Notes:
Thanks: I owe much of this story to the fabulous people on IRC, most notably Mace, Lataine, Z and Q. My fabulous cheerleaders Sparky Q, Mamoru, Staraflur, Tricksterquinn, and Fay Morgenstern who read this through in various stages and told me that it was worth it. The great people who did my copy edit and didn't run screaming, Tine, Serotonin Storm, Staraflur, Nicolasechs, and Sparky Q. I also owe this to my entire flist on Livejournal, who put up with the wordcount spam and the teasers and didn't defriend me in droves. Thanks also to Allothi for making me kill the Lancelot chess piece.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations extrapolated from Merlin belong to the BBC. This is a non-commercial, transformative work that uses these characters under fair use principles.
"We haven't done all the things we're meant to do!"
"That is the lament of all men."
~ Le Morte d'Arthur, Merlin
Part One: Precipice
I.
The castle is heavy with signs and portents while Merlin is away. Arthur skulks in the halls and corridors, looking for something he doesn't know the shape of, some kind of absolution maybe. He finds only old rooms that still show the shape of a woman's life from twenty years ago, and portraits of people who burned in the purge. For as busy a castle as Camelot, too many of its corridors lead to dead ends, chambers walled shut after their occupants proved guilty of the highest treason.
He doesn't find evil in the ashes of that other generation, only lost opportunities and death. There is a whole lot of death in Camelot, and no one ever made the effort to put it to rest. His father still lives in those years; it's in his eyes when he refuses to speak of Igraine, in every word he doesn't say to Arthur or Morgana.
Outside, a storm is brewing, shedding darkness and imbuing the world with a terrible beauty. At the very crack and flash of lightning, everything is so bright it sears the eyes. Every edge, every imperfection.
Arthur goes deeper into the belly of his castle, his home. He's never had much interest in the cellars and dungeons: he knew them well enough to hide from nurses and tutors, but never sought them out for pleasure. He wasn't the kind of child who would play in the dark, had never been the type for make-believe. Arthur needs a real thing to touch, an enemy to fight.
Merlin is gone, and now that conversation makes sense. He was saying goodbye like a condemned man heading for the gallows. If Arthur were any stronger right now, not so dizzy that he has to keep one hand on the wall so as not to topple over, he would go after his wayward servant. Deep down, he can't believe that Merlin won't be back - and the world seems to be on that same precipice, holding its breath.
There is a tunnel, a stairway, and a torch. Arthur has no reason to go down. The only thing he can imagine finding there is another tomb, another row of dead relatives he's never known. He goes down anyway, torch ahead as if a spot of fire could protect him against the kind of monsters that lurk in the shadows. He tries counting the steps as the stairs curl ever more steeply into the unknown. He gets lost along the way - there are stairs above, stairs below, and he can't remember where he needs to be.
Finally, as the torch begins to sputter and cough, he steps onto a ledge.
"You," says a voice so deep and angry. Arthur has to wrestle down the urge to turn and run.
It's very dark in the enormous cavern, the light of his torch flickering feebly in the cracks of stones older than Camelot. He can feel something here, something that tastes and smells exactly like the storm outside.
"I'm Prince Arthur," he says. His voice is steady, calm, and he wonders how he can manage that when so much emotion is running through his body. He thanks his father, silently, for the impeccable training of an unloving childhood.
"I know who you are," says the voice.
Suddenly, the shadows and light shift, topple sideways, and reveal the creature that goes with the unearthly voice. It's the dragon. Arthur shouldn't be surprised: he's heard the story of its capture often enough, but there is something too big and too fantastical about this being, so much more than the stories imply. Arthur's brain has difficulty seeing it, even as he knows it's there. It's like reality is springy and over-stretched where it lounges on top of its spire.
"I've always known who you were," says the dragon. "When you were born, I knew you, and I watched you every day, waiting for this moment."
Arthur says, "What's so special about this moment?"
The dragon makes a sound that could be laughter or something more sinister. "It's the awakening. The cogs of this machine have finally been set into motion. It is good that you are here, at the beginning of all things. I have two revelations for you and one secret you must keep."
Arthur can feel the breath of the dragon on his face, burning the skin of his fingers, catching in his loose linen tunic. "Why should I listen to you? You are a creature of magic and can't be trusted."
The dragon roars. "You dare, little thing, to insult me. Perhaps the druids were right and you are just like your father."
Arthur can feel danger crawling all over him, a dragon poised to strike, or perhaps to burn him to a cinder. He knows that he can't escape, a rabbit caught in a trap, every breath a borrowed one. If he runs, the dragon will execute him in a fit of rage and vengeance. In his state, he won't get to the safety of the stairs in time.
"I'm the crown prince of Camelot," Arthur says, breathless from what he hopes is the sickness still and not crippling terror. "And you will address me properly."
"For the sins of your father," the dragon says, suddenly very calm and all the more frightening for it, "I should kill you now and care nothing for the chaos that will follow. But I have no more the right to deny destiny than you have the right to deny your heart its beat."
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Arthur sets the torch against the wall and sits, cross-legged, just above the abyss. "Speak to me, then; tell me what you have to say. I have all the time in the world."
"And that is where you're wrong," the dragon says. Its voice digs deep beneath Arthur's skin and pricks at the bone, drawing a shiver Arthur can't conceal. "But I will indulge you, young Pendragon, because we are waiting, the both of us, for his return."
It hits Arthur straight in the heart. His breath comes short, and he curses the poisonous creature whose bite started all this. "You know Merlin?"
"He is the key to your destiny."
Arthur grins despite the precarious situation. It's a reflex he can't control. "Yeah, of course. Merlin. Merlin is the key to my destiny." He sounds, to his own ears, perfectly balanced between condescension and humour. The dragon is not amused.
"I am surprised at your continued insistence to be blind to the ways of the old magic, Arthur Pendragon. For this is the first revelation I have to offer you: the Lady Igraine was barren. You were conceived with magic and born under magic's watchful eye. Your father's blood may run through you, and your mother's love may have given you life, but you are a creature of magic."
Arthur's heart pounds in his chest, the rush of blood drowning out even the insistent voice of the dragon. "No," he says to himself, cracking open, "no, that can't be. My father hates magic. He wouldn't-"
"Child," the dragon roars. "What do you think has made him so? The death of your mother, inevitable as it was to bring you into this world, was the catalyst for all this. To restore magic to its rightful place, it had to be purged from the land. The greatest sacrifice has been made, and gladly, so you might live and forge a new bond between the land and its people."
Arthur calms himself with each breath, drives all his questions and his anger, all his confusion into the recesses of his mind. This is not the time or place for panic. He has been called here - his wandering, his compulsion, could not have been anything other than following a siren's call - to listen and to learn. It echoes what Merlin said to him before he left, and maybe it's those words that keep him on the ledge, frowning but willing to hear more.
"You have nothing to say for yourself, young Pendragon?" The dragon sways a little, stomps its feet like a dog preparing the ground to lie down on it. "Well then, hear the second revelation. There is a sorcerer among those closest to you, a sorcerer of great power."
Merlin. Arthur's eyes widen. It all falls into place, and he can't stop the chain reaction in his mind, as situation after situation finally makes sense. But the dragon huffs and twitches its tail. "You think of the boy, who is, at this very moment, breaking all the laws of the earth and its magic. But that is not much of a revelation, is it? His secret is as badly kept as his chambers." Something rough and jagged rolls through the dragon's throat, and Arthur understands that it's a chuckle. It chills him to the bone. "No, I do not speak of Merlin." It's the first time the dragon has said Merlin's name and it makes Arthur want to leap at it with a sword. It sounds livid, like fire and ashes, anger as deep as the core of the earth.
He can't stop himself, he has to ask. "What did Merlin ever do to you?"
"Merlin," the dragon says, the word ripped out of him like a crossbow bolt, "has seized the power over life and death in your name. The balance of the world is undone and he is at the centre of it. Unless he finds a way to calm the storm he has brought about, destiny and, with it, all of Albion will cease to exist."
Arthur tries to wrap his mind around the concept of power over life and death in conjunction with Merlin. Merlin, who is a terrible manservant but a good man. Merlin, whose absence fills Arthur with a yearning he can't explain. Arthur's mouth is dry and he has to distract himself from the enormity of the thought. "So tell me, who is that sorcerer?"
"You know her well: it is the Lady Morgana."
Arthur blinks. Then he laughs, like this is the punchline to a truly elaborate joke. The dragon just stares at him until all the mirth ebbs away. This is deadly serious. "Morgana?" Arthur asks, his voice breaking.
"She is a powerful seer and you'd do well to prevent what the future holds for her. In a feud between your crown and her magic, everyone will lose."
"But," Arthur says, still on the edge of disbelief, "it's Morgana."
"Yes."
The dragon bears the following silence for long minutes, as Arthur sorts through this new and startling information. Morgana. She's been at odds with his father over magic so often; has it all just been a selfish drive to protect her own? Is she truly a friend if she keeps such a thing hidden? But then, apparently, Arthur himself is not without that taint, not to mention Merlin, whose magic spills out of him at the least provocation. At least Gwen is perfectly normal.
"Gwen isn't a demon or anything, is she?"
The dragon doesn't answer, just looks at Arthur as though he is some kind of small and annoying insect.
"There was one more thing," Arthur says, curious, now, and very tired. "A secret."
Flapping its wings, the dragon rears up to loom over Arthur. It's a magnificent sight so terrible Arthur wants to shrink away into the darkness. Small stones come loose from the rock face and tumble into the depths. "Hear this, Arthur Pendragon, future King and Lord of Albion. Your destiny does not end at Camlann, and Avalon will not hold you forever. This secret you must keep, until the day you set foot on the fair isle. No one can know, not Merlin, nor the queen, nor any of your most trusted knights, for the knowledge may alter their actions and throw history into chaos."
Arthur finds himself shivering. There is a quality of prophecy to the dragon's voice now, an echo in time. "But why tell me? What if I change things, refuse to go to that place?"
"None of us can escape our destiny," the dragon says, and it sounds like a well-practised line, almost a prayer.
"Still, there was no point in telling me that."
And the dragon drops back onto its haunches, leans across the chasm, almost touching Arthur now. Its breath is hot on Arthur's skin, but when it speaks, its voice is quiet; human, even.
"It's a gift."
The sky is dark and heavy as he ascends from the dragon's cavern. The tension has finally broken, and thick drops of rain pelt every surface. The rhythm has something familiar to it, reflecting the beat of a hundred hearts at once. Arthur wants to stand in the rain, let it wash over him like a benediction. He feels dusty and broken still, and he steps into the courtyard with arms wide open, letting the water pour over his head, his tunic, every bit of exposed skin. He tilts his head to catch a few of the drops in his open mouth. It tastes like the sweetest wine.
He laughs and turns in a circle. He feels alive.
The worst part of dying slowly, poisoned by more than just venom, has been the way he was locked into his own body, hearing everything and unable to react. It felt like a small prison, stretched out over his skin, suffocating him while he couldn't move as much as a finger. To be free feels like a gift, a second chance at something he was never supposed to have.
Water soaks every inch of him, and Arthur wants to yell that yes, he's still here. The sight of Morgana on the balustrade stops him. Her hand is curled into the stone wall for balance, but her hair and eyes are wild. She looks right at him and doesn't see him. That's what sets him off, because he's seen this look before - not on Morgana, but women from war torn villages after a raid. It can't be the same cause, but what will cause matter when her feet slip and she falls to her death?
Arthur runs, slips on the wet cobblestones, throwing glances her way to check that she's not taken that step. She's not in there, he thinks, and he knows what to blame. Just moments ago he wanted to embrace magic, pardon it for all its faults, but this is magic, too. Magic is uncaring and wild. It destroys as much as it creates and does not stop for love or human affectations. It's like the rain and the wind, like night and day.
He reaches the steps, slams through the doors and races through the corridor that leads to the balcony. His heart beats in irregular thumps against his chest and Arthur knows he'll pay for this later: this mad dash takes all he has. And so he simply leaps at Morgana and lets his momentum drag them both to the ground. He hits his good shoulder; the impact sends a spike of white hot pain through his body.
Morgana is thin and cold in his arms. He gasps for long moments, trying to get his breath back under control. There's a tingling sensation in his legs, a numbness that spreads upward from his calves.
"I've seen it all," she says, trembling from the cold or something much worse.
Arthur lets himself relax enough to rest his head against the wall they almost crashed into, his arms still firmly around Morgana's waist. If he lets go now, he's not sure he can move at all should she decide to take another walk. "It's all right, Morgana. You're safe."
"It's so dark," she says. A sob bursts out of her and it's the most helpless sound Arthur's ever heard.
"It will pass," Arthur says, looking at the storm clouds above them. The rain still streams down in sheets, already forming connected puddles on the ground.
She shakes. At first Arthur thinks it's just the tremor of her body trying to generate some heat, but her head is moving with purpose, denying his claims. "No," she says, "I have seen the future and all of it is dark. The light has gone from the world."
He wants to shush her, tell her that it's all going to be fine. It's his first instinct to kiss the top of her head like a child and let her rest against his shoulder until the rain passes, but the dragon's words are still fresh on his mind. Morgana's nightmares are more than just the shadows of a troubled mind. They are what will come to pass, unless he can stop it. He wants to ask her more, wants to know what he can do to help her, help his people. Instead, he cups the back of her head like an infant and pulls her against his body, giving her what little warmth he has.
"I'll bring back the light," Arthur says into her hair, "I promise."
She sobs; great heaving sobs that wrack her whole body. "Arthur," she says. It sounds like a plea.
"Hey," Arthur says, "I'm the best knight in Camelot. There's nothing I can't do."
He knows they'll get through this when she stills, draws back and gives him a shaky but unmistakable look of scorn. Her perfect eyebrow conveys exactly what she thinks of his arrogance, even if her voice is still rough. "I don't know about that, but you are surely the most insufferable of the lot."
Arthur barks a laugh. The danger is over and exertion crashes over him like a tidal wave. He lets go of Morgana and slumps against the wall like it is made of furs and silk pillows. "I think I'll just close my eyes for a minute." He smiles at her and hopes she can't read exactly how scared he's been.
"Oh," Morgana says, and she still sounds smaller somehow, like the magic has taken something from her. "No," and that's much more like her usual commanding tone, "no, Arthur, you can't stay here. It's pouring. You'll catch your death." The last word breaks her voice, again, and it's enough to force Arthur's eyes open.
"Give me a minute," he says, facing her head-on because that's the only way to deal with Morgana.
But Morgana throws him a sharp grin that bodes ill for Arthur's comfort. "Come now," she says, sweet and lethal, "it's still raining, and if Uther finds out I'm responsible for killing his son by leaving him out in the cold, he'll never forgive me."
"You'd miss me," Arthur says with a smirk, and Morgana scoffs like he's insinuated she frolics with farm animals.
"Don't be so full of yourself," she says, grabbing his arm and bracing herself against the wall for leverage. For a woman of her stature, she's got a lot of strength coiled in those curves.
It's harder than he imagined to get up and stand on his feet. His legs feel like liquid stumps, and he's grateful when Morgana ducks under his arm to take most of his weight. Of course, he'll never tell her this; it's embarrassing enough that she seems to know anyway. "I can walk."
She chuckles a little as they make their way to the doors. "Sure you can."
Arthur thinks about what the dragon said, about the powers Morgana has, powers she has little control over. Solid along his side, a cool presence and a quick word like the jab of a knife, Morgana is nothing like magic. She's a friend, family, and Arthur knows now that he will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
The fire in his chambers doesn't do much to warm him. Arthur has half a mind to call for a chamber maid and let her heat him up a little. He hasn't done that in months, ever since Merlin came into his life, which has to be one of those ironic turns of fate. Merlin isn't exactly the type to give those sorts of favours, and yet he's always underfoot, filling Arthur's life in so many ways that he barely notices he hasn't had a hand other than his own on his prick for weeks.
"Great," Arthur mumbles, "I've turned into a dried-up old man and I'm not even king yet." He winces inwardly, even though he didn't mean to imply anything untoward in regards to his father or the crown. It's reflex, and it only occurs to Arthur when there is a sharp rap on the door that, alone in his chambers, he can bloody well say whatever he wants to.
"It's Gwen," comes a voice from behind the door. "I've brought some hot water and clean towels."
For a moment, he wonders if Gwen can read minds, considering her uncanny timing, and really hopes that she can't. "Come on in."
She smiles at him when she opens the door, but her eyes drop to the floor again like there's a voice at the back of her mind telling her not to be so familiar with the prince. It probably sounds like a mix between his father and the steward, Gareth. Arthur's been at the receiving end of both and doesn't begrudge her the distance.
"Thank you," she says, turned half away from him to arrange the towels. "I fell asleep and hadn't heard her leave."
Arthur can see the rings under her eyes. Morgana hasn't been the only one with too little sleep and too much worry. Between watching her mistress going slowly mad and caring for him on his deathbed, Arthur would be surprised if Gwen had got any sleep at all.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," he says. It's a feeble reassurance.
Gwen nods, facing him now, and he can see something bright and strong in her. She says, "I do what I can for her. I fear, on days like today, that it's not enough."
He lets her go, unable to find words that do her devotion justice. It reminds him of Merlin, of their last conversation, and suddenly he can't breathe, because Merlin left to offer his life to a witch, and no matter what the dragon says, Merlin had not figured his own survival into his plans. Arthur is sure Merlin is coming back.
He's absolutely sure.
II.
Arthur waits on the battlements, his cloak wrapped tightly around him against the rain. Merlin's horse is half caked in mud; grey streaks of dirt reach far up its flank as if it's been galloping through the moors, which is an impossible supposition for anyone but Merlin. Gaius is slumped on the back of his white horse, soaked through, his hair darker in a way that makes Arthur wonder if it's just the wetness or something else.
They look small as they come in through the gates, less like returning heroes and more the kind of men who went out on a quest and came home with none of what they had left with. Merlin drags himself off his horse, a distinct hesitation to his movements, a sense that he's not entirely at home in his skin. Less so than before, even. He helps Gaius down and supports him as two squires take their horses with few words.
As Merlin makes his way towards the chambers of the court physician, irrational anger rises in Arthur's throat. They make a bedraggled pair, dirty and worn out, pelted by the rain, and all he can think of is how much he wants to yell at them both. Arthur was never a patient child and he's had his fair share of tantrums, but he thought he'd outgrown the need to be as loud as possible about a perceived unfairness. It doesn't help that he probably has very little right to be as furious as he is. His father would point out that this is the measure of a king: to have good men sacrifice themselves for him and not wanting to strangle them for it.
The crown prince can't be perceived to rush towards anything with the kind of urgency Arthur feels, so he forces himself into a leisurely gait, something befitting a man who is used to being served with all the things he might desire. It's bad enough that he keeps Merlin around even though his cheek and disregard for etiquette make him a target for every sharp tongue within the court gossip circles, but to run to him like a maiden to her betrothed after battle? That would earn Arthur the very speculative glances and dismissive laughter he's fought against all his life.
His reputation affords Arthur a small measure of privacy, a space for himself where he's safe from prying eyes and ears. His reluctance to face the court has nothing to do with the anger that's been building in him for hours, days even, since the dragon put his whole life, his whole world, into a grander perspective. It has even less to do with the burning need to see Merlin alive and well, because that in itself is both unprincely and extremely dangerous. Arthur can't be that man, even if some small part of him wants to be.
The corridors are dark in the twilight of the rain clouds. It's too early for candles and torches, not even midday, and Arthur finds his way more by memory than sight. He passes several servants whose names he can't remember or has never been told. He strikes up a conversation with the captain of the night guard, a sharp man who would be a knight if only he were born a noble instead of a washerwoman's son. Arthur laughs at a crude joke and pats the man's shoulder, as his restlessness grows. He wants to just shove the man aside and run and knows that he can't. Which, of course, makes him offer an anecdote of his own, enough not to appear in any hurry to be somewhere else. It's one of his greatest feats of recent memory, unearthing a patience he hadn't known he has.
Quite a few minutes later, Arthur manages to extricate himself with the promise of an evening down at the inn and enough ale to anaesthetise a horse once the rain lets up and there isn't another famine or monster to keep them all busy. He walks past the throne room rather more briskly than before and almost doesn't see his father sitting in the unlit hall with a goblet and a terrible sadness etched into his face. But he does see him and Arthur has yet to find a defence against actual emotions on his father's face. To find him open like this, hurt and cracked like maybe he is human, too, is a chance Arthur can't let slip away.
"Father," Arthur says, hesitant and quiet enough to give plausible deniability, in case his father is too far into the past or too deep into his cups. But the king does look up and there is something almost like a smile on his face, fleeting as the expression is. Arthur's heart can't help but clench like it has for every one of those moments in his life that never quite yielded what Arthur had hoped.
"I'm just on my way to-" and he doesn't know how to put into words where he's going or why it's so important he get there, neither a thing his father would want to hear, in any case, so he just waves his hand in a vague gesture and steps into the hall.
His father looks older than he did before Arthur almost died, and the twinge in Arthur's shoulder at the thought is accompanied by a new twinge in his heart. The realisation that his father will one day die has been slow burning at the back of his mind for years - the king himself keeps pointing it out as a matter of education - but it never felt quite as real as it does in this room, with nothing but shadows and wine for company. Arthur feels a chill that has nothing to do with wind or weather crawl over his skin.
Offering Arthur a cup, his father says, "I've seen rain like this before, on the day your mother died."
The words drive all the air out of Arthur's lungs, and he wishes at once for a chair, anything to take his weight, because his legs have turned brittle and numb under him. He can easily count the conversations he's had about his mother; can count on a single hand those that involved the day of her death or the circumstances of his birth. Only one of those conversations has involved his father, and that one ended with a split lip for Arthur and angry tears all around. No one speaks of Igraine's death, ever, and only the very brave or very stupid try to pry more from Uther than just platitudes.
Arthur is at a loss for words, petrified, torn between the possibility of hearing the truth and the knowledge that his father's hatred of magic could be more justified than either of them want to admit. There was magic that day, magic that took Igraine's life and brought Arthur into this world and, for once, Arthur can't fault his father for hating that.
He knows the feeling of losing someone to magic: it's so hard because there isn't any one person to blame, just an all-consuming power that decides over life and death, and if Merlin had died out there alone, willing to sacrifice himself for Arthur's sake, then Arthur would not be here. He would not be trying to have perhaps one of the first conversations with his father that feels like they are equals. He would be out there, railing against the heavens. He knows how things came to be the way they are.
He wants to say a hundred things that all sound like I'm sorry but there is no guideline for this in the books about royal bearing, no lesson that can teach him how to apologise for his own existence. "Gaius is back," Arthur says instead. "I was going to pick up some salve for my shoulder, if you-" and he stalls again, because there are things one says to a king, and in case your scars bother you in this weather, I could have some ointment sent up for you is not one of them.
His father rubs his arm where a blade once ran him through and seems to understand without words, or perhaps Arthur is simply seeing what he wants to see. So much of their relationship is made of reflections. "Ah, that's good to hear. I had only heard today that he'd ridden out - some important business, no doubt."
Arthur catches himself clenching his teeth and forces his jaw to relax. "Perhaps he went out for exotic herbs, it seems they can work quite a miracle."
Their conversation continues, stilted and awkward, until Arthur realises just how tired he is and allows himself to use his recent near-death experience as an excuse. A shadow crosses his father's face, but there is also a warmth there that Arthur will never grow tired of and hasn't seen nearly enough in his life. As he walks out, he feels bone-weary and ready to drop, and it's both a curse and a blessing. He wants to see Merlin, but he doesn't want to talk to Merlin. He wants to touch him, but he can't.
So he chooses to wait, to let them both rest for a night before he confronts his manservant - his friend - with all that is threatening to burst from his chest. He heads for his chambers, hoping only to catch another servant on the way up, to order himself a hot bath.
The thing about hopes is that they are so painful when they go down, much like the potions Gaius has given him over the years. Arthur has developed an aversion to hoping, biting down on the feeling whenever it comes bubbling up, invading his daily regimen of small disappointments. A man who doesn't hope for a warm chamber will not be saddened at cool and draughty rooms; a man who doesn't hope for love will be all the more fit to marry for politics. He has learnt to suppress hope in all its forms, be it for a spot of rain when he's in no mood to patrol or a loving word from his father when he feels like nothing in his life is going the right way. Hopes never did anyone any good.
And so it is only worth a sigh and a small tingle of wouldn't that have been nice?, when he finds Merlin in his chambers, denying him solitude.
"Arthur," Merlin says at the same time as Arthur says, "Merlin."
They look at each other across the room. Merlin stands near the window, the one that provides a view of the woods beyond the courtyard, just an edge of that wildness in all of Camelot's marble strength. Arthur takes a breath and closes the door behind him, stepping into his own space like an invader. It's disconcerting and sets Arthur's mood to a soft boil.
"I see you're back from wherever you got to," Arthur says, dismissive and arrogant, like he owns the place. Which, not that Merlin would know it, he does. Merlin looks startled and, just maybe, a little angry. It's that spark Arthur wants to aggravate for no other reason than to see what will happen.
"Yeah," Merlin says, "I had some business to take care of, nothing you'd be interested in."
Arthur thinks this might be a worse lie than the one about his magic, but it's a tough competition. "Next time, it would do you well to ask for leave. I can't have my servants running around in the countryside without my knowledge."
Merlin bites back some retort, undoubtedly inappropriate for a prince's ears. Arthur wishes he could know what it is, wishes there weren't this strain between them. Wishes, like hopes, are not something Arthur can afford to entertain, although they are much harder to keep locked away.
"I wanted to tell you," Merlin says, and Arthur can almost believe that it's true. Merlin wants to trust him with his magic, his ridiculous and unbecoming heroic tendencies, but he can no more open up about his big secret than Arthur can admit just how much Merlin's presence means to him.
Arthur shrugs, finds an apple to turn around in his hands to cover his nervousness, "It's all right, I don't really care. You're free to do what you wish in your own time, you know. I'm not some tyrant who dictates his servants' every move."
Merlin rolls his eyes, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. It's almost okay again between them, even though they haven't worked anything out. Merlin says, "So good of you to point that out, seeing as I wouldn't have guessed it from how you keep ordering me around."
Arthur laughs. Something in his chest stops hurting, and only now does he understand how painful it was. "Someone has to teach you to appreciate a good day's work, might as well be me."
The disbelief in Merlin's eyes is worth everything. "You," he says in a tone that is more insulting than the word prat could ever hope to be, "you want to teach me about honest work? I think I'll pass."
"Ah," Arthur says, slinging an arm around Merlin's shoulders, "you still don't understand, do you? You don't get to pass. You're mine. I can do what I want with you." He realises what his words sound like about half a second after they leave his mouth.
"During work hours, you mean." Merlin swallows. Arthur wonders if Merlin's mouth is dry and bites into the apple, chewing rather more obnoxiously than usual. He grins at Merlin and says, "Naturally," in a tone that implies he's a big, fat liar.
Merlin nods. "Uh, right. Sure. I could bring up some bathwater," he says. His ears turn a fantastic shade of pink, and Arthur decides that this is more than good enough a reason to keep Merlin around. He doesn't remember having this much fun with what's-his-face, the servant with the sausage fingers.
Throwing him a half-lidded gaze, Arthur sends Merlin away. "You do that."
Arthur dreams of snakes in the grass, a sword drawn against the glare of the sun. It makes the healing wound in his shoulder flare up, waking him with pearls of sweat on his forehead.
Outside, rain drums a soft rhythm on the cobblestones.
He wakes to a terrible racket in the courtyard. Several voices clamber on top of each other to make themselves heard, a child shrieks, and there is the distinct sound of weapons clattering against shields. He throws on a tunic that Merlin must have left on his chair the night before and steps into his hunting trousers, for lack of anything more accessible. A look through the window confirms his dark suspicion. There is a small crowd gathered around a handful of the palace guards, who in turn are surrounding a child no older than fourteen. The child wears such rags that it's impossible to tell which gender it is, and the scene is familiar enough not to rush to judgement on that. A girl is just as likely as a boy to be caught up in magic.
A knock on his door brings him up short. The servant slinks into his room, places a bowl of hot water on a small cabinet, and arranges an assortment of fresh fruit on Arthur's table, all with his eyes downcast and barely a sound beyond breathing. It gives Arthur a pang of miserable yearning for Merlin, which is ridiculous because Merlin is going to be here any second now, unless he's late again, but the point is - the point is that Merlin is fine and Arthur has no reason to miss him. Except that he almost wasn't fine, and Arthur still feels like he's walking along the razor-sharp spine of a mountain.
"What do you know of the commotion outside?" Arthur asks.
The servant looks startled, at a loss for how to respond to a direct question from his prince. Arthur blinks, a little startled himself, because he'd forgotten that this is how it has always been. The servants are trained to be invisible, and their masters are expected to pretend they have perfected the art. Mere months ago Arthur wouldn't have looked twice at the boy. Now he wonders what his name is.
"It's fine," Arthur says. "You may speak."
The boy colours a shade of red Arthur's never seen on a living person, but his voice is clear and without hesitation. "Word has it they've captured the sorcerer who cast a spell on you, Sire. It's a good sign. Perhaps the rain will let up soon."
Arthur suppresses a gasp, because his first thought is Merlin, and the possibility makes his breath stutter, but he's seen the child, and even from this far off, there was no resemblance. He considers thanking the servant but decides it's less awkward for both of them if he just nods and lets the boy slip away.
A sorcerer. He doesn't remember having any kind of spell cast on him in a while and certainly not by a child. It intrigues him, and he decides to pay his father a visit.
This time of morning usually finds the king in the great hall, hearing civil suits by farmers, craftsmen and low-ranking nobles. Arthur bursts through the door, unafraid of causing a scene - the early morning duties bore his father, and it is often the right time to bring something to his attention, to ask for the more capricious favours. Before the throne stand two large, pink men, decked out in furs and leather, glaring at each other like bulls in mating season.
"Father," Arthur says, "do you have a minute?" He doesn't imagine the look of gratitude on his father's face as he waves the petitioners away.
Arthur walks up the dais and stands to the left of the throne, not wanting even the slightest association in his father's mind with the type of squabbling he's just endured. Arthur comes not as a supplicant, but a near equal or, at the very least, a son asking for guidance.
"What is this I hear about a sorcerer casting spells on me?" Arthur tries to keep his voice light. He's had enough arguments about magic to last a lifetime, and he has to pick his battles. If, at some point, it's Merlin or Morgana he has to defend, then he wants his father to look back on this day and find his son loyal and true. Even if that is as illusory as any magic.
"They have caught him, then?" A shadow crosses his father's face and Arthur tries not to think about the fact that he's almost died - a slow, lingering death that leaves no doubt about its ultimate outcome, but enough time to twist the pain like a knife in the gut.
Arthur shrugs, causing a twinge in his healing shoulder. "So I heard."
"Good," Uther says in a tone that cuts off any further discussion.
Arthur waves to the petitioners as he leaves and hopes, a little treasonously, that they make as much of a nuisance of themselves as humanly possible. Somewhere in his dungeons, a child is waiting for a mock trial and certain execution, and all Arthur can do is hope that it all happens quickly.
Learning to play chess from Morgana had been one of the most humiliating experiences of Arthur's life. She was taller than him and already scarily beautiful, all long limbs and strange angles and flawless skin. Arthur had sat through her lessons with a constant blush and discomfort he couldn't quite place, though he had always had the sneaking suspicion that Morgana knew what she was doing to him. She played relentlessly and forced him to understand through loss after loss what it meant to strive against the odds and how to come back from a place of weakness. Some of those lessons had saved his life later, when he had no pawns except for himself.
They play even now, though their games are changed by all the secrets and court machinations between and around them. Arthur still plays to win; Morgana plays to play. She has very little else that allows her to be equal to Arthur, and she draws the games out beyond their natural progression.
Arthur frowns down at one of her pawns, their shape setting up a trap he knows well, but it's almost impossible to tell if Morgana wants him to walk into it or catch her out. "You could have taken my queen, there." He points at the desperate move he's made to protect his king.
Morgana shudders. "Arthur," she says, her eyes wide and her pupils blown, "oh, Arthur. I am so sorry."
For a moment he wants to make a joke about taking the game too seriously, until he realises that Morgana isn't looking at the game but at him, and she isn't talking about chess pieces. "What? Morgana, really, would you stop being so bloody cryptic and just talk to me?"
She shakes her head, hair falling out of the loose ponytail, curling against her throat. "I don't know how to put this into words, all of this. I look at you and I see the man you are going to be, and it hurts, because I can see what happens after."
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, breathing through the flash of anger. "Morgana," he says, "I'm not afraid of the future. Every man will die, be it in battle or his bed. I am no different."
Morgana casts her gaze onto the board, a graceful finger coming to rest on top of her king. The white of the piece looks exactly like the white of her skin. "Not all men die because of what I have done."
Arthur raises an eyebrow but waits for her to make a move before speaking. Her fingers glide over the pieces, rocking them on their wooden squares. She chooses a knight and takes his queen, a move that puts Arthur's king in check. He's been waiting for this and brings his bishop up front, taking the knight in a move that leaves both king and bishop protecting each other, standing apart from the rest.
"What have you seen?" He doesn't really want to know. It's one thing to know he'll die in battle, quite another to know the time and date and the man whose sword will do the deed.
The sharp laugh she gives at his words makes his stomach clench. "What haven't I seen? In the future, science will be as powerful as magic, more so, even, and people will be as cattle to some." Arthur holds his tongue, despite the urge to point out that tyrants who put little value on a human life are apparently timeless. "I've seen it all, and it's so very, very dark. I can't remember most of the details, unfortunately."
She stills for a moment, a frown of concentration marring her brow. It makes her look younger, somehow, like the girl who held her own against him with sticks when they weren't allowed swords, tongue peeking out between her lips even though he'd told her time and again not to do it or one day she'd bite it off.
"The boy," she says, moving a bishop of her own. "The druid boy we rescued, he's the key to your downfall, but not for a long time."
"Mordred," Arthur says, trying the name on his lips. It doesn't taste like anything, not ashes, not destiny. It's just a name. He's just a boy.
Morgana nods. "I'm truly sorry," she says, "If I'd known-"
Arthur ponders the bishop for a moment, coming at his weakest point, and without his queen there is little he can do. He's got a handful of moves left, all merely prolonging the inevitable, and he's not going to sacrifice the bishop for his king if there is no chance. When he tumbles the heavy piece onto the board, it gives him a small chill, but he's made the right decision. It's an honourable loss.
"I would have done the same thing," Arthur says, "if I'd known."
Morgana stares down at the board for a long time, her head bent so Arthur can't see her face. She's chewing her lip in a very unladylike manner. "I know what your problem is," she says. "You play chess like it's not a game at all."
III.
The continuous rain is beginning to be a problem. Arthur is well enough to start patrolling again, despite Gaius' worried frowns at the pain in his shoulder that shows no sign of lessening. The knights, who've been waiting for a break in the weather, welcome him back with smiles and manly, if careful, pats on the back. They ride out at dawn, and the twilight stretches in front of them like a threat. The men are all moody, spurring their horses more than necessary and calling out to each other a little more callously than usual.
Merlin sits on his horse with a face like a cockatrice, mumbling every once and again about how much nicer it would be to wash socks. Even royal ones. Arthur grins to himself and feels for all the world like things could be much worse, and he's almost happy, letting his horse set the pace and having nothing to worry about except the road ahead.
For a few hours, a fox seems to follow them as if they are prey, and one of the knights tries to shoot at it half-heartedly, but to much-needed laughter from his companions. They breathe easier for those moments, when the fox jumps and sprints away like it's been set on fire. Merlin looks after the creature, a frown marring his face, but the mood of the group has shifted to something a little less dreadful, and Arthur is grateful for the break.
"Look," Merlin says a while later and points to the fields that have seen so much turmoil in the past year. The ears hang heavy on the plants, bowed beneath the added weight of the water. For now, the damage is reversible, but the rain beats mercilessly against the grain, and it's only a matter of time before the stalks break and the harvest is lost.
Arthur notes all the dark patches in the fields where the damage looks worst and tries not to think about famine and what to do if there is no test to pass or sorcerer to fight. These are the types of challenges a king has to face, but not yet, not until the harvest crashes into the muddy soil. There are days to go, maybe weeks, before this shabby field becomes a problem.
"It can wait," Arthur says. "Nature is resilient and takes its own capriciousness well. The plants will live for now."
Merlin frowns, his eyes still on the field as if it holds the answers to all his more troubling questions. Arthur wonders what thoughts flash through Merlin's mind, how much he wants to just fix it all with magic, and he wonders if that's a possibility, if having Merlin by his side once he's king will grant his people reprieve from the powers of the heavens themselves.
"It hasn't stopped raining," Merlin says.
Arthur smirks. "Any idiot can see that, Merlin."
There is a flash of a grin, an expression that tightens a coil in Arthur's stomach. It's not an unpleasant sensation, and Arthur wants more of it, more of Merlin, all the time, though he knows not to indulge himself in those thoughts. "That's not what I mean, Arthur," Merlin says, "and you know it." The way Merlin says his name makes Arthur twitch.
"Pray tell, what do you mean, Merlin?" He rolls Merlin's name off his tongue like something filthy and delicious in retaliation.
Merlin flushes a little, which is a look Arthur could really get used to. "I mean, it hasn't stopped raining for days. Not for a moment."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "That's impossible. You probably slept through more than one dry spell."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" There is something a little shifty about the way Merlin is refusing to meet Arthur's eyes. "I'm certain, Arthur. Ever since... It's been raining for days, and it hasn't stopped. The quality of the rain doesn't change. It's the same, all the time, and there is no end in sight."
"Now you're just being melodramatic," Arthur says. "It's just rain."
Merlin looks up at the sky, his face set in a frown, shoulders hunched under his flimsy jacket. "Perhaps," Merlin says, more to himself or the sky than Arthur, which is annoying and makes Arthur want to be childish and shove Merlin off his horse. "But I really don't think so. It's unnatural."
Oh. Arthur thinks, if the sorcerer says so, it must be true. He wonders if the sarcasm shows on his face and what Merlin makes of the expression without context. "Since when are you an expert on all things unnatural? I would have thought that's more Gaius' area of expertise." And oh, he really shouldn't have brought up Gaius, because whatever happened out there with Merlin and Gaius and the powerful sorceress now casts shadows over Merlin's face whenever Arthur so much as mentions the physician. One day, he'll find out what happened there, if he has to bring the witch back to life to do it.
They pass through several hillside villages, whose inhabitants meet them with churlish faces and an ever-present sullen mood. No one is very talkative and even Merlin is subdued at the sight of so much veiled hostility. They don't stay despite offers of meagre accommodations - the knights are tired, they deserve the rest. But the combination of cheap, watered wine and serving girls barely out of their childhoods with knights teetering on the edge of exhaustion makes Arthur shudder.
They make good progress until the daily twilight grows steadily darker and night sneaks up on them. Arthur calls halt in a small grove that offers some protection from the rain. He notices, now that Merlin's brought it up, how even and uninterrupted the rain truly is, but he tries not to think about it as he helps Sir Lionel get a small fire going.
The others have found places that are only moist instead of drenched, and everyone is quiet like the dead. There is no boisterous chatter, not even the sound of shifting blankets, rhythmic movements of hands under the covers. This is no night for release or comfort, and his men are curled tightly around their weapons, ready to spring up and defend the camp. Arthur watches the fire as he indulges in thoughts of comfort.
Merlin doesn't sneak up on him, but he tries. Arthur points to the log he's sitting on, and Merlin sits, quietly and without looking at him. Merlin is wound as tight as the knights, maybe more so for all the secret worries he carries around with him, but Arthur is wet and tired and sleeping under a tree tonight, so he doesn't really care one way or another.
"I think it's magical," Merlin says. It speaks to the mindless terror Uther's reign has created that even words of warning come hesitantly, like Uther is going to execute anyone who even insinuates the existence of magic. A shiver runs down Arthur's spine because he knows that for many people those fears have not been unfounded. He thinks of the inn-keeper who sold Tauren a bed for the night, the girl with no magical talent whatsoever who'd been thrown in the dungeon for playing a witch when he was twelve.
Arthur doesn't look up, doesn't seek out the patter of rain outside their makeshift shelter. Instead he watches the fire sputter every now and again as stray drops of water drip onto it from the canopy of trees above them. He pokes the fire with a stick and ignores Merlin, because the truth makes Arthur wonder about his own sanity.
"Okay, then," Merlin says, a little snippy, like Arthur just suggested they'd kill another unicorn to see if the same thing happens. For science. Despite Gaius' best efforts, Merlin's interest in science extends about as far as Arthur's interest in knitting.
Arthur stares at the fire until it breaks apart in his vision, cracking into a thousand shards of tiny flames, dancing and writhing. It's mesmerising, and Merlin is warm at his side. He could be content with this, he thinks, if he were just a knight and had no more duty to think of than any man under his command. It's the kind of dream that leaves him simultaneously wanting and indignant, setting his principles against his desires. It's a fight that only ends with Arthur at a loss.
"You know," Arthur says, "my father's war against magic would not stop with the heavens. He would leave no stone unturned to find the culprit and anyone who might be involved. He would show no mercy."
Merlin swallows, muscles tensing so hard they will likely be sore all day tomorrow. It's a small miracle no one has noticed how close Merlin is to magic and how it seems to flow right beneath his skin. Maybe it's the fire, but Arthur can detect a faint golden glow around Merlin that appears to hum with power.
"You don't understand," Merlin says. "If it's magic, and I think it is, then it won't stop. It'll continue to rain until-"
Arthur sighs. If it is magic, at least he can do something about it. This is much worse, this waiting for nature or the gods to play out their drama of revenge and punishment. "I know, Merlin." He can't say I hope it is magic, so I can fight it, but it's a near thing. There's just something about Merlin that makes Arthur want to be earnest, want to be the kind of person people like Merlin can believe in. Instead, he pokes the fire again and offers a small grin. "How's Gaius? He looked a little worse for wear when he re-wrapped my shoulder."
Merlin shrugs, his shoulders bumping into Arthur's. "He's fine, a little banged up from that... fall."
Arthur grips the stick hard and stares into the fire, trying to keep from showing exactly what he thinks of Merlin's pathetic attempts at subterfuge. It's mystifying how Arthur managed to miss all this for months, believing Merlin when he all but sparkles with magic dust. "I suppose he is getting old," Arthur says, "but perhaps I should have the grooms take a look at that horse. If he's too wild, maybe they can do something about it." He makes a snipping gesture with his fingers and grins at the shudder it draws from Merlin.
"Hengroen is a good horse. There is no need to go and do that." It's amazing how much Merlin cares about horses and things that look like them. It's proof that he is indeed the biggest girl Arthur has ever known.
"I suppose it could have been a fluke - he's always been quite gentle for a stallion." The spirited nod Merlin gives him almost sends Arthur into a very unmanly bout of giggles, but he's too aware of their surroundings and the knights just out of ear-shot. As long as they're quiet, he can pretend they are alone and doesn't have to think about why he wants that to be true.
He sobers within seconds, the mirth hard to sustain in this weather, with potential disaster all around them, and he leans towards Merlin so he can pitch his voice lower, create a space that's just them. "I won't ask what really happened," he says, and there is something about the way that Merlin almost jumps that makes him want to be somewhere else, someone else. "You can keep your secrets for now."
Merlin trembles with neither laughter nor the cold. "I want to tell you, but-"
Arthur shrugs it off, eyes catching on the fiery sparks as they leave the circle of light around the fire. "It's okay. I grew up at court. I know my way around secrets." He means to sound light, dismissive, like none of it matters, but even his voice betrays him, echoing hollow and lost in the dark.
"Arthur." Merlin's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, shaking like a leaf with what Arthur sincerely hopes is not fear.
"Let it go, Merlin," he says. He's turned, hitching a knee up on the log between them during the last few minutes and now faces his servant head on, almost close enough to feel his breath on his skin. Merlin's eyes are large and unfathomable, very like the magic that both fascinates and scares Arthur as it pulses through Merlin, as vital as blood.
Arthur licks his lips, unsure what they are doing, what this means in the larger world outside this little grove. Merlin follows the movement with his eyes, and the hand on Arthur's shoulder squeezes, just enough to be noticeable. "You must believe me," Merlin says, slow, maybe a little afraid, but full of hope anyway. "I want to tell you. I always wanted to tell you." They aren't even pretending to talk about what happened any more, about Gaius and the island and stealing Arthur's horse. About the witch and almost dying.
Arthur nods. "I do believe you, crazy as that undoubtedly makes me." Merlin grins a little, edgy and uncertain, the whole of Arthur's cursed fantasies in the shape of his lips.
"It's not just my story to tell," Merlin says, "or I would tell you right now. Maybe when we're back in Camelot, I can..." Arthur smiles as Merlin trails off, leaving the thought dangling between them of what could be once they return. This patrol has already grown more tiresome than the feast of Samhain two years past, where the Lady Margaret had made a desperate bid for Arthur's hand in marriage. He'd never been so grateful for a food fight. Arthur yearns for their return to Camelot, to the safety and privacy of his chambers, where they can finally bring closure to all this.
"Yeah," he says. "When we get home, you can tell me all about your little adventure."
Merlin scoffs, but his hand is still warm on Arthur's shoulder, and as Arthur concentrates on that single point of contact, he finds the absence of pain where he's been fighting with a low-grade throbbing all day. It's magical, but he won't go as far as to think that Merlin actually has healing hands. That would be preposterous.
Then something changes in Merlin's expression, like a page being turned, and he's frowning, his gaze turned away from Arthur's face and into the distance.
"I do hope we get back before my mother returns to Ealdor." Nostalgia, grief, and guilt play out a drama on Merlin's face. Arthur's seen that expression on his own face only once, glimpsed in a well-polished vase, and the memory still hurts: after his argument with his father about Queen Igraine, a split lip and tears in his eyes, and the knowledge that his father would not have reacted as he had if it had not been true. He wonders if Merlin thinks his mother's affliction was somehow his fault, and if it is as true for Merlin as it turned out for Arthur.
"She'll wait," Arthur says, knowing that to be true no matter how long they'll take.
Suddenly, Merlin is back in the moment, back with him, smiling, and it makes Arthur's heart stutter. He smiles back because there is no defence against this, no way he can refuse Merlin when he looks like this: a little daft and very young, almost beautiful in an off-centre fashion. Arthur wants more than anything to close the distance between them, to reach out and touch and maybe kiss that silly grin off Merlin's lips. The tension in his body becomes its own weight, and Arthur trembles under it. He can't stay in this moment forever, suspended between edging closer and pulling away. He knows what his heart and his head are telling him, but just for now, he sits and watches Merlin breathe right in front of him.
Merlin seems content to let him stare, and it's kind of brilliant for a moment, until the very act of not doing anything makes Arthur twitch and he drops his gaze. He's blushing; he can feel it on his cheeks and his collarbone and the back of his neck. Merlin sighs, bumps his shoulder and - Arthur isn't sure this is really happening - lays his head on Arthur's shoulder.
"I want to teach you to play chess," Arthur says out of nowhere, but he's surprised to find how much he wants it.
Merlin grins, Arthur can feel the shift of muscles against his shoulder, his shoulder that still doesn't hurt despite the weight of Merlin leaning on him. "What makes you think I can't play already?"
Arthur chuckles. "I've been to your home, Merlin."
Merlin mumbles something too quiet for Arthur to understand. "What was that?" Arthur asks.
"'s not my home any more."
The words hit Arthur square in the chest, with a weight like a destrier stomping on him. He'd asked Merlin once, if he'd found somewhere he fit in, and in this moment maybe, maybe he has. His head pillowed on Arthur's injured shoulder, their hands not quite touching on their thighs, pressing together from hip to knee, Arthur can believe it. Arthur's heart is contorting itself strangely in his chest, thumping in time with the rain.
Arthur dreams of Merlin. Merlin is an old man, infinitely old and infinitely wise, but his eyes are warm and familiar as he looks down on Arthur. Arthur's aware of pain like he's never known before, splitting his bones and burning his skin, every beat of his heart bringing new agony. Merlin's hands bring reprieve only where they touch, and it's not enough, not nearly, and Arthur gasps out his breath like hot water.
"You can't die yet," Merlin says, and his voice is rougher than even age can account for. "We have so much to do, Arthur."
Arthur thinks there is something, something he wants to tell Merlin, but he can't force it out, even now at the end. He thinks: this is death, I am dying, and the dragon was wrong. He thinks: the dragon was never wrong. He thinks: we're not finished.
He can say none of those things. All he can manage is, "Merlin," and it sounds like ripped clothes, like bubbles breaking on the surface of a hot spring. Blood runs down the side of his mouth, stains his teeth, and he can't swallow because there's ever so much more. If he starts coughing now, he won't be able to stop.
Merlin takes his hand and kisses it, a blessing and a plea. "I'll take you home."
The mountains are cold, and their horses slip on the rocks too much to ride, so Arthur orders they take the pass on foot, distributing what they have in supplies over all the mounts. Merlin walks next to him, his hand brushing Arthur's every few minutes, sending little jolts of awareness through Arthur.
The ground is unsure under them, a mess of mud and uprooted plants, an avalanche waiting to happen, as more and more rain pours from the heavy clouds above. Arthur catches himself staring at Merlin's hair every so often. Merlin looks every inch the wet puppy, and it's not doing Arthur's resolve to keep this thing between them shut away tight until they get back to Camelot any favours.
Crossing the mountain ridge leaves them covered in mud, tired and sore, but the view of the valley is magnificent. Arthur stands on a boulder above the path and just drinks it all in for a few moments, the valley spread out beneath him like a feast of colours, despite the grayish tinge everything has due to the rain. This, he thinks, is his kingdom, his land to serve and protect. He doesn't get this very much in Camelot, the connection to the very earth they walk on, that feeds them and offers them shelter. It's like magic.
Arthur's eyes are drawn to the next village on their path, cradled in the crook of a small river. It looks peaceful from up here, but the edges of the river seem fuzzy, stretched and worn out, and he's got a pretty good idea of what that means.
"Dagonet, come here," Arthur says and waves to one of the younger knights. The boy has keen senses, if very little sense, and Arthur trusts Dagonet's eyes more than his own, which is not something he'll ever admit. He points towards the village and watches as Dagonet's frown hardens on his face.
"The flood banks are breaking, Sire."
Arthur nods, eyes searching for movement and finding it amongst the little huts made of mud and twigs. The shapes are human and frantically running to and fro. Now that he knows what to look for, it's impossible not to see them. He feels his stomach clench like it does before a fight and realises they're on the verge of a tragedy. Unless they can get down the mountain in a matter of a couple of hours, that village will be obliterated.
"Sir Aglovale," he calls, "tell everyone to mount up. We want to be down there before nightfall."
They ride hard and the horses lose their footing too often, but by some miracle no one falls. Arthur glances at Merlin, whose face is a mask of concentration, and he doesn't want anyone else by his side.
IV.
They rush into the village like a horde of angels, dropping from their horses in mid-gallop, stumbling, rolling, never coming to a halt. Arthur runs straight for the old man at the central well, who looks to be slightly more in control than the rest of the people here, holding himself up with a gnarled wooden staff and a hollow expression on his face.
"Hey," Arthur says, grabbing the man by the shoulder, hard in a way he'd never allow himself to be if he didn't know the flood banks were already leaking. "Are you in charge here?"
The man looks up at him, and Arthur tries to smile through the rush of adrenaline. Looking him up and down slowly, the man nods, old hand curling around his staff in a defensive, yet somehow arrogant gesture Arthur recognises from Anhora. He thinks about unicorns and magical calamities, tries not to think about his part in those and whether or not right now is any different. There is something uncanny, otherworldly, about this man.
"My name is Paul. I am eldest and judge when it is needed."
Arthur grits his teeth, catching flashes of his knights as they fly from hut to hut, herding the men towards the dike and the women and children towards the hill on the other side of the village. This situation requires patience Arthur isn't sure he can summon, and he can feel something rash and reckless bubbling up just as Merlin bumps into his back and somehow defuses the tension that's been building across Arthur's shoulders. Merlin looks flushed, steam rising from his skin in tiny clouds, battered down by the rain, and for a moment, Arthur's heart beats faster than a bird's wings.
"Arthur, Sir Kay and Sir Aglovale are clearing the village," Merlin says, breathing with an effort.
Arthur nods, already mapping out the village layout in his mind, assigning strategical points and judging the likeliest point of attack. A river is not an invading army, but the principles are roughly the same, although men are, as a whole, easier to stop. Arthur focuses on the way the land looked from above, the river curving around the east and south of the village, the road snaking out to the west, parallel to the water. The little bridge that connects the two banks is little more than a breaker for the currents now, completely submerged.
"We need shovels," he says to Elder Paul, "and anything that can be filled with sand - bed linens, old clothes that can be tied off."
Paul raises a sceptical brow, managing to look exactly like Gaius at his most disapproving, and Arthur can't help the shudder that runs down his spine, because the likeness is uncanny. He leaves the old man by the well and sprints towards his knights near the river. The noise this close to all that rushing water makes it all the more real, danger so sharp he can almost taste it in the air. He sends two men off to strip every last pillow and bed of their linen, two more to scrounge up anything that could be used as shovels. He's calm now, in the midst of a storm, and his words are crisp and clear above the din of men yelling and water beside them, above them, and soaking into them.
Merlin yells something unintelligible and runs off into the small grove north of the village, and Arthur tries not to worry about it too much. He knows Merlin can take care of himself - of everyone here Merlin is likely to be the one who has the least to fear - but still a part of Arthur's mind is hyper aware of that quick black and brown flash at the corner of his eye.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Dagonet's voice snaps him back into the moment like a thread that's been cut. "Sire, what do we do?"
As many as three dozen men stand around Arthur, looking to him for guidance, and this is his moment. There is no time for failure here, no margin of error, just the water bearing down on them like a mythical beast, and his subjects, his people, need him to save them. This is what it means to be king, and a part of him is scared to death of it.
"Aglovale," Arthur says as he watches the mound of crumbling, soaked earth before him, "take the bags and a few shovels and head over there." He points to the sandy shoreline south of the village. "Take the horses, too, and hurry. Fill them up as fast as you can."
The horses look terrible, like they've been bathed in mud, and the men are little better, battered by the rain, slouching into their clothes for the little protection they provide. Arthur turns to Dagonet and sends him to check on the women and children, "and try to keep the Elder out of the way."
With Dagonet, and therefore one less worry out of the way, Arthur feels lighter and more composed. He grabs a sharp stick to draw up a crude plan. He wants to drain the water away from the village, but the river and the road make a natural basin, and filling it up with water may increase the risk the longer it rains.
"I need five volunteers to cross the river at the bridge and start draining the water into the field away from us." As soon as the words leave Arthur's lips there are hands in the air, and he picks those who look quick and wiry, with shoulders broad enough to suggest some strength and hopefully a penchant for swimming.
The flood bank worries him, it looks as fragile as a pudding taken off the stove too soon, trembling and unstable. Arthur bites his bottom lip and decides against poking any holes in it for fear of disturbing whatever equilibrium has been holding the whole thing up until now.
His thoughts come to a halt when Merlin all but barrels into him, soaked and gasping, trying to convey some kind of message Arthur can only guess at.
"All right, Merlin, now listen to me for once and do as I say." Arthur is using his commanding voice, the one that works equally on young knights and frightened animals. "Take a deep breath, hold it, now let it out." Merlin looks daggers at him but follows his orders, which is enough of a change to make Arthur want to laugh and maybe punch Merlin's shoulder with barely disguised affection, but that has no place here and now. "Breathe, once more. Now, don't you feel better?"
Merlin's shaking with leftover adrenaline, but he's breathing in a steady rhythm instead of the panicked staccato, and his eyes no longer have the appearance of saucers. "When you're all done with your exercise, do you want to hear what I've come to tell you?"
Arthur bites down on the urge to roll his eyes, something he's had some practice with since Merlin came into his service. "By all means, go ahead."
Merlin bites his lip and it makes Arthur's skin tingle, but when he speaks, it's with an urgency that sobers Arthur's mood. "Arthur, there is something wrong with-"
Merlin freezes and Arthur never finds out how that sentence ends.
Merlin turns, slowly, eyes wide and almost alien, to face the mountain they came down not half an hour ago. A mocking comment on Merlin's apparently not quite so important message sticks in Arthur's throat as he follows Merlin's gaze upward. It looks like the kind of haze one gets on hot summer days, when the earth itself sweats her last bit of moisture into the burningly dry summer air. The mountain pass is shimmering, shifting, like the skin of the dragon.
"What?"
Merlin snaps around, a strange determination on his face that Arthur recognises from the beach where Merlin wanted to die for him. It's a ridiculous and unflattering look on him, and Arthur cares little for ever seeing it again. "It's an avalanche," Merlin says, voice flat and without expression.
Arthur knows it's true, but for a small moment he wants to believe that they aren't the most luckless bastards to grace this unfortunate valley. It doesn't last, and he barks out orders a breath later, sending Merlin to gather the horses and the men to rush into the little grove where they may find enough shelter to survive. His heart beats in time with the rain that thuds against his armour. Thump, thump, thump.
Now that he concentrates on it, he can hear a rumble from up above, a sound like thunder or the dragon laughing. It's the sound that gets him moving, pulling people and horses with him where he can reach them, yelling for them where he can't, running in the muddy, trampled grass towards the trees that may save them, if they're lucky. He doesn't think about their chances, just makes himself heard above the noise and urges people onward, crashing through the sparse undergrowth as they reach the tree line.
"Aglovale," he yells, "is everyone with you? Dagonet?"
He tries to find his men in the huddled mass of villagers and soldiers, children and livestock, but with the dirt and the twilight between the trees it's impossible to make out who is there and who is missing. A panicked part of him keeps checking on Merlin, who stands a little too close to the edge, his shoulders tense. Arthur can guess what he's thinking.
"Merlin, come here."
It's likely a testament to how bad things are that Merlin doesn't even argue, doesn't say anything, just turns to Arthur and walks up to him, frowning like he wants to get back to watching their doom rush down a mountain. Arthur touches his arm, tries to form a connection that can break through Merlin's magical notions. "Hey," Arthur says, "can you check that everyone is accounted for while I try to organise some shelter?" Arthur is not in the habit of asking for anything, but the softness and the courtesy seem to wedge into Merlin's strange disposition. It's almost as if he's hypnotised, nodding, a small frown etched into his face, and Arthur has a strange feeling that this might be his last chance, that they might not survive this, and this could well be the last moment he has with Merlin.
Arthur hears the tide of their destruction come ever closer. It's mere moments now, and he crushes Merlin into a hug, whispering, "Thanks, Merlin."
Then he sees the little girl at the edge of the grove. Time slows and Arthur doesn't think, just runs, legs pounding in the mud, and the girl so very far away. She's tiny, no more than three years old, and this isn't fair, this isn't how life is supposed to go. He's supposed to be able to protect people. It's what he's been born to do.
"Arthur," Merlin yells after him, but he can't think about that. The girl holds a doll, red dress dirty and ragged, and her hair is blonde under all the mud. There are tears in her brown eyes.
He breaks out of the undergrowth and scoops the girl into his arms, the end of the world all around him. The noise is a cacophony, a riot of sound, and for the smallest moment the sheer size of the wave paralyses him, freezes him to the spot, with the child pressed to his chest. He knows, then, that it's over. He doesn't have time to turn around, doesn't have time to run back to the flimsy safety of the grove.
Arthur wonders if this is the moment when his life should flash before his eyes, showing him all the little mistakes, all the regrets, all the things he will never get around to finishing. As the avalanche approaches him, Arthur turns, crouches in a way that might protect the girl from the worst of the onslaught, and something, a cruel twist of fate, makes him look up to meet Merlin's eyes. Merlin, who stands not five feet away, hand outstretched, eyes shining like the blue of the ocean.
He thinks this is how it ends. That Merlin dies with him is both the worst thing he can imagine and undeniable comfort. The girl trembles in his arms.
Arthur smiles at Merlin. He wants this last moment to be good, and for a split second it is the best thing in the world as Merlin smiles back and his face says everything that his words never could. The moment breaks, and Merlin's expression hardens into a mask of grief and determination, heartbreaking and terrible. His eyes flash gold.
Silence.
The roar of the mudslide is gone. The patter of raindrops on his skin sounds distant and soft. The river's thrashing is somehow dull and far away.
Merlin's eyes seem to pierce him, begging Arthur to understand something he's long since forgiven, and Arthur slowly uncurls to let the girl go. She rushes to her mother, who stands shocked and silent at the edge of the grove. Silence prevails, movement in any direction seems impossible, and Arthur is still frozen, still stuck in the mud. He wants to reassure Merlin, but there is something about the magnitude of this event that prevents him from so much as making a sound.
It's Dagonet who steps up behind Merlin and slowly, carefully raises his sword to rest between Merlin's shoulder blades.
Arthur has never hated one of his knights before. "Merlin," Dagonet says, his voice soft but true, "in accordance with the laws of Camelot-"
Merlin looks at him, and Arthur can't do anything, not a bloody thing. He can't even move. His legs feel like rock and his tongue is heavy, his throat blocked with premature grief.
"-I hereby arrest you for the crime of sorcery."
On the last word, two knights who joked with Merlin the night before, who laughed about his stories and ate his dreadful cooking, sidle up to him and put their hands on his shoulders, pushing him to his knees. It occurs to Arthur that they expect to execute Merlin right here, without so much as a trial. Not that there needs to be a trial - three dozen people have seen Merlin perform a powerful feat of magic.
Merlin's eyes never leave him. They're staring at each other across a distance that couldn't be wider if Arthur were on the other side of the world.
"Merlin," Arthur says, and his voice sounds nothing like an executioner's. There is one thing he knows, one thing only, and it's a simple fact. He can't kill Merlin. He can't watch Merlin be killed. And he can't let anyone try.
Merlin looks haunted, in pain, like an animal cornered at its own den, protecting something smaller than itself. "Arthur, I-"
Dagonet's sword digs a little into Merlin's back, a warning not to speak out of turn, a gentle gesture that makes Arthur want to rip Dagonet's arm out of its socket. "Stand down, Sir Dagonet. We have the man surrounded, no reason to antagonise him."
The knight nods and backs up a step, close enough to act if Merlin tries anything. It's not what Arthur wants, and it's all he's going to get. "Merlin," Arthur says again, unsure how to fix any of this.
"Arthur," Merlin says, a pleading note to his voice, "you have to know that I never, never used my magic against you."
Arthur blinks. This is unexpected. "Merlin, I-"
"I swear, Arthur, I only wanted to protect you, and I'm sorry." Merlin is struggling with his words, on the verge of a breakdown of epic proportions, and Arthur should probably be scared. He can read the fear on everyone else's faces. They are terrified of what Merlin can do, and Arthur's been so focused on him, he hasn't even noticed.
"You're sorry?" It's kind of hard to believe now that Merlin has anything to be sorry for, what with the swords at his back and an execution in the works because he saved everyone's life. It's ridiculous, and Arthur bites down on the inappropriate hysterical laughter that seems to have taken up residence in his chest.
Merlin nods, his whole body shaking with the movement, his hair dripping rain water as it flies around his face with delayed momentum. "I am. You have no idea how much. I wanted to tell you, I never meant to lie to you."
Arthur swallows, his throat closing up, because this still hurts, the betrayal and the lies. Merlin didn't trust him enough, never has, and that's reflecting only on what kind of person Arthur is. It's not the kind of person he wants to be. "Merlin," he says, surprised at the force of anger that comes through, "I don't know how anyone can be as stupid as you and still live to be your age. Really," he says, stalking over to where Merlin is still kneeling, "how did you survive the last couple of years?"
Standing above Merlin, looking down at his bent head, their connection broken somewhere between I'm sorry and you're an idiot, Arthur feels like his heart is going to jump out of his chest. This isn't right, he knows it's not, and he can't think beyond the flash of Merlin's eyes, the paleness of his skin, the slight tremor in his hands that betrays how much he's holding it together.
"I asked you a question," he says, softer than he's ever spoken to Merlin, soft like one of them is about to die. He drops to one knee, arm resting on his thigh as he looks right into Merlin's eyes, blue again, blue and wide and scared, but not of swords, not of the knights or the King's wrath, scared only that Arthur might... what?
"Merlin," he says. Merlin, who makes a habit out of trading his life for Arthur's, looks into his eyes with all the insolence and irreverence he's shown from day one. "You have to know," Arthur says, trying to remember the exact words Merlin used, "that I would never, never use my sword against you."
Merlin gasps, one word like the last breath of a dying titan: "Arthur."
Arthur clenches his teeth and stands up. His eyes wander over the scared, angry faces, finding Aglovale, who will back him up now but report everything to his father; Dagonet, who is loyal to the crown, and never defies his convictions; the elder Paul whose stormy expression plays mirror to the dark sky. They all look to Arthur for guidance. They expect him to lead and make the right decision when all he can think of is Merlin.
"Sir Aglovale," he calls, "would you lend me your sword?"
Merlin looks as startled as Aglovale as the man hands his sword to Arthur, who flips it in a showy wrist curl to test the handling of the blade. It's a good, solid piece, and all eyes are on his hands now, which is exactly how Arthur wants it. "Stand up, Merlin."
There is a reluctance in Merlin's movement that tells Arthur exactly how much Merlin trusts him: enough to do as he says, but not enough to put all of himself on the line. It's the magic all over again, and maybe he's putting the tip of the blade to Merlin's breast with a little more force than necessary. He doesn't break the fabric of Merlin's tunic, but there could be a small bruise tomorrow. If all goes well, there can be a bruise tomorrow.
"You've committed one of the greatest crimes in Camelot. The use of magic within our borders is punishable by death, to be judged immediately and without recourse if there are enough trustworthy witnesses." He speaks in a daze, his voice reaching every person that Merlin's magic just saved, reaching into their minds and hearts. "To use magic is itself a treasonous act, and it cannot be forgiven." He breathes, once, and steels himself for what's to come. This has to work. There are no other options. "However-"
Everyone gasps as Arthur's sword arm lowers, but it's Merlin who looks at him with a question that Arthur can't answer. "However, you used your magic to save not just myself, but this little girl," he nods toward the mother, who holds the child cradled to her chest, "and everyone here from certain death." In the pause he leaves to let his words sink in, Arthur has a chance to look at the river, and the sight is almost beautiful. The mud, hardened and glazed, makes a better flood bank than anything they could have constructed, and it drags a smile out of him. Merlin is just a little bit brilliant, on occasion.
"For that act of kindness," and heroic stupidity, "I grant you your life. For this once, you may live, but know this."
Arthur can't breathe, his shoulder hurts, and he's tired like he hasn't slept in days, but he speaks the words anyway, even as they rip something small and fragile in him to shreds. "You are banished from Camelot. If you are ever seen within the borders of this kingdom again, my men will hunt you, and they will kill you on sight."
Merlin is shaking his head, and Arthur thinks - a little embarrassed on Merlin's behalf - that only part of the water running down his face is rain. It's not like he doesn't feel a little choked up himself. In some ways this is worse than dying. Only, there is perhaps nothing worse than dying if the dying is done by someone he loves.
Arthur drops the sword. "Merlin, you have to leave."
"No," Merlin says. "No, Arthur, I can't."
The knights are quiet, watching, waiting for their orders, and the villagers begin to talk amongst themselves. Arthur can feel the mood shift into something nasty - no one likes to wait, and not the least when they expect entertainment. He is too close to Merlin, almost close enough to touch, and there is nothing he wants to do more.
"Merlin," Arthur says, trying to put some of that sternness, some of that command back into his voice and failing, failing, failing. "Please. I order you to leave."
Merlin is shaking before him, not just with denial, but cold and emotion and a terrible loneliness that Arthur can feel in his own bones, creeping through him like nightshade vines. "Arthur, no. I can't leave you."
"What good are you to me dead?" He's suddenly angry, angry that Merlin never follows an order, angry that he's not the man Merlin can trust with his secrets, angry that Merlin's life means so little to Merlin and so much to him.
Merlin recoils from Arthur as if the words are a physical attack, as if Arthur would. Just another of those reasons why Arthur doesn't deserve the kind of devotion Merlin shows him, why this end to their story was always inevitable. "Okay," Merlin says, a little unsteadily, "okay, I'll leave. I won't come back to Camelot."
Arthur nods, and he thinks this is the worst of it, but Merlin looks up at him, from the hint of a bow, like he had in the courtyard, like he had when he'd called Arthur My Lord and made it sound like something dirty and strangely intimate. "I won't come back," Merlin says, "unless you want me to."
The words mean little, but the tone undoes something in Arthur, and he thinks maybe. He thinks perhaps. He thinks to hell with kings and crowns and responsibilities. If Merlin asks him now, if Merlin says another word, Arthur knows his answer will be yes. He's on fire with it, aching with the possibility of giving it all up for a servant boy who can stop hell itself in its tracks with his magic.
But Merlin has said his last, and his eyes are cast to the ground when he murmurs a few words Arthur doesn't recognise. It's nothing like the flashy magic of the witch that once tried to kill Arthur with a song. No storms come to take Merlin away; he just fades into the rain and is gone, within an instant.
Arthur fights to keep himself composed and wins. He's still crown prince of Camelot. There is still a possibly magic rainfall and a patrol, still people to save and men to lead. He can do this.
He can.
Such was the young one's power that none of us would miss this spectacle, this pure and unharnessed energy spilling into the world. He took life and he took death and judged them unworthy. His destiny was with the greatest, not just kings and sorcerers, but the gods of the living and the gods of the dead.
And we came, and we saw.
The immortal boy, the living magic, our salvation in the face of fading power, of lapsing faith. If we could make use of him, we would be immeasurable once more, beyond imagination.
But the boy never asked our names, never let his eyes stray upward to behold our true forms, and so he returned to his place at the side of the future king, glowing with power where no one could see, where no one would bow before him. He chose this man above all others, chose the to-be king, the unfinished boy whose life was etched into the pages of destiny with blood.
The eyes of the gods were upon him, but he only had eyes for his king.
Part Two: Cataclysm
V.
Arthur dreams of a crown. It glitters in his hands, throwing the light of a hundred torches and candles back at him, reflecting his face in the polished surface. It's smaller than his own, more fragile, with a distinctly feminine grace to it. He recognises it from a painting he's seen as a child: it is the crown of Queen Igraine.
His hands shake.
A hand on his shoulder makes him turn, and Merlin is there, Merlin is there, and for a moment that's all that matters. He's swathed in dark blue silk, robes that highlight his pale skin and brings out the colour of his eyes. Merlin smiles at him, and Arthur thinks yes and anything, waiting, maybe hoping for something he can't name, and Merlin leans close to him.
"It's okay," Merlin says, breath hot on Arthur's ear. "All this is necessary."
Another hand, reluctant, soft at the rise of his hip, and Arthur turns to face Gwen, who looks radiant like the sun, beautiful and strong.
"It's okay," she says, smile warm in his heart. "You can trust me."
The ride back to Camelot is long and lonely. They are soaked to the bones, and even shelter doesn't afford them much chance to dry out. His men are miserable, and Arthur feels hardened by the events in the valley, less inclined to hear their concerns. Part of him is glad of the suffering, glad of the cold and discomfort that follows them now, proof, if only to him, that Merlin's presence has made everything a little warmer, a little brighter.
Aglovale rides with Dagonet now, a constellation that has the potential to cause him a bit of grief down the line or maybe save him a lot of trouble. A day ago, he would have trusted either of them with his life; now he realizes that his life was never the problem. Merlin is alive, at least, but exile is only preferable to death for the possibility that it may be overturned. It's a cold comfort in this dripping cave, surrounded by men who are not his but his father's and may never turn out to be fully loyal to anyone else. Men like Aglovale swear on the crown, but it is the man they follow into battle.
"Sire," Dagonet says as he sits down across the fire, far enough to be out of reach of Arthur's arm, not too far for Arthur to make out the trepidation on the boy's face. He's silent, waiting for his cue, as all proper vassals of a prince should, and so much unlike Merlin it stings deep beneath Arthur's skin. He considers letting the boy sit in his own juices for the rest of the night, letting him swallow whatever words he thinks he has to say.
It's Merlin's voice in his head telling him not to be a prat that changes his mind. He gestures for Dagonet to speak, too uncertain in his slow boiling anger to trust his own voice. Dagonet fidgets, his fingers tangled in the hem of his tunic sleeves, too long and frayed to be anything other than hand-me-downs. He remembers nothing of Dagonet's circumstances, whether he has older brothers that would lend him clothes or a Lord for a father who is so destitute Dagonet has to borrow from the church to dress himself.
"Aglovale has explained to me," Dagonet says haltingly. "He says that in future, I should be more careful to take my orders from you and not, well - he says that until I am old enough to grow a beard I should not try to think for myself."
This may well be the longest sentence Arthur has ever heard from Dagonet, who looks much younger in the flickering light than he has any right to look. He's killed men under Arthur's orders in two border skirmishes and one knight in mortal combat over the honour of a castle servant. Right now, Dagonet is little more than a frightened child, vying for the kind of acknowledgement Arthur spent a whole life trying not to want from his own father.
"Merlin," Arthur begins, but the name settles on him like an accusation. It's not Dagonet's fault that Arthur hasn't been able to protect his servant. His friend. "He's a sorcerer and he broke the law."
Dagonet nods, a frown deepening on his unmarked face. "Then I did the right thing, Sire?"
Arthur's teeth clench; his nails dig into the flesh of his palms. The hopefulness in Dagonet's tone grates like mail on bare skin. It's Arthur's responsibility to reassure his knights in their moments of doubt, and this should be simple. The law is clear: Merlin committed treason. With the best intentions - he saved them all - but treason doesn't come with exonerating circumstances. There are no second chances for sorcerers in Uther's kingdom.
Arthur forces his voice into a semblance of pleasantness. "You did what you had to do, Dagonet. That is all a man can do. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you will truly be a knight of Camelot."
Dagonet mulls this over, light and shadow flickering across his features, making him, by turns, into a child and a demon. It looks to Arthur like the masks in a theatre, revealing only what the audience wants to see. "I think I understand, Sire."
Arthur snorts, "If that is so, then perhaps you can explain it to me." He bites down on the rest, the admission of guilt, confusion, desire. He can barely justify the reaction to himself, not to mention one of his men. But Dagonet is still in thought, looking into the fire and somehow past it. The silence stretches into the night, minutes or perhaps hours, and Arthur is about to turn in, when Dagonet looks into his eyes.
"Sire," the boy says, "I have done you wrong. I apologise."
Arthur almost chokes on his breath. "There is nothing-"
"Excuse me," Dagonet says, interrupting Arthur the way only Merlin has ever dared, "but there is. I followed the letter of the law, I know that, but I took something from you. I can see that in the way you look at me, like the next time we spar, the blade may not stop an inch in front of my face."
The truth of it shames Arthur. This new wisdom fits ill with Dagonet's youthful face and lanky frame, but it fits even less with the man Arthur wants to be, the man Merlin sees in him. "I assure you, whatever my personal feelings, I will always put Camelot first."
Dagonet sighs, looking small and forlorn. "Camelot," he says, "is just a concept, an ideal we all strive for, the name we give all our unconscious hopes. It's not Camelot we bleed and die for, Sire." Dagonet gets up, plunging his expression into darkness. "It's the man who is everything that Camelot stands for."
Dagonet leaves to sit with Aglovale, and the older knight smiles at the boy with a warmth that makes Arthur uncomfortable just watching them. It throws his own loneliness into sharp relief. Merlin is gone from his life, gone forever, and the loss is, in some ways, worse than death. At least in death, there can be closure, sometimes. This is just an endless string of days stretching ahead of him, none with Merlin in them. It raises the skin on his arms and the hair on his neck.
He feels watched, invisible eyes on his back that judge him for his weakness; he sleeps only fitfully and wakes with every small sound. Until giving up on rest in the early hours of the morning he waits for the washed-out sunrise behind the clouds. He drives the soldiers hard for the next few days, exhausting everyone including himself, but sleep comes easier when he can't feel most of his body from exertion and his mind settles into a state like grey mist.
Nothing changes. Perhaps that is the crux of it, what reminds him every other moment that there is a Merlin-shaped hole in the world. They arrive in the castle under the cover of darkness, turning the horses over to glowering grooms, thrown out of bed at such an unnatural hour that even their fear of the king doesn't inspire the appropriate expression of servile vacancy. Arthur likes it and doesn't threaten anyone with the stocks. Much. Still, it stings, reminding him what Merlin had to say about indulging Arthur's whims after his bed time.
His horse taken away, his men off to rest their aching bones or get stone-cold drunk, Arthur is suddenly void of momentum. He knows what he has to do, and the thought of it makes his stomach roll with acid. Still, he finds his way to Gaius' chambers on instinct, sparing a small thought to what he might tell his father in the morning of the troubles that the rain brought to the land and of Merlin's departure. The rest of his concentration is circling around Merlin, Merlin as he'd looked in the village, distraught over all the wrong problems.
Gaius is asleep in his cot when Arthur lets himself in, and it occurs to him that it may do the old man no good to hear such bad news in the middle of the night. He's just about to turn around, when Gaius opens his eyes.
"Sire?"
Arthur has a thousand phrases for this sort of thing, learnt in an effort to be a better military leader. A prince should be able to tell his subjects of the demise of their loved ones, not stumble around their grief like a buffoon.
"Gaius, I..." He can't think of a single thing that would do the past few days justice or come close to explaining what they have lost.
"Your Highness," Gaius says, sounding alarmed, "where is Merlin?"
Arthur stares at Gaius, and words fail him. He blinks at the man who has always treated Arthur kindly, who has taken Merlin as his apprentice and perhaps more, and kindness fails him. There is a protocol for this situation somewhere in some musty book Arthur is glad he's never read. "Gaius."
Sitting again, Gaius raises a hand to his mouth, eyes staring an accusation. Arthur can't deny it and faces the pained glare head-on. "There was... there was a flood and an avalanche. Merlin. He..."
Gaius emits a noise Arthur has never heard, something primal and in pain, and it dawns on him that he's unnecessarily cruel. "No," Arthur says, "he's not dead." The relief spreads instantly over Gaius' face, only to be chased by renewed worry.
"Where is he, Your Highness?"
Arthur sighs. He leans against the table that holds most of Gaius' current experiments. "Merlin - I think you will agree with me on this - is kind of extraordinary and also extraordinarily stupid." He feels a little pang for insulting Merlin when he isn't here to defend himself. "He... when the avalanche came down the mountain, I tried to save a little girl, and he just. He wrapped the earth and water that was going to kill me around his magic and built a flood bank with it."
Gaius laughs, holding his head in his hands, obscuring his face completely in the darkness. "I always knew his showing off was going to get him in trouble."
"Know this, Gaius: I am not asking, as the crown prince or my father's man, if you've ever known of the magic," Arthur says, aware of the gravity of such a charge. Men have been executed for less. "But I want you to know that Merlin has shown bravery, and I owe him my life."
This draws a small chuckle from Gaius. "More than you know, Sire."
Arthur rolls his eyes even though he's likely as obscured by shadows to Gaius as Gaius is to him. "I've had a lot of time to think, and I understand most of it, why he lied to me." He takes a breath. "Why you do." Gaius gasps but doesn't say anything more. Arthur continues. "He revealed himself spectacularly in front of my knights, Gaius. I couldn't do much, but I did give him his life. If he has any sense at all, he'll be long beyond the borders."
Gaius looks up sharply at that, and Arthur winces. "Are we talking about the same boy?" Gaius asks.
"In any case," Arthur says, too raw to start joking about Merlin yet and too worried to acknowledge that the idiot might not run as far and fast as he should. "Should my father ever ask, Merlin fell in love with some girl in a village we rode through, and being the magnanimous person I am, I let him stay."
Gaius nods, the noise more prevalent than the movement. "I understand, Sire."
Arthur draws himself up. "Good, then, that's all I came for. If you could tell his mother and perhaps-"
"I'll tell her to come see you, after."
Arthur gives a curt nod. "Thanks, Gaius."
Old eyes bore right into his, and Arthur can't help feeling like he is eight years old again, scared of the medicine and so very lonely. Gaius had been scary then, but he'd always given Arthur small treats and tried to make him laugh. Now he is oddly frail, like fading ink. It unsettles Arthur, and he turns away.
"Arthur," Gaius calls, and it may be the first time Gaius has called him that to his face in years. "Thank you. For everything."
He's still trying to figure out what that means long after turning in for the night, body wrecked from their race back to the castle and mind whirling.
Another night of restless, fitful sleep finds Arthur on edge and tired, muscles aching. The world seems to take his lead and presents as a wall of grey misery, dripping doom from the sky one drop of rain at a time. This particular morning has all the makings of late autumn, something cold and dark and dreary. He's not worrying about Merlin, where he'll sleep, if he's made the border yet, but if Arthur were to worry, the weather would be an additional problem. Merlin can take care of himself just fine, of course, unless he's being an idiot, which isn't as much out of the question as Arthur might hope.
He gets out of bed with the enthusiasm his knights display for night-time manoeuvres. It's a distinct possibility that he looks the part, bags under his eyes and a scowl that sends the meek little servant, come to help him with his clothes, stumbling in the other direction. He doesn't even have to say anything, and that hasn't happened since Merlin. A lot of small things in his life have Merlin's touch all over.
Shrugging into his brown leather coat, Arthur prepares the story he hopes he won't even have to tell his father. In this one thing, he is lucky.
"What of the patrol, Arthur?" His father addresses him in between the discussion of Mercia's messenger and whether or not to hear the missive from Wessex. "I was informed of your return last night. Apparently the horses were in quite a state." The words are clipped, sharp edges sticking out everywhere.
Arthur explains at length about the crops, the unhappy villagers, and skirts around the flood incident in vague terms of charity and brave knights. He manages despite the image in his mind of Merlin on his knees, eyes burning into Arthur's, water matting shiny black hair against his skull. His father reacts with a troubled frown to the news but keeps his own counsel for now. Arthur has a feeling they will be getting back to this later, with no advisers or guards to stay the king's tongue.
The meeting of the council passes quickly after his report, and he is free for the rest of the afternoon. His father still sends him worried glances when he thinks Arthur isn't looking, adding a layer of defiance to Arthur's nods and smiles. Escaping from the council chambers proves easier than expected, as his father waves him off without so much as a question. A part of Arthur wants to stay and tell his father to stop treating him like a sick child, but the rest of him is exhausted enough to let it go.
"Sire." Hunith's voice stops him in the archway leading to the stairs and his chambers. He turns to smile at her, forcing his face not to show any of his thoughts. She looks good, healthy, and Arthur begins to wonder how much magic was involved in her illness and her recovery. Her hair and skin seem more radiant, shining with a new, slightly alien light.
"Hunith," he says, giving her a nod. The acknowledgement is due a noblewoman, and who could be nobler than the woman who raised Merlin? Anyone who raised such a difficult child with their sanity intact has to be a warrior or a saint.
She touches his arm where the injury has turned his skin as sensitive as the pads of his fingers. "Arthur, tell me of Merlin." She sounds calm, collected, but there is a wildness in her eyes that reminds him of the avalanche. Merlin gets that look, too, just before he does something stupid and brave.
He leads Hunith back to his chambers, regardless of who may be watching. They can't have this conversation in the corridors or none of it will be a secret much longer. She frowns at the state of his room, and Arthur wonders if that's a motherly thing or just the fact that he's been without a servant for half a day. Left to his own devices, he tends to be a bit of a slob, but he has yet to find the resolve to organise a replacement.
"Sit," he says and gestures at the fur-covered chair. Hunith looks suspicious, with good enough reason - a peasant like her is expected to stand or kneel - but she is Merlin's mother. She is the closest he has ever come to that sentiment of having a mother, even by proxy. He owes it to Merlin to treat her with respect. Besides that, he finds himself fond of her.
"I want you to know that the decision to send Merlin away hasn't been an easy one," he says, fidgeting with his hands behind his back, "and I never would have pushed for exile if there had been other options."
Hunith leans forward, searching for something in his face. "He used magic." It is not a question at all, and Arthur is more than tired of this particular secret, not that there has ever been the slightest chance that Hunith didn't know. The dragon had pretty much said as much, drawing a picture of Merlin as one of the most powerful magical creatures this land had ever borne.
He must have been a terror as a child. "Spectacularly. There was absolutely no way to hide what he did, or I would have tried." He winces inwardly at the ease with which the treasonous words roll from his tongue.
Hunith smiles, brittle, with an edge that makes Arthur shiver. That wildness surges in her eyes again and Arthur drops his gaze. "One of the knights, he pulled his sword and forced a decision right there, so I told him to go. I told him not to come back."
Nodding, Hunith takes in the meaning of Arthur's words. It must be strange to face the disappearance of a beloved child like this, with no one to blame but the messenger. "I understand, Sire, but perhaps you do not." She rises and places her hands on his shoulders. "Merlin will return to Camelot, maybe sooner than you think."
Arthur swallows. "I don't know-"
"Have faith, Arthur Pendragon," she says and kisses his forehead. "I will be here to await his return. Gaius has offered me Merlin's room as temporary lodgings."
His father finds him a few hours later as Arthur tries to get himself into his armour without assistance. A buckle snags in the back, hooked just under the edge of the pauldron where he can't reach. His father doesn't speak - not moving to help him, either - and just stares at Arthur as if he's some kind of dangerous magical beast.
"Father?"
"You do not lie to me," his father says, voice icy. Arthur can't figure out if it's a warning or a question.
"Of course not." And he hasn't, not yet anyway. He isn't even sure if he can or if his father would see right through any attempt.
"Right, then, I assume it wasn't so much a lie as that you left something out. Something significant."
Arthur swallows hard, his heart somewhere in his throat, fluttering like a trapped bird. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
His father sneers; it's an expression Arthur has become accustomed to from those who want to kill him for crimes committed just after he was born. To see that shadow on his father's face makes Arthur shudder, now wondering if something has taken hold of the king. Perhaps it is the same magic drowning the kingdom one drop of rain at a time. Knuckles white on top of the hilt, gripping his sword tight, Uther stands and says nothing. He breathes heavier with anger or fear, and Arthur is holding his breath.
"I've been informed," his father says, "that there was a magical incident." Arthur takes a hiss of a breath. "The boy, that idiot manservant of yours, he did magic."
"Father, I-"
Uther's hand is at his throat within the beat of a heart. Arthur backs against the wall on instinct, his armour digging into his shoulders. "You do not interrupt me, you do not speak until I tell you to speak, and you do not ever, ever lie to me again." The coldness of Uther's voice, the controlled fury, hits Arthur like a blow to the chest. He can only nod, unsure how to behave in his position. To openly defy the king is not an option, but the violence, the invasiveness of the gesture sets something in Arthur alight with his own brand of fury.
"Should harm come to the kingdom through your actions in this matter," Uther says, voice tight and void of emotion, "I will not hesitate to name a different successor from the ranks of the knights."
Arthur's eyes widen. This is impossible, his father wouldn't. His father wouldn't. "Father-"
Uther tightens his grip, sparking Arthur's reflex to fight. His hands are at his throat, gripping Uther's wrist, before he can think about what he's doing. Uther relents, takes his hand off and steps back, still ice cold and angry like Arthur has never seen. Uther's voice rubs raw every bit of love Arthur has for his father. "If you have ever wondered," Uther says, "whether I might have you executed for high treason, let this be your answer. The rule of law in Camelot does not bend for princes nor kings."
This is the moment, Arthur can taste it on his tongue, the moment to confront his father with the truth about his birth. But he can't force the inevitable schism, not yet. There is still so much he doesn't know, so much he owes to other people. So Arthur says nothing, merely nods like he has countless times as a boy and a youth, though never in the face of such cold calculation. One more time, Arthur has to be prince.
He hides out in Morgana's chambers for the rest of the day, listening to Morgana as she explains to him the thirty-two uses of fish oil while she embroiders a piece of silk. It's fine work, and he likes watching her precise movements, the care she takes as she places every stitch in perfect distance to the last. He stays quiet, prompting several concerned glances from her, not their usual mode of communication at all, but it's not the usual situation, either.
"Have you noticed anything odd," Arthur says into a lull in the somewhat one-sided conversation. Morgan raises a sharply defined eyebrow at him. He gestures at something invisible and quite hard to describe. "You know, about father."
Morgana puts the silk away. "When you were sick, I think something in him started to break. It's just a feeling. I wasn't in much of a state to notice."
Arthur sighs, but before he can say anything or ask what other feelings Morgana might have had, the door crashes open and Gwen stomps in. For a woman so small, Gwen can make quite a racket, and she looks stormy.
"That man," she says, voice hot and forceful, "he drives me completely crazy. Honestly, if he keeps this up, he can have the house, because I wouldn't want to be living within a hundred yards of him!"
Morgana smiles, as if this sort of behaviour is perfectly regular, both expected and welcome. If Merlin had come in spewing such... well, Merlin probably would burst into Arthur's chambers like this, but sweet Guinevere?
"I told you he was trouble," Morgana says, clearly amused, though trying to hide it behind a flaking façade of sympathy. "Men like Nimbus are not worth your time or anger, Gwen."
Gwen is so enraged that she doesn't notice Arthur at first. "He's not even a very good smith!"
This is about the new blacksmith, then, the one who won the bid for Tom's forge; bad teeth and a crooked grin is all Arthur remembers of the man. Gwen sighs and sits at the small dressing table, facing her mistress. Seeing Arthur, she blushes high on her cheeks, but a small glance to Morgana seems to allay her fears, because she doesn't avert her gaze or offer Arthur any of the usual stuttering excuses. It seems this space, which Arthur invades like a clumsy bull, has its own rules. Well, whatever Morgana does with her loyal servant is none of his business, except perhaps to imagine certain possibilities when he's alone in his chambers.
"Did you know," Gwen says, "that he harasses the kids that used to play in the little space between the house and the forge? He throws stones at them!"
Morgana laughs; it's a clear, warm sound Arthur hasn't heard from her in years. He'd thought she'd grown out of it, but perhaps where he tries to hide all his childish weaknesses, Morgana knows how to indulge them safely. He's not jealous. "I could arrange for him to release his claim on the forge," Arthur says on a whim.
Gwen's eyes widen, but the expression is new, something hungry and primal that makes him uncomfortable and fidgety. "I couldn't ask for that," she says, and Arthur can hear the want loud and clear.
"Yeah, well," Arthur says, trying for that condescension he still has packed away somewhere, "it is quite the best forge in the kingdom, and it should be operated by the best smith."
Gwen smiles at him. "If you would let me deliver the news to that, that man, I would like that."
Morgana chuckles, "I will come with you. I must see that oaf's face when you throw him out."
The women bicker for a while, and at one point, there is a scarily accurate impersonation of his father that makes Arthur choke with laughter. The twilight darkens to night, and Arthur takes his leave with a smirk and the promise to find a smith worthy of Tom's legacy. It's only when he reaches his own doors that Arthur realises he's forgotten to tell them about Merlin.
Loss crashes into him like the ocean on a stormy day, and Arthur swallows a small gasp. It's ridiculous and terrible all at once, and he wants Merlin to be here, damn all the consequences. In his rooms the absence is more pronounced, and he decides to inform the steward of his changed situation in the morning. The dirt isn't going to sweep itself, in any case. His chess board is set up for a game that he doesn't remember, his clothes are everywhere and the mess of leftovers on the table smells faintly sour.
Arthur sighs and throws himself on the bed with his breeches still tightly laced, too much work for the kind of day it's been. He'll yell at someone about it in the morning.
VI.
This is how it begins.
Merlin has been gone a week when Arthur steps out into the courtyard in which large puddles have formed a web of obstacles: a sprawling, very flat labyrinth. The rain seems almost cheerful today, and Arthur smiles at a maid as she crosses his path, her dress clinging to her skin in interesting ways. There is very little traffic: everyone keeps to the archways when they have to go out at all, to their houses and chambers when they don't.
A small child, no more than four years old, plays in the rain, red cape stuck to his back, wooden sword waving frantically in the air. The boy is fighting invisible monsters and doesn't see Arthur at all. He jumps about like a frog, splashing the water, and it's then that Arthur realises what's different.
The rain is warm.
He jumps over the bigger puddles, not to avoid the wetness but for the sheer joy of it. For a moment, there are no worries, no responsibilities, just the brush of warm rain on his skin. It passes, as these moments often do, and he continues towards his destination, leaving the boy to his imaginary foes.
Inside the hall that has served as a meeting place for the remnants of the old religion - men and women who ask the gods for small favours, and as long as no one does any actual magic, his father has let them be - there are a hundred small beds lined up in rows and a din of noise that only comes from many small voices trying to outdo everyone else. He's been to the orphanage before, and it's never been this crowded.
"Madam," he says, knowing the old woman must be about somewhere, probably mending some rags for the little ones to wear. She's like a harried mother, but her charges are multiplied. "Gran Lysanne?"
A red head pops up in front of him, attached to a scrawny girl of about twelve. "She's not here. Do you want to leave a message? Because we can't be letting people in here, 's what she said. Who are you, anyway? You're very wet. Is it still raining outside?"
Arthur blinks at the torrent of words, struck momentarily dumb. He nods and looks around again. "Where did she go?"
The girl shows him the crookedest grin he's ever seen, full of sharp teeth that stand at odd angles. "To see Jeremy. Did you know they threw him in the dungeon? That's what you get. I told him that's what he'd get for trying to help the prince."
Arthur's mood sobers instantly. "He did magic on the prince?"
She shrugs. "I don't believe in magic. It's just what they say to get us to behave when it's dark and we're supposed to be sleeping. No one can do magic for real. It's just stories."
"Right." Arthur shivers. The room is colder now, and the water that was warm and dancing on his skin covers him now like ice.
"But Jeremy totally thought he could do it, you know? Save the prince when he was all dying and stuff. Would have been a shame too, I haven't ever even seen him. Have you seen the prince?"
Arthur shudders. "Yes," he says, determined and so angry it bubbles like lava in his stomach. "I've seen the prince, and he is kind of a prat."
That earns him a brilliant smile and a snort. "Don't let Jeremy hear you say that, mister! He loves the prince. If you ask me, he ain't all that good - I like Sir Bors much better." Arthur almost chuckles. Bors is a lout but a good soldier, loyal and willing to die on a word from Arthur. He's Camelot born and bred and the only one the children are ever likely to see up close, when he visits his family.
"I have to go now," Arthur says, and the girl perks up.
"Don't you want me to tell Granny Lyss something?"
Arthur shakes his head. "No, no, I'll catch her on the way to the dungeons." The girl looks almost a little disappointed when Arthur leaves, but he has other things on his mind. Like little boys who try their hands at magic only to save his life. Apparently, he inspires stupid heroism and self-sacrifice in more than one idiot.
His talk with Lysanne about the refugee children will have to wait. He has a sorcerer to save.
It strikes him immediately upon entering the hall and leaves him at a loss for words. His father's face is grim, paler than Morgana's skin in winter, and the generals all look like they've had vinegar eggs for breakfast. It's his father's expression that catches his eye, frozen somewhere between anger and distaste, with a pallor imbuing his skin that Arthur has only ever seen on the recently deceased. For a moment, he indulges the image of an undead king leading an undead army to raze the land before them, then he clears his throat to announce his presence.
"Father," he says, "I need to speak with you."
His father lifts his gaze from the documents spread all over the council table and stares at Arthur in a confused, off-hand fashion that stings Arthur's ego. "Arthur, good, come here." His father waves him over, his other hand poised over a map. "I need a pair of different eyes, the perspective of a knight who's expected to go out and fight instead of these old armchair commanders."
Arthur doesn't look at the men, men who've served with his father, whose loyalty is with Uther Pendragon until the day they die. They are people he will never be able to lead, not just because of their age but the fact that his father knows all their little desires, all their secrets and alliances. His eyes take in the map instead, an approximation of Camelot and its borders. There are red stones as markers at every major road out of the kingdom.
"What is this?" Arthur asks. It can't be what it looks like. There is no way Camelot is involved in half a dozen different border skirmishes.
His father pins him with a look, giving Arthur flashbacks to that time he'd stared down a garter snake in the forest, all of five years old and certain he could hypnotise animals if he only tried hard enough.
"Bayard's messenger has informed us that the borders are overrun with refugees, and villagers from both sides have begun fighting for the few resources there are. High ground, caves and sloping hills are highly sought-after commodities."
Arthur swallows, thinking of Camelot's lush meadows, the rivers that bleed life into the kingdom. With the rain all of that turns into a death trap, and the people are fleeing Camelot in droves, hurtling themselves at the mercy of their enemies. Well, they are his father's enemies, but Lords and Kings never care for the peasants, only for the man behind them.
"You're going to send troops to help our people," Arthur says, and it's not a question. Their citizens are dying, driven from their homes, desperate for even so much as a dry corner to curl up in, and they are being slaughtered.
His father frowns. "I'm not sure that we should."
Arthur faces the map again, looking more closely at the positions of the markers, unsure what he's searching for, when one of them gives an almost imperceptible wobble. Arthur taps the spot with his finger, feeling something like a jolt of energy fizzle out into the air. "There, that's where we need to go."
It's the border between Mercia and Essex, where both kingdoms brush up against Camelot and the river delta has given an enormous boost to Camelot's growth both in population and wealth. The valley is indefensible and will have flooded almost instantly, leaving a sizeable portion of Camelot's citizens homeless, rushing to save themselves, right into Bayard's arms. Though there seems to be a conflict that sprang up between Mercia and Essex over who gets to invade once Camelot has fallen.
"I can't send a full army," Uther says, likely calculating the manpower he will need to fight the other five battles if Arthur loses. Arthur can't explain where it comes from, but he has a feeling that he has to be there.
"I won't need an army," Arthur says and knows it to be true. "Give me a dozen knights and fifty foot soldiers with as many horses as you can spare."
Uther's only response is a satisfied nod.
Arthur's life is tumbling into destiny, and he can feel it tearing at him. He walks towards his chambers, trying to prioritise all the things he has to do before riding out the next morning. Servants infinitely more capable than Merlin are preparing the horses and provisions for their small force, but it's like a vital part of Arthur is missing. He keeps expecting to be able to turn around and tell Merlin what he needs done before the sun goes down, and every once in a while, he speaks a few words before he notices the absence. In strange ways, Merlin isn't gone at all, like he's hiding behind an archway or always at the spot from which Arthur has just turned away.
He gets a maid to bring him up some food by smiling and asking her name. It's interesting how deep a girl of her colouring can blush, dusting pink right down her impressive cleavage. He feels almost giddy with the chance to get out of the castle, even if, at the end of their journey, they'll likely find little more than death, if not for themselves, then for the enemy. But that, at least, is the life of a soldier, the life Arthur has aimed for and been trained to embody every day since he was able to hold up one of the small wooden practice swords.
When he opens his door, Arthur doesn't yelp, but it's a near thing. Gwen stands at his window, much like Merlin tends to when he's upset or thinking of things that would upset Arthur. He announces himself with a rather more manly cough, hoping not to startle Gwen too much. Jumpy, nervous servants are never as much fun as the obnoxious, idiotic type.
Gwen doesn't startle; in fact, she doesn't even turn around, her gaze fixed on something in the courtyard. "I hear there is going to be another war." She sounds distant, very matter of fact, and Arthur wishes he could see her face. A part of him prefers the other Gwen, the one who babbles and blushes at his antics, the one that has no reason to cry. He let that Gwen down, once when he arrested her and twice when he let her father die and Morgana pay the price for speaking her mind. This Gwen seems older, and it breaks Arthur's heart, just a little.
"Not a war," Arthur says, putting as much of his confidence in his voice as he can gather. "We're going to protect Camelot's people. It's a good cause."
Gwen glances at him over her shoulder. "That would be a first, I think. A just war, fought only for the best of everyone. How does that agree with the men who will die on your sword?" Her confidence is jarring, nails on rough marble, picking at invisible scabs inside of him. His shoulder begins to throb.
"What's wrong, Gwen?" He can't help himself - it slips out despite his better judgement, and master-servant etiquette be damned. He almost reaches for her, too, almost puts a hand on her shoulder to give what little comfort he can offer. Perhaps Gwen feels Merlin's absence as keenly as he does.
Gwen turns and looks at him, her features softening just enough to make Arthur feel a little uncomfortable, a little on edge. "My Lady has a message for you," she says, but they both know it's not why she's here, why she looks like something is ending. "She says to be careful and always watch the white queen."
Arthur blinks. He takes a breath. Then he blinks again. "I have no idea what that means," he says.
Shrugging, Gwen gifts him with a smile. "Neither does she, apparently."
"Of course," Arthur says, laughing a little, "well, tell her I'll try my very hardest not to die."
Gwen swallows at his words and Arthur could hit himself for being such a clumsy idiot, but she covers up quickly. "I will let her know."
Arthur stops her from leaving with a hand on her arm, letting go as soon as she ceases her movement, propriety winning out over his odd perception that there is something else she has to tell him. "Gwen," he says very quietly, "if there is something else, anything-"
She laughs, and it's a sharp sound that stings his lungs as he breathes in. "I miss Merlin," she says, "but even more than that, I miss the man you are when he is around. I miss the sense of greatness that was always following one step behind you both."
Arthur sighs, unsure why he trusts Gwen with his weakness, only knowing that he does. "I miss him, too."
Her smile is radiant, and it strikes Arthur how beautiful Gwen really is. Sometimes it is hard to see with Morgana in the spotlight, her ethereal, hard-edged beauty shining out like the full moon, but Gwen has something of the sun in her, a warmth and gentleness that outdoes even Morgana. His thoughts drift towards solar eclipses and what it would be like to see them together; without protection, a man may be blinded.
Before she leaves, Gwen turns to him, stands on her toes and places a warm kiss against his mouth. Arthur is a little too shocked to do anything like kiss back, but it does feel very pleasant. Her eyes drop from his and there is a light blush on the skin of her neck, and Arthur thinks about maybe saying something or holding her arm to stop her from walking out the door, but the thoughts are almost clinical, and he likes her too much to make her one of his conquests.
"Be careful out there," she says as she reaches the door, and Arthur can't help smiling his most confident smile. Compared to the strangeness of women, battles are a lark. At least with a sword in his hand, he knows how to defend himself.
Gwen closes the door behind her, and Arthur is alone. The room feels cold and damp, but so does everything in the castle, everything in the whole kingdom. His gaze falls on the bed where a new game of chess is set up. Perhaps Gwen had- but why? He walks towards the polished board and the gleaming pieces with some trepidation, and from up close they look almost alive, the same kind of shivery air that Arthur has seen around the dragon. Magic, then. He waits for fear to spike in his blood, waits until he's certain it won't come.
"Merlin?" The black pieces tremble with magical energy, and Arthur touches a pawn with his fingertip. It's the same sensation he had earlier in the council chambers, but this time it doesn't go away. "Right," Arthur says, "okay then." He lets his fingers drift over the row of pawns, enjoying the slight tingle on the sensitive pads.
He nudges a white pawn forward two squares and stares as the equivalent black pawn moves forward as well. Getting up to lock the door seems like a good idea and gives him time to quietly freak out about the whole magic business, snap himself out of it and continue with the game. Merlin is terrible. Their first game is just Arthur moving the pieces around and Merlin following suit, but Merlin was right: he's a fast learner. By game three, the black pieces are almost a threat. Arthur grins as he topples the black king once more, feeling elated and on top of the world.
Arthur dreams of Merlin and blood.
They stand on a battlefield facing each other, Merlin bathed in blood, rags hanging off him and a face like thunder. Arthur knows he should fear this, fear the power and rage Merlin has within him, but there is no place in his heart for that.
"You look like crap," Arthur says to the vision of vengeance.
Merlin rolls his eyes. Flakes of dried blood fall off his face as he smiles. "Thank you, Sire. I aim to please."
The ridiculousness of the statement makes them both crack up despite the smell of death around them, and they hug over a field strewn with corpses.
The castle sleeps as Arthur makes his way down to the dungeons. He's got half a mind to visit the dragon again, but something tells him he only has time for one of his plans, and the dragon is not the prisoner he needs to free today. The guards let him through without a word. Uther hasn't given the order to keep visitors away, since there is no one who would care for the boy, no one with power who would plead his case.
Arthur feels guilt thrum in his veins like a discordant note in a song. Jeremy is a commoner, a boy without parents, not even a freedman. When the choice was between Jeremy and facing Uther's wrath, it wasn't a choice at all. Arthur had considered it an acceptable loss in the war for Camelot's soul. What impact does a servant boy have on anything?
That's why Arthur stands in front of the cell now, holding the key and waiting for the boy to wake up. Jeremy looks the worse for wear and very young, his clothes no more than rags, his hair and face streaked with dirt. His eyes stare into space, a vacant expression fixed on his face. Arthur swallows and opens the heavy wooden door, no longer uncertain.
"Hey," he says quietly. Jeremy doesn't react, doesn't even blink. Arthur sighs and crouches down next to the kid, touching his shoulder. "Jeremy?"
The only effects he manages to elicit are a shriek and Jeremy scrambling into the wall like it might swallow him up. Arthur's hand drops to his side. "Okay," he says, "no touching, I get it." He sits down cross-legged, close enough to reach over and brush his fingers over Jeremy's hair, if he stretches a little.
"I hear you've been doing some magic," he says, trying for the comedy that sorely lacks in the topic of sorcery. "I meant to thank you for that. Not the magic, of course, but the thought."
He smiles and holds the expression for as long as he can, and there, right there, is that a glance? It is: Jeremy is looking at him with big, terrified eyes, swimming with tears. Arthur's smile brightens. "Do you want some water?" Jeremy shakes his head. "Right, then, I'm going to tell you what's happening here, so that you can decide for yourself what you are going to do."
Jeremy nods. It's hard to tell if his silence is a result of mistreatment here in the dungeons or if it comes from being an orphan. Perhaps a little of both. Arthur looks around for some food, finds a mouldy piece of bread and discards the idea right away. There will be enough food to go around when they're on the road. If Jeremy decides to come with them, although Arthur can't imagine why he wouldn't.
"There is a battle on Camelot's borders, a very important battle that could decide the fate of the entire kingdom for years to come. When I walk out of this cell, I'm going to ride out with a small force to win that battle." Arthur takes a breath, smiles, and offers a hand to the boy. "I want you to come with me, as my squire."
Jeremy stares, eyes widening even more. "What?"
Arthur can't help the grin. "I want you to go to war with me." When he says it like that, it sounds a little ominous, but he brushes it aside for the sheer brilliance of his rescue plan. There's no reason why he can't conveniently forget Jeremy in one of the villages they pass, and even if the boy ends up at their destination, he wouldn't even be fighting. It's a fantastic plan.
"Do I get a sword, Sire?" Jeremy asks, and his eyes shimmer eagerly.
Oh. Well. "I'm sure we can find you one. Even Merlin managed not to kill himself, so I think you will be fine."
Jeremy nods again and works himself to his feet by clinging to the damp wall. Arthur winces at the stubborn bravery he knows well from his own brushes with incapacitation. There's no helping a man who tries to put on a brave face, so Arthur decides to focus his attention on the door until Jeremy hobbles up to his side, trembling just a little.
"Pins and needles, huh?" What Arthur really wants to know is whether or not anything needs looking at, if the boy is in any shape to be riding on horseback for the better part of the day.
Jeremy nods. "I'll be right as rain in a minute."
Arthur laughs and pats Jeremy on the back. "You haven't seen the sky since you've been captured, have you?"
"No, Sire," Jeremy says, a little confused.
They make their way outside with no interference from the guards. They've taken to believing Arthur when he tells them of his father's orders, even though they hardly make sense, ever since his brush with death. It's as if everyone is indulging him on some whim, but at least it proves useful.
Aglovale and Bors wait by the horses. Dagonet stumbles over his saddlebags and scares half the animals into a frenzy. They have horses for about half the men; it's more than Arthur expected. He clasps hands with the soldiers, asks their names, smiles at the women and children who bid their fathers, sons or brothers goodbye. The rain beats softly on his skin, almost a caress, and Arthur feels like victory.
"Today," he says to his assembled knights and soldiers, "we ride out to protect our people from those who would use their weakness against them. To attack families when they are running for their lives, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, is beyond atrocious. It is cowardly. Our charge, today, is to teach them that the men and women of Camelot are protected." He raises his sword, feeling the energy of the crowd crash into him. "Are you with me?"
The battle cry echoes in the courtyard even after the last of them passes the gates.
VII.
They wear leathers instead of mail, and their cloaks are stuffed into the saddlebags or wrapped around their weapons, drenched in oil to keep out the water. The horses bow beneath the constant onslaught, but the animals' steps are sure in the mud, the walking pace steady and safe.
Arthur can feel the mood of his men shift with every grey hour under the rain, and he makes camp early and often to counter ever-present fatigue. When they come across anything that can serve as shelter for all of them, he orders an hour's rest. It's never sure that they will find shelter again come nightfall. They walk through the night if there is nothing to hide under - a restless, soaked sleep is less productive than the miles they can cover.
Jeremy seems to enjoy himself, staring often at Dagonet, who promised to show him a few moves on the battlefield. The expression of devoted worship would be funny if it were directed at anyone but Dagonet, who is too young by half for this mission. That's the drawback of asking for volunteers - he ends up with those he'd rather keep safe.
A few villagers cross their path, headed for Camelot, and most of the smaller communities are empty, the huts sagging under the weight of the water, their crops pressed into the muddy ground. This is the worst of it, the vision of a kingdom devoid of life, a dead shell of something that used to breathe. The inhabitants of larger villages are huddled together in their biggest structures built of stone and mortar, even brick, and those look at Arthur with pleading eyes. They expect a saviour and all they get is Arthur and his bedraggled army.
After days and nights and more days of the same drab landscape, the soldiers are fraying at the edges, and it's almost a relief when they reach that once verdant valley. The green oasis has been replaced by brownish sludge, trampled and washed away. The township still stands, and some of the houses emit lonely columns of smoke. Arthur wonders what the people will have to say about putting up a company of soldiers, wonders if times of war have changed the people's natural inclination towards hospitality. Not that there is anything natural about any of this: the rain beats down spirits as hard as it beats down the ears of wheat on the fields.
“Sir Aglovale,” Arthur calls, “tell me, what is your opinion on our next course of action?”
Aglovale leads his horse to Arthur's side. He looks worn but in good spirits, full of that same fire that is beginning to stir in Arthur, the draw of battle. “The town is likely overburdened with people already, refugees from the surrounding villages and farms. We will be hard-pressed to find so much as a stable for the horses.”
Arthur nods. Unless the town elders have turned everyone away, sending them right into the maw of Bayard and his soldiers. Arthur has no doubt that Mercia and Essex are both using the situation to further their own interests, and taking care of other kingdoms' serfs and peasants doesn't even make the list. “We will talk to the council, see if we can't find a dry roof that'll let us sleep for the night.”
“Sire,” Aglovale says, “what about scouting parties, assessing the strength of Mercia and Essex's presence at the border?”
“Yes, send out a knight and two soldiers each, give them the fastest horses, tell them not to engage. We need the intelligence and can ill-afford to lose any men before the real fighting has even started.”
“If there is to be fighting, of course, Sire.”
Arthur looks sideways at the older man, the knight whose experience in battle is easily as long as Arthur's life. “There will be battle, of that I am certain.”
“Yes. Sire,” Aglovale says and swings himself onto the horse. He'll take it upon himself to lead a scouting party. It's the kind of man he is.
“We will wait for you in the town, roof or no roof. Be careful, be quick, and no heroics.”
Aglovale laughs at that, a deep, throaty sound that resonates despite the rain. “Of course not, Sire, that is your prerogative, is it not?”
Arthur waves him off, but he can't help the grin that spreads his lips. A hand signal is enough to get everyone moving again, now more elated for having a visible goal and the promise of warm food and dry skin at the end of it.
Arthur can't remember packing the chess set, and he's quite sure his saddlebags aren't big enough to carry the board, but there it is. Jeremy is fingering the pieces with an interest that makes Arthur a little queasy, so he sends the boy to play with Dagonet. The young knight has taken quite a shine to the daughters of the innkeeper who's put a few of the men up in his stables, and the distraction Jeremy provides may keep them all safe from the father's wrath. The church and council hall are home to most of the rest of the soldiers, while Arthur enjoys a small room above the butcher's shop. It's not an ideal solution, but the men deserve what little comfort they can get before they may be asked to die for Camelot.
“Merlin,” Arthur says into thin air and feels quite silly about it. “I don't think this is the time for games.”
The figurines tremble with magical power and shift in his perception, shift into something else. The black ones fade into a gold and red pattern that is reminiscent of the Pendragon crest; the whites divide into two groups, one taking on the blue hue of Mercia, the other a soft green that can only be the colour of Essex. The white queen stands alone, gleaming with a light all its own.
“Alright then,” Arthur says, itching to touch the lone white figure for no reason except that it feels almost painfully familiar. It feels like it might jump up and mock him any moment now, like it might sacrifice itself for him gladly. It feels like Merlin.
He runs his fingers over the board, feels the thrum of magic that runs through the polished wood. A couple of lines appear in the board, looking like grain of wood but shaped like the valley and the hills beyond. It's incredible and very obviously magic, so Arthur makes sure that the door is locked, for the little good it will do.
The white queen trembles and quivers, and suddenly it hovers a good inch over the board, making lazy circles above the three armies. Arthur suspects there might be a bird of prey above the valley, circling and watching as this conflict unfolds. But Merlin is no tactician, and the board is not a substitute for a map, which means Arthur will have to wait for word from the scouts before making decisions that could affect the whole of Albion.
Arthur reaches for the white queen, and it tickles the palm of his hand. He smiles at the little piece of carved stone and doesn't care that it makes him look daft. He puts the queen back on the board, and the magic seeps away from the chess set, returning it to the beautiful if mundane pieces Merlin sneaked into Arthur's baggage.
"Care for a game?" He moves the first pawn without waiting for an answer, and soon he's enraptured with the progress Merlin has made. They play for hours; the sky darkens from chain mail grey to a darker mass of not-quite black, until Arthur can barely see the small figures any more.
Jeremy knocks and rattles at the door, yelling something that Arthur can barely discern. "Sire," he recognises, then, "It's Sir Aglovale," and that alone is enough to make Arthur jump up and spill the chess set onto the floor. He's at the door in seconds and wrenches it open with little regard to the creaking hinges. Jeremy looks pale and drawn, breathing heavily as words spill out of his mouth on every release of air. "The scouts have returned," mixes in somewhere with, "Mercia is attacking."
He has no time to waste. Arthur pushes Jeremy into the hallway, down the crooked stairs, and out into the pouring rain.
He puts Jeremy and Dagonet to work overseeing the wounded and the dead, keeping them out of combat if at all possible. Dagonet doesn't complain, even though he is red with anger and something Arthur doesn't want to think about. The young knight's hands are checking Aglovale for wounds once more, despite the fact that the butcher, who happens to be town physician, has already made his judgement. Aglovale will live, for now, and if they win this battle, he'll return to Camelot a hero. Still, Dagonet worries and tugs at the bandages that cover the worst of Aglovale's injury.
"It's just a flesh wound," Aglovale had said, and Arthur had laughed, because they both knew an inch to either side and he wouldn't have been alive to warn them of Mercia's plans. The small troop had found signs of struggle and charred human bones, enough to warrant a further search. It led them right into the army of King Bayard, who had little regard for treaties or rules of war. They'd launched at the three men with full force, and it was only Aglovale's quick thinking and the swift horses that brought the three of them back alive. One of the foot soldiers had taken a spear to the chest, and his wounds may yet prove fatal.
Arthur can't think of his dying men when he fights, he has enough live ones to worry about, but the responsibility makes him a little hesitant, half a second slower than he would be in a fight for his own life and his alone. He charges into a group of enemies and lets his frustration carry the blade, hacking into the soldiers like they are wooden training dolls. Here, there is no sympathy.
Another of the foot soldiers goes down, taking a heavy mace to the head, and his last noises are a terrible, animal gurgling, nothing human at all in his fear-stricken face. John. The man's name was John, and that's all Arthur has time to think before three enemy soldiers come at him at once. His dagger parries more than any shield could block, and he twists under the onslaught of sword and axe and mace. The soldiers are slow, weighed down with plate armour and unaccustomed to Camelot's particular way of fighting, a technique Arthur developed himself to make use of quick reflexes and light armour.
Some part of him is aware that he must look terrifying, bathed in blood, a manic grin fixed on his face. The rage of battle has him in its grip, and this - this - is what he's trained for all his life. The kingship was always the ultimate goal, but the fighting and the killing was in his blood from the beginning. He'd fought grown men when he was twelve, and he'd enjoyed it.
"Sire," comes a voice at his side, accompanied by the clanging of metal against metal. He glanced aside to find Jeremy ducking under men twice his size, Dagonet fighting off the stray blades that threaten to skewer the boy. Their appearance pulls Arthur back into himself, and the sensation disorients him enough that he almost takes a blow.
"What news?" Arthur says while trying to fight off the men who've noticed his weakened posture and push at him now with renewed fervour.
Jeremy kicks a man's shins and scrambles to avoid the swing of that man's axe, which opens up the opportunity for Arthur to fell him with a single stroke. It's nothing like a fair fight, but Arthur isn't sure who has the favour of luck here. The forces of Mercia are well-trained fighters, good men that Arthur would welcome in his own ranks with open arms. All that Camelot's small force has going for it is sheer determination.
He pushes in front of Dagonet and slices deep into a man's arm, aware of the warm, sticky fluid that washes over his hands only as the rain purges it from his skin. There is one good thing about fighting in a downpour. "Dagonet, get Jeremy out of here. This is no place for a boy." He grabs the young knight's arm, pulling him out of the way of a hammer swinging at his head. "Make sure he stays off the field - that is an order." Dagonet glares, but he's not going to defy Arthur in the melee. He's a knight first, whatever else he may be.
And that is Arthur's worry taken care of, the small insistent voice that tells him to keep his men alive. He can push now, swing hard at the enemy and slash their tendons with his side sword. They pour at him like the rain and pearl off him like water off well-oiled leather. He gets a flashing image of Merlin, grinning at him while cleaning his boots, and yells his frustration into the din of battle.
The tide changes, Mercia falls back as some of Arthur's men break through their flank and wreak havoc on the archers. Arthur can taste victory on the air, a bitter mix of blood and fire. He yanks his sword out of its latest victim and rallies the men with a cry, putting pressure on the crumbling lines as he pushes forward.
He hears a sharp scream above, a bird, just a bird, but it seizes his heart. His eyes fly upward as the small creature begins to tumble, as it falls far behind Essex' borders. "Merlin," he says, and the victory turns to ashes.
Bursting into his room, Arthur looks frantically for the chess set, tearing through what little possessions he has here in this small, borrowed space. The board is just polished wood, the pieces completely mundane as he finds them and still he ignores it all for the white queen. When his eyes find the piece, all the fight rushes out of him, all the adrenaline turns stale in his blood. His fingers shy away from touching for fear of finding nothing but smooth surface, no hint of anything magic.
He sits against the dirt-packed wall, his legs splayed out before him on the wooden floor where the chess pieces lay scattered, and his heart beats only in that moment between knowing what could be and what is. "Merlin, you ridiculous excuse for a sorcerer, if you die out there-" He doesn't think about the other possibility, that Merlin is already dead, he doesn't. He can't. "If you die because you couldn't even follow a single order, I'm going to come to the Otherworld and kill you again."
The words feel like fire, more serious than a desperate wailing of the left-behind. It feels like an oath, and Arthur knows with a sudden clarity that the walls between the worlds would not hold him in his search for Merlin. He takes strength from that, determination, and grasps the white queen. It comes alive under his fingers, sparkling like a precious gem. He laughs, head falling back against the wall, eyes closed, because his heart is still beating. Arthur can feel Merlin's blood, his breath and his beating heart, right here on his palm.
"What are you doing, you idiot? I'll come for you, you know I will." He thinks of his other oaths, of the duty he has to the kingdom and to his father, and they crush him with their weight even as he knows that he can't be the king Camelot deserves if he isn't the man he wants to be. He's made this decision before, on a beach, knowing that to sacrifice Merlin was more than even destiny could ask of him, that his heart would grow cold and hard over it, and the prudence of a surviving heir would bring the curse of a heartless king.
The white queen begins to tremble with power, and Arthur can almost feel Merlin's presence, like only a flimsy sheet of parchment separates this room from wherever Merlin is right now. The hum of magic reminds Arthur of Uther's hand around his neck and the cold, empty eyes that had so little of his father in them. He locks the door and bars it with the small dresser for a little more time should someone spirited like Jeremy try breaking it down.
As his eyes return to the white queen, drawn in like iron to a lodestone, he finds the board changed once again, although this is a far more accurate rendition of the valley, even showing the elevation levels in a stylised form, spread out to cover most of the floor. The pieces have changed as well, looking more intricate, and they have multiplied. The band of Mercian soldiers retreating from the battlefield is marked as five pawns, but there are twenty others waiting for them at their destination. The rooks stand tall atop the natural ridge that makes part of the Mercian border, representing the line of watchtowers Bayard has been building the past two years. Bayard's forces mass at the border, shivering in anticipation. They outnumber Arthur's force double and then some.
It's the border to Essex where the white queen finds itself after a while. The piece is surrounded by the green of Essex' soldiers, and two knights flank it as they stand at the border, waiting. Bayard, however, is done waiting, and his entire force spills into the valley like an avalanche. That's all Arthur needs to set him in motion, and he's out of the door before he can even worry about anyone seeing the magical chess set.
The townsfolk arm up alongside them, grim faces washed grey and blurry in the rain. They've barricaded the main road with carts and soaked bales of straw from last year's harvest, rancid animal fat slathered on top in the hopes that some of it might catch fire should they need distraction for a mass retreat. The chances are slim, slimmer than Arthur's ever had, even making Ealdor look like a sound strategical position.
Dagonet and Jeremy hold Aglovale up between them, all of them armed with swords that will do little good with all three of them incapacitated. Arthur can see their deaths like a vision and clenches his teeth. This is the now, and so far no blood has been spilled. He needs no spectres from the future to make him even more worried, wondering idly if the dragon's old magic has been leading him here to exact some kind of revenge.
"Heads up," Sir Bors yells from the bell tower, "Mercia is coming fast, two hundred horsemen." It's the worst case scenario: two hundred men may be a terrible force, but two hundred riders are the end of this town and all that's in it.
"Ready yourselves," Arthur says above the patter of the rain and the quiet prayers of men and even women who refused to wait in their houses to be slaughtered. There is, Arthur thinks, likely a worse fate for a woman than dying on the battlefield, and the situation is such that their only choice seems how to die.
"That army is coming to take everything that is yours. They think they can just take your wealth, kill your children and burn your homes. They don't know what I know - that a people defending what it loves deeply can never be beaten. That a mother will fight like twenty men to keep her babies alive, that a farmer will be strong as an ox to defend what his hands have made. Show them what it means to fight for love."
The cry rings out around him, and it's animal and deep and full of rage. Arthur thinks of Merlin. There is nothing he can do to change Merlin's fate now, and part of him hopes the idiot escapes and runs like he was supposed to do. Another part of Arthur remembers Ealdor, remembers the wind that saved them all from certain death, and he knows that if Merlin does escape from the clutches of Essex' army, he will come and save them, consequences be damned. It's what makes Merlin the kind of man Arthur would die for and do it gladly.
Battle comes like a tidal wave, and for the longest time, all Arthur can do is thrust, parry, side step, whirl. He fights two, three people at once, dispatches enemy soldiers without counting, without thought. His muscles know every move, every step, leaving his mind empty but for the thrum of blood at his temples. The noise is incredible, the rain dampening and magnifying sounds in a strange organic rhythm. Everything looks hazy, dreamlike, cleaner than any bloody battle has the right to be. It's almost like they stepped into a book of fairy tales, rendering their story in the words of poets and bards.
Too many of Arthur's men go down; too many of the townspeople take wounds they will never recover from. No matter how many enemies they cut down, Mercia pushes on, and Arthur can feel his army break apart around him. His footing slips on a mix of blood and rain, he falls, and there is death all around. He rolls away from a falling axe, kills the man who holds it, steps out of reach of a claymore and hits another man in the face with the hilt of his dagger. He moves in old, familiar patterns and feels the rhythm carry him through where stamina and tactics have long since abandoned him.
They are failing. Arthur screams. His throat is raw, and it doesn't feel like words at all, emotions breaking out of him he can never quite afford to let show. Here, at the end of the world, it's all he has.
"Merlin!" It spills from him, over and over again, "Merlin. Merlin." The name on his lips like a prayer, like all he's ever going to believe in, all he ever needs to know.
Distant, like the sigh of wind through an abandoned castle, Arthur hears his name. "Arthur," the voice says, "I'm coming." He recognises the voice like he recognises his name, because there is nothing else it can be. Merlin, it's Merlin. People are still dying around him, and Merlin is coming to do something stupidly heroic. Again. Arthur calls out, draws the survivors into a tight defensive position that will do them no good if Mercia surrounds them. They can hold out for a bit longer, but when they do go down, there will only be death.
"Sire," comes Jeremy's voice from somewhere above. Arthur looks up and finds the boy in a suicidally dangerous position on top of the barricades. "Sire, you must see this. Look!" Arthur can see it, almost, without even rising from his crouch, can feel the the drum of hooves reverberating through the packed ground he stands on. A second army is racing toward them, and for a short, impossible moment, Arthur can't breathe, feeling crippling, undirected fear. Then he stands up and faces the kingdom of Essex as its armies pour into Camelot, and at its helm there is a white horse, gleaming despite the veil of rain. It appears, for a glimpse of a moment, to shine with the same magical light he had once seen in a forest outside of his castle, a light he had taken and later returned to its rightful owner. A dark-haired man rides towards them on a unicorn and an army follows with him. Arthur raises his arm high, a greeting and a signal, and he yells.
"Soldiers of Mercia, lay down your weapons now, or your destruction will be upon you. Any man who gives himself up will be able to return to his homestead within days. Those who fight will be killed. Don't die for the likes of Bayard."
Something must show on his face, some manic energy, perhaps even a little bit of that blasted luck, because confusion ripples through the ranks of the Mercian army, and by the time the forces of Essex crash into their lines, Mercia is halfway to surrender. The following hours are so frantic with activity and meetings, politics and logistics, that he doesn't notice at first and then forgets. In that final rush, Merlin's horse and its rider have vanished, and there is not a single bird in the sky.
VIII.
Arthur slams through the Essex honour guard with the force of a summer storm, not caring one bit if he'll find the kings of Essex with their trousers down or drooling into pillows made of baby-skins. He needs answers, and he needs them now.
"Where is Merlin?"
The younger king, Sexred, looks at him with a strangely familiar half-smile, one that speaks of pity and knowledge beyond his capability. Morgana used to wear that smile all the time around him. "He's not with us."
Arthur relaxes his fists, forces his hands to rest at his sides and not tear the men who saved this town to pieces over his... over a sorcerer. "I can see that, but where is he? Do you hold him ransom?"
Sexred laughs, peals of it, like Arthur has just told the best joke in the world. "One does not hold Emrys: he goes where he wills."
Arthur has to admit that's a pretty accurate description of Merlin, who doesn't know an order when it bites him in the arse. The word Emrys seems familiar, like he's noticed someone say it just out of reach of hearing, a whisper in the night. The name seems to curl around Arthur's image of Merlin like smoke, a layer that's all show and no substance. It's not who Merlin is, but it could be what people will call him in the future.
"You are his king," the older brother, Saeward, says from the shadows. "That much was obvious when he spoke of all your virtues. He made a very convincing case for your continued existence."
Sexred huffs and shoots his brother a glare. It's the kind of exchange Arthur has known only since Merlin came into his life and never knew he lacked until then. It makes the missing part of him more pronounced, the space beside him that's empty and shouldn't be. "Yes, well, we are aware that you are not King yet, and Emrys has made it clear that he will be killed should he return to Camelot before your ascension."
Arthur bites his lip. "That's not- I wasn't going to force him to return. I just wanted to talk to him."
Sexred's smile makes Arthur want to hit him right in the teeth. "I fear he was under the impression you were angry with him over something. He seemed skittish the closer we came to the border."
Saeward touches his brother's shoulder, and there is a loud silence, words almost spoken that Arthur can taste on his tongue. He remembers how the dragon spoke of his magical connection to the earth, wonders if that makes him more susceptible to all kinds of magic, if he attracts it like flies. Their silent conversation sets Arthur's teeth on edge and makes him flush with some strong emotion he can't quite place, but the words themselves remain a mystery. Saeward keeps glancing his way until Arthur has enough of secrecy.
"You're sorcerers." It comes out more accusatory than he expects and makes him worry how deep his ingrained prejudice actually goes and if that is something Merlin has picked up on.
His outburst doesn't have the intended effect, although Arthur isn't quite sure what he thought was going to happen. This, in any case, isn't it. Sexred bursts out into a shrill laugh that's just this side of utterly mad. "You mean... oh, you mean to say... you didn't know?" Saeward rolls his eyes, and Arthur thinks for kings of the realm, they behave remarkably like the kind of louts that frequent Camelot's taverns.
Arthur crosses his arms and tries not to look petulant. "I try not to judge people without proof."
Now Saeward looks at him with an expression Arthur has never seen, something dark and tragic. "We know of your laws, but they don't extend to Essex. Since our dear father has passed," and that information has its own hateful expression, a frown so hard it could cut through steel, "we have returned the land to the people and reinstated the old religion. Those who may be persecuted in Camelot are welcome here. In fact, that alone may make us enemies if you let your father make all the choices. Essex will pledge itself to you, Arthur Pendragon, when the time comes. For now, we will watch carefully how your destiny unfolds."
Sexred grins at Arthur, then, and he can see why they are both kings in their own right. Where Saeward is dark and gloomy, Sexred is cheerful and bright. They complement each other to make a greater whole. "Oh," Sexred says, "we have made the boy Jeremy our envoy. Remember that when your father wants to cut his head off. He's got the protection of Essex and will be our eyes and ears in Camelot."
"A spy?" The idea doesn't sit well with Arthur, but it's one way to save the boy, if he wants it.
"No," Sexred says, "look at him more as an ambassador. A promise of future friendship, if you will."
As he leaves, the eyes of one of the guards follow him, questioning his very existence with their gaze. Something about it makes Arthur's skin crawl.
Jeremy tugs at the collar of his new ambassadorial robes, trying to get the silky fabric to stop clinging to his skin for a short moment. The ensemble of furs and expensive dyes makes him look like a very colourful drowned rat. The knights, who all wear their leathers, can't help but poke fun at the boy. Arthur hides his grin so as not to embarrass him further, but he has no reason to worry. When the teasing gets to be too much, Dagonet glares at the older knights and takes the reins of Jeremy's mare to keep them a little ways back.
Aglovale rides beside Arthur, tied to his saddle in a complicated harness that takes most of the weight so as to spare his back. "Good has come from this campaign, Sire."
Arthur doesn't need to face Aglovale to know that the old man is frowning. He looks ahead instead, towards Camelot, where his father may yet destroy what little they have gained. The price has been high: not more than thirty men ride with them now, and Sir Lucan's body has been sent to his estate in the north-east. "I could have taken a stronger force, more men, more horses. I could have pressed the king on this."
"The king holds his own counsel more often than not and... Sire, may I speak freely?"
Arthur glances at Aglovale, a knight who fought with his father and Gorlois before Arthur could walk. "I have come to prize honesty, Aglovale. Please, feel free to say what you wish. I will not hold it against you."
Aglovale's grin is a little on the insolent side, clearly something Arthur wouldn't have tolerated had he never met Merlin. Now these little expressions prove to him how much his men trust and respect him, more than any humble bows ever could. "You've grown, Sire. True royalty suits you. But if I may, I think your father is not ready to accept what you have begun today. Essex is an old enemy, and the new kings are... well-"
Arthur grins. "Magic?"
"Indeed," Aglovale says. "I have heard say that they rule their land through the laws of the old religion."
"Where would you hear such a thing? Their father had no love for sorcerers." Arthur remembers the look on Saeward's face when speaking of the old king. He can imagine what it would have been like, if his father had suspected him of magical potential instead of just being the unlucky product of it.
Aglovale's face contorts in pain as he laughs, his bandages blooming with fresh red spots. Arthur makes note to look out for shelter before the old man falls off his horse. "Soldiers talk, Sire," Aglovale says, "and the new kings of Essex are well loved. Their men talk of them with stars in their eyes."
"Good," Arthur says. "I found them pleasant, as well, and fair negotiators."
"Their men also spoke of Merlin," Aglovale says, careful now, as if a single wrong word could cost him his head. "They say he is more powerful than anyone they have ever heard of, even in the stories of the great bard. They say no one with any sense would stand against him in battle, and we are lucky to have him. I didn't dare mention that he is exiled, Sire, for fear of sending our new allies to flight."
Arthur's smile feels forced on his face as he laughs. "Don't believe everything you hear, Aglovale. This is Merlin we're talking about." Arthur wonders if he's gotten worse as a liar since knowing Merlin, just by association.
"Of course, Sire," Aglovale says, and Arthur gets the feeling he is being humoured.
They make camp for the night in the same cavern that served them on the way there, huddling around several small fires in as little of their damp clothing as possible. Dagonet wrings out Jeremy's ridiculous cloak and uses it as a divider to cut off a small section of the cave for Aglovale. Arthur watches them and thinks of Merlin. He rummages through the saddlebags, but the chess set isn't there, hasn't been there since the battle. The white queen, however, sits safely on top of a bag full of dried meat.
Arthur takes out the small white piece, turning it in his hand, watching as the reflection of the fire bounces off it. "Tell me, Merlin," he says, just under his breath for no one but himself to hear, "where do we go from here?"
The white queen doesn't speak, nor hover, nor change its shape, but the tingle of magic that runs through it calms Arthur's nerves and makes him smile. He holds it in his fist as he falls asleep to the whisper of magic in his ear.
Upon their return to the castle, Arthur is accosted by two guards who look terrified and inform him that his presence is requested in the throne room with much urgency. The king, it appears, has been graced with the presence of a very high and honourable member of Bayard's court. Arthur wants to smash his wet and quietly rusting gauntlet in the man's face for denying him even a few moments to compose himself.
"Arthur," his father says, and Arthur stands shocked in the doorway. It is impossible to say what the details are, which part of his father has changed, but the overall effect is one of worn parchment, faded clothes that have been washed too many times. Father looks like the rain has scrubbed all the colour out of him.
"Father," Arthur says and forces himself into motion. He is soaked and uncomfortable and yearns for a bath, but this, here, is where the course of destiny is decided. He can feel the weight of it on his shoulders.
"How did you fare in the East?" The question is a farce. His father already knows all there is to know from the messengers they'd sent ahead. It is to the benefit of their visitor, Baron Gregory, nephew to King Bayard and altogether insufferable git. Arthur remembers being ten years old, facing the boy five years his senior and beating him in a mock tournament.
"We have encountered some trouble at the Mercian border," Arthur says, glaring at Gregory, who looks like he's bitten a lemon. "Our people are safe for the time being, as I've come to an agreement with the border patrols of Essex. The valley is defended."
His father looks up sharply at the mention of Essex. "Will they keep to the bargains you've struck with them?"
Arthur grins. "Father, I assure you, Essex does not wish a fight with Camelot."
Baron Gregory, ever the little weasel, throws his own opinion into the conversation like he owns the place. It is sure to lose him what respect his father might have afforded him due to his station. "King Uther, must I remind you that Mercia and Essex have been in a state of enmity for centuries? Any bargain you strike with them will surely make Mercia less inclined to hear your terms."
Arthur can see his father shift, ready to strike down the little presumptuous courtier, but Arthur is faster. He rounds on the man and backs him up two steps and right into the dais. "Mercia has slaughtered our people, disregarded our borders and spat in the face of our agreements. Let King Bayard be offended all he wants, but know this: Camelot is protected. A good quarter of Mercia's army has retreated with their tails between their legs at the sight of Camelot's small force. Do not make the mistake to trying our patience."
Gregory balks and lowers his eyes, and Arthur can't help the victorious smile. His father, however, looks dark and quite ready to take on Arthur's own presumptuousness. And for a moment, just a breath, Arthur wants to fight it. He can push it now, he knows he's ready, and his father's eyes say he knows it, too.
Arthur drops to one knee, bowing his head. It's not retreat, just prudence in the face of Gregory as a witness. Camelot will be stronger for it, if Arthur is still just the prince. "Father, I wish to take leave now, if you allow it. It has been a long journey."
Arthur can't look up, can't see what his father is thinking, but the hand on his shoulder is hard. Hard, not punishing, just an acknowledgement that they both know what's happening. "Go," his father says. "You've earned yourself a good night's sleep."
When Arthur looks up and smiles at his father, his father smiles back at him, and he can't see the king at all. "Thank you, father."
He dreams.
He dreams of rain.
The next few days are tiresome and full of politics that leave Arthur frustrated and lonely. He wants - no, he needs someone to be straight with him, someone who won't mince their words, so on the afternoon of the third day, he goes to find Morgana. Her rooms are empty, and the chambermaid that crosses his path on the way back assures him that she knows nothing of the Lady's whereabouts. Arthur wants to roll his eyes but refrains so as not to cause a heart attack for the poor girl, who's already almost fainted just from a smile.
He goes down to the lower town, because Gwen usually knows everything to do with Morgana, and even when she's all humble and looking at her feet, Gwen is refreshingly honest about his faults, when he doesn't push her too much. Besides, it will be nice to see Gwen. It is nicer still to find Morgana standing in the door to the smithy, wrapped into her furs and a soft leather cloak that makes Arthur a little jealous. Just the walk down from the castle has him soaked again, his shirt clinging to his skin. Of course, he could have worn his long hunting coat, but he can't remember where Merlin last put it, and his wardrobe is much larger than expected. He hadn't known one could walk in it, for one, or get lost on a turn.
"Morgana," he says, "what brings you out here in weather like this?" He's feeling funny, like the air is charged before a storm and this is the moment just before it breaks. He's been feeling like this for days, and his fingers find the chess piece in his pocket to calm himself.
Morgana turns and raises a slender finger to her lips, shushing him with a grin. "Quiet, Arthur, I don't want her to know we're here."
He's about to ask who and why and perhaps what Morgana thinks she's doing forbidding him to speak when his eyes adjust to the darkness in the room and he sees Gwen, really sees her. She wears a tunic with the sleeves cut off, leaving her arms bare, a heavy leather apron and leather gloves - the traditional garb of a blacksmith, but Arthur has never seen a blacksmith like this. Her whole body vibrates with the fall of the hammer, and there's a satisfied smile on her face as she wipes the hair and sweat out of her face. Arthur swallows, at a loss for words as he watches Gwen form a sword under capable hands, sweat running down her neck, her shoulders.
Morgana sighs. It's not a sound Arthur has ever heard from her, more like the purr of a satisfied kitten than anything human. He's beginning to feel a little out of place. "I like to watch her," Morgana says. "It's something that makes her happy, and there has been too little of that since her father died."
Arthur forces himself to calm down, find his centre so as not to make a fool of himself. "I take it the man you were angry about has left Camelot for good?"
Morgana grins devilishly. She's never been quite this beautiful before, and Arthur wonders what the world would have been like if Morgana's vengeance were ever directed at him. "He has, and wouldn't you know it, he left the title to the forge in her name. What a kind, generous man."
Arthur mirrors Morgana's grin. "Indeed, a very generous man, and smart to know an opportunity for personal growth when it comes to him."
They return to watching Gwen for a few more minutes, and Arthur feels the pressure of the past days slowly seep out of him. Morgana's eyes rest on Gwen as if she is the most precious thing in all of Albion, and Arthur recognises the look from many a moment between him and Merlin. It's something like magic and perhaps a little bit like love.
"I-" Arthur says, suddenly breathless. "Morgana, I need to go. Tell Gwen hello from me." And then he's out the door and running towards the castle, his heart beating in time with his feet pounding the pavement.
Dripping wet, Arthur bursts into the court physician's chambers, startling both Hunith and Gaius from their work cutting up herbs and stirring a cauldron respectively. Arthur breathes hard, panting a bit like an old hunting dog after a chase, but he can't contain the smile that seems to take over his face.
"Sire?" Gaius asks, looking as confused as Arthur has been until now. "Is there something you need?"
Arthur walks over to the man and wraps him in a hug, then he kisses Hunith's hand like a noblewoman's. "Yes," he says, full of giddy energy, "there is something you can help me with."
Hunith looks at him with an indulgent expression. This is what a mother must look like when her child is being a little silly; it's the look Merlin has undoubtedly grown up with, the look that made him the man he is now. "This is about Merlin, isn't it?"
Arthur grins at her, fighting an urge to just hug her like he did Gaius, against all rules of propriety. "I have to find him," Arthur says. "There is unfinished business between us."
"Sire," Gaius throws in, cautious but unmovable when it comes to Merlin's safety. It's been a long time since anyone has talked about Arthur like this, with such fierce protectiveness in just the one word. Well. Except for Merlin, who serves Arthur breakfast with that very same tone of voice. "He is a smart boy - he will be long gone."
Arthur raises his eyebrow in a pale imitation of Gaius' own. "I need to find him, Gaius. He's my friend."
That settles something, and Gaius' expression clears. He almost smiles a little, and Hunith is practically glowing. Arthur blinks, thinking he's done more than admitted to friendship, and that perhaps this is what it's like when the parents of a blushing maiden offer her hand in marriage. "In that case, Sire, you should know that Merlin is unlikely to have left Camelot."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "That much I know. Apparently he has the self-preservation instinct of a pet poodle."
Hunith takes his hand in both of hers, searching his eyes. "You know he would never leave you. Finding him should be easy: just look around you."
Arthur blushes; he can feel it heating the back of his neck. "What if he thinks I'm angry with him? What if he's hiding from me?"
Gaius laughs then, "Sire, even if he is furious, he could never stay away from you for long. At the rate you get yourself in trouble, he'll have to save you in a terribly ill-advised manoeuvre before the week is passed."
He's dressed in hunting gear, his best horse kitted out for a lengthy trip, with a second horse carrying supplies and his armour. Everything is well oiled and covered in skins to keep the rain away for a while. Arthur has permission from his father to take a few days hunting, and if he happens to go in the direction of their border with Gwent or Wessex, where there may or may not be citizens of Camelot in peril, then that would not go amiss either. They both know that Arthur's status within the kingdom is changing, and it'll give his father a little extra time.
"Arthur," comes a voice from deep below the castle, and Arthur smiles.
He's planned on seeing the dragon, but with one thing and another, he's been putting it off as the least important of his troubles. Now, just before he heads out to-
"Arthur Pendragon." It rings through Arthur's mind, insistent and tugging at him. And who is he to deny a dragon? Anyway, he has a few questions of his own that need answering.
The path to the dragon feels different, not as meandering as it used to be, more urgent and matter-of-fact. He takes a torch and bounds down the spiral stairs, reaching the cave in no time at all. There is light in here, coming from nowhere in particular, and it makes Arthur's eyes water.
"Arthur," the dragon says without so much as raising its head from the spot where it's perched. "What has kept you?"
Arthur crosses his arms after leaving the redundant torch leaning against the cave wall behind him. "I don't care for being summoned."
The dragon growls, and the air vibrates with it. "I don't care for living in a cave, I don't care for being chained, and I don't care for all those petty human struggles, but there are things in the course of destiny that can't be avoided." Arthur can't tell if the dragon is angry or resigned, the words heavy with the taste of both.
"I came because I need to know how to stop the rain," Arthur says, raising his voice against the clatter of the iron chain as the dragon shifts.
A huff of terrible laughter envelopes him, and Arthur fights not to gag or run in fear. "The rain, the rain, have I not told you all you need to know of the rain? How your little warlock broke the seals of the world, how he forced himself into the balance of the world and ripped a life from it?"
Cold wraps itself around Arthur's chest, squeezing his heart. Merlin. "Are you telling me Merlin is causing all this?"
The dragon rears up, head thrust forward and right into Arthur's face. He can count the scales on its snout. "Oh, spare me your outrage," it says, "it does you no favours. Merlin did what he did to save you. Your life means more to him than the rest of the world combined, and you know it well. It is written all over your body and your heart."
"I-" Arthur stumbles a little over the words. "I can't believe he would knowingly plunge the world into chaos. He's not that kind of person."
More draconic laughter wafts into Arthur's face, giving him chills. "But he would, he would conquer the world for you." The little chuckle squeezes like a band of cold steel around Arthur's heart. "However, you may take comfort in the fact that he did not mean it. He isn't that powerful... yet, and Merlin alone can't undo what's been done."
Arthur nods, knowing it for the truth. "Then how can we bring back the balance of the world, as you put it?"
The dragon is quiet, searching Arthur's eyes and poking at his soul. It feels very cold and very old. "You must make amends, the both of you, because Merlin's crime against the old religion is tethered to your life. I suppose you could kill yourself; that would certainly appease the gods and make for great dramatic irony in the retelling." More laughter now, and even though it is clearly at Arthur's expense, it feels less cruel somehow. "Failing that, you must seek out those who Merlin has offended. The old gods still roam this land, and they can be found if they wish it. Their servants will know how to find them. Prove yourself worthy and they may take back their judgement."
Arthur takes a deep breath. Then he takes another one, and another. He's trying to contain the strange elation he feels as the road suddenly stretches ahead of him and he knows exactly what he has to do. Sure, there are details to work out, but the future lies before him, and all he has to do is step into it.
"Arthur," the dragon says, softly, with a warmth that could almost be called human. "You must succeed in this, for the land and the people. Albion cannot take much more of this, and the gods are cruel if they want to be. They will drown everything if that is what it takes."
For the first time, Arthur can sense something like fear in the creature, fear and a bit of hope. He looks down, down the abyss, down where there was only ever darkness before, and sees the water rising. He says, "I do not have to promise anything to a dragon." And he isn't promising anything to the dragon, because his oath is for all of it. Camelot, Albion, his people. Merlin. "I will fight the gods if I have to, or I will die trying."
He knows that's enough, knows that either way, he will return the sun to Camelot. The dragon nods, and there is something shining in its eyes.
So this, then, was the young prince, the king of legend that was to come, to bring about a new age of peace and prosperity. He did not look like much, but then so few mortals did. Their strength was something altogether mundane, something that had no true reflection in the realm of gods and magic.
His tenacity, at least, was legendary. He would not give up, like a hound on the track of a wounded hart.
So this was the boy whose shoulders bore the weight of the world.
Part Three: Genesis
IX.
All his good intentions aside, Arthur feels a little listless after two days of wandering the forests around his city in widening circles. He knows Merlin isn't far, knows it like he knows there's a birth-mark on his lower back, although he hasn't seen either. He can feel Merlin's presence like a tingle at the back of his mind, but the idiot stays hidden, just out of reach. Arthur had expected as much and begins planning for his project, tentatively called How to Trap the Stupidest Sorcerer in All of Albion.
He's wet and tired of his provisions already when it occurs to him. The one thing that Merlin wouldn't let happen even at the expense of his own life is, of course, a threat to people Merlin loves. He has seen it time and again, the way Merlin would throw himself on the pyre for Hunith, for Gaius or Gwen. For him. Yes, Merlin has poisoned himself, bartered his own life to save Arthur, and it's this that may drive him out of hiding.
Somehow.
The problem that Arthur faces now is how to engineer a life-threatening situation without actually getting killed, because as much as he trusts Merlin - and for an incompetent servant and all around stupid peasant sorcerer, Arthur trusts Merlin more than is right or proper - there is the slim chance that Merlin may be too slow to intervene.
The first chance comes the next day when Arthur finds fresh animal tracks in the mud. The rain has filled them in already but not washed them away, so the creatures can't be far. He counts eight small sets and two large, and that's just brilliant luck, because one wild boar female is a challenge, but two are quite more than any knight should handle alone. Arthur knows that desperation would give him the strength to survive, but he is not sure to get out of it without scars or maimed body parts.
He follows the tracks for hours until he comes across the small clearing, tiny piglets frolicking in the mud. The mothers face away from him for now, and with the pouring rain and Arthur standing downwind they haven't noticed him yet. He waits and watches for long minutes, but the sows seem content in their leisurely search for edible bugs in the soft, watery ground, and the piglets are falling over each other in ways that make Arthur's heart clench. He contemplates what will happen to them all alone, with no mothers to protect them, and hopes that Merlin will refrain from too drastic measures.
One of them turns, and Arthur stops breathing for a moment, looking into the wide, dark eyes of a mother. He drops his sword. It's not a choice, he doesn't actually think about it, but his fingers lose their grip on the hilt, and it falls with a splash. The boar is fairly large, and her eyes regard him with uncommon intelligence. The moment lasts longer than it has any right to, stretching beyond its natural breaking point, perhaps even looping back on itself. There is only one way this can end, and a life will be taken. The sow will attack him; it's the way of the world. Arthur will have to kill, and with that he will change the balance in this small part of the forest. The piglets will die without a mother, the creatures that serve as food for the boars will thrive more readily, and the chain of life and death will be interrupted.
"Balance of the world my arse," he says and turns around. He considers leaving the sword but leans down anyway and takes it with him as he walks away from the clearing, thinking, "bugger this," and cursing the dragon and the old magic and Albion herself.
Part of Arthur hopes that Merlin hasn't seen any of that, while the rest of him is just tired enough to want to beg Merlin to show his stupid face. He considers calling out, certain that there's no one else around, only that sense of Merlin watching his back. He does have some pride left, so he makes a small fire instead and feeds the horses upon his return to the cave that serves as a temporary quarter.
A few hours into a good sulk, turning his chess piece in his fingers, Arthur hears voices come at him from the east, just on the edge of his senses. His first instinct is to arm himself and hide behind a tree to take the measure of the men heading his way, but he thinks better of it. A little acting and they might take him for an easy target and try to rob him. So he waits and pretends not to count their voices, not to listen to the clanging of the weaponry they are wearing. It's hard to ignore his natural reaction as they talk of spoiling maidens and killing old men in their sleep. They are, clearly, the type of bandit that Arthur has worked hard to rid Camelot of, one of the reasons for their increased patrols along the main roads.
"Ho," Arthur says when the first man comes into view. "What's that, then? Any of you nice fellows feel like helping a guy out?" He'd thought of the innocent lost nobleman disguise in the spur of a moment, channelling Merlin's penchant for naivete and trying to look too trusting by half. It works - there is a gleam of interest in the leader's eyes, and the group fans out around Arthur in a crude if effective half-circle formation. If he were anyone else, he might be in trouble.
"What do we have here, boys? A lost little lamb, just looking for a helping hand." The leader's teeth are brown and shining with saliva. It sends a little disgusted shudder through Arthur when the man smiles at him.
He tries hard not to notice the weapons, a sword on the belt of the leader, two daggers strapped to another man's breeches, a double-bladed axe that has seen better days on the back of a third, and the other two with crude clubs made from opportune branches. He tries not to notice how they stand, a little unbalanced from drink, one with a heavy limp, one favouring his left arm. Most of all, Arthur tries to appear as harmless as possible and yet enough of a prey to promote interest.
"I've just been heading home from Camelot. A nice bit of trading to be had there. Good profits," he says, and pats his coin pouch that only holds the chess piece. The leader's eyes nearly fall out of his head with greed. Arthur fights not to hit him in the teeth. "Yeah, so could you boys help me-"
"Oh, we'll help you, all right," says the leader. "That's right, isn't it, boys? We'll help you, take that heavy coin bag off you, lessen your burden and all that."
They draw a little closer, and all Arthur can think is that they're giving up a strategically sound position to look imposing, while they move into each other's range in a way that will give Arthur an advantage in a fight. He can use them against each other, tangle them up, and he can see it now, see clearly how he'll take down the leader with a few well-aimed blows, whirl around and use the portly one as shield against his whip-thin companion. It's all a bit sad, to be honest.
"I won't give you my money," Arthur says, a bit bored by the situation already. Where the hell is Merlin?
Then the leader licks his lips. "You will give us your money, and then we'll see about what else you can offer us," he says, and the leer gives Arthur ideas about what it means to be caught by these five thugs. What it means to be just a young nobleman or perhaps even a woman without an entourage. Suddenly, waiting for Merlin to come to the rescue is not as important as taking these men out of commission. Their terrible laughter decides Arthur's actions.
Before they can so much as blink, Arthur has the leader on his knees, bleeding from his mouth and whimpering about his broken nose. With the discarded sword he runs the big one through in a simple arc and kicks tall, blond and ugly in the groin to fantastic effect - the moron flails about with his club and brains his two comrades where they stand, dumbly watching their leader fall over. It's a farce of a fight, with four of them scrambling off and one bleeding out in the grass in front of Arthur's nice little cave.
"Oh damn," Arthur says. The trees refrain from mocking his inability to play a damsel in distress. Arthur chooses to think that Merlin is just as crap at being a knight in shining armour as he is at everything else, and instead of brooding on it he cooks a rabbit for dinner. Maybe if Merlin is hungry enough, he'll come out without someone threatening Arthur's life.
Either Arthur is underestimating Merlin's ability to delude himself or Merlin is really terrified of him, and neither of those options sits well with him, so he forgoes an uneasy sleep for traipsing through the water-logged forest in the dark. Water and forest debris in his hair, Arthur finds himself enjoying the excursion until he stumbles upon a deep hole in the ground. It looks like the constant flow of water has opened a sink hole so deep, the walls drop away into the darkness. Throwing a stone just for the sake of it, Arthur thinks, "Huh." He can't hear the stone hit bottom.
He feels Merlin on the edge of his awareness, that tingle that's begun to settle under his skin, making him squirm a little when he thinks about it too much. He smiles. Merlin is there, watching him, that much he knows with absolute certainty. Taking a deep breath, Arthur steps off the edge.
The sensation is something like drowning and something like riding a horse as fast as it will go, wind whipping at his face, his lungs begging for air, his brain screaming at him to do something, anything, until-
"I can't believe you just did that," Merlin says into Arthur's hair.
Merlin is clinging to him like a leech, arms wrapped around Arthur so tightly, breathing becomes an issue. After a second of disorientation - the air, the wind tugging at him, and then nothing, not even rain - Arthur mirrors the embrace and presses himself as close to Merlin as he can get. His skin clings to Merlin's where they're both wet, and it's the best feeling in the world. He wants to look at Merlin, then, wants to see his stupid face, but he can't bring himself to let go long enough to do it.
"Merlin," he says, and his heart is about to burst out of his chest the way it keeps pounding. "Merlin."
Merlin sighs a little, and it's not any of the things Arthur expects but a resigned, pained whisper like he remembers from being very young and asking his father about his mother. No. This isn't how this part of their story is supposed to go, and for a moment, he presses even closer to Merlin. Then he slowly pushes away, just far enough to see those wide, blue eyes. It's very dark between the trees, with no moon or stars visible due to ever-present clouds, but Arthur can see Merlin clear as day. A glow that seems to come from all around them, something magical and familiar, a bright blueish light.
Arthur grins; he can't help it. Merlin looks so guilty and so scared, and Arthur has missed him, the sharp cheekbones, the strange haircut, the perky ears, even his annoying, incessantly working mouth. Merlin is silent, waiting for judgement or something else that's completely stupid and ridiculous, and there is nothing else Arthur can do. He presses their mouths together in a kiss, teasing at Merlin's lips with his tongue and still grinning, grinning because this is the best. This is what he's been waiting for.
"I-" Merlin begins to say, and Arthur doesn't care, he really doesn't care, there's nothing that needs to be said between them right now. He dives deeper into Merlin's mouth, tongue pressing between his teeth, seeking more than just permission. He takes Merlin's face in his hands and just pushes, asking, teasing, needing Merlin to be with him on this.
"Merlin," he says, "Tell me to stop and I will." It's hard, the hardest thing he's ever said, including the banishment. If Merlin says no to him now-
"I... Arthur," Merlin says, pushing him away with just enough force to leave their foreheads leaning against each other, just enough hesitance to keep breathing the same air, lips almost touching. "What are you doing?"
Arthur laughs. "I would have thought that's pretty obvious."
"No," Merlin says, his eyes focused somewhere beyond Arthur, "I know what I think you're doing, but I can't figure out if I'm dreaming or not."
"All right then," Arthur says. "Let me explain this to you." He lunges forward, invading Merlin's mouth like it's a Mercian border town. "That is a kiss." He drops small, light kisses on the side of Merlin's mouth, tugs at his bottom lip. "Unless you're even more of a halfwit than I thought, you should probably know this."
Merlin whimpers a little as Arthur draws away again. It's a good sign. Merlin's brain may not have caught up yet, but the rest of him seems not averse to the idea. Then Merlin shakes his head. "Yes. No. I mean, I know what kissing is, obviously, I've been kissed loads of times-"
Arthur's eyes narrow, a fist clenching uncomfortably around his heart. "Have you now?"
Merlin grins sheepishly, and Arthur has to kiss that silly expression off his lips. "We, uhm," Merlin says, drawing Arthur in after every small peck like a drowning man gasping for air. "I just didn't expect. You've never-" Merlin makes a fluttery gesture with the hand that isn't currently at the base of Arthur's neck, stroking maddening little circles with his thumb.
"I've had some time to think the last couple of weeks, what with the weather and not having my annoying manservant around to distract me." Arthur feels giddy and pushes Merlin backward into the sturdy and very convenient oak behind them.
"Annoying, was he?" Merlin says, licking a stripe of heat along Arthur's throat.
Pleasure runs through Arthur's body as he presses closer to Merlin, seeking more skin, more warmth, more Merlin. "He was a right tosser, telling me he's my friend, saving my life - it was insufferable."
Merlin nods, his eyes wide and full of earnest determination. "That must have been awful," he says, and Arthur has to fight giggles. He leans into Merlin, pushing him further at the tree, feeling Merlin squirm under his touches.
"It was terrible, and then, puff, he just disappears on me. It was very disconcerting."
Merlin stiffens, eyes cast down and shoulders hunching in a defensive posture if Arthur's ever seen one. "I didn't... I thought you... hated me." The last two words are very quiet, almost a whisper. Arthur takes Merlin's chin and brings their eyes level, smiling with the happiness he feels like a glowing ball of fluff. Merlin's expression slowly melts into an answering smile.
"Merlin," Arthur says, his hands shaking ever so slightly. "I know you. I know what you've done for me and what you wanted to do for me."
"Arthur-"
He smiles at the interruption. "No, let me finish." He takes a deep breath. "You are the most useless servant I've ever had. You put the village idiots to shame sometimes. And yet, I cannot imagine living one more day without you and your stupid mouth."
Merlin swallows. He looks a little pale, but the smile on his face is blinding. "For a spoiled prince," Merlin says, "that was actually really impressive."
Arthur grins - it's impossible to hold it in - and Merlin grins right back. They're on the same page, they don't need any more words. When Arthur kisses him this time, Merlin opens up, letting him in, twining them together like a cat's cradle. Arthur pushes closer, and his leg slips between Merlin's, fitting like the links of chain mail.
They stay tucked into each other, kissing against the oak for long minutes until the friction alone is just not enough, until Arthur is mad with needing more skin, more of this feeling that radiates out from his belly like pure molten gold. Arthur feels the hand on his prick before he can even think about asking, and then there's just the feel and taste and smell of Merlin, and he arcs into it, burns with it, screams out his pleasure in that one word.
Merlin.
Merlin's release comes on the heels of his own, and Arthur watches, mystified by the sight of Merlin without control, as open as the ocean in the west. He looks like it tears out of him with almost painful intensity, like he's never expected to get this, and he's beautiful in his surprised joy. Arthur crowds Merlin against the tree once more, holding tight, face buried in a shoulder that still heaves with exertion. Merlin sniffles a little, and Arthur thinks that if Merlin is going to cry like a girl, it's probably fitting that they're once again enveloped in rain, soft and warm, like happy tears.
Merlin is asleep. He looks thinner than he used to, and Arthur can't help think it's because he's too much of a bleeding heart to hunt properly when he's not already starving. Merlin's probably made friends with half the woodland creatures, giving them names, and he couldn't possibly eat anything that went by the name of Bob.
Arthur stares into the forest, alerted by the crackling of twigs as something the size of a deer passes by. Bob. Bob would make a good stew or possibly a nice roast. He takes out some of the dried meat he's brought for rations, because clearly he's too hungry to think when he starts imaginary conversations with his imaginary dinner.
Merlin has shifted the leaves above their heads with his magic. It's easier, apparently, to use what's there already than to just throw up a shield of powerful magic. Arthur glances at the exhausted features of his friend as he lies sleeping as calmly as the dead and wonders how much the magic takes out of him. He's powerful, yes, but the dragon did say Merlin's magic is an innate part of him, and how much of Merlin is left when the magic is gone, spent to save Arthur or light a fire?
"You know," he says, "I don't just love you for your magic."
For a second, he's afraid Merlin has heard, has chosen this moment to wake up, and he thinks of three ways to deny the truth of the words in an instant, but Merlin lies still, breathing even breaths and as unconscious as a stone. It's just as well. Merlin doesn't really need to know how far he's gotten under Arthur's skin.
He banks up the small camp fire to occupy his hands. It's getting a little chilly, and away from the rain, he can feel a small breeze tugging uncomfortably at his wet tunic. The horses are calm and relaxed, the forest noises hinting at healthy night-time activity, nothing at all unusual in the atmosphere around him. No human intrusion, no unknown predators, just the rain that seems to slow down the natural world and sets everything to waiting. This is no calm before the storm. The storm has already broken, and now everyone, everything, is just waiting it out.
A kingdom can die of waiting.
His eyes fix on Merlin again, and he smiles. Merlin is a deviation, the exception to all the rules. Only, through Merlin Arthur finds that maybe it's the rules that need changing, not the people bending under them. He reaches out, fingers ghosting across Merlin's nose, his lips, and Arthur can't help it: he leans down and presses a kiss to Merlin's forehead.
He sits watch until dawn. When the dark grey of night begins to lighten into a softer, brighter shade of grey, Arthur takes Merlin's scarf, soaks it in a puddle, and throws it at Merlin's face. The expression of murderous confusion on Merlin's face is priceless, and Arthur laughs until the canopy of leaves above him rearranges to spill water onto his head. He tackles Merlin, and their laughter rings out through the forest. He feels good. Happiness like he hasn't felt for years tries to burst out of him at every moment, and it is only his dignity as a prince and his training as a knight that stop him from grinning and tumbling Merlin at every chance.
They spend much of their day learning each other from this strange new perspective. Arthur licks circles around Merlin's nipples and watches him come apart around his tongue. Merlin makes little mewling noises when Arthur tugs at his ears with his teeth. Arousal spikes in Arthur whenever Merlin shows skin, and it's the base of his neck where the leather jacket and the tunic and scarf fail to cover soft, milky skin that drives Arthur a little crazy. He nips and licks at that spot so hard he leaves bruises like marks of ownership. Perhaps they are, even though it's not the kind of possession that lends itself to orders and subservience. It feels more basic and more complicated than that. Merlin's taken up residence under Arthur's skin, and he is trying to get under Merlin's like he belongs.
"Hey," Merlin says, breaking through Arthur's brooding like a deer through undergrowth. And with quite the same wide, innocent eyes. They are riding, moving towards their destiny with a speed that can only be called reluctant.
Arthur smiles softly, because there is no defence in the world against that silly expression of trust and-
And love. "Hey," he says. He can't put words to this, can barely stand the feeling as it crushes and expands his heart. The feeling forces a smile onto his lips almost against his will and is absolutely the happiest he has ever been.
"I've been thinking," Merlin says. He's relaxed, much recovered from the state he's been without Arthur. Arthur likes to think that this has as much to do with his presence as it has with the regular meals. Perhaps he can draw up a guideline for the proper care and feeding of manservants who happen to be exiled sorcerers and give it to Merlin as a gift. But then, he thinks he isn't ever going to leave Merlin alone long enough to make it necessary.
"You think? Should I begin to worry?"
Merlin scowls, but there is something warm and carefree underneath. There has always been that sense between them, but now it's like nothing they say can mean as much as what they do for each other, to each other.
"I am trying to be serious here," Merlin says, "and this might be important."
Arthur sobers, the prince and the knight taking the forefront of his thoughts. "This is about the rain, then?" He realises that they haven't even begun to make plans. They've been riding for hours in the kind of haze that he's only ever heard of in song. It's terrifying and a little bit nice.
"When you, you know, sent me away... I went to the Isle of the Blessed." Merlin searches Arthur and seems to find what it is he needs to continue. "It felt broken. I once tried to mend a vase I dropped, purely by accident, I assure you-"
Arthur remembers the vase. It looks flawless, blue glazing over a heart of clay, but the maids swear it leaks water even though they can't find a hole or crack to explain it.
"Anyway, it felt like that. Like something my magic tried to fix and couldn't get quite right."
Looking up at the sky is an exercise in futility: rain keeps dripping into his eyes, making him blink. Arthur grins, though, and catches a few of the drops on his tongue. It tastes like nothing at all. "If you can't fix it," Arthur says, "then we just have to find someone who can."
Merlin stares at him with an incredulous expression that makes Arthur want to kiss him, so he does, almost toppling both of them off their long-suffering horses. His fingers are tangled in Merlin's hair when he says, "The dragon seems to think we should be looking for the old gods."
He's unprepared for the cold, hard anger that comes off Merlin in waves with the next breath. "The dragon? You've been talking to the dragon?"
This is when Arthur realises why conversations of a revealing nature are generally held on the ground, because his back and his horse will not forgive him easily for falling off - or rather, for being pushed, and he wonders idly if he should be more afraid of the golden fire in Merlin's eyes.
He looks into Merlin's eyes, sees the anger fade and be replaced by worry and guilt. The dawning expression of horror is vindicating and troubling both, and Arthur is on his feet before he knows what he's doing.
"Arthur-"
He can read it on Merlin's face, the fear, fear not just of what Arthur might do but of the magic that whips out of Merlin without control. "Listen," he says, his hands on Merlin, tugging him off the horse and into an embrace. "Listen to me. I know you. I know who you are, and I am not afraid of you. Or your magic."
Merlin looks shocked, pale and bloodless. Arthur's thumbs brush the black hair out of Merlin's face. "Figures that you're as bad at magic as you are at everything else," he says, smiling, unafraid as long as Merlin will just look at him.
"Arthur, I'm sorry." Merlin relaxes slowly into Arthur's arms, and it's enough. Arthur kisses him, reassurance for them both.
"Don't be," Arthur says, smiling. "I landed on something suspiciously soft. It was like magic."
Merlin laughs. He's pliant and soft in Arthur's arms when he says, "Now, I think we need to talk about which magical creatures you're allowed to listen to."
When Arthur sleeps wrapped around Merlin, breathing softly against Merlin's skin, he doesn't dream at all.
X.
The white queen is just a chess piece.
Arthur runs his fingers over the smooth surface and sighs, missing the connection even though it's not needed any more with Merlin close enough to touch. Perhaps it's time to put the toy away, time to stop relying on tokens, because this can never be more now that it's lost its magic. Just a chess piece, like the other thirty-one polished figures.
There's a hand at the base of his neck, and Merlin bites his ear, sitting next to him at the early morning camp fire. He braces himself for mocking, the light banter that seems to flow between them like a river.
"Is that?" Merlin takes the queen from him almost with reverence, like a small but invaluable treasure.
Arthur nods. "Yeah." He can't say what the little piece of ash means to him, how it's tethered him to a love he'd thought lost.
Merlin speaks a couple of strange words just under his breath, and Arthur can feel the surge of magic. The white queen glows, hovering just above Merlin's palm, and the grin on Merlin's face is blinding.
"There, fixed it for you."
When he takes it back, Arthur can feel the familiar tingle, the hum of magic that says Merlin, Merlin, Merlin just beneath his skin. He smiles and kisses Merlin on the nose, because he can.
Merlin frowns when he looks out their little cave, his hand outstretched to touch the water that comes down in sheets just beyond the entrance. Merlin looks lost, brooding, like those days after Arthur shot the unicorn. Arthur throws a piece of bread at him.
"Oy," Merlin says, whipping around. "What was that for, then? We don't really have enough rations for you to go wasting them in a fit."
Arthur raises his eyebrow, suppressing a grin. "I'll have you know, annoying my-" He's at a loss, for a moment, just what to call Merlin. "Annoying my favourite sorcerer is an honourable purpose for any piece of bread. Or even meat."
Merlin blinks, completely sidetracked, which was, of course, the point of the exercise. "I'm your only sorcerer!"
Merlin's indignant little huff makes Arthur grin. “I believe this actually makes you the worst sorcerer I ever had.”
Merlin hits him in the shoulder; it doesn't hurt, and Merlin's fingers stay gripping the fabric, splaying and flexing, sending a little thrill through Arthur's skin. Arthur takes hold of the scarf around Merlin's neck and pulls him in, kissing the pout off Merlin's lips. Merlin moans and arches into Arthur's body like that's where he wants to stay until the end of the world. They kiss for endless moments, hands roaming, graceless and with no goal to reach, no purpose but the sensation and each other.
Arthur can taste the smile on Merlin's lips, like rain with an edge of sweetness. “Arthur,” Merlin says. “I think the dragon is probably right.”
Arthur laughs, bubbles of sound breaking out of him, his forehead resting on Merlin's shoulder. “I must be doing something wrong, if you can think of the dragon at a time like this.”
Merlin squirms, twisting under Arthur's hands. “Perhaps,” he says, moulding himself to the caresses, “I'm just genius enough to think and fuck at the same time.”
Arthur growls, biting at Merlin's ear now, taking the challenge with single-minded intensity. A part of him realises that this is Merlin's playful side, swiping at him like the paw of a kitten, while the rest of him concentrates on making Merlin groan like that. He licks at Merlin's jaw and dives into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that leaves them both breathless.
“I have had an idea,” Arthur says while divesting Merlin of his tunic, peppering small kisses all over his chest. “There is an old Druidic enclave south of here across the border to Wessex, and if anyone knows where to find a couple of old gods, it's the druids.” The dragon said as much in fewer words.
Merlin stares at Arthur with wide, curious eyes. Arthur kneels before him, and that alone must be the sort of sight that can give a servant whiplash, but it must be the dirty grin that's giving him pause. Arthur opens the laces on Merlin's breeches without breaking eye contact.
“Are you even still listening to me? I should definitely remember this as one way to shut you up in future.” Merlin nods, looking a little hypnotised, blushing to the roots of his hair. Arthur takes Merlin's cock into his mouth, lips gliding over velvety skin, hot with the flush of blood.
The strangeness of having another man like this is nothing compared to the thrill of this being Merlin, Merlin who looks like it's the best thing in the world. Arthur licks at the length, sucks the head sloppily, uses his hand where he can't reach with his mouth. It is by no means an expert experience, just a lot of enthusiasm and the joy of being together, and when Arthur squeezes a little and speeds the movement of his hand, Merlin comes apart.
“Arthur, oh, oh god,” Merlin says. Arthur spits on the ground, but his mouth still tastes like Merlin when they kiss.
He's going to take care of himself with a few strokes, but Merlin, uncoordinated and floppy like a drunk rabbit, bats his hands away. It takes so very little time that Arthur may have been embarrassed were it anyone else. His release surprises him, and they're suddenly both laughing, kissing sloppily and grinning.
“Do you think,” Merlin says, later, as they lie on their shared bedroll, “that the druids will help us?”
Arthur nibbles at Merlin's ear. “They will. They still owe me a favour.”
They make slow progress with their horses tired and nervous beneath them, the rain beating harder with an additional wind that seems to drive them back the way they came. This alone would make Arthur think that they are on the right path, getting closer to the kind of creature who can switch the weather with a flick of his finger.
"Or hers," Merlin says over lunch, a stringy rabbit that may have died of old age if Arthur hadn't shot it. "There were a lot of powerful goddesses in the old religion. Think Morgana, only crazier and with the power of a hundred sorcerers."
Arthur shudders at the thought, exaggerating for Merlin's benefit, who grins like he's just won a jousting tournament.
They head westward, taking breaks for the horses more than themselves. Arthur feels buoyed by the force of Merlin's smile, the smell of his wet skin at night. The rain is a hardship, but it blankets them like a cloak, too, keeps them in a bubble of just the two of them. Merlin and Arthur. Perhaps he should worry about how good that actually feels, but he can't even try. Merlin has brought light into his life, purpose and possibility - before Merlin, all Arthur ever wanted for himself was not to disappoint all the people who had stock in his success, as a knight, as a future king.
Merlin tugs him into caves and under large trees, where the moss is soft under their hands and knees and bodies. He asks only that Arthur be with him, in that moment. Merlin has only ever asked him to be great on behalf of other people, and in a way, that too makes them similar. Merlin doesn't know what selfish thing to expect from this either. They are a matched set.
"Sire," says a bundle of dirty rags from the side of the road. It uncurls into the shape of a man, older than anyone Arthur has ever seen. "Have you some bread to spare for an old man?"
Arthur halts the horse, feeling it tremble beneath him. He jumps off and searches the saddlebags for a small loaf and some cheese, sniffing the bread for mould. He holds the pieces out to the old man with a smile. This is something he knows how to do. Charity is second only to justice as a virtue for those who seek to rule others. It's one of the harder lessons he's had to learn.
"Thank you, Sire," the old man says, grinning a toothless grin that makes Arthur worry about the toughness of the bread. But then, there is more than enough water to soak it in, if that should be an issue.
Merlin appears at his side, warmth radiating from him in waves. Arthur fights the urge to lean into Merlin's body, drawn to the power crackling under Merlin's skin and the surprised little touches Merlin allows himself when they are resting. The old man looks between them, his gaze resting on Merlin with a frown that makes Arthur's muscles tighten, tensed for something he can't quite name.
"I'm Merlin," Merlin says, holding out his hand to the man with a grin. "And this one here is Arthur."
The man's eyes widen, just a fraction, and then they almost disappear in a face-splitting smile. "Aye, I have heard of you, my Lord. A great warrior, much like your father in his youth."
Arthur flinches, mention of his father putting him on guard despite his best efforts. It calls up all his demons, everything he's tried to keep out of his head on this quest, all the promises he's breaking. "What do you know of my father?"
The old man laughs, a deep rumbling belly-laugh that would be contagious if Arthur weren't wound as tightly as a coiled spring. "Ah, the King? Not much, my Lord, and less than most. You see, my kind is not welcome in your father's court."
Arthur swallows. A sorcerer. Of course it has to be a bloody sorcerer. "I'd advise you not to speak of magic in my presence, or I will have to arrest you."
Merlin glares at him, but it's the mirth on the old man's face that makes Arthur regret his words. "Young Lord, I would not dare. I am no sorcerer, although some say that my trade is the devil's work."
Merlin gasps beside him. "You're one of the bards, aren't you?"
Another bout of laughter answers that question, but suspicion creeps into Arthur's thoughts. "There haven't been any bards in Camelot for twenty years. Why would you come here now?"
"For the stories, of course," the old man says, as if it is obvious to anyone with a brain. Arthur clenches his teeth as the man continues. "Times are changing, and a great age of beauty and valour is coming upon us. I should be lucky to witness its birth."
And in a display of the endless kind of idiocy dressed up as doing good deeds that so annoys Arthur about Merlin, Merlin asks the man to share their camp for the night. Arthur groans inwardly, unable to contain his misgivings about the old man, who has revealed nothing of himself, including his name. Merlin, though... Merlin takes to the bard like a duck to water. They seem to share almost a different language as they gush over the tales of Taliesin and giggle like the scullery maids on a feast day.
Arthur secures the perimeter, checks for predators and makes sure to be prepared if this turns out to be a trap. He doesn't trust the bard, not with the cold, calculating glances he levels at Arthur every time Merlin is lost in a story. They take the measure of each other, Arthur and the bard, fighting a silent battle. Arthur has yet to figure out what the fight is about or what kind of prize he stands to lose.
"I'm taking first watch," he says, as he tosses Merlin the bedrolls. "Try to get some sleep. I want to cross the border by nightfall, and that means getting up early."
Merlin glares at him. "You make it sound like I sleep the day away every opportunity I get."
Arthur just flips him off, too wound up to think of a good comeback, and with the bard right there, he can't really fuck Merlin into silence or, at least, incomprehension. Merlin gets the message and turns in for the night; the bard does not. His gaze on Arthur's back feels like creeping fingers, tickling at Arthur's secret thoughts.
"What?" Arthur says finally, long after Merlin falls asleep, unable to ignore the bard.
The eyes fixed on him shift, spark with the kind of fire he's only ever seen in Merlin, but more so, more intense, like looking directly into the sun. Arthur reaches for his sword and brings it forward in one instinctual motion, keeping it between him and the bard.
"You are a sorcerer," he says, resigned instead of angry, surprising himself with the lack of emotion. When has it become so easy to accept magic around him?
The bard laughs, the rumble amplified and echoing where no echo should exist. It feels like it tears through reality and barrels right into Arthur's brain. "I am only a sorcerer in so far as you are a mere animal, boy." And then the world around the bard seems to flicker, drawing in the light of their small fire, breathing shadow like a living thing. Arthur forces his hand into a fist, renewing the grip on his sword with the other. He can't show fear, not when Merlin is in no state save them with some flashy magic. Not when he isn't sure that Merlin could. The magic crashes into him, pushing him back and into a crouch that takes all his strength.
"Arthur Pendragon," the bard says, his voice booming. A glance at Merlin reveals nothing but bright light where his friend should be. Arthur swallows the fear and rage that threaten to overtake him.
"What do you want?" he presses out between breaths.
More laughter, and Arthur wants to punch the smug bastard, incredibly powerful sorcerer or not. "I want nothing of you, young king. Be glad of that, because my appetites are not easily sated. But I know what you seek and am willing to help you in exchange for the answers to three questions."
Arthur frowns at the words, recalling old stories told by nurses and the noblewomen who sometimes indulged Arthur's curiosity when he was a child. He knows what happens to the poor sods who bargain with demons. "What happens if I don't know the answers?"
"These are not that kind of question. Your answers are as much for your own benefit as they are for me."
Merlin is still caught in some kind of magical field, and Arthur is growing weak under the onslaught of energy pouring over him. "Yes, alright then, I will answer your questions."
"Very well," the bard says with a chuckle. "Why did you spare the boars in the forest?"
Arthur gapes. Why did he- "How the hell do you even know that? Have you been watching me?"
"Not you," the bard says, "no, I've had my eyes on Emrys. A great many powerful people are interested in his destiny. Your destiny, Prince, is coincidental."
Oh, well, in that case. Arthur rolls his eyes despite the rather dire situation. "If I'm so coincidental, why aren't you asking Merlin these questions?"
"His part of the quest is mostly behind him." The bard's voice sounds no less imposing for having lost its infernal echo. "His choices have been made. Yours, however, may yet decide the fate of this land. I am merely making sure that you will not bring more suffering to Albion. Now, tell me, why did you not kill the boars when killing creatures like those is in your blood?"
Arthur remembers the boar, eyes challenging him without fear or hesitation, an intelligence beyond the savvy of an animal. "There would have been no purpose to their deaths," Arthur says, trying to figure out the whys and hows while he goes along. "I would have gained little and caused much disarray. Not killing them was a small price to pay for- for balance."
The magical storm that has ripped and pushed at him lessens and Arthur can breathe freely. The bard sighs, a small smile on his face. "Why did you decide to kill those men at the cave, then?"
Arthur frowns, the men still fresh in his mind, their harsh voices ringing in his ears. They had been thugs of the lowest order, the kind of men that knights were made to defeat, both with their blades and their spirit. "They were dangerous. It is a knight's duty to think of others before himself. If their deaths saved even one traveller from being molested on the road, then that's worth it."
"Hm," the bard says, and the magic ceases to push Arthur, now concentrating specifically on the spot where Merlin is supposed to be. "The last question is perhaps the most important. Why did you step off the cliff?"
Arthur bites back a laugh. He should have expected this - obviously there is a theme to this conversation - but he can't think beyond the certainty of this one question. "I trust Merlin more than I believe in gravity," he says, grinning at the bard, who looks almost pleased. The bard waves a hand, and the thrill of magic in the air vanishes, leaving behind only the faint trace of ozone.
"Your answers are-" The bard takes a maddening pause, searching Arthur's expression. "-satisfactory. There is truly a great destiny waiting for you, but you mustn't forget sacrifice. Seek the druids. They will help you call upon the god who can assist you."
Arthur grins, more brightly, a little warmer. "I was, I mean... we had been planning for that anyway."
The bard looks older now, without his magic, almost faded into the grey of his raggedy clothing. Arthur feels compassion rise in him once more, and he shuts it down. Flickering like the magic, the bard changes, grows and twists and shrinks in poses that look like pure agony until, within the space between one breath and the next, the bard has turned into a boar. A boar with pale golden fur and a smug, amused expression. When it speaks, Arthur can hear the voice directly in his mind.
"Seek the god who is son of the sea and guide to the underworld. He has the power to undo what has been done and may find you interesting enough." And with those words, the boar leaps into the undergrowth, disappearing as if by magic. Arthur stares at the spot for a long time, until he hears Merlin snuffling in his sleep.
Even now, the experience begins to fade into memory and, from there, into the realm of dreams. Part of him doesn't believe that this just happened; part of him clings to the rational explanations as if they are a reinforced buckler in a tournament mace fight. It takes him hours to fall asleep, certain now that they aren't in any danger from woodland creatures but every bit as certain that the magical community is out to get them.
He thinks perhaps the favour he is owed by the druids will come at much too high a price. Something has to give, and right now, it's Merlin, who hogs the warm blanket and says Arthur's name in his sleep. Arthur feels perfectly justified in wrapping himself snugly around Merlin to partake of the warmth and comfort that is more than a simple blanket could offer.
The path looks familiar. Memories flash through Arthur's mind, memories of a trembling boy whose only crime had been his heritage, too young to choose his own path in life. There was a lot of Merlin in Mordred, and now that Arthur knows them both for what they are, he finds that his choice still stands up in the light of day. It was the right thing to save the boy.
"Arthur," Merlin says, his head inclined to hide his eyes. There is a flush high on his cheeks that makes Arthur want to kiss Merlin's neck and wrap his arms around him. "I, uhm, I should probably tell you something about that... about the boy."
"What about him?"
Merlin shakes his head, small drops of water flying every which way. He looks scared and oddly guilty. "I... the dragon, he said the boy would-"
Arthur waits for more, but Merlin has fallen silent, wide eyes looking somewhere beyond Arthur's shoulder. "What, Merlin, the boy would do what?"
"He said the boy would kill you!" Merlin yells, fists tight on the reins of his horse. Arthur blinks. This is unexpected.
"Well-"
Merlin guides his horse closer to Arthur's side, close enough that Arthur can see the ring of gold around the blue of Merlin's eyes. "You don't understand, the dragon... he... I made that choice, when I was late that night. It wasn't because of some guard. I was ready to let the boy die. I couldn't bear-"
"Merlin-"
"No," Merlin interrupts him, "no. If I had believed, truly believed that this was in the boy's future, I would have, I would have-" Merlin's voice gives out, and Arthur reaches for his face and pulls him in without much regard for the horses or the road.
"It's okay," he says into the dark, wet mop of hair, pressing a kiss to the top of Merlin's head. "It's okay." He murmurs nonsense phrases and meaningless words of comfort as they awkwardly hug across the expanse between the two horses.
"It's not, Arthur, it's not okay. Mordred knows what I wanted to do. He knows that your life means more to me than anything."
Arthur laughs, a lump in his throat turning the sound high and sour. "Merlin, that's..." He has no idea how to end that sentence, the weight of Merlin's devotion crushing him.
Merlin pushes him away with a small, resigned sigh. "You need to know this, Arthur. I made the right choice with the boy, but I only made it because I didn't quite believe in the dragon's prediction. When Nimueh asked me to give up a life for yours, I would have given anything. Anything at all."
Arthur swallows, his mouth suddenly painfully dry. "What are you telling me?"
Merlin is crying, hot tears bursting out of red-rimmed eyes, his face puffy. He is shaking in the rain and looks so miserable that Arthur wants to just hold tight and not let go again, ever. The feeling wraps around his chest and squeezes, taking his breath. Merlin's hiccups are quite the most pathetic thing Arthur can imagine, and yet they tear at something inside him.
"I will not see you die, Arthur, I won't. Ever." Merlin's words rip out of him, ragged and sharp-edged.
The enormity of Merlin's feelings sets Arthur spinning. He knew this, of course, even before the dragon told him all about the many ways in which Merlin had sacrificed for him and risked his life. He'd known, but to hear it is something else entirely; it makes it real and twists around his heart like a rose, beautiful and deadly. He's scared of this, terrified of what Merlin might do, what he might make Merlin do. But his fear is laced with a feeling more terrifying yet. He wants this, he craves the kind of love Merlin offers him, and he has no intention of passing on the offer.
"Merlin," he says, voice controlled and a little smug, a little arrogant, like that first time they met - like he isn't sure quite what this is yet, but he knows it's something. "You are an idiot."
Merlin looks up, and it strikes Arthur how close they still are, how easy it would be to take Merlin's bottom lip between his teeth and bite just a little. "What?"
Arthur grins. He's figured something out: he knows now that whatever happens, as long as they face it together, they will be fine. He won't make any promises for the rest of the world, and he can feel that niggling of conscience at the back of his mind, but that's okay. It's good that he's worried about being the kind of king Camelot would want, even as he knows he'll put most effort into being the kind of king Merlin wants.
"You," Arthur says, grinning like a feral cat, "you think you can just, just say all that and pretend to be heroic and tortured, when I know you're really just a big oaf who probably did all his chores with magic." He's hit on something there, and Merlin flushes, looking away a bit, but no longer full of pain. "And you look funny, too, and it's weird, really weird, that you have no idea how much I would give for you in return, how much your stupid life means to me, too."
"Uhm," Merlin says, flushing even more, "I-"
Arthur is about to punch Merlin's shoulder, a playful mark and reminder, but he's frozen on top of his horse, rain dripping into his eyes, when a voice rings out from all around them.
"How sweet, I think we caught ourselves a traitor and a murderer. Kill them both and leave nothing - wouldn't want to poison the wolves with their tainted flesh."
Within a second, the single beat of a heart, they are surrounded by pale, angry faces, and maybe the druids don't think they owe Arthur as much as he thinks they do. The battle cry sets him in motion, and he's swinging his sword in defence on every side, trying to shield Merlin as much as he can, when Merlin's eyes flash gold and the space around them is empty of life, silent like a grave.
XI.
Arthur breathes slowly, smelling the rain, tasting the metallic tang of blood on the air. He looks around and expects a vision of carnage, bodies splattered all over the forest floor, soaking into the moss and pine needles. The silence breathes with him, humming with more than the absence of sound. Merlin's heart beats harder against his chest than his own, drumming with the rhythm of magic coursing through Merlin.
"Did you?" Arthur asks, not quite sure what he means, but then his eyes find the men that attacked them. They are still where they were a moment ago. They are frozen, as still as the air and the wind, as still as the-
"Merlin, what in the world did you just do?"
The rain is frozen, too, hanging in mid-air like some grotesque obstacle course for fairies. Merlin looks at Arthur, though, only him, and his eyes are wide and unbelieving. "Uhm," Merlin says, and Arthur gives that the frustrated roll of his eyes it deserves. "Why are you not frozen?"
Arthur gapes. "What do you mean, why am I not frozen? Why are they frozen?"
Merlin shrugs, and Arthur's eyes get drawn to his shoulder, where a nasty gash has shredded the jacket, tunic and skin beneath. That explains the blood, at least. "I can stop time, it's just not, you know - normally everything gets frozen except me. This is new."
Arthur thumps him on the shoulder, because Merlin deserves it. Then he notices that the horse under him is cold, hard as stone and dead to the world. It sends a disgusted shiver down his spine. "This is new to you, is it?" he snaps, a little annoyed with himself for being so freaked out. "Well, can you unfreeze one of them, so we can find out what they want?"
Merlin scowls. "I know what they want. Look, that one right there wants to bash in your skull with a cleaver."
Arthur looks. The man's frozen face is contorted with rage. "Hm," he says, "maybe not that one, then, but we do need to find out why they've decided to attack us." There is no getting around the fact that the druids are their only lead to stopping the slow but inexorable end of the world.
"Try to unfreeze that one," Arthur says, pointing at an older man, bearded, wearing a long crimson cloak and hood, who bears no weapon and doesn't seem all that interested in the proceedings. Then again, interest is hard to gauge when there is nothing behind the eyes.
Merlin does as he's told with a put-upon sigh. The man goes from unmoving and completely stone solid to unmoving and absolutely alive with no outward sign. Arthur jumps off the horse and walks towards the man, trying to appear as harmless as a kitten. Hands open in a placating gesture, Arthur smiles. "Hey there, I'm Arthur, Prince of Camelot."
The man spits at his feet. It's not a very appreciative greeting, if the look of disgust on his face is any indication. "You dare come here, of all places? Your crimes sully this holy ground just by your mere presence."
Merlin yells from behind them, "Watch it, you're addressing your future king, you, you-"
Arthur groans, closing his eyes. "Merlin, of all the times to develop a sense of what's proper, this is really the worst of them."
The man snorts, beard quivering. "You would do well to put a leash on that dog of yours, Pendragon."
Arthur bristles. No one but him has any right to insult Merlin like that, especially when he's being useful for once. Arthur cuts to the chase. He has no patience for the dance of banter and cryptic statements with this guy. "Why have you attacked us?"
“The elders have foreseen your coming,” the man says, “and not all of us agree that it is a good thing. Destiny has taken too high a price already, and someone has to pay for our pain. Retribution will be a small measure of comfort to the families torn apart and drowned in their own blood.”
Arthur sighs. It's the same story he's heard in courts and on the streets since he was a little boy, but they are his father's crimes, not his, and he can't take responsibility as much as he wants to. He can do more to soothe the wounds the purge has ripped into the flesh of Camelot if he's alive. “I understand your pain, and I assure you-”
The old man snarls, spit flying from his lips, “You understand? You can't possibly understand. Your very life, your very existence has cost thousands of ours. Destiny, they say, destiny demands a price, but what price is worth the life of my son, my daughter? Their unborn child that burned with them on the pyre?”
A ball of fire flies at Arthur and halts within inches of his face, close enough to singe his brow. It crackles with manic energy, burning as hot as the sun. Arthur swallows and dares a glance at Merlin, whose hand is outstretched and whose face betrays the effort it takes to keep a dozen men and a ball of fire stuck in time.
“Can you keep them like this for a while?” He doesn't want them dead. He just needs some time. The elders of these druids, at least, seem sensible enough, and there really isn't much of a choice.
Merlin's eyes widen a fraction, showing his doubt, but their attackers will not listen to reason, too wrapped up in their hatred of him, of the Pendragon name, to understand that leaving him alive is only practical. Merlin nods reluctantly, unsure but determined to try. It makes Arthur smile. He trusts Merlin, even when Merlin doesn't trust himself.
He gives the man's frozen rage a last glance and hopes that there will come a day that his debts are balanced with the good things he can accomplish.
The druid enclave is a war camp. Children look up warily as they pass, and women sneer and spit where their horses leave imprints in the wet, soft ground. High, thick-branched trees provide some cover from the rain and loom above like the hands of their gods, almost alive in their silent judgement. There are weapons in easy reach of every man watching his and Merlin's progress. Everyone is tense enough to spring at a moment's notice. Disciplined silence reigns over the whole scene, drawing all attention to the soft, squelching sounds of hooves, and Arthur feels the hatred of every last person here digging into his skin, screaming just under his range of hearing.
Merlin is tense beside him, quiet and hunched over, hiding himself as much as he can without a conscious choice. If he knew how, he'd probably spell himself invisible. Arthur feels that same desire to fade into the background.
The path opens into a natural clearing that looks and feels much like the throne room in Camelot, equally as imposing and providing a kind of dais for the druid elders. There are three women and three men of wildly differing age and appearance facing Arthur and Merlin in a half-circle. Pride of place at the centre seems to belong to an old man, whipcord thin and marked by deep, craggy scars and wrinkles, as well as a beautiful dark woman of an age just beyond maturity, impossible to guess with any accuracy. The man holds her hand, but there is nothing gentle about the gesture - their knuckles are both white with strain.
“Ho,” says the man, “what is your business with the denizens of this forest?”
Arthur swallows the insult of the address; after all, he comes as a wanderer seeking help, not as an ambassador of his king. “I am Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot.” A whisper runs through the council, but nothing betrays surprise. They knew he was coming. “And this is my companion, Merlin. We seek counsel and aid from the wise druids.”
The woman snorts a derisive little laugh and points an accusing finger at Arthur. “You are the reason for our misfortune, then? What a small, insignificant man you are for such a heavy destiny. The price we have paid time and again for your life is a terrible one, and only the ghosts of those who died in good faith for your sake have seen you safely to this place.”
Merlin's magic crackles in the air beside him, and Arthur reaches out to grasp his hand. It feels warm and right in his, Merlin's magic curling around his fingers. “You call that safe?” Merlin says, and Arthur tightens the hold. “We were attacked by one of yours not an hour ago.”
The man sighs. “His grief has consumed him, but Amergin is a good man. His death is a great loss to our people and should be more than reparation enough.”
Arthur looks up sharply. “He's not dead.”
It's the woman who snaps out, “Do not lie to us. His spirit has gone from this world. It is as silent as death.”
“Er,” Merlin says beside him, hand trembling slightly. “I'm sure they will all be fine when the magic wears off. They are just frozen, I swear.”
The man's gaze flicks to Merlin, and there is a wariness in his eyes that makes Arthur sidle a little closer. “Do you mean to say that you have been holding them in a bubble of time for an hour, from this distance?”
Merlin blushes. Arthur can feel the heat even in his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's what I did. They did want to kill us, you know.”
This turn of events has finally sparked interest and surprise in the council of druids sitting judgement before them. Arthur, too, is intrigued. Of course, Merlin's magic is special, but there is an undercurrent of fear here, a noticeable shift of power in his and Merlin's favour. The druids are impressed with Merlin's magic, at least.
"Be that as it may," Arthur says, eager to take control of this opening, "we need your help. We seek an audience with one of the old gods, the son of the sea."
Gasps spread through the council and the audience amassing at the entrance of the clearing. Arthur twitches, and Merlin gives his hand a little squeeze. They're both wound too tightly, and in a moment, something is going to break to relieve the pressure. The woman is pale and angry but keeps quiet for now, waiting for the tension to take care of itself.
"You want us to summon a god for you?" The man appears calm, but his lip is curved in a small, sharp smile.
Arthur nods. "I'm willing to offer you whatever it's in my power to give."
The statement echoes in the sudden silence, leaving Arthur wondering what exactly he's just promised to the druids. If it's his kingdom they want, he isn't sure if he can refuse, for Camelot's own sake. Rather he be a king without a crown than Camelot a drowned wasteland.
"Arthur," Merlin hisses, "what the hell are you doing?"
Arthur gives Merlin a sidelong glance. "I'm doing what's necessary, and you would do well to remember that I am the crown prince."
"What, so I can't tell you when you're being an idiot?"
Arthur huffs. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
"Arthur," Merlin says, "you should really think about this-"
"Prince Arthur," comes the voice of the woman, strong and cutting deeply, cold as ice. "We accept your proposition." Her judgement causes outrage in the assorted druids, a noise rising around Arthur and Merlin that rivals the crash of the sea on a stormy day.
"Good," Arthur says, feeling sudden dread clamping his stomach like a vice. "Great, so we can talk to the-" He is at a loss as to how to refer to the god. "We can talk to him as soon as possible?"
She breaks into laughter, hard and sharp like shattered glass. "You think it is this easy, little prince? This is not a servant you can summon, not like Emrys doing your bidding for scraps and the odd kind word or touch. The gods owe you nothing."
"Perhaps not," Arthur says, feeling the discussion slip from him, "but you already agreed to help us - all this baring of teeth is just for show. Tell us what we have to do."
"Well, then," the man says. "Vivienne speaks the truth of the difficulty involved, and we cannot guarantee success at any point. The gods are capricious and do not take kindly to arrogant mortals seeking their support in ill-advised ventures. It will cost you a great many sacrifices to even be allowed within his sights. For your own protection, of course."
"He has been known to destroy supplicants with a single word," spits the woman, Vivienne.
Merlin tenses. "So have I. That's not a big deal."
The man's laughter rings through the clearing like a dozen bells. "And what have you reaped for that act, Master Emrys? What has been your reward?"
A good question and a point well made, but Arthur isn't going to let anyone else judge Merlin for an action that was purely made for Arthur's sake. Nimueh died to keep Arthur alive, in a convoluted way, and it's not Merlin who has to make amends for that. "What kind of sacrifices are we talking about?"
It is a small, older woman off to the left side of Vivienne who speaks this time. She reminds Arthur of Gwen in a roundabout way, with that same open face. "You must give up something of value, more than just a token. An heirloom that connects you to the past, a crown or a magical item, something that you would never give into anyone else's hands. And you must relinquish that meaning with it, give up the memories, the kingdom or the magical advantage that makes the item special."
Arthur can't think of a single thing he owns that he is willing to turn over to the druids. There is the chess piece, but with it comes Merlin's love, and that is not his to give, nor could he bear its loss. And the crown, as much as time and circumstance is pushing him towards kingship, is not a property he can easily offer. It won't do as a personal sacrifice, and little else holds any meaning to Arthur beyond simple creature comforts.
"I'm not sure I have anything to give." Perhaps his pride is enough of a sacrifice to appease the god's appetite.
Merlin's hand grips his tightly, and the pain almost makes Arthur yelp. Looking at Merlin, he finds wide, excited eyes and a face full of promise. "Arthur," Merlin says, a little breathlessly, "you do have something. You do have a powerful magical item that is worthy of a god."
Arthur frowns, uncomprehending. "If you're talking about the white queen, I'm not giving that away."
"No," Merlin says, shaking his head, "no, of course you wouldn't know, but there is a magical sword, a very powerful sword that was made for you alone."
Arthur's eyebrows feel like they might climb off his face. "Is that so? And whatever happened to that sword, if it even exists, and I'm not sure yet that it does. You do have a tendency to twist the truth a bit."
The roll of Merlin's eyes makes Arthur grin. They're in the kind of situation that requires a fair bit diplomatic talent, and it's a small wonder they're not both dead already, having offended the gracious hosts to the blood. This string of luck seems to follow Merlin like a tail. "I may have - and this is not entirely my fault, there were greater forces at play - but I may have thrown it into a lake."
Of course he did. Arthur shakes his head, but he can't fight the smile that tries to take over his face. "You threw a magical sword that was made for me into a lake. Why am I not surprised about this?"
Merlin has enough sense to blush. "Well, first of all, I was kind of the one who got it all magical to begin with, and that thing with the lake seemed a good idea at the time."
"Doesn't everything?" Arthur says. He's trying to hide his amusement, but it's hard to do when Merlin looks like a bedraggled puppy.
"If you are quite ready," the man says before Arthur can start picking on Merlin in earnest, "we need to arrange the ceremonies, and I gather you are in something of a hurry."
Merlin nods. "Yes, we are ready." Arthur pokes him in the side. "What? We are so ready. I'm going to pick up the sword, and you'll just do whatever it is you do."
Arthur should probably be offended. "You want to leave me here with the crazy druids?" It really isn't supposed to come out sounding quite so much like Arthur is afraid. He's not. Maybe just a little out of his depth.
The man raises his arms, spreading silence like a blanket before him. Every eye in the clearing turns to him, waiting. When he speaks, it sounds like there is an echo following his words, hard on their heels. "Such is the will of the gods. Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, must offer a token of great value and submit himself to a spiritual cleansing. Emrys may leave this circle to acquire the object, but he must return within two full days, beginning with the setting of the sun."
As if a switch has been turned, the crowd disperses, and every bit of attention that may have rested on Arthur or Merlin slips off like they don't exist. Vivienne gives them a calculating glance, but leaves her place, the older woman following, without so much as a word. One of the council members, a boy not much older than Dagonet, walks towards them with a smile that betrays nothing. Arthur's hand tightens, and he realises that he's still holding on to Merlin like he might disappear any moment.
"If you will follow me," the boy says, "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."
The room is tiny. The walls are covered in moss, and there are no windows. A strange fairy-light seems to imbue the small globes set at random intervals around the room, glowing brighter than anything without an obvious flame has any right. Arthur frowns at the single bed, but Merlin just throws himself on to test the springiness of the mattress. It looks to be very springy indeed.
"I have a little bit of time before I have to go," Merlin says, making it sound like the most filthy invitation imaginable. Arthur bites his lip to keep from moaning.
Merlin looks young and open, more so than Arthur remembers from Camelot, more than he can stand, and he's leaning on the bed, Merlin trapped between his knees, before he knows what he's doing.
"What if I don't want you to go?" Arthur isn't sure where the urgency comes from, why he's not ready to let Merlin leave his sight.
Merlin smiles at him, and it's the softest Arthur has ever seen him. He has to kiss Merlin. There is no force in the world that can stop him. Merlin's hand tightens in his hair. Arthur can't tell when it got there and doesn't really care. "Arthur," Merlin says between kisses. "If I don't go, I'm not sure they will let either of us leave again."
Arthur sighs into Merlin's skin. "The druids don't scare me."
Merlin nibbles at his ear. "That's because you're a bit thick in the head," he says. The laughter in his voice is what makes Arthur give an indignant cough, but nothing will make him push away from the warm, pliant body and Merlin's tongue drawing symbols into his skin. "These people are very powerful, and they might be our only chance to fix-" Merlin stills, goes very quiet, like an animal staring down the length of a crossbow.
Arthur nuzzles Merlin's neck, bites the soft skin to draw out a small hiss. "Merlin," he says, "none of this is your fault."
Arthur feels Merlin's nod against the skin of his cheek. It's a minuscule motion. Merlin's heart is obviously not in it. Arthur kisses him hard, diving into Merlin's mouth, licking away at the guilt and pain that Merlin carries right under his skin. It's silly that Merlin blames himself for the torrential rain when there is nothing he could have done but let Arthur or his mother die. It's the kind of choice that's no choice at all.
"I know," Merlin says, after a long silence, "I know. It's just that... just... killing Nimueh felt right, it felt good, and I don't what else I might do with my power."
Arthur smiles, tugging at Merlin's hair with his fingers. "Maybe you can clean the stables properly for once when we get home."
Merlin blinks, thrown out of his melancholy like the losing knight in a joust. "Uhm, I suppose I could use my enormous magical power to wash your socks, too, but I think that might mess up the balance of nature."
Arthur nips at Merlin's bottom lip. Instead of responding to that - because, really, there is no response to the lack of respect for his royal garments - Arthur kisses Merlin again and again, seeking more of the fluttery feeling he gets just from looking at this marvellous boy. He reaches into the small pouch at his belt and fishes out the chess piece, pressing it into Merlin's hand, sealing Merlin's fingers with a kiss.
"Arthur, what-"
Arthur grins. "For luck." The grin wavers, just a fraction.
It's enough for Merlin to try to give the little figurine back, but Arthur won't have it. "Take it, it's not like-" A promise, except that it is.
Nodding, Merlin accepts the token and whispers a few small words over its polished surface. Arthur can feel the shift in it as a second presence lays claim to it, entwining with the first like two lovers, like... them. He grins and touches a finger to the top just to feel the sparks under his skin. It's beautiful.
Merlin kisses him. They don't have much time, but Arthur is determined to make the best of it.
Arthur dreams of a world that knows his name, a world of strange magic and a multitude of twisting stories. There is a sadness in this world, and it tastes like destiny.
The druids take him to task in many and varied ways, making him drink strange potions, teaching him humiliating dances that he has to perform in increasing degrees of nudity. He's sure Vivienne, especially, is enjoying these more than anyone should, and he makes a point of as little embarrassment as he can. In a way, he begins to enjoy himself at the height of it all, and the only victory he allows the druids is the fact of his unquestioning obedience.
If their frowns are any indication, it's a hollow victory, and some even take kindly to him over the hours of his very long day. The older woman from the council is the first who seeks him out.
"The truths we carry in our hearts can often be hard to hear." She speaks with a soft, maternal voice, but her eyes are full of twisted emotions Arthur can't quite read. "You've come a long way; your journey ahead is longer still. Take this question as a gift: How great must be the love in your father's heart, if the taking of it can bring so much pain?"
Arthur fights the lump in his throat, fights the tears that come unbidden and curses every druid who's ever lived. Every sorcerer who's ever died. The old woman takes him into her arms like a mother would, like Arthur has never really known, and kisses the top of his head. He doesn't have to ask for this to stay secret, a personal moment of weakness between two people, and she doesn't have to promise. He trusts her, like a child would.
Vivienne comes to him at the bonfire, regarding his half-naked body with contempt. Her words, however, are kind. "To cleanse your spirit, we give you truths that you already know and questions you have all the answers to: it is all from within yourself. May I dance with you?"
Arthur nods his head, a little wary of the incongruent druid. She has the kind of beauty that can sting harder than a wasp, more poisonous by far, and her words are honey sweet with an edge. "Mordred," she says as long nails rake across the skin of his lower back. He shudders but doesn't push her away. "The boy is my charge. You are alive only because he is, and yet because his life has been spared, yours will end before you can become the king Emrys wants you to be."
Arthur swallows, his mouth dry as the wells of Camelot after he'd shot the unicorn. "Destiny is a funny thing."
Vivienne laughs, and it's beautiful, enchanting. Arthur can see how others would fall to their knees for the right to kiss her feet. His heart is filled with all of Merlin's smiles, the way Merlin bites his lip when he's thinking, the smell of his skin when they come out of the rain for the night. He has nothing to fear from Vivienne's charms.
"Destiny has little to do with the lives of men and beasts, young Pendragon. It is a harsh mistress at the best of times, but it is not cruel beyond what people are willing and able to give. Step away from your destiny, and it will not come for your life."
"I have a duty to my kingdom," he says and believes it. Vivienne grins at his earnest words.
She lets him go, finally, and bows in the same way Merlin does, with as much insult as is possible to bestow on the gesture. "Will you take a piece of advice from me?" She continues despite lack of reaction on his part. "Show mercy wherever it is possible, even when your heart is full of rage. It may be the only thing that can save you, where even Emrys can't reach."
She leaves him standing in a circle of dancing bodies, writhing with the effects of potions and mead. What little effect he'd felt before is evaporating, and the cold of the night air hits him hard. Arthur shivers as he stares into the bonfire, unmoving, wondering what he's ever done to destiny to deserve any of this, good and bad.
The next day is much the same, with more potent potions that taste like the bottoms of Arthur's boots and rituals that put the naked dancing to shame. Towards the end of the day, Arthur begins to feel restless and lost, like a piece of himself is missing, and he walks away from the magical trees, away from the druids and into the regular forest, dripping with rain. It feels like accusation on his skin, but he's used to it, and it's better than all those eyes on him, eyes that bear as much hatred as they do hope. The druids are divided between a past that bids them to take revenge on him and a future that may require allegiance.
When they return to Camelot, he'll send Jeremy to the kings of Essex, begging sanctuary for these people here so long as the crown isn't his to bear. Later, the druids, who have people in all countries of Albion, will be a great asset, perhaps more important than any single army. Their intelligence will make all the difference in his politics, if they can forgive him for his heritage.
"That should not be a problem," says the wind and the rain, forming into the man that leads the druids, if not in name, then in effect. "While many of my people have paid a great deal, we all knew and supported the choice of Lady Nimueh. We knew what was asked of us."
Arthur crosses his arms. He's not much in the mood for more cryptic talk. "I think some of your people might disagree."
The man laughs. "Yes, that they might, but they know what your debt means to us. They know you are honour bound to create a place for us at your table."
"It would have to be a big table," Arthur says "There are quite a lot of you."
The man touches his shoulder, and there is something gentle and kind in the gesture, something Arthur has no words for and doesn't really care to name. "You will figure it out," the man says. It hits Arthur that he doesn't know his name.
"Call me Neirin, if you must call me anything at all," Neirin says and ruffles Arthur's hair in a very disrespectful manner. It pulls that feeling to the surface and stretches it taut - that of a father smiling indulgently at his son, and it hurts like fire.
Merlin returns with the sword, and Arthur pouts through the last of the rituals as enchantments rip and tear at it, lifting it high above their heads and finally sending it to the Otherworld, where no one will be able to reach it ever again. Merlin sighs and gasps into Arthur's mouth as they lie on the bed that has been made up for them, larger than the one Arthur slept on for two lonely nights.
"I would have liked to touch it, just once," Arthur says, and his mind is full of the sword, glinting with the light of magic. He can almost feel it in his hand, the power coiling around him, singing to him as he swings it in a perfect arc.
"Would you have let it go again?" Merlin has him figured out, and that rankles a little, that he's so easy to read.
Arthur thumps Merlin on the head and earns a, "Hey," for his trouble, but he gets a kiss, too, and that is new, yet, new and amazing, and he thinks he could get used to this.
XII.
They travel light, their horses carrying little but the weight of them, and they break often to sustain the horses over the course of the race towards the coast. As it turns out, summoning a god doesn't actually mean that the god comes to them. They've been given directions to where the ocean reaches into Albion like a fist and a somewhat smug farewell.
"I think the rain is making me itch," Merlin remarks after a good two hours of hard riding.
It's enough of a reason to stop and rub down the horses and then each other, as Arthur points out to a laughing Merlin just before he crushes their mouths together.
They rest for half an hour, Merlin's head in his lap and meagre rations shared between them. Then it's the untamed countryside again, forcing them to walk beside their mounts for half the time at least, with rocky hills and stretches of beautiful meadows that have the treacherous tendency to conceal small holes in the ground. The first time Merlin's horse stumbles drives a spike of anxiety through Arthur's heart, and he tells himself it's just the quest finally getting to him, but he keeps closer to Merlin anyway.
They sleep for two hours at a time and press on even in the dark where the terrain allows it, slow progress better than none. It's not so much a matter of urgency, even though the ground beneath their feet is already soft and slick, the rain trickling away at the fertile top layer to the cold rock below. They have time, but not as much any more. That's not what pushes Arthur to go forward.
The rain falls exactly the same as they get closer to the coast, but just half a day's worth of riding away from their destination, a wind rises up that throws raindrops like projectiles. It hurts like the second lash from a nine-tailed whip, the knowledge and memory of pain more intense than the physical sensation. The storm howls around them, and Arthur swears there are voices in it, ghosts of sailors and fishermen who've offended the god of the sea.
"I think we're close," Merlin says, voice raised above the noise of the storm.
Arthur clenches his teeth and nods, driving his heels more forcefully into his horse's flanks. He can hear the crash of the waves in the distance, the ocean asserting its dominance. This is it, then, this is where his first true test as a king will begin.
"Merlin," he says, looking at the mass of roiling clouds ahead of them. "Maybe you should stay here, watch the horses. I don't want to try to find a way down the cliff face for them." He doesn't look at Merlin, he can't or Merlin will read his intention as clear as day. It's not the horses he's worried about.
"I don't think so, Arthur," Merlin says, jumping off the horse and crossing his arms. Arthur's name has never sounded quite so insulting, not even from Merlin.
"I could order you to stay," Arthur says, knowing this is an argument he's already lost.
Merlin pouts in a way that is entirely too distracting. "You wouldn't, and if you did, I wouldn't listen."
Arthur dismounts and stalks over to a thin tree, not dignifying that with a comment. Merlin's stubbornness is one of the things he loves, so all his complaints are bound to fall flat. Merlin touches his shoulder, almost hesitantly.
"I'm not leaving you alone, Arthur. I won't, not ever, and you can't make me."
The truth of the words is something they both share, and it should be more terrifying than it is, but Arthur can't find even a hint of fear in his heart of Merlin, who smiles like a daft squirrel, who breaks the laws of nature for him. Fear for Merlin, however, takes ever more space in his thoughts, and that is its own kind of terror. If Arthur ever truly had a weakness, it was that he had nothing to fight for; now he has something to lose. It makes him better, in some ways, more aware of the world around him, and it makes him worse.
"You have to promise me something," Arthur says, helping Merlin down a rocky excuse for a path to the beach.
Merlin glares up at him. "If this is about leaving you to die heroically, I don't want to hear it. Also, please don't drop me."
Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything else, just concentrates on the way down. The storm presses them against the rock face, licking at their bodies with a rough and callous tongue. The ground under their feet is slippery, more quicksand than anything else, when they finally reach the beach.
The sight is magnificent, nothing Arthur could have imagined, waking or dreaming. The dark clouds hang low in the sky, moving with undeniable purpose, twisting and dancing to the beat of a god's heart. It's dark here at the bottom of the abyss, and Merlin's presence beside him is all he has, all he'll ever need. He takes a step towards the sea, weighed down by the rain and wind, held back by the warmth of Merlin behind him. Another step and he can feel it now, the pull that may yet be the end of him, the siren voices in the storm.
"Arthur, what-" Merlin's voice gets lost in the noise of the waves crashing to the shore, the wind whipping around them, the heavy patter of rain on Arthur's skin. He can't turn around, knows that he mustn't because Merlin's face will be open and pleading, and this is something he can't fight. If Merlin asks him to abandon this purpose now, if Merlin asks him to go back without facing the god of the ocean, he will and be glad of it. Even if the land screams their names as it drowns, and that's why Arthur can't turn around. It's harder than he thought possible.
Waves as high as two men flood the rocks and sand, licking at the land like a lover's tongue. They'll take and take until there is nothing left, and Arthur is walking right into it.
The pull of the ocean forces another step out of him, and there is water curling around his feet now, sucking him in. He tenses, tries to move forward against the tide as it tugs him in two directions at once. He can't give up control to the sea, not yet, not until the god has shown his face. He needs to know that Merlin will be safe.
The decision comes easily, to step up and offer himself, to let nature or the world take its revenge. He's always known that duty will be the end of him and it feels right to do this, to return a gift that was given in exchange for his own life. He got a lot out of it, enough for a lifetime worth of memories, all of them written on Merlin's skin. It's all right.
When Merlin's hand slides into his, the shock is nothing short of a lightning strike. Part of him wants to shake the silly boy, wants to push him away, towards the shore where it's safer, where Merlin won't be witness to what comes next, but the sensation is too welcome, the feel of it too perfect on his palm. This is where Merlin belongs.
"You," Merlin yells above the crescendo of the storm around them, "really are the biggest ass in all of Albion." Arthur laughs, because the look on Merlin's face is part fear, part defiance and righteous indignation, and the pout is essence of Merlin distilled on those lips. "Did you think I would let you be a hero all on your own?"
"Of course not," Arthur says, feeling like some weight has been lifted from his shoulders and he can breathe freely for the first time, and this is what infants must feel like, screaming their presence into the world.
He tightens his hold on Merlin and speaks the name of the god into the rioting air, into the voice of the sea. It tumbles from his lips like a prayer and weaves into the siren's call, echoing around them like thunder. Great bursts of lightning dance across the sky; beautiful and threatening, they set the sea to boiling where they touch.
A great rolling wave rises from the horizon and heads towards them, unstoppable and terrible in its beauty.
"I am here," he yells, facing down the pure might of the ocean. "I am Arthur," he says, and he's stuck somewhere between prince and king, so he leaves the titles out of this moment. They have no sway here anyway. "I have come to beg a favour."
An impossible force rips him out of Merlin's grasp. He's flying, tumbling through the sky, and he wants to see Merlin, wants to catch a glimpse to reassure himself that at least one of them will live. And he does catch something and twists and turns against the power that holds him. Merlin is floating above the sea, water and wind swirling around him like water around a drain. The air crackles and bursts with Merlin's power, and there is a word on Merlin's lips, a spell, perhaps, that he uses to lash at the prison again and again. As Arthur watches, Merlin's eyes flash brighter gold than he's ever seen, brighter than anything under the sun.
Arthur realises what Merlin says the moment it all stops, when the absence of his name humming in the magic around them sounds like the voice of death. Merlin's body goes rigid, spread wide like a carcass that's being bled out, and his face is slack with the lack of soul. The sight makes Arthur want to curl up, take hold of Merlin and never let go again. Maybe die, too, die like his friend, and maybe they will be allowed to cross paths again in the Otherworld.
Sudden unnatural silence hits him like a fist in the stomach, vertigo making itself at home under his skin. The water is no less violent, the clouds and lightning no less severe, but none of it makes a sound. The stage is set, and now it waits for the lead actor to say his piece.
Merlin's voice grates as it is torn out of him with words that don't belong. "How brave you are, little prince. How noble and selfless, to sacrifice your very own manservant for the sake of all."
Arthur burns with fear now, true and crippling fear, and it takes his breath. "No," he gasps, fighting for air and sight, praying for the strength to break his bonds. "No, not him. Not him. Do not take him."
Merlin's hand strokes across his face. "Oh," the thing in Merlin says, "is that how it is? Have you brought him for the victory celebration, then? Do you take him like a dog? Does he whimper and beg when you pound into him?"
The thing touches Merlin's groin and squeezes. Arthur feels bile rise in his throat. "Let him go," Arthur says. "Let him go and you can do with me what you wish."
A small trickle of blood runs from Merlin's nose, catching on his lips as the thing inside him talks. "You are precious, little prince. What makes you think you have anything to bargain with? I will take you both and enjoy it."
There are hundreds of people in Camelot worshipping this god, thousands who swear by his name. There is one thing the old religion prizes above all others, and that's balance. The gods are not bound by their own rules, but they are the ones who made them, and that's enough.
"No," Arthur says, smiling now. "I don't think you will."
The god laughs, booming waves of thunder. "You can't talk to me like that."
Arthur hears the words and they throw him back to the beginning, back to that time when Merlin was just an annoying mop of hair in the crowd, someone to poke and see what he'd do. Merlin had been an entertainment that proved much more than Arthur could ever have hoped. He's the peasant now, and the bully wears Merlin's face.
Maybe there is a king deep underneath that, too.
"How can a single sorcerer break the balance of the world," he says, his voice carefully hypothetical, "in such a way that would threaten all of existence, when you have so much power at your disposal? You can crush men like me with a thought. You control the weather and the sea. None of this is is Merlin's fault, and neither is it mine. You brought this about, and you can stop it."
"Perhaps," the god says, "and perhaps I can shoot rainbows out my arse, but I am not subject to the whims of mortals - only my own. Gods are capricious: we do what we want to amuse ourselves."
The truth hits Arthur, then, the truth of who this is and what he means to accomplish. He can see shades of the bard from the forest in the way he tosses Merlin's head and hints of the druid who taught them the way here. "That's not what you do, though, not at all. You're not a big child playing with the world like a puppet. You're a father seeking to teach us how to live in a world that doesn't have you in it."
As Merlin's face goes slack again, this time with pleasant shock, Arthur thinks of his own father and how much of that is reflected in this terrible apparition. "You want us to be good and just in a time when no one remembers your name."
The god falters, but the smile on Merlin's lips is warm, almost real. "In time, young Pendragon, you may yet become a wise man. It gives me some hope for the future, after all."
Like a string that's been cut, Merlin tumbles through the air and hits the sea with sickening speed. Arthur crashes into the water, too, and pressure restricts his lungs. He's lost in the churning tide, unable to say which way is up. He lets himself drift, hoping that the sea will be kind enough to bear them safely back to shore. It's strange that he trusts in this, but there is a presence next to him, and when he reaches wildly, he catches a wrist that feels familiar in his hand.
Merlin.
Everything blurs. All Arthur truly knows any more is that Merlin is here with him, and whatever happens to them, they'll face it together. As the lack of air becomes a problem and white brilliance restricts his sight until he can only see where his hand holds on to Merlin's wrists, like that is the whole world, a wave carries them forward and deposits them on the beach. Arthur is gasping, sucking in lungfuls of sweet, delicious air, pumping it into his lungs.
He turns to find Merlin still and unresponsive. Fear grips his heart once more, but this isn't the time to faint like some noblewoman whose bodice is too tight. He can feel Merlin's pulse under his fingers, and that's enough to keep panic at bay. Merlin breathes. A shallow, tired breath that ends on a pathetic little whimper.
"He'll be fine," says a familiar female voice. It sounds more gentle than it ever has before, and Arthur finds an unexpected smile on Vivienne's face as she speaks. "It takes a lot out of a body to be the vessel of an angry god."
Arthur notes the different cadence of her voice, the way she smiles so indulgently at him. This isn't Vivienne any more than that other creature had been Merlin. She sits cross-legged in front of him, a sword across her knees. "Who are you?" he asks.
"I'm his Lady, the queen of the sea. I have brought you a gift." She holds out the sword that had been made for Arthur, the one that they gave as payment for the right to meet her husband. The magic sword that has Arthur's soul written all over it. He touches the hilt, his fingers curving like they belong there, like they were made for this sword alone. It feels perfect, absolute balance, and if that isn't a sign, he doesn't know what could be. She smiles as he looks down the blade, into her eyes.
"The destiny attached to that sword is yours, if you want it. The greatest king Albion will ever know, a legend that lasts for hundreds, maybe thousands of years."
He lowers the sword and looks at her, at the twinkle in her eyes. "What's the catch?"
She shrugs. "It's not an easy destiny to have. Great kings have a great many enemies. You would probably be happier without it."
He stares at the sword, then at Merlin, who breathes raggedly and whimpers like a beaten dog. Destiny has brought them together, destiny and meddling creatures of magic, and he can't regret that, not any of it. Not with the memory of Merlin's skin under his fingers.
"I think I'll take my chances," Arthur says, even as a strange feeling arises in his mind, where some of his dreams are buried.
The goddess nods her head and disappears. He wonders what happens to Vivienne, whether she's transported back to the druids, and finds that he doesn't really care. He lies back in the sand, water coming up to his feet with the more adventurous waves, Merlin's body at his side, breathing easier now. It's okay to rest, just for a moment. Albion and Camelot and destiny will still be there when he wakes up.
His last thought before he drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep is that the rain has stopped.
"Arthur, hey, Arthur, wake up."
Someone is shaking him. Merlin. Arthur debates whether it's all right to murder his friend in exchange for some peace and quiet, but he opens his eyes anyway. The brightness is incredible. He can't see anything with the sun beating down on him, and he's never been so glad to be blinded.
Merlin comes into view above his head, and at first it's just a shadow, dark where everything else is painfully bright, with two glowing blue eyes like gemstones. Then Arthur sits up a little, braced on his elbows, and he can see Merlin clearly. It's stunning, pearls of water glittering in his hair, and Arthur falls in love all over again.
Merlin grins like he hadn't just been used as the vessel of a god, like this is just some excursion to the beach, two boys getting away from it all for a bit. Arthur can see that, knows that this is something of a cruel illusion, responsibility digging into his back like the hilt of his new sword.
"We have to stop meeting like this," he says, memories of the labyrinth playing on his mind.
Merlin kisses his nose, which is possibly the least dignified gesture Arthur can think of but it feels right. "It's rather pretty here, actually," Merlin says. "There's a cave down that way that'll do nicely for shelter."
Arthur gives him a bemused smile. "What are you talking about, and are you saying you left me asleep and vulnerable while you went exploring?"
Merlin shakes his head, grinning still, but with an edge. He's blushing. "You know I wouldn't. I, uhm, I kept an eye on you." Merlin is trying to hide his face, but Arthur won't have any of that. If they are to have this great and ridiculous destiny, they will speak to each other without shame.
"Don't look away, Merlin," he says, his fingers gently lifting Merlin's chin so their eyes can meet. "You are a powerful sorcerer, and I am your king. Don't be ashamed of who you are."
Merlin sighs and leans closer, their foreheads almost touching. Merlin whispers when he speaks, his voice hitching a little. "You have always been my king."
Merlin kisses him and moans into his mouth like the world depends on it. Arthur's whole life is in that kiss, seeking and claiming, wrapped around each other like vines around a tree. It means more than destiny, more than just the things everyone else expects of them. Here on this beach, they are just two people, two people who need nothing else. Just this.
They fall into an easy rhythm, abandoning their clothes like afterthoughts, and the friction is divine. The sand doesn't matter, the breeze is insubstantial, and the sound of complaining horses is a thing for their future selves to worry about. In that moment, they are one: a simple creature that needs little and asks for less, just a chance to love.
Later, Arthur runs his finger's through Merlin's hair, Merlin lying half on top of him with a sated smile. "When we get back, I will be king," he says, knowing that it's not an idle fancy. The time to play his father's executioner is past.
Merlin kisses his other hand, the one that's twisted up with Merlin's like an intricate knot. "I know."
Arthur thinks of his father, the way he loved the queen, the way his grief has changed a whole world. He thinks of Uther ordering the execution of Jeremy, of Mordred, of so many sorcerers with names he never knew, and he knows Uther's time is over. When they return, the kingdom will have to change once more, because some things cannot be borne. Uther will hand over his crown, or Arthur will take it.
"There might be war," Arthur says, a little unhappy, a little too young for the enormity of their destiny.
Merlin shakes his head, serious and absolutely certain. "If there is, it will be necessary and quite short." His confidence makes Arthur shiver, but Merlin isn't done yet, his irises showing a hint of gold around the edges. "I trust you to do this right, and if you don't, I'll be there to let you know."
Arthur allows himself a grin. "So it's the two of us against the world. I think I could get used to that."
Merlin tickles him in response, not even bothering with words to bring down some of Arthur's ego. He'll have plenty of opportunity in the course of the next few years, and Arthur looks forward to the arguments almost as much as he does the rest. They'll be the stuff legends are made of.
But for now, they have a beach, the bright summer sun, and a sword that speaks the promise of who they will become.
"Merlin," Arthur says, a wicked grin spreading on his face, "has anyone ever taught you how to fish?"
"So you believe in me now?"
"Well, I would do if... if you could stop this blasted rain!"
~ Le Morte d'Arthur, Merlin
End Notes:
This is the longest story I have ever written and finished. It's a terribly self-indulgent piece of fluff that made me almost unbearably happy when I wrote it, to the point of bouncing up and down. I finished it in about two months of intense writing while living on early spring sunshine and diet coke. I saw this story when I fell asleep, and thought of it first thing in the morning.
Dagonet and Aglovale are Arthurian characters, I've taken them out of their own time and their own relationships to serve my own nefarious purpose. Bors and other assorted knights come from the same source.
Sexred and Saeward are brother-kings from the early 7th century - they apparently reigned together and died in a battle against the forces of Wessex.
Neirin (or Aneirin) was a bard in the 6th century. He is occasionally attributed with what may be the first reference to King Arthur.
Vivienne, like Nimueh, is a name given to the Lady of the Lake.
The Sea God is an allusion to Manannán mac Lir, who is most often associated with the Otherworld and control of mist and weather. He's a bit of a trickster, but ultimately not a vengeful god. He's foster father to quite a few legendary heroes and likes to give away magical artefacts. His wife Fand has been described as Queen of the Fairies.
Much of the inspiration for this story also goes back to William Turner's beautiful painting "Evening of the Deluge".
This is the longest story I have ever written and finished. It's a terribly self-indulgent piece of fluff that made me almost unbearably happy when I wrote it, to the point of bouncing up and down. I finished it in about two months of intense writing while living on early spring sunshine and diet coke. I saw this story when I fell asleep, and thought of it first thing in the morning.
Dagonet and Aglovale are Arthurian characters, I've taken them out of their own time and their own relationships to serve my own nefarious purpose. Bors and other assorted knights come from the same source.
Sexred and Saeward are brother-kings from the early 7th century - they apparently reigned together and died in a battle against the forces of Wessex.
Neirin (or Aneirin) was a bard in the 6th century. He is occasionally attributed with what may be the first reference to King Arthur.
Vivienne, like Nimueh, is a name given to the Lady of the Lake.
The Sea God is an allusion to Manannán mac Lir, who is most often associated with the Otherworld and control of mist and weather. He's a bit of a trickster, but ultimately not a vengeful god. He's foster father to quite a few legendary heroes and likes to give away magical artefacts. His wife Fand has been described as Queen of the Fairies.
Much of the inspiration for this story also goes back to William Turner's beautiful painting "Evening of the Deluge".
