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Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon cuffed the hair from his eyes, casting a grim look at the clouds marching in from the west. He could taste a storm on the air, the kind where lightning sundered the sky and rain pelted a land baked by a long, hot summer. The wind had fallen still, breathless, but he could sense the promise of a gale. The birds had ceased their song, the sparse woods falling quiet as the creatures that made it their home found shelter.

He had hoped to be back in Camelot from the diplomatic mission in Mercia before the weather broke, but he should have known it wouldn't go to plan. A bandit strike; a crossbow bolt... It did not take much to turn fair fortune foul.

He kicked his feet amidst the leaf-litter before turning to where Merlin sat at Leon's side, those deft fingers carefully binding the wound in his shoulder. One look at his expressive face told Arthur everything he needed to know. A frown furled his brow and brackets framed that full mouth. The smile he wore for Leon's benefits was a shallow whisper of a thing, but his words, at least, sounded almost believable.

'It could be worse,' he promised. 'That salve will help, but we should really get you back to Gaius as soon as we can.'

Leon's lips pressed tight, his face bleached by pain. Even Arthur knew the flags of feverish colour on his cheeks were not a good sign. He had eschewed his chainmail, unable to bear the weight of it against the wound. Now, he swayed where he sat upon the ground, his body belying his weakness as he made his protests.

'I can endure. We are no more than two days from the citadel.' Leon's copper curls stuck to his brow. 'If we keep going...'

'We cannot.' Lancelot's words were deep with sympathy as he turned away from where he tended the horses. 'Even if we ride hard, we cannot outrace the tempest, and you are in no state for such a journey, my friend.' He glanced at Arthur, his expression bordering on desperate. 'We need to make camp, Sire. Find shelter. If we push on, Leon will only suffer for it.'

'And the rest of us risk injury riding through the storm.' Arthur ducked his head in agreement. As if to add its voice, thunder growled its promise. He and his knights turned to look up, reading the omens writ within the clouds. He cursed under his breath, hating his own helplessness. Leon was one of his oldest friends in Camelot, and to see him suffering so cleaved at him, as sharp as any blade.

His father would remind him that it was a knight's duty to give his life for the realm, but Arthur was damned if he was going to sit back and watch Leon die. The wound was two days old; he had only continued on their journey because Leon insisted. Now he wished he'd listened to his gut rather than allowing himself to be convinced otherwise.

'We need more than just a camp in the woods.' Merlin rubbed his hands clean of salve with a cloth. As he spoke, the first puff of wind stirred his hair back from his brow. It was getting longer, now, curling around his ears and at his nape. 'We've got no tents; nothing to keep the rain off, and even if we did, they'd probably blow away once the storm starts.'

'We're half a day's ride from the nearest inn,' Elyan added, crouching down and offering Leon a waterskin, holding it so he could drink. 'We won't make it before the storm breaks.'

It was Gwaine who scruffed a hand through his beard, casting a quick glance around them as if to get his bearings. Whatever he saw written in the story of the trees and the lay of the land seemed to strengthen his resolve. 'You know, I'm pretty sure there are meant to be some caves hereabouts. I've heard travellers tell of seeking shelter now and then.' He pointed to a ridge of stony ground to the east, rolling his shoulders in a shrug as he glanced in Arthur's direction. 'It's at least worth taking a look, isn't it?'

Arthur bowed his head, his mind racing over the possibilities, not that there were many on offer. Merlin was right, they needed a more substantial haven than they could manage with bedrolls and a campfire. 'Help Lancelot get the horses ready,' he urged Elyan, accepting the waterskin from his hands as he took his place. He waited until Leon pulled away from the spout, reseating the cork and examining the man slumped against a tree's strong bole.

His pallor made the freckles he had acquired that summer stand out against his skin, startling. A dry heat gathered in his cheeks, but even as he watched him, Arthur saw a shudder rattle through Leon's frame. Merlin had changed the bandages and disposed of them, but he had noticed the mixture of dried blood stains and other fluids. None of it looked good.

'I'm sorry.' Leon's voice was a whisper. 'I should have seen the archer.'

'Don't blame yourself for that. Nobody glimpsed him until it was too late.' Percival, at least, had delivered their retribution. A devastating blow to the head with the pommel of his sword. Arthur had heard the crack of bone, but the damage was already done. The bolt had hit Leon high in the chest by his shoulder, just under his collarbone. Getting it out had been the easy part, but the wound that it left in its wake...

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. 'Can you manage the saddle?' It was a necessary question. Leon looked as if he had one foot in the grave, weak and groggy. Yet that jaw shifted beneath his beard: determination taking root.

'Yes, Sire.'

Arthur shared a swift, sharp glance with Percival, who nodded in understanding. He would make sure Leon did not topple from his horse. He wanted to argue, but the weather forced his hand. They required the shelter a cave could offer. Leon needed a chance to rest and recover his strength, and none of them would fare well spending a night out in a storm.

'All right. Let's get you on your feet.'

He pulled Leon up as gently as he could manage, tucking close to support him as he stumbled. There was a moment of panting breaths and a greasy swallow, but Leon seemed to master his weakness.

'Everyone mount up,' Arthur ordered, watching as Percival helped Leon into the saddle, not letting go until he was sure he had his balance. 'Let's see if we can find some shelter.'

The air filled with the creak of leather and the jingle of tack. Percival and Gwaine flanked Leon, riding close to grab him in case he started to topple. Lancelot and Elyan brought up the rear, protecting their backs. That meant it was Arthur and Merlin in front, the steady pace of their horses' hooves echoing around them.

'How is he, really?' Arthur kept his voice low, not wanting his question to reach Leon.

Merlin pursed his lips, tapping the reins against his palm as he chose his words with care. 'The wound's infected. It's not terrible, not yet, but it could get bad very quickly. I'd be happier if we were back in Camelot. Gaius would know what to do.'

'He would be proud of how you handled it,' Arthur promised. He had watched Merlin, noticing the confidence of his hands and the certainty of his choices. For all that his training as Gaius' apprentice had been overshadowed by his responsibilities as Arthur's manservant, it was clear he knew what he was doing. He had not faltered, not when removing the bolt or cleaning the wound. There was nothing with which any man could find fault. In the end, a knight understood better than most how, sometimes, even careful tending and herb-lore was not enough to save him from the vagaries of fate. 'You're doing everything you can.'

Something darted across Merlin's face: a shadow, there and gone again. Grief, Arthur decided. Merlin always had been the most compassionate of them. Once, he might have seen that as a weakness. Back at the beginning of his tenure as Arthur's servant, that had certainly been the case. His father's teachings had formed Arthur's foundations, and he knew that anything more tender-hearted only hinted at vulnerability.

Or so he had thought.

It was Merlin who had made him reconsider. It was not some great epiphany: a bolt from the blue. Instead, as the seasons turned and their bickering took on the hues of friendship, Arthur began to realise that there was more to life than shallow facades. There was more to himself than the role that had been thrust upon him. Merlin helped him not only to comprehend that particular truth but encouraged him to embrace it. He looked at Arthur and saw far more than just his crown. He saw the man beneath it, and he did not shy away.

Perhaps that was why Arthur found himself looking at Merlin more often these days, his heart surging and squeezing within the cage of his ribs. Desire was nothing new. He had dismissed the occasional flare of want as the product of his own deprivation: a need for release. Yet, over time, the feeling had grown depth, embellishing itself until it was a monument within him.

Teasing jibes, shoves and horseplay may still form their foundation, but these days it was gilded by softer touches: fingertips to the back of Merlin's hand or a nudge of their shoulders. Whenever Merlin wasn't at his side, Arthur caught himself searching for him, his absence like an open wound.

Not that anything could change. There were many lords of the court who would think nothing of taking a bed-warmer, but Arthur was not one of them. He could never be sure, those few times he had attempted it, whether his partner had felt more obligation than desire. The notion had haunted the back of his mind. Whatever else he may be, Merlin was a servant – a disobedient, stubborn one, perhaps, but still ultimately in Arthur's power.

His honour would not allow him to invite Merlin to his bed, and so he took pleasure in their friendship, hoarding every stolen touch like a lovesick thief.

A noise from Percival behind him tore him from his musings, and he twisted in the saddle, half-fearing that Leon would have swooned dead away. Instead, the big man was looking at a boulder on the forest floor, his expression shadowed with uncertainty.

Following his gaze, Arthur frowned at the carving upon the stone's face: a circle, carefully hewn, enclosing three horizontal lines. It was not a bandit mark; he knew that much. Nor did it look like the runes the druids used. Moss and lichen crowned the rock, speaking of its age, and a trickle of unease darted down Arthur's spine.

'What is it? Do you know what it means?'

Percival shifted, rising briefly in his stirrups before settling his weight anew. He looked at Arthur, and it was obvious he was giving careful consideration to his answer. Percival may be big and quiet, but he was far from stupid. He had always been in possession of surprising tact.

'Before I came to Camelot, but after my family were killed, I moved around a lot. Heard rumours. Saw things.'

'And you saw this?' Arthur gestured to the symbol. 'Are we in danger?'

'No. Not exactly. There was a place down in Cent: a cave by the sea. It was marked by the same symbol. Among the people of the area, it was thought to be holy. Somewhere that would offer sanctuary.'

'Sounds perfect!' Gwaine crowed. 'Just what we need!' Even as he said it, the first fat raindrops began to fall, pattering on the leaves above their head.

'These travellers you spoke to,' Percival asked, sounding amused. 'The ones who took shelter. Were they druids, by any chance?'

Gwaine grimaced, scratching his nose before giving a shrug. 'Might've been, I suppose. They weren't obvious about it, but... What's that got to do with anything?'

'Caves like this are often only sanctuaries to people who are "friends of magic".'

'And we are of Camelot, a kingdom synonymous with its hatred of sorcery.' Arthur let out a breath, feeling Hengroen shift beneath him. The wind picked up, a mere whisper at first, but before long, it blew in earnest, bringing with it all the promise of the tempest.

Its presence whittled his options down to almost nothing, and he waved a dismissive hand, attempting to project a confidence he did not feel. 'Perhaps these caves are different,' he said at last. 'My father has cleansed these lands of magic. Maybe the power has left them. Either way, I think we have little choice but to try our luck.'

'Arthur...' Merlin's voice carried that low, throbbing warning that he had learned to heed. It would be easier to dismiss his so-called "funny feelings" if they were not so eerily accurate. He still mocked him mercilessly for being such a girl, but he was not so foolish as to ignore him entirely.

'What is it?'

'Places like that don't forget their purpose, not unless they're destroyed. Often, they're tied to the triple goddess in one of her aspects. Temples, of a sort.' Merlin shrugged, his gaze darting off to the side. 'Gaius has books...' he said by way of explanation.

'Ones you would do well not to read.' Arthur sighed. He had immense respect for Camelot's healer, and he understood sometimes how mending the body brushed up against the forbidden arts, but one of these days his tiny library of barely legal tomes would get someone into trouble. Still, Merlin spoke sense. His father had often boasted of how he had pulled down the stone circles and razed the sacred groves. Caves were harder to obliterate.

'We press on and see what we find.'

The knights travelled in silence now, wordless as the storm lifted its voice. The horses stamped and huffed, flicking their ears. The flexible pine trees gave way to towering oaks and elm: heartwood of the forest. They lined a clear path towards the ridge, and Arthur noticed the stones that fringed it, each marked with the same symbol.

The cave, when they found it, had a large open mouth. There was a damp look about it, and stalagmites hung like teeth from its roof. It carried with it no scent of animal musk. No bones littered the floor, and yet there was something about it that sang its warning in Arthur's ear.

They were not welcome here.

It scraped at him, pricking at his skin. It made him think of old, childish nightmares and moments of fear. The smell of blood filled his nose, and a clammy sweat broke out down his spine. The hairs on his arms and at the nape of his neck quivered upright, their warning clear, but all remained silent and still.

He clenched his jaw, his boots thumping as he dismounted. Of its own accord, his hand drifted towards his sword, his fingers grasping the pommel. He did not know what he intended to do. There was nothing to fight, but instinct hummed in his veins, singing promises of glory and tragedy both.

Only Merlin's fingers on his arm made him hesitate. He had not even heard him get down from his mare, but there he was, his heat at Arthur's shoulder driving off the cold and his fingers a warm band around his wrist. He looked into those blue eyes, so close he could see the tiny flecks of gold within them, and raised one brow in question.

'What?'

'Wait here?' Merlin shook his head as Arthur opened his mouth to argue, rolling his eyes as if a basic display of caution was a tiresome inconvenience. 'Look, if you step in there, the gods alone know what might happen to you. I'm not of Camelot, and I've made no vows to the kingdom, unlike the rest of you. Magic wasn't illegal in Essetir, and I don't have strong feelings about it one way or the other.'

He released Arthur as he spread his hands and shrugged. His expression was all open innocence, utterly guileless. If Arthur didn't know better, he would think he was lying through his teeth. 'Let me at least check to see if it's safe?'

'And if something happens to you?' Arthur let go of his blade, folding his arms over his chest. 'How exactly do you plan to defend yourself, Merlin? You've got no sword and no armour.'

'I'll run.' He looked up as a fresh rumble of thunder rolled across the land, growing closer. 'Just wait here?'

'No, hold on!'

Merlin's sleeve whispered through his fingers, and Arthur swore as he strode off into the mouth of the cave. The darkness swallowed him, and Arthur twitched, jolting forward only to recoil.

He longed to follow Merlin and make sure he was safe, but the invisible sensation of loathing that seemed to permeate the place held him back, and he was not the only one. All his knights cringed like men standing too close to a forge, far from comfortable. The rain continued its assault, too strong to be kept at bay by the canopy of the trees above their heads. Before long, their hair was slick and their armour dripping.

The first flash of lightning made the horses twitch. Arthur swore under his breath as he began to pace, bleeding out his worry in a tight, fretful line. The others watched him from where they lingered in the saddle, their tension mounting with each passing moment. Arthur's patience felt like a thread stretched to breaking point, and he clenched his jaw in frustration, desperate to chase after Merlin but discouraged by whatever sinister power lay its thrall upon the caves.

Abruptly, the odd sensation faded. The air lost its teeth, and the silent snarl that echoed through Arthur's being receded. What had looked ominous now appeared welcoming. Even the shadows had thinned, but there was still no sign of Merlin.

Arthur wet his lips, looking at his knights. Perhaps if Leon had been hale, he would have turned his back and braved the storm, but beggars could not be choosers. They needed the shelter the cave could offer.

'I think it's safe,' he said, jerking his head towards the waiting gloom. 'Come on.'

'I hope you're right,' Elyan muttered, reaching out to steady Leon as he slithered from the saddle, pale and sweating. 'It's not like we've got much choice.'

They were a hesitant huddle of men as they made their way inside the cave, leading the horses. Arthur would have expected them to plant their hooves in protest, but Hengroen followed him, as docile as a lamb. His velvety nose snuffled against Arthur's cheek, and he picked up his pace when he saw a picket post, along with bundles of gleaming, golden hay.

That was not the only sign of habitation. Arthur had imagined nothing more than a bare stone floor, but there was a hearth in the room's centre: a square ridge of stone surrounding a fire-pit. A carved spit hung over the place where the flames would burn, and a bed of kindling awaited them. Firewood was stacked at the side, as if their arrival had been anticipated. There was even a pile of blankets, yet there was not another living soul to greet them.

'We're thinking Merlin lit the oil bowls, yeah?' Gwaine tilted his head towards the crackling flames that cast aside the darkness. They burned clean, their smoke fragranced with herbs.

'Who else can it have been?' Elyan shrugged. He prodded the blankets with his toe before picking them up. 'These smell like they were only washed yesterday. Lancelot, grab a bedroll. Leon, lie down. You might as well get some rest.'

The knights lurched into action, making an impromptu pallet on which Leon could find some respite. He eased his way down to the nest as if he were made from glass, his shivers growing worse as Percival tucked blankets around his frame, murmuring something soothing. It seemed to do the trick, and Arthur's uncertainty ebbed away. He would rather see to a wounded man's comfort than question the provenance of the supplies. Perhaps his father would have been quick to decry sorcery, but for now, he grudgingly held his silence.

If the cave was magical, then there was nothing overt about it: not beyond clean blankets and fresh food for the horses. In the right frame of mind, he could excuse that as fair fortune and little more. Perhaps, as Gwaine said, Merlin lit the oil bowls. There could be an entirely rational explanation for everything.

He glanced at the plinths holding the burning braziers, noting the crows carved upon their bases. Shadows drifted across the relief, and Arthur looked away, telling himself it was only childish fancy that made it look like they were breathing. His gaze fell on the walls, and a frown pleated his brow as he examined the letters engraved there. It was not an alphabet of his knowing, but the numbers he understood well enough.

It took him a moment to realise they were dates going back centuries, spooling through time. He reached out, tracing the sharp cleft in the stone, and wondered at the history of this pocket in the earth. People had clearly been coming here for years, but had they all sought shelter, or had there been another purpose? The sense of threat may be gone, but he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched: weighed and measured.

He made his way to Leon's side, kneeling on the stone floor to offer him some company. He ensured he had water within reach and that Leon's sword lay to hand, just in case. A bundled cloak acted as a pillow, and despite their situation, Leon looked glad to finally take his rest.

He may be feverish, but his wits remained sharp, and he raised one knowing eyebrow in Arthur's direction. 'You're not at ease here, Sire.'

Arthur grunted in agreement, watching Lancelot light the fire. It leapt to life obligingly with barely any effort: the wood bone-dry. 'It will serve our purpose well enough. Are you comfortable?'

'As much as I can be with a hole in my shoulder.' His smile was a wan thing. 'I will be well, Sire. Merlin's seen to that.'

Arthur frowned at the mention of his manservant, pursing his lips. Beyond the glow cast by the oil lamps there were only waiting shadows, and Merlin had yet to make an appearance. 'Where is he? He should be here tending you. Trust the damn fool to wander off and get lost.' He rubbed his knuckles across his brow before rising once more. 'I'd better look for him.'

'Alone, Sire?' Even sickening, Leon managed to put a hefty weight of doubt in his voice. 'Absolutely not.'

'I'll go with him.' Percival's promise was softly spoken as he bent down from his massive height, giving Leon a very gently nudge in his good shoulder. 'Keep him out of trouble. You rest, yeah?'

'He can't have gone far,' Arthur added. 'We won't be long.'

He picked up one of the torches from its bracket, pausing to light the oil-soaked rags at the top of its stem before hefting it above his head. Percival's footsteps echoed alongside his own as they ventured forth, and Arthur cleared his throat. 'This sea cave in Cent... What did you know of it? You said it was holy?'

Percy rubbed his hands together in a dry, nervous chafe, as if uncertain how well his words would be received. 'It was a place of nature. There were priests. All the lamps were lit. Its initial purpose was to protect people from being caught out by the rising tide. The sea could not touch it.'

'And it was magic?'

A quick nod was his only response. 'It was beautiful,' he added, sounding wistful. 'Full of light that moved in ripples, and it felt kind. Safe. They worshipped a goddess there. One with three faces and three names: Lucina, Vernia, Egeria.'

'You remember?'

A sliver of a smile curved his lips. 'Hard to forget. The priests of the place called upon them often.'

'And did they answer?' Arthur's curiosity got the better of him. The Old Religion may be banned in Uther's Camelot, but it thrust its roots deep into the culture of the land. The triple goddess had many names and many faces: he knew that much. It sounded like the people of Cent had worshipped her in some form.

'In words? No, but that place...' Percival paused where he stood, his eyes distant. 'There was something there, I think.' He hesitated before pressing on. 'There may be something here, as well.'

They shared a meaningful glance. Just because Uther claimed to have driven magic from the land, that did not mean it was gone. It lingered in the rage of every wronged sorcerer and made its home in the depths of the earth. It was enough to make Arthur look over his shoulder, wondering if his knights would be safe without him.

'It let us in,' Percival pointed out. 'We all felt it.'

'I know. The question is, why would a site such as this allow knights of Camelot within its walls?' He shook his head. 'I wish I could believe it meant no ill-will, but I don't think I'll be happy until we put our backs to this place.'

Up ahead, the way narrowed into a passage wide enough for three men to walk comfortably abreast. The floor was cut into shallow steps, flanked by channels no wider than Arthur's hand was long. They gleamed azure and gold, and when he looked closer, he saw that they had been lined with small stones. Clear, crisp water filled them, burbling ever downwards. For all that this place was formed from the bones of the earth, it knew the touch of man. Someone had carved these stairs and hewn gulleys to tame the water. Someone had made the oil lamps....

What had become of them? Had they fled Uther's Purge or succumbed to it? Arthur was tempted to believe the former, but if that was the case, Uther would have stopped at nothing to destroy the caves. He would have spent the lives of knights and peasants alike to dig it out of the mountainside until all that remained was a scar.

No, he would bet good coin that Uther did not even know this place existed. They were well within Camelot's borders, but perhaps the caves had a way of protecting themselves. Dimly, Arthur wondered if he should tell his father of its existence, but the thought was a fleeting one. If he was younger, there would have been no question. With the naivety of youth, he had believed his father's rhetoric whole-heartedly. It was only as he had grown, gathering new friends around himself, that he had begun to doubt those values that Uther had made the law of the land.

'There's light up ahead.'

Arthur squinted, realising Percival was right. Where there had only been darkness, he could see a hazy blue glow. It emanated from the bottom of the stairs, and he shifted his grip around the stem of the torch as he picked up his pace. He almost lifted his voice to call out Merlin's name, but something stilled his tongue: some instinct whispering in his ear that he knew to heed. Instead, he set down the torch in a bracket and eased forward, taking in the sight that awaited them.

Awe traced the edge of Percival's gasp, and Arthur could see why. The water flowed and curved around a large island of stone, accessed by a narrow path. Far above, a beam of impossible sunlight shafted down. Vines and flowers smothered the walls, but no rain fell. In here, the storm made not a whisper. It was a room bathed in a single perfect day, idyllic.

In the middle of it all stood Merlin, and he was not alone.

The sight was a strange one, like trying to make out shapes in mist or see the sense in the shimmer of rising heat. Arthur blinked twice, attempting to clear his vision, but it didn't help. He could discern the vague form of three figures: the turn of a wrist and the twist of a braid, the flutter of a gown or cloak. There were words, too, but they slipped beneath his knowing, like whispers heard from two rooms away.

Yet in the end, those strange silhouettes were not what enslaved his attention. His gaze was drawn to Merlin: the strong line of his back and the breadth of his shoulders. He stood like a knight challenging a contender to a duel. The mysterious sun gilded his profile, but that was not what stole Arthur's breath away.

Perhaps he could have ignored the glittering motes of magic that danced through the room. He could have blamed this strange place of power for their presence, but he could not deny the truth that made itself plain before him, painted in blue eyes turned to bright, brazen gold.

Merlin was a sorcerer.

Chapter Text

'No.'

Arthur's breathless denial rippled through the air, shattering Merlin's concentration. He whipped around, his power unravelling into gossamer threads. Behind him, he felt the divine of this place retreat, slipping out of sight, but right now he could not pay them any mind. Not when Arthur stared at him in horror, his face chalk white and his fist clenched tight on the pommel of his sword.

Percival was with him, one broad hand pressed to Arthur's chest as if to stop him lunging forward. He appeared shaken, his eyes darting back and forth between them. More than once, he looked Merlin up and down as if trying to make sense of him, and ice clattered down Merlin's spine. How much had they seen? How much did they know?

'Sorcerer.'

He shuddered at Arthur's accusation, pursing his lips tight. He had imagined, sometimes, what would happen if Arthur found out by accident one day. He'd envisaged a dozen emotions on that face, from desperate fury to soft awe, but the truth was a far more horrific sight. It was grief that hollowed out Arthur's features. He looked as if Merlin had reached inside him and pulled out his guts: utterly betrayed. He could see no sign of the man he considered a friend. Instead, there was only heartbreak, and beneath all that, fear.

'Arthur.' He flinched when Arthur jerked his head to the side, as if rejecting the sound of his own name on Merlin's lips. 'Sire. I can explain.'

Silence fell around them, interrupted only by the rasp of Arthur's breathing and the thrum of Merlin's own heart in his ears. It felt as if they stood on the edge of a chasm, about to fall over into calamity, and all his reasons and excuses seemed painfully inadequate.

'Why should I believe a word you say?'

He swallowed hard, hating the pain that hummed in Arthur's voice. He had not sought to throw off Percival's restraining hand, but nor did he stand down. Instead, he strained against it like a dog pulling at a leash, the glimmer in his eyes at odds with the clench of his jaw. He spoke through gritted teeth, and even from a half-dozen paces away, Merlin could see the tremors shaking his body.

'How long have you been lying to me? Hiding this from me?' Arthur's gauntlet creaked as he curled his left hand into a fist. His right still gripped the hilt of his sword, sheathed for now. 'How long?!'

His shout was like the cry of a wounded animal, bouncing around the cave and echoing back to them. Had it journeyed up the passageway, Merlin wondered. Had the other knights heard it? All his thoughts were glassy and sharp, as if his brain wasn't working fast enough to keep up with events. Somehow, he felt like there were the right words to say. If he could only think of them, then Arthur would stop looking at him as if he didn't even recognise him.

Yet all he had was the truth, no matter how much it hurt to utter it.

'I was born with it. With magic.'

Percival's soft curse of surprise whispered through the air, but the big man did not twitch away or reach for his own blade. If anything, he seemed more distressed by Arthur's reaction than bothered by Merlin's nature, his frame a canvas for the portrait of his uncertainty.

'That's your answer? Another lie?' Arthur shook his head, pursing his lips. His nostrils flared, the hollowness of his features steadily filling with rage. 'Magic is chosen. Taught and learned.'

'It can be.' He had to acknowledge that much at least. There were plenty of people who had winnowed some knowledge of sorcery from perseverance and study. 'Sometimes, though... Often? It's just there.' Merlin took a breath, but he didn't know what else he could say. 'I've had magic all my life. I swear.'

'So you have deceived me since the day we met.' The words pulsed between them like a wound dripping blood, as if he had snatched up a blade and torn a hole in Arthur's heart. More pain lay in that low accusation than anger, and desperation gilded Merlin's voice.

'About my magic. Nothing else!'

'Liar!'

It happened too quickly for Merlin to react. Even Percival was taken by surprise as Arthur ducked and surged forward, one arm pulled back as he drove his fist hard into Merlin's cheek. The blow was merciless, the force of it sending him sprawling. A punch from Arthur at full strength was bad enough, but he was wearing his gauntlets. The corner of one of the plates sliced at his skin, adding a high sting of pain to the thud of the blow.

He turned, but did not rise, his stinging palms braced behind his back and his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked at Arthur, his head buzzing. Shifting chainmail whispered its accusations, outlining every panting breath. Even that was not as bad as the cold mask that descended across that face. Those blue eyes went icy and flat. His broad shoulders straightened, and just like that, it was not Arthur looking at him any longer. It was the prince of Camelot: Uther's son.

His sword hissed as he pulled it free of its scabbard. The sunlight gleamed off the polished metal, and Merlin wondered if the edge he had honed so lovingly in the name of Arthur's defence was about to cleave his flesh in two. Now, each breath caught high in his throat, snagging on his panic. Blood trailed down his face: a harbinger of what was to come.

A single crimson droplet splattered on the stone floor, and Merlin felt the magic that imbued the cave twist, the coils of it tightening like a noose.

A roar and a rumble; ripples chased one another madly over the water; cries of alarm echoed back to them from the entrance...

The tip of Arthur's sword pressed to the hollow of Merlin's throat, punctuating his confusion.

'What did you do?'

His face hurt. The drip of blood tickled where it carved its path, and a dull ache thudded in his wrist where he'd caught himself in his fall. He'd scraped his palms on the rock as well, and beneath his skin he could feel the power that hummed in this place. It was similar to his in the way a dragon was like a sparrow: older and mightier by far. It was the kind of magic of which Merlin knew to be cautious, because it was writ into being long before the time of man's knowing: the home of a goddess, and three of her many, many faces.

'Nothing. I – it's not me. I swear!'

Arthur's hand shifted, as if he were getting a better grip to simply shove his blade into Merlin's chest. For one awful, dizzy moment he thought that was exactly what Arthur intended to do. Only shouts from back towards the entrance – their names echoing down to them – seemed to give him pause. He could hear that bright, false cheer in Gwaine's voice that meant he was panicking and trying not to show it, while Elyan's words were clipped. No doubt he had every intention of charging down the steps if he didn't get an answer.

Arthur must have heard it too, because he clenched his jaw, glaring down at Merlin before reaching out. He grabbed the back of his jacket in his fist and dragged him to his feet only to shove him towards the stairs. 'Go,' he commanded. 'And if you have hurt a hair on their heads –'

'I haven't, because this isn't me!' Merlin cringed as the point of Arthur's sword dug in beneath his shoulder-blade: a fierce little jab that carried a weight of warning. He raised his hands, his fingers splayed and his palms bared in surrender: a useless gesture, since any weapon he wielded would not be as solid as a knife. It seemed Arthur knew it, judging by the faint growl that trembled in his throat.

They climbed the steps, Arthur herding Merlin ahead of him. The blade at his back was no empty threat. He got the distinct impression that if he so much as flinched, Arthur would run him through. His anger was like a physical force: a seething, roiling mass of emotion. He could hear it in the scatter of Arthur's breathing: too quick and half-stifled. Sometimes it would find a steadier pace only to stagger once more into its rough rasp, as if he had briefly regained some control only to lose it once more.

Sweat prickled down his spine. His throat felt tight with the threat of tears and his thighs ached with the desire to run and hide, to curl up around the hurt that had bloomed in the cavern of his chest. In the back of his head, a sharp voice hissed how he was a fool for ever hoping for better. Had he really thought that Arthur would welcome him with open arms, knowing the truth? Had he truly believed the son of Uther Pendragon would look upon him and see anything but a monster?

Maybe not, but oh, how he had hoped.

His foot caught on the top step. He stumbled, catching himself against the cave wall before he fell. The scrapes on his palm stung, bleeding still, but there was no sympathy from behind him. Arthur merely grabbed him again, his gauntlet tight on Merlin's collar as he herded him into the pool of light cast by the braziers. He shoved him into that wavering arena as questions rose from the others, their voices united in their confusion.

Merlin's gaze darted towards the cave mouth, his heart sinking as he saw nothing but a blank rock face. It had been sealed tight. No doubt that was the rumble they had heard.

There was no way out.

'What's going on, Sire?' Lancelot's voice carried a note of forceful command. It was rare he put it on display: his path was usually one of compassion. Now, Merlin could hear the threat beneath those words – devotion wrapped in strength – and he widened his eyes, giving his head a fractional shake. Nobody else deserved to suffer for what he was, and if Lancelot confessed that he'd known about the magic, he didn't know what Arthur would do.

Except never, in his whole life, had Lancelot been the type of man to save himself at the cost of a friend's wellbeing. There was no way he would leave Merlin to his fate, a fact that only became blatantly obvious when he urged Merlin back, tucking him neatly behind his shorter, broader frame to get between him and the tip of Arthur's blade.

Silence fell, thick enough to chew. He could feel the tension that wove through each man who, this morning, he had awoken to as friends. His heart pulsed in his ears, so loud he could barely hear the whisper of his own breathing, and his fingers twisted around one another in a fretful dance as he wrung his hands.

'Lancelot, you don't have to –' The touch of a palm on his arm silenced him: a warm, welcome weight – an anchor amidst the tempest in which he had found himself.

'Sire?'

Arthur's jaw clenched, his eyes darting to Lancelot's face before returning to Merlin's. He was afraid to look away, he realised, as if he thought Merlin would attack him the moment his back was turned. It was a contagious fear. He could see it taking root in everyone else, from Gwaine, who shifted his weight, his body canted towards Merlin, to Percival, who had wrapped his arms around himself. Leon was propped up on one elbow, pale and sweating, while Elyan stood poised on the balls of his feet, as if ready to lunge forward or dart away.

'I'm a sorcerer.'

The words bolted out of him, yet it felt like something he had to say. All his life, he had been urged to hide it, and he'd never actually told anyone before. Except Freya, of course, and that had ended in nothing but tragedy. Everyone else, even his mum, Will and Gaius, had discovered it for themselves. He'd wanted to find the courage to tell Arthur, but fate had taken that out of his hands. Now, he reclaimed a tiny bit of that for himself: a fragile consolation prize.

'Arthur saw me using magic.'

In front of him, he noticed Lancelot's shoulders stiffen. A moment later, he rolled them, dispelling his tension and spreading his legs fractionally wider: a fighting stance. His sword was not drawn – so far, only Arthur's blade remained unsheathed – but his palm rested lightly on the pommel.

'You knew.'

'I did.' There was not so much as a tremor in Lancelot's words as he answered Arthur. Merlin wished he could spell him to silence, if only to save his own skin. 'He is no danger to us, Sire.'

'No danger?' Arthur waved an expansive hand, indicating the cave that held them trapped before jabbing a finger in Merlin's direction. 'What has he told you? What other lies has he poured in your ear? How can you believe a word he says?'

'Because he's Merlin.' Gwaine's sounded genuinely baffled, as if Arthur spoke nothing but insanity. 'He's our friend. Your friend. Fine, the magic's a bit of a surprise, but can you blame him for keeping it quiet? Sorcerers lose their heads in Camelot!'

'For good reason!'

'You don't believe that. Not really.' Gwaine darted a quick look in Percival's direction, raising his eyebrows in a help me out here gesture.

Elyan's scoff made Merlin flinch, his next words low and sharp. 'Sorcerers and magical creatures attack us almost constantly, Gwaine. There's always someone trying to bring about Camelot's downfall, and now it turns out one of them has been right at the heart of the place all along?' He jabbed a finger in Merlin's direction, the whites showing all around his dark eyes. 'You can't tell me he's not part of some kind of plot! What better way to strike at Camelot? For all we know, he's the person who locked us in here!'

'And trapped himself as well?' Gwaine sneered. 'You're thick as shit if you think that!'

Voices rose in a clamour, and Merlin flinched from the din, feeling sick. Even Lancelot had joined in, and an odd sensation prickled along the edge of his awareness like a claw scraping at his magic. Something was wrong here; something was taking their genuine concern and honing its edge.

'Enough!'

Merlin spoke not just to the men around him, but to the power that soaked the very bedrock of this place. His voice carried an extra timbre, something dark and resonant that slipped down into the cracks of the earth. He could not break whatever enchantments lay upon the caves, but he could at least drive them back. It would not banish the anger and fear that wove between the knights he called his friends, but perhaps it would ease its sharpest bite before someone lashed out and drew blood.

More blood.

His fingers went briefly to the wound on his cheek, wincing as the cut bit at him. A bruise was forming beneath it, his skin tight and swollen. Arthur had not spared him any of his wrath; not that he could blame him. 'Look, down in the cavern I was asking the divine of this place to let you in, that is all, but there's magic at work in here that has nothing to do with me.' He dropped his arm back to his side, his gaze darting around the shadow-cloaked walls. 'I don't know what it is, and I don't think I can break it, but maybe I can find out more.'

He thought of the three figures down at the water's edge, ancient and eternal. Somehow, he doubted they were eager to explain their sanctuary to him, but perhaps somewhere in these caves there was a clue to their original purpose.

'I need you to trust me.'

His stomach wrung itself in the pit of his belly. It felt like a futile hope in light of the emotion that still clouded the air. The knights were glaring at each other as much as at him, all of them battle-ready. Leon was the only exception, and that was only because his injury pained him too much to move. A sharp slice of sympathy cut through Merlin, and he took half-a-step forward, shifting around Lancelot. 'I need to get that wound cleaned and sorted.'

'No.' Leon may look pale, but there was nothing weak about that denial. 'Don't touch me. Not you.'

Merlin pursed his lips tight, sinking his teeth into his tongue in a desperate effort to keep his heart off his face. It didn't help that both Gwaine and Lancelot immediately offered their protests, pointing out that Merlin was the healer among them.

'It's all right. Maybe Elyan, or Percival?' He looked at the big man with frantic hope, relieved when he ducked his head in agreement. 'You just need to unbind and clean it. There's some salve in my pack that'll help stop the spread of infection.'

He gestured towards the horses, who remained unfussed by the fact that their riders seemed to hover on the brink of an all-out brawl. It occurred to him that he could probably fix Leon's wound with magic, now. After all, it was no longer a secret, but one look at Leon's face told him the suggestion would only be met with horror. Instead, he held his tongue, watching Elyan go to his saddlebag and pull free the clay pot.

He turned it this way and that with a scowl before pinning Merlin beneath his glare. 'How do we know you've not done something to this? Something that's only making Leon worse?'

Merlin hesitated, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. 'You don't. Gaius made it, not me. It's chamomile and rosemary. Good for wound healing?' There was really nothing else he could say. It wasn't merely that their trust in him had faltered. It lay in shattered pieces, and he did not know how to begin putting it back together.

'Elyan, give it to me.' Percival's words were soothing. It had not slipped beneath Merlin's notice that he had not raised his voice earlier, either. While the rest of them lost themselves to panic and suspicion, Percy remained calm, taking everything in. For that, Merlin was grateful. It meant that Elyan surrendered the salve and that Leon lay still as he tended his wound.

A hand on Merlin's arm offered a fraction of comfort, and he looked into Lancelot's sorrowful gaze, offering nothing more than a shrug in response to the unspoken question that gleamed there. He did not know how it had come to this. Arthur's glare was like a physical weight, his face locked in a dispassionate mask as he watched them. His sword was still at the ready, not hanging limp at his side and certainly not sheathed. Arthur kept it up and angled, prepared to strike a blow if necessary. Merlin had no intention of letting Lancelot get in the way.

'Perhaps I can explain...?'

'I don't think they're in any state to hear it,' Merlin murmured, a weak smile curling his lips as Gwaine shifted, planting himself firmly between him and Arthur. 'Most of them, anyway.'

'I always knew you were different,' Gwaine said over his shoulder, the mirth in his words at odds with the expression in his gaze. 'It's nice to be proven right. Don't worry, Merlin, mate. Not everyone here's an idiot who tars every sorcerer with the same brush.'

'And how do you know your thoughts are your own?' Arthur's voice rang out like a bell, clear and steady. It was not a panicked cry but something rock-solid. 'How can you be sure that he hasn't done something to force you to stand up for him against your better judgement? To make you feel things that you would never otherwise have felt?'

There was a long stretch of quiet, and when Gwaine spoke again, it was low and soft: a friend delivering a painful truth. 'I don't think I'm the one with another man's thoughts in my head, Arthur. This, all this, it's not you. Not really. It's your father, and every lie he's ever uttered about magic.'

Arthur gave a twitch: a quick, forward surge of movement embellished by the bright line of his sword. It was Percival who darted between them as Merlin grabbed Gwaine's arm.

'Don't, please.' Merlin spoke quickly, his grip digging in to the chill sheen of chainmail. 'I know you're good at starting fights, Gwaine, but that's not what we need.'

'Am I speaking a word of a lie?'

Merlin clenched his jaw tight. 'He's not in the right frame of mind to hear it, and you're not in the best place to speak of it.' He wanted to believe that the power in the cave was having no effect on Lancelot and Gwaine. After all, both men had placed themselves firmly on his side, but there was an extra edge of aggression to their defence that rang alarm bells in his head. Whatever was going on was pushing everyone to extremes: splitting them all apart. 'Please?'

They were like two dogs, their hackles raised, neither one willing to retreat. In the end, it was Percival's big hand on Arthur's chest that broke the stalemate, easing him respectfully back.

'We are brothers in all but blood.' He spoke quick and firm. 'We are better than this.' He darted a quick glance at Merlin, and he was surprised to see the dreading pallor on that face. 'Is there any way you can get us out of here?'

Merlin glanced around, his gaze falling on the writing that was carved into the walls. The tremulous torchlight cast it in flickering shadows, and the strange lettering slipped in and out of focus. It wasn't in any script he knew, but his magic understood it. 'I don't know, but I can at least find out exactly what we're dealing with.' He gestured with one finger to the wall, realising that, to read it, he would have to turn his back on Arthur and the others.

Every instinct screamed at him not to do it. His heart may understand that these men were not his enemy, but his mind was struggling to find any faith. It felt as if they were simply biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and end the threat he represented. He eyed the gleam of Arthur's sword, wondering what it would feel like when it bit into his flesh. The thought tried to fill his head with its fume, and it took all his strength to chase his terror back into the shadows.

He had wondered how he could rebuild the trust between them. This was it. Someone had to take the first step. Someone had to believe the best of others, despite all their shrieking fears to the contrary. If that had to be him, then so be it. He could not control whether or not Arthur put his sword to use. He could only pray that the man who had been his friend yesterday was not too lost to his enmity.

'I need more light.' Uncertainty made him sound belligerent, but there was no way he could stop the words rasping from his throat. The tension in his jaw meant it was a bitten off statement. 'I'm going to use magic to get it. Don't freak out. Don't cut my head off, or the gods alone know when you'll find a way out of here.'

'And how can we be sure that's all you'll do?' Elyan demanded. He stood over Leon's reclined form like a sentry on guard, his arms folded and his eyes fierce. There was as story there, something Merlin didn't know. His distrust of magic went beyond simply listening to Uther's lies. However, right now, there was no time to learn more. He could only reach for his patience as he drew in a deep, calming breath.

'You don't, I suppose.' It wouldn't help the situation to point out that, while they had swords, he was the one with all the power. He could send them to sleep with a single word. He'd barely have to twitch to cast the spell.

It was painfully tempting. The air in the cave was so thick with tension that it was hard to breathe, but it would just be another betrayal of their already broken trust. Besides, it felt cowardly, even if it would give him time to figure out how to get them out of this place without defending his actions every step of the way. 'I've never hurt you before, Elyan. Why would I start now?'

'Because we know the truth.' Arthur had finally put his blade to rest, point down. The tip ground softly against the rock, ruining its edge.

'Lancelot's known for years.' Merlin shrugged. He was too tired to speak in platitudes. He had the energy left for blunt, brutal honesty and little else. 'You lot will do what you please. Stick a sword in me if it'll make you feel better, but all I'm doing, right now, is conjuring a light.'

He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head when a stony silence was his only response. He needed no words to let his magic unfurl. This kind of spell had come naturally to him since he was in his cradle. His mum frequently complained he'd cast the little lights to entertain himself long before he learned how to talk. Now, the fragile bubble of illumination swirled into being, growing from a spark to something the size of a man's head in the time it took his heart to beat once. Its sharp light threw the wall into relief, and Merlin dragged his gaze over the letters it revealed.

He did not look at the knights to check their reactions. He told himself he didn't care what they thought. It was a lie, of course, but he clung to it with grim determination as he got to work. Somewhere in all this there was an answer to their captivity: a way out waiting to be discovered.

He just had to unearth it and pray that, when freedom found them once more, he would not meet his end at the tip of Arthur's blade.

Chapter Text

It was magic as Percival had rarely witnessed it before. Even beyond Camelot's borders, sorcery was often treated with suspicion. He had not been born and raised amidst Uther's restrictive beliefs. He had not been the victim of more magical attacks than a man could count. Yet the power he had seen used had always been little things, and the effort of it had exhausted the wielder. It was a dying art, driven into the wilds of Albion to reside with the druids and exiles. The fragment that remained withered away, or so he had been told.

There was nothing weak about Merlin's light. Its cool blue was as bright as a full moon on a clear winter's night. He did not sway and stumble with the effort, nor, he noticed, had he uttered a word to bring it into being. It was as if he had simply reached out with some part of himself to make it happen: beautiful and fascinating.

He'd turned his back on them, and in that at least, there had been a cost. Percival was not often the first to speak up, but he took the time to observe what others wished they could hide away. He had seen the reluctance gilding those narrow shoulders: the fractional hesitation of a man screwing his courage to the sticking place before forcing himself into action. Perhaps his magic offered him some reassurance. Maybe he could enchant anyone who might raise a blade against him while he was vulnerable, but somehow, Percival had his doubts.

Not about Merlin's capability. Deep in his heart, he suspected they had only scratched the surface of his talents. No, he questioned his willingness to do them any harm. All through this whole ordeal, he had been waiting for Merlin to lash out like a cornered animal, and yet it had never come to pass. Instead, it was the rest of them who twitched and prowled, restless and hyper-vigilant for any trace of threat from a man who, yesterday, they had all trusted without question.

Folding his arms across his chest, Percival leaned against the cave wall. Most of the writing was where the mouth had been, the letters struck clear and true into the stonework. It gave him a good view of the cave, so he could watch both Merlin and the knights.

Leon had shifted around so he could lie on his uninjured side. Fever still sent its shudders through his frame, but his glassy eyes were fixed, unwavering, never shifting from what he perceived to be the threat. His reaction, Percival supposed, was perhaps no surprise. Other than Arthur, he was the one who had lived all his years in Camelot. Uther had made his hatred of sorcery a foundation stone of the entire culture. It was a scapegoat as often as it was a perpetrator. Leon had been taught that sorcerers were the enemy without exception.

Yet his was not a bullish distrust. He did not hate blindly. In fact, until today, Percival would have questioned whether Leon truly hated anything. Perhaps his reactions were down to the sickness seething in his veins. He had never seen Leon recoil from anyone before, but when Merlin had offered to dress his wound, there had been a visible flinch. He had made no secret of his disgust, as if he thought Merlin were less than human: something to be utterly reviled.

The shift of Elyan's body caught his eye. He had settled down on the floor by Leon's feet, his knees drawn up and one hand draped over their peak. The other lingered over the sheath in his boot and the dagger tucked into the leather. Shaking fingers traced the lines of its hilt obsessively.

The glow from Merlin's light struck ice blue highlights across his dark skin, the orb caught captive in his gaze. He barely even blinked, and there was a hardness to those features that made sweat prickle between Percival's shoulder-blades. He looked like a hunter assessing a quarry: unflinching.

Lancelot shifted, placing himself in Elyan's line of sight. It was subtly done, slow and sure, but there was no missing the tense angle of that jaw nor the cool disdain in that usually compassionate gaze. Percival had never seen him look so hard or fierce. Lancelot was a man who hid his passions well, as if he were almost afraid of his own intensity. His serenity could be infuriating at times, but right now there was no sign of it. He looked ready to go to war on Merlin's behalf.

Gods. Percival wished Gwaine had never mentioned these thrice-cursed caves.

'You knew.' Elyan's voice slithered from between his lips, low and threatening. His anger had found a new target in Lancelot, and he did not bother to swallow his words. 'All this time you knew what he was. You protected him with your silence.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Percival noticed Arthur twitch: a movement hastily stifled. It tightened his eyes in a wince and jerked his fingers on the pommel of his sword, yet he soon mastered it, returning to the same impassive vigil.

'I did.'

'You made vows to protect Camelot, and in the same breath you shielded him from the king's justice!' Elyan's pointing finger was as sharp as any blade, thrusting its accusation into the world.

There was no way that Merlin could not hear it. He had paused, his own touch tracing one of the symbols on the wall, but he did not turn back or leap to Lancelot's defence. Not because he didn't care. His worry was evident in the hitch of his shoulders and the speed of his breathing. Instead, despite everything, he was trusting both Lancelot and Elyan not to let their anger spill into violence.

To some, that might look like idiocy, but Percival knew strength when he saw it. Not that of the body, but that of the heart.

'Because he saved us.' Lancelot's words left ripples in their wakes, little shimmers of awareness that spread throughout the cavern. 'Time and again, he saved us. Besides, I was not a knight of Camelot when I found out about his magic.' He did not move, but that gaze sliced sideways, towards Arthur. 'The night with the griffin. My lance would have done nothing if Merlin had not enchanted it in my grasp. We would have all perished: you, me and the two dozen knights who rode with us.'

That was a story from before Percival's time in Camelot: he had never heard it before. He forgot, sometimes, that other than Leon, Lancelot was the one among them who had known Merlin and Arthur the longest.

'He used magic.'

'You'd rather be dead?' Gwaine asked, his voice thick with disbelief. 'Come on, Princess. Even you're not that much of a fool.'

'He lied!'

Percival winced, because the shout was half-wild with pain. Arthur stifled it a moment later, his lips pursed so tight they were as pale as his face. That, he suspected, was the heart of Arthur's fury. Not the magic itself, but that Merlin had hidden it for so long. Anyone who knew them could see the friendship they had built between them. Both men frequently denied it even existed, but they all had eyes. The devotion went both ways. Or it had done, right up until today.

'Leon should eat something.' Merlin's words were soft, as if he hated to draw any attention to himself but couldn't remain quiet on the matter. 'He needs his strength to fight the foulness in his blood.'

It was a way out: a breach in the breathless stalemate that seemed to fill the cave from one corner to the other, and Percival took it gratefully. 'Give me a hand, will you?'

Elyan tore his eyes from Lancelot, staring at him for long moments before his fingers finally fell away from his dagger. He rose to his feet and strode towards the horses, giving Merlin the widest possible berth as if he were some sort of poisonous serpent waiting to strike. When he returned, his dark hands were white knuckled around a bag of grain. Pottage was hardly a meal of kings, but it was filling and warm. It was Gwaine who got water from the channel nearby, setting it up on the spit over the fire to boil.

Merlin normally did this for them. He made it well, with bits of herbs and a touch of salt. Now, Percival suspected that if Merlin had any part in cooking, then half the people here would refuse to eat the result. Instead, it was Elyan who tended the pot, stirring it now and then. He stared into its depths with a look of almost blank horror, as if he was not really present at all. That, more than anything, was what made Percival reach out, settling a hand on one of his hunched shoulders.

'You know you can talk to us?' he said softly, hoping his words would break through the shell that had enfolded Elyan's heart. It was as if the feelings of the men around him were a tangled knot, one that cinched tighter with every word. Maybe he was foolish, but some part of him felt that if he could only discover the right point to apply pressure, the whole mess would unravel. Then, perhaps, they could actually find their way towards resolving this rather than fermenting in their own anger.

Elyan shook his head, a tiny, trembling gesture, tightly controlled. Yet it was the glimmer Percival saw in those eyes that made his heart sink. That mask of rage had cracks in it, and what lay beneath was nothing more or less than the darkness of an old, unquestioned fear.

'You cannot trust a sorcerer.' Elyan looked as if it pained him to speak such words, but there was ferocity there, too. 'They say one thing and mean another. My mum –' He stopped, his voice strangling to silence. The spoon in his hand poked at the pottage as if he could bury his feelings in the boiling waters. 'She had a friend. Esme. She was... She was nice. Took care of us when mum and dad were busy. Then one day she just...'

A tear tumbled over Elyan's lashes, carving its way down his face. 'We were in the marketplace. Shopping. I was bored. I wanted to go and play. Next thing I knew she was there, throwing magic around. Setting fires. Hurting people. My mum grabbed Gwen and me. She tried to protect us. I remember her writhing on the cobbles. The woman – the witch. She just laughed as my mum lay dying.' He shook his head, meeting Percival's gaze. 'She was her friend. Like he was ours! How long before he decides he's had enough of pretending and kills us all where we stand?'

The high edge to Elyan's voice was like nails over glass, made shrill with the kind of terror that wrote itself down in the soul. Percival winced, his heart aching in sympathy, but even he could see the flaws in the logic Elyan had built up inside him since childhood. Yet before he could speak, Gwaine beat him to it.

'It wasn't Merlin who did that to your mum. Not all sorcerers are the same. You know that. I know you know that, because on execution days you're always there questioning if the poor sod on the block deserves his fate for enchanting his son's armour to protect him!'

'And what if I was wrong? What if magic's just rotten to its core, and one of the men I once trusted with my life has had it all along? What's he cast with it? What's he done behind our backs?'

'Saved your sorry hide, probably!' Gwaine cuffed his hand back through his hair as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'And more than once, knowing our Merlin.'

'We don't know him. That's the problem! A secret that big? It's never just going to be one lie, is it? It's going to be all the rest that help keep the big one hidden. We cannot trust a word out of his mouth!'

'The pottage is burning.' Merlin's quiet statement was underscored by the distinct bitterness of grain that had stuck to the side of the cauldron. At any other time, Percival might have laughed, but right now he could only sigh and snatch the spoon from Elyan, hoping to salvage some of their dinner. He stirred it with intense focus as the knights lapsed into angry silence once more. It made it easier for him to speak, not meeting anyone's eyes.

'I lost my family, you know that, but I always told you it was bandits. It wasn't. I lied.'

He could feel the sudden attention of the men around him. Not just Elyan and Gwaine, but Leon where he lay, as well as Arthur and Merlin a short distance away. He clenched his teeth, still remembering the pounding fist on the door. The strength of the hands that grabbed him. He recalled how the thatch caught alight and how hard he had fought. He'd been outnumbered. They'd struck him on the head and left him for dead. By the time he awoke, his house had been nothing but ash while his wife and infant son lay slaughtered nearby.

Alyssa. Stephen. He mourned them still. He probably always would.

'It wasn't anyone with magic, either,' he managed at last. 'It was a group of knights following orders, just like you lot. The boundary had changed. The new lord didn't want us on the land anymore, and we did not move quick enough for his liking. They murdered my family because their lord was cruel and they were too cowardly to question his command.'

He raised an eyebrow at Elyan before reaching for the bowls Gwaine had retrieved from the packs: anything to keep his hands busy. He doled out the pottage, plain and hot, before shoving a helping none-too-gently into Elyan's grasp.

'Not all knights are the same, right? And not all sorcerers are bad at heart. You know Merlin better than that. We all do.'

He looked over at Arthur, wishing he could see some kind of break in the mask that covered his features: some tiny inkling that suggested he was thinking things through. Instead, there was just the same impassive blankness, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Something told him that words would not be enough. Whatever was going on here was driven by more than just the emotions of the men he called his friends. It would be Merlin who saw them through this, one way or the other.

He only hoped that it did not end in bloodshed.

There was a time and a place to start bashing heads, and while Gwaine knew this wasn't one of them, his fists itched with the desire to thump some sense into the knights around him. Percival he'd give a pass, since he was the only one with any wits. Merlin too, because the poor bloke looked like his heart was about to rip itself apart from the sheer hurt of it all. The rest of them, though?

Arthur was doing his best impression of a statue: a perfect little prince moulded by his brutal father's uncaring hand. He did not take his eyes off Merlin, except to look, now and then, at the orb of light that hung in the air, impossible and beautiful. That was the only time a crack emerged in his facade, revealing the mess of emotion that churned beneath. It hurt to witness, and Gwaine soon turned his attention to the others.

Elyan... He didn't know what to do about him for the best. There was something raw and unpredictable there: a child's deep fear backed up by an adult's strength. He looked at Merlin and it was clear he didn't see the man who had claimed his friendship. Gwaine was pretty sure that, in Elyan's eyes at least, Merlin was a monster to be slain.

Over his dead body. He'd punch Elyan out before he took more than a step. The urge was a vicious knot in the pit of his belly and heat at the base of his throat. It made his breath hitch oddly, and a faint, red haze threatened to cloud the corners of his vision.

Yet a moment later, it ebbed away, chased off by the sight of Elyan taking a bowl of pottage and helping Leon eat some of the nourishing fare. He was so gentle about it, and it was hard to get his head around how he could tend one friend and revile another. Was it really just about the magic? Or the lies? It was like every man in front of him had split into two, the best and worst of themselves.

Even Leon, injured as he was, seemed to simmer with resentment. His gaze flickered between Arthur and Merlin, weighing them both as if he were waiting for the moment where one of them snapped. His duty was, first and foremost, to his prince. If something happened, Gwaine knew Leon would lurch into the thick of it, his wounds be damned. Yet at the same time, he'd rejected Merlin's help, shying away from him as if he was monstrous.

That had hurt. Gwaine's heart had broken at the look on Merlin's face, hastily hidden. Didn't the others see it? How much all this was causing him pain? What did they expect? As if any of them would have had the same courage, to live day-by-day in the shadow of Uther's hate, knowing that one wrong move could end up with his own neck over the block. That had been Merlin's existence for years, yet he'd never mentioned even the thought of leaving for a safer realm. Maybe Gwaine didn't know why he'd stayed, but he could guess.

He'd done it for Arthur, the same as everything else, and now the prat was throwing it all back in his face.

He sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye before scooping up a bowl of pottage. It was one of the better ones – fewer burnt bits – and he made sure to keep his movements big and obvious as he approached Merlin's side. He could feel the weight of the others watching him, but no gaze bit so deep as Lancelot's. The same hot outrage that burned in Gwaine's belly lit those dark eyes, but there was a hardness there as well: a sharpness of spite that he had never seen before.

He looked at them all as if they had caused him a grave disappointment. There was no sign of his usual compassion or his desire to see the best in people. Instead, there was something taut about him: violence barely suppressed, and Gwaine shivered at the possibility.

The air in the cave felt like the atmosphere in the tavern just before someone threw the first punch, and he didn't know where that might end.

'Here. You should probably eat.'

The blue orb struck highlights off those sharp cheekbones, making Merlin look fey and otherworldly. Those full lips pursed before he shook his head. 'I'm not hungry. You might as well have it.'

'Not even a mouthful?' Gwaine shrugged at Merlin's soft refusal, scooping up the grain with a spoon. It was not the best thing he had ever eaten, but he forced himself to focus on the normality of it. In a cave brimming with magic, standing at the shoulder of a sorcerer, he found a little slice of the mundane. It was enough to let him take one clear breath and look the feelings that clattered through him in the eye.

He'd always been protective of people he loved. It was why he'd spent years travelling Albion, because if he didn't care, then he couldn't fail anyone. All that had changed when he'd met Merlin: the first person he had ever truly considered a friend.

Maybe that was why he had turned a bit of a blind eye to some of the oddities that surrounded him. He'd not allowed his thoughts to dwell on it, whenever some monster stalking the Darkling Woods ended up dead after Merlin had been out "gathering herbs". Now, he pulled aside the veil on everything he'd been trying to ignore.

He could almost laugh at how oblivious he'd been.

He could almost cry, too, not for himself, but for how hard Merlin had worked in the shadows, unknown and unacknowledged. A lesser man would break beneath that burden, if they bothered to shoulder it at all. Gods, Arthur looked at Merlin and saw magic. How could he miss the loyalty that blazed in him? Was he really fooled by the lies Uther had poured in his ears over the years, or was there something else going on?

'Found anything?' he asked around the mouthful, squinting up at the orb of light when it gave a little shiver. From a distance it had appeared glassy and inanimate, but Gwaine could see there was far more to it than that. There were shapes swirling in its depths: hints of things that he felt he might understand if he only looked closer. Now that he watched, he noticed it was bobbing back and forth like a dog staying to heel but desperate to run up and greet a friend. It made him smile despite the mess they were in, because he'd never thought of magic as more than a thing, before.

He'd never considered that there might be more to it.

Merlin's sigh interrupted his musings, and he watched him press both his palms to his face, hiding briefly in their depths before scrubbing them back through his hair. It left it sticking up in all directions, and Gwaine had a passing thought that Merlin was too young to look so very tired.

'Kind of?' He shrugged before turning around, folding his arms across his chest. He couldn't have looked more defensive if he tried, and Gwaine didn't miss how he spoke to the ground beneath his feet rather than meeting anyone's eye.

'Percival was right; it is a holy cave. Except there was more to its purpose than giving people shelter.' He reached up, cupping the light in his palm. Immediately, it dwindled away, shrinking to a single gleaming mote before that, too, vanished from sight. 'There are names and dates all over the walls, going back centuries. I think leaders used to meet here to broker peace treaties.'

'So it's a place of peace?' Percy's huge shoulders sagged in relief. 'That doesn't sound so bad.'

'I mean, that's one way to look at it.' Merlin bit his lip, glancing towards where the exit had been. Gwaine followed his gaze, eyeing the impassive rock. It looked like the bones of the earth itself, as if there'd be no moving it. 'Except it's not that simple. I think it forced those people hoping for peace into resolving their issues. If they found an accord, all was well, but if communication broke down and blood was spilled...' He raised a hand to his bruised cheek and the reddish brown that smeared his skin. '... then the cave sealed the people in and did not let them out unless they mended the breach.'

It was Arthur's subtle scoff that broke the ensuing silence. 'How convenient for you. So the only way we are getting out of here is if we... what? Forgive you?' He shifted his weight, his armour clinking as he did so, and a warning thrilled down Gwaine's spine. He knew the look in Arthur's eye and saw it echoed in Elyan's: the wild stare of a beast caught in a trap, willing to escape by any means necessary.

Even if it meant ripping out the throat of a friend.

He moved without thinking, ushering Merlin behind him with an outstretched arm before dropping his hand to the pommel of his blade. Lancelot's stride was a steady saunter before he stopped to Gwaine's left, the two of them presenting a united front. This was not some scuffle between friends, a few blows traded and laughed about later over mead. He could feel the song of it in his veins: the promise of victory and triumph. It was so loud he barely heard Merlin's protest, only shaking himself from its thrall when he shoved his way past.

Nor was he the only one. Gwaine hadn't even noticed the others move. He certainly hadn't seen how Elyan had joined Arthur, side-by-side, his sword drawn and his teeth bared. Would they have used their blades against them? Would he and Lancelot have retaliated? His head felt as if it were full of hot cobwebs, and he saw how Arthur looked at his own weapon as if surprised to find it raised once more.

Merlin stood between them, his hands pressed palm out, yet no magic glimmered there. He looked as if he had been prepared to spit himself on their blades in an effort to keep them safe from each other. Percival was right beside him, sweat glistening on his brow, his eyes huge as Merlin's words fell out of him in a tumble.

'Stop it! This isn't you. Any of you. Look, I don't know what's going on, but maybe I can try and talk our way out of it. I just need to go back down the stairs into the sanctuary. I convinced them to let you in. Perhaps I can explain to the divine of this place that it's all some kind of mistake!'

'Alone?' Leon's voice was little more than a groan. It was a weak sound, but it was enough to break apart the stalemate. It reminded Gwaine that these men were not his enemies, and he cursed as he shoved his sword back in his scabbard. Maybe Leon would have been at Arthur's side if he was hale, but that didn't matter. Right now, he was wounded, sweat-glossed and pale. It was his need that narrowed the breach between them, even if his words were sharp and distrustful. 'How do we know you won't just make the situation worse? Or seek your own escape and leave us behind?'

'He won't, because he will not be by himself.' Arthur brooked no opposition. There'd be no arguing with him. Gwaine read it in the hardness of his eyes and the line of his jaw, stubborn to the last. 'I'll go with him; the rest of you stay here.'

Protests rose from every pair of lips, Gwaine's refusal as loud as any other. Gods, how had it come to this? He shouldn't be here, waiting to see if men he called his friends were pushed towards bloodshed in the name of protecting each other, either from the threat of magic or the hatred of it. Yet he stood there looking at Arthur, and everything in him rebelled at the notion of leaving Merlin alone with him.

'And how do we know you won't run him through?' Lancelot demanded, spitting it like a challenge.

'You're the prince!' Elyan protested. 'Uther's son! Maybe this is the chance he has been waiting for to kill you, and you're just going to go with him?'

'I gave you an order.' Arthur's words seemed to hum, and Gwaine watched Elyan ease back, all disgruntled resignation. That blue gaze swept around them all before finally settling on Gwaine and Lancelot. His promise, when it came, was ground out through clenched teeth. 'I will only raise my sword to Merlin in self-defence. I will not hurt him unless he gives me a good reason.'

'Seems to me like you think him being a sorcerer is reason enough.'

'Gwaine, please. Stop it.'

Maybe if Merlin hadn't sounded so imploring, he would have ignored him. He would have bulled his way along at Merlin's side to watch his back, but he had eyes. He could see how Merlin was struggling with what had happened, reaching desperately for the splinters of hope he found in Arthur's promise. It was a paltry vow, but it looked like he would take whatever he could get.

A thousand words boiled in his throat, but in the end, what escaped him was softer than it had any right to be. 'Don't let him hurt you?' His gaze drifted to the bloody bruise on Merlin's cheek. 'Again?'

Merlin's weak smile was the only reassurance he got before he backed away. It didn't pass anyone's notice how he kept his distance from Arthur. Only yesterday they would have been shoulder-to-shoulder, jibing mercilessly at each other. Now, they flinched, lost in the wasteland of their own fears.

And as Gwaine watched them go, he knew it was a test of his faith. Not in Merlin, but in Arthur. He hoped that, when it really came down to it, he rose above his upbringing and saw Merlin for the friend he was, rather than the enemy he had been taught to loathe.

But above all else, he prayed this whole damn mess didn't end in tears.

Chapter Text

Merlin's footsteps echoed as he made his way back towards the sanctum. All around him, the water chattered in its channels, tumbling downwards. The noise sounded too happy for his mood, which teetered wildly between heartbreak and terror. The hand holding the torch aloft shook. He could have summoned another mage-light, but he did not want to do anything that Arthur might read as an attack.

No words passed between them. Arthur had not yet sheathed his sword. At least its point didn't rest against Merlin's back, but that was the only improvement. He could feel those blue eyes practically boring into him, as if Arthur were hoping he would give him an excuse to put his weapon to use. The silence felt like a noose around his neck, and Merlin swallowed hard as he tried to push aside the consuming tide of his fear.

Up ahead, the glow of daylight strengthened, and he staggered down the final step. It was here, at its heart, that the cave's magic shone the brightest. There was something so peaceful about the impossible sunlight and the lush plants growing from every crevice. The water gleamed in shades of azure and turquoise, crystal clear. He didn't know if the storm still raged outside, but here at least, all was tranquil.

He could almost convince himself that his whole life didn't lie in ruins at his feet.

'Well?'

Prat.

Merlin looked around, shoving the torch in a bracket on the wall before folding his arms over his chest. He hugged his own ribs, trying to find a trace of comfort as he turned to face the man who, even now, held himself distant. For a moment, they simply stared at each other from opposite sides of a great divide: one caused by the revelation of Merlin's secret. He wished they could go back to how things had been. Only this morning, friendship with Arthur and the others was his to claim. Now...?

He sighed, knowing it was hopeless. He could only move forward and hope that the journey did not end on the edge of Arthur's blade.

'I'll need to use my magic to try and talk to the goddesses of this place,' he began, shifting his weight. 'It won't do much. My eyes will glow, probably. Same as they did ...' He gestured weakly, indicating when Arthur and Percival had stumbled upon him. He wished he had the strength left to be angry. Some part of him snarled that none of this was fair. After all he had done – all he'd sacrificed – didn't he deserve better than this? Yet they were useless protests: the cries of a child who had tried their best and still been found unworthy.

He should never have allowed himself to hope that Arthur would look upon his magic with awe, rather than hatred.

'I won't hurt you, is what I'm trying to say.'

'You already did.'

Those words made him glance up, surprised that Arthur had said anything at all. His expression was still one of stoic indifference. The only change was the gleam in his eyes: a well-hidden wound put briefly on display. Yet before he could pursue that further, Arthur shook his head, dismissive.

'Do what you must, but if I think you're working against me or any of my knights, I will not hesitate to cut you down.'

Merlin sighed, ducking his chin in a quick nod as he shuffled out onto the peninsular. It was a perfectly round island, connected to the shore by a stem of stone that formed a walkway. Perhaps it had been an altar once, or the place where the priests had performed their rites. Now it was nothing but a relic. No one had been here in years, not until they had foolishly stumbled into its confines.

Still, that didn't mean Merlin couldn't feel the potential that lingered all around him. He had sensed it the moment he had set foot inside: an old power, writ down in the blood and iron of the land. Not cruel, but hard and unforgiving. He may not know precisely what form the triple goddess claimed here, but his suspicions were not exactly comforting.

He could feel Arthur's presence behind him: a weight prepared to crush the life from him. It took all of his courage to set his fear aside, but there was no hiding the way his hand shook as he stretched it out before him, reaching out in supplication as his eyes flared gold.

There was no spell to guide his magic; that wasn't what this was about. Only an idiot demanded the attention of the divine. Instead, it was like opening a door: one he hoped that the goddess would step through. Except nothing in his life was ever easy.

The water did not spin itself into humanoid figures. No words whispered in his ears and no power crackled across his skin. Hunger clenched tight in his belly, so fierce it almost bent him in two. Rage stirred, frothing through his blood, and his own terror surged over him, robbing him of breath.

He could hear, distantly, the sound of swords clanging and the scream of horses. The stench of an old battlefield assailed him, making him gag: all rot and hopelessness. The stones beneath the soles of his boots felt tacky, and he did not dare peel his eyes open to see what stained their foundation. Not when he could smell it: the hot tin of blood fresh-spilled.

'Merlin!'

He recoiled from the touch upon his shoulder, tearing himself free as he scrambled out of reach. Three frantic blinks cleared the strange haze from his vision, and he found himself staring at where Arthur knelt, one hand still outstretched. For one, brief moment he looked absolutely gutted, as if Merlin had delivered a physical blow. Yet, in the blink of an eye, the expression was gone, that same, stupid mask descending back into place.

'You fell to your knees. I thought –' He bit off the words as if he could not bring himself to show even a glimmer of a concern. Merlin was a sorcerer after all. In Arthur's mind, no doubt, he was undeserving of anything so gentle as sympathy. 'You looked as if you were in pain.'

Merlin wet his lips, the skin parched and cracked. He was sat on his arse, his hands supporting his weight behind him and his knees drawn up in front of his chest. His body was half-turned, cringing from Arthur's touch. He didn't remember moving. He'd been too lost in the fume of this place, his terror a rising tide. Now the world looked sharp and bright in its absence. There was no rot and blood, no death or destruction. There was just him and Arthur, staring at one another across an impossible gulf.

'I'm fine,' he rasped, not caring if it was a bold-faced lie. He did not think he would ever be "fine" again, and not because of whatever this place had done. All his hurt was at the distance between them, the broken trust and the lost faith, the sinking regret and his own stupid, shattered hopes. It brought a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes, nipping at his lashes like frost. More than anything, he wanted to curl up somewhere and hide – to weep until the pain had been scoured out of him – but nothing was that easy. Arthur might feel betrayed, but he wasn't the only one.

Yet dwelling on it was a useless endeavour. He could wallow all he liked, but the end result would still be the same: him stuck in his own misery, moving neither forward nor back. No, first things first, they had to figure out how to get out of this cave. After that...

He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

'They didn't answer me,' he managed, easing his way to his feet and brushing his palms off against his breeches. The scrapes on his skin stung at the contact, but he ignored the biting pain. 'Not because they can't but because they have no wish to do so. It was just... feelings. Impressions.' He frowned, picking through the mess of his own recollections. 'Maybe we should return to the others; make sure they're all right.'

Arthur looked up at him from where he was still down on one knee. He'd rested his sword on the stones, and Merlin stared at it. He refused to let his relief flourish or his hope take root, even when Arthur did not immediately scoop it back into his grasp. Instead, he stared at Merlin, his face blank and his eyes filled with warring shadows as he rose to his feet. He did not give his thoughts voice, and in the end, he seemed to set them aside, his words flat as he pointed across the water.

'What about that? It wasn't here when we entered the room. I heard it crack open while you were...' He waved a hand, vague. 'Doing whatever you were doing.'

Grudgingly, Merlin had to admit that Arthur had a sharp eye. He would have overlooked the change entirely, though it would have been an easy mistake to make. A rift had split the wall, half hidden beneath the cascade of lush greenery. It was twice his height, but so narrow he would only be able to squeeze down it if he went sideways. If he were any bigger, he doubted he would fit at all.

Looking down at the water, he realised there were now stepping stones within the depths. They did not breach the surface but skulked just below it, a treacherous causeway across the pool that surrounded them.

'You stay here,' he decided. 'I'll find out where it goes.'

'No.' Arthur's retort was like the crack of a whip. Merlin blinked owlishly at him, easing his weight back as Arthur ripped off his gauntlets and dropped them to the floor. Those blunt hands prised at the buckles holding his pauldron in place, each move sharp and jerky. 'You're not going alone. For all I know, you'll find a way out and make a run for it. You'll leave us to whatever wretched fate awaits us.'

Merlin screwed up his face in disbelief. 'No, I would come back and get you. When have I ever left you behind?'

'That's not the point.' Arthur's fingers slipped, the scowl on his brow deepening with every moment. 'You're a sorcerer!'

Merlin threw his hands in the air. He had forgotten how close companions fear and anger could be. Now both surged within him. 'I always have been! Every time I've helped you in and out of your armour, or bathed you, or followed you on a quest, or got your breakfast! I've always had magic, Arthur. Always! The only difference is that now you know!' He stomped across the rocky island, not caring that Arthur flinched away as he grabbed the pauldron and make quick work of the buckles, picking free the leather straps with ease and casting it aside.

The clatter of it punctuated their movements, and they both fell still, staring at each other. This close, he could see the flecks of grey in the blue of Arthur's eyes. He saw the lines of strain that feathered them and the fractional tightness around his lips: cracks in that stoic facade. It was tempting to pick and push, to harry Arthur until he lashed out in response, but Merlin restrained the urge. Maybe it would do them some good to have it out, but something told him that this place would taint their words and twist their feelings.

No, better that they get out of here, first. Perhaps then they would stand some chance of airing their grievances without coming to blows.

Again.

He watched Arthur's hands curl in the hem of his chainmail, pulling it up and over his head. The gambeson came next, leaving him standing in his breeches and a sweat-stiff tunic. He caught Merlin watching and raised one eyebrow before gesturing to the crack in the wall. 'It will be a tight fit; impossible in my armour.' There was a moment before he added, 'Besides, it's not like it can protect me from you and your magic, is it?'

Merlin bit his tongue. He did not think now was the best time to point out that the chainmail was already enchanted at every link and seam, interwoven with Merlin's desperate intent to keep Arthur safe. He would probably pitch a fit and refuse to ever wear it again.

Instead, he flicked his hand towards Arthur's sword where it lay. 'Pick that up. We don't know what we might find on the other side.'

'You couldn't protect us?' A hint of a sneer tilted those words.

Merlin clenched his hands into quick fists, not bothering to respond. There was no talking to Arthur when he got like this, petulant and prattish. Instead, he simply approached the uncertain shore and took the first step out onto the narrow causeway. He half-expected the water to rise up and sweep him down into the depths, or for the rocks to vanish and dunk him beneath the surface. It was a pleasant surprise when they held steady, allowing him to pick his way across to the seam in the rock-face.

He did not give Arthur the chance to argue over who should go first. He didn't have the patience for it. Instead, he wedged himself into the narrow chasm, wincing as he edged onwards. It really was a tight squeeze. He wasn't a big man, and he still struggled. He was surprised Arthur didn't get stuck fast. More than once, he thought he heard a quiet curse as some bit of rock or other scraped at Arthur's belly. It was tempting to make a comment about eating too many pies, but he restrained himself. They were already like two angry cats in a sack: there was no point in making the whole situation worse.

It was a painstaking journey, full of dripping water and clinging spider-webs. Pale, velvety moss brushed against his hands, and things best not considered crunched beneath his boots. Vaporous light filtered down from up above, but before long, even that faded. It felt as if they picked their way through a wound in the earth: something sinister and living, and Merlin almost sobbed with relief when the sensation of space opened up in front of him.

The darkness was absolute. It made him think of the oblivion of the grave, and he snatched in a gasp of air as he flung out a mage-light. It swirled into existence, its glow pushing back the shadows, and he wiped the nervous sweat off his brow as he heard Arthur extricate himself from the narrow passageway. There was a grunt and a scuffle – maybe he tripped, Merlin wasn't sure – but the next thing he knew Arthur blundered into him, almost knocking him flat as they staggered.

Strong hands clutched at his tunic. Merlin could feel the shudders that tore through Arthur's body: not a gentle tremor but a rattling storm, like something under great strain had snapped within him. That blond hair tumbled over his brow as he stood with his head bowed, panting at the floor. His skin was clammy, and when he looked up, Merlin's heart lurched in surprise.

The mask of Arthur's disdain was no longer merely cracked. It was as if it had shattered to bits, revealing what lay beneath: honest emotion, sharp but not cutting. Arthur appeared hurt and confused, dreading and desperate. His lips were parted around each breath, and he stared at Merlin as if he held the answer to every impossible question.

'What is this place doing to us?'

His whisper drifted between them, and Merlin narrowed his eyes, tilting his head as he tried to understand.

'What do you mean?'

'I –' Arthur panted, retreating to reel, dizzy. Merlin didn't even notice he'd moved until he ducked closer, one arm going around Arthur's back and the other resting over his racing heart, holding him steady. 'You have magic. I saw. I saw, but what I felt was...'

'Arthur, you're not making any sense.'

'I wanted to kill you. It was like a need that I was constantly fighting against. I could barely think over the buzzing in my head – anger and fear and hatred.'

Merlin tensed, unable to stop himself. Arthur's sword still hung limp in his grasp. 'And now?'

Arthur's jaw tightened as he pursed his lips. He scrubbed his free hand over his face before meeting Merlin's gaze. 'You have magic.'

The mournful repetition made Merlin's chest hurt, and he eased away, making sure Arthur was steady on his feet before he retreated. The heartbreak in those eyes was worse than his rage. Anger was something he could fight, but the loss echoing in those words cut at him deeper than any blade.

He hunched his shoulders and folded his arms. The mage-light cast everything in a pale glow, but he wasn't paying any attention to his surroundings. Instead, he considered what Arthur had said and took a long, hard look at his own inner turmoil.

Back in the cave, with the knights taking sides – one sick with their loathing and the other vicious in their defence – he had struggled to master his fear. It had raked at him with its claws, and it was a constant fight to think over its clamour. Now, that same feeling remained, but it was like a dark current within him. Something he could navigate. It did not fill his head with its fume but nor was he free of its grasp.

'It's the cave,' he managed at last. 'I think it's making our emotions more intense, so there isn't much room for anything else.' His throat clicked as he swallowed. 'Maybe it's weaker here.'

Arthur frowned, baffled. 'Why? What purpose can that possibly serve?'

'I don't know.' He shrugged, scrubbing his hands over his face and dragging his fingers back through his hair, raking at his scalp with his nails as he tried to think. He felt like he had a load of disparate pieces but none of them fit together into a complete picture.

Maybe he should be grateful that all the hate and bile of the others was brought forth by this place, but he couldn't ignore the fact that everyone's reactions no doubt had their roots in genuine sentiment. Elyan's angry terror had a firm foundation. Leon's disdain was a flaw writ deep within him. Arthur's hurt was a scar of Merlin's making, ripped open to a fatal wound by the power of the caves.

Then he thought of himself. How scared he had been, not only that Arthur might sunder his head from his shoulders or Elyan could slide a dagger between his ribs. He had even feared the viciousness of Lancelot's defence. It was as if the air between the knights had roiled with fury, and that was what had frightened him most of all. It was not just about what they might do to him, but the harm they may bring down upon each other. It had taken all his strength not to let it consume him.

Without his magic, would he have succumbed? And if that was the case, then what chance did Arthur and the others have of clutching at one clear thought amidst the turmoil?

'I need to understand this place.' The words rang around him, sounding far more confident than he felt, but it was good to see how Arthur reacted to the tone in his voice. He did not flinch away, as he half feared. Instead, it seemed to gift him a bit of strength, straightening his shoulders and spine. 'If I can figure out what it is doing and why, then maybe I can work out how to open the door again.'

'Using magic.'

He shrugged, shaking his head. 'It's all I have, Arthur. All I am. And it could be what gets us all out of this mess.'

Looking up, he fed the mage-light more power. Inch by inch, the glow pushed aside the shadows. It was a slow, creeping tide. The magic in the cave fought against it, but here it was not so strong. It could not keep its secrets hidden, though once they were revealed, Merlin found himself wishing he had never tried to uncover them in the first place. He was not sure what he had expected, but it was not a copy of the chamber in which the other knights took their rest.

Here, the hearth was dead and cold. No flames danced in the oil bowls and no water gurgled in the channels cut around the room. All was still. Banners were propped against the walls, the fabric half-rotten and falling apart, but it was what lay scattered about, white and gleaming, that made Merlin recoil.

Bones.

For one, awful minute, he thought they were all that remained of Gwaine and the others. His stomach lurched and his heart wrenched. It took painful, breathless moments for common sense to intercede. There were too many dead here for it to be the corpses of their friends. The stones were bloodless; the victims long-gone. He could not say, precisely, how many years they had lain hidden in the shadows, but the notion of centuries pressed down upon him.

'Twelve men.' Arthur approached Merlin's side, cautious. He did not press their shoulders together, but nor did he keep his distance. 'Knights, of a sort.' He pointed to crude plate armour, now rusted almost beyond recognition.

'Not just knights.' Merlin stepped forward, picking up a band of metal. Unlike the iron, the gold had not decayed, and there was no mistaking the simple shape of a crown. He turned it over in his hands, but there was no emblem that he could discern. Time had worn away the details, leaving little but an effigy of royalty. 'Kings don't go missing without someone noticing.'

'This must have happened long ago.' Arthur's voice echoed as he approached one of the banners, touching the tatters of it gingerly as he tried to make out the design on the faded cloth. 'Before Camelot was even a realm of its own, back when the lands were little more than warring fiefdoms.' He sighed, resting his hands on his hips. 'Two different parties came together here to... what? Kill each other?' He gestured towards a ribcage nearby, pinned to the floor by the rusted remains of a brutal sword.

Merlin shook his head, feeling the way his magic warbled and stretched. He was used to its steady flow. Now it felt like rivulets of rain running down his back, warning him of a power far beyond his own. Not something corrupt, precisely, but not one confined by the limits of human morality, either. 'No, that doesn't seem right. If you're going to fight a war, you'd bring more soldiers, and why are they here? A cave is hardly a battlefield.'

'Do you have a better idea?'

Merlin shook his head, catching the curve of his mage-light in the palm of his hand and urging it upwards, letting its glow pool further. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur's reaction – or rather, his lack of a response. He did not flinch back or shy away. Nor did he clench his fists as if facing down his fear. If nothing else, the magical glow appeared to be no cause for alarm. As blessings went, it was a tiny consolation, but Merlin would take it and be grateful.

Words were scratched into the stone, but time had worn them to little more than a whisper, impossible to distinguish. There was nothing new to be found there, not until he noticed the skeleton slumped to one side. It had half crumbled, and Merlin inched closer, feeling his power hitch on something. It made him sway on the balls of his feet, and he splayed a hand on the wall as an impression washed over him.

Darkness. The smell of rusty iron. Cadoc's dying breath had whispered from between his lips long ago. There were only his own rasping gasps. The patter of blood from the wound. This was the cost of peace. He alone lived, but not for much longer. It had been a slaughter. A spark of anger had struck the flame, and there had only been one way to end it.

Such was the power of this place.

A sharp piece of flint bit into his fingers as he scored letters into the ground: clumsy and desperate. A warning, maybe, to some other poor soul. Or perhaps it was merely an epitaph, a reminder to himself in his dying moments of the goddesses who resided here: indomitable in their duty.

Merlin reeled, the world dipping alarmingly as a cold sweat prickled across his brow. The back of his throat felt as if he were choking on dust, and he managed a wretched swallow before he reached out to scrape away at the filth on the floor.

'What is it? What have you found?' The mage-light gleamed off Arthur's sword where it hung slack at his side, no longer braced and ready to run Merlin through. In fact, he had not raised it once since they had stumbled out of the crack in the wall.

'Hang on.' The scrap of flint rattled across the floor, swept aside by his touch, and his questing fingertips found scored lines hacked into the bedrock. Wasting not a moment, he urged the mage-light closer, tilting his head as he tried to make out the angular letters. It was far from easy, the words themselves merely similar, rather than identical to the ones he knew. Not that it mattered: his magic read the truth even as his eyes struggled.

Three names.

Badb. Macha. The Mórrígan.

'Shit.'

'What?'

Another time, he might have laughed at Arthur's bossy demand, but there was a desperate edge to it that struck up a shimmering awareness in Merlin's bones. The cave's magic may be weaker here, this long-dead hollow no longer under the divine's eyes, but fragments of it lingered. He could not risk pushing Arthur into a rage.

'We need to get back to the others. This place is dedicated to a very particular form of the triple goddess.'

'What form?' Arthur's hand lashed out, grabbing Merlin's wrist. It could have been bruising, but for once, Arthur seemed mindful of his own strength. He did not restrain him but merely brought him to a halt, his gaze imploring. 'Please, Merlin. You're the only one of us with any idea what is going on. This is already hard enough. I –'

It was rare that Arthur became frantic, and Merlin ached to see him so shaken in his certainties. This was not the harsh, cruel prince who had reacted with violence when he discovered Merlin's magic. It was his friend, fighting to understand but fighting all the same. At least in that there was a glimmer of hope.

Maybe Arthur and the others learning of his talents would change everything, but if he could get them away from the influence of this place, then perhaps it could be a change for the better.

'They're the goddesses of war. Badb, Macha and the Mórrígan.'

There was recognition in Arthur's eyes. Uther may have turned his back on the Old Religion, but the ancient deities still held sway.

'I thought you said this was a sanctuary of peace,' he whispered, looking over his shoulder at the way out.

'And what does every king claim he fights for?' Merlin raised his chin in challenge. 'Under what banner do the knights of all realms rally? They say they fight for peace, Arthur. A far more pure cause than the real motives.'

He shook his head, holding out a hand and softening his voice. 'I already figured out that this was where treaties were held. I think this was one.' He gestured at the bones around them. 'When it went wrong, the goddesses sealed the cave and confined their conflict. Perhaps they even made their feelings and distrust worse until the end result was slaughter. After all, what can remain but peace when the lords who call for war are dead?'

Arthur swore under his breath, pivoting uselessly where he stood as if he didn't know what to do for the best. 'We did not come here with conflict in mind,' he pointed out. 'This was no treaty! We just sought shelter. Why are we locked in?' Even as the question escaped him, Merlin saw realisation bloom in his gaze. Arthur swayed, pressing a hand over his eyes as he bowed his head.

'Uther has been at war with magic for decades,' Merlin said softly into the silence. 'You're his son. I'm a sorcerer. Maybe to this place, that was enough: natural enemies, one of whom spilled the blood of the other.'

Arthur's attention fixed on Merlin's cheek, where the bruise still swelled the skin and a small scab itched. It was a narrow slice, a wound barely worth mentioning, but perhaps that was all it took.

'Listen, it doesn't matter why it locked us in. We need to get back to the others before they end up like these poor souls.' He gestured to the remnants around them: a sorry state of lost humanity. 'Are you with me?'

Arthur wet his lips, his gaze turning to the narrow gap in the wall. The sunlight from the sanctum was too distant to reach them. It looked like nothing more than a waiting abyss. 'If I go back in there, it will get worse. What I feel. How I act.' His voice thinned, and he stared down at his sword as if hating the very sight of it. 'I don't know what I might do to you.'

The confession was a haggard thing, and Merlin could practically hear Arthur's fear. Not that long ago, he would have sworn that Arthur would be happy to see him dead. Now he realised that was the power of the cave, honing all that doubt and anger into its sharpest, worst edge.

'I don't know if I can fight it.'

'I wasn't sure you'd want to.' Merlin spread his hands, unable to stop poking the wound between them. 'Sorcerer, remember?'

Arthur stepped forward, his boots scuffing the floor as he approached. His fingers reached out, tangling in the cuff of Merlin's tunic. It was a fragile touch, but he would have bet good coin that Arthur would never reach for him again. Yet here he was, defying his worst expectations.

'Friends. Remember?'

Merlin let out a breath, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. The words hovered between them, soft like falling snow and just as delicate. 'Still?' he managed, not bothering to hide the tears dampening his voice. His hope was so sharp that it hurt, a knife twisting between his ribs.

And despite the anger and betrayal that he knew had pierced Arthur's heart – despite the pain they had caused one another – Arthur's nod was as steady and solemn as an oath. There was so much to say, and yet right now they had neither the time nor the strength to speak of it. Instead, Arthur uttered a reassurance that Merlin would cling to through whatever lay ahead.

'Always.'

Chapter Text

Broken hope was a powerful bane. It sliced deeper than any sword blade, striking a man to the quick. The shards of it cut at Lancelot's heart until it felt like a wound made real, bleeding away inside of him. He had hoped for better from the men he called his brothers-in-arms. He had believed, with such naive certainty, that when the time came it would be possible to reason with them. He had never imagined that he might instead be met with such belligerent fury.

He had guarded the secret of Merlin's sorcery for longer than he cared to consider. It had not crossed his mind to do otherwise. He knew evil when he saw it, and not a trace of darkness lingered in Merlin's heart. Perhaps he did not know the details of his actions over the years. He had asked, once or twice, but he had always been reluctant to share the specifics: as if ignorance would protect Lancelot from the consequences of his loyalty. Yet he understood, fundamentally, how much it had become a burden. Merlin had toiled away for all of them, working in the shadows, never thanked and often dismissed.

By the gods, the knights should be falling over themselves in gratitude. Instead, suspicion filled the air like smoke.

'Has Arthur returned?'

Leon's question was little more than a croak: a parched crack of sound that made Lancelot wince in concern. He reached for a waterskin, flinching when Elyan's hand tightened over the back of his wrist, almost hard enough to bruise. It was a merciless grip, and there was a hardness in that face that Lancelot had never seen before.

'I'll do it,' Elyan growled, his voice thrumming with an ill-hidden warning. Merlin may be the sorcerer, but it was clear that Lancelot had been stained by association: complicit for the simple act of holding his silence.

He clenched his jaw, easing back and spreading his hands in surrender. Anger was like a flame within him, licking at his stomach and curling up the inside of his ribs. It found its way into his voice, practically a snarl in his throat.

'What do you think I am going to do?' he demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Drown him?'

'Who knows?' Elyan barked in response. 'How can I be sure of anything, when you stand up for a sorcerer rather than siding with your friends?'

'You are all my friends!' The sneer on his face felt ugly, but he could not call it back. 'Or you were.'

Elyan scoffed, but his hands were gentle on Leon's body as he helped him sit up and take a drink, compassion bleeding out of him. For Leon, at least, he reached for kindness. The same could obviously not be said for the rest of them.

'Answer me, please,' Leon gasped. 'Has he returned?'

'Not yet.' Elyan settled the cork roughly back in place, pitching the skin aside. He spoke to Leon, but his gaze never left Lancelot's face. 'I thought l could go check on them, but I didn't want to leave you here. I wasn't sure if you'd be safe.'

Gwaine's scoff of protest sliced through the air. Lancelot shared the sentiment, and beneath the anger, his heart ached afresh. How had it come to this? Arthur's knights had all built a bastion of trust between them. It had been as strong and stout as the castle itself, or so he had thought. Now he realised all it took was a small crack to bring it tumbling down. It was as if he had no control over his emotions. Once, he would have reached for kindness. As it was, he could not keep the hard disdain from his own features.

'What do you think we would do to Leon in your absence, Elyan? Only one of us has pulled a knife on a friend this day, and it was neither me nor Gwaine.'

'You thought about it.' Elyan straightened his shoulders, the flames reflected in his dark eyes and glistening off the nervous sweat that glossed his top lip. 'And Merlin is not a friend.'

'He was this morning,' Gwaine argued, spiteful.

'Before I knew what he was!'

'Enough!' Percival's voice boomed around them, more shocking for being so unexpected. The big man could bellow like a bull when he wanted to, but he rarely made the effort. Lancelot turned to take him in where he sat, his knees drawn up and his arms draped over their peak. He fiddled with the bracelet that he never took off: a thin, pewter band. Yet it was his mulish expression that caught his attention: a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow, as if he were heartily sick of the lot of them.

'Enough,' he repeated more quietly. 'I'd offer to go and check on Arthur and Merlin myself, but I don't dare leave you alone in each other's company. What has got into you all? So Merlin has magic. I'm surprised we didn't figure it out before. Looking back, it's obvious someone was giving us a helping hand. All the times our lives were saved by a stroke of good luck. Or that Gaius said that there was some beast which only magic could defeat, only to have it succumb to our blades? That was him, and without his power, I doubt any of you would be here today.'

'So he's been whispering in your ear as well?' Elyan shrugged, sounding petulant and scathing, as if he considered their sympathy for Merlin a weakness. 'I suppose that's no surprise. Gods, you must have all been such easy targets. You always did fall all over yourselves when he smiled in your direction. I feel sorry for you.'

'We're not the ones who can't see beyond our own hate!' Gwaine twitched where he sat, as if he longed to lean forward and wrap his fingers around Elyan's throat. Lancelot, for his part, wasn't even sure he would try and stop him. That should shock him, shouldn't it? Once, he would have been appalled at his own cruelty, but there was no room in his own head for nuance. The world had been pared down to absolutes: them and us. 'You'd have him dragged before the king in chains and dead before the day is out.'

'He is a sorcerer!' Elyan cried. 'It is what he deserves!'

'You know nothing.' Lancelot surged forward, his body trembling with the force of his anger. 'You have not seen how he has struggled to live in a realm that considers him a monster. You have not witnessed how he tears himself in two, desperate to protect his friends but knowing that, if he was caught, his methods would land him upon the pyre!'

'You see what he wants you to see!'

A moan from Leon cut through the cave, making Lancelot break back. He had not noticed himself getting to his feet, nor the cramp of his knuckles upon the hilt of his sword. Elyan's roar still echoed around them. The two of them had surged upright, intent on violence: little better than wild dogs. Now, a fraction of clarity struck at him like a knife, and he shook his head, easing away.

'This is not who we are.' The words tumbled from his lips, harsh and desperate. His shoulders heaved as he tried to get himself under control. 'We are not enemies, Elyan. We are friends. If we cannot set aside our difference for our own sake, then we should do so for Leon.'

They stared at one another, panting, still hovering on the very cusp of a brawl. Lancelot could sense the others, breathless and watchful, waiting to intercede. Yet it was not needed. With a great effort, Elyan reluctantly held out his hand. His lips were pursed, and his dark skin looked sallow in the firelight.

'Truce?'

And as Lancelot clasped his palm, he remembered what it was to hope for better things.

The fever lay its heat within his bones, burning him up from the inside. His head thumped, sickly, as his heart ached and squeezed. Leon wished he could pretend that this was all a nightmare: that they had never taken shelter in these caves and discovered Merlin's treachery. Part of him raged against it – the knowledge that a sorcerer had been at Arthur's side all along. It was Leon's job to shield the prince from the cruelties the world would offer, and yet he had been too blind to see the danger close at hand.

If he were stronger, perhaps he, too, would be on his feet, battling against men he once considered his friends. Instead, he became the failing star around which they orbited, their disdain set aside in favour of the compassion that still made up their foundations. It was as if their differences melted away, untouchable.

'This is getting worse,' Gwaine murmured, picking carefully at the bandage, unravelling it to get a closer look. 'It seems that even Gaius' salves have their limits.'

Lancelot's face did something complicated, and Leon could practically see the suggestion in his eyes. He shook his head before he could utter a word. 'I cannot trust Merlin. Do not ask it of me. There must be some way you can help.'

'Would you prefer to die than have magic used upon you?' Lancelot's voice could have been sharp, but it throbbed with emotion. 'Because that's the choice it could come down to, and I know I would rather have you alive and pig-headed than a regrettable corpse.' He shook his head. 'I'll see what I can do, but in the end, we might have only one option.'

He got to his feet, heading for the saddlebags. Most knights carried a few basics: bandages and such. It was Merlin who had taken to packing a satchel full of vials wrapped in wool and ointments in clay pots. He had reached for it often, over the course of their adventures. Now, the firelight danced off of glass as Lancelot carefully unwrapped each one, investigating the contents as he considered his options.

The world slid and shimmied in Leon's hazy vision. He felt as if he were locked in ice while his eyes glowed like hot coals in their sockets. He squinted in confusion, trying to make sense of the uncertain light that filled the cave. That was when he saw it: a large moth fluttered in dizzy circles around the campfire, drifting closer to the flames only to dance away as the heat threatened to scorch its delicate wings. Glittering trails of gold fell from it, and a questioning noise pulsed in his throat.

'All right?' Elyan asked.

'There's a moth.'

'Could be the fever, mate.' Gwaine sounded apologetic. 'Making you see things.'

'No.' Elyan shook his head and pointed. 'No, look. He's not wrong.'

There was a brief silence as all of them contemplated the strange spectacle, but it was Percival who put what they were all thinking into words. 'I don't think that's a normal moth.'

In the shadows, something took shape, and Leon jolted where he lay. Pain squealed through him as he struggled to sit, unwilling to face whatever demons came for them lying on his back. Yet when it stepped into the light, he hesitated, uncertainty washing through him.

Firelight gilded the girl's features. She was young, on the cusp of womanhood. If he had to guess, he would imagine she had about fourteen summers to her name. A resplendent gown of burgundy velvet clad her slender body. Hair the colour of spun gold sparkled with beads and gemstones. Even her slippers peeking out from beneath her hem were decked in pearls. She stretched out her arm, her hand pale and delicate, and her lips curved into a smile as the moth abandoned its pursuit. It drifted towards her before alighting upon her skin, disappearing into the bowl of her palm.

Her fingers snapped shut, brutal, and Leon winced, imagining the insect crushed to smithereens. Yet, as he watched, a bloom of light unfurled above her head. It took shape, glittering wings spread wide as it found its rest amidst her tresses.

'Greed.' Her voice was soft and melodic: that perfect, peaceful tone that ladies of the court employed so often. Leon had always found it false, just another mask, but now it soothed him. He caught himself leaning forward despite his pain, and he was not the only one. Around him, the others did the same, hanging upon her every word. None of them reached for their swords. It never even crossed Leon's mind to do so. 'It drives so many to such great evil. They wish to possess what they cannot have, and so they seek to steal it.'

She paced towards the fire, and Leon frowned as he saw the shadows play strangely over her face. They hinted at gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. The drape of her gown changed, as if the frame beneath it was starved to almost nothing. In an instant, the impression faded, but the unease that rattled through him did not.

The others had seen it too. Elyan's hand had crept to his dagger, and Gwaine's fingers curled as if to unsheathe his sword. They were listening, but their trust had ebbed. They huddled together, instinctive, relying on one another despite their differences. Even now, some common sense remained, and Leon was glad of it. Perhaps his world had been rattled to its foundations, but he still felt as if he could rely on these men until his dying breath.

'Who are you?' he rasped.

She smiled but offered no answer. A belt of coins encircled her waist, the end trailing down over her hip. They flashed with every step, beguiling. Each stride brought her closer until she stood before them, near enough to reach out and touch. Her eyes were silver, Leon realised, too pale to be human, and it felt as if they flayed the skin from his bones as she bent down, staring into his face with a perplexed little frown.

'It is not greed that drives you. None of you wish to stand in his shoes and wield his power. ' Her lips pursed. 'That is not why the blood boils in your veins.'

She stepped back, her slippered foot chiming against Lancelot's sword. Her head tilted, birdlike and inquisitive, before she stooped to pick it up from the ground. The iron gleamed as she moved towards the fireside, holding the blade point down and raising its pommel to her chin. Her narrow frame belied her strength as she thrust the tip into the solid stone, cleaving it deep.

A howl ghosted through the cavern, making Leon flinch. The fine hairs on the back of his arms prickled upright, shimmering with awareness. He blinked, and the girl was gone. Instead, a wolf waited on the opposite side of the fire, its amber eyes aglow. It sat on its haunches, panting, its red tongue writhing between its razor-sharp teeth.

'Shit,' Gwaine whispered, grunting as he tried to pull his sword loose from its scabbard. His knuckles were bone white and his muscles corded with the effort, but he could not get it free. No one else was having better luck, and Leon sucked in a breath as the wolf rose to its feet.

'Revenge.'

A warrior stepped forward, fresh from the battlefield. Blood bathed the blade in her hand and splattered her armour, a strange combination of hides and furs, chainmail and plate, as if she had fought in every conflict across Albion's long centuries. One eye was covered by a bandage while the other shone impossible, piercing blue. Her gaze pinned Leon where he lay, and he could have sworn he felt the fever in his veins rage higher.

She moved with the grace of a knight: all power and confidence, resting a gauntleted hand atop the wolf's head. She was older than the girl had been, more Leon's age, the first lines etching their way into her face. Her brown hair was locked in a tight braid and curled around her temples, but the tresses were matted with sweat and worse. Her lips were split, as if someone had punched her hard in the mouth, and when she grinned her teeth were painted crimson.

'Many will raise a weapon to right a wrong. Pain upon pain. An endless loop of retribution. In time, the crime is forgot. The blame spreads between all parties. They fight because they forget how to reach for peace.'

'Stay back,' Elyan warned, shifting to crouch in front of Leon, shielding him from her presence. He could just make out his profile: the furrow of his brow and the gleam of his eyes. His teeth were bared, shocking white in the gloom. Leon did not doubt his ferocity, not even for a moment.

'You protect your brother-in-arms, but is it because of your loyalty or because you stand united in your cause? Would you do the same for him?' Her blade swung towards Gwaine, who twitched back with a gasp, his hands raised in surrender. The wicked point of her weapon hovered over the skin of his Adam's apple. 'Or him?' It flicked towards Lancelot, who glared at her, barely breathing for fear of what she might do. 'They shield the one who killed your mother.'

'No.' The denial was a whisper, but it sounded as if Elyan dragged it from the meat of himself. His entire body shook, and he pressed a hand to his temple as if he were in terrible pain. 'No. Merlin didn't do that. The blame is not his.' He let out a shuddering breath as if surprised by his own revelation, but he did not utter a word against it. Instead, he looked up at her as if mesmerised by that one, staring eye.

The woman sheathed her blade, never taking her gaze from them as she retrieved Elyan's sword, jerking it free of its scabbard and examining its edge.

'He did not,' she acknowledged. 'Vengeance lives within you still, but it does not guide your feet along this path. It is a glimmer. An afterthought.'

The wolf huffed as if disappointed, turning its back and slinking off into the shadows. The warrior turned towards the fire, her broad shoulders almost eclipsing the light before she placed herself next to the sword that the girl had sheathed in the ground. Between the scraps of her armour, Leon could see the muscles in her arms and the woad that painted her skin. It shifted, mesmerising, as she raised Elyan's blade high and plunged it downward, pinning the world in place.

Then she was gone.

'What is happening?' His voice was thin upon his lips, loud in the silence; his head pounded, sick and dizzy. More than anything, he wanted to rest, but he did not dare. All around them, the cave pulsed with power. The air felt thick with anticipation, and his stomach gave a threatening roll.

None of the knights had any answer for him. They could only huddle there, watchful and waiting. Yet despite the madness of the day, there were gentle hands upon him. Elyan still shielded him with his body, his shoulders spread and his frame trembling. Gwaine's palm rested on Leon's shoulder, all mute support. Percival was a reassuring presence behind him, braced as if he were contemplating the wisdom of simply scooping them up and bolting for safety. Maybe he would have done just that if they weren't caught in this cave like rats in a trap.

Yet it was Lancelot who spoke in a hushed whisper, his words little more than a breath given shape. 'Merlin said this place was for the triple goddess. We've seen two women. Greed. Vengeance.'

'Does that mean there'll be a third?' Gwaine managed.

Leon looked up through hazy eyes, swallowing hard when he saw Lancelot nod. Around them, the air seemed to thicken, and something deep within him trembled with the urge to hide away. He felt like a hare coursed by dogs, chased to the end of endurance despite the fact he had not moved an inch. How much more of this could they possibly bear? Was it not bad enough that they had each been betrayed?

Now, he knew they must face whatever awaited them. There would be no escape from it. They could only wait for whatever walked out of the shadows and hope that they survived its judgement.

Elyan felt like a boy again, ten summers old and sobbing in helpless terror as his mother writhed on the cobblestones. He remembered it so clearly: the colour of her dress and the way her voice had faded to nothing as magic crushed the life from her frame. An invisible hand seized around his throat and formless blows rained down upon his racing heart. His bowels were tight, his stomach hurt, and his mind was so full of ringing clamour that reason drowned beneath its din.

The only moment of clarity he had found was when the second woman had looked into his eyes. It had been like a ray of sunlight slicing through clouds, scorching away the fume of his confusion to lay the truth within him bare. Deep down, he knew Merlin was not to blame for what had happened. In the caverns of his heart, he believed that sorcerers could not all be villains. Each was their own person, and magic itself was not the crime Uther claimed.

How had he forgotten that? Why had it been so hard to see?

Yet the moment she retreated, that brief reprieve was gone. He could feel himself slipping once more beneath the black waves of his terror, and now the depths were more vast than ever before. He thought he might drown within them, never to be free of their fathoms.

Hate was a leviathan, and though he tried, he could not escape it. His hands shook. Once he would have been embarrassed to allow such a weakness to show in front of his friends. Now, he could not bring himself to care. Let them think what they wished. It was not as if they were any better.

Fever's sweat soaked Leon's clothing, but those pale eyes were so wide Elyan could see the whites all the way around. Gwaine was grinding his jaw back and forth: a tell-tale sign of his uncertainty. He didn't know what to do for the best. Not that Elyan could blame him. They were in shit up to their armpits, and every moment they only seemed to sink deeper.

'There.'

Lancelot's finger jabbed towards one patch of darkness that looked the same as any other. Elyan squinted, trying to make out what he had seen. For long, thundering beats of his heart, there was silence. Only the gloom greeted him until the firelight glimmered off something metal, polished to a shine.

She walked not with the girl's light grace nor the warrior's confidence. Her stride was steady and inexorable, as if nothing in all creation could stop her. The air felt heavy upon his shoulders, and the fingers of a cold draft drifted over the nape of his neck. The stifling atmosphere of the cave changed, turning harsh and bitter. His breath plumed between his lips in a shuddering cloud, smearing the world in white.

Her hair was the colour of polished iron, touched here and there with moonlight. Lines charted the stories of a thousand lifetimes upon her face, yet age did not bend her frame. She looked delicate and slender, but Elyan was no fool. He could sense the strength in her wiry muscles. She may look weak, but he suspected it was nothing more than an illusion: something she put on for appearances.

At first glance, her dress was made from simple dark cloth, but as she stepped into the firelight, he saw that there were birds embroidered upon the skirt: black-on-black. A sickle hung from her belt, gleaming silver, dazzling him as it swung back and forth.

Her thin lips did not part around a single word. She said nothing. Instead, it was as if the world held its breath: awaiting her judgement.

Leon's sword lay at the fireside, still sheathed. He'd not had the strength to lift it when Merlin's magic was revealed. Now, Elyan watched her retrieve it, running her fingers over the delicate tooling upon its scabbard before she freed the blade. Some small part of him thought to protest. Maybe Leon could not fight for ownership of his weapon, but the rest of them could. Yet it was as if his voice was locked up tight in his throat, sealed away. He could not so much as squeak. He felt like a mouse before a cat, waiting to see if he would be ignored or devoured. He barely dared to even blink.

With a stately stride, she turned towards the fire. The two swords still stood. If the flames were the centre of a compass, they would be to the north and east. Now, this strange woman took her place to the west, lifting her arms as she prepared to deliver the iron back to the earth: a death blow.

All around them, it was as if the air was a string pulled tight, waiting for the moment when a sharp edge sundered it in twain. Perhaps Elyan could not see the shape of it, but he knew it would be an ending, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

The clatter of footsteps rattled through the cave, shockingly loud. One of the oil bowls flickered madly, stirred to life by the breeze of someone's passing. A figure lunged: pale skin and dark hair. Narrow hands grabbed the raised blade tight, the grip close under the crossbar in an effort to stop her from stabbing it downwards.

'No!'

Elyan sucked in a breath, feeling the frozen moment shatter into pieces around them. He had never heard Merlin sound like that. It was not a frantic cry but a command: impossible to disobey. The single syllable hummed softly, and its resonance seemed to sweep away the haze.

'No?' The woman's voice did not quaver with age. There was nothing tremulous in her question. She sounded like someone who was not used to having her authority challenged, and Elyan watched as her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. 'Who are you to tell me no?'

Merlin's chest heaved with each breath as if he had sprinted up the steps. He was covered in grime. Cobwebs etched their lace in his hair, and the first rivulet of blood eased its way down the iron of Leon's sword. It had to hurt, Elyan thought – his concern a distant, ephemeral thing, almost impossible to grasp – yet Merlin did not withdraw. He could see the tension in the tableau, how Merlin's arms shook with the effort to stop her even as she tried to force him down, happy to split him upon the blade in her hands if she had to.

'This isn't fair. You're not letting them think for themselves! Blood was spilled, but that doesn't mean it has to end this way!'

'End what way?' Elyan managed, his voice like gravel in his throat.

'A fight to the death.' Arthur's answer was low and pained. He leant against the wall, his fingertips pressed to his temples and his jaw clenched tight. Tracks of sweat from his brow charted lines down his filthy face. His armour was gone. Only his sword remained, tucked clumsily into his belt. 'It's how this place works. The goddesses enforce peace by having all those who would go to war kill each other. We found a room full of bones.'

'They drove them to it,' Merlin added, his boots scuffing over stone as he struggled. He was perilously close to the fire: one more step and he'd get burned. 'The magic of this place got inside their heads. It's what they've done to all of you.' He grunted, crowding into the woman's space, his eyes agleam not with power but with desperation. 'Let them think clearly! Let them prove themselves to be the good men I know they are!'

'You do not know it. You merely hope.' The woman leaned forward, so close that their brows were almost touching. The aura of menace coming off of her was thick enough to choke a man, yet he didn't even flinch. 'Tell me, boy. It is not greed that drives their hate of you. The touch of vengeance is paltry, so what is it? What emotion lies in the heart of these men that would see them kill one such as you – someone they once called a friend?'

Elyan's tongue felt too thick in his throat, his breath a rasping rattle. Leon was as white as a sheet, and sweat stuck Lancelot's hair to his brow. They were wrecked, frozen in place like a deer in the hunter's sights, no more able to leap up and attack Merlin than they were to defend him. It was as if they were nothing more than an audience to all this. Even Arthur was motionless, watching it all with fathomless blue eyes, crippled by some unseen pain and breathing hard.

But Merlin had her answer.

'Fear.'

The woman paused, her dark gaze widening with surprise. The crow's feet at their edges deepened, her smile wry and ruthless. 'You know us.'

'I know of you. All of you. Babd, Macca, the Mórrígan.' He inclined his head: acknowledgement of the woman before him.

That was a name Elyan knew. It was whispered still, on the battlefield: a goddess of death and victory both. He saw the sickle for what it was: a tool of reaping. He recognised the anger in her face and the pain that lay beneath it. On how many fields of war had she stood as men slaughtered one another? How much blood had soaked the hem of that gown, even as others praised her to the skies?

'Clear their minds,' Merlin murmured, more a plea than anything. 'Give them a chance. If peace is what you want – an end to Uther's fight against magic – you'll not find it with the slaughter of Camelot's prince and his closest knights. It'll only make things worse.'

'You speak of their fate yet mention nothing of yours.' She eased back, waiting for Merlin to release the blade before lowering it to her side. She stared at his bloody palms, and Elyan didn't miss how her eyes darted to the bruise on Merlin's cheek and the scab at its centre. 'Do you not care what becomes of you?'

'I care for them more.'

Her scrutiny swept over them all, her face expressionless, but Elyan had the notion of something great and terrible at work behind the mask of her features. At last, after what felt like aeons, she inclined her head, just once. 'A chance.'

She was not looking at him, yet Elyan felt as if those dark eyes bored into his very soul, and her next words were ripe with threat.

'I suggest you do not let it go to waste.'

Chapter Text

Arthur reeled where he stood, his legs turning to water as the cave gave an almighty roar. The flames in the oil bowls smeared sideways, striking sparks that flickered like stars. He went to his knees, fighting the urge to lose the contents of his stomach on the unforgiving ground. It felt as if something had reached into his mind and torn apart a mass of webs, ripping them aside without a care. Pain ricocheted through his skull, and he braced himself on all-fours, panting and wretched.

He could hear the cries of the others, Gwaine's thin curses and Elyan's shattered gasps for air. It took all his strength to peel apart his lashes, and the sight that awaited him stole his breath away.

Gone were the tight cave walls and the expectant shadows. The campfire remained, the two swords embedded on its periphery, but now it burned in the middle of a great, open space. Braziers lit towering pillars. They rose from the earth and disappeared into the darkness above his head. The floor was sand, stained here and there to the colour of rust.

It looked like a massive duelling ring, and his instincts shivered with dread. His only consolation was that he was himself once more. That same clarity that he had found amidst the bones of the fallen returned to him. It was as if his emotions had dwindled into something he could manage, leaving behind space for rational thought. He did not look at Merlin and see nothing but an enemy painted in the hues of his father's hatred. No longer was the world neatly bisected into monochrome simplicity.

Perhaps questions clamoured around his head. Maybe doubts made their nest, but now he could see beyond them. He could acknowledge another path: a road that wound onwards into the future, rather than coming to an abrupt end this day. That choice was in his hands, not drowned out by the clamour of the power at work.

Nor, he realised, was he the only one set free. Elyan's face was hidden in his palms, his shoulders shaking. Whether it was grief or shame, Arthur could not be sure. Lancelot's spiteful stubbornness had ebbed, leaving him aghast. He looked as if he did not know who to comfort first, his compassion rising up to fill the void left by his departed anger.

Gwaine's brash bravado had vanished; his shoulders slumped in its absence. His skin was grey and his face tired. No doubt both men still held the same ideals, placing themselves firmly at Merlin's side, but no longer was it feral and fervent: rage without reason. They did not look at their brothers-in-arms and see enemies, but wounded friends.

Leon's eyes, bright with fever and clouded with pain, met Arthur's. Green and sweating, he was obviously unwell, but it was the familiar determination in the angle of his jaw that brought Arthur some reassurance. Leon had always been a man who looked for the best solution in any given situation. He was a knight who reached for his sword as a last resort. He was no longer half-wild with his own distrust. Even weak as he was, his weight propped up by Percival's steady strength, he was a bastion of certainty.

'Is it better to see clearly? Or worse?' The Mórrígan's question drifted through the air as she materialised from the shadows. Two women flanked her, one a young girl and the other a warrior. Babd and Macca, Merlin had called them, though Arthur did not know which was which. Not that it seemed to matter. They were different, and yet he got the feeling it was the same entity beneath each one's skin, and when they spoke, it was with one voice.

'Now every thought is your own. Every little spite. Every doubt. You have no one to blame but yourselves.'

'You said you'd give us a chance.' Elyan's words were low and dangerous. It was not the breathless ranting Arthur had heard before, but something lethal he had come to respect. He spoke like that to people who put his friends in danger. It did not matter that cracks still ran between them, torn open by Merlin's secret. What they had remained strong – worth defending – and these men would do so to the death. 'Why are we still here?'

As one, the three women turned to look at Merlin. It was a swift, dismissive move, as if the knights meant nothing to them. Even Arthur was beneath their notice. Instead, their attention was on the man who stood a short distance away. Blood dripped from the wounds on his hands, and every breath made his chest heave. Yet he did not quail or quiver before them. His feet were spread, his body battle-ready. Merlin may hold no blade, but Arthur knew what a man looked like when he was prepared to fight.

And he could not let Merlin face this alone.

His father's voice hissed in the back of his head: spiteful words about the treachery of sorcerers, but he cast them aside as he stumbled to his feet, bolting across the dusty ground and skidding to a halt at Merlin's side. Some small part of him wanted to flinch, uncertain, but he refused to give it any credit. Merlin may be many things – a servant and a sorcerer, a friend and a fool – but Arthur was damned thrice over if he would let his fear rule him. This was his choice to make, and he did not even hesitate.

Something moved, and Arthur recoiled in muted horror, his hand flying to his sword as he noticed the snakes that twined the Mórrígan's arms. One was minuscule, barely any bigger than a thread. It adorned the middle finger of her left hand, its scales a dazzling silver. Two more entwined her right wrist, braided around each other, bronze and green. They looked almost delicate until one reared up, parting its mouth to reveal long, deadly fangs. Above them, closer to her elbow, a red serpent held a stately pose, ever watchful.

She caught him observing them, and her smile was like a rictus showing far too many teeth. 'Fear slithers in through any little gap. Its venom can trouble even the bravest man's heart. One of you carries but one concern: the safety of his friends. He cares for you all without question and seeks only to bring you back into unity.' Her finger brushed the tiny silver snake, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Percival shiver as if someone had touched the nape of his neck.

Green and bronze scales gleamed as she indicated the pair tangled together. 'Two more seek to defend the sorcerer they believe to be unfairly judged. They owe him much, though they would never put it into words. Their allegiance is yours, but their loyalty is his.

'Your injured knight knows his duty. He would protect you from wounds both of the flesh and deeper. Always vigilant, he fears all the ways in which you may be broken: heart, body, mind and soul.' The red serpent's tongue flickered, tasting the air, and Arthur saw Leon close his eyes in mute acknowledgement.

'Then there is this.' She gestured with her other hand, and what he thought was a strange armour cuff became something more chilling. The skeleton was a cacophony of ribs prickling outwards from the whip of its spine. Yet the bones were not picked clean. Here and there, living flesh clung to its calcified remains, and Arthur saw one misty eye twitch in its socket. 'Time and wisdom sought to defeat it, but whispers of terror still remain. They rise up, now and then, to be conquered anew. He is always fighting himself, but he can never forget his mother's screams.'

A choked noise caught in Elyan's throat, and Merlin jerked as if he longed to move – to shield him from her words or offer him comfort. He made no effort to hide his compassion, despite everything that had come to pass. Of all of them, Elyan had been the closest to doing Merlin true harm, yet here he was. Perhaps it was not forgot, but it seemed it was already forgiven.

Arthur did not think he could be so lenient if he were in Merlin's shoes.

'And then there is yours.'

Age had loosened the skin upon her throat, softening it across the tendons. Her iron hair brushed her shoulders, but it was not until what he had thought was a torque around her neck moved that Arthur realised what he was looking at.

Where he had seen fat bands of gold, he now realised it was a serpent's body, as broad as his own wrist. It looped lazily down her chest in three coils. A blunt, wedge-shaped head parted the tresses of her hair, and though it did nothing more threatening than stare, Arthur could well imagine the weight of it around his own neck like a noose.

'Fear is rarely a simple thing. It has many roots in many places.' She traced the coils that encircled her throat, one after the other. 'Your father's prejudice, and the words he has poured like bile into your ear since you were old enough to understand. Your experiences with a magical world bent on hating you for the blood that runs in your veins...'

She tilted her head, and Arthur had the impression she was looking beneath his skin. 'Yet they are superficial. You could conquer them, if you took the time to try. It is the one that lies closest to your heart that threatens to choke you.' She stroked the tightest band of the snake's body where it cinched close to her skin. 'You do not know who he is, this man who has stood at your side for years and shared in your troubles. Bit by bit, you showed him all of yourself, every little shadow. All the while he gave you nothing in return.'

The sip of Merlin's indrawn breath sounded like tearing parchment, sharp in Arthur's ears, yet he could not turn to face him. Instead, he met the Mórrígan's gaze and squared his shoulders.

'That's not true.' He thought of Merlin's smiles and laughter, the jibes they shared and the quiet moments spent in each other's company. Perhaps Merlin had not been able to speak of his magic, but he had offered up everything else. Maybe his father would call him a fool, easily deceived, but Arthur refused to believe that Merlin's friendship had been nothing more than a ploy: an effort to ingratiate himself.

'He gave me what he could,' he said at last, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for doubt. 'I could not ask for more than that.'

The golden snake around her throat seemed to diminish. It did not wither away, but it appeared that its weight lessened. Yet the Mórrígan's expression held an amused kind of pity, as if Arthur had missed the point.

'Fear can be tamed.' She spread her arms wide, emphasising her serpentine adornment. 'It can be mastered and controlled. It can become a tool to guide your footsteps and enhance your strength. Yet sometimes, it escapes all such efforts. Sometimes the terror is so deep that it becomes more than we can possibly hope to command. These creatures are the doubts of yourself and your knights.' She raised one eyebrow. 'But this is not about you.'

Out there, in the darkness beyond the pillars, something moved. It was a supple rasping sound, but Arthur could hear the weight of it. The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once, and he swallowed hard, drawing his sword from where he had shoved it clumsily into his belt. He flung his hand out to the side, attempting to urge Merlin behind him, but his palm merely smacked against that narrow chest.

It made him turn, his heart sinking as he took in the pallor of Merlin's face. His eyes were wide, terrified, and each breath shattered between his lips. His whole body was frozen where he stood, locked rigid, as if he thought his motionlessness might save him from whatever lurked in the shadows.

'Fear begets fear. It feeds it, and his has had a lifetime of nourishment. No child of six summers should be forced to run from their neighbours, nor struggle for breath when they try to drown him, blaming him for their bad fortune. No boy should spend his ninth winter imagining what it might be like to be enslaved to one treacherous king or murdered by another. No man can grow up being told, year-on-year, that the power he wields makes him a monster and not come to believe it.'

'He tries,' the young girl added.

The warrior shifted her blade, her single blue eye burning. 'He fights it, attempting to prove himself day after day.'

'He fails, because he must work in secret. A monster he remains, in the eyes of others and of himself.' The Mórrígan shook her head, and for the first time, Arthur saw pity pinch her features. Yet always there was that same, steady resolve. She intended to see this through to the end, and there was no way to escape it.

'You asked for a chance? This is it. Some fears cannot be tamed; they can only be slain, and there is not a man among you who can do it alone.'

All around them, the braziers roared in their baskets, the flames leaping upwards to peel back the shadows. In the blink of an eye, the three women vanished, leaving not even footprints in the sand as mementos of their presence. Not that Arthur had time to think about them, not when the light revealed what slithered in the darkness.

No snake should ever be that big, as thick as a man was tall and too long to comprehend. Its body encircled the arena, its scales painted in shifting iridescence: blue and purple, green and black. Its head reared high above them, a hood flaring behind its skull. On it, two markings like golden eyes stared down at them: hypnotic.

'Bollocks,' Merlin breathed.

The snake reared back, its mouth opening wide to reveal long fangs as it lunged, lightning quick. Arthur dove right while Merlin darted left, the pair of them scattering in a desperate effort to escape. The heft of that immense body filled the arena with a dull roar, and Arthur sucked in a breath, trying not to panic.

Armies, he could fight without batting an eye, but this? He did not even know where to start. Leon was too injured to lift his sword. Lancelot and Elyan had been disarmed and would waste precious seconds attempting to retrieve their blades from where they jutted from the earth. Arthur's armour was still in the inner sanctum, forgotten in his haste, and now nothing stood between himself and the serpent's fury except a thin layer of linen.

Yet these men looked to him to lead, and he would not be found wanting.

'Elyan, protect Leon!' he roared, shouting to be heard over the din. 'Everyone else, spread out! Distract it if you can. Its eyes will be its weakest point. Strike whenever the opportunity presents itself!'

'Wait!'

Warmth rippled over Arthur's torso, cupping his shoulders and trailing down his spine. It felt as if he had stepped into a sunbeam after a cold winter, and he blinked in surprise as his familiar chainmail wove itself around him.

A hazy mist coalesced in front of Lancelot and Elyan. It was the former who reached out his hand, his grin wild as a sword solidified in his grip. Elyan did the same, steeling his shoulders and grunting at the heft of his new weapon.

'Are they enchanted?' Lancelot called out, darting away as the snake twisted, looping back and forth, trying to select its target. 'Like with the griffin? It is a creature of magic, is it not?'

'It might not be enough,' Merlin yelled in reply. Arthur couldn't see him. Maybe he took cover behind one of the pillars, or perhaps he stalked the serpent from the shadows. 'The griffin wasn't the pet of a goddess.'

'Can you do anything, mate?' Gwaine called out, banging his gauntlet against his pauldron and jeering as the creature twitched, tasting the air with a flicker of its tongue. 'One quick spell? Blow it to bits?'

An arc of light raced across the cavern like a shooting star, hitting the monster in the chest. It flared its hood, taunting. Was it Arthur's imagination, or did it get bigger?

'Bad idea!' Merlin stepped out from where he had hidden, crab-walking towards them, never once taking his eyes off the threat. 'I think my magic feeds it.'

'Great.' Arthur twisted, analysing the space around them, desperately seeking something they could use to their advantage. The problem lay in the creature's size. Its body was so thick that even if the thrust of a sword could pierce its scales, it was unlikely to do much in the way of real damage. Yet it kept its head reared back out of reach. The only time its eyes were in range was when it lunged, its teeth bared in wicked scythes. Even if not for the poison that embellished its bite, its fangs were as long as Arthur's arm: bad enough to cause a grievous wound.

'There's more than one way to use magic.' Merlin's grin was sharp and wild, and despite himself Arthur felt his breath catch, because right now? Merlin was being utterly honest. He did not attempt to hide what he could do. It was a stirring sight. Arthur had never considered him as a warrior before, but there was a different kind of strength there. It had nothing to do with wielding a sword, and yet he saw the fighter in him all the same.

Those blue eyes flared bright gold once more, and the earth beneath their feet jumped and twisted. Sand slithered as narrow cracks yawned wide. At first glance, it was random calamity, but Arthur noticed how the damage gave each of the knights a wide berth. Instead, the soil opened under the snake's body, attempting to catch its coils in the waiting abyss.

Yet the serpent did not succumb. The ground did not swallow it in its gaping maw. Instead, the creature twisted, festooning itself from the columns as it climbed higher, out of their reach.

'We want it down on our level, not up!' Arthur called out, his voice rough in his throat as a fine dust choked the air.

'All right! All right!'

He almost laughed at Merlin's bad-tempered retort, lacking any deference. With an almighty groan, the earth shivered back into a single, solid plane, the chasm snapping shut. The vibrations rumbled up Arthur's thighs, but there was no time to worry about losing his balance. The serpent may have headed for higher ground, but that did not stop its relentless assault. It darted and snapped, trying to select a suitable target as it choked the columns in the loops of its body. The rasp of its scales was like the rush of the sea, the brazier-light painting it in capering shadows.

Merlin skidded to a halt by the campfire, and Arthur saw him glance once towards the tame flames that still nibbled at the wood. Those narrow shoulders heaved with every breath, but there was no huddled curve to their shape. Instead, they formed a bold, straight line beneath Merlin's tunic, and when he thrust his hand outwards, not even a tremor of fear shook his fingers.

'Fyrebyrne!'

Arthur jolted back in shock as a vast arc of flame erupted above them. The heat bathed his face and summoned the prickle of sweat to his skin. It shone, hellish, off the blade of his sword – wrath and ruin – but it was not aimed at him or any of his knights. The blaze soared through the air, moving like the fine cloth of one of Morgana's dresses. It twisted and danced as if an invisible breeze toyed with its edges. The iridescence of the snake's scales gleamed as it slithered, driven away from the flame's presence: not up towards the ceiling, but lower down, just as they hoped.

'That's it!' he called out, baring his teeth in a feral smile as he whirled his blade, loosening his wrist. His boots scuffed through the sand as he moved, working on little more than instinct. He could sense his other knights doing the same, picking their position as they waited for an opportunity to strike. 'Wait for it!'

The serpent's body returned to the floor with a thud that rattled his teeth. Its tongue was flickering madly now, its pupils constricted to narrow lines of black in response to the brightness of Merlin's flame. It reared up, swaying back and forth in an odd, rippling rhythm that made its scales glisten. They looked strangely wet, and Arthur blinked twice in quick succession as his vision began to swim.

'Watch out!'

He was not sure who moved quicker, the snake or Merlin. He had not even noticed the serpent's body stiffen, but he watched it spit a stream of oily, smoking fluid. It arced across the arena, straight towards where Elyan stood guard over Leon's weakened form. There was no time to move. He could offer no more than a thin cry of rage and despair, one that died on his lips a moment later.

The air around the two men flared dazzling silver, so white it almost hurt to look at it. Magic hummed with a low, strange resonance, chiming like the warning bell singing out over Camelot. Sparks crackled as the snake's venom hit the bubble of power, dissipating into harmless fume.

On the other side of the room, he saw the three goddesses step forward in unison. It was as if they had emerged from a solid stone wall. They did not come to jeer or taunt them. In fact, the women did not utter a single word. Instead, they stared at Merlin, poised and rigid, as if something in his actions took them by surprise.

There was no time to dwell on it. The snake offered them no respite, and Arthur knew that the longer this battle went on, the more likely they were to succumb. A knight could only wield his sword for so long before exhaustion stole his grace. He had to assume the same applied to sorcerers. Worse, he could see how Merlin's actions had penetrated the narrow, predatory mind of the serpent. Now, it watched him and him alone, its focus intent.

The shout of voices and the scratch of swords did little to distract it. Arthur swore as his own blade slid off its hide in a shower of sparks. The beast did not even twitch at the assault, instead continuing its inevitable advance. Merlin's boots hissed through the sand, and Arthur saw how he stiffened in surprise when the pillar at his back prevented his retreat. Dark lashes fluttered over eyes the colour of polished brass, and his raised arms dropped to his sides: the picture of defeat.

'Merlin!'

Arthur darted forward, cursing as he found his way blocked by muscular flesh and glimmering scales. His sprinting stride drummed through the air as he tried to find a way around. His breath caught in his chest, trying to choke him. He could hear the other knights shouting and swearing, desperate to distract the snake from its target, but it paid them no mind. They may as well have been flies for all the damage their blades could do. Even Lancelot's, spun from the ether by Merlin's magic, only drew forth the occasional dribble of blood. They were nothing to this creature of the gods: invisible. All it cared about was Merlin.

A wordless cry escaped Arthur's throat as it lunged, lightning quick, its jaws wide and its teeth bared. There was a sickening, meaty thud as grit rained down from the ceiling. The pillar shattered into segments, stacked perilously atop on another, and Arthur managed a gasp of relief as Merlin's voice rang out like a death knell, echoing through the cavern.

'Gebrecan!'

Stone teetered and fell, ancient granite plummeting downwards to strike the serpent where it lurked, gathering its wits. It was the first among a legion, and Arthur danced out of range as another column toppled like a felled tree, pinning that massive body beneath its weight.

There was no time to hesitate. The snake writhed, trying to free itself as more rock bore it downwards. That blunt muzzle impacted with the sand, the forked tongue darting as it attempted to shoulder its way loose of its prison. If he didn't act now, then all this would be for nothing!

Gwaine's sword found its home first, striking at the serpent's right eye and biting deep. The jolt of the snake's body ripped his weapon from his grip. The sound of it thrashing was like rolling thunder, but still it did not succumb. It was simply too big.

Stone bit into Arthur's skin as he clambered onto the rubble, knowing what had to be done. On a creature this size, there were not many weak spots. The eyes had been his greatest hope, but even Percival's claymore, long and brutal, merely added to the mess. Now, he stumbled as loose rock gave way to smooth scales. It was like trying to walk on rolling earth, and he half scrambled, half crawled along its back towards its head, clinging on for dear life.

He would need to stand to get enough force to thrust his blade deep through its skull. It was a mighty blow that would require all the strength he could spare, and still he was not sure it would be adequate. Yet what choice did he have? He was under no illusion that anyone would be left alive if this creature was allowed to continue its rampage: a serpent made gargantuan by the fear it had been fed.

Merlin's fear.

Arthur swallowed hard, refusing to let himself get lost in thoughts of that. There would be time, later, to consider all they had learned this day, both about themselves and the man they called their friend, but right now he had to make sure they lived that long.

Cautiously, he rose up on his knees before scrambling to his feet, keeping his body low as he tried to maintain his balance. It was almost impossible, and his heart lurched in his chest as another twist of the snake's coils nearly pitched him to the ground. There was a breathless, awful moment of uncertainty...

And the world around him stopped.

Arthur stumbled, regaining his footing with a curse. Down below, he could see Percival frozen like a statue, one arm flung out to herd Gwaine behind him in an effort at protection. Elyan crouched in front of Leon, his hand on the wounded man's shoulder as the other held his blade at the ready, his teeth bared. Lancelot's sword was poised, his grip tight around the hilt as he prepared to drive it forward in a frantic effort to pierce the creature's hide.

'Arthur!'

He jolted in surprise when Merlin stumbled into his back, his hands grappling to keep them both balanced. He was panting, practically choking on every breath, covered in sweat, blood and dust. Those eyes still blazed with power, and it took Arthur a shocked few heartbeats to realise he wasn't afraid of that aureate gaze. His heart did not shudder at the tell-tale sign of sorcery. Instead, it leapt at the sight of a friend, sick with its own relief.

'Merlin, what did you –'

'We don't have long.' His voice thrummed, urgent, and Arthur almost barked a laugh. To him it seemed like there was all the time in the world. Yet even as he thought it, he could feel how there was a weight in the air, as if something huge strained against Merlin's power. The man himself was wan, his cheekbones sharp. He looked as if he had reached the limit of endurance: like one more blow could be the end of him.

'What do you need?' He wrapped a hand around Merlin's arm, desperately trying to anchor him. He was struck with the strangest notion that Merlin might fade away before his very eyes. It was reassuring to feel something warm and human beneath the sheath of his sleeve.

'That sword won't do it. Not for this. You need something better.'

'Like Lancelot's?'

'Not exactly.' Merlin glanced over his shoulder, his gaze raking the shadows before he continued, 'It's already made for you. Hidden. It's dangerous in the wrong hands. I can bring it here, but my magic will need to go through you to do it.' He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gasped in another sharp breath. When he spoke again, the apology in his voice was genuine and pained. 'I'm sorry. There's no other way to do it. The sword is yours.'

In the back of his head, there were whispers about corruption and trickery, but they were quiet now: weak things with no spite behind them. Perhaps he did not know magic, but he knew Merlin. When it came right down to it, his mind had its doubts but his heart remained certain. Besides, Arthur had long known that trust began somewhere, and he would rather be the one who held out a hand in faith than view everything with his father's suspicion.

'Do it.'

Merlin's soft sigh of relief whispered over Arthur's cheek, oddly intimate. He felt as if the two of them stood alone – an island of motion in a world that had fallen still. Part of him wished that it could last forever, because here at Merlin's side, he felt as if he finally had space to think, but reality was not so kind.

Instead, Merlin's hand wrapped over his own where it clasped the pommel of his sword. He could feel the calluses of servant's work that made themselves known. His gaze snagged on a tiny scar on one knuckle, no doubt caused by a moment of clumsiness while cutting herbs. They were such small, real things: glimpses that reminded Arthur that Merlin was still a man, despite the power he wielded.

Power that now slipped beneath Arthur's skin like a warm summer breeze.

Merlin's other palm rested on the nape of his neck like a rider might steady a flinching horse. That lithe body was turned towards his own, pressed in a seam down his right-hand side. He could feel how Merlin sagged against him, too lost in whatever he wrought to consider his own physicality.

Not that Arthur was much better. His outline did not blur and diminish, but it was as if something loose within him slotted firmly into place. He had never once considered himself broken. It was only in retrospect that he noticed the cracks running through his being. They did not vanish, but brimmed with golden light, soft and sure.

All his imaginings of magic, in those rare moments he entertained them, had been fire and fury – little more than punishment. This was nothing of the sort. It felt as if Merlin cradled him, close and tender, safe and precious. The sensation brought an unexpected lump to Arthur's throat, and he swallowed hard, blinking against the bite of surprised tears.

A wash of something cool raced up his arms, as if he had plunged his hands into a mountain lake, and a hook snagged beneath his sternum. It pulled but didn't hurt, and he felt the warm flow of Merlin's magic pour through him, reaching out into the wide world and bending hidden powers to answer his call.

The pommel in their shared grip changed shape. Arthur could feel the outline of it in his palm. The blade glowed ruddy red, then molten white, growing in length: more tapered than the sword he knew but somehow painfully familiar. It felt right in his grasp, as if it were something he was always meant to wield, and Arthur's heart surged in strange recognition. He had never set eyes on this weapon before, and yet it felt like an extension of his arm.

It rested, point down, against the snake's scales, the golden inlay gleaming as the magic faded. He could see runes charted down its length, and though his mind knew not what they meant, his soul could read them with ease.

Take me up.

'Ready?'

Merlin's question was a strained whisper dropped into the shell of his ear. He sounded exhausted, wrought down to his fundamentals. He leaned against Arthur as if he could no longer support his own weight, and Arthur took a moment to consider how much this had cost him in terms of his strength. It was clear Merlin had thrown his all into this fight, determined to protect them with no reassurance that they would look upon him with a kind eye when it was done. Could he even defend himself if Arthur lifted his blade against him? Could he do anything at all?

It didn't matter if Merlin could not protect himself, he realised, because Arthur would step forward to do it for him. They had much to discuss, but free from the clutches of his own fear, he knew where his heart lay. Not with duty or belief in his father's laws, but with the man who stood at his side.

'Ready.'

Everything happened at once. The web locking the world in place snapped, releasing a frantic flurry of movement. Merlin's hand tightened over Arthur's grasp on his sword, raising it up before they plunged it deep. The scales parted like butter, underscored by the crack of bone. Arthur could feel how there was more to the blade than the metal of its construction. Power pulsed through it as the snake struggled. Its body thumped, jostling the rock, and he hung on for dear life, forcing the weapon deeper until it was lodged up to the hilt.

A spasm shook loose his grip, throwing him off. His landing was a clumsy one; he barely remembered to roll to absorb the force. Sand scraped his face as he slithered to a stop, his weight braced on his hands and knees as that huge body succumbed to the death throes.

It was a rumbling, roaring demise. The gargantuan creature thrashed before finally falling still, the sword buried deep in its skull and its eyes blank and staring.

And as Arthur watched the light fade from the serpent's gaze, he prayed that their trials were at an end.

Chapter Text

Merlin wheezed up at the distant ceiling, a victim to the aches that marched through him. He felt battered and bruised, scoured by sand and sliced half to ribbons. His palms stung and his head throbbed a warning. His ankle ached fiercely, twisted in a bad landing, and it took far too long to gather his scattered wits.

He peeled himself off the ground in increments, propping himself on one elbow and letting out a shaking breath as he saw the last twitch dance along the serpent's body. It collapsed with a thud, its muscles falling torpid. There was that faint, noticeable sag as a living being became vacant: little more than meat.

It was over. By the gods, let it be over.

A breeze of movement stirred the air, and he pulled a face as the scales began to fall in glittering motes. The flesh sloughed away, dwindling to nothing but ash until what remained was a cacophony of bones and stonework: ruins and rubble. Excalibur gleamed, embedded in the creature's skull. Merlin could sense its expectation, as if it were merely waiting for Arthur to claim it.

Arthur!

He struggled to his feet with a wince. Yet before he could take more than a single, limping step, the braziers around them burned high in their baskets. He tore his eyes from their rapturous flames, flinching from the three women who stood before him. Babd watched him with a small smile, something agleam in her gaze. Macca he could almost imagine was proud, her shoulders straight and firm, but it was the Mórrígan who caught his attention.

Those dark, fathomless eyes carried the whole night sky in their depths, vast and inhuman. She observed him as if she did not dare look away, but it was neither fear nor loathing that creased her expression. Instead, she seemed fascinated by him, and Merlin shivered at the implication.

One hand reached out to him, her bony index finger hooking under his chin. She gripped his jaw, moving it left and right as if trying to see him from a different angle. He did not know what she was looking for, but it appeared that she found it. With a single, satisfied nod, she stepped back, her serpentine jewellery shifting. Something stirred in the blackness of her skirt, and Merlin could not hide his grimace as another snake joined her menagerie.

It was a smaller copy of the creature they had just slain, one eye blinded and scarred. When it reared up, its head was on level with her waist, and she rested slender fingers atop its head, petting its scales softly.

'You did well.' She sounded grudgingly impressed, as if she had expected their failure. 'However, fear is something that must be conquered time and again. It lives within us and serves its purpose. Yet it is a monster we must tame, should we wish to live a life of peace. Do not forget what passed here today, Emrys.' She pursed her lips before appearing to reach a decision. 'Consider this a gift. Something to ensure it never slips your mind.'

She moved quicker than he could follow, her fingers like iron bands around his wrist as heat scorched its way up his arm. It was a blaze of sensation, all consuming, and he reeled back, hearing Arthur's voice yell his name as the world smeared sideways.

Fresh air brushed against his cheek, and Merlin staggered, blinking stupidly. The cave was gone, impenetrable walls falling away to reveal the familiar sprawl of oak and ash trees. They waved their leaves like pennants against a washed-out blue sky. Water dripped, the last herald of the storm that had driven them to seek shelter.

Nearby, the horses huffed and stamped. The hearth remained, the flames gleaming off the two swords still embedded at its side. The only other relic of their time in the caves was the giant snake skull, shocking white. Excalibur's hilt protruded from it, waiting.

'Merlin.' Arthur's hand was warm on his shoulder: an anchor he desperately needed. He allowed himself to be turned and cradled by those battle-worn palms as they braced his weight. 'Are you all right? What did she do?'

'I – don't know.' He screwed up his eyes, wanting nothing more than to lie in his bedroll and pull the covers over his head. The others could kill him in his sleep for all he cared. He was just so tired.

Except life was rarely that easy. Maybe they'd beaten the snake and proved themselves to the triple goddess, but the world had changed irrevocably. This morning, his secret had lain safe next to his heart. Now, it was out in the open, and all his certainties were nothing but ash. Every man here knew he was a sorcerer – that he had been hiding it all along. Perhaps their reactions back in the sanctuary cave had been raw and wild, made so by the magic of the divine, but that did not mean they were not built on an honest foundation.

Leon's groan broke into his thoughts, and Merlin tore himself from Arthur's grasp, lurching forward before pulling himself up short. The memory of how Leon had recoiled in the cave, all wide-eyed horror, blossomed across his mind. That rejection felt like a scabbed wound within him, one that would bleed all over again if Leon reacted badly. Instead, he wet his lips, pressing a hand to his aching head before turning to Lancelot.

'We need to help him. He looks worse. What have you tried?'

'Salves.' Elyan cleared his throat, folding his arms across his chest and staring at his boots as if he could not bear to meet Merlin's eye. His shoulders heaved on a deep breath before he seemed to find his courage. His chin lifted, and that dark gaze was bright with shame and remorse. 'The one you suggested. We tried to clean it, but...'

It hadn't been enough, that much was obvious. Leon's skin was waxy, his ginger curls matted to his head. Fever's flush had left his skin, and the silver blue of his eyes had taken on a glassy sheen. Even from a distance, Merlin could see the flicker of his pulse in the hollow of his throat, too fast, and his breaths were coming in thin, shattered gasps. No doubt the strain of what had happened in the cavern had worsened things, and now Merlin eased forward, his hands in plain sight as he spoke softly.

'Will you let me take a look?' Gaius always emphasised the necessity of asking permission from any patient well enough to give it. Now, it seemed twice as important, considering what Leon knew. However, even as he braced himself for revulsion, he saw the weak smile curve Leon's mouth, a touch shaky at its edges, perhaps, but one that hinted at a friendship not yet ruined.

'Be my guest,' Leon managed, the words breeze thin. 'It burns.'

Merlin nodded, wasting no time as he settled at Leon's side. Even through the bandages, he could smell the injury: the flesh turning rotten. If they were in Camelot, Gaius would debride and cauterise it, cutting away all the foul tissue. If it were at the end of a limb, a hand or foot, amputation would be the last resort. Yet this hurt lay in the meat of Leon's shoulder, and Merlin pursed his lips when he saw the webbed rash of infection trailing downwards towards his heart.

Gwaine swore softly, a curse that throbbed with pity, and Merlin risked a glance at Arthur. He looked pale and grim, confronting a reality none of them wanted to face. Every knight among them knew how bad it was. Perhaps Leon would survive the return to Camelot, but Merlin doubted Gaius would be able to do more than bring him comfort as he descended into the worst ravages of blood poisoning.

It made him think of the patients they sometimes got, the ones who refused herbs or treatment, saying it was in the hands of the divine. Every time, after they invariably slipped beyond the veils of death, Merlin had ranted about how stupid it was. They could have been saved and instead had perished through their own foolishness.

Gaius always softly told him that they could not force their will on a person in their care, no matter the cost.

Now he found himself in that same position. There was no salve in the world that would help Leon. Even the brutal slice of a knife and the burn of hot iron would probably only delay the inevitable. Part of him longed to press his hand to Leon's skin and let his power flow. His soul howled at him to save his friend and face the consequences after, but he couldn't do it. Perhaps his intentions would be good, but it was still another kind of tyranny. Instead, he spoke softly, reaching for honesty.

'The wound's gone bad, and the poison is seeping along your veins towards your heart. If the injury was in your hand, Gaius would be recommending we cut it off and hope for the best.'

Leon sighed, his lips quivering before he held them firm. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, managing a shaky nod of understanding. At length, he spoke, his voice little more than a low rasp. 'I do not feel I have the right to ask it of you, considering my behaviour earlier this day, but I would rather have your help than not.'

'My magic?' Merlin felt the little ripple go through the men around him at the word. 'Are you sure? You still have a choice, Leon.'

'... magic or death?'

Merlin huffed out a mirthless little laugh. 'I didn't say it was a good choice.' He cuffed one hand back through his hair. 'I can try,' he said at last. 'I can't heal the wound; I don't know how, but I might be able to cleanse the poison in your blood.'

Pressing the knuckle of his thumb to his eye, he lifted his voice, making sure all the knights could hear him. 'I'll need some hot water. If I get this right, the rot will ooze out of the injury. We have to wipe it away and burn the rags. We should help Leon sit up, too. It'll make things easier.' He straightened his shoulders, trying to show a confidence he didn't feel. All around him, his friends stood motionless, frozen and unsure.

'Now?'

They surged into action, moving with surprising grace. Percival grabbed packs and bedrolls, stacking them nearby before helping Leon recline against them. It meant he was half-upright, rather than flat on his back. Pain pinched his face, but he weathered it well. Arthur stopped at Merlin's side, offering up clean rags as Lancelot emptied the waterskins into a cooking pot.

'Give it here,' Merlin urged, a flicker of fondness arcing through his chest. Even Lancelot, who had known about his magic for ages, tended to forget it was a possibility. He had been about to put the water amidst the coals to heat. Merlin's way was quicker. He accepted the beaten iron cauldron, giving it a golden, gleaming look. Within three heartbeats, the surface roiled and seethed, letting loose a bloom of steam. He kept it going for a while before cooling it to something that merely felt pleasant.

When he looked up, it was to find the others staring with varying degrees of fascination. The only one who bore a slightly different expression was Arthur, who offered Merlin a rueful, appalled sort of look.

'Please tell me you haven't been using magic to heat my bath water?' It was a thin whisper of a question, as if Merlin's brazen stupidity had stolen his breath away.

'I haven't been using magic to heat your bath water,' Merlin parroted, not even bothering to try and hide the lie. 'Or keep your meals warm as I carry them through drafty corridors up to your room. Or to make sure the fire in your bedchamber doesn't go out overnight.'

Arthur made a garbled noise of distress, and Elyan's hysterical little laugh underpinned it. He shook his head from where he sat at Leon's other side, both his hands folded around Leon's fingers in an effort at comfort. He was looking at Merlin as if he'd done something both unbelievable and yet completely expected: true to character in every way.

'So you've been using your very illegal magic to take care of Arthur?' he managed at last. 'For chores?'

Merlin pulled a face, but it wasn't as if Elyan was wrong. 'Just don't tell Gaius? He shouts at me whenever he catches me.'

'Because he's got some common sense,' Arthur protested. 'My father would kill you if he knew and you're just...'

'Helping.' Merlin shrugged, because when it came down to it, that was the truth. Sometimes it was big things, like stopping a rampaging beast or dealing with bandits. Others it was small comforts. That was what his magic wanted, what he wanted, more than anything else. To aid people in any way he could. 'Just like I'm helping Leon right now. Gwaine, grab a rag and make it wet. Keep wiping until I say stop. Use a fresh bit of cloth for each swipe. Perce, can you give him a hand?'

'What about the rest of us?' Lancelot asked from where he hovered nearby. He twisted his hands together, anxious, his gaze darting around as if waiting for the first cry of outrage. Yet none came, not that Merlin was surprised. People would turn to what they hated in a moment of desperation. He just had to hope that his friends were better than that, and that they would not reach for their swords once Leon was healed.

If he was healed.

'Stay out of my way.' He chafed his palms together before rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and squaring his shoulders. Reaching out, he hesitated only when Leon steeled himself. 'Ready?'

Leon's nod was one quick jerk, his entire body tensed as if braced for incredible pain. It was only when Merlin touched him that he relaxed: another little fear laid to rest.

'Oh,' he managed, sounding almost reverent. 'It doesn't hurt. It feels – Ow!'

'Sorry,' Percival grunted, pitching aside the first gore-soaked cloth. 'I can't wipe stuff away without touching the hole in your shoulder. You'll just have to bear it.' A grin flickered over his lips, fond and teasing. 'Big man like you; I'm sure you can manage.'

Leon grumbled, but it was a good sound: vivid and familiar, weak, maybe, but still a welcome comfort. The knights kept talking, jibing at each other the same as always. It was a veneer of normalcy Merlin could almost believe, but he didn't miss the way Percival and Gwaine hesitated when his golden gaze fell upon them.

It was a brief thing, a tiny flicker soon conquered as they set about their task. What was coming out of the wound was thin and yellow, but before long it ran thick, greenish black. The rotten meat smell was awful, and Merlin turned his attention back to Leon, honing his focus.

It was like trying to pick cobweb out of honeycomb: precise, exacting work. His magic eased away sticky tendrils of infection. He checked how the blood flowed through Leon's body, making sure it did not drop new seeds of sickness to take root elsewhere.

His own pulse drummed in his ears; a steady rhythm compared to the staggering rush of Leon's heart that thudded through him: a disjointed echo. At first, it was just a cacophony of percussion, but slowly, Merlin felt his patient's strain ease. What had been a tripping rhythm grew calm as its struggle ceased.

'All right?'

He didn't know if Arthur was talking to him or Leon, and he couldn't spare the time for a reply. His brow was slick with sweat. So was his spine. Intricate magic was always the hardest, requiring the kind of precision he had learned through desperate trial and error. Now, he let his power whisper through Leon's body, stirring in his veins and trailing over the meat of him, gilding the pillar of his bones and dancing over the spark of his thoughts. He looked, but did not touch, and it was only when he was convinced that the last of the poison had been banished that he began to ease back.

'Show me?' he rasped, blinking to try and chase aside the drunken sway of his vision as Gwaine offered the last scrap of cloth for his inspection. At his side there was a small pile stained yellow, green and black, the blood thick and noxious. What dotted the latest, however, was red and bright.

'There was also this.' Percival held out something in the palm of his hand: a tiny sliver of metal, probably off the arrowhead. It must have chipped off and caught in Leon's flesh: no doubt the harbinger of the wound's foulness.

'How do you feel?' Merlin asked, picking out every little change. Leon was still pale, but a touch of colour had returned to his face. Shadows lay under his lashes, but his eyes were focussed and sharp, his wits no longer fogged by fever.

'Less like I stand at death's doorway.' He reached out, his hand resting over Merlin's knuckles, his grip strong and sure. 'Thank you, my friend. I do not deserve such kindness.' There was a lot unspoken lying beneath those words: an apology, perhaps, for ever having recoiled. Forgiveness, maybe. Yet now the moment of crisis had passed, Merlin could feel the air around him thickening, full of questions. Whether he liked it or not, his magic and the secret of it had shaken everyone's certainties, and now they were left picking over the rubble.

It was not just a matter of his dishonesty. His power was not a small thing hidden away for his own satisfaction. His very existence broke Camelot's laws. His talents, whether they were put to use or remained dormant, would be enough to damn him to the headsman or the pyre. His fate lay in their hands.

Or, more accurately, it lay in Arthur's.

The others looked to him to lead, and those same subtle tensions that had been brought to such exaggerated life by the magic in the cave still lingered. A bit like Leon's wounded shoulder, it needed to be drained, or it would only fester until they all succumbed.

Merlin stared down at his hands, his bony knuckles and his agile fingers. The daylight had not yet fled, and the sun bathing the clearing shimmered off something on his right arm. It was subtle, little more than a hint of gold upon his skin, but he could just make out the wedge shape of a serpent's head on the back of his hand. He sighed as he saw hints of a long body curled around his forearm from wrist to elbow: the goddesses' parting gift – a promise and a reminder both.

Fear had to be faced. It could not be allowed to grow unchecked. Wasn't that what he had done since he was a boy? He had listened to his mother's well-meaning warnings. He had made himself small and unworthy of notice, but all the while his fear had worsened. It was tempting, maybe, to hold his silence now and hope to avoid the conversation, but in Merlin's mind, that was just another defeat.

As he told Leon, there was always a choice, but sometimes it was no choice at all.

He would rather face what lay ahead than go back to a life in the shadows.

'What are you going to do with me?' He pursed his lips, wrenching his head up to meet Arthur's gaze. As challenges went, it wasn't much of one, but it crystallised the moment around them, breaching the topic nobody else had the courage to voice.

'What do you mean?' Arthur rasped. His shoulders stiffened beneath his armour, all rejection. Yet he did not think it was of Merlin's magic itself. Instead, it was a wish to recoil from the decision before him. Arthur was not merely a friend discovering Merlin's abilities for the first time. He was Camelot's prince. He had made his oaths to crown and kingdom alike.

'I'm a sorcerer.' He shrugged, his lips buzzing as the words slipped past them. 'I've used magic. It's against the law.'

The silence that fell was tense and expectant. Leon sagged back against the pile of bags supporting him as Elyan loitered nearby. Percival rubbed his palms down the thighs of his breeches, uttering not a word, and Merlin didn't miss the fleeting glance Gwaine shared with Lancelot: a silent vow exchanged. It was as if all those gaping flaws that had torn them apart in the caves had been reduces to mere cracks, but they were still present, waiting for the jolt that would shatter them anew.

Yet when Arthur spoke, it was in a careful, measured tone. He sounded like a man feeling his way along a treacherous path in the conversation. There was no anger there, merely a hunger that gave Merlin pause. 'Back in the cave, you said you had been born with magic. Was that true?'

Merlin sighed, bowing his head. 'Yeah, it is. You can ask my mum. It used to drive her spare. I cast my first spell before I could even crawl.'

He felt shock ripple through the clearing. It was like the stirring of a breeze through the trees: a subtle change in the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the knights exchanging glances, each man around him checking the others' reactions. Only Arthur remained stoic. He stared at Merlin as if attempting to ferret out a hint of a lie. Yet it was not a sharp, doubting scrutiny. Instead, he looked almost hungry, as if he was searching for the answers that would ease all his doubts.

'What was it? Your first spell.'

Merlin narrowed his eyes. Part of him wondered if he was only damning himself further, but trust had to start somewhere. He already felt raw, flayed open and left bleeding by the goddesses and their brutality. They had shown him his friends at their worst. Now he longed to see each man at their best, but there was no chance of that if he didn't at least meet them halfway.

'This one.'

The orb of light flared bright, tame and benign at his shoulder. Perhaps he could have just spoken of it, but now that his secret was out, there was a desperation within him. He would not apologise for it. He couldn't. Not even if it cost him his life.

Nobody flinched. That was the first thing he noticed. There was a kind of studied, artful poise in the men around him, as if each and every one of them was trying to stifle an instinctive reaction. For some like Elyan, that might have been a twitch away from the spell that had swirled into being. For Gwaine, he suspected, it was a surge closer, as if he were eager to see more.

The light of the orb reflected in Arthur's eyes and glittered off his armour as he stepped forward. It was not a shy shuffle or a hunter's prowl. He moved with all the steady confidence a prince could muster. Nor, Merlin realised with a jolt, was it false. Arthur wasn't trying to hide his fear.

He wasn't afraid of it at all.

'I remember this.' He reached out, his palm cupping the curve of the orb and making the magic hum in rapturous pleasure. Merlin shivered where he sat, a delicious tremor racing down his spine and pooling in the pit of his belly. 'From a different cave: a different time. The Forest of Balor. The Mortaeus flower.' Arthur tilted his head, his gaze skimming to meet Merlin's eye. 'You led me out; you saved my life.'

'And you saved mine right back.' It felt important to remind him of that. Merlin hadn't bothered keeping score, but Arthur was just the kind of man who would tally it all up. Merlin hadn't done it for the credit; he had never been that sort of person. At first, he had craved a purpose for his power, but before long? It was for Arthur, no more and no less. It was not even about the prophecy, not really. He didn't care if Arthur returned magic to Camelot. All he knew was that the prince did not deserve to die: another victim of his father's endless war against sorcery.

'But it wasn't the first time, was it? Or the last.' Arthur glanced over his shoulder at the serpent's skull: a glorious calcification of teeth and hollow, staring eye sockets. 'Not by a long way.' His hand fell back to his side. Was it Merlin's imagination, or did he look reluctant, as if he did not want to let go? 'If you were a knight of the realm wielding a blade, you would be heaped with accolades, and instead...'

'I don't care about that.'

Arthur managed a weak little huff of laughter as he pressed a palm to his brow. His distress was a palpable thing, and Merlin twitched, aching to reach out and offer comfort but unsure of his welcome.

Emotion churned in his belly: guilt that he had ever put Arthur in the position to have to make such a choice and anger over his hesitation. Fear of what the future held trickled through him and the slow, cold spread of grief advanced through his bones. Hope tried to keep its light burning, but it was a frail comfort. He feared that, one way or the other, this moment marked an ending.

All he could do was wait.

Chapter Text

In the caves, the matter of Merlin's magic had been easy. The power imbued within the rock had stripped away all nuance, leaving Arthur with the bare bones of his anger. He had been hurting and so he had hurt in turn. Yet even then, his father's laws were little more than a mask to hide behind. He could pretend to be enraged over the sorcery rather than agonised by Merlin's secrecy.

Now, there was no such blissful balm. He could not ignore the complexities of the choice that lay before him, and nor, Arthur realised, did he want to. He owed Merlin that much: an honest confrontation of his own feelings, no matter how messy they were to untangle. Until he took that particular bull by the horns, there could be no moving forward, but it was easier said than done.

It was like a Gordian knot coiling ever tighter within him, the knowledge of his oaths to his father colliding with his own desires. On the one hand, there was what he should do: his duty and the laws of Camelot were clear and absolute, but his entire being rebelled at the idea. He could imagine it all too clearly: Merlin with his head on the block, how scared he would feel as the executioner raised his axe. How it would hurt him to his soul, because how could he be any different? No man could change how he was born.

And no man should be killed for it, either.

Uther had depicted his Purge as a cleansing of a dreadful corruption within Camelot. Sorcery, he claimed, was a choice made by those with evil in their hearts. Those he had executed for actions that could be looked on with sympathy, he had framed in tones of mercy. He was saving the accused from themselves and the blight the magic would cast upon their souls in time. Now all of that rang false, and Arthur was left to acknowledge the tyranny he had long tried to ignore.

Tyranny that would see one of his best friends dead at his feet.

The thought made nausea clench hard in the pit of his gut, and he folded his arms around himself, noticing how his armour sparkled in the firelight. Was it his imagination, or could he still make out the magic glimmering between its links? Was it only his chainmail that gleamed so? It seemed unlikely. He knew Merlin and his tender heart. He had seen it as a weakness, once. It had taken Arthur far too long to realise that compassion could be a force of nature in the right hands.

Merlin had always been a bit feral about protecting the people he cared about, and half of them had repaid him with nothing but hatred and distrust, sharp words and cruel actions.

He glanced around at the men who had followed him into one battle after the other, knights united not in their duty but their friendship. Yet it was this that had almost broken them. If not for Merlin, what would have been left of them in that cave? Sundered bodies and spilled blood? If he had not convinced the goddesses to clear their minds, would they have slaughtered each other even as the serpent sought to devour them?

Some might argue that, if not for Merlin's magic, they would never have found themselves in such a situation in the first place. Perhaps that would be right, but it was a cold comfort. Besides, he suspected that, for every time Merlin's power got them into trouble, there were a dozen others it helped them out of it. Memories kept bobbing to the surface, little curiosities throughout his life that made sense now that he knew the truth. He had written off so much of it as fair fortune, and all the while, there had been someone watching out for him.

Arthur closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath as he felt a fraction of resolve settle in place. He could not say, yet, what he would do with Merlin. There were too many questions he needed to answer. He could only offer reassurance: the acknowledgement that, despite the laws of Camelot, there was one line he would not cross.

'I won't hurt you.' His gaze dropped to the bruise on Merlin's cheek and the scabbed cut that marred his face. It was an obvious wound, but he expected the ones under Merlin's skin – which did not bleed but ached all the same – were far greater. 'No more than I already have. No axe, Merlin. No pyre. Not by my command.' The words were like a banner planted on a field of battle, one that he hoped his knights would rally around before long.

The feeling that swept across their little camp was one of soft relief, as light as eiderdown. Leon sagged back against the pack propping him up, letting out a shivering little breath. Elyan's shoulders dropped from where they were hitched up to his ears. Both men, he knew, were still conflicted, but the balance had tipped the other way. Now, out of the cave and with their fears vanquished, they could see the complicated truth, rather than the easy, brutal lie.

Gwaine flipped his hair back, his chin ducking in a mute nod as his body eased from its battle-readiness. Normally he was quick with his words, but Arthur could see how his throat worked, as if he could not bring himself to speak for fear of breaking a fragile truce.

More damning, to Arthur's mind, was how Lancelot's hand dropped from the pommel of his magical sword. He had sheathed it in its scabbard as if it belonged there, bold and unrepentant, but he had been prepared to raise it once more in Merlin's defence. Now those dark eyes met Arthur's gaze, and his subtle nod felt like a blessing. Even Percival found his ease, no longer standing braced as if he was ready to launch himself into the fray and break up a fight.

Yet it was Merlin who sagged where he still knelt, his entire body going lax as sooty lashes fluttered closed. It was as if the iron had melted from his spine, draining away to leave him swaying. He looked pale and tired, but when he opened his eyes again, the blue gleamed with the kind of approval that arced through Arthur like a lightning strike. It did not feel as if he had passed some sort of test, but rather as if he had avoided becoming a disappointment. It shouldn't matter. Merlin was a servant and a sorcerer, but in that moment, Arthur could have sobbed to see his rock-solid belief.

So many things had been shaken loose on their foundations this day, but remarkably, Merlin's faith in him still held strong.

And it called to Arthur to answer in kind.

'You can't exile me.' Merlin lifted his chin. If he hadn't been watching closely, Arthur might have laughed at how swiftly his uncertain timidity faded away. Yet it cost Merlin to lay down the law like that, and never again would he think of him as cowardly. 'You can try, but I won't let you. I'll just come back.'

He would as well. The only thing that would keep Merlin from his side was death, and they were not going down that road.

However, he could not ignore the risk Merlin took simply by staying. Would he not be better in Ealdor, or in another kingdom where magic was not treated with such loathing? Shouldn't Merlin think of himself, for once?

'It's not safe for you in Camelot,' he protested, shooting a quick glare at the knights around him, hoping they might be the voices of reason. Not, he realised, that he stood any chance of changing Merlin's mind. They knew each other well, and he recognised the mulish angle of Merlin's jaw. There would be no moving him. Still, he had to try. If nothing else, he wanted reassurance that Merlin had given his situation some thought.

'It's as safe as it was last week, and last year.' He shrugged. 'Nothing has changed, except that now you know about my magic.' Merlin swallowed hard, his gaze darting around before dropping back to the ground, a wince tightening his eyes.

It was cautiously said, but Arthur could hear the implication beneath his words. He doubted there was a knight among them who had missed it. Even knowing about Merlin and holding their silence made them guilty of treason. These were Camelot lands, and Uther's laws did not limit themselves to the castle. Whether they permitted him back into the citadel or not made no difference; they were complicit because they had not slain a sorcerer where he stood the moment they discovered him.

Arthur felt like he perched upon the precipice of a decision that could change his life. It was not something passive – a path taken through inaction. Holding his silence and turning a blind eye was not enough. He would need to prepare for the worst, and he would require the help of his knights to do so. He would need their active cooperation, and that was not something he could command. They had to make the choice about their loyalties for themselves.

Of course, there was one among them who had already made that decision, years ago now. Lancelot had held Merlin's secret faithfully all through his absence from Camelot and after his return, and Arthur doubted he would have stopped there. Did he have bags packed and hidden away, in case Merlin ever needed to make a swift escape?

Had he sought to care for Merlin while Arthur remained ignorant of the need?

'I can't speak for the rest of 'em, mate,' Gwaine murmured, interrupting the swirl of Arthur's thoughts, 'but I'll not say a word. Not in the tavern. Not anywhere. I know how to keep my mouth shut.'

'Do you?' Percival teased gently, his mirth a glimmer of light among them.

'When a man's life is on the line?' Gwaine grinned despite the seriousness of his words. 'Yeah. No doubt about it.'

Elyan cleared his throat, picking at the knee of his breeches. 'Can we ask questions?' He sounded a bit breathless, but Arthur saw that it was not his permission he sought. Elyan's dark gaze was fixed on Merlin, and he could see the desperation there. 'It's not – I'm not... I want to say that back in the cave wasn't me. But maybe it was, deep down. Maybe it was all of us. I want to believe, more than anything, that you're my friend, but I don't know what you've done. What you could do. I need to understand, because I made oaths to the people of Camelot to keep them safe.'

Arthur's nod was a fractional one, but he knew the other knights picked up on it. Elyan had got to the heart of the matter, as was his way. He suspected that the letter of the law troubled his men far less than the real-life consequences of sorcery that they had seen. Perhaps, sometimes, it was a poor soul sobbing on the executioner's block, but just as often it was fire raining down and death in the streets. When magic brought such calamity, it was hard to view it in a positive light.

'I'll answer if I can,' Merlin promised, and there was strength in his words, as if he had found his way back onto solid ground, 'but we should see to ourselves while we talk. We all need food, and Leon isn't the only one who needs his wounds tending.' He held out his hands in emphasis, his palms grazed by his fall after Arthur struck him and then sliced by the keen edges of Leon's blade in the goddesses' grip.

It was enough to jolt Arthur forward where he stood. He went to his knee at Merlin's side without a second thought, his meandering considerations shoved aside by the bloody sight in front of him. 'Gods, Merlin!' He cupped his knuckles carefully, his slow movements at odd with the sharpness of his own voice. 'Couldn't you have stopped her with magic?'

'She's a goddess?' Merlin sounded baffled, as if he couldn't imagine how Arthur could possibly be so thick. 'You're lucky I could stop her at all!'

'What would have happened if she had plunged that sword into the earth?' Leon's chest was bare, his tunic cast aside so that Merlin had the space to fix his wound, but Gwaine had layered cloaks around his shoulders to keep him warm. He did not look well, but even Arthur could see that he was better than he had been, healing rather than fading away before their eyes.

'It would have stirred awake the power in the cave, bringing it to completion. We would have fought each other until there was only one of us left.'

'And whoever that was would have been stuck until they either died of their wounds or starvation took them.' Arthur thought of the chamber they had found, filled with bones and tragedy. 'It seems a brutal way of trying to keep the peace.'

Merlin hummed in wry agreement. 'Some of the aspects of the triple goddess are known to be more merciful than others,' he explained, grunting in pain when Arthur carefully began swiping the blood away from his palms with a clean, wet cloth. 'I can do this. You don't have to –'

'Let me?' It was not a penance. There were not some scales of right and wrong that needed to be set back into balance. Instead, this was something that Arthur wanted to do. Maybe it was about reminding himself that Merlin was human after all, rather than the monster that his father had always claimed. Perhaps it was about showing Merlin that he was worthy of care and that Arthur himself was capable of it. Either way, it felt essential, and he smiled to himself when Merlin relaxed the guarded curl of his fingers.

'Here.' Lancelot scooped up the healing bag and set it down at Arthur's side. 'I've got a few scraped knuckles: nothing that can't wait. How about I get some food started? I don't know about everyone else, but I'm starving. Elyan, can you give me a hand?'

It was a peace offering, subtly made, and Arthur hid a smile as he and Merlin shared a glance. The break between them may be the biggest, but everybody had been rattled by what had come to pass. Thankfully, all of Lancelot's fierce spite had fled, banished once his head was clear. Now, his kind heart was on display, visible in his eagerness to help heal the hurts they had inflicted on one another.

'Sure. Perce, can you keep an eye on Leon?'

'I do not need minding,' Leon groused. It was a weary protest, as if he knew the others would ignore it, and a faint smile curled his lips as Percival ruffled his lank curls with one huge hand.

'Maybe not, but someone needs to burn those rags and dress that wound,' Merlin pointed out. 'I didn't do all that magic just for it to get infected again.'

There was a glassy bravado in his voice, and Arthur wondered what it cost Merlin to speak of his talents. He tried to imagine what it might be like to be told to keep such a secret safe and close – to be instructed, from the earliest days of childhood, that others would see him as dangerous. What would that do to a man?

Yet the answer to that question had played out back in that cave. In truth, it was no wonder that the biggest snake they'd had to fight was Merlin's own fears given form. Just because they had beaten it did not mean Merlin's uncertainty melted into mist. It was still there. Banishing it would be the work of months or even years, and it would probably always leave its scars.

He blinked, realising he was thinking in terms of "when", not "if". His doubts may be legion, but when he pushed them all away, he realised that there was a core of certainty hidden beneath. What lay before him was a fundamental decision. He could cast aside the friendship, wounded and bloody as it was, or he could put in the effort to rebuild it better than ever before.

He could know Merlin – all of him – if he only had the courage to try.

Arthur's next breath tasted clear upon his tongue: his mind made up. He would rather take the hard road than the easy path. He would prefer to reach for change instead of living a lie, even if the effort to uncover the truth reduced everything he had known to ruins. The realisation settled within him like a cornerstone, and he pursed his lips as he carefully blotted dry Merlin's hands and wrapped the bloody skin in clean bandages.

'Anything else?' He pressed a gentle finger to Merlin's chin, turning his head so he could examine the injury his fist had left in its wake. It was more a thunderous bruise than an open wound, but he cautiously eased away the patina of blood, holding Merlin's jaw steady as he did so. He kept waiting for the moment that he withdrew, their trust too fractured to support such closeness, yet it never happened. Merlin remained unfaltering, his nose wrinkling in grudging acknowledgement.

'That's it, mostly, except my right ankle. I landed on it badly during the fight.'

'I'm going to have nightmares about that for months,' Percival muttered, mournful. 'The cave in Cent was nothing like that. No snakes. No violence.' He shook his head, his brow furrowed. 'I wonder why this one was so different?'

'I'm sorry I ever mentioned the damned place.' Gwaine placed a short pile of wooden bowls down by Elyan's side, taking a moment to rest a companionable hand on his shoulder. 'I know we needed the shelter, but...'

'We survived it.' Arthur left it at that. The others didn't need reminding of how close they had been to failure. They had all been there. They had suffered beneath their own rage and terror. They had felt how the magic had tried to divide them. Yet in the end, they had triumphed. Mostly, in Arthur's mind, thanks to Merlin himself.

He busied himself removing Merlin's boot, undoing the buckles and peeling open the leather so he could get it off without pulling on the injury. His murmured apologies gilded the air as a tight, pained noise caught in Merlin's throat. Swift words soon followed, and he got the impression Merlin was talking just to keep his mind off his discomfort. He should have been seen to before this, but Leon had taken priority. Now, Arthur could only listen as he stripped off Merlin's sock and examined the swelling.

'The cave's been left untended. No priests. No offerings. From what you said, Percy, the one in Cent was different.'

'Yeah. There were people in robes. They burnt candles. Looked after the place. It was respected.'

'Whoever worshipped here probably fled during the Purge. Or maybe even before that. Just because a holy site is abandoned doesn't mean the gods go too. Instead, they have nothing to remind them of humanity. They can get stuck in their purpose. Babd, Macca, the Mórrígan: their job was to keep the peace and bear the aftermath of war. Perhaps if their sanctum was cared for, they'd remember mercy. Someone had protected it though. None of you wanted to enter. I had to convince them to let you in.' He pulled a face. 'If I'd known who they were I'd have braved the storm.'

'You had no idea?' Elyan had grabbed an old log, wedging it in by the fireside to use as a makeshift seat. He tended the pot over the flames with intense focus, and Arthur didn't miss how his question was tentative, as if he were unsure he had permission to speak. Of all of them, he had been the most vicious in his reaction, other than Arthur himself. Now, regret was his mantle, and he looked as if he did not know how to begin making amends.

'I knew it was the triple goddess in some form or another, just not which one.' Merlin sighed. 'Not until Arthur and I found the cavern full of bones.'

'Is it safe, now? No one else is going to wander inside and get hurt?' There was something a touch forceful in Leon's voice: his natural instinct to protect innocents coming to the fore.

'No. Not unless they've got a sorcerer with them to go in and beg admittance.' There was nothing timid about Merlin's certainty, and when he carried on, Arthur could have sworn he heard traces of Gaius' practical wisdom in his words. 'You need to understand, that cave was ancient. It had been there for centuries, and those dead warriors we found? It was probably a trial of sorts: something they had to petition for. Something they chose, at least at the start.'

'We did not choose that.' Elyan jerked his thumb towards the snake's skull. 'We only wanted a roof over our heads.'

'I know. They just – they were trying to help, in the grand scheme of things: help Camelot, or Albion, not necessarily us.'

Arthur sat back on his heels, turning Merlin's words over in his head. Perhaps he was right, maybe the goddesses had some greater purpose in mind, but they had offered advice, as well. The fight with the serpent had been the obvious battle, but there was a more subtle war to be waged, and it could not be done alone. If they were going to hammer out a new understanding about magic in general and Merlin's in particular, then they needed to do it together.

In this, as in so many other things, they would have to stand united. Merlin deserved nothing less.

'Can you move your foot?' he asked, watching as Merlin obliged. It pained him, that much was clear, but at least it did not appear to be broken. There was a brief spell of tranquillity as he worked, binding Merlin's ankle neatly. Around him, the knights saw to one another's comfort, cleaning the occasional scabbed graze or fixing the jammed buckle on some armour. The smell of warm oats soon filled the air, and Arthur narrowed his eyes at the gathering twilight, observing the bats that danced above their heads.

'Here.' Gwaine pressed a bowl of pottage into his hands. It was basic, but there was a symbolism to it, at least in Arthur's mind. Perhaps it was no grand feast to celebrate a treaty, but they broke bread together despite all that had come to pass. More to the point, there was a sense of something companionable in the air. No longer were they at each others' throats, bellowing their challenges. There was space for logic to prevail once more.

'You said we could ask questions,' he murmured, glancing up at Merlin, who ducked his head. 'You killed the griffin –'

'Lancelot did that. I just helped.'

Lancelot made a choked, aggravated sound, chewing furiously. Gwaine would have spoken with his mouth full, but Lancelot was in possession of good manners, even around the campfire. Instead, he swallowed hard, jabbing a spoon in Merlin's direction. 'I would have been a dead man without you. My blow would only have enraged it.'

'You were holding the lance.'

'The magic lance.'

Merlin shrugged, a grin tilting his lips as Lancelot muttered something under his breath. Arthur got the impression that this was an old argument, one that they had bantered back and forth between them plenty of times over the course of their friendship. Jealousy curdled in the pit of his belly, because even if Lancelot had found out by accident rather than being told, he had known more about Merlin than Arthur. He had seen the true depths of him while Arthur had carried on, oblivious.

Well, that changed now.

'The Afanc.' He raised one eyebrow. 'You helped kill that, somehow. My sword alone did not do it.' A fresh memory rolled over him, stealing his breath away. 'You confessed to sorcery in front of my father!'

'He was going to burn Gwen at the stake, all because Tom recovered when nobody else did!'

'Was that you?' There was a pulse of emotion in Elyan's voice, something deep and resonant with desperation. 'Who saved my father from the plague?'

Merlin gave a quiet sigh, his shoulders sagging as he scratched a thumb over his brow. 'Yeah. I didn't think Gwen would get blamed for anything, let alone arrested... I just wanted to help.'

'And you did.' Elyan leaned forward where he sat, and this time, the gleam in his eye was not one of hatred. 'Gods, Merlin. Gwen still talks about it – her relief when dad got better. How scared she had been. Whatever happened afterwards, she's never forgotten that day.'

Arthur pursed his lips, holding his silence. He and Elyan had spoken of Tom's ultimate fate when he made him a knight: the accusation of helping a sorcerer and the death that had followed. For his part in it, Arthur had always been sorry, but there had no talking his father around; the king would not listen to reason.

The laws of the land were meant to protect its citizens. Arthur had long suspected that they had been corrupted by his father's prejudice. Now he could see, more clearly than ever, that instead of comfort, the ban on magic brought nothing but fear, even to the ordinary people.

One accusation was all it took for someone's life to be forfeit.

'I couldn't stop the plague. We didn't know what was causing it or why those afflicted were dying, not until we found out about the Afanc: an elemental creature that poisoned the aquifer. It was made of earth and water, so it needed fire and air to unmake it.'

'A torch in its mouth and a gust of wind that came out of nowhere.' Arthur remembered it well. There should have been no gale in those caverns, and yet he still recalled how it had whirled around him, all purposeful force. Just like Lancelot and the griffin, perhaps he had played his part, but without Merlin, it would have been a futile effort.

The knights began to speak up, recalling incidents where fortune had inexplicably found in their favour. Time and again, they plucked from their minds moments where the tide of battle had turned, or when something supposedly unbeatable had been miraculously vanquished. It only made it more obvious that Merlin had been there for each of them. Yet it wasn't that his sorcery always saved the day. Instead, Arthur noticed how it was often an essential part of a greater whole. An ingredient in the defence of the realm that Uther had stripped away.

Magic was a tool to be used, its aim decided by the hand that guided it, and with every moment it became more clear that Merlin had wielded it to help his friends and his kingdom alike.

Of course, there were some instances where it seemed that a sword held no sway. Sometimes, magic was what was needed, and power was what Merlin brought to bear.

'What happened with the Questing Beast?' It was a quiet little question, slipping past his lips like fine velvet. His memories of the time were fuzzy at best, turned to fume by the poison's miasma. He could barely recall the creature beyond an impression of spots and scales and terrible pain. Then, in the aftermath, Merlin had been... strange. He remembered it, through the fog of recovery, how every word he uttered had sounded like farewell.

'That was one of Nimueh's tricks, like the Afanc and the poisoned goblet that sent you racing to the Forest of Balor. She was behind all of that.' Merlin leaned forward, poking at the campfire with a stick. The light rippled across his face, the glow bright now that the day had faded and night reigned. The flickering shadows made him look older, somehow, wise beyond his years and troubled with it.

'I know that name,' Leon shifted, wincing in discomfort, but there was something intent upon his features. 'She was a sorceress in Camelot, I believe. Before the Purge. One with considerable strength to her name.'

'She loathed Uther. All she cared about was hurting him by any means necessary. She was a High Priestess of the Old Religion; they were said to hold the power over life and death. When the Questing Beast bit you, there should have been no cure. I went to strike a bargain with her, my life for yours.'

Arthur's heart felt as if it turned over in its place, its beat a dizzy rush as blood hummed in his ears. It didn't matter that Merlin was right in front of him, alive and well. The shadow of his secrecy faded to gossamer beneath the denial that roared through Arthur's head.

His knights had made oaths to give their lives for their kingdom. He would mourn their sacrifice, but it was part of the vows they had taken. Merlin had forged no such promises, and yet he had marched into the wilds of Albion as if his life were no more than a bargaining chip.

'You're still here,' Percival's voice was gentle, his expression kind. If he was ruffled by Merlin's revelation, he showed no sign of it, unlike the rest of them. In every other face there was a growing glimmer of horror, not at Merlin's magic, but at the lengths he would go to for those he cared for. 'I'm assuming it didn't work out that way?'

'I thought I was going to die. I returned to Camelot with the cure, gave it to Arthur... I expected not to wake up the next day. Instead –' He paused, and harsh anger twisted his face. It was rare to see Merlin look that furious about anything, but clearly the memory had deep roots. 'My mother fell sick. Nimueh tried to take her life rather than mine, and I couldn't let that happen.' He sighed, shaking his head. 'She was right about one thing. The Questing Beast's bite wasn't a normal wound. It was old magic at work, and it needed to be appeased. A life for a life. Anyone's would do it, so I ensured it was hers.'

Most men would have tried to make excuses or justify their actions. Merlin made no such attempt. Not, Arthur knew, because he did not care. No doubt he had lain awake at night, questioning his choices. Now he carried with him the resolve of a man who had learned to live with his decision.

Not a trace of condemnation found its way onto the faces of the knights. It would only be hypocritical of them. After all, they had each taken lives when necessary. Instead, there was a measure of respect there. Alongside it bloomed the realisation that, all this time, Merlin had been fighting a war none of them even realised was being waged, and he'd been doing it alone.

It was there, in the uncertain shadows of the campfire, that he saw the last of their doubts loosen their grip. He watched the lines ease from Leon's face and the determination feather Elyan's eyes. He noticed how Percival squared his shoulders like a man reaching a decision. From both Lancelot and Gwaine, there was an aura of confidence, as if both had been justified in their initial instincts to stand by Merlin's side. They still had a long way to go; they all knew that. The trust between them had been damaged, but already they were taking steps to heal the breach.

And Arthur did not think twice about reaching out. He shuffled where he sat, closing the distance so that his shoulder pressed against Merlin's. His hand moved almost without thought, gripping Merlin's arm as he had done a thousand times before. Yet it was not a jibe that escaped him. Instead, he meant what he said with all his heart.

'Thank you.'

Chapter Text

Merlin did not realise how much he needed Arthur's gratitude until it was within his grasp. He had not noticed the chasm in his heart aching to be filled. He would have saved Arthur a dozen times over and been happy with nothing, and yet that one utterance healed something in him that he had not even realised was bleeding.

And in its wake, his hope flared ever brighter.

'You don't have to thank me.'

'Yes, I do.' Arthur's hand retreated, and his shoulder nudged into Merlin's just once. It was a tentative gesture, as if he were trying to work out where they stood with one another. Yet compared to how he had been in the cave – the hard ice of his anger and the bloody wreck of his pain – it felt strikingly tender. Back in that prison of stone, Merlin had believed that his life might be snuffed out on the edge of Arthur's blade... Now?

Most of the knights were unarmed, their swords still plunged into the ground at the fireside. Others had them sheathed neatly upon their belts and showed no indication of reaching for them. Even the dagger's scabbard in Elyan's boot was notably empty. Merlin suspected he had put it the saddlebag when he went to retrieve the oats for dinner.

It was as if a hundred tiny gestures were slowly stitching together the injuries that had opened up within him. They were not healed, not yet. There was a way to go before their faith in one another was completely restored, but these first steps were more than Merlin had ever dared to hope for.

As much as he wished he did not have to earn forgiveness for the simple crime of his own nature, some things were worth fighting for. He did not want to turn his back on his friends. Perhaps what lay between them now felt fragile and tenuous, like one strong word might break it, but he would rather it gain strength than shatter anew. Whatever he could do, he would see it done and pray that the others met him halfway.

'What is the plan?' Lancelot's question drifted over them, cautious, but with iron at its core. 'We are already late back thanks to Leon's injury and the storm. We cannot delay further, but nor can we enter Camelot with Merlin at our side if we are not of one mind.' That warm brown gaze settled on Merlin's face, defiant in that way Lancelot got sometimes when he decided the stakes were too high. 'I will not lose you to Uther's rage because someone here has lingering doubts.'

'And I'll not stay behind.' Merlin straightened where he sat. 'I mean it. Exile won't stick, not even if it's for my own good.' He glared in Arthur's direction, gratified to see that he had decided to pick his battles. Traces of mulishness lingered in his expression, but he had clearly realised it was a fight he couldn't win.

'Lancelot is right. We need to be united in our resolve. I would rather have Merlin with us in Camelot than not. If I have learnt nothing else from this ordeal, I have at least come to realise that we all work better together. Magic is a part of that. I have spent my whole life being told to fear it – seeing the damage it can do – but it is foolish to believe there is not more to it. I would like to learn the truth on my own terms from someone I trust.'

Merlin tightened his jaw, swallowing hard against the sharp knot in his throat. He knew Arthur's speeches well enough. He could tell when he was putting on a performance for his audience. This time, that wasn't the case. Despite everything, he meant every word.

'So, we keep our mouths shut.' Elyan ducked his head, all trace of his horror from the caves wiped away. Now, he was a man building a strategy, looking at the disparate pieces and bringing them into one, united whole. 'Around the castle where we might be overheard, we say nothing of it, but we'll need somewhere safe. You cannot learn anything in silence. If we cannot speak of Merlin and his power, we will never heal from this: not properly.'

'It's easy to shield a chamber from prying ears.' Merlin shrugged. 'To anyone listening at the door, they'll just hear murmuring voices: nothing else.' He did not mention that, occasionally, he had whispered with Lancelot of sorcery in the corridors. Nor that, now and then, he'd simply looked over his shoulder in a crowded hall before letting loose a glimmer of enchantment. Somehow, he did not think that would bring anybody comfort.

'Really?' Leon pulled the cloaks layered on his shoulders tighter around his body. He looked tired, and Merlin pursed his lips. They all needed sleep. The day had been long and the fight hard on each of them. If Arthur planned to ride out tomorrow, then they would all have to try and claim their rest. 'You can do that?'

He managed a hesitant nod. 'It's easy.' He had wanted to weave the spell on the healing rooms, but Gaius had said people would notice the absence of his patient's occasional screams.

'Gods,' Arthur murmured. 'Think what an enchantment like that would do for the politics of Camelot.'

'You wouldn't have to worry about spies anymore,' Gwaine mused, scratching at his jaw. 'Your secrets wouldn't be racing all across Albion within a week.'

'You could hold meaningful talks with other rulers,' Percival added. 'One to another, rather than always performing for eyes both seen and not.'

'And that is what my father stripped from the kingdom, among other things. The ability to chase back illness that would kill a man.' Arthur waved in Leon's direction. 'Spells that are able to protect a citadel against creatures no normal sword can bring low.' He shook his head, and the iron in his voice was unmissable. This was no longer one man talking to his friends, but their prince uttering his command.

'Merlin rides for Camelot with us tomorrow. Put the spell you mentioned on my chambers so we have a place we can meet and discuss our concerns: somewhere we can learn what we must.' His eyes lingered on Merlin, waiting for his nod of understanding. 'I also want each of you to prepare a pack: clothes and coin. Hide it somewhere around Camelot so that, should the worst happen, we are not scrambling to flee my father's ire.'

'It won't come to that,' Merlin vowed, a wobbling feeling rippling through his chest.

'I will not put my faith in chance. If anyone has any doubts, they should speak up now. Let us bare our fears and lay them to rest, rather than allowing them to grow through neglect.'

Only the crackle of the fire interrupted the silence that followed. The wood splintered, sending up a shower of sparks, but it was Leon who finally spoke up. It was not the voice of doubt, but that of a man longing to believe the best in someone. 'I need your word,' he began, so earnest it hurt to hear it, 'that no harm will come to Camelot's people by your hand.'

'Would the vow of a sorcerer mean anything to you?' Merlin did not intend for it to sound so spiteful, nor so raw, but the words slipped out of him anyway. He wanted to believe that the knights were earnest in their plans, but the memories of the cave were still fresh and aching.

'It would be the promise of a friend, I hope.' Leon sounded as pained as Merlin felt, as if he knew that the damage that had been done this day would take time to heal. Forgiveness so often came in fits and starts, but it was a journey they were all trying to make together.

'I've never intentionally hurt anyone in Camelot who was not already attempting to do the kingdom harm.' He sighed, pursing his lips tight. Part of him longed to keep his silence, but he couldn't let Arthur and the others walk into this situation blind. He had to ensure that they understood the true depths of their decision and the consequences that may await them.

'What is it?' Arthur's weight nudged against his shoulder, almost shy to Merlin's mind. He didn't bluster or demand an answer. He simply urged him to reach for honesty, even if it felt like doing so might be stabbing himself in the foot.

'It's treason – what you're planning to do for me. You know that, don't you? Uther executes people for helping sorcerers, even if they have no idea about their magic. What would he do to all of you if I was ever discovered?'

He swallowed hard, feeling his own resolve settle in him. He wouldn't let that happen. No matter what became of him, he would ensure that the others remained safe, even if he had to enchant them. They could hate him with all their hearts for it, but at least they would still be alive.

It was one thing to make grand plans out in the wilds of Albion. It was another to live under the constant threat of discovery. He should know. It had been his whole existence from the day he set foot inside the citadel.

'It is a crime I have already committed.' Arthur sighed. 'As has every man here, in my father's eyes. Merlin, the moment I discovered your magic and did not run you through, I broke the laws of Camelot. I keep waiting to feel as if I have done wrong.' He stretched out his right hand as if easing a cramp in his knuckles. Did he remember the weight of his sword? Was he recalling his fury and the power of the cave urging him to do the deed, his fear a living thing within him?

And still, he had not dealt that final blow.

'It's different, though: you choosing not to kill me compared to you deciding to actively shelter me in Camelot. I just – I don't want any of you to regret it.'

Lancelot kicked the sole of Merlin's uninjured foot gently. 'These men have only been committing treason for a day. I have been doing it for far longer. I was a traitor even as I took my oaths, and there has not been a single moment when I have questioned my choice to keep your secret.'

'Sometimes,' Percival added, 'the law is wrong, and breaking it is the only right decision.' He fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist, glancing around at the others as if looking for any sign of protest. 'A good knight knows that honour comes before duty. You kept something from us, but I don't think you lied. Not about who you are. You haven't become a different person just because we know you have magic. You're as worthy of our friendship and protection as you were yesterday, and that is not about to change.'

'Your word is enough for me, Merlin,' Leon added, struggling to sit upright and groaning quietly with the effort. 'I simply needed to hear it for myself, and as for the rest of it? It is as Percival said, and of all of us, he is the one whose thoughts have remained clear throughout this whole mess. The one who saw sense while the rest of us lost our way.'

'Yeah.' Elyan dragged out the word as if tasting it, a glimmer of a grin curving his lips. 'What's that about, Perce? You didn't falter, not even once.'

'It's the bracelet.' Merlin smiled when the knights turned to look at him. 'It's not magic: not exactly, but it's something.'

'My dad gave it to me when I was sixteen summers.' Percival frowned down at the band of silver, running his finger over its shine. 'It was his dad's before him. There used to be runes on it, but they've worn away. He said it helped him keep a clear head. That if he was ever worried or uncertain, he just had to touch it and he felt better. I didn't really believe it, but...' Those massive shoulders hitched in a shrug. 'You're saying it works?'

'The runes might be gone, but there's still intent there. Things like that would have been everywhere before the Purge.' Merlin has sensed it when he had first met Percival. It was not the clarion call of an enchanted object, but something far softer and more benign. Yet even the simplest magics could be enough to allow a man to keep his mind while all around them were lost to confusion.

'Well, at least one of us hung on to their wits,' Gwaine said with a grin, clapping Percival on the shoulder before getting to his feet. 'And speaking of clear heads, if you want to ride out tomorrow, then we need sleep. Some more than others, though we're all due a good kip.' He sauntered towards a nearby tree and leant back against it. 'I'll take first watch. Pick for yourselves who trades out with me.'

'I'll do it.' Percival raised one hand before hiding a massive yawn behind his palm. 'Here, Leon. Let's get you comfortable.'

Merlin watched as the knights moved towards the horses, retrieving bed rolls and talking among themselves. Once, they might have joked and laughed. Now their conversation was softer and a touch more hesitant, as if they were all finding their place in a world remade. Flaws had opened between them all, and they would not be mended in one evening.

Still, some things did not change. Before he could even contemplate how best to limp to his mare with a bandaged ankle, Arthur dumped his bedroll in his lap, any thoughtfulness hidden by the act of being a prat.

'Get in,' he ordered, all brash and bossy. 'Before you keel over where you're sitting.'

Normally he would argue or busy himself with chores out of spite, but the truth was that he was too tired for it. His body ached from the battle and his head felt like a sodden rag. His blankets, sparse as they were, called his name, and he was too exhausted to fight it.

He glanced up, seeing how Elyan dithered nearby. He was looking around as if the placement of his bed was some great political decision rather than a mundane act. Briefly, Merlin wondered if he was still afraid, but one glance at Elyan's face made him think again. It wasn't cowardice that lined those features, but regret.

'What's wrong?'

Elyan sighed, casting Merlin a hopeless sort of look. He hesitated, his breath catching on aborted words. Yet in the end, he steeled himself, speaking like a man who knew that the only way out of this mess was through – no matter how hard the journey. 'How can you do it? How can you lie here in the company of men who, only a little while, would have seen you dead? The things I said. The things I nearly did. I wouldn't want to be anywhere near me.'

Merlin shook his head and pointedly shuffled into his bedroll. All around, there was a tense sort of silence. Arthur was fiddling needlessly with his blankets, as if he wanted to lay them closer to Merlin's side but did not quite dare.

'You weren't yourself,' he said at last. When it came down to it, that was the most blatant truth he could muster. Perhaps the magic in the cave had unearthed real fears, but it had exaggerated them as well. He had to believe that, or he would never find any peace. 'I know you. All of you.' He swallowed hard, lying on his side and speaking to the campfire rather than meeting anyone's gaze. In the back of his head, his mum's frantic warnings still whispered their litany, but he pushed them carefully away. 'And you know me too. We won't hurt each other. That's not who we are.'

He risked a glance at Elyan, watching his words sink in. They were a paltry comfort, in Merlin's view, but perhaps they were enough. Something in Elyan's hunched frame eased. He no longer stood like a man guarding a bleeding wound. Instead, he seemed to find some resolve, his guilt loosening its grip as he settled his bedroll close.

At his back, Merlin felt Arthur's presence – the chill of his chainmail and the warmth of the body beneath. They had lain like this often enough in the past, pressed in a seam down their spines. Now, Merlin fancied there was something defiant about it, as if he were daring him to make any kind of comment. Hope fluttered in his chest, unsteady, but no words escaped him. Instead, he let himself relax, taking comfort in how Arthur bore the slump of his weight without question.

On the other side of the fire, half hidden by the shadows that clotted between the trees, he saw Gwaine duck his head as if hiding a grin. It was a tiny fragment of joy amidst so much uncertainty, but it warmed Merlin's heart all the same.

He was tired enough that he should have slept like the dead, yet his dreams remained elusively out of reach. Even once the others had all settled into their snores, Merlin dabbled in the shallows of a doze. Each time he shifted, his ankle creaked in pain, throbbing sullenly. Every little scratch of life in the undergrowth brought him back to wakefulness, and he scowled furiously at the scattering of stars far above his head. If he were in Camelot, he would give it up as a bad job and dig out his magic book, finding comfort in those familiar pages.

He'd read it from cover-to-cover more than once, the parchment brittle beneath his fingertips. He'd often lost himself in wondering about the people who had put their quill to use, etching out their knowledge to impart to later generations. It reminded him of a time when magic had been commonplace.

He thought about showing it to Arthur and the others. What would they make of its contents? Would they see nothing but threat within the spells, or would they notice the thousands of little ways that sorcery could be used to aid a person, rather than bring them to harm? A week ago, he would never have considered such a thing. Now, it was as if a whole new world was blooming before him, one that brimmed with possibility, if he only had the courage to welcome it.

He had thought the worst part about his secret being uncovered would be the discovery. Merlin had never stopped to think about the aftermath. If he was honest, he had rarely let himself imagine anything other than an execution. Instead, he found himself in uncharted territory, and he wasn't sure if he was elated or terrified.

On the other side of the camp, Percival shifted his weight, his gaze turned outwards, watchful. He and Gwaine must have switched out during one of the few moments Merlin actually slept. Briefly, he considered rousing from his blankets to keep him company. It certainly felt as if slumber would not find him again. Yet while he may not be lost in his dreams, he was comfortable and warm, and he could not quite bring himself to crack open the chrysalis of his blanket.

Instead, he eased himself around so that his back was to the fire, wrinkling his nose as his ankle throbbed anew. He had planned to shut his eyes and at least try and snatch a bit more rest from the wreckage of the night. Perhaps he would have managed it, if he did not roll over to find Arthur watching him.

It was not the wide-eyed scrutiny of a man alert to danger. He looked at him through half-lowered lashes. It was the same expression he wore every morning when Merlin traipsed in to rouse him for the day ahead. They were some of his favourite memories. Arthur was always a prince, but in that unguarded moment, he let a glimmer of something fond seep through, and it never failed to make Merlin's heart thrum.

Normally, it vanished soon thereafter, tucked away behind the mask of Arthur's indignation. Now, it lingered, and Merlin unconsciously wet his lips, raising his eyebrows in question.

Neither of them uttered a word. The air felt heavy, as if this was a turning point that Merlin could not comprehend. The pair of them were still wrapped in their separate blankets, but they were close enough that, curled up as they were, their knees knocked. There were barely two hand-spans between them. The light from the dimming embers of the campfire chased off the thickest shadows of the night, leaving them both unmasked. Merlin did not know what his own face was doing, but Arthur...

He looked young, almost painfully so, like a man who'd had his certainties crushed to nothing but dust. Yet he was not lost amidst the wreckage. Merlin would have to be blind to miss the glimmer in those hooded eyes: that sharp mind at work.

'Couldn't sleep?'

'No better than you, it seems,' Arthur replied, his voice little more than a breath. The knights were good at finding slumber in moments, but none of them slept deeply while out in the wilds. Besides, there was something fragile and intimate about this moment. This wasn't about the others. It was about him and Arthur, no more and no less. Merlin only wished he could see the shape of it.

'My ankle hurts.' Maybe it was only half the reason for his sleeplessness, but it was a start. 'What's your excuse?'

Arthur's full lips pursed, and he shuffled lower in his blankets, pulling them up almost to his ears. 'You. Your magic. My father. Everything he has ever taught me.' Golden hair rustled against wool as he gave his head a little shake. 'I don't doubt a word you've said, but...'

'But it means everything you know about sorcery is wrong.'

'Yeah.' Arthur sighed, a low, soft sound, but he did not shy away from the task ahead of him. Merlin knew that look all too well. He wore it every time he came upon an injustice he was determined to put to rights. 'More to the point, the foundation on which my father built his laws is nothing but a lie. It's not just me has deceived; it's the entire kingdom.'

Arthur's hand slipped out from beneath the blankets. He did not reach for Merlin, but rather placed it palm down between them. Merlin mirrored the action without a second thought, instinctively moving to bridge the gap. He brushed his littlest finger against Arthur's: the tiniest fragment of contact.

'You'll fix it,' he whispered. 'You always do.'

Arthur's blinked, giving Merlin a look as if he could not quite believe how steady his faith remained. 'Will you help me?'

Merlin's heart lurched, bashing against his ribs as he swallowed hard. The question hovered between them, and really, there was only one answer he could give.

'Of course, Arthur. You don't even need to ask.'

Chapter Text

Packing up the camp was a simple affair. The knights had done it so often they could go through the motions in their sleep. Breakfast was made and served, waterskins were filled, the horses prepared and the bedrolls stowed. Arthur watched his men as they moved around one another, seeing the manner of their lingering hurts and the steady healing of the rifts that had formed in the cave.

It was enough to make pride glow like an ember in the cavern of his chest. Huge flaws had yawned wide. Some, no doubt, would take longer to mend than others, but they had each made a start last night and now continued their hard work into the next day.

It was Lancelot who stopped at his side, tilting his head in enquiry towards the one, unusual aspect of their camp. 'What are we going to do about that, Sire?'

The snake's skull still rested on the forest floor, the blade of the sword lodged in the bone. There were no gruesome, fleshy remains, but it was a macabre sight all the same. A couple of vertebrae lingered as well, looking like tumbled boulders.

'Do you think we can get up there to retrieve it?' he mused, squinting at where the hilt protruded. It would be a climb. The snake had been massive; its head twice as high as Percival was tall.

'I can try, assuming nothing horrid's going to happen?' Gwaine glanced at Merlin, who paused in stuffing his face with porridge to offer an eloquent shrug.

'Probably not, but I don't think you'll be able to get it out.'

A hint of mirth glimmered in his eyes as Gwaine took that as a challenge. They all watched him scramble in his effort to climb the bone, digging his fingers in wherever there was a crevice. At last he stood, sweaty, upon the skull's peak and wrapped his hand around the hilt. A gentle tug yielded no results. Even when Gwaine planted his feet and pulled with all his might, the blade remained lodged fast.

'It won't budge,' he wheezed, wiping his hair from his brow and jamming his hands on his hips.

'Here, let me try.' Elyan was a bit more nimble in his ascent, but the end result was the same. He heaved until Arthur feared he would do himself harm before finally surrendering. 'All right, what's the trick?'

Merlin shook his head, setting aside his empty bowl. He was resting his ankle while he got the chance, and Arthur was gratified to see those lips curve into a hint of a smile. 'It's not a trick. It's Arthur's sword, and it's magic. He's the only one who can pull it out.'

That seemed highly unlikely, but neither Gwaine nor Elyan had any luck, and the blade was far too fine to leave behind to rust in the woods. Besides, he still remembered how it had felt in his hand: snug like a missing puzzle piece.

'If this is a prank...'

'Would I do that?' Merlin spread his hands, all innocence. It was a gloss of their usual teasing, a touch strained at its edges, but there all the same. For that, Arthur was glad, even if he did humiliate himself trying to pull the sword loose from where it was lodged.

Elyan and Gwaine clambered down, leaving him free to take their place. It did not help matters that the snake's skull was polished and slick. He had to seek out whatever handholds he could manage, and by the time he reached the top, his muscles ached with the effort. Looking down at Merlin, he raised one eyebrow before grasping the hilt and giving it a tentative little pull.

The metal slid as if the cracked bone around the blade was no more substantial than water, and Arthur could have sworn he felt the sword hum in welcome. At his back, there was a faint pressure – a glimmer of magic to protect him from a nasty fall in case he stumbled – but he had barely needed to put any effort into it. Instead, the weapon came to him with ease, and he lifted it to the light, turning it so he could see the runes that had not made themselves known to him in the cavern.

Cast me away.

There was a story to this sword. He could feel that knowledge curled in the depths of his mind. If he wanted to know the details, he would have to ask Merlin. He parted his lips to do just that, but before he could utter a word, the bone beneath his boots quivered.

For one, appalling moment he feared the snake was returning to life. Perhaps it was another trick of the goddess, and the only thing keeping it in the realm of the dead was the blade he'd pulled free.

All around him, gleaming sparks of light began to drift upwards, and the surface under his feet seemed to lose some of its substance. In a flash, Arthur realised if he didn't get down, he would be left standing on empty air, and he did not fancy a fall from such a height.

It was a mad, scrambling slither back to solid ground, and he backed up, watching with wide eyes as the skeletal remains of the snake dissolved into nothing but glittering dust. Between one moment and the next, it was gone, leaving the meadow bathed in morning light.

'That was... tidy.' Elyan scratched his head, turning to Merlin. 'Is magic always like that?'

'Dramatic? Yeah. Though I didn't know that was going to happen.' Arthur heard the clink of buckles, and he turned to see Merlin putting his boot on over his bandaged foot, wincing all the while. 'At least now no one will stumble across a giant snake skull in the woods and start talking about monsters.'

Arthur parted his lips, but he had no idea what he wanted to say. It felt like a tangle of words was stuck in his throat, and all he could do was swallow them back. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised, but it was just another potent reminder that it wasn't only Merlin who had magic. There was a whole culture out there who wielded power: gods and their priests, sacred sites long-lost... It was part of the world, part of his kingdom, and he knew nothing about it.

Shaking his head, he cast the thought aside. The sword slid into his belt, a touch longer in the blade than he was accustomed to, and yet a familiar weight all the same. With a few steady strides, he reached Merlin's side, holding out his hand to help him to his feet. It was Leon who stood at his other elbow, ready to brace him if he wobbled.

'Are you able to ride? Both of you?'

'I am well,' Leon promised. 'Or well enough. My shoulder aches, it is true, but what Merlin did yesterday has helped me recover my strength.' There was no doubt in that pale gaze. Leon had donned his armour once more, no longer too pained to bear its burden. His sword arm did not move readily, but he looked strong and steady rather than a wraith of his former self.

'I'll manage,' Merlin promised, testing his weight on his ankle and pulling a face. 'At least we're not walking home.'

Arthur bit back his protests that a day in the saddle with his aching foot in a stirrup would not be much better. Merlin would only be stubborn about it. Besides, they needed to return to Camelot. They had already delayed long enough.

So it was that they extinguished the campfire and mounted up, turning their horses' heads in the direction of home. Arthur set a steady pace, mindful of those among them who might suffer from a hard ride. It made the journey longer, but on the afternoon of the third day, the castle finally hove into view.

Arthur reined in Hengroen, taking a moment to observe the citadel. From a distance, it appeared to be a realm of peace and prosperity. Now, he glanced at Merlin where he had paused at his side, wondering what it looked like through his eyes. Was it a home or a cage? Did the sight comfort him or fill him with dread?

'You can ride away.' He said it softly, trying to pretend the words did not scrape up his throat. His heart ached at the thought of it, but he could not leave it unsaid. Merlin had already refused the very notion of exile, but Arthur could not deny the fact that he would be safer elsewhere.

'Have you changed your mind? About protecting me?'

'No.' He tightened his fingers on the reins, the leather creaking in his grip.

'And nor has anyone else,' Percival promised from behind them, speaking with rock solid confidence. Arthur knew his knights had taken the time to talk among themselves, hammering out their uncertainties on the journey home. Now, they were truly united in their resolve. It would not be easy, but the alternative was impossible to consider.

Merlin shifted in the saddle, and Arthur heard the way his next inhale shuddered between his lips. How much did it cost him, every day, to be brave? And yet when Merlin spoke again, not a splinter of doubt made itself known.

'Then let's go home.'

He thought that he would feel like a traitor, riding through Camelot's gate with a sorcerer in tow. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled in anticipation, waiting for the cry of the guards, yet none came. Arthur forced himself not to fidget in his saddle. He expected guilt to creep over him, but with each pace of Hengroen's hooves, he only settled deeper into his certainty.

He was doing the right thing, not just for Merlin, but for himself and for his kingdom.

They dismounted in the courtyard, handing the reins of the horses off to the grooms before turning to face the party that awaited them on the castle steps. Uther stood at their peak, a king presiding over his realm. The smile on his lips was a touch fixed at its edges, and the warmth of his greeting rang false to Arthur's ears. They went through the performance all the same, but it was not his father who held Arthur's attention. Instead, his gaze settled on Morgana, who stared at them all as if she could barely believe her eyes.

Her skin was pale, her painted lips like a bloody wound. Her delicate fists twisted in the fall of her skirt, as if she were desperate to lunge forward and throw herself into his arms. That was alarming enough. Morgana was always in control of her composure, but now she looked as if she clung to it by a single, fraying thread.

'Are you hurt?' she managed, her voice crisp as her gaze swept over their party. 'When you were delayed, I thought –'

'Leon was injured by a crossbow bolt. He needs to attend the healing rooms and have it seen to. Merlin, you as well.' He called it over his shoulder, feeling that to glance his way would bring him under the wrong kind of scrutiny. He had to fight the breathless, sickened notion that Uther would take one look at Merlin and know, never mind that he had successfully hidden his talents for years. 'The rest of us are unharmed,' he promised.

'Very good.' Uther stepped aside, sweeping a hand up the steps. 'Your men are no doubt in need of some well-earned respite. Attend me. Tell me how things faired in Mercia.'

It was a line drawn in the wending path of their journey, another little ending, and one that Arthur was happy to accept. Perhaps the world had been forever altered in the wake of Merlin's revelation, but as always, the business of rule awaited him.

He never thought he would find the routine of discussing politics comforting, but over the next few days, Arthur realised how little had changed. Camelot carried on, blissfully oblivious to the treachery that now stood so near the throne. He had anticipated doubts from his knights – he had been braced and ready for their staunch support to falter with uncertainty. Yet it never happened.

Instead, he had the strange impression that what had come to pass had only tightened their bonds with one another. He noticed it first on the training ground, how each of them seemed subtly more fluid in their drills, seeking out weaknesses in their opponents and guarding their own in turn. Where, previously, they had been going through the motions – skilled men merely maintaining their strength – they now pushed themselves, honing their abilities ever further.

Leon was the only exception, and that was because his injury would not allow it. His arm needed time to heal, and it could not yet withstand the brutal thrust and parry of sword-work. He stood by the fence, watching them train and talking to Merlin in a low voice. Arthur could not make out what they said, but he could see the truth between them: relaxed shoulders and tired smiles – another hurt healing day-by-day.

They would not be speaking of the magic: Arthur knew that much. The knights had taken the danger of carelessness to heart. Out in the busy halls of Camelot, they watched themselves. Yet every evening, they joined Arthur and Merlin for dinner in his chambers. There, safe behind the wards Merlin had stitched into the walls, they cast aside their veils, asking their questions and examining their own beliefs.

Within a week, it had become a habit, and Arthur found himself glad of it. Gradually, magic no longer held the focus of their conversation. Instead, it was an embellishment to it. A month ago, he would have claimed that he knew these men almost as well as he knew himself, but he had discovered new depths to each of them since they had returned from Mercia. It was as if the trial in the sanctuary caves had ripped down the last walls between them. What remained in their wake were the sort of friendships for which Arthur would happily lay down his life.

And yet none of them fascinated him as much as Merlin himself. When he had found out about his magic, it had been the sharpest heartbreak. He had thought he had known Merlin better than anyone, but in that moment, he had feared him a stranger.

Now, he realised how wrong he had been. Perhaps he had hidden his sorcery, but he had made no effort to conceal the fundamental nature of his character. He had been as truthful with Arthur as his treasonous secret would allow. Now that it was out in the open, Merlin was more himself than ever.

It was as if he no longer had to hold back, and Arthur's heart trembled in desperate relief to see him so unmasked.

With each day that passed, it felt as if their collective courage grew. Merlin may be proving himself to them, but the reverse was also true. Each and every one of them knew that words were not enough. Pretty promises and earnest oaths only meant so much. It was action that carried the most meaning, and they all made sure that Merlin heard them loud and clear.

'Here.' Elyan leant over the map of the citadel spread out on the table. It lay amidst the wreckage of their dinner like a flag of surrender, the yellowing parchment curling at its corners as they gave it their attention. 'And here.' He set another little cross in one of the siege tunnels, marking where he had stashed a pack for anyone who needed to flee Camelot in a hurry. The symbol joined several others, bringing the total to just over a dozen.

Each knight had made their additions, their different strategies coming into play. Elyan had gone for common sense and discretion, hiding supplies near the dungeons and siege tunnels. Gwaine's efforts focussed on the taverns that had attached stables: quick access to horses for those looking to flee when they had forewarning of an arrest. Leon, for his part, had put caches in each gatehouse, ready and waiting. The end result was that any sorcerer attempting to escape had options.

'What about yours?' Arthur jabbed Merlin with his elbow, jerking his head towards the map. It was Percival who nudged the ink pot closer, and Elyan who surrendered the quill. Yet Merlin did not etch little crosses. Instead, those blue eyes roved the chart, taking in every detail before he began placing different pictograms: dots and triangles, strange squiggles and hollow squares.

'What's all that?' Arthur leaned in further, bracing his weight on his palms as he read over Merlin's shoulder. They were close enough that he could feel the subtle warmth of his presence, more reassuring than it had any right to be.

'Enchanted weapons, in case there are more beasts like the griffin. They're tucked away, often hidden in plain sight.' He pointed to the circles: more than twenty in all. 'If someone picks them up by accident they won't do any harm, and the spells are subtle. They won't even know there's magic on them, but they should do the trick for most things, if you're not around.' He tilted his head meaningfully to where Excalibur hung on Arthur's hip.

'And these?' Percival indicated the big triangle over Gaius' tower room and the smaller ones dotted around here and there. They were restricted to the castle itself, clustered together rather than spread through the town.

'Healing kits. Sort of.' Merlin shrugged, scratching at his brow with his thumbnail before he explained. 'Three vials. Different colours. Absolutely not made of herbs. They're coloured water and magic. The red one is a powerful antidote to most poisons. The gold one will protect the person who drinks it from enchantment or clear their mind if they're already trapped in a spell. The blue should slow the bleeding of any wound, normal or cursed, until you can get to a healer.'

There was a moment of silence around the table as they all absorbed what he was saying, but it was Lancelot who leant forward with a hungry expression on his face, indicating the odd, stormy scribbles. They were more randomly spaced: the throne room, the dungeons, the courtyard.... but there were others scattered through the town as well, over certain homes or businesses. 'And these?'

'Curses.' Merlin wrinkled his nose. 'Ones I can't get rid of without being really obvious about it. They're old and mostly powerless now, but I can't guarantee a sorcerer looking to cause trouble wouldn't be able to put them to use. I removed all the smaller ones, but these...' He trailed off with a shrug. 'I thought maybe if you at least knew where they were, you'd be forewarned about the possibility.'

Arthur blinked, his breath caught high in his chest as his mind turned in its grooves, grasping the subtle implications of what Merlin was saying. He looked at the map of Camelot – at Merlin's defences laid out like a battle plan – and knew the truth of it.

'You haven't put all these things in place since we got back from Mercia, have you?'

Merlin shook his head: a slow, steady motion. Once, he might have been reluctant, but now there was a defiant little spark in his eye, as if he were daring Arthur to protest. 'I started months ago. At first, they were for me, so I knew where there was a sword that would do the trick or a potion to help out when things got bad, but now it doesn't make sense to keep it to myself. I might not always be around to get you out of trouble.'

Arthur pursed his lips at that, but Merlin didn't give him a chance to protest. 'There's a more detailed list of precisely where I've hidden bits and pieces in that pack.' He tilted his head to where one of Gaius' herb satchels lay by Arthur's feet. 'The more of us who know where they are, the easier it will be to act when the need arises.'

'You were protecting us before we had any idea what you were.' Leon's fingertips brushed over the marks on the map. 'Even when you knew we might turn on you if the truth came out?'

Merlin fiddled with the quill in his hand, turning it this way and that. 'Yeah. Of course.' He said it as if it was obvious, and Arthur suspected he wasn't the only one struggling against a rush of shocked fondness. Growing up in court proved, more than anything, how petty and spiteful men could be. Yet Merlin was nothing like that. He had every reason to keep his head down, keep his magic quiet and let Camelot suffer whatever befell it. Instead, he had risked his life time and again to protect them.

Arthur ducked down to retrieve the list from the bag. It gave him a moment to school his expression, and he made the most of it as he rummaged through its contents.

He pulled free a bundle wrapped in cloth, the fabric tucked neatly around the blocky shape of something much more solid than a few scraps of parchment. He could feel the prickling weight of Merlin's gaze upon him, as if he were watching with bated breath for Arthur's reaction. As soon as he eased aside the linen, the reason became obvious.

A spell book: a true rarity in Uther's Camelot.

Arthur's fingers tightened around its bulk as he stared down at it. He wished he could claim that he felt not even a moment's uncertainty, but he would be lying. Old lessons were sometimes the hardest to shake, and he let his doubt sit with him, turning it in his head to find where it was weakest before slaying it without mercy.

There were a few loose sheafs tucked inside the cover, and Arthur tugged them free, glancing over Merlin's scratchy penmanship. Just as he said, it was a list of precise locations: detailed enough that it would damn him if it ever fell into the wrong hands.

'Read it,' he urged, handing it over to Lancelot. 'All of it. Learn it by heart and guard it with your life. That parchment is never to leave this room. Do I make myself clear?'

Only when the knights all nodded did he turn back to Merlin, his fingers resting oh-so-lightly on the book's covers. He had not parted them yet, though he longed to explore the pages within. It felt daring and breathless, like standing on a clifftop and considering the plunge. The revelation of Merlin's power had already changed things irrevocably. Arthur knew that he, for one, would never be the same man he had been before he'd known. Now, his fear lingered. Yet he was determined to face it head-on, but he would not do so unless he had Merlin's blessing.

None of them were in this alone, and he would not let Merlin's courage go unrewarded. How much strength had it taken to bring the book as well as the lists – to put his quill to the map and expose his actions? Merlin didn't just have magic; he used it without apology. Now, he'd brought this volume into Arthur's presence, and it felt like both an invitation and a peace offering.

'Can I?' He tilted the tome meaningfully, raising his eyebrows in question. Merlin had been robbed of the opportunity to tell Arthur of his secret by what had happened in the caves. He had been cruelly exposed and left vulnerable, even as the power within the sanctuary tried to tear them all apart. Now, it felt essential to ask and keep on asking – to have Merlin share what he knew openly rather than always working in the shadows as if it were something of which he should be ashamed.

'Yeah.' Merlin's grin was a shy little thing, but Arthur's heart soared to see it. 'Yeah, of course.'

He sank down in the closest chair, kicking his feet out in front of him and running one fingertip down the edge of the pages. The parchment was old, wrinkled by time and singed at the top corner. Somehow, he doubted that was because of some mage being clumsy with their power. Had this book been pulled from the flames during the Purge, ferreted away for safe keeping until it found its way into Merlin's hands? How close had it been to becoming nothing but ash, another fatality of his father's prejudice?

Arthur did not realise how he had braced himself until he read the first page: an innocuous charm for making fire. It made him think of how Merlin never once failed to get wood to burn when they were out on patrol, even when it should have been far too wet to sustain a spark. He thought of the candles in his room, which burned but rarely needed replacing. His gaze flickered to the hearth, where the flames leapt despite the fact that no one had added a log to the grate all evening.

It was such a benign example, and Arthur's shoulders sagged in subtle relief. After all, fire was dangerous only because of its nature, not because of the manner in which it was struck to life. A flame could light the way or raze a citadel to the ground, regardless of whether it was ignited by flint and steel or a whispered spell.

He traced a finger over the incantations. Some were single words while others were phrases. The language was unknown to him, but he couldn't miss the implication. They were like instructions, defining the scope and intent of the magic. They told the fire how to act, offering a fragment of control over an elemental aspects of the world. Yet Merlin did not utter a word when he tended the grate or summoned a flame to the candlewicks, as bold as brass with his power here in the sanctuary of Arthur's chambers.

Had he said a spell in the cave, when he was trying to guide the serpent into the range of their swords? He could not recall.

It was one question among many, and Arthur tucked it away for later. Some things, he felt, were better spoken of when they were alone. Whether they intended it or not, the curious conversations with the knights sometimes ended up carrying overtones of an interrogation. Merlin bore it with good grace, but Arthur would rather have him happy and relaxed, the two of them sharing soft conversation as they rediscovered what they were to each other: sorcerer and prince, friends and confidants.

He turned the page, inhaling the scent of dry paper, herbs and a trace of glue, absorbing every new secret that came to light before his eyes. He did not notice the knights take their leave, offering fond wishes for a good night's sleep. He barely paid any mind to Merlin straightening the room, rolling up the map of Camelot and tucking it away in an enchanted cupboard, the better to hide the evidence of their treason. Instead, he lost himself in the dense text of the book, noticing how, here and there, the penmanship would vary as the grimoire changed hands. This wasn't some static annal in Geoffrey's archive. It was a living, breathing thing: as vivid as magic itself.

'Sire? Arthur?'

Merlin's fingertips brushed against the back of his hand, a hesitant touch, there and gone again. It stirred Arthur from his studies, and he spared a mournful thought for when Merlin used to grasp his wrist, firm and sure, or shove at him in play. At first, they had needed the distance: time to lick their wounds, but now Arthur felt as if they stood on opposite sides of a chasm, neither of them certain how to bridge the gap.

It did not mean they weren't trying, though.

'It's getting late,' Merlin pointed out, 'and you have a council meeting tomorrow.'

Arthur sighed at the reminder, but there was no escaping it. The book's pages whispered as he closed its covers and surrendered it back into Merlin's grasp. 'Lock it in the cupboard? It's foolish to keep carrying it around the castle, and I can't imagine it was very well hidden in Gaius' rooms.'

'You never found it,' Merlin teased gently.

'Does it ever occur to you, Merlin, that perhaps I wasn't looking very hard?' He raised one eyebrow, getting to his feet and stepping behind the changing screen. It was only a partial lie. In truth, he had spent much of his time as a young man hating those searches – fearing what he may discover and how it could be interpreted. The law lacked nuance; he had known that for years. A sorcerer should be punished for what they did with their magic, not for the simple fact that they possessed such skill, but that was not the way of Camelot.

Not yet, anyway.

He turned as Merlin ducked around the screen, those nimble fingers dispatching his belt and sword before moving to pick at the laces of his tunic. 'What would you have done if you had found that book one day?' The question hovered between them, more curious than challenging. Merlin's eyes were violet in the uncertain evening light, dark like the deepest oceans.

He reached out without thinking, his hand cupping Merlin's jaw and his thumb brushing, just once, where the bruise and scrape of his blow had made its mark. It had healed, now, fading from sight. If only his guilt could be so easily dispatched.

'Not that.' He bowed his head. 'I –' He trailed off, because to think of it felt like picking up a hot coal, all pain and smoke. He remembered the cave well enough, but sometimes when he tried to examine his own reactions, it was like looking through cloudy glass. It was so tumultuous: anger and hurt, shame and betrayal. Hate like a knife in his gut.

'I cannot pretend I would not have been angry with you, but I hope that I would have had the wits to think things through, rather than simply...' He waved weakly towards where the bruise had been, indicating not just the blow, but all that came after. The weight of his sword in his hand. How he had imagined using it to inflict justice upon Merlin: the brief resistance of flesh as he drove it into him – another sorcerer slain.

A greasy knot caught in his throat, and he swallowed back the sharp taste of bile. He didn't utter a word, but he didn't have to. It was obvious Merlin could guess where his thoughts had gone.

'I'm still here.' Merlin's hand rested on his shoulder, the side of his thumb brushing the column of Arthur's throat. 'And so are you. What happened in the cave was bad –'

Arthur snorted in disbelief at that gross understatement.

'– But look how far we've come.' Merlin jerked his head to indicate the room beyond the privacy screen and the memory of the knights crowded around the table, planning their contingencies. 'I never thought it could be like this. Arthur, you were reading my spell book!' His crooked grin bordered on heartbreaking. He looked so happy, because despite everything, his friends had chosen to accept him, cautiously at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm.

Bringing up the grimoire hadn't been a test, Arthur realised. Instead, it had been one of Merlin's sharpest hopes given form. Perhaps he had answered his own curiosity when he turned those pages, but now he realised that maybe he'd also been stitching together their wounds. Better yet, it had not been a deliberate act – a performance for Merlin's approval. Arthur wanted to know more about magic, and he had seized the opportunity with both hands.

They had shifted closer to one another, their bodies moving on instinct. Now, their boots were sharing space. He could feel the warmth of Merlin's skin through his thin tunic, and Arthur's fingers itched with the desire to reach out and touch. He wanted to cup the nape of that neck and reel him in or clasp those narrow hips to hold Merlin in place. He felt warm and dizzy, oblivious to the world beyond the two of them, every part of his heart surging up to meet Merlin in desperate longing.

He had thought that these feeling had died back in the cave, razed to ash in the face of Merlin's secrecy. Now, he realised they had merely lain dormant, returning all the stronger with each hesitant smile Merlin cast his way and every subtle act of courage. Day-by-day, Merlin showed Arthur exactly who he was.

And Arthur liked what he saw.

For one, dizzy moment, he thought that Merlin might close that last bit of distance. That perhaps that full mouth would press against his own and lay its claim. Those eyes were fixed on his lips, after all, and Arthur wet them nervously, unable to think over the fizz of his stomach and the race of his heart.

The clang of the evening bell jolted him from his breathless stupor: a rude interruption that allowed reality to pour in once more. Merlin twitched backwards, offering a blink and a shake of his head as if he were trying to clear his mind. He'd only retreated a single pace, but Arthur was left feeling bereft. He could only watch as Merlin cuffed a hand through his hair, his stammered excuses filling the air.

'I should – er – I should get back to Gaius. Did you need anything else, Sire?'

The honorific sounded both deliberate and breathless, a pointed reminder. It did not sting so much as ache, and a new fear unfurled in Arthur's heart.

'No,' he managed, feeling as if he had to utter the word, or choke on it. 'No, that is all. Thank you, Merlin.'

He listened to the whisper of the door on its hinges and the soft sound of the wood settling in its frame. He felt his solitude envelop him once more, impenetrable, and wondered if forgiveness had its limits. Perhaps Merlin could get past what happened in the cave – how Arthur had acted – but could never bring himself to forget the stain of the Pendragon blood that ran in Arthur's veins.

And maybe, he thought, that was exactly what he deserved.

Chapter Text

Time passed, as was its wont, and with each week Merlin found the last sharp edges of his fear growing blunt and useless. Back in the sanctuary cave, he had wondered if he and the knights could ever fix what lay broken between them. Now, he did not know why he had questioned it. They had each risen to the challenge, not ignoring their uncertainties but confronting them. They worked together to rebuild their trust, and what they rescued from ruination was stronger than before.

Yet none of them impressed him as much as Arthur.

There were so many ways it could have ended: from death or exile to feigned ignorance and harsh indifference. It would have been all too easy for Arthur to turn a blind eye and pretend that Merlin's magic didn't exist. If he was honest, that had been the best-case scenario in most of his daydreams. He had never imagined that Arthur could fight against all his old beliefs, conquer his prejudice and emerge from it all breathless and eager.

Sometimes he was like a man possessed, starved for knowledge. He did not ignore the reality of sorcery but embraced it, learning all he could. The knights did the same, though their interest was more strategic. They saw magic as a tool to wield, as intriguing to them as a new type of blade or a fresh twist on battle tactics. To them, Merlin's abilities were useful. To Arthur, they appeared fascinating.

It meant that Merlin found himself lingering at the fireside long into the evenings, talking over everything in soft murmurs as they sat side-by-side on the hearth rug. The distance cleaved between them by uncertainty gradually lessened, and the frequency of those breathless, intoxicating moments only seemed to increase.

More than once, he had almost given in to the feelings that had been flourishing in him for more months than he cared to count – ones that had faltered in the sanctuary cave, but never faded. There were days when he could barely breathe around the longing taking up all the room in his chest.

Yet while he may have conquered most of his fears, there were some that lingered.

Try as he might, he could not forget Arthur's harsh words back when he made his discovery. He knew that the magic of the triple goddess had enhanced everyone's emotions, pushing them to extremes, but they still carried a grain of truth.

Perhaps if it was just lust, easily quenched by a quick tumble, he wouldn't hesitate, but it was far too late for that. His heart had become involved long ago, and Merlin could not deny that he was afraid of how it would end.

He had the strength for many things, but he could not imagine having Arthur's love only for him to one day look at him with disdain. After all, Merlin would always be a sorcerer; that would never change. Maybe Arthur was accepting now, but what if he fell back into his old ways of thinking? What if, once he took the throne, Merlin became the exception to the rule: the sole mage allowed to wield their power at Arthur's command?

The truth was, he was too afraid of the answer to ask for reassurance. Trust was growing between them once more, but it was a fragile thing, and there were days when Merlin feared the wrong word might break it.

So it was that he held his silence as autumn faded and winter found them. Frost ferns etched the windowpanes as ice capped the cobblestones. The castle became home to perennial drafts that brushed against his skin with ghostly fingers. He spent as much time as he could loitering by the nearest fireplace. Now, he basked in the glow of the grate in the healing rooms, munching on roasted chestnuts as Gaius busied himself mixing curatives for the sniffles and colds that plagued the citadel.

He had told him about what had happened during their journey from Mercia. It had all come pouring out of him in hacked up chunks the day they had returned. Gaius had been prepared to pack him off that very night, more sprightly in his fear than Merlin had ever seen him. It had taken all evening to convince him that Arthur and the others were not coming for his head. Yet it had helped, because with every comfort he offered the old healer, Merlin found himself believing them more and more. Now, it had become another fact of life.

Merlin had magic, and Arthur knew about it.

'You'll set yourself on fire if you stand any closer to that grate,' Gaius chided, giving a rueful shake of his head. 'You can't hang around here all day; don't you have something to be doing?'

'Probably,' Merlin acknowledged, stretching his hands out towards the flames, 'but that would involve moving. It's too cold for that.'

'And yet, alas, you must do so.' Gaius held out a vial with a flourish, raising a threatening eyebrow in Merlin's direction. 'For the Lady Morgana. You may as well deliver it, since you have nothing better to do.'

Merlin sighed, stifling a groan as he accepted the bottle and slipped it into his coat pocket. He tore himself away from the heat of the hearth, because to do it slowly would only prolong the torture. Walking quickly stopped the chill from taking him prisoner, but he was still trying not to shiver when he came to Morgana's door, his fist raised to knock. He almost rapped on the wood, but voices within made him hesitate, ducking his head to hear them better.

'My lady –'

'I can't, Gwen. I just can't. No one can know. Please!'

Merlin's heart panged at the sound of Morgana's voice. He was used to her being witty and wry, cunning and sharp, but those words were hollow, spoken by a woman at the end of her rope.

He had considered, more than once, breaching the subject of his magic with her. Initially, he'd hesitated, because to tell her before telling Arthur felt like a betrayal. Then, after everything that had come to pass in the caves, he felt too raw to try: healing still from the hurt he had suffered. Even now, uncertainty prickled at him, tracing its touch along his spine. Around his arm, he sensed a ghostly rasp of scales: the mark the goddess had left on him making itself known.

A reminder not to let his fear rule him.

Clearing his throat, he raised his hand, tapping his knuckles softly on the wood.

'Who is it?' Gwen's voice was brittle and bright, but he could hear the strength in her words. She would guard Morgana's door like a dragon if she had to.

'It's Merlin. I've got something from Gaius.' He wet his lips, thinking fast. Chances were, Gwen would just try and take it from him at the threshold, protecting Morgana from his scrutiny. That wasn't how this would work. He couldn't exactly shout his own damned secret through the old oak panel, not where anyone in the castle could hear. No, he needed to get in there, and he braced himself, waiting for the rattle of the latch.

'Merlin!' Gwen's cry of outrage was a weak thing as he shouldered his way past her, easing the door from her grasp and shutting it, snug, in its frame. His magic surged, blocking out any prying ears. He did not want anyone else to overhear their distress as he had done.

All it took was a single glance to see what they had been talking about: a blossom of soot on one wall and four pools of wax where tapers had once been. Now he looked, he noticed traces of other little fires, half-hidden by artfully arranged drapes or the awkward angle of a rug. No doubt Gwen had tried scrubbing them clean, to no avail.

'It's not what you think!' Morgana managed, sounding choked, as if she did not sit there with bruises pressed hard beneath her eyes, as pale as porcelain.

'Yes, it is. You dream, and it comes true. You protect yourself without thinking, and fire blooms from your fingertips.' He set the vial down on the table, the glass chiming softly. 'No sleeping potion will help you, because you have magic.'

It struck her like a physical blow. She reeled where she sat, buffeted by Merlin's words. Her lips parted around fruitless denials, but they never found voice. They were little more than a strangled croak, as if her fear had risen up to choke the life from her.

'You're not alone.'

He let his power rise, as simple as taking his next breath. In his outstretched palm, a flower spun into being, all ruffled petals and glimmering dew, as if it had just been plucked from the castle gardens.

Off to his right, he heard Gwen's shocked gasp. Wood creaked as if she had grabbed onto the back of a nearby chair for support. Yet it was Morgana's reaction that mattered most. The threat of tears glimmered at her lashes, but they did not tumble. Instead, she stared at the bloom, her green eyes fathomless as she reached out to brush her fingertips against its stamens.

It was like a dam breaking. Merlin saw how it cracked right through her: fear and relief, anger and confusion. Her face twisted, robbed of all courtly masks, and he dropped to one knee at her side. It put them both on the same level as he spoke, quick and quiet.

'It's okay. We won't let anything happen to you.' He glanced over his shoulder at Gwen, noticing her sallow complexion and her white-knuckled grip. Yet when she met his eyes, her dark gaze burned with determination. Her single nod was all the reassurance he needed. Magic or not, she was Morgana's closest friend. Nothing would change that. He had no doubt she would fight all of Camelot if it meant keeping Morgana safe.

'You knew?' Morgana's whisper quivered around them, breathless. 'About me? You knew?'

'I suspected. Gaius mentioned your dreams sometimes came true.' Merlin closed his hand over the flower, banishing it from sight. 'You didn't seem to be sure of it yourself, though. Not until recently, I'm guessing.' He tilted his head towards the sooty marks, offering a sad smile as she buried her face in her palms. 'I didn't want to make things worse by forcing you to confront the truth before you were ready. What happened?'

There were long moments of silence as Morgana continued to hide, each breath a ragged rasp. Yet when her hands finally fell back to her lap, it seemed she had found some of her strength. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her chin claimed that stubborn angle that Merlin knew so well.

'While you were away, I had a dream: a cave of blood and bone. A giant snake. A slaughter while a woman with no face watched on... It scared me like nothing else I've ever seen.' Her fingers twisted around one another, wringing out her distress. 'I woke up screaming, and there was fire! If Gwen hadn't been asleep in the servant's chamber...'

Wood scraped against the flagstones as Gwen sank into her seat. 'I stayed awake the second night. We didn't know where the blaze had come from – and then I saw: golden eyes and a flash of flame.' She pursed her lips, shaking her head. 'She doesn't mean any harm, but Uther would never see it that way! He would know she had magic and –' Her voice strained in her throat, her words drying up.

'It would not matter that I am his ward.' Morgana's mouth twisted in a grimace, her eyes flat. 'He would still watch me burn.'

'We won't let that happen.' Merlin sat back on his heels, his heart soaring in his chest, because it was not a hollow promise. He considered the knights and their plans, Arthur and his eagerness to learn... He thought of how far they had come in a few short weeks, and he couldn't be more proud.

'You keep saying "we",' Morgana murmured, picking at the sleeve of her gown. Yet for all that she was scared and hunched, trying to hide from the world, she still had her wits about her. 'You don't just mean the three of us, do you? Who else knows what you are?'

Merlin tilted his head. 'A lot more people now than back in the summer. Gaius was the first in Camelot, then Lancelot. They both found out by accident. So did the others. Actually, you're the only ones I've ever shown my magic of my own free will.'

He saw how it mattered to both of them: Morgana because she understood how much it cost to be honest about such things, and Gwen because she had been one of his earliest friends in Camelot. Perhaps she had not been the first to know of his magic, but it was obvious the fact he told her himself meant the world to her.

If she shared any of Elyan's concerns, they were well hidden: an old scar, rather than an open wound. Elyan had said that Gwen had been in the marketplace when their mother died, yet she did not look at either him or Morgana with horror. Perhaps, if he had not been at the mercy of the cave's magic, Elyan would have been the same: able to rationalise those childhood fears.

'Others?' Gwen prompted, breathless. 'You mentioned Gaius and Lancelot?'

'Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, Leon...' He met Morgana's eye, making sure she knew there was not a hint of a lie in his words. 'Arthur.'

He felt how the air rippled with their shock. It was as if the whole room pulsed, shifting subtly on its foundations. Both women stared at him as if they could not believe their ears, and when Morgana found her voice, it sounded like she dredged it up from the pit of her belly.

'Arthur?' Her lashes fluttered, her curls whispering against her shoulders as she shook her head. She reached out as if she were trying to seek a steady anchor in a turbulent world, her grip fearsome around Merlin's fingers, clenching in entreaty. 'I think you had better start from the beginning.'

Merlin nodded, easing away from her and getting to his feet. He felt breathless, a bundle of nervous tension. He needed to move, and there was plenty in this chamber that required setting to rights.

He touched his fingertips to the lingering soot marks, banishing them from sight as he relayed the whole, sorry story. He spoke of Babd, Macca and the Mórrígan, Leon's sickness and Arthur's pain. He made sure to leave nothing out, no matter how tempted he was. Part of him didn't want to frighten Morgana, but at the same time it felt important that she knew the depths of what they had suffered.

After all, in that cave, fear had taken on monstrous proportions. Doubt had haunted their every breath, and still, despite all that, no meaningful blood had been spilt.

'Arthur spends most evenings with his nose stuck in my spell book. I think he's studied it more than I have at this point.'

'A spell book? Really?' Morgana's hunger was a palpable thing, and Merlin gave her a crooked grin.

'Well, if you wish to read it, you'll have to peel it out of Arthur's hands first, and he might have a few questions as to why you want it.' He leant back against her dresser, bracing his palms to support his weight. 'Are you going to tell him?'

Morgana shook her head, pressing her fingertips briefly to her temples. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she were trying to make sense of the world she had found herself in. 'I – Not yet. I need time. I never thought –' She hesitated, meeting his gaze with a baffled look. 'I thought he'd be like Uther.'

'He's a far better man than his father.' If nothing else, Merlin believed that with all his heart. 'Whenever you're ready to tell him, my lady, he'll listen, and if you have any questions for me, then ask. I've put a spell on your room so that no one can overhear you talking about magic. Arthur's chambers are the same: they're safe. We cannot afford to be careless.'

He paused, noticing the delicate shudder of Morgana's shoulders and the way her fingers twisted in her skirt. Her teeth ravaged her bottom lip, and her furrowed brow was as good as a confession.

She was afraid and overwhelmed. Like anyone, she needed to come to terms with the new path her life had taken. How long had she spent imagining the worst? What old lies did she still harbour close to her heart about the evils of magic? She may not believe them herself, but if you heard the words uttered often enough, they made their mark upon a person.

'You won't say anything to him?' she asked, sagging as Merlin shook his head.

'It's not my secret to tell.' He glanced over at Gwen, understanding the look in her eyes all too well. Morgana needed time and space, but Gwen would be by her side. For now, he was only getting in the way. He reached out, giving Morgana's shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. 'It will be all right.'

Her hand over his stopped him from retreating, and when she looked up at him, he thought he could see her courage at last. 'Thank you, Merlin. For telling us. You know we would never betray you.'

'I do, my lady. Just as you know where I am if you have need of me.'

Perhaps if she were a different woman, Morgana would have lingered in her doubts, yet she was braver than Merlin by far. That was how he found himself opening Arthur's chamber door two evenings later to discover her on the threshold.

She was a vision in a dark green gown, her makeup like armour and her jewels a shield. She held her chin high, all confidence, but she could not quite hide the glimmer of uncertainty that lingered in her eyes. She met Merlin's gaze and offered him a single nod. Tonight was the night.

And silently, he prayed that Arthur would not disappoint them both.

'Arthur, I need to speak with you.'

The man in question looked up from his desk, taking in the sight of her. Perhaps he knew Morgana better than he let on, because Merlin did not miss how his shoulders stiffened as if he were bracing for a blow. Clearly, he had noticed the discomfort she was trying desperately to hide, and now he answered it in turn.

'What is it? What's wrong?'

'What makes you think anything is wrong?' Morgana did not lower herself gracefully into a seat. She did not look as if she could bear to take her ease. Instead, she stood, poised and ready, though whether that was to fight or flee, Merlin could not be sure.

'There's no feast, but you're dressed like that. You do the same thing when you're planning a spat with my father.'

'What a horrible time for you to become observant.' The look she shot in Arthur's direction was icy, but it was a brief chill, one that swiftly thawed as she let out a shuddering breath. 'I didn't want you to forget who I am. Family, of a sort. That's all.'

Arthur set his quill down slowly, rising to his feet as he paced around the desk and leant back against it. To the casual observer, he looked calm and unwavering, but his rolled-up sleeves bared the tense muscle of his forearms. Arthur's gaze darted to Merlin as if seeking some sort of hint, but he soon returned his focus to the woman before him. 'Morgana, what is this about?'

Briefly, Merlin thought her courage would fail her. He could see, now, how she shivered, the twinkle of the beads on her gown betraying her fraying composure. Her hands twisted into fists in the fall of her skirt, and her chest heaved with her next breath. Yet finally, those painted lips parted, and three words rang out in the room.

'I have magic.'

Arthur froze, all the little movements of life falling away except for the flicker of a blink. Over by the fire, Merlin tensed, watching and waiting, his heart in his throat as he prayed he hadn't misjudged things horribly.

'I have magic,' Morgana repeated, her voice slow and steady. 'It started with the dreams. They'd come true, or true enough, but lately...' She rubbed her fingertips together in a soft rasp. 'I can conjure fire without meaning to. I didn't learn. I didn't even try. It's just there!' She looked up at him, her expression locked in an awful twist of hope and fear. 'I'm sorry, Arthur, I really am.'

The silence that coated the room felt delicate and lacy, like the frost ferns that decorated the windowpanes. The crackle of the fire gave it shape, and Merlin held himself rigid, staring hungrily at the emotion that twisted over Arthur's face. He feared anger, he realised. For all his reassurances to Morgana, he was scared that this was where it all fell apart, yet he need not have concerned himself.

'You have nothing to be sorry for.' Arthur shook his head, all ferocity on Morgana's behalf. He stepped forward, his stride careful and his arms outstretched, grunting when Morgana tumbled into his embrace. She did not weep, but Merlin could hear the ragged edge to her breathing, as if she were fighting a war with herself not to simply dissolve into tears beneath the burden of her own relief.

He had never seen the two of them hug, before. They maintained a standoffish, prickly sort of distance as a rule, as much to keep the gossip of the court at bay as anything else. Now, he saw how Arthur folded her close, spreading his feet the better to brace her weight: offering her the support she so desperately needed as all the strain of hiding found its release.

'I mean it, Morgana,' Arthur murmured, his words low and earnest, as if he spoke the most solemn vow. 'The fault of this is not yours. It is the law that's wrong. No realm should condemn its people for their very nature.'

Over the top of Morgana's head, Arthur's eyes lifted to meet Merlin's. There was something unreadable there, a complex storm of emotion that he could not begin to comprehend. He only knew what was missing: no hatred stained those features. He was a man troubled by what he had learned, true enough, but eager to set things right, as all good men should be.

'One day,' Arthur promised, never letting his gaze drop from where it held Merlin's, 'it will be different. The knights and I have already been speaking of it – how things need to change. What we can do for others, even before my father's time has come to an end.

'I cannot oust him from the throne, not without throwing the kingdom into a war which might harm more people than it ever helps. Nor am I able to undo his laws while the crown still sits upon his brow, but we can do our best to keep you from harm. You and anyone else who falls under my father's suspicion. And after...? I will make it safe for you here. You have to know that.'

Merlin's heart gave an unsteady whoosh in his chest, turning in its moorings as the truth of Arthur's words sank through him. He felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under his feet, the world shifting to settle in place anew.

Arthur was not just talking about Merlin's magic. He did not seek only to protect the man who was his friend and the woman who was as close to him as a sister. He spoke of healing the wound in his kingdom – of throwing aside decades worth of prejudice. He promised a golden age, one where sorcery was welcome once more within the land.

And Merlin believed.

It was as if all his fears went up in smoke, rolling away to reveal clear skies. Morgana was asking questions, her voice soft and traced with awe, but he barely heard Arthur's responses. He was too busy staring into the fire, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Merlin felt wretched for ever doubting him. Even in the caves, he had known he was a good man. Now, he proved it. Merlin had never mentioned rewriting the law. Instead, it was a conclusion that Arthur and the knights had reached on their own.

Change was coming to Camelot. Perhaps it would not be swift, but there would be no turning back the tide.

Dimly, he heard the door close, and he blinked stupidly at where Arthur stood with his hand resting on the latch, his head bowed in the wake of Morgana's departure. He had heard, vaguely, the questions and the promises – the soft to and for of their conversation as they talked their way through Morgana's revelation. There had been no part in that for him, but he had not noticed how time crept by.

Now, Merlin cuffed a hand over his face, trying to grapple with everything Arthur had said. He felt as if he had been set adrift, buoyed by his own elation, and he reached desperately for something to anchor him.

'She'll be all right,' he managed. 'Morgana, I mean. She needed this. To be seen. To know she's not alone.'

He barely heard the rustle of Arthur's clothes as he moved. It wasn't until a hand rested on the back of his arm that he looked up, caught in the depths of Arthur's gaze.

'You needed it too, didn't you? Not what happened in the cave, but everything that's come since?'

Merlin managed a wonky smile at that, because these past couple of months had been some of the best of his whole life. He had never realised how thick the webs of his secrets were until they had been ushered aside. He felt like someone stepping out into the light after years alone in the dark. It had been terrifying, being forced to leave the shadows, but in the end it was more than worth it.

'I survived,' he said with a shrug, because what more could he say? His secrecy had been necessary, whether they liked it or not.

'Surviving isn't living.' Arthur's boots scraped on the flagstones as he shifted his weight. His fingertips were five points of lingering heat. Merlin could feel them through his thin tunic sleeve. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't react to your magic with as much grace as I managed for Morgana's confession.'

Merlin parted his lips to protest, a dozen excuses lined up on his tongue, but the shake of Arthur's head rendered him silent once more. He looked pale and tense, as if there were something he had to say, and if he didn't speak it now, he would never get the words out.

'When I found out about your magic, I was horrified. It was easier to pretend it was the sorcery itself. The cave helped with that, of course, but it wasn't the truth. I was far more hurt by the fact you never told me of it. I thought we'd been forming a friendship, and it turned out I didn't know you at all. I feared that everything we'd built was a lie.'

'What? No, Arthur, I –!'

'I know.' He shifted closer, and Merlin's breath caught in his throat. 'I've been watching you since we got back from Mercia, and I've seen how much happier you are. It made me realise that you'd shown me all you could. It wasn't that I didn't know you at all. It was just that I was missing a piece. The heart of you, maybe.'

He glanced away, and Merlin dragged in a little sip of air, dizzy and overwhelmed. For one, ridiculous moment, he considered telling Arthur that he'd had Merlin's heart almost from the start, but the words choked off in his throat, falling to silence. It seemed he still had some secrets to his name, and that was one of them. Besides, Arthur's gaze was too solemn and sorrowful for such tenderness. He looked like a man standing amidst the ruins of his certainties, knowing he must rebuild but unsure where to begin.

'You said, when I found out, that magic was part of you. That you'd been able to cast spells since you were in your cradle. At the time, I didn't want to believe you, but Morgana's the same, isn't she?' Arthur looked towards the door, a perplexed frown upon his brow. 'Maybe she didn't come into her power so early, but it wasn't something she chose. And if that's the case, then how many others like you has my father sent to the pyre for possessing sorcery? People who could not help the way they were born?'

There was no good answer he could give to that. He could only shake his head, reaching out with quivering fingers to tangle Arthur's sleeve in his grasp. They clung to each other, sharing breath and silence. The fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth as the wind battered at the windows for admittance, yet the walls stood firm: Arthur's rooms a sanctuary from the wild night outside.

In the end, it was Merlin who found his voice first, dredging up a question from the hollow of his belly. 'Did you mean what you said to Morgana? About rewriting the law?'

The change in Arthur was immediate. It was as if he threw away his uncertainty, his back straightening and his chin lifting as his determination surged to the fore. 'Yes. Every word of it. The more I learned about you and your magic, the more impossible it became to support my father's thinking, and I was not alone in my doubts. The knights are the same. We punish a man for murdering someone, not for holding a knife. Yet sorcerers are killed for no greater crime than having power to their name. How is that fair or right, and what kind of kingdom can stand on such foundations?'

'It won't be easy.' Merlin longed to bite his tongue and bathe in the joy of hearing Arthur's resolve, but it wasn't that simple. The dragon's words of a golden age were pretty to the ear, but they glossed over the more practical difficulties of returning magic. Uther's hate was woven into the very fabric of Camelot and its lands. It was not just a case of altering the letter of the law. It would be the work of decades to change the hearts and minds of the people.

'Doing the right thing is rarely easy,' Arthur pointed out, 'but I promise you, whatever it takes, magic will be welcome in Camelot once more.'

The noise that caught in his throat was a tight little pulse: relief so sharp it felt like pain. He blinked hard, turning away to try and hide the sudden burn of tears that bit at his lashes, but it was no use. Arthur saw everything.

He expected something brash and bossy – a punch in the shoulder at best, coupled with a brief tease about being a girl. He did not anticipate the warm weight of Arthur's arms around his back, nor the way he spilled him against his chest, much as he'd done for Morgana only a little while ago.

He supported Merlin with ease as he sagged, spent and shaking. Every hope that he had bottled up and buried down in the darkness of his own mind came rushing to the fore. It was not just a year's worth, but a lifetime's, and he could barely breathe around the enormity of it.

His own embrace was probably a bit brutal, too tight and fierce, clinging to Arthur like he was the only thing keeping him afloat. Yet Arthur uttered not a word of complaint. He merely held him, his chest pressing into Merlin's with every too-quick breath. His words, when they came, were as soft and sweet as any endearment.

'I swear, Merlin, one day you will not have to hide from anyone. For now, I can only say you need never again conceal yourself from me. I know it is not much, but…'

Merlin shook his head, a swift jerk of denial as he eased back, not bothering to hide the brightness in his eyes.

'Arthur,' he managed, barely able to speak around the joy that threatened to bloom in his chest. 'It's more than I ever hoped for.'

Chapter Text

That evening was a turning point. Arthur sensed it as surely as he felt the sun's warmth on his face. Winter may be settling its cloak across Camelot, deepening as Yule came and went, but his heart knew nothing of the touch of ice. Instead, he had Merlin's sparkling eyes and broad smiles to warm him. They spent long evenings by the fireside, either in the company of the knights or in shared solitude, rebuilding their friendship as they unravelled the secrets of the past few years. In truth, Arthur could not remember ever having been happier.

Of course, that didn't mean Merlin was any more respectful of Arthur's rank or person.

'Not like that, you clotpole!'

Arthur glared. 'I can dress myself!'

'You clearly cannot.' Merlin swooped in to rescue him from the tattered wreck of the laces on his tunic, which had twisted themselves in a knot thanks to his nerves. He had faced battle without flinching, but this was something else. This was treason, actively committed, and it was too late to turn back now.

Not that he would want to. He had done the right thing, but that didn't mean his heart didn't race and stagger with fear of what might lie ahead.

'Arthur? Breathe.'

'What if the magic unravels? My father will start a witch hunt across the whole kingdom! I don't know if I can protect you and Morgana from that. Perhaps this was a bad idea.'

'Enough.' Merlin tied his laces neatly, his palm resting on Arthur's chest in quick reassurance. At any other time, he would have taken a moment to enjoy it. The touches between them had changed, growing slower and more lingering, but right now he could barely think over the clamour in his head. 'Do you trust me?'

Arthur sagged where he stood, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 'You know I do.'

'Then believe me when I say nothing will go wrong. Thanks to Morgana's dream, we had plenty of time to prepare. Tomas is already out of the cells and safely away. The druids will take him in, and no one in Camelot will be any the wiser. Today, they'll see him – or an illusion that looks like him – lose his head. You just need to stand at your father's shoulder and look suitably stoic.'

'The body...'

'Gaius prepares the dead. He always has, and he's aware of our plans. He'll conceal anything that needs to be hidden.'

Nausea clenched tight in Arthur's stomach. He hated this. When Merlin and Morgana had first come to him with their idea, he and the knights had all protested over the risks. Yet the alternative was to allow a man to die for the simple crime of having magic. Tomas had done nothing wrong. He'd saved someone's life, and his own was forfeit as a result. Too many innocents had already been slain by Uther's hand, and so it was that Arthur had allowed himself to be convinced.

Outside, the bell tolled, its sonorous notes ringing through the citadel, and he swayed where he stood. He had said to Merlin, back at the start of winter, that doing what was right was rarely easy. Now, those words were like noose around his neck.

He could only hope that this did not end in disaster.

'If anything happens...'

'It won't.'

'Merlin!' He grabbed those slender hands, clasping them tight. 'Promise me that if something goes wrong, you'll get to safety.'

Merlin sighed as if he was being tiresome, his cheeks dimpling as he offered Arthur a grin. 'Fine, I promise, but I won't have to. The magic's already set, Arthur. All the enchantments are in place. We just need to watch as if it's any other execution.'

His grip loosened, and Arthur fancied there was something regretful in his lingering touch as he eased away, retrieving Arthur's cloak. The fabric settled upon his shoulders, and nimble fingers brushed against his throat as he fastened the clasp. Arthur swallowed, noticing the quick, sparkling look that Merlin slanted at him from beneath his lashes before he tilted his head towards the door.

'Ready?'

Arthur closed his eyes, taking a moment to find his courage. 'Ready.'

A frigid wind curled around them as they stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, yet it was not as cold as the impassive look Uther sent in his direction. A nod of acknowledgement was the only greeting Arthur received: his presence noted. There was not a glimmer of remorse or mercy in the king's face. He was a ruler doing what had to be done. It made him wonder how long Uther had been fooling himself into believing his methods were just. If he knew the truth of what was playing out down below....

He could never know.

His father's voice boomed across the waiting crowd that huddled before the gallows. The axeman stood ready, his hood firmly in place and his blade sharp. Even to Arthur, it looked like any other execution, but it was not until the prisoner was dragged forward that he realised the strength of the enchantments at work.

Tomas was halfway to a druid camp by now, and yet there he stood, pale and tear-stained, bare-foot and frightened. He blinked as he stepped out into the light, looking up at the sky like a man who feared he would never see it again. His feet left prints in the thin scattering of snow upon the ground. The breeze toyed with the frayed edge of his tunic and his shivering breaths plumed from his lips.

It looked so real.

Arthur had to hold himself rigid so that he would not turn to look at Merlin in disbelief. He kept his eyes fixed on the scene playing out, taking in every nuance, from the sound Tomas' knees made when they pressed him down to the planks in front of the block to the quiet little sobs that ghosted on the wind.

Crimson blood upon the cobbles and the slump of the corpse.

Arthur did not remember saying farewell to his father, nor the journey back to his room. He was too busy turning it all over in his head. He knew it wasn't real. Between them, he, the knights, Morgana and Merlin had planned it down to the last meticulous detail, yet despite that, it was hard not to question what he had seen.

Only the sound of Morgana's chamber door opening broke his reverie, and he blinked in surprise when she swept across the threshold. No doubt she had been watching from her window. Now, her face was an artfully constructed mask of grief and outrage. Uther would expect a performance from her and would notice the absence of her ire. So it was that she would put on a show.

For Arthur, however, there was a light hand pressed to his arm, her fingers squeezing in heartfelt gratitude. The look she shared with Merlin was one of triumph. After all, it was her foresight that had given them the time to act. They had done this together, and Arthur couldn't be more proud.

They parted once more, wordless. They could mention nothing of their ruse out in the corridor where anyone might overhear. They would have to save their celebrations for later. Arthur's chambers remained their only haven, and he let out a sigh of relief as he strode over the threshold, leaving Merlin to shut the door in his wake.

He didn't know what to do with himself. He felt restless, torn between amazement and disbelief. He had known they would have to be convincing to pull the wool over not just Uther's eyes, but everyone else's as well. He had never truly doubted Merlin's promises, but to see it come to fruition was something else entirely. Tomas was safe, he was with the druids. Tomas was dead, his head severed from his neck. Both these things seemed equally true, and Arthur was left reeling in the aftermath.

'Show me?'

His cloak flared around him as he turned, suddenly hungry for Merlin to make this make sense. He had laced his spells during the darkest depths of the night, away from prying eyes. There could be no witnesses. Arthur had longed to go with him and offer his protection, but Merlin had protested. One person sneaking about was easier to hide than two, especially if the other party was the prince. Perhaps Arthur would have been able to defuse any difficulties, but word would no doubt have got back to his father, and they didn't want that kind of attention.

So Merlin had wrought his magic in solitude, and Arthur was left struggling to believe how it was possible. It did not help that, since the sanctuary cave, he had not seen Merlin perform a spell. Not really. There were little things, like lighting the fire, but Merlin still went through the farce of flint and steel. Arthur's bathwater was always hot and his meals warm despite the long trip from the kitchens, but he rarely saw Merlin actually do anything. The secretive habits of a lifetime were hard to break, he supposed.

Now, the need to witness it again was a living thing inside him. Not because he believed Merlin had deceived him, but because it would be all too easy to pretend that sorcery played no part in what had happened today. Magic was the only reason that Tomas still lived, but it was invisible, plucking at the strings of fate and changing a man's destiny. It would be so simple not to give credit where it was due. Perhaps Merlin did not long for recognition, but he still deserved it. The others had helped, true enough, but Merlin had saved a life this day, and Arthur would not let himself forget it.

'Show me your magic. Please?'

He clenched his hands into fists, trying to hide how they shook. Asking mattered – he wanted it to be Merlin's choice – but he found himself terrified of refusal. All this time, they'd been learning what it was to trust one another again, and he was half-sick with the fear that Merlin's faith had its limits.

He need not have worried.

The mage-light flared to beautiful life, spinning into being as it hovered by Arthur's shoulder. The soft, blue glow it cast across the room was like the touch of winter, yet Arthur felt nothing but warm relief at the sight. Perhaps he was ridiculous, but it felt like seeing an old friend: a reminder, should he need it, that Merlin's magic had been helping him right from the start.

A sigh escaped him, and he reached up to the clasp of his cloak, tugging loose the fabric and casting it aside before running his hands through his hair.

'Arthur?'

He looked at Merlin, hating the sight of the uncertainty that stained his face. He never wanted to see him looking at him like that again, hesitant and flinching, as if, even now, he was still waiting for Arthur to have a change of heart. Perhaps the wounds they had inflicted on each other back in the sanctuary cave had healed, but he suspected there would always be scars.

'It was so real.' He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to find the words both to explain how he felt and to put Merlin's mind at rest. 'Every last detail.'

'It had to be, or it would never have worked.' Merlin eased forward, huffing a weak laugh when Arthur grabbed his cuff and hauled him near, eager to close the distance between them. The mage-light came too, leaving Merlin's side to hover by Arthur's shoulder. He found himself admiring the swirl of blue and silver in its depths as Merlin continued to speak. 'The Tomas you saw was a very good illusion. All of it... the magic had to be anchored in the dungeon, so people would think he was still in his cell even after he had left. It had to stretch along the corridors and across the courtyard to the gallows.'

'And you did all that with no one being any the wiser. Just like you've saved Camelot before, and nobody has ever known it.'

Merlin shrugged. 'I don't care about that.'

'What if I do?' Arthur shook his head, not sure he was making any sense. 'I hate that, because of the law, no one even knows they've got you to thank for the things you've done. That's not how it should be.'

He remembered what Gaius had said when Arthur had chased down Merlin in the healing rooms one day. The old man had spoken, quick and soft, for Arthur's ears only. It was not a warning, not exactly, but his words had stolen his breath away.

'There are some who believe that Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, Sire. I do not think there is anything he could not do if he put his mind to it. Yet he is still just a man whose heart can be broken like any other. I pray that you do not forget that.'

Arthur recalled the weight of Gaius' gimlet gaze, and he had been sorely reminded that, side-by-side with all his elixirs, Gaius stored a number of poisons. He had taken it to heart: the information and the warning both.

Merlin deserved to be respected all across Albion, but until the day came when that was possible, he would have to make do with the feeble efforts of gratitude that Arthur could offer.

'Thank you,' he murmured. 'For saving Tomas. I did not want to watch another innocent die by my father's command.'

'I couldn't have done it alone. You know that, don't you?' Merlin tilted his head, bird-like. 'Without Morgana's dream to warn us, I would never have had the time to place the spells. Without Leon and the others going out on "patrol", Tomas would not find his way to the druids.'

'And me?' Arthur grimaced, because he had played very little part in any of it.

'You can't fight without hope, Arthur. That's what you gave us. Not just Tomas, but me, Morgana and everyone like us. It's because of you that we believe in a better future.'

By his shoulder, the mage-light hummed, and Arthur reached out to cup it in the curve of his palm. He'd touched it before, once they had escaped from the sanctuary caves, relishing its warmth against his skin. In a new, confusing world of magic, it was a familiar presence. Now, he stared at the swirling orb of power, trying to imagine a Camelot where such a sight was commonplace. In his youth, the notion would never have crossed his mind. These days, he longed for things to be different.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin sway where he stood. He glanced back, realising that all the tension had fled that lithe body. He looked like a man hazy from basking in sunshine, heavy-lidded and blissful, half drunk on something Arthur couldn't sense.

It took far longer than he would ever acknowledge to realise that it was because of his own touch against the mage-light. He shifted his fingers, and a delicate shiver raced through Merlin's frame. He held it more securely, and Merlin's whole body went lax and trusting.

'You can feel that?'

Merlin blinked, a lazy smile curving his lips. 'I am magic. Of course I can feel it.' There was something in his eyes, an extra layer of intensity that made Arthur fidget where he stood. He watched him as if he had hung the stars in the heavens, and Arthur did not know what to do with such admiration.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' he rasped, wondering what thoughts raced through that baffling mind. 'What do you see?'

Merlin's smile spread, pressing dimples into his cheeks. 'I see my king, whether you yet wear the crown upon your brow or not. I see the best ruler Camelot has ever known, and I can't wait for the day when everyone else sees it too.'

Arthur swallowed. Praise was a rare gift in his life, but not a single syllable rang false. Merlin spoke, and it was as if the world itself stopped to listen, hanging upon his every word. It was no pretty platitude, either. Merlin truly believed, not just in the bright future that he hoped awaited them, but in Arthur himself.

Those long fingers reached out, dismissing the mage-light with a gossamer touch. Arthur mourned the loss of it, but it was a tiny pang of grief, there and gone. It could not linger, not when the sunshine-glimmer of Merlin's eyes held him captivated.

He gripped Merlin's chin, easing his head up so he could meet that yellow gaze. Already, it was fading, the polished sheen dissipating to mere glimmers. They never vanished entirely, becoming flecks of amber amidst the blue of Merlin's eyes. Arthur shifted his grip, brushing his thumb lightly over the crest of one sharp cheekbone: fascinated.

'And what do you see when you look at me?' Merlin whispered. 'An enemy still?'

'No.' That, at least, Arthur could answer honestly. 'I see a friend who wields magic with the same ease as other men take their next breath. I see you, Merlin, all of you, and I am glad of it.'

Those full lips parted around a quiet breath, but not a word of protest escaped him. The air grew honey thick, slow and hot as it had done a dozen times before. Yet today, Merlin did not ease away with stammered excuses. Instead, he turned his face, just a fraction, into the curve of Arthur's palm.

His next breath fluttered against Arthur's skin. The world had faded from his knowing: irrelevant. Now, there was only Merlin: the gleam of his gaze and the first hint of a crooked grin, the hitch of his breath and the shy, fleeting brush of his lips against Arthur's wrist: a promise and an invitation both.

'Yes?'

Merlin's question was a tentative whisper, but something thrummed in his voice, something that suggested that if Arthur pulled away, it would never be spoken of again. They would go back to the way they had been before, and there would be no coming back to this moment. It would slip through his fingers, never to be reclaimed, and Arthur's heart ached at the notion.

'Yes.'

He swayed forward, brushing the tip of his nose against Merlin's before angling his head just so. It was a sweet, chaste little kiss, the clinging brush of Merlin's mouth against his own and the weight of his hands at his hips to hold Arthur in place. Nothing mattered but the warm press of Merlin's body down his front and the slant of his lips, more eager now, leaving Arthur breathless.

Silky hair whispered against his fingers as he tugged gently to get Merlin where he wanted him. A shivering little moan struck sparks along his bones, and Arthur tasted it, losing himself to the way that Merlin came alive in his arms. He should have known he would be as disrespectful in this as absolutely everything else, practically manhandling Arthur until he was leaning back against his desk, happily trapped with Merlin pressed close between his thighs.

Arthur's mouth felt deliciously used, and he could not have stopped the wander of his hands if he tried. They moved with no real thought. He was too lost in Merlin, the heat and taste of him. He wanted more, to know every inch of his skin, to see what made him grin or curse, to unravel him entirely until they were both remade. Yet he could not allow himself to fall blindly into bed at Merlin's side, no matter how much he wished to do just that.

'Wait.' He tipped his head back, hissing in pleasure when Merlin's mouth trailed down the column of his throat. His hands were under that threadbare tunic, stroking the bare plane of his back, though he had no memory of tugging the fabric free from Merlin's belt. He could feel smooth skin and the occasional line of a scar. He itched to map them all with fingertips and lips alike: to know every wound Merlin bore in his name, but he had to speak of this before desire stole the last of his wits. 'Merlin, wait.'

The faint noise of protest that reached his ears was deliciously gratifying. It was a pulse of sound, little more than a whimper as Merlin managed to carve out the tiniest fraction of distance between them. It was no more than an inch or two, and the sight of him so flushed and rumpled almost obliterated Arthur's resolve. Merlin already looked half undone, his eyes dark and his hair ruffled by the eager passage of Arthur's fingers.

Arthur wet his lips, and Merlin's gaze dropped to his mouth as if hypnotised. He nearly damned all his best intentions right there and then, too hungry for everything Merlin had to offer, but one last shred of common sense remained.

'Be sure,' Arthur pleaded, closing his eyes and hoping he hadn't just ended this before it had even begun. 'Do this because it's what you want. I couldn't bear it if...' He trailed off, unable to continue.

All the same old reasons why he could not reach for Merlin still simmered in the back of his mind. Once, it had been because he was a servant, and Arthur would never have been entirely sure that he did not join him out of duty. Now, he was a guardian of Merlin's secret, and whether either of them liked it or not, that gave him power. Perhaps he would never use it as a threat, but the possibility lingered between them, and he never wanted Merlin to look back with resentment.

'Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I'm not indebted or obligated or whatever other foolish thing is rattling through your thick head.' Merlin nudged his brow against Arthur's, his promise like a whispered prayer between them. 'I choose this, Arthur. I choose you.'

Such simple words should not have such an effect on him, but they struck a bright glow within Arthur's chest. Warmth curled between his ribs as his heart fluttered and sang, overjoyed. He was used to being a man of duty, someone who had a role to play in Camelot, but so very few people saw him as just Arthur. Merlin was the exception. He always had been, and now he stood in Arthur's arms, their breath mingling as they hovered on the cusp of so much more.

He shifted his head, capturing Merlin's lips with his own as the chains of his reservations fell away. Sometimes, fear's lingering remnants could only be dispelled by a little faith. Perhaps Arthur had not yet learned to believe in himself, but since emerging from the sanctuary caves, he had come to believe in Merlin. Not just his power, but his heart.

He did not know what the days ahead would bring, nor where they might find themselves at journey's end. Arthur's only certainty was that here, in Merlin's arms, he was the happiest he had ever been. It was not that the raw edges of the world were gone, but that Merlin gave him the strength to bear them. His fingertips wrote sonnets across Arthur's skin, and every kiss felt as if it breathed fresh life into him.

Perhaps later, there would be time for words, soft nothings spoken in the shadows of the night, but for now they had each other, loving and loved in turn.

One day, Camelot would be remade. The realm would shake off the chains of prejudice and step forward into the light once more, and when it did, Merlin would not be a servant standing in Arthur's shadow.

He would be at his side, where he belonged.

It was ridiculous that a king should be forced to creep through his own castle like a common footpad, yet here Arthur was, tiptoeing around. He snuck through the shadows, endeavouring to avoid the various guards, guests and well-meaning friends who appeared determined to corner him.

He wondered if the tailor had noticed his absence and called out the alarm. He had bribed one of his assistants well in the hopes of distracting the man, but a pouch full of gold could only do so much. The tailor himself could do little to thwart his monarch, but he could call in reinforcements, and Morgana would be merciless.

Uther's death had been sudden, a blight in his heart that took him within days. He had barely had time to acknowledge Morgana as his daughter before the fates had ushered him from the earth. What had followed was a haze in Arthur's memory, long hours at council and endless paperwork, his coronation a blur of sumptuous velvet and tremulous vows.

Morgana had been there, pale and determined, and his first act had been to name her his heir. These days, Camelot's crown princess was a force to be reckoned with. Not that Arthur would ever admit it. If she caught him sneaking around, then all this would for nothing, and he frankly feared for his manhood.

Up ahead, a door opened and closed once more in its threshold. He peered around the corner, seeing Gwaine ushering various seamstresses and clothiers ahead of him. The knight cast a glance over his shoulder, offering Arthur an obnoxious wink before he ambled out of sight.

With a quick grin, Arthur checked both ways along the corridor before darting towards the door, pressing the latch and slipping into the room beyond.

'Morgana will have your bollocks if she finds you in here.' Merlin's eyes sparkled, his cheeks dimpling as he grinned. 'Though at least that explains why Gwaine was being so strange. What did you pay him to get everyone to leave?'

'More than I can afford,' Arthur admitted ruefully, stepping into Merlin's arms and feeling his anxious concern melt away. 'Worth every coin, though. I still don't understand why we could not share a bed last night,' he added, trying not to sound like a thwarted child about it. There had been a guard posted on his door and everything. He had checked. 'Nor why we are not supposed to see each other before the ceremony. It's not as if either of us believe in luck.'

'We could have eloped,' Merlin reminded him, settling against Arthur's chest like a matching puzzle piece.

'And your mother would have given me that very particular look.' Arthur shuddered. He had thought Gaius' eyebrow was threatening enough, but it turned out Hunith could be twice as terrifying when she put her mind to it. 'Not to mention the druids would have been in uproar, my councillors would have revolted...' He sighed, because whether he liked it or not, today was about more than him and Merlin. A whole kingdom would be watching. 'Are you –' He paused, wondering if it would be better to hold his silence. 'Are you having second thoughts?'

'What?' Merlin leaned back, giving him an incredulous look. 'No. Absolutely not. I'm just afraid I'll trip over my cloak or something.'

'You won't,' Arthur promised, though he grinned at the notion. Merlin might be the most powerful sorcerer in Albion and beyond, but he was still notoriously clumsy. 'And if you do, you can just mutter a few words and have everyone forget.'

Merlin pursed his lips and raised one eyebrow. 'There are laws against that. I know there are, because I helped you write them.'

'I could probably arrange a pardon,' Arthur teased, though they both knew he would do no such thing. The law applied to everybody, from the lowliest peasant to the royal household, and no one understood that better than Merlin himself. It had been the work of years, an effort they had begun long before Uther had met his end. Nor had they toiled in solitude.

He and Merlin, Morgana, Gwen and the knights had worked tirelessly to hammer out a framework of laws that allowed the magic and mundane to thrive side-by-side. Putting them in place had been one of his first acts as king, and there had not yet been a day when he had felt even an inkling of regret. He did not believe in destiny, but something in him knew this was exactly how things were meant to be.

A rap at the door made him twitch in surprise, and he uttered a soft course. No doubt Morgana was on the warpath. If he did not want to suffer her wrath, he had best make his escape. He did not know quite what his face betrayed, only that Merlin, the idiot, felt it necessary to laugh at him.

'Go on, you clotpole. I have plans for you tonight that would be rather ruined if Morgana made good on her threat and gelded you.'

Arthur stepped back, his fingers drifting downwards before he raised Merlin's right hand to his lips, pressing a single, courtly kiss to his skin. The warmth of the magic imbuing the goddesses' mark tingled against his mouth. It reminded him of the day that had set them all on this path, one that could have been the end of them but had, instead, been a new beginning.

'Don't be late?' he murmured against Merlin's skin, his heart thrilling at the love that gleamed in those eyes. Perhaps today was for the court and kingdom, but that devotion was all for Arthur, and it never failed to steal his breath away.

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

And as the sun began to tumble from its zenith, so another vow was sealed and witnessed. They stood before the gathered people of Camelot, not just the nobility, but mages and druids, family and friends. Merlin's palms were warm in his as the silken cloth of hand-fasting draped over their wrists: a symbol of unity that no one could deny.

They had made their oaths to the kingdom, ones symbolised by the matching crowns that adorned their brows. Yet this was a promise they offered each other: to share in the lifetime that lay ahead.

Two men bound not by destiny, but by the love they had forged in one another's arms.