands in concession. 'We'll all be on our guard. Merlin, can you stow some lanterns, just in case Mordred needs to extinguish his light? They'll do in a pinch.'

'What about a shovel?' Merlin sounded as if he would rather not ask as he jerked his thumb towards where a pair of them were propped against the wall. It was a grim, practical sort of question, and Arthur inclined his head. It was a long way back to Camelot; the dead could not be carried. There was no guarantee of dry firewood. It would be hard work burying them, but they could trade off digging if necessary.

'Strap them to the saddle and let's get going. Mordred, wait until we're out of sight of Bridgend before you light the path. It pays to be cautious.'

It was a solemn party that led the horses out of the stables, their hooves clattering on the cobbles. They all mounted up, Leon holding out his hand to help Mordred up behind him before they set off at a steady pace. Close to Bridgend, there were braziers casting pools of golden light upon the road. Overhead, bats flittered and owls cried out for their kin. The moon may be absent, ashamed to show its face, but the sky was a froth of stars, and the clear, crisp air promised a frost.

Arthur's breath steamed between his lips as they passed through the gates, and he could have sworn Merlin murmured a scant few words: nothing but a faint hum of sound.

'Did you say something?'

There was the creak of leather as Merlin shifted his weight in the saddle. 'No, Sire. Must've been the wind.'

Arthur narrowed his eyes, but he didn't push the issue. The flock of questions roosting in his mind threatened to take flight anew, but he eased them back to silence. He could not afford to be distracted; not now. He had to focus on the trials that lay ahead, not the man who rode at his side.

The horses were already less than keen to traverse the gloom. Llamrei's ears flicked, and she huffed her irritation. Only the soothing silver balm of Mordred's light seemed to bring her any comfort, brighter than Arthur had ever known it. The glow peeled aside the shadows. It was far from subtle, but Arthur would rather risk discovery than a broken neck if one of their mounts lost their footing.

'That's as bright as I can make it,' Mordred murmured, that young face glossed with sweat. The sphere was bigger now, the size of a keg as it hovered obligingly above them.

'That's more than enough. Thank you, Mordred. Try not tire yourself. We'll be riding for some time, yet.' Arthur glanced at Gwaine, jerking his head to indicate he should lead the way. He did so without question, taking not the main route back to Camelot, but a branching fork that led along the riverbank, tracing the uncertain line of the water.

They journeyed in silence, every man alert for signs of trouble. The roads at night were prime hunting grounds for footpads and other troublemakers. Their group did not make an easy target, but he would rather not try his luck.

It was some time later when Gwaine finally raised his fist to bring them to a halt. 'It's just ahead. Upwind, or the horses would have already smelled it. ' He patted his own mount fondly on the side of the neck before swinging out of the saddle. The others did the same, and Arthur glanced at Merlin, contemplating the likelihood of obedience if he told him to stay back.

'You do not have to come with us,' Leon said softly, speaking to Mordred as he slithered down to land on the road. 'We can use the lanterns. There's no need for you to see what lies ahead.'

'I've probably seen worse,' Mordred pointed out. 'I'd rather be with you.'

Lancelot stroked the nose of his mare, taking a short iron stake from his pack and driving it into the ground: a temporary picket. 'Then turn away if you must. None of us will judge you harshly for it.'

The orb of light eased forward, peeling back the cloak of the night to reveal the carnage that awaited them. Arthur saw it in snatches: a hand, curled and limp; blank, staring eyes; the churned earth. The cold weather meant the smell was not putrid. They had not been dead long enough for that, but the air was thick with blood.

'I'll get the lanterns,' Merlin said softly. 'The extra light will help. Mordred can only do so much.'

Arthur nodded, too numb to speak. He was looking into the face of the closest man, his heart like stone. Reynald. He had been wearing knight's colours for no more than four months. The youngest of three brothers. The older two had already given their lives. His gaze darted around the others, and every scrap of insight only honed his anger.

'What in the name of the gods was my father thinking?' He shook his head in disbelief. 'This is not a patrol. It's not even half of one. Five knights, all of them new this year, still wet behind the ears!' He gestured to Matthias, not yet old enough for a proper beard. He had not completed training to Arthur's satisfaction, but here he lay: a victim of Camelot's ambition. 'Did he merely knight boys and send them after us?'

Something bubbled in his gut, seething until he could barely breathe around its ferocity. So few knights might be acceptable if they were veterans of the field: experienced heads upon strong shoulders. This was insupportable.

Then, in addition, there was the implication writ deep in Uther's choice. Arthur would love to turn a blind eye and pretend this was merely a mistake, but Uther took pride in never acting with thoughtlessness. He would not have chosen these knights without due consideration, and his decision would have sent a clear message to the court.

He would rather punish his son than help his people.

Oh, he knew how the king would twist this. He would claim he was giving the men much-needed experience and Arthur the opportunity to wield his authority. He would state that it was a chance for the crown prince to prove himself a capable commander. With smooth words and gleaming eyes, he would make the knights' fate Arthur's fault and deny all culpability himself. This was what it had come down to: a king playing games with the lives of his people.

All because Arthur had sought some small element of his own independence.

For one brief, dizzying moment, he contemplated walking away from it all: his birthright, his future and his kingdom. It was a sharp slice of need within him, like a fire blazing up in an empty hearth, but all too soon it returned to mere embers. He did not want the crown and throne for the power they held; he wanted to help his people. If he turned his back, it was they who would suffer. A broken line of succession could be the end of a realm. He and his father both knew that well enough.

But innocent men should not have to die in the name of his father's thrice-cursed pride.

Warmth at his shoulder allowed him to take a steadying breath, and he glanced at Merlin out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps, if he were a more petty man, he would blame the one who had set this in motion by finding a way around the First Code. It was painfully tempting, but he restrained himself. After all, Merlin had only pointed out the possibility. It was Arthur himself who had leapt into action and seized the opportunity.

Even now, looking at the dead who lay before him, his regret was over their loss of life rather than the decisions he had made. Camelot had needed more good knights, and the nobility were running out of sons. His father had only worsened a drastic situation, and for what?

'Check the bodies.' His voice sounded almost steady. Only a subtle, angry tremor underscored his words. 'Look for anything that might explain who did this. Mordred, can you keep watch? We need to know if anyone approaches.'

The boy nodded, looking pale. His eyes were huge as he tore his gaze away from the bloodshed, but he did not falter. Instead, he shuffled closer to Merlin's side, the two of them speaking softly. Arthur could not discern what they said. He could only pick out the tones of their voices: Merlin, soft and calming, and Mordred, grim in a way no child should be.

A brief flicker of silver light caught his eye, arcing along the road before sweeping outwards in a large circumference. It faded from sight almost immediately, and Arthur looked askance at the boy. He was aiming a mulish expression in Merlin's direction, but he explained anyway. 'It's a boundary ward. It'll warn us of anyone's approach. Just in case I miss something.'

'It won't tip off Rýne that we're here?' Lancelot asked curiously, his gaze sliding to Merlin before darting away. Grim amusement stained his features, there and gone again, quickly subsumed by the sorrow of their situation.

'No. Not unless he's already watching us.' Mordred shook his head, raising his hand so that the mage light floated higher.

'We should still be careful,' Merlin murmured, giving an apologetic shrug. 'However you look at it, this is perfect bait.'

'Not necessarily.' Leon's words were steady and strong, his intonation flat as if he were taking comfort in speaking from a place of logic, rather than emotion. 'Think of it. At first glance, you're right, but no one knew which direction Gwaine would choose to travel, nor could they guarantee that he would return to us with the news. Bait only works if there's a way to bring it to the quarry's attention. This relies too much on chance. By all means, be cautious, but I don't believe this attack was designed to lure us in.'

He reached out, his fingertips hovering over the slit throat of one of the knights before dropping to the wounds that sundered his chainmail. They were short and brutal. To Arthur's eye, they looked like the bite of a war-axe, rather than a sword. In fact, the whole situation had the appearance of a messy assault. If Gwaine was right, then it must have happened as the sun set. The attackers had not bothered with the cover of darkness. The road was churned to mud, and Arthur could make out the confusion of hooves and footprints.

'They stole the horses,' he muttered. 'They mounted up and rode east.'

'Towards Camelot?' Lancelot sounded doubtful.

'There's another bridge across the river about ten miles away, back into Mercian territory. I'd bet a handful of gold that's where they went,' Gwaine replied.

'Attacking a band of five knights to steal their horses is a bold move.' Leon straightened up, shaking his head. 'They had no way to know their relative inexperience. There are easier targets from which to take a mount.'

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. There was something off in what they were seeing, something that rang its alarm bells in his mind, but he could not make out the detail of it. Instead, it was just a curl of dread in his gut suggesting that there was more to all this than met the eye.

In the end, he had a choice. He could stand there as the dark gathered around them, lost in the pain of these young men cut down before their lives had truly begun, or he could move forward. His guilt and grief would not find their killers nor bring them to justice.

'Check the bodies for personal effects. Anything that their families may wish returned to them. We'll bury them in their armour. They deserve that much.' He did not bother to ask anyone to look for survivors. It was clear that none of them had endured the brutality of what happened.

It was Gwaine who grunted in confusion, catching Arthur's eye and shaking his head. 'What kind of bandit leaves behind a man's coin purse?' He held up a full pouch meaningfully, the heft of it obvious. 'There's something rotten going on here.'

'Jewellery. Boots. The only things missing are their horses.' Merlin sat back on his heels, chewing his lip in thought. Yet he kept his musings to himself as they moved each body off the road, placing them side-by-side.

Lancelot and Leon began digging; it was merciful that the earth was soft from the rain of the past few days. Merlin and Mordred looked around for firewood, building up a campfire nearby. Perhaps they would find no sleep tonight, considering their grisly task, but Arthur was grateful for their thoughtfulness. The flames meant those who took breaks from their toil could warm themselves, and Merlin cooked them a bland but satisfying meal to keep them all going.

'I don't suppose your magic can help with this,' Gwaine wheezed, glancing at Mordred as he draped an arm over the handle of his shovel. He and Arthur had taken over after a candle-mark or so, sharing the burden. The cut was broad and about as deep as Arthur's knees, but he did not pause to take his rest. They still had a long way to go. Already, blisters were starting to form on his hands, and the sweat from his labours itched against his skin.

'I don't know how.' Mordred sounded genuinely apologetic. He had offered to help dig, but they had politely declined it. Merlin's excuse had been cooking dinner, but Arthur planned to put him to work before long. Heaving the earth about would do those weedy arms of his some good. 'The druids always worked the soil by hand. They said it was the way of things.'

'Ah well,' Gwaine sounded cheerfully regretful. 'A few blisters never killed a man.'

'Switch out with Merlin,' Arthur ordered, smothering a smile as he felt the weight of his manservant's glare. 'Save your delicate skin.'

Gwaine snorted at that, but he didn't argue. Arthur had grown used to reading when someone was hiding his need for rest. Gwaine had already been riding out for parts unknown when he had discovered the bodies, and even the most seasoned warrior would have been shaken by such a sight. A bit of time by the fireside would help him recover some of his equilibrium.

Merlin's boots thumped in the bottom of the grave as he jumped in, getting to work with minimal complaint. He might be useless with a sword, but it seemed he at least knew how to dig. They fell into an easy rhythm, working shoulder-to-shoulder. Before long, Merlin had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his wiry forearms: strong, despite their slenderness. Arthur was idly considering what he could do to put a bit more meat on those bones when Merlin's voice interrupted his musings, bringing him back to their grim reality with a bump.

'Gedric.'

Arthur hummed in question. Gedric was about Merlin's own age, or had been, slightly younger than Arthur. He was the most senior of those they had found, which wasn't saying much. Blond and brawny, quick to laugh and smile. A good man, by all accounts.

'What about him?'

Merlin paused, his sip of air an audible sound of hesitation. Now that he looked, there was a hint of sharpness to Merlin's grief: something personal. Uncertainty wobbled in the pit of Arthur's stomach, and he forced it ruthlessly aside, waiting for him to continue.

When he did, he got the feeling it wasn't what Merlin had originally intended to say.

'He was only wounded once. A dagger to the throat. The others were practically hacked to bits: a vicious fight, but him?'

'What are you getting at?'

'I think he was facing whoever attacked him, and he'd dismounted to do it. You can't stab a man in the neck if he's on horseback. So he got down from his saddle and approached his killer.' Merlin jabbed the shovel into the ground with surprising force, and the lanterns surrounding the grave cast enough light to see the scowl pleating his brow. 'Why would he do that?' He paused, looking at where the five knights lay in repose. Lancelot had wrapped their cloaks around them, hiding the grisly testimony of their injuries as best he could.

Arthur did not doubt Merlin's insights. He may not have had much time to learn Gaius' skills, but while he was a useless manservant, he was already proving to be a decent healer. One important talent of that profession was observation. Now, he found his mind caught on the same questions, churning over the possibilities. In the end, he could only shake his head, resting a hand on Merlin's shoulder in brief comfort.

'I don't know, but I intend to unearth some answers. Whatever happened here, we will get to the bottom of it.' He tightened his grip, relieved to see the flicker of Merlin's smile. In that moment, all the phantoms of his suspicions were distant things. His dread over what Merlin might be hiding from him eased away, leaving him free to find a trace of comfort. The others understood how these deaths hurt him as a commander, but Merlin, he suspected, could comprehend how it pained him as a man: one who had always been taught that compassion was a weakness but felt it all the same.

He wasn't sure what he expected from Merlin, but the way he nudged their shoulders together and nodded, just once, said everything that was needed. It was a silent sign of Merlin's faith in him, utterly unquestionable, and Arthur swallowed hard.

He almost asked, there and then, knee-deep in a grave, if Merlin had magic. In that one moment, he felt like maybe he could bear to hear the answer, but his courage failed him. It was a door he did not want to open – questions and decisions and his own beliefs that he could not bring himself to face. So it was that they continued to work, digging until they could finally lay the slain knights to rest.

The night passed in the back and forth of toiling over the shovels. They each dozed, but proper sleep remained elusive. Now, as dawn broke, they all gathered around the scar of earth where the young men of Camelot had been returned to the dark's tender embrace. The sky lightened to pearl as a new day found its beginning, but as Arthur stood there, all he saw was another painful ending.

These knights would never return to Camelot or see their loving families. They would not laugh with friends at the tavern or crow their triumph over their brothers-in-arms upon the training ground. Every knight knew the dangers when they took up the banner, and yet it should never have ended like this. All he had was the anger and helplessness of a prince who had failed in an impossible duty, and that would be his burden to bear for the rest of his days.

'You're a good man.'

Arthur glanced towards where Gwaine stood at his shoulder. Those dark eyes were fixed on the disturbed earth, haunted by some unknown memory. 'I don't feel like one.'

Gwaine's laugh was a mirthless thing. 'That's how you know it's true. I've never met a good man who could see his own kindness. Most lords would have left them to rot on the roadside. They wouldn't care what had become of them. These boys would be forgotten in a heartbeat, but that's not who you are, is it?'

At least, that much, he could answer honestly. 'No.'

'Thought not.' Gwaine shifted his weight, folding his arms across his chest before turning to face Arthur more fully. The sharp, probing look he received made him feel as if he had been flayed: exposed and defensive. Yet whatever Gwaine saw seemed to satisfy him.

'Think I'll come to Camelot with you after all. Seems to me you could use another pair of eyes watching your back.' He scratched at his temple, his hands still filthy from digging. 'Not as a knight, mind you. Just... I'll be around, yeah?'

Once, he might have declined the need for assistance. Even now, an excuse hovered on the tip of his tongue: something to free Gwaine from whatever obligation he had built up in his own head, but he could not give it voice. In truth, he was glad for any help he could get.

Gwaine may aggravate him with his constant, flirtatious ways and how he could make Merlin smile with just a look. It might vex him how he seemed to constantly be weighing every one of Arthur's actions and putting forth his judgement, but he could tell he was a fair man at heart: solid and faithful to those who deserved it, not to mention handy to have in a fight.

'I don't currently live in the castle. There's a house with rooms to spare. One's there for you if you want it. Save you a bit of coin.'

It was a peace offering of sorts, a tentative truce. He watched Gwaine's lips curl in a hint of a smile as he nodded, giving Arthur a quick nudge with his shoulder as he jerked his head towards the waiting horses.

'Shall we be off then?'

Bridgend lay behind them, still vulnerable. There would be no garrison to protect its people, and Arthur could not leave his knights behind to tend them. He had to pray that the bandits would abandon the area now that Caludahn had fallen, and that the approaching winter would drive the raiders from the roads. Perhaps, back in Camelot, he would be able to convince his father of the need for a more meaningful presence at their border, but he was not so foolish as to get his hopes up.

With a sigh, Arthur turned away from the graveside, grief shivering in the pit of his belly. Yet something softer robbed it of its chill.

Normally, when returning from patrol, he felt little more than relief that his men had made it back safely. Now, he found himself looking forward to his return. It was not the castle that brought him comfort; that was his father's domain. Instead, his thoughts went to the house that awaited them: his sanctuary.

It was time to go home.

Chapter Text

The oppressive weight of the court stood at their backs. Merlin shifted, wishing he could do his usual trick and hide himself in the masses. They had arrived home in Camelot after days of hard riding. They were cold and exhausted, beaten down by all they had seen and burdened by their mysteries. Merlin wanted good food, a hot bath and the comforts of his bed. Not necessarily in that order. Instead, he waited three paces behind Arthur, Leon and Lancelot, trying to portray the mien of a dutiful servant as they made their report to the king.

Normally, such things were conducted without an audience. Today the whole damn court was in attendance. It made Merlin's heart ache for the families of those knights who had fallen. This was the first they would hear of their fate. The news would not be delivered tenderly and in private, but laid out for all the nobility of Camelot. Was that what Uther really wanted, or was he so overwhelmed by his desire to call Arthur to heel that he could not see the implications?

More likely, to Merlin's mind, he simply did not care.

At least they had been able to leave Mordred back at the Miracle Court. Gwen had stepped up, happy to get him settled. Mordred had seemed relieved, content to stay out of harm's way. Gwaine could have remained there too, except that he was just as stubborn as Merlin had first suspected. He had dismissed Arthur's suggestion almost before it left his lips, shaking his head in blunt refusal.

Nobody could exactly argue with his reasoning. He was the one who had discovered the patrol, after all, though whether Uther would ask for Gwaine's account. Already, those silver eyes raked their dusty, exhausted party. He had not even offered Arthur a chance to make himself presentable. A messenger had found them the moment they walked through the gate, demanding they present themselves in the throne room. Now, Merlin struggled not to grimace at his aching feet as he listened to Arthur deliver his report.

Whatever other lessons Uther may or may not have taught his son over the years, this was one he had learned well. He had a way of speaking the truth while leaving the details in shadow, glossing over some things while putting others on stark display. A glance out of the corner of his eye showed that the court were practically eating out of their prince's hand, hanging on his every word. It was a delicate balance. He knew Arthur hoped to alert his father to potential problems on the border without inciting further tensions.

He mentioned lawless bandits turning their coats to stir up trouble, but he maintained his silence on Rýne, his magic, and the black powder. He spoke of their defence of Bridgend, the loss of the people and how it had led them to where the raiders made their nest, yet he did not mention the old fort by name.

'And the patrol? Those knights were volunteers eager to assist you.'

Merlin chewed on his tongue. He might loathe Uther for all that he had done, but that simple statement had seemed true enough. Most of those they had found dead, he didn't know well, but Gedric...

He swallowed, the words around him taking on a tinny quality as memory assailed him. He had been both more and less than a friend. Someone to share his body and just a little bit of his heart. It hadn't been much. Two or three times, maybe. Greedy hands and eager desire. Still, you learned things of people when you shared their bed, and Gedric had been one of those men who believed in duty: young and naive. Too new a knight to have developed that wary edge to his thinking.

Now, Arthur's voice grew softer, his compassion painfully genuine, as if he knew how his next explanation would cut at some people in the room. 'We received reports while we were in Bridgend of trouble on the road. We departed immediately. We do not know what befell the knights you sent, but there were no survivors.'

They were such delicate words for what they had found. Merlin felt them ripple through the crowd. A tide of whispers arose at their backs, but Uther remained impassive on his throne, those features carefully controlled. One hand curled over his mouth, and that pallid gaze watched Arthur over his knuckles. His brow furled into a scowl, but there was no explosion of temper. Instead, his next words were honed knives, designed to wound.

'Five good knights. Dead. All because you failed to follow my orders.'

'Sire –'

'You were to scout and report back, not to involve yourself, but you knew better. Worse, you required help, and in doing so, you have cost us a great deal.'

Merlin clenched his jaw tight. It was that or spit out a protest: something that would probably get him flogged for his trouble. That Uther could sit there and offer up such bald-faced lies! As if he were not the one who had sent Arthur off with only two knights to his name in the first place, and then dispatched too few with too little experience as back up.

He wished he could believe that those at court were not so easily fooled. Some, he knew, would see through Uther's untruths, but there were many who followed him blindly. They would take him at his word, despite all evidence to the contrary, because they could not imagine questioning their king.

Gwaine's spine was like an iron bar, his shoulders stiff with his own disbelief. At least he had the common sense to hold his tongue, but even from this angle Merlin could see he was seething on Arthur's behalf. This had to be an eye-opening insight into the current politics of Camelot, and Merlin pitied him for it. Lancelot and Leon were doing their best to remain impassive, their outrage writ small and subtle. It made itself clear in the way Leon clenched his hands together behind his back while Lancelot's stance shifted in Arthur's direction: all mute support.

Yet it was Arthur himself who caught Merlin's eye. His posture had not changed in the slightest, though the injustice of his father's accusations must sting. He held his head high, and his shoulders were straight but loose beneath his dusty chainmail. When he spoke, his tone was carefully edited to remove any hint of anger that might cause offence.

'As their commander, the responsibility for the deaths of the men lost on their way to Bridgend must lie with me. However, I cannot regret the act of asking for assistance to protect a border town that was decimated by a raid.'

'And yet, by your own report, you have removed the threat. The bandits no longer have their nest. They will not linger.'

'A garrison, even a small one, would have offered the people some much-needed security.'

'If they wished for security, they could move themselves to the citadel and pay the required taxes.' Uther's tone was final: the slice of an indifferent blade. His robes rustled as he rose from the throne, descending the dais until he stood in front of Arthur. They were of a height, but the wealth of his garments and the crown banding his brow gave Uther more presence, making him loom. When he spoke again, his words were softer, meant for Arthur's ears alone, though Merlin could just about make out what he was saying.

'You will see to it that the families of the lost knights are notified of their fate and compensated accordingly. Since the fault is yours, the coin will come from your own coffers. I hope that there is a lesson for you in all this, Arthur. One, perhaps, where you recall your place.'

Uther swept past, his stride unhurried as he made his departure. Around them, the court broke out into whispers, the nobles abandoning their watchful silence as they talked among themselves. Somewhere, Merlin could hear a woman sobbing softly, and his heart gave a heavy pang for her grief. Her feelings were something he could not ease. Arthur's on the other hand...

Yet before he could so much as twitch, he saw how Leon, Lancelot and Gwaine abandoned their poise, shifting around Arthur in a protective huddle. It didn't pass his notice that they also left space for Merlin, a gap between Lancelot and Gwaine that he filled without hesitation.

'That was bullshit,' Gwaine murmured, his voice low so as not to carry to anyone else, but by no means lacking in certainty. 'Every word of it. You know none of the blame lies with you, right?'

Arthur tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders. For the first time, his mask slipped, and Merlin winced to see the hints of broken exhaustion that lined those features. It did not matter if what Uther had said was just another brutal manipulation of public opinion, there was part of Arthur – still desperate to please his father – that took it to heart.

'The truth matters little when it comes to politics.' Arthur sighed, shaking himself like a dog flinging off water. 'Enough of this. There's plenty to be done, but we can at least take the time to wash away the dust from the road. Let's get to the Miracle Court. And Merlin?'

'Yes, Sire?'

'I have no doubt my father will call on you. Tell him whatever you think he may want to hear.'

Merlin pursed his lips, sorely wishing he could turn Uther into a frog instead, but he reluctantly inclined his head. 'Anything I should know?'

'Right now, what matters most is that he does not looks too closely at Mordred, nor the circumstances in which we found him. Just do what you can.'

'Have you been picking up strays?' Morgana's voice drifted through the air, all courtly poise. Only the wicked sparkle in her gaze gave anything away as she took in Gwaine with a doubtful eye.

'Morgana, this is Gwaine. He was invaluable in the defence of Bridgend. Gwaine, this is Lady Morgana. Uther's ward.' That last was said with a heavy hint of warning, and Gwaine placed his hand over his heart as if offended. He did at least bow, but there was no mistaking the wink he cast in Morgana's direction.

'An honour, my lady.'

'Of course it is.' She insinuated herself a careful, chaste distance from Arthur's side. The knights fell back instinctively, giving the illusion of privacy. Even Gwaine did it without any apparent thought, as if such courtly manners were instinct, only half-forgot. Merlin lingered a little closer: an unnecessary chaperone. 'I need to speak with you at the Miracle Court. There are things you should know.'

'Has our father requested a meal this evening?'

'No. Nor is he likely to do so.'

'Then you and Guinevere should dine with us there tonight, assuming whatever you want to share can wait? I should bathe, at least.'

'Truer words have never been spoken.' Morgana gave her nose an elegant little wrinkle, looking over her shoulder at Merlin with a grin. 'You'll have to do it without Merlin's help, though. Gaius has been worried while you have been gone. I have to get more of my sleeping tonic anyway, and I intend to bring him to his uncle to ease his mind. I'm sure you can spare him for an afternoon.'

Arthur sighed, giving Merlin what he thought was a deeply unnecessary glare before inclining his head. 'A candle-mark. No more. We need you back at the house.'

Morgana beckoned him with the crook of one finger. He just heard Gwaine's wistful murmur of "lucky sod" before Morgana led him off down one of the corridors, her stride far more swift than elegant.

'Is everything all right, my lady?' It was not that he didn't believe her claims – Gaius was known to worry – but he would normally find Merlin himself. 'Is Gaius hurt? Ailing?'

Morgana stopped, her skirts swirling as she turned to face him, eager to offer reassurance. 'No, nothing like that. Though you're not wrong to think I might have an ulterior motive. I know how Arthur is. He will gloss over the truth in the name of my "feminine sensibilities." What he is doing? What he has already done?' She paused, drawing in a deep breath. 'It's given me hope for the future. I do not wish to be on the outside looking in, picking up scraps of information from him and hearing nothing but lies from Uther. I want to be a part of it!'

She sighed, pressing her fingertips briefly to her brow before dropping her arm back to her side. 'I was hoping that you, at least, would be honest with me.'

Merlin smiled, resisting the urge to reach out and rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder. To do so would be a thousand miles beyond the bounds of propriety, and he did not need that sort of trouble. Yet Morgana was like Arthur in some ways: isolated by her rank and by the pedestal Uther had built for her. Gwen was as much her friend as her servant, but he could see how she hungered for more. She was not the type of woman content to be an ornament at court. She had already proven that much.

He shifted his shoulders in a shrug and offered her a crooked grin. 'What do you want to know?'

Morgana's smile could have lit up the whole kingdom, creasing the corners of her eyes as they walked side-by-side. Here, in the narrower corridors approaching the healing rooms, there were fewer people to witness their camaraderie. Merlin still kept a touch of respectful distance, if only because the other servants would not hesitate to gossip, but they were close enough that Morgana could speak softly.

'Is he all right? Truly? I heard bits and pieces of gossip about what happened at Bridgend. It sounded like a messy business.'

'There were no real injuries, though that was mostly thanks to Gwaine. They fought well, but he got in the way of a blow meant for Arthur.'

'Ah, perhaps that explains it. Is he Arthur's latest knight?'

Merlin huffed a laugh. 'Not yet, but he's a step closer than he was. He's not much of a fan of nobles, despite the fact he probably was one, once. I believe he's still making up his mind about Arthur.'

'And Camelot itself is not exactly a gleaming beacon of honour.' Her lips pursed tight. 'I tried to reason with Uther as best I could about the patrol, but he did not listen. I don't think he wanted to hear it.'

That was no surprise. 'Arthur was furious when we found them. Five knights with barely a year of service under their belts, if that? All of them slain. How did Uther even justify it?'

'He claimed it would be good experience and that a smaller party could reach Bridgend more swiftly.' Morgana pulled a face. 'His reasons were sound enough, and it helped that we were already a number of knights down. Uther intensified patrols along the eastern border as soon as you left. Perhaps at first glance it was a coincidence, but...'

She bowed her head before glancing his way. 'Maybe I am too cynical. It was almost as if he was making sure there were no one available to help Arthur should he call upon them.' She waved an elegant hand as if to dismiss her own words. 'I have no proof of that, of course.'

'Just a feeling?' Merlin nodded. He would not put it past Uther to give himself plausible deniability to the court. It was a dangerous game: a bid to exercise control, maintain his approval among the nobility and put Arthur in his place.

At the moment, Uther's desire to cling to power overruled any concerns for his dynasty. It was a short-sighted path to take, and Merlin hated how this whole mess had tangled into such a wretched, political snarl. All he had wanted to do was give Arthur some support in a court that so often left him to stand alone. Now it had ended up a vicious, petty little war between the kingdom's monarch and its prince. 'Maybe I should never have asked Arthur to make Lancelot a knight.'

'Don't.' Morgana's hand rested on his arm, light and fleeting. It was a whisper of physical contact, there and gone again, but it was enough to get his attention. 'I have watched Uther hammer out all that was good and kind in Arthur until what was left was a picture of perfect duty. I used to fear for this kingdom and what it would become when he finally came to the throne. Now, for the first time, I actually have hope.

'You've given Arthur something to aim for other than his father's approval, which has always been an impossible goal.' She paused at the bottom of the steps to Gaius' tower room, her gaze soft. 'You've offered him a chance to show that there is a good man under all that bluster. I wanted to thank you for that.'

'It was nothing, my lady.'

'I doubt that.' She raised one dark eyebrow before she trotted up the narrow stairs. Merlin followed her, thinking about how Arthur wasn't the only person who had changed since all this started. Back in the spring, Morgana had been like an effigy, pale and glassy. Now, it was as if she had stepped out into the sunlight once more.

He recalled her vivid dreams about Sofia, the Sidhe who had tried to sacrifice Arthur, and Gaius' quiet suspicions that Morgana had magic of her own. He had warned Merlin not to utter a word of it, claiming it was likely not even Morgana herself knew of her power, and he had grudgingly held his silence.

Now, between the shifting politics of Camelot and the beguiling presence of the Miracle Court, he wondered if the truth would find its way out. He had never seen Morgana as comfortable in her own skin as when she lingered in the house that had once been Ygraine's. It was as if she were peeling off a mask to reveal what lay beneath. With Mordred in attendance, openly magical and accepted by Arthur and his knights, would things change all the more?

Would there come a day when Morgana felt she could accept what she was and Merlin no longer had to hide?

'I've brought you a visitor, Gaius.'

Morgana stood aside with a flourish, and Merlin grinned as he found himself enveloped in Gaius' arms. The familiar scent of herbs washed over him, and for the first time in days, he relaxed. This room had been a sanctuary to him for months before they ever discovered the Miracle Court. Now, he soaked up the comfort on offer, letting it ease the jagged edges of his nerves.

'My boy.' Gaius eased back, giving him a probing sort of look. 'Some of the stories we have heard... Sit, eat something. Tell me what happened at Bridgend.'

'I will let you two catch up,' Morgana said softly, accepting the small vial Gaius offered her with a smile. 'I shall see you later at the Miracle Court, Merlin.'

'Of course, my lady.' He smiled as she departed, only to blink in confusion at the rather judgemental arch of Gaius' eyebrow. 'What?'

'Have a care, my boy. Uther would not hesitate to punish someone he thought had compromised Morgana's virtue.'

Merlin spluttered at that, trying to ignore how hot his ears felt. 'There's been no compromising!'

'Of course not.' There was something faintly insulting about Gaius' dismissal, but he carried on before Merlin could protest. 'You know that is not the way of the court. Truth matters little. It is what people believe that holds the most sway. Now.' He went to the pot bubbling over the fire, doling out some sort of stew that made Merlin's stomach roar in approval. 'Tell me of your travels. What happened at Bridgend?'

Gaius listened attentively as Merlin told him of the town and the raid. He did not utter a word until he mentioned the man who had died of a sword to his gut. Then, his expression folded in sympathy, as if he understood how much that one failing would have bothered him. He wasn't wrong in that regard. The memory stole up on him at odd times – the slick of blood under his hands and the light fading from the man's eyes. Every healer acknowledged that they could not save everyone, but that didn't make the truth any easier to bear.

'You did well, Merlin,' Gaius promised him. 'Some things cannot be helped and some wounds cannot be healed.'

'He'd come to help the town. He lived outside the walls, apparently. They knew his name, at least. Balinor.'

Across the table, Gaius froze like a deer caught in the archer's sights, that old head cocked to one side. 'Did you say "Balinor"? A man a bit shorter than you? Stocky build? Dark hair?'

'Greying, but... yes. I suppose so. Did you know him?'

Gaius' breath left him in a shivering rush as he slumped where he sat, looking into the remnants of the stew as if he could divine the secrets of the world from the gravy. 'I once knew someone by that name, and it is not one I have heard before or since. During the height of the Purge, it was not only sorcerers that Uther put to the axe or flame. Anyone he deemed even adjacent to magic was in danger. There used to be men and women known as Dragonlords. They had the ability to speak to dragons – to control them. In Uther's mind, they were a threat.'

Merlin bowed his head. He did not need to ask what had happened to them; he could imagine. He thought of Kilgharrah locked up in his cavern and wondered who, exactly, had put him there.

'There was one who I aided in his escape. He was compassionate, kind: a good soul. There were so few I could help. I was too lacking in courage – complicit in my silence.' Gaius' gaze held the far away look of a man lost in his own regrets, and Merlin's hand twitched against the tabletop. Gaius did not speak of the Purge often, and when he did, it was always with the same, distant tone, as if he were there, locked in the past, rather than sitting in front of Merlin.

'I do not know where he went, nor how he lived. As far as I am aware, he was the last of his kind. If it was, indeed, the same man who gave his life in defence of Bridgend...' His sigh was soft, a mournful whisper, and when he met Merlin's gaze the glimmer of tears nestled behind his lashes. 'There are times when I wonder if it will ever be possible for magic to recover from the Purge. Since Arthur broke with his father and moved to the Miracle Court, I had found something like hope, but...'

Merlin wet his lips, scraping his spoon around his bowl to scoop up the last of the gravy. He had not realised how hungry he was until Gaius had set it in front of him. 'When the dragon down in the cavern said about Arthur uniting all Albion, I couldn't begin to believe it. I'd just met him, and he was nothing but a prat.'

'Are you saying your opinion has changed?'

Merlin snorted. 'Yes and no. He's still a prat, but then I think of what he's done since the summer: he's stood up to his father about the First Code, opened up the Miracle Court, accepted its magic...' He thought, too, of Mordred, but some instinct urged him to silence on that matter. It was not that he did not trust Gaius, but he did not want to rouse his fear. 'I would never have believed that could be possible. He proved me wrong.' His shoulders twitched in a shrug. 'I'm just saying that there's cause for hope. More than there has been before. Magic might still find its way back.'

Gaius gave him a fond look across the table. 'You know, from what you told me the dragon said, he never mentioned magic.'

'No, but I don't think you can "unite all Albion" while still chopping off people's heads for casting spells. The dragon didn't just mean the lands; he meant the people, too.'

'I pray that you are right, my boy.' Gaius reached across the table, patting the back of his hand gently. 'And who knows, perhaps the man who died in Bridgend was a different Balinor and the last Dragonlord still lives on. Speaking of which, have you had any more discussions with our scaly friend of late?'

Merlin grimaced, because if he was honest, he had been avoiding the dragon at every possible opportunity. There was something about the beast that made him wary – an instinct that warned him Kilgharrah's words could not always be taken at face value. He had his own motives for his actions, and Merlin could never quite shake the feeling that Kilgharrah saw him as little more than a pawn in some great game.

'He's a bit of a last resort,' he admitted, 'but I think I'll have to speak with him soon. He seems to have answers to pretty much everything.'

'But are they answers you can trust?'

Merlin sighed. 'They're all I've got.' He set the bowl aside, taking a quick glance around the healing rooms. 'Do you need help with anything? I should probably get back to Arthur, but I can spare a bit of time...?'

Gaius waved him off, amused, as if he had always known that having an apprentice would be a temporary arrangement. 'I am glad to see you have all returned to us in one piece, my boy. As for the work in here, I have it in hand. I'll warn you if that changes. Be off with you.'

He uttered a cheerful farewell, plucking open the door and loping down the stairs, his mind full of Arthur, the knights and the Miracle Court. He wondered how Mordred was settling in and hoped that the place didn't make his power that much harder to hide. The trip to Bridgend may have been a trial, but Merlin's magic had settled in him once more, no longer a fizzing, surging force beneath his skin, but something he could live with. Would it start to misbehave again once he was back in those four walls, or would matters have improved?

He was so lost inside his own head that he did not notice the knight striding towards him. Instead, a gauntleted fist caught in his tunic, slamming him none-too-gently into the wall and holding him there. Merlin's curse of complaint fell on deaf ears, and he scowled into the face of Sir Locke, his right hand wrapped around his wrist as he tried to pull himself free.

'You're called before the king, boy.' It was a brittle snap of a command, all teeth, and Merlin knew he shouldn't talk back. Some of the knights were always looking for an excuse, and nobody would bat an eye if one of them struck a servant. Still, he had never been the best at keeping his mouth shut.

'You could have just asked like a normal person.' He winced as Locke snarled, shaking him like a rat before shoving him gracelessly along the corridor.

'Move. You've kept His Majesty waiting long enough.'

Merlin glared over his shoulder, straightening his tunic and wincing at the bruises he could feel blooming across his skin. This was the kind of knight Uther favoured: bullies and brutes. They married with his idea that anything worth claiming was won by force, and more to the point, they followed him blindly and without question. In theory, every knight was Camelot's, but in practice there was a clear and subtle division of loyalties, these days, and those that sided with Uther were ruthless to say the least.

So it was that he made his way through the castle, his mind awhirl and his heart high in his throat. It was no surprise. He had known this was coming; he just wished he'd had a bit more time. Now, rather than returning to the sanctuary of the Miracle Court, he marched straight into the lion's den.

He could only hope that he made it out unscathed.

Chapter Text

The moment he stepped back into the Miracle Court, Arthur felt a weight vanish from his shoulders. The sharp sting of his father's words eased, and the hollow ache of his grief became something he could bear.

He was not the only one who visibly relaxed. Lancelot let out a quiet sigh, and some of the iron went out of Leon's posture. Gwaine's subtle outrage – gratifying for being so unexpected – lost its sharpest edge, and he nodded in approval.

Yet it was the sight of Mordred sat at the table in the kitchen, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed with a healthy colour for the first time since they had met him, that brought Arthur real relief. He had feared the boy would be frightened by the realities of Camelot. Instead, he fit right in, speaking without pause as he chatted to Gwen, who looked utterly delighted.

Lunch was a hasty, noisy affair. His father would have been appalled at the lack of manners, respect and ceremony, but Arthur found himself quietly charmed. Even Gwaine's flirting with Guinevere could not foul his temper, especially when the woman herself smiled and laughed in disbelief. Lancelot appeared unbothered by it, and they let the conversation drift from one topic to the next, never lingering on anything too serious.

The afternoon was full of the comfortable noises of people reclaiming their space. A bath awaited Arthur in his chambers, and he suspected it was not a servant who had attended to it. The water was just the right temperature and the copper polished to a shine. He sank into its depths, stifling a moan as aching muscles found their respite.

For long moments he simply lounged there, letting his body take its ease as his mind continued its hazy whirl. Perhaps he should be chewing over his father's spiteful words or ruminating on regrets for those families who had lost their sons on the ride to Bridgend. Instead, his considerations inevitably turned to the matter of Mordred, Merlin and magic.

The former, at least, was less of a problem. He would need to speak to the boy, but with his permission he would inform Morgana and Guinevere of his powers. Part of him wished to proceed with caution. The fewer people who knew, the better. Yet it would be hard to hide from them, considering how much time they spent at the Miracle Court. Morgana, in particular, appeared to be drawn to the building, eager not to be side-lined, and Guinevere went wherever her lady led. It was preferable by far that they be told the truth rather than discovering it by accident.

As for Merlin...

Arthur sighed, sinking deeper into his bathwater with a frown. He had shied away from his own considerations on the matter. It felt like hot iron in his mind, painful to the touch. Besides, it was not as if he had any outright proof that Merlin possessed magic. Instead, it was a suspicion that niggled at him, giving him no peace. He had watched and waited, in Bridgend, looking for any sign of it, yet none had made itself known. And if it had...?

He hesitated, forcing himself to acknowledge the heavy rock of uncertainty and dread that settled in his stomach. Back before a loud-mouthed peasant had stumbled into his life, he had not even stopped to consider how he might react to a sorcerer. His father's teachings were clear. Yet Merlin had a way of making him question things, from his own behaviour to the rectitude of Camelot's laws. Where once he would have accepted tradition without argument, he now found himself thinking twice. It was that which had made him challenge the First Code, after all.

He did not know why the notion of Merlin having magic unsettled him so. After all, he had barely batted an eye at Mordred's power, and his excuses over his ready acceptance were thin on the ground at best. Initially, he had comforted himself that they were not on Camelot soil and therefore it was Bayard's laws, not Uther's, that applied. Yet that argument lost any strength the moment they crossed back into their own realm. It was not merely that he had shown mercy, either. He could have spared Mordred's life and taken him to the druids.

Instead, he had accepted what he could do. He had even asked for his help!

His gaze skimmed the room as he wondered how much of his decision had its roots in his easy acceptance of this house and all its eccentricities. The power that lay within the bricks and mortar of this place had done nothing to hurt him or his friends. Instead, it rose up in an effort to assist him. Things that would have once encouraged him to reach for his sword now barely made him hesitate.

And yet, Merlin... Why did the notion plague him so? Was it because he had kept it a secret? How could Arthur blame him for that? Even a whisper of sorcery was enough to condemn a man. A hint would have Uther ripping the town apart! No, if Arthur woke up tomorrow able to conjure orbs of light, he would be in no rush to tell anyone either.

Nor was it the magic itself. The blindness of the king's prejudice had long sat ill with him. In Uther's eyes, sorcery pressed into service to save a life was as criminal as that which could be used to end one. There was no nuance to his thinking: no room for compassion or mercy.

Ever since Arthur had been old enough to do more than thoughtlessly follow his father's commands, he had harboured his doubts. All he had lacked was the courage to voice them. The blame for that lay entirely with him. He did not like to think himself a coward, but he had his reasons. As a king, Uther was exacting. As a father, he could be unrelenting and cruel.

He had moulded Arthur into the heir he wanted, offering his pride rarely and his anger often. It was hard for a child to break free of the chains of their own upbringing, and it had taken longer than Arthur would like to admit for him to attempt it. Even then, he could not take credit. It was Merlin who had inspired him to stop ignoring his doubts and do better. Once, the gentle needling of a servant would have been meaningless to him, but things had changed. Merlin looked at him as if he thought Arthur had hung the sun in the sky, and he found he was desperate not to disappoint him.

A prince should know better, and yet, here he was.

Reaching for the soap, he skimmed bubbles over his skin, washing away the grime of the road as his thoughts continued their hazy spin. They were like butterflies dancing from one notion to the next, alighting briefly only to take flight once more. However, there was one, central certainty in his head that he could not ignore: a reason for the way his stomach clenched and his heart ached. The magic itself troubled him, but that was not why he felt so unsettled. Instead, it was the knowledge that, despite all they had been through together, Merlin did not trust him with his secret.

And worse was the sinking suspicion, deep in Arthur's gut, that he never would.

He would never be worthy of being taken into Merlin's confidence, and that belief stung more than he would like to admit. Once, he would honestly not have cared what a servant thought of him. His father had taught him that the lower classes were beneath him in every way. He had been encouraged to see them as little more than things – a source of taxes. Even the nobility were defined more by their use to the throne than anything else.

Merlin had turned that all on its head. It was not that he had made Arthur care – there had always been part of him that saw the plight of his people and surged with sympathy. Instead, Merlin had shown him that compassion was not a weakness.

And Arthur, despite all his protests to the contrary, had found himself looking at Merlin and seeing a man he could trust. A friend; perhaps the first real one he had ever claimed as his own. He had begun to confide in him, here and there, showing his vulnerabilities. Logic murmured that venting his occasional frustrations with his father was leagues apart from the revelation of a potentially deathly secret, but it nipped at him all the same.

He slithered down in the bath, ducking his head under water and listening to the odd, metallic rush of it filling his ears. It was the work of a moment to lather the dust from his hair and rinse it anew. Yet by the time he was clean and lax, his muscles torpid thanks to the warmth, he was no more at ease in his own skin.

With a shake of his head, he endeavoured to cast aside his musings. The way he saw it, he had a choice. He could confront Merlin about his magic, which would gain him an answer but might scare him so far out of his wits that he fled Camelot and never looked back. Alternatively, he could wait and hope that, maybe one day, Merlin would see he was nothing like his father. After all, wasn't that what he was doing? Wasn't bringing Mordred to the Miracle Court - an undeniable act of treason – indication that he no longer believed his father's black-and-white thinking when it came to sorcery?

For reasons he did not wish to examine too closely, he would far rather that Merlin told him of his own free will. Besides, Arthur felt that he needed the time and space to consider it all more carefully. Mordred was a child. It was hard to imagine him as any sort of threat. Merlin was a man grown, or close enough, and while Arthur may not believe his father wholeheartedly, nor could he entirely set aside the whisper of his doubts.

For now, it was best that he focussed on keeping Mordred safe.

Stepping out of the bath, he glanced down at the pool of water that gathered around his feet, smiling when it evaporated from the cold flagstones. Now that he was paying attention, there was magic everywhere he looked. The Miracle Court was subtle, but its efforts were impossible to deny.

He noticed it in the way the towel was warm despite being some distance from the flames that danced in the grate. Then there was the fact the lanterns never appeared to need new oil, and the candles burned slow and bright. It was as if the house itself knew that the gold was thin on the ground, even with the money coming from Pentrose, and did its best to ease his burdens.

He may have considered that magic had its uses, but he had never realised it could be kind.

'Thank you,' he murmured to the empty air, refusing to feel foolish for doing so. 'You'll keep them safe, won't you?'

There was no answer, but it felt as if the sunlight streaming in through the window grew stronger for a moment: a silent acknowledgement of his request. He smiled at his own fancies as he reached for his clothes, relieved to be clad in linen and suede after days in armour. It was a literal weight off his shoulders, and he walked taller as he clattered down the stairs.

He could hear the busy noises of Lancelot and the others pottering around, taking some time to themselves. Guinevere was talking to Idina, the niece of one of the castle cooks, their voices half drowned out by the sounds of a kitchen hard at work.

Yet it was Mordred who caught his attention, wandering around the garden. His young face was turned up towards the snarled branches of the apple trees. The lateness of the year meant that most of the fruit had already been picked. Only a few remained, and they'd be retrieved soon enough, wrapped and stored for later.

Slipping out of the front door, he picked his way along the old gravel paths. Each footstep lacked anything like stealth – he had no wish to startle the boy – but he got the feeling that Mordred knew of his approach before he had even crossed the threshold. Those pale grey eyes met his, agleam with delight. It helped that he had been bathed and dressed in clean clothes: the garments serviceable. The cloak around his shoulders was cut more to his size, and someone had found him some boots. Now, he looked the same as any other child of Camelot.

'Are you all right?' Arthur asked, clasping his hands behind his back. He never had been the best at dealing with children. They often did not have a place in court. As such, he knew he had a tendency to talk to them as he would his knights.

'This house is incredible. Miss Gwen said your mother used to live here?'

'Yes. It was a gift, I believe. Somewhere for her to reside before she wed my father.'

'It's magic.' Mordred said it like he wasn't sure Arthur knew, a little bit tremulous at the revelation. Yet there was trust there, too, and Arthur was happy to answer it in kind.

'I know. It's hard to miss. If my father was aware of that fact, he would probably set the whole place to the torch.'

'It hides itself from him, and anyone else who would hate it for its secrets.' He tilted his head back towards the kitchen. 'The new cook thinks it's just good luck that the milk never goes sour and that the butter churns quick and smooth. The scullery boy doesn't notice anything strange at all.'

Arthur blinked, feeling a sudden flash of shame. He had never considered that the servants they hired might witness anything untoward and go to Uther with their suspicions. Shock jangled through him at his own thoughtlessness, and he let out an unsteady breath. He would need to be more careful. Too many people relied upon him to keep them safe for him to make such a careless mistake.

'Is it doing something to their minds?' he asked, curious despite himself.

Mordred wrinkled his nose and squinched his lips to one side before shaking his head. 'Not really. It's just protecting itself.'

'What does it feel like?' He could not conceal the hunger that underpinned his words, eager for whatever little crumbs of insight he could get about the place.

'Like coming home.' Mordred's grin was shy but heartfelt. He sighed happily, shrugging his narrow shoulders as he began to amble between the trees, making sure there was enough space for Arthur to join him. 'It's really welcoming. It feels as if it's been lonely.'

'It has stood empty for a long time. My mother died two decades ago, and she was married to my father for some years before that. I doubt she lived here when they were wed, though whether a staff remained to keep it going or not, I'm not sure. Certainly, after she passed away, it was sealed up.'

Mordred tangled his fingers in the cuffs of his tunic. 'I think it's very old; it remembers when magic was central to the existence of the kingdom. It feels like it's happy to see me.'

'Because of your talents?'

'Maybe, but I think it's happy to see everyone else, too. Miss Gwen, and Leon. Lancelot. Even Gwaine.' He screwed up his face as if struggling to find the words. 'It's like it's been waiting for someone, and they've finally found their way here.'

Arthur hummed at that, quietly pleased at the notion of the building that had once sheltered his mother being so welcoming to others. It made him feel as if there were someone else in his corner: someone to help him stand against his father and become his own man, rather than remaining the eternally dutiful heir.

'I wished to speak with you about something. I cannot deny that the fewer people who know about your talents, the better, but with your permission I would like to tell Guinevere and Morgana – my father's ward. I think hiding what you can do from them will be too great a challenge, and this way, we will be able to answer their questions calmly rather than dealing with a sudden revelation.'

For the first time, Mordred looked nervous, his jaw shifting. 'They won't go to the king?'

Arthur paused, considering the question. He had heard Morgana decry the executions often enough to doubt she would ever turn anyone over to Uther's justice, least of all a boy of barely twelve summers. Guinevere's heart brimmed with compassion, and he hoped any fears she had could be swiftly appeased, but a thread of uncertainty still wound through his thoughts. It made him think of Merlin and his potential secret, all the more understandable the longer Arthur considered it.

He stopped, dropping to one knee so that he could meet Mordred's eyes. Like this, Arthur was lower than him: a supplicant. Yet he felt he needed it. Mordred had been through a great deal. Trust could not come easily to one who had suffered so. He wanted him to witness the honesty in his gaze. 'They are both good and kind, but if I am wrong, then I promise you I will do everything in my power to see you to safety.'

'I can be careful. Hide it?'

'That will still be essential, but among those I trust, the more who are aware of your talents, the more people can help to protect you.' His logic was sound; he only hoped that his faith was not misplaced. 'That said, if you would rather I did not tell them...'

'No.' Mordred sniffed. 'It's all right. All I've heard of Camelot are stories. We never came here.' He nodded his head, just once, his repetition soft but determined. 'I trust you.'

Arthur swallowed, surprised by the tightness in his own throat. 'Thank you. I will do my best not to let you down.'

Around them, a chill wind blew, bringing with it the promise of a sharp frost. It cooled the damp hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. 'I plan to head back indoors and linger near a fireplace. Are you coming?'

'I'd like to stay here a bit longer.' Mordred gestured at the trees. 'I'll be in soon.'

'All right. Don't go beyond the walls of this place. Not yet. Camelot's a big citadel; it's easy to get lost.' He rested a hand on Mordred's shoulder before rising once more to his feet and heading back towards the house, taking the time to admire the garden as he did so.

When they had first stumbled through the gate, it had been a wilderness, with only the faintest memory of organisation. Now, rambling roses had been trimmed and the weeds removed from the beds. He knew Merlin had put in some work on it. The kitchen windowsills were lined with tiny plants in small clay pots: cuttings, if Arthur had to guess. It had been Merlin who had pointed out it was a medicinal garden, rather than anything else. He had a sneaking suspicion that he hoped to restore it to its former glory.

It was easy to imagine his mother walking in his place, admiring the lavender and enjoying the sunshine. He thought of her portrait and envisaged her just as she had been depicted, her eyes bright with laughter and her lips parted upon a crooked grin.

In some ways, it was almost ridiculous how quickly he had come to view this house as his home, but like Mordred said, it felt as if it had been waiting for him. The castle was his father's domain and would likely remain so for many years yet, but here Arthur had the space to discover who he was out from under Uther's shadow.

The whisper of the gate on its new hinges made him turn, and he hesitated in the shelter of one of the apple trees, watching Merlin shut the huge oak panel behind him and lean against its support. The late afternoon sunlight, golden and fragile, skimmed over his cheekbones and painted highlights in his tousled hair. The wind played with the edges of his scarf, and those full lips parted around a single, indrawn breath.

Arthur's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the flutter that shivered to life in his belly. Merlin had not noticed his presence, and this felt like a stolen moment. One where he could observe without being watched in turn.

Yet it was not just his physicality that caught Arthur's attention. There was something else, something subtle, as if the entire world had suddenly slipped into sharper focus. There was a faint sense of welcome anticipation in the air – a glimmer of excitement that he didn't understand – as if the house and the land upon which it stood had stirred from its doze to take note of Merlin's presence.

Yet nothing happened. No flowers bloomed at Merlin's feet and no magic glimmered upon the breeze. Instead, those full lips merely curved in a tiny grin, soft and satisfied. He looked like a man just roused from his bed, sleep tousled and warm.

Arthur swayed where he stood, shocked by the sudden desire to be part of the scene: not an observer but a participant. He wanted to be there at Merlin's side, included in his world. Wasn't that what he was always doing with his teasing and jibes: searching for some way to connect with the man who had turned Arthur's whole life upside down?

The gravel crunched underfoot as he approached, not missing how Merlin's grin widened as if he recognised his stride. He moved over, making space: a mute invitation for Arthur to join him. The door creaked beneath their combined weight, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. The layout of the house and grounds made it a perfect little suntrap, gathering the sparse heat of the day and letting it pool. The sunshine was a balm against his skin, and he took a moment to appreciate it, his shoulder brushing against Merlin's as they both claimed a bit of respite.

'Your father's up to something.'

Arthur grimaced, but he could not admit to anything like surprise. 'He usually is. What did you learn?'

'Nothing solid. Sir Locke's a brute, but he always has been. The king seemed... odd. I was expecting him to ask more questions about Bridgend.'

Arthur opened his eyes, turning to look at Merlin's profile. He had lowered his head, staring blindly at the flower beds in front of them. 'He didn't?'

'No, it was all about you. Your temperament, your behaviour. He knows that Mordred's staying in the house, but he didn't ask any questions. He called him a stray.'

'It's probably best that he maintains that belief.'

'That's what I thought.' Merlin scrubbed a hand back through his hair. 'He's trying to call you to heel, Arthur. He wanted what happened at Bridgend to leave you shaken and doubting yourself.'

Perhaps those words should have troubled him more, but his attention caught on something else. Merlin had been calling him by his given name more and more, lately, and Arthur could not deny the shy curls of pleasure that unwound between his ribs.

Once he might have protested; his father would probably have ordered a servant beaten for such disrespect, but it made him feel less alone. Merlin had never been one to place him on a pedestal because of his rank, even from that very first day. Yet now there was something about Merlin's voice around his name that plucked at him, setting a resonance humming beneath his skin.

He liked it, though he could never tell Merlin as much.

'That does not surprise me,' he managed at last, taking a deep breath of the ripe air. Autumn hovered on the cusp of winter; everything smelled of sweet decay and the promise of ice. There had already been a frost or two, and the hours of daylight dwindled apace. 'He has never taken kindly to me questioning him. Even the subtlest of disagreements has often put him on his guard. This?' He waved towards the Miracle Court. 'I've never done anything like this before.'

There was a brief silence, as if Merlin were contemplating his words with care. 'I think it's the best thing you could have done, and I'm not saying that because it means Lancelot got his knighthood. You'll be a great king, one day, I'm sure of it, but you need to find out how you're going to rule for yourself, rather than just doing what your father tells you.'

The unabashed praise made his ears feel hot, and Arthur cleared his throat, unsure what to do with such earnestness. Compliments were nothing new to him, but they were hollow platitudes offered to Camelot's prince. Merlin spoke to the man beneath – one who had longed for genuine pride most of his life and never received more than a fleeting glimpse of it.

'Lancelot was a good choice. I would never have looked beyond his rank if not for your urging. I would not have sought out a way to make him a knight. Yet my doubts over what we discovered at Caludahn were significantly lessened because I had men I could trust at my side. You have my thanks for that.'

Merlin smiled, scratching the end of his nose. 'No need to thank me. You know, the more people you gather around you, the more support you'll have.'

'And the more my father will see my actions as a threat.' Whether he liked it or not, there was a delicate balancing act at play. Mordred's arrival had barely garnered Uther's attention, and Gwaine had mostly slipped beneath his notice. For now, that was for the best. A new knight so close on Lancelot's heels would cause a stir. Still, there were other allies they could reach for, ones who hovered on the edge of things, full of promise.

'Morgana and Guinevere.' Their names tumbled from his lips. 'I mean to tell them about Mordred. He agrees.'

He did not imagine the subtle stiffening of Merlin's shoulders, nor how some of his ease fled. He straightened up at Arthur's side, stepping away from the door and turning to face him. Those arms folded across his narrow chest as he scuffed his boots against the ground. 'Yeah?'

'They are here so often that their chances of seeing him slip with his magic are higher than most. I think Morgana would move in if we gave her the chance, though obviously that's not possible. She wants to be a part of this, and Guinevere is the same.' He sighed, meeting Merlin's blue gaze.

'That said, I need you to put together a bag. It would be good to have one to hand should Mordred ever be forced to flee.' He thought of the pack under Lancelot's bed, bulging and ready. Perhaps he would have to talk to his new knight, as well. It was far better to prepare for the worst and hope for the best than be caught on the back foot. 'Clothes, coin, a water-skin... Will you see to it, just in case?'

Part of him felt cruel to ask such a thing of Merlin, considering his suspicions. Another was convinced that there was no better person to offer the task. Merlin may act like a fool, but there was a sharp mind at work. If he had magic, as Arthur believed, then he would have given some consideration to making his escape.

'All right, but you need to tell Gwen and Morgana everything. Not just about Mordred, but about the black powder, the bandits and Rýne. Either they're part of this, or they're not. Don't bring them in halfway.' Merlin shrugged, glancing back towards the house. 'I think they both deserve more than that.'

His first reaction was to reject that advice, not because it was unworthy, but because he knew Morgana. There were times her temper got the better of her. In a fury, she sometimes let things slip. Yet a moment's thought was enough to make him reconsider. He could see the sense in Merlin's words, as much as he wished otherwise.

At last, he inclined his head in agreement. 'Dinner tonight for everyone. The round table in my rooms. You and Guinevere will join us.' He stepped forward, resting his hand on Merlin's shoulder. 'You're right; we're in this together.'

Merlin's eyes sparkled, soft and warm in a way that made Arthur's heart stutter. Silence folded around them, quiet and comfortable, only broken when Merlin eased away. 'I'll make sure Mordred's safe, don't worry. If you want feeding, then someone better tell the kitchens.' He checked the sun, already halfway through its tumble from its zenith. 'Anything else you need, Sire?'

'I think you've got enough to be going on with. Off you go.'

Merlin rolled his eyes and turned away, that quick, loping stride of his carrying him back into the house. Arthur watched him depart, his heart shivering with fretful unease, torn between exhilaration and uncertainty. It felt like he hovered on the cusp of some unknown change, afraid to take the final step.

Slowly, without him even paying it any mind, Merlin had crept in to every aspect of his life, so much more than just a servant. Now, the secret of his magic lingered between them, thick like smoke, unspoken but choking. Perhaps he could corner him and force a confession, but Arthur recoiled at the notion.

No. To do so would make him little better than his father, a tyrant demanding obedience. He did not want to be Merlin's confessor, but his confidante. For now, he would fold Merlin's secret away next to his heart and hope that, one day, Merlin trusted him enough to speak of it.

Chapter Text

It was only after the plates were empty, their modest feast demolished, that the conversation swung around to Bridgend. Morgana and Gwen were both on the edge of their seats as Arthur explained what had happened. The knights and Gwaine occasionally interjected with their own insights, but it wasn't until they recounted their capture at Caludahn that Merlin uttered a word.

Now, Gwen's glare practically pinned him to his seat, her brow pleated in sharp lines. 'You went after them? Alone?'

'I snuck in. It was fine!'

'You stole that armour from someone,' Gwaine pointed out, the bastard, his dark eyes bright with laughter as if he took pleasure in dropping Merlin in the shit.

'He was distracted. I just smashed his head against the wall.' Merlin flicked a hand. 'That's not the point. I needed to get the others out, so I caused a distraction. Started a fire, except it didn't quite go the way I planned.'

'The room above the one that Merlin set alight was used to store some sort of black powder. When the flames reached it, it knocked down half the fort.'

'What?' Morgana paled at Arthur's words, her green eyes huge in her face.

Gwen pressed a hand to her chest, tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks as she shook her head. 'I don't understand,' she began. 'What could do that?'

'Rýne, the leader of the raiders, is a sorcerer. He had Mordred held prisoner. According to him, the black powder was something Rýne had been making. Potentially, it's a new weapon.' Arthur grimaced, his lips twisting at their corners and his brow pleating in a scowl. 'It could certainly end a siege in a heartbeat.'

'I thought this was just about bandits!' Morgana sat back in her chair, the candlelight gleaming off the pins in her tresses. 'You didn't tell Uther any of this, did you?'

'I couldn't. You know what he is like. You only need to mention a sorcerer and he will lose all perspective. Caludahn is in Mercian territory. Even my presence there could have been construed as an act of war. Between the bandits turning their coats, no doubt seeking to rile tensions, and a potential new weapon, I could not risk my father inflaming the situation with a witch-hunt on Bayard's land.'

Merlin watched Morgana rub a hand over her brow, absorbing everything Arthur told her. Yet she did not quail beneath the newfound knowledge. If anything, she sat up straighter, her chin lifting as she issued her challenge.

'So what now? You've hidden it from your father, but I know you, Arthur Pendragon. You'll not turn your back on this.'

'We took as much from Rýne's workshop as we could: mostly notes and papers. Maps. That sort of thing. Winter is nearly upon us. There are few foolish enough to start a war in the snow. Most of the black powder was destroyed by Merlin's actions, or so we hope.' Arthur relaxed in his chair, every inch the prince taking his ease. 'We've bought ourselves some time. I intend to put it to good use. The more we can discover about this situation, the better prepared we will be to face it come the spring.'

Merlin swallowed as Arthur paused, his gaze darting, just once, towards Mordred. All around them, the house seemed to hold its breath. Merlin though he heard the door settle more firmly in its threshold, as if to block out the world. Beyond the windowpanes, the wind that winnowed through the apple trees fell silent.

Briefly, he wondered if Arthur might change his mind and keep Mordred's power a secret after all, but he could see the certainty in his expression. He looked braver than Merlin felt, and tension tied its knot between his shoulder-blades as he waited for the slice of Arthur's next revelation.

He did not need much patience.

'Rýne was not the only one at Caludahn with magic. Mordred was taken from the druids.'

Gwen gasped as Mordred unfurled his palm, releasing a small ball of light to dance upwards over the table. The simple spell said more than a hundred words could offer, and Merlin winced as his thighs tensed, braced to flee. If he had to, he could have Mordred on horseback and out of the city in no time. Yet it was not just Mordred's fate that hung in the balance. If Morgana or Gwen decided to take the matter to the king, they would all suffer Uther's wrath. He trusted Arthur to protect them, but it would only deepen the fracture that already lay between the ruler and his heir.

The two women stared, the light reflecting in their eyes. They were like a pair of statues, both of them locked tight by shock. Neither one of them uttered a word, not even as Arthur continued to speak.

'I brought him to Camelot knowing what he was. We all did. He has no family and nowhere to call home. Except here.'

'You –?' Morgana cut herself off, blinking twice in rapid succession. Yet she no longer watched the light hovering above the table. Instead, she stared at Arthur as if she could not believe what she was hearing. 'You knew?'

'I did. Morded was a great help at Caludahn. His spells assisted us more than once. I have long thought my father's blind approach to sorcery is extreme, and I know you share those beliefs, Morgana. He executes people with magic indiscriminately, regardless of how they put their abilities to use.'

'I didn't realise you shared my thoughts on it.' Her voice sounded faint, as if her world had been tilted on its side and she was left struggling to see things from a new perspective: not magic, but Arthur himself. Merlin knew precisely how she felt.

Time and again, he had been confident in the knowledge that Arthur shared Uther's prejudice. Yet, day-by-day, he proved himself to be a better man than that. It had started right here in the Miracle Court: the home his mother had once loved so dearly, but it was Arthur who had put in the hard work to expand the horizons of his acceptance.

And Merlin was left clinging to fragile excuses to keep his secret, knowing that they were frail and ephemeral, but too scared to speak the truth.

Something seemed to settle over Morgana, easing away the sharpest edges of her shock. She leaned back, and the look she gave Arthur was one of sharp scrutiny, as if she were re-examining everything she had ever thought of him. 'You're full of surprises. I suppose I never believed you'd break from your father's precious First Code, either, yet here we are.' She gestured to Lancelot meaningfully. 'And you all, what, intend to hide Mordred and what he is?'

'We do, my lady,' Sir Leon murmured, his voice soft but firm. 'A knight is taught obedience, but a man who follows orders blindly with neither question nor compassion is no man at all. He is little better than a monster.' He drummed his fingers once on the table, and when he continued, it was clear from his tone that he had given the matter a great deal of consideration. 'Mordred is just a child, and it is obvious that he means us no ill-will. It was his choice to come to Camelot, even knowing the risks, and I would honour that.'

'Even if it is treason to do?'

Leon bowed his head. 'Even then.'

'Aren't you all guilty of such a crime anyway? You know, considering this place?' Gwaine gestured towards the ceiling. 'Funny goings on left and right. You can't tell me there isn't magic in these walls, but I'll bet all my coin none of you have gone running to Uther about it.' He shrugged, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. He looked like a man enjoying the start of another great adventure, unsure about the destination but happy to be on the journey.

'Guinevere?' Lancelot's quiet voice brought Merlin's attention to Gwen, who so far had not uttered a word. She sat fiddling with the cutlery on her plate as she chewed her lip. A subtle tremor shook her fingers, making the metal rattle. She'd drawn her shoulders up higher as if to protect the back of her neck, and her lashes fluttered as she blinked rapidly.

Morgana rested her hand on Gwen's arm, twisting in her seat and leaning closer, all warmth and comfort. 'Arthur is right, Gwen. Not all magic is evil. You see that, don't you?'

A sharp slice of a rueful smile curved Gwen's lips, and she withdrew her hands from the tabletop, smoothing them down her kirtle. 'You forget, my lady, that I've been accused of witchcraft. I've spent nights in a cell as they built a pyre for me in the courtyard outside.'

The memory struck tears in her eyes, and Merlin longed to reach out and comfort her, but she didn't need him. Gwen always had carried a surprising strength with her, and now it was on full display. 'I don't care if Mordred has magic. I worry that he might find himself in that same position! He's a boy. He should never experience that kind of fear!'

'I wanted to come to Camelot.' Mordred's statement was like a vow, quietly uttered but sincerely meant. 'It's not safe here, but the world out there is no better. Those who don't hate magic often seek to use it for themselves, and they don't care who they hurt in the process. Maybe I could go to the druids and they could protect me, but how long until Camelot raids the camp, or bandits slaughter us in our sleep? I'm no one's son. No one's brother. Not anymore.'

He shrugged, and no one could miss the tears in his eyes, summoned by his grief. 'Prince Arthur could have left me behind, or Merlin could have pretended he never even saw me. Instead, they came back for me when the fort was ablaze.' He fiddled with the cuffs of his new tunic. 'I can't look after myself, not yet, but I think they can help me until I'm old enough to be on my own.'

Merlin swallowed around the tightness in his own throat. Mordred's words struck at something in him. He'd had his mum, in Ealdor, but hadn't he come to Camelot for a very similar reason? At least here, if he was caught, he'd die free rather than chained to another man's whims.

'There's a bag by the front door.' He folded his arms over his chest, speaking more to his empty plate than anyone else. 'And in the siege tunnels. A third is hidden in the back of the hayloft in the castle stables. They're packed with coin and clothes.'

Not just for Mordred, either. There was a tunic and breeches for him, and one of Morgana's older gowns that he had pilfered from the drying room. He may not be certain that she had magic, but he would rather be wrong than risk being caught unprepared. 'If Mordred ever needs to flee, we'll have everything we need to get him to safety.' He met Gwen's eye. 'Arthur ordered it.'

He glanced over, seeing Arthur raise one eyebrow. He had only suggested that Merlin pack a single set of provisions, and they both knew it. Still, he would let Arthur take the credit for such precautions. Merlin had, after all, merely extended the scope of his command. None of them were going into this thoughtlessly. Each of them understood the risks, even Mordred. This was not some twisted little way for Arthur to annoy his father – a childish rebellion. He sheltered Mordred in spite of his magic, not because of it.

'I will not order either of you not to tell the king about Mordred. It would not be fair of me, and it is a decision I would like both of you to make for yourselves, just as we have done.' Arthur wet his lips, lifting one shoulder in a quick little shrug: the only trace of his anxiety. He knew the power of putting on a performance, and Merlin had to admire it, even as he wished Arthur could be honest with himself. 'If you have questions, ask them. I'll answer if I can.'

Neither woman uttered a word. Morgana stared at Arthur as if she wanted to peel the skin from his bones and rummage in the depths of him for all his secrets. Gwen watched her own hands where they were pressed upon the table, her fingers shakily tracing the runic shapes carved into the wooden surface.

'I need a night to think on it. Not Mordred! Well, yes, Mordred, but not about whether or not we tell the king. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I've witnessed sorcerers do terrible things to Camelot, but I've seen men who wield nothing more than swords do worse. Every blacksmith knows it is not the blade that carries the blame, but the man who bears its weight. This is... I'm just surprised, that's all.' She managed as wobbly smile. 'I might have questions tomorrow. If that's all right?'

'Of course,' Arthur promised. 'We could all do with a good night's sleep. Leon, Lancelot? Could the two of you see Morgana and Guinevere safely home? Merlin can deal with the plates.'

He rolled his eyes at that, but he didn't argue. Gwen looked like her thoughts were going in a dozen different directions. He'd rather give her the space to think. Besides, it felt good to keep his hands busy. Relief's warm tide washed down his limbs as he collected crockery and cups.

He had not realised how personally he had taken Mordred's plight until he heard the others gather around him in support. Perhaps doubts lingered, and Gwen had every right to her questions, but at the heart of it all, acceptance glowed bright and sure. Just as Lancelot had vowed that he would carry Merlin's secret, so everyone else had promised the same for Mordred.

Even better, it was not lip service. He could see the truth written in the straight line of Morgana's shoulders and the cant of Gwen's chin. Echoes of it lingered in the strength of Leon's frame and wrote its story in the gleam of Arthur's eyes. These were not people merely agreeing to hide the presence of magic. They were each, in their own way, eager to learn more of it. They did not ignore their fears but sought to appease it by gaining knowledge of what was forbidden. They did not accept Uther's judgement, but formed their own opinions, and Merlin's heart felt like it might burst with giddy elation.

Hope was a flame lit within the cavern of his ribs, only tempered by the shadows of his lingering fear. A warm hand on his shoulder caught his attention, and he looked up to meet Lancelot's gaze, reading a world of meaning in the subtle lift of one eyebrow.

Since coming to Camelot and discovering Merlin's abilities, Lancelot had been steadfast and loyal in his silence. He had taken up the torch with Gaius, urging caution at every opportunity. Camelot had not changed; it was as dangerous for Merlin today as it had been last week, and yet there was a promise of better days ahead. Ones where perhaps, he would not have to hide what he was from his closest friends.

From Arthur.

'If you're still tidying up when we get back, I'll lend a hand.'

'It won't take long. I can leave them for the scullery maid in the morning. It's not like there's much in the way of scraps.' That, at least, was true. Between them, they had devoured the meal, leaving little but bones and smears of gravy in their wake. 'Stay safe?'

'We will, my friend. If I don't see you when I get back, then sleep well.'

'You too.'

He reached for Gwaine's cup, rolling his eyes when he cradled it protectively against his chest. 'It's all right, Merlin, mate. The Princess and I will put the rest of this out of its misery.'

'Stop calling me that,' Arthur complained, but he still held out his tankard, allowing Gwaine to pour out a generous measure of mead. Mordred, for his part, let out a shaky little breath before grabbing some plates and following Merlin quietly down to the kitchen. Around them, the house was full of the sounds of quiet talk and fond farewells. It was only when the door shut in the wake of Lancelot and the others that Mordred spoke up again, the tremor in his young voice on full display.

'You don't think they'll tell the king?'

Merlin set down the plates, turning to relieve Mordred of his burdens. He didn't blame the boy for his doubt. They were strangers to him, every one of them. He did not know Gwen or Morgana beyond his initial impressions of their kindness. Perhaps the soil in which trust could grow had been sown today, but it would take time for true faith to flourish.

'I think you're as safe here as anywhere else. Safer, maybe, because you've got knights and a prince to protect you, but there will always be danger. All anyone has to do is glimpse even a hint of something strange... It can be enough to condemn someone.' He had already offered Mordred what reassurances he could, but there was something about the belief in his young face. He may still carry uncertainty about the others, but it was as if he had decided to trust Merlin from the moment they had met, when he had whispered in Merlin's mind.

'Why did you call me Emrys?' The question slipped out of him, and he pursed his lips, glancing towards the doorway to make sure there was no one nearby to overhear them. The few servants who made the Miracle Court their home had taken to their beds in the attic, while the others had already left. He and Mordred were alone. There was time, at least, to give his curiosity free rein.

Mordred gave him a baffled look. 'Because it's your name? It's what the druids call you.'

Merlin blinked at that. He had no idea the druids knew who he was. Why would they? What interest did they have in the manservant of Camelot's prince? 'What?'

'Your coming was foretold. The seers of old saw your arrival in the world. You and Prince Arthur would work together to build a golden age! One where magic was welcome in Camelot once more and the realms of Albion were united under a single banner.' Mordred shook his head. 'You didn't know?'

Merlin let out a faintly strangled noise. The dragon had muttered something vague about Arthur's greatness. He had not made much mention of Merlin's role in it beyond that he was necessary for Arthur's protection. At the time, in those first raw, fretful days of living in Camelot, he had been desperate for some sort of purpose. Now, it didn't matter what the dragon said; Merlin wasn't going anywhere.

Still, he hungered, sometimes, to know more of the ways of power that wrote themselves in the world. Once, it had been a thread of gold woven through the very fabric of a kingdom. These days it was all hints and shadows, whispers and secrets. Some days, he longed to bring magic into the light. He wanted people to see it, the good and the bad, and hope they would better understand it.

'So, there's a prophecy about someone called Emrys, and he's meant to help Arthur?' He tilted his head as Mordred boosted himself up onto the kitchen table, his feet swinging. 'How do you know that's me?'

'Because Emrys is supposed to be the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth and...' Mordred trailed off, biting his lip as he waved one hand in Merlin's direction, as if that explained everything.

'I'm not that special. I'm like you, that's all. Someone with magic doing their best to keep their friends safe and not die in the process.' He sighed, shaking his head. 'Besides, I don't believe in prophecies. People make their own fate.'

'The house woke up because of you.' Mordred's narrow shoulders twitched in a shrug. 'If I stand in a room, it feels like warm sunlight against my skin. The moment you walk through the door, the magic comes alive. It's as if something here was waiting for you. I've been around people performing spells all my life. They're not like you. The wards on the camp. What you did back at Caludahn.... You're different.'

Merlin's heart wobbled at those words. There was no mistaking Mordred's faint awe, but to Merlin's ear, all he heard was something else that set him apart. Even among other sorcerers it seemed he did not belong – at least if the druids were to be believed. There was nothing harsh or grudging in Mordred's voice. He spoke with an awkward, soft reverence that made him want to recoil, and he busied himself stacking plates, speaking all the while.

'I'm just me,' he promised. 'Look, I don't know if what the druids told you was true, but I've been "Merlin" all my life so far, and that's not about to change. I am manservant to a prince. One who, if I'm not there to assist him in getting ready for bed, will sulk about it for days.'

He turned away from the sink, nudging at Mordred's shoulder and urging him towards the stairs that would take him up to where the knights slept. In theory, he'd be better off with the servants. It would help with the guise that he was part of the Miracle Court and its household, but Merlin had not wanted him isolated up in the attic. Instead, Gwen had seen Mordred settled in the room next to Lancelot's. Gwaine had chosen the next chamber along, meaning that Mordred was surrounded by friends.

'Get some sleep,' he urged. 'The others will be back soon. You're safe here, Mordred. As safe as we can make you, and you're not alone.'

Those silver eyes observed him, far too sharp and knowing for a boy so young. Mordred had climbed up a couple of steps. Now he was Merlin's height. He looked, not just with his gaze but with his power. Merlin felt it strafe against his own: a hesitant touch. It made him twitch in surprise, swaying where he stood. He was not used to the feel of other people's magic around him, but of course Mordred had grown up with the druids. Merlin's heart twinged as he realised the boy was reaching out for comfort.

It was a deliberate act. Without a hunting spell like Rýne's, one mage had to show themselves to another. That was what Mordred was doing. There was no demand to it. Instead, Merlin had the strangest feeling that it was like an open book: one he could pick up and read if he wished.

He was so used to keeping his magic contained that it took a conscious effort to unfurl it. Around him, he could sense how the Miracle Court urged him on. That was what the house wanted: a sorcerer comfortable with his power at its heart. Yet Merlin could not bring himself to be so obvious. Instead, he simply cracked the cocoon of it, offering Mordred an answering glimpse.

It turned out that was more than enough.

Mordred almost slipped off the step, drawn towards Merlin like a moth to a flame. Glimmers of gold stirred in his eyes, like calling to like, and the gasp that whispered through his lips was a ragged, wild thing. Merlin reached out to steady him, trying to ignore the hunger that sang beneath his skin.

It was not a desire to consume, but simply to bask in Mordred's presence. It comforted him, feeling another's magic so close. It made his own power settle more neatly into place, and it was obvious that Mordred took just as much delight in it. All the lingering little signs of tension vanished, and he ducked his head, offering Merlin a shy good night before reluctantly pulling himself away.

He watched him go, seeing him safely up the staircase. In truth, he needed a moment to steady himself, because he had never experienced such a thing before. In Ealdor, there had been no one like him, and Camelot was hardly rife with friendly sorcerers. Gaius' power had faded to almost nothing, and he was not sure if the old healer even knew how to mimic what Mordred had done. Perhaps it was a druid custom, but all Merlin cared about was the simple honesty of it. After years of hiding, it felt a little bit like someone had seen the real him.

Not by accident, but because, for the first time in his life, he'd had the courage to show them.

When Arthur had decided to bring Mordred back to Camelot, Merlin had not stopped to consider that it might be of any benefit to himself. Now, it was as if some unheeded wound had been healed. A pain that he had carried around inside him all his days had found a fraction of respite, and he let out a shuddering breath.

He did not know what the days ahead might hold but, for the first time ever, he could almost believe in the dragon's promised golden age.

'Merlin!'

Arthur's bellow reached his ears, and he rolled his eyes in disbelief. Maybe magic would return to Camelot. Perhaps all the realms would be united, but one thing would never change. Arthur would always be a prat, and Merlin, gods help him, would always be right there by his side.

And he dared destiny to make a liar of him.

Chapter Text

The week that followed their return from Caludahn was one of discovery: not just of himself and his own attitudes to magic, but those of the people who surrounded him. Morgana had always been loud in her protests, leveraging her position as Uther's ward to speak for the condemned. Now, it was as if someone had lit a fire beneath her skin. It blazed, defiant, yet it was not something forged of recklessness.

A life in court had made her shrewd, and Arthur knew her well enough to know when she was plotting. It would have made him nervous if not for Guinevere's calm presence at her side. Her initial uncertainty had faded, replaced by open curiosity. She asked everything that the rest of them had not yet put into words for fear of seeming foolish or cowardly or both, and Mordred revelled in the attention.

He had thrived, growing bolder each and every day, but not once did he forget the seriousness of his situation. It pained Arthur, in some ways, to see such caution in one so young. It could not be helped, but he found himself questioning a world where a boy could not cast a spell to light a candle without checking over his shoulder. He did not perform any magic unless someone asked it of him, and with each demonstration, Arthur's own comfort grew. Just as the house and its oddities had inspired more intrigue that suspicion, so Mordred's power showed him glimpses of a life he had never once dared to consider.

That same fascination caught the others in its clutches. He noticed how Leon leaned in each time Mordred uttered a spell, seemingly intent on its study. He faced it not like a soldier considering a threat but as a strategist assessing a potential advantage. Did he, like Arthur, wonder how much Uther had hobbled them in battle when he stripped magic away from Camelot? Their vulnerability was put on full display every time a sorcerer came calling. Against such attacks, they were not merely defenceless; they were ignorant. That was a dangerous position for any realm.

Lancelot and Gwaine possessed a different attitude. It seemed neither man was a stranger to such things. Both had been abroad in Albion before Arthur knew them. No doubt they had witnessed plenty. In Gwaine, there was pride and delight. He would ruffle Mordred's hair and offer praise, but there was always a warning story to go along with it. For all that magic held no fear for him, it was clear that Gwaine had seen it used for harm as well as good.

For Lancelot, it was different. He appeared both fascinated and hungry. He asked more questions even than Guinevere and hung upon every word of Mordred's responses.

'Perhaps there is a way to enchant our weapons,' he mused one evening, clearing his throat before pressing on. 'We were fortunate that Gaius was mistaken about the griffin, but there must be some creatures out there that only succumb to magic.'

'A griffin?' Mordred's eyes were the size of saucers. 'But they're –'

He cut off abruptly, and Arthur raised one eyebrow in curiosity. It wasn't the first time the boy had gone a little glazed, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. A moment later, he blinked himself awake, his words almost falling over each other as he carried on.

'– really dangerous.' He glanced over his shoulder, offering a brief scowl at where Merlin was tidying up Arthur's desk. 'You killed it?'

'Yes. I hit a weak spot. With my lance.'

'He was so brave,' Guinevere added, a touch breathless. 'I saw it when it attacked the citadel. It was huge!'

'We were fortunate that Lancelot was still on his feet. The rest of us weren't much good.' Arthur did his best not to sound too petulant. He did not begrudge Lancelot the glory, but every time he thought of that night, he remembered how close he and Merlin had stood, gilded by the moonlight as their brows touched.

Perhaps it had not been a matter of the heart, as he had once suspected, but something had passed between them. Now, he found himself paying more attention, taking in not just Lancelot's curiosity but Mordred's faint discomfort. He looked a bit like someone caught out in a lie, yet Arthur could see no reason for it.

'Enchanting weapons isn't easy. I don't think I've ever seen it done. From what the druids said now and then, it takes lots of power. Too much for most mages to do alone. It's not quick, either. Some use moon phases to help. Others make a sacrifice: animals, not people.'

'So you can't wave your hands and make a sword magic in an instant, then?' Gwaine pouted. 'Pity.'

'It's not just words?' Lancelot tilted his head, looking baffled. 'I heard a story, once. A tavern tale, I suppose, about a man who faced a beast that was impossible to kill. A sorcerer wreathed his blade in magical flame, and he slew the creature in one blow.'

Mordred pursed his lips, holding himself strangely stiff, and when he spoke again his voice sounded a bit squeaky. 'I – I don't know. I've never heard of it happening like that. Sometimes tempering the metal in very rare magical ingredients will work. That's probably the quickest way, but for a mage to do it with just their own power? While someone else was holding it? Even if it can be done, it would normally take days! Not moments.'

Lancelot sat back in his chair, swallowing hard. The smile he pinned to his lips looked a bit shaky around the edges. 'As I said, a tavern tale. There must have been no truth to it.'

An uneasy silence settled over the table, interrupted only by Merlin, whose voice was pitched just right to tease. 'Were you drunk when you added up these grain tallies, Sire?'

'What?' Arthur turned with a scowl, dismissing the strangeness of Lancelot's story as he glared at his manservant. 'No! I keep telling you to leave my paperwork alone. You shouldn't even be reading it.'

Merlin hummed, ignoring him completely as he penned in a correction on the parchment. His blue eyes sparkled as he met Arthur's gaze, a glimmer of a grin pressing dimples into his cheeks. It was a break in the conversation, one that allowed them to move away from Mordred's uncertainty and Lancelot's bafflement, but it lingered in the back of his mind as the days turned.

It was like a piece of grit in his boot: a tiny irritant in his thoughts as they settled into a new routine. Training continued, the knights painfully mindful of the gaps in their ranks. Oddly, it was Gwaine who stepped up, not to fill the boots of the dead men, but to offer a counterpoint to the rigid formality. He was not yet a knight. For all Arthur knew, he would never deign to accept such an honour, even if he offered it. However, the fact that he was an outsider brought its own insights.

Arthur witnessed firsthand which knights were more accepting of new ways and which refused to bend. He saw those who came to duel in good-faith and which men sought to do real harm. It took some of the heat off Lancelot, who had neither buckled nor broken beneath the strain but still deserved the reprieve. More to the point, it demonstrated which men Arthur could trust and which answered only to his father.

'You all right?' he murmured, intercepting Gwaine as he sauntered back towards the Miracle Court. In truth, he should not even take part in training, since he was a commoner. In practice, they were an odd number, and Gwaine's different fighting style represented a true challenge to many. Pellinor had relished it. Cador had not. There had been no honour in his efforts, and it had been clear he intended to put a man he saw as an interloper firmly in his place.

'Bastard could barely swipe the broad side of a barn,' Gwaine promised, his usual grin in place. It was a good mask; no doubt it had fared him well in whichever court he had called his home. Once, Arthur might not have bothered to look deeper, but he noticed how mirth did not strike its spark in those dark eyes, and there was something battle-ready about the angle of those shoulders. 'I'm fine, Princess.'

'You do not have to stay.' He bit his lip, cursing himself. His protests over Gwaine's habits, manners and charms may be many, but he knew a good knight when he saw one. Traditional? Not by any means, but that was not what he sought in a man to fight at his side. 'I would not wish you to feel obligated. The political situation in Camelot is...'

'Crap?' Gwaine suggested.

'Challenging. I would not blame you for putting this place to your back.'

A huff embellished the air, mirthless, but Gwaine's expression was more knowing than Arthur liked to see. 'When the ways of a land turn sour, it's not the nobles who suffer. Your father sees all this as some kind of game. Lancelot's already a target. So'm I, just for being in your company, but we're fighters. Others aren't. Merlin. Mordred.... A servant and an orphan. I'm staying for them. Someone has to watch their backs.'

He hesitated, wrinkling his nose as if contemplating the wisdom of what he intended to say next. 'You didn't notice the bruises, did you? On Merlin's arm, the night we got back from Caludahn?'

Arthur tensed, his muscles transmuting into granite as his thoughts wobbled around the implication. The approaching winter meant that Merlin had more reason than ever to dress prim and proper, his cuffs long over the backs of his hands and his neck bundled in that ridiculous scarf. The bruises from the battle of Bridgend had no doubt faded, but Arthur had not noticed any more added to his collection.

'No.'

'Right wrist, like someone grabbed him hard enough to grind bone. He made an excuse, something about being clumsy.'

'He is. I've never met anyone so capable of falling over his own feet.' He held up a hand to stem Gwaine's protests, offering a brief shake of his head. 'I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm sure you're right. Merlin has always had a habit of throwing himself into the thick of things. You saw that at Bridgend, and at Caludahn. He was called before my father that night, playing at spy.'

'Yeah? Well, someone thinks it's more than just a game. More to the point, all those knights who want to punish you on the king's behalf? They're not going to come after two blokes armed with swords. Not when there are much easier targets available. Mordred's talent makes it more of a risk. If he uses it in self-defence, his secret will be out and we'll all be up shit creek.'

Arthur rubbed a hand over his brow, breathing out a sigh as he added yet another concern to the teetering pile of his worries. 'You sound as if you speak from experience.' It was softly said. He did not demand any sort of answer, and nor did Gwaine seem inclined to give him one. Instead, he just shrugged.

'Way of the world, isn't it? I'm staying where I am. Not for you, but for them'

Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth, inclining his head in a steady nod. It was a cause he could understand, though he suspected that it was Merlin who truly held Gwaine's interest. There was no hiding that they had become thick as thieves over the short duration of their acquaintance. They sat close whenever they took their ease, and Gwaine's hand seemed to find a permanent perch on Merlin's shoulder or arm. He had no idea what the pair of them were up to, half the time, only that they dragged Lancelot into their shenanigans at every opportunity.

Part of him longed to snap and snarl – to claim that he had no need of Gwaine's dubious assistance and could look after all those who required his protection, but that was a boy's way of thinking. No king could rule alone, no matter what his father claimed. He would rather tolerate Gwaine's company than put Merlin or Mordred in danger.

Instead, Arthur swallowed hard, dredging up a courtly response. 'And for that you have my thanks. Only be sure that you watch yourself, as well. It would be all too easy for you to turn up dead in a tavern brawl. Without any rank to your name, I have no way to protect you.'

'I'll manage.' Gwaine offered him a cocky wave, jogging on ahead to catch Merlin in a sweaty hug, guffawing at his grumbling protests. He dropped the laundry basket he was carrying, thankfully not spilling its contents as he struggled to push Gwaine off of him, laughing all the while.

Arthur watched them, trying not to be envious of their easy camaraderie. There was nothing remotely stilted about it. Neither man hesitated to reach for the other. Even now, Merlin's fingers were pinched in Gwaine's sleeve, his eyes bright as they talked. Gwaine's palm rested on Merlin's elbow: a constant tether.

He had never experienced anything like that. People did not touch him, as a rule, alienated from him by his rank. Merlin was, of course, the exception. At first it had just been brushes of contact as he helped Arthur dress and attended his duties. Now, there were no such limits. Still, he tended to restrict himself to elbows and shoves, no doubt following Arthur's own lead on the matter.

And he did not know how to ask for more. He could not bring himself to admit a need for it, and so he was left on the edge of things.

He shook his thoughts away, casting them aside like a dog shaking water from his coat as he slipped into the Miracle Court. He had to be in council later this afternoon, and what little time he had to claim as his own he should spend with Tom, discussing his latest commission. Gwaine sought to protect Merlin with his presence, but Arthur? He had a different strategy in mind.

His bedchamber greeted him, all warmth and familiarity. If he had hoped Merlin would manage to keep the space tidy, then he would have been sorely disappointed. As it was, it had a certain lived in feel that Arthur could not begrudge. No doubt without the magic to help, the place would be filthy. Yet it was merely cluttered, rather than squalid.

He stood by the window, peering out of the tiny leaded panes as he peeled off his gauntlets. Outside, Leon and Mordred were going over armour, taking it on and off Lancelot as if he were a living doll.

It had been Leon who suggested that Mordred take the place of a squire. Merlin could only be a dogsbody for so many knights, and Arthur did not have the coin to offer patronage to any of the young nobility. Besides, it had been obvious the first time he had observed training that Mordred took an interest. That was something they intended to make the most of.

Now, he smiled as he watched Mordred begin to learn it all by rote, how fabric and metal could be layered and how buckles set tight or loose could adjust the fit of rigid plate. It was an art in itself. Arthur remembered his days of squiring. He had loathed every moment. His desire had been for the glory of battle, not the tiresome work of preparing another man for victory. Still, it had taught him well; he could acknowledge that much, and this way they could keep Mordred close and safe.

With a huff, he turned towards the door, intending to bellow for Merlin to attend him. Yet before the first syllable could slip past his lips, the man himself appeared, carrying a bowl of steaming water scented with herbs. He rested it on the washstand before striding to Arthur's side, practically ripping him out of his armour and talking all the while.

'I've sent a servant to tell Tom you'll have to delay your mysterious meeting. There's someone waiting downstairs to see you. Sir Colm, of Aldane?'

Shock put a brief stutter in Arthur's hands. He had already spoken to Osgar's father, Sir Dale, who had been devastated by the death of his first-born. It had been a difficult conversation, as was to be expected. Arthur had not managed to voice any of his suspicions, too cleaved by sympathy for the old man's grief. Instead, he had kept his questions as circumspect as possible. All he had been able to gather was that, as far as the family knew, Osgar had been visiting a noble friend on the Mercian border. A little bit of digging had proven that a lie, but the truth remained elusive.

Arthur offered a quiet curse, stripping out of his gambeson and tunic without waiting for Merlin's assistance. He gave himself a cursory wipe with the wet cloth, banishing grime and sweat in an effort to make himself presentable.

'He's young,' Merlin continued, filling him in on all the little details that would help Arthur decide on his approach. 'Your age, perhaps. A cousin of Osgar, I think, or a ward of his father... not a brother, if I had to guess. His clothes are a bit too humble, though I suppose he might not be used to the elegance of court. He's well-fed. Strong, too. Nervous. Maybe guilty? He speaks softly.' Merlin shrugged. 'I don't know, but he carries no sword and waits for you downstairs.'

'You've made sure he's comfortable? He cannot have been in Camelot long.'

'No. He came straight here after looking for you at the castle. We're tending his horse in the stables. He rode hard. Whatever he has to say, it must be urgent. I've given him some watered wine and a plate of food.' Merlin stepped forward, bundling Arthur quickly into a tunic of white linen, tying the laces neatly before helping him into a jacket. Thankfully, the duelling ground had been frost-hardened, limiting the splatters of mud on his boots and breeches. All-in-all, his appearance would do.

'Wait.' Merlin grabbed a comb, teasing it through Arthur's tresses as he stifled a smirk. 'You look like a haystack.'

Merlin was hardly one to talk. That cap of dark hair had grown longer now. Here and there, hints of a curl were starting to make themselves known. It was only a moment later, when Merlin gave him an odd look, that Arthur realised he'd been staring with a faint, gormless smile on his face, lost to his own musings.

'Colm,' he reminded him, firm, before his wretched manservant could take to teasing him again. 'Is there anything else you can tell me, or were you too busy flirting with Gwaine to do your job?'

Merlin's only response to that was a snort of laughter. He did not even bother denying it, and Arthur told himself firmly that he did not care.

'I'm afraid you'll have to find the rest out for yourself, Sire,' Merlin retorted, as disrespectful as always. He turned away, not falling in behind Arthur as he should, but leading the way. 'Should I get Leon?'

Arthur shook his head. If Colm was already nervous, as Merlin suggested, then bringing in any knight or other court official would only encourage him to silence. It was brave enough of him to come to Arthur, and he would not risk losing that advantage. 'You stay. Be discreet, if you can manage such a thing.'

Merlin nodded, turning right at the bottom of the stairs and leading the way to the room at the far end of the house. It was one Arthur had selected specifically as a meeting place: somewhere he could talk to those who came to him with their concerns. Comfortable rugs eased the chill of the flagstones and low beams provided a feeling of privacy. The windows let in light, and numerous candles cast back any shadows that remained. Tapestries muffled the sound so that voices did not carry, and the chairs were piled with furs for comfort.

Colm rose to his feet the moment Arthur crossed the threshold. Merlin hadn't been lying when he said he was a big man: taller than Arthur and broad with it. A bright ginger beard clung close to his jaw, hiding the last of the puppy fat that had not quite melted from his features. His eyes were the colour of pewter, pinched at their edges with grief and uncertainty.

'Sir Colm. Please, sit. My manservant said you wished to speak with me.'

'Your Highness. Sire.' Those meaty hands clasped between Colm's knees. He did not lean back, but perched on the edge of his chair, surveying the glimmer of his own rings in the firelight. He shifted his feet and cleared his throat. For a moment, Arthur wondered if perhaps he would change his mind. Maybe he intended to make his excuses and depart, but he saw how Colm reached for his courage.

'Osgar was my cousin. A good man, but even he acknowledged he was ill-suited to be a knight. It came as no surprise when he did not qualify for Camelot's ranks.' He sniffed, as if attempting to find some stability in his shaken composure.

'He still wished to serve his realm. He made no secret of that. I think my uncle would have been happier if he returned to the estate, but... Osgar told me how he planned to meet with King Uther. To ask if he required assistance in other ways. I do not know what became of the meeting, but later he joined me in the town near where we grew up and gave me this. He bade me to convey it to you, should anything befall him.'

Arthur managed to keep his surprise limited to little more than a quick blink as he reached for the proffered parchment. It had been folded neatly to conceal its contents, a seal pressed to the crease. The brittle wax had not been broken, and he turned it over in his grasp, feeling its weight. 'You did not read it?'

'It was not my place.' Colm sat back, spreading his hands in surrender. 'I do not know my cousin's business. I have only the faith in my heart that he kept Camelot first and foremost in his thoughts. I am not well connected at court, but rumour travels swiftly. When my uncle told me where you had found Osgar and hinted at the circumstances... I cannot sit by and allow people to question the integrity of his name. I would rather his actions be known, one way or another. You are rumoured to be just and fair, Prince Arthur. Even out in our estate, we hear news of how you have stepped into your role, these past few months. I put my trust in you.'

Arthur did not miss the deliberate omission of the king. Colm mentioned nothing of Uther. His very actions belied his lack of faith. Perhaps he thought simply that the sovereign was too busy and that the issue of Osgar would be drowned out by matters of state.

A quick glance to his left showed Merlin lingering by the door, silent and watchful. He did not fidget and shift his weight. More to the point, Arthur knew he would be listening to every word and noting each detail. He may be a useless manservant, but he was surprisingly observant when it truly mattered. Perhaps he was not a knight, but Arthur felt some comfort in having him there. Colm seemed like a steady sort, but sometimes grief and anger could push a man to drastic action.

'I do not know how Osgar came to be involved in the raid on Bridgend, but it is possible that this will give me some answers. If it offers any condemnation to you or your kin, please understand I will do my best to advocate for you.'

'And if it proves him innocent?'

'I shall make sure it is known throughout the court as soon as may be. Do you wish to be informed of its contents?'

He saw the light of temptation flare in Colm's eyes: a desperate surge. No doubt he was eager for proof that Osgar was exactly as he believed him to be: loyal and true. Yet there was also the hard-earned realisation that, sometimes, ignorance could be bliss.

'I thank you, Sire, but no. While I hope the missive brings you answers, I fear it may take some time to unearth the full truth. I would rather see the whole picture, once the dust has settled. I only ask that, whatever you discover, you pursue it until no doubt remains.'

He rose to his feet, and perhaps he had not dwelt in Camelot's court, but his bow would have put Leon's to shame. Arthur inclined his head, leaning back in his chair as he watched him go, his broad shoulders straight and proud as Merlin guided him out to where the grooms had his horse waiting. For Colm's sake, he hoped he took the time to rest in the tavern before returning to Aldane's lands. It was a hard ride through wild territory. He deserved a few days respite before starting the journey.

In his grasp, the parchment whispered a reminder of its presence, the texture rough against his fingertips. The seal cracked beneath his touch, and he unfolded it with care, frowning when a smaller scrap fell out of the folds. He set it to one side, his eyes skimming Osgar's neat, cramped missive. He kept his words blunt and to the point, wasting no time with elegance, and Arthur felt his eyebrows rise to his hairline as he absorbed the last words of a dead man.

"I do not know what has befallen me. I only know that my duty to my kingdom has always been first and foremost in my heart. What was done, I did in the king's name and upon his command. For Camelot."

Arthur blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. His fingers trembled as he scrabbled open the smaller note, pursing his lips tight. Perhaps it was not his father's bold and decisive lettering that marked the page, but then that was no surprise. He had scribes aplenty to write for him. Instead, Arthur recognised the penmanship of Hoel, his father's manservant, bidding Osgar to travel north and infiltrate the rogues disturbing the peace along the border. He was to play the part of a snubbed noble and discover what he could about their plans.

And the poor man had ended up dead for his trouble: another son of Camelot killed in the name of duty.

He let out a shivering breath, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids as if he could banish the memory of the words. Yet it was no use. The contents of both letters remained seared upon his brain, leaving him with one, unavoidable truth. Whatever had happened in Bridgend and the lands around it, his father knew far more than he had acknowledged.

Now it fell to Arthur to find out the whole story.

For better or worse.

Chapter Text

Merlin had thought he knew Arthur's moods by now. He was used to seeing him thoughtful and reserved, or quiet and brooding; elated after a tourney or humbled by the sacrifice of one of his knights. These days, there was an extra edge to his temperament that he could not pin down. It was there in the downturn at the corner of his lips and the way he picked over his food as if nothing could tempt his appetite. It lingered in the folds of long silences, and Merlin would bet that it had something to do with the letter Colm of Aldane had given him.

By the time he had returned from seeing the young man to the stables, Arthur had already been lost in thought, staring unseeingly into the fire. That had been several days ago, and his preoccupation had only grown deeper. It was as if he were going through the motions, too mired inside his own head to focus, and Merlin wasn't the only one who had noticed.

Leon watched Arthur with worried eyes, bracing himself as if to weather a blow. Gwaine's gaze was more suspicious: a hard frost on the first seedlings of trust. Mordred knew something was wrong, and Merlin was proud to see that the boy did not retreat into himself. Instead, he kept people talking, revelling in his new life even as he, like everyone else, waited for Arthur to emerge from the shell he had built around himself.

Not that such a thing seemed likely to happen anytime soon.

More than once, Merlin had considered reading the letter for himself. He'd guiltily rummaged through Arthur's desk while he was at training, but he hadn't found it. Had Arthur burned it in the grate, or ferreted it away about his person? In the end, even his magic hadn't been able to reveal the whereabouts of the missive. He would have to wait for Arthur to take someone into his confidence. Until then, they were all in the dark.

Besides, he had other matters to worry about. Since moving to the Miracle Court, the dragon had been mercifully quiet. For a few, giddy weeks, Merlin had wondered if perhaps the beast could not make himself heard over the thrill and shimmer of power that imbued the walls. Unfortunately, tonight he was not that lucky. He had just laid his head upon the pillow, eagerly thinking of some well-earned rest, when that familiar, deep voice rumbled through the caverns of his skull. It resonated through his bones, and he uttered a few choice curses at the uncaring ceiling as he contemplated his options.

It was tempting to roll over, bundle himself in the blankets and sleep until dawn – but he knew there was no blocking out the dragon's voice. It was something heard not with the ears but with the soul, and Merlin could no more ignore the beast's call than he could stop his own heart.

With a groan, he wrestled his way out of his bedding, sitting on the edge of the straw stuffed mattress and scrubbing a hand through his hair. He missed Gaius' healing rooms and the old man's company, but he could not deny that the antechamber was far more comfortable than his pokey little room. Rugs had appeared on the floor, and shutters on the window blocked out the drafts. There was even a modest fireplace: a luxury for a servant. He had left his clothes on the chair near the grate, confident that the house would not allow a stray spark to catch light.

Now, he slipped into warm linen layers, wriggling his toes into woollen socks before picking up his boots. He hesitated at the threshold, pursing his lips and praying Arthur was deep in his dreams. It was one thing to creep out past Gaius, who snored and slept like the dead. While Arthur may be impossible to rouse in the morning, Merlin suspected any unusual sound in the darkest depths of the night would summon him to wakefulness.

The door whispered on its hinges, and he eased his way through the room, grateful for the glow of embers that picked out bits of furniture. He was clumsy enough at the best of times, and his heart raced beneath his ribs. He had excuses ready in case Arthur bolted upright and demanded to know where he was going, but so far, the quilt-smothered mound in the bed remained motionless. There was not so much as a snuffle from that aristocratic nose, and Merlin sagged in relief when he made it safely over the threshold.

No creaks from the stairs gave him away as he tiptoed down, scowling in annoyance. It was a long walk back to the castle, and if the guards saw him, he would be questioned. It was trying enough getting from the tower to the cavern beneath the dungeons. Now he contemplated the trip through the wealthy streets of High Town and grimaced in distaste. He was less likely to be accosted by footpads, but the chances were good that he would be caught by the guards and accused of wrongdoing.

'Merlin!'

The dragon's voice seemed to rush through the lower floor of the Miracle Court. For one, dizzy moment, he wondered if the creature had somehow managed to bellow out loud. Yet in the wake of his name, there was a gentle breeze. It led him not towards the waiting night beyond the walls, but into the kitchen and down the cellar steps. His feet guided him there without thought, and he found himself staring at the grate set in the wall.

'Right.' He wet his lips, glancing over his shoulder before letting his magic unspool. A mage light whirled into being, a calm, crystalline blue that bobbed obligingly above him. The gate lock sprang back at his touch, flaking rust onto the ground as he eased it aside. He loitered there, surveying the shadows before straightening his shoulders and pressing on.

He expected... he wasn't sure, damp stone and cobwebs, maybe. Instead, the floor was clean and dry. The light showed walls worn smooth, rather than carved by hand, and the air smelled fresh. There was no need for him to crouch or squeeze through narrow gaps. The path was wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Even the siege tunnels were not so accommodating, and Merlin chafed his palms together, quick and anxious.

A fork in the tunnel made him hesitate, breathless. Not from the strain of the journey, but because of the song that suddenly stirred to life in his head, joyful and dizzying. Unless he'd got horribly turned around down here, then the left route was the one that would take him closer to the castle, yet it was the one to the right that beckoned him: beguiling. It felt like something was calling him – whispering promises and making the fine hairs on his arms prickle upright.

He swayed where he stood, one foot shifting forward before the dragon's roar in his head jolted him from his stupor. He flinched at the din, pressing his fingers to his temples before glaring along the other passageway.

'All right, all right. I'm coming.'

Wetting his lips, he took off at a jog, feeling how the ground sloped softly as its twists and turns carried him onwards. At some point, cool granite turned to warm sandstone, becoming gritty underfoot. The walls flared outwards, and Merlin stumbled to a halt, blinking in surprise.

The dragon's cavern seemed different from this angle: more confined. He could see niches in the rock like narrow mouths, and a motionless pool of water spread out in front of him. He did not know if it was shallow or deep. There was no light to reveal its secrets nor point of reference to understand it. He could almost believe it was glass, rather than liquid.

The spur of stone where he usually stood was hidden in shadow high above him, as was the pinnacle on which the dragon normally took his rest. Instead, there was a large island in the centre of the pool, its stones glowing red hot. Kilgharrah lounged upon it, basking in the warmth even as the air rippled around him. The silver serpent of the chain sank down into the waters and swept up to its distant mooring point, a striking line of gleaming metal in the secretive gloom.

'So,' the dragon began, 'you finally decided to answer my call.'

'I was trying to sleep,' he complained, spreading his hands. 'What do you want?'

'You have allowed a viper into your nest, Young Warlock. You should sever the serpent's head, before it is too late.' Smoke curled from Kilgharrah's nostrils, hazing the air. Eyes like two burning suns watched him, unblinking, and Merlin scrubbed a hand over his face. He should have known: of course, Kilgharrah would utter nothing but ridiculous riddles.

'I don't know what you're talking about.' He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged his shoulders. 'Say what you mean or I'm going back to bed.'

'Your enemies are closer than you think. The witch quickens; the snake bides its time. Slay them both, or there will be no golden age for Camelot. Albion will fall, and Arthur along with it.' Kilgharrah's scaly lips curled into the draconic equivalent of a smile, as if he were enjoying spreading nothing but vague portents of doom. He sat there like a king upon his throne, for all that he was imprisoned, and the last faint thread of Merlin's patience snapped asunder.

'Arket!'

The word roared out of him, burning as it went. His lungs ached as smoke flavoured his tongue. Heat filled his chest, sharp and surging, driving him to his knees. It felt as if someone had lit a fire in him, his skin parched and hot. Sweat beaded his brow and rolled down his face even as shivers made his limbs quiver. The mage light at his shoulder flickered in time to his racing heart, and he leaned back on his heels as he tried to drag in one clear breath.

He stared at Kilgharrah. Gone was the dragon's poise. His eyes were huge and his legs akimbo. His talons gouged the rock. His spine arched, his wings furled close and tight against his skin. He did not blink, not even once, as if he did not dare look away for fear of what might happen.

'What was that?' Merlin croaked, pressing a hand to his throat. His normal voice felt hoarse and broken, but he could feel more words surging in him, desperate to be said. He did not know the language, but he comprehended his own meaning. He had commanded Kilgharrah to stop, like yelling "enough!" at someone when they were telling lies. It was a single word born of frustration and impatience, yet it had worked in a way nothing else had.

'This cannot be.' Kilgharrah's low words rolled like thunder around them, but there was something mournful in it to Merlin's ear. 'You speak the tongue of the dragon lords: a power passed down from father to son.' His voice turned faint, almost as if he was speaking to himself. 'I did not know he had a youngling. Another of his blood. I thought the gift would die with him.'

Merlin's thoughts whirled, pitching forth memories of Gaius' shock when he had mentioned the man who had died at Bridgend: the stranger Merlin had tried to save. He'd uttered a name, then, and spoken of the last dragon lord.

'Balinor.' He screwed his eyes up tight, something fierce and unnameable racing through him. 'Te'alethe-ya, drakon!'

So large a voice should not sound so fragile, but Merlin could hear his own desperation: a plea for the truth. A need for an answer to one of the questions he had carried with him his whole life. His mother had rarely spoken of the man who sired him, not even when asked. It was not that she did not know. Instead, Merlin got the impression it was something she kept secret and safe. Nor did she seem to resent whoever had left her with child and fled.

Now a dragon stood before him holding the answers, and Merlin would have them out of him, one way or the other.

Perhaps Kilgharrah read the determination on his face, or maybe he was simply too surprised to bother with his usual habit of twisting words. The great bellows of his chest heaved in a sigh, and he settled himself once more, twitching his wings like a lady adjusting her skirts.

'Yes. Balinor. Did you never wonder, Young Warlock, how Uther came to imprison one such as me? He used trickery. He convinced a dragon lord that he meant to broker peace between Camelot and my kind. Such people carry the power to command dragons. They speak, and we must listen. We cannot disobey. Many had already been slaughtered in the Purge. We were a dying breed, and Uther wanted a trophy of his triumph.

'Balinor was convinced to order me to Camelot, and Uther trapped me here. I do not know what he intended. Perhaps there was more to it. Maybe he wished for a weapon to use against his enemies. He would have had one, too. Control the dragon lord; control the dragons. Yet Balinor escaped and fled into the wilds of Albion. I have often wondered what became of him.' That piercing gaze cleaved him in two, as sure as a spear through his ribs. 'And now it is you who holds the answer I seek.'

Merlin curled his fingers around his cuffs, looking down at his hands. He still remembered the blood etching the lines of his palms and the man's – Balinor's – final breath.

'He was my father,' he whispered, tasting the words upon his lips. Part of him hissed that the man had been a stranger to him. He had never sought out the woman he loved nor the boy she had born him, and yet there was a hurt yawning within him, raw and honed. He felt as if he had lost something he never knew he had and was now left only with the aching hole of its absence.

'Bandits.' He shrugged. 'He was killed by bandits. He'd been living in the north near a town called Bridgend. I don't know why he didn't come back for you.'

Or me.

'I may be chained, but my mind remains free of Uther's tyranny,' Kilgharrah growled at last. 'Balinor's presence would have changed that. He stayed away for the sake of Albion. Without him, I was an arrow with no bow to guide its path.' He tilted his head like one of the falcons in the mews. 'Now, there is you.'

The words hovered around him, all warning, and Merlin swallowed hard. He could barely hear over the clamour of his own thoughts. It felt like his skull had been crammed so full that he might split open at the seams. The desire to escape buzzed under his skin, droning through the marrow of his bones.

His boots scraped over the stone as he turned and strode away, heedless of the dragon's demanding voice echoing in his wake. He did not care what the Old Scorch wanted. All that mattered was getting out of there. He felt like he couldn't breathe, as if every snatch of air that passed his lips could not sustain him. His heart pulsed in his ears, and the mage light at his shoulder swirled, overcast and agitated.

He half-ran along the tunnels, no longer tempted by the other path as he headed back for the sanctuary of the Miracle Court. Bed did not call to him in sultry tones – he could not sleep now if he tried – but he longed for the comfort those strong, stone walls could bring him. In that building, he knew who he was. Merlin, son of Hunith, sorcerer and manservant to Arthur Pendragon. That was his life, one full of plenty of excitement without adding the dubious role of dragon lord to the list.

A flicker of thought extinguished the mage light, its glow vanishing into fading motes as he stepped out into the cellar. The comforting fragrance of aged oak surrounded him, and he eased the grate back on its hinges, settling it in place. His touch lingered on the iron bars, no longer rusted with neglect. It was another way in which the Miracle Court had healed itself since their arrival, shaking off the passage of the years. Yet even as the welcoming atmosphere settled over him like a mantle, he could not take his ease.

Merlin sniffed as the wobble of a sob caught in his abused throat. It felt burned, as if he were the one who had spat flame. He dreaded to think what he might sound like if he spoke, but that didn't matter. The world was still asleep and would be for a while, yet. It only made him feel more lonely, a single soul stuck with its burdens while everyone else carried on, oblivious.

He could go and wake Lancelot. He would not resent him for it, and at least he knew about the magic. He would listen, but something in Merlin rebelled at the thought. It was as if he did not think he deserved the comfort. The man who had sired him had died beneath his hands. Shouldn't he have felt something? Shouldn't he have known the truth, deep down? Like calling to like?

Gods, what was he going to tell his mum?

Merlin sighed, resting his brow against the bars of the door before pushing himself away. He almost tripped up the steps back to the kitchen, scraping his palm as he saved himself from a fall and cursing under his breath. All around there was the deep silence of the night's rule, where dawn was a dream and dusk a memory. Any sensible man would be abed, and yet here Merlin was, feeling like a broken piece that no longer fit into the life he'd had before.

The only thing that permeated the haze of his thoughts was the lantern that sat on the kitchen table, its wick burning cheerfully behind its glass panes. It hadn't been there before, had it? He tried to remember, but his recollections slipped through his fingers like sand. A prickle of unease wound down his spine, old warnings rising up in his mind. Had someone followed him to the dragon's cavern. Had he been seen?

He rubbed a hand over his mouth before shaking his head. If somebody had been spying on him, the dragon would have known. Surely he would have said something in between his riddles about witches, serpents and dragon lords? Besides, the house was breathless in its own peace. It was far more likely that the Miracle Court had made itself useful once more. The lantern awaited him, its flame bright. The handle was a grounding weight against his palm as he picked it up and turned towards the door.

The night air was like a slap across the face, frost-cracked and sharp with the chill. His breath stuttered in his lungs, shocked by the piercing cold: a knife to whittle his chaotic thoughts into more simple shapes. There was a rough-hewn oak bench to one side, and Merlin eased himself onto it, resting his back against the old bricks as he set the lantern down at his feet. Overhead, the sky was a froth of stars: moonless and decked in diamonds. Perhaps it should have only increased his feeling of solitude, but there was some comfort to be found in their familiar gleam.

A tear tumbled over his lashes, taking him by surprise when it dripped from his chin onto the back of his hand. He stared at its glimmer before wiping it away on his tunic. These were not the sobs of a child lost to their pain, nor those of a young man cursing the world. He mourned the father he had never known in silence, grieving the idea of him more than the reality. Bit by bit, Merlin forced himself to let go of all his boyhood dreams: ones where his father returned to Ealdor and his mother remembered what it was to smile without a shadow in her gaze.

He tasted the hard stone of his anger and allowed its weight to settle in his chest. He had questions, but he doubted they would ever be answered. Maybe the dragon was right. Perhaps Balinor had deemed it too dangerous to return or had never known about the family he had abandoned when he went to hide in the wilds. Yet logic did not kill Merlin's childish fears. A small whisper in his head wondered if perhaps he was simply not worth it – too much trouble – him and his magic both.

'You'll catch your death out here.'

Arthur's words made him twitch in surprise; unexpected. He had thought he was alone.

'What are you doing up?' He cuffed his hands quickly over his cheeks, wincing at the shaking croak of his own voice. He turned to look towards the stables, hoping Arthur wouldn't notice the tear tracks across his face.

'You left your chamber door open. The draft woke me.'

Merlin hesitated, because he was pretty sure he'd closed the door to his room behind him. He had a lot of practice sneaking out, and a tell-tale sign like that would alert anyone to something amiss, but why would Arthur lie?

The bench flexed as Arthur dropped down next to him. A dark blue cloak covered his shoulders, and Merlin frowned. That was Arthur's "creeping around" cloak. He wore it when he thought there was a need to be subtle. Last Merlin had seen, it had been stuffed in the bottom of a chest, not kept easily to hand. Then there were his clothes. He had not simply shoved things on top of his sleep tunic and made do. He was as well-clad as Merlin. Better, even, since he actually had a jacket on under there to ward off the chill.

He had dressed knowing he would not be returning to his bed anytime soon, but why?

'I'm fine.'

A sigh whispered past Arthur's lips. 'Don't try and be interesting,' he complained. 'You're not fooling anyone with a face like that. What's the matter?'

Only Arthur could be such a prat when trying to offer comfort. He had all the tact of a mace to the head. It was enough to make Merlin give a weak huff of laughter. If Arthur had come to him, all sympathy, he would never have believed him. Instead, here he was: genuine in a way only Arthur could be.

And Merlin couldn't tell him anything. How could he, without revealing the dragon, the magic... all of it? Yet he ached for comfort, even Arthur's clumsy efforts. His throat went tight, and he pursed his lips, offering a shake of his head before he managed, 'You first. You've been off ever since Colm delivered that letter.'

Arthur heaved a sigh, but Merlin didn't think he imagined the trace of surrender there, as if he had ruminated on the problem for so long that he was sick of it. He shifted, crossing one ankle onto his other knee and looking up at the stars above them rather than meeting Merlin's eye.

'Osgar was working for my father: attempting to infiltrate the bandits.'

'A spy? Osgar?'

Arthur grunted. 'Something like that. Uther knows a lot more about what happened at Bridgend than he let on, and I don't know what that means. I've been trying to think how to proceed, but I just can't get past the "why" of it all. I thought – I suppose I thought that, despite all our differences, we were still united in our desire to help our people. Now I'm not so sure.'

Merlin leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang down. He could hear what Arthur wasn't saying: the half-hidden hurt of a boy who had fought for every glimmer of his father's pride and had always been found wanting. Slowly, these past few months, the tables had begun to turn. Arthur was no longer the disappointment: instead, it was Uther who failed to pass muster. Yet old habits died hard, and he knew Arthur did not want to believe ill of the man who had sired him.

Fathers and sons. What a mess.

'Now you.' Arthur's elbow dug into his side, bossy and demanding, but there as a hint of something in his voice: a half-hidden softness, as if he understood that Merlin's mood was no joking matter.

He sighed, low and wretched. Maybe he could not tell Arthur the whole truth, but nor could he keep it inside, either. This was too big to deal with himself; it would only fester. 'Remember the man who died? At Bridgend? The one I couldn't save?'

'Nobody could.' Arthur spoke with unshakable confidence. 'Even if you could have stemmed the bleeding, gut wounds go bad, Merlin. You know that.'

'No. It's not that.' He had made his peace with the limits of his healing skills. 'Gaius recognised his name. He described him.' He took a deep breath, glossing over the truth of who had delivered the revelation and praying that Arthur would not go digging for more. 'Balinor was my father.'

He felt Arthur stiffen where he sat. Beneath them, the bench creaked as he mimicked Merlin's pose, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. His body pressed in a warm seam down Merlin's right side: shoulder and arm, hip and thigh. The lantern light cast odd shadows over his boots. They needed a clean, Merlin thought vaguely. They were covered in a fine layer of sandy dust.

Fresh tears bit at his lashes, and he swallowed, hearing his throat click. He did not want to be here, weeping over a man that he barely knew. A shiver swept through him from head to foot, hard enough to make his teeth chatter. A moment later, warm fabric pitched over his back, capturing him beneath the velvet cloak's wing.

Yet it was Arthur's touch that brought the most comfort. For once, he did not withdraw. There were no scoffed excuses or prickly demands. Instead, his arm curved around him, his fingers cupping Merlin's opposite shoulder. It was a semi-embrace, easily dismissed. He could pull away with a laugh or Arthur could ease back, all indifference, yet neither one of them did so.

Arthur's voice curled in his ear, all trace of teasing gone. He spoke with the kind of sincerity that he rarely put on display. There was nothing courtly or indifferent about it; he meant what he said with all his heart.

'I'm so sorry, Merlin.'

Chapter Text

Arthur stared out of the window of his study, watching the gathering dusk wage war against the lantern-light. Darkness tangled in the boughs of the apple trees and skulked across the flowerbeds, their occupants sleeping away the winter. Yet his mind did not linger on what lay before him. His mother's garden was merely the backdrop for his thoughts, most of which orbited one man alone.

Merlin.

It had been several days since he had awoken in the middle of the night, drawn from the depths of sleep. He had lain in his bed, staring up at the swoop of the canopy as his body resonated with something he could not begin to name. It was as if someone had shaken him awake, but there was no one there. Instead, he had been left with a hollow in his belly and uncertainty in his heart. It had driven him from the comfort of his blankets, and it had not taken him long to realise that Merlin's own chamber lay dark and empty.

He had lied. The antechamber door had not been open. There had been no winnowing drafts to disturb his dreams. Instead, it was as if Merlin's very absence had roused him, and the need to find him had been impossible to ignore.

Arthur could not say what had guided his footsteps as he dressed himself, layering linen, wool and leather. He had slung a cloak around his shoulders and crept down the stairs, desperate for signs of life within the empty house. Instead, there had been only shadows to answer his search. A lantern had helped, though it had resisted his efforts to ignite it for long moments, stubborn to the last. Even then, he may have had a light to guide the way, but he had no notion of where to place his feet.

Arthur swallowed, a slow blink shielding his eyes as he continued to consider the matter. As a knight, he was used to trusting his instincts, but there had been a strange urgency to it all. He had known his own mind, and yet it was as if something struggled to both lead him on the right path and confound him all at once. He did not know what had urged him to check the cellar, nor what had driven him into the dark passageways beyond. He had simply needed to be there, for all the good that it did him.

He had wandered for what felt like eons, yet before long, he had ended up back where he started. Time and again, he had struck out, walking until his feet ached and his thighs burned, but each journey returned him once more to the cellar.

Eventually, he had given up in frustration. He'd left the lantern on the table, cursing his manservant under his breath as he made his way back up the stairs. He had just been contemplating returning to bed when he heard it: the soft sound of the latch on the back door and the sigh of the house, almost mournful to his ear.

He had gone to investigate; how could he not? He told himself he was simply seeing to the safety of everyone who made the Miracle Court their home, yet he had left his sword behind. It was as if he had already known, deep down, that there would be no need for weapons. It was there that he had found him, huddled on a bench in the cold, dressed in too little for the winter. He was used to Merlin's crooked smiles and sparkling eyes, not a face carved out by loss.

They had sat there together, after Merlin's quiet voice had delivered the news of his father. The stars had traced their lazy course overhead, and the sky had slowly lightened to pearl and pink.

There had not been any words beyond his first utterance of heartfelt sympathy. In truth, Arthur had not known what to say. Instead, he had held Merlin in that half-embrace: all he really dared to offer. If he concentrated, he could still feel Merlin's warm weight tucked against his side, leaning in as if he craved the comfort. They had not moved until the household began to stir. Then, Merlin had nudged his shoulder gently, his eyes bloodshot and his lashes spiky as he murmured his thanks.

The man grief left in its wake was a muted creature, one of distant gazes and empty smiles. Everyone had noticed; it was impossible not to. If he wasn't so worried, he would be fascinated to see how the others reacted to it. If pressed, he would have said they would fall back to awkwardness or linger in the realm of false indifference, but they were better men than he.

Lancelot was constantly pressing food or water into Merlin's hands, as if he could ease his emotional suffering by providing for him. Gwaine touched him even more, those flirtatious little nudges changing tone to become something far more meaningful: a steadying hand on Merlin's arm or a clasped palm upon his shoulder.

Leon had always been more reserved. His compassion was a quiet, steady thing. Perhaps someone who didn't know him well would miss the signs all together, but he had been working with Guinevere to make sure Merlin's more distasteful jobs did not trouble him. The pair of them kept him busy, but it was with tasks Merlin apparently enjoyed the most.

Then there was Morgana.

'What did you do?'

He winced when a narrow hand smacked his shoulder, jolting him from the morass of his thoughts. He was more surprised than hurt. He had not even heard her approach, yet there she stood, scowling at him as if he were personally to blame for every ill that had ever befallen Camelot.

'Where did you come from?' he demanded with more force than he intended to let slip into his voice. 'And what makes you think I've done anything?'

'Merlin is staggering around looking like someone's torn his heart out. Considering how you treat your manservants, I decided you were a likely suspect.' She eased back, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, some of her righteous anger fading from view. 'Though I suppose he is the exception to the rule...'

She sighed, plucking at a strand of her hair and running it through her fingers. It was an old, anxious gesture, one she'd performed often when she first came to Camelot. He hadn't seen her do it for years: the ways of court had taught her not to be so obvious in her body language. Yet, in front of him, perhaps she had dropped a few of her shields.

'Poor Gwen is worried sick. She knows something is wrong. We all do.'

Arthur pursed his lips. He longed to offer reassurance, but at the same time, it was not his place to utter a word of it. He did not know if he alone had been taken into Merlin's confidence, admitted in a moment of vulnerability. He did not think Merlin intended to keep it secret. He merely wished to grieve in private and find the strength to bear the pity of others.

'It is nothing that can be fixed except with time,' he managed at last.

'You know what it is, don't you?' Morgana nodded when his only reply was a look. 'Good. As long as someone does.'

'I'm surprised you trust my judgement,' he scoffed. It was a habit, really, their same old teasing, but it fell flat between them. He could not put his finger on it, but at some point, they had moved beyond that strange war of attrition. Oh, Morgana still took delight in riling him, but it seemed to carry more depth to it now. There was a fondness there that had never before had the chance to flourish. Perhaps she was not, precisely, a friend, but Arthur had come to see her as a staunch ally in all this.

'I do, at least when it comes to Merlin.'

He glanced over his shoulder, not sure he liked the little gleam in Morgana's eye. Maybe she was just trying to push him into an argument, but all he could think of was his own suspicions: the magic that had followed them to Bridgend, a dead griffin, a manservant who snuck around in dark passageways in the middle of the night... It made him hope that she was right, because if he had misjudged the situation – if he held his silence and Merlin brought Camelot to harm – he would never forgive himself.

It was almost impossible to imagine. Arthur could not envisage it, but betrayal was so often a subtle knife. He did not want to think that the man he had comforted in the cold might turn around and cut at the very heart of him, and yet...

He scrubbed a hand over his face, twitching when Morgana's fingers rested lightly on the back of his arm. There was something poised about her, like a deer considering whether or not to flee, yet he definitely did not feel as if he was the hunter. How could he, when her sharp gaze pinned him in place?

'Merlin's not the only one who's not been himself,' she began. 'You've been quiet ever since you got back from Bridgend. More so, lately.' She tilted her head, and Arthur braced himself. She could be tenacious when she thought there was a secret worth digging for, and she had never liked being kept in the dark. It was part of the reason, he suspected, why she spent every spare moment in the Miracle Court. She did not want to be left out.

Yet for once, she chose a more cautious path. 'Is it something you can talk about?'

Arthur blew out a breath. His head felt like a kicked hive, full of furious buzzing as a thousand questions and concerns clamoured for answers. The matter of Merlin would not – could not – pass his lips. That was his alone to work through, but everything else, from what they had found at Bridgend to Osgar's spying? That was a burden he could share. When it came to the bandits, the fort and the black powder, he had already done so. Now, it was his father's involvement that troubled him all the more.

Except it was not one he wanted to place on Morgana's shoulders alone. She was part of a bigger whole, now, and he would have the advice of all his friends, if they were happy to offer it.

'This evening. We'll meet here and I'll explain. As for Merlin, he's being coddled left and right. He'll be himself again before long.'

Morgana hummed, one dark eyebrow arching upwards. 'Speaking of coddled, Tom sent over that commission, since you've been too busy to go and collect it. You know Merlin will fuss, don't you?'

'He always fusses. This is for his own good.'

'You're going to have a fight on your hands.'

'Merlin is hardly much of an opponent.' Arthur peeled himself away from the window, his stride lighter than it had been for days as he trotted down the stairs. Tom's work awaited him on the kitchen table, and he smirked in satisfaction. At first glance, it looked like nothing in particular, but there wasn't a knight among them who wouldn't not recognise the shape of it. Even Merlin, it seemed, had some idea, because he was giving the collection of leather straps a dubious glare.

'That can't be for Mordred; it's too big!'

'Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me,' Arthur jibed, noticing how Morgana stopped in the doorway, effectively blocking Merlin's escape route. The thought of wrestling him into it amused him, but that wasn't how this could go. He needed Merlin to cooperate – to want this, at least on some level.

He was haunted by the possibilities of what could have happened to him at Bridgend. Death could have found Merlin within the twisting halls of Caludahn, and Arthur would have blamed himself. He was more than happy to let Merlin attend him on dangerous quests and risky patrols, but he had done nothing to ensure his safety.

That spoke of a callous indifference that he no longer felt. Guinevere was right to worry. Arthur had been remiss. However, he could not just clad him in armour, put a dagger in his hand and hope for the best. Merlin may never want to be a knight, and Arthur did not intend to make him one, but there were methods of building endurance and preparing a man for the unexpected that did not involve wielding a broadsword.

'It's for you, to help you build your strength. You were already as skinny as a rake when you got here, and I swear you've only become thinner.'

'That's because if I'm not running around after you, I'm scurrying about with Gaius!'

Merlin's little cry of outrage was the most animated he had been for days, and a tiny thrill of relief shivered down Arthur's spine. That was more like it. He did not begrudge Merlin his grief, but he had become so hollow that he had begun to wonder if he would simply fade away before their eyes.

Now, that familiar spark surged once more. Around them, the shadows that lingered in the corner of the room receded. Above their heads, the beams creaked softly as if relieved of some great burden. It made him question whether the house had responded to Merlin's sadness, huddling in on itself.

'And that is unlikely to change. This way, as long as we keep you fed, you'll put a bit more meat on your bones. If nothing else, it will make you more resilient should we ever find ourselves in a similar situation to what happened at Bridgend.'

And, Arthur added in the silence of his head, if Merlin did have magic, then perhaps giving him alternatives would help him hide his secret. If he could throw a punch rather than reaching for a spell, then maybe Arthur would be able to keep him safe from his father.

'Please, Merlin?'

The look he got in return was a healthy mixture of disbelief and annoyance. 'The squires wear these,' he pointed out, sounding a touch sulky. 'It's one of the ways you fatten them up.'

He made it sound like they were pigs for the slaughter which, considering what had happened to the patrol sent to Bridgend, was not an unfair analogy. 'It helps them grow stronger. Your body will adapt to carrying around the extra weight, and you do not have to make time for training. You simply have to wear it.'

'And if someone sees it and starts asking questions?' Merlin was probing at the matter like a sore tooth, trying to find the point where it all fell apart. 'I'm a servant. There are rules!'

'And you break them every day.' Arthur waved a dismissive hand. 'It's winter. No one will look twice if you bundle up in layers. Fasten it on top of a tunic but under everything else and nobody will know it's there.'

Merlin scratched a thumb over his brow, and maybe it was Arthur's imagination, but he thought there was a fond lilt to the annoyance staining his features. At last, he sighed, like he knew that Arthur would only nag him endlessly if he didn't agree. 'Help me into it then. I'll only get tangled up.'

'I shall leave you to it,' Morgana said, something smug curled up within her voice. 'As entertaining at this is, I want to talk to Mordred. Don't let him bully you, Merlin.'

'I'll try, my lady.'

'I do not bully you!'

'You throw things at my head,' Merlin pointed out, wry. Still, there was a glimmer of light in his gaze where before there had only been darkness, and Arthur's heart sang to see it.

'I aim to miss. Jacket off. Let's check it actually fits. It should. Guinevere is rarely wrong in her measurements.'

Merlin huffed, shrugging out of his coat. 'I thought that was for a tunic, since all of mine have holes in.'

Arthur kept his response to a hum; he had also asked Guinevere to do something about Merlin's wardrobe. A weight harness and all the food in the world wouldn't help if Merlin was burning all his energy trying to stay warm.

Part of him hoped that a bedchamber with a fire in it would ease matters. It was not that he thought Gaius had left Merlin to freeze during the night, but there was no denying that the healing tower was prone to drafts. It could not be good for invalids or the old healer himself, but the matter was out of Arthur's hands. He could, however, ensure that Merlin had the best possible chance of gathering his strength.

He would never be as broad as Arthur himself. That was not what this was about. Gaius had explained to him, once, how the size of a muscle did not necessarily dictate its power. What mattered was how they worked together and connected to the bones. How those of the torso could protect the vulnerable meat of a man, and how good health could mean the difference between a sprained joint and a shattered one.

'All right?' he asked, helping Merlin shrug into it. A broad strap rested over each shoulder, and a wide belt laced snug above Merlin's hips. There was a second band across his chest and back for stability.

The design was beautifully simple; the stitching sturdy and strong. There were no rough edges to chafe, and he knew Tom had worked hard with the tanners to make it happen. He didn't want to give Merlin any excuse not to wear it. The squires were not offered anything so thoughtful. They made do with a close-enough fit. This, though, had been designed for Merlin's tall, narrow frame.

'It needs to be tight enough not to slip, but not so snug that you can't breathe deeply,' Arthur explained, moving behind Merlin to adjust the laces in the back band. 'Unfasten it at the front when you're taking it off at night; that way we won't have to constantly re-tie it.'

'It's not as heavy as I thought it would be.' Merlin glanced over his shoulder, his face falling when Arthur picked up one of the gleaming ingots that sat on the table. It wasn't very big – about the size of his little finger, but the metal was weighty. Tom made different blends of lead and iron to adjust the heft of them. They slipped in neat little pouches around the harness and could be changed out as Merlin grew stronger.

'Come here.' Arthur put his hands on Merlin's shoulders, turning him around to face him. He slipped the weights into their places, remembering his own time wearing something similar. He had been much younger than Merlin was now, and he recalled his own bravado. He had been convinced the fractional weight wouldn't challenge him. It was those memories that made him speak up: quick words of warning.

'You'll feel it in your thighs and hips, first. The weight doesn't shift, so you shouldn't be any more clumsy than usual, but try and remember to keep your back straight. It's why you start light, so that your body learns rather than injuring itself in the effort.'

'Is it going to hurt more or less than when I started riding a horse?'

Arthur laughed at that. When he had first arrived in Camelot, Merlin had never even sat on a donkey. It had been a steep learning curve, especially beneath Arthur's not-so-patient tutelage. He had still been trying to drive Merlin away at the time, and he had not been kind. 'Probably the same. Maybe don't run up the stairs like you normally do? At least not for a few days.'

'Great.'

He slipped the last four weights into place, two on each side of Merlin's waist. His fingers lingered on the seams before his hands rested on the crest of Merlin's hips. He told himself it was just to steady him, in case the subtle change in weight was enough to make him stumble, but it was a lie. Grief had made Merlin distant, these past few days, physically, as well as emotionally. Now he was right there, present in every aspect, and some part of Arthur was desperate not to let him go.

The memory of the night at Bridgend rose up in his mind. He recalled that moment when he had been helping Merlin out of his stolen armour: how his fingers had lingered over buckles and fastenings and each breath felt like both too much and not enough. His arms had ached, then, with the longing to pull Merlin into his embrace and claim that full mouth with his own. Now, that same old desire flickered to life, turning his throat dry and driving his heart into a faster beat.

Once, he might have given into it, but if he was right then Merlin wasn't just a servant – a man in his power... He was a sorcerer.

Arthur sucked in a breath, taking a quick step back and leaning against the edge of the kitchen table. He needed the distance. Not because the feeling surprised him. Merlin's impertinence may have got his attention the first time they met, but Arthur couldn't deny there was something captivating about him. He had been doing his best to ignore it, with varying levels of success. No, he withdrew because he could not take anyone to his bed if there was not trust between them.

And perhaps Merlin's devotion was unquestioning, but one way or the another, he was keeping secrets.

'How does it feel?' he asked, hoping his voice didn't sound as rough as it felt. 'Is it comfortable? Can you move all right?'

Merlin nodded, sucking in a quick breath before stepping back and offering a mocking bow in demonstration. 'It's fine, but I promise you it's not going to make any difference. My mum's been trying to feed me up for ages. So's Gaius, for that matter.'

Arthur pursed his lips, determined not to comment on that. He had no doubt Hunith had done her absolute best, but he knew how poor the soil was near the ridge of Essetir. Gaius, too, could only do so much. If nothing else, Uther had often told Arthur the importance of keeping the knights well-fed. He did not care about their hunger, but it made them strong and loyal.

'We'll see,' he said airily, happy to bet that, by the time spring showed its face anew, Merlin would have some more substance to his frame. He would probably always be wiry, but at least he might be better prepared to weather whatever the world threw their way. 'Any aches should fade after a few days. If you get a persistent pain in any of your joints, tell me. Or go to Gaius.'

'Is that likely?'

'You'd be surprised how many squires wearing these are abruptly reminded of old childhood injuries. Shoulders and knees, especially.'

'All right.' Merlin cocked his head, a hint of that familiar, teasing glow in his features. 'Is there anything else, Sire? Are you planning to strap me into a suit of plate?'

'Gods, no. Go on. I know you've got plenty of chores to keep you occupied. Just be back in time for dinner.'

He watched Merlin turn away, noticing how he stood straighter already, no longer slouching around as he made an effort to bear the weight of the harness. No doubt by the day's end, he would be complaining of the burn in his thighs and the strain of it, but Arthur would happily weather Merlin's disapproval.

If not for this whole business with the First Code, he would never have considered it. Maybe he would have been content to let Merlin carry on as always, but those days were done. His conscience had pricked at him even before Gwaine's words of warning, and he had taken his advice to heart.

His knights could protect themselves, but Merlin and Mordred could not. The latter, at least, he hoped would stay beneath Uther's attention, but Merlin had a way of putting himself right in the thick of things. He couldn't change his behaviour. Arthur could order him around all he pleased; Merlin would simply do as he wished.

No, all he could do was prepare him and hope that, whatever the future held, Merlin was strong enough to bear it.

Chapter Text

Merlin wheezed, slumping down at the top of the tower steps to get his breath back. Everything hurt, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It was not a sharp pain, but the low grumble of a body pushed to the edge of endurance.

An afternoon had passed since Arthur had wrestled him into the weight harness, and already he hated it with a passion. At first it had been fine, but before long it had started to drag at him. He had not realised how exhausting it could be carrying around a few little lead blocks. Arthur had told him not to take the stairs too quickly, but it had slipped his mind. That was why he was breathing like a landed fish, trying to find the strength to regain his feet.

The door behind him opened and shut, and he briefly wondered if it was Gaius come to put him out of his misery. Except the voice that greeted him was wry and familiar, a little laugh hidden beneath its words.

'I bet you're thinking a few unflattering things about Arthur right now.'

He let his groan be Morgana's answer. He should get to his feet, at least. She was still a lady and he a servant, but he didn't have the energy. Instead, he stayed where he was, propped on his elbows with the edge of one of the steps digging into his spine. He heard the patter of Morgana's slippers and the rustle of her skirts, and when he opened his eyes, it was to find that she was perched on the stair down by his boots. Her green gaze watched him, but though they danced with mirth, there was also a thoughtful slant to her expression.

'I think he's trying to kill me,' Merlin complained, managing, with far more effort than he would like, to sit up. 'Slowly and painfully.'

Morgana leaned back against the wall, her dark curls cascading over the sumptuous fur that lay around her shoulders. She'd be getting her gown dusty, but she seemed not to care. Instead, she spoke carefully, as if feeling her way through the conversation.

'When I arrived at Camelot, having just lost my father, the court was full of sympathy. They had so many kind words to offer me, but I was devastated. Worse, I was now the ward of a man I hardly knew. Then, there was his son, who to me seemed spoilt and cruel.' She picked at her skirt before meeting Merlin's eye. 'Arthur never once said that he was sorry for my loss. That whole first week, he barely uttered a word to me. I thought he was trying to pretend that I didn't exist.'

Merlin could well believe it. He had no real notion of what Arthur had been like as a boy, but surely innocence would have meant he doted on his father and hung upon his every proclamation? He had been bad enough when Merlin met him, steeped in Uther's prejudice and indifference. How much worse had it been during his boyhood?

'But?'

'But...' Morgana's smile was soft and nostalgic. 'Eventually, he came to my room and gave me something. Everyone else offered me gems or furs or trinkets, trying to win my favour or appear worthy in Uther's eyes.'

Merlin leaned forward, wincing as his body squealed in complaint, but he ignored it. Morgana had his undivided attention now. 'What was it?'

'A practice sword.' A sharp, bright slice of a grin curved her lips. She and Arthur rarely spoke of their childhood together, but it was clear the memory was one she treasured. 'That, and his time. He was twelve summers old, a squire still, but he had been training since he could walk. He did not promise to keep me safe. He taught me how to do it for myself, even though his father would probably have thrashed him if he ever knew.'

She gestured to the harness hidden under Merlin's clothes. 'He has never been shown how to be affectionate, not really. Uther thinks such things are beneath a prince, but when Arthur is left to his own devices, it's how he shows people that he cares. He equips them, prepares them.... Makes sure they can stand on their own two feet.'

'He's torturing me because he cares?' Merlin raised one eyebrow. Somehow, he doubted that. After thinking about it for most of the day, he had decided Arthur was bored and lost, still baffling through what they'd found at the fort and Osgar's place in the whole mess. Merlin was someone he could control, and so he had become the unwilling centre of his attention.

Except that thought did not sit right with him. It didn't explain the way Arthur had looked at him as he'd strapped him into the harness, his gaze glittering with something Merlin couldn't pin down. Nor did it excuse how his hands had lingered, just for a moment, on Merlin's hips, his fingers warm and possessive.

'He's helping you learn how to protect yourself, should you ever need it.' Morgana smirked at him. 'Which, considering the trouble you often find yourself in, might not be a bad thing.'

It wasn't as if Merlin could argue with that. Most of his friends knew nothing about what he got up to while he was supposedly in the tavern. His normal life was riddled with him getting himself into difficulties, never mind his more secret, magical activities. 'I just wish it didn't hurt so much.'

Her laugh was gentle and musical, stripped of its usual mockery. Instead, it sounded almost fond, and Merlin mustered a lopsided grin.

'Can you stand?' She rose gracefully to her feet, leaving Merlin feeling like a lumbering bear in comparison. Arthur had been right, his thighs bore the worst of the ache, and something told him it would get worse before it got better. Still, he managed to clamber upright, shuffling his way into the healing rooms to deposit the bag of herbs he had retrieved for Gaius.

He would have loved to stay and chat, to breathe in the peace and let the familiarity settle him, but he did not even have time to perch on the bench before the evening bell rang.

'I'm sorry, Gaius. Arthur wants us all at the Miracle Court.'

'Do not fret, my boy, and thank you for this.' He patted a hand against the bulging pack. 'I was not looking forward to combing the icy woods for supplies.'

'I'll try and drop 'round tomorrow.' He sighed, his heart beating with a subtle ache. He had told Gaius of what the dragon had said, the day after he had learned the truth. His uncle had given him the time and space to speak of it, letting him work through some of his grief, halting and uncertain.

He had also promised Merlin he would write to his mother about Balinor. Merlin felt guilty for that; she should hear it from him, and yet he didn't have either the strength or the right words. Instead, his uncle relieved him of that particular burden.

He stepped forward, smiling when Gaius grunted in surprise at his embrace. A moment later, those old arms returned it, strong and sure.

'I would love to see you,' Gaius said at last. 'For now, however, you had best get going. And Merlin?'

'Yeah?'

'If that harness I can feel beneath your clothes starts to chafe, come to me. I have a balm I give to the squires when they first start trying to build their strength. It should make things easier.'

Merlin groaned before inclining his head. 'It's Arthur's idea. I'm hoping he'll get bored in a day or two.'

'I truly doubt you will be so fortunate.' Gaius patted his shoulder, his blue eyes fond as he urged him towards the door. 'Now, be off with you. And give my best to Lancelot and the others.'

'I will.'

Merlin stepped over the threshold, pausing in surprise when he saw Morgana waiting for him. He had thought she might make her own way to the Miracle Court. He stammered out an apology for keeping her, stopping only when she gave him a distinctly unimpressed look.

'Walk with me?' She could have made it a command, but there was something lighter in her tone than a mistress bossing about a servant. 'So far, Uther has found no suitable reason to keep me away from the Miracle Court, but I am not to go there by myself.' Morgana sniffed in disapproval. 'Never mind that the house lies only a stone's throw from the castle and is well within the High Town.'

'It can still be dangerous, my lady. Especially as the days grow darker. Perhaps the king is just looking out for you?'

Morgana's scathing expression was probably treasonous, and Merlin kept his own face carefully impassive. In Arthur's rooms, far from the court, he could be more honest about his thoughts. Here, where the walls had ears? He did not dare say a word out of place. Especially as Uther appeared colder and more vicious than ever – as if he knew Arthur was slipping out of his grasp and was happy to punish the entire kingdom for his own son's so-called rebellion.

Sometimes, he wondered if he had done the right thing by helping Lancelot become a knight. Then he thought about how much Arthur had changed in just a few short weeks, and he could not bring himself to regret it. It was as if all Arthur had really needed was to step out from his father's shadow. It was not that he became a new man, but rather that he had the space and freedom to truly be himself: a king that Albion would never forget.

'I can look after myself,' Morgana retorted, rolling her eyes before mustering a smile. 'Come on. We should hurry, or the others will eat without us.'

She quickened her pace, leaving him to match her stride or be left behind. Evening threw its cloak over the world, and he drew in a deep breath as he stepped into the courtyard, wondering if the scent of snow on the air was his imagination. At his side, Morgana shivered, shifting fractionally closer. If it were Gwen, Merlin would tuck himself against her shoulder to share a bit of warmth, but he did not dare. Instead, he walked a bit faster, then a bit faster still, making a game of it as Morgana gave a breathless little laugh and hurried to keep up.

They spilled into the Miracle Court through the front door, the two of them gasping in relief to escape the blade of the wind. The whole house smelled of warm, nourishing food, and Merlin's belly growled in furious approval.

'I'll go help Gwen bring up the plates,' Merlin decided, tilting his head towards the stairs that led up to Arthur's rooms. Already, he could make out the camaraderie of the knights and hangers-on: low voices and Mordred's boyish, piping tones. 'You might as well get by the fire and warm up.'

'That's an excellent idea. Don't drop anything.'

Morgana's teasing words trailed after him as he ducked into the kitchen. Though significantly smaller than the one in the castle, it carried that same bustling, hectic mood. Merlin had learned long ago that the best option was to keep out of the way until they were ready for him. Gwen had the same idea. It was tempting to step forward and help, but the hierarchy among the servants was just as strict as that of the nobility. It was not their place. Perhaps while they had been setting up the Miracle Court, allowances were made. Now the household was established, and they both knew not to depart from their roles.

'I meant to go and accompany Morgana,' Gwen murmured, chewing her lip and blowing a curl back from her face. 'She insisted I not trouble myself when I came here earlier today.'

'I made sure she was safe,' Merlin promised, frowning when Gwen gave him a sly, worried look. 'What?'

'You should be careful. I heard whispers in the laundry rooms.'

'What sort of whispers?'

Gwen sighed, her fingers twisting in the cloth of her skirt before she turned to face him. She folded her arms across her chest, and Merlin shifted forward. It was unlike her to look quite so worried, and when she spoke again it was in little more than a soft hiss, as if she didn't want her words to reach unkind ears.

'About you and the Lady Morgana. You've been seen in her company more than once. Alone. I don't just mean escorting her through the streets, either.' She reached out, her hand resting on the back of his arm. 'Merlin, you must be careful. You know how rumour is. There doesn't need to be any truth to it, and if Uther hears so much as a hint of impropriety...'

'I know.' He sighed, swallowing his excuses. Gwen wasn't the one who needed to hear them. Besides, she was right. Walking through the corridors with Morgana was one thing – and even then, she should be chaperoned – but sharing soft conversation on the stairs to Gaius' healing rooms was another. Perhaps nobody had seen them, but in Camelot, even the shadows had eyes. 'You won't get in trouble, will you?'

'No, but you might.' She reached out, straightening the collar of his jacket before offering him a smile. 'I just worry, that's all.'

Merlin wished there was something he could say to ease her concern. Worse, it wasn't as if Gwen was aware of the huge secret he carried with him every day: the death sentence waiting to happen. Her focus was on the machinations of court. They both knew all too well how easy it could be for a servant to fall victim to it. They had little in the way of rights or protections, and when it came down to it, their word was worth nothing to the king.

More to the point, there were very few nobles in Camelot who would trouble themselves with the plight of the serving class. They were meant to fend for themselves and pray they never fell under any sort of suspicion.

It made him think of Morgana's story– how Arthur showed he cared by seeking to let others stand on their own two feet. Perhaps he had the right idea in trying to build up Merlin's strength. Not just that of his body, but that of his character as well. Camelot's court was a bear pit even when things were normal. Now, with the king and prince at odds, it was thrice as treacherous.

And Arthur, in his own way, was preparing Merlin for whatever he may face as a result.

'I'll be more careful,' he promised, thinking of Uther the last time he had stood before him. There had been a harsh edge in those eyes, and when Merlin had turned to go, that voice had offered its warning: low and cold.

"If I find out you have been deceiving me, I will make sure you live to regret it."

Merlin had stammered something in response before making his escape, his body trembling. It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how ruthless Uther could be. Here, in the Miracle Court, he felt safe amidst friends that he trusted. Camelot as a whole was far more suspicious and far less forgiving.

'Ready!'

The call of the cook had him moving without thought, picking up trays and following Gwen up the stairs. They met Gwaine and Lancelot half-way, who both promised to aid them in the fetching and carrying.

'Don't eat it all before you get to the table,' Merlin called out, laughing as Gwaine pressed a hand to his heart as if stricken. 'Save some for the rest of us.'

'Can't make any promises, friend.'

Between the four of them, they made short work of it, and dinner was a noisy, graceless affair. They all sat at the round table, and it didn't slip Merlin's notice that they had each chosen a distinct seat of their own. It had taken time. Gwaine had shifted around twice before seeming to find the best spot, and Lancelot and Gwen had drifted together, but through Merlin's eyes, at least, they were where they belonged.

Arthur and Morgana had claimed their space and never moved from it. They sat on opposite sides, facing each other: held in balance. Mordred perched at Morgana's left, talking happily. The others had asked the druid boy, when he first joined them, if he could read the writing on the table. His denial had been both honest and surprising. Morgana showed no signs of recognition either, which made Merlin wonder why he and he alone could comprehend the meaning of the runes emblazoned in the wood.

Each one was more than just a word: they carried undertones and subtleties. Sometimes it felt like every time he looked at them, he saw a little more of their meaning. That was why, out of everyone, he had been more flighty in where he sat. He knew where he belonged: his body ached with it, but to take his seat there felt too much like a confession. Now, after a long day, he only had the strength for surrender.

Arthur didn't even blink when he sank down at his left hand. He merely shifted to make a bit more space and shoved three huge pieces of pheasant on his plate. 'Eat that, then have two more.'

'I'll be sick!'

'No, you won't. That harness won't help you get any stronger if you don't eat enough, and you can't afford to get any skinnier.'

'He's right,' Gwaine toasted Merlin with his flagon of mead. He sat to Mordred's left, setting his cup down on a rune that read "strength". At first glance, Merlin had thought it meant physical force and wondered at it. After all, Gwaine was a good knight, but he was no stronger than the rest of them. Yet it did not take him long to realise there was more to it than that. There was a flavour of devotion and an edge of daring heroism which seemed to fit the man perfectly. 'Eat your fill and then a bit more. Maybe in a month or two you'll look less like a strong wind might snap you in half.'

'I look fine,' Merlin grumbled, trying not to think of how often his mum had bemoaned his skinniness, even while they struggled to scratch together enough food to live. The memory of those hungry years made him reach for his fork as the conversation ebbed and flowed around him.

Lancelot and Gwen were talking among themselves: a shy back-and-forth that gained warmth with every moment. From what he could make out, they were speaking about Tom's forge. Lancelot listened, rapt, to Gwen's explanation of how she helped her father at the anvil. It was good, watching how she lit up at the attention, and even better was Lancelot's genuine interest. Merlin's romantic heart gave a happy surge to see two of his friends building something between them. It was soft and fragile yet, but he hoped it would grow in time.

Gwaine laughed at something Mordred said, while Leon and Arthur were sharing their thoughts on training that day. They would never admit it, but they were fretting over Pellinor's knee, which he had injured during a riding accident in the summer. Now, the cold caused the ache to rise up anew, and Merlin made a mental note to ask Gaius about it. Chances were Pellinor wouldn't go to the old healer voluntarily, but perhaps there was an elixir that would ease his discomfort.

It wasn't until all the plates were cleared that Arthur sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the pewter handle of his tankard in idle thought. All around the table, people leaned in, ever face intent as they waited for him to speak. There wasn't a soul among them who did not realise something had been amiss with Arthur since Colm's visit. Even Mordred looked hungry for news. Merlin was the only one who had any clue about it. Perhaps, between them, they could help Arthur find his way once more.

'I suspect many of you have questions.' Grim amusement coloured Arthur's tone, as if he knew they had all noticed and worried over his moods. 'I wish I had more than a sparse few answers to give you. If I'm honest, I've learned something that troubles me greatly, and I do not know how to proceed.'

'Something to do with Sir Colm's visit.' Leon stated it as fact, an anchor on which the rest of them could rely. In front of him, the rune for "duty" gleamed in the candlelight. Merlin's gaze traced its shape, feeling how it hummed against his magic, whispering to him of confidence and certainty. Leon had been raised in Camelot; he knew his place. Yet his oaths to the kingdom were not a chore. They were part of his character, making him steadfast and reliable to the man he deemed deserving of his loyalty. 'I noticed that you have been out of sorts since his departure.'

Arthur shifted, reaching into a pouch on his belt and pulling free a letter. He handed it over to Leon to read, talking all the while.

'We found Osgar dead after the raid at Bridgend. Whether he had taken part in the fight, I cannot be sure. I only know that he was ordered to infiltrate the bandits and send information back to Camelot. By my father's command.'

'Uther?' Surprise lay thick in Morgana's voice. 'That makes no sense. Why would he command a failed knight to play at spy?'

'I have no idea. He has people trained in espionage. I cannot be sure why he chose Osgar, and it puts into question how much my father may know about what was happening at Bridgend. Did he send me and a paltry patrol out to check when Osgar did not report back, or was he acting on some unknown information?' Arthur shook his head, taking a gulp of his drink before setting it down again. 'Was he already aware of Caludahn and the rogues who made it their home? I feel there is more to all this than I first believed, and I do not like the notion that he withheld the truth from me.'

'Much like you kept secrets from him.' Gwaine gave an apologetic shrug. 'You kept your mouth shut about which fort they were in, and the black powder. You mentioned nothing of that bastard Rýne.'

'For good reason. I considered confronting him over Osgar, but...' Arthur trailed off, propping his chin on his hand. The ring on his index finger gleamed in the candlelight. 'I do not think he would offer me the truth.'

Leon's chair creaked as he shifted, passing the note to Gwaine with barely a second thought. Morgana leant in, her green eyes sharp as she read over his shoulder, her frown deepening with every moment.

'Are we sure it was Uther who issued the command? The letter is written by Hoel. It does not bear the king's signature. Could Hoel have given the order, acting without your father's knowledge?'

'I suppose there's no way to be certain. Colm said Osgar went to Uther asking to be of aid to Camelot, and this is the result, but it is possible that Osgar never spoke with my father. However, if I ask Hoel...'

'No, that will not go well.' Lancelot propped one elbow on the table, his brow furrowed in thought. 'If he was obeying Uther's orders, he will no doubt report your questions to the king. It could worsen already noticeable tensions. If he acted alone, it would tip him off that we are aware of that fact and may make him act rashly.'

'When did Osgar leave Camelot?' Gwen arranged her cutlery more neatly upon her plate. When they had first started meeting like this, she had been hesitant to speak up. Now it warmed Merlin's heart to see her readily joining in their musings. 'How long has this been going on? Did he have time to report anything back before he met his fate?'

'We've been assuming he took that wound to the gut at Bridgend, but it could have been that the bandits knew they had a traitor in their midst. They may have been toying with him even as he tried to ingratiate himself.' Leon shrugged. 'Osgar was eager, sure enough, but he was an earnest, honourable sort. I do not see him taking to spy work with ease. Logically, it makes little sense to use an amateur.'

'Unless whoever gave the order did not want any record of it.' Merlin squinted, staring more at his own thoughts than anything in the room around him. 'If Uther used a proper spy, he would have to tell the spymaster. Worse, if they were discovered in Mercian territory –'

'It could inflame the already hostile situation.' Leon nodded along. 'He makes a good point, Sire. If your father ordered this, the choice of Osgar may have been for plausible deniability with Bayard. He could say Osgar acted alone – that he'd genuinely gone to join with the bandits. If it was Hoel, then it's far easier to trick an eager, would-be knight into "helping" than it is to try and use one of the proper spies. The risk of discovery would be too great.'

'So the real question is: did your father really order Osgar off to Caludahn, or was it his manservant working alone?' Morgana mused.

'And how do I even begin to find that answer?' Arthur ran his hand back through his hair, looking up at the ceiling as if praying for enlightenment. 'I cannot sit around and wait for the next calamity to befall Camelot. Not if I can prevent it, but I can see neither the shape nor size of what awaits us. Nor am I sure who is involved. I only fear that something is coming – something we may be ill-prepared to fight.'

Merlin met Gwen's eye over the table, wondering if she was thinking along the same lines as him. To the nobles, servants were practically interchangeable; most of them treated the help like part of the furniture. They forgot they were their own people, with rich lives and plentiful secrets. Hoel was an arrogant man of late middle-age, prone to flashy clothes and a sneering attitude. He also ranked highest of everyone, being manservant to the king. Perhaps if he were more pleasant, he would be better liked, but that was not the case. There were plenty among the staff who would be happy to bring him down a peg or two.

'I could search Hoel's rooms –'

'No.' Arthur's refusal was blunt and almost instantaneous. He scrubbed a hand down his face... 'You're already too much of a target. Perhaps another servant – one who isn't associated with the Miracle Court.'

'And how do you know you would be able to trust them?' Merlin demanded. 'Half of them hate Hoel, true enough, but they're also scared of him. Besides, most of the chambermaids can't read. They won't know what they're looking at even if it was staring them in the face.'

It was a good point. Most of Camelot's lower servants weren't taught their letters. He and Gwen were unlikely exceptions.

'If you get caught...' Gwen raised both her eyebrows, speaking volumes without uttering a word. She didn't need to. It would not end well for Merlin. Hoel had the ear of the king: his accusation would carry weight.

'The chances are good that he'll just think I'm stealing. The fact that Uther knows I'm not getting paid might back that up. Besides –' He carried on before anyone could point out that a servant accused of theft was still in a world of trouble. '– If he is up to something and he catches me, he won't report it. He won't want to draw attention to himself. Not if he's trying to hide what he's up to from the king.'

Doubt wrote itself on every face around the table. Even Mordred looked pale at the possibilities. Gwaine drummed his fingers in a rapid tattoo, the spark of mischief in his gaze notably diminished. 'I'd say someone of rank should do the rummaging, since that'd at least protect them from what came after, but I'm guessing that's out of the question?'

Arthur sighed. 'If I didn't care about keeping my suspicions quiet, I could conduct an official raid on Hoel's rooms, but I would rather this didn't get back to my father. Discretion is the best course, and Merlin is right. A servant raises fewer eyebrows.'

'I'll do it.' Gwen raised her hand awkwardly, pursing her lips tight, but there was a vein of iron in her spine that Merlin had long ago learned to respect. 'Hoel likes me better than Merlin, since I've never actually insulted him to his face. Besides, I sometimes help out the chambermaids with changing the bedsheets. If I'm discovered, it won't be so bad.'

'Are you sure, Gwen? I don't want you getting hurt.' Morgana's hands were white knuckled around the edge of the table.

'Why don't you both go?' Lancelot looked at Merlin, his shoulders shifting in a shrug. 'The two of you carrying out chores won't raise many eyebrows, and you'll have each other as backup. No knight works alone. I don't see why it should be any different for you.'

'Lancelot is right.' Leon leaned forward, his chair creaking softly. 'If nothing else, it would do you well to have someone standing watch. Perhaps there's a way we can make discovery less likely? A distraction? What is likely to catch Hoel's attention?'

Merlin considered the vain, spiteful man, and the answer was obvious. Gwen clearly had the same thought, because they spoke at the same time. 'Trouble in the laundry room.'

Gwen grinned at him, and though she still looked nervous, a glow of intrigue sparkled in her eyes. She continued in a hurry. 'Hoel fusses over his own clothes almost as much as those of the king. Most of his wages go on fine garments. The laundresses hate it.'

'All we need is a bit of an accident.' Merlin nodded. 'I'll see what favours I can call in. They like me down there. They'll help, and they probably won't ask any questions.'

'My father is holding a feast at the week's end,' Arthur added slowly. 'Mistakes happen in a busy room, especially when half the court is clamouring for clean finery.' He drew in a deep breath, his scowl making it clear he did not like the plan but could not think of a better alternative. 'All right. We find out how Hoel is involved in all this, and we go from there. But listen to me, both of you. At the first sign of trouble, get out. Don't linger. Do not take any risks.'

Merlin met Gwen's eyes across the table, knowing they were of the same mind. One way or the other, they would find the answers Arthur needed.

Chapter Text

Waiting was the bane of any knight's existence. It grated against Arthur's nerves: the helpless passivity. How many times had he prowled through a battlefield campground, impatient for the moment when his blade would be raised in defence of the realm? He was used to being front and centre, not relegated to the sidelines while others did the hard work.

Merlin and Guinevere had set their plan into motion not long after the noonday bell. Feast days were already frantic, full of the bustle of hundreds of staff trying to appease their king and his whims. The kitchens would be like a kicked beehive, and no doubt the laundry would be no better.

It was tempting to hang around the castle and ensure all went smoothly, but to do so would only raise the eyebrows of the court. He had spent too long distancing himself from his father. With neither a council session nor training to demand his attention, he could not afford to risk anyone looking too closely at the reason for his presence.

Instead, he left the loitering to Morgana, who had promised she would send for Arthur if anything went awry. No one would think twice of her gracefully swanning along the corridors, keeping a weather eye on their efforts. Still, he felt hopelessly out of the loop, and as the afternoon passed in steady increments, his temper only turned more foul.

'How long can it possibly take?' Arthur demanded, flapping a loose sleeve towards the window, where the day was darkening. The feast drew near, and Merlin had not materialised. Not to help Arthur with his bath, nor dress him in the ridiculous finery of the court. The latter had fallen to Leon and Gwaine, who acted as if they were cladding him in armour. They worked together to tie laces, fasten buttons and otherwise get him ready without mangling the fabric too badly.

'Don't fret, Princess.' Gwaine sighed, his fingers moving with surprising grace over tiny golden fastenings. 'Merlin knows what he's doing, and Gwen is as sharp as she is lovely. If he lands himself in trouble, she'll help him out of it.'

'I think it is safe to assume that no news is good news. Perhaps they have merely been delayed?' Leon suggested, huffing a quiet curse as he tried to make Arthur's sleeves lie flat over his tunic.

'They'll be at the feast,' Lancelot added from where he was polishing Arthur's boots. If any of the men around him minded being roped in to do Merlin's job, they made nothing of it. 'No doubt they decided to meet us there.'

'And if they don't, those of us who aren't hampered by an invitation to sit at the king's table will find out where they've gone. Me and Mordred can chase them down.' Gwaine stood back, only to start swearing when he realised that he'd missed a button at the top and had to redo the whole lot. 'By the gods. When you're king, how about making the court fashion a bit less complicated?'

'I shall make it my first decree,' Arthur said, wry. Lancelot and Leon, at least, merely had to be in their chainmail, which was polished to a shine. They looked resplendent. In comparison, he felt like a stuffed pig, trussed up for cooking. Not so long ago, he could have got away with wearing his finest armour, but those days were behind him. His father had made a point of it at council only last week. He had claimed that the kingdom was at peace, and that should be reflected in the dress of their nobility, including Arthur himself.

'Will you save me something? A dessert?' Mordred asked from where he was perched on the kitchen table, watching the farce play out in front of him.

'We shall,' Leon promised. 'Don't stay up too late, and don't let Gwaine get you into trouble.'

'Would I?' Gwaine protested, grinning to himself when no one deigned to answer.

At last, he was as ready as he would ever be. No crown adorned his brow, which was a relief. The weight of it gave him a headache. There were no foreign dignitaries to impress. The feast was for the court's own benefit: a way for Uther to reassure his lords and barons that the kingdom remained prosperous under his rule.

Instead, Arthur's wealth and power wrote itself in the cut of his clothes. He wore two rings, his mother's on his right and one Morgana had given him for his eighteenth natality on his left. An enamelled pendant gleamed at the parted collar of his tunic, and the sword on his hip was as decorative as it was functional.

Uther may have decreed that no chainmail should be worn, but no noble would go around unarmed. Not when the right to bear a weapon was a privilege and symbol of their rank.

'You'll do,' Gwaine decided with a nod before jerking his head towards the door. 'We'd best be off.'

Arthur grimaced. If it were up to him, he would far rather stay in the warmth of the Miracle Court. Yet that was not how this could go. All eyes would be on both himself and his father tonight. The nobility would be looking for any flaws between the incumbent ruler and his heir. Anything but respectful compliance would send the wrong message. So it was that they bundled themselves over the doorstep, locking up tight behind them as they set out through Camelot's narrow streets.

'Here.' He passed the key to Gwaine, who ferreted it away about his person. Since neither he nor Mordred were permitted to attend the feast, the two of them would be back to the Miracle Court before long. At least, that was what he hoped.

'If they need your help –'

'We'll be careful.' For once there was no joke in Gwaine's tone. He nodded once, like a knight accepting a command from his liege, for all that he seemed determined not to bend his knee to Arthur nor take any oaths. 'And we'll get them out of whatever hot water they've found themselves in. No funny business.' He wiggled his fingers and winked in Mordred's direction. The boy's grin was a fleet, sharp slice, but he understood the risks. None of them dared mention magic, but that particular hand gesture was a good enough indicator. Mordred knew not to use any spells, no matter the circumstances.

'If it comes to the worst, we'll drag Lancelot and Leon out of the feast,' Gwaine continued. 'They won't be the centre of attention, unlike some people.' His elbow jabbed Arthur in the ribs, and he grunted, rolling his eyes. It was getting more difficult, he realised, to feel genuine annoyance at Gwaine's blatant and deliberate disregard for his rank. What had started as something pointed and almost cruel between them had lost its sharpest edges. Now, though Arthur would never admit it out loud, he took comfort from it.

Merlin disregarded Arthur's station as unimportant. He had a tendency to treat it like a non-issue. Gwaine brought it up endlessly. These days it was a subtle reminder of Arthur's position and power: an admonition, should he need it, not to let it go to his head.

'Whatever happens, be discreet,' Leon warned. 'It is an easy matter to inadvertently make a bad situation worse by drawing too much attention.' He tweaked the thick velvet of his cloak tighter around his shoulders and adjusted his gloves, fussing with his appearance. Arthur knew better than to believe it was vanity. That was not what this was about. At a feast, everyone watched everyone else and judged them freely. It was preferable to starve the court of options rather than giving them anything more to talk about. That meant everything, from their manners to their clothes, had to be perfect.

Arthur sighed as they strode out onto the approach to the castle. Here the road was well-paved and wide enough for two carts to pass one another abreast. Braziers, no more than a score of paces apart, lit the path, and garlands of brightly coloured fabric zigzagged between the buildings. The feast was for the court, but Uther was also putting on a show for the lower classes: proof, again, of his wealth and power.

It had the desired effect. Mordred tipped his head back, fascinated as he admired the way the shadows and ribbons danced with one another: flashes of colour amidst the night's gloom. Pools of warmth surrounded each brazier, making the chill between all the more stark. It nipped at Arthur's nose and nibbled his fingers.

Each breath steamed in front of his face. He took a moment to relish it, knowing all-too-well that the feast hall would be sweltering. Between the candles, the food and the press of so many bodies, he had frequently been left dizzy and desperate for fresh air. Tonight would be no different, and he braced himself for a long evening.

Various courtiers bowed their greetings, some with scowls barely concealed by their polite masks, others with smiles that warmed Arthur's heart. He took note of names, nodding in silent farewell as Mordred and Gwaine slipped off about their own business. Lancelot and Leon walked a proper three paces behind, and Arthur tried not to notice how empty it felt at his side in Merlin's absence. It was a ridiculous fancy to have. Merlin would not have been there as a participant of the feast anyway. His job was to attend Arthur's wine cup at the table, nothing more. Here, in the mingling crowd before the meal was announced, Merlin had no place at all.

'There you are.' Morgana swept towards him, the beads on her gown glistening in the candlelight. She looked ethereal, and Arthur did not miss the wistful looks from the men of the court, young and old alike. Her eyes sparkled, and the expression on her face was one he knew well. Morgana's courtly facade was different from his own. She wielded emotion like a blade, encouraging others to join her in her revelry. She did not rest her hand upon his forearm – to do so would only invite the gossip – but she angled her body just so, tilting her head and giving him a coy look through her eyelashes.

'Don't react, but there was a problem.'

It took all of his self-control not to tense his shoulders or suck in a breath. Instead, he counted to three, focusing on the glitter of the beads on her shoulder as he fortified his composure. 'Is everyone all right?'

'Of course. It was an inconvenience more than anything.' Morgana's smile broadened, her eyes creasing as if he had told a marvellous joke. 'Uther and Hoel were ensconced in the king's chambers and could not be prised away. As Hoel occupies the antechamber...'

It was easy to relax, to move his body just so, angled more towards her to show a level of private conversation without suggesting any deeper intimacies. This was a dance they both knew well. They had been going through the steps since Arthur's fourteenth summer. 'So Guinevere and Merlin could not act.'

'Not until I was already on my way downstairs. George will attend you at the feast. Esta will look after me. Don't fuss. They should rejoin us before the meal ends. You know how Uther enjoys the festivities until the small hours. If anyone asks, Gaius required their help with an emergency situation. He has agreed to cover for us and seemed quite grateful of an excuse not to attend.'

Arthur nodded once in comprehension, already putting together how, precisely, he would be expected to react. Uther was unlikely to notice who served Morgana, but Merlin had a way of making his presence known. Especially now that he was acting as Uther's so-called spy. Arthur would need to be disgruntled: inconvenienced. There had to be the implication that none of this was planned and that Merlin would be punished, even if his absence had good reason. Anything else suggested a level of favour that Uther would pounce upon.

'Gwaine and Mordred will be around keeping an eye on things.'

Morgana's eyebrow twitched upwards at that. 'You trust them?'

'Gwaine knows how to play the games of court, and Mordred's company means the guards are less likely to view him with suspicion. They'll do what they can as needed. It's the best I could manage. The rest of us are expected here.'

'It's killing you, isn't it?' Now Morgana's grin lost its false sheen, becoming something more wicked and sincere, as if she enjoyed watching him squirm. 'Standing back and letting others take the lead?'

Arthur tightened his jaw, saying nothing. He didn't have to. She knew him too well.

'It's how a good king rules.' Morgana's words were little more than a whisper. 'He knows how to make use of people's skills, unique as they may be. He respects their talents and puts them to work.' She reached out, just once: a touch to the back of his knuckles. 'And he worries, too. For whatever it is worth, I'm proud of you, Arthur, for trusting them with this.'

She mentioned no names – to do so would be too dangerous – and her fingertips vanished as quickly as they had alighted upon his hand. With one final smile, she swept away to mingle with the crowd, leaving him to do the same.

It was tempting to do it by rote: to greet guests politely and hear nothing of their concerns, but Arthur had vowed he would be better than that. Perhaps Morgana was right: a good king worried about his people, but he also knew how to rise above it. Whatever happened tonight was in Merlin and Guinevere's hands. There was nothing he could do to help them, not yet. Instead, he had a role to play, and he gave it his all.

Some courtiers offered no more than quick bows and banal small talk, their eyes sharp upon him. It felt as if he were being weighed and measured, but it seemed he passed their assessment. Others were far more welcoming, drawing him into conversation and seeking his opinion.

In turn, he listened, hearing everything they said and much that remained unspoken. He noted who disapproved of his move from the castle and who appeared enthusiastic to see him striking out on his own. The men with lands bemoaned the cost of keeping knights and guards, while the women, for once, joined him in eager talk of managing a household.

'Good staff are worth their weight in gold,' Lady Moreswell promised him, her smile bright and genuine. She was one of the younger ladies of the nobility, perhaps ten years Arthur's senior, with four children that he knew of and a husband who doted upon her. 'I remember when I took up residence in Fardale, before we were invited to court. The place was practically a ruin. I do not envy you, Your Highness.'

'Thank you, Lady Moreswell. It was certainly an eye-opening experience.' He could well believe she understood the troubles of reinvigorating a dying property. Fardale was her husband's estate, inherited upon the sudden death of his spendthrift father. According to his sources, it had been almost derelict, the land and buildings both. 'It must have taken a great deal of work to get Fardale back on its feet. I'm fortunate that my mother's house was in such a good state of repair, despite being left empty for years. Beyond a thorough clean, it was not in need of renovation.'

'That is a blessing indeed. It is wonderful to see it brought back to life, Your Highness. I always thought it looked beautiful. I can see the roof from the window of my father's townhouse.' Her brown eyes narrowed as she dropped her voice, conspiratorial. 'There was something about it... I'm not one for flights of fancy, but it always seemed like such a kind place. I hope you are happy there?'

'I am,' he smiled, content to speak honestly. He said not a word of his father, but brought up the one subject that all the court would accept without question. 'It allows me to feel, in some small way, closer to my mother.'

Lady Moreswell's smile held a hint of something knowing, as if she heard everything Arthur did not say. Thankfully, she knew better than the press him further, and before long the chime of the bell announced the start of the feast.

Immediately, the ambling crowd found some direction, and Arthur allowed himself to be guided towards the king's table. He offered a nod to both Leon and Lancelot, who would take their seats among the knights. Whether he liked it or not, he was on his own. He and Morgana usually sat either side of the king. In their youth, it had been to prevent arguments. Now it meant that there could be no confiding in one another. Instead, they would both exist in isolation as the evening's food and entertainment wore on.

'Arthur, there you are.'

'Father.' He bowed, noting how Uther's performance was as good as his own. To look at him, his hand resting companionably on Arthur's shoulder, nobody in court would imagine the rifts that had opened between them. Resplendent in black and crimson, Uther looked every inch the martial king, his sword as polished as his crown. A smile curved his lips and crinkled his eyes, but Arthur saw the stiffness of it: how it was anger, not admiration, that formed its foundation.

'Sit. Enjoy yourself. I see you have replaced that boy of yours.'

Arthur glanced at George, offering a cool, disapproving frown that he hoped the man would not take to heart. 'That was not my intention. I was expecting Merlin to serve me tonight.'

George's bow was immaculate. He could have taught Leon a thing or two. Especially as he performed it while holding a wine jug and spilled not a drop. 'Forgive me, Your Majesty. Your Highness. Gaius has asked to borrow both Merlin and Guinevere for assistance with a medical emergency. They hope to attend you later in the evening, as soon as they are able.'

'I had heard nothing from Gaius.' Uther's frown was a tiny wrinkle in his brow, but he shook it away with a dismissive hand. 'Never mind. Perhaps you will get through tonight without a ruined tunic, Arthur.'

'Perhaps.'

He settled in his chair, idly wondering if George had any true inkling of what was going on, or if he had bought into the lie about Gaius needing help. Either option was possible. The servants were a cagey, cunning lot when they had the mind to be, and despite everything, Merlin had made friends among their ranks.

Arthur watched George as best he could out of the corner of his eye, though there was little remarkable to see. He was dressed in good clothes, sombre and clean, and his face was a blank mask of servility. He behaved exactly as a servant should at a feast. There were no whispered asides or shared jokes, and Arthur tried not to scowl down at his dinner plate.

The high table was populated with his father's favourites, and with the king to his left and Lord Willington to his right, the conversation circled around nothing more riveting than taxes and horses. The latter was more benign than the former, and Arthur did his best to feign interest as his heart hammered beneath his ribs.

There were acrobats between the first and second course, not that he paid them much mind. He watched without seeing and applauded in the right places. A bard charmed them with his ballads, and all the while Arthur waited for Merlin's return. His only comfort was that Hoel attended the king. He bobbed in and out of Arthur's vision, anticipating Uther's every need. He did look a bit more flushed than usual, and Arthur did not miss the button on one cuff was done up incorrectly. For Hoel, that was like stepping out of his chambers naked.

It made him wonder precisely what had come to pass, and how much chaos Merlin had sown in his efforts to wheedle the man out of his rooms.

A glimpse of a pale blue dress announced Guinevere's arrival. Arthur's neck hurt with the effort not to turn and watch her as she no doubt relieved Esta of the wine jug and took her place behind Morgana, murmuring her apologies. Yet still George did not move, and of Merlin there was no sign.

From his vantage point, he could make out Lancelot and Leon. They were speaking with the knights, ensconced in the middle of a dozen or so good men who had shown themselves far more open to Arthur's way of doing things. The division amongst them: Arthur's men and Uther's, was subtle yet, but he could see it well enough. However, that was not his concern. He was focussed on how Lancelot's gaze skimmed the room, apparently easy and indifferent. Now and then, Leon would turn to ask a servant for more wine, taking a look at the door as he did so.

Still Merlin did not emerge.

Gods, this was unbearable!

He drank deep from his cup, hoping his courage would be lingering at the bottom. He tried to tell himself that Merlin was simply forgetful, prone to wandering off after butterflies and such. It was possible he had decided to check in with Gaius before returning to the feast. There could be an entirely innocent reason for the delay, and yet he could not stop imagining a hundred dire scenarios, each one worse than the last.

Finally, after he had drunk another half-cup of wine and gnawed his way through an inadvisable amount of grouse, he heard Merlin's familiar voice nearby, a touch breathless, but welcome all the same.

'Thanks, George.'

'Is everything all right?' There were layers to George's question, hints of knowledge and subterfuge all wrapped up in careful, courtly ways. It made him realise anew that, despite all his distraction with political matters of the kingdom, life below stairs was just as fraught. Merlin and Guinevere were bridges between both worlds by dint of their positions, and he carefully hid any trace of curiosity from his expression when he heard Merlin's reply.

'It's dealt with.'

George's soft sigh of relief was like a breeze passing through the treetops, and Arthur cast them a sideways look, seeing them clasp arms in brief thanks before George drifted away. He waited no more than a heartbeat or two, letting Merlin get a grip on the wine jug before he drawled, 'So you decided to show up at last?'

It was too quiet to disturb the festivities, but loud enough to reach his father's ear.

'Forgive me, Sire,' Merlin replied. 'Gaius had need of me.'

'You are my servant. I should take priority, regardless of what is happening in the healing rooms.' Arthur raised one eyebrow, deliberately prattish, knowing Merlin would understand it was all a lie for Uther's benefit. 'Don't do it again.'

'Of course, Sire.' Merlin leant closer on the pretence of filling his cup, and Arthur held his breath. Yet it seemed he had learned something of discretion in his time at Camelot, because he merely whispered one word before stepping back.

'Later.'

Arthur fiddled with his goblet, resolving not to drink any more. He knew Merlin by now. Perhaps he could not pinpoint when they had begun living in each other's pockets, but he could read him well enough. He did not even have to look at him to feel the tension in that lithe body. He could hear the faint stagger in his breathing as he regained his composure. He looked down the table at Morgana, using her presence as an excuse to take in Guinevere's appearance: the way her lips were pursed and her smiles were false.

He did not know what they had found. He only knew they had discovered something.

The rest of the feast was interminable. It was as if time had slowed to a crawl. All around, the revelry continued, voices growing louder the more wine was consumed. There were dancers and musicians, but Arthur had not a care for any of them.

At last, long after the midnight bell was struck, Uther rose to his feet, thanking everyone in the great hall for their attendance and bringing the celebration to an easy end with his own departure. In his wake, the structured seating fell apart, with friends rising from their chairs to talk and laugh with each other, finishing off the wine as the servants faced another night of tidying up.

'Back to the Miracle Court,' Arthur ordered, grabbing Merlin's wrist as he reached for his plate. 'You're on my pay, not Uther's. You don't have to help clear the tables.'

'You're just saying that because you want to know what happened.'

'For once, Merlin, you're right.'

'My lady, I will explain everything as I assist you in getting ready for bed,' Guinevere promised, her gaze solemn and her voice like a vow. 'We should get to your chambers.' She stepped back as Morgana rose from her chair. Yet before they departed, he noticed how Merlin and Guinevere exchanged a loaded look, as if they were having an argument without a single word being uttered. He couldn't be sure who won. Perhaps it was a battle with no victors, because Merlin sighed and shook his head, watching the two women go with a frown upon his brow.

Arthur twitched where he stood, his frantic curiosity practically eating him alive. He wanted to grab Merlin's shoulders and shake him until all his secrets fell out. Instead, he had to settle for swift, sideways glances, trying to read the nuances of his expression as they marched out of the castle and down the streets towards home.

Leon and Lancelot followed, speaking of whatever crossed their minds: gossip of the court and compliments for the feast. It washed over Arthur like a tide, a comforting background noise as his stride ate up the cobblestones.

The warm glow of the lamps welcomed them as they marched through the main gate and into the courtyard. Arthur could hear the quiet snort and snuffle of the horses in their stable, and the freshwater fountain added its trickling laughter to the night. It was idyllic, but he had no time to appreciate it. His curiosity was like a ravening beast inside him, and only Merlin's answers would offer any satisfaction.

'About time,' Gwaine greeted them when they crossed the threshold. He sat at the kitchen table, flicking coins into a cup with the indifferent air of a man used to entertaining himself. 'Mordred's in bed, though he argued against it. Eat something.' That was to Merlin, and he flicked his hand meaningfully towards where a small cauldron warmed by the fire. 'Imera left it for those of us not lucky enough to stuff ourselves fat at the king's feast. No doubt you've not had a crumb.'

Merlin made a beeline for it, doling out a generous helping into a bowl. 'We should talk upstairs. We don't want anyone overhearing this.'

Arthur's stomach sank like a stone, and he scrubbed at his face, wishing he'd had a little less wine at dinner. He at least remembered to keep his footfalls light when he climbed the stairs, so as not to disturb Mordred. No doubt the boy would be irate to have missed Merlin's report, but Arthur promised himself he would fill him in come morning. Him and Morgana both. Besides, he would like to hear what Guinevere had to say on the matter. It was not that he did not trust Merlin, quite the opposite, but two pairs of eyes were better than one. He wondered what she had noticed that might have slipped beneath Merlin's attention.

Merlin's bowl scraped on the round table as he set it down, but he did not take his seat. Instead, he gripped the back, scowling at nothing in particular as he waited for the others to settle. Even long after they'd found their ease, he continued in his silence, chewing his lip in that way that meant he was anxious and trying to plot the best route forward.

'Well?' Arthur said at last, his patience expired. He spread his hands and raised his eyebrows, watching how Merlin's eyes flickered towards the closed door. He blew out a breath and scratched the end of his nose before finally folding his arms over his chest.

'You're not going to like it,' he muttered.

'We don't have to like it,' Lancelot said softly. 'We just need to know the facts.'

Merlin ducked his head, dropping his gaze to the floor as one, simple sentence eked its way free of him.

'Hoel is using magic.'

Chapter Text

It felt like a betrayal, uttering those words, as if he were handing someone undeserving over to the king's justice. It did not matter that Hoel was high on Merlin's list of least favourite people in Camelot; he still would not wish to condemn anyone to the axe or pyre, yet nor could he hide the truth.

He expected cries of outrage and condemnation – for Arthur to leap to his feet and charge back towards the castle, keen to oust the interloper. However, what followed in the wake of his revelation was merely a bottomless sort of silence.

Merlin raised his head, looking around at the four men, each of whom appeared to be turning his words over in their minds. Gwaine's lounging sprawl was all an act, belied by the depth of his scowl. Lancelot had his palms pressed to the table, his fingers splayed as if he didn't know what to do with himself. Leon removed his cloak with a quick tug upon its clasp, leaning forward like a man about to do battle. Yet it was Arthur who stared straight at him, his eyes all unreadable, glittering intensity.

'I think you need to start at the beginning.'

Merlin huffed. He supposed he should be grateful that there wasn't a soul among them who was leaping into action, haring off to be the hero. They all had the sense, at least, to arm themselves with information.

'Have some dinner while you tell us,' Lancelot urged, kicking out the chair Merlin favoured. 'You can eat and talk at the same time.'

Grudgingly, he did as he was bid, gobbling down a mouthful of stew to appease his groaning belly before he began to explain.

'Once we finally got into the rooms, we went straight to Hoel's chamber. Gwen and I rummaged through everything. We were looking for papers, letters, books... anything that could tell us what he might be planning.' He shook his head. 'There was nothing. Not a scrap. Hoel is freakishly tidy and, as far as I can make out, he spends all of his wages on clothes.' He bit his lip, fiddling with his fork. 'So, when we didn't find anything in his rooms, we thought we'd poke around in the king's chambers. After all, if Hoel wasn't behind whatever happened to Osgar, then your father must have given the order.'

He risked a glance in Arthur's direction, wincing to see the look of glassy horror in his eyes. He'd curled his hand in front of his mouth as if trying to stem his cries of protest.

'If you had been discovered...' he croaked.

'We weren't. Nobody will know we were there.' That, at least, Merlin could promise. It hadn't been easy, putting up a ward without Gwen noticing, but he'd managed it. No one, not even a rat, had stumbled across their illicit operation.

'You were to search Hoel's rooms, not my father's possessions.'

'Did you find anything amongst Uther's things?' Gwaine leaned forward, hungry, only to sag back as Merlin shook his head.

'At least, nothing about Osgar. Gwen and I did come across something: an envelope with Morgana's name on it. It wasn't written in the king's hand, nor Hoel's.' He cast a wry look in Arthur's direction. 'It was buried at the bottom of a drawer in Uther's desk. It hadn't been touched in years.'

'Did you read it?'

'No. Gwen took it, though. I couldn't talk her out of it. I think she intends to show it to Morgana.'

Arthur grunted, rubbing a hand over his eyes before dropping it down to the tabletop. 'That's a problem for tomorrow. So far, you've told me that you searched both Hoel's chambers and my father's and found nothing of note. So how do you know that Hoel's a sorcerer?'

Merlin chewed another mouthful of stew, swallowing hard. 'I never said that. I said he was using magic. I don't think he has any ability himself, but...' He set down his cutlery, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. 'Look, Gwen and I searched everywhere, but we were looking for the wrong thing. I thought I'd check the wardrobe one more time. You could hide half a kingdom in amongst all those tunics. I didn't find any damning letters, but I did come across something bundled up in cloth: a crystal ball.'

He could not tell Arthur how he had heard its hum in the back of his head, nor how the magic had swirled within the glass confines like a whirlpool. Instead, he had to make it sound as if it was an accident of chance.

'So, what? He's a fortune teller?' Gwaine asked. 'I've seen 'em before, set up in taverns. Witches promising to tell your future. Not in Camelot of course. There didn't seem to be much magical about them, if you ask me. They never got it right.'

'No. I mean, crystal balls are sometimes used for scrying, but that's not the point. This wasn't showing the future. When we touched it, it became like a window onto another room. I think that while Hoel's not a sorcerer, he's maybe working with one. What I saw looked very similar to where we found Mordred in Caludahn.'

'And you didn't find any written instructions, because you believe Hoel is speaking with this magical accomplice through a crystal ball, rather than sending messages.' Leon bobbed his head in a nod, his face pale. 'To be able to communicate instantly with someone at a distance? That's a powerful advantage.'

'So you do not think Hoel is wielding the magic himself. He's simply using tools imbued with it?'

Merlin nodded, scraping up the remnants of his stew. 'It probably works both ways. Whoever has the matching orb would be able to see Hoel, as well. We were lucky there was no one waiting on the other end.' He remembered the layout of the room, the gloom lit by candles and flames flickering in the fireplace. The glimmer of glass vessels like an alchemist's workshop.

It had been Gwen who had ripped the cloth from Merlin's hands, bundling the orb back into its cocoon before stuffing it in the wardrobe. He still recalled the sallow cast to her dark skin, horror making her ill. Merlin couldn't be sure if it was the magic itself or the surprise of finding it in such close proximity to the king.

'It seems to me we went in search of answers,' Lancelot began, 'and instead found more questions. Who is Hoel's accomplice and what are they planning? If Hoel has no power of his own, then his sorcerer friend must have given him the crystal ball. How did they meet and arrange their allegiance?'

'How has he managed to hide it from the king,' Leon continued, 'and what do we do about it?'

Merlin winced as Arthur seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders rounding beneath the burden of this new knowledge. Despite his youth, age stamped its lines onto his face, the brightness of his eyes losing its focus.

'It'd be easy enough to implicate Hoel. We tell Uther we've heard a rumour; he'll order a search. We'll know what we're looking for. We could have him in chains within a candle-mark,' Gwaine pointed out.

'"We?"' Leon sounded fond, a faint grin tilting his lips as Gwaine shrugged. A moment later, it vanished, ebbing beneath the weight of possibilities before them. 'It is a dangerous thing, in Camelot, to begin a witch-hunt. There is no telling where it could end, and we have plenty to hide.'

'He is right.' Arthur seemed to collect the scattered parts of himself, drawing them together like plate armour to clad his frame. 'I may not know what Hoel is doing, but I know my father. To have someone making use of sorcery in his inner circle? It would tip him into paranoia. He would not stop with Hoel. He would search the entire castle and beyond, and who knows how many innocents would be caught in the sweep?'

'Besides,' Lancelot added, 'as it stands, we know Hoel is involved. We can watch him and be mindful of his activities. If we do away with him, it is unlikely to stop the sorcerer in question. He will reach out to someone else, and we will have no way of knowing who.'

'So you're saying let Hoel carry on in the hopes he leads us to a bigger fish?' Gwaine's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. 'Is that wise?'

Merlin fiddled with his cutlery, staring unseeingly at the rune on the table in front of him. It seemed to glow in the firelight, glittering at its edges: a potent reminder of what he was. The lines were beautiful, sweeping things, guiding the eye along their curve even as they whispered their truths into Merlin's mind.

Sorcery. Power. Fortitude.

Everything would be so much easier if Arthur knew about his magic. Then he could actually explain how he had bid Gwen to go on without him. She'd been reluctant, her eyes solemn and fretful, as if she suspected he was up to no good, but there had been nothing he could say to reassure her. Not when what he was about to do would condemn him if he were caught.

It hadn't taken him long to dash to the healing rooms, reaching up into the rafters to retrieve the glass sphere hanging in the cocoon of an old net. To anyone else, it was unremarkable, but Merlin knew better. Gaius had a habit of hiding tools of sorcery in plain sight. He had offered hurried excuses to the old man, loping off before he could stop him.

He didn't know the words of the spell he needed. He only understood how he could bend the magic, blurring its edges until he had looped the new crystal ball into the power that joined Hoel's with his magical patron. Anything Hoel saw would be mirrored in the one Merlin had in his possession. He'd had to go back to the man's chambers to do it, and there had been long moments where he feared the enchantment wouldn't take, but at last, he had a way of keeping an eye on what Hoel was doing without putting anyone at risk.

The problem was, he couldn't tell Arthur about it: not unless he revealed his secret, and every time he considered letting the words spill forth from his lips, it was like the blood turned to ice in his veins. There was what he wanted to believe – that Arthur would react to him as well as he had to Mordred's nature. Then, there was what he feared. After all, there was a big difference between Arthur knowing about someone's magic from the start and discovering it after months in each other's company.

He thought of what Arthur had said about his father – how finding out someone in his inner circle was using magic would trigger a witch-hunt – and his confession dried up in his throat. He did not want to believe Arthur would act in the same way, but fear was insidious. It did not respond to logic, and so Merlin continued to hold his silence.

Now and then, he'd used Mordred's abilities to shield his own actions, letting the boy take the credit. He'd done it on the ride home from Bridgend, casting wards while hiding the gleam in his eyes, but that couldn't last forever. Mordred himself was grudging at best to claim the praise that should have been Merlin's, and there were limits. Besides, if they pretended Mordred did a certain spell and then Arthur asked him to repeat it when Merlin wasn't around, all their lies would unravel.

No, he knew time was running out. Events were stacking up against him, robbing him of all his options. It wasn't just the constant hum of the house under his skin, begging him to use and relish his magic. It was all this with Uther and Hoel, Rýne and his bandits. It felt vast and threatening, full of dangerous potential, and Merlin couldn't protect Arthur from the shadows for much longer.

You cannot protect anyone if you are dead, either.

His mother's words whispered in his head, tremulous with unshed tears. As much as holding his tongue felt like a betrayal of Arthur and his other friends, speaking of it felt as if he were letting down his mum. She had worked so hard to keep him safe, and here he was, thinking of throwing it all away on nothing more than a glimmer of hope.

Merlin took a deep breath, swallowing as his courage failed him all over again. He would have to keep an eye on the copy of the crystal ball himself. He had stashed it in Gaius' rooms for now, but he intended to move it into the Miracle Court when he had the opportunity. One day soon, maybe when there was something more to tell, he'd offer up his secret to Arthur and hope for best, but not today.

'It is beyond late,' Arthur said at last, his rings gleaming as he waved a dismissive hand. 'We could all do with some rest and time to think. Whatever Hoel is up to, he is unlikely to act before tomorrow morning. For now, get some sleep.'

'And will you take you own advice?' Lancelot asked mildly, his chair scraping the floor as he rose to his feet. 'We are not the only ones in need of our beds, Sire.'

Arthur huffed, as if he were envisaging a long, restless night ahead of him. The buttons on his jacket gleamed with every breath, and his hair shimmered in the firelight as he inclined his head. 'I shall attempt it. There's to be no training tomorrow. I suspect there will be too many sore heads after the feast to make it worthwhile. Claim what slumber you can, and we will all come at this with fresh eyes when the morning finds us.'

Gwaine, Leon and Lancelot shuffled out, murmuring quietly among themselves. That left Merlin sitting at Arthur's side, waiting. For long moments, Arthur simply sat there, staring at something only he could see. His gaze held that fixed, vacant quality of a man lost in thought, and he showed no sign of emerging any time soon.

'Sire?' Merlin reached out, resting a cautious hand on Arthur's sleeve and watching him stir himself from his musings. 'We should get to bed.'

'Of course. I should thank you. You and Guinevere both.' Arthur sighed, rising to his feet and turning towards his bedchamber. 'You did well.'

Merlin said nothing at that, waiting for Arthur to trail behind his privacy screen before assisting him with his finery. The buttons had been bullied through their holes, and he had no idea what had happened with the lacings of Arthur's sleeves. Of course, he hadn't been there to help dress him, and he suspected it was the knights who had stepped up. The fabric wasn't lying quite right across his back, and Arthur looked uncomfortably confined. It made Merlin duck his head to hide a glimmer of a smile. He had never noticed all the little tricks he had learned until confronted with someone's more amateurish efforts.

He peeled him free in steady increments, watching how each layer eased some of the burden upon Arthur's shoulders. By the time he was stripped down to his tunic, he seemed like a man more able to take on the challenges of the world, though one admittedly eager for his bed. The knights had feared he wouldn't find his sleep, but Merlin suspected the wine Arthur had consumed would help, at least initially. He was not drunk enough to be staggering around, but there was a fuzzy softness to his expression that made him look young and vulnerable.

Merlin reached out, idly flattening that blond hair. It was tousled from disrobing, leaving him looking a bit like a dandelion gone to seed. He eased the tresses back into place, his breath stalling in his chest when he realised Arthur was watching him, his gaze solemn and steady, pinched by a puzzled frown.

He snatched his hand away, clearing his throat and retreating to spread out Arthur's finery. It was habit to check for spills as he made sure the luxurious fabric was neither creased nor crushed. His ears felt hot, but he deliberately ignored the sensation. It was his job to look after Arthur, and sometimes, when he was tired, those firm boundaries had a tendency to blur. All the fondness he attempted to hide slipped out, putting itself on display. Now, he tried to pay no mind to the weight of Arthur's stare, nor the thickening silence that filled the room from one wall to the other.

'Here's your sleep tunic,' he managed, turning around to liberate it from where it warmed by the fire. He had not put it there, and he felt the faint air of satisfaction seeping from the walls of the house, as if it were content with a job well-done. Draping it carefully over the top of the screen, he breathed a sigh of relief as Arthur retreated once more, leaving Merlin with one lingering, baffled look as he changed for bed.

'You should get some rest, too,' Arthur said, his voice firm over the rustle of his remaining clothes. 'It's been a long day, and we'll need our wits about us tomorrow if we're to stand any chance of working out what to do about this situation with Hoel.'

Gratitude unfurled, warm and tender, at Arthur's words. He included Merlin without a second thought, as if he respected his input. It was a nice change from being an invisible manservant and occasional punching bag. If nothing else, perhaps all this business with the First Code had made Arthur realise that there was more to Merlin than intermittent obedience and servitude. It felt good. Brilliant, actually, to be sneaking around with Arthur's permission to do so.

'Good night, Sire.'

'Good night, Merlin.'

He slipped into the antechamber that had become his home in the Miracle Court, smiling at the fire in the grate that never went out. The candles, too, had lit themselves at some point, chasing off the shadows and casting little glowing pools across the mess of his bedcovers and the general untidiness of his existence. Now, he stumbled towards his bed, picking his way out of the weight harness and peeling off his clothes, all too eager to seek out the sanctuary of his dreams. He burrowed under his blankets and settled down with a sigh, letting his comfort ease him towards slumber.

It felt like he'd barely shut his eyes before a furious banging jolted him from sleep. He peeled open his gummy lashes, whining pathetically at the insipid dawn light seeping through the cracks around the shutters. He had hoped that no training would mean a lie in, but it seemed luck was not on his side.

It took far too long for his sticky, addled brain to realise that whoever was bashing on the door wasn't abusing his own threshold. They were in the hall beyond Arthur's chambers, and his heart sank. It was like someone had chucked a bucket of ice-water over his head. He lunged upright, banging his elbow as he struggled into his tunic and breeches before jamming his feet into his boots, leaving the buckles undone.

A thousand possibilities tangled through his mind, each more dire than the last. He lurched out of the antechamber, barely paying any mind to Arthur's sleepy groan of protest from the bed. He opened the door no wider than his shoulders, his glare fading to a frown of confusion when he saw who stood there: not Uther's guards or one of the knights in a froth of uncertainty, but Morgana, as white as a sheet.

And in her hand was a page of parchment, its surface stained by neat, black ink: the letter he and Gwen had found.

His gaze darted over Morgana's shoulder, taking in Gwen. Neither woman looked as if they had slept, and her dark eyes were huge in her face. Did she regret giving Morgana the missive? Clearly, whatever it contained was not good news.

'He's still abed, my lady.'

Morgana's breath shivered between her lips, and the sheen of tears trembled at her lashes: more of anger than grief, if Merlin had to guess. 'I need him, Merlin. Please.'

Perhaps if she had shrieked it, he might have taken his time, but he had never heard Morgana sound so lost before. She was like Arthur in many ways, too proud to ask for help. Now, it seemed she didn't have the strength for any sort of guile. She looked young, practically a girl again, rendered helpless by her own uncertainty.

'Go and wait in the study. I'll have him up and about as soon as I can.'

'I'll get some breakfast, my lady. If you will be all right on your own for a moment?' Gwen reached out, her hand lingering on Morgana's elbow as if she thought she might swoon if left to her own devices.

'Yes. Of course. That would be for the best.' Morgana shivered again, and Gwen shared a grimace with Merlin as she ushered her away, leaving him to scrub his hands through his hair with a groan.

He turned, shutting the door and stopping in surprise when he saw Arthur had propped himself up on his elbows. He looked grumpy and ruffled, but his expression fell the moment he got a look at Merlin's face.

'What is it? What's wrong?' He threw back his blankets, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. His sleep tunic had come unlaced, its collar gaping wide and threatening to slip from one shoulder. At any other time, Merlin might have taken a moment to guiltily appreciate the golden skin on display.

'If I had to guess, I'd say it's something to do with the letter Gwen and I found in the king's desk. I doubt it's anything good.'

'Wonderful.' Sarcasm dripped from Arthur's voice, and Merlin dressed him in silence, favouring warmth and comfort over appearance. A comb sorted out the haystack of Arthur's hair, and a quick splash of water on his face seemed to help him gather his wits.

'Did you at least sleep?' Merlin asked, stepping back to give him a critical once over before passing him his boots.

'Yes, thankfully, though a few more candle-marks of dreaming would not have gone amiss.'

Merlin grunted in agreement, thinking longingly of his nest of blankets. Now, the chill whittled at his bones despite the heat belting out from the grate, and he gave a pathetic little shudder as he tried to brace himself for whatever Morgana saw fit to reveal.

'Wait.' Arthur's hands on his shoulders made him hesitate, and he managed a faint sound of protest as he dragged him towards the antechamber, surveying the mess with a critical eye. 'I'm not the only one who needs to get dressed.'

'I am dressed!'

'Barely.'

Arthur smirked as he grabbed the laces of Merlin's tunic, pulling the gaping fabric closed and looping them in a neat knot. The weight harness came next, settling on his shoulders, and he grunted in sullen discomfort. He had hoped Arthur would forget about it, but so far, he'd shown no sign of letting Merlin get away without it.

'You know I can do this myself?' he asked, watching Arthur secure it before he grabbed one of Merlin's scarves and wrapped it around his neck, probably making a right mess of it. He immediately reached up and adjusted the fabric, scowling when Arthur just made a mocking, doubtful sort of noise.

'Jacket,' he ordered, picking it up and poking his finger through a hole in the shoulder seam with a frown.

'Don't do that! You'll make it worse!'

'Honestly, Merlin. You are manservant to the crown prince.'

'One who is not currently getting paid.' Merlin winced at his snide reminder. 'Besides, I like this jacket. It's comfortable.'

'It's falling to bits,' Arthur protested, standing back as Merlin shoved his arms into the sleeves and shrugged it on. 'And you will get coin soon.'

'It doesn't matter. I've got a roof over my head and food in my belly. That's all I really need.'

Arthur pulled a face, but he didn't argue as he waited for Merlin to fasten the buckles on his boots. Instead, he lingered, as if he would far rather stay here in Merlin's messy room than confront whatever awaited him in the world beyond it. At last, Merlin nudged him gently with his elbow, meeting that rueful blue gaze as he mutely held the door open.

'How bad can it be?' he offered, trying to aim for a hopeful tone despite the nerves thrashing in his belly.

'Knowing my father? Terrible. Though, I can't imagine what Morgana might have found.'

'Well, we won't know until we ask.'

Arthur managed a decisive nod, and the man that strode from Merlin's bedchamber carried all the confidence of a crown prince. All Merlin had to do was look at him to believe that he could come up with a solution to any problem, and it helped calm the anxious wobble of his nerves.

Morgana lifted her head as they entered. For once, there were no jibes upon her lips about Arthur's vanity. She still seemed lost, as if the world had been remade around her. All her strength was gone, and she looked as fragile as spun glass. It clearly made Arthur swallow whatever grumpy demands were on his lips, and he settled at her side.

'Morgana, what is it?'

She ran her pinched fingers along the fold of the parchment in her grasp, staring blankly at it as if she were having second thoughts. Yet a moment later she surrendered it to Arthur, leaning back in her chair with a broken sigh.

'Read it.'

Merlin hovered by the doorway, too far away to see what the neat handwriting said. All he could do was watch Arthur's face, his puzzled frown slowly ebbing to be replaced with something blank and frigid – not a royal mask, but an expressionless wash of confusion. He looked up at Morgana as if he were seeing her with new eyes, and her lips wobbled as she nodded, just once.

'You didn't know.'

'Of course not! I would've spoken of it to you. I – Morgana, I had no idea. I thought you were Uther's ward. That's what I've always been told.'

'And instead...' She gestured to the letter. 'It was written by my mother. I have no reason to doubt her word.' Her nostrils flared as she breathed deep, and when she spoke again, her voice had found a fragment of certainty.

'I am Uther Pendragon's daughter.'

Chapter Text

The truth was like being struck around the head with a mace. It clanged through Arthur's body, jangling along his nerves and leaving him shaken. A pulsing hum filled his ears, and he pursed his lips tight, trying to sort through the words that boiled in the back of his throat. What he said mattered, because Morgana was not to blame for the manner of her birth. The fault for his father's infidelity did not lie with her. In all this, she was a victim, more so than Arthur himself, and he would not let his own temper forget that fact.

'I'm sorry.' It seemed like a paltry offering, but he couldn't find the words for anything more. 'I very much doubt my father is unaware of your true parentage...Our father.'

Morgana let out a strangled little laugh. 'He may have sired me, Arthur, but he is not my father. That will always be Gorlois.' She bowed her head, her fingers twisting together on the tabletop and her shoulders slumped. It was unlike Morgana to make herself look so small. She sailed through court, larger than life; he hated to see her rendered so uncertain. 'You're right, of course. I'm sure Uther knew. I thought it strange he took me in after my father's death. His claim of friendship rang hollow, somehow. Now I know why.'

She pressed her hand to her face, and when she spoke again it was a whisper of a confession. 'I considered not telling you. I read it last night, when Gwen gave it to me but... You deserve the truth.'

'As do you.' Arthur leaned back, turning over the implications of their discovery. It felt as if he had broken into two people: one was a rational man, a commander of armies, tackling the problem with all the logic he could muster. The other was a boy who craved his father's approval and always found himself wanting.

That part of him burned with jealousy, unsure of his place in his father's heart. He wished it did not matter, that he could truly be indifferent to Uther's regard for him, but that boyhood need for his father's pride still lingered. Now, he looked back on how Uther had outwardly favoured Morgana and felt something sour try and curdle in the pit of his belly.

Except, no. Perhaps, to the court, she was the gleaming, beautiful ward: an ornament for Uther to show off, but in his treatment of her, he was just as controlling. He only had to look at the story of Morgana's jewels – glass and brass, rather than gems and precious metals – to see that. Uther Pendragon kept both his children on a leash, ensuring the limits of their independence. Or he had done, until all this mess with the First Code.

'What do we do?'

Arthur raised one eyebrow, surprised that Morgana was asking his advice. She had always been the kind of woman to act first and ask questions later. Her temper was a thing of legend. He was amazed she had not marched through the citadel in the middle of the night and confronted Uther with her newfound knowledge. Instead, she had bided her time and sought out his input, for whatever it was worth.

'What do you want to do?'

A brittle pop of mirth escaped Morgana's lips. For one moment, a harsh, cold mask slipped across her face, all spite, but it soon eased away. 'It's not that easy. I could lie and say that I was rummaging through his desk and found the envelope. That would prevent us having to mention Gwen or Merlin, but I know how Uther's mind works. I do not want him to use me as a weapon against you.' She shook her head and shrugged. 'Considering the rifts between you, it is not impossible that he might decide to legitimise me. He could name me, or the man he forces me to marry, as his heir. It can be done. You know it as well as I do.'

Arthur inclined his head. The thought had crossed his mind more than once. Morgana may not be his only illegitimate sibling. Uther could choose to offer validity to any one of them and name them as his successor, replacing Arthur. Yet that was a dangerous path. The court and council had to give him their support. It would be easier if Arthur had not been titled crown prince, but that didn't mean it was impossible.

'It would cast the nobility into further disarray. A year ago, I think they would have supported him in anything. Now, I'm not so sure. He has thrown away the lives of their sons, Morgana, their dynasties. Sentiment has never been more divided. My father meddling in the succession could well spark an uprising.'

'But does he know that? Does he see it, or is he too blinded by his own pride and ambition?' Morgana shook her head, and the first glimmer of strength returned to her expression. 'No, Arthur. As much as I would love to wring the truth from his own lips, I will not be used against you. Not when I've started to have hope for your rule. It would not serve us well to drag this out into the light. Not now.'

'Aren't you angry?' He could not help but speak of it. This was a young woman who had once raged so forcefully against some of Uther's decisions that half the court still flinched when she strode into the room. Except that, when her eyes met his, he could see a different sort of anger within her: forged and tempered into a weapon. Throughout all this, Morgana had aided him because she thought it was the right thing to do. Now, there was an added veneer of spite. She would do whatever she could to punish Uther, and it was Arthur who would reap the rewards of her animosity.

'I don't know what to feel. I'm exhausted, but I don't think I could sleep if I tried. I'm ashamed, because I am the proof of my own mother's broken vows, and your father's as well. I'm older than you.' She said the last of it softly, as if she thought it might have slipped his mind. 'Ygraine would still have been alive when –'

He held up a hand, not wanting to hear any more. He could not consider it, or his cool facade would crumble to pieces. He did not wish to think of his mother, struggling so desperately to bear her husband a son, while the man himself was having his fun in another woman's bed. It made him wish, almost violently, that Uther was not his father at all. There was a moment of brief, childish longing that perhaps he had been sired by a knight who claimed Ygraine's heart, but it was a useless fantasy. There was enough of his father in his own reflection to refute that.

'Can I stay here for today?'

Arthur looked up at her, forcing himself to see beyond the storm clouds of his emotions. Morgana did not need to be subject to them. There was one good thing to come from this revelation. His faith in his father may have crumbled that bit further, but at least he had gained a sister in the process.

'You are always welcome here, Morgana, and for what it's worth, whenever you are ready, I would be glad to claim you as my kin.' He meant it with all his heart, and that moment of vulnerability was a fair price to pay. Morgana's face softened. Her hand was cool against the back of his wrist, but it warmed him all the same.

'You've changed for the better, these past few months, Arthur. I like to think it's because you have had a chance to show your true character. Do not let Uther take that away.' She sniffed, blinking quickly before making her retreat. 'There is one other thing. I'd rather this did not become common knowledge. I do not want people to treat me differently, in light of what we have learned. Gwen knows, of course, and now you and Merlin. Can we keep it that way?'

Arthur gave a jolt of surprise, blinking at Merlin. He had forgotten he was even there. For once, he had behaved as a servant should, becoming little more than part of the furniture. He lingered near the door, offering the illusion of privacy, but Arthur had no doubt he'd heard every word. He was not sure whether to be outraged at Merlin's abrupt show of skill in servitude or relieved that at least he would have someone with whom he could speak openly.

'Merlin's good at keeping secrets,' he rasped. 'And so am I. We won't tell a soul until you're ready. If anyone asks, we will say you were upset about the potential consequences to Gwen of last night's escapades.' He shrugged. It was a clumsy reason, but his knights would believe it if it came from him. Or if they did not, they were unlikely to push.

'I can blame bad dreams for my appearance.' She gestured to her own pallor. 'It wouldn't be far off the truth.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin stiffen, but he paid it no mind as Morgana rose to her feet. She still looked frail, but certainty had returned a fragment of her determination. 'Gwen and I will stay here today, and Arthur?'

'Yes?'

'Thank you. This cannot be any easier for you than it is for me. I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news.'

He dredged up a smile and shook his head. 'You have nothing to apologise for. None of the blame lies with you.'

'Nor with you.' Morgana trailed out of the room, offering a faint murmur of thanks to Merlin for holding the door open for her. As soon as the hem of her gown crossed the threshold, Arthur sagged in his seat, letting out a strained breath and tipping back his head in surrender. It was one thing to try and unpick the intrigues of the realm; it was another to have a scandal such as this strike so close to home. In truth, he did not know what to do with himself. All the unsteady restlessness that had plagued him had honed itself into a wicked blade, and he was a tragic victim to its lethal edge.

Vaguely, he was aware of a murmur of voices at the doorway. He barely even blinked as Merlin set a breakfast tray down in front of him. 'Morgana has decided she's not hungry. She and Gwen plan to take a walk in the gardens. You should eat something.'

Arthur looked at the plate before him, doubting he could do the fare justice. His stomach felt as if it were tying itself in knots, and he picked at his meal before pushing it in Merlin's direction. 'You may as well have it. I don't think I can.'

He almost smiled, because it was clear that Merlin didn't need telling twice. He sank into a seat with very little fanfare and proceeded to decimate Arthur's breakfast. The only thing he didn't touch was the honeyed oat-cake – Arthur's favourite. It was a subtle hint, and one he took, picking up the treat to nibble at it as they lingered in a thoughtful silence.

'You're not surprised.'

Merlin squinched his lips to one side and wrinkled his nose. 'That your father broke his vows? No. That Morgana is his daughter?' He sighed, crossing his arms as he leant back in his chair. Arthur heard the faint creak of the weight harness beneath Merlin's jacket as he shifted. 'A bit? Part of me wonders why he brought her to court. Most men hide their by-blows, even kings. Did he think no-one would find out? Or was Morgana always a backup plan, just in case?' Merlin had the grace to look somewhat apologetic. 'He has an heir but no spare, or so we thought. I suppose if something ever happened to you, he could seek to acknowledge her.'

Arthur grunted at that. Morgana's illegitimacy was only an issue if his father or the court made it so, but usurping a legitimate heir would inflame tensions throughout the land. Arthur's claim was more absolute, despite Morgana's seniority, but she was right to be concerned about what their father might do if it were revealed.

Briefly, he wondered whether it was worth moving back into the castle and capitulating to Uther's demands, but the notion stuck in his throat. He had fought hard for everything he had claimed, and it had been for the betterment of the kingdom. Besides, he could not be sure whether the court would see his caution as weakness. The whole thing was a wretched balancing act, and Arthur needed it to tip in his favour.

'Am I doing the right thing?'

He pursed his lips, hating how young and uncertain he sounded. In front of his knights, he would never have spoken thus, but with Merlin, at least, he knew he would not be judged. 'All this – elevating Lancelot and moving to the Miracle Court – have I just made things worse?'

'Uther has made things worse. He is the one who put the cost of Lancelot's knighthood on your shoulders and is happy to send green knights to the slaughter!' Merlin leaned forward, his grip around Arthur's wrist firm and sure. His thumb skimmed back and forth, a quick little offering of comfort. 'A sensible king would be working with his heir for the betterment of the realm, not turning it into some kind of fight. He shouldn't see you as a threat to his power.'

'People have died.'

'That's not your fault.' Merlin retreated, rubbing at the space between his brows, and Arthur wondered if he was fighting off a headache. 'Look, what's changed? I mean, really? Now we know that Morgana is your sister and Uther's daughter, but so far nothing political has come from it. Nor will it, unless the secret gets out. You and Morgana both have time to deal with how it makes you feel. That way, if it ever becomes a matter for the court, you can both approach it with a level head.'

He hated it when Merlin was right. As silver linings went, it was fragile at best, but he would take it. Perhaps some might believe that this new knowledge should put him and Morgana in competition with each other: fighting for the throne, but that was not how he intended this to go. He would far rather have Morgana on his side than against him. Hopefully, they had already set foot down that path. He just needed time to come to terms with it all.

And thankfully, the world obliged him. The week following Morgana's revelation was one of peace in Camelot. No feasts required his attention and no new drama at court called upon him. Winter tightened its vice-like grip across the citadel, and whenever he was not loitering by the fireplaces, Arthur threw himself into training. When he wasn't drilling with the knights, he was working one-on-one with Leon, Lancelot and even Gwaine. It felt good to focus on the physicality of it, whittling away his concerns to nothing but the thrust and parry of swordplay.

It helped him do more than sit and seethe through council sessions with his father. Instead, he was able to reach for some clarity of mind and engage with the daily struggles of the kingdom. Perhaps he could do little to earn his father's respect, but the council was another matter. Should the worst happen one day, it would be good to have allies.

Through it all, Merlin was a constant presence. He fetched and carried during training, helping Arthur in and out of his armour while showing Mordred a few tricks of the trade. The boy had flourished since his arrival in Camelot. Consistent, good food meant he was growing like a weed.

Morgana had developed a huge fondness for him, visiting often. Steadily, she rediscovered her laughter, and the harshest edges of the wound Uther's secret had inflicted upon her began to heal. The knights, too, seemed to settle deeper into their own comfort, taking their ease when they heard no more dire news of bandits on the border or raids on vulnerable towns.

'Perhaps Rýne has given up?' Leon suggested. 'What happened at Caludahn probably scattered his forces. Maybe he has simply drifted back into obscurity?'

Mordred pulled a face at that, looking up from the book he and Morgana were reading. He had some rudimentary skill with letters, and Morgana was determined to improve upon them. Arthur suspected it was her pet project: something to distract her from the matter of her parentage. 'He didn't give up on anything easily.'

'I've been listening out for rumours down at the tavern,' Gwaine promised. 'No one likes to chat as much as a merchant flush with coin. All I've heard about is the ease of their journeys. No raiders. Nothing of the sort.'

'Winter is an impediment to many.' Lancelot gestured towards the window with his flagon of mead. Beyond the panes, the sky let forth a miserable wash of sleety rain. 'But even if Rýne is biding his time for the spring, that gives us an opportunity to refocus our efforts.'

'The servants have noticed nothing amiss with Hoel. No more than usual, anyway.' Guinevere promised, speaking from where she sat by Lancelot's side. 'I've asked several I can trust to keep their eyes open for anything suspicious, but everything appears to be normal.'

'Seems like a crafty bastard, to my mind,' Gwaine muttered.

'He's really not.' Merlin spoke from where he perched on the hearthstone, risking getting singed by the flames in his effort to gain some heat. He'd staggered in not long ago, pink-cheeked and soaked to the skin after doing Gaius' rounds in the lower town. Arthur had let the others fuss over him, limiting himself to a judgemental glare at Merlin's inadequate clothing. 'Hoel's petty and cruel. He likes to steal from the other servants, and then it's his word against theirs.'

'And he outranks everyone,' Guinevere added, sounding grim. 'But Merlin's right. Hoel's not exactly known for his wits. He does what the king tells him.'

'Which is all my father wants in a manservant. Obedience.' He shot a sharp look at Merlin, who merely offered a cheeky grin in return. 'Except that, for some reason, Hoel appears to be colluding with someone who can use a crystal ball as a means of communication.'

Arthur sighed. They were no closer to any answers on that particular front. He had bade Guinevere and Merlin to keep an eye on Hoel whenever they had the time, but they were here more often than they attended the castle halls. Merlin had promised he had the situation under control, but it wasn't as if he could be in two places at once, could he?

Arthur curled his hand in front of his mouth, a faint frown creasing his brow. He watched Merlin stretch his hands towards the flames in the grate, attempting to chafe some life back into his pale fingers. The matter of his magic – whether he had it or didn't – still circled Arthur's mind like a wolf. He had kept a watchful eye on him, waiting for the moment when the secret was finally revealed, and yet it never came.

The odd, exhausted energy he had carried with him before they had struck out for Bridgend appeared to have faded. Now there was something poised about Merlin that reminded him of a knight on the training ground: one perhaps learning the limits of his strength, but confident in his own prowess.

It was a good look on him, and Arthur tore his gaze away.

Unfortunately, that meant he met Gwaine's eye, who raised one eyebrow: all silent judgement. Curse the man. It had not taken him long to realise that the ceaseless flirting hid greater, more observant depths.

He had noticed Gwaine watching them, not just Arthur but Leon and Lancelot, Morgana, Guinevere and Merlin, working out how they all fit together. Even young Mordred had not escaped his scrutiny. At first, at least when he looked at Arthur, there had been hard judgement there. Now, Gwaine's attitude was more tempered, as if he had found a place for himself amongst them, despite the odds against him.

He still touched Merlin at every possible moment, or so it seemed, and it never failed to make Arthur's hackles surge upright. That, he suspected, was part of why Gwaine did it, just to watch him grind his teeth. The rest of it? Well, Merlin had always proven himself likeable, right from the start, and the two men had built a friendship with stunning ease. It was different than the one with Lancelot, but no less steady, and Arthur refused to acknowledge any emotion so petty as jealousy.

'We are doing all we can.' Leon's reassurance was softly uttered, but his words carried a core of good, strong iron. He spoke not only like a man who had commanded others through skirmishes large and small, but one who had also learned to bide his time. 'We have no information on which we can currently act. The notes we took from Rýne's workshop remain unintelligible; we have nothing new on Hoel and have had no indication of trouble brewing further afield. I think, Sire, we should focus our attentions closer to home. At least until winter loses its grip.'

Arthur nodded. It was sound advice, and he could hear what Leon was not saying. Bridgend had taken its toll on all of them, and the atmosphere in Camelot itself was one of subtle tension. Even Arthur felt a bit like his head was on the block, simply waiting for the axe to fall. For now, as much as it chafed against his desire to take action, there was very little they could do. Besides, whether he liked it or not, there were plenty of more immediate problems demanding his attention: from the uncertainty of the court to his own father's unpredictable anger.

'You're right,' he acknowledged at last, setting his empty goblet aside and getting stiffly to his feet, thinking mostly of the warmth of his bed and the respite of his chambers. His head had been so full of doubts and recriminations lately that it felt sodden. A near permanent ache resided in his temples. 'I'd like to switch the focus of training towards siege defence over the winter. It makes sense, since the weather keeps us bound to the citadel. Patrols are far more infrequent and there are some knights who would make trouble if left to their own devices. Better we keep them busy.'

'Leave it with me,' Leon promised. 'I'll get things put in place.'

'Stay,' Arthur urged as the others looked as if they were thinking of getting to their feet. While the room with the round table was technically his study, it had become a shared space, and he would not wish to drive them from their camaraderie simply because he was poor company. 'Just don't drink yourselves sodden.' That was aimed more at Gwaine than anyone else, who gave him a look of mock affront before pulling a bag of dice out of his pocket.

'Don't you worry, Princess. I'll just fleece your boys instead.'

Lancelot and Leon both groaned, but it was good natured, and Arthur couldn't stop the small smile unfurling across his lips. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he was building something between these men. Already they leaned on one another, not only in battle but in life itself.

Leon had been talking to Lancelot about the lands at Pentrose and the workings of large estates, arming him with knowledge relevant to the court. Gwaine, well-travelled as he was, frequently regaled them with stories of the politics of other kingdoms: the customs of their people, their strengths and weaknesses. Lancelot himself had a skill for smoothing ruffled feathers that Arthur could not match, even with his hard-learned diplomacy.

Perhaps there were days when everything else fell apart around his ears, but he had grown to trust them. Not just the men he thought of as his knights, but Morgana and Guinevere as well. Once in a while, he looked into the future and realised that his uncertain hopes for his rule were beginning to take shape. He had been raised to be his father's son, but since all this began, he had been striking out on his own and learning to question the beliefs Uther had instilled in him.

Some, such as honour and duty, remained firm in their foundations, but others – the inherent superiority of the nobles and the evils of magic? Those teetered on the very brink of collapse, and he needed to discover the kind of man he was without them. Just as he longed to see what sort of kingdom may rise from the rubble of their destruction.

Warm fingers brushed the column of his throat as Merlin worked to unfasten Arthur's jacket. He had followed him to the bedchamber, attending Arthur rather than lingering to dice and chat with the others. Of course, it was his job, but he liked to think that Merlin would have chosen to join him anyway. Perhaps he was fooling himself, seeing loyalty where only obligation made its home, but somehow, he doubted it.

'Have they asked you?' It was an impromptu question, and Arthur could not quite quash the flicker of pride at how Merlin followed his train of thought without effort.

'They've noticed that something troubles you and Morgana.' Merlin set aside the jacket, his voice echoing in the wardrobe as he hung it safely in its confines before turning back to help with Arthur's tunic. 'They accept your excuses, but I don't think they believe them.' He shrugged. 'Gwaine's been wheedling because he loves a bit of gossip, and you know Camelot's rife with it, but beyond that... They trust you, Arthur, and they know you will speak of it when you're ready.'

Arthur sighed, the same, sick weight settling in his stomach. Perhaps it would be easier if it had come as a shock. Then his outrage might be like the clean slice of a sword, rather than the slow burn of bitter disappointment. 'She may never wish to be acknowledged. It could be information that never finds the light of day.'

'And they will understand that, too,' Merlin promised. 'They just want to help ease your burdens. It's what good friends do.'

He watched Merlin's face, the way he chewed absently on his lip as he untangled Arthur's laces and the faint, thoughtful frown that creased his brow. It still shocked him how easily Merlin spoke of friendship. Once, Arthur might have put his trusting nature down to a peasant's naivety. Now, he considered his suspicions and saw that faith instead as an act of bravery. A foolish one, perhaps, considering how much Merlin stood to lose, but courageous all the same.

Arthur only wished that he could prove himself deserving of that faith. He wanted to know where Merlin snuck off to at night, sometimes, and why the faint scent of hot ash occasionally lingered in the creases of his clothes. He itched to discover why the candles in Merlin's room stayed lit until well after Arthur had given up his fight against sleep, as if Merlin were studying something, racing the dawn. He longed to be taken into his confidence, yet perhaps it was an impossible wish.

Could a sorcerer ever truly trust a Pendragon?

A shiver raced through him, and Merlin looked up in alarm, those eyes taking on a sharpness Arthur recognised all too well.

'Are you all right? You're not coming down with something, are you?'

'I'm merely tired,' Arthur promised, not ashamed to show a fragment of weakness. Merlin knew better than anyone how poor Arthur's sleep had been and how the burden of his thoughts dragged at him. 'It's nothing to concern yourself with.'

The doubtful noise Merlin made was far from flattering, and Arthur huffed as he found himself dragged closer to the fire and inspected in its glow. A calloused palm pressed to his brow, ruffling his hair as he checked for fever, and there was an unnerving edge to Merlin's stare as he gazed into Arthur's eyes. It was not one of the lingering looks they shared now and again, honey thick. This, he realised with some amusement, was much more reminiscent of Gaius' glares when he thought someone had been careless with their health. 'I think I'll be the judge of that, Sire.'

'Really, Merlin. All I want is the comfort of my bed.'

It was a very grudging surrender on Merlin's part, but before long Arthur found himself dressed in his sleep tunic, the cambric warm against his skin. His sheets were a pleasant nest of heat, despite the lack of a warming pan or hot brick. He could not be sure if it was the house being its usual helpful self or if it was Merlin. He kept trying to catch sight of a glimmer of gold in his gaze, yet none showed itself, and in the end, he was too weary to do more than collapse into the depths of his pillows.

He watched Merlin potter about, tidying up in that ineffectual way of his, stoking the fire and extinguishing candles. He expected him to head back into the study, and a rough sound of surprise caught in his throat when Merlin instead turned towards his chamber. 'You're not going to play dice?'

Merlin's soft laughter was music to his ears, and Arthur hid his smile in his blankets. 'No. I like what little coin I have to stay in my pockets, thanks. An early night might do me some good, for once.'

For one, wild moment, Arthur wondered what it would be like if he were a different man – a bolder one, perhaps. The kind who could stretch out a beckoning hand and pull Merlin down to join him on the sumptuous mattress. Who could kiss away any doubts and press himself to warm, lithe flesh. Who could forget all the complexities that lay between them and reach for the trust that Merlin seemed to offer others so readily.

And yet, he did not. Instead, Arthur merely sighed, nestling deeper into his solitary bed. 'Good night, Merlin.'

He felt the brush of a hand against the quilt by his knee, not touching – nothing so bold – but it was a tender gesture all the same. Merlin's farewell was softer than it had any right to be, saying far more, to Arthur's ear, than the actual words.

'Good night, Arthur.'

Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon was a liar. It only took Merlin one glance the next morning to realise Camelot's crown prince should probably not be out of bed, let alone attending council or training. His eyes were glazed, his voice was little more than a rasp in his throat, and a faint flush of fever gifted colour to his pale face. He moved like an old man, as if he ached at every joint, and Merlin offered up a few silent curses at their foul fortune.

Arthur was already anxious and pensive, dour and prone to long silences. Adding an illness to the mix meant he would be stoic and stupid. He would push himself too hard and end up bedridden for a week as a result. Worse, it would be up to Merlin to look after the sulky, miserable man for the duration.

Before moving to the Miracle Court, it would have been little cause for gossip. Uther might disapprove of any failure in his son's constitution, but there would not be much political impact. Now, the entire kingdom was watching the prince for any sign of weakness. His absence from training could be excused, but the council was another matter. It meant that, when Arthur struggled to get up that morning, Merlin bullied him back down to the pillows, leaving him with strict instructions to rest while he tried to think of how to handle the situation.

'How bad is it?' Leon asked as he watched Merlin dart around the kitchen, dodging past the cooks as he retrieved various herbs from where he had stored them. His supplies were meagre compared to Gaius', but he had a few essentials. Besides, while the plants would help, he planned to give the potion a bit of a magical jolt.

'Bad enough,' Merlin muttered. 'You know what he's like. He'll insist it's nothing and make himself thrice as ill.'

'You could slip him something to put him to sleep?' Gwaine suggested. He squinted in the pearly morning light, looking as if he had just been dragged from someone's bed. A pillow crease struck a line across his face, and there was a faintly greasy look to him that implied he'd spent the last night's winnings on too much mead.

'Except that if he doesn't show up at council, people will talk,' Merlin pointed out.

'Would it not be better to merely make his excuses? Surely that's preferable to confirming his ill health when he attends?' Lancelot reached out, taking the mortar and pestle from Merlin's hands and replacing it with a hot bread roll. 'Eat that. I'll do this. Coarse or fine?'

'Grind it up as small as you're able.' Merlin swallowed a hasty mouthful. 'If I get this right, I can help Arthur last through council. The fewer reasons Uther has to complain, the better. There are no more sessions this week. This close to Yule, people are not too intent on the business of the kingdom. It will give Arthur a chance to recover if we can stop him from training.' He cast a hopeful look in Leon's direction, who pursed his lips as if he doubted their chances.

'I shall see what can be done. Be sure about your elixir, Merlin. If Arthur should take a turn for the worse during council, it will damage his reputation. Right now, that is a risk we can ill-afford.'

He nodded his understanding, wolfing down the remnants of his paltry breakfast before filling a small vial of hot water from the cauldron that simmered over the fire. Adding three pinches of the herb mixture, he sealed the stopper in place and gave it a good shake, well-aware of the doubtful look each man in the room offered in his direction.

None of them understood herb-craft beyond the absolute basics, but they had each suffered a bad cold in their time. They realised that most things Gaius could offer did little more than ease the worst edges of the symptoms. Lancelot, of course, looked as if he knew exactly what he had planned, and Merlin affected an air of innocence as he reached for Arthur's breakfast tray.

'If it comes to it, I'll make his excuses at council,' he promised, 'but you all know we can't afford his absence. Uther's looking for an excuse to rubbish Arthur's name to the court. More than he already has, anyway. I'd rather not give him one.'

Merlin waited until he was at the top of the stairs before offering the glass vial a golden look. With any luck, Arthur wouldn't notice the lingering sparkles in the murky green liquid. The tray clattered threateningly as he managed to navigate the door, his heart sinking as he realised Arthur was exactly where he had left him.

He was a stubborn ass at the best of times. He'd expected to find him halfway through dressing himself, snotty and ornery. Instead, he stared up at the canopy through bleary eyes as if contemplating whether to simply lie there and perish.

'Can you sit?' Merlin asked, deciding there and then that he'd damn Uther's political rubbish and confine Arthur to his chambers if necessary. Never mind what the king and court had to say about it. Yet Arthur managed to prop himself on his elbows and shuffle up the bed, collapsing back against his pillows as Merlin set the breakfast tray carefully on his lap. Normally, Arthur refused such pampering. He hated crumbs in the sheets, which was ridiculous, as it wasn't as if he would be the one cleaning them up. Now, though, it was clear he was too tired to protest.

'I have to go to council,' he rasped, his voice like gravel. 'I can't miss it.'

'I know. Drink that first.' Merlin nudged the vial towards him. 'Then eat all your breakfast. Every last bit. I don't care if you're not hungry. Tell me what hurts.'

Haltingly, Arthur did so, his pride clearly losing its battle in the face of his misery. What he listed did not sound too severe, but Merlin knew not to take risks. Most people recovered from a winter illness in due time, but he had seen some with barely a sniffle end up dead three days later. He had no wish for Arthur to meet with such a fate.

The prince swallowed back the tonic without question, pausing only to lick his lips in surprise. He blinked, and maybe it was his imagination, but Merlin could have sworn some of the glassiness vanished from his gaze. 'For once, that did not taste like the contents of a chamber pot.' He squinted at it before looking at Merlin. 'How much honey did you add?'

'Loads,' Merlin lied. 'Bad enough being ill without feeling as if something died in your mouth thanks to Gaius' efforts. Eat now. Do you feel hot or cold?'

'Cold,' Arthur grumbled, picking at his sausages only to rediscover his appetite. It did not take him long to demolish the meal. By the time he'd finished, he looked almost like his old self, which was enough to give Merlin pause. The potion and spell should have eased off the symptoms and given him a bit of energy, but the slightly manic gleam in Arthur's eye suggested he might have overdone it. 'Though not as bad as I was. In fact, perhaps I'm not that ill after all.'

'Yeah, no.' Merlin shook his head, removing the breakfast tray and retreating as Arthur got to his feet. 'That potion will last you until noon at best. Long enough for council. After that, you're coming straight back to bed.' He flushed when Arthur very slowly raised one eyebrow, a wicked little grin crossing his lips. He did not know what to do with that look, so he headed for the wardrobe, wondering if his ears were as red as they felt as he marshalled Arthur's clothes.

He almost dropped them on the floor when he turned around to find Arthur standing barely a half-pace away, watching Merlin as if he were something both fascinating and baffling. That golden head was tilted to one side, as if Merlin made more sense from a different angle, and if he was cold, it clearly didn't bother him. He had already discarded his sleep tunic, and his smalls rested dangerously low upon his hips.

He had seen Arthur naked before, of course. He attended him while bathing, but he had always been very firm with himself. He didn't look. Not like that. It wouldn't be fair to Arthur, who was merely trying to wash in peace. It wasn't fair now, either, since Arthur was ill and possibly a bit addled by whatever Merlin's magic and the curative had done to him. Yet there was something tempting about the dusky shadows at the fabric's edges and the plane of Arthur's hips, humid little hollows and golden hair leading down beyond the boundary of cloth.

Sweat prickled along Merlin's back, and he pursed his lips, dredging his mind out of the gutter and pinning a grin onto his face. 'Come on, Sire. Let's get you dressed.'

He ushered Arthur behind the privacy screen, ignoring his soft, faint protests at the distance from the fire. 'Can you manage your smalls?' he called out, praying the answer was yes.

'I am not an invalid,' Arthur groused. 'Or a child.'

'No, you just act like one. Hurry up. You need to be in council in half a candle-mark.' He waited, listening to the familiar sounds of Arthur attending to his more intimate garments. It was only once he thought it was safe that Merlin dared to step around the screen, keeping his gaze very firmly fixed on Arthur's face, rather than pink nipples and the planes of his chest or somewhere even lower.

His efforts to dress Arthur were somewhat hampered by the fact that the prince wanted to help. Their hands kept getting tangled as they both reached for the same thing, and where once Arthur might have recoiled as if burned, now he lingered, his fingertips warm against the bare skin at Merlin's wrist. Yet it was when Merlin was straightening the collar of his jacket that Arthur reached up, running his fingers through the mess of Merlin's hair and setting it to rights as if it was something he did every morning.

'You look like a wool blind ewe,' Arthur complained when Merlin raised one eyebrow in askance, and now he didn't think the pink tinging those cheeks was down to a fever. 'I can't have you attending me in council like that.' A faint smile swelled his cheeks, and his next words were little more than a murmur, as if they were an inner thought he did not intend to give voice. 'It's really starting to curl.'

'It does that.' Merlin wet his lips, vaguely thinking that he should step back and find a bit of distance, but Arthur's fingers in his hair felt brilliant: not the eager grasp of a lover, but something tender and caring. It was nice to be touched softly, and he allowed himself a guilty moment to enjoy it before he gave Arthur's jacket one last tug and stepped away. 'All right?'

Arthur let his hands drop to his sides, glancing briefly at his fingers as he rubbed them together. 'That potion made me feel strange.'

'Too strange to sit and nod along at council?'

'No, I think I can manage that. It would be for the best.' Arthur sniffed, and even his nose sounded less blocked, though there was something a touch slow and dreamy about the cadence of his words.

'Maybe just don't put forward any ideas today? Let your father do the talking?'

Arthur hummed in vague agreement, allowing himself to be steered downstairs and towards the front door. The shock of the winter air seemed to stir him from his stupor, and he cursed as a shudder raced through him. Not that Merlin could blame him. For all that a pallid sun shone down from a fragile blue sky, the wind was as sharp as a well-whetted blade. It made the journey to the castle a scurrying, gasping affair, where he and Arthur tried to take their shelter in the lee of buildings where possible.

By the time they got to the council room, they were both chilled to the bone. The only blessing was that now Arthur's red nose could be excused by the wind, rather than the illness that Merlin's cure had temporarily pushed to one side.

What followed was more tortuous than Merlin had anticipated. Not because of Arthur, who put on the performance of a lifetime, all solemn attention and bright-eyed interest. Instead, Merlin kept waiting for the potion to wear off, his gaze fixed on Arthur like a hawk. It only got worse as the morning went on. Every time he filled Arthur's cup with water, he checked his profile, looking for any hint of strain, but either the elixir he'd concocted was more potent than he'd thought, or Arthur was in masterful control of his own body's betrayals.

A touch at his elbow made him twitch, and he let out a startled breath as George gave him an apologetic look. The lords of Camelot may think this was their council chamber, but the servants were just as industrious. They had learned long ago to speak with little more than a glance, or to shape their words through lips that barely moved. Here, the king and his men hammered out the politics of the realm while the servants did the real work, and a glance at George's face told Merlin that something had gone awry.

'Please tell me Hoel has not stolen from you again?' he whispered, letting his shoulders sag in relief when George shook his head.

'No, though I thank you for retrieving what he took. He cannot confront me about it. Not without acknowledging his own crimes. Lindon is waiting for you. He says there is something you need to know, and it cannot wait.'

Merlin pursed his lips. George wouldn't trouble him now if he did not believe the matter was urgent. He glanced at the back of Arthur's head, noting the line of his shoulders and the way he had turned, just a fraction, to better hear what passed between them. 'All right. The moment council ends, I need you to get Prince Arthur to the Miracle Court. He is not to linger here, no matter what he says to the contrary. I'll join you as soon as I can.' He handed over the jug of water to George. 'Thanks.'

George nodded his acknowledgement, already slipping into that prim and proper pose he used to such great effect. It gave Merlin the space he needed to drift away, striding through the castle and out towards the stables. Lindon was the master groom: a good man with a steady head upon his shoulders, not prone to flights of fancy. His charges were like his children, and he respected Merlin because he cared about the horses.

Now, he stepped into the hay-scented gloom, approaching the man who stood with his arms folded across his chest. His bald pate was covered in a hat to ward off the chill, and his ice-white beard was trimmed close to his jaw. He was the burly, quiet sort, prone to neither meanness nor indifference. He also knew everything about every single one of Camelot's many mounts.

'You wanted to see me, Lindon?'

'Aye, lad. Something interesting happened. Thought you might want to know. I went to bed last night with five empty stalls and woke up to find them with horses in 'em. Camelot horses. Ones that I was not expecting to set eyes on again.' He beckoned Merlin over with a crook of his finger, gesturing to where a mud-splattered bay had her head stuck in a bucket of oats. There was dried lather on her flanks and her coat was in need of a good comb. She ate as if half-starved. More to the point, she was still in full tack, her skin raw where the girth had rubbed her.

'Last I saw these mares, they were bearing their riders towards Bridgend. Five young knights who met a sticky end, from what I've heard.'

Merlin froze, a baffled frown upon his brow. 'These were the mounts of the patrol? We thought they'd been stolen. Are you saying they fled home to Camelot themselves, all the way from Bridgend?'

Lindon scoffed. 'I'm a dreamer, lad, but I'm no fool. One horse, I might accept could do it over that distance, but all five? No. No, these mares had the guidance of a man's hand. If I had to guess, I'd say someone brought them most of the distance, then turned them loose out in the Darkling Woods, hoping they'd make their way back and nobody would ask questions.' He shrugged. 'Some people treat horses like they're interchangeable. Maybe they thought I'd believe one of my boys was careless in his duties.'

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before reaching into his pocket. 'This though. This is what I wanted you to see. It was stuck in Thessaly's bit. You know what she's like.'

He huffed a laugh, because he did. Thessaly had been Gedric's, and she was a fine lady of discerning taste. Anyone she did not adore was a fair target for her teeth, and she showed little mercy. She particularly liked the fleshy meat of the upper arm, just below a man's shoulder. Now, he stared at what Lindon handed to him, recognising it with ease: a scrap of red fabric and gold thread.

'A Camelot cloak. Or a piece of one.'

'Aye. Now, I don't know the full of it. Seems there's a lot of talk about what went on out there, but I thought you should be told.'

Merlin nodded, giving the man a quick clap on the shoulder in thanks. 'What will happen to Thessaly and the others? The knights all brought their own mounts from their estates, didn't they?'

'It's the way of it. When a knight dies in service, the family can either come to Camelot and retrieve their horse or pay a small tithe each year to house it in the king's general stable.'

Merlin narrowed his eyes at that, turning the thought over in his mind. There were currently five horses at the Miracle Court, but Mordred had no steed to call his own, and if one turned up lame, they would be short a horse. Uther had put the responsibility for the dead knights firmly on Arthur's shoulders, including the gold coin of restitution to their families. Perhaps they could address the matter of horses at the same time: offering to house them in Camelot free of charge. It was just a glimmer of an idea, but he still turned to Lindon, speaking quietly.

'The knights were Prince Arthur's responsibility, so I would argue that their horses are too. I'm not sure what befell them on the road, but I intend to find out. You've not yet taken this to the king?' Merlin drew in a breath as Lindon shook his head. 'All right. If he asks, tell him that they have returned and that Prince Arthur has accepted the burden of their care. Let us deal with the rest. I'll talk to the prince and see if we have room for them in our stables.'

The look Lindon gave him was almost fond, and one gnarled hand patted his arm. 'Careful, lad. Politics isn't for the likes of you and me.'

Merlin grinned at that. 'I think it's too late for me to turn back now. Thank you, Lindon. I owe you.'

The man ushered him off with a cheerful wave as Merlin tucked the cloth into his belt and trotted back towards the castle. Yet before he could even mount the steps, a chambermaid intercepted him with a smile. She informed him that Prince Arthur and George had already departed for the Miracle Court.

With a quick call of thanks, he did an about turn and darted off down the road. Running was a bad idea – it would make people stare – but he kept up a fast pace that made it look as if he had somewhere important to be.

Which was technically true.

He walked into the Miracle Court to find Arthur in the hallway, losing an argument. It looked like George had got him out of council just in time and proceeded to make himself scarce, leaving Arthur to the tender mercies of his knights, Morgana and Gwen.

'I am well enough to train if Merlin makes more of that elixir he gave me this morning.'

'You are more pale than I am.' Morgana swept her skirt out of the way as Merlin stepped through the door, offering him a sharp smile. 'You'll fall flat on your face in the muck, and the castle will talk about it for months.'

'Lady Morgana has a point, Sire,' Leon added, sounding apologetic, as if he knew how the blow may land. 'I have the training well in-hand, and the knights will not begrudge your absence. It is better to rest now and recover than face a winter-long illness, is it not?'

'I'm not that unwell,' Arthur retorted, petulant. 'Merlin, just give me some more of that tonic.'

'I can't.' He shrugged his shoulders, pointedly not looking at anyone else. 'I'm all out of herbs, and I cannot use Gaius' supplies. Not unless it's an emergency. If you want more, I have to go out into the woods, where the cold has already killed off almost anything useful. There could be bears. Wolves. Griffins. I might never make it back alive, and even if I do, the plants need to be dried and prepared, which takes several days.'

At least three people in the room knew he was lying. They had seen him grind up plenty of leaves for the brew. He could feel the faintly disapproving edge to Leon's amused look. Gwaine had turned away, probably the better to hide his face. Only Lancelot looked calm and convinced, duly concerned: a perfect co-conspirator. Not one of them uttered a word to contradict him, and he waited, watching the thoughts play out across Arthur's expression and waiting for the moment of surrender.

'You are a terrible manservant.'

'Yes, Sire.'

'I shall train tomorrow,' Arthur warned, as if he had any real say in the matter.

'Yes, Sire.' It was easiest to oblige him now, then fight him on that when the time came. 'You'll need your rest, then. Let's get you upstairs.'

He winced in sympathy at Arthur's clearly flagging stride. He looked like he would have been quite happy to simply lie there on the steps and claim his slumber. Morgana had not been wrong about his pallor, and his eyes had reclaimed the glassy sheen of that morning. He stood, passive, letting Merlin ease him free of his clothes, and went to bed as obliging as a lamb. Merlin did not miss the rough sigh of relief that escaped him as the mattress cradled his aching body, nor his faint hum of gratitude when Merlin added another blanket to the pile that sheltered his body.

'Where did you go?' Arthur asked. 'When George took your place?'

'The stables. Lindon wanted to talk to me, but it's not urgent.' Right now, he wasn't sure Arthur would remember what he said. Worse, it might drive him once more from the comfort of his nest. No, the matter of the horses could wait a day or two.

A disgruntled noise came from the mound of bedding, but Arthur didn't argue, which was enough to make Merlin purse his lips in concern. Those sandy lashes were already at half-mast, and he inched towards the door, knowing Arthur would be best left in peace. With any luck, an afternoon of rest would work its wonders.

'How is he?'

Morgana's voice made him pause at the top of the stairs, and he peered into Arthur's study, smiling to see her stood by the window. Gwen was by the bookshelves, running a rag along the polished wood. Not that they needed dusting. The house mostly kept itself clean, but she had the tense, anxious look of a woman who wanted to stay busy. That, he suspected, and she was keeping an eye on Mordred where he was practicing his letters. Now and then, she looked over his shoulder to offer encouragement.

'Sleeping. I think it's just a nasty cold. Gaius said there was one sweeping through the town. He'll be himself in a few days.'

'We just need to keep Uther off his back until then. Sir Leon is at training, as is Lancelot. Gwaine's gone with them. He likes to keep an eye on things.' She smiled at that, as if the notion amused her. 'They'll return before long. Lancelot asked me to remind you that you should eat a large lunch, since your breakfast was apparently not much.' She frowned at him, reaching out and tapping his shoulder where the leather straps still hid under his clothes. 'These are meant to make you stronger. If you don't eat enough, they'll have the opposite effect.'

'I'll go down to the kitchens,' Gwen decided. 'We could all use a good meal.' She ruffled Mordred's hair as she went, leaving the three of them alone. The scratch of Mordred's quill and the crackle of the fire defined the silence, and Merlin leant against the wall on the other side of the window so that he and Morgana framed the leaded glass. Outside, the garden was covered with a layer of frost that even the sun couldn't touch, and the wind raked through the bare branches of the apple trees.

'You look tired,' Morgana murmured.

'I'm not the only one.' It was perhaps impolitic to imply Morgana was anything but beautiful. However, she did not take offence, a smile curving her lips as she shook her head.

'Dreams.' She shrugged. 'I long for a night where I sleep through until morning, but they're rare, these days. I wish I knew why, but not even Gaius' elixirs can help. Not anymore.'

Merlin watched her, noting how one fingertip traced the shape of her bottom lip. Her gaze had grown distant, her brow twisted. She looked like a woman with too many worries, all of them pinned tight beneath the surface. One day, something within her would break and it would all come bursting out.

'Do you want to talk about it? The dreams, I mean?' He had tried to learn more about seers since Gaius had hinted at the possibility of Morgana having magic. Not that he'd had any luck. The hidden room in the library was a chaotic mess of books and scrolls. It could take him years to find anything of use. As for the rest? Uther had been merciless in his burning of whatever magical texts he could get his hands on. Still, Merlin knew his own magic, and it liked to be useful. He wondered if maybe Morgana's visions were similar: perhaps they needed to be acknowledged before they would give her peace.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, making the fur she wore sparkle in the dull winter light. 'There's not much to say. Most of it I can't even remember. I just wake up with such dread.' She clenched her fist tight over her belly, as if she could feel that same emotion coiling in her guts. 'Though lately there has been a persistent memory. A dark alley. The flash of a knife. The cobbles are wet, but there's a full moon. Every time I see that scene, I feel like... I don't know. Breathless. Frightened.'

She shook her head, waving a hand as if to dismiss her words. 'They're only nightmares.' Her smile lacked anything like conviction, but it gathered its strength as Gwen swept back into the room tailed by two servants, their hands full of laden trays. Her voice was bright and cheerful as she laid out plates and urged Mordred to tuck his books away. Just like that, Morgana was herself again, all trace of her worry hidden from sight.

Merlin hesitated by the window a bit longer, trying to sort out the anxious roiling that had taken up root in his belly. It was not the nature of Morgana's dream that had disturbed him, but rather his own desperation to help her. She was already troubled by the revelation that Uther was her father. Now, he could see how the fear of her magic had grown sharper teeth. If they didn't act soon, it would all build up within her until something inside snapped. If it happened here, in the Miracle Court, she would be safe, but if her power emerged up in the castle?

It didn't bear thinking about.

And yet, he didn't think he could tell Morgana about her magic without revealing his own. It wasn't fair to place the burden of supporting her on Mordred's shoulders. He was still just a boy. Besides, it felt hypocritical to advocate honesty from them while lingering in the shadows himself, too afraid to speak up.

He thought of Lancelot, who knew about his power; of Morgana, who feared the revelation of her own and Mordred, comfortable in his own skin. He considered this house, where Arthur was his strongest, best self and where sorcery had once made its home.

Magic was in so many different parts of his life, either hidden or in plain sight. It was fast currents in dark water, or effervescent shimmers bubbling up into the light, and with every day he felt more foolish for keeping his secret.

Perhaps he could not reveal it for his own sake, but for that of his friends. For Morgana and Mordred both, he would set aside his fears.

Relief flowed over his bones like a warm tide: a decision made. Merlin felt as if he had reached the end of a long journey and put down his burdens, abruptly free of a weight he had carried all his life. Fear still ticked his guts, but it was a fading feeling, drowned out by his resolve.

One way or the other, he needed to tell Arthur about his magic.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong with Merlin. Arthur may be a touch addled by his lingering fever and far from at his best, but he had grown used to Merlin's many and varied moods since his arrival in Camelot back in the first days of spring. He knew the hues of petulance and worry, irritation and amusement that so often stained his features, but he had never before seen that particular hollow behind his eyes. It was enough to make him peel himself from his pillows and prop himself against the headboard, the better to watch him as he went about his chores.

It was the evening of the day he had awoken with his sickness. Sleep had whittled away the afternoon, leaving Arthur unmoored from the passage of time. He had stirred a candle-mark ago, groggy and dazed, to find it was full-dark outside. A light meal of chicken broth and warm bread had helped him gather some strength. The addition of a potion, one of Gaius' judging by the awful taste, had also robbed the ache in his head of some of its persistence. Now, he simply felt spent, his body drained and aching as he endeavoured to marshal his wits to face the task at hand.

'What's the matter with you?' He meant it to sound supercilious and demanding. Nothing inspired Merlin's annoyance quite like Arthur being a prat, and he was less guarded with his words when he was angry. Unfortunately, thanks to his blocked nose, his elocution was rather lacking, and he sounded more petulant than anything else. 'You look like a kicked dog.'

Merlin huffed, stepping towards the ewer and wringing out a cloth before placing it against Arthur's brow. His fever had left him feeling as if he had lingered too close to the forge, his skin parched. The chill was a blessing, and he managed a faint hum of appreciation, but he refused to let Merlin distract him with such tenderness. 'Is it to do with whatever Lindon told you?'

'No.' His throat pulsed as he swallowed, half hidden beneath the swath of the scarf he always wore around his neck. Those blue eyes met Arthur's before darting away again, and the smile he pinned to his lips was the least convincing thing Arthur had ever seen. 'It's nothing. Don't worry about it.'

He went to retreat, and even Arthur was surprised at how quickly he reached out, snagging Merlin's cuff in his grip. The cloth was old and worn from too much washing. It felt as if it might unravel beneath his touch, but he clenched it tight, forcing Merlin to stop or risk ripping off his own sleeve.

'You're shaking.' Arthur winced, wishing he felt less like something scraped off a stable floor. His head was a sluggish mess and his body keened with the need for further rest, but he would force himself out of bed and chase Merlin all over the citadel if required. 'Please, tell me what's wrong. Is it the knights, Morgana? Is Mordred okay?'

'Everyone's fine.' He appeared to realise the futility of trying to put distance between them, and Arthur felt a flicker of satisfaction when he perched hesitantly on the edge of the mattress. 'Safe. We haven't fallen to disaster just because you've spent the afternoon in bed.'

'Then why do you look like that?' He gestured weakly at Merlin's pale face, his lips flushed pink from where he'd been biting them and his mouth bracketed by wobbling misery. One arm was still imprisoned by Arthur's grip, but Merlin's other hand picked fretfully at a fraying thread on his breeches, plucking at it as if he couldn't bear to remain motionless.

Around them, the room seemed to grow darker, not threatening, precisely, but more secretive. Arthur thought he was imagining it at first, but the candle-flames dimmed upon their wicks and the fire in the grate sulked amidst its logs. The curtains, already closed to block out the night, appeared to press their seams tighter, the heavy velvet rustling as it did so.

Arthur's heart stuttered in his chest, surging and falling in a sudden rush. Nerves thrilled in the pit of his stomach, shimmering like the wings of a thousand butterflies. He knew what this was about. All his nebulous, nagging suspicions about Merlin's magic coalesced into certainty, and he felt breathless, caught on some unknown precipice.

He leaned forward, pursing his lips tight as he silently urged Merlin to speak of it. All this time, he had feared that he would never trust Arthur enough to tell him. Now they both sat, hovering on the cusp of revelation, if only Merlin could find the strength to give his secret voice.

Except, looking into that face, he could see that faith in Arthur was not the only problem. He recognised the shadows fear carved into Merlin's expression. It was not the aching dread of a man facing battle, knowing he might meet his end that day. Instead, it was a sharp wound of terror: one that spoke of years of hiding, now almost at their end.

And he would never accuse Merlin of being a coward ever again, because even as Arthur watched, he saw the moment he mastered himself, his lips moving around three little words.

'I have magic.'

They were no more than a whisper, as soft as he could make them, but they rang through Arthur's head. He had never stopped to think what it might feel like to have all his suspicions confirmed. He'd expected a touch of outrage and a healthy dose of uncertainty: a new problem to deal with. Instead, relief sank through him like eiderdown, because now it was no longer a secret. Merlin had brought him into his confidence. Whatever happened going forward, he knew.

Merlin looked like a bird about to take flight, and Arthur was struck by the strange impression that, if he allowed him to leave, something would be forever lost.

He wet his lips, ignoring the aching prickle of his throat as he inclined his head. 'I know.'

The noise Merlin made was almost a sob – a shattered, gasping sound as if he had just been run through. Those dark lashes fluttered closed, and pain spasmed across his face. 'You know?' he croaked, sounding worse even than Arthur. He was shaking in earnest now, so white that he had valid concerns that his manservant was about to swoon dead away on his bedchamber floor.

Arthur remembered whispered words spoken on the very edge of his dreams, ones he had forced himself to ignore. 'You told me,' he pointed out carefully, 'after the griffin. I was mostly asleep at the time. I convinced myself I'd dreamt it, but then...'

He sighed, remembering how those faint, niggling suspicions had begun to take shape. 'Bridgend. There was frost beneath the bandits' boots, even though the night was mild. I contemplated the possibility that it was Lancelot, but in Caludahn, he offered up no magic to help us escape. Then Mordred told me about mage-lights. I'd seen one before, in the Forest of Balor, long before Lancelot came to Camelot. He said someone was protecting me.'

Merlin's fingers hesitated in their ceaseless plucking, and Arthur held his breath, barely daring to blink as he turned his spare hand palm up. There were no whispered words. He had only a moment to admire the golden gleam of Merlin's eyes before a seed of light unfurled. It was not silver, like Mordred's. Instead, it was the colour of the sky on the first day of spring: beautiful, swirling blue.

'It was you.' Arthur felt something in him settle at the realisation, finding solace in the answer to that particular mystery. It had haunted the corner of his mind for months, tormenting him not with its nature, but with the fact that, even then, he had understood it meant him no harm. It had brought him comfort, down there in the dark.

Merlin had saved him, and that was far from the first time. 'I should have known, right from the start. Of course it was you.'

Merlin wet his lips, his tongue a flash of pink. 'You're not... angry?' He squinted at Arthur, and a trace of colour returned to his cheeks as his eyes widened in realisation. 'You were. That was why you were watching me like that at Bridgend! Even Gwaine noticed!'

'I was looking for proof that my suspicions were correct,' Arthur protested, blowing out a breath and reclining against his pillows, tugging on Merlin's sleeve as he did so. It was enough to get him to settle more fully on the mattress, liberating his tunic from Arthur's grip. He crossed his legs under him, leaning against the post at the foot of the bed. Arthur did not much like the expanse of blankets now stretched between them, but the mage-light hovered, bridging the gap with its glow. 'Not that I got it. I always thought you were rubbish at keeping secrets.'

'I am.' Merlin shrugged. 'Except this one. I didn't relish the idea of losing my head.' He twisted his hands in his lap, rubbing his right thumb over his left in a fretful, anxious gesture. 'Even then, people still found out. My mum, my mate Will, Gaius... Lancelot.' He looked up, as if checking to see how the blow of that last name would land. Perhaps there was a sting to it, but Arthur was listening to every single word, practically carving them into the depths of his own soul. 'He discovered it when he slew the griffin. I had to enchant his lance, and there was nothing subtle about it.'

It was like the final puzzle piece slotting neatly into place. That intimate moment he had witnessed, back when the griffin lay dead, had been the one thing that still chafed at him. Now, he realised it had never been about sweet nothings. Instead, Lancelot had been swearing his secrecy, promising Merlin his silence.

Perhaps he should be angry that the man who had vowed his loyalty upon Arthur's sword had kept such a momentous truth from him. Yet he was glad that Merlin had at least one person to lean on. Lancelot's honour was one of his strongest qualities, but it was a code he had built for himself: one that did not always mesh with the laws of the land. Arthur found he could not begrudge him that. If anything, it was only further proof, should he need it, of the good Lancelot carried in his heart.

'You're the only person I've ever told of my own free will.'

Arthur tightened his fingers in his blankets, shocked at the sudden surge of desperate affection that rushed through him. Every moment of delight at his father's fleeting pride felt like insignificant compared to the warmth pooling in his chest. Emotion tied a knot in his throat, and he had to clear it away before he could utter another word.

'I'm glad you did.' Belatedly, he realised he had offered nothing in the way of reassurance, and he drew his knees up to his chest, draping his arms over the top of them as he leant forward. 'You know you're safe, don't you? I won't turn you over to my father's justice any more than I would throw Mordred upon his non-existent mercy.'

He saw how Merlin's shoulders sagged, his lashes dipping briefly closed again. His next breath left him in a shivering rush before he managed a minuscule nod. 'I hoped you wouldn't, but...' He trailed off with a shrug, and Arthur needed no assistance filling in the blanks.

Merlin had wanted to believe the best of him, but however he looked at it, Arthur was still Uther Pendragon's son. There was nothing petty about his secrecy. His life would be forfeit the moment Uther knew about his magic. When faced with such a threat, was it any wonder that Merlin clung to his doubts?

Perhaps he had the reassurance of witnessing how Arthur had reacted to the Miracle Court and how he had harboured Mordred despite his abilities. Yet even then, Arthur could not deny that there was some risk in Merlin's confession. He was not sure he could have found such courage, if their roles were reversed.

'You're really not upset?'

Arthur sniffed, wincing at the grotty, congested sound of it. 'Not anymore. Back at Bridgend, I think I was more annoyed that you were hiding it than anything else. Perhaps there were some old suspicions, things my father had warned me of, but...' He shook his head. He wished he could claim that he had never been the kind of man who would blindly follow an unjust law, but that would be a lie, and Merlin did not deserve such deception. 'When I thought I'd dreamt your confession, I denied the possibility. I couldn't begin to consider it. I didn't want to face what it might mean, and so I told myself I'd imagined it. Then...'

He shrugged, gesturing to the chamber around them, where the house seemed like a presence all of its own. The candles were slowly regaining some of their strength, and the fire leant the occasional crackle to the peace.

'The magic of this place stole up on me quietly. Sorcery has always been dangerous – calamitous. I only ever saw spells used to hurt people. With one notable exception.' He tilted his head towards the glowing ball that hovered like a blue moon in the air above their heads. 'To find it here, where my mother had once been so happy... To see that it could be something subtle and helpful in a dozen little ways. I suppose it sent further cracks through my belief in my father's claims – belief that had been wavering since I was old enough to think for myself, but that had never truly faltered. Not until recently.'

The blanket rasped beneath his palm as he ran his hand absently over the hub of his knee, staring down at the weave. 'If I had found out about your magic when I met you, it might have been very different.' He winced, expecting Merlin to recoil at the admission, yet he remained precisely where he was, watching Arthur with fathomless blue eyes. They were almost black in the candlelight, but there was no censure there. It made him feel hopelessly grateful that Merlin could accept the man Arthur had once been, as well as the one he had grown into. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'That, even after everything, you were still so scared to tell me the truth.'

Merlin huffed a weak little laugh. 'You'd be scared too, if you'd heard nothing but warnings to keep your magic hidden all your life. My mum was terrified. It wasn't illegal in Essetir, but people didn't like it, especially close to the border. Villagers sometimes take matters into their own hands.'

'Did they?' The question was sharper than Arthur intended. 'Is that why you left?'

Merlin jerked his head to the side. 'I mean, they tried, but that was years ago, and they didn't enjoy what happened to them. No, it was getting dangerous in Essetir: bandits, slavers, and a king who wanted to imprison sorcerers for his army. Mum decided my chances might be better here. I think she hoped Gaius would teach me some control so I could hide it, and if I was discovered?' He shrugged. 'An execution's a quick death, at least.'

Arthur scowled, hating that Merlin had been left with such grim prospects. He did not wish to imagine an existence that made Camelot look like a favourable home for a sorcerer. Merlin's mother must have been desperate to make such a choice. Yet he had heard what Merlin spoke of so lightly. He may resent his father these days, but Uther had taught him to listen to every single word, and Merlin, for all his faults, was not prone to exaggeration unless he was whining on a hunt.

'"All your life?"' He wet his bottom lip, tilting his head to one side. 'Mordred said that most people with a natural affinity for magic came into it as they left their childhood.'

'Yeah, they do.' Merlin sounded grimly amused. 'My mum wasn't so lucky. I cast my first spell before I cut my first tooth. This one, in fact.' He reached up, touching the curve of the light that hovered between them, watchful and patient. 'I was still in my cradle. Hiding it drove her spare. A little kid doesn't understand why he shouldn't make the rain go away just because he wants to play outside.'

Arthur could picture it easily, a much smaller Merlin conjuring butterflies and similar as his poor mother tried to conceal his power. He had never met her, but he had to admire her all the same. It could not have been an easy feat, especially without the assistance of Merlin's father.

'Not that I got much better at hiding it when I was older, either. It's...' Merlin hesitated, his frown suggesting Arthur might not like what he was about to hear. 'This house, it likes to be useful. It wants to help. Sometimes, my magic's the same. It just... happens. I'm improving. I've more control now.'

'So these days you use it on purpose, instead?'

Merlin shrugged, and perhaps he had not liked keeping his secret, but it was clear he carried no remorse about using his talents when he felt it was necessary. 'If not for my magic, you would have died when I first came to Camelot and the woman pretending to be Lady Helen tried to stab you.'

Arthur leaned back against his pillows, knowing he should not be surprised. His memories of that day were oddly patchy in places. He had no recollection, for example, of the time between being sat in his chair and sprawling at Merlin's side on the flagstones. He had put it down to the shock of the attack, but now he realised there had probably been more than the witch's spells at work.

'My father was right there,' he breathed, cold washing through him at the realisation. 'So was most of the court!'

'None of them were watching me.'

Arthur cuffed a hand through his hair and bit his lip. Something told him that, witnesses or not, it didn't matter: Merlin would not have done anything differently that day, nor in the times since.

It was easy, looking back over his memories, to see all the places where fair fortune found him. All the little ways in which things turned out for the best, from the mysterious gust of wind that had helped slay the afanc to the fact a griffin had supposedly been killed by a lucky blow. At the time, it had been better to shrug them off. Now, he suspected he was recalling every instance Merlin had put his magic to use. Just like in Bridgend, where bandits dropped their swords and slipped on impossible ice.

Mordred knew to be careful with his power. Merlin, it seemed, had no such qualms. He understood the risks and he took them anyway.

For Arthur, and the others who he named his friends.

A fresh shiver wound through him, and he grunted in protest as Merlin rose to his feet, stoking the flames in the grate higher and tucking the cocoon of blankets tighter around Arthur's body. A callused palm rested briefly on his brow, and Arthur squinted up at him, marvelling at how quickly Merlin could shift from tremulous uncertainty to subtle confidence.

'I still have questions,' he grumbled 'And I'm not tired.'

'You can talk with your eyes shut,' Merlin pointed out, brushing aside Arthur's fringe before turning towards to the glowing ball that floated above them.

A faint sound of protest escaped Arthur's lips, and he tried not to flush with embarrassment. 'Don't get rid of it. Can I touch it?' He had already held Mordred's, but that had been offered to him freely. He didn't know enough about the culture of magic to grasp whether such an act was something of consequence. Mordred hadn't even hesitated, and Merlin only gave him a searching sort of look before he scooped the orb from the air and deposited it in Arthur's waiting palms.

He wasn't prepared for how different it would feel. Mordred's had been beautiful, like warm mist, but inert. Merlin's was like... He could not even be sure.

It felt as if he held a sunbeam in his hands, for all that it was the wrong colour. However, there was more to it than the sensation against his skin. The ache in his head faded and the tremulous shivers eased away. It was as if someone had wrapped him in a strong embrace, cradling him against the harsh edges of the world.

Yet for all the tenderness, there was a defiant strength there, too. It seeped through Arthur's flesh to gild his bones, making him feel that nothing was impossible. It was as if he were clad in unbreachable armour, invulnerable to the harms that destiny might send his way. The feeling did not try and drown him, it was simply there, pressed up against a raw seam deep in Arthur's being that he had never known existed.

He felt, impossibly, as if he had found a missing piece of himself: whole in ways he couldn't understand.

'Oh.' He cradled the orb against his ribs, smiling at the little ripples that seemed to stir across its surface. They were not tempestuous. Instead, it reminded him of the way the stable cats would purr, the comforting rumble rolling forth from their furry bodies. There was no sound, but it eased him all the same, and he found himself stroking idle fingers over the glow, petting it absently.

It took him long moments to realise Merlin was watching him with an unreadable expression. When he raised an eyebrow in question, Merlin merely shook his head, busying himself with organising the clutter on the little writing desk that graced one end of the bedchamber. 'I never thought I'd see you looking at magic with a smile on your face. I sort of assumed that, at best, you'd treat it like an unpleasant necessity. Something you had to tolerate.'

He did not ask what Merlin's worst imaginings had been. He didn't have to. He knew precisely what his father would expect of him. He should have burned the Miracle Court to its foundations and slain Mordred the moment he found out. Even now, he should have Merlin bound in chains and dragged off to the dungeon. His hatred was meant to be absolute. That was how he had been raised. Instead, he took his rest in a magical house, committing treason with every breath, and he could not bring himself to regret it.

'What made you tell me?' The question slipped out of him, and he settled more comfortably, watching Merlin with hazy eyes. 'Why now?'

He would love to flatter himself and believe that it was because Merlin had finally judged him worthy of taking into his confidence, but that seemed unlikely. Merlin had still been afraid, and Arthur suspected he would have held his silence if he could.

He watched Merlin fidget about, shuffling papers and checking the inkwell. At last, those nimble fingers stilled, and he sat in the chair at Arthur's desk, pulling one foot up under him and drumming a nervous little beat on his shin.

'You needed to know.' Those shoulders twitched in a shrug. 'But... well. First, there's the house. Remember when we moved in?'

Arthur nodded. He was not the only person who had noticed Merlin's strange, manic exhaustion. He had slept like the dead, so much so that Arthur had been genuinely concerned he may never wake up. Then, during the day, he would be restless, more than a little wild-eyed. It had eased, after Bridgend, though he didn't know why.

'It's ancient. There's been a building on this spot for at least as long as there's been a settlement where Camelot now stands. It was here before the castle.'

Arthur blinked, looking at the hale walls that sheltered them. He would not have said the Miracle Court was new, but nor did it look old. It fit in neatly with the other manor houses of High Town, though perhaps it was a touch more charming than fashion might dictate. 'How do you know that?'

'Gaius found a book. One he couldn't read, but I could.'

'Because you have magic?'

Merlin shrugged again. 'Gaius used to be a sorcerer... I don't know. I suppose I could give it to Mordred and see what he makes of it. Anyway, that's not the point. This place has always, for as long as there are records, been the home of a mage. Sometimes they were merely called wise, or they were seers, but there has always been magic here.'

Arthur nodded, easing onto his side and pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. The mage-light had shrunk to the size of a modest apple, and he clutched it close. 'Mordred said it felt like coming home.'

'It does.' Merlin's agreement was readily given. 'But there's more to it than that. At least for me. This place wants me to use my power openly, and those first few weeks, I was constantly fighting it. I don't know if it's less demanding now because Mordred's here, or if I've just grown better at resisting it. Either way, it feels more treacherous, trying to keep the magic secret here.'

'You managed it,' Arthur pointed out.

'Yeah, but it wasn't easy.' Merlin cuffed a hand through his hair, making the curls stick out wildly. 'The other reason, mostly, is we're not just dealing with your father and his plots. There's Rýne, and whatever Hoel's doing. Most of the time, I can use my magic to help and then make excuses to hide it, but that won't work forever. It would be much easier –'

'If you did not have to conceal what you were doing.' Arthur nodded, his hair rustling against the pillow. Despite his protests and his desperate desire to hear more of what Merlin had to say, his illness was working against him. He was thick-headed and achy, but warm, and the lead in his bones threatened to drag him down into slumber whether he liked it or not. There were so many questions buzzing around his skull, and he made a discontented noise as Merlin let out a soft, slightly breathless laugh.

'You can sleep, you know. I'll still have magic tomorrow.' There was the rustle of clothes, and the bed dipped as Merlin perched once more on its edge. 'I'll still answer your questions, too.'

Arthur forced open his burning eyes, looking up at Merlin from his nest and marshalling his hoarse voice. 'Promise me something?'

'What?'

'No more secrets?'

Merlin's smile was a gentle thing, small but genuine. His eyes gleamed, fond in a way that threatened to steal Arthur's breath away.

'No more secrets.'