The Tearing of the Veil - Merlinfirstlastalways (2024)

Chapter 1: A Druid's Death

Chapter Text

Merlin peered into the bit of broken mirror he’d stashed away in his room, frowned, and picked up the rag again. He dipped it into the basin and scrubbed at his face for what felt like the hundredth time; he’d gotten most of the blood off, but there was a clot stuck in his eyebrow that refused to come out. He redoubled his efforts, digging his nails in behind the rough cloth. The clot was finally gone when he pulled the rag away again, though his skin had reddened with irritation. He studied his reflection critically, his frown deepening as he took in the sight of his own face. He looked awful, pale and wan and visibly upset, but there was nothing else for it. He had a job to do, and frankly, there wasn’t anything else he could do to improve his appearance. Anyone who looked at him for more than a few moments would know at once that something was very wrong. Still, he couldn’t hide away in his room forever; someone would come fetch him sooner or later, and it would go all the worse for him if Arthur had to send someone to retrieve him.

Luckily, though, Merlin hadn’t had time to fetch a page and send Arthur a message to let him know that he had been delayed, so the King was probably angry with him, and Arthur could always be relied upon to ignore everything but his own irritation once he was well and truly annoyed. Which was a very, very good thing, because if anyone asked why Merlin was upset… well, he’d probably tell them. Which was a problem, because Merlin was pretty sure that if he started talking about it, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And if that happened, he would probably find himself saying some distinctly uncomplimentary— and possible even treasonous— things about his master.

Merlin sighed, splashed more water on his face, then blotted himself dry with another rag. He dressed quickly in his spare tunic, leaving off his jacket— the bloodstains would be far too obvious, even to an annoyed and oblivious Arthur— and descended the stairs. He crossed the floor of the infirmary and came to a stop next to the table. He leaned over it, pressing the palm of his hand to the clean white linen he’d wrapped so carefully around his patient, and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispered to the shroud. “I’m so, so sorry. You deserved so much better. From all of us.”

He stood, brushed away his tears, and left without looking back.

* * *

Merlin was panting by the time he reached the door to Arthur’s chambers— he’d taken the stairs two at a time, not wanting to keep Arthur waiting any longer than he had to, for fear of his inevitable punishments expanding the longer the King went without his servant— and reached for the latch.

“He isn’t there, Merlin,” one of the guards said, sounding amused. His good humor vanished when Merlin looked up at him. “What’s wrong?” the guard asked at once, standing straighter in response to whatever he had seen in Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin opened his mouth to tell him that everything was fine, reconsidered, and said, “Lost a patient today, Mark,” in a tone that he hoped conveyed exactly how little he wanted to talk about it.

The guard relaxed his stance and looked at Merlin with deep, compassionate eyes. “Sorry to hear it.” The words were simple, but honest; he meant it. “Arthur was in rare form, but he’ll understand. He’s in the Small Council; the Round Table is meeting.”

Merlin silently cursed his luck, thanked the guard, and turned to run down the stairs he’d just ran up. He flew down the hall, skidding to a halt in front of the door. He eyed his empty hands remorsefully; he hadn’t the time to fetch up a tray from the kitchens or pour a pitcher of wine, and hoped Arthur had already ordered another servant to fill in for him. If not, he’d ask what they need and run to get it as soon as possible, hopefully avoiding any more scrutiny than was absolutely necessary. If he was very, very lucky, he might not need to ask— he found himself praying that he would be able to slip inside unnoticed, appraise the state of the Table, then slip back out to collect whatever they needed.

Naturally, he opened the door and nearly ran poor George down.

The other servant had apparently been clearing away a few empty platters; he dropped one of them with a clang that stopped the room’s conversation at once. It also stopped Merlin’s every hope of slipping in unobtrusively.

“Sorry,” Merlin whispered, leaning down to retrieve the plate and set it back on George’s stack.

George smiled commiseratingly and whispered “So am I,” only a moment before Arthur— predictably— started a tirade.

Merlin settled his expression into a practiced sheepish smile and walked towards Arthur with his head angled down, moving slowly and trying to look embarrassed and contrite.

“I was wondering where you were, Merlin; I should have known all I had to do to find you was listen for the nearest disaster.” Arthur flashed a haughty, unpleasant smirk, waited a moment, then snarled, “Well? I trust you have an explanation for this; I hope for your sake it’s a good one,” once it became clear that Merlin wasn’t going to take the bait. “Where have you been all day?”

Merlin felt his smile drop. Bringing it back seemed entirely out of the question; he focused on keeping his expression flat instead. “I was in the infirmary—”

“Try again, Merlin,” Arthur said, coldly. Gwen rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation, and several of the knights shifted uncomfortably, but no one said a word in Merlin’s defense. They never did— they hadn’t for years.

“Gaius has been in the lower town all day, attending to a birth,” Arthur continued. “I know that you haven’t been working for him today. So, I’ll ask once more: where were you?”

Merlin swallowed, fighting his own rising anger, determined to stay calm and avoid a fight. “I was in the infirmary with—”

“Enough!” Arthur roared, lifting his empty goblet and thumping it down on the table to punctuate his shout. Gwen startled next to him, glared, and made a sharp sound of disapproval. Arthur shot her an apologetic glance, then glared back at Merlin and spoke again, in a voice that was softer in volume, but not in feeling. “Merlin, I’m going to give you one chance, here. Admit you were in the tavern, and maybe I’ll go easy on you.”

Merlin stiffened, straightening his spine and returning Arthur’s glare. “I was in the infirmary,” Merlin spat, “with a patient!”

“Ah, of course, a patient,” Arthur said, smiling unpleasantly. “One that Gaius didn’t mention and hadn’t known about. I should have realized. Well, I’m sure whoever it was is quite satisfied with your brilliant physick, Merlin. Perhaps I’ll ask him for a report on your bedside manner. Where might I find him?”

“Arthur!” Gwen snapped, finally speaking out; even for Arthur, that was going a bit too far. He should have known that Merlin would never lie about someone being injured or ill, and gods, did it gall Merlin that he had.

“Still in the infirmary,” Merlin answered, his voice completely toneless. “Wrapped in his shroud.”

Arthur’s haughty expression vanished in an instant. His hands clenched around the edge of the table, and his eyes fell shut. Gwen gasped and shoved a knuckle into her mouth, frowning deeply and looking utterly ashamed for her husband’s words. The knights shifted uneasily again. Mordred whispered something and made a discreet druidic Sign under the table. Merlin didn’t recognize it, but it was similar enough to the Sign against evil that Merlin suspected it was meant to ward off misfortune and ease the spirit’s travel.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur said, solemnly. “I didn’t realize. I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry.”

An apology from Arthur was rare as hen’s teeth. In almost any other circ*mstances, those words would have washed away Merlin’s anger and had him scrambling to reassure Arthur that he hadn’t taken any offense. But Merlin had been nursing a slow ember of resentment for about a week now; Arthur’s near-abandonment of him at the Cauldron of Arianrhod was a wound too grave and too fresh to have healed after so little time, and his injured leg was throbbing violently, protesting his earlier sprints down the hall— he’d be limping tomorrow for sure.

And on top of all that, there was the fact that, as far as Merlin was concerned, Arthur was at least partially responsible for his patient’s death.

Merlin nodded shallowly, biting the inside of his cheek and fighting to keep what was left of his composure.

“How did he die?”

“Arthur!” Gwen said, sharply, reaching over to slap his upper arm.

“What she said, Princess,” Gwaine muttered, shaking his head and studying the grain of the table intently.

Mordred made the Sign again; Merlin started to wonder if it was his way of asking for forgiveness on Arthur’s behalf.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur said, nearly stunning them all; he’d probably apologized more tonight than he had in the past year combined, especially where Merlin was concerned. “But I need to know. I may not say it often, but I know you’re skilled enough to be a Physician in your own right if you only had the time. If you had a patient die in spite of your treatments, I need to know how; should we be expecting an outbreak of some sort?”

Gwen’s expression softened. She looked at Merlin apologetically but expectantly, clearly wanting to hear the answer as much as Arthur did. The King and Queen of Camelot cared deeply for the welfare of their citizens; Merlin should have expected their curiosity.

“No,” Merlin said, simply. “You shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed with annoyance that he quickly buried. “Merlin, I need an answer,” he said again. “What ailment did he have?”

“It was injury, Arthur, not illness.”

Arthur considered that. “An accident?”

Merlin looked away, studying the tapestries for a while. “No,” he said at last.

Arthur straightened in his chair, as did the rest of the knights. Merlin felt the full weight of all of their stares on him as a prickling in his spine, even before he looked back to see it. “Violence, then?” Arthur didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “Did he lay any accusations before he died? Or offer any clues as to the identity of his assailant? Should we begin an investigation in the citadel, or in the towns?”

“Arthur, you’ll overwhelm him,” Gwen whispered. “Can’t you see he’s grieving?”

“Guinevere, I’m sorry, but this is important. If someone’s killing people in Camelot, I have to know who’s to blame—”

“Then look in the bloody mirror!” For a moment, Merlin didn’t realize that he’d spoken aloud; he barely recognized his own voice, vicious in a way that Merlin had never allowed himself to sound in Arthur’s presence.

“Merlin!” Gwen said, aghast. “You can’t possibly mean that!”

“Can’t I?” Merlin snarled. “He was a druid—” Mordred swore, softly, and clenched his fists— “and he was fourteen; he came to Camelot because he’d heard that our King had made peace with the druids and swore that they would be treated with respect in his Kingdom. He wanted to see the castle, hoped to catch a glimpse of the King who was ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity. He found death, instead.”

Arthur had gone pale and very still. Part of Merlin was screaming at himself to shut up, apologize, and back down, but it was a small voice compared to the sound of his own raging anger and disappointment— disappointment that had, in truth, been building up over the course of years upon years of thankless waiting.

“Someone saw his druid mark. He never saw who. The next thing he knew, he was dragged into an alley and thrown down, landing hard on his wrist and breaking it against the cobblestones. Then he was being kicked and thrashed, and focusing on keeping his head down and covered. He looked up exactly once after they started in on him and made eye contact with a man in armor standing at the mouth of the alleyway— a guard or a knight, he couldn’t be sure of which. He screamed for help; the man threw a stone at him instead, then turned and walked away.”

Merlin was breathing quickly again, feeling as though he’d just run the stairs and the halls twice over. His eyes prickled wetly, though he wasn’t crying yet. He was dimly aware of Mordred’s growing pallor, Gwen’s tears, and the looks of astonished horror on the other knights’ faces. He barely took heed; he focused instead on Arthur’s expression— blank, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, or who he was hearing it from.

“I found him entirely by chance; he’d dragged himself out of the alley they left him in and staggered to the square. I was at the well, drawing water. I barely managed to get him back to the infirmary, had to ask a guard to help carry him to manage it; the poor lad screamed at the sight of him, and only calmed down when I swore the guard was a friend and would help. Gods only know why he trusted me, but he did. He was bruised head to toe, Arthur. Two broken ribs, a shattered kneecap, fractured wrist, several missing teeth, and a broken collarbone.” Merlin listed the injuries with a clinical detachment that he didn’t feel. “The bruising was so extensive that I didn’t realize he was still bleeding internally until it was too late. By the time I sedated him and started surgery, he was past saving. Your people did that, Arthur. Your own guard contributed to it.”

The air in the room was thick with tension and despair. It pressed against them when Merlin fell silent. The silence grew, becoming absolutely unbearable. After a few long moments, Mordred let out a soft, choked sob, made a Sign where anyone could see it, right out in the open, and whispered, “May the Gates of Avalon open to receive him. May the Goddess take him in her arms and into her care.” Percival mimicked him, though his Sign was much shakier, and whispered his own prayer. The silence rose again; the druid knight’s words seemed to echo in the room, in spite of the fact that they’d been spoken too softly to leave a true echo.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, sounding lost and broken, but not half as broken as Merlin’s own heart felt.

“I know you are, Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice finally softening. “I know you; you’d never condone something like that. But gods help us, Arthur, what have you done to prevent it?” Merlin tossed his head back, twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. He knew he’d been harsh— probably too harsh— but he also felt as though it needed to be said, and that he had gone too far not to finish this now.

“You swore to respect the druids and to end their persecution, and, to your credit, you’ve stopped the raids. You’ve ordered your knights to leave them all alone. That’s an excellent start, Arthur, but it’s only a start. It isn’t only your army that threatened them, it was your people; after decades of your father’s lies and propaganda— I’m sorry, Arthur, but there’s no easier way to say it, that’s what they were— your people distrust and despise the druids.” Merlin let that sink in, then said, softly, “It’s been nearly a year since you swore to protect them, but you’ve never bothered to talk to them. You’ve never tried to learn about their traditions, their faith, their beliefs… you don’t understand them, Arthur. They’re a peaceful people, with their own way of viewing the world, and you’ve never bothered to learn about them, and all because they have a different opinion about magic than Camelot’s laws. And if you don’t learn about them, how can you teach your people not to fear them?”

The silence returned. It dragged on, growing more and more uncomfortable until Merlin became increasingly convinced that he’d badly overstepped. He started to worry that he might have just blown past all of Arthur’s tolerance and permanently damaged his relationship with the King. His twisted the hem of his shirt again and again, until it squeezed his fingers so tightly they started to go numb. He tugged them free, let his hands drop to his side, and looked down, scuffing the floor with the edge of his boot.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said at last. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Gods, Merlin, shut up,” Arthur said. His voice was thick and quivering. “Don’t you dare apologize to me. I’m… I’m glad you said what you did; you’re right. I— I meant what I promised the druid boy’s ghost, but it was so much easier to promise to respect the druids than it is to actually hold up that promise and do right by them.”

Arthur stood and slowly walked around the table until he stood before Merlin. He reached out, gripped Merlin’s shoulder tightly with one hand, and inclined his head in a nod that was as close as a King would ever come to bowing to a servant. “I need you to promise me something now, Merlin. Promise me you’ll do this again, if you need to. Don’t let me forget again. When it’s just us, or just the Round Table, I need you to speak up. I promise I’ll listen. From the start, next time.”

Merlin nodded; he didn’t trust his voice. Arthur gave his shoulder one last squeeze, patted it twice, then withdrew. “Take the rest of the night off, Merlin. Rest. Grieve. For God’s sake, man, you deserve to.”

Merlin nodded again, but licked his lips and said, “Arthur… I think we should send a message to the druids. They deserve to know what happened… they deserve to have the chance to claim him for burial.”

“You’re right,” Arthur said, softly. “God help me, but you’re right again; I should have thought of that.”

Mordred cleared his throat. It barely helped; when he spoke, his voice was still scratchy and rough. “Do you know what Clan he came from?”

Merlin shook his head. “I wish I did,” he said, sadly. “He passed out before I could ask. I don’t even know his name. I only know he was training to be a shrine-keeper. I’m not even sure which shrine it was.”

Mordred stiffened. “Gods save us,” he whispered. Then he stood, abruptly, and bolted out the door.

Arthur blinked and stared in the direction Mordred had gone. “What was that about?”

Merlin shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

Chapter 2: An Unplanned Wake

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Merlin made it back to the infirmary a good deal later than he would have liked to. Gwen had insisted on fussing over him and making him eat something before she let him go, and all of the knights had wanted to give him their condolences and reassure him that he’d done everything he possibly could have done for the druid boy. It was… nice, he supposed. He appreciated the sentiment, and it went a long way towards easing the lingering resentment he felt towards most of them— first for Ismere and then for leaving him to rot in the dungeon when Gwen was cursed.

But honestly, Merlin would have appreciated it a lot more if they hadn’t been so insistent on talking about it.

Merlin had said everything he wanted to say on the subject— a good deal more than he’d meant to say, actually— and now, he just wanted to… to what, exactly? He couldn’t say. He couldn’t properly say he wanted to sleep, because he was afraid of what he might dream about after a day like today; he couldn’t really say he wanted to be alone, either, because he’d only spend his time going over the day again and again, wondering what he might have done differently.

He only knew that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Merlin shook his head, putting the knights and Guinevere and even Arthur out of his mind, and stepped into the infirmary. He stopped a few steps into the room and narrowed his eyes at the fireplace. It was lit and blazing heartily.

It shouldn’t have been; he hadn’t fed it before he left, and he hadn’t expected Gaius to be back tonight— Gaius always stayed after a difficult birth, and Margaret was due to have twins, which was the very definition of a hard delivery— so it should have been little more than embers by now.

“Gaius? Are you back early?”

“It’s just me.” Merlin turned in the direction of the voice and stared at the very last person he’d expected to see. Mordred sat near the shrouded body with his cloak pulled tight around him, one hand holding it closed at his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’d rather have Gaius, but I just thought….”

Merlin waited for a moment. When Mordred showed no signs of continuing, he asked, “What?” in as gentle a voice as he could manage; he might not be overly fond of Mordred, but he knew today had been incredibly hard on him, too, and didn’t want to put any more strain on either of them. Merlin could easily imagine how he felt— torn in two directions, by two sets of loyalties that shouldn’t have been on opposite sides, but had been anyway— and found he sympathized with the knight a lot more than he usually did. He crossed the room, pulling a stool over to sit near Mordred.

Mordred looked up at him with wet, gleaming eyes and said, softly, “I didn’t think either of us should be alone, and I thought… maybe we could… not be alone together?”

Merlin considered that. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said, at last.

“Hell’s teeth, neither do I,” Mordred agreed with a brittle, humorless laugh.

Merlin studied his face, then nodded. He stood, putting a hand on Mordred’s shoulder as he did, feigning the need to brace himself even though he was quite steady getting to his feet— it was as close as he’d allow himself to come to comforting the other man. He shambled over to the farthest shelves— he’d been right about aggravating his injury and developing a limp, but wrong about it starting tomorrow— and fetched a bottle. He snagged a few tall wooden cups from the dining table on his way back, then sat again and pressed one of the cups into Mordred’s hand. Mordred looked at him questioningly right up until the cork came out and the air between them filled with the smell of spirits.

Merlin poured— generously. “I don’t generally drink, but, well….”

“The day rather calls for it,” Mordred agreed.

Merlin raised his glass, knocking it lightly against Mordred’s. “Here’s to not talking about it and not being alone together.” Mordred nodded in response, and then they lifted their glasses. Merlin sipped cautiously; Mordred underestimated the brandy, took a deeper swallow, and spluttered. Merlin smiled in spite of himself for a moment.

“I’m not going to talk about it, I swear,” Mordred said after he’d cleared his throat. “But I have to at least say one thing.” Merlin eyed him measuringly, then nodded his permission. “What you did today, for the druids, for all of us— I’ve never respected anyone more in my life, Emrys.”

“Don’t,” Merlin whispered, tiredly. “Not that name. Not today. Not when—” he trailed off, looking at the shroud. A tear slid down his cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth; he tasted salt.

Mordred nodded, slowly. “I understand. You did everything you could, but gods, I understand.”

Merlin rubbed his fingertips together and turned his head to look into the fire instead. What Mordred said— everyone else had insisted he’d done everything he could, too, and it had felt like empty platitudes every time. But Mordred actually knew what Merlin was capable of, and could guess what he’d tried to do; Mordred could probably guess the exact spells Merlin had tried to cast, the prayers and incantations he’d muttered, then spoken, then shrieked through his tears and growing panic.

When Mordred said Merlin did everything he could, it actually helped.

Merlin looked at the other man— a man he’d disliked, if not hated only a few short weeks ago— who looked just as miserable as Merlin felt, and had to suppress the bizarre desire to reach out and hug him. He lifted his cup to offer another toast— a wordless one, this time— instead. Neither of them coughed in response to their next swallow, even though it was a great deal larger than the first had been.

“Just know that as loyal as I am to Arthur— and I am loyal to Arthur, and will remain that way,” Mordred said, after a while, ~I’ll always be loyal to you, first, especially after today.~ Mordred finished the sentence in Silent Speech, and Merlin only barely restrained from protesting against the intrusion; he reminded himself that it came naturally to Mordred, that it was part of the druid’s culture, and managed not to hold it against him.

A log shifted in the fire, sending up a spray of embers with a series of crackling pops. The log’s new position brightened the room, but the angle they sat at meant it cast half of Mordred’s face in a deeper shadow. Merlin found himself studying Mordred’s face in the firelight— extremely expressive, and oddly contradictory; wide-eyed and youthful, but the square chin made him seem stern in spite of the innocence implied by his eyes— and remembered the look he’d seen right before Mordred had fled the council chambers.

“Mordred,” Merlin began, licking his lips, which suddenly felt inexplicably dry. “I’m not talking about it, either, but…. Earlier, when you left the Table— I could’ve sworn you were terrified.”

“I was,” Mordred said at once. “sh*t, Merlin, I still am; I hope it’s nothing, but… you said he was training to be a shrine-keeper?”

“I did. At least, that’s what he said when I was trying to keep him talking so he wouldn’t pass out, before I realized he’d need surgery.”

“If—” Mordred had to stop and lick his own lips. “I don’t know how far along he was in his training, if he was taking on some of the greater responsibilities or not, but if he was, and it was a death-shrine… some of the spells that keep the dead bound are tied to their casters’ heartbeats, Merlin.”

Merlin suddenly felt chilled, in spite of the fire blazing merrily in the grate.

“And if he’d taken over the spells that maintained the heart of the shrine itself— best not to think about that; if he was tied to that spell, we’d be dealing with a lot worse than a few angry ghosts.”

Merlin considered that carefully, and decided not to ask anything more. Then he turned on the stool, facing the fire, and sat in a silence that should have been uncomfortable, but wasn’t, and mentally reviewed the little he knew of necromancy. There wasn’t much; it had always been the most forbidden of all practices under Uther’s laws, bearing the harshest punishments, and it had been heavily restricted even before the Purge. Even in magic’s heyday, necromancy had been the exclusive purview of the priesthood and of the few dark sorcerers who existed outside of the law. If one of the druid’s shrines started to release its spirits, it could spell disaster; brutal experience had taught Merlin that even one unsettled spirit could cause untold chaos, and they had gotten lucky with the last ghost they’d faced. The boy had been angry, yes, and Elyan had caused a lot of trouble when he’d been possessed, but ultimately, that ghost had only wanted to be seen, heard, and understood; he had only wanted the chance to forgive, and to secure the promise of a better future for his people.

Not every specter would be so forgiving. If they were anything like Uther’s ghost, or worse, like the Dorocha….

Merlin shuddered, then jolted as something soft fell over his shoulders. He looked up, saw Mordred drawing back, and realized that the knight had wordlessly draped his own cloak over Merlin’s shaking form. “I shouldn’t—”

“Please, Merlin,” Mordred whispered. “It isn’t much, but let me take care of you. Gods know someone should.”

Merlin stared at Mordred, feeling completely unmoored. For a moment, his body felt ill-fitting and clumsy, and he was sure that he’d make a fool of himself if he tried to speak. He pulled the cloak tighter instead, sinking into its warm folds— it smelled faintly metallic, and a bit like the oil used to polish chainmail, and a little like clean sweat and something woody, or perhaps peppery— and was rewarded with a grateful smile, as if Merlin was the one doing Mordred a favor by accepting the garment.

For lack of anything better to do, Merlin lifted his cup to his lips, then blinked down at it in stupefied astonishment when he realized it was empty. He reached mechanically for the bottle and was equally surprised at how light it had become; it sloshed dully, with less than a finger’s width of brandy left at the bottom. How many times had Merlin drained his cup? How many times had Mordred? How many times had they refilled their glasses? Merlin had a vague memory of another wordless toast— had it been just one more? Or had there been a few?

How long had they sat in oddly comfortable silence?

Mordred noticed the bottle, then noticed his own empty cup, looked at the fireplace, and shook his head. “It’s getting late.”

Merlin realized the fire wasn’t bright anymore; the logs tapered like hourglasses— their centers were thin, burnt nearly to charcoal— and the windows showed only a blank wall of night-black. “It is.”

Mordred stood, nodded politely, and said, “Keep the cloak for now; you can return it when we see each other next. I have others.” He walked back to the shroud, bent low, and whispered a prayer over the fallen druid. He stayed that way for some time, then pressed a quick kiss to the clean white linen in a final silent benediction, rose, and walked away.

“Mordred.” The druid stopped at the door, his hand on the latch, ready to turn the handle. Merlin realized he didn’t know why he’d stopped him, didn’t know what he wanted to say. He searched frantically for the right words, came up empty, and settled on “Thank you.”

Mordred smiled a soft smile, caught somewhere between grief and relief. “Any time, Merlin; whatever you need.”

Then he was gone, and the room felt cold and empty in his absence.

Merlin stood, dragged the stool across the room until he sat as close to the fire as he could get without having to worry about the embers striking him when the fire spat them out. He shrugged his shoulders, rubbing his arms against the inside of the cloak; the friction sent up another wave of metallic, oiled-herbal scent. The fire popped; an ember flew further than Merlin expected it would, landing on the cloak. Merlin brushed it aside with a quick flick of his finger, quick enough to avoid smearing ash on the cloak, and scooted the stool back another few inches. He studied the red cloth critically.

Merlin didn’t trust Mordred— he never had, and knew he couldn’t afford to. But….

Somehow, after tonight, he felt as though he ought to.

Chapter 3: Scorched Earth

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Merlin woke in a heap next to the fire— he had, apparently, decided against climbing up to his room in favor of simply slipping off of the stool and settling down in front of the hearth— and eyed the thin gray light creeping in from the gaps between the shutters. He yawned, stretched, and studied the light a bit more critically. He decided that he probably had time for a wash if he was quick, and tossed a log into the fireplace, wrinkling his nose at it until it ignited. After a moment’s consideration, he tossed a second log onto the hearth, then filled a cauldron from the water barrel and set it above the fire to warm. He winced as the room brightened, then stumbled over to the shelves and drank down one of Gaius’s hangover remedies, grimacing at the taste. After a moment’s hesitation, he took up a second phial and muttered over it until it felt as insubstantial as smoke between his fingers. He turned his wrist just so and watched it fade from view.

With any luck, Mordred would notice the phial on his nightstand when he woke. It would certainly be welcome— Mordred drank as rarely as Merlin did, after all, and would probably feel just as out of sorts waking up as Merlin had— but it seemed like a paltry, insignificant gesture compared to what Mordred had done for him last night.

Merlin lifted his hands to his throat, playing with the cloak’s ties. Last night was hardly the first time he fell asleep in front of the hearth— sometimes, when he was feeling particularly overwhelmed, he liked to sleep on the floor; as much as he loved having a bed, it could be oddly comforting to sleep as he had growing up— but it was the first time he’d done it without waking up shivering halfway through the night. The cloak had done an admirable job of keeping him warm.

Merlin shook his head, trying to put Mordred out of his mind. He wasn’t sure where he stood with the knight— where he could afford to stand with the knight— but Mordred’s oath was ringing in his ears again.

I’ll be loyal to you first.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Simple kindness and a few pretty words, and you’re ready to brush aside Destiny,” Merlin said, chiding himself.

He padded over to the window, wincing as the stone floor cooled the further he moved from the hearth— when had he kicked off his shoes, and where had he kicked them to?— and reached for the shutters. He threw them open, hoping a bit of air might help to clear his head. The light barely brightened; the sky was thick with clouds, and an unseasonably cool breeze blew in. Merlin burrowed deeper into his borrowed cloak and watched the sky for moment.

After a while, he went up to his room to fetch his jacket and the ewer he kept by his washbasin. He filled it from the now-bubbling cauldron, then sprinkled some soap into the pot and threw his jacket in— he needed to get the bloodstains out so he could return Mordred’s cloak. He stirred his makeshift laundry, then took the ewer back to his room, washed, and changed. He was just tying on a scarf when someone knocked on the door downstairs. “Just a minute!” Merlin called.

A few moments later, he opened the door to a page, red-faced and panting. “H-his majesty asks that you meet him at the stables. As soon as possible.”

“Alright, thank you.” Merlin closed the door long enough to wave the fire out with a quick spell, pluck his jacket from the still boiling water, and shake it dry; it steamed clean immediately under a hot, golden-eyed stare. Another spell had his boots walking across the floor until they settled obediently in front of his feet. Merlin slipped them on, shrugged into his jacket, and scribbled out a quick note for Gaius so he wouldn’t panic at the sight of an unexpected body if he happened to return before Merlin did.

And then he left, moving as quickly as he dared to move with only one good leg to stand on.

* * *

Arthur barked orders the moment Merlin was within earshot, and didn’t bother explaining any of them. Merlin might have protested, but in truth, he’d anticipated a lot worse from Arthur— even though Arthur had agreed with Merlin last night, and even gone so far as to thank him, Merlin had half-expected to be told off soundly now that Arthur had time to really consider his insolence.

That was probably uncharitable, but Merlin’s limp had worsened substantially, not that anyone else seemed to notice; his leg had protested violently when he’d tried to rush down the stairs in response to Arthur’s summons, and Merlin figured he’d be well within his rights to be angry and uncharitable towards Arthur until it healed up completely.

He wanted to roll up his trouser leg, pull Arthur down to face the swollen red gash and yell ‘see what happens when you force one person to carry every bag up an unstable mountain?’

Instead, he grumbled under his breath, saddled his and Arthur’s horses as quick as he could, and followed Arthur wordlessly. Merlin managed to hold his tongue up until Arthur led them past the main gates and outside the city walls. “What’s going on, Arthur?”

Arthur flashed a quick glance in Merlin’s direction, barely taking his eyes off of the road. “Reports of fire in the night,” Arthur grunted. “The farmer thinks it was deliberate, and claims to have seen someone moving through the fields only moments before it was set alight.”

Merlin put his own head down and swore viciously at that— if there was one thing he absolutely could not abide, it was crops being put to the torch. If someone was responsible… well, either Arthur would find them, try them in court, and bring them to justice, or Merlin would track them down later to show them what someone from a small farming town would consider fitting justice for such a crime.

* * *

The farm wasn’t far; they arrived within the hour and were immediately greeted by an anxious looking farmwife.

“Oh, Your Majesty, thank the gods you’re here,” she said, in a thin, frantic voice. “My husband is out back, that way,” she pointed towards the field of barley, “with his Lordship.”

Arthur’s eyes shone with sudden interest. He turned his head to look at the beautiful black stallion tied to a nearby fence and paused, searching his memory for the owner of this particular estate. “Lord Danvers is here?”

“Yes sire,” said the farmwife, bending her knees in an awkward unpracticed curtsy; they popped audibly as she straightened again. “We sent a runner to him just before we sent one to you. Only proper, our farm being on his land and all.”

“Of course,” Arthur agreed, offering the woman a reassuring smile. “Well, we’ll just head back then; no, no need to lead us, I’m sure we can find our way.”

They dismounted and tied off their horses at the simple wooden fence separating the fields from the road. The farmwife attempted another curtsy, gave up halfway through it, and bowed instead before retreating in the direction of a weathered old chicken coop— royalty or no, there were chores to do, and she had been dismissed.

Leon stepped in close by Arthur’s side. “I’ve never known Lord Danvers to take interest in his people outside of tax collection.” Leon’s voice was at once suspicious and disapproving.

“Nor have I.” Arthur frowned, then shrugged and set forth, motioning them to follow. Merlin noticed at once that he was moving with a slow, deliberate gait, stepping carefully and avoiding any twigs or fallen branches. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that Arthur hoped to catch the Lord and the farmer unawares.

They heard the men long before they saw them; they appeared to be in the middle of some sort of argument. Unfortunately, the cold breeze had shifted into a steady gale, and they couldn’t quite make out what the Lord was saying over the sound of the wind blowing through the grain. Merlin found himself wishing the weather would calm long enough to catch a word or two, and suspected Arthur was hoping for the same thing, but the farmer caught sight of them before it did. He cut off whatever Lord Danvers was saying with a loud, “Your Majesty!”

Lord Danvers— a ruddy-faced man with a perpetual scowl and the sort of thick, slightly drooping bulk you only ever saw in a dedicated warrior who’d finally admitted defeat at the hands of time— turned to face them. Something nervous and complicated flashed in his eyes, but it was gone in a blink, replaced by a practiced mask of polite indifference. He inclined his head. “Sire, how good of you to ride out! I can assure you, though, that we’ve got the matter well in hand. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more.”

“I see. What sort of accident?” Arthur asked, in an unaffected tone that Merlin knew was entirely false.

“A farmhand’s moonlit tryst gone wrong,” the Lord said smoothly. “Knocked over a lantern while they were, shall we say, occupied, and, well….” Lord Danvers spread his hands and shrugged.

“Begging your pardon for dragging you all this way for nothing, Your Lordships,” the farmer stammered, looking back and forth between Arthur and Lord Danvers nervously. “He didn’t confess until after we’d sent the runners, and by the time we got the truth out of him, Lord Danvers had already arrived. Otherwise, we’d never have bothered either of you.”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “Well, the affected area, where is it, exactly?”

“Whatever for?” Lord Danvers asked, arching one imperious brow and puffing out his chest. “There’s naught we can do for the grain— more’s the pity— and nothing else needs investigating, not when we have a confession. Your Majesty, let’s leave the farmers to sort this out, eh? My manor isn’t far, and I’d be delighted to host you; it is, after all, nearly time for lunch.”

Arthur thanked him, but politely declined. “I’m afraid I’ve several appointments to keep, My Lord. But I would like to see the damage since I’ve already made the journey here. I will, of course, subtract the estimated loss from the levies due to the citadel at the end of the harvest.”

That ought to have been cause for celebration; the farmer, at least, looked reassured by it. But Lord Danvers’s face faltered just long enough for Merlin to notice the same strange look of— dare he name it paranoia?— that he’d seen when they first walked over to meet them. Merlin glanced surreptitiously at Arthur. The King was keeping his own thoughts well-guarded, but Merlin knew him too well. He could tell at once that Arthur had seen and marked the man’s tell, too.

Lord Danvers smiled tightly, then muttered something about having other business to attend to if the King wouldn’t be following him back. Arthur inclined his head in dismissal, and the Lord sketched out a quick bow. He left immediately after rising, and the farmer trailed after him.

“That was a crock of sh*t,” Gwaine said as soon as the pair were out of earshot. “They’re hiding something, and whatever it is, it’s serious.”

“I agree,” Leon said, stiffly. “Lord Danvers was a friend of my father’s; I’ve never liked him, but I’ve never known him to come right out and lie to someone’s face before. He’s the sort of man that gets by with talking a great deal about nothing, instead of answering what he’s actually been asked. But I’d wager the equivalent of my own estate that he was lying through his teeth to us today.”

“I’d wager he was scared to death,” Merlin added.

“Nobody would take those bets,” Arthur said before leading them all forward. “It’d be a guaranteed loss.”

Gwaine hung back a moment, eyeing Merlin as though he intended to speak with him once he caught up. Merlin ignored the look, pretending he hadn’t seen it, and walked past him without breaking his stride. Gwaine huffed and turned to say something to Percival instead, and Merlin ignored that, too, focusing on catching up to Arthur.

Arthur was kneeling in front of the burned section, rubbing ash between his fingertips. Merlin ignored the damaged area for the time being and ran his fingers over the barley growing to either side of the narrow footpath. “It rained yesterday,” Merlin recalled.

“And judging by the clouds, it’ll rain again tomorrow, if not tonight,” Gwaine said, furrowing his brow. “Why are we talking about the weather?”

Merlin rolled his eyes at the knight. “Because the fields are still wet.” He held up his hand and flicked his fingers in Gwaine’s direction. The knight flinched as cold droplets of water were flung into his face. “So how did a fallen lantern manage to burn that much?”

Arthur looked back at Merlin in surprise. “That’s a good point, Merlin,” he said after a moment. For once, there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Merlin opened his mouth to accuse him of sounding a little too surprised, then stopped and stiffened.

“I see it, too,” Mordred murmured, coming up to stand close by Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin caught himself leaning in towards the other man without really meaning to and straightened.

“Do you think….” Merlin trailed off, not knowing how to phrase the question.

Mordred understood him perfectly. “I do,” he said. Then, in a much softer voice— for Merlin’s ears only— he added, “Can’t you feel it?”

Merlin could; he felt colder than he ought to, even in weather like this, but a strange, prickling heat radiated from the blackened earth.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, looking back and forth between Merlin and Mordred.

“Arthur, the burns,” Merlin said, slowly. “They’re an almost perfect circle.”

The wind finally stopped. The lack of movement through the remaining stalks made the shape of the scorched ground far more obvious. It wasn’t an overly large area; if a man stood with his arms outstretched, straight out from his sides, the burns would have measured perhaps twice that span. They were only saved from being an exact circle by the footpaths that allowed the farmers to walk the fields, which cut the burns off on both sides, squaring off the outer edges of the circle.

“No way a broken lantern did that,” Gwaine said.

They contemplated the burned field. The wind started up again, blowing far more gently, and from a slightly different direction. After a moment, Leon lifted his head, angling his nose in the air and turning in the direction of the farmer’s cottage.

“Does anyone else smell smoke?”

Chapter 4: Conflagration

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the fields that had been set aflame, this time. It was the cottage, and it was not a small blaze.

Fire raced up the walls, curling out of broken windows and roaring out of the collapsing thatch, belching out thick black smoke. It was horrible, and it absolutely reeked of magic— no ordinary fire should have spread so quickly, not when everything was still damp from recent rainfall. The wind fanned the flames, and embers flew towards the field and the wooden fence. Arthur swore and turned towards the section they’d tied their horses to, but thankfully, the horses were gone; wherever they were, they were at least out of danger for the time being.

A moment later they heard a scream, and Lord Danvers raced out of the cottage, slapping at his scorched and smoking robes. His face was smeared with soot and blood. He bent at the waist, sucked in great lungfuls of air, then staggered towards the road, whistling shrilly. He whistled again and again and again, and after the fourth whistle, they heard hoofbeats. The black stallion raced out of a nearby field, slowing— but not stopping— as it drew near Danvers.

He apparently didn’t need it to stop.

Lord Danvers sped up, grabbed the reins, and ran a few steps down the road at the horse’s side. He quickened his pace, gaining momentum, then leapt nimbly into the saddle. He cracked the reins as soon as he was seated securely, urging the stallion to go faster; he looked back over his shoulder once, as if he was expecting a pursuit. Arthur looked as though he was thinking about sending someone after him for a moment, but there was still the fire to contend with.

Someone ran up to the cottage, carrying a bucket. He threw the contents onto the wall; water hissed and steamed ineffectually, and then he turned on his heels and ran back. Another man— a more familiar one; the farmer, and thank the gods he hadn’t been in the cottage— passed him with a second bucket and repeated the action. Arthur vaulted over the fence and caught up to the farmer as he went back to the well. Leon, Gwaine, Percival, and Mordred followed close at his heels.

Merlin had to stop and find the gate; he couldn’t risk that jump, not with his leg. Still, he caught up quickly, in time to see Arthur grab the farmer’s shoulders and yell for him to stop. “You’ll tire yourself out long before you put out the fire,” Arthur insisted. “Make a chain; one man stationed at the well to bring the bucket up, then he’ll pass it to the next, and so on. We’ll switch out the one pulling the buckets up every few hauls, give him a chance to rest.”

The farmer didn’t argue; he nodded sharply and led them to the well. The farmhand who had gone ahead of them had just finished bringing up his own bucket and raced past them before they could explain the plan. He was replaced by the farmer’s wife, whose biceps rivaled Percival’s and who brought up the next bucket faster than the farmhand had. The farmer ran off, fetched a few more buckets, and then they set to work.

Arthur’s system was a great improvement on the farmer’s panicked response, but Merlin could tell right away that it wouldn’t be enough. He glanced up measuringly; the clouds were already there, thick and pregnant with rain, though they hadn’t started releasing the water yet. Merlin sent up a quick tendril of magic— barely even an effort, not even enough to show in his eyes— and found that Gwaine had been right. The rain would fall in the small hours of the next morning, if things were allowed to progress naturally.

Merlin had no intention of letting things progress naturally. If he did, the fire might easily spread until there weren’t any crops left in the fields.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and threw up a shapeless net of magic. He caught the moisture in the clouds, and yanked. He swayed from the effort, nearly losing his footing; it wasn’t a spell, not properly— it was blunt-force magic, crude and desperate and dangerous, and the force of it shook him to his core.

Crude as it was, it was still effective. The first tiny droplets fell immediately in a light sprinkle, but the rain didn’t stay light for long. By the time the bucket had reached the middle of the line, it had become a downpour. The rain pounded down with a stinging force, turning the ground to mud and making the bucket’s handle slippery enough that Leon fumbled it, dropping it to flood over his and Arthur’s feet.

But it also beat back the fire. In just a few short minutes, the flames had been reduced from a raging inferno to a low smolder.

Merlin let up slowly, steadily releasing his hold on the clouds. They continued their torrent for a few moments more, then the steady patter of rain slowed to a drizzle. Steam rose from the blackened remains of the cottage. The steam twisted, forming the vague suggestion of a figure with outstretched arms that hung in the air ominously before the wind and rain tore it to shreds. Merlin shuddered and looked back down the line; Arthur’s expression made it clear that he’d seen the apparition, too. Another quick glance told him the knights had as well. He steeled himself, then finally looked to Mordred; the druid had gone pale as milk.

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” Mordred said, his voice cracking. His words rang out in the stunned silence, far louder than he’d intended them to be.

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur asked, dangerously.

Mordred flushed, looked away, and said, “Let’s find the horses. I’ll explain on our way back to Camelot.”

Arthur frowned at him, then waved an imperious hand. “Fine. Merlin, Gwaine, help him with that; Leon, Percival, with me.” The King walked over to the farmer and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s see what we can salvage now. I’ll send someone over with a cart when I return to Camelot; we’ll find a place for you within the city walls until you can rebuild.”

The farmer and his wife looked at Arthur as though he’d hung the sun, and Merlin smiled at the reminder of why Arthur would always have his loyalty in spite of the King’s occasional failings. After all, there weren’t a lot of nobles who would have offered to house the farmers, let alone Kings who would have shown that much consideration to a peasant family. But Arthur— Arthur was a good man, even if he had taken some of what Uther taught to heart when he really shouldn’t have.

* * *

Finding their missing mounts proved easier than Merlin thought it would be; they hadn’t gone far. The horses had run straight across the road and into the forest, where they had found a meadow and immediately settled in to graze.

That was where their luck ended. The reins had been cut high up near the bridle, and the lopsided strips of leather that had been left attached were far too short to be of any real use. Merlin had to retrieve some rope from the saddlebags to fashion into makeshift leads.

“Oi, Merlin,” Gwaine said, looking up from his own mount’s bridle. “Is it just me, or does the leather look scorched?”

It did; actually, the leather didn’t look like it had been cut after all— the ends were too uneven. On closer inspection, it looked as if something had burned away the reins and stopped just short of burning the horses’ manes. Merlin exchanged a significant glance with Mordred. “Odd,” Merlin replied with a shrug. “Well, cut or burnt, it’s the same result. C’mon; Arthur’s probably wondering what’s keeping us.”

By the time they managed to convince the horses to follow them back to the farm, Arthur was waiting impatiently for them on the road. His mood only worsened as he saw the makeshift reins. He mounted wordlessly; Leon and Percival did the same.

To Arthur’s credit, they made it nearly halfway back to Camelot before his patience wore thin. “Mordred,” he said, accusingly. “What did you mean earlier? You implied that you in some way predicted this fire.”

“Not the fire, My Lord,” Mordred answered. “The… the cause of it. Merlin said the druid who died was being trained as a shrine-keeper. I worried that the shrine might have started failing when he died.”

“What does that mean?” Percival asked. “We’ve come across those shrines before; Merlin warned us not to disturb it, and we learned the hard way how right he was, but how could someone’s death affect it? He was in Camelot, after all; it’s not like he died at the shrine.”

Mordred considered his words carefully. “The shrines,” he said finally, “exist to bind the restless dead, and to reinforce the boundaries between Life and Death, and every shrine has a keeper. The keeper cares for the spirits attached to the shrine, and cares for the shrine itself. They monitor the bindings that keep the dead from interfering with the living. When the bindings start to weaken, the keeper strengthens them. But the bindings exist on both sides of the Veil: Life and Death.”

Mordred licked his lips. Merlin passed him a waterskin wordlessly; he nodded his thanks, drank deeply, then continued. “It has to be anchored on both sides. The bound dead act as the anchor on the Other Side, but here, on our side, the keepers themselves are the anchors. If they die without passing that mantle on, the spells start to fail. The bindings weaken. One by one, the spirits become unbound; if enough of them escape, it upsets the balance on their side, too. Eventually, the Veil itself starts to thin, and Death and Life start to coexist in the same place.”

Leon shuddered. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t,” Mordred said flatly. “A hundred years ago, a keeper died before he could take on an apprentice. The shrine failed completely, and it unleashed a plague and a famine. The crops started to rot in the fields; living people started to rot in their homes. Animals went mad and attacked anything in sight. The druids had to call upon the Isle of the Blessed for aid; it took one of the Nine well over a year to reestablish Order, and hundreds died in the meantime.”

Arthur swore viciously. “Do you think that could happen now? Dammit, Mordred, should we be expecting some sort of curse to fall on Camelot?”

Mordred shook his head woefully. “This isn’t just about Camelot, Arthur. If the shrine truly failed, the effects could spread to every one of the Five Kingdoms.” Mordred paused, letting that sink in. “But I don’t think it has failed entirely, yet; the boy wasn’t a keeper, he was only training to be one. I think the bindings he created have failed, but the shrine itself hasn’t. Which doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods— we need to contact the druids and deliver his body right away.”

“Will the body help fix the bindings?” asked Gwaine.

“No,” Mordred said. “But it might convince the elders to trust us enough to tell us what to do about the unbound spirits.” Mordred sighed and shook his head. Merlin realized that the druid was reaching the end of his knowledge, and it frustrated him deeply; Mordred was clearly explaining as best he could, but he hadn’t said much more than he’d told Merlin the night before.

Finally, Mordred spoke again. “Please understand that such things are rarely discussed, even within the clans. The exact nature of the shrines is a secret known only to the keepers and the elders, and there are some druids who would consider it a betrayal that I’ve said as much as I have already. It won’t be easy to convince them to part with that knowledge, but we need their help. One of the unbound spirits has already started a fire, and it’s only been a few days since the druid died. It was probably an older spirit— or a very, very angry one— otherwise, it wouldn’t have been able to act so soon after being released. But the others will grow in strength… you’ve all seen the sort of damage an angry ghost can do; I shouldn’t have to tell you what could happen if we were forced to deal with several.”

Everyone fell silent as they considered that. Merlin turned his head to consider each of the knights in turn, saving Arthur for last; if the knights’ expressions were any indication, they were finally understanding just how much trouble they were all in. He couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but the King’s back was rigid and painfully straight, as though he was expecting a blow to fall on him at any time.

“Do you have anything to add, Merlin?” Arthur asked, still looking straight ahead. It surprised them all.

“Me?” Merlin asked, skeptically.

“Yes, you; you knew about the shrine when we first found it, and I know you help Gaius in his research. Can you recall anything else about the shrines, or about ghosts in general?”

Merlin frowned and tapped one finger against his chin. Scraps of lore from half-remembered books and long nights of study flashed behind his eyes. “You can’t fight ghosts with steel,” he said, eventually. “But there are old stories…. I could make up a poultice that might buy us time if we came across a ghost.”

Arthur finally turned towards Merlin at that, fixing him with a dangerous glare. “I won’t have you turning to sorcery, Merlin,” he snarled. “I’ll allow that the druid’s shrines sound necessary, but I won’t have my people getting involved with that sort of thing.”

Something hot welled up inside of Merlin. “Oh, do tell me how you plan on getting us out of this, then; will you be telling the druids ‘no offense to your sacred traditions, but we only want your help if it doesn’t involve magic?’” Merlin snorted. “I can’t imagine that attitude will get you very far. Besides, I wasn’t actually suggesting sorcery; they’re folk-charms— natural remedies, and nothing more— but they should help.”

“Rowan and rust?” Mordred asked quickly, before Arthur had a chance to respond. Merlin nodded. “He’s right, sire. You could hardly call that sorcery, but it should stop a ghost from touching us directly. It won’t eliminate the danger completely— if they start a fire, or throw an object, we could still be injured— but they won’t be able to attack us themselves.”

Arthur sighed heavily. “These… charms… are they druidic in nature?” When Mordred nodded, Arthur said, “Then wouldn’t it be safer if you made them, Mordred? Your people seem to have some resistance to magic’s corruption.”

Mordred’s eyes flashed with anger. He breathed deeply, repressing it as best he could. When he responded, it was in a measured, cold tone that expressed exactly how little he’d cared for Arthur’s wording, but was just polite enough to escape censure. “I won’t debate the nature of magic, My Lord, but I can assure you that Merlin is more than capable of handling such matters. He’s probably far more qualified than I am, given his studies and his practice in compounding medicines.”

Mordred tossed his head and twisted the rope in his hands, guiding his horse to the edges of the company’s formation. After a moment, Merlin decided to join him. As he passed Gwaine, he heard the knight whisper, “Since when is Mordred a druid?” to Percival, and rolled his eyes.

If Percival answered, Merlin didn’t hear it; he didn’t hear anyone speak again until Camelot was in sight. “My Lord,” Mordred called. “I don’t have a reliable way to send a message to the druids, but they can’t possibly be unaware of the danger. The keeper would have felt the shrine’s spells break, even if they weren’t ones that he cast himself. If we wanted to find them, we could always journey to the shrine itself; they’re bound to have a camp nearby.”

Arthur pulled back on the ropes, slowing his horse to a stop. He turned in his saddle and studied Mordred, carefully. “Tomorrow,” he sighed, shaking his head. “If we left now, it would be nightfall by the time we reached the shrine; we wouldn’t have the light to track them to their camps, assuming they had been there. Not that I doubt you,” Arthur added, raising his brow in Merlin’s direction, who had opened his mouth to protest. Merlin settled back in his own saddle, but still bristled like an angry cat, offended on Mordred’s behalf— and on his own behalf, for Arthur’s earlier comments. Arthur blinked and studied Merlin more critically, just as he’d been eyeing Mordred earlier. He sighed again, deeper this time, and said, “Speak to Gaius; if he thinks as Mordred does and agrees that those… charms… won’t put you in danger, you may make them. But only if it isn’t sorcery!”

Arthur flicked the leads and set off; the knights followed obediently. Merlin and Mordred hung back, then started to follow at a more sedate pace. “That’s more than I thought he’d bend,” Mordred said, sounding disappointed and heartened in almost equal measures— Merlin knew the feeling.

“We’d better catch up; I want to get to Gaius before Arthur changes his mind.”

Chapter 5: Conversations

Chapter Text

Guinevere watched the candlelight pool on her husband’s sweat-slicked skin, running her fingers through the wet, golden hair on his chest. She waited; he’d been on her as soon as he entered his chambers and found her there and already wearing her nightgown, and she knew what that meant. He needed the distraction first and foremost, and the comfort, but now….

Any moment now, Arthur would start talking, and then he’d ask her some sort of grand, sweeping question that would stump even the most learned and gifted philosophers and expect her— a newly elevated maid, of all people— to somehow have the perfect answer that would turn whatever moral challenge he faced into a neatly wrapped solution.

He expected far too much from her, really, but that was born royalty for you.

She had to wait for quite a while, but once Arthur started speaking, the tale poured out of him in a frantic rush. Some of it she knew already: she’d been there when Merlin had broken down in the Small Council, after all. But she hadn’t realized that the boy’s death could lead to a true cataclysm— who could have expected something like that? Ancient spells tied up in shrines and sacred lands, angry ghosts, the threat of the afterlife spilling into their waking existence… it was like something out of one of the Roman epics she’d been reading as practice for learning the Latin she’d need to decipher the older lawbooks in the archives. She had every faith that Arthur would somehow manage to figure out a solution— he always did, usually with Merlin’s help, and why Arthur couldn’t just go to him when he needed these sorts of answers right from the start, she’d never know— but gods help her, she couldn’t imagine what that solution could possibly be, apart from throwing themselves onto the druids’ mercy and hoping for the best.

“Do you think… Merlin was so offended that we hadn’t thought to learn more about the druids’ beliefs. ‘All because they have a different opinion of magic,’” Arthur quoted. His chest rose higher as he sucked in a slow, deep breath; Guinevere fought off the urge to look up at him— she knew he always found these sorts of conversations easier if he didn’t have to look anyone in the eye. “Are we… are we wrong about sorcery?”

Guinevere’s hand stilled above Arthur’s heart. Out of all the possible ways she’d imagined this conversation going, she’d never expected that.

Arthur seemed to take her surprise as disapproval. “I’m not convinced that we are,” he added, hastily. “But if Mordred is to be trusted— and I’ve always thought he was loyal to Camelot, so I have no reason not to trust him— then the druids aren’t practicing magic to gain wealth, power, and the destruction of their enemies. They’re doing it to… to preserve the balance of the very world! Father always said that sorcerers were always in it for themselves, but, self-preservation aside, that doesn’t feel like a selfish aim.”

“I don’t think it is,” Guinevere said at last. She considered her next words carefully, decided that it called for eye contact in spite of Arthur’s preferences, and propped herself up on her elbows. Arthur distracted himself with the sight of her chest for a moment; her fingers angled beneath his chin and lifted it with the gentlest pressure. When he finally looked at her, his own fear and discomfort writ clearly on every angle of his face, she said, “The druids have never been our enemies. Even when they were outlawed, they still helped you; they saved our First Knight, remember? And then they gave you the Cup, even though it was one of their most powerful and sacred relics. And then there was the ghost that possessed Elyan….” Guinevere trailed off, feeling her eyes go a bit misty at the thought of her brother; his loss was still horribly fresh, and she was still trying not to think about it too deeply. “He could have done a lot worse,” she finished once she knew she could force the words out without sobbing.

“I suppose,” Arthur said. “But other sorcerers have always been—”

“Have they?” Guinevere interrupted. “Most of them have been our enemies, yes, but someone cured my father of the plague unleashed by the afanc, and you told me once that the Dragon Lord would have helped you if he hadn’t died. And— and what about me? I wouldn’t even be talking to you right now if it weren’t for that sorceress… oh, blast it, what was her name?”

“Dola, or Dolma; something like that,” Arthur answered, softly. His eyes were distant— considering.

“And she could have asked us for just about anything,” Guinevere continued, acknowledging Arthur’s recollection with a nod and a quick tap on his shoulder. “I was cursed. You were desperate. She could have bent you over a barrel, but all she asked was that we remember that magic isn’t good or evil— only the people wielding it.”

“But the attacks on Camelot— Morgana— how can we trust that magic doesn’t corrupt when we’ve seen firsthand what it can do to people who try to use it?”

Guinevere worried her lip with her teeth. “I knew Morgana as well as you did. Better, maybe,” she said, after a brief pause where the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire, the rustling of cloth against skin as they shifted under the covers, and the soft whoosh of Arthur’s breath. “Arthur, she was hardly an angel to begin with. I loved her, we both did, but… well, you know how she could get. Once she made up her mind about something, that was it; she’d hear no arguments against her decision, and anyone who tried to reason with her stopped being people and started being obstacles to overcome. And then she went missing for a year and came back to Camelot and tried to overthrow your father with Morgause at her side. What if it wasn’t magic that corrupted her; what if it was one scheming, power-hungry sorceress, and the worst parts of Morgana’s own nature?”

Arthur frowned deeply; his brow furrowed until she couldn’t resist reaching up to rub the creases out of it. The corners of his lips turned upwards, for a moment, and he turned his head to press a kiss to the center of her palm. She shivered pleasantly, in spite of the gravity of the topic. “Still… magic is… even if most sorcerers were like the druids, how the hells would you stop the ones who are like Morgana or Morgause?” Arthur looked at her expectantly; she wasn’t sure if he wanted her to have the answer, or if he expected that to be the end of the conversation.

Guinevere bit her lip again. “I don’t know much about magic, but… how do you stop bandits?”

Arthur blinked at her. “I have an army, and well-trained knights. But even a well-trained knight will struggle against sorcery.”

“Exactly,” Guinevere said. “But against other swordsmen, your knights do very well; maybe what you really need is a sorcerer you can rely on. You said you trust Mordred, and we know he was born a druid and grew up in their camps… if you do decide to give magic a chance, maybe you could start there?”

Arthur’s eyes darted back and forth, moving quickly across her face. Then he rolled over onto his stomach, fluffed his pillow, and groaned. “Maybe,” he drawled, and Guinevere knew that was the end of that discussion.

“Goodnight, My Lord,” she said, pitching her voice playfully near the end. Arthur opened one eye and gave her a slightly heated look that he ruined immediately with a wide yawn.

“Goodnight,” he said at last. She waited until he was snoring softly, then rose, dressed, and went to her own chambers— she loved her husband deeply, but he sprawled enough to make any bed feel small, and his snores wouldn’t stay soft for long. She needed her rest, especially if he was going to be leaving on another quest, and they’d agreed long ago that she wouldn’t get it if they tried to sleep in the same bed.

* * *

Mordred opened the door, answering the soft, almost timid knock. “Merlin, is everything alright?”

Merlin licked his lips and blinked slowly; his expression was odd, one that Mordred had never seen before, and several moments passed before he finally spoke.

“I washed this for you,” Merlin said at last, lifting a bundle of red cloth.

Mordred frowned. “You didn’t need to do that, Merlin. I really don’t expect you to do my laundry—”

“Good, because I’m not going to make a habit of it.” Merlin grinned, smiling wider than Mordred had seen him smile in weeks; it revealed a dimple that Mordred had to fight himself not to stare at. “But one good turn deserves another, yeah?” He stepped forward and clapped his hand on Mordred’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly. Merlin’s hand felt hot through the thin fabric of Mordred’s nightshirt, and it surprised him enough that he took the cloak back without realizing he’d done it— it was the first time he could recall Merlin touching him of his own accord when it wasn’t part of his job; every other time they’d touched, it was because Mordred had been the one to reach out, or because Merlin had needed to help him with his armor or treat some minor wound or other. “Listen, I’m sorry about Arthur today; I could tell you were offended when he—”

“I was. On your behalf, mostly,” Mordred said. Merlin blinked again, clearly surprised. “I know there’s a lot he doesn’t know, but he should at least be able to see how clever you are. First, he acted surprised when you realized the fire couldn’t be possibly be natural, and then he didn’t even trust you to know your own limits… the way he thought you’d be corrupted.” Mordred spat the word out; he had grown to hate that word. He shook his head, huffing a short, irritated gasp. “And you just shrugged it off! I don’t know how you stand it. I know he’s a good man, but gods, sometimes he sounds like a right ass.”

Merlin surprised him with a hearty laugh. “He sounded like a literal ass once; had the ears to go with it, too.” Merlin’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and the dimple was back. Mordred found it suddenly difficult to breathe, though he did his best to disguise the reaction.

“Your doing?” Mordred asked, though he doubted very much that it had been. He couldn’t picture Merlin cursing Arthur, no matter how minor the curse or how much Arthur might have deserved it.

“Nah,” Merlin said, laughing again. “A goblin, actually. But it’s distinctly possibly that my undoing it was… regrettably delayed.”

Mordred lifted a sardonic brow. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t regret that at all?”

“Probably because you aren’t a complete dollophead.” Merlin winked at him— yes, the air was quite thin tonight— then took a step back and wiggled his fingers in a teasing wave as he took his leave. “Thanks again for the cloak,” Merlin called back over his shoulder. Mordred watched Merlin as he walked down the corridor, up until he rounded the corner. He only retreated into his own chambers once Merlin was entirely out of sight.

* * *

Merlin leaned heavily against the wall, widening his eyes and letting out a sharp, frustrated breath that whistled through his clenched teeth. Mordred had clearly been readying himself for bed— that shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the late hour. What was a surprise was the man’s dress; he’d been wearing an old tunic, one that looked soft, thin, and altogether too inviting.

It hadn’t been laced up.

It hadn’t been laced up, and it had hung open with a deeper cut than even Gwaine’s most scandalous tunics. And Merlin had stared at it— at Mordred’s chest peaking through the gap in the fabric, at the corner of one dusky nipple and a light swath of hair— like he was still a bloody teenager who hadn’t learned self-restraint. He’d stared so long that Mordred had to ask him if he was alright, for the sake of all the gods; well, he very clearly wasn’t alright, if he was reacting to Mordred like that. It was… well, it didn’t even make sense! It was hardly the first time Merlin had seen Mordred’s chest; the knights trained in good weather as well as bad, and it wasn’t terribly uncommon for them to strip to their waists when it was hot, especially when they were training with quarterstaffs. Although, admittedly, Merlin only ever had eyes for Arthur when the knights were training; he was always too focused on possible dangers— and, yes, alright, on the flex of Arthur’s arms and thighs— to really notice anyone else.

But by the gods, he’d noticed Mordred tonight.

Merlin slapped his cheek twice, sharply, mentally urging himself to bloody well snap out of it. It was… he was lonely, that’s all! He wasn’t really attracted to Mordred, he was only reacting to Mordred’s recent kindness, and his insistence on sticking up for Merlin in his own small ways— which were still a lot more than anyone else had done in Merlin's defense in years. Mordred had been so kind, and the way he had been so offended on his behalf was… well, it made Merlin feel a bit more justified in his own reaction to Arthur’s comments. He’d tried to play it off as simple irritation, but in truth….

In truth, Arthur’s dismissiveness had only fueled his growing ire with the King. It was a complicated mess of emotion he didn’t know how to work through; anger was too pale a word to describe the feeling, rage too active. Resentment was closer, but even that wasn’t quite right. If there was a word that could properly convey what he felt, Merlin didn’t know it. The best he could come up with was ‘love gone sour,’ and he certainly wouldn’t be admitting to that any time soon.

So, in a way, it only made sense that he’d find himself drawn to Mordred, if only because he stood at such a contrast to the way Arthur had been treating him lately.

He’d get over it. Hells, he’d make himself get over it! Come tomorrow, he’d look at Mordred and see nothing more than a casual acquaintance and an unlikely ally who had managed to impress Merlin enough to build up an equally unlikely and terribly unsteady and begrudging trust that only existed in spite of Merlin’s better judgement.

Chapter 6: The Druids' Camp

Chapter Text

Merlin glanced around to make sure Arthur wasn’t looking at him, then glared fiercely at the back of Mordred’s head. The knight had, apparently, decided to wash his hair, and it had dried with more curls than usual. The curls bounced as Mordred rose from a crouch, having just finished adjusting the saddle on the last of the horses— something that, technically, Merlin or one of the stablehands should have done— and looked wonderfully soft.

Merlin wanted to tangle his fingers in them; he hated that he wanted to.

Merlin eyed the other knights and saw Percival tightening the ropes that secured the druid’s shrouded body onto a packhorse and felt his scowl deepen. It was hardly the most dignified way to transport a body, but he could hardly protest it— it wasn’t as if they could maneuver a wagon or a cart through the woods, after all. It truly was the best that they could do— the best pick out of a handful of bad options— and wasn’t that typical? The ‘best of all the bad options’ was the most Merlin could ever hope for these days.

Arthur finally caught sight of him— thankfully after he’d composed himself and schooled his features into a more appropriate expression— and called out to him. “Merlin! You’re late; you’d better be careful, or I’ll end up giving Mordred here your job, and I doubt you’d handle his sword as well as he could manage your chores.”

Merlin gave him a flat, unimpressed look, then pulled his satchel in front of him to dig out a little packet of faded red linen. He tossed it to Arthur, who caught it on reflex and immediately started tugging on the cords that held it shut. “Leave it; it’s meant to stay sealed. Gaius agreed with Mordred’s assessment, but it took longer than we thought to find the book that contained the exact recipe.”

Arthur grimaced, though he recovered quickly— if Merlin hadn’t known him as well as he did, or been watching as closely as he had been, he might’ve missed it completely. “Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur said, sounding, to his credit, only slightly reluctant. “With what we’re up against, anything helps.”

Mordred grinned widely in response to Arthur’s words. “That’s very wise, Your Majesty.” He walked over to Merlin, taking his own charm and thanking Merlin profusely for it. It spurred the other knights into action, and in no time at all, Merlin had distributed the charms to all of them. Ironically, Leon seemed the most comfortable with it; he had taken the little bag with a solemn, approving nod and tucked it away in a pocket immediately. Percival had regarded his charm a bit warily, but followed suit. Gwaine, predictably, had taken his, held it up to his nose, and sniffed deeply, earning him a sneezing fit for his troubles and curiosity. Merlin stifled a laugh, then startled a bit as a soft hand closed on his shoulder.

He turned to face Gwen with more than a little surprise; he hadn’t even realized she was in the courtyard. “Thank you, Merlin,” Gwen said, offering him the sort of soft, somewhat shy smile he hadn’t seen since she’d become Queen. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you. Arthur may not say it often enough, but we’re very lucky to have you. It makes me feel a lot better knowing that you’ll be with Arthur; you’re nearly as well-read as Gaius by now, and the gods only know we need that when Camelot must face off against… things like this.”

Merlin smiled so broadly it stung the corners of his mouth before bending to dig in his satchel again. “Will… will you take one, My Lady?” Merlin asked, holding up the last charm, wrapped up in dull blue linen. “I have every faith that you’ll be safe here in Camelot, but who knows where the ghosts may go? I’d feel a lot better if you carried a charm, too.”

She took it carefully, looking relieved for a moment. Then she studied it a bit closer and stiffened. She looked up, saw Merlin’s bare throat, and gasped, holding her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Merlin, you didn’t!”

Arthur and the knights turned to face them abruptly. “What is it?” Arthur growled. Merlin didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a very near thing— he might’ve expected it, really; Arthur still wasn’t comfortable with the charms, so it wasn’t at all surprising that he’d be looking for something to be irritated by to give him an excuse for acting as annoyed as he felt.

Merlin ignored Arthur in favor of patting Gwen’s hand, tightening it around the charm when she looked as though she wanted to give it back to him. “The book said it ought to be something with meaning, something that made its maker feel safe.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t think of anything better.”

Gwen studied him critically, looking for any sign of regret in his eyes— he was very careful not to show any— then sighed and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him shamelessly. When she pulled back, she said, “I’ll see to it that the next trader bound for Essetir stops in Ealdor with some fabric for Hunith; I’m sure she’d be happy to make you some new scarves.”

Arthur frowned down at his own charm, then looked at Merlin and finally realized what was missing from his servant’s ensemble; it seemed terribly obvious now that it had been pointed out. A flash of something like guilt passed over the King’s features, and then he looked more annoyed than ever; that was predictable, too.

Gwaine whistled, low and long, then leaned in to Mordred and stage whispered, “How could we have missed those collarbones, even for a second?” Gwaine pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, miming an exaggerated swoon. Mordred looked first at Gwaine, then at Merlin’s throat, and blushed prettily— Merlin cursed himself internally for having thought of it as pretty— and Merlin pushed his shoulders back and marched over to his own horse, leveling a back-handed slap at Gwaine’s arm as he went past him.

“We’re losing light,” Merlin said, a bit snappishly.

“It’s not even midmorning,” Arthur retorted. “The shrine isn’t that far away!”

“True, but we’ve no guarantee that the druids will be at the shrine; Mordred said they were probably camping near it, not at it. We might need to track them, and who knows how long that would take? I don’t know about you, but I have absolutely no desire to establish our own camp in the woods under the current circ*mstances. I’d rather be in the druids’ camp, where there might at least be wards to keep the dead out.”

With that, Merlin swung himself up onto his horse and clicked his tongue, urging his mount forward. He might’ve broken into a canter, but he didn’t want to push Arthur that far; he still received a nasty glare for his cheek when Arthur inevitably urged his own horse past Merlin’s, ostensibly to remind everyone that he was still in charge of the expedition.

* * *

Arthur sat rigid in his saddle, doing his best to look straight ahead, and not at his servant, who was riding to his left and only slightly behind Arthur’s lead. Looking at Merlin was… painful. He had always known that Merlin would give up a great deal to keep him safe— something that was absolutely not his responsibility— but looking at him and seeing his bare throat felt like being punched in the gut. Which was probably silly; after all, a few old scarves were hardly a great sacrifice, and Merlin certainly hadn’t acted like he regretted it, but Arthur still felt as though it was more than he deserved. He also felt horribly guilty for not noticing it himself— if Guinevere hadn’t pointed it out, he never would have made the connection between Merlin’s missing neckerchief and the fabric of the protective charms. Arthur probably wouldn’t have even noticed that Merlin’s neckerchief was missing, and if he had, he probably would have assumed that he left it behind, a consequence of running late.

It made him wonder if there weren’t other things he was missing… other sacrifices he hadn’t noticed Merlin making… it wouldn’t surprise him at all to learn there had been. Guilt flooded his mouth like bile; Arthur swallowed it down. His stomach churned, guilt and shame and stress tightening into knots deep in his belly.

Cold water splashed across Arthur’s leg, adding to the patchwork of splattered, dripping mud that dotted his horse, his cloak, and his trousers. It was a welcome distraction. “Dammit, Gwaine! Must you lead your horse through every puddle in the forest?”

“There’s nothing but puddles, sire,” Percival huffed, aiming a commiserating look in Gwaine’s direction. “The rain saw to that well enough.”

“We should probably be thankful for it,” Gwaine said, doing his best to guide his horse around another patch of mud. “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad it’s wet out, given that we’re going up against a mad ghost who likes committing arson.”

Arthur opened his mouth to point out that the fields had been wet, too, and that hadn’t stopped the ghost at all, but Merlin cut him off. “Do you hear that?”

Arthur tugged at his reins, slowing his horse, and tilted his head. There were birds squawking in the trees, the rustling of leaves in the wind, and the sound of damp leaves sliding under the horses’ hoofs. “What is it?”

“The birds, Arthur; they’re agitated. Something’s moving through the woods. Something big.”

The horses whickered and stopped, lifting their legs one after the other, but refusing to take another step forward. Arthur lifted his hand, signaling, and dismounted, loosening his sword in its sheath. He strained his ears, trying to hear what the horses had, but nothing stood out to him.

Then the birds fell silent, and Arthur drew his sword outright; he heard the rasping of metal and leather as the knights followed suit. Merlin shifted in place, turned in a full circle, then drew closer to Arthur, positioning himself to Arthur’s left, away from his sword arm.

The attack was presaged by the rustling of leaves and the sudden thundering of cloven hoofs. The thing raced out of the undergrowth, moving too quickly for anyone to get a proper look. Arthur saw only flashes: tan skin splitting to reveal glistening red meat underneath, twisting spires of sharp bone rising like a macabre crown, and too many eyes, clustered like an insect’s and gleaming with an oily, metallic light. It charged straight at Arthur, merciless in its hunger, moving so fast it blurred. Arthur tripped over his own feet trying to dodge.

Merlin’s knife caught it between its eye clusters, sinking deep into the thing’s head. He wrenched the blade to the side, splitting the skull; gray flakes of brain oozed out as he withdrew the dagger, sticking to the steel and dragging long ropes of mingled blood and cerebral fluid out with the blade. The thing slumped to the ground. Its knees cracked as it fell onto its side. Merlin bent to wipe the knife on its flank, grimacing. Arthur could only stare in shock and disbelief, first at the beast in front of him, and then at his servant, who was standing over him and offering him a hand-up, as calmly as if he had only fallen in training.

“Since when do you carry a knife?” Arthur said, gaping at Merlin.

“When did I start working for you?” Merlin retorted. He bent lower, seized Arthur’s wrist, and yanked; Arthur barely had the presence of mind to get his feet under him, and might’ve swayed forward and fallen again if it weren’t for Merlin’s iron grip. Merlin dug a rag out of his bag and started scrubbing at Arthur’s face, removing mud Arthur hadn’t even felt. “A better question would be: what is that thing?”

“I think it was a deer, once,” Mordred answered grimly as he bent down next to it, nudging the corpse with a stick. “Death-touched, now. Twisted.” He threw the stick down and straightened. “Things are worse than I thought.”

“You can’t possibly tell me a ghost could do this,” Arthur said incredulously.

“No, but the tearing of the veil can; if the shrine is failing, if the two worlds are intersecting….”

Arthur swallowed and paled. “You said you didn’t think that was happening yet. That we’d have more time.”

Mordred shrugged. “We still might. It may have been a small breach, one that only existed for as long as it took one of the ghosts to escape its bindings. If the deer was drinking from the well in the shrine when the ghost escaped, it might’ve been enough to cause this. Or I may have miscalculated.”

“Is there no way of knowing?”

Mordred lowered his head, then darted a quick look in Merlin’s direction before meeting Arthur’s gaze again. “No way that you would approve of, sire.”

This time, it was Arthur who looked away. He cursed, stomped back to his horse, and spent several long moments stroking its nose and mane; it wasn’t clear if he meant to calm his mount or his own mind. “We need to know what we’re walking into,” Arthur said, speaking in soft, measured tones. “If there’s anything you can do, I’ll allow it.”

Merlin and Mordred stiffened and turned towards each other again, and Arthur wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had happened between the two of them; he’d been sure they disliked each other, but now, it seemed as though they sought each other out at every opportunity, for reassurance or approval or, perhaps, for both. The other knights shifted uncomfortably, but the looks they gave Arthur were grateful and approving; they clearly agreed with his assessment that even magic was acceptable under these circ*mstances. Finally, Mordred faced Arthur and widened his eyes, tilting his head forward; gold sparked, and Arthur fought down an instinctive flinch. Mordred's eyes moved back and forth, studying something that only he could see before the glow faded.

“The veil is intact, for now.” There was naked relief in Mordred’s voice, and Arthur felt some of his own tension drain away. “But the shrine is hanging on by threads. We need to get to the camp as soon as possible.”

“Then we will,” Arthur said, decisively. He reached out and clasped Mordred’s hand, squeezing once in an effort to prove he wasn’t put off by the magic he’d ordered him to use, then climbed back into the saddle. “We’ll find their tracks.”

“There’s no need; I know where they are, now. And they’re expecting us,” Mordred said, getting back on his own horse. He twisted the reins, and his gelding turned obediently, moving without hesitation now that the thing that used to be a deer was dead. “If I may lead us?”

Arthur nodded his assent and Mordred clicked his tongue, urging them forward. Merlin joined him at the front of the procession, settling in beside Mordred as though he knew the way as well as the druid did. Arthur thought he heard Mordred say something to Merlin, something that might’ve been ‘that's progress,’ but he wasn’t sure, and decided not to ask.

* * *

Mordred led them unerringly; they had to change directions several times when the terrain became too difficult for the horses to follow, but still, Mordred showed no signs of hesitation. He simply adjusted their route with an easy grace. Arthur wondered if his magic had seared the path into his memory, or if it was still guiding him, even though there wasn’t a trace of gold left in his eyes. It was an uncomfortable thought; Arthur did his best to push it down.

It was nearly sundown when they crested a hill and saw the first sign of the druids’ presence: they could see fire and smoke through the trees ahead of them, and they sped up by unspoken consensus, and only stopped when they’d passed through the trees and into a large glade, dotted with tents and firepits. A wide stream ran along the outer edge of the camp, gurgling softly.

The camp was far smaller than Arthur had expected it to be, and completely silent. For a moment, Arthur wondered if it had been abandoned, but then several druids climbed out of the tents and bowed deeply. Arthur shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. “Please rise; there is no need to bow, not today. I’ve come to apologize to you all— to offer condolences for your loss— and to ask for your help. I know I have no right to expect your aid, but—”

“I believe you have every right.”

The voice came from the druid closest to Arthur. He straightened and lowered his hood, and Arthur tightened his grip on his reins. “I know you,” he said, softly, feeling a hot rush of shame flood his body; it seemed that this druid was destined to witness his worst mistakes— first, seeing Arthur threaten a child, and now, watching Arthur deliver a child his own inattention had let die.

“So do I,” Leon muttered. Arthur looked back at his First Knight in time to see him incline his head in the druid’s direction.

“Iseldir,” Mordred called. “May we share the warmth of your fire and the light of your wisdom, Elder?” The words were formal. They hung heavy in the air for a moment before the druid— Iseldir, apparently— nodded.

“Please, come; we will tend to your horses, and to our fallen.” Iseldir turned and walked to the largest fire pit in the center of the camp. A ring of tree stumps, wooden stools, and large stones surrounded the fire. Iseldir settled himself onto one of the stools and gestured for them to sit with him. Arthur dismounted and, after a moment’s hesitation, removed his belt, securing it— and his sword— to his saddle before joining Iseldir. One of the other druids took the reins and led it away as soon as Arthur released them. More stepped out to take the other mounts as his men followed suit. Mordred must have been right about the druids expecting them, because there were just enough seats for all of them, and one to spare. Merlin eyed the empty stool to Iseldir’s left, then looked at the druid and raised his brows questioningly.

“Our keeper will join us soon,” Iseldir said, bowing his head reverently. “He won’t be long, now, but he had to reinforce the shrine.”

Another cloaked and hooded druid entered the circle of firelight and set a large wooden trencher down before bowing and retreating again. Iseldir gestured to the tray of bread, cheese, and fruit, inviting them to partake. Arthur smiled his thanks, but didn’t reach for the food; his stomach was in knots, and he couldn’t imagine eating just then. Merlin scowled at him fiercely, bent towards the tray, and plucked up a hunk of bread, tearing it in half and forcing part of it into Arthur’s hand. “Eat,” he hissed. “At least a bite; it’s tradition.”

Arthur lifted a morsel to his mouth and chewed mechanically. It was at least as good as Cook’s best baking; it was a pity Arthur couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. Still, several of the druids milling about the camp sighed in relief, and Iseldir’s own posture relaxed, so it was probably the right move. Arthur privately resolved to thank Merlin later, when they were alone, then steeled himself and met Iseldir’s gaze.

Merlin spoke before Arthur could decide how to phrase his own questions. “What was his name?” he asked, looking back to the shroud being carried away by several of the other druids.

“Eoghan,” Iseldir murmured.

Merlin nodded and tore off a chunk of his own bread. “Goddess keep you, Eoghan; may you know no hunger and no thirst, only peace.” He tossed the bread into the fire. The fire leapt up, and a warm breeze that smelled of fresh toast instead of burning bread filled the clearing for a moment.

Iseldir’s eyes watered, and he looked at Merlin with something like awe and gratitude in equal measures. “Thank you,” he rasped, swiping at his eyes. “I know you cannot stay for his burial— not with the danger we all face now— but your blessing means more than we can say.” Iseldir cleared his throat and faced Arthur again. “But that danger is very real, and you must have questions. Please, ask them; I will answer as best I can, My Lord.

Yes, Arthur would definitely need to thank Merlin later. He realized now that anything he could have said would have sounded callous and irreverent, and Merlin’s compassion had saved him from making a complete ass of himself. Arthur cleared his own throat, then said, “I have been told that the— that Eoghan— was your shrine-keeper’s apprentice, and that his death may have upset the balance between Life and Death by allowing some of the spirits bound in the shrine to escape. We know of at least one ghost who is free and wreaking havoc on Camelot, and we came across a creature in the woods that had been twisted by the power that was unleashed by a small breach. We were hoping you might have some guidance for us… can your keeper mend what was broken, and re-bind the ghosts?”

Iseldir flinched— which was answer enough— but another voice came from behind Arthur’s back. “No,” the new voice rasped. “That is beyond me, My Lord.”

Arthur turned to face the oldest man he had ever seen in his life; he was bent nearly in half, supporting himself with two thick, gnarled canes. Merlin leapt to his feet and offered his arm, supporting him with a bracing hand on one of his elbows. Mordred quickly joined him on the man’s other side. Together, they helped him shuffle forward into the empty chair, and pressed a waterskin into his hands. He drank gratefully, but waved off the offer of bread they made next, gesturing for them to sit again.

“This is our keeper,” Iseldir said.

Mordred bowed low. Then, to Arthur’s great surprise, Merlin did, too, moving as gracefully as any courtier who spent a good portion of their day bowing— surprising, really, given that Arthur couldn’t recall the last time Merlin had bowed without turning the gesture into a sarcastic parody of itself.

The keeper waved at them again, snorting. “Enough of that,” he grumbled. “I’d bow to you if I thought I’d be able to straighten up again. Besides, we’ve bigger problems than posturing, no matter how respectful it might be.”

Arthur nearly snorted. He felt a bit like he was looking into the future and seeing Gaius in another decade or two; the resemblance was uncanny when he spoke. He cleared his throat, pushing down his inappropriate amusem*nt, and said, “Is there someone who can, then? Another keeper, perhaps, from another clan?”

“There has never been a keeper who could,” said the Keeper— Arthur was beginning to think of it as a name, instead of a title, where the old man was concerned; it suited him, especially since he hadn’t given them any other name. “Once a spirit is released from the shrine’s bindings, it cannot be returned to the shrine. None of you are old enough to know this, but the shrines were only ever stop-gap measures, Your Majesty. They were little more than patches to cover over weak spots in the veil. In the old days, the High Priestesses would call the sprits from the shrines and help them to resolve whatever kept them tied to this world. They would help them move on, or, if the spirits could not or would not release their ties, they would use stronger bindings… or destroy them. We keepers were only ever meant to maintain the shrine and bind the unquiet dead until such a time as the Priestesses could deal with them. But then… then came the Purge, and the Priestesses fell or went into hiding, and the shrines grew crowded.”

The Keeper shifted, running his fingers down his canes; the firelight revealed a scattering of runes carved into the wood, and the Keeper traced them with a thumbnail. “Even at the height of my power, I couldn’t equal the might of a Priestess. I did study under one, though; they used to select the keepers, before the sacking of the Isle of the Blessed. I remember the Old Ways. I could, perhaps, guide someone who was powerful enough to handle the strain. But there are no druids left in the clan with that much power.”

“Is there truly no hope?” Leon asked, looking back and forth from Iseldir to the Keeper. “Perhaps— perhaps an artifact, of some sort? The Cup of Life was strong enough to wield the powers of Life and Death, is there no way to—”

Both druids shook their heads. “No. We’d need one of the Nine, or someone just as powerful. But the only High Priestess left is your sister,” said the Keeper, leveling a grave look in Arthur’s direction. “And I’d sooner die than give her my knowledge; she’d unleash more havoc than any breach ever could.”

A heavy silence, thick with dread and grief, filled the clearing. Everything became muted and gray; the crackling of the fire and the sound of insects and nightbirds faded until Arthur could only hear the thumping of his own heartbeat. He felt as if he was being swallowed by his own worries, and then Merlin’s voice cut through the despair that Arthur— that everyone— felt.

“I’ll do it. Teach me how and… and I’ll do it.”

Chapter 7: Realizations

Chapter Text

The air— already weighty and oppressive— thickened until it was almost unbearable, and then someone started to laugh. It wasn’t a polite laugh; it was long and loud, filled with gasping and snorting and wheezing and more than a touch of mania.

It took Arthur an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was the one laughing.

He wiped his eyes and glanced around the fire, then went still when he saw the druids’ stony faces and Mordred’s look of disbelief— disbelief that was verging on contempt. His other knights looked distinctly uncomfortable, aside from Gwaine, of course, who was wiping his own eyes and still chuckling softly. Arthur felt absurdly grateful that at least one of his knights had found Merlin’s joke as amusing as he did.

“Right,” Arthur said, feeling as though he’d missed something significant. “Well, thanks for that, Merlin. But surely someone must have a real idea, one that isn’t entirely ridicu—”

“Stop,” Mordred said, low. “Just stop.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, Mordred, it was a joke! You heard the Keeper: we’d need someone as powerful as Morgana! Merlin was just having us on. Now—”

Arthur trailed off as he looked at Merlin for the first time since he’d broken the tension with his ill-considered joke, and realized abruptly that Merlin hadn’t been joking at all. He had been entirely serious, perhaps as serious as he’d ever been. It didn’t make any sense at all, but there was no other explanation for Merlin’s expression, because Merlin looked insulted, angry, and disbelieving. Then his shoulders slumped, and his face fell into the most defeated expression Arthur had ever seen him wear. Merlin sighed and reached up, covering his face with both hands. Arthur winced, thinking he was about to see Merlin cry and dreading it immensely.

Instead, Merlin held his hands there for several long seconds, then dropped them and looked directly at Arthur.

Merlin’s eyes— eyes Arthur knew intimately— stared out of a haggard, wrinkled face. “I summoned the power of a goddess to save your Queen, Arthur, while maintaining an ageing spell and a full-body transformation,” Merlin rasped in The Dolma’s quavering, brittle voice. “If I don’t have the power to do this, no one does!”

Arthur heard several gasps and a few muffled curses, but he didn’t pay them any heed. All he could do was stare straight ahead as his entire world crumbled around him.

Merlin’s hands came up and covered his face again; when they were lowered, Merlin was himself, but he looked world-weary and broken in a way that Arthur had never seen him look before. Merlin rose to his feet gracefully in spite of his clear exhaustion, moving with a soldier’s single-minded focus as he strode over to the Keeper, offering his arm; the Keeper took it and pulled himself to his feet with a low grunt. “Take me to the shrine,” Merlin ordered. “Mordred, you can explain it to them.”

Merlin didn’t bother to wait for Mordred’s response. He turned and left, letting the ancient druid lead him into the woods without looking back.

Iseldir coughed, muttered something about allowing them privacy, and fled into his tent the moment Merlin and the Keeper were out of sight. The fire crackled merrily, spitting a cloud of golden sparks into the air; Arthur felt as though it ought to have guttered and gone out. Its warmth seemed out of place and wrong after that revelation.

Mordred looked at Arthur expectantly, smirking and raising a single brow, and Arthur winced. He had been in enough fights to recognize the look of a man taunting his opponent— secure in the knowledge that his rival would make a mistake the moment they made an opening move— and found that he had absolutely no idea what to say.

“Well, sire, you must have questions,” Mordred said once it became clear that Arthur wasn’t going to take the bait. Then the druid leaned back, raising his brow and watching Arthur like a cat watching a mouse.

“I—” Arthur stopped; he really had absolutely no idea what to say.

“What did he mean, Mordred, when he talked about a goddess… and… about Guinevere,” Leon asked softly.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain that part, My Lord,” said Mordred. “After all, you were there when he did it.”

Arthur licked his lips; they had grown terribly dry. “When we rescued Guinevere from the Dark Tower… we didn’t make it in time. She was cursed, put under Morgana’s control. She’d been working with her, sabotaging Camelot from the inside. Once we realized—”

“Once Merlin realized,” Mordred interrupted.

Arthur tried to glare at Mordred, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Once Merlin realized she’d been bewitched,” he said, inclining his head in acknowledgment, “he and Gaius threw themselves into research and discovered that the ritual Morgana had used could only be undone with the power of the White Goddess, so we set out for a holy place, a mystical lake in the mountains. Morgana nearly stopped us, but Mordred managed to hold her off and… and you used magic, didn’t you?” Arthur gaped at Mordred, wondering why he hadn’t realized it before.

Mordred only shrugged. “Magic has been protecting you for years, Arthur. That time it was mine, yes.”

Years?

Arthur had assumed that Merlin had learned magic to help Guinevere, but with one word, Mordred crushed that hope. Arthur felt sick, and swallowed several times, fighting to keep the bread he’d eaten to placate Merlin and the druids down. He had never been quite as militant in his efforts at ridding his kingdom of magic as his father had been, but he could think of several times he’d condemned it in Merlin’s presence. He wondered when exactly Merlin had taken up magic, wondered how many times he’d accidentally condemned Merlin, then tried very hard to stop wondering. If nothing else, he finally had the answer to the question of whether or not he had been wrong about magic, but truthfully, he wished he didn’t. He was dreading having to tell Guinevere that they hadn’t only been wrong about sorcery, they’d been inadvertently threatening the safety of their oldest and dearest friend.

Eventually, one of his knights— he wasn’t sure who— cleared their throat pointedly. Arthur cleared his own throat, then continued his tale, doing his best to pick up where he’d left off.

“Merlin and Gaius claimed there would be a sorceress living on the lake’s shore who could help us. Merlin went to fetch her, and then an old woman who introduced herself as The Dolma appeared and summoned this… this pure light. I could actually see it burning away Morgana’s dark magic. I was too relieved to question her motives, but she didn’t even ask us for a reward. I hadn’t realized— I never thought— but that face Merlin wore just now? That was her.”

The clearing fell silent again, apart from the sound of the fire, still crackling away, undisturbed; Arthur was beginning to loathe that fire. He couldn’t look at it without thinking of the fires that had been lit in Camelot’s courtyards, and it was doing nothing to stop the roiling in his stomach. Then Leon cursed viciously. When Arthur looked at him, he scowled fiercely and clenched his jaw; Arthur could hear his teeth grinding together, and winced.

“We should have been informed,” Leon growled. “The safety of the entire Kingdom was called into question, and you didn’t think to notify us at all? She’s the Queen, Arthur; she knows everything you know!”

Leon had always been Arthur’s most resolute knight, and he could be relied upon to remain calm in almost any situation; he wasn’t calm now. He was red with anger, and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“We should have changed every patrol route, moved every checkpoint, rotated the guard postings! We should have changed the locks in the citadel, too; Guinevere is a blacksmith, she might have copied the keys for Morgana! We— we will change them, all of them, damn it, the very moment we get back to Camelot! If Gwen had been under Morgana’s control for that long… gods, Arthur, what were you thinking? Morgana doesn’t always attack with magic; she’s sent spies, mercenaries, and assassins before, and you didn’t think to warn us— your first line of defense— that she might know all of our weaknesses?”

Arthur bowed his head, staring down into his lap, feeling like a scolded child instead of a crowned sovereign. Leon was right, of course; it was a terrible oversight to act as though nothing had happened, and Arthur should have recognized the risk and acted to protect his realm, but he had wanted so badly to put the entire ordeal behind him. He’d wanted to forget the pain of seeing his wife look at him like he was a stranger— or worse, an enemy— and the fear that she’d never come back to him. He’d buried his head in the sand, ignored everything, and now, he was paying for that lapse of judgement.

“And Merlin— our Merlin— was able to summon a goddess to break one of Morgana’s spells?” Gwaine asked incredulously. “That… that doesn’t sound like the sort of thing your average, every-day sorcerer could do. It sounds…” Gwaine paused, biting the inside of his cheek and searching for the right words. “Really f*cking impressive, honestly.”

“It is,” Mordred said, flatly. “Especially considering he’d fallen down a cliff only minutes before. And the fact that he did maintain his disguise throughout the entire invocation?” Mordred shook his head. “I don’t know of anyone else who could have managed that. Ageing spells are notoriously difficult, and painful besides… I could probably manage one, given enough time and study, but I doubt I’d have enough magic left over to lift a feather into the air while it was active, let alone invoke one of the most powerful gods of the Old Religion while maintaining a transformation on top of that.”

“sh*t,” Gwaine breathed, sounding awestruck.

“He fell off a cliff?” Percival asked. “It’s a miracle he wasn’t hurt. Or was that magic, too?”

Mordred’s eyes flashed dangerously; his voice, which had been carefully controlled— if a bit taunting— up to that point, sharpened. “He was,” Mordred spat. “Have none of you noticed the fact that he’s been limping on and off for the better part of a week?”

“f*ck,” Arthur swore. He bent, picked up a rock, and threw it as hard as he could at a nearby tree. Wood splintered; it did nothing to comfort him. “f*ck! Gods damn it, how much have we been missing?”

“Funny you should ask that, My Lord,” Mordred growled, glaring daggers at Arthur. “Considering the fact that you hadn’t even noticed he was missing when we met ‘The Dolma,’ and would have left him behind if he hadn’t reminded you of his own absence.”

Arthur blanched and scrubbed a hand over his face. He held up a hand to forestall Gwaine’s protests— the knight had, predictably, started to bristle when he’d heard that— and looked deeply into Mordred’s eyes. “Mordred… forgive me, but I have to ask you. I’m almost sure I know the answer, now, but I must ask it: does— does magic actually corrupt, or have we been wrong about that, too? I’m sorry, truly, but Merlin’s been acting strangely since the Cauldron, and I’ve always been told— I had to ask.”

Mordred studied Arthur carefully, then slowly shook his head. “It doesn’t; if Merlin’s acting differently, it’s only because he’s tired, hurt, heartbroken, and lonely. He was angry before Eoghan’s death; now he’s angry and grieving.” Mordred sighed, plucked up a stick, and stirred the coals in the fire. “If magic did corrupt, Merlin would’ve been corrupted long before you met him. He’s—” Mordred swallowed again, then lifted his head to meet everyone’s gaze, one after the other, ending with Arthur. His eyes were wet with deep, old pain. “He’s like me. He was born with his magic; my own power manifested when I was about six years old. I imagine his started much earlier.”

Arthur felt faint; his blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. “I— I need a walk,” he muttered, standing and brushing dirt off of his trousers. Leon and Gwaine started to rise as well, but Mordred reached out and pushed them back down with a gentle hand on each of their shoulders.

“Don’t leave the camp,” Mordred cautioned. “It’s well warded; bandits can’t find it, and the dead can’t enter. And when you get back, I’ll tell you what Merlin means to the druids.”

* * *

The forest floor was treacherous at night, even with the aid of the magelight Merlin had summoned once they left the camp. The ground was uneven, and the recent rain and wind had knocked enough branches and sticks off of the trees that they were in real danger of rolling their ankles if they didn’t step very carefully. The Keeper had accepted Merlin’s arm gratefully, and leaned on him heavily as they walked in silence towards the shrine. Merlin’s injured leg screamed in protest, but he ignored it, because he was probably more grateful for the need to support the Keeper than the Keeper was to receive his support; the weight and the pain grounded him. He felt as though he might float off without it.

Merlin had been dedicated to Arthur for most of his adult life, and he’d spent most of that time wondering what it would be like to finally come clean and share his magic with Arthur. He had been absolutely sure that he’d thought of every possibility: he’d imagined revealing his magic to the entire Court to stop an assassin. He’d imagined being forced to use his powers to protect Arthur from bandits after being overwhelmed during a hunting party where Arthur didn’t have the numbers to stop them on his own. He’d imagined Arthur finding out on accident when Merlin was testing out a new spell, or finishing his chores the only way he could, given the number of jobs Arthur tended to foist off on him. And, of course, he’d imagined throwing caution to the wind and just telling Arthur.

Naturally, he’d also imagined what Arthur’s response might be. In the beginning, he’d known that Arthur wouldn’t— couldn’t— accept him, but, over time, he’d come to believe that Arthur would take the time to listen to him before condemning him. He’d trusted that Arthur would at least hear him out, and most of the time, he thought that Arthur might accept his magic, or at least tolerate it. And then Uther had died, and Merlin started to imagine less pleasant responses. He’d pictured the look on Arthur’s face when he realized he didn’t know Merlin as well as he thought he did; he’d pictured the look on his face when surprise turned into betrayal. And he’d had many, many nightmares about being hated.

In his darkest hours, he’d imagined Arthur putting him to death. He’d imagined flames licking his skin as he thrashed against iron and rope, imagined the coarse, sharp pressure of splintering wood at his back; he’d imagined Arthur being merciful, and ordering him to be strung up or beheaded instead of burned.

And, of course, he’d imagined being banished, being cast away, as if he wasn’t even worth the effort it would take to kill him; he’d decided that would hurt the most. He feared the pyre, yes, but the thought of being thrown away was terrible in ways Merlin couldn’t even begin to articulate.

He’d been wrong of course: hearing Arthur laugh at him after finally gathering the courage to speak up had been far worse than anything Merlin could have imagined on his own. Merlin might have forgiven Arthur that initial startled response, but then, when Merlin had shown Arthur his magic— had proven that he hadn’t been joking, that he wasn’t a joke— Arthur had just watched him with a blank look on his face, like it didn’t even matter, like the most difficult choice Merlin had ever made was nothing!

“We’re nearly there.”

Merlin didn’t startle at the sound of the Keeper’s voice, but it was a very near thing. He’d been lost in his own thoughts, and the druid had been so very quiet that Merlin had almost forgotten he was there in spite of the fact that he was still supporting most of the old man’s weight; the druid had probably sensed that Merlin needed a moment to himself, and tried his best to give it to him.

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered. The Keeper only nodded once, proving that his silence had been deliberate. Merlin swallowed and looked around; the trees were starting to look familiar. Another minute went by, and Merlin caught sight of the first binding, a pale swathe of linen that might have been dyed a rich purple, once, but had long since been weathered and stripped of most of its color. The sight spurred them on; Merlin and the Keeper looked to one another, nodded in wordless agreement, and sped up. It didn’t take them long to reach the edge of the clearing, and then, they were there.

Together, they entered the shrine.

Chapter 8: Merlin's Descent

Chapter Text

Merlin shivered and dragged his fingernails down his face and neck; crossing the boundary of the shrine felt like walking through cobwebs. The Keeper eyed him, smiling ruefully. “It’s hardly pleasant, I know,” he said, softly, apologetically.

Merlin frowned. “It didn’t feel like this before. The last time I was here, it felt unsettling, sure, but nothing like that.”

“The Veil is incredibly thin; the wards on our side and on the Other Side are starting to overlap. It makes them feel more physical.” The Keeper led him further into the glade, and his voice took on the tone of a man repeating something he’d heard and recited many times over. “Magic flows like blood under the skin of the earth, but there are places where the earth’s power pools as well as flows; the Veil is always thinner in those places, and the strongest are almost always near a source of water.”

Merlin nodded, thinking of the Isle of the Blessed, the Grove of Brineved, the Pool of Nemhain, the Cauldron of Arianrhod, and, of course, Avalon.

“Some of those places are tied to the realms of the gods, or to Faerie, but others—” the Keeper lifted one of his canes and pointed towards the little well at the center of the shrine. “—lead to the very heart of Death itself. We druids built our death-shrines around places like that, places where the Black Waters well up from Beyond.” The Keeper walked past the well, stopping just before he reached the edge of the clearing. He turned and pointed to a spot a few feet away, instructing Merlin to stand there. Merlin obeyed, and waited for the druid to speak again; his words had a specific cadence to them, almost like he was speaking in verse, and Merlin didn’t want to interrupt, even if he did have several questions he wished he could ask.

“The druids discovered long ago that the unquiet dead could, at times, escape from those waters. It could, and often did, result in chaos when ghosts walked the land, so we built our shrines to try and appease the dead, or to bind them if they could not be appeased. We warded the shrines to slow the dead when they first crossed, ensuring that we would have time to bind them, and we trained the keepers to monitor the shrines. But we have never been able to banish, destroy, or permanently bind the ghosts; that was the purview of the Priesthood, whose powers are far greater than ours. Your power should be enough.”

Merlin couldn’t hold his questions back anymore. “But how?” he asked, with more than a touch of frustration in his voice. “I understand the shrines— I understood all of this before, when you explained at camp— but I don’t understand how I’m meant to bind or banish ghosts. I’ve encountered them before, and my magic barely touched them.”

The Keeper smiled sadly. “Because your magic is the magic of Life, Emrys, and this is a matter of Death. You need a different sort of power; the power that men call necromancy. And that is no easy thing. It goes far beyond the ability to mirror Life and Death, which you long ago mastered. Instead, you must wield the very essence of Death itself, as you now wield the essence of Life. But in order to claim that power, you need to do what the High Priests and Priestesses would do, in the old days, and make the Crossing.”

The Keeper propped one of his canes up against a nearby tree, then planted the other firmly in the ground, driving it down into the dirt as deeply as it would go. He held it in both hands and walked his hands down its length as he slowly dropped into a low crouch. He stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily, then reached out with one hand. His fingers curled, scraping through leaves and soil, and then he pulled his hand away rapidly. The earth moved, and changed. What Merlin had thought was a thick layer of foliage and soil was revealed to be a large, thickly-woven piece of cloth, covered in strange symbols that made his vision blur when he looked at them. The Keeper set the cloth aside, and Merlin shook his head, trying to clear it.

When he looked down again, he saw the entrance to an underground passage; a narrow stairwell, so roughly carved it almost looked as though it formed naturally and had always been there since the beginning of the world, led down into it. “I had no idea that was there,” Merlin marveled. “I couldn’t sense it at all. I wouldn’t have known it was there unless I fell through it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” the Keeper snorted. “The weaving is solid as stone when its in place. You must go down, to the source of this shrine’s waters. From here, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

Merlin snapped his head around, looking at the Keeper with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I thought you said you could guide me—”

“And I have; I have guided you to the place where you can claim the power you need. But only the Priesthood have made the Crossing. It would kill me if I tried to do it.” The Keeper looked at him sympathetically. “And even if I could go with you, it wouldn’t be allowed. We all must face Death alone, in the end. You must trust in your magic; trust that it will know what to do.”

Merlin stared down at the stairs and gulped nervously. It was a darkness deeper than any he’d ever seen outside of the tear Morgana had created on the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin licked his lips, squared his shoulders, and tried to keep his fear off of his face and out of his voice. He didn’t quite manage it, but the Keeper still smiled approvingly at his effort. “Alright,” Merlin said. “I suppose there’s no real choice, then, and no sense putting it off.” Merlin took a deep breath, and walked forward.

Just before his foot touched the first step, the Keeper’s hand darted out, wrapping around his arm. “There is one other thing,” the Keeper said, speaking so softly that Merlin had to strain to hear him. In a voice just over a whisper, he said, “This is a great secret, Emrys, one that even I should not know, but as I said, I trained with the High Priestesses, and— you met the High Priestess Nimueh, yes? She was youthful past her years, and this, the Crossing… this is why. They took Death into themselves, and inured themselves to Death by doing so; it held them suspended as they were when they made the Crossing. Dead, and not dead. I cannot say if it will have the same effect on you, but if it does—”

Merlin shuddered, and wished with all of his being that there was another way. But he knew there wasn’t; the Keeper would never have suggested this if there had been, and Merlin’s own limited foresight— his funny feelings and sudden bursts of knowledge— was throbbing in the back of his mind, telling him he was on a precipice with no way down or back but to jump.

“I always knew I’d give my life for Arthur,” Merlin said. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, leaving no room for regret or hesitation. “If I have to give up my death instead… so be it.”

The Keeper released his arm, staggering back to reclaim his other cane. He straightened his back— as much as a man of his age could straighten— and then, slowly, bent at the waist in a bow as deep as he was capable of.

Merlin nodded, sharply, in acknowledgement. And then—

Then he began his descent.

* * *

The Keeper waited, listening to Emrys’s footfalls. When he was sure he’d gone deep enough, he straightened and pulled the cover back into place, sealing the cavern; if Emrys succeeded, he would find his own way back. If he didn’t, there was no one left on earth who might have followed him down. The Keeper bowed his head in prayer, entreating the Triple Goddess and every god he could remember to look upon Emrys with favor.

Then he turned and left, picking his way over root and stone as carefully as he could and wishing that he had enough power to spare to summon his own magelight; he missed the one Merlin had taken with him already.

* * *

“Leoht.” Merlin shook his hand, cursed, and tried again. “Leoht, leoht, leoht!” He produced a spark that blew out like a candle in the wind; his magelight had guttered and died the moment the Keeper had sealed him in, and now, he couldn’t bring it back. Merlin realized he should have expected that. The Dorocha had brought the touch of Death with them, and their presence alone had been enough to steal light and fire both. Of course this place, filled with death magic, would produce a darkness strong enough to devour any light he brought or conjured.

Merlin swallowed and carefully took another step, moving slowly and gingerly down the narrow stairway; it only grew steeper as he went. Eventually, it was so steep that he feared he’d fall and find his way into Death’s domain by breaking his neck long before he reached the source of the shrine’s waters. He needed light, because if he couldn’t see, he—

He didn’t need light, he only needed to see!

“Ġesēon,” Merlin murmured. His magic left him in a nauseating rush— more draining than such a simple spell ought to have been— but it worked; the darkness was just as thick and choking as ever, but now he could see, though only in shades of gray. He made the mistake of looking down at himself instead of at the path and winced. Seeing himself with skin the color of ash and a jacket and tunic the color of charcoal wasn’t an experience he relished.

Merlin steeled himself and took another step; eventually, the stairs stopped, and he had to get down on his hands and knees and climb backwards down a series of boulders.

He nearly fell twice. The first time, he’d shifted his weight on an unsteady patch of gravel, and his feet almost slid out from under him. The second time, he mistook a crack in the cave floor for a shadow and wedged his foot into it.

For a long, terrible moment, he couldn’t get his foot out of the crack, and thought he’d be stuck there, because the earth refused to heed his call; he spoke every spell he could think of, and the rocks stayed just as they were. They would neither move nor break. But then, just as he started to panic, he shifted his leg to the side and his foot slipped out of his boot. He left it there as a lost cause and, soon after, abandoned the other boot when he realized the unsteady gait that resulted from walking with only one foot bare could only end in another disaster.

Finally, he reached the bottom. There was only one path left to him, a narrow-looking tunnel that was just a bit smaller than the doors in the Physician’s Tower; if it had been a door, it wouldn’t have worried him at all. But as a tunnel—

As a tunnel, it threatened to steal his breath from him; he looked at it, dark even with the aid of his spell, and thought of cave-ins and crumbling rocks and being buried alive. He looked back, over his shoulder, to confirm what he already knew: he had no choice but to go forward. He had already paid for his descent in blood, sweat, and tears. He’d broken two of his nails down to the quick, scraped his knees, and was sporting several long tears in his trousers— far too long to mend— and he was bruised in several places, and without his boots. Every step brought new stinging pains that made him suspect the bottoms of his feet were littered with cuts. And there had been several boulders that were his height and half his height again; he had been forced to dangle over their edges and then let go, suffering through several— thankfully short, but no less heart-wrenching— drops to get down after the stairs had run out. He doubted very much that he’d be able to climb back up, even if the Keeper hadn’t sealed the way.

Merlin sighed, leaned against the cave wall for a minute or two, and then walked into the tunnel.

At first, it was… fine. It wasn’t pleasant— it was dry, dusty, and smelled of rot, and it was so dark— but it was hardly the worst thing he’d experienced; on Merlin’s personal scale of suffering, the first few yards wouldn’t have even made it into the top thirty.

But then the tunnel veered sharply to the left, shortened, and narrowed. Merlin had to hunch his back, ducking his head under the overhanging rock, and turn a bit sideways. Another turn, and it narrowed again, until he was forced to turn completely sideways, but thankfully, the ceiling was higher after that turn. He shuffled forward, bracing his hands on the surface of one wall and putting his back up against the other, and tried not to think about the fact that he couldn’t see what was coming anymore. The rough stone pulled and tugged at his jacket, and eventually, he came to another, tighter curve, and was forced to shimmy out of it, leaving it hanging on a bit of jutting rock. He shivered, only partially from the feeling of the cold stone leeching his warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, echoing louder in the tight confines of the tunnel, and—

Wait….

It wasn’t his heartbeat; it was too slow to be his heartbeat.

It was water, a steady drip, drip, drip of water falling slowly into a pool, amplified by the walls of stone. He forced himself to move faster, straining his muscles as he slid through unyielding stone, stone that was becoming increasingly damp, and then—

Then he was falling, stumbling and falling to the ground when the tunnel finally ended, spitting him out into a broad cavern so large he couldn’t see its ceiling or its edges. He was dizzy with relief, and stayed on his hands and knees, breathing as deeply as he dared— he’d had to hold his breath in several places going through the tunnel just to get by, and didn’t want to risk passing out now that he had more air— and focused on slowing his breath and his frantic, throbbing pulse.

Suddenly, the scar on his chest burned with a strange, sweet fire, one that stood balanced on the very edge between pain and pleasure; Merlin had only felt that sort of pain twice, first when he’d defeated Nimueh, and then again when he had forced Cornelius Sigan’s spirit back into its reliquary. The air around him buzzed with potential. A high, clear voice laughed. “Well, well, what have we here?”

Merlin looked up, searching for the voice. There was a soft whoosh as a pair of torches ignited, burning with tall, pale blue flames. The torches stood to either side of a great pair of elaborately carved stone doors he was certain hadn’t been there before; the cavern had shrunk, too, though it was still massive. He stood at the edge, and the doors were perhaps twenty feet away.

Between the torches, leaning back against the door, was Nimueh. The blue light of the torches shone on her skin, seeming to collect in her eyes and fingertips, leaving them glowing with an otherworldly light. She wore a clinging white shift of thin, almost transparent cotton, secured at the waist with a heavy belt of alternating plaques of silver and blue stones. Her hair was piled high on her head, pinned in place with more opaque blue gems, and bangles chimed on her wrists and ankles by the dozens.

Merlin scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Nimueh laughed. “Death always greets a killer with a familiar face, Merlin.” Her lips— stained a deep scarlet that bled to near-black around the edges— curled in a mocking smile. “Or… do you prefer Emrys now?”

Merlin snarled. “I would prefer it if you left! Get out of my way Nimueh; I won’t be stopped by you or anyone else.”

“No?” Nimueh arched a delicate brow. “Well, far be it from me to stay where I’m not wanted.” Nimueh padded forward on feet that were as bare as Merlin’s; unlike Merlin, she didn’t appear to be bothered by the uneven stone, and didn’t leave streaks of blood behind where she walked. “If this face doesn’t please you—”

Merlin blinked, and Nimueh vanished before he could open his eyes again. A lower, huskier voice sounded behind him— far too close for comfort. “I shall simply wear another.”

Merlin lunged forward, turning as he did to put some distance between himself and—

“I didn’t kill you Morgause,” Merlin spat. “Your own sister sacrificed you to break the world, I had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, but you did,” Morgause said, widening her eyes and jutting her chin forward. She put her hands on her hips, bangles ringing like bells— she wore the same garb as Nimueh, and on her, it looked even more out of place; she ought to have worn armor, to match the challenging stare she gave him. “You shattered my skull, flooded my brain with blood… if I hadn’t spent most of my power raising an immortal army, perhaps I might’ve survived that. But as it stood, I could only cling to a half-life, and only just long enough to give my death meaning.”

Morgause smiled bitterly. “But I suppose, as far as you were concerned, my death would have had meaning either way. Just another casualty of your war; but what do you fight for, Emrys? Do you even know anymore?”

“I fight for Arthur, and for a better future for those with and without magic,” Merlin shouted.

“Do you?” Morgause asked, raising her brow. She shook her head, then dissolved into whisps of pale white mist.

“I don’t think that you do.”

Merlin turned again, back to the doors this time, to see Morgana standing between the torches, watching him with ill-concealed contempt.

“I never killed you,” Merlin said, in a smaller, brittle voice. “I never wanted to; I gave up the antidote, you didn’t die!”

“Didn’t I?” Morgana asked. “The girl I was— scared, desperate, but hopeful, wishing only to be understood, and to stop hurting— can you really say she survived?”

Merlin swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly to keep from crying; he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, whoever she was. “Who are you, really?” he asked. “Because you aren’t Nimueh, or Morgause, or Morgana. So, who are you, and why are you here?”

Mist leaked out of Morgana’s skin, oozing from her fingers, her toes, her mouth and eyes; it rushed to either side of her, reforming into Nimueh and Morgause. They stood tall against him for a moment, glaring at him with bitter, angry eyes, then they bent and withered, becoming three old women, clothed in heavy black sackcloth robes. They wore no jewelry, but they held tall staves made of the same silver and blue stones their illusions had worn.

Their faces and staves were different, but Merlin still recognized them immediately. “You’re The Disir. But, why are you here? We’re nowhere near Caerlanrigh.”

“We are here because we are needed,” said the first woman. “We are arbiters of the Balance—”

“Guardians, of a sort, when we need to be,” said the second.

“And the Mouthpiece of the Triple Goddess, when She requires it of us,” finished the third. “And, as such, we are also guides, if She wills it.”

Merlin looked between the three. Their eyes were pale, milky with age, and their faces were perfectly still. They showed no traces of Morgana’s contempt, Morgause’s bitter, impotent rage, or Nimueh’s sad*stic humor now; he almost wished they did. Anger would have been better than this horrible blankness. “Does that mean you’re here to help me?” Merlin asked, once it became clear that they were waiting for him to speak.

The first answered, saying, “Perhaps… but, if we do—”

“Will you heed our lessons? Will you learn from your mistakes?” The second Disir asked.

“You wish me to put magic first?” Merlin guessed.

The third Disir laughed, and finally— finally— he could guess their emotion: disappointment. “We wish you to decide what you fight for, instead of what you fight against; you have given every part of yourself to fighting against Arthur’s death.”

The Disir lifted their staves in unison, striking the ground; the cavern shook, and Merlin had to fight to keep his balance.

It was a fight he couldn’t win.

He fell to his knees, and somehow found himself across the cavern, kneeling just before the three women. A moment later, they turned to mist again, reforming into one woman with three heads. The Disir spoke as one, with three mouths and three voices, perfectly in sync with one another. “Fear is your undoing, Emrys, as it always has been, but you are learning to look past your fear, to act; you have been spurred on by anger—”

Merlin’s vision clouded, and the world dissolved into a multicolored vortex that resolved itself into the faces of Arthur, Leon, Gwaine, Percival, Gaius, and even Gwen in turn.

“—by duty and desperation and grief—”

The face became the Keeper's, and then Iseldir, then the handful of druids he’d seen only in passing at the camp, and finally, the face of the druid boy he hadn’t been able to save, in spite of his best efforts.

“—and by compassion.”

Mordred’s face watched him with soft, caring eyes; Merlin almost sobbed when that vision broke apart to show the Disir’s stoney faces again.

“Any of those will serve you better than fear. Do not fall back into that trap, Emrys. Do not numb yourself to the world to avoid your pain. Trust your own heart to guide you; let neither prophecy nor panic lead you astray.”

Merlin opened his mouth to answer the Disir’s charges, to swear that he would do better, and let out a horrible croaking sound instead when his voice broke against the swelling lump of feeling in his throat. They had been right to accuse him of numbing himself; even after days of rapid mood swings and welling rage and exhaustion, there was still so much he’d been holding back. Every time he’d started to let some of that feeling out, he’d stopped, reeled it in, and tried to go numb again. He couldn’t do that, not now— the cavern was cold enough as it was, with tendrils of icy air leaking out from the door that led to the heart of the shrine. Death was an absence of warmth; if he went into it already numb, he’d freeze.

“The Goddess watches, Merlin; go, now, to your task. Go to Death as you came to Life, humble and ready to be made anew.”

Merlin nodded, slowly, and pulled himself to his feet, averting his gaze. He kept his eyes on the ground and pulled off his torn shirt, his trousers, even his smalls, readying himself to go to Death as the Disir had instructed. He felt— more than heard— the thud of the Disir’s staff strike the ground again, three times in rapid succession.

And then the Disir were gone; they took the door and most of the cavern with them.

Merlin wasn’t looking at gray stone anymore.

He was looking down at a deep pool of still Black Water, as wide across as a man was tall. The still surface was broken, now and again, by a drop of water falling from somewhere far above Merlin’s head. The Disir had left the torches; there was light enough to see his reflection, and he forced himself to study it, to see the scars he normally refused to look at when he bathed or changed. They made him feel a bit ill, a bit sad, and, worst of all, a bit satisfied; he’d survived, his enemies hadn’t, and here was the proof. He hated thinking that way, but it couldn’t be helped, and, for once, he didn’t try to stop those feelings. He let them wash over him. They warmed him, pushing back against the chill coming off of the water.

Merlin breathed deeply, in… out… in… out, and steeled himself.

The Keeper had told him to trust his magic; the Disir, to trust his heart, and not to give in to fear.

His magic recoiled, urging him to leave, to flee, to avoid the Black Waters and the power they represented— so very different from the magic of Life— and his heart was pounding in his chest; the body’s innate urge to protect itself was making itself known.

But the Keeper had also told him he needed to take Death into himself, so instead of turning and trying to find another way out of the cavern, Merlin cupped his hands together and leaned in, filling them from the pool. Before he could lift them to his mouth, another pair of hands darted out from the rippling surface of the disturbed water. Merlin yelped, and the hands jerked, dragging him under.

Icy Black Water filled his mouth, bringing with it the taste of Death.

Chapter 9: Merlin's Return

Chapter Text

Arthur held himself upright through sheer force of will; he sat on the log stiffly, afraid that allowing himself any hint of relaxation might end with him collapsing. The other knights didn’t seem to be faring any better; Leon held himself just as rigidly as Arthur, though Gwaine and Percival had gone the other way. They were half-slumped, as if they didn’t have the strength to sit up straight.

Only Mordred looked at ease with himself.

“And that’s it, then? That’s everything?” Gwaine asked, hollowly.

“Everything I know,” Mordred replied. “If you want specifics of what he’s done over the years, you’ll need to ask him.”

“I suppose that’s why you were so angry with us earlier,” Percival said, thoughtfully. “He’s your… your Emrys, and the way we’ve been acting— I suppose it’s a bit like disrespecting your King.”

“No. I wasn’t angry at the way you treated him because he’s Emrys,” Mordred said, sounding more than a bit affronted by the idea. “I’m angry because he’s Merlin, and he deserves better! Have you ever met anyone more selfless and… and good than Merlin? Because I haven’t. I’ve known him for a fraction of the time you have, and up until very recently, he’s barely tolerated me, and even then I could see how special he is. I don’t understand why you lot couldn’t. Setting aside his power for a moment, since you couldn’t have known about that, how many times has he been suspicious of someone at Court and proven right in the end? Not to mention his skill as a Physician, or how quick witted he is, or the way he’s the first one to offer a smile or support when someone needs it. He spends his entire life trying to help people any way he can. That’s why I was angry with you for not noticing his injuries, or his achievements.”

“You’re right. And it’s my fault.”

Arthur’s words rang out far louder than he’d intended them to. They all turned to look at him as one, and he fought the urge to duck his head against the onslaught. Arthur licked his lips. “It’s my fault. When Merlin first came to Camelot, he didn’t know anything about Court protocol or how to serve royalty, and when he was appointed to my service, I wanted him gone. I made things… overly difficult for him. And he still stayed, when any lesser man would have left a dozen times over. More than that, he showed me that he cared for me, not because it was his job, but because he saw something in me that was worthy of care. After that, I realized that I wanted— needed— him around, but by then he had a target on his back. Uther disliked him, some of the other Lords hated him, and he needed something of a smokescreen. So I doubled down on my insults, and soon enough, I had everyone convinced he was an idiot. A harmless idiot, not even worth a second thought, and not worth the trouble of replacing.”

Arthur sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, and clenched his jaw. “After a while, it started to feel like a game we’d play. Just part of our banter. Friendly ribbing, and horseplay, and… it became comfortable. Then it became second nature, and I forgot that it didn’t need to be. When I took the throne, I could have stopped it, remembered how intelligent he really was, and started treating him that way. I should have! But by then it was so ingrained that I didn’t even think about it, until—”

“Until I pointed it out to you,” Mordred said, calmly. “That… makes a good deal of sense, actually. Knowing Merlin, he probably played into that role, too; people don’t expect a fool to have magic. It was probably safer for him. He might have resented it sometimes, but he probably had a lot of fun with it, too.”

“It’s a little bit both of your faults, then, fine,” Gwaine said, sharply. “What I want to know is, what do you intend to do about it now?”

Arthur’s temper flared. “You were just as—”

“I know,” Gwaine said, sounding horribly guilty at the reminder. “That isn’t what I meant. I wasn’t trying to insult you or put pressure on you, I just want to know what comes next. Does Merlin still have a place in Camelot after he takes care of this shrine, or am I turning in my red cloak and living with him in one of these lovely camps?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Arthur asked, sounding as confused as he felt; the very idea that Merlin wouldn’t have a place in Camelot was absurd.

“He has magic,” Leon said, speaking gently, as though he were talking to a child. “And it’s technically treason. I think Gwaine— I think we all want to know if you intend to change that.”

Oh.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll start with a writ. A Royal Appointment granting Merlin permission to use Camelot under our— myself and Guinevere’s— commands, or at his discretion in defense of Camelot and her people.” He held up his hands, forestalling the obvious objections. “I don’t intend to make him an exception to the rule forever, this is just for the time being. Eventually, I will overturn the ban, but I’ll need the Council’s support in order to do so, and we’ll need to ease the people into it. Luckily, this situation with the ghosts gives me enough leeway to make such an Appointment without their approval; I can justify it as an emergency action. If we’re lucky, the fact that it’s Merlin might help the people accept the change. Some of the lords still dislike him, but he’s endeared himself to most of them by now, and I know for a fact that the knights, guards, commoners, and other servants all love him. Mordred, I’d like to offer you the same writ.”

Mordred’s eyes widened; clearly, he hadn’t expected that. “I-it would be an honor, sire. I’ll do whatever I can—”

“I know you will,” Arthur sighed. “But you’ll also be removed from the knight’s roster. No more patrols or guard duty. I’ll still expect you for training, but outside of that, your only responsibility will be supporting Merlin. You’ll still be a Knight of Camelot, but more than that, you’ll be his knight.”

Mordred nodded solemnly, putting his hand over his heart. Arthur was fairly certain he’d have taken on that responsibility regardless, but he needed it to be official; after all, if there were those in Camelot who would kill a boy just for being a druid, what might those same people do to a known sorcerer? He truly believed that most people would accept Merlin’s new role, but he couldn’t discount the dangerous minority that might cling to Uther’s teachings. He’d feel a lot better if there was someone dedicated solely to guarding Merlin. Arthur knew he could undoubtedly take care of himself, but he ought to have someone watching his back either way.

“Then, you aren’t angry with him?” Percival asked, hopefully.

“Oh, I’m bloody furious with him,” Arthur said, bluntly, too mentally drained to temper the words. “Not because of the magic, but because… because I thought I was doing right by my people. I questioned my father’s edicts on occasion, but ultimately, I thought he was right about magic, and that I was protecting my Kingdom by continuing the ban. But the entire time, Merlin knew that we were fighting for the wrong side. He let me believe I was doing the right thing when he knew I wasn’t. I’ve committed atrocities, and thought they were justified.”

Arthur reached down, picked up a log, and threw it into the fire. Sparks flew from the coals, dancing in the air. “I know that isn’t fair; he did the best he could, under the circ*mstances, and I never gave him the slightest indication that I might have listened if he had come forward. Only Guinevere heard my doubts, and she wouldn’t have mentioned them to anyone else, not even to Merlin. Eventually, we’ll need to discuss it, and we’ll probably have the sort of fight that shakes the castle— maybe even literally, now that Merlin doesn’t need to hide his magic.”

It was a poor joke, but it caught everyone off guard. Mordred snorted inelegantly, then covered his mouth with both hands and went crimson, which set the rest of them off. Eventually, when their mirth died down again, Arthur finished his thought. “But that will come later. Right now, Merlin needs our support. He’s fighting for all of us, and if Mordred and the druids are right, he’s the only one who can; I’m apparently a King out of prophecy, and even I can barely imagine that sort of pressure.”

There was very little to say to that; the knights simply nodded. Minutes passed slowly, until a breaking twig alerted them to an approach, just outside of camp. Moments later, the Keeper hobbled into view, leaning heavily on his canes.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat when he realized the Keeper had returned alone.

“Where is he? Why isn’t he with you?”

Arthur had been trained to command troops; he knew how to pitch his voice to carry, how to squeeze his diaphragm to make his words land like a stone from a trebuchet… but he had never shouted so loud in his life.

The Keeper jerked, then planted his canes and sent a level stare in Arthur’s direction, frowning deeply. “There are some things that must be done alone, without any living aid. The power Emrys seeks is locked behind the Greater Mysteries; there are trials one must face to gain access to them. He is facing them now. He will return when he has succeeded. Fetch me when he does; until then, I’m going to rest. I suggest you do the same.”

With that, the Keeper turned and left, moving towards one of the larger tents. Arthur fought the urge to follow him, to seize him and demand more answers; he fought the urge to scream at whatever cruel god had decided that Merlin had to face so much alone, even now, when Arthur finally knew, and wanted to help. Instead, he considered the Keeper’s suggestion, and discarded it at once. Rest wouldn’t help; he wouldn’t be able to rest now. If he tried, he’d only make himself more miserable. Looking at his knights, he knew they felt the same.

“Percival, Gwaine, with me. Leon, start planning for our return to Camelot; you were right about needing to shore up our defenses, and I intend to put you in charge of that. Mordred, listen to Leon’s ideas and help fill in the gaps where magic is concerned, if you can. We won’t be able to do anything dramatic right away, but if there’s anything subtle we can do, like Merlin’s oh-so-very-nonmagical ghost repelling charms—” Arthur arched his eyebrows sardonically— “then please, speak up. We can consider the plans in full later.”

Arthur stalked towards the edge of the camp, and a rather large fallen log he’d seen on his earlier walk, with Percival and Gwaine following at his heels.

* * *

Merlin threw himself out of the water, collapsing face down on the rough stone floor of the cave. He turned onto his back, pried open his eyes, and saw that it was an entirely different cave than the one he’d been in. Death hung thick in the cavern, painting the air with constantly shifting shadows that moved like clouds. There was no trace of water left, apart from the water that clung to his skin and hair, and this cave was brighter than the other had been, because the light from the twin blue torches— the only part of the cave that hadn’t changed— was reflecting from the walls and ceiling.

More specifically, from the crystals that lined the walls and ceiling: jagged, massive black, white, and gray stones that glittered in the light. Occasionally, one of the shadows would drift close to a crystal, and be absorbed by it. Merlin opened his mind and gasped; he could feel the magic of the cave, and it was familiar, a mirror of the Crystal Cave he’d visited once in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. He made his way to one of the brightest stones and looked down into its facets. Slowly, cautiously, he stretched out his hand and touched it with the tip of his finger.

Light bloomed in the crystal’s heart. Images appeared, hazy, as if seen through a cloud of dust: a young man, dressed in leather armor, long hair streaming out behind his back as he rode on the back of a dragon; the same man bent over a bleeding man, spreading a poultice and chanting; the face of a familiar Physician praising his work and, behind his back, a smiling, younger version of his own mother watching the man— Balinor— with interest. These crystals, apparently, showed the past, where the crystals on the other side of the veil showed the future.

The next image had Merlin jerking his hand away, coughing nervously as his cheeks heated in embarrassment. He had no desire to see his parents kissing like that.

“Merlin.”

Merlin couldn’t bring himself to turn around; he was afraid that if he did, there wouldn’t be anyone there. “Are you here? Are you real? Are you really you?”

“What makes any of us ourselves?” There were no footsteps to herald Balinor’s approach. There was simply a growing presence, and then a hand on Merlin’s shoulder; it was cold, but still warmer than Merlin’s own skin after passing through the Waters. “Body, mind, spirit, memory….”

Balinor’s other hand reached past Merlin’s shoulder, touching the crystal. It flared again, showing Merlin’s face. His own voice came from the depths of the stone, sounding very far away.

‘She never married; I’m your son.’

Merlin swallowed, leaned into the touch of his father’s hand. “This is a place where all those things can reconnect, though you are one of the few who has visited bodily,” Balinor continued.

“Reconnect? Meaning, they can be separated?” Merlin thought of the ghosts he’d encountered, and suddenly, he understood. “They… fracture… when they cross back, don’t they? Without a body to anchor and contain the other parts, they don’t fit like they should. That’s why the ghosts are almost always angry; they’re broken.”

“Broken, and lacking direction,” Balinor agreed. “Time does not exist on this side, but it does on the side of Life. When they return to a place with time, their minds struggle to process it, and revert back to the state they were in when they died. The memories all seem to occur at once. If they died violently—”

“Then they’re just as scared and angry as they were then,” Merlin finished. He turned, finally facing his father. “How can they heal, without their bodies?”

“Contain them,” Balinor said, simply. “And bring them to where they may reconnect.”

“The Crystal Cave on the side of Life,” Merlin said.

“A place outside of time, where all things are possible.” Balinor guided Merlin to a large, flat crystal, urging him first to sit, then to lay down. Merlin went easily; he felt only love when he looked at Balinor, and the crystal’s memory had convinced him that this truly was Balinor. He opened his mouth to ask how he could get back to the side of Life, and interrupted himself with a yawn. Balinor stroked his brow with a careful hand. “Rest. Rest now, my son. You will awaken to the light, to Life.”

Merlin closed his eyes obediently. Balinor whispered, “Remember the Disir’s words; embrace every part of yourself, my son. You are a child of the earth, the sea, the sky… magic is the fabric of all worlds, and you were born of that magic. You are, in many ways, magic itself. But you are also a man. Let yourself feel everything a man should, anger, pain, love, joy… don’t bury them for the sake of destiny or misguided prophecy. Trust both sides of your nature.”

As Merlin sank into sleep, he sank, slowly, into the crystal— through the crystal.

* * *

When Merlin woke again, he was back at the forest shrine, staring up at the night sky and the ribbons and wards dancing in the breeze. It wasn’t a chill breeze, but it still cut through him like a knife. He was too cold even to shiver, and he wanted nothing more than to roll over and close his eyes again, but he knew he couldn’t. He was far too cold, colder even than he’d been when the Dorocha had flown through him.

If he didn’t move soon, he might never move again.

Slowly, moving like a newborn colt, Merlin shoved himself to his feet. His injured leg didn’t protest, for once; the cold had numbed the inflamed tissue. He took one shaky, hesitant step forward, and nearly fell. His knees threatened to buckle, and his head swam. Breathing deeply, he reached for his magic, for the warm rush of power that lived in his veins; he found a shard of ice instead, lodged behind his breastbone. He winced, panted, but grasped at that feeling with practiced mental fingers, and pulled. It grated through him, but there was still power in it. He didn’t trust it to strengthen him, not when he was already so cold, but he sent it out, searching the ground. Merlin saw his breath in the air, but then the magic found what he’d asked it to and snapped back to him, bringing with it a tall stick, as thick as his own wrist. It thudded into his palm, and he leaned on it gratefully.

It was enough. Slowly, he picked his way out of the shrine. A corner of his mind scouted ahead, seeking the quiet nonphysical sound that always accompanied a group of druids, the tell-tale sign of minds well accustomed to speaking in the Silent Speech. Movement brought warmth, precious little of it, but enough to thaw out his thighs, underarms, and the bottoms of his feet, those places where friction could stave off the worst of the cold.

It also reopened the cuts on his soles. The Physician in him dreaded to think of the sort of filth that would have already worked its way under those scratches. He’d probably have more of them by the time he made it back to the camp.

But the camp would have a fire, and Merlin couldn’t think of anything that sounded more glorious than that. He pictured it as clearly as he could: the fire, crackling and dancing, and warm, Mordred, Arthur, and the knights waiting for him—

He realized, with a touch of alarm, that he’d thought of Mordred before he’d thought of Arthur, and decided he was too exhausted to dwell on that. He’d consider it later, or, better yet, he’d do his best to put that thought aside and never, ever examine it.

There was a strange, arrhythmic thud echoing through the woods, coming from the same direction as the druid’s camp. Merlin swore under his breath and reached for the earth under his feet. I’ve given you blood, give me something back, please.

The earth answered. It fed him the essence of Life, a slow trickle of warmth that climbed up his legs like vines over a trellis, pushing back against the cold, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought to call on its power when he first woke. He sped up, seeking the source of that sound; in times like these, unexpected and unexplained noises were rarely good omens.

He burst through the last trees and into the camp, scanning it with fast but smooth sweeps of his eyes. Leon and Mordred sat near the fire, scribbling in the dirt with sticks and talking animatedly over their sketches. He saw no sign of the Keeper, or Iseldir, or any other druid, but that was alright: they were probably abed, given the hour. He looked further out, and his knees tried to buckle again, this time in relief.

That explains the noise.

Percival and Gwaine sat near the edge of the camp, their attention focused on Arthur, who had stripped off his maille and taken up his sword. He stood in his unlaced tunic, sleeves rolled up against the heat of his exertion— Merlin envied him that heat— striking against a log nearly as tall as he was that had been propped up to act as a makeshift dummy. As he watched, Arthur launched a flurry of quick blows at the crude dummy; they were far more complicated than they needed to be. He feinted, raised his sword as if to parry, then threw himself into a counterattack. The strikes bit deeply into the wood, making it clear that he was trying to work out some frustration or other… of course, Merlin had known that the moment he'd seen the King’s stance. It was just like Arthur to turn to something physical when he had a problem to work out.

Merlin had just enough time to think ‘and I’ll have to sharpen that sword again now’ before his legs finally gave out on him. Just as he fell, Arthur spun in a showy pirouette; he made it halfway through the turn before halting sharply and dropping his sword. Even as far away as he was, Merlin could see the whites in Arthur’s suddenly wide eyes before the ground rushed up to meet him.

“Merlin!”

Chapter 10: The Start of Recovery

Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon did not panic, ever.

Panic had, in fact, been trained out of him from a young age; he had been taught to bury his fear, to master it, in order to react strategically when faced with any threat. He’d faced unholy terrors that would break lesser men and send them cowering— fire-breathing dragons, venomous Questing Beasts wielding the power of Death itself, half-insane High Priestesses, ungodly snake women, and the like— and managed to keep his head, all because of that extensive training.

Turning midswing to see Merlin— naked, bloody, and nearly frozen through— looking more than half-dead robbed him of that training in an instant.

For the first time in his adult life, Arthur Pendragon, warrior King, witnessed something terrible enough to make him drop his sword.

He broke into a dead sprint, moving almost before Merlin started to fall, and he knew the sight before him would haunt him until the end of his days. The image of his servant’s limp body, corpse-pale and coated in frost, had plagued his nightmares for years after Morgana unleashed the Dorocha; he had, in fact, woken up in a cold sweat from such a dream only a few days earlier after Mordred had first warned them of the threat to the veil’s stability. And Merlin looked far, far worse now than he had when the Dorocha had cleaved through him.

Mordred, having been a good deal closer, reached Merlin first. He knelt, threw his head back, and— it couldn’t properly be called a scream, but Arthur didn’t have any other words to describe it. It shattered the still air of the camp and pierced Arthur’s mind, seeming to plough into his consciousness without bothering to first enter his ears. Perhaps that feeling was some trick of Arthur’s growing panic, so readily mirrored in his youngest knight’s visage, or perhaps it was some druidic magic. Whatever it was, it roused the other druids; tent flaps were thrown open with such savagery that several of the shelters were torn down by the force.

Mordred didn’t wait for the others to arrive. He thrust his hand under Merlin’s chin, searching for a pulse. Evidently, he found one, for his shoulders sagged in relief a few moments later, but he didn’t let his relief slow him. He yanked his cloak off, setting it aside, then lifted his arms and pulled off his maille, wincing only slightly as it tugged at his hair. Once the cold metal was gone, he wrenched his tunic over his head; Arthur heard seams rip. Mordred pulled Merlin up into his lap and drew him close, until his chest was flush against Merlin’s back. The small part of Arthur’s mind that hadn’t been lost to panic approved: skin-to-skin contact was the safest way to warm someone so obviously chilled, though he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

“Heal him, Iseldir, so I can cover him. Please!” Mordred’s voice was level, but not calm; it was the tone of a man holding himself together only with supreme effort. Arthur was impressed. He didn’t think he could have managed to sound quite so stable, if he had tried to speak.

Iseldir stretched out his hands and began a slow, sonorous chant. He was joined almost immediately by two other druids— an unfamiliar man, and a woman Arthur had seen in passing earlier that day. Their eyes lit like fire, and Arthur was far too grateful for their aid to flinch at the sight of such obvious sorcery. Other druids joined them, though they did not pass their hands over Merlin or join in the incantations; instead, they laid their hands over their fellows’ shoulders. Arthur knew very little of sorcery, but he could feel the magic flowing through each fleshly link of their bodily chain, somehow, and knew, without needing to be told, that they were lending the others their strength.

Under the druids’ care, the thin layer of ice coating Merlin’s skin cracked and sloughed away.

It did not improve his appearance.

Instead, each new inch of skin revealed new hurts, each more terrible than the last. At first, Arthur witnessed a series of thin cuts, fresh bruises, and large, lopsided abrasions. If he’d been forced to guess, he’d have said that Merlin had probably fallen down a rough stretch of stone and gravel. Once the cuts littering Merlin’s feet were revealed, he strongly suspected that guess had been extremely close to the truth.

When the long, slightly sour-smelling gash on Merlin’s leg was exposed to the open air, Arthur nearly choked on his tongue. He clenched his fists so hard he half-expected to feel his own blood running through the gaps of his fingers, and soft, muffled oaths behind him told him that the knights had seen it and realized what he had: that this was the injury Merlin had sustained, the one they had all somehow overlooked. The skin around it was pink and oddly crinkled, and Arthur simply knew that it had been red and puffy before the cold had numbed it and reduced the swelling. Well on its way towards infection, if he was any judge; it might have robbed him of his servant— or, at the very least, robbed his servant of one of his legs— and he’d never have known, not until it was too late.

He wondered if Mordred had known the extent of the injury before now, and decided he couldn’t have. If he had, he’d have been far harsher with them, and they’d have deserved it, and worse. Arthur had half a mind to sentence all of his knights to an extended stay in the stocks for failing to notice Merlin’s pain, and to join them himself.

And then— far, far worse than the cuts and bruises had been— the first of the scars was revealed. Hot, bitter anger raced through him, and Arthur asked himself, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, how much have I missed? When had Merlin been stabbed with what looked like the thick blade of a hunting knife, judging by the shape of the scar just above his hip? Who had tortured him, for the sunken silvery impression of chain links squeezed around his arms and lower ribs could only have been associated with torture. He recognized only a few of the other marks: a long, narrow line across one bicep, a shallow divot in the meat of one shoulder, and a short, raised gash on the outside of his left wrist. The rest were all mysteries to him.

Finally, the thickest section of ice— a hard shell centered around Merlin’s chest— fell away, and Arthur found himself suddenly face to face with a horrid burn, the size of both of Arthur’s fists held together. The edges of it were oddly discolored, and it took Arthur longer than it should have to realize the cause: fabric, melted into skin when the injury had first been inflicted.

Dear gods.

Now that Arthur was able to look past the initial shock of Merlin’s scars, he also realized that Merlin was far thinner than he ought to have been. Merlin had always run towards slender, true, but he had put on weight since Arthur became King and started to order larger meals only to leave a good quarter of them on his plate, where Merlin could get to it; he had even gone so far as to give his permission for the theft, just after his coronation, and made it clear that he would never revoke that permission. But whatever trials Merlin had faced in that shrine had devoured his body’s store of fat— and his servant had precious little to spare, even with Arthur’s intervention— and started to make a meal of his muscle, too, by the looks of it.

Merlin’s quest to save Camelot had truly laid him low; unconscious and finally free of the last lingering clump of ice, he looked as small and young as he had when he first arrived in Camelot, all those many years ago. If he had been awake enough to flash an unrepentant, cheeky grin, he’d have been identical to his younger self… so long as you didn’t look at the scars. The realization of how little Merlin’s face had changed— a terrible contrast to the amount of change his body had been forced to undergo—threatened to cleave Arthur’s heart in two.

With the last of the ice melted away, the druids fell silent. They took a few shockingly deep breaths, begged for water, and— after Arthur, Gwaine, Percival, and Leon had scrambled to fetch it for them— drank deeply. Then they began another chant, this one higher and more melodic, sounding more like a song than a spell.

A hymn of some sort, perhaps, considering how spiritually the druids viewed magic? A relic of the Old Religion, a purer echo of that ancient Art than the bastardized craft Morgana had laid claim to? Whatever it was, Arthur had to admit that it sounded beautiful… and that it was effective.

Quickly— though still slower than Arthur would have liked— the bruises began to fade, first to purple, then green, then yellow, and then finally out of sight entirely. The blood oozing from Merlin’s myriad cuts slowed to a halt, and then those wounds stitched themselves shut, disappearing under a rushing growth of new, healthy skin. The gash along his leg resisted the treatment for quite some time; it did not fully close until the Keeper finally reached them and pressed the head of his canes into the skin above and below it before sliding them together. The cut healed obediently as the wood passed over it, and Arthur breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Once that last cut closed, Mordred reached out his hand and jerked his cloak over Merlin’s too-still form, tucking the edges under him to trap in as much body heat as he could. He made sure his own hands were outside of the cloak, and chafed them over Merlin’s newly covered arms and chest for some time before throwing his arms around Merlin’s shoulders to keep the night air away from his vulnerable throat. The position looked uncomfortable, but Mordred didn’t appear strained. He tucked the top of Merlin’s head under his chin, staring straight ahead. His eyes clouded, his expression going curiously blank as he settled in, and then his lips started to move; Arthur thought he might’ve been praying. He didn’t seem to notice anything else after that, and Arthur suspected that, if they’d asked it of him, he’d have sworn a sacred oath to stay there in perfect stillness until Merlin woke and forced him to move.

Actually, Mordred probably had sworn such an oath, if only in the confines of his own mind.

Arthur shook his head against the thought and decided to leave Merlin in Mordred’s capable hands, though he doubted he’d go far. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep or roam the camp until he knew Merlin would recover. He fully intended to keep his servant within his sights— where he damned well belonged, where he wouldn’t get injured or damaged further, not without Arthur’s immediate aid, at least— for as long as possible. If he could, he’d keep him in his sights forever, though he knew that wouldn’t be at all possible, not with the sort of lives they led.

He’d have to content himself with knowing that Mordred would at least be watching over him at all times, now that he’d agreed to guard Merlin exclusively. If nothing else, tonight had at least proven him more than capable of caring for Merlin.

Arthur looked down at the Keeper, staring until the old man met his eye, then jerked his head sharply. The Keeper groaned, leveraged himself up, and followed. Once Arthur judged them far enough to avoid disturbing Merlin’s rest, but near enough to spring to his aid, if needed, Arthur stopped, turned, and glared.

“Was this the expected result of your trials?” Arthur spat, crossing his arms to hide the violent tremors in his hands. “Did you send him off alone, knowing that this would be the result?”

The Keeper favored him with a distinctly unimpressed look, raising an eyebrow in a dismissive manner that reminded him again of Gaius. “And if it was? What, exactly, would you have had me do differently? Should I have let the fabric of the world itself unravel for the sake of one man, knowing that he would have suffered just as much if I had? You are a King, sire; you should know better than anyone that sometimes there are no good options, and that hard choices must be made for the greater good. You’ve no right to hate me for doing what had to be done.”

Arthur bristled, pushed his shoulders back, then… deflated. The Keeper was, after all, entirely correct. Arthur was horrified, angry, and grieving, but there had been no other recourse. “I—”

“Don’t apologize, lad,” the Keeper said, wearily. “I understand entirely; I’d have said worse in your place.” He gestured, and two of the tree-stump chairs lifted from their spots next to the fire and flew through the air to settle next to them. He sat, groaning loudly, and Arthur followed suit. “For what it’s worth, though… no. I knew the Crossing would be hard, that it would have a cost, but if I’d known it’d be like this— at the very least, I’d have warned you.”

Arthur allowed himself a moment to take that in; that moment stretched into minutes. Eventually, he said, “Thank you,” in a curiously flat tone that sounded strange to his own ears. “Is there anything… what can we do now? To help?”

“Keep him warm, and make sure he doesn’t wake alone,” the Keeper instructed. “And tread carefully when he wakes. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he becomes a bit… unstable, for a time.”

“Are you saying he’s dangerous?” The idea brought some of his earlier anger back; how dare he suggest that after Merlin had clearly suffered for their sake?

The Keeper shook his head. “No, not that; never that, not where you’re concerned. But he’s been through an ordeal, and I imagine he must be feeling a bit… bruised, emotionally at least. Or he will, when he wakes.”

Arthur nodded, thinking of hardened veterans and experienced knights falling apart after long or particularly brutal battles. He thought of himself, after his first raid on a druid camp; he’d spent days feeling completely numb, and then, when he started to feel again, the tide of feeling swelled and swept him away. He laughed at the slightest provocation, raged over the smallest insult, and spent many long nights sobbing until exhaustion forced him to sleep. If Merlin woke feeling anything close to that—

Then it was a good thing he’d be surrounded by men who understood what he’d be going through, knights who could finally offer him the support he should have had from them all along. Arthur was confident that the others would feel the same way, that they’d do their best to care for Merlin in the way he so clearly deserved.

“He’ll also be hungry enough to eat a horse, I wager,” the Keeper said dryly once he judged Arthur to be attentive enough to hear him again. “Magic like that always leaves you hungry. We will supply what we can, of course, but we have no meat to offer. It’s too dangerous to hunt, under the circ*mstances, and—”

“We packed supplies,” Arthur interrupted, feeling obscenely grateful that he finally had something to contribute. “We weren’t sure how long it would take to find you, so we decided to err on the side of caution. The meat is dried, but… he’ll have his rations and mine, if he needs them.”

The Keeper smiled approvingly. “I doubt he’ll wake before morning. It might be best to try and sleep now, if you can.”

Arthur wanted to argue that he couldn’t possibly sleep when Merlin was in such a state, but he knew he’d be lying if he did; he was exhausted, and knights learned early to sleep when they could. He nodded, begrudgingly, and looked around the camp. Mordred was still holding Merlin, in a position that would surely see him cramping in short order if he didn’t stretch out soon; Gwaine, Leon, and Percival were scattered through the camp, helping the healers back to their beds. The healers didn’t look as if they’d be able to walk on their own; they staggered even with the knights’ support.

“Yes, I suppose we all need our rest,” Arthur said at last; privately, he swore he’d only rest if he could help Merlin first. He offered the Keeper his arm. “And that includes you; I may not know much about magic, but if I’m any judge, your spell was the strongest. You must be tired.”

“Tired doesn’t begin to cover it,” the Keeper grumbled.

But he took the proffered arm and leaned gratefully into Arthur’s support as they made their way back to his tent.

“I really am sorry,” Arthur said, softly, as they reached the tent and Arthur pulled it open, holding the flaps for the Keeper to duck through. “I was altogether too harsh with you.”

“And I really meant it when I said I didn’t need your apology,” the Keeper sighed. “But I forgive you, if you need forgiveness. Now, go; check on your men, and get some damned rest!”

* * *

Mordred whispered the only warming spell he knew, over and over again until the words started blending together into one long, slurred sound. It was a simple spell— one that hardly took any power at all to cast— and most sorcerers scoffed at it, thinking it useless because it lacked versatility. Unlike other such spells, it couldn’t be targeted; it worked only on the caster. But just then, Mordred thought it was the most important spell he’d ever learned, because it was perfect. He wouldn’t have dared to try and warm Merlin directly, not when the slightest error might heat him too quickly and send him into shock, and the other druids must have come to the same conclusion; otherwise, they’d have worked on raising Merlin’s body temperature after they finished healing his more immediate wounds instead of leaving him to the mercy of Mordred’s mundane methods.

But warming himself, slowly and steadily, and letting Merlin soak in as much indirect heat as he could? That should be safe enough.

Mordred stared straight ahead, resisting the urge to shift until he could see Merlin’s face. The last thing he wanted was to disturb the man, but he wished he could see if the color was starting to return to his face or if he was still so deathly pale. He drew his arms tighter around Merlin’s chest and neck reflexively; seeing Merlin like that, covered in frost and rapidly cooling blood, was, without a doubt, the worst thing he’d ever seen.

He had known, of course, that Merlin had faced unspeakable dangers without flinching and come out the stronger for it, but he’d never seen the cost of Merlin’s tireless courage for himself.

For the first time, he understood why Merlin disliked being called Emrys. It must chafe, like being given handed-down clothes and being told you’d grow into them, only to find that some bits were too large while other parts were tight enough to turn the seams cutting harsh.

Gods, but Merlin was good; far, far better than any of them! Mordred couldn’t think of anyone else who would have handled such a burden with Merlin’s characteristic grace. Arthur certainly didn’t deserve his devotion; the knights didn’t deserve his protection; Mordred probably didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air that Merlin did, and he definitely didn’t deserve to touch him. Merlin was a holy thing, not because he was Emrys, but because he was everything a man should be, and everything every other man Mordred had ever known had failed to be. Gentle, kind, brave, unimaginably strong... no, Mordred definitely didn’t deserve to take the sort of liberties he was taking by cradling Merlin’s unconscious form.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away and settle Merlin into the nearest unoccupied tent. He told himself it was because he was helping— and he was, that was true enough— but he knew it was because some selfish part of him wanted to know what it was like to hold Merlin, and knew he would never again have the honor.

“Mordred?”

Arthur’s voice was soft— gentle, even— but it was still startling given how deep in his own thoughts Mordred had gone; it took real effort not to flinch away from the sound. “My Lord,” Mordred answered, the words cracking after the strain of maintaining the warming chant. He looked up at Arthur without moving his head. Arthur knelt, making it easier to meet his gaze.

“I’ve brought some bedrolls,” Arthur said, slowly. “We can move him, and—”

“I don’t want to disturb him.”

Arthur eyed Merlin’s still form critically. “Mordred, he’s out; it would take something like a dragon landing next to us to disturb him.”

Mordred snorted hard enough to jolt them both, then stilled; Merlin didn’t so much as twitch, which rather proved Arthur’s point. He breathed a sigh of relief, then looked back up to find Arthur favoring him with a look of unvarnished approval. “Come on. If you stay here, you’ll be too stiff to move tomorrow, and how will you help him then? We can keep him warm and get some rest at the same time.”

Mordred licked his dry lips. “We?”

Arthur wrung his hands, looking suddenly timid and unsure; he had never looked less like a King. He turned his head, and Mordred followed suit.

There were three bedrolls laid out next to the fire, laying so close to one another that their edges overlapped. Piles of blankets and furs covered the lower halves of the bedding, waiting to be pulled up once their occupants were in place. The fire had been freshly stoked and fed, and would easily burn through the night.

“The Keeper said to keep him warm, and I thought—”

Mordred studied the King; nervous, hopeful, a bit of guilt edging around the need to help. He met the King’s eyes and tried to convey that he knew exactly what he thought and how he felt. “It’s a good thought. He needs the body heat, and if he wakes and needs us, we’ll be right there.”

Arthur’s relief was palpable, and completely free of the affected royal dignity he usually fought to maintain; there was devotion there, too, nearly as strong as Merlin’s.

Privately, Mordred admitted that Arthur wasn’t entirely unworthy of Merlin’s regard, even if he did have a lot to make up for. Then he adjusted his grip on Merlin, pulled his knees under him, and stood.

Those bedrolls really would serve them better and more comfortably than a single cloak and hard-packed earth, and the two of them would provide much more heat than Mordred could alone, even with the spell’s aid.

Chapter 11: Storied Scars

Chapter Text

Merlin woke several times without truly recognizing that he was awake, drifting off again before he was fully conscious. He had reached a level of exhaustion so deep he couldn’t think when he drifted awake; he could only feel.

Warmth, soft and gentle surrounding him on all sides; the feeling of being cradled by something strong, the feeling of being safe. There was a scent, too, herbal, sharply astringent, cut with a lingering hint of something metallic. Merlin sighed, buried his face into the source of that scent until something tickled his nose, then rolled over. His face mashed into something equally ticklish, if a bit shorter, and he breathed in a lungful of musk and the softest whisp of lavender.

Lavender?

Merlin pried open his eyes and realized he’d rolled face first into Arthur’s chest hair; he stiffened for a moment, then melted bonelessly into Arthur.

Mhmmm; such a nice dream.

Arthur shifted in response, his arm around Merlin’s waist tightening. Merlin leaned into it shamelessly. Another arm flopped over Merlin’s chest from his other side; another body pressed up against him.

A very interested body, by the feel of it.

Merlin forced his eyes open again and turned his head. Mordred’s eyes blinked open slowly. A soft, hazy smile spread over Mordred’s face before falling away, replaced with a look of concern that shattered Merlin’s languid bliss. His face colored, his hips shifted away from Merlin’s, and that finally broke through the last lingering haze.

Not a dream!

Merlin yelped and scrambled backwards out of the bedroll. His bare chest met cold air. His eyes widened, and he snatched a blanket to wrap himself in, trying to cover as much of himself as he possibly could. Arthur woke growling when the blanket was pulled off him, though he stopped immediately when he realized Merlin was awake and clearly upset.

“Merlin!” It was loud, nearly a shout, but still gentle. Arthur winced slightly, and when he spoke again, it was softer, quieter, far less likely to wake the entire camp. Of course, judging from the rustling sounds Merlin could suddenly hear, it was a bit too late to prevent that. “Are you alright?” Arthur pulled himself up to kneel on the bedroll, reaching for another blanket— there had been piles and piles of them, apparently, before Merlin had stirred and upset the arrangement— and wrapped himself, too. Mordred didn’t bother with the blanket at all. He simply stood and walked towards a nearby stump that held a folded bundle of clothes and dressed unhurriedly. The softest touch of a concerned mind against his own told Merlin that Mordred wasn’t ignoring him or unmoved, he had simply realized what Arthur hadn’t: that Merlin wasn’t quite awake enough to deal with how he’d slept, let alone how he’d woke, and needed a bit of space.

He could have done without the sight of Mordred’s pert arse and thick, swaying co*ck, though; he’d already felt it, but seeing it made it seem altogether too real. Arthur’s nudity was, at least, familiar; a known quantity Merlin had learned to resist, if not ignore.

Mordred’s made his mouth water, made all those horrible thoughts he’d had about the man’s nipples and curls and long, lean legs come rushing back, and Merlin was absolutely not prepared to deal with any of that; not now, when Arthur was staring at him, openly concerned without even the slightest pretense for the first time in ages, and clearly expecting an answer; not when there was still a shard of ice lodged in his chest, piercing his heart; not when he was still feeling so very raw from being stripped bare by the Disir’s trial.

Stripped bare!

Merlin’s jaw tightened as he realized he’d felt Arthur and Mordred’s bare skin against his own. There had been no pain, which meant someone had healed him, but there had also been no barrier of cloth, which meant they had seen him; he’d never, ever intended Arthur to see him without a shirt, not unless he was wearing a cornucopia of glamours to hide the marks.

He’d never wanted Arthur to see how monstrous he’d become.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice was softer still, hardly louder than a whisper, and it broke on the second syllable, a thin, reedy crack, like the voice of a boy on the cusp of becoming a man.

sh*t.

Arthur was worried, upset, hurt. And that… well, Merlin was too tired to be properly angry over Arthur’s recent insults and failings, and without that armor of irritation, he was helpless against the urge to mend, to soothe, to protect.

Merlin coughed lightly, clearing his throat, and forced his heavy jaw to unclench enough to speak. “Sorry. ‘m fine. Just… surprised. Not how I expected to wake up. Threw me off.” His voice was rough, his lips felt chapped, and the foreign dead magic in his chest throbbed every time he exhaled. He wondered if it would ever stop throbbing, or if he would simply get used to the sensation like shifting ice pressing against his heart and learn to ignore it.

“Merls!”

f*ck!

The knights had arrived. Leon and Percival stopped just behind Arthur, but Gwaine practically dove for Merlin, and Merlin simply was not ready for more people who had probably seen him undressed and more than half-dead. He opened his arms as if to offer an embrace, or— more likely, given that it was Gwaine— to simply pull Merlin into one.

Mordred was suddenly there, seizing Gwaine’s shoulders and dragging him away. Gwaine struggled, at first, but then Mordred snapped, “He’s barely awake, and magically healed skin is sensitive as the mind learns that the body is whole; give him some time, for pity’s sake, and space!”

Merlin could have kissed him for that bit of expedient falsehood. The thought was intensely disturbing for the simple fact that it wasn’t; it felt natural, logical even: Mordred was there, Mordred was beautiful, Mordred was protecting him, therefore, Mordred should be kissed. It was a perfectly reasonable impulse.

Merlin was beginning to think he’d gone stark raving mad crossing the boundaries between the worlds; it was the only rational explanation.

Gwaine looked at Merlin, seemingly torn between relief and a frantic need to do something, and opened his mouth to speak. Mordred, blessedly, cut him off again. “Would you get him some food, please? He’ll likely feel half-starved any minute now.”

As if on cue, Merlin’s stomach rumbled. He felt his cheeks heat, and he was probably blushing clear down to his chest, but it was still a relief when Gwaine and the other knights hurried back to their saddlebags and started rummaging about for their travel rations.

~Thank you.~

~Any time, Merlin.~

Mordred’s Sending was heavy with promise, another declaration of loyalty Merlin knew he didn’t come close to deserving, but he pushed that unworthy feeling aside and set to the food the knights had brought with a will. He couldn’t recall dried meat and travel bread ever tasting better, and he couldn’t recall ever being this hungry, not even during the great famine that had struck Ealdor when he was eight. His appetite was undeniable, and he barely had the presence of mind to keep the blankets pulled around him with his free hand, so he could eat with the other poking out from the thinnest possible gap to avoid calling more attention to his marred flesh. They pressed more food on him, then more still, before he finally realized they’d given him far more than his fair share.

Merlin protested, then, but they would hear none of it.

“Eat, Merlin,” Arthur ordered, in the commanding tone he only ever used when he would brook no arguments, not even the playful kind. “You need it more than we do, and there will be enough to see us back to Camelot even so. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready, and—”

“No,” Merlin interrupted. “Not back to Camelot, not yet; back to the farm, then Camelot.”

“Merlin, you’ve been through hell! You can’t possibly plan to face off against a mad ghost with a penchant for fire today; you need rest first!”

“What I need, Arthur, is to settle my new magic, and the best way to do that is to use it! Laying that ghost will help far more than bedrest or taking it easy.” Merlin paused, tilting his head thoughtfully as he reconsidered what they’d seen of the ghost’s fire, comparing it to the knowledge he’d gleaned from Beyond. “Besides, I don’t think the ghost is mad at all. Angry, sure, but mad?” He shook his head. “No.”

Arthur sneered, and Merlin was sure he was about to be treated to one of Arthur’s biting, casually cruel comments that bit deeper than either of them were willing to recognize or admit, but then Arthur clenched his jaw, breathed deeply, and visibly reconsidered. “What makes you say that, Merlin? What did you see that I missed?”

The other knights started, stared at Arthur, then smiled warmly, practically radiating approval. Merlin’s jaw dropped, and he blinked at his King, dumbstruck, until Mordred cleared his throat.

Merlin closed his eyes, struggling to put his suspicions into words. “If it was mad, why burn only that one farm? Why burn only a small section of the field, and why wait so long to set fire to the farmhouse? For that matter, why burn our horses’ reins away without so much as scorching the horses?”

Merlin opened his eyes and saw that they hadn’t quite understood. He wrestled with his suspicions again, then said, “The ghost— whoever it was— didn’t set the house alight when the farmers were inside, and it didn’t ignite the field when there were workers tending to it, or let the fire blaze out of control. It did something obviously unnatural, then waited; when Lord Danvers arrived to investigate, it waited still, until the farmers were out of the house and he in it. Only then did it start what could have been a deadly fire, and when it did, it got our horses out of the way first. That isn’t madness. That’s malice. A very directed malice, one that doesn’t want collateral damage, if it can be avoided.”

Arthur’s face went slack with understanding. “You think it wants revenge; it’s personal, somehow, and aimed at Lord Danvers.” His voice held a clear note of respect; Merlin had impressed him. Quite a lot, by the sound of it. It was a far more blatant sign of approval than he was used to receiving from Arthur, and he knew he’d ruin it if he tried to respond out loud. He nodded instead, finished the last corner of dried meat in his hand, and waved away the next offered piece. He’d had quite enough, for now.

Mordred knelt beside him and offered something else: a bundle of clothes dyed in the greens and browns favored by the druids, resting atop Mordred’s own folded cloak. He could have protested the cloak— should have— but he didn’t; he took it, considered retreating behind a tree, but discarded the notion. They’d already seen, and even though he was feeling remarkably better, he wasn’t quite ready to move more than he had to. He took the bundle, set most of it aside, and pulled first the smalls and then the butter-soft trousers on under the blanket. It was awkward, but better than flashing all his bits right out in the open.

The clothes fit as if they’d been made for him; maybe they had. The druids always seemed to have some inkling of what would be needed, even if they didn’t understand precisely why it would be.

Merlin steeled himself, breathed deeply, then shrugged off the blanket, letting it fall to pool at his waist. The knights reacted just as he’d expected them to: Leon paled, averted his eyes; Percival fully turned away, either out of respect and a need to offer him privacy, or because he simply couldn’t stand the sight of his scars; Gwaine openly stared, anger and sympathy and a horrible, aching grief plain on his face.

Arthur was the only surprise. He stared, not at the scars, but directly into Merlin’s eyes, though it was clear that it took some effort not to look.

Merlin pulled the tunic over his head, but didn’t bother to lace it up. It covered most of him even so; the cut was far more modest than any of Arthur’s tunics, even unfastened. Only the edge of the burn was visible, now, and it wasn’t noticeable unless you were looking for it. Merlin studied them all carefully. Only Mordred looked to be entirely steady; the rest held themselves too tensely, shoulders tight and fists clenched. That was expected, too. This wasn’t the sort of thing he could brush off or ignore, not if he wanted them to be of any use. Hearing about the scars would be terrible, and talking about them would be even worse, but if he didn’t, they’d only invent increasingly horrifying scenarios to fit the marks, and drive themselves to distraction doing it.

“Ask,” Merlin said, tiredly. Everyone gasped; they knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll answer your questions, but you can only ask about one each. Save the rest for later, when there isn’t quite so much to do. When we’re back at Camelot.”

There was a moment when Merlin was sure they would refuse and leave him in peace in spite of their desperate curiosity and aching concern. But then Gwaine— of course it was Gwaine— stepped forward. “The burn on your chest. How the f*ck did that happen without any of us realizing you were hurt?”

Merlin smiled faintly. Of course that would be the first one they’d ask about; it made a certain amount of poetic sense, really. It was, after all, the first he’d received in Arthur’s service.

“Actually, Gwaine, that one predates the lot of you. You and I hadn’t met yet, and Leon was still organizing his father’s estates after his death, so he wasn’t at Court; Arthur was the only one who might’ve noticed, and he was in far worse straits than I was. It happened at the end of my first year in Camelot. Arthur was bitten by the Questing Beast, and its venom is magical. It’s a death sentence... one without a cure. The only possible solution is the magic of Life and Death; if you’re powerful enough, and willing to pay the price, you can trade one life for another. I meant to offer mine.”

Arthur swore violently, stood, and marched over to his own— unfolded, the prat— pile of clothes. He jerked them on; Merlin thought he heard seams rip.

More mending for him, what a joy.

Arthur glared back at Merlin, anger simmering under his skin, and hissed, “You had no right!”

“It’s my life, Arthur; I’ve every right to do with it as I will,” Merlin sighed.

“You’re still here,” Leon pointed out. “So, who died?”

“Nimueh.” Merlin said simply, which had Arthur and even Leon swearing again; they recognized the name, of course. Any knight who’d been around during Uther’s reign would have known the name of one of Camelot’s greatest enemies. “She tried to trick me, force me to give up lives I wasn’t willing to trade. We fought. She struck me with a fireball. I called down lightning. She was obliterated.” He swallowed hard, remembering the chaos of that too-short fight, the stench of ozone and charred flesh, the feeling of being the storm. “I spent the next three years flinching every time I heard thunder.”

“I remember that,” Arthur said, quietly, sounding sad instead of angry, now. “I made fun of you for it.”

“Believe it or not, that helped,” Merlin said. “It was easier to laugh about it than to admit why it upset me, and you weren’t being a prick about it; you were trying to distract me. I knew that, even if no one else did.” He stared at Arthur until he met his gaze. “I know I yelled at you the other day. I was angry, I won’t pretend otherwise. But don’t you dare go blaming yourself and rethinking every one of our conversations. It wasn’t all bad; I wouldn’t have stayed if it was. You’ve hurt me, yes, but for every painful memory I have of you, I’ve a dozen good ones that more than make up for it. You didn’t know— because I hid it from you!— so don’t go blaming yourself for not coddling me after I was hurt.”

That was a bit more feeling than Arthur was comfortable with when it could be witnessed by others, and saying it out loud made Merlin feel like he’d been flayed open, so he cleared his throat and finally did up the laces of the tunic before reaching for Mordred’s cloak and tossing it over his shoulders. A cloud of that herb-sweat-steel scent wafted from the cloth, soothing him; apparently, the smell of Mordred had imprinted itself in his mind, tangling with the concepts of warmth and comfort and safety.

Damn it!

Arthur finally nodded, seeming to accept Merlin’s declaration, though his eyes made it clear that they weren’t quite finished discussing it even if they were setting it aside for the time being. He stepped forward and settled himself cross-legged on the ground near Merlin, just outside of arm’s reach, and busied himself with plucking blades of grass and rolling them between his fingers.

“Right,” Merlin said at last. “Who’s next, then?”

Leon shifted uncomfortably, then said, “Your arms. They look like chain links that squeezed tight enough to cut.”

“Ah.” Merlin decided Arthur had the right idea— finding a distraction for his hands— and worried the cloak between his fingers, staring at the shifting fabric and breathing deeply as the friction released more scent. “I knew Morgana had turned long before any of you did, but I couldn’t say anything; a servant denouncing a noble would have been ludicrous at best and punishable at worst, but naming Morgana a traitor? I’d have been strung up before I finished the first sentence.”

“You wouldn’t have, actually,” Arthur said, hollowly. “I might’ve ignored you about Agravaine— and if I’ve never said it before, I’m sorry for that— but you’ve always liked Morgana. Or at least, you did before she betrayed us. If you’d come to me and accused her, I’d have believed you. There wouldn’t have been any doubt in my mind… there couldn’t have been… you’d never have spoken out against someone you cared for unless you were absolutely sure.”

That made an awful amount of sense. Merlin’s eyes watered, and he had to stop and just breathe for a while. “I did my best,” Merlin said, at last. “But Morgana is and has always been my greatest failure; I should have done more for her, to keep her loyal, and I should have trusted you with what I knew. I’m sorry.”

Arthur nudged closer, just a handspan or two, and put his hand on the ground about halfway between them. Slowly, Merlin put out his own hand. He didn’t actually lay it over Arthur’s— that would have been a bit too far, given their audience— but he did let it rest next to his, close enough for their smallest fingers to touch. Arthur moved then, but not to pull away; he curled his little finger, lacing it with Merlin’s.

That was when Merlin knew that somehow, impossibly, in spite of everything, they were going to be okay.

Merlin cleared his throat again. “She was meeting with Morgause. I followed her, but Morgana knew I was there. Morgause enchanted a length of chain. It got tighter the harder I tried to get free.”

“How did you?” Leon asked.

“Truthfully, I don’t know. I called for— for some aid. An… ally… came and took me away after they left me in the forest to die. He got me out.” Perhaps it was cowardly, but Merlin wasn’t ready to explain the Dragon, and he knew Arthur wasn’t ready to hear about Balinor. Merlin wasn’t ready to talk about him, either, not after seeing his spirit. It was too fresh a wound.

“When was that?” Arthur asked.

“Just before Cenred invaded Camelot, supported by the army of skeletons. After Morgana tried to drive Uther mad.”

Arthur frowned. “Morgana didn’t stop the army, did she? If she was working with Morgause even then, she must’ve been its cause, not its solution.”

Merlin shook his head. “I got back in time. I was weak, injured, but I managed to fight her off and break the relic she was using to animate the dead. It was difficult; I couldn’t risk her learning of my magic, so I had to use a sword, and I’m no good with mundane weapons.”

“If you could go toe to toe with Morgana, you’re damned good with a blade,” Arthur countered. “She’s nearly as skilled as I am.” Arthur’s frown deepened. “I punished you for that; I thought you were shirking your duties.”

Merlin shrugged. “Like I said, you didn’t know.”

Suddenly, Arthur stiffened. “’What if I was dying?’” he quoted. “You told me you were dying; I thought you were joking, but you weren’t, were you? Those chains, were they tight enough to stop your breath?”

Merlin closed his eyes. “No. But there was a reason Morgana and Morgause were sure I wouldn’t survive the forest. I wasn’t alone.”

“And which scar is that, then? The one that had you dying?”

“You didn’t see my back, then, did you?” Merlin quipped. He wished he hadn’t almost immediately after. Even with his eyes closed, he knew they’d all stiffened again. Mordred’s mind brushed against his again, wordlessly, and endlessly comforting; his equivalent of Arthur’s proffered hand and laced fingers, Merlin supposed. “It wasn’t just any forest. It was the Darkling Woods. There were serkets. Please don’t make me talk about it. My ally healed me, but it… it was… it hurt.”

That was an understatement, and they all knew it. Thankfully, they didn’t press him.

Merlin opened his eyes and tried to smile cheekily; it probably looked as brittle as it felt, but it was at least an effort. “But I’m still here. You haven’t got rid of me yet. And that counts as your question, sire.”

Arthur abandoned all pretense and seized his hand fully then, squeezing once, twice, conveying that he’d better stay there as clearly as if he’d said it out loud. “Percy?” Merlin asked, wanting to move past all of this so he could deal with a problem that could be fought instead of having to be endured.

Percival twitched, and for a moment Merlin thought he’d pass up his chance. “Your shoulder,” he said at last, touching a spot on the outside of his own arm. “Just here. What was that?”

Merlin’s lingering false cheer was blotted out in an instant. Percival had clearly picked the smallest, most superficial scar he’d seen, hoping to end on… if not a good note, then at least a less horrid one. He couldn’t have known… but that was probably the worst of Merlin’s scars to discuss.

“Really?” Merlin asked, as lightly as he could. “Not the stab wound on my hip, or the claw marks? You want to hear about that one? It’s hardly worth discussing, really.”

Arthur’s hand tightened again. “Merlin….”

“Pick another one,” Merlin said, softly. “Please.”

It had been a fool’s hope; they weren’t the sort of people who’d take the easy way out, and now that they knew how much he’d been hiding, they wouldn’t let him get away with it, either. They might have forgiven him his deception— even they hadn’t said so, not yet, Merlin could still tell that they had— but that didn’t mean they’d tolerate any more lies or misdirection.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Percival asked. “Was it Morgana again? A monster? A man?” His eyes glittered dangerously when that last accusation made Merlin flinch in spite of himself. “Who hurt you, Merlin?”

Merlin turned his hand, squeezed Arthur’s, hard, then withdrew it and stood. “You did. It wasn’t your fault; you were all enchanted. But you shoved me against a cave wall when the Lamia was controlling your mind.” He didn’t wait to see their reactions; couldn’t bear to see the guilt and anguish he knew he’d find on Percival’s kind, gentle face; he turned and made for the horses. “Come on. If we hurry, we can make it back to the farm by midday and back to Camelot before dark, assuming I can handle this ghost quickly.”

It took some time before he heard footsteps behind him, but they did, eventually, follow. Once the need to flee from that revelation wore off, Merlin realized he wasn’t quite as recovered as he thought he’d been; moving quickly made him dizzy, and the prospect of mounting his horse seemed far too daunting. He ignored Gwaine’s immediate offer of a leg up, though, and tried to hop up on his own until Mordred knelt in front of him and offered his hands, fingers laced together. Merlin thought about refusing that offered aid, too, but who knew how long he’d be trying if he insisted on doing it himself?

He nodded his thanks, placed his foot gingerly into Mordred’s hands, and let him push him up; the little boost was enough. He pulled himself up the rest of the way, settling into his saddle and ignoring the tightness in his chest and the buzzing along his spine that rose up in response to the ease with which Mordred had lifted him.

Merlin pushed a wave of gratitude back towards the camp, tangible to anyone familiar with the Silent Speech, and led Arthur and the knights away in silence. He received several immediate Sendings in response, each one saying the same thing, which meant the druids had all been awake and waiting on them, giving them space.

Merlin only wished they’d picked a better farewell than a weighty, resonating Emrys that echoed in his mind long after they’d gone far enough to put the camp firmly out of sight.

Chapter 12: Putting Out Fires

Chapter Text

The farm was mercifully deserted, and that might have been the first spot of good luck Merlin had seen in weeks. The farmhouse— what was left of it— sagged pitifully, a bent and broken thing still black with soot. The door had fallen off inwards, the windows had shattered outwards, and the thatch was almost entirely burnt away; what little of it that remained clung gray and black to the far sides of the walls, like the last few tufts of hair on a balding head. The smell of smoke lingered, mixing with the ozone scent that accompanied thunderstorms or great bursts of magic; even days later, the ghost of Merlin’s power still perfumed the air.

But Merlin wasn’t there to examine the traces of his own magic. He was there to find a different sort of ghost.

Merlin dismounted slowly, easing himself from the saddle. His horse waited patiently, even through the odd shift of Merlin’s weight as he clung to the horn and lowered himself as gently as he could, minimizing the drop. His leg didn’t protest— the druids were excellent healers— but he was still more than a little bit dizzy, and he suspected the impending necromancy would make him dizzier still. He’d probably be weak and freezing again by the time they reached Camelot. He swayed for a moment, leaning on his horse, then straightened and stepped towards the charred farmhouse. The uneven road was no help at all, nor was his own innate clumsiness, but Merlin pressed on, trying to act as though he hadn’t seen Gwaine’s proffered arm held out like an escort preparing to accompany his charge; if Gwaine’s pinched expression was anything to go by, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

He made it halfway up the walk before he stumbled. Mordred was at his side in an instant, supporting him with a strong hand clasped around his bicep and another at his waist. Merlin straightened, nodded his thanks, and started to walk again. Mordred stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. When Merlin looked back at him, he offered his arm, just as Gwaine had.

Merlin took it without a second thought, and didn’t even notice Gwaine’s distinctly jealous huff.

“Merlin, are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Merlin looked back over his shoulder at Arthur; his King was wringing his hands together, nervous and actually showing it, an uncharacteristic openness that made Merlin’s heart ache with something other than unnatural cold. “I’m certain that I have to be,” Merlin said, simply. “Don’t worry; I’ve dealt with a lot worse.”

Arthur’s face soured. “That isn’t as comforting as you think it is.” Behind him, the knights nodded. Merlin shared an amused look with Mordred, then shrugged.

“Comfort or not, it’s true. I can handle this, Arthur. Just… trust me. I’ve survived this long,” Merlin said. The thought that he wasn’t even sure he could die after making the Crossing went unspoken; Merlin wasn’t ready to face the fact that he’d probably sacrificed his mortality at the altar of his devotion to Arthur and the Kingdom they might yet build, and he certainly wasn’t ready to watch Arthur grapple with the idea that his servant would probably outlast his Kingdom. “And stay behind me,” Merlin added, letting his voice sharpen, lashing the air like a whip. “My magic should protect me, and Mordred should be okay, too, but the rest of you are all too vulnerable to the unseen. You still have your charms, right?”

Again, the knights nodded. Arthur put his hand down the front of his tunic and lifted out the little bundle; he’d found a bit of leather somewhere, and strung it like a necklace. Merlin tried not to read too deeply into the idea that Arthur was wearing his protection so near to his heart. Thinking about that would have been nearly as dangerous as thinking about how he’d woken up, and he’d rather face a dozen ghosts than work through the tangled mess of emotions that had caused.

Better by far to focus on the problem at hand.

Merlin allowed Mordred to guide him to the house, and only pulled away when he reached the threshold. He knelt, carefully, and reached out, laying his palm flat on the scorched earth. His eyelids fluttered, then half-closed; he didn’t need his eyes, not for this. The traces of the ghost’s pain and anger burned, easily perceived by the nameless unphysical sense possessed only by those who carried magic in their veins. Mordred probably felt it, too, though he had no special connection to the Other Side.

Merlin pushed past that thought, past all of his thoughts; he set aside his anxiety at performing magic where Arthur could see it, ruthlessly throttled his fear that Arthur would only be so accepting while the Dead were still a danger to Camelot and the other Kingdoms, and quashed the innate mortal impulse to shy away from dead things.

His own inborn magic— warm and thick like honey— retreated deeper into his core, burying itself in his bones as if it was fleeing the rushing flood of chill power that leaked from the death magic lodged like ice in his heart. Merlin tasted salt and Black Water again, and his next breath hung thick and white in the air. Someone swore, maybe at the sight of Merlin’s breath steaming out like he crouched in the dead of winter when the world around him still showed spring green, or maybe in response to the thin layer of ice that spread from his suddenly bone-white fingers, painting the ground in jagged nonsensical patterns of hoarfrost and sending what looked to be honest-to-gods snow up into the air.

“I can feel it,” Merlin said, sounding— at least to himself— as though he were speaking from very far away. “Feel her.”

The shadows of the burned and crumbling farmhouse thickened, shifting wildly as if they were cast by firelight instead of the steady noontide sun. “I can almost see her… see her death.”

Merlin let his eyes close fully for a moment; when he opened them, the world was a thousand shades of gray, black, and blue save for a single spot of livid red flame: a handprint on the door, still burning with the echo of a ghost’s undying rage. Merlin shuffled forward, walking on his knees, and reached out.

Slowly, carefully, he placed his hand on the door, lining his fingers up with the burning lines of a ghost-woman’s grasp. He pulled.

The world fell away; memories— not his own— rose in its place.

Merlin’s nostrils tingled, filling with a scent not unlike slow-roasted pork. The smell was appetizing, at first, reminding him that he hadn’t actually eaten his fill— travel bread and jerky couldn’t quite fill a warlock’s belly after a Great Work of magic— until he realized what it meant. Once he did, his stomach turned violently. His mouth flooded with saliva as his eyes prickled with fresh, hot tears; he kept his breakfast down only with a supreme effort of will.

“Burned.” Merlin stared straight ahead with white, unblinking eyes. “Lord Danvers burned her.”

The shadows thickened again, rearranging themselves into a grotesque tableau. “Not at the stake, though. With a torch. Piece by piece, starting from the feet while others held her in place. It took hours!” Merlin swallowed bile, blinked away the death-echo, turned, and glared daggers at Arthur and his f*cking redcloaks. “And you lot call sorcery evil!”

“f*ck, Merlin, your eyes!”

Merlin wasn’t even sure who had said it, but he was sure he didn’t care. He pulled himself to his feet, took three unsteady steps forward, and growled low in his throat. “This is the legacy of your f*cking ban, you bastards; she wasn’t even a witch! Just a woman with enough pride and love to make an arrogant, powerful man feel small.”

Gods, what had he been thinking, defending Camelot all these years as if it wasn’t rotten right down to his core, protecting a Pendragon as if they weren’t the worst of the worst, the ones who’d started this all, who let every small, pathetic man with a penchant for torches and torture find a higher station than he deserved? It wasn’t sorcerers who deserved to burn, it was Lord Danvers and every man like him, every soldier and servant who held down their victims and every man or woman who watched on with haughty, unforgiving or unbothered expressions. Anger rose, harsh and hot and inescapable, pushing back even Death’s unnatural chill, and Merlin wanted to burn it all down, wanted to give in to that aching desperate urge for revenge. The rage was terrible, and absolute.

And absolutely none of it was his.

Merlin blinked rapidly, pressed his palms to his head, pushing hard at his temples with the heels of his hands as he hissed out a long, shaking breath. He’d gone too far into the traces, tangled himself up in the ghost’s scattered Self, and coming back was proving difficult. He needed something important, something real, something he could cling to, an anchor! He squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering.

Charcoal crunched under leather boots, and the scent of steel and herbs broke through the sweet stink of burning flesh. A hand, soft and strong, wrapped around his wrist, pulling one hand away from his own head. Merlin lashed out, shoving Mordred back before he even registered that it was Mordred; touch was too dangerous right now— he was too dangerous right now— but it didn’t matter.

The scent was anchor enough.

Merlin followed that scent back to himself, opening his eyes again to see the blurring shapes of several frantic knights, then arched his back, pointed one hand with splayed, claw-curved fingers, and spoke a single grating word that rose up from the core of his new magic; the jagged edges of its syllables caught the sides of his mouth as it left him, drawing blood. The sound hung in the air, ringing like a bell, and then the ground in front of Merlin erupted, dirt clods shooting into the air as a sudden torrent of flame surged and spun like a cyclone.

The fire coalesced; a girl hovered before him, facing Arthur and the knights, her hands coated in living flame. The rest of her was covered in angry red burns that never had a chance to heal; in some places, the burns had deepened to black char. In others, they had cracked open, revealing pink meat and gleaming white bone. She opened her mouth. Just before she spoke, Merlin finally registered the strange, atonal humming that had filled the air, growing from the fading sound of his word; then the humming resolved itself into a voice.

“Lord Danvers killed me.” Her voice was flat, unbothered; her rage still burned in Merlin’s breast, diverted— temporarily— from the rest of her being, granting her memories and what was left of her mind a chance to be seen and heard. “He wanted my sister. He said he needed a new maid, but we all knew the truth. He gave her a week to help finish up the harvest, and then she was meant to report to his estate with her bags packed and her affairs here in order. Mama wouldn’t stand up to him, said I was a fool to try. But I got Annie out and away, sent her with food and money and a cart and her sweetheart all the way to Gawant before Danvers caught wind of the rumors and came looking. Had to use every coin I’d ever saved to do it, but it was worth it.”

“I was arrested the very next day. Lord Danvers said I was a sorceress, claimed I bewitched Annie, that she was the first move in a war against his entire estate. Said I’d send away all the workers, until there was no one left to till the fields or bring in the harvest, that the grain would rot unpicked if I had my way. He didn’t even bother taking me to Court for a Trial, just killed me then and there. He took his time doing it, though. I didn’t know nothing about magic; still don’t, not really. Only know this is the clearest my mind has been since he lit his torch.”

The girl shook violently, the flames in her hands dimming slightly as she turned to face Merlin. “But you shouldn’t keep my anger; it isn’t yours. You have trouble enough without it. You’ve anger enough without it. And I wouldn’t wish my undying rage on anyone.”

Merlin opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t speak. It was all too much, everything he felt, everything she felt, the heat, the chill, everything—

He needed to let it out, but her anger still needed to be contained; she couldn’t move on if it returned to her. He could sense the fractures in her being, the places where she’d cracked apart when she’d broken through the Veil; the anger was too warped to fit back into the rest of her. And even if it could fit, the very thought of forcing her to feel this again was enough to break Merlin’s heart. He couldn’t do it.

She deserved so much better.

Merlin shivered, bent double, and let out a single choked sob. The unnatural anger in him flared once, violently, but then he seized it with practiced mental fingers and squeezed; it compressed, a hard knot at the center of his being, right at his core. The ice in his heart shifted again, moving closer to that rigid ball of feeling. Dead magic met dead emotion in a brief alchemical touch; the anger changed, becoming harder still, and then it surged up, past his chest, his throat, his head, and a sudden agonizing pressure built behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, shrieked, and then a single tear fell, glittering bright as it dropped into his hand; he hadn’t even realized he’d put his hand out to catch it until it fell, heavy and cold, into his waiting palm.

“Oh,” the ghost-girl breathed, surprise spreading across her previously expressionless face. “Oh, I— I feel….”

Whatever she felt went unsaid; the last thread connecting her to her unnatural anger snapped, cut off by its new crystalline prison, and the flames in her hands went out. She floated in the air for one final moment, then dissipated into steam and smoke, weightless without her rage to drag her down and keep her firmly anchored on this side of the Veil.

The sudden silence was fraught and tense, begging to be broken.

“sh*t,” Merlin said, for lack of anything better to say. “Gods, her anger, her pain… I’ve never felt anything like that. It was… magnified. Drowning out everything else.” He opened his hand, tilting his wrist until the sunlight glanced off the glittering frozen teardrop.

“Merlin, mate, did you just cry out a f*cking diamond?” Gwaine asked, sounding as if that had been one step too far into the strange for even his tastes.

“Not a diamond,” Merlin said, almost idly, as he held it up between two fingers and turned it, this way and that. “A crystal.”

Balinor’s advice finally made sense; if Merlin could find the ghosts and separate them from whatever kept them bound, he could contain that unfitting piece in this, and then he could take it back to the Crystal Cave where all memory crystals belonged. He could summon the spirits there, in a place that existed outside all boundaries, and reunite them with their missing pieces in a way that would make them whole instead of distorting them into something they never would have been in life.

“Incredible,” Mordred whispered. Merlin looked up from the crystal teardrop and realized Mordred really had left his side when he’d pushed him away; Mordred stood between Merlin and the knights, and something told him that the druid had been holding them back and giving Merlin space enough to work. Thank all the gods for him, honestly; if he hadn’t held them back, if they’d tried to interfere—

Best not to even think about that. Merlin probably would have stopped himself before they’d been hurt, but all the same, he was glad he hadn’t needed to try.

Merlin opened his mouth to thank Mordred for his aid, but Arthur’s voice stopped him.

“Was it true? Did Lord Danvers really….” Arthur swallowed, then asked the question he really needed answered. “Is that really my legacy?”

Merlin flinched bodily, cringing away from his own accusing words thrown back at him. He wanted to apologize, to swear that he hadn’t meant it— but of course, he had. He’d never have said it without all that unnatural rage searing up his throat, but he had meant it, and it wasn’t exactly wrong, even if it wasn’t quite true, either.

“The Dead have no reason to lie, and no desire to, either,” Merlin said at last. “When they cross the Veil… it’s like forcing them through too small a gap. Parts of them splinter off to make them fit, but those parts come through right on their heels. And the splintered parts warp, distorting until they’re almost larger than the rest of the spirit. For her, it was anger that broke off and swelled. I channeled it, and it… f*ck, Arthur, I can’t even describe— and I’m glad. I’m glad I can’t express what that was like. Trust me, it isn’t fit to speak. What I said… a good portion of it was that anger bleeding through.”

Merlin stopped, took a wavering step forward— he was unsteadier than ever, and now that the ghost’s fire was gone, he was getting terribly, achingly cold again— and stretched out a hand in Arthur’s direction, praying that Arthur would take it, that he wouldn’t turn him away for what he’d said or because he didn’t feel like he deserved the comfort Merlin offered.

Arthur swallowed so thickly it was audible, and for a moment, Merlin was sure he’d turn and stalk off into the woods to have a good long sulk, but then he took one step towards him, then two. To Merlin’s utter shock, he ignored the offered hand in favor of pulling Merlin into a tight hug; when Merlin put up his free hand to stroke Arthur’s hair, the King practically melted into his grasp. Merlin had to use a flicker of magic to keep them both upright, but he managed it, and slipped the crystal tear into a pocket so he could clutch at Arthur with both hands.

“Your legacy,” Merlin said, solemnly, trying to make the words into a declaration that couldn’t be gainsaid or debated or doubted, “is a land of hope, Arthur, a place where commoners can become Knights or Queens or valued advisors, even if I have given most of my advice in secret, even if you didn’t always listen. It’s a place where everyone knows their King will do his best to see them safe and protected and happy. It’s a Kingdom that knows they’ll have justice, that their King will right any wrongs he finds once he’s made aware of them. What Danvers did… what happened to that girl… I’m so sorry to say it like this, but that was your father’s legacy, Arthur, not yours. Not if you stop laying claim to it. It’s awful, and it hurts to witness, but it’s real and it's there, and if you hate it, then good, because it’s your Kingdom now, and that means it’s up to you to bloody well change it if you don’t like it!”

Arthur swallowed again, the sound thunderously loud with Arthur’s throat right next to Merlin’s ear, and Merlin was absolutely sure Arthur would have cried into his shoulder if they didn’t have an audience.

“’No good or evil in sorcery, only in the hearts of men?’” Arthur quoted, lifting his voice questioningly at the end, but only slightly; that was just like him, really: sometimes, Arthur just needed someone else to tell him what he’d worked out for himself so he could stop doubting his own convictions. Merlin had done it a thousand times over the years: marry for love, Arthur; judge a man by the nobility of his heart and the strength of his arms, not the nobility of his name; you’re a good and just King, Arthur, and your people love you.

“Sounds very wise,” Merlin agreed, stroking Arthur’s hair again. “Maybe not as impressive as it sounded when The Dolma said it, but still wise.”

Arthur snorted into Merlin’s shoulder; Merlin grimaced theatrically, pushing him away and brushing his shirt with over-the-top disgust. Arthur barked a sharp laugh, ruffled his hair, and stepped back, gratitude shining in his glittering eyes, still wet with unshed tears. He cleared his throat, then hesitantly, said, “Back to Camelot, then?”

“Definitely,” Merlin said, setting off for his horse with a halting staggering gait that probably made him look drunk. “I can probably last the journey back, but gods damn it, I feel like I could sleep a week when we get home.”

Some hidden tension in Arthur’s back eased when Merlin called Camelot home; Merlin didn’t call him on it, didn’t remind Arthur that he’d sworn to stay by his side as long as he’d have him dozens of times over the years or reaffirm that oath yet again, but in the private corner of his heart reserved for his King and his King alone, he rejoiced. He’d probably fall apart later, when he was alone in his room and could process the absolute horror they’d witnessed today and grieve for that girl properly, but for the first time since Uther’s death, Merlin found he had absolutely no doubts at all about his place at Arthur’s side.

He was so relieved that he didn’t even flinch when he found he couldn’t mount his horse again without help.

He was so caught up in his relief, in fact, that he didn’t even see Gwaine had been standing next to his horse, ready to lift him into his saddle, or that he’d passed him by without even looking at him on his way to Mordred, who was standing on the other side of the horse and just as eager to help.

* * *

They didn’t quite make it back to Camelot when Merlin called for a stop, though they were close; they could see the spires of Camelot just over the gentle swell of the next hill, but Merlin knew they were close to a stream whose waters ran sweet and clear, and he was parched. His lips were chapped and cracked, dried blood still clinging to the corners of his mouth where the force of his spell had split his skin, and he needed a drink and a wash, in that exact order.

For once, no one argued with him or tried to convince him to man up and press on; Arthur nodded, and seemed strangely pleased that Merlin had asked to stop, though Merlin couldn’t for the life of him decide why that had pleased him. The other knights practically launched themselves out of their saddles to rummage about for their own waterskins. They led their horses towards the stream, probably intending to let them drink as well.

Merlin rode his own horse as far as he could, until the ground turned wet and he judged it better to slide off than to strain his mount when the footing turned uncertain. He landed rough, staggering, until Mordred appeared and caught him; the man was getting uncannily good at that, at anticipating Merlin’s need for assistance before Merlin had even realized he would need it. He opened his mouth to thank Mordred; Gwaine, of all people, cut him off before he could.

“Why do you do that?” the knight groaned, stomping his foot petulantly and sending up a splatter of mud that had Merlin frowning at both their trousers; his own trousers would probably be fine— they were, after all, the trousers the druids had given him, and druid-made cloth sloughed off dirt and natural grime without staining like nothing else could— but Gwaine’s would need careful washing, and Merlin certainly didn’t want to do it.

“Do what?” Merlin snapped acidly, still looking down and thinking about how set-in those stains would be by the time Gwaine delivered them to the laundry, and how likely it was that the laundresses would simply add them to Merlin’s pile, as they did with nearly every filthy thing the knights delivered for washing.

“Pull away!” Gwaine said, in a near-shout. Merlin looked back up at him, startled, and realized Gwaine’s arms were still lifted as if to catch Merlin’s waist and lower him gently from the saddle; he must have been ready to help, and was offended now, even though Merlin had neither asked for nor wanted his help.

“I’ve been trying to help you whenever I could all day, and you either look away or ignore me completely. You’ll let Princess help you, and that’s fine; I’ve always known he comes first where you’re concerned, but Mordred? You didn’t even like Mordred before last week, but now you’ll let him practically carry you, and you won’t even let me hold your arm. I’m your friend, Merlin, why won’t you let me help?”

There was a time— before Merlin had Crossed Death’s boundaries, before he’d been lectured about burying his own emotions first by the Triple Goddess’s messengers and then by his own father— when Merlin would have shrunk back in guilt and done everything he could possibly think of to reassure the man and to make up for the perceived slight. Now, though….

Well, this anger was entirely his own, and Merlin thought it was high time he said something about it.

“Are you?” Merlin asked, co*cking his head to one side and staring straight into Gwaine’s eyes. Gwaine flinched and glared back; the other knights, Arthur included, gasped and looked at one another in confusion. He couldn’t see Mordred— he was still behind him, supporting him with his grasp— but the druid’s grip on Merlin’s arms tightened. “I thought we were, you know, but I haven’t been sure of it for a long, long time. And I prefer help I can count on, Gwaine, not help that disappears right when I need it most, right when I was relying on it.”

“What the f*ck does that mean, Merlin? I’ve always helped you, I—”

“Left me behind in Ismere the last time I was cold and unsteady and injured; why should I trust you to help me now when I find myself cold and shaky again? Why should I trust any of you to help me, apart from Arthur and Mordred, of course? You all left me behind.”

“That was one time,” Gwaine said, in a small, quavering voice. “Everything was… it… there was so much happening, and Arthur was hurt, and you would have told us to get him out first.”

“But you didn’t come back,” Merlin said, hating the way his voice broke at the end. “And it wasn’t one time, Gwaine. Where were you when Gwen accused me of poisoning Arthur? You didn’t speak out on my behalf, you didn’t come and visit me, you didn’t even ask for my side of the story. You just left me in the dungeon to rot. If it weren’t for my magic, I would have been stuck down there, and Arthur would have died; I had to escape on my own, cure Arthur on my own, then go back into my cell on my own, without support from any of you, and what was the first thing Arthur said when he woke up? That I could never have poisoned him. That should have been the first thing you said when I was accused! You should have known better, but you didn’t; none of you did. You were all content to let me hang.”

Gwaine had retreated back several steps, putting more and more distance between himself and Merlin the longer Merlin spoke, until he finally backed into Percival, who stood stock-still and pale next to the others. Gwaine looked to be close to tears; unless Merlin was very much mistaken, Leon had shed a few already, though he’d turned his face away as if in shame.

Arthur stood to one side, staring at his men as if he hardly recognized them. “I hadn’t— they never even protested? Not a word? Not a single word?”

“Not one,” Merlin spat.

“That’s not fair,” Gwaine said, softly, but there was no conviction in his voice. “Gwen was—”

“Cursed.” Merlin said, flatly. “And the fact that she would have accused me of all people ought to have been a clear sign of that; she knows I lo— she knows I’m loyal to Arthur. And if she’d been in her right mind, she’d never have doubted my loyalty for a second.” He shook his head and laughed; it was a brittle, awful sound. “You know, I was there when she remembered that. Most of her time under Morgana’s control is a blur, but more and more of it is coming back. I had to talk her out of stripping you all of your knighthood.”

“I didn’t know she remembered anything,” Arthur said, quietly.

Merlin winced. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just—” Merlin shook his head, pulled away from Mordred’s careful, comforting support, and knelt at the stream’s edge, cupping his hands in the water and drinking from the leaky cup of his fingers before splashing several more handfuls over his face. He scrubbed lightly, to avoid reopening the cuts, until he was satisfied.

When he finally stood, none of the knights would look at him. Except for Mordred, of course, but Merlin was finding it harder and harder to think of him as a knight; he wasn’t entirely sure what he was thinking of him as, actually. Arthur was still watching him, deeply concerned, though, as if he’d never looked away, and when Merlin staggered back to his horse, Arthur surged forward and pulled him into another hug.

Merlin thought about cracking a joke, something about how Arthur seemed to be giving him all the hugs he’d asked for over the years in one go, but decided to simply lean into the embrace instead.

He, unlike Arthur, had no qualms at all over crying into his best friend’s shoulder, regardless of their audience.

Chapter 13: Things Unsaid

Chapter Text

Guinevere rushed down the steps into the courtyard and took both of Arthur’s hands in hers as soon as he dismounted. “You’re back already! Were the druids able to help?”

Arthur couldn’t stop his wince. Guinevere stiffened. One of her hands left Arthur’s and darted down to her waist to clutch at a familiar bundle tied to the braided silk cord that served as her belt; it seemed she’d decided to trust Merlin’s charm and keep it close, too, even without knowing everything Arthur had learned over— had it really only been a few short days? It seemed longer.

“They were. After a fashion,” Arthur said, gravely. He bit his lip, trying to decide how to explain. It didn’t take him long to realize there would be no easy explanation; the best he could do was ensure a private conversation. “It might be better to discuss it inside, actually.”

Guinevere nodded and pulled back, tilting her head to look over Arthur’s shoulder. She froze, her mouth falling open. “What on earth—”

Arthur winced again. She must have just seen Merlin, if the worry on her face was anything to go by.

“He’ll be alright,” Arthur promised, hoping it was true. Merlin had sworn up and down he’d be fine after a bit of rest, but he certainly didn’t look well. He hadn’t actually managed to make it back to Camelot under his own power; after he finally calmed down and left Arthur’s embrace, he’d swayed so badly that there was no doubt he’d have fallen from his saddle if he tried to ride on his own. Mordred had to ride double with him, and while he wasn’t covered in frost the way he had been after staggering back to the druid’s camp, Merlin’s skin was still ice-pale and his lips tinged a worrying blue. He’d been shivering cold since he summoned and banished the ghost, but he seemed to get worse after sobbing into Arthur’s shoulder. Even more disturbingly, Arthur’s shirt had been stained with something that looked more like blood than tears; Arthur suspected that magical crystal had scratched Merlin’s eye something fierce coming out, and had half a mind to send for the druids and invite one or two of their healers for an extended stay in the castle to deal with all of Merlin’s injuries as and when they appeared. It’d be a balm to his own sanity if they agreed. They’d be heavily guarded, of course— Arthur wouldn’t risk another innocent druid’s death, not again— by some of Arthur’s most trusted knights.

Did he even have any trusted knights? He thought he had, but after what Merlin had said… if his own Round Table had been stupid enough to turn against Merlin, could their judgement really be trusted?

Arthur shook away the thought; this was neither the time nor the place to debate his knights’ merits. “Mordred, could you see Merlin back to Gaius, please? Merlin, let Gaius check you over, and then get some rest; I won’t expect you in at all tomorrow, and Mordred, make sure Gaius knows not to assign him any tasks, either.”

Merlin opened his mouth, clearly intending to protest that order and claim he’d be just fine in the morning, but interrupted himself with a massive jaw-popping yawn. Arthur lifted one eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin and silently daring Merlin to try again. Merlin grumbled something inaudible but undoubtedly impolite before nodding and biting off a quick “Thank you, sire.” He took Mordred’s arm and set off.

Arthur watched them move towards the citadel, frowning at the sudden tension in Merlin’s shoulders before realizing he’d been stupid and shortsighted again; of course Merlin had taken that command the wrong way! “Oh, Merlin? I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon to check in on you and to discuss a few policies I plan on changing; your perspective will be invaluable. And I’ll look forward to having you back once you’re well. Do try to rest up so I don’t have to suffer through George any longer than I have to.”

In other words, I’m not firing you, you bloody idiot, I’m worried about you, and I need you healthy and well-rested so we can sort out the tangled brutal mess my Father’s insanity caused together, because I sure as hell can’t do it without you.

The set of Merlin’s back eased immediately. “As you say, sire.” This time, the words were smooth, if a bit slurred with cold and exhaustion, and the title was an honorific again instead of a sign of irritation and worry.

Arthur rubbed his forehead once Merlin had gone past him; he wasn’t used to watching his words around Merlin, but dammit, he was clearly going to have to start.

Gods, but this was hell! Merlin ought to know better; he had been so clear with the man, so obvious about his feelings! Merlin should know that Arthur wasn’t going anywhere, and that he certainly wasn’t about to send Merlin away or leave him behind.

Although… oh.

Arthur realized, all at once, why he found Merlin’s hesitancy so familiar: Merlin was acting like him.

He’d done the same thing the first time Merlin had sworn to serve him until the day he died; Arthur had recovered from the Questing Beast’s venom shortly after Merlin’s oath and promptly thought ‘well, that must have been a lie, he was just trying to make me feel better when I was down’ and immediately started treating Merlin worse than ever in an undeniably stupid attempt to catch him in the lie. He’d even fired Merlin and favored some forgettable new rat-faced manservant-hopeful— who eventually proved to be a thief, just as Merlin had warned him he’d be— over Merlin when he stayed stubbornly attached to his side in spite of Arthur’s best efforts at driving him off.

Arthur had wanted someone to believe in him for his own sake instead of on the merits of his name alone for so long that when it finally happened, he’d been convinced that he was only fooling himself into believing what he wanted so desperately to be true. It had taken him years to realize that Merlin’s devotion was utterly guileless and damned near unshakable. Hopefully it wouldn’t take Merlin quite so long but, knowing what he knew now, Arthur couldn’t blame him for doubting everything.

Well, he’d just have to be more careful and reassure the man any chance he got. He’d… he’d keep asking for his opinion, praise him whenever it was deserved, openly call him his friend, and get used to giving him hugs— which probably wouldn’t be much of an adjustment, actually; falling into Merlin’s embrace felt a bit like coming home, comfortable in a way he’d only ever felt with Guinevere before. Maybe it was because he trusted Merlin. If Arthur offered anyone else a hug, it’d be a dangerous thing. They’d either read more into it than the gesture warranted, or they’d know full well what he’d meant but still try to leverage it to make others think it meant more than it had.

With Merlin, he didn’t have to worry about that at all.

Arthur sighed and tried to pull his focus back to his Kingdom and his wife, and realized the latter was staring at him with a measuring look in her eyes.

“You asked for his advice,” Guinevere said, slowly. “His invaluable advice. In public. Without turning it into a joke. And you gave him time off. Arthur, what happened?”

She sounded surprised, of course, but also approving, if a bit nervous; she’d been telling him for years that he ought to promote Merlin, swearing up and down that Merlin was cleverer by far than any of their advisors, if he’d only give him the chance to prove it. Arthur would probably regret ignoring that advice until his dying day; the gods only knew how much trouble and pain they might have avoided if he had.

“Inside,” Arthur said, again, reaching out to take her arm. “When we’re alone.” He glared back at his knights. “You lot can help the stable hands with the horses, and then you can polish your own armor and sharpen your own swords.”

Guinevere started at that, but thankfully kept quiet until the door to their own chambers closed behind them. Even then, she waited; instead of pressing him for an answer, she sat him down on a footstool and set about stripping him of his armor. When he was free of his pauldron and maille, she led him to a more comfortable chair and disappeared into the hall for a few moments. She slipped back into their chambers and made her way over to the washbasin. She returned with a bowl of scented water and a wet cloth and mopped his brow with exquisite care. She washed the rest of his face just as tenderly, then started scrubbing dirt and grime free of his hands and arms.

The door opened to admit several servants; one of them dragged the bath in from the antechamber while another set a large copper of water over the fire. The rest set about filling the bath from several buckets they’d brought in, balanced on yokes held carefully over their shoulders. Arthur almost laughed when he realized he’d never seen Merlin bother with any of this, and that probably should have clued him in to his servant’s sorcery long ago.

After a few more trips, the heated copper was tipped into the bath, the hot water stirred in, and the copper refilled from yet another bucket and mounted over the fire to heat again in case he wished to soak after the first tubful started to cool. A bit of bowing and scraping later, and the servants were gone. Once the door closed, Arthur shucked off the rest of his clothes. Guinevere finished wiping away the worst of the dirt and travel-dust coating his skin, then led him to the bath. Arthur sank into the steaming water with a low, appreciative groan; he groaned again when Guinevere carded her fingers through his hair, dragging the tips of her fingernails lightly over his scalp.

Guinevere waited until after she’d washed and rinsed his hair to speak again. “You’re so tense, my lord; what happened with the druids? Why did Merlin look half-frozen, while the rest of you were unscathed?” Her hands— which had been rubbing his shoulders a trifle too gently for Arthur’s taste, though the massage was still quite lovely— paused. She let out a low, exasperated sigh. “He jumped in front of you again, didn’t he? When you fought the ghost? I remember last time… well, it must not have been as bad as the Dorocha, at least.”

Arthur snorted. “It was so much worse,” he said, remembering the blood and ice crusting Merlin’s flesh before the druids’ magic took effect. “And… no, he didn’t. He… gods, he should be the one to tell you this, not me. But he’ll understand, I hope. I can’t keep it from you, not something like this.”

“Arthur, calm down!” Guinevere’s hand wrapped around his, and Arthur realized with a start that he’d been picking the skin around his thumbnail hard enough to draw blood; he’d also been speaking far too quickly, and his eyes had gone wet and misty again. If he made it through this without breaking down and sobbing into his bathwater, it’d be a miracle. “Merlin’s our friend—” she stopped and glared at him, daring him to protest.

“Our best friend,” Arthur said, fervently, before she had a chance to continue. “Better than we— better than I deserve!”

“Arthur, what is going on?” Guinevere’s lower lip started to tremble; she looked away, struggling to compose herself. “You said he’d be alright, Arthur, but the way you’re acting….”

“He will be. I promise. But he—” Arthur swallowed hard. “Do you remember when we were talking about magic? How I might need someone I could trust who could wield it? As it turns out, that someone is Merlin. It has been all along! The druids weren’t powerful enough to deal with the ghosts, or the Veil, but he was. Is. What you saw was the… the cost of the magic. Of touching Death while still living, near as I can understand.”

Guinevere snatched her hand back and surged to her feet. Arthur made to rise, water sloshing over the edge of the tub, but she waved him back down. Arthur settled back into the bath cautiously and watched her pace across the room, moving rapidly and turning sharply at the end of each stretch. When she finally turned back to face him, her face was set and as serious as he’d ever seen it. “Guards,” she hissed.

Arthur’s eyes widened. He’d been so sure she’d understand. Shock must have robbed her of much of her voice, though, because she hadn’t spoken nearly loud enough to be heard through the door. He started to rise again; if he could get to her side, maybe he could calm her down enough to reason with her and—

“Constantly, Arthur, I want him guarded constantly, you hear me? If anything happens to Merlin, I’ll… I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do, but so help me Arthur, I’ll—"

“I know,” Arthur said, slumping bonelessly into the water again; he never should have doubted her, and couldn’t believe he had, even for an instant. “I’ve already reassigned Mordred. He’s a skilled knight, and he has magic, too. He’ll train with us, of course, but other than that, he’s Merlin’s man. No patrols, no other guard duties, just watching Merlin’s back.”

Guinevere exhaled, her shoulders slumping in relief. She walked back to the tub and fell to her knees, trailing her fingers over Arthur’s arm and shoulder rhythmically. “I hate that he’s hurt because of it, and I hate that he’s in danger from our own people, but gods, Arthur, if magic was needed… well, we’re so lucky it’s him.” She furrowed her brow, then sighed. “I suppose he’s the one who actually found that sorceress who released me from Morgana’s control, then? No wonder she was so willing to help us, if another sorcerer asked her to.”

Arthur sat up, this time in anticipation, and grinned. He stared at her, doing his best not to blink; he wouldn’t want to miss this for the world. “Gwen, my love,” Arthur drawled. “He was that sorceress; it was a disguise.”

The look on Guinevere’s face was utterly priceless; so was the torrent of absolute filth that poured from her ordinarily mild mouth. There were times when her roots as a blacksmith in the Lower Towns really did show through, and it was invariably hilarious.

* * *

Merlin woke curled around something that was definitely not his pillow; his head was pressed against someone else’s chest again. He knew before he opened his eyes that it was Mordred, and that he had been awake far longer than Merlin had. The druid’s thoughts buzzed, unintelligible but not quite inaudible. Merlin did his best to keep his breathing even and took stock of himself. He wasn’t naked this time— not quite; he still had his smalls— and neither was Mordred, but it was still a shockingly intimate arrangement. They were… undeniably tangled. Merlin’s bed was too small for anything else, but blaming the size of the bed would have been the sort of self-deception Merlin refused to allow himself to indulge in. He wouldn’t be clinging to his bedmate so tightly if that was all there was to it.

One of Merlin’s legs was hitched up, slotted between Mordred’s, and one of his arms was flung over Mordred’s waist; the other had found its way under the pillow, the tip of one finger peeking out to press against Mordred’s shoulder. It ought to have felt odd to sleep next to someone when he was so used to sleeping alone, but it hadn’t; it felt entirely too natural. Waking up like this could easily become a habit, one Merlin was growing less and less sure he wanted to break.

Merlin let his mouth fall open and breathed out a contented sigh before opening his eyes slowly.

“Good morning,” Mordred said at once, sounding entirely at peace with the world and altogether too pleased with himself.

Merlin opened his eyes completely and saw that it was morning. Odd, that; he didn’t remember going to bed at all. He remembered Arthur ordering him to bed and to take some time off, remembered Arthur’s clumsy— and deeply endearing— attempt at reassuring him that it was for his own sake, and not because he wanted to put some distance between them, and remembered Gaius putting a compress over his eyes for what felt like years before finally letting him take it off and go to bed. Everything after that was a blank.

Well… almost everything.

Merlin had a faint, slightly blurred memory of grabbing Mordred’s wrist after the man had helped him into the bed and turned to leave. He remembered asking him to stay. The memory became clearer and more vivid as Merlin concentrated on it; he remembered Mordred smiling at him like Merlin had offered him the entire world on a plate, and he remembered feeling impossibly safe in the druid’s arms after he slipped under the covers with him.

“Good morning,” Merlin whispered back.

Then his stomach rumbled, and he blushed all the way to his toes.

Mordred turned his head away and laughed; it was a very good laugh, the sort that made you feel included in the joke instead of feeling like you were the joke. Mordred’s stomach gave an answering rumble only a few moments later, sounding even louder than Merlin’s had. There was a quivering sort of moment while they both stared at each other, too stunned to properly react, and then they laughed themselves breathless, clutching to each other in Merlin’s too-narrow bed.

Mordred delicately extracted himself from Merlin’s grip, swiped at the tears that had streaked his cheeks in their shared mirth, and dressed. “I’ll fetch us some breakfast.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Merlin,” Mordred said, abruptly sounding all-too-serious. “I want to. I want nothing more than to help you in any way I can.” His brow furrowed in effort as he said it, and the words carried a strange, multi-layered echo; he’d Sent his words in the Silent Speech at the same moment he said them aloud, and that was the sort of thing the druids only did when they were making sacred oaths or swearing marriage vows. It was a way to ensure that the listener knew they meant exactly what they said: lying in the Silent Speech was difficult, but splitting your focus enough to speak aloud and Silently at the same time made lying absolutely impossible.

“Alright,” Merlin said, thickly. He cleared his throat and added, a bit weakly, “Hurry back?”

It wasn’t quite a declaration— not like Mordred’s promise had been— but it was still more than Merlin ever thought he’d give any man but Arthur. Mordred beamed at him, just as he had last night, and left; it was a good thing he did, or he’d surely have noticed how breathless that smile had left him.

Now that the Mordred-shaped distraction was gone, Merlin finished taking stock of himself. His magic had settled, just as he’d known it would; his new death magic was still cold and hard in his chest, but it seemed to have reached an uneasy truce with his old magic, which had spread out throughout his body again, warm and pulsing in between his heartbeats, just as it always had before he made the Crossing. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that feeling. He drew the barest thread of magic out and spun it into a simple diagnostic spell he’d learned after dealing with the Lamia.

It was simple as breath, and Merlin heaved a sigh of pure relief at the ease of the casting. He’d been right: using his new magic extensively really had been the best remedy for his initial adverse reaction.

He was even more relieved to find that his eye was healing nicely, now that his magic was back and working to speed its recovery; if he took Arthur up on his offer of a day off and took it easy today, he’d be right as rain by tomorrow. His vision was still a bit blurred— enough that he was glad he didn’t have to do anything that would require any attention to detail— but even that blurriness should fade by nightfall.

Merlin sighed and settled back into the bed, pulling the covers tighter around himself, determined to listen to Arthur and Gaius, be a good patient for once, and relax. Unfortunately, his bed felt… strange. Lumpy and cold and incomplete, as if it were lacking something absolutely vital to its purpose. Merlin bit his lip and fought the urge to cry; how the hell was he so far gone in so short a time?

It didn’t make any sense at all, but he couldn’t deny it: he missed Mordred already, and he felt utterly ridiculous for missing him when it had only been a few minutes!

Merlin turned his head and caught sight of a bit of red fabric draped over his nightstand. It gave him an idea; if he just reached out, he could… no! No, he would not pull Mordred’s cloak into his bed just so he could smell the man! And he wouldn’t roll over and press his nose into Mordred’s side of the pillow, either.

Gods, he was already thinking of it as Mordred’s side!

Merlin whimpered softly, reached up to try and fluff the pillows behind his head and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. He had only just found one when he heard a knock at his door. His lips curved into a wide grin.

“Come in! That was quick, I thought— Leon?”

Leon smiled nervously and lingered in the doorway. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I hoped we could… talk.”

Merlin wasn’t sure what they had to say to each other; but perhaps that was uncharitable. Leon had seemed the least bothered by the revelation of his magic. He hadn’t seemed angry or disappointed. He’d only seemed a bit… sad. And he had actually cried when Merlin yelled at the knights for leaving him behind, which probably meant he regretted it immensely.

“Of course,” Merlin said, speaking so quickly his words almost slurred together once he realized he’d been silent for far too long.

Leon didn’t mention the pause, he only stepped into the room and settled into Merlin’s rickety old chair. When he did, Merlin noticed the stack of papers in his hand. “Do you need help with one of the new proposals?” Merlin asked. “Did you and Arthur start them already?”

Leon looked down at the papers and frowned. “No, no, nothing like that. I wanted to talk to you because…” Leon swallowed and turned his head to stare out the window. “Merlin, I’m a knight. And a noble. Of Camelot. Meaning, I grew up here. Once I was old enough to start training, I spent most of my life in Court, apart from a few visits to my Father’s estates to learn how to manage the properties; I was taught protocol and propriety almost more stringently than I was taught to fight. And Camelot was very strict before you came. I— I don’t think you understand how much you changed things, just by being yourself. You came, and you didn’t care a whit for Courtly manners or propriety or rank, and you tried to make friends with… with just about everyone! I could hardly believe it the first time you leaned over in your saddle and started making jokes about the way Arthur’s hand signals looked like an exasperated fishwife trying to slap away flies while she was gutting the catch.”

Merlin snorted; he’d forgotten all about that hunt and that joke, but now that he remembered it, he decided he’d been entirely right and would defend that analogy with his very life.

“And of course I laughed; anyone would have, it was impossible not to. And just like that, you decided we were friends, and suddenly you made it a point to find me on patrols or when I was guarding the castle so you could make more inappropriate jokes that no other servant would dare to think, let alone say, or sometimes just to chat, and I found myself laughing more than I ever had growing up, and I told you things I’d never told another human being in my life, things I wouldn’t even have shared with my own family even if they were still alive to hear them. It… it was so easy to talk to you!”

Leon stopped, licked his lips, and breathed deeply for a few moments; it was hardly a surprise he was out of breath, given how fast he’d been speaking. “But I— I’m not like— I don’t know how to— I can’t just….” Leon trailed off, scrubbed a hand over his face, and swallowed audibly. Merlin realized that he had lost the thread of the conversation entirely, and had absolutely no idea what point Leon was trying to make. He wanted to say something to try and get them back on track, but found that he could only co*ck his head to one side and stare.

Leon seemed to realize how confused he’d made Merlin, and somehow, it seemed to help. He squared his shoulders, straightened in his chair, and said, “I find it very easy to talk to you, Merlin, but I don’t know how to start talking to you. Or to anyone. I know how to make reports, or how to start a necessary conversation about politics or matters of security, but trying to start a conversation just to talk or to discuss something personal feels like an almost insurmountable obstacle; it’s not something that Camelot’s Court would have allowed or encouraged before you, and it still seems… wrong.” Leon’s eyes widened. “Not wrong to talk about personal things— I loved our conversations!— but wrong for me to bring those things up first.”

Merlin frowned. “Leon… why are you telling me this?”

“Because you thought I was just going along with your arrest. I should have told you that I would never have let you hang or rot in that dungeon, and I didn’t, because I didn’t know how to just say it, and I know that isn’t an excuse, but—”

Merlin felt his lips curl into a snarl, entirely against his will. Leon flinched, and Merlin felt awful for it because he could tell how hard Leon was trying, but he wasn’t sure it mattered, because Leon could say that he wouldn’t have let him hang, but he had still stood back and let him be dragged away.

“But you did!” Merlin snapped. “You let them take me, and you didn’t say a word in my defense!”

“Because I grew up in Uther’s Camelot,” Leon said, quickly and a bit desperately. His fingers tightened around the papers he was still holding. The papers crinkled, and the sound seemed to remind Leon that they were there, because he held them out a moment later, offering them to Merlin. Merlin took them and glanced down; his vision was still too blurred to properly read, so he couldn’t quite make out the words— he’d probably need to hold the paper extremely close to his face and squint at it if he wanted to— but he did recognize Leon’s handwriting, and his and the Steward’s signatures at the bottom of the page.

“I’ve seen what grief and fear can do to a monarch, Merlin. If Uther decided to arrest someone for treason or for a high crime, he’d do it, and if anyone spoke out against that decision or pointed out a lack of evidence for the crime, they’d wind up in a cell next to the accused. If you wanted to get anywhere with him, you had to come prepared and have enough evidence to prove him wrong, and you had to do it carefully, outside of the Court, because Uther would always, always refuse to back down if you argued against him publicly. But if you had evidence and you showed it to him, he’d often quietly release the prisoners after a day or two. So when Guinevere accused you, it was… it was just habit to shut my mouth and keep my head down so I could do my best to clear your name.”

Leon paused, swallowed again, and gestured towards the papers. “I spent the entire night talking to everyone I could think of who might have seen you going about your duties with the Steward by my side to serve as a witness; I wrote it all down, and I asked anyone literate enough to write their own name to sign their testimony. It’s all there. It proves you were nowhere near the poisoned tray, that someone else had delivered the King’s dinner. I never got the chance to use it— Arthur woke up and ordered your release before I could— but it was enough evidence to prove you couldn’t have been the assassin.”

Merlin’s jaw dropped, and then he did bring the papers up to his face. Even that wasn’t enough to make out the words. After a moment, he put out his hand and summoned one of Gaius’s lenses from downstairs, reveling in the ease of the spell and in the way Leon’s expression barely flickered when Merlin’s eyes went gold. He held the glass over the papers and read. A few minutes later, he set the last page down and stared at Leon.

“You… you never actually doubted me.”

“Never,” Leon swore fervently. “You made Camelot better in countless ways, just by being yourself. By being someone so fundamentally good that it made everyone around you better and happier and… I just couldn’t believe you’d turn on Arthur. Not like that. If you were going to betray him, you’d never poison him; you’d stage a revolt and probably have a damned good reason to do it.” Leon shrugged. “It’s why I had such an easy time adjusting to the magic.”

Leon winced. “And that’s another thing I probably should have told you directly, instead of just keeping my mouth shut and watching your back. I don’t deserve it, but… forgive me, please?”

Merlin reached out a shaky hand; Leon scrambled out of his chair to take it. “Leon, I can’t, because there’s nothing at all to forgive,” Merlin said, softly. “I had no idea how hard Court had been on you; I knew Arthur suffered under his father’s rule, but… you’ve always been so stalwart, so reliable. I hadn’t even considered—”

“I did my best to hide it,” Leon said. “I was Arthur’s knight long before Uther passed and he became King, and I knew I had to be careful if I wanted to keep serving him, if I wanted Uther to keep me at Court and in Arthur’s retinue.”

“I’d hug you if I was a bit more dressed,” Merlin said, shaking his head.

Leon barked out a sudden laugh, his expression making it seem as though the sound of it had come as a surprise even to him. “You can owe me one,” he said, still laughing. “I’d better go, though; Arthur ordered an extra training this morning, and I really don’t want to be late.” His grimace made it plain he was expecting Arthur to take issue with him no matter when or how he arrived. The expression reminded Merlin that Arthur was probably still furious with the knights for the same reason Merlin had been angry at Leon only minutes earlier.

“Wait!” Merlin stacked the papers in order again and pushed them back into Leon’s hands. “Show Arthur these before he starts swinging.”

Leon’s face fell, but Merlin held up a single imperious finger before he could protest. “I mean it, Leon! I will not have you punished for something you didn’t even do; give him those and explain it to him, just as you did for me. Tell him exactly what you told me. I don’t think you need forgiveness, but if you feel like you do, then consider that your penance. And if that’s not enough, then consider this: Arthur is starting to see the flaws hidden under Camelot’s carefully cultivated image. He’s determined to change them, to improve things for everyone, and he can’t do that if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.” Merlin grimaced. “We’ll probably fight about that, eventually. I was keeping far too much from him. Don’t make that same mistake; don’t prolong everyone’s suffering because it’s easier to hide your pain.”

Leon smiled and shook his head, his eyes shining brightly. “If Arthur doesn’t make you his chief advisor after all of this, he’s a damned fool. Alright, I’ll tell him.” Leon stood, bowing his head slightly just as he would when he was leaving Arthur’s presence after an informal meeting— which probably violated no fewer than a dozen Court protocols, given Merlin’s own negligible rank— and started to leave.

“Wait!” Merlin bit his lip; he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know, but… “Did the others know what you were doing? Was that why they didn’t—”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Leon’s face told him everything he needed to know.

“I’m sorry,” Leon said quietly. “Maybe they had their own plans, but if they did, I wasn’t part of them.”

Merlin swallowed. “Thank you, Sir Leon. You’d better go; I wouldn’t want you to be too late to make your defense.”

Leon nodded again and slipped out. Merlin slid up until he was sitting with his back pressed against the headboard and wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at the wall. He stayed there until Mordred returned with a tray. As soon as he laid eyes on Merlin, he set the tray on the chair, stripped back down to his smallclothes, and crawled back into bed wordlessly, letting Merlin hold on to him instead of himself.

It was a good thing they were both capable of heating the food back up with magic, because Merlin didn’t let him go for a very, very long time, and it would have spoiled otherwise.

Chapter 14: A Bit Like Being Caught

Chapter Text

Hours later, Merlin finally shifted and pulled away. Mordred flashed a golden-eyed look at the tray he’d fetched up from the kitchen and summoned it to the bed. It arrived steaming, and he balanced it on their knees as they sat up together, leaning on the headboard. The food was tasteless and dry in Merlin’s mouth, even though he knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with it; Mordred’s magic had restored it to perfection and, if the druid’s expression was anything to go by, it tasted perfectly fine to him. Merlin was simply… overwhelmed.

Leon’s visit had been wonderful, but after everything else, it was almost too much.

Mordred seemed to recognize Merlin’s mood, somehow, because he didn’t ask what happened while he made his way to the kitchens and back. Instead, he started talking, breaking the silence and giving Merlin something to focus on apart from his own racing thoughts and the half-numb feeling inside his skull. Mordred kept the one-sided conversation light: meaningless chatter that had no real purpose whatsoever, apart from serving as a distraction.

“Cook was in a fine temper today; one of her girls was missing without notice, and she looked like she’d rather be hunting her down than making up a plate for us. If I wasn’t a knight, she probably would have thrown me a few scraps and called it a day. I’m telling you, Merlin, Lila is in for it when Cook catches her, especially because she wasn’t ill; I saw her going into an alcove with one of the new stable hands, if you can believe it, and….”

Merlin let the steady stream of castle gossip wash over him as he ate his breakfast, snorting and gasping theatrically in all the appropriate places. Mordred’s voice was soothing and pleasant, and the feeling of being trapped behind glass or wrapped in some transparent material that dulled the world around him gradually drained away. The sweetness of the honeyed porridge cut through the thick, bland taste of shock and the abundance of saliva lingering in his mouth, and a tart berry burst between his teeth on the next bite. Merlin ate, feeling more and more like himself again as he did, until his spoon scraped the bottom of an empty bowl. Mordred offered him a slice of toast dripping with fresh melted butter, and when that was gone, Merlin found he was happier and more at peace than he had been before Leon arrived.

Mordred eyed him measuringly; something of his renewed vigor must have shown on his face, because a moment later, Mordred asked, quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Merlin thought about it and decided he did. “Leon came to visit me.”

Mordred’s expression darkened. “Did he?” he asked, in a low, colorless tone.

Merlin laughed, surprising even himself. “You sound like you’re plotting his death, and you really don’t need to; I’m glad he came!”

Mordred’s brow furrowed. “Then why—”

Merlin sighed. “It was a good visit, Mordred, but it was just… it was a lot. He… he never doubted me, Mordred. And he wasn’t just saying that, he had proof! He only kept quiet because he was determined to prove my innocence, and he was afraid if he spoke out, he wouldn’t be able to. He apologized for never telling me, for letting me think he was going to leave me in that dungeon alone. It was such a relief, but… but it was also a lot to take in.”

Mordred smiled and leaned in to knock his shoulder against Merlin’s. “I’m glad. You deserve to have people you can count on.”

Merlin’s answering smile was easy and genuine. “I have more friends than I realized, I suppose. Leon, and Arthur, and… and Gwen, I hope. I’ve always thought she’d take the news about my magic the easiest, you know. I never really worried about her knowing, just about putting her in danger if she did. And—”

And I have you.

Merlin trailed off and looked deeply into Mordred’s eyes, realizing just how true that was; he did have Mordred. He trusted him! The little voice in his head— the voice that sounded an awful lot like Kilgarrah— that usually screamed at him to push Mordred away whenever he got too close was curiously absent. In its place was the firm, unshakable belief that Mordred wouldn’t turn against him, or against Arthur. Whatever visions he’d been given, whatever warnings he’d heard… they all felt thin and contrived, like half-remembered nightmares instead of True Seeings.

When had that happened?

“And?” Mordred prompted, his voice hopeful and nervous in almost equal measures.

It felt like standing on a cliff during a windstorm, like walking on eggshells, like crossing a river by hopping from one slick stone to another and hoping you wouldn’t slide right off into the current.

Merlin cleared his throat. “And you, I suppose.”

That felt like leaping off a cliff, like falling when you couldn’t see the bottom of the chasm. Mordred’s grateful, utterly blinding grin felt a bit like being caught.

Merlin took one slow, deep breath, and decided to leap again.

It was all too easy to lean in and press a soft, slow kiss onto Mordred’s smiling lips. He tasted like honey and berries, and a bit like raw unfettered hope, and it was heady and breathtaking and only grew all the more intoxicating when Mordred parted his lips and kissed back.

Mordred shifted slightly, enough to reach up and cup Merlin’s face with his hands. He was so incredibly gentle, so careful and controlled and soft, and utterly unlike every other kiss Merlin had ever known; he’d never had time for slow, gentle exploration before. It had always been hot, quick passion: short-lived, meaningless trysts with stable boys, visiting knights, and the occasional attractive foreign dignitaries who were interested enough to give him signs but honorable enough not to push.

He didn’t really know what to do; his past experience told him to deepen the kiss, to nip at Mordred’s lips to spark the slightest touch of pain— enough of a bite to kindle his passions and set things in motion— and to let his hands wander until Mordred was thrusting and rubbing himself all over Merlin’s thighs, and then to ask if Mordred would prefer to take Merlin or to be taken. He could do that, and Mordred would probably let him; Mordred would probably be overjoyed with anything Merlin wanted.

The trouble was, Merlin wasn’t sure he did want it.

Or rather, Merlin wasn’t sure he wanted it just then; he knew he wanted Mordred, knew that he was hardening beneath his smallclothes and that Mordred was already hard and wanting, and that he would definitely want to bed Mordred later— it felt inevitable, really, now that Merlin was admitting to himself just how beautiful Mordred was— but he also knew that this… this feeling, whatever it was, was new and fresh and fragile and entirely beyond anything Merlin had ever felt for anyone other than Arthur before, and Merlin wanted to just feel it as it was instead of trying to make it into something more familiar and less daunting.

He found he rather liked the feeling of falling and knowing Mordred would do his best to catch him.

Merlin broke the kiss with great reluctance, feeling the need to be utterly and completely honest with Mordred about his intentions; the last thing he wanted to do was lead the man on. But how do you explain that you wanted a man, but that you wanted to savor the slow, steady heat of growing together before simplifying things with sex? That you liked the uncertain rush of not knowing where, exactly, things were going, or when they would progress further?

Merlin didn’t have the words to explain any of that; thankfully, he didn’t need words, not with Mordred. He simply lifted his hands to cup Mordred’s face in turn and sought Mordred’s mind; there was a dizzying moment where they both spiraled open to admit one another, and then Merlin felt an overwhelming surge of relief that wasn’t entirely his own, though he certainly shared it; Mordred, it seemed, wasn’t quite ready to bed him, either.

He was, however, very ready to kiss him again, and their second kiss was even easier than the first. It felt so natural, and knowing that kissing was as far as they would go today eased a pressure Merlin hadn’t even realized he felt. It meant he could focus on how wonderful it was to kiss someone who wanted him for who and what he was, and on learning how Mordred liked to kiss. He was skilled, and impossibly thorough, and—

And Merlin’s door opened without any warning at all.

“Merlin, are you awake? I’ve just come back from— oh! Oh, gods, Merlin! It’s the middle of the bloody day!”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and started counting down in his head; part of him wanted to take Arthur to task for barging in without knocking, but the rest of him knew full well he didn’t have a leg to stand on where that was concerned.

“Arthur, what— oh! Oh, we’re sorry, Merlin; we didn’t see anything, I promise!”

And of course Gwen was right on Arthur’s heels the one time he was doing something he’d rather keep private even from her; why wouldn’t she be?

“If you’ll close the door, sire, I’ll get dressed and be with you in a moment,” Merlin said, as pleasantly and patiently as he could— which, admittedly, wasn’t particularly pleasant or patient under the circ*mstances.

“Right. Of course. I’ll do that.” Merlin didn’t hear any movement, though, even after he counted down in his head again, and he could practically feel Arthur’s eyes on him.

“Now would be a good time, Arthur,” Merlin snapped. The door closed a moment later, and Merlin opened his eyes to scowl at it and at the sound of Arthur’s retreating footsteps. He sighed and turned back to apologize to Mordred; Merlin took one look at the druid’s expression and clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back his laughter instead.

Mordred wasn’t even slightly embarrassed. Instead, he looked like the cat that got the cream: proud and self-satisfied and practically daring anybody to say a word about it.

He was very, very lucky that Merlin liked his men to be a little arrogant, in spite of his own better judgement.

* * *

Arthur had the good grace to look away as Mordred left the infirmary, but Guinevere openly stared after him. Merlin cleared his throat loudly to pull her attention back to him and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly; she responded by smirking and raising her eyebrows in a manner that told him she’d be begging for details if Arthur hadn’t been there, and would probably corner him for them later. Merlin huffed at her and busied himself making tea.

“Should you be doing that, Merlin? You’re meant to be resting,” Arthur asked, sounding genuinely concerned. The absurdity of it nearly had him dropping the kettle, but he managed to keep his grip.

“I’m fine, Arthur. My eye still aches, and my vision’s a bit blurry, but I’m much recovered. I’ll probably be right as rain tomorrow.” Merlin paused in measuring out the tea leaves and looked up, catching sight of Gwen’s slightly warped reflection in a dented but heavily polished pewter mug on the shelf over his head, then added, “It’s like I said, Arthur. I needed to use my new magic.”

Gwen’s reflection didn’t flinch. “New magic?” she asked, lightly. “I thought Arthur told me you were born with magic; isn’t it all the same thing, just different ways of using it?”

Merlin had to lean his head against the shelf and breathe out a sigh of relief; luckily, neither of them felt the need to mention it. “I was. But my magic has always stemmed from Life itself; it’s the essence of the earth, of all nature, really,” Merlin said. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted a hand and whispered into it. He closed his fist, opened it again, and three tiny blue butterflies took wing and grew to full size as they made their way over to the table. He looked back to see Arthur smiling slightly at them. Gwen, though, was practically bouncing in her seat in delight, far more excited than the trick really called for her to be.

“Necromancy is different. It’s death magic. In order to gain access to it, I had to… well, I had to Cross into Death itself.” Merlin thought about downplaying the experience, but ultimately decided they were both owed the unvarnished truth, now that his magic was out in the open, at least in their own small group. “In a way, it was a bit like dying. It was awful. It hurt, and it nearly froze me solid. The death magic is… well, it’s cold. It’s the absence of Life, and warmth comes from Life, you see. I had to use it in order to adjust to it. It’ll be longer still before I can use it comfortably, but it at least isn’t actively draining my strength to carry it anymore.”

Gwen’s eyes watered. “Oh, Merlin, I’m—”

The kettle whistled, cutting her off. Merlin was glad of it; he didn’t want her to apologize to him. It was necessary, and it was a sacrifice he was beyond willing to make if it kept everyone he cared about safe and whole. He might let her thank him, if she felt the need for it, but an apology? From Gwen? Never.

Merlin filled the battered old teapot and took the tray over to the table; he started to shove a few of Gaius’s papers and books aside, then realized he could do better and wrinkled his nose at them until they leapt up obediently and put themselves where they belonged. “There,” Merlin said, pleasantly. “Isn’t that better?”

He sat and poured the tea before he realized he was getting entirely too comfortable using his magic in Camelot. “Oh,” Merlin said quietly. “I suppose I should stop doing that, shouldn’t I? At least until the Council has come around and the ban’s repealed.” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and thought he’d made a decent go at it, but Arthur went suddenly pale and turned so he wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Arthur?” Merlin asked, softly. “You… you haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No,” Arthur said, still staring at the shelves stocked to the brim with Gaius’s potions and remedies. “No, but… Guinevere?” His voice turned a bit desperate at the end, as if he was grieving and in denial over it, and wasn’t sure he could voice his pain out loud.

“We’ve already spoken to the Council,” Gwen said, trying to take Arthur’s hand; he didn’t let her.

“Was it that bad?” Merlin asked. “How badly did they fight you?”

“They didn’t fight him,” Gwen whispered, looking at Arthur with a truly heartbreaking amount of worry in her eyes.

“They thanked me!” Arthur spat. “For doing what was best for the Kingdom!”

Merlin looked to Gwen, hoping she could shed some light on things, because from where he sat, that would have been a good thing.

“Out of everyone on the Council, only two people spoke out against Arthur’s decision to overturn the ban. The youngest Lords, the ones who only ever knew sorcery to be illegal. The rest were relieved; they said they remembered what it was like before the ban, and on top of that, they trusted that if Arthur felt magic was needed, it must have been, for him to go against Uther’s wishes.” Gwen’s voice was as low as she could make it; she leaned in to Merlin, and he had to strain to hear her. “Arthur asked why they’d always gone along with Uther’s rhetoric if they thought the ban was so horrible, and they said that in the beginning, when some of the braver Lords spoke out against it, Uther—”

She didn’t have to finish; Merlin knew all to well what Uther had likely done to make an example out of them.

Oh. Well, that made a certain amount of sense. The older Lords would have remembered what magic was actually like, and old men tended to stick with what they were comfortable with. They didn’t much like change; Uther’s ban had probably been a shock to them, but old men knew not to rock the boat, as it were, and with Uther’s temper….

It must have been truly awful for Arthur to hear, though; he’d always been so loyal to his father’s memory, and he’d only just started to question Uther’s judgement.

“And then there was Leon,” Arthur said, his voice cracking on the First Knight’s name, which told Merlin that Leon had caught up with Arthur and explained things after all.

Oh, to hell with it! Arthur was working himself up to a full spiral, and by the end of it, he’d have himself convinced he was the cause of every problem in Camelot, and Merlin would not stand for it!

Merlin stood, made his way over to Arthur’s side of the bench, and sat down next to him, facing away from the table. He reached up, seized Arthur’s shoulders, and dragged him down without giving him a chance to protest the treatment; Arthur went easily enough, which wasn’t at all a good sign. He was probably halfway to being in shock.

Merlin pushed his worries aside and focused on running his fingers through Arthur’s hair now that his head was pillowed in Merlin’s lap. Guinevere watched them with something like awe on her face before turning her attention to her tea and looking at them only from the corner of her eye.

She was finishing her second mug before Merlin spoke again.

“You didn’t know,” Merlin said, gently. “You had no reason to doubt him; you saw the ugly side of magic far too often, and the good side far too seldomly. You spent your entire life being told what and how to think. The fact that you’re reconsidering what he taught you at all is something to be proud of, Arthur. I am proud of you, you know. You’ve been so good to me. Maybe better than I deserve.”

Arthur flinched and shifted until he could stare incredulously up at Merlin. “Better than you— Merlin, you idiot! You’ve been protecting me and suffering in silence for years. You bloody well went into Death for me; how could you possibly think you deserve anything less than… than basic kindness and understanding?”

“I’ve also been lying to you for years,” Merlin reminded him; it hurt to say it, but it needed to be said.

“My best knight and my own Council of Lords were lying to me, too. They were scared sh*tless of Uther, and they didn’t have magic,” Arthur retorted. “You can’t blame yourself for toeing the line when you had no reason to think you’d be safe if you didn’t, and every reason to believe you’d be punished— or worse— otherwise!”

“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Merlin said, agreeably. Arthur squinted at him, clearly thinking he’d given in too easily; he knew Merlin all too well. “Of course, I could say the same about you. If I can’t blame myself, I don’t want to hear you doing it, either.”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut with an audible, painful sounding click as he realized how neatly Merlin had trapped him with his own logic. Merlin flicked Arthur’s chin and clucked his tongue reproachingly, then went back to stroking his hair. “It’s easier said than believed, I know; we’ll just have to keep telling each other, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, softly. “You will.”

Merlin realized abruptly that he probably shouldn’t have Arthur’s head in his lap when his wife was two feet away and watching them with a strange expression on her face, but Gwen shook her head admonishingly when he started to lift his hand from Arthur’s hair. “We’re both so lucky to have you, Merlin.”

Arthur peeled his eyes open— they’d drooped closed after Merlin dragged his blunt nails over his scalp— to look up at Merlin again. “We really are.” He blinked, slowly, like a cat, then smirked; a bit of mischief danced behind his half-lidded eyes. “And so, apparently, is Mordred!” Arthur added, waggling his eyebrows in a distinctly Gwaine-esque manner.

Merlin shoved him off his lap and clean off the bench, which had Gwen first spitting tea halfway across the room and then dissolving into fits of choked laughter. Merlin joined her immediately; Arthur tried to splutter and look much put-upon, but it didn’t take long for him to start giggling, either. Gwen’s laughter only mounted when Arthur pursed his lips and made exaggerated smacking kissing noises, and Merlin nearly gave him ass ears again; he only resisted the impulse because he’d much rather have Arthur teasing him than berating himself, which made all his embarrassment rather worth it.

Chapter 15: Planning Ahead

Chapter Text

Mordred raised his hand to knock, then paused and shuffled back a few steps, hesitating. He’d argued with himself the entire way up, and now that he was standing just outside, he apparently needed to argue with himself again. Part of him wanted to barge in, decorum be damned; part of him wasn’t sure it was his place to get involved at all. Things would probably work themselves out— eventually— even without his meddling, and Merlin probably would have told him to leave well enough alone if he’d known what Mordred was doing.

Then again, Merlin was the sort of person who’d bite his tongue until it bled in order to avoid a confrontation, and keep doing it until he couldn’t hold his feelings back for another second even if he wanted to, so maybe it was best that he step in now, before it all got worse; it was the sort of thing that would fester if it was left alone for too long, and Mordred didn’t think any of them could take another one of Merlin’s outbursts.

Mordred sighed, argued with himself some more, and almost turned away; he might’ve if he hadn’t heard the sound of breaking glass and a particularly expressive oath, audible even through the heavy door. Mordred sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then nodded to himself and knocked sharply.

“I’m busy.”

Mordred frowned and knocked again, a bit harder.

“Go away!”

Another man— Merlin, for example— might have listened, but Mordred was the sort of person who, once a course was decided upon, wouldn’t let anything at all stop him from seeing it through right to the end. He tried the handle, found it locked, and whispered “Tóspringe.” Then he barged in and nearly startled Gwaine into dropping another bottle.

“Oi! I had that locked!”

“I know,” Mordred said, unrepentantly, as he eyed the broken glass near the fireplace and the several empty but intact mead bottles scattered around the room. He hadn’t been in Gwaine’s room often, but he’d visited enough to know Gwaine usually kept things neater than this, and while he knew Gwaine liked to drink at the tavern when he got the chance, he’d never known him to drink alone. Mordred bit his lip before finally looking at the man himself. He whistled, low. “I’d ask what happened to your face, but I’m guessing the answer would be Arthur’s fist.”

“His knee, actually,” Gwaine sighed. “This morning’s training was… well, you can probably guess. I suppose we should be thankful he picked hand-to-hand combat. If it had been staves….” Gwaine shuddered. “Only one he went easy on was Leon, f*ck if I know why.” Gwaine raised a half-empty bottle to his lips; mead sloshed against the glass, the sound seeming louder than it ought to have been in the otherwise quiet room.

Mordred crossed the room in a flash, plucked the bottle from Gwaine’s fingers, and shoved him back to sit on the bed.

“’M not nearly drunk enough for that,” Gwaine said, waggling his eyebrows lecherously; the jest felt half-hearted at best, so Mordred decided not to respond to it at all, apart from giving the other man a flat, unimpressed look.

“I’m no Healer,” Mordred said, “and I’m nowhere close to Merlin’s standards, but... here.” Mordred pressed the tips of his fingers into the side of Gwaine’s face as gently as he could, prodding the edges of the livid bruise that spread across his cheekbone and sliding his thumb down until it brushed his split lip. “Ic hæle þina þrowunga!”

Mordred really wasn’t a healer, and healing was the most difficult branch of magic there was; he couldn’t quite manage to restore Gwaine completely. Even so, he had knowledge and magic enough to patch up his lip, and the mottled red and purple blotch on Gwaine’s face faded into the sickly greenish-yellow of a bruise that had spent weeks healing. Mordred couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt the slippery click of a bone resetting. It was distinctly possible that there had been some minor break, probably in Gwaine’s nose; his voice had sounded a bit thick. Mordred assumed it was from the pain, but a break would have explained it, too.

“There,” Mordred said, after he spent a few moments studying the result with critical eyes. “I think your nose was broken, though. You might want to check in with Gaius later to be on the safe side.”

Gwaine snorted, then hissed through his teeth and spat out a globule of saliva tinged slightly pink. “I could have told you that. And something tells me Gaius’s tower is the last place I should be.” Gwaine prodded his face, wincing only slightly when he touched the very center of the bruise, and turned to look into a little bronze mirror mounted on the wall. “Thanks for that. Arthur will take it as a blessing, I’m sure; now he can justify another round.”

Gwaine leaned over to take up another bottle. Mordred wondered how many of them he had, and if he always kept a secret stockpile here, or if he’d planned to get thoroughly drunk in private and practically bought out a tavern to do it. Mordred muttered under his breath and made a brief magical sign in Gwaine’s direction, concentrating hard.

A moment later, Gwaine took a drink and spat out a mouthful of plain water.

Gwaine stared at the mead bottle, then at the fading glow of Mordred’s eyes, and bristled. “What, is that your revenge, then? Stealing away my peace? You might’ve left the bruises and the mead both; I was a lot better off before you came around, even with my injuries.”

Mordred had the distinct impression that Gwaine was referring to more than just the last few minutes with that remark. He offered up the same unimpressed look he’d used earlier and asked, flatly, “Were you?” He took a step back, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you were only burying your problems. Or drowning them, as it were.”

“Just f*cking say it,” Gwaine sighed, throwing himself back to lay across the bed instead of only sitting on it. “Tell me I was a right bastard to Merlin. Yell at me, hit me if you want, but don’t stand there and act like you’ve a right to lecture me on how I handle myself. Or like you care.”

Gwaine threw his arm over his face; Mordred took the opportunity to roll his eyes. “I do care, Gwaine; I’m angry on Merlin’s behalf, yes, but that doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you altogether. You’ve been so kind to me ever since I first came to Camelot to be a knight; I thought we were friends, too. And I’m not here to yell at you, Gwaine, I’m here because I want to understand. And help, if I can.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “You mentioned Leon having an easier go at it in training? That was probably because he apologized to Merlin and explained that he only kept his mouth shut when Merlin was accused so he could collect enough evidence to exonerate him. Merlin told him to show Arthur what he had. I’m guessing that—”

“Oh, f*ck me!” Gwaine said, with feeling. “You’re telling me Leon— loyal, by-the-books, stick-in-the-mud Leon— wasn’t convinced when Gwen accused Merlin? Her best friend? Even then, Leon didn’t doubt his innocence?”

Mordred repressed a sudden shiver. “Wait… does that mean you did?” he asked, not entirely sure he wanted the answer. “I thought— well, I assumed you had your own plans.”

“Of course I had my own plans,” Gwaine said, sounding absolutely miserable. “I was gonna break him out and do my best to get him out of the Kingdom. I was planning on joining him, actually. The two of us on the run sounded a hell of a lot better than staying here without him.”

“Do you mean to tell me you actually thought he tried to kill Arthur?” Mordred asked. He meant it to be a genuine question, but it came out accusing and disbelieving.

Gwaine moved his arm enough to glare at Mordred; the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that his eyes were wet with silent, shameful tears. “I didn’t give it much thought either way,” Gwaine said, after a moment. “There was a time I wouldn’t have even considered the idea of Merlin trying to kill Arthur but… but Merlin hasn’t been himself in months. Suppose I know why now, but at the time—” Gwaine broke off with another oath, paused, then followed it up with a string of increasingly foul obscenities.

“I know I should be begging on my knees for his forgiveness, but I don’t know what I could even say that wouldn’t make things worse. ‘Hey Merls, sorry I thought you might want to kill the prat. Figured he went too far, somehow, and you finally snapped. Gods know I’d have done it ages ago in your shoes. Don’t worry though, I’m sure he had it coming and I thought we’d be outlaws together; suppose the magic would have made life on the run easier if you bothered to tell me about it?’” Gwaine snorted. “Yeah, that’ll go well. He’ll never want to see me again; I’m not Arthur. He’s not about to forgive me no matter what, without me even needing to apologize.”

“Even Arthur apologized for a few things,” Mordred pointed out. “And Merlin never wanted an apology from Arthur. He only wanted acceptance. And do you know why?”

“Because it was Arthur,” Gwaine spat. “I can’t believe I was stupid enough to forget that Merlin would do anything for—”

“No,” Mordred said, low. “It’s because Merlin is nothing if not understanding. He knew how hard it would be for Arthur to accept magic after his father and… well, and Arthur’s entire adult life, really. After all the attacks…. Arthur isn’t perfect, and Merlin doesn’t expect him to be; he expects him to put in the effort, though, and he did. He is. That’s what you need to do, too. He never expected you to be perfect, either, Gwaine. He only wanted your support. It sounds to me like you always intended to give it to him, even if it wasn’t exactly how he would have liked you to. Just… just talk to him! Explain it to him. He adores you, Gwaine; he’ll forgive you if you put in the effort, too.”

Gwaine frowned and looked away, but something in his posture told Mordred he was considering the words quite carefully.

“One last word of advice? Sober up and clean up first; chew some mint leaves or something. Your breath smells like a barroom floor.”

Gwaine flicked his fingers at him without any real feeling behind the gesture; Mordred shook his head, rolled his eyes, and left Gwaine to his thoughts. With any luck, he’d take his advice to heart and talk to Merlin soon.

* * *

Merlin wiped the tears from his eyes and did his best to stop laughing; it wasn’t easy, not when he had to force himself not to look at Arthur— still sprawled on the floor— or at Gwen— who was still trying to mop up the tea she’d spat out with an old, stained rag— for fear of starting up again just when he thought he’d gotten ahold of himself. Eventually, though, he managed it and turned to pour himself another cup of tea. He lifted the teapot, then scowled at Gwen with mock severity; she’d polished off the lot while he was too focused on Arthur to realize it. Gwen bit her lip to avoid laughing again and offered to make up another pot. Merlin shook his head and got up to do it himself.

“It’s really no trouble at all,” said Merlin, waving her away. “I suppose we were distracted for a lot longer than I thought we were.”

Gwen shrugged. “The two of you needed it,” she said.

“I suppose we did,” Arthur agreed as he climbed up off the floor and brushed himself off. He shouldn’t have done it; Gwen and Merlin caught the gesture, made the mistake of glancing at each other, and found themselves giggling again. “Yes, yes, very funny. I’m still the King, you know, and there’s still a vacancy in the stocks.”

“Try it and I’ll enchant the vegetables to chase you down instead of hitting me,” Merlin said, pleasantly. Arthur stared at him with a peculiar measuring look, as if he were trying to decide if there really was a spell for such a thing. Merlin smiled toothily and tried to convey wordlessly that if there wasn’t one yet, he’d soon create such a spell, if Arthur was foolish enough to test him.

Arthur mumbled something under his breath, then said, much more seriously, “I was only joking, you know. I wouldn’t actually—”

“I know,” Merlin said, turning away only long enough to set the kettle back over the fire before meeting Arthur’s gaze again.

Arthur’s lips quirked up at the corners, a tell-tale sign that he thought he had the upper hand, somehow. “Besides, it wouldn’t be seemly for a Lord to spend time in the stocks.”

Merlin felt the blood drain from his face. “Absolutely not! Arthur… Arthur, no! I don’t want a title! That’s not— that’s not why I—”

“I know, Merlin,” Arthur said, coming over to take one of Merlin’s hands between both of his own. “The fact that you don’t want a title will probably mean you’ll be better suited to it than most of my Lords. But I really do need you to accept; it’s an important part of my plans.”

“Plans?” Merlin asked, narrowing his eyes.

Gwen answered him in Arthur’s place. “The Council was easily convinced, but not everyone will be. Some of the common folk will be thrilled with the repeal, but others… some of them are terribly afraid of magic. Others still will be happy with the repeal, because of their own magic, but they won’t trust it. Both sides need an example; someone they know and trust being elevated— in spite of or because of his magic— might just do it.”

“It’ll send another sort of message, too,” Arthur added. “I intend to grant you Lord Danvers’s holdings after his trial. I’m not going to let him get away with murdering a girl and hiding behind a false accusation of sorcery to do it.”

Merlin frowned and considered that; it made sense. Most magic users would trust him—there were a few who’d lost faith, but the majority of those sorcerers would probably change their minds again in his favor once the repeal was announced— and he did know all of the servants and most of the people in the Lower Towns. He knew all the guards in the castle by name, and he was on decent terms with most of the Lords and Ladies, too, because he always did his best to serve them as well as he could any time his services were loaned out. On top of that, there was his work as a Physician… yes, his elevation probably would help smooth things over with everyone.

Even better, Lord Danvers would hate it; taking his estate would be like pissing on his grave, and Merlin never knew anyone more deserving of such a thing.

Merlin cursed. “Alright,” he said.

“Good,” Arthur said. “I suppose you’ll be alright with serving as Court Sorcerer as well?”

“I’ve been doing the job for years,” Merlin said, just before the kettle whistled again. “Might as well make it official.” Merlin paused, considered Arthur’s expression carefully, then added, “If there’s a uniform involved, you have to let Gwen design it. And no hats!”

Arthur’s smile faltered. Gwen covered her mouth and let out a sound that convinced Merlin not to look at her anymore, for fear of falling apart all over again.

“When will Lord Danvers be tried?” Merlin asked.

“Soon,” Arthur answered, gravely. “I sent a courier with a summons to Court, and took care to word it in such a way as to imply I wanted to offer my assistance after the fires. I do, of course; I simply mean to assist his estate and the people there, and not him. But he won’t take it that way. I suspect his greed will get the better of him.”

“Will you need me to serve as a witness?”

Arthur hesitated, exchanging a long, inscrutable look with Gwen. “Only if it wouldn’t be too difficult, or too much of a strain. I know how hard it was for you to help the ghost cross over; I wouldn’t want you to push yourself too soon.”

Merlin flashed a thin, tight smile. “I think it’s something I need to do, Arthur. She— f*ck, Arthur, I don’t even know her name; I didn’t know her, not really, but it feels like I did. I know exactly how she felt, exactly what she went through. I just… I need to be there when Danvers is on trial. I need to see him arrested and convicted and… and whatever comes next. I owe her that much.”

Arthur stepped forward and took the teapot and kettle from Merlin’s hands— Merlin remembered taking up the kettle after it whistled, but hadn’t realized he’d been pouring; everything went sort of wobbly and vague after they started talking about Lord Danvers and that poor girl— set them on the table, and offered Merlin his hand. It wasn’t a gesture of comfort, though, not this time; it was the sort of forearm-clasping manly nonsense knights and men-at-arms did with one another when they were going out on a particularly difficult quest or anticipating a skirmish.

It was, Merlin reflected, something of an honor to receive, really, even if it was only the three of them there to see it; Arthur was treating him far above his station, and not as if he was already a Lord, but as if he were as much a knight as Arthur himself was.

Arthur pulled away again, hesitated, then leaned in for a brief hug. Arthur coughed as he pulled away a second time, then said, “Well, there’s plenty that still needs doing. Enjoy your tea, Merlin, and don’t forget to rest, for gods’ sakes.” With that and a single, sharp nod, Arthur left. He’d clearly hit his day’s limit for feelings.

Gwen pulled Merlin into a much longer hug and turned to leave, too. “He’s right you know; you really should rest.” She smirked at him. “You’ll want to be rested for when Mordred comes back, after all.”

Merlin stared at her and let his jaw drop, then cast a pointed look towards a nearby basket of food; one of the tomatoes shook. Gwen yelped, giggled again, and flung herself out the door. Merlin’s lips twisted as he considered what the guards on duty outside the infirmary must have made of that.