Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Morgana was trembling. Arthur hadn’t known Morgana could tremble, except for right after she woke up from one of those awful nightmares she was always having. 

Visions. After she woke up from her awful prophetic visions where she saw people’s deaths. Those made her tremble. 

Arthur had never wanted alcohol so badly in his life. 

The last few weeks had been a nightmare that made Arthur want to tremble. Finding out Morgana was his half-sister. Finding out Morgana was a sorceress. Finding out Uther’s hatred of magic ran deeper than his love for his daughter. Who he, of course, had always known was his daughter, a fact he had just decided to hide from them both. Finding out that he, Arthur, loved his adoptive-but-apparently-actual sister more than he loved or feared his father. Finding out that Uther’s hatred of magic ran deeper than his love for his son and heir. 

And that had just been day one. Now, Arthur and Morgana, along with the world’s most loyal couple of servants, a knight who deserved the highest rank a noble could ever bestow on him, and a handful of honorary knights who were more loyal than Arthur could have ever dreamed, were stumbling through the woods, avoiding hunting parties, and trying not to think too hard about the fact that they were fugitives. 

And Morgana was trembling. 

Arthur unfastened his cloak and put it over her shoulders, despite being perfectly aware that she wasn’t trembling because of the cold. It was better than doing nothing at all. She clutched it, not looking at him, face even paler than normal. 

“We, um. Haven’t had much chance to talk,” Arthur managed lamely, taking a seat beside her on her log. They’d stopped for the night, though Arthur couldn’t think of it even as making camp. They’d scraped together some basic supplies here and there, but it was hardly what he was used to, and they’d be in for a miserable time if it rained. 

Morgana managed a weak, manic breath of a laugh. “Between fleeing for our lives and finding your and Merlin’s friends in odd taverns across the land? No, we haven’t.” 

“I just wanted - That is, I - Well, this doesn’t-“ Arthur blew out a long breath and tried again. “How long have you known?” 

It had been two weeks, and he felt like he should have asked all these questions by now, but there hadn’t been time. They’d been riding, or running, or split up the whole time. Arthur had barely even had time to bicker with Merlin, and the absence of their little rituals was wearing on him. 

As was the lack of a bed, but he was trying to not complain about that too loudly. 

Morgana swept her hair back from her face and sniffled a little. She’d been crying plenty over the last two weeks - Arthur couldn’t blame her and could privately admit to a few shed tears himself - but her eyes were dry now. “The dreams… Well, you know I’ve had them most of my life. Maybe all of my life. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid to sleep. They weren’t as frequent when I was younger, or as vivid, but…” 

Arthur swallowed, exercising all the self-restraint he could find to not interrupt before she sounded like she was done. But still… Her whole life? This had been happening under his nose - and his father’s - his whole life and he just hadn’t-

“I didn’t realize they weren’t just dreams until…” Morgana sniffled again. “Well, I started to suspect, but everyone said I was imagining things. Seeing patterns that weren’t there. That I just put that noble girl into a dream and I was crazy for thinking she would-“

“Sophia,” Arthur said, remembering Morgana’s panic over the young woman he’d been briefly besotted by - though the shine had come off so quick, and with so little warning, he could barely believe it had ever been there to begin with. 

Morgana nodded. “I - I still think she intended to hurt you. Maybe - Maybe Merlin stopped you from doing something stupid before it came to that. But I - I’m getting used to the dreams now. That one was real, I know it.” 

Arthur shrugged. “After the last few weeks, I’m not sure there’s much left that can surprise me. Maybe you’re right. We haven’t heard from her or her father since. Maybe I owe Merlin my thanks for more than stopping me from a stupid elopement.” 

Morgana smiled. “I’m certain you do. He puts up with you, doesn’t he?” 

That was more like the sister he knew. He shoved her shoulder, grinning back. 

“Anyway, more and more of them started coming true. And I mean completely true. Too many details to be a coincidence. I couldn’t decide if I was more terrified that Uther would kill me, or relieved to know I wasn’t completely mad.” She looked down at her boots. Merlin and Gwaine had scrounged up some decent, practical outfits for her and Gwen after Merlin had found Gwaine in some seedy tavern. Arthur was pretty sure that meant they’d stolen them, but he could worry about paying back the original owners later, if they found some way through this. 

“You’ve been dealing with it alone?” 

Morgana stared at her feet for a long, long while. Arthur wanted to shake her. Not because he was impatient with her, even - he was just irritated at being on the run. At not having a plan. And yes, he could admit it, Merlin, at not having any of the finer things he was used to having in the castle. 

“Not completely,” she finally said, quietly. “Do you remember when I was kidnapped by the druids?” 

It hadn’t been so long ago, though after the last few weeks everything felt a lifetime away. Arthur nodded. 

“I wasn’t kidnapped. I’d lit my bedroom on fire after one of my dreams. Or during it. I was terrified. Merlin suggested the druids could help me understand what was happening, so I went to them.”

“Merlin did?” 

“Yes. He…” She sighed deeply. “Don’t be angry with him for not telling you. I begged him not to tell anyone. He was the only one who believed me, who didn’t tell me it was all in my head.” 

“I… See.” 

That did explain a few things. Namely why Merlin had been so secretive and evasive about Morgana, spurring Arthur to stupid levels of jealousy he hadn’t been able to put a name to for another month. He never had offered up a real explanation, Arthur realized now. Just dodged around it until Arthur had forgotten about it in the wake of Camelot’s latest crisis. So Merlin could keep a secret when he needed to, apparently. Not well, he’d been unbearably cagey for a while, but he had succeeded in not telling Arthur what was going on. 

Morgana and Arthur sat there in silence for a while longer. Arthur could hear their friends not far off; arguing over dinner. “You’re still my sister,” Arthur blurted out at last. “And not just because -“ God, that was a tough one to think about. That Morgana was actually his sister. He moved on from the thought as quickly as he could. “In case my siding against my - or our - father didn’t make that clear.” 

She gave him a watery smile. “It did. But thank you for saying it. All of this is… It’s a mess, isn’t it?” 

Arthur laughed. “Oh, I think we passed ‘mess’ before we made it out of Camelot.” 

“Are you going to fight him?” 

Arthur winced. He was trying not to think about that either. “I think it’s either that or take up farming and hope he stops sending people looking for us.” 

“You’d be a terrible farmer.” Morgana tugged the borrowed cloak closer over her shoulders. “I’d still hoped - I hadn’t really thought he’d make an exception for me. But I’d hoped. I barely remember my father. And I’d loved Uther. I used to… It was not pleasant to learn he was my father and that that wouldn’t save me at the same time.” 

Arthur nodded. It had been plenty upsetting for him to learn, and he’d only been a bystander to it. 

Morgana squeezed his arm. “But at least I kept my brother through it.” 

He squeezed hers back. “We’ll figure this out.” His mind skidded past the thought that there was probably no ‘figuring it out’ without fighting his father or fleeing past the edge of the continent. 

He wanted alcohol. He wanted a decent meal. He wanted a simple hunt to get his energy out. He wanted some privacy to talk to Merlin, who was shockingly perceptive about messy emotional nightmares like this. 

“Morgana?” Gwen came into view, her face brightening a little when she saw that Morgana and Arthur were sitting together. She was still calling Arthur ‘my lord’ most of the time, despite his insistence that there wasn’t much point at the moment, but she’d dropped the ‘my lady’ for Morgana pretty quickly. “I think the boys have about managed dinner,” she told them. “I tried to help, but they were all so busy getting in each other’s way they barely noticed me.” 

Arthur stood and stretched, grateful for the reprieve from the conversation. From having to make a plan for what came next. Morgana stood as well, handing Arthur back his cloak, and leaning over to kiss Gwen’s cheek. 

Ah. That explained a few things then. Arthur added another entry to the ever-growing list of ‘things Arthur didn’t notice but definitely should have’. He was starting to think Merlin wasn’t the only one who regularly missed the obvious. 

“If dinner isn’t burnt to a crisp, I’ll be shocked,” Arthur said rather than ask any stupid questions that would move Morgana from grateful to judgmental. He knew at least most of their traveling companions could manage the basics of cooking, when Merlin wasn’t daydreaming and letting the fire burn out, but there was nothing like a little competition to make a man into an idiot. 

Merlin’s ever loyal hound - and to this day Arthur didn’t know how Merlin had managed to train such an intelligent beast as Archimedes - had helped them catch some rabbits, and they’d made a decent stew out of them and some wild vegetables Elyan had scavenged. It was a bit bland without the spice racks of the palace kitchens, but not the worst thing Arthur had ever eaten. And if he admitted to being dissatisfied with the food while they were running for their lives, Merlin would be insufferable about it. 

So instead, Arthur allowed himself to think about his servant to keep his mind off his dinner. 

Several months ago, someone had put Arthur under a love spell to a visiting young lady who he would be grateful to not be married to every day for the rest of his life. Merlin had kissed him to break it, and several things had suddenly come to make frightening amounts of sense. Like why he got unreasonably irritated whenever Merlin got friendly with someone else, or why he couldn’t think straight when Merlin vanished for a day, usually reappearing with a shoddy excuse - when he bothered to say anything at all, and didn’t just tell Arthur it wasn’t his business, and didn’t Arthur prefer having more competent servants waiting on him anyway? (The answer to that was no, he liked it being Merlin, no matter how rude and clumsy and chaotic he was.) 

But that spell-shattering kiss had been as far as things had gotten, Merlin pointing out that he wasn’t much of a secret keeper and that the king would have his head if they were caught. Arthur had insisted he wouldn’t let that happen, but had mostly relented, figuring Merlin would give in sooner or later - why resist something they both wanted so much? 

And then Gwen’s father had been executed and none of them had been able to do a damn thing about it. 

So Arthur had been forced to admit - out loud, even - that Merlin had been right. If Uther ordered Merlin’s head on the chopping block, Arthur would ultimately have been helpless to stop it. He’d have tried, of course, but his father had proven more than once that he had no qualms about imprisoning Arthur ‘for his own good’. The fact they’d been able to escape with Morgana was nothing short of a miracle. They’d had more strokes of good luck along the way than Arthur could count, and they’d still barely managed. 

But now they were on the run. Arthur had probably been disowned - a fact he was not thinking about, thank you - and if Uther caught up they were all looking at the executioner’s blade regardless of what else they were doing. 

So maybe there was an upside to all this mess after all. And things were calming down a little - they had enough supplies to manage, enough people to take turns keeping watch at night without anyone being exhausted, and they were a long way from the castle. 

Arthur nudged a knee against Merlin’s leg. They other man jerked, nearly spilling his soup, and Archimedes jumped up from where he’d been laying at Merlin’s feet with a huff before trotting away to beg Gwaine to share his dinner. 

“Deep in thought, were you?” Arthur asked, grinning. 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “There’s certainly enough to be worried about.” 

That was true enough. But night had fallen, and Arthur was ready to let those be tomorrow’s worries. “I wanted to have a word with you.” 

Merlin looked at him warily. “About what?” 

Arthur pressed his thigh against Merlin’s. “Us.” 

He heard Merlin’s breath catch. Merlin stared at where they were touching like such a thing should have been impossible. 

They hadn’t touched much since the kiss, that was true. The casual contact that had existed between the two of them almost since they’d met had vanished in the wake of the simultaneous acknowledgment of their feelings and the refusal to act on them. Arthur could feel the chasm between them rushing closed at last though, and to hell with what anyone else thought about it. What, was Leon going to protest his prince flirting with a servant after following him into treason? Hardly. 

“Arthur…” 

But, of course, their luck had to run out sooner or later, because that was when the bandits appeared.

Merlin’s understanding of magic had changed significantly since Gaius had died, nearly two years ago now. It was a rough thing to think about - regardless of anything else, Gaius had at least been someone Merlin didn’t have to hide from, and he sorely missed that - but there it was. Gaius had always done things the Right Way. The right way to practice medicine, to play politics, to perform magic. Without him as a guide, Merlin had been left to figure out any way to work his magic, to deal with whatever new threat had reared its head and bared its teeth. 

It had turned out that Gaius’s Right Way hadn’t been working well for Merlin, once he’d gotten the basics down. Gaius had insisted Merlin learn the old language, learn to focus and visualize the magic, the way Gaius himself had learned. Maybe that had been valuable. Maybe it had given Merlin a framework to go off of, sharpened his understanding of what kind of forces he was pushing around. Maybe it had helped with his control. 

But that wasn’t how Merlin’s magic worked, not when he was at his best. When he was at his best, it was elemental, instinctual. He was special, unique, or so people kept telling him. So why hadn’t he realized sooner that his way of doing magic would be the same, all the way down to the core? Gaius had seen Archimedes and warned that familiars could be dangerous, unpredictable, but without Gaius there cautioning him to slow down, to find other ways, safer ways, Merlin had discovered he and Archimedes worked together like Arthur and his sword. Not quite two separate beings, not quite one singular entity, but two things meant to work together. Two things made more than the sum of their parts by their individual excellences combined. 

And, well, having Archimedes, usually in the guise of a hound, close by made Merlin feel a little less lonely. That was nice too. 

Archimedes was stretched out by his feet in front of the fire, watching their friends settle down with bowls of stew, everyone trying not to look too nervous. They’d had a few goals to work towards, but now they’d found Gwaine and Lancelot - and found a new ally in Lancelot’s friend, Percival - gotten more practical clothes for Gwen and Morgana, and scraped together enough supplies to last them a few days, and everyone was carefully avoiding asking what was next. 

Merlin needed both hands to eat, so he pushed one foot under Archimedes’s chin, feeling their magic thrum back and forth. It had become a comforting ritual, one that let Merlin scratch the itch to do something with his magic without actually having to do anything with his magic. The thrum helped Merlin fight back when the loneliness of the lying and the secrets and the thankless work to keep Arthur alive and Camelot functioning threatened to swallow Merlin whole. It reminded him of how beautiful magic really was, how beautiful all of Albion could be, once Uther and his tight fist of arrogance and fear were gone. 

How beautiful Arthur could make it. 

<Are we going to kill Uther now?> Archimedes asked. 

Archimedes wasn’t one for subtlety, in any area. In Camelot, the knights would sometimes wrestle with him, or let him terrorize the recruits. When Arthur dragged Merlin out hunting, Archimedes would push the limits of how smart a dog could believably be to show off what a remarkable hunter he was. He may have been a creature of pure magic, a being created to take the excess of Merlin’s powers, formed out of a piece of his soul - that was what lore Gaius had been able to dig up had said on the subject, anyway - but he was also very much an animal, and Merlin had learned that the animal he spent the most time disguised as was the animal he acted most like. When Merlin had been young, Archimedes had often been a bird - free, easily distracted, and prone to wander. Since coming to Camelot, they’d agreed on a dog, so he could protect Merlin and not draw too many questions. 

So, generally speaking, he was a big, energetic dog who wanted the quickest answer to his problems, and also something to eat. 

A lot like Arthur, really. 

<That’s up to Arthur,> Merlin replied down their bond. <I’ve told you. I’m not killing Uther and giving Arthur a new reason to hate magic.>

<But Arthur’s fighting with Uther!> Archimedes protested. <We’d be helping!>

<It’s Arthur’s decision. If he’s ready to kill Uther, we’ll help. We’ll finish it, if we need to. But not until then.>

Archimedes gave a long, dramatic sigh. He’d been questioning why they didn’t simply kill Uther and deal with their biggest problem since the day they’d walked into Camelot. Merlin had explained the bigger issues, and Archimedes had conceded to his judgment, but he was still a big, loyal dog, and Uther was still someone Merlin was afraid of. Now that they were actively running from Uther, the questions had started up again. 

The real question, Merlin thought, was if Arthur could truly commit that fully to standing against his father. Running from your father was one thing. Saving your sister from execution was one thing. Leading a coup against your father and putting his head on the chopping block was something else altogether. 

But he wasn’t going to press Arthur about it tonight. Arthur had finally gone to speak with Morgana and was looking a little less tense, and Merlin wasn’t going to immediately undo that. They could have one night to catch their breaths before diving back into the problem. 

<Well, what about us?> Archimedes asked, moving on to another difficult question he thought should be simple. <Is it time to tell Arthur we’re magic?> 

Merlin’s stomach did a flip and his mouth went dry. It had always been difficult to keep the truth from Arthur, but it had been a constant spectre of his day since he’d broken that stupid love spell and Arthur had, despite Merlin’s certainty that he wouldn’t reciprocate, asked for more. 

Uther had at least been useful for once, giving Merlin an excuse to hide behind that wasn’t I’m hiding something from you and if I let this thing between us grow without confessing it I’ll never forgive myself, and you’ll probably never forgive me either. 

Now their act of treason had taken that thin defense away. 

<Not yet.>

<When?>

Merlin didn’t know. Never. Right now. Find a spell to go back in time and tell him years ago. 

Archimedes huffed. <He’s okay with Morgana.>

By Archimedes’s understanding of ‘okay’ that was true, but Merlin knew it was a little more complicated than that. He’d seen the warring emotions on Arthur’s face, the day Uther had discovered the truth and every day since. And Morgana was his sister. What if that was different? What if it was different, when Merlin had spent so much time so close to him, had had so many conversations about magic and morality and trust with him? 

<You’re overthinking.>

<You don’t know that.>

<Do so. You’re doing that thing where you->

Arthur’s knee pressed against Merlin’s thigh and Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d all but forgotten anyone else was nearby, much less that Arthur was sitting right next to him. He felt the toe of his boot collide with the bottom of Archimedes’s jaw and winced. 

<Sorry.>

Archimedes stood with a disdainful snort. <Told you.> He trotted off to give them some privacy - they could see through each other’s senses from a distance, but they could choose not to - and also to pester Gwaine out of his dinner. 

When Merlin looked over at Arthur, the other man was grinning. There was still tiredness and stress in his face, but he seemed to have shaken off the worst of it. “Deep in thought, were you?” he asked, because nothing seemed to pull Arthur out of his bad moods quite like teasing Merlin. 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “There’s certainly enough to be worried about.” And the things he’d been worrying about weren’t even the things Arthur knew to be worrying about. Wasn’t that fun. Wasn’t it a delight to always know about so many more problems than Arthur did. 

Maybe he could steal a minute with Lancelot to talk some of it out. 

Maybe he could finally admit to Morgana that his knowledge of magic wasn’t just because he’d read books he wasn’t supposed to out of idle curiosity and a critical lack of self-preservation.

<Maybe you could talk to Arthur,> Archimedes leapt into his consciousness to say, then promptly leapt out again. 

“I wanted to have a word with you,” Arthur went on, oblivious to Merlin’s inner crisis. As usual. 

Merlin restrained a sigh. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault that Merlin was successfully keeping secrets. “About what?” There was no telling with Arthur. Sometimes that meant ‘I need to talk out something that’s worrying me’. Sometimes it meant ‘I’m dragging you out on another hunting expedition, and no, you don’t get a say in this.’ 

Arthur pressed their legs together and Merlin’s brain stopped working. “Us.” 

Fuck. Of course. Of course Arthur had thought the same thing Merlin had, that Uther was no longer a threat to their relationship - or, at least, that he was already so much of a threat that it didn’t matter. 

Merlin’s heart started to race. What was he supposed to say now? What other excuse did he have to hide behind, to put it off? He didn’t think he could force himself to say he wasn’t interested anymore. He definitely didn’t think he could say it convincingly. And Arthur wasn’t the sort to take no for an answer without an explanation, not when he knew Merlin wanted this too. 

And gods did Merlin want it. He wanted to feel like Arthur’s equal for once. He wanted to fall asleep next to him, instead of having to retreat to another room every night. He wanted to talk to him, really talk, without having to monitor every word. 

But he wasn’t ready for the conversation that would have to preface that. He wasn’t ready to admit that he’d been hiding something so massive for every second of their relationship. Wasn’t ready to admit to all the scars hidden under his clothes, marks of times he’d saved Arthur’s life and limped back to his room to pretend he’d gotten drunk and was now nursing a hangover. 

Wasn’t ready to risk Arthur pulling away. He’d take these scraps over nothing any day. 

“Arthur…” He didn’t know how we was going to finish it. If the truth would come tumbling out of his mouth or another lie. 

The bandits were almost a relief. 

Chapter Text

The bandits announced themselves by dumping a bag of dirt into the fire, plunging the woods into darkness. Merlin surged to his feet with a hiss, pushing back the instinct to summon a light. He felt Arthur spring up beside him, heard the soft swish of his sword leaving its scabbard. Archimedes’s consciousness bloomed up in his mind, and Merlin jumped to him, taking advantage of the dog’s superior night vision. 

<How many?> Merlin asked, even as he mentally conjured up a spell to check for life. 

<Not many,> Archimedes replied. <Fast. Quiet. But only… two scents.>

<Two?> Merlin repeated, incredulous. What kind of bandits traveled as only a duo, and then attacked a group five times their size? 

There was a thump and Merlin watched through Archimedes’s eyes as the dog spun to see Percival hitting the ground, his attacker already leaping back from him, his sword in their hand. 

Archimedes growled, the sound rumbling through the woods. 

“Leave us,” Arthur commanded, his voice booming around them. “We have nothing worth stealing and we’ve done nothing to you.” 

Archimedes’s ears caught someone’s derisive snort at that. Merlin’s spell caught and whispered through their surroundings to confirm Archimedes’s guess - there were only two of them, dancing around the edge of the group. The one who’d laughed darted forward, kicked out Lancelot’s knee, sending him stumbling to the ground, and darted back again before Leon could lunge towards their sound. 

The other - Merlin spun towards Arthur, clenching his fists. The darkness made things easy - there was little risk of anyone seeing anything they shouldn’t, so long as he kept his eyes down so no one would catch the flash of gold. His magic snaked out of him and into the roots at their feet. It reached up and caught Arthur’s would-be attacker around the ankle, pulling him down. 

Merlin could tease Arthur about a great many faults, but no one could say he wasn’t a damn good fighter. He heard the man hit the dirt and pounced, landing on him gracelessly but effectively, pinning him down. “Call off your friends,” he ordered. “Or lose your head.” 

The second bandit was fast. In the space of two heartbeats they were across the camp, closing in as they came to their comrade’s rescue. Merlin moved to block their access to Arthur, only to realize a few seconds too late that Arthur wasn’t their target. The bandit dropped down behind Morgana instead, pressing a blade against her throat with enough force to make her cry out. 

“Morgana!” Arthur shouted. 

“Let him go and I’ll let her go,” a woman’s voice growled from behind Morgana. 

For a moment, there was a tense silence, everyone weighing their options. Merlin wished he could assure Arthur there were only two, that without the element of surprise the bandits were already defeated. There’d be no harm in letting the one on the ground go now. They were probably planning to cut their losses and run the moment they could. 

A light flared into the camp. Merlin squinted instinctively against it and felt Archimedes grumble a protest. Elyan stood in the remains of the fire pit, a lantern held high. “Let her go,” he ordered the bandit holding Morgana. 

The woman only bared her teeth at him. She was covered in knives; had them strapped across nearly every inch of her patchwork armor. 

“Hold,” Arthur ordered, and Merlin turned his head to see that Leon had stopped mid-step, his eyes locked on the woman. Gwaine didn’t stop as quickly, but he was waiting too, ready to leap into action now that he could see a target. 

“How many of you are there?” Arthur asked, looking between the man he had pinned down and the woman holding Morgana. 

The man glared up at him. His armor was as patchwork as his partner’s but he didn’t seem to be quite so well armed. His blond hair was so filthy it almost blended into the ground beneath him. 

Arthur shifted his weight, grinding his knee into the man’s ribs. “How many?”

The woman hissed. “It’s just the two of us. Let him go and we’ll leave.” 

“I should believe you? Let my sister go first.” 

Merlin could force the woman to drop her knife, of course, but there was a risk it would only panic her, making her go for another one. So instead he watched her, his magic tingling under his skin, ready to jump. He wasn’t losing Morgana now, not to some stupid bandit who’d bitten off more than she could chew. 

The woman watched Arthur. Arthur watched her back. 

“We aren’t interested in a fight,” Arthur said after the silence had stretched on a few seconds too long. “We have enough to deal with. Let Morgana go, and I’ll release your partner. You have my word.” 

The woman sneered. “Never knew a knight whose word was worth the air it took to say.” 

Maybe Merlin should throw her off Morgana entirely. It would certainly be one way to announce his magic to Arthur. 

Arthur seemed to consider, then slowly stood. One foot was still rested on his bandit’s chest, but it was clear the man could get away now, or at least make a good attempt at it. “If you’re telling the truth about there being only two of you, I have to assume you matter to one another. If you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you both, even if I have to hunt through this forest for a hundred years to do it. Let her go, and I’ll let him go. I think that’s all you really care about at this point, isn’t it?” 

The woman’s expression was wary. Merlin slid his magic into her knife, anchoring it. It wouldn’t move a centimeter closer to Morgana’s neck. 

The woman stepped back, dropping the knife to her side, her eyes never leaving Arthur. “Let him go.” 

Arthur stepped off the man completely and the man scrambled to his feet and bounded a few feet away, watching them. 

“What happened?” the woman asked her partner. “Did you forget how to walk?” 

Despite the obvious tension in his shoulders, and the way his eyes never moved from Arthur, the man’s mouth pulled up into a small smile. “Rougher terrain than expected, apparently. My apologies.” 

Arthur paused, clearly considering, then slid his sword back into its scabbard and gestured for the others to do the same. “If there were more than the two of them, the others would have attacked by now,” he said. 

“Should kill them for interrupting dinner anyway,” Gwaine grumbled, but he put his sword away. Leon followed suit, but he and Elyan moved to Morgana and Gwen’s sides, still watching the woman. 

“Are you alright, my lady?” Leon asked, and Morgana nodded. The female bandit backed away from Elyan and Leon, slowly inching her way towards her partner, who, in turn, was moving slowly toward her. Archimedes moved to Merlin’s side and let out another warning growl. 

“Are you going to leave us be?” Arthur asked the two bandits. “Or is this the part where you try to assert ownership of a forest?” 

“You won, knight,” the woman said coolly. “We’ll leave you be.” 

“Can I have my sword back?” Percival asked. He was rubbing at his shoulder, though Merlin suspected his pride was hurt worse than he was. The bandits had been moving to disarm, not to hurt. 

“How do you know I’m a knight?” Arthur asked. 

The woman raised an eyebrow and gestured to Arthur. “You’re holding a sword that costs more than most peasants see in a year, your chainmail fits, and none of you have proper hunting equipment. You’re a knight who thinks he knows how to handle the woods because he imagines a bear fights the same as a man in an arena.” 

Arthur scowled and Merlin could see him wanting to argue that he knew how to hunt perfectly well, he just hadn’t had the time to grab the proper equipment. Merlin managed a kick to the back of his ankle. They had the advantage now, even if the two decided to try again, but Merlin didn’t think any of them, on either side, were especially interested in this ending with a corpse or two. 

Besides, admitting they were wanted by the king might put ideas into these two’s heads. 

“If you’re so observant, why attack us?” Morgana asked, voice strong and proud, covering for the way Merlin knew her heart was racing. It wasn’t often Morgana had to feel helpless, and Merlin knew she didn’t respond to it well. They were all lucky her magic hadn’t lashed out and tried to protect her - it might have started a forest fire, and they didn’t need any more problems than they had. “Surely you could see we don’t have any coin.” 

The two bandits had reached each other, and looked significantly more relaxed now that they were within arm’s reach of one another. The man shrugged. “You have good weapons, those are always worth something. And you might have had some decent food packed away. We’d hoped to grab your stores and be gone before you got your bearings. Not bad for knights. You’d think you’d been in a real fight before.” 

“We have,” Leon said stiffly. 

“And we’re not all knights,” Gwaine added. “Just putting that out there. Don’t lump me in with the princess.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Would you give Percival back his sword before you leave? Despite what you seem to think, we aren’t in a position to be losing weapons.” 

The two exchanged a speaking look, and the woman vanished into the trees, reappearing a few moments later with Percival’s sword in hand.

“I feel like I should be flattered,” he said as he took it. “Being the first one you took out.” 

She shrugged. “You’re the biggest.” 

“I told you we should have started with this one,” the male bandit said, nodding his head toward Arthur. “He’s the leader.” 

“And I told you, that’s like as not to make everyone else go insane.” 

Arthur frowned. “How long have you been following us?” 

“Most of the day. You’re very slow travelers. Easy to track.” 

Arthur’s fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. “Is anyone else following us?” 

The man’s brow furrowed. “No? Are you expecting someone to?” 

Merlin could see Arthur weighing his options. “You know these woods well then?” 

“Well enough,” the woman said. “So don’t get any ideas about following us when we leave. Speaking of, we should be on our way.” 

“Wait.” Everyone looked at Arthur at that, surprised. Merlin felt that his own eyebrows were practically at his hairline. Arthur wasn’t known to respond to attacks with anything less than fury - but perhaps the direness of their situation was changing his perspective. 

“You need money,” Arthur said. “You said you wanted our food; that isn’t the priority of bandits looking to get rich on others’ suffering. That’s the thought of someone reaching desperation.” 

The two bandits glared at him, but neither argued. 

“We could use a guide,” Arthur said. “Someone who can help us find shelter and keep us far enough from the usual roads that we’ll avoid any… pursuers.” 

Merlin watched as understanding dawned across the male bandit’s face. “You’re not a lost hunting party,” he said. “You’re on the run.” 

Leon bared his teeth and took an aggressive step forward, hand on his sword again. Arthur held up a hand to stop him, and the knight obeyed, though his hand stayed where it was. Merlin understood. His magic was practically bursting under his fingertips. He thought he knew where Arthur was going with this, and he didn’t disapprove - but if it didn’t work, he’d be making sure the two bandits were in no condition to be running to Camelot to report on their last known location. It had been a few days since they’d seen the last group trying to hunt them down, and Merlin was hoping they might have covered their tracks well enough to lose them. 

“We are on the run,” Arthur agreed. “And in need of all the help we can get. Join us, and we’ll share what we have.” 

Both bandits looked skeptical, especially the woman. “You want to team up with us? Just like that?” 

“We’re in no position to be turning down potential allies.” Arthur smiled, a flash of steel showing in the expression. “And I’d rather you be with us than on your way to the nearest town to see how much information on us is worth.” 

Sometimes Merlin forgot Arthur was capable of being cunning. 

The woman tilted her chin up. “This isn’t an offer, is it?” 

“Of course it is,” Arthur told her. “An offer to join us, have more than one person guarding your back, and have a hunting dog to help bring in dinner. The alternative being that we make damn sure you can’t report on us to anyone.” 

The bandits exchanged another speaking look. The woman shrugged one shoulder, apparently acquiescing. 

“Well, Sir Knight,” the man said, “I suppose we have an alliance.” He stepped forward and offered Arthur his hand. Merlin swept his magic over him, checking for a hidden weapon or vial of poison, but found nothing. 

Arthur shook the man’s hand. “I’m Arthur.” 

“Tristan. And this is my wife and partner, Isolt.”

Arthur couldn’t believe how easily things fell into place. Tristan and Isolt didn’t seem to have had their pride wounded by being beaten, and had moved unasked to put the fire they had doused to rights. There had been some wariness at first, but then Gwaine had made a wisecrack about knights, Tristan had joined in, and within a few minutes the two of them, plus Isolt, Merlin, and Morgana, were too busy making fun of ‘tin soldiers and their sticks’ to remember that they’d been enemies a moment ago. Arthur was fighting off the desire to point out that armor was not made of tin, and Merlin kept shooting him amused glances like he knew it, as though Arthur was the ridiculous one for not liking when people said things that were blatantly not true. 

Tristan and Isolt didn’t have much in the way of food, but they did know the closest source of clean water, and had cautiously agreed to let Elyan see what supplies they were carrying, which had turned out to be enough for him to set up a few traps in the hopes of them having a decent spread for the morning’s breakfast. Arthur wasn’t going to let them stand watch at night, of course, but he didn’t think there had been any true maliciousness in their attack, and the worst injury had been Lancelot needing to stretch out his knee. 

Isolt had even given Morgana a polite not-quite apology. “You’re obviously the most valuable target,” she’d said. “And since we thought you were a hunting party, I figured you were some noble lady who’d had the brilliant idea of ‘roughing it’ with her guards. They’d be dead men walking if you came to harm.” 

“What about Gwen?” Morgana had asked. “Not that I’m not glad you didn’t attack her, but-“

Isolt had lifted a judgmental eyebrow. “She’s obviously a servant.” She hadn’t explained where the ‘obviousness’ came from, since Morgana and Gwen were dressed almost the same, but Arthur had to commend her and Tristan’s observational skills. They’d be of great help. 

Arthur hadn’t explained why they were on the run, or corrected his title from ‘knight’ to ‘prince’, and Tristan and Isolt hadn’t pressed for details. Leon had given them a speech about how they had better not be planning to betray them, and the duo had looked exasperated but not offended. They were giving Archimedes a wide berth, deferring to the others, and had promised to talk about potential places to set up a longer-term base camp over breakfast in the morning. 

All in all, it had gone as well a bandit attack possibly could. Better, even. 

But Arthur could feel that he was sulking. He’d thought he and Merlin finally had a moment to talk, to reassess, but no, a couple of bandits had just had to come in with the world’s worst timing, and now Merlin was too busy making up insults to look his way. 

“You know,” Morgana said, moving to sit beside him, “turning them into allies was your idea. You could look a little less like you’ve been turned into something nasty.”

Arthur rolled his eyes because, really, what else was he supposed to do? Admit he was sulking to her? 

“I wasn’t expecting everyone to take to them quite so well,” he said instead, gesturing. Gwaine had spotted a strange instrument amongst Tristan and Isolt’s belongings and Tristan was now being pestered into playing it as they rolled out bedrolls and blankets for the night.  

“That’s what you get for bringing home so many ruffians. Everyone’s used to it now.” 

“Yes, well.” He did have a penchant for ‘ruffians,’ didn’t he? Lancelot had faked his own nobility, they’d met Gwaine in a tavern brawl, Elyan knew how to get a cell door open without a second thought… Arthur blamed Merlin. He’d spent too much time with an incompetent, back-talking servant, and now he didn’t know how to befriend people with a proper understanding of social order or manners. Even Leon seemed to be growing less noble by the day.

“Yes, well,” Morgana mocked. “I always forget how eloquent you are.” 

He rolled his eyes again, making sure she noticed. “Did you need something?”

“No. Gwen shooed me away, said I was making setting up our bedrolls difficult.” She looked down at her hands, an odd expression on her face, as though she’d never seen them before. “I’m pretty useless, aren’t I?” 

Arthur snapped his head over to look at her, thoughts of Merlin temporarily scattered. “What? What are you talking about? What happened to you being both the beauty and the brains of the two of us?” Gods, did she ever love to use that one. Or had, anyway. He couldn’t actually remember the last time the two of them had properly bickered. How long had Morgana been one hall over, frightened and stressed and clutching secrets to her chest while Arthur had been too busy hitting practice dummies or going on hunts to notice? 

Well, he was going to do better. He was going to be a better brother to her, a better leader to his men, a better friend to the few he had, and he was - eventually, hopefully - going to get through a conversation with Merlin without anyone trying to kill them. 

“I don’t know about anything that’s going to help us out here,” Morgana said. “I hate hunting. I don’t know which plants are poisonous and which make good medicines. I’d be lost in five minutes if I tried to set off on my own. I can’t even set up a bedroll properly.” She clenched her hands into fists. “We’re all out here in this mess because I have magic, and I can’t even do that well enough to help.” Her eyes were bright and her jaw set, and Arthur nearly had a heart attack as he realized she was trying not to cry. “I can just have scary dreams about people dying and light curtains on fire sometimes.” 

Arthur briefly imagined Morgana actually doing magic, rather than just having magic happen to her, as seemed to be the case with these dreams, and shut down the line of thought. He was still adjusting to the idea that magic couldn’t be entirely evil, or at least couldn’t turn people entirely evil. Baby steps. 

“You’re a decent fighter.” 

“For a lady, you mean.” 

Unfortunately, he did, in fact, mean that - Morgana wasn’t bad, but her main skill lay in being better than people expected her to be. Women as pretty as her didn’t need to know how to fight, so no one expected her to be strong enough to even lift a sword. That wouldn’t be much help if Camelot’s men caught up with them. 

An image flashed behind Arthur’s eyes, Morgana being run through by a man Arthur had trained, and bile rose up in his throat. 

He got to his feet and held out his hand to pull his sister up along with him. “Are you tired?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “No?” 

“Good. We’ll start training then.”

Twenty-four hours later, Morgana thought the main appeal of training with Arthur was that it left her too tired to feel sorry for herself. “You’ll be a walking bruise by the time he’s done with you,” Gwen teased as Morgana caught her breath. 

Morgana huffed. She’d known Arthur hadn’t taken her seriously the few times they’d sparred before, but she hadn’t truly realized just how much he hadn’t been putting any effort into it. And there was no backing out now - she was far too stubborn to admit to Arthur that maybe this fighting thing was too much for her after all. “You could join us,” she said instead, and Gwen made a face to show what she thought of that idea. 

“I think I’ll stick to hiding behind my brother,” she said. “Isn’t that what he’s for?” She raised her voice a little as she said it, then looked over at Elyan to see him sticking his tongue out at her. 

Morgana kept waiting for everyone to realize she was the reason they were sleeping in the woods, barely able to keep themselves warm and their stomachs full, but instead everyone was almost… cheerful. Even Arthur. His version of cheerful, of course, which involved him being incredibly obnoxious, but he wasn’t nearly as upset about everything as she had expected him to be. He hadn’t complained about the lack of a real bed once, despite Merlin constantly teasing him about how much he must miss one. 

“Ready to keep going?” Arthur called, and she scowled at him. She’d never so badly wanted to insist she was a lady and he could hardly expect her to keep pace with one of his knights - never mind how many times she’d told him just the opposite. 

But she wouldn’t insist it. She was not going to be some helpless damsel in whatever trials were waiting for them, and since her magic seemed determined to remain just awful, prophetic nightmares with the occasional flash of fire, she was going to at least learn how to defend herself - and Gwen, while she was at it - long enough for one of the others to come to help them. She would not be a burden, not after her magic and her carelessness had brought them all here. 

She picked up the stick she’d been using as a practice sword and settled into a fighting stance. It had actually been easier yesterday - today her muscles were burning in protest. Arthur had said that was good thing when she’d complained about it, but she couldn’t be sure if he was saying that as someone training her to fight or as her obnoxious brother. Perhaps she’d ask Sir Leon about it later. He could be trusted to refrain from mischief, at least, even if Merlin and Arthur’s friends seemed to be poor influences on him. 

“Room for one or two more?” a voice asked, and Isolt and Tristan appeared. They moved through the trees like they’d been born to the forest - it had been smart for Arthur to recruit them as guides, she had to admit. She couldn’t even really hold being held hostage against Isolt - she’d seen the way the woman looked at her husband. Morgana had only herself to blame for being targeted. Isolt was right, it was obvious that she was the only noble woman there. It didn’t take much looking to see that Gwen had a servant’s muscles and calluses. Even dressed in a tunic and trousers and sensible boots, it must have been clear that Morgana had been raised to a life of sitting by windows and doing paintings and embroidery. 

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “You two already know how to fight.” 

“We know how to catch people off guard,” Isolt corrected. “If a fight lasts more than ten seconds, we’re in trouble.” 

Tristan gave Arthur a pointed look. “And the lost group of knights and a lady on the run from the law seem likely to lead us into trouble.” 

He wasn’t wrong about that. Morgana had considered if they ought to tell the two about why they were fleeing, but had decided to leave that in Arthur’s hands. He was the one who had been raised for the politics and the scheming after all. 

Even though she was the elder one, a poisonous little voice hissed, and she batted it away. She didn’t want to be queen. She’d been revolted at the idea even when people had suggested she get the throne by marrying Arthur - and gag why had Uther ever allowed people to talk like that, when he’d known she was his daughter - and it was even less appealing now. Frankly, she thought she might best like the idea of running off to some tiny shack in the woods and never seeing another person ever again. Maybe Gwen, if the other woman promised not to try to get her to socialize. 

No, she didn’t want to be queen, and Arthur was actually shaping up to make an excellent king himself. Merlin’s influence, no doubt. 

Arthur glanced at Morgana, and after a moment she realized he was checking if she was alright with someone joining them. Whether because he thought she might want some bit of privacy or just wouldn’t want those two, specifically, to join them, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. She nodded. If they were allying with them, they would have to actually work with them. She and Arthur weren’t their father. They wouldn’t make someone work themselves raw and offer nothing in return. 

“Alright,” Arthur agreed. “We’re working on defensive techniques.” He pointed his ‘practice sword’ at Isolt. “Which you definitely need. I’ve seen enough of your fighting to know you just dodge.” 

Isolt shrugged. “Advantage of being fast and light, instead of strapped down in all that metal.” 

“You should still know how to block. Sometimes there’s nowhere to go.” 

Arthur ordered them into fighting stances, then spent five minutes correcting Tristan and Isolt on theirs. Morgana felt a little smug - it had only taken one correction to get hers right. Maybe she wasn’t useless at this fighting thing after all. 

With more pupils, Arthur changed things up. He would explain what he wanted them to do, have them attack him to demonstrate it, and then have them take swings at each other. Or, Isolt and Tristan took swings at Morgana, and she took swings at them. Tristan had attempted to attack Isolt once, promptly looked like someone had killed his favorite dog, and refused to do it again. It was sweet. Admittedly stupid, as she could tell Arthur thought, but sweet. 

Arthur adjusted her elbow, shifting the weight of the shield Lancelot had let her borrow. It wasn’t much more effective than a pot lid, but it conveyed the idea. “You need to absorb the impact,” he said. “With the right stance, most blows should glance off without you even noticing them.” 

Morgana had a hard time imagining that, with how heavy just holding the shield had become after half an hour of practice, but she nodded and let Isolt come down on her again. 

Arthur nodded sharply. “Better. Switch.” 

Morgana handed over the shield with some relief. Isolt took it with a grim expression, and Morgana wondered if the other woman was also experiencing some regrets about letting Arthur train her. 

Morgana flicked her gaze to Arthur, then gave Isolt a conspiratorial wink. The woman’s brow furrowed for a moment, then her face brightened and she snorted a laugh. 

“What’s funny?” Arthur asked, clearly suspecting that he was the butt of a joke. 

“Girly things,” Isolt said, hefting the shield with a look of intense concentration. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

Morgana thought she and Isolt might have the potential to be great friends. Gwen was far too nice to tease Arthur like this. 

“Oi!” a voice interrupted, and Morgana looked up to see Gwaine leaning lazily against a tree, Elyan standing sheepishly behind him. “Is this an open class?”

Arthur looked at Morgana again and she nodded again. 

“It would seem so.” 

Chapter Text

Tristan and Isolt knew of a great many ruins hidden away in the woods and cliffs of the countryside. They didn’t expressly say they’d looted through them for treasure, but it wasn’t a hard conclusion to draw. 

It didn’t matter. What mattered was they knew where to find sturdy buildings with roofs and walls and no people who could report their whereabouts back to Camelot. Merlin was still watching the two bandits carefully, but they didn’t seem to mind their new allegiance. They were opportunists, they’d said, not really bandits. If some lost group of knights - they didn’t care for anyone’s protests that only Arthur and Leon were actually knights - wanted them to play guide, they were happy to, so long as they were fed and safe to sleep at night. 

And, Merlin had noticed, so long as the men stayed away from Isolt. He was good at assessing people, had needed to be, after so many years as Camelot’s unknown protector, and he’d seen the way Tristan always ended up between her and any of the men. He couldn’t blame her. The two of them were outnumbered nearly five to one, and Merlin could tell Isolt was pretty under the dirt and the rat’s nest of red hair. There were plenty of knights out there she would have good cause to be scared of, no matter how good she was at kicking mens’ knees out. 

They’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm with their new guides. There were enough people to keep watch at night, to scout the perimeter and make sure there were no bounty hunters about to bear down on them. Merlin had been able to reassure Lancelot that he and Archimedes were taking every precaution to ensure the group wasn’t caught unaware, and Lancelot being more relaxed had proved contagious, relaxing all the others a fraction. 

Merlin had nearly reassured Morgana of the same thing a dozen times, wanting to ease the sleeplessness and fear and guilt from her, but he couldn’t make himself. Lancelot knowing about his magic was one thing - he’d worked it out. But to tell someone, when he hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell Arthur, felt like even more of a betrayal than to have kept it a secret for this long. For now, Morgana would just have to continue to think Gaius had kept an impressive library hidden away, and that Merlin was reckless enough to keep reading from it. 

They walked. They hunted. Tristan showed off his musical prowess and Gwaine proved he was a very bad but very enthusiastic dancer. Arthur was teaching Morgana how to fight, which had expanded into giving everyone but Gwen and Merlin lessons. Arthur had tried to get Merlin to learn at least a few basic self-defense moves, though so far Merlin was doing an admirable job of dodging him. He didn’t need to know how to use a sword and he didn’t fancy being sore down to his bones every night while also maintaining a magical perimeter. “I have Archimedes!” he’d protested. “What’s going to get past him?” 

Arthur hadn’t been impressed by Merlin’s insistence that he could simply hide behind a dog, but it had at least given Merlin an opportunity to find somewhere else to be. 

Most importantly, Arthur hadn’t tried to talk about his and Merlin’s relationship again. Merlin was choosing to believe he’d forgotten all about it. 

<You told me not to let you put off problems for future us,> Archimedes had said to that. 

<You know I never listen to my own advice,> Merlin had replied, and Archimedes had given him an emotion that felt like an eyeroll and dropped it. 

“How much farther?” Merlin asked Tristan after close to a week. He was trying not to sound like he was whining, but his feet were sore and he was tired of sleeping on the ground. They’d probably still be sleeping on the ground in the ruins Arthur had picked out as their best option - the furniture was surely all looted or rotted through - but at least it would be flat ground, with no roots poking up through it. 

“Two days, pace we’ve been keeping,” Tristan said. 

Thank the gods. 

Of course, once they arrived they’d have to decide what to do next - if they were going to keep running and hiding or if they were going to do something incredibly suicidal, like stage a coup with less than a dozen people. Merlin was usually full of ideas, but this was definitely one of those times when he was glad it was Arthur who was in charge. 

Archimedes came bounding through the trees and wound around Merlin’s feet. It would have tripped him if he’d been normal, or if Archimedes had actually been a dog, but they melded at the edges as they fell into step. 

<What’s wrong?>

Archimedes’s magic was stronger, tenser than normal, the way it flared up when they were in a fight, or ready to be in one. 

<Magic. Ugly, twisted magic.>

Unlike if it had come from a report through Uther’s throne room, Merlin knew if Archimedes said something like that, he meant it. Archimedes was magic, even more so than Merlin was. He saw it everywhere and he loved it. He reminded Merlin to love it on days when it got too heavy. If he said there was ugly, twisted magic nearby, then they were definitely in trouble. 

Merlin glanced around and dropped back to where Lancelot was bringing up the rear of the group. Arthur gave him an odd look as he passed and Merlin pretended not to see it with only a small pang of guilt. 

Soon. He’d tell him soon. When it was safe and there was time and he could do it properly. Could explain. 

“Trouble?” Lancelot asked quietly. 

“Yeah. The magical kind. Ahead of us and to the right.”

“I think I heard something,” Lancelot called to the rest of the group. “To the east.” 

Their group had really become something in the short time they’d been together. They moved almost as easily as one of Arthur’s well-trained units, putting Merlin (to his own annoyance), Morgana, and Guinevere at their center as they shifted their attention. Tristan and Isolt lingered at one edge, obviously not willing to truly risk their lives for the others, but ready to fight, if it didn’t look too dangerous. Merlin kept one eye on them, just in case, but they seemed to be pretty simple sorts, and there was no profit in stabbing them in the back. At worst, they’d just run, and Merlin knew - had checked - that Arthur and Leon knew better than to rely on them for anything essential. 

Merlin slipped past Lancelot, falling farther back, as he sent Archimedes forward to walk beside Arthur, ears back and teeth bared. 

“Looks like he hears it too,” Arthur said, drawing his sword. He’d been on enough near-death adventures with Archimedes along to know the ‘dog’ had keen senses. 

An enormous wolf, the largest Merlin had ever seen - and he’d been dragged on enough stupid hunts to have seen a lot - appeared in front of them and Merlin sucked in a breath. 

It hadn’t stepped in front of them, it had appeared. As if by magic. 

<That’s a familiar, isn’t it?> he asked Archimedes. 

He felt the dog’s growl rumbling back at him. <Twisted.>

The trouble with trying to learn magic after Uther’s purge was that most of the information he could get his hands on was third hand or wrapped in metaphor. When he’d tried to learn more about Archimedes, about what the two of them were, he’d mostly found reports about how familiars were abominations, a horrible thing magic users did to animals - and sometimes even to people - in order to give themselves another edge. To force something to fight in their stead and to build up their magical energies beyond what they would normally be capable of. The brief entries spoke of animals driven mad by a human consciousness being shoved upon them and having their free will snuffed out. 

This was what those books were talking about. 

The wolf snarled in a very un-wolflike way, its actions jerky, like a badly commanded puppet. Its jaws snapped open and shut on nothing. A line of something sticky and black oozed out of one side of its mouth. 

“That doesn’t look like any wolf I’ve ever seen,” Gwaine said, his usual flippant tone doing a poor job of hiding how unsettling he found the thing. 

“I think it’s-“ Tristan stepped forward, his voice equal parts frightened and… awed? “I think its a familiar.” 

Merlin supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that an outlaw bard might know stories about things that were illegal to learn about. There were probably some phenomenally terrifying songs about familiars out there. Get far enough away from Camelot, and they probably weren’t even illegal to sing. 

“A what?” Arthur asked, not taking his eyes off the beast. 

“A familiar,” Tristan repeated. He was definitely a little bit in awe. “They’re sort of… companions to magic users. They give them more energy and can help them heal, things like that. Or that’s what the songs say, anyway.” 

“Why does it look like that?” Elyan asked. 

“According to the poets, it’s because animals are supposed to be free, and the magic takes their freedom, so they become monsters.” 

If Tristan stuck around, Merlin was going to have to ask him where he got his information, because that was a better summary than he could have managed, and he bet Tristan hadn’t needed to paw through a dozen dusty badly translated tomes to learn it. 

“So there’s a sorcerer nearby,” Arthur said, and tightened his grip on his weapon. Merlin’s gaze darted to Morgana and he saw a muscle jump in her jaw. 

That was the hardest thing about having magic and trying to be a decent person; the constant run-ins with magic users who had decided to compete with Uther for the title of Most Evil Person In All The Land. It was why he really needed to work up the nerve to confess to Arthur so he could tell Morgana and reassure her that no, not all magic users went insane and started killing people. That wasn’t their future. Evil was a choice, and magic was not a corruption. 

Later. Right now there was a sorcerer nearby working some of the most revolting magic Merlin had ever felt. He knew his magic wasn’t like anyone else’s, and so Archimedes wasn’t like any other familiar. According to what he’d read, other familiars had to be made, while he’d had Archimedes since before he could remember and was pretty sure the familiar had just been. But it was still impossible to look at the wolf and not imagine someone doing this to Archimedes and wanting to throw them through a wall for it. 

The wolf reared up on its back legs and danced backward a few paces, eyes rolling in its skull as it tried to watch their entire group at once. The sorcerer it was attached to was probably seeing what he or she was up against. 

“It’ll be telling its master about us,” Tristan said. 

Merlin wasn’t sure if he was relieved there was someone there to explain what was going on without Merlin having to lie about how he knew, or jealous that Tristan was taking over his role as the person who knew about magic. 

“Right.” And Arthur did what he was undoubtedly best at - he strode up and he stuck his sword into the monster. 

The wolf didn’t move to protect itself. Unlike when he and Archimedes did this sort of thing, Merlin suspected the sorcerer so thoroughly took over the animal that it had no instincts of its own left to protect itself with. Merlin hated that he didn’t have a word to differentiate between what Archimedes was and this thing - because this was no partner or friend or faithful companion. This was a corpse being puppeted. Worse, maybe, if the animal was still alive in there, frightened and confused. 

Arthur yanked the sword back out. It had been a good hit - the wolf was still reared up, and he’d gone straight for the heart. 

Unsurprisingly, when dealing with magical monsters, the technically perfect attack hadn’t done any good. The wound bled, but the blood was dark and thick, dribbling out like porridge. The wolf dropped back to all fours, twisting its head to look at Arthur, a growl that sounded mechanical and hollow coming out of its throat. 

It lunged forward and Archimedes met it, burying his teeth into the animal’s thick ruff. He shook his whole body, worrying at the wolf like it was nothing more than a massive toy, once, twice, and then the wolf bounded free and fled back the way it had come. Archimedes gave chase. Merlin could feel Archimedes’s own revulsion echoing his own - they needed to kill this thing. Not the way you killed an enemy, but rather the way you killed a horse with a broken leg or a cat that had gone rabid. If there was one hard lesson from Gaius that Merlin had truly learned, it was that sometimes death was the only mercy that remained. 

“Come on,” Arthur ordered. “I don’t fancy the idea of having that thing at our backs.” He looked at Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin and hesitated. “It might be safer for you three to stay here.” 

“Or there could be more of them and it might not be,” Morgana retorted. 

“We’ll keep an eye on them,” Isolt volunteered. Arthur looked at her, surprised, and she gave him a cheeky smile. “Gives us an excuse to not get right on top of the unkillable wolf that bleeds black.” 

“Keep them safe,” Arthur ordered. “Or else.”

And they pressed forward after Archimedes and the wolf. 

It didn’t take them long to reach their target. It always amazed Merlin, how easily a building could hide in the forest. Not two minutes past their starting point, even at the glacial pace of a wary fighter, was a cottage that could have been Uther’s posterchild for why magic was outlawed. Bloodstains covered the dead and dying grass. Animal bones dangled from the eaves. Cages lined the walls, hollow-eyed animals inside most of them. More familiars, or familiars-in-the-making. Archimedes and the wolf wrestled near the front door, Archimedes clearly the better fighter, but the wolf having a strong advantage by not being something that could be wounded by normal methods. 

Merlin reached out to Archimedes to ask if he knew how to take it out, if he needed Merlin to send him a specific spell, but he was met with blind animalistic rage. Merlin could have snapped him out of it, but he never liked to do that sort of thing if it wasn’t life or death, and being here, looking at the very worst example of what a familiar was, made him want to do it even less. 

The door to the cottage banged open and a wave of magic ripped Archimedes off the wolf and into a tree with a yelp. A sharp breath punched out of Merlin and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from being loud enough for anyone to notice. He siphoned a chunk of magic to Archimedes and got a begrudging push of gratitude back. Archimedes would be fine, of course, he could convert any injuries he got into just dents in his magic, which essentially meant he just needed to sleep it off, but that didn’t mean Merlin couldn’t worry. 

The sorceress stood in her doorway, chin held high and eyes blazing. “Alright,” she said, “if you insist on being fuel for the fire, I’m happy to oblige.” She raised her hand. “Hwamm.” 

The animal cages swung open. A few of them, Merlin realized, were already dead, but most of them stumbled out with the same jerky motions as the wolf, eyes rolling and jaws open. 

<Did your fight with the wolf give you an idea for how to kill these things?> Merlin asked. 

Archimedes gave a low growl along with his answer. <They’ll die without her, but they’ll make getting to her hard. Otherwise…>

The answer appeared in both their minds at once. <Excalibur.>

Technically, Merlin had promised not to give it back to Arthur until Uther was dead, but Arthur disowned and on the run from his father felt close enough, and it wasn’t as though Merlin was known to stick to his own word once Arthur’s life was in danger. If Kilgharrah took issue, he could just get over it. 

<Can you get to it?>

Lake Avalon was, technically, nowhere near them. If Merlin had been thinking, he’d have come up with some excuse to pass by and grab it, just in case, when they’d fled Camelot, but the sword had been pretty far from his mind. In his defense, they’d been fleeing perfectly mortal men. No need for an all-powerful, magic-killing sword against them. 

But Lake Avalon teemed with magic, and Archimedes was made of magic. He’d shortened the trip to the lake dozens of times - had been essential in getting Freya and her funeral boat out there for the pathetic service Merlin had managed to give her, and had smuggled Merlin from the castle to the lakeside in ten steps plenty of times, when Merlin had needed an escape from the castle’s oppressive stone walls more than he’d needed air. Still, they were a lot farther from Lake Avalon now than the castle of Camelot was. 

<Yes,> Archimedes replied, followed by a pause that said he hadn’t actually thought about it. He was as arrogant as Arthur sometimes. <Yes,> he repeated, more confidently. <Ten minutes?>

Merlin glanced at where Arthur, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, and Gwaine were raising their swords to meet the familiars. A lot could go wrong in ten minutes. 

<I’ll make it work.> Like he had a choice. Thankfully, he did his best work under pressure. 

Archimedes melted into a golden pool of magic, then reformed into a massive black bird and shot into the sky, faster than any true raven could go. Merlin felt a tug in his chest as his familiar flew farther from him than a piece of one’s soul should ever go, but after a minute it faded away. It was a feeling that had been unbearable when he’d been a child, had still reduced him to sobs when he’d first arrived in Camelot, but necessity had pulled them apart enough times that their minds or their magic or whatever it was had gotten used to it, or perhaps had learned that the other would always return eventually. 

Ten minutes. Merlin had to keep his friends alive for ten minutes until Archimedes returned with the sword that could deal with the problem, and he would prefer to do it in a way that meant Arthur didn’t have to find out about his magic by watching Merlin snap someone in half with his mind. 

The best odds for that would be to get into the sorceress’s house and disrupt any rituals or bindings she undoubtedly had going in there. Merlin doubted she was binding all these animals to herself with nothing but her will. 

The sorceress was still in the doorway, watching her attackers, maneuvering her familiars to make sure no one got close, and Morgana and Gwen were clutching one another’s hands and watching the battle, which meant no one would notice if Merlin snuck around to the back and broke in. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

No one, that was, except Tristan and Isolt, who Merlin had forgotten about entirely until that very moment. Because, of course, when Arthur had said keep them safe he’d also meant Merlin, because Merlin was busy being too cowardly to tell Arthur that he could take care of himself perfectly well, thank you very much. 

“To… check on my dog?” Merlin asked, and glanced over to where Archimedes had fallen, thinking dwimore as hard as he could to conjure up an illusion of the crumpled form of a hound. 

“You’ll both be sitting ducks like that,” Tristan said firmly, and he pushed - actually pushed - Merlin back to where he’d been standing. “He’ll have to wait.” 

“He got hurt trying to protect us, and I’m going to check on him,” Merlin said indignantly, and while the worry was false, the annoyance was real. He’d never really appreciated how easy it was to keep Arthur from noticing him mid-fight, had he? Good old Arthur, with his battle-hardened tunnel vision, who never saw anything except for the threat directly in front of his face, not even swords dropping out of peoples hands and conveniently falling tree branches landing on peoples heads. 

“He’s either fine or he isn’t, and I hardly think you’re going to be performing surgery on a dog in the middle of all this.” 

And there were two of them, that was even worse. One could keep an eye on Merlin while the other made sure nothing was approaching and that Morgana and Gwen weren’t running off to do something as stupid as what they thought Merlin was going to do. 

“We could move over that way, couldn’t we?” Morgana asked, turning back toward them. She looked sick - Merlin imagined she was grateful for an excuse to look away from the unnatural movements of the animals and the even less natural black blood seeping out of them each time one of the fighters got in a hit. 

A nasty cry split the air and they all jumped, looking over to see that Arthur had managed to slice his sword through the sorceress’s arm, though Leon had then immediately hauled him back again, narrowly avoiding a charging boar. 

Blood splattered across the sorceress’s side. Her arm hung uselessly, gouged open all the way to the bone, and for a moment Merlin was dumb enough to hope things would work out and Arthur would manage to kill her despite her army of possessed animals. 

“Feorh gewrixl bana bealucwealm.” 

The wolf they had first seen froze in its tracks, its jaws still open, its legs suspended mid-lunge toward Percival, who, understandably, looked uncertain about if he should be taking advantage of the apparent opportunity. 

Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the wolf collapsed in a heap with a pitiful sound. Something black and nebulous rose out of it and rushed into the sorceress. 

The gash in her arm closed up. The blood vanished. The clothing stitched itself back together. The woman grinned, triumph and bloodlust shining in her eyes, and she clenched her hand into a fist. “Abrecan.”

And thank whoever that Gaius had made Merlin learn the old language, really learn it, not just memorize the words for whatever spell he needed it for, because he barely recognized what she was doing in time to throw up a counterspell, calling as much of her power toward him as he could. 

The spell of destruction she’d launched out hit his shield and reverberated through it hard enough to hurt his teeth. He braced himself, let it pass through him, feeling the magic wash over him like a wave of blood. It made him want to retch. 

The others, of course, hadn’t expected it, and they went slamming to the ground in a clang of bodies and metal, the air whooshing out of them. Even the familiars went down. Only Merlin kept his feet, but he could feel that everyone was still both breathing and conscious, if somewhat dazed, so he’d done what he’d aimed for. If he hadn’t gotten that much of a shield up, that spell would have blown at least one of the people it hit to pieces. 

Rage roared up through him. What a fucking waste. He knew how much magic was in an animal, how much life. It was why he didn’t much care for hunting with Arthur, even when they really did need the food. But at least that had a purpose. The witch could have healed herself with a fraction of that. She hadn’t needed to drain the last of the animal’s life away just to wash out the blood or patch up her clothes. She hadn’t needed to throw up an attack of that size. She didn’t need to be doing any of this. 

Anger pulsed out of him and he only half meant to when he slammed her backward through her front door and slammed it shut again behind her. Hopefully, no one had seen and they’d assume she’d retreated. If not - he was too angry to care about that right now. 

He bolted for the rear of the cottage before Tristan and Isolt could recover enough to stop him. 

He blasted out the back wall, because at the end of the day he really wasn’t a subtle person. The sorceress spun to face him, her face a mix of fear and fury. “Who are you?”

“You first.” There were abandoned bones of some poor creature at his feet and he kicked them aside. “Who are you, and how do justify what you’re doing to these things?” His voice sounded almost foreign to his own ears, warped by rage and magic. He could feel that his eyes were still glowing gold. Outside, he realized time had slowed to a crawl. He could feel the others, still on the ground, still processing what had happened. He hadn’t intended to do that spell, but it worked in his favor. Gave him more time to deal with the sorceress, and Archimedes more time to fetch Excalibur.

The sorceress straightened herself, knocking her hood back, and whispered the release of the illusion spell that had made it hard to make out much of her appearance beyond ‘female’ and ‘intimidating’. A burn crawled up her neck. She pulled off her cloak and scars littered her arms. “I am Lunete. Who are you to judge me? You know nothing, little sorcerer, if you can’t imagine why I’d do this.” 

“Uther Pendragon,” Merlin said, because it wasn’t a difficult guess. Uther was at the heart of at least half the world’s problems, it seemed. “Did you get the burn during the Great Purge?”

Her mouth twisted, apparently less than thrilled that he wasn’t some naive idiot who didn’t even know magic was illegal. “Of course. And everything else during the chases that followed. I came out here to be alone, to be in peace, but they wouldn’t leave me be! Uther and his dogs, chasing us from one home to another, following us into other kingdoms, bullying the other kingdoms out of harboring us! Convincing them to start witch hunts of their own! I did what I had to do to survive!” 

A dead cat lay sprawled on an alter and Merlin picked it up by the scruff. “This? You had to do this to survive?” 

“I needed the power! Uther’s learned how to deal with what we have naturally. With familiars, we can have so much more.” She stepped toward him. “That spell I did just now? On my own, it would have taken every drop of strength I had while fighting at my best. But taking it from that animal? Not only am I not tired, I’m more awake. More alive! Your friends out there will never get past them. And when I have enough, even Uther Pendragon won’t be able to stop me. No one will.” 

“That isn’t Uther Pendragon out there!” Merlin held up the dead cat again. “This isn’t Uther Pendragon! This was an innocent animal and you slaughtered it for nothing.” 

She sneered at him. “And what have they told you, boy? Do you think those people out there are your friends? That they would give you the time of day if you couldn’t protect them from your own kind?” 

It was the other way around, of course. They liked Merlin fine when he was apparently useless. It was how they’d feel about him once they knew he could kill them with a flick of his eyes that worried him. But he was hardly going to tell her that. “I’m not like you. I don’t get power from other lives. And I wouldn’t, however desperate I got. This isn’t their fault. It isn’t their fight.” 

“How idealistic. I’m sure Uther will take that into account when he catches you. Perhaps he’ll be merciful enough to take your head off, instead of burning you alive.” 

“I’d rather he cut my head off than be responsible for this kind of waste of life myself.” He realized how tightly he was gripping the cat’s body and set it down. Not on the altar though. He’d dispose of the bodies properly once they were done here. Arthur would make fun of him for getting emotional over a bunch of dead, magic-infested animals, but Merlin didn’t care. They’d been warped too much to go back into the food chain, but they deserved to be burned, at least. Released from the last traces of what had been done to them. 

“You’ll wish you hadn’t said that when they catch you.” She raised a hand. “Or you would, if you were going to live that long. Feorh gewrixl bana afol.” 

But nothing happened. Merlin felt the tug of her trying to pull magic out of one of her beasts outside, but time was still no more than a crawl out there. Nobody was even all the way back up yet. The sorceress’s magic jumped out and slowed too, the spell hanging useless in the air halfway to its target. 

Merlin watched the woman’s face change as the power didn’t flow into her and she reached out to her familiars, trying to feel what had gone wrong. As she realized that everything in the little clearing outside of her house of death had frozen in time. 

When she looked back at him, she no longer looked inclined to call him boy. “How are you doing this?” 

“It’s a talent.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You aren’t going to beat me. But I don’t want to kill you. I don’t like killing. Let your familiars go, and I’ll let you leave before I release the spell. We’re just passing through. You can come back in a day or two.” He looked around in disgust. “Although, if I come back this way and you’re still doing this, it’s me you’re going to have to worry about, not Uther.” 

She stared at him. “You’re him, aren’t you? Emrys. From the prophecies.” 

“So people like to tell me.” 

She looked out toward the clearing through one of her grimy windows. “Then… one of them is Arthur Pendragon.” 

Merlin’s magic coiled tighter around him. He’d heard this conversation play out a few times. He reached out toward Archimedes. 

<Almost back!> the familiar reportedly proudly. <Did you know I get faster when you’re angry? Freya says good luck.>

<Find a way to get Excalibur to Arthur. Preferably without him realizing you’re giving it to him.>

<Not using this as an icebreaker for the magic conversation then?> Archimedes gave a long, tired sigh. <Fine.>

Merlin returned his attention to the sorceress. “Yes, one of them is Arthur. Who will have a hard time bringing magic back to Camelot and uniting Albion if he’s dead. Which he won’t be, because I won’t let you anywhere near him. This is your last chance to leave here with your life.”

The fury was back in her face. The part of her that had been awed by how much power he wielded had been thoroughly eclipsed by the prospect of being within striking distance of a Pendragon. Pity she almost certainly wouldn’t believe him - or care - if he told her Arthur and Uther were no longer on speaking terms. 

“I don’t care for your promised peace, Emrys. I care for making Uther bleed.” 

“Arthur is not his father.” 

“He is close enough.” 

“You won’t touch him.” Merlin gritted his teeth together. As deep as his magical reserves were, he was pushing himself pretty hard with this one. Time was inching back up to speed outside. “Lieg.” Lightning sparked out of him. It danced in the rafters, jumped between his shoulders, burned the floorboards around him. 

“Blaest ond ea!” 

He heard her hiss of pain as lightning struck her, but only barely over the wind she’d sent roaring toward him. Something hit him in the chest and shattered, knocking the air out of him. He felt time snap outside, springing back to life as his friends and the familiars scrambled to their feet. 

A roar tore out of him. “You aren’t touching Arthur!”

He slammed his lightning down, and felt three of the familiars outside drop dead as she blocked as much of it as she could. 

“Bredan hiewian!” she screamed, pain and fury and fear in her voice. 

The spell caught him just below the ribs and doubled him over. He hadn’t thought to guard. Gaius had gotten on him about that a lot, before he’d died. That Merlin was always so worried about Arthur he didn’t watch his own back. Merlin had never gotten any better about it. Most magical attacks he could shrug off anyway - Nimueh’s fireball had left a scar, but had still been more of an irritant than anything else. But this spell had settled into his chest like a bad cough. What had she done? Did he know the words she’d shouted? 

Merlin wheezed, tried to throw another lightning strike, and found the lightning missing. He reached for it, reached for fire, reached for anything, but other than a vague awareness that Archimedes was screeching in for a landing there was nothing. He hadn’t used up all his magic, had he? He couldn’t have. He didn’t feel tired. Just dizzy and disoriented and - small? 

He saw, as though she was now much farther away, the sorceress yank open her front door and storm back out into the clearing, screaming Arthur’s name. Merlin moved to chase after her and stumbled, hitting his chin squarely on the floor. 

He staggered back up again, trying to get his bearings, and forced himself to take a deep breath, to take stock before making his next move. 

Oh. Oh no. 

Things had just gone very, very wrong. 

Chapter Text

He needed to get up. He needed to get up. 

Arthur sucked in air despite his lungs trying to insist they weren’t ready for that yet, gripped his sword tighter, and forced himself to roll to his feet. 

Around him, everyone was shaking off the shockwave the witch had just slammed into them. Leon was a few feet away, using his sword as a prop to stand, gasping for air. The horrible imitations of animals - the familiars - were piled around them like broken toys, some of them beginning to shake their heads and rise to their feet again. It would have been a great opportunity, if their swords were doing anything more than spraying black ichor across the grass. 

The sorceress. Arthur knew enough about magic to know she was the key - if they killed her, her puppets would almost certainly die with her. That was how it always went with these things. 

The trouble was, he couldn’t find her. She’d only been a few feet away from him when she’d sent out the spell after curing what injury he’d been able to manage, but now she’d vanished. The blast had probably been as much distraction as attack. 

The door of the witch’s cottage blasted open, knocking it off one of its hinges. “You are mine, Arthur Pendragon!” she shouted, lifting a hand. 

Arthur braced himself for another wave of energy, but what happened instead was almost worse - all the familiars turned to look at him. Animals were not supposed to look at humans like that, and they certainly weren’t supposed to do it with eyes blown wide enough for the whites to show, but with no trace of fear in their ears and tails. 

Leon slid into place at his side, the set of his shoulders grim. 

“We have to get to the sorceress,” Arthur said as he set his back to Leon’s so they could watch both sides. “We can’t kill these things.” 

“Are we sure we can kill her?” Gwaine asked as he and Elyan joined them. The two of them had been taking to training well; they fell into position almost as seamlessly as Arthur and Leon had. Arthur made a mental note to congratulate them later. 

Mostly Elyan. Gwaine was too cocky already. 

“She did cure that wound you gave her pretty easily,” Elyan agreed nervously, getting his shield up just in time to knock back a charging deer - and Arthur had never appreciated that deer could be frightening until he saw this one. They seemed much smaller when they were running away, and he hadn’t known the cut of their hooves could be so sharp. 

“Not easily,” another voice said, and Arthur jerked a little in surprise - he hadn’t realized Percival and Lancelot had moved to join them too. It made sense though - the familiars were no longer frenzied and attacking whoever got close. They were after Arthur with all the focus of a hunting hound. 

Arthur thought briefly of Archimedes being flung into a tree and spared a moment to hope the dog was alright before putting it out of his mind. 

“What do you mean?” Leon asked. He stabbed through a wildcat’s neck and kicked it back. 

“She killed one of her familiars to do it,” Percival said, and then flung back the deer that was charging Elyan again like it was nothing. Arthur had always considered himself to be pretty strong, but next to Percival he thought he might understand how Merlin must feel watching Arthur fight. “Even if we just manage small wounds, she’ll burn through all of them eventually.” 

‘Eventually’ was sounding like a long time though. They weren’t exactly armed and armored with the best equipment Arthur had ever used, and the animals were pressing too closely for a launch at the witch to be an option. 

“Arthur!” Tristan’s voice boomed across the field. “Get down!”

Arthur, never much good at taking orders, froze for a moment, but Leon didn’t - he grabbed Arthur by the back of the neck and shoved him to the dirt, just in time for a massive ball of fire to shoot through where he’d been. Gwaine sprung away, slapping at where it had set the edge of his shirt on fire, and Lancelot had to knock a boar back from him. Leon and Arthur rolled and scrambled back, trying to get to their feet and away from the fire and the sorceress and the animals all at the same time. 

Arthur shook his head, trying to clear the ringing between his ears. He flexed his fingers - shit. He was no longer holding his sword. He’d dropped it somewhere in the chaos like an idiot, like never lose your weapon wasn’t the most important lesson a knight could have drilled into them. 

He cast around as he tried to get up and watch his surroundings and Leon’s back at the same time. He needed a weapon, he was useless without one. 

A gleam of metal caught his eye near one of the animal cages and he sprang at it. Even a rusted bit of cage would be better than nothing until he could find where his had ended up. 

What he pulled free was not a rusted bit of cage. It was a sword, so perfectly balanced, and such an easy fit in his hand, that he nearly fell over again overcompensating for a weight that didn’t come. 

“Where did-?” Leon began, then stopped to fend off the deer again. 

Arthur snapped himself out of admiring the unexpectedly stunning sword. Later. 

He swept out with it, and it cut through the air like it was an extension of his arm, as eager to cut through the familiars as he was. 

And it did. 

When he’d stabbed the wolf, the feeling had been all wrong. Like if he’d expected to stab a man and found it was a training dummy instead. Stiff. Inorganic. 

Now, he swung the sword at the deer and it carved through the creature’s shoulder like a hot knife through butter. Black and red blood spurted out, spraying freely. 

Leon jumped back and looked up at Arthur, their mutual surprise reflected back at one another. 

Arthur hefted the sword and drove it down into the creature’s heart. 

And it died. 

“No!” the sorceress snarled, and Arthur pulled the sword free - it came without protest - and turned toward her, a fresh surge of energy pulsing through him. She’d been foolish enough to leave a sword that could kill her toys lying around, and he wasn’t one to let opportunities pass him by. 

“To me!” he shouted, and his ragtag group of knights sprang to obey as easily as if they’d been doing it for years. 

The sorceress backed away from them. Her familiars stood limply, as though waiting for orders. 

She raised her arms. “Feorh gewrixl bana afol!”

The familiars dropped lifelessly to the ground and black clouds of what Arthur could only assume was some form of magic rushed to the witch. 

He felt the crackle of power as they flew into her, and knew that if he let her finish whatever spell she was powering up, none of them would be living to tell about it. Not even Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin, not even if he ordered Tristan and Isolt to get them clear now.

Arthur charged. The witch said something, cast something, but Arthur’s world had tunneled down to himself and his foe. What she was saying didn’t matter. What she was doing didn’t matter. What anyone else was doing didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting to her, stopping her, before she hurt anyone else. 

He’d always been protective of his knights. His people. That was his duty. That was how he proved he deserved his knighthood, his future crown, that they hadn’t just been given to him because he had Uther’s blood in his veins. But now… Now it was so much more than that. 

These people weren’t following the crown. They weren’t following the Pendragon bloodline. They weren’t following the knight’s code. They were following him, and if he didn’t protect them then they would die for him. Not for Camelot, not for some innocent villagers with bad luck, for him.

That wasn’t going to happen. 

Arthur didn’t hear the roar that came out of his lungs so much as he felt it. He closed in as the sorceress threw out her spell and he shoved through it, feeling a burn, but it didn’t slow him. 

The sword punched through her chest. The magic kicked out of her like water out of a freshly burst pipe. The sensation of a burn that had been building vanished, replaced by the feeling of getting kicked in the chest by a horse. 

And for the third time in mere minutes, Arthur was knocked on his ass.

“Arthur! Arthur!"

Leon’s face swam into view above him as Arthur’s head cleared - which seemed wrong. It was always Merlin who was peering worriedly over him when he came to, his face then splitting into the happiest expression Arthur could imagine once Arthur opened his eyes. He was glad to see Leon, of course, but. Well. Where was Merlin?

Arthur managed to sit up, then stand up, Leon hovering at his elbow the whole time. “I’m fine,” Arthur told him, stretching out his muscles to make sure it was true. “Is it over?” 

Leon nodded. “She managed one more spell as you killed her, but I think it was weakened. Knocked us off our feet again, but I think you took the worst of it.” 

Arthur was about to ask what that meant when he moved his sword arm and felt a weak protest. He looked down at it to find that his shirt sleeve was ruined, and a burn made it most of the way to the elbow. 

“Let me see,” Morgana’s voice demanded, and he held his arm out to her almost before he worked out where she was. His sister took herself seriously at the best of times, and in times of crisis she got incredibly intense. 

Leon took the sword out of his hand as Morgana looked his arm over, then nodded, apparently satisfied. “I think it’s superficial. Gwen, Merlin, and I have been gathering healing herbs when we can - We'll make you a paste for it.” 

“Thank you, Morgana, I’d appreciate it. You’re alright?” 

She nodded. “You all kept them thoroughly distracted.” But then she bit her lip. 

Arthur frowned. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” 

“Well, it’s - It’s just that no one’s seen Merlin.” 

The bottom dropped out of Arthur’s stomach and anger flew up to fill the void. “What do you mean, no one’s seen him? He was with you!” 

He didn’t wait for Morgana to answer, whirling around until he spotted Tristan and Isolt, who were blithely looking around at the carnage of the fight as though they hadn’t done anything wrong. 

He barely heard Leon’s attempt to protest as he charged toward them. “Where is he? You had one job, how the hell-“

Tristan put his hands up as Arthur barreled closer. “Don’t look at us! He was with us, we all got knocked over by that spell, and then he was nowhere! I thought he’d ran off to check on his dog, but I can’t find him either!” 

Arthur swept his gaze over the clearing. There was the tree Archimedes had been flung into, and sure enough, there was no sign of the dog at the base. There were Elyan, Percival, and Lancelot, helping each other up and collecting scattered equipment, obliging Gwen as she appeared to fuss over them. There was the sorceress, dead with all her familiars equally dead around her. There was Gwaine, just a few feet away, his face nearly as murderous as Arthur felt. 

“Maybe he made a run for our gear,” Isolt suggested. “Anyone with sense would have bolted from those things.” 

“You don’t know Merlin,” Arthur growled. Because Merlin was an idiot who was too stupid to stay out of the line of fire, even when Arthur bodily hauled him clear. He hadn’t run away. Arthur looked over the clearing again, and it was still Merlin-free, which made no damn sense because sometimes Arthur couldn’t seem to get away from Merlin when he wanted to. He was always underfoot, always insisting he come along, and so help him, if Tristan and Isolt had let him do something stupid - 

An enormous beast emerged from the sorceress’s badly damaged house and Arthur almost lunged for the nearest sword - which would have been the one on Tristan’s belt - before he recognized the shape. 

“Archimedes,” he said, a small sigh of relief escaping him. Maybe Merlin had just run off to check on the dog, and dragged him into the closest thing to shelter they had. Still incredibly stupid, but as long as the idiot hadn’t gotten himself killed, Arthur felt inclined to forgive him. “Where’s Merlin, boy?” 

The dog padded over, looking tired, which was probably as good as could be hoped for after that toss, and deposited something black at Arthur’s feet. 

The black thing didn’t move. It very pointedly didn’t move, and after a moment Arthur realized he was looking at a fox. A small black fox holding so perfectly still it could almost have been a statue, if it hadn’t set itself upright after Archimedes deposited it. 

“Ah.” Arthur nudged it with the toe of his boot, but it didn’t respond. “Probably the sorceress’s next familiar. Go on, you, you’re free to be hunted another day.” 

The fox’s shoulders hunched, but it otherwise didn’t move. 

“Thing’s probably scared out of its mind,” Gwaine said. “Leave it alone, Archimedes. Where’s Merlin?” 

The dog tapped the fox’s head with one paw. 

“Leave it alone, Archimedes,” Arthur echoed, and he almost leaned down to pull the big dog away from its apparent new favorite toy before he remembered his arm, and that it probably wouldn’t like a hundred pounds of hunting dog on top of it. “Where’s Merlin?”

He knew the dog understood the question - he certainly got asked it enough. Nine times out of ten, Arthur could ask and Archimedes would trot off to where Merlin had lost track of time in the castle library, or the kitchens, or enjoying the view from the balcony. After fights, Arthur didn’t need to ask it - Merlin would either already be at Arthur’s side, or else Archimedes would be next to him, barking up a storm until someone came over to deal with Merlin’s broken arm or bruised head. 

This time, Archimedes just looked up and made an annoyed huffing sound, as though he thought Arthur was being very stupid. He could be a very judgmental dog, sometimes. Arthur could swear the dog was capable of laughing at the knights, after he’d been invited to charge at them to give them some experience with what it was like to fight a war dog. 

The rest of their group had gathered around them, concern on all their faces. “Merlin’s missing?” Lancelot asked, his brow furrowed. “How?” 

“Ask them,” Arthur said hotly, nodding toward Tristan and Isolt, who did not look cowed. 

“We all got knocked over, no one got thrown through the woods,” Isolt said. “If he took off, he did it himself.” 

The frustrating thing about that was that she was right. It wouldn’t be the first time Merlin had run off somewhere during a fight and then reappeared looking confused that anyone would have wondered why.

But he wasn’t reappearing this time, and he should have had plenty of time to get to where they’d left their supplies and back, if that was what he was doing. 

Leon jumped back. “What is that?” 

Arthur looked down to see that Leon had nearly stepped on the fox, which was still sitting there, shoulders hunched up like it hoped to shrink its head into its neck. Its ears were pinned flat to its skull, almost vanishing into the fur of its head. 

“Archimedes found it in the house,” Arthur said, and then he strode over to the house to make sure Merlin wasn’t knocked out inside. Gwaine followed after him, but Arthur didn’t pay him any mind. 

The house was a horror show. Blood and bones and animal hides, and more than a few entire dead animals. There were symbols which were clearly magical etched into surfaces, onto weapons, drawn in blood. The place reeked of herbs and the rot of the dead. 

But it was a small house and Merlin was obviously not inside it. The back wall had a gaping hole in it, and Arthur went through it, but Merlin wasn’t on the other side either. 

Arthur returned to the group, teeth grinding together. If Merlin was just hiding off behind the treeline, Arthur was going to kill him. 

“Archimedes!” Arthur called. “Where’s Merlin?”

The dog bent down, picked up the fox by the scruff of its neck, and deposited it at Arthur’s feet again. 

“You don’t think he’s…” Gwaine looked at Arthur, then down at the fox. The fox was once more sitting stock-still, ears back and its eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Merlin?” Gwaine asked. 

The fox looked up, unnaturally golden eyes peering out of its face, and made an angry chittering noise. 

Arthur’s mouth dropped open.

Merlin as a fox was almost funny, when Morgana wasn’t worrying about it. He was visibly furious about this development, with his massive ears pinned to his head, and stomping everywhere he went on his little paws - when Gwaine or Arthur were allowing him to walk at all, that was. The two of them kept scooping him up and carrying him along, worry creasing their brows. 

“We don’t know how this spell works,” Arthur had said, picking Merlin up and ignoring the fox’s irritated chirping noises. “What if he has animal instincts now? If he goes running off, we’ll never catch up.” 

So Merlin was being carried around like a handbag, looking as furious about it as fox features would allow. 

If Morgana only knew more about magic, maybe she would have been able to turn him back. She’d been cursed with this thing, this thing that had made her live in fear, had driven her from her home, that still threatened her and everyone she had left, and she didn’t even know how to use it to help. Merlin had said he didn’t believe magic was evil, that it was as much a tool as a sword, but when he’d offered to go digging through the library he was very much not supposed to have access to to find her a book on basic spells, she’d refused. It had felt like playing with fire, daring Uther to catch her. 

Well, he’d caught her anyway, and now she couldn’t even magically light a fire for the group, much less turn Merlin back to himself. 

Morgana rubbed her wrist, where her healing bracelet had once rested. Her half-sister, Morgause, had smuggled it to her at great personal risk, but Morgana could hardly have risked going back for it as they fled Camelot. She hadn’t heard from Morgause since her arrest. She could only assume the bracelet had been part of whatever spell it was Morgause used to reach out to her. 

Now she was alone. None of Merlin’s spellbooks, no magical sister to seek guidance from. Just her, surrounded by people who had just seen yet another example of Uther’s being right, of magic being something ugly and twisted and evil. 

She stood abruptly, drawing a surprised look from Gwen, who had just finished the last of the poultices she’d taught Morgana how to make and was pressing it to Elyan’s shoulder. “I’m going to help Lancelot with the bodies,” Morgana lied, and strode off before anyone could protest. 

Lancelot had said they should burn the familiars’ bodies, since they probably shouldn’t be allowed to rot into the earth or be eaten by other animals. Percival had stayed to help him while everyone else had returned to their supplies and set up camp for the night, the other men tending to wounds or fussing over Merlin, and Morgana helping Gwen put together some medicine. They weren’t far from the ruined cottage, but they’d all agreed that it was a little too unsettling, and too full of corpses, for them to want to sleep near it.

Morgana crept around the edge, so Percival and Lancelot wouldn’t see her. Archimedes, who appeared to be helping them gather wood, trotted by, but she rubbed one of his ears and he carried on. 

The house made her feel sick. A cooking pot. A bed with threadbare blankets. Books and loose pages scattered everywhere. No signs of comfort. Of a home. Morgana knew it was likely the woman, like so many before her, had been driven out of civilization by Uther and his witch hunts. Driven into the woods with nothing but the clothes on her back, and she wouldn’t have had a surprisingly loyal brother and his reckless friends to help her make it. Nothing but what magic she knew and a fear of being caught. 

Morgana should have tried to talk to her. Maybe if she’d known they were on the run for the same reason… 

Morgana trailed her fingers over blood-splattered pages. Some of them appeared to have been torn from books and there was writing crammed into the margins. The woman had been trying to modify spells for her own use, Morgana thought, though she couldn’t make heads or tails of the specifics. 

Lancelot and Percival looked to have already gathered up all the animal corpses inside the house. Morgana remembered the awful way the things had moved and shivered, hugging herself. How desperate must the woman have been, to surround herself with such creatures? 

A leatherbound book, clearly handmade, lay near an altar. Morgana gently opened it to its first page. 

My name is Lunete. Uther Pendragon has attempted to burn me, but I’ve escaped. He will hunt me, but I will prepare. I will be ready. I will not be another trophy in his hall. 

Morgana thumbed through the journal, tears pricking at her eyes. There was no clear organization to Lunete’s writings. One page was filled with scribbles as she appeared to practice runes. One was a run-on sentence as Lunete had apparently sat and worked out her thoughts on the best way to defend her home without exhausting herself. One was a list of names and how they had died, who had held the sword or ordered the execution. Most of them listed Uther Pendragon. 

Morgana slipped the journal into the little bag she’d been using for what few supplies she had. Arthur would think she was being ridiculous, and everyone else would probably agree, even Gwen, but all Morgana could think was how easily she could have been the one now lying dead out there, Arthur having left a clean cut through her heart. Lunete, and her list of the dead, deserved to be remembered, to be mourned, by someone.

She looked over the rest of the house and stepped over to a bookshelf, which was probably the least bloodied place. A book on plants. Several in a language Morgana couldn’t read. 

There.

Morgana pulled a tome off the shelf, and when she flipped through it she could actually make sense of most of it. A basic spellbook, like she should have had Merlin find for her ages ago. Or asked Morgause about. Or been brave enough to go looking for herself. 

She tucked the book into her bag. It was a tight fit next to the journal and her other few belongings, which meant she’d have to come up with some excuse for not putting much else in it when they packed up camp in the morning. Not that she thought anyone would be upset she had it - or maybe she did think that. Being seized by prophetic nightmares wasn’t her choice. Learning minor magic to keep the dreams under control and not light her bedroom on fire was a logical response to those dreams that anyone with sense would have done. 

Seeking out new magic, learning it from books belonging to a sorceress they all no doubt considered evil, was something entirely different. How far could she trust Arthur’s loyalty to stretch? 

She went back out through the ruined wall, same way she’d come in, and looped around to where Percival and Lancelot seemed to just be waiting for the burning to be done. “All finished then?”

They turned and gave her polite nods. “Just waiting now,” Lancelot said, and leaned down to pat Archimedes’s head. The dog was, thankfully, no worse for wear from his part in the battle. He just looked a bit worn out. “Everyone alright?”

“Yes, Arthur got the worst of it, and even that was superficial, though it may scar a bit. He’s already feeling much better. Except for making himself sick over Merlin.” 

A smile tugged at Lancelot and Percival’s mouths, but they quickly got themselves under control. Morgana felt her own mouth trying to do the same and forced it back into a frown. It was not funny that Merlin was trapped as a small animal, unable to communicate, with no known way of turning him back. He was almost certainly terrified, and what if Arthur’s concerns were valid and they had to worry about Merlin becoming overwhelmed by animal instinct? 

Still. He did make a very cute little fox. 

“At least Archimedes recognized him,” Lancelot said, with an odd pitch to his voice that said he was still trying not to laugh. “I don’t think he’d have been willing to play charades with us to make us realize.” 

No, Morgana thought it more likely that Merlin was willing to just die in the woods than keep putting up with everyone’s fussing, and the inevitable teasing that would come once he was turned back. Thank goodness Archimedes, at least, had sense. 

Morgana stood quietly with the two men as the fires died down. They’d burned Lunete too, on as much of a proper funeral pyre as could be managed with their resources. Morgana’s heart warmed to them at that. It was more dignity that she would have expected them to grant the woman who’d attacked them. But then, Lancelot had been such a paragon of knightly virtues Arthur had tried to argue with Uther over his lack of noble blood, and Percival was his friend. Perhaps she should have given them more credit. 

“Well,” Lancelot said, when the fires had died away to embers and he and Percival had put those out to prevent a forest fire. “Back to camp then.” 

“And to the world’s angriest fox,” Percival added, face struggling to not fall into a grin. 

“Stop it,” Lancelot told him, but his voice was shaking with barely restrained laughter. “You’d be mad too, if you were suddenly only a foot tall.”

“And fluffy,” Morgana added. 

“And fluffy,” Percival agreed, and then gave a deep, booming laugh as they reached the others. 

Merlin was draped over Gwaine’s arms, looking at them furiously, like he knew they’d been teasing him. Maybe he did - Morgana didn’t know how good fox hearing was. 

“All taken care of,” Lancelot announced, and he took a seat beside Gwaine. For a moment, it looked like he was going to pet Merlin’s head, but he put his hands in his own lap instead. “Do we have any ideas on how to deal with this development?” 

Arthur shook his head as Archimedes flopped down at Gwaine’s feet with a heavy exhalation of breath. Gwaine handed Merlin to Arthur - Merlin made an extremely undignified noise of protest - and knelt down to feel the dog over. “Damn lucky beast,” he said as he massaged along Archimedes’s sides. “Nothing feels broken.” 

“Perhaps he used up all the good luck,” Arthur said, “and that’s how Merlin ended up like this.”

Merlin grumbled, and Arthur patted his head. “I appreciate that, even devoid of words, you’ll always find new and creative ways to insult me, Merlin.” 

Merlin snapped at Arthur’s fingers, though he didn’t get anywhere close. Arthur barely seemed to notice. 

Morgana found her way to Gwen’s side and sat down, head rested on the other woman’s shoulder. She was tired, more tired than she’d realized until she sat. She very much wanted to be home, surrounded by familiar things and familiar faces in a familiar place. Uther’s face, contorted with fury, flashed through her mind and she took Gwen’s hand and squeezed, as though Gwen could chase him out. Gwen squeezed back, and lifted a hand to run her fingers through Morgana’s hair, which did a much better job at chasing Uther away than Morgana would have expected. 

A few feet away, Arthur cleared his throat. “I wanted to say…” he began uncertainly, but after a moment he seemed to find his resolve and carried on. “You all fought well today. As well as I could have expected from any trained knights.” He looked over at Tristan and Isolt, who were lounging in each other’s arms beside the campfire, looking at Merlin and not bothering to hide their amusement. “Except for the two of you. You let Merlin get turned into a fox.” His tone was light though, most of the blame that had been in it when Merlin had been missing now gone. 

“Look on the bright side,” Tristan said. “He’ll have a fantastic story to tell once he gets back to normal.”

“If he gets back to normal,” Elyan said nervously. 

Tristan waved him off. “These sorts of things always wear off quickly. A week, I bet, at most.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “You certainly seem to know a great deal about magic. First the familiars, now animal transformation.” 

Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m a bard. We tell stories. Magical creatures make for great stories. Even Uther Pendragon doesn’t chop a man’s head off just for telling a story.”

“You’re a bandit.” 

“And before that, I was a bard. You didn’t think we were born robbing people in the woods, did you?” 

“Of course he did,” Isolt said before Arthur could retort. “Knights are all born with swords in their hands, didn’t you know that?” 

Tristan barked a laugh and pressed his forehead adoringly against his wife’s temple.

“How did a bard come to be a bandit?” Elyan asked, voice more curious than accusatory. 

“How did a group of knights, a lady, and a couple of servants come to be wandering around the woods with hardly any supplies?” Tristan asked back, tone casual but the warning clear - if Arthur’s group wanted privacy, they had to allow Tristan and Isolt to keep their own. 

“I was just-“

Arthur held up a hand and everyone fell silent. For a moment, he looked horribly like Uther. “We obviously don’t trust one another,” he said. “Considering what a short time it’s been, and the circumstances of our meeting, that’s no surprise. We won’t press you for details if you don’t press us, but surely we can learn a few things about one another?”

“Pity there’s no alcohol,” Gwaine said. “No better way to make new friends than with a drinking game.” 

“You and I agree on that,” Tristan said with an approving nod. 

Isolt laughed and smacked her hand against her husband’s shoulder. “Do I need to remind you about the last time you played a drinking game?” 

Tristan winced. “Absolutely not.” 

“You may not need to remind him, but you now absolutely need to tell us,” Gwaine said eagerly, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. 

Isolt grinned, the happy expression of a woman about to reveal a loved one’s embarrassing secrets. Tristan groaned and pressed his face against his wife’s hair, but he made no move to stop her talking. “First of all,” she said, “Tristan cannot hold his liquor.”

“Neither can you.” 

“Yes, but this story isn’t about me. I had the good sense not to play.” Isolt put a hand on her husband’s knee. “We were only supposed to be in town to sell off some things we’d… found, and to buy some more supplies. Instead, this one managed to befriend some stableboy, and then we’re in the tavern while Tristan tries to prove he knows more obscure facts about whatever kingdom we’re in than the stableboy does.”

“I did know more.” 

“And so the problem was…?” 

Tristan groaned and spoke his response into Isolt’s shoulder. “I got drunk so fast I forgot what kingdom we were in and started stating facts about Mercia instead.” 

Several people laughed, and Leon, who was sitting closest to the two, patted Tristan’s shoulder in commiseration. 

“And he might have been able to get himself out of that with just some damaged dignity,” Isolt continued, “if he hadn’t gone on to insist that Mercia had much better horses than Lothian and nearly started a riot. Turned out our stableboy was not only the son of the stable’s owner, but also the heir of a very proud family of horse traders. I’ve had to flee towns many times, but to date that’s the only time I’ve had to do it while hauling along my heavily-drunk husband.” 

That got them laughing properly. Morgana, not quite laughing but at least smiling, looked over to see her brother watching them, an odd expression on his face, something Morgana couldn’t quite name. Merlin was now sitting next to him, one paw rested on Arthur’s leg, his ears no longer pinned back, like he’d forgotten to be angry. He was looking up at Arthur. 

Morgana wasn’t sure when her brother had grown up. The Arthur of a few years ago would never have wanted Tristan and Isolt to join them, and he wouldn’t have been encouraging them to bond. But there in the firelight, laughter and… Pride? Was it pride in his face? Or perhaps it was determination, him setting his mind to making their two newest companions allies, rather than something lower than a mercenary? Whatever it was, as Morgana watched him watch them she felt oddly like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, like the next gust of wind was going to push her over and everything in the world would change, for better or worse. 

“Lothian?” Leon repeated once the laughter had mostly died away. “That’s quite the trek from Camelot. You two certainly do get around.”

“We’re roamers,” Tristan said, shrugging his shoulder, but he said it so casually Morgana felt certain there was more to it. “What about you lot? Some of those accents don’t sound like Camelot natives.” 

“I’m a roamer myself,” Gwaine said easily. “But I’m from Caerleon initially.” 

“Fun place,” Tristan said dryly, “if you like being subject to constant bandit raids because the king can’t keep his army fed.” 

Gwaine gestured broadly around them. “Hence the roaming.” 

“Essetir for me,” Percival said. “Left when Cenred decided the outlying villages were worth more dead than alive.” His voice was thick with either anger or grief; maybe both. Lancelot reached out and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. 

Isolt pulled an exaggeratedly disgusted face. “Worse than Caerleon. Never heard anyone have anything nice to say about Cenred.” 

Uther flashed through Morgana’s mind again. He was always complaining about King Cenred’s raids along Camelot’s borders, how he hired bandits and then washed his hands of them if they were caught, how his army was bigger than any kingdom of that size could need, but Uther had never lifted a finger to do anything about it. If he’d suspected Cenred gave sanctuary to sorcerers he would have declared war in a heartbeat, but as long as the man did nothing but harass defenseless peasants he didn’t care. 

Morgana’s fingers began to clench into a fist before she realized she was still holding Gwen’s hand and the other woman looked down at her, concern clear. Morgana managed a smile for her. Most of the group seemed to be having a nice time; Morgana wouldn’t have ruined it by talking about Uther even if they hadn’t been hiding their connection to Camelot’s king from Tristan and Isolt. 

“How’d you learn to fight, Isolt?” Elyan asked. “If that’s not too many details.” 

Tristan and Isolt looked at each other and Morgana felt the unspoken conversation pass between them. Morgana envied them it. She and Gwen had moments like that, sometimes, but fear of their relationship being caught and Morgana’s reluctance to talk about her powers had suffocated the moments, kept them from growing. If there was one thing Morgana was certain of about the bandit duo, it was that no secrets or shames existed between Tristan and Isolt. Morgana could scarcely fathom being so fully intertwined with another person. She wondered if that was a product of the woods, if the two of them living in civilization, amongst too many other people, would have prevented them from doing it. 

She wondered if Gwen would be willing, in another life, to live with her in the woods, just the two of them, away from all threats. 

She mentally shook her head. Hiding in the woods hadn’t exactly worked out for Lunete. There was no safety for someone like her while Uther breathed. 

Tristan and Isolt seemed to reach an agreement, and Isolt popped a berry into her mouth as she said, “Tristan and I teamed up with a little band of miscreants after we became wanted men. They taught us both enough to get by.” 

“You didn’t stay with them?” Lancelot asked. 

“They would have betrayed us eventually. We left before they had the chance.” 

“Will you do the same to us?” Arthur asked. His tone was impressively neutral, no accusation. Just a practical question - did this alliance come with an end date?

“I’m sure you’re too honorable to betray us, Sir Knight,” Tristan said, which wasn’t really an answer, but no one pushed it.

“What was your first crime?” Gwaine asked. “Mine was a tavern brawl, for those curious.” 

A barking sound replied to that, and everyone snorted a little as they realized it was Merlin. 

“I believe that translates to ‘what a surprise’,” Arthur said dryly, but Morgana could see a smile at the edges of his mouth. 

“Amateur work,” Isolt said. “Anyone could do that.” 

“We kidnapped a queen,” Tristan said, grinning like there was some joke the rest of them weren’t in on.

Gwen jumped. Gwaine made an undignified sound of shock. Leon’s mouth dropped open. Arthur stared at them. “That’s… a joke, right?” 

Tristan and Isolt shared a smug, mischievous look. “I mean, it’s technically true,” Isolt said. “Certainly made the king mad. But we didn’t hurt anyone, before you all get your knightly virtues in a twist.” 

“So you didn’t succeed in kidnapping the queen then?” Gwaine asked with a laugh. “Good start to your life of crime regardless.” 

“Dream big,” Tristan said, toasting with a waterskin. 

“So do we get any information about our knightly companions in exchange for that?” Isolt asked, an eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Everyone looked toward Arthur. “I suppose…” Arthur said carefully, “you could say we pulled off a kidnapping of our own.” 

Tristan and Isolt’s eyes flicked to Morgana knowingly, but they didn’t ask further. “Brave little knights, huh?”  

“We’re still not knights,” Gwaine said. “Just Leon and Arthur.” 

Isolt shrugged. “You’re following them, you fight with them, you let them give orders. Sounds like knights to me.” 

“What’s that make you then?” 

“Touché.” 

“As though any of you deserve the rank of knight,” Arthur said. “You’re a bunch of miscreants.” He grinned as several miscreants threw handfuls of grass at him. Merlin gave an angry chatter as some of the grass fell across his nose, which just made everyone laugh harder. 

Morgana did feel bad for him. But she was also going to join in on the teasing once they’d gotten him back to normal. 

Because they would get him back to normal, she told herself, reaching over to feel the weight of the spellbook in her bag. She wouldn’t settle for anything less. 

Chapter Text

Not only had Merlin never been so righteously indignant before, he hadn’t known he was capable. He was being passed about between Gwaine and Arthur while the group told stories around the fire like he was a toy. 

<You could tell them you’re not going to go running off into the woods, never to be seen again,> Archimedes said. Damn dog sounded smug.

<I will not because then we would be having an entirely different conversation, mostly centering around my having magic.> 

<I thought you were going to tell Arthur soon anyway?>

Merlin hopped down to land on Archimedes’s head, enjoying the brief moment of Archimedes’s upset huff in response before Arthur scooped him back up again. “Merlin? Alright?”

Merlin growled. This whole thing was incredibly frustrating. Archimedes always seemed to think it was great fun to have conversations that no one but Merlin could hear, but Merlin did not share the feeling. Even Lancelot, who Merlin had reached out to once the shock of being turned into a small animal had worn off, wasn’t being much help. He clearly also thought this was funny. Traitor. Perhaps he even found it funnier than the others, since he knew Merlin was still perfectly cognizant and would be able to turn himself back once he worked out the correct spell. At least everyone else had the decency to be a little worried. 

“He probably doesn’t like being coddled,” Morgana said. “He’s not the best at accepting help even when we’re not all cooing over his ears.” 

Merlin bared his teeth in her direction. He didn’t want to hear another word about the ears. 

Gwaine yawned loud enough for Merlin to hear the pop of his jaw and stood and stretched. “Well, if we’re all done sharing embarrassing stories, I’m hitting the hay. Long day of fighting the world’s freakiest animals.” 

Arthur nodded. “We should all get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll start brainstorming what to do about Merlin.” 

A yap came out of Merlin’s mouth. It had started its life as I am right here and you don’t need to ‘do’ anything about me but of course no one heard that. 

Arthur swept Merlin off to his bedroll. Merlin sat and sulked, waiting for everyone to settle down. Once everyone was asleep and it was Lancelot’s turn to keep watch, Merlin would sneak off and start working on un-foxing himself. He’d seen plenty of death caused by magic, but this, he thought, was by far the worst thing he’d ever seen. He would have preferred her to have just burned him to a crisp. 

<I can feel you being dramatic,> Archimedes said, and Merlin growled again. Archimedes laughed. He had the gall to actually laugh. Traitor. 

“I know,” Arthur said softly, and Merlin turned to look at him, confused. What the hell could Arthur ‘know’? 

“This must be terrifying,” Arthur went on, his head propped on one hand as he spoke. “But we’ll fix it Merlin, I promise you. We’ll… We’ll find the druids. They’ll know what to do next.” 

They’d probably also tell Arthur that Merlin was the great warlock Emrys, because they had the subtlety of a stack of bricks. No, Merlin needed to fix this himself, and then pretend that Tristan had been right and it had just worn off. Tristan was really turning out to be far more helpful than Merlin ever would have guessed. 

But… Merlin had to admit it was heartening to hear that Arthur would seek out the druids to help him. Yes, Morgana had told him she’d gotten help from them for her own magical troubles, so he knew they could be at least a little bit trusted, but for Arthur to seek out magic for him… 

Gods, Arthur was going to be so angry when he learned what Merlin had been hiding from him. Merlin wanted to reach out and tell him right now and he wanted to go find a hole to hide in so he never had to tell anyone, ever. 

An involuntary whine came out of him and Arthur moved a hand toward him. Merlin hesitated, but acquiesced to resting his chin on Arthur’s wrist. He could feel Arthur’s pulse beating under his chin, and it was somehow one of the most intimate things he’d ever experienced. 

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss Arthur again so badly, but he couldn’t kiss him with such a big secret weighing on him and he couldn’t tell him. Not like this.

Also, he couldn’t kiss him as a fox. So there was that saving grace, at least. 

“We will fix this,” Arthur repeated. “I will get you back. You have not survived all the trouble I’ve dragged you into for me to lose you because some crazy witch turned you into a fox, of all things. I will get you back and when I do I am going to kiss you senseless.”

Merlin let out a long, sad sigh. If only it would be that simple. If only he knew how to have the needed conversation, if only he could know that Arthur would laugh and wave it off and get right to the kissing. 

He no longer feared Arthur would kill him. His actions with Morgana were proof enough of that. If nothing else, she would likely box his ears if he tried it. But death had stopped being the worst thing Merlin could think of a long time ago. What if Arthur sent him away? What if he allowed Merlin to stay, but relegated Merlin to the fringes, refused to look at him, refused to continue to see him as a friend? 

That would be worse. To be alive and to watch as all the affection Arthur had toward him vanished. He couldn’t bear that. He was too weak. He couldn’t. But he couldn’t kiss Arthur and have this looming between them. 

Arthur or magic. It felt like a choice he’d been hurtling toward since the very beginning, except giving up either of them seemed likely to kill him. A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole, Kilgharrah had said, but Merlin increasingly felt like he made up more than half of this coin. Arthur could survive without him - emotionally, at least, his ability to avoid magical assassins for more than a week was less certain - but Merlin could not survive without Arthur. 

Merlin must have looked truly pathetic, because Arthur reached out and gently stroked his head. Merlin didn’t even protest it this time. How much more physical contact would they have? And it wasn’t as though Merlin hadn’t imagined Arthur doing almost exactly that a thousand times - running his hand over Merlin’s hair, cupping his cheek.

Merlin wanted so desperately it felt like his heart was trying to get out of his chest with the weight of it. But what he wanted - that was impossible. He wanted Arthur to have no prejudice against magic. He wanted to never have been born with magic in the first place. He wanted to be Arthur’s equal - always, not just behind closed doors, not just when Arthur needed a friend more than he needed to convince his father that he wasn’t overly attached to his servant. He wanted to perform spells and have Arthur watch, impressed and delighted. He wanted Uther Pendragon dead without putting the blood of Arthur’s father on his own hands. Or on Arthur’s hands. 

He curled up tighter against Arthur, who looped an arm around him. “It’ll be alright, Merlin,” Arthur said, but the words rung hollow in Merlin’s heart. Sure, the fox thing would be alright. And even if Merlin hadn’t been confident he could eventually fix it himself, he would have taken comfort from Arthur’s reassurance, knowing his friend would do whatever it took to fix him. 

But it wasn’t being a fox that was upsetting him. 

As soon as he was human again, he promised himself. The moment he was back in the correct body he would tell Arthur. No more hesitations, no more excuses. Knowing would be awful, but not knowing had become just as bad. 

The moment he was human again.

Merlin found himself untired when Arthur had dozed off, likely due to the nocturnal nature of foxes. He laid beside him, taking Arthur in from this odd new perspective, thinking. Arthur had changed so much since the two of them had met, Arthur throwing knives toward a frightened servant for a laugh. That man, that boy, would never have argued with Uther about more patrols for the border villages. That boy would never have refused to collect unreasonable taxes. That boy would not have carried around his friend who had been turned into a fox because he was concerned for his safety (Yes, Merlin found it horribly annoying, but the sentiment was sweet). That boy would never have been worth Gaius’s life. 

Merlin tried not to think about Gaius. About his and Archimedes’s mad rush back to the Isle of the Blessed to find themselves too late. About murdering Nimueh in retribution, an anger so all-consuming that it made him look at Lunete and her familiars and wonder if perhaps he understood after all. And then immediately box that thought away again. He couldn’t be like that. He couldn’t allow it. He could not become some new god of magic, treating people like expendable puppets. 

He huddled closer to Arthur’s side. No one but him and Archimedes knew how Gaius had died. Merlin had brought his body back in shock. Uther had guessed the old man’s heart had simply given out on him while he’d been gathering herbs. Merlin hadn’t corrected him. 

The guilt ate at Merlin daily, never farther than the fringes of his thoughts. Guilt at having put Gaius into that position, certainly, but more than that - guilt that he didn’t feel worse about it. Arthur had lived. Merlin had lived. Some days that made it feel worth it, especially on those days when Arthur seemed to forget he was a prince, with all that that implied. And then Merlin remembered that it had been his burden to bear and the old man had taken it from him, and felt worse. 

Maybe that was the real reason he didn’t want to tell Arthur the truth, if he was being honest with himself. Confessing the magic would be difficult, but how would he confess the true cause of Gaius’s death and Merlin’s hand in it? How could he tell Arthur it had been him who had let Kilgharrah loose on Camelot, before finally driving him away again? How could he confess to seeing Morgana’s terror and doing nothing about it because of his own fear? 

Arthur had called him a coward before, but always teasingly, always in the way of Of course you’re a coward, Merlin. That’s how people who haven’t been trained to fight since birth end up not-dead. Once Merlin confessed everything, Arthur would know he really was a coward; having the ability to help and choosing not to do it out of fear. 

A creak of leather reached his ears and he turned to see Lancelot moving to take his turn at watch as Leon laid down. Finally. Something to do.

Merlin extricated himself from Arthur’s arms carefully. It would not do to wake Arthur up and have the man think he needed to be on a leash or something for the night. Really, Arthur’s fear that Merlin might end up with a fox’s brain was not an unreasonable one, given the information Arthur had, but it was certainly getting in the way. 

“Hey, Merlin,” Lancelot greeted softly when Merlin trotted up to him. “How’s being a fox going?” 

Merlin felt his ears swivel back and did his best to glare. Lancelot just grinned. Traitor.

“Off to try and fix yourself?” Lancelot asked. 

<That’s the goal,> Merlin agreed. <I don’t know how much more cuddling I can take.> He’d been surprised by how easy it had been to talk to Lancelot like this - he’d only ever been able to communicate telepathically with a handful of druids. He’d even tried to talk to Arthur like this, once, when he’d been trying to warn Arthur about an assassin Merlin hadn’t thought he would get to in time. Arthur hadn’t heard it, and though Merlin had saved his life in the end, he’d gotten a pretty bad shoulder injury that Merlin had spent two weeks worrying would never heal properly. He still missed being able to run to Gaius to be reassured that Arthur would be fine. The new physician was decent enough, Merlin supposed, but he didn’t understand that he had a piece of Merlin in front of him every time he patched up Arthur. Merlin could hardly go to him with shaking hands and beg that Arthur would be alright, as though the physician hadn’t already done everything that could be done for the prince. 

Servants didn’t do that sort of thing. Word would make it back to the king that the prince and his servant were too close. 

Merlin shook his head from that train of thought. The point was, talking to Lancelot hadn’t been like that at all. Archimedes had suggested it was a translation thing; that Merlin was really just trying to talk normally, and only his form made it telepathic instead of audible. 

<You could probably talk to the others, if you tried,> Archimedes had continued. <Just like I could talk to them, if we wanted me to.>

Merlin suspected he was correct, but by the time they’d come up with the theory it was too late to pretend it was a discovery Merlin had come to by accident. There would be questions. And yes, he really was going to tell Arthur the truth once this was over, but once it was over. He wasn’t going to confess while standing a foot tall with a big bushy tail. 

“Good luck,” Lancelot whispered. “Be back by the time Arthur wakes up or he’ll throw a fit.”

<I won’t be far,> Merlin promised and trotted on, hiding himself just past the trees. Archimedes joined him, and at least for the moment his own amusement at Merlin’s state seemed to fade. 

<What do we try first?> Archimedes asked. 

Merlin hesitated, considering. <The basics, I guess. How do you change your form?>

Archimedes sat back on his haunches, considering. <I think about what I need, not how I’ll look. If I need to fly, I become a bird. I don’t think about what kind of bird.> 

<That makes sense. You’re usually a raven or an owl when you change into a bird these days. When we were young, you were usually a songbird.>

Archimedes’s head didn’t bob and down, but a nod was intended and so it seemed like it had. <The most I’ve ever tried to look like something specific was for this.> He lifted one paw. <Since you said I had to blend in with other people’s dogs.>

It hadn’t really worked. Other dogs knew Archimedes wasn’t like them and shied away, and Arthur had mentioned a few times that he was a poor example of his breed. Still, no one had ever accused Archimedes of being a creature of magic or wondered about his intelligence or loyalty, so they must have been doing a good enough job. 

<Try focusing on why you need to be human,> Archimedes suggested. <Not on your actual human form, just… I don’t know, how much you like walking on two legs or something.>

Archimedes layered his own intent over Merlin’s, thinking about his own transformations and letting those thoughts serve as a guide for Merlin’s focus, his magic trailing along it. 

He needed to be human. Aside from all the indignation of being tiny and ‘adorable’, there was the matter of needing to keep up with the group. To be able to defend himself, or to run if he couldn’t find a way to. He needed to be able to speak to them, or how else would he warn them of danger? Archimedes had engaged in games of charades with people enough times for Merlin to know how much of a headache that was.

Arthur. That was, as always, the core of it. He needed to be human for Arthur. 

His power moved in him, through him, pulled from Archimedes to give him a bit more of a kick than he could have on his own, and for a brief, hopeful moment, Merlin thought that would be enough and he’d be back to himself by morning. 

His magic ran up against the curse and ebbed back down, like a wave that had hit an unrelenting wall. 

<We’re going to need a real spell,> Archimedes said with a heavy sigh. 

Merlin agreed. It was always annoying when he needed to actually cast spells, properly, instead of being able to make his way with intuition. What was the point in being so powerful he sometimes didn’t need spells, when other times he had to bang his skull against a wall for hours or days on end figuring one out? 

Well, no sense in whining about it. <Come on then.>

Archimedes bent down and Merlin rose up on his haunches - gods, was he ever unhappy about having haunches - to press their foreheads together. Their magic flowed back and forth through their connection, unimpeded. 

The closest thing to an explanation Merlin had was that Archimedes was a vessel for his magic, and, because nothing about Merlin’s magic was normal, a vessel made of that magic, rather than one that had been repurposed for the task. Somewhere to dump an excess of it when it overflowed and seemed like it would absorb him. Somewhere to store it, so he could pull more magic than he would usually be capable of in one go in extreme circumstances. But they were so much more than that. When they did big spells, it was like Merlin was looking through the near-infinite depths of magic stored in Archimedes for the magic best suited for the purpose - that strand of gold best suited for combat, this one for enchantment, that other one of the exceptionally few bits that could allow him to weave healing magic the way it ought to work. 

Now, they pooled out magic suited for knowledge and secrets until a door opened under their feet and they slid through it, as though they’d always been there. 

They bottled the magic back up and Merlin shook himself. <That was a lot more intense than usual.>

<Probably because you’re tiny now,> Archimedes said, amused again. 

<Shut up.> 

They were standing in the little library Merlin had painstakingly constructed out of every scrapped up bit of lore he’d been able to find over the years. It had started simply enough; with enchanting the cupboard where he kept his first magical tome so that the book inside would only be found if he was the one who’d pulled the door open. As he’d collected - it’s not stealing if no one else wants them, Archimedes - more books, he’d gotten creative with how much space was inside the cupboard. Then Gaius had died and Merlin had moved into the antechamber connected to Arthur’s room and he’d gotten even more creative to keep Arthur from asking questions about Merlin’s furniture. The man had no concept of personal space and would just open cupboards for the sake of seeing what was inside them. He might eventually have wondered why this one was so stubbornly empty. 

Years after beginning it, Merlin now had a space slightly larger than a closet filled with books, accessible from wherever he was. He was pretty proud of himself for it, if he was being honest - he was fairly sure most people wouldn’t have been able to just cobble together such a spell. 

He was struck by a fresh pang to tell Morgana everything. The way she thought, she’d probably have some ideas on how to improve the concept even further. Between the two of them they could be… 

Later. One thing at a time. 

Merlin craned his neck, looking around, trying to determine which book would be the most helpful, and realized he’d missed something important. 

<Right,> Archimedes said. <That two legs thing is helpful for the top shelves.>

<And thumbs are useful for turning pages.> Merlin sighed, both in his mind and out loud, and pressed on. He had done more difficult things. 

He focused his magic on the books, thinking about curses and animal transformations, and several books began to glow gold. <Okay. Help me get those down.>

Merlin was very glad he and Archimedes did not have an audience as they worked to fetch the marked books. They must have looked ridiculous, an enormous war dog and a little fox tugging books off of shelves. The fox wriggling in behind the books and pushing them down to the floor. The dog balancing on its back legs and the fox balancing on the dog’s head to get to a high shelf that he still barely made it to. Merlin didn’t much care for tossing the books to the ground so recklessly, and he could practically hear the castle’s librarian howling at him for it, but it could hardly be helped. It was that or put them in his mouth and carry them around, and teeth marks sounded like a worse threat than gravity. He would have liked to summon them to him, but when he’d tried that the first time the surrounding four books had also come free and they’d all smacked right into his little fox face. He’d have had a black eye from it, if he’d been human. His magic was clearly not any happier about this changed shape misadventure than Merlin himself was. At least tossing the books to the ground didn’t run the risk of a concussion. 

<That’s all of them,> Archimedes said as Merlin tried to leap down with an animal’s grace and utterly failed. He was going to be covered in bruises when he changed back, and how was he going to explain that to Arthur?

By telling him the truth, he reminded himself fiercely. Once he changed back he was going to tell Arthur the truth, and he could explain - Well, no. He probably wasn’t going to confess to hitting himself in the face with several books at once and then falling off a bookshelf. Hopefully the magic would distract Arthur from follow-up questions about the bruises. 

Merlin staggered away from where he’d fallen to the ground with what definitely had not been a splat, and opened the first book. 

Right. No fingers. Trying to nose through the pages quickly proved to be useless - he couldn’t seem to turn just one at a time. He tried with his paws, tore a page, and immediately stopped. 

<Can you turn into something that makes this easier?> he asked Archimedes. 

Archimedes looked at him blankly. <Like what? Only humans read, and I can’t do that shape.>

Merlin shoved away the memory of the singular time they’d tried. No one needed that kind of nightmare fuel, though it still made him laugh to imagine acting on Archimedes’s idea of frightening Uther with it. 

<A rat? They sort of have hands.> 

<They also have scrabbly feet and sharp claws.>

<Are you actually worried about that, or do you just not want to be a rat?>

<I’ve eaten rats!> 

<So? You’ve eaten deer, and I’ve seen you turn into those!>

Archimedes pointedly looked away. <At least deer are impressive.>

<Archimedes!>

<Fine, fine, I’ll try it as a rat. But if I damage the pages, don’t say I didn’t warn you!> 

Archimedes stretched and began to ripple. Merlin tapped inquisitively on their connection and Archimedes peeled it back several more layers. It was too much input, generally speaking, and as connected as they were, they were two separate beings. They wanted, needed, their individuality. But sometimes, when there was a lot of information to convey, or when the concept eluded words, they allowed their consciousnesses to sweep over each other, to mix until there was no telling where one started and the other began. 

He always thought of his magic as an instinctual part of him, until he blended with Archimedes and was reminded of just how not-real his familiar was. Archimedes thought of rats, with their almost human-like hands, thought of folding himself down into one, and then, with a ripple of magic, he was one. It made Merlin’s earlier attempt feel clumsy, as though it had never stood a chance of working to begin with. That wasn’t true, of course, he suspected he would have been able to change his shape if there hadn’t been a curse in the way, but it was like the difference between watching Arthur fight and a green squire flail about. 

Archimedes, now a dark-colored rat with unsettlingly long fingers, stomped towards the book almost as angrily as Merlin had been stomping around as a fox earlier. He could admit - privately, as he and Archimedes separated themselves again, the demonstration over - that it was a little bit funny to watch. 

Archimedes used great care to turn the page, but Merlin could see it wanting to tear under the little claws, and under the strange angle his tiny size required him to be at. Additionally, it took a full thirty seconds to get the page flipped. 

<This will take forever,> Archimedes said, looking back at Merlin, whiskers twitching. 

Yes, it certainly would. 

“Merlin!” a voice hissed, a whisper that wanted to be a shout, and Merlin and Archimedes both hopped to their paws. 

<Lancelot has hands,> Archimedes pointed out. 

He did at that. 

<Come on,> Merlin said, and then asked to be let in again as Archimedes returned to his usual hound form. It was even more natural than the shift to rat had been - Archimedes had spent so much time in this form that it had carved a groove in the magic, making settling into it almost as easy as breathing. 

The two of them bounded out of the library - Merlin had intentionally made it much easier to leave than to enter, in case someone, namely Arthur, was about to catch him - and found Lancelot peering through the trees. The sky was brightening - apparently Merlin had entirely lost track of time while trying to deshelve the books. 

“There you are,” Lancelot breathed, sounding relieved. “Arthur just woke up and he’s about to lose his mind.” 

<Sorry, lost track of time. I’m going to need your help tonight?> 

“Sure, whatever I can do.”

<Thanks. I’ve been taking hands for granted, I think.> 

He followed Lancelot back to the camp, resigning himself to another day of being carried around by his friends like a shawl. 

But at least it was one more day before he had to tell Arthur the truth. 

Chapter Text

“Found him!” Lancelot called, and Arthur let out a sigh of relief as he saw the little black fox that was Merlin trotting along beside him, Archimedes padding along behind. He’d woken up to find Merlin missing, and he was pretty sure his heart had stopped for a minute, worrying that Merlin had ran off after a rabbit or something, never to be seen again. 

Merlin planted himself in front of the fire, and the swivel of his ears suggested he would not be happy if anyone tried to pick him up again. Arthur planted himself behind the fox, a foot on either side. “Stay where we can see you,” he instructed, which was a tall order even when Merlin was human. “Otherwise, I will start carrying you around again.”

“I’m in agreement with the princess,” Gwaine said, stretching until something in his shoulder gave an audible pop. “Stay close, Merlin. You could end up wolf food or something.” 

Merlin made a sound Arthur dared to call derisive. “I worry enough about a wolf getting you when you’re a person,” Arthur told him. “Let’s not tempt fate.” 

Another grumble, but at least Merlin seemed content to stay put. 

“You’re pretty attached to him,” Isolt said. She had grumbled and threatened to throw something heavy at him when he’d first bolted up, panicking about Merlin’s whereabouts, but she seemed to have forgiven him now, she and her husband lounging against each other once more. Arthur was beginning to suspect they were incapable of being apart for any length of time. “Isn’t he just a servant?” 

“He isn’t just anything,” Arthur told her harshly, earning him a glare from Tristan for daring to speak to his wife that way. “He’s our friend, and the most loyal one I could have ever asked for.” 

That got him two sets of raised eyebrows and he rolled his eyes and devoted his attention to the first thing he saw, which happened to be the sword he’d discovered yesterday. The blade and its impressive abilities had been all but forgotten in the shock of Merlin’s transformation, but it seemed a much better topic of conversation than the depths of his feelings for Merlin, which he was certainly not going to talk about with anyone else before he and Merlin got the chance to. 

“That’s the sword that killed the familiar?” Leon asked, moving to sit closer, eyes wide with interest. “It’s impressive.” 

Arthur held it up, admiring it. It really was; in addition to all its practical benefits that he’d noticed the moment he touched it, it was also beautiful to look at. The blade gleamed like it had been polished just moments ago. The hilt nearly glowed, the golden sheen to it was so perfect. And a name was carved into the cross-guard - Excalibur. “She should have been taking better care of it. It was just lying in the dirt.” 

“It doesn’t look like it’s been lying out in the open,” Elyan said, craning his neck to get a better view, the blacksmith in him taking interest. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Merlin had just gotten done sharpening and polishing it.” 

Arthur looked down at Merlin, reassuring himself he was still there and expecting to see some sort of annoyance for being reminded about his chores, but instead Merlin was as transfixed by the sword as the rest of them, his expression inscrutable. 

Of course it’s inscrutable, Arthur scolded himself. He’s a fox.

“It suits you,” Leon said. “Very… kingly.” 

Arthur’s stomach flipped at the word. Kingly. Not princely. Because he would spend the rest of his life as a former prince or he would somehow usurp his father’s throne and become king. He had lost all other options. 

He was thunderstruck for a moment, sitting there in their simple camp with his new, perfect sword in his hand, by the force of what he’d done by taking Morgana and running. Allowing Merlin, Gwen, and Leon to follow. They would face the noose for this. 

Arthur gripped Excalibur’s hilt tighter. It was not only his future on the line, or even Morgana’s. Gwen had followed Morgana for friendship - for love. They’d been getting more and more demonstrative as the group had grown used to each other, and now, with the two of them sitting as closely as Tristan and Isolt, it was hard to believe Arthur had ever failed to notice. Merlin had followed Arthur for the same reasons, or at least Arthur hoped it had been for love. Doubt was starting to grow in his gut, tightening every time something happened to keep him and Merlin from talking. The last time he’d tried, Merlin had bounded off, saying something about needing to rewash the dinner bowls. 

But Leon… Arthur had been too busy, too worried, too grateful to ask why he’d come. Why he’d thrown away his respectful position as a knight, one whose potential was being recognized by the court. 

He pushed the question away for the moment. He didn’t want to ask about it while they were all sitting around getting ready for breakfast together. That was a private question. 

“Can I see it?” Gwen asked, redirecting Arthur’s attention to the sword and away from less comfortable topics. 

Arthur passed it over obligingly and Gwen looked it over with the careful consideration that reminded Arthur her father was a blacksmith. 

Had been a blacksmith. Before Arthur had failed in his attempts to save him. 

“Elyan,” Gwen said, and he leaned over his sister’s shoulder to see what she was showing him. 

Elyan’s mouth dropped open. “That can’t be…” 

“But it is.” 

“What?” Arthur asked.

They both looked up at him, faces stunned. “It’s our father’s ensignia,” Gwen answered. “Here, on the hilt.”

Arthur leaned in to see for himself, though he knew he wouldn’t have recognized Tom’s ensignia if it bit him. It was a tiny symbol, small enough to ensure no noble could complain about it destroying the look of the blade, but sure enough, a tiny T and a hammer had been pressed into the metal. 

“He only put it on blades he was exceptionally proud of,” Elyan said. “I can only think of maybe half a dozen times I ever saw him leave it.” 

Gwen nodded. “He kept those swords close. Only sold them to people he thought a great deal of. How did that witch end up with it?” 

“Lunete,” Morgana said, and they all looked over at her. She flushed for a moment, then recovered herself and said, “I actually bothered to look around a little. She labeled some of her things.”

“Right,” Gwen said, though she was slow in looking away from Morgana. “Lunete. How did she end up with one of our father’s swords? I can’t imagine she was regularly sneaking into Camelot.” 

“Maybe she killed one of the people he’d given one of his swords to and took it?” Leon offered. 

“I suppose she must have,” Elyan said, though he looked less than satisfied with the explanation. “And… then enchanted it, I guess?” 

“That makes the most sense,” Arthur agreed, though he wasn’t entirely satisfied himself. Guinevere handed him back the sword, almost reverently. 

She can’t have many things of her father’s, Arthur thought. He didn’t have many things to begin with. And then Arthur’s own father had ordered their home ransacked and had confiscated or destroyed anything that might have been magical. 

Like Excalibur. Could Tom have enchanted it himself, or sold it to a sorcerer? Perhaps it hadn’t been Lunete who had enchanted it after all. Arthur had thought Tom’s execution unjust, but the man had traded with magic users. Maybe it hadn’t been the first time.

Uther’s voice screamed in Arthur’s head for him to toss the sword away. It was enchanted, and they didn’t know what else it might be capable of. To use an enchanted object was no different than using magic, and would corrupt the user just the same. 

Excalibur didn’t feel evil. It felt as though someone - Tom, apparently - had made it just for his hand. Even the swords made by the royal blacksmith didn’t compare. 

Arthur found himself looking at Morgana, who was watching him as though she could hear every thought. 

Morgana was not evil. Therefore, magic could not all be evil. If he didn't believe that, nothing he'd done meant anything.

Arthur slid Excalibur into his scabbard. It had been a perfectly good scabbard for his last sword, but it felt too plain for this superb bit of workmanship. He’d need to get a new one commissioned - if he ever was in a position to have anything commissioned ever again. “I wish I could thank him for it,” he told Elyan and Gwen. “It’s truly wonderfully made.” 

Arthur then moved to his bedroll, retrieved his old sword, and returned to the fire, checking once again that Merlin hadn’t wandered off. The little fox looked miserable now, ears drooping and his chin rested on his paws. It was much less funny than the angry stomping he’d been doing the day before. 

“Lancelot.” Arthur offered him the old sword, and Lancelot’s eyes tripled in size. “Yours looks like something you found in a scrap heap. And you’d be a knight already, if I had any say in it. You deserve a good weapon.” 

Lancelot’s sword wasn’t that bad, in truth, though it was clear the blacksmith hadn’t paid any particular attention to it. But he wouldn’t accept the gift if Arthur didn’t bully him into it a little bit - he’d try to insist someone else in their group needed it more. 

Lancelot’s throat was working overtime as he took the sword reverently, his motions slow, like he expected Arthur to change his mind and snatch it back at any moment. 

It was no doubt the finest weapon he’d ever held. Even the sword he’d been given during his brief time as a knight didn’t compare to the crown prince’s sword. 

Gwaine flopped down amongst them and scratched between Merlin’s ears. Merlin didn’t even protest and Arthur’s stomach twisted again. They had to fix this. Already he missed Merlin’s usual griping, and now Merlin wasn’t even growling and muttering as a replacement. 

“Anyone had any ideas on how we fix up our Merlin?” Gwaine asked, tipping his head toward the fox, as though anyone could have forgotten what had befallen him. 

“The druids,” Arthur said. “They’re the closest thing to magical experts my father hasn’t managed to stamp out.” 

Morgana leaned against her fist. “You’re right, but they aren’t easy to find. I got lucky, finding them when I did, and then Uther raided them, so I’m sure they’ve gone deeper into hiding.” She looked over at Tristan and Isolt. “Unless you two have heard of one of their camps?” 

Isolt shrugged a shoulder. “We don’t pay much attention to the druids. They never have anything worth stealing.” 

“Friendly folks though,” Tristan said. “They married us once. Lovely ceremony. Probably my favorite of our weddings.” Isolt tipped her head back and kissed her husband. 

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. “How many times have you two been married?” 

They exchanged a look. “Five?” Tristan asked. 

“Six,” Isolt corrected. “You forgot the bartender in Eastland.” 

Tristan laughed. “True. That was a quick wedding.” 

“You could always try that,” Isolt said, looking over at Arthur and Merlin. “True love’s kiss works in all the stories.” 

A flush of heat rushed over Arthur. Isolt and Tristan both looked at him expectantly - this was not a hypothetical or a jest. They’d apparently picked up on something Arthur had thought he’d been subtle about. It was bad enough he was pretty sure Morgana knew, but at least they’d known each other for most of their lives. He’d known Tristan and Isolt for all of a week. He wasn’t that obvious, was he? 

There was also the memory of the last time he’d experienced true love’s kiss. Coming back to himself in a tent, feeling like he was coming out of a dream, realization rushing over him as he opened his eyes to see Merlin’s nervous face a few inches away. 

He’d snatched half a kiss after that, before Merlin had pulled away and given him all the reasons they couldn’t. And that was all they’d ever had. 

Arthur looked down at Merlin, whose unsettlingly golden eyes narrowed as he gave Arthur a murderous look that likely translated to don’t you even think about kissing me while I’m like this. Arthur couldn’t blame him. He probably wouldn’t want to get kissed as a fox either. “We’ll save that as a last resort,” he managed, and he didn’t think he did a very good job of making it sound like he wasn’t the one who’d be doing the kissing. He saw Morgana throw him an amused smirk, and as much as he liked seeing her usual snarky self instead of the frightened shadow she seemed to have become, he shot her a glare in reply. 

Lancelot jolted a little from where he was still staring at his new sword, apparently remembering where he was. “There’s still the chance it will wear off, right?” 

“But who knows how long that would take!” Arthur protested. 

“We could ask him what he wants to do,” Lancelot said. “He can understand us.”

“True,” Gwaine said. “He wouldn’t be growling at us so much if he couldn’t.” He flashed Merlin a grin as the fox growled as though to prove the point. “So, Merlin? Whose idea do you want to try?” 

Merlin pointedly walked over and sat by Lancelot’s feet. 

“Looks like he votes for waiting it out. Sorry, mate, but I am going to keep carrying you around. Arthur’s not the only one worried this spell’s going to damage your head.” 

Arthur sighed. He didn’t like it, but Lancelot had a point that Merlin deserved a say, and it wasn’t like they knew where to find the druids anyway. “Fine,” he agreed. “But if we happen to trip over the druids, we’re taking the opportunity.”

They didn’t get underway until well into the morning. Arthur felt like he should be rushing them, but ultimately there wasn’t much point. It had been more than a week since they’d last seen a sign of pursuit, and while they were all hoping the ruins Tristan and Isolt were guiding them to would provide more comfortable lodging, it wasn’t as though they were racing towards an inn, with hot baths and warm beds and good food. 

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this much walking. He was used to horses, but they’d left theirs behind at the first town they’d dared to enter after fleeing Uther, traded for as many supplies as they could carry. It was an issue made worse by the fact that they were avoiding the roads whenever they could, twisting their ankles over tree roots and rocks instead. He was envious of Tristan and Isolt, who were trotting through the trees like they’d never been anywhere else. For his own part, he was starting to feel like Merlin must, every time Arthur dragged him out into the woods for a hunt, which was really just an excuse for Arthur to escape the city most times. 

He remembered he might never step through Camelot’s gates again and his stomach lurched. 

He missed Merlin. He could talk about things like this with Merlin, as deeply and vulnerably as he wanted. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Merlin was still there, perched on Gwaine’s shoulder as they walked. He looked a little less irritated about the entire business of being carried than he had the day before, probably because he’d realized it would be exhausting to keep pace on his tiny fox legs. Or maybe it was just that Gwaine had stopped ruffling his fur. 

Arthur made his way to Leon’s side, his old friend’s senses clearly heightened, ready for anything to come out of the trees at them. “It’s occurred to me I haven’t thanked you,” he said, his voice hushed so this conversation could stay between the two of them. 

Leon gave him a questioning look. 

“For helping. It was treason, helping Morgana escape Camelot, but I don’t think we would have made it without you.” 

It was not blind flattery. Arthur had made his opinion about Uther’s intention to execute Morgana well known before it had occurred to him that he would have had better luck if he’d pretended to agree. When he, Merlin, and Gwen had made their way to the dungeons it had been frantic, desperate, and likely to fail. 

Leon had been waiting, keys in hand, the other guards dismissed under false pretenses. 

“You would have found a way, I’m sure,” Leon said. “You’re determined. But it was the right thing to do. I have no regrets.” 

“I didn’t think you would. You’re not a man I’ve ever known to do something halfway. But I am deeply grateful.” 

Leon inclined his head, accepting the gratitude. 

“Have you ever…?” Arthur paused, chewing over his next words. A part of him did not want to ask. “Treason is not something one typically decides to do in a day. Had you ever… doubted my father before?” 

Leon frowned, looking down at his feet with more attention that he probably needed to give them. “…Yes.” 

“May I ask what made you doubt him?” Arthur was too close to the problem, couldn’t decide if he had always seen this coming or if it was a complete surprise. Part of him insisted on the surprise - but he thought that may be his younger self talking, the little boy who wanted so desperately to believe he’d be able to make his father proud some day. 

Leon appeared to be choosing his own words carefully, and Arthur was touched by it. There was no longer any true rank between them. Leon had no need to fear reprisal. He chose his words carefully for the sake of Arthur’s feelings, and Arthur appreciated the sentiment. He had so few people he could truly consider friends, without worrying they only respected the rank. That was a slim silver lining in their current situation - to know that their group followed him because they thought he should be followed, rather than because his father would have their heads if they did not. 

“The first time was the celebration banquet when Camelot signed the peace treaty with Mercia,” Leon answered at last. 

Arthur remembered that night all too well. Merlin’s face going pale, his hand scrabbling at his throat as though he could force it to allow air in again. The goblet - meant for Arthur - clattering to the ground, red wine splashing out like blood. 

“The night Merlin was poisoned.” The night Merlin drank poison to protect me.

Leon nodded. “Uther ordered him to drink it so he could execute Bayard himself, if it was poisoned. A poor reward for trying to save the prince’s life.” 

Arthur had nearly forgotten that part of the evening, in the wake of everything that had followed. 

“You tried to take the goblet back,” Leon went on, “but Merlin wouldn’t let you. I remember… Feeling ashamed. One of us, the knights, should have stepped up and offered to take that risk. Instead, a boy who can barely lift a sword was told he would be executed for being wrong, or poisoned for being right. I never looked at Uther quite the same after that.” 

“Neither did I,” Arthur agreed, though he was thinking of a different part of the story. “He tried to stop me from getting Merlin the antidote, even though the only reason his life was in danger was because of me.” 

“I remember. We had orders to arrest you the moment you returned to Camelot. It was impressive, sire. Disobeying Uther is no small thing, for anyone. I have always held respect for you, but it increased a great deal when I heard you’d gone out anyway. Not many princes would risk their lives for a servant, no matter what he’d done for them.” 

The ragged sounds of Merlin’s breathing. Archimedes whimpering, as though he’d drunk poison too. Gaius’s voice wavering, Arthur hadn’t known the old man could be anything other than stern… 

“I disagreed with him trying to stop me, but I understood his thinking,” Arthur said. “I was his only heir. It was a significant risk. It wasn’t until I returned with the flower needed for the antidote that I realized how little worth Merlin’s life had in my father’s eyes.” 

Leon looked at him, silently encouraging him to go on, but not pressing if Arthur didn’t wish to give details. 

“After he had me arrested, I gave him the flower. Begged him to take it to Gaius, to save Merlin’s life. Lock me up as long as he wanted, throw me in the stocks, whatever.” Arthur took a deep breath. He’d never allowed himself to linger on what his father had done in response, but it seemed well past time for him to face what kind of man had sired him. “He crushed it. Threw it away. Said perhaps that would teach me a lesson about following his orders.” 

Leon stumbled, his jaw dropping despite his usual neutral facade. “He was going to-?”

“Let a man - a brave man, who had saved the life of his only son - die, just to teach that son a lesson? Yes. If Guinevere hadn’t snuck into the dungeons to retrieve it…” He let the end of the sentence die in his mouth. Merlin had lived, had been back to bothering Arthur within a week. “My father’s cruelty is not new,” he said instead. “I just spent a long time believing him when he said it was necessary.” 

Leon nodded understanding. They had had similar upbringings, all in all. The belief in chivalry, in duty, in bloodlines, in the king’s right to rule… 

“Thank you,” Arthur said again. “For standing with me.” 

“There is no one I would rather follow.”

Merlin spent most of the day feeling sorry for himself. He hadn’t thought he would, but seeing Arthur holding up Excalibur, eyes shining with admiration, Merlin had been seized by the desire to grab him, to say I did that. I made this for you, kept it safe for you, brought it to you when you needed it. 

He’d thought serving Arthur anonymously would get easier with time. For a while, it had. He had no desire to tell Arthur the truth about how he was saved from the questing beast’s poison, about his part in the dragon’s freedom, any of it. Even the fights Merlin had won, he could do without the praise. He didn’t want people afraid of him. But things like Excalibur… 

Was it so wrong of him to want to be told he’d done well? To have his sleepless nights poring over ancient books acknowledged? He didn’t need a title or a ceremony, but a thank you, one of Arthur’s bright, relieved smiles… That would be worth everything. 

Instead, he was used to getting scolded for oversleeping and coincidence getting all the credit. 

He’d wanted to make Excalibur special. Every time he’d thought about giving it to Arthur he’d thought of ways to make it special, to convey how much he believed in Arthur, how the sword represented everything he knew Arthur was capable of. 

Instead, Arthur believed it to be a fortunate cast-off of a sorceress who’d tried to kill him, and Gwen and Elyan were quietly worrying their father had given one of his most prized possessions to a criminal. 

Merlin had let Gwaine carry him as they walked; though he’d insisted on at least riding on Gwaine’s shoulders rather than being carried around like a muff. He’d stubbornly held onto his misery even as Tristan had sung several songs that Arthur had protested were inappropriate in Gwen and Morgana’s company, as Gwaine had deposited him into Percival’s arms in order to go bother a beehive, and as Archimedes had allowed Gwaine to get chased off by the bees so he could steal a chunk of honeycomb for himself. 

He didn’t let Arthur drag him off to his bedroll that night, sat firmly next to Lancelot until the others fell asleep and they could slip off while Percival took his turn at watch. 

“Alright, Merlin?” Lancelot whispered once they were alone. “You’ve seemed down today.”

<Fine. Tired of being like this.> 

Lancelot didn’t look like he believed that was all of it, but he didn’t push. “What do you need from me?” 

<One second.>

He and Archimedes summoned the library, and pulled Lancelot along with them. Merlin’s mood lifted, just a fraction, at the amazement on his friend’s face. 

“You can get to this from anywhere?” 

<Yes. Good thing too, since I could hardly get all these books into a saddlebag.> 

“You probably could but Arthur would tease you.”

<What else is new?> It came out harsher than Merlin meant it to and Lancelot’s gaze dropped to him, awe draining away to concern. 

“You know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He thinks you’re both having fun.”

<I know. Not his fault he doesn’t know how much I’m doing.> Merlin sighed. <I’m going to tell him. Once I’m human again.>

Lancelot’s face lit up. “You are?”

<I can’t put it off anymore. It’s driving me crazy.>

“I’m glad. And I’m with you, even if- No matter what happens.”

Merlin was glad Lancelot had cut off the ‘if’. The if was tearing up his insides as it was. 

Archimedes barked. There were no words in it, just a noise to get Lancelot’s attention. Lancelot smiled and leaned over to pet his ears. “Sorry, boy. What are we doing?”

Merlin shook off as much of his maudlin mood as he could and trotted over to the books. Gods, he was tired of trotting but these tiny legs seemed good for little else, unless he wanted a full sprint. <I can’t turn the pages.> 

He was pretty sure his large ears picked up the sharp exhale of breath that meant someone was trying to restrain a laugh, but he didn’t call Lancelot on it. At least he had the decency to try and hide it, unlike some people named Gwaine that Merlin could mention. 

It was a good thing he’d enlisted Lancelot’s help. Once the books were open, Merlin discovered that fox eyes were not well equipped for reading, and trying it hurt his head. Lancelot didn’t seem to mind getting the lion’s share of the work, clearly fascinated by the whole thing. “I have a million questions about magic I’d love to ask when we have the time and everyone knows.”

Merlin’s stomach flipped, unsure of the likelihood of him ever being allowed to freely talk about magic, to be asked questions about it around the campfire the way the knights exchanged fighting tips, but he didn’t voice his concerns. <I hate to break it to you, but if you wait to ask questions until there isn’t a crisis it’s never going to happen.>

Lancelot laughed. “You and Arthur do attract a lot of trouble, don’t you?”

They spent most of the night pouring over the tomes, until a stray bit of lore about animal transfiguration matched up with a throwaway line about curses and the spell clicked together in Merlin’s head. <Okay, wish me luck.>

“Good luck,” Lancelot said, watching Merlin eagerly. Merlin couldn’t deny the swell of pride in his chest at having someone see his magic as such a remarkable thing. If only he could imagine Arthur ever looking at him the same way. 

Merlin dumped a load of magic into Archimedes, then scooped it up like it was new. The idea, as he thought it through, was to not have his magic believing he’d always been a fox. He needed his magic a little farther removed, less attached to his shape, and Archimedes, whose shape could be as mercurial as he wished, was the perfect vessel to set it into the idea. The dog kept his eyes closed, his whole body as still as a statue, focusing on an image of Merlin as he knew him - his smell, the sounds of his footsteps, how far down he had to lean to scratch Archimedes behind the ears during dinner. 

<Edcierr soþfæstnes.> 

It was a harder spell to hold than most Merlin had done. It was like the intent of it was trying to escape out of the edges, sliding off him with a certainty that he wasn’t supposed to change. He used up the initial load of magic he’d given to Archimedes and pulled at more, the two of them working in tandem to keep it in check. 

The spell hit the curse and recoiled and Merlin shoved it back again, partially because he knew that was how breaking a curse was supposed to work, and partially because he was just fed up with the damn thing. It wavered a moment, then shattered under his pressure. The power sloshed for a moment, unsure where to go now that the obstacle was removed. Edcierr soþfæstnes.

He felt the magic in his back teeth, and his head swam with vertigo as he shot back up to his usual size. He stumbled, felt Lancelot’s hands steady him, and had to blink several times for the man to come into focus in front of him. 

“Alright, Merlin?” 

Merlin felt exhausted, and a little hungover, but he managed a grin. “Very.” He was never going to take his height or his hands or his voice for granted ever again. 

Archimedes reared up on his back legs and set his front paws on Merlin’s shoulders, tail wagging and mouth open in a doggy smile. <Welcome back!>

Merlin hugged him. “Thanks. And thank you to you as well, Lancelot. That would have taken me forever without you.”

“Long enough to try the true love’s kiss solution?” Lancelot asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Out, before I throw one of my very old and valuable books at you.” 

The three of them stumbled back into the woods, the first idea of light coming over the treetops. They slipped back into camp without raising attention, Lancelot took over watch from Elyan, and Merlin laid down near Arthur, intending it to look like he’d woken up and discovered himself cured in an hour or two. Maybe he’d even manage some sleep first, make it more believable. 

They hadn’t been back ten minutes before Morgana woke up screaming. 

Merlin was at her side without thinking about it, all thoughts of pretending to be surprised by his human form gone. He grasped her hands in his and she gripped back with enough strength to have made even Arthur wince. Archimedes shoved his head against her shoulder, grounding her with his weight. 

Merlin had spent more than a few nights secretly tucked away in Morgana’s chambers, helping her with this, making sure no more fires started. It had helped Morgana learn to control herself, and she’d never needed to know the way he was absorbing the excess magic rolling off of her. 

Morgana gasped her way back to herself, the whites of her eyes fading to a more natural size. “Merlin. Thank- Merlin!” She launched herself forward and hugged him, and he was so surprised it took him a minute to remember to hug her back. “You’re back!” 

“Seems so.” He pulled back and checked her face, looking for any signs of a purple glow in her eyes. “I didn’t even notice until I realized I had hands again.” 

“Thank goodness it wore off. I thought one of the boys was going to get bored and suggest hunting you for sport.” Her voice was too high, the attempt at a joke frail, but Merlin grinned, trying to reassure her. 

“So Merlin recovers and now it’s your turn to be worried over, is it?” Arthur’s voice asked, and Merlin looked over to see him hovering beside them, visibly unsure if he was allowed to reach out and touch either of them. Merlin tried for a reassuring smile, though it was more brittle than the one he’d given Morgana. He was going to tell him today. After they dealt with Morgana’s nightmare. 

“That sounded bad,” Isolt said, and when Merlin looked over her face was more concerned than he’d ever seen it. “Do you have nightmares like that a lot?” 

Merlin looked at Morgana. Morgana looked back, then looked at Arthur, then at Gwen. 

Then she straightened herself, every inch the princess Uther had never acknowledged her as, and said, “I’m a Seer. The future comes to me in dreams.” 

Tristan, wrapped around Isolt as always, raised an eyebrow. “Well, that explains why you lot are on the run. I’ve heard what Uther Pendragon’s like.” 

Isolt’s forehead crinkled. “If that was the future, it sounded like a bad one.” 

Morgana took a deep breath and nodded. Gwen wrapped an arm around Morgana’s shoulders and tugged her closer, and Merlin let go of Morgana’s hands, passing her over to Gwen’s care. Arthur settled himself on the dirt beside them. “Something we should know?” he asked. 

“It was… difficult to understand. They aren’t always clear. Sometimes they come as metaphors. A way to translate things that would be too long to explain, the druids said. It’s supposed to become easier to decipher with practice but…” Morgana shook her head. “I guess I’m not fully there yet.” 

Arthur nodded, though Merlin knew him well enough to see that he didn’t actually understand. “What did you see?”

Gwaine stepped past them, nudging Merlin with his knee as he went by. “Good to have you back, mate. I’ll get started on breakfast while you lot talk prophecy, yeah?” 

Merlin nodded. He’d get on Gwaine about the carrying thing later, he decided. When he wasn’t being left in charge of the food. 

Archimedes rested his head in Morgana’s lap and she ran her fingers through his fur as she found her words. 

“It was Camelot, but instead of walls, it was all bone, like Camelot was some great beast that had died years ago. Black things, like snakes, were swarming the walls. Knights were trying to fight them back, but there were too many of them, and even when they slayed them, they wouldn’t die.” 

Merlin’s eyes dropped to where Excalibur rested beside Arthur, the man apparently having snatched it up when Morgana shouted him awake. Maybe it wasn’t only the familiars that had made this the right time to give Arthur the sword. 

“At the center of Camelot, all the fighting far away, was Uther and… and a man I didn’t recognize. They were shouting at each other, but Uther kept saying the other man wasn’t worth fighting and calling knights to do it for him. But the other man killed them, one after another, until there was a sea of red Camelot cloaks around them. And without the knights to slow them down, the snakes came thicker and thicker, until they choked all of Camelot.” Morgana took a deep breath. “Something, or someone, is moving to attack Camelot, and Arthur, without you there to lead the knights…” 

A muscle jumped in Arthur’s jaw. His eyes flicked briefly toward Tristan and Isolt, who were watching as raptly as everyone else - except for Gwaine, who didn’t seem to care about anything but breakfast - but didn’t seem to have picked up that Arthur wasn’t just any knight. 

Arthur clasped a hand on Morgana’s shoulder. “We’re nearly to the ruins Tristan and Isolt told us about. We’ll make it there, take stock of our supplies, and decide what to do about this, alright?” 

Morgana nodded, still taking slow, measured breaths, the way Merlin had taught her. Despite her panic, which was still ebbing away, Merlin hadn’t needed to contain any excess magic and he felt a swell of pride and relief. She was doing well, and he hadn’t needed to expose his secret to her to help her get there. 

Speaking of. He was on the brink of losing his nerve. He could feel his instincts wanting to burrow away from the conversation, throw himself into breakfast and this new threat, new mystery, and put off telling Arthur the truth yet again. 

He might need you, Merlin told himself fiercely. Really need you. If these enemies Morgana saw are really that hard to kill, and there’s that many of them, just Excalibur won’t be enough. He’ll need you. 

He focused on that, because it was all too easy to convince himself that it would be better to put it off and spare Arthur that one more weight on his mind. 

He had to tell him now or lose his nerve for the foreseeable future. 

He put his hand on Arthur’s arm and jerked his head toward the trees. “Can we talk?” 

Chapter Text

It was too early in the morning to be tromping through the woods after Merlin, who was chewing on his lip like he hoped to rip a hole through it. Too early to be awake, even. Arthur missed the thick curtains in his room, blocking out the sunlight until it was a reasonable hour of the day. 

And now he was worrying about Morgana, who had been pale as a sheet, and about Morgana’s vision - and oh, wasn’t his life so much easier when he’d believed her nightmares were only dreams - and about what kind of state he’d left his kingdom in when he’d ran. 

And about Merlin. Very much worrying about Merlin. Because Merlin’s expression hadn’t suggested this was the fun sort of conversation that was going to end with them making out up against a tree. 

Did he not still feel the same way? Had he been avoiding Arthur all this time because he’d been reluctant to admit that there would be no next time, no after Uther, no Arthur burying his head into his best friend’s, his truest friend’s, shoulder after impossibly long days-

Merlin stopped walking and Arthur inhaled sharply, trying to focus on what was happening in front of him rather than all of the maybes running around his head. 

Merlin hadn’t brought Archimedes along, had left him supervising Gwaine’s attempts at breakfast. Was that a good thing? He probably wouldn’t want his dog along for a makeout session, while Arthur could easily imagine wanting him there for a conversation that might make a highly skilled swordsman upset. 

Arthur gripped Excalibur’s hilt, then quickly released it. He’d come to find the sword comforting already, but holding a sword during a difficult conversation - and Merlin’s face said it would be a very difficult conversation - was not likely to make things any easier. 

“I’m glad the spell wore off,” Arthur said, when it became clear Merlin was floundering to get things started. “I was worried.” 

Merlin gave him a wane smile. “I know. I appreciate it.” He frowned. “I appreciate being carried around less. I was still me. I wasn’t going to run off to start scarfing down mice.” 

“Well, how could I know that? It wasn’t as though you could talk!” 

Merlin took a deep breath. Arthur recognized it as a steadying one. Here it came, whatever ‘it’ was. “Arthur, I need to-“ 

Merlin went ramrod straight. Arthur could practically see his ears prick up, as though he still had the giant fox ones. 

Arthur’s hand fell to Excalibur and all concerns about bad dreams and personal relationships fell away. He was almost relieved at the possibility of the more mundane threat of bandits. 

He heard it a moment later, the clatter of armored boots and wagon wheels. He and Merlin exchanged a look and Merlin fell in behind him as they dropped low and crept through the woods, just as they’d done on a thousand hunting trips. 

Gods, but he hoped Merlin wasn’t preparing to tell him he was no longer interested; that it was Merlin having some banal, trivial concern Arthur could laugh off. He didn’t know if he could keep pushing through without Merlin at his side. Merlin could still be at his side even if they weren’t anything more than they were now, but there’d always be a stab of loss at it, if that single kiss in the tent was all they got. 

They crept their way to the road, which hadn’t been half as far away as Arthur had hoped. He knew the woods around Camelot well, but out here he was left to the basics - which way was north, what appeared to be a hunting trail, what appeared to be civilization, which way was most likely to have water. He’d have to talk to Tristan and Isolt about picking a more discreet route. 

For a moment, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a dark-colored snake with yellow spots on a white shield. It wasn’t the gold dragon on the red of Camelot, which meant it wasn’t people prowling the woods looking for them. 

And then it registered that he was looking at Cenred of Essetir’s crest and his heart sped up. They weren’t looking at a normal scouting party - this was part of an army. Foot soldiers. Wagons of equipment. A small group, perhaps twice the size of Arthur’s, but a group with a mission. 

“I don’t suppose that’s a normal group of soldiers?” Merlin whispered, remembering how to be quiet for once in his life, bless him. 

Arthur shook his head. His eyes fell on the symbol blazed onto the wagons, the cloaks, the shields. “I think we found where those snakes from Morgana’s vision came from.” 

It wasn’t hard to imagine what had happened. Cenred, always conniving, always cowardly, had heard Camelot was without its heir, the leader of its knights, and its best fighter. Likely he’d heard Uther was rattled, even if he hadn’t heard the specifics of why. And he’d jumped on the opportunity to march south and try to take Camelot for himself. 

“We have to get back to the others,” Arthur said, and moved to retreat. Merlin nodded, moved to follow - then froze again, looking back at the soldiers.

They’d stopped. All of them. Frozen in place, looking at the trees. As though they’d sensed Arthur and Merlin’s presence, somehow. 

And then they charged at the trees. 

Arthur moved on instinct, feeling something like relief to have a problem he was so well-equipped to deal with. He grabbed Merlin by the back of his shirt and threw him backwards, toward the camp. “Get the others,” he ordered, and drew Excalibur and turned to face the soldiers without waiting to see if Merlin would do as he was told for once in his life. 

Steel rang on steel, and Arthur was pleased to confirm that Excalibur was as well-suited to real combat as he’d expected. He pushed back, threw the soldier away from him, and immediately had to spin to block another attack from the next one. The world narrowed down to him and his immediate surroundings, the soldiers close enough to be a threat or a target and nothing else. He couldn’t afford to worry about Merlin, or the others at their camp, not against these kinds of odds. 

A dark gray blur flashed by, and Archimedes hurled himself into a soldier, teeth gnashing into plate metal. A moment later, Arthur felt Leon’s familiar presence at his side and narrowed his focus further, trusting his old friend to watch his back. 

Until he heard Leon make a sound of horror and turned in time to see the knight pull his sword out of an Essetir soldier - a soldier who didn’t seem to have noticed the hit. 

The soldier grinned at them and there was something wild, inhuman in his eyes. “King Cenred isn’t the coward Uther is. He knows a valuable tool when he sees it.” 

Sorcery. Sorcery making enemies immortal, for the second time in under a week. 

Arthur squeezed Excalibur’s hilt and hoped whatever it was about the sword that killed familiars would also work on immortal men. 

He lunged, drove the blade into the man’s neck while the man made no move to block, clearly confident in whatever power Cenred had purchased, and he heard the clang of metal behind him that said Leon had blocked someone who had moved to kill him from behind.

He watched realization strike the soldier, felt the shudder that meant death was coming, and pulled Excalibur free. 

The man collapsed, boneless, making only one final death rattle. 

“Lead them to me!” Arthur commanded, and his men - when had he started to think of them as his men? - obeyed without any sign of hesitation. 

Tristan spun into his vision and pushed a soldier toward him. Isolt appeared a moment later and toppled the man with a kick to the knee, leaving him an easy target for Excalibur. He flashed them a grin, which they returned, and turned to deal with the next one, herded his way by Gwaine and Lancelot. 

Unsurprisingly, it only took a few dead soldiers for the others to decide to turn tail, recognizing the threat to their new immortality. Arthur hesitated for just a moment, considering if he wanted to give chase and keep them from reporting their location or if it would be too risky, when a scream interrupted the thought. 

“Tristan!” 

Arthur spun just in time to see a soldier twist his weapon into Tristan’s chest. 

“Thought that was you, traitor,” the soldier hissed. Then his head snapped up, looking at Isolt, who looked more terrified than Arthur would have thought the bandit woman was capable of. “That’s Isolt, grab her!”

The soldiers moved to obey, and Tristan struggled to sit up despite the blood now pouring down his front. “Don’t… touch…” 

Isolt gave them a good fight, even getting a dagger through one’s throat, but of course it did no good. Arthur jumped forward to help her and two soldiers leapt at him. He swung to defend, but he wasn’t paying close enough attention, was fighting too much like it was a tournament where his opponent would fight fair, and he didn’t see the hit coming until a gauntlet cracked against the side of his head, sending him reeling, the woods swimming in front of him. Leon caught him before he could fall, and he saw blurs as the others charged toward Isolt, but without Excalibur they didn’t have much of a chance. 

By the time the world stopped spinning, the soldiers and Isolt were gone. Gwaine was slumped unconscious, Lancelot was clutching at his wrist, and Elyan and Percival were hesitating, clearly wanting to go after Isolt but knowing they couldn’t do much without Arthur. 

Merlin dropped to his knees next to Tristan, who was still struggling to get upright. “Lie down!” Merlin ordered, and he almost sounded like Gaius. He wasn’t a physician, he was always quick to remind Arthur of that, but he and Gwen were the closest things their little group had. 

“Isolt,” Tristan managed through gritted teeth. “Have to-“

“You have a stab wound through your side, you’ll be lucky to-“

“I don’t… care.” Tristan was gasping for air and Merlin was pinning him down, but neither of those things seemed to be discouraging the man. 

Arthur shook the last of the ringing from his head. “Merlin, keep Tristan alive. Lancelot, go get Gwen and Morgana to help him, and look after Gwaine. Percival, Elyan, Leon, with me; we have to get to Isolt before they get her into a wagon and get the horses running.” 

Tristan went still so suddenly it drew Arthur’s attention, even as he and the others moved to give chase. 

“You’re…” 

“He’ll get her back,” Merlin said, no trace of doubt in his voice. “And I bet she’ll be pissed if you die on her, so hold still.” 

Tristan obeyed, and Arthur left him and Gwaine to Merlin, focusing on where he’d actually be of some use - up ahead, where he could still hear Isolt struggling against Cenred’s men. The woman had an impressive arsenal of curses, but they weren’t quite hiding the terror in her voice. 

Arthur, Percival, Elyan, and Leon burst out onto the road just in time to see one of the Essetir soldiers crack her head back onto the wagon. Her eyes stayed open, but Arthur could see them glaze over and her legs gave out underneath her. 

Arthur didn’t waste any time, charging forward, running through the first soldier he reached, and spinning to the next one the moment Excalibur was free again. “We can’t let any of them escape!” he ordered. Whether or not Cenred would care what Arthur was doing, he clearly had an interest in Isolt, which meant if anyone made it back to him to report where she was they’d be in danger of another wave of these immortal soldiers; probably more of them and better prepared. 

Percival spun past him, kicked a soldier to the dirt and scooped Isolt off the ground. Archimedes shot past and dragged another soldier to the ground by the leg, shaking him furiously. Still another soldier made a wordless sound of protest and Arthur half turned his head to see that Elyan had freed the horses that had been pulling the wagon and sent them running. 

It was quick work after that. Cenred’s immortal men were as spineless as he was, and Arthur killed as many who were trying to run as he did ones who were trying to fight him. 

Then came the silence; the strange, heavy silence of a battle finished. 

It was Isolt who broke it. “You came after me?” She was technically standing, but only barely, one hand clutched in Percival’s shirt to keep herself from swaying too much. A thin line of blood had trickled down her temple. 

“Of course. Merlin’s looking after Tristan. Percival, help her join them and then help Merlin, Morgana, and Gwen with anything they need to treat the others. Leon, Elyan, help me get this mess off the road. The longer it takes Cenred to realize we’re in the area the better.”

Merlin wasn’t a physician, but at least trying to keep Tristan from bleeding out made him feel like he was doing something. His brain had stuttered to a halt when Leon had run through one of the Essetir soldiers and the man had kept on swinging. Forget his self-pitying; thank goodness he’d given Excalibur to Arthur. He could toss them around like ragdolls with his magic, and he’d knocked down a few to give the others better access, but he hadn’t been of much use in the end. They’d grabbed Isolt, hurt Tristan, Gwaine, and Lancelot, and if Merlin had just confessed to Arthur, maybe…

He forced himself to focus. Maybes were useless when someone was injured, Gaius had drilled that through his head well enough. 

Lancelot had roused Gwaine, who was irritable over having been bested and swaying on his feet, but Merlin didn’t think he was in danger. Lancelot’s wrist might be trouble if they got in another fight, but it wasn’t life-threatening. When Percival brought Isolt back to them a few minutes later, Gwen looked her over and said she seemed to be in much the same state as Gwaine - disoriented, but not at risk of falling asleep and never waking up. Really, except for Tristan, they’d come out remarkably lucky, considering their enemy. 

“Can you help him?” Isolt’s voice was far less confident than Merlin had grown accustomed to; no sign of a joke or a smile. 

She and Tristan loved each other the way he loved Arthur, Merlin thought. With all the agony and fear that carried. 

“We’ll try,” he said grimly, because there wasn’t anything else to say. 

The soldier had done some impressive damage. If they’d been in Camelot, Gaius or his replacement - whose name Merlin refused to learn - would almost certainly have been able to save Tristan, but out here? Merlin bit his lip. If he’d just grabbed more supplies before they’d fled Camelot, if he wasn’t so damn useless at healing spells… 

“His wound’s not closing up,” Merlin said, as much for the benefit of the recently returned Elyan, Leon, and Arthur as for Morgana and Gwen. “He twisted the sword, those are always hard to stitch.” 

“Especially in the woods, I imagine,” Arthur said grimly. Merlin nodded agreement. 

Morgana took a deep, fortifying breath. Blood was all over her, Merlin, and Gwen, staining their hands and their sleeves. “We could try magic.” 

Merlin dared a glance at Arthur, who frowned. “You know healing spells?” 

“Not… exactly.” 

“Then how-“ 

Morgana sat up, leaving Gwen to continue their work of trying to staunch the bloodflow. She tilted her chin up, a gesture Merlin had once interpreted as confidence, but that he now knew meant she was saying something she expected people to argue with her about. “I have a spellbook. I saw a healing spell in there. Maybe it could help.” 

Merlin stared at her. He’d given Morgana a few things to read here and there, but no spellbooks. Where had she gotten…? 

“I found it in Lunete’s cabin,” Morgana said, answering the unasked question, her tone daring them to protest. “I thought it might be smart to learn something useful.”

Merlin considered Tristan’s injury. “I think it’s worth a try,” he said, though something twisted in his gut as he said it. What if it was no good, if Morgana was as useless at healing spells as Merlin was, and he let her walk into trying one with no warning that it was likely to fail? Or, what if she wasn’t useless at them? That would be better, of course, objectively, but the thought of it turned Merlin’s stomach to lead. Merlin had no one to ask if healing spells were always a challenge or if they were just something he struggled with. If Morgana could do it, that would mean it was a weakness on Merlin’s part, and being weak at anything magic related made him feel sick. It was all he had. All he was good for. If healing spells were easy, and Merlin was just bad at them, what good was he? What was the point of a protector who couldn’t even set Lancelot’s broken wrist? 

Morgana fished an old book out of her bag and set it on her knees. Isolt dropped down to offer Gwen another set of hands, wordlessly following her quiet instructions. 

“Merlin, help me?” Morgana asked, and Merlin was impressed by how much she almost didn’t sound worried. There were definitely times earlier in their friendship when he would have believed she just wanted two sets of eyes, not that she was new to this magic thing and Merlin, supposedly through Gaius, knew more about how to interpret the drawings and metaphors that often accompanied spells, knew more about how to pronounce the old language. 

He moved to her side, keenly aware of all the eyes on them. He didn’t look. He didn’t want to see if Arthur was frightened by the concept of his sister doing real, actual magic. He didn’t want to see if Arthur was fascinated by the concept of his sister doing real, actual magic. 

The book was old and appeared to have been patched together from several others, probably in an effort to recreate all Uther had destroyed with his purge, but Morgana had clearly found time to leaf through it while everyone else was distracted by Merlin being a fox because she easily made her way to the page she wanted. “Here. Do you think this would work?” 

Merlin considered, trying to match it up with Gaius’s old texts on closing a difficult wound, making sure you didn’t just bottle all the injury up to kill the patient from the inside. He ran his fingers lightly over the words and tapped the page. “Here. This bit about working from the inside out. I can’t really get my head around what it’s saying, but if you can do it, I think that’d get the deeper bleeding to stop. Even if you couldn’t do it all the way, I think it’d make it easier to stitch it up.” 

Morgana nodded, and Merlin watched as she read and reread the lines explaining how to focus the magic. Or at least claiming to explain. Merlin got as far as layers and bindings before he couldn’t think how he was supposed to get his magic to do any of that. Might as well have tried to get Arthur to wash his own laundry. 

Morgana seemed to have some sort of idea about it though, because after a few more reads she straightened up and held her hands out over Tristan, face screwed up with concentration. “Bundenstefha dreor.”

Nothing happened. Merlin suggested a few corrections to her pronunciation and she tried again. 

Two more times and the words sounded perfect to Merlin’s ears and he saw a glint of purple in Morgana’s irises. 

“One more time,” he urged. “I think you’ve almost got it.” 

“Bundenstefha dreor.”

Merlin didn’t know if it was just him who could sense how different the words sounded once the magic caught. Morgana’s eyes filled with purple - nowhere near as noticeable as his own gold, which he was somewhat envious of - and when Merlin looked down at Tristan’s chest a weave of purple light, like thread in a needle, was darting through the wound. 

No one spoke as Morgana worked. Merlin wasn’t sure anyone even breathed. He watched, torn between pride and envy. She’d come so far since he’d started helping her. All she’d needed, really, was for someone to tell her she wasn’t evil or crazy, that she could do whatever she wanted with this power the world had seen fit to put on her shoulders. And all without him having told her that he shared her struggle. If she forgave him for the secrecy, how much more could the two of them figure out together? Could she find a way to make the healing spells make sense to him? 

He saw her waver, checked the wound, and caught her by the elbow. “That’s enough. You’re wearing yourself out. It’s a shallow cut now, Gwen and I can do the rest.” 

Gwen nodded, though she was staring at Morgana like the woman was a star made flesh in front of her. Merlin looked away from the expression and bent over Tristan, finishing the job. 

“Thank you,” Isolt said quietly. “All of you.” 

“Mostly them, I think,” Gwaine said, trying for jovial with questionable results. Merlin would have to make him something to help with the pain his head had to be feeling. 

“For not leaving us,” Isolt clarified. 

“That’s not how I do things,” Arthur said firmly. “I don’t leave people behind.” 

Isolt stared at him for a long minute, as though he were a strange riddle, then nodded. “Yes. I see that. I’m…” She took a deep breath, like she was trying not to cry, and refocused on her husband. “Let’s finish this and get out of here before Cenred sends a patrol after that group.”

Despite the fact that they still hadn’t had breakfast, Gwaine and Isolt were nursing concussions, Morgana was exhausted, and Tristan needed help to walk, they packed up their camp and moved on the moment Tristan was conscious. They didn’t know how long it would take for Cenred to realize something had happened to his men, and they didn’t want to find out. 

Arthur’s head was spinning. An immortal army, almost certainly marching for Camelot. He had a sword that was capable of killing them, which he was glad for, but something about it felt too fortunate, like he should be waiting for a trap. The sorceress having something that could kill her pets made a certain sense - having something that could kill whatever Cenred had created felt like something else. 

And then there was Morgana doing magic. Arthur was - he was proud of her. He was. She’d clearly been proud and happy when she’d pulled it off. But it was still a strange sight, one he thought he might need a while to get used to. Even Merlin had been unsettling, walking her through it, like maybe Gaius had taught him a little more than he’d let on. 

Which would be fine, Arthur told himself sternly. That would be fine.

“Feel free to dodge the question again,” Gwaine said, rubbing his skull like he could persuade the lump there to go down, “but those soldiers seemed to know you.” 

Arthur knew Tristan and Isolt well enough by this point to guess that they’d coyly point out that hadn’t been a question and move on. Instead, they exchanged one of their silent, speaking looks, and stopped walking. 

They’d been whispering to one another since they’d gotten on the move, but Arthur had assumed they’d been reassuring each other they were alright, or would be. The heavy looks on their faces - so similar to the one Merlin had been wearing, and Arthur still didn’t know what that was about - said it was something more. 

“We should tell you something,” Isolt said. “With Cenred, or at least his men, apparently close by.”

Arthur stopped walking and gestured for them to go on. They could spare a few minutes, especially if it might effect their safety. 

Isolt took a deep breath. “You remember we told you we kidnapped a queen?” 

“Unsuccessfully,” Gwaine supplied. 

“We never said that. You assumed.” Isolt straightened her spine and swept into an elegant bow. “Queen Isolt of Essetir, at your services.”

Arthur felt his jaw drop open a fraction. “You’re…?”

“You’re Queen Isolt?” Percival asked, his voice the loudest Arthur had yet heard it. “Popular story is that Cenred murdered you on your wedding night! You ran away?” 

Isolt nodded. “Tristan spent three months convincing Cenred he was his best friend so he could get him properly sloshed on the night of the wedding. Cenred is usually too paranoid, too in control, to over-indulge. Once he passed out, Tristan helped me climb out the window and we ran. We’ve been running ever since.” 

Arthur dimly remembered the reports of Cenred’s short-lived marriage. It must have been three, perhaps four years ago now. The man had boasted about catching himself the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and then she’d disappeared. Kidnapped, some said. Murdered by her new husband, said others. If Cenred himself had ever provided an explanation, it hadn’t reached Camelot. 

“They intended to take you back to Cenred then?” Arthur asked, frowning. He didn’t imagine it was so the man could enjoy a reunion with his beloved. 

“Optimistically, he’d only have me hanged for leaving him,” Isolt said grimly. “He isn’t a kind man, even when he’s in a good mood.” 

Arthur nodded and stepped forward to clasp Isolt’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re safe with us.”

He saw her and Tristan squeeze one another’s hands. 

“We noticed that,” Tristan said. “We really… We cannot express our gratitude that you went after Isolt. That you helped me. We’ve always been on our own. We didn’t expect to find allies in you.” 

“Arthur has that effect on people,” Lancelot said with a bright smile. 

“Sneaks right up on you,” Gwaine agreed, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he should be touched or insulted. 

“You’re good people,” Tristan said. “All of you. You’ve proven that, just since we’ve met you. Not just today, either. The way you treat each other. Treat Gwen and Merlin, even though you outrank them. Teaching all of us to fight, when most knights I’ve met treat fighting lessons like something us plebians should never consider. How concerned you were when Merlin was cursed. Your determination to protect everyone who can’t protect themselves.” 

Arthur tried not to feel too proud of that. Tristan was listing off all the traits Arthur had taken to striving toward, the traits that made him sleep easier at night, the ones that made Merlin smile that bright, proud smile at him. 

The ones that made his father angry, that made voices in the back of his head hiss that he would make a terrible king, soft and weak. 

“I try to treat those around me as equals,” Arthur said. He caught Merlin’s eye and smiled as Merlin rolled his eyes dramatically. “I haven’t always succeeded. But it is something I strive for.” 

Tristan nodded. “Yes. We’ve seen that… Prince Arthur.” 

Arthur’s heart seized in his chest for a few beats. He heard Leon’s sword swish out of its scabbard. 

Tristan’s hand moved and Arthur’s hand jumped to Excalibur’s hilt, but Tristan didn’t go for his blade. Instead, he reached into his bag, extracted a few pieces of paper, and offered them to Arthur. “We’re sorry.” 

Arthur took the papers, dreading what he’d see. 

There were five of them. Five wanted posters. Bounties to be discussed in person. A different sketch on each one. 

Merlin, the drawing emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and the size of his ears. Wanted for treason, dead or alive. 

Guinevere, her polite expression seeming out of place in the familiar style of the bounty sketch. Wanted for treason, dead or alive. 

Leon, a warning that he may claim to be a knight of Camelot accompanying his image. Wanted for treason, dead or alive. 

Morgana, a snarl on her face and a warning that she was a dangerous sorceress beneath it. Wanted for treason and sorcery, dead or alive. 

Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. Believed to be enchanted. Reward only valid alive. 

Arthur dragged his gaze up from them to Tristan and Isolt, who stood with their heads bowed, shame on their features. 

“Does he know where we are?” Arthur’s voice felt far away. He had taken a chance, forming an alliance with them. He believed in seeing the best in people. Merlin was always telling him there was nothing weak in that. Morgana said it. Gwen said it. Even Leon said it. 

He had seen the best in Tristan and Isolt, a couple of bandits who were hungry and desperate, short on options, and they had been planning to stick a knife in his back. 

“No,” Isolt said. “We went to Camelot a few days before we found you. Said we knew the woods and worked out a deal with Uther. We would lure you to somewhere you’d think you could rest and send a message to Camelot, telling him where to send his men. We haven’t lured you anywhere, so we haven’t sent him a message.” 

“That’s why it’s been so long since we’ve seen a sign of pursuit,” Leon said, and Arthur was glad to hear his knight sounded as stunned by this as he was. “You’re the pursuit.” 

They nodded. “You weren’t what we expected,” Tristan said. “We’d already been talking about not informing Uther of anything. But after today… You deserved the truth.” 

Arthur was briefly gripped by the desire to storm off to his room, a child throwing a tantrum. But he had no room to storm off to, and he had people to protect. “And now?” 

“Uther will never hear another word from us,” Isolt said solemnly. “We promise you that. Or we can send him a bad lead, if you’d prefer.”

“And we’ll leave you,” Tristan added. “We realize… Of course, you never trusted us, but there’s not trusting someone, and there’s distrusting them.”

“You might be more of a danger away from us then with us,” Elyan said, voice dripping with suspicion.

Isolt and Tristan nodded again, conceding his point. “We’ll hardly just stand here and let you execute us,” Isolt said, “but anything else… We’ll leave that to you, Arthur. If you want us to stay where you can keep an eye on us, we’ll accept that too.” 

Leon looked at him. Everyone looked at him, waiting for him to make a decision. 

Arthur was not wearing his crown. It sat in its place in the vault, gathering dust as its owner fled his home. Despite that, he felt its weight on his brow. He felt the weight of his father’s crown on his brow, pressing down with all the force of every life depending on him, every person who looked to him to decide what they should do. 

“Can I see those?” Merlin grabbed the wanted posters out of Arthur’s hand and nudged him away from the group, apparently having a point of his own to raise. Arthur dreaded hearing whatever fresh observation Merlin might have that needed to be kept private. 

But Merlin didn’t speak and when Arthur looked inquisitively at him he gave a sheepish smile. “You looked like you needed a second to think. Don’t worry, I can look like I’m asking stupid questions for as long as you need.” 

Arthur could have kissed him. Probably would have, if that wouldn’t have ruined the entire charade, needed conversation be damned. “Thank you, Merlin.” 

“Oh, see, now I know you’re stressed. I didn’t know you knew those words.” 

Arthur cuffed him. “What do you think of all this?” 

Merlin shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m pissed. Kind of freaked out they got this close for this long. Glad they realized they don’t want to get us all beheaded?” 

“Do you think we can trust them not to report to my father?” 

“Why would they tell us if they were going to?” Merlin shrugged again. “Look, I’m not going to tell you how to handle this, because you’re the prince, and that means you have to make all the stupidly complicated decisions, and I don’t want that responsibility. I have enough to do making sure you don’t get your head caved in by some bandit because you won’t watch your own back. But I get hearing ‘prince’ and assuming you’d be a jackass.” 

“I thought you thought I was a jackass, Merlin?” 

“I did! Now, though, you’re just a prat.” He smiled that dopey grin of his. “And a prat with a very good heart, which is definitely more than Tristan and Isolt thought they’d find.” 

Arthur took a deep breath. That was true. A confession to a crime or a betrayal, he told himself, was like any other apology - an admission that wrong had been done, or planned. An admission that they wanted to do better. 

It wasn’t as though Arthur had no dark shapes in his own past he’d prefer to avoid. 

He straightened, pulled the papers out of Merlin’s hand as though Merlin had just asked something incredibly stupid about them, and returned to where Tristan and Isolt waited. 

“What do you want?” he asked them. 

They exchanged a quick, surprised look. 

“Honestly, given the choice,” Tristan began hesitantly, “we’d like to help you. You’re obviously planning to do something stupid about Cenred. I imagine you don’t want us as guides anymore, but if there’s anything we can do to help you, we’d like to do it.” 

“We help you get away from a few soldiers and you’re willing to go to war for me?” 

“More than that,” Isolt said. “It’s… hard to put into words. But you’re a good man. Believe me, I have met more than enough men to know how rare that is. Even when you’re being irritating, when you’re bickering with your friends, you’re good. They trust you. We trust you, and neither of us can remember the last time we trusted anyone but each other. You abandoned your birthright to protect your sister. You nearly went on a rampage when you were worried about Merlin.” 

“We’ve been on our own, scraping by on scraps and bounties and petty theft for years,” Tristan said. “If you’d have us, I’ve never met a man I’d be more proud to follow.” 

Arthur took that in, forced himself to think on it for a few seconds despite his immediate instinct to meet it with suspicion. 

Merlin was right. If Tristan and Isolt still intended betrayal, confessing to it would be a poor way to get there. 

“You don’t pick the way any longer,” Arthur said at last. “You’re still not allowed to stand watch. You do not go anywhere without at least two of our group, either of you. Leon, am I missing anything?” 

He thought he saw respect in Leon’s eyes as he shook his head. “No, sire. I think that sounds fair.”

Arthur nodded, gave the hilt of his sword a reassuring pat, and straightened, the weight of the imaginary crown easing. “Any objections from anyone else?” 

Everyone shook their heads. 

“I think everyone deserves a second chance,” Elyan said. 

“And they are hardly the first to believe whatever story Uther has decided to tell,” Morgana added. 

Tristan and Isolt’s faces were brightening, as though they’d truly been miserable at the idea of being sent away. Arthur felt as though he were on new ground, uncertain and shaky. 

But at least the others seemed to think he had what it took to be there. 

“Alright then. We’ve stood here talking long enough.” Tristan and Isolt had been leading them northeast. Essetir was to the east. Camelot was to the south. “We’ll change course for the west then. Once we’re sure we’ve put a good amount of distance between us and Cenred… We’ll decide what to do next.” 

And as though it was a royal decree, they all moved to obey. 

Chapter Text

Though they were no longer picking which way to go, Tristan and Isolt still had a gift for finding the easiest path through the trees; something Arthur knew the others were grateful for. He was too, if he was being honest with himself. They made good time, putting a healthy distance between them and Essetir, Arthur mulling over Camelot’s impending invasion all the while. 

He wanted to race home, warn his father, get the civilians to safety, and rally the knights - but what good would it do? The only weakness Arthur knew of was Excalibur, but one magic sword did not a battle win. Would his father even listen if Arthur tried to warn him, or would he ignore any message sent, and toss Arthur into the dungeons if he dared show his face in person? 

Arthur’s mind kept wandering back to the fact that he was only wanted alive. Suspected to be enchanted. Did Uther believe that, or was it just a cover? Did he think he could burn Morgana at the stake and he and Arthur would go back to how things had been, pretending she’d never existed? 

Arthur wanted to say his father had become someone he couldn’t recognize, but the truth was that he was seeing Uther as Uther, not as his father, for the first time. And Uther was not a man Arthur wanted to be like. 

A yellow flower crushed in a gloved hand, dropped to the dirt. That was who Uther Pendragon was. Who he’d always been. 

Merlin stepped into Arthur’s space with a worried glance. “Just thinking, Merlin.” 

“That’s dangerous.” 

Arthur didn’t have the energy to rise to the bait. “About my father.” 

“Oh.” 

Archimedes butted his head against Arthur’s elbow and Arthur rubbed one of his ears instinctively, barely recognizing the action. “You’re a peasant, Merlin.” 

“Thanks.”

“I just meant-“ Arthur looked up at where the blue above them was beginning to darken. They’d have to make camp soon. “My father - he isn’t a very good king, is he?” 

Merlin gave him a guilty look that said he thought Uther was worse than ‘not very good’ but didn’t want to say so. 

“You can be honest. I’ve been working on accepting that for a while.” 

“…No. I don’t think he is. People are afraid of him. People who’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t think a king needs to rule through fear.” 

“I know I don’t want to. He’s always told me that it's necessary, that a king can’t be loved by his people if he wants to stay in control, but…” 

“He’s wrong,” Merlin said firmly. He nodded ahead, where Leon was watching Tristan and Isolt like a hawk. “Do you think Leon would have done what he did for us for Uther? Do you think Tristan and Isolt would have ever confessed what they were going to do to Uther?” He elbowed Arthur in the ribs. “Do you think I’d be following you around if you were Uther?” 

“Oh, that’s all I have to do to be rid of you, is it? If you’ll excuse me-“ 

“Very funny, you prat.” 

But Merlin smiled and Arthur smiled back, some of the tangle in his chest loosening. “You earn loyalty, Arthur. You don’t demand it at sword-point, the way Uther does. That’s a good thing. That’s what’s going to make you a great king.” 

“You still think so? Even through all this? I may never be king now.” 

“You will be. Maybe not how anyone expected you to be, but you will be.”

“…Thank you, Merlin.” He said it quietly, more seriously than most conversations they had. “I’ve never… You never tell me what you think I want to hear. That means more than I can say.” 

“Always.” Merlin’s voice sounded choked, thick. “Arthur, we still need to talk.” 

“Do you still love me?” 

“We need-“

“Do you still love me?” Arthur could hear that he was begging, but he found he didn’t care. “Yes or no, Merlin. We can talk about the rest later, but-“

“Yes.” Merlin breathed the word more than he spoke it. “Always.” 

“Okay. That’s all I need to know.” Arthur almost leaned over for a kiss, but he stopped himself. Whatever it was Merlin was trying so hard to tell him, it clearly mattered to him. As long as it wasn’t an announcement that his feelings for Arthur had dissolved, Arthur could wait. 

Beside them, Archimedes perked up, barked softly, and bounded into the trees. 

“What’s got him excited?” Arthur asked, glad it at least hadn’t been Archimedes’s warning growl of danger. He didn’t know how many more unpleasant surprises he could take today. 

Merlin shrugged. “Guess we should go see.” 

The group gave chase, and a minute later they found themselves tucked into a small glen, the remains of what appeared to have been a lookout tower crumbling away against the hill. Archimedes was weaving through the old building, sticking his nose in long abandoned crevices. 

“Looks like a decent place to set up for a bit,” Tristan said, stepping around the dog to look the place over. “Looks like it had a small barracks. So long as it doesn’t cave in on our heads it should give us some protection from the weather.” 

Elyan moved forward to inspect the building and the others set down their things with sighs of relief, stretching out sore joints. 

“Lancelot, come here,” Morgana ordered. “I want to try to heal your wrist.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to strain-“ 

“I’ll be fine, and we need all of our fighters at their best.” Morgana had her best ‘your ladyship’ voice on and it broke no argument. 

“I’ll get some firewood,” Merlin volunteered. 

“We’ll start dinner,” Gwaine said, smacking Percival on the arm. 

Archimedes barked and Arthur looked over to find the dog observing something so massive it took Arthur several long moments to realize it was a tree stump. The largest tree stump he’d ever seen. 

“Looks like we have something like a table to have dinner at,” Arthur said, and patted Archimedes on the head. 

Arthur kept himself busy as everyone settled in, concurring with Elyan that the ruins were safe enough to sleep in so long as no one decided to race up and down the stairs, breaking up a near food fight between Gwaine and Merlin after the latter returned with the wood, and discussing the finer points of swordplay with Lancelot once Morgana was done with him. 

They managed a decent stew for dinner, though Arthur knew their supplies must be running low again. Their flight today and the pause over Merlin’s transformation would have set them back. Still, no one seemed overly worried, and they all settled in around the tree stump to eat with light expressions. Even Tristan and Isolt’s confession didn’t seem to be damaging the mood - they were swapping stories about what an ass Cenred was with Percival. Morgana had fixed up Lancelot’s wrist - and Arthur was glad, she was right that every fighter counted - and looked drained but pleased. Elyan and Gwen were chatting, praising each other for how well they’d done that morning. 

Arthur paused as he moved to take his own seat, looking at them. 

A traitorous knight. A former lady and a bastard princess turned sorceress. A commoner who had once faked a noble lineage for a knighthood. A drunken brawler. A blacksmith with a history of bad choices. A man looking for a home to replace the one Cenred and his men had destroyed. Two bounty hunters looking for a purpose. And the two most loyal servants in all of Albion. 

Damn brave people, all of them. They were a tiny group, but standing there, hovering above their makeshift table, Arthur knew he wouldn’t trade them for an entire company of knights. 

“Something on your mind, Arthur?” Morgana asked. 

“There’s no head to the table,” Arthur said. He hadn’t realized he was thinking it, but it seemed so clear, looking over them. Nothing could have been further from the long, empty table where he and his father sat across from each other most evenings. “No obvious leader.” 

Several of them were looking at him oddly now. He supposed he wasn’t making much sense. “There’s no rank here,” Arthur said. “Tristan, Isolt, you said earlier that you respected that we didn’t treat each other better or worse for our ranks. That’s what I want to do. The kingdom I want to build, if I ever do become king. One where servants aren’t banished out of sight. One where a brave man isn’t barred from the knighthood just because his parents weren’t titled.” 

He took a breath. He was making a speech, it seemed. “I am grateful to every one of you for following me here. I am not a king. I’m not sure I’m even a prince any longer. Every one of us is a criminal now. But whatever happens next, wherever we all choose to go - I’m glad you were here with me now. This is as good as any banquet I’ve ever attended. Better even, for the company.” Everyone laughed at that. 

“I’m sure none of you will be surprised to know that I intend to return to Camelot. I must do something about Cenred’s army. I don’t know what yet. I’ll save that decision for tomorrow. But I know I have to. I have sworn myself to Camelot, and I will not abandon her now, no matter what my father might do. And if I escape that with my life, know that every one of you-“ He made eye contact with Tristan and Isolt, making clear that even they were included, “will be rewarded with whatever honors I can bestow on you with whatever rank I hold. Tristan, Isolt, I’ve thought about it most of the day, and I still believe we were fortunate to find you. I believe we can trust you. I hope for you to prove I’m right.” 

Tristan lifted a cup of water in a small toast. “We hope to be able to.” 

Arthur smiled. “Guinevere, you have proven yourself every bit the noble woman Morgana is - and she sets the bar very high. I hope to one day see you treated with the respect you deserve.” 

Gwen flushed and Morgana leaned over to kiss her, beaming. 

“The rest of you, you are knights in my eyes. Most of you are not of noble birth, and my father sees you as lesser for it.” He made pointed eye contact with Lancelot, who gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “But you have shown loyalty beyond what I could have dreamed of asking of anyone. Bravery. A willingness to do what is right. To refuse to follow a bad order.” He looked at Leon, who seemed to hold his head just a hair higher. “You are the greatest knights who could have stood beside me this far. I will not think less of any of you if you do not follow me back to Camelot. I have no illusions about what we’ll face if we go. but I can think of no men I’d rather have with me.” 

Lancelot looked so happy Arthur thought he might start to glow. Elyan was blushing and staring at the tabletop. Even Gwaine looked pleased and proud, though he was trying to hide it. 

Arthur reached down to clap his left hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Except for you, Merlin. I’ve seen what you’re like with a sword.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes good-naturedly, though Arthur thought he saw a flicker of hurt for a moment. Arthur squeezed, hoping to convey a thousand meanings through the contact. “Which is why I’ve come to think of you as an advisor. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to not turn and ask for your opinions on things, and even when I disagree with you I come away from our conversations feeling more sure of myself than before.” 

Merlin flushed and glanced away, then back up at Arthur. “If this is you trying to make me part of the council once you’re king, no thanks. I think you’re just trying to get out of having to go to all those stuffy meetings yourself.” 

“You don’t have a choice, Merlin.” 

“Ah, well, in that case, I accept.” 

“Good. Then people can stop wondering why I’ve never had my servant executed for the way he talks back to me.”

Arthur rapped his knuckles on the tree stump. “There is no head to this table,” he repeated. “You are all my equals in my mind. Whatever anyone else thinks, I want you all to know that.” He lifted his cup of water. “To all of you.” 

The others returned his toast and Arthur sat down to eat at last. These were his friends. Once, he’d thought he’d had lots. Then, he’d discovered they only cared about his rank and known he’d had none. 

Then Merlin had come. Merlin with his honesty, his nagging, his determination that Arthur would be a better man, even if Merlin had to drag him kicking and screaming into it. Arthur had no illusions about the others. If not for Merlin, he would not be a man Guinevere befriended or Leon committed treason for. He would not have even been a man brave enough to stand up for Morgana when she needed him. 

Now, he had all of these people. Even Tristan and Isolt, if he allowed himself to hope that he would not be wrong about them twice. This was worth any crown, however things played out with Cenred and Uther. 

Morgana elbowed him in the ribs with a smirk. “When did you get good at giving speeches?” 

It was a joke, but Arthur considered the answer. “I suppose… When I started believing what I was saying.”

I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. 

It had been Merlin’s mantra since he’d turned back to human, what felt like half an age ago now. Arthur was going to go back to Camelot, to try and save his people, and Merlin couldn’t let him do that without knowing about the secret weapon he had in his arsenal. And if Arthur made him leave? Well, Merlin would just sneak back to Camelot anyway and help from the shadows, just as he’d been doing for years now. 

He caught Arthur’s arm as they finished dinner and nodded towards the woods. “Can we talk now?” 

Arthur gave him a tired smile. “Well, we can try.” 

Merlin managed a smile of his own. There had been an awful lot of issues today. 

I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. 

He left Archimedes behind, just as he had that morning. This was just between him and Arthur, however it went. 

I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him. 

“You’re starting to make me feel like a man walking to the executioner, Merlin,” Arthur said, nerves ruining his attempt to make it lighthearted. 

“Sorry.” They’d walked farther than was necessary. Maybe too far - were they still in shouting distance of their shelter, if something happened? 

Too late to worry about it now. If he kept looking for excuses to delay he’d never get it out. He’d delayed too long already. He should have told him ages ago. As soon as they left Camelot. Why hadn’t he told him when they’d first left Camelot? 

Because he was a coward, that was why. Because he didn’t want things to change, even when everything around them was collapsing. 

“Merlin, you’re thinking so loudly it’s making my head hurt.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You said that already.”

“Sor-" Merlin stopped himself. “I need to tell you something.” 

“I gathered that.” Arthur touched Excalibur’s hilt and moved his hand away again. “Bad news, I take it?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t-“ It was getting hard to breathe. “I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, I swear. I didn’t want - It shouldn’t have gotten this far and I’m sorry.”

“Merlin, what is it?” Arthur was starting to sound almost annoyed. That was the opposite of what Merlin wanted. 

He ripped it off like a scab. “I - I know magic.” 

Arthur’s face was difficult to read, and then he managed a slow nod. When he spoke, his words were stiff, almost rehearsed. “From helping Morgana? Or Gaius? I thought you seemed a little too good at helping her earlier for it to have just been smuggling her books. Learned some with her, did you?” 

It was a tempting out, to pretend he’d only just started learning and happened to be a prodigy. But he was going to tell him. Really tell him. Actually tell him. 

“No.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “No?”

“No. Before - I’ve always had magic. As long as I’ve been in Camelot.” 

Arthur stared at him, as though the words weren’t reaching him. As though Merlin had slipped into a different language. “What - You have not. No one who’s learning magic would willingly come to Camelot.” 

Merlin’s mouth was dry. He wished he’d thought to bring water. “Always. I was - I was born with it, Arthur.” 

“What are you on about? No one is born with magic. Even Morgana’s - she was born with the dreams, but she didn’t just know how to do magic.” 

“I did. I do. I’ve always known magic, I-“ He stopped. He wasn’t making sense, he knew, especially to Arthur who had so little reference for any of this. He held out a hand. “Leorte.” A blue-white ball of light bloomed into his palm. “I’ve been able to do that since before I could talk. I don’t even need the spell, not really. It just helps me control it.” 

Arthur stared at the light as though it were something incomprehensible. 

“I’ve always had magic, Arthur, and I’m sorry I let this go on so long without telling you. I should have told you as soon as I saw you move to protect Morgana, but I - I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.” 

Arthur was still staring, not speaking. 

“I’ve only ever used it to help you, Arthur, I swear it. I - I used it that first day I saved your life, when I became your manservant. I dropped the chandelier, I slowed down time to get to you before the dagger did.” 

Still staring. Merlin took a step forward and Arthur stepped back, jerky, still staring at the light, and Merlin clenched his fist, snuffing it out. “Arthur, look at me, please!” 

Arthur did, and Merlin wished he hadn’t. His eyes were huge, uncomprehending. 

“I’m still me!” Merlin begged. “I swear, I’ve never - I’ve never lied about anything important! I’ve only tried to protect you! I - I used magic to kill the griffin, and the afanc! That’s - The lucky breaks we had on our way out of Camelot, the unlocked doors and the distracted guards, those were me!”

Arthur’s expression was unchanging, staring at Merlin like he’d never seen him before, like he’d mutated into something unrecognizable. 

“I gave you Excalibur! I knew you’d need it to defeat the familiars so I brought it - Arthur, say something!” 

The silence between them was the loudest thing Merlin had ever heard. 

“Arthur-"

“Would you shut up!” Arthur finally snapped, stepping back, expression shifting to anger. 

Merlin felt it like a punch in the gut. “Arthur, I-"

“I can’t - I can’t.” 

And Arthur turned and ran from him. 

Merlin stood in place, one hand still half reached out to where Arthur had been, his heart so loud in his ears he couldn’t hear anything but its dull roar. 

He waited. And waited. And waited. 

When someone came, it wasn’t Arthur, but Archimedes, his head bowed, his ears flat. <But… he loves you.>

And that was the thing about Archimedes. He saw things in their simplest forms. It was why he could never understand not killing Uther. Uther was a horrible man; therefore, he could not love Arthur. Arthur loved Merlin; therefore, he could not be angry about the magic. 

But love wasn’t always enough to stop the terrible. 

There was nothing to run from, but Merlin suddenly couldn’t stand to be in place one second longer. He turned in the opposite direction of the one Arthur had vanished into and ran. 

Chapter Text

Arthur’s head was spinning. This was the longest day of his life, and he’d had some damn long days. 

Magic. Merlin had magic. His Merlin. His Merlin had magic. 

It didn’t feel real. How could it be real? How could Merlin, who tripped going up the stairs more often than not, who whined about having to go outside when it rained, be a sorcerer? 

A powerful one, somehow, if his stories were to believed. Which they were, because Merlin didn’t lie to him. Ever.

Except… he did. Except he had apparently been lying since the day he’d arrived in Camelot. Except that, apparently, every time Arthur had wondered what the hell Merlin had been thinking, the answer had been magic. 

It wouldn’t process. It didn’t make sense. There had to be some mistake, Arthur must have misheard, misunderstood, Merlin must have been jesting… 

But he’d summoned light, snuffed it out again, had barely seemed to think about it. Merlin, who lit the candles in Arthur’s room ever night when the sun went down, who would shoo Arthur or the knights away from the fire pit because they weren’t doing it right. 

Merlin. 

“Arthur? Everything alright?” 

Arthur hadn’t realized his feet were taking him back to camp. He found Leon watching him, concern on his face. 

All this time. All these years. There had been a sorcerer in his shadow all these years. 

And Arthur hadn’t noticed. Arthur hadn’t noticed magic happening right under his nose. He hadn’t noticed that Morgana’s dreams were more than dreams. He hadn’t noticed the relationship blooming between Morgana and Guinevere. He hadn’t realized Lancelot was lying about being a noble, hadn’t realized his father was a tyrant, hadn’t realized Tristan and Isolt were luring them into a trap, had never noticed fucking anything important, it seemed, in his entire stupid, pointless life. 

“Did you know?” he asked, and his voice came out as a rasp. “Any of you. Did you know?” 

The group was staring at him like he’d grown another head, and Arthur wanted to start throwing things. How many secrets had taken place right in front of him, while he had his head too far up his own ass to notice?

“You’re going to have to be more specific, princess,” Gwaine said. 

Surely he’d known. Gwaine would have had no trouble keeping secrets from him, had made no secret that he had come for Merlin, not for Arthur, and that hadn’t bothered Arthur because Merlin’s loyalty was unwavering, never in doubt, not for a second, but now it was. “The magic. Did you know?” 

Gwaine just stared at him, but Arthur heard a sharp inhale of breath, and when he turned he saw Lancelot, rising to his feet, head bowed, not quite daring eye contact. “He told you.” 

“You knew.” I used magic to kill the griffin. “You’ve always known.” 

Lancelot visibly swallowed and bobbed his head. “Yes. He… He killed the griffin, not me. He enchanted my spear.” 

“And the rest of you?” Arthur whirled around, but everyone was only staring at him. 

“That long?” Morgana said. She looked almost as confused as Arthur felt. “I thought - I thought maybe he was learning some while he was helping me, that maybe Gaius taught him some and he was afraid to admit it, but… The griffin attack was ages ago.” 

“Always,” Arthur said. “He says he’s always had it.” Since he was born, which was impossible, but what did Arthur know? What did anyone know about magic, since Uther had set every piece of information about it on fire? 

“And he… didn’t tell me?” The hurt and confusion on Morgana’s face was as clear as the one Arthur knew was on his. 

“He’s never told anyone,” Lancelot said. “I worked it out, when my spear started glowing and no one else was around. He’s never told anyone.” He looked at Arthur, something like pleading in his eyes. “He’s been trying to find the nerve to tell the entire time we've been on the run.”

Lancelot. Of all the people who could be hiding things from him, he wouldn’t have suspected Lancelot. Lancelot was everything a knight was supposed to be, all the honesty and honor and nobility, and he’d known. 

“He only uses it to help,” Lancelot said, as though he were echoing what Merlin had said just a few… Arthur didn’t even know how long it had been since he and Merlin had talked. Seconds, minutes, hours? A lifetime. “He’s loyal to you, Arthur. Completely.” 

But how could that be, when everything that had ever been between them had been under the shadow of a lie? 

Arthur thought of that kiss, of coming to himself like being pulled out of the water, and for the first time it made his stomach twist. Had Merlin broken the enchantment? Or had Merlin made one of his own? Had anything, anything, between them been based in honesty, or was Merlin just as manipulative as everyone else who had gotten close to Arthur in the hopes of improving their own importance? 

“It makes sense,” Gwaine said slowly, though he still looked bewildered. “Thinking about it. There’s lots of scrapes that make more sense if there was magic happening. Close calls.”

“He only uses it to help us,” Lancelot repeated. “To help Arthur.” 

Arthur collapsed to sit on the tree stump that had been their dinner table just an hour or two ago, when the world had seemed so clear. When Arthur had thought, just for a moment, that he could do this. That he could return to Camelot, find a way to defeat Cenred, and keep Morgana safe from their father’s fury. 

When Merlin had been a quiet, constant presence at this side. 

“Well, it’s still Merlin,” Gwaine said, after a long and uncomfortable silence. Arthur envied that he seemed to be shaking off the shock. “He’s still the best damn friend I’ve ever had. Hell, if he’d told me sooner, we could have been having a lot more fun with you lot.” The joke was strained. 

“Maybe that’s the real reason he didn’t tell you,” Lancelot said dryly. 

Arthur wasn’t ready for them to make a joke of this, even if make a joke of things was all Gwaine ever did. 

Merlin had magic. Merlin had lied to him. Two things that would have felt impossible that morning. Merlin had summoned a ball of light into his hand like it was nothing. 

Something scratched on the edges of Arthur’s awareness. It had been a very familiar ball of light, hadn’t it? A silver shine, a fluidity to it that made Arthur think of water. 

The caves where he’d found the morteus flower to save Merlin’s life. When he’d been left there, betrayed and alone in pitch blackness, monsters crawling up the walls to get to him, a light had come. 

That light had come. Had guided him to safety. Arthur remembered it as the first crack in his opinions on magic; the safety it had seemed to exude, the promise that he would be alright. 

Merlin.

Somehow, despite having been on death’s doorstep, Merlin had sent that light to protect him. Arthur was sure of it, in a way he was seldom sure about anything. 

I’ve only ever used it to help you, Arthur. 

Arthur stood back up. His head was still spinning. There was a throbbing behind his eyes and he didn’t think he’d ever been so desperate for sleep, but he needed to talk to Merlin. 

“Arthur.” 

Arthur paused and looked back at Gwaine.

“You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?” Gwaine's face was uncharacteristically serious.

Arthur shook his head. “Never.” And that was true, whatever else wasn’t. “I have a million questions for him. But I won’t - I would never hurt Merlin. For anything.” 

Gwaine nodded. “Good. Don’t take all night about it. If we’re going to protect Camelot, we’ll need our sorcerer.” 

Our sorcerer. Like it was that easy. Like five minutes to process was all it took to get everything back to normal. 

Maybe it was, for Gwaine. Maybe this was Uther’s doing again, poisoning Arthur’s head and keeping him from seeing his friend when he was right in front of him. 

Maybe it was Arthur’s own weakness. Maybe he needed to stop blaming his father when cruelty slipped out of him. 

“We’ll be back soon,” Arthur promised. Because they would. Because it was Merlin. Merlin, who had sent him a light to guide him home. Merlin, who Arthur didn’t think he could live without anymore. 

Maybe that was an enchantment. Maybe that was Uther’s paranoia talking. Maybe Arthur was just weak and pathetic and couldn’t make up his mind for himself. 

But he couldn’t turn his back on Merlin. That was true. That would always be true.

Merlin wasn’t waiting where Arthur had left him, which shot a sharp spike of anxiety through his whole being. If Merlin decided to abandon him now… No. Arthur would catch up with him, make him make this whole thing make sense, and he would come back. 

Because it was Merlin. Because if he refused to leave Arthur’s side while Camelot was attacked by a dragon or living gargoyles or griffins he wouldn’t leave Arthur because he’d been a bit of an idiot. 

Surely he wouldn’t. Thankfully, Merlin had never gotten any better about not leaving a trail a blind man could follow, and Arthur had no trouble picking out which way he’d gone, Archimedes apparently trotting along beside. 

Could Merlin speak to animals? Was it magic that was responsible for the oddly intelligent look in Archimedes’s eyes, and was that another thing Arthur had managed to miss? 

Arthur took a deep breath, trying to focus on following Merlin’s trail of snapped twigs. He’d let himself get caught up in his own head and that was why he was now having to chase Merlin down through the woods. He wouldn’t make the same mistake before he’d even caught up with the man. 

He couldn’t do this without Merlin. He wasn’t sure he could do anything without Merlin, and there was a jangling of nerves suggesting that was because Merlin had done something to him, but he clung to the image of that ball of light in the cave. That light had come to help him. It had reassured him, doubling back for him when he’d struggled during his climb to safety. 

It hadn’t lingered at the morteus flower, Arthur remember. He’d found it by chance, breathed out a great sigh of relief as he’d picked it and tucked it away, but the light hadn’t hovered over it, hadn’t drawn attention to it. If that had been Merlin - and Arthur was certain it had been - he had been more concerned with Arthur’s life than his own. 

The griffin. The afanc. The falling chandelier. And how many others? Merlin was always joking about how many times he’d saved Arthur’s life, but was he joking? Had it ever been a joke, or did Arthur owe Merlin a life debt he couldn’t hope to ever repay? 

Find him first. Talk to him. Listen to him. 

A deep howl ripped through the woods. Archimedes.

Arthur ripped Excalibur - I gave you Excalibur! I knew you’d need it to defeat the familiars so I brought it - out of his scabbard and charged toward the sound. If Merlin had managed to piss off a bear or something, Arthur was going to kill him and then kiss him senseless before he made him explain himself. 

If it was something worse, if Cenred’s or Uther’s men had found them… 

He wasn’t going to lose Merlin. He wasn’t.

They were Cenred’s, and Arthur found them just in time to see Merlin throw his hand out and send a soldier he hadn’t touched flying backwards into a tree with enough force that the man’s spine should have snapped. 

It didn’t, of course. He stood, shaking himself like he’d just taken a bad but harmless tumble, and took a step towards Merlin. 

Arthur stabbed him through the back. 

It was a proper patrol, not the handful of supply runners they’d come across that morning. Searching for them? Arthur hoped not. They had problems enough. 

Archimedes threw himself into another, dodging the man’s sword and sending him crashing to the ground. Arthur moved to the dog and plunged Excalibur through the soldier’s throat. 

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was breathless; hopeful and confused and worried all at once. 

“I just needed a minute,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “Let’s deal with these monsters and we’ll talk.” 

Something like relief flooded into Merlin’s face, and Arthur had to yank him out of the way of an Essetir soldier. “If you’re that good at magic, help me!” 

Merlin grinned, and it was every bit as dopey and bright as every other smile Arthur had ever gotten out of him. Maybe Gwaine was right. Maybe this didn’t matter. Maybe he was still just Merlin.

“Can you kill them?” Arthur asked, as he caught a soldier’s sword on his own and kicked the man backwards. 

“No,” Merlin replied grimly. “I can knock them back, force them to drop their weapons, and I could set them on fire if I wasn’t worried about burning down the forest, but I don’t have a counterspell to whatever’s making them immortal.” 

Arthur drove Excalibur through the eye-slit of a man’s helmet and barely got the sword down again to block another soldier’s lunge. A gust of wind rushed by and the man was lifted off his feet and thrown backwards. 

Arthur was thinking about how many clumsy bandits he’d dispatched over the years. 

“Can you call the others then? We could use a few more bodies.” 

“Beacn.” A burst of light shot up over them, turning their patch of wood white for a brief moment. “Lancelot will know what that means.” 

“Warn me next time!” Arthur ordered, blinking the spots out of his eyes. Thankfully, Cenred’s mens’ immortality didn’t seem to have given them immunity to being disoriented by bright flashes of light, and Arthur was able to take one of them out before they recovered. 

“Sorry!” 

“Well, I am relieved to know the idiocy wasn’t an act.” 

“Nothing was, Arthur, I swear. I only-“ 

A crossbow bolt shot past, so close it ruffled Arthur’s hair. “We’ll talk after. Stay behind me!” 

“I can look after myself!” 

“Then look after yourself from behind me!” Merlin was a magic-user living in Camelot, right under the king’s nose. Arthur had no faith in his self-preservation abilities. If he wanted to prove he didn’t need Arthur’s protection, he could prove it later. 

A mace caught Arthur’s left shoulder, and while he managed to drive the man back, the blow staggered him, and a moment later another blow sent him to one knee, barely blocking what would have been a killing strike in time. 

The wind picked up again, and three soldiers were knocked away, like they were toys left outside in a storm. 

Arthur regained his footing and charged after them. If Merlin could keep them down while he dispatched them-

He killed one, shoved off another, caught a third through a chink in his armor while he swung at Arthur’s head. Lancelot and the others had better catch up with them soon, because this was not the sort of difficult odds Arthur enjoyed dealing with. Even with Excalibur, he seemed to need a killing blow for them to care - a strike that would have had most men reeling didn’t seem to matter much to them. They'd stumble, shake themselves, but they gave no sign of being winded or nursing bruises.

“Deal with the sorcerer!” a soldier ordered, and Arthur heard a roar of protest come out of his own lungs. That was his sorcerer, his Merlin, and he’d be damned if he let these Essetir bastards touch him. 

Two more dead, Arthur knocked to the ground, a blow to his face barely driven back, a hit to his elbow that nearly made him drop Excalibur. A shockwave that cleared the area around him. 

And then a sound that Arthur felt in his gut. A scream, a wail, the heartbroken howl of a wolf in a fairytale. 

A blast of light like the sun itself had come to help them. Arthur went blind in it, his arm coming up to shield his eyes too late, listening as hard as he could for enemy footsteps making for him while he was distracted. He’d told Merlin to warn him. 

And then… nothing. 

Darkness. The sun had set. The magical light was gone. 

Silence. And when Arthur turned, the first soldier he saw was mere yards away - and Merlin had worked out a counterspell, because the man could not have been more dead, his eyes wide in a pale face, a distinctly empty look to him, as though Merlin had simply yanked the life right out of him the way a pickpocket took a coinpurse. 

It should have been terrifying. Arthur should have been chilled to the bone at the idea that a man with that kind of power spent most nights asleep within shouting distance - within spellcasting distance. 

But it was pride that curled up in his chest instead. This had been Merlin, his Merlin, and if this was the sort of thing he could do, Cenred and his men didn’t stand a chance. 

Arthur turned, eyes scanning the battlefield, now strewn with corpses, opening his mouth with the intent of ribbing Merlin, telling him to save some for the rest of us next time.

The words died in his throat. 

Archimedes was standing like a beast in shock, splattered with blood. In front of him was Merlin. 

Merlin, who had a blade sticking out of his unarmored chest. 

Merlin, whose eyes were wide open. 

Merlin, who had a blade struck through where his heart was. 

Merlin, his Merlin, whose eyes were glazed over. Unseeing. 

Dead. 

Chapter Text

Leon had suggested Morgana and Gwen stay at the camp while the rest of them ran to Merlin’s signal, but Morgana had refused. She’d had more than enough of being protected and coddled. She’d proven her worth as a healer, at least, and she would be close by if they needed her, and she’d have a sword in her hand if she needed to defend herself. Lancelot had gifted her his after had passed his own along, and Morgana held it firmly in her right hand as she imagined her magic welling up inside her clenched left fist. And, of course, wherever she went, Gwen was never far behind. 

Besides, Morgana had some words for Merlin about not having told even her about his magic, and she didn’t want Arthur to get the lion’s share of the shouting. 

She and Gwen did let the others get out ahead of them though. No sense in walking straight into danger when someone with a better shield arm could do it instead. 

When they caught up, the first thing Morgana saw was Gwaine hurling himself into Arthur. 

“This is your fault, you son-of-a-bitch! If you’d just fucking trusted him; like he hasn’t saved your worthless noble ass a thousand times-!” The shouting kept going, curses spilling out of Gwaine’s mouth as he pinned Arthur to the ground and started punching, again and again and again. 

Gwen gasped and grabbed Morgana’s arm. 

Morgana followed her gaze - and there was Merlin. Lying on the ground, blood pooled around him, eyes wide open, as Tristan pulled a sword out of his chest. 

Morgana let out a strangled wordless cry. 

“Gwaine, enough!” Leon shouted, and he hauled the other man off of Arthur with an impressive show of strength. “That’s not helping!” 

“You got him killed, you bastard!” Gwaine howled. There were tears streaming down his face. “He’d have done anything for you, and you got him killed!” 

Arthur didn’t argue, even as Elyan helped him to his feet. His face was blank, shocked. Gwaine had blackened his eye and busted his lip, but he didn’t even raise a hand to wipe away the trickle of blood moving down his chin. 

Dead Essetir soldiers were everywhere. One was mere inches away from Merlin, his sword missing. 

Merlin’s killer then. At least he'd paid for it.

Morgana felt her dinner trying to come back up but held it back. She hated showing weakness. 

She made her way to Merlin’s side. Lancelot was running a hand down Merlin’s face, closing his eyes, his own expression stricken. Morgana knelt beside her friend, held out a hand, and said, in a voice shakier than she’d have liked it to be, “Bundenstefha dreor.” 

She felt the magic catch in the air, move toward Merlin - and then nothing. It faded away into the air. “Bundenstefha dreor.” Still nothing. 

She dropped her hand. Too far gone, she thought. Too dead to fix. 

“How did this-?” she started, as though there was any answer that would matter. As though it wasn’t obvious that Merlin and Arthur had been overwhelmed. That they’d been too late. 

“I tried to keep them away from him,” Arthur said, his voice shattered, every bit the little boy she’d grown up saying he was. “He killed them, but…” 

Leon had let Gwaine go, and Gwaine collapsed beside Lancelot. “He was the first friend I’d had in years,” he said, voice choked and thick. “He-" Lancelot put an arm around Gwaine’s shoulders as Gwaine's words failed him. 

“We should-“ Leon cleared his throat, tried again. “We should take him back to camp.”

“I can carry him,” Percival volunteered. 

It was a funeral march. Arthur wouldn’t look up from his feet. Gwaine wouldn’t look at anyone. Lancelot was trying and failing not to cry. Gwen wasn’t trying at all, her tears falling silently down her face. 

It took a tear dripping off her chin for Morgana to realize she was crying too. 

How had things gone so badly so quickly? Just a few hours ago they’d been around their massive tree stump, eating and joking, Arthur giving speeches about camaraderie. 

Now Merlin was dead. Merlin, who Morgana knew had saved Arthur’s life a dozen times, and far more than that, if Lancelot was to be believed. Merlin, who Morgana knew had saved her own life, coming to her with reassurances that she was neither crazy nor a monster. 

The anger that he hadn’t been more honest with her was dead and discarded now. She couldn’t be angry at a dead man. 

Her dinner almost came up again. 

Percival set Merlin’s body on their makeshift table, the very one Arthur had just said represented what he wanted Camelot to become, if he returned to his throne. 

Morgana supposed it still represented Camelot. She’d gotten so used to seeing Merlin at Arthur’s side, Arthur leaning over to whisper to him during meetings, that she couldn’t imagine her brother leading Camelot without him. 

Judging by the way he was slumped against the tree stump, staring blankly into the distance, he couldn’t imagine it either. 

Morgana sat down beside him, their shoulders just barely touching. She didn’t say anything. Nobody did, in the whole camp. 

Merlin was dead. There was nothing to say.

Death was empty. That was what Archimedes knew of it. To be alive was to be full, and to be dead was to be empty. 

Gaius had been empty, when they’d found him on the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin had been full, overflowing with fury, and then Nimueh had been empty too, and Merlin so drained from it that Archimedes had feared for a time that Merlin would die also. 

The two of them often gave each other privacy, allowing them to exist as two separate entities, but those first few days after Gaius had died had been the only time Merlin had completely blocked them apart from one another. He hadn’t wanted to hear Archimedes’s reassurances that they’d done all they could, or answer questions about what would happen next. 

He’d apologized later, and Archimedes had forgiven him. Death caused pain. Immense pain. Pain so extreme it had driven Uther to destroy magic. The very threat of Arthur’s death had driven Merlin to offer up his own life. 

Archimedes had suggested he could offer up his own life, let Merlin pull on his power until there was nothing left, and maybe Merlin would survive Nimueh. Merlin had refused, and instructed Archimedes to look after Arthur, once he was gone. 

It hadn’t come to that, and they’d never talked about it again. Death was empty, and it was enormous, and it was too frightening to talk about. 

Archimedes and Arthur had been too focused on their own fights, and Merlin, as always, had been focused on Arthur. No one had seen the soldier coming up behind Merlin until the sword had already been punched through his back and out of his chest. By then, it had been too late. 

Archimedes had felt a tug on his very existence; a harsher, colder version of what he felt when Merlin asked for a little extra magic for a spell. He had had just a moment to register what was happening, to feel a flash of terror at the idea of emptying out, becoming nothing - and then Merlin had crashed down on their connection, blocking it. 

And then the emptiness. The horrible, sickening emptiness as Merlin became nothingness instead. It had wrenched a noise Archimedes couldn’t comprehend out of his lungs, even as Merlin had released the last of his magic - the very last of his magic, the very dregs of it, the magic he was made of - into a spell that had killed even the unkillable soldiers. 

Back in camp, Merlin still empty and nothing on top of the round table Arthur had made such a speech about, Archimedes pressed himself to Gwaine’s leg - he’d always liked Gwaine - and trembled. 

He was alone. All alone. Merlin had sent him the spell that would allow him to make the others understand him, or maybe he’d simply gained all the knowledge Merlin had possessed, but Archimedes had never wanted to speak to them less. He wanted Merlin. Not Arthur or Gwaine or Morgana or anyone else. 

Gwaine had a hand clenched in his fur. He was still crying. Normally, Archimedes would have tried to comfort him - he was good at it, he thought - but he couldn’t seem to manage anything but shaking at Gwaine’s side. 

Everyone was full of grief. Archimedes watched them as they tried to find things to do - silly things, pointless things. Being busy helps Merlin had said, when Archimedes had suggested he was doing too much in the wake of Gaius’s death. It seemed Merlin was not the only one who thought so. 

But no one spoke. No one looked at each other. Tristan and Isolt moved wordlessly through them, passing out blankets, as though they knew no one would sleep inside tonight. They spread one over Gwaine’s knees and he didn’t react. They looked at Archimedes as though wondering if he wanted one too, and then Isolt leaned down and rubbed his head. “I’m sorry, boy,” she whispered. 

Archimedes was sorry too. 

Arthur was not full of grief. Arthur was almost empty. Almost all of himself had vanished when Merlin had, until he was just a shell, and Archimedes feared he would go away too. 

Merlin had always said it was his duty to protect Arthur. Archimedes didn’t think he’d realized this was something Arthur would need protection from. 

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, the words barely reaching Archimedes’s sensitive ears. 

Night had overtaken them completely. Half of their group had fallen asleep, too worn out and full of grief to do anything else. The other half sat where they’d dropped when they ran out of things to do, staring blankly into the darkness. Tristan and Isolt clung to each other. Archimedes understood. They were like Merlin and Arthur. Without the other, they’d go empty. 

How long could someone - how long could Arthur or Archimedes - be empty before they no longer had enough in them to get up in the morning? 

Not long, Archimedes thought. Surely no one could live like this for long. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Arthur said. He had moved up onto the tree stump beside what was left of Merlin, staring as though he could force Merlin to fill back up again. “If I hadn’t… If I’d just let you explain…” A choked-off sob came out of Arthur’s throat. “You’ve protected me so many times and I couldn’t protect you.”

Archimedes had not protected him either. 

“I can’t do this without you,” Arthur said, his voice almost nothing. 

Merlin had always been insistent that he was not Archimedes’s master. That they were equals, partners. It had always been them, for as long as either of them could remember, no one but Merlin’s mother and Will even aware that Archimedes was anything other than an owl hunting the rats who came too close to the storehouses, anything but a bird with a pretty voice who woke the village in the morning. 

They had looked out for each other in Camelot. A mighty hound most of the time, to protect Merlin when his magic would be too dangerous. Sometimes a crow or a cat to listen at doorways. A horse once, to carry Arthur to safety. Always a question, always an understanding that Merlin would not force anything, even when they argued. Two beings made from the same magic, bound together, but always separate. Always independent. 

Archimedes thought of the creatures the sorceress Lunete had made. Tristan had called them familiars, but they were not like him. He was not a puppet. Those creatures could not live without their mistress. Archimedes could live without Merlin. 

He did not want to. 

He stood and nuzzled into Gwaine’s shoulder. The man had shared many meals with him, had snuck him scraps and suggested mischief. Archimedes was glad they had met him. 

He left Gwaine and padded around the camp, visiting their companions one by one. Elyan, who had brushed his fur out and checked him for thorns while Merlin was a fox. Percival, who had brought him a bowl of water while he was exhausted from the fight with Lunete, so he wouldn’t have to walk to the river. Tristan and Isolt, who had encouraged him up onto his back legs to dance with them while Tristan played his music for the group. Leon, who had become so used to his presence that he would reach down and pet his ears without noticing he was doing it. Gwen, who whispered comments to him when they passed in the halls of the castle, even though she didn’t know he could understand it. Morgana, who he had stayed with many days and nights, to keep the nightmares away, even when Merlin couldn’t for fear of discovery. Lancelot, who had kept their secret so long, and had never once looked at Archimedes in fear. 

And Arthur. Always, Arthur. Arthur who had taught him how to fight a man who wielded a sword and let him chase recruits around the training grounds. Arthur who loved Merlin more than he hated magic. Archimedes had been right, in the end, even if it had taken Arthur a while to realize it. 

Merlin was right. Arthur was a dollophead. 

Archimedes pushed his head into Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur hugged him back. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and Archimedes didn’t know if he was talking to him or to Merlin. 

He licked Arthur’s tears away. <We forgive you.> 

Arthur froze, surprise filling him up a bit as Archimedes’s voice entered his head, but Archimedes did not wait to see what emotion replaced it. Instead, he turned, took a deep and fortifying breath, and tried to fight down the instinctive, animal fear rising in him. 

He laid down beside Merlin, a leg over his chest, and rested his head over Merlin’s heart, where the blood had dried. 

And then Archimedes, faithful familiar to Merlin of Ealdor, poured all of his magic into his friend, and he died.

Arthur had been getting on Merlin to watch his back better for years, but Merlin had never listened. People aimed for Arthur, not him, and Arthur was always in front of him. 

But that had been when he was being less obvious about his magic. 

At least, Merlin being dead, Arthur wouldn’t be able to say ‘I told you so’. 

Death was dark, cold. Empty. Perhaps he would not cross over into Avalon until the others gave him a funeral. 

They would, wouldn’t they? Yes, of course. Arthur had come to help him. He’d promised they would talk, had made fun of Merlin for still being a clumsy idiot, even with the magic. And Lancelot, Lancelot would do something for him, of course he would. 

It wasn’t how Merlin would have liked to die; stuck in the back by some lucky Essetir soldier. Especially not now, when Arthur needed him to take back Camelot. But Arthur had Excalibur and Archimedes, and Morgana was mastering her magic and knew she was protected, so hopefully that would be enough. 

Merlin’s spirit curled around itself in the dark and tried not to think of the hopes he’d had for himself and Arthur. Arthur knew about the magic. Maybe that would be enough for him to build the world Merlin knew he was capable of making. 

It would have to be enough. Wishing to not be dead wouldn’t get his heart to start beating again. 

The slightest whisper of wind came to him through the dark. It would have been impossible to hear if there had been another noise anywhere in existence, but it was, Merlin thought, the softest beating of wings. 

<Merlin!>

Merlin’s heart was not beating, and he didn’t have a corporeal form here anyway, but his heart seemed to skip a beat all the same. <Archimedes! What are you doing here?>

An owl, softly glowing black and gold, swooped to Merlin’s side and settled on his shoulder. <Looking for you.> 

<You shouldn’t be here. You should be with Arthur.> He paused. <Unless, without me…>

<I can live without you. I could. You’ve always let me keep myself.> The bird affectionately bit his ear. Or the idea of his ear. Or… 

Merlin wasn’t going to try and figure out how much body he did or did not have. Archimedes bit his ear, whether the beak and the ear existed or not. 

<Then why->

<I don’t want to be without you. And everyone is sad. Broken. Arthur says…> Archimedes paused, and then Arthur’s voice came echoing through the darkness, softer and more broken than Merlin had ever heard it. 

“I can’t do this without you.”

<You can,> Merlin said, before remembering that Arthur couldn’t hear him. <He can.> 

<No.> Archimedes’s feathers swept over Merlin’s cheeks. <I told you he loves you as much as you love him. I was right.> 

A warmth was rising in Merlin’s chest. <At least I didn’t have to die thinking he hated me.> 

<No. He’s sorry.> 

<He’s forgiven.>

<I know. I told him that.> 

<Oh yeah?> Some of Merlin’s energy came back to him as he thought of what Arthur’s face must have looked like when the dog had started talking to him. <What’d he say?>

<I didn’t stay to find out. I… I thought maybe I’d lose my courage.> 

Merlin brushed his fingers through the bird’s feathers. <You don’t have to die with me, Archimedes. I don’t want you to.> 

<I know. But I’m like you. I don’t do as I’m told.> 

He sounded as smug as Merlin knew he always did when he ignored one of Arthur’s orders, and Merlin couldn’t help but laugh. Archimedes was part of him, however much independence they’d always kept for themselves. <Arthur will miss you. Gwaine will miss you.> 

The owl nipped at his jawline. <Not as much as they would have missed you. Gwaine was so angry you were gone he hit Arthur. Arthur was so sad you were gone he didn’t defend himself.>

Merlin’s heart seized in sympathy for his friends. He hadn’t meant to leave so much grief behind. He could only hope they would find a way through, be able to forgive each other-

<Wait. Would have?>

<I love you, Merlin. I’m glad I was your familiar. If your magic makes you a new one, be sure to tell them how much better I was, okay?>

Warmth had spread from Merlin’s chest to his fingers and he realized it was not an emotion, brought by the familiar comfort of Archimedes’s presence. It was magic. It was life. Archimedes’s life, pushing into Merlin’s corpse, trading one life for another. 

<Archimedes! No! I won’t let you->

<Too late. You can’t stop me.> Feathers pushed against Merlin’s cheek like a farewell hug. <You have a lot to do.> 

Merlin reached for his familiar, but he vanished under his fingertips, bursting into swirls of golden light as Merlin’s body took too much of Archimedes for even that much to remain. 

He could feel that he was cold. That his chest hurt. That his mouth was dry. And still the magic poured in. 

Merlin grabbed at the frail remnants of his familiar and slammed a barrier down around them as hard as he could. “No!”

Chapter Text

<We forgive you.>

Arthur thought he’d had plenty of surprises for one day. One lifetime, even. So much had happened since he’d woken up to Morgana’s screaming that morning that he could barely believe it had only been one day. So, sure - why shouldn’t Merlin’s dog be able to talk? 

And then Archimedes had laid on top of Merlin. Part of Arthur, the childish, possessive part, had wanted to rip Archimedes away. To shout to not touch him. 

But Arthur wasn’t the only one grieving, and Merlin could not, in truth, come to any more harm than he already had. 

And then the light started. 

Archimedes began to glow, lines of gold rising up through his fur, and then rising away from him entirely, coming together like a ball of golden mist. 

“What is he - Shit!” Gwaine swore, stumbling over. Arthur didn’t look at him, couldn’t tear his eyes away from where Archimedes was… fading. For when the golden light left him, it didn’t leave the dog untouched. Arthur couldn’t quite put words to what he was seeing, but the more light poured off the dog the more it became clear that there was less of Archimedes left behind. The light moved into Merlin, sinking into him the way Morgana’s purple light had woven through Tristan’s wound. 

“That’s like what the sorceress’s familiars did,” Percival said quietly, “Except those were black, not gold.”

“He can - could - talk to Archimedes,” Lancelot said, his voice hitching as he forced himself to admit that Merlin was- “I’ve never had the time to ask him for details, but maybe those things were a poor example of what a familiar is.” 

“He’s dying,” Morgana cried out, reaching for the dog, but her hand passed through him. Like he was nothing. Like he was a ghost. 

We forgive you. For killing them both? Was that what this was? Archimedes couldn’t live without his master and Arthur had gotten both of them killed? 

“No!” 

The word ripped out of Merlin’s throat in the same moment that the man jerked upright and Archimedes faded away entirely, no trace he’d ever been there. 

“Merlin!” Arthur lunged towards him, not caring what was happening, how it was happening, none of it. Merlin was sitting up, color was flooding back into Merlin’s face, Merlin was clutching at his chest where he’d been run through-

“No, no, Archimedes-“ Merlin cut off, his breath wheezing out of him and he doubled over, pressing his hand to his chest. 

Arthur shoved him onto his back, assisted by a second pair of hands - Lancelot’s. 

“Lady Morgana?” Lancelot asked, looking over at her even as he yanked off Merlin’s bloodstained tunic.

Arthur sucked in a shocked breath at the sight. The sword wound was ugly, of course, and fresh blood was beginning to seep out of it, but the bleeding was slow enough that Arthur felt reasonably confident that it could be survived, even if they had to stitch it up the old-fashioned way. But the rest of his chest -

A burn stretched across Merlin’s chest, like he’d taken a blast from that dragon and somehow managed to hide it. Gashes that looked like claw marks peeked over one shoulder. A ribbon of scar tissue like he’d been swiped with a blade danced along his ribs. 

If Merlin had been collecting scars on Arthur’s behalf and then hiding them from him, Arthur was going to wring his neck. 

Morgana scrambled up to join them and hovered her hand a few inches above Merlin’s heaving chest. “Bundenstefha dreor.”

Arthur had heard her attempt the spell to no avail a few hours ago, and his heart stopped as he waited to see if this time would fare better. A thread of purple appeared in the air, ducked down, and wove into the wound, pulling the skin together. 

“I’m fine,” Merlin said, and it was completely belied by the fact that he was gasping for air. “Don’t waste your energy-"

“Shut up,” Morgana ordered him. “I’m angry with you.” 

Merlin wasn’t inclined to shut up just because people told him to, but either the injury or being on the receiving end of Morgana’s anger appeared to make all the difference. He laid back, and it wasn’t until Morgana swayed a little, prompting Arthur to reach out and catch her shoulder, that Merlin tried to sit up again. 

He was then immediately flat on his back again as Gwaine tackled him into a hug. “You ever do that again, mate, I swear-"

“Sorry,” Merlin said, voice muffled by Gwaine’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Arthur said, and he could hear that his voice was shaking. “You just still won’t listen to me when I tell you to watch your back.”

Gwaine pulled Merlin back up into a sitting position with a laugh and Merlin scowled at Arthur. “You’d be a lot less smug about that if you knew how many times I’d stopped people from killing you from behind.” 

“How are you back?” Lancelot asked. “We - you - Archimedes-“

“Archimedes brought me back.” Merlin looked down at his side, as though expecting to see the dog there, and clenched his fist. “I stopped him from killing himself completely, but-" He inhaled sharply. “I think I stopped him anyway. I don’t know.” 

"Let me see that," Gwen said, her tone far more commanding than was typical for her, and she went at Merlin's chest with needle and thread and bandages, finishing Morgana's work.

"I'm alright," Merlin told her, feebly trying to shake her off.

“Like hell you are,” Arthur said. “You were dead two minutes ago, and you are going to let us fuss over you.” 

Merlin looked over at him, and Arthur could see the faintest hints of nervousness in his eyes. “You, fuss? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Yes, you will.” 

Arthur stood, hopped off the massive tree stump-turned-table that they were all gathered on or around, and looked around for the nearest blanket. 

He didn’t have to look far - Isolt was already offering one out, grinning. “Glad you didn’t lose him,” she said, voice low. 

“So am I,” Arthur replied, surprising himself with how easily he admitted it. 

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to go back to downplaying it, not when magic he couldn’t understand had somehow brought Merlin back to him. 

They were mostly silent as Gwen patched Merlin up, occasionally reaching out to touch him, to reassure themselves he was real. Elyan had fetched a torch and held it for Gwen to see by. When she pulled back with a self-satisfied nod, Arthur draped the blanket over Merlin’s bare shoulders, used it to pull him closer, and kissed him. 

It wasn’t how he had hoped to have their next kiss; with Merlin injured and Arthur exhausted and disoriented and the two of them surrounded by an audience, but Merlin was his and everyone needed to know it, Merlin included. 

When Arthur pulled back again, Merlin looked concussed. 

“Good,” Gwaine said firmly, though Arthur would have expected him to be the one with the most objections. “About time the princess did something about the way he looks at you.” 

Merlin gave a sheepish smile. “That one’s on me. I’ve been avoiding him.” 

“Of course you have. You have the good sense to know you could do better than him.” 

Arthur cuffed Gwaine over the head, earning him a punch to the shoulder, then made the effort to meet Gwaine’s eyes. Are we alright?

Gwaine nodded, gaze shifting away, ashamed, then back again. 

Arthur didn’t want to tell Merlin he and Gwaine had fought over who was to blame for Merlin’s death, and it didn’t seem Gwaine wanted to either. It wasn’t something Merlin needed to know. He could say he’d gotten the black eye from Cenred’s men. 

“You’ll have to tell Tristan how you did it,” Isolt said, beaming at Merlin. “He’ll write you a song about conquering death.” 

Merlin’s fingers curled, like he was trying to bury them in Archimedes’s ruff. “Didn’t conquer it. A life for a life - Archimedes gave his for mine.” 

With a tired sigh and a little prodding, Merlin told them everything. That Archimedes was a familiar, a real familiar, not like the puppeted abominations the sorceress had used. That he made Merlin’s magic stronger, and that he had sacrificed himself to bring Merlin back to them. 

Arthur would never have expected to feel so indebted to a dog, magical or not. 

“You said you stopped him from dying completely,” Morgana said. 

“I think so. I can still feel him, but he’s… small. Weak. Distant. I don’t know if I can get him back.” Merlin flexed his fingers and looked at his hands. “And I don't have magic. All of it went to - to killing those soldiers, and to bringing me back. All that's left now is Archimedes. And if I pull from that - It's all that's left. If I touch I'll kill him, and I can’t-“ Merlin broke off with a shuddering breath and straightened, throwing his shoulders back. It was alarming - Arthur knew the posture well. He’d done it a thousand times himself, as he’d refused to show weakness in front of his father or his knights. When had Merlin learned it?

Probably watching Arthur do it again and again, as Merlin helped him into his formal tunic or his armor and sent him into the jaws of his would-be judges. But who had Merlin dropped the act in front of? Arthur had had Merlin to lean on, to be human in front of - who had Merlin let his guard down with? 

No one, came the answer. Perhaps it had slipped a few notches with Lancelot during these last few weeks, but other than that, he had had no one. And to think, Merlin was always getting on Arthur about not carrying everything alone. 

“Now what?” Merlin asked, as though they weren’t all still gathered around him, recovering from the shock of his return. “With Cenred?” 

“We all need to get some sleep,” Leon said firmly, and Arthur realized his knight was giving him a pointed look. “We’re all exhausted and it has been a very long day. We can strategize tomorrow.”

“Unless someone else has a confession to get off their chest?” Tristan suggested light-heartedly. “I thought Isolt and I would have the biggest one, but you’ve really put us to shame, Merlin.” 

Merlin gave him a sheepish grin. “At least I wasn’t planning on handing anyone over to get executed.” 

“Fair enough.” 

"And you're alright?" Arthur asked, pulling the blanket away again to check both sides of Merlin's chest. "Gwen, Morgana?"

"I think so," Morgana said. She sounded exhausted.

"It's fine, the rest will heal up on its own," Merlin said. "And you're white as a sheep, Morgana. I'm not letting you do any more magic tonight."

“You aren’t in charge of me. You didn’t even tell me you actually knew magic!” 

The tips of Merlin’s ears went pink, and he bowed his head. “I know. I’m sorry. If it helps, I’m a lousy teacher? I couldn’t have told you much more even if I’d admitted it.”

Morgana flicked his ear, the way she’d used to do to Arthur before he’d gotten fast enough to dodge her every time. “When I’m done being glad you’re not dead, I’m going to make your life so miserable.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll let Arthur have you for now though.” 

“Oh, so he can make my life miserable first?” Merlin smiled, but Arthur saw the strain in it. 

He was going to drag Merlin to some private cranny and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. 

Everyone hugged Merlin, looked at him like he was a miracle - because he was - and finally laid down to sleep. Arthur rubbed his eyes, trying to beat back a headache. He was pretty sure it was so late it was now early, but he wasn’t going to risk sleeping without making sure the air between him and Merlin was clear. 

He pulled Merlin into the ruins of the old lookout tower, Merlin’s face doing something complicated as he jumped between hopeful and worried. 

“You can stop looking like you think I’m going to re-kill you,” Arthur said, tugging Merlin down to sit beside him, their backs against the stone. He’d given Merlin one of his shirts to replace Merlin’s torn and bloody one, and he was trying not to be too appreciative of it. He pulled a blanket around their shoulders, effectively making it impossible for Merlin to squirm away and pretend he didn't realize Arthur wanted to talk. “I happen to be incredibly thrilled to have you back.” 

Merlin gave him a small smile, barely visible in the faint light from their campfire. “Thanks. I just wish-“ He swallowed, his throat bobbing. 

“Archimedes?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sure you’ll get him back.” He didn't know the first thing about any of this, but so many impossible things had happened today that the dog re-materializing wouldn't even rank.

“I hope so.” Merlin looked down at his hands again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

Arthur was leagues more prepared for this conversation now than he’d been a few hours ago. He’d done nothing but replay their conversation since Merlin had-

He’d done nothing but think about how he should have responded. “Of course you didn’t tell me. My father would have had you executed. Frankly, Merlin, I think not telling me was the only intelligent thing you ever did when you were my servant.” 

Merlin gave him a confused look. “I… still am your servant?”

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin. How would that look, a servant polishing my armor? No, I told you, I was going to make you an advisor. That won't do either, now. You'll be the Court Sorcerer. Much more appropriate.” 

“Wh-"

"And you don't get to refuse. Someone is going to have to deal with the headache, and if I leave it to Morgana she'll let me get put under another love spell just because it's funny." His voice was coming out fast and high, but he thought he was getting his point across all the same. The point being that Merlin was going to stay right there, at his side, magic and all.

Merlin gave him a look that was uncharacteristically haunted. "We're going back to Camelot then. Together."

“I can’t not.” 

Merlin shook his head. "I know that. I meant - Me. I wasn't sure you'd want me to, once - I was afraid you'd send me away. That you wouldn't want a-"

Arthur pulled Merlin closer and Merlin rested his head on his shoulder. “I thought I’d lost you for good. That I - I wasn’t mad. I just couldn’t believe - I mean, it’s you! You’re a terrible liar!” 

Merlin nodded. “Lucky for me, I look harmless enough that everyone assumes the lying is about my love of the tavern or how many tarts I’ve stolen from the kitchen.” 

Merlin was wringing his hands, twisting his fingers around like he might pull them off. Arthur reached out and took his hand to make him stop. “You’re so harmless looking you’ve literally confessed to sorcery to my father and everyone laughed you off.” 

“Including him.” They were quiet for a moment and then Merlin asked, “You’re really not mad?” 

Arthur tried to pull him even closer. “I can’t be mad. Being mad got you - got you killed, and I - Gods, Merlin, I can’t do this without you.” 

“This?” 

“Anything. You were gone, and it was like I’d forgotten how to breathe.”

“Yes, well.” Arthur thought he saw Merlin blushing, though it was too dark to say for sure. “I always told you you wouldn’t last a week without me, didn’t I?” 

Normally that was the sort of thing that made Arthur laugh, and he could tell by Merlin’s tone that had been the goal this time, but instead it only made him think. “How many times have you saved my life?” 

Merlin tried to pull away, was stopped by the blanket, and Arthur yanked him in close again. “Sorry, Merlin, but if you ever wanted out of my sight again, you should have thought about that before you got yourself run through. How many times?” 

Merlin sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t count.” 

“More times than can be easily remembered then.” 

“…Yes.” 

Arthur leaned back, thinking. “So there was Mary Collins, of course, I know about that one. And when you drank the poisoned wine. You said you killed the afanc?” 

“We killed the afanc. You couldn’t have done it without me, but I couldn’t have done it without you either.” 

“And the griffin?”

“Lancelot killed the griffin. I just enchanted his spear so it would… work.” 

Merlin now seemed determined to take no credit for any of the things he’d done, which only made Arthur all the more determined to get him to admit to them. “So modest now. What happened to listing off your accomplishments?” 

“I wasn’t trying to brag. I just wanted you to realize I-" Merlin looked down at his knees. “That I wasn’t evil.” 

Arthur pressed his forehead against Merlin’s temple. “I know you’re not.” 

But Merlin didn’t seem reassured by that, which was frustrating, because Arthur couldn’t imagine how that had been the wrong thing to say. 

“I’ve… done things I’m not proud of. Things I regret. Things that…” Merlin took a deep breath, and Arthur both felt and heard the way he shuddered through it. “Things that were part of the reason I didn’t want to tell you.” 

“Tell me now.” 

Merlin was quiet, and Arthur prodded him in the ribs. “Tell me now, while I’m still overflowing with how happy I am to have you back.” 

“I let the dragon out.” Merlin’s voice was so quiet that even at this distance he could barely be heard, the shame heavy in every syllable. 

A noise of alarm rose in Arthur’s throat and he strangled it before it could get out. He would not ruin things already. He had lost his temper and it had lost him Merlin and it had only been because of Archimedes that Arthur had gotten him back. He would not lose his temper a second time. 

“Why?” He kept his tone as neutral as he could, hoping it would be clear that he was asking for context, asking to understand, not accusing, even though part of him was up on the battlements, feeling that awful heat searing overhead.

“A lot of reasons.” Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “Because nothing deserves to be chained up the way Uther had done to him. Because he helped me. Because I promised. Because he made me. I thought… He’d told me…” Another deep breath. “There are some, practitioners of the Old Religion, some of the druids and people like them, who have a… prophecy. About you. And me. That you’ll make a brighter future, a better world. The dragon was always going on about it, about how important it was to keep you safe so you could bring about that future, so I thought he would just leave. I didn’t think his hatred of Uther would be stronger than his hope of a better world.”

That was a lot of information to take in. “I… see.” He didn't, really, and he put 'part of a prophecy' on the mental shelf of things he'd deal with later.

They were both quiet for a bit. 

“Are you angry?” Merlin finally asked. “A lot of people died when Kilgharrah attacked. I know that. I know it’s my fault.” 

“Kilgharrah?” 

“The dragon.” 

“Oh. I… didn’t know it had a name. He had a name?” 

“Yes. He’s as intelligent as anyone.” Another deep sigh, this one annoyed rather than frightened. “Never speaks in anything but riddles though, and lies through his teeth.” 

“Perhaps that’s the result of spending twenty years locked up in a cave.” 

Merlin tilted his head back to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Arthur Pendragon, are you defending a dragon?”

Arthur blew out an annoyed breath. “I am trying to consider perspectives other than my own. Isn’t that what you’re always encouraging me to do, Merlin?”

Merlin laughed, and it was a glorious sound. Arthur would have declared war against his father just for that sound. “You’re not angry with me then?” 

Arthur couldn’t say what it was that pulled up the memory, but he was suddenly standing in a forest, knights of Camelot streaming past him, frozen uselessly. People screaming. Blood splattering across moss covered trees. Tents and cooking pots left abandoned as women picked up their children and ran, only for a crossbow bolt to catch them in the back. 

“We’ve all done things we regret.” 

Merlin looked at him, gentle curiosity in his features. 

“What were you thinking, staying in Camelot all this time? Do you know how many of your people my father-" No. No, if he was going to be better than his father, if he was going to march back to Camelot and try to set things right, for himself, for Merlin, for Morgana, for Gwen and Leon, it could not be done while hiding behind his father’s orders. “Do you know how many of your people I’ve killed?” He choked on the words. He had done a superb job of not thinking about it for years now. Pretending it had never happened or that he’d never had a choice or that his father was right and that eight year old boy had been a creature of evil. “Because I don’t.” 

Merlin put Arthur's hand between both of his own. “You protected Morgana.” When Arthur didn’t respond, he added, “And you don’t want to kill me.” 

Arthur instinctively tightened his hold around Merlin’s shoulders. “And that makes up for the innocent people put to the torch?” 

“We can’t bring back the dead, Arthur. You can’t undo the executions anymore than I can undo all the people Kilgharrah burned. But we can learn from our mistakes. We can do better, instead of stewing in the past like-" He cut off quickly enough that Arthur had no doubt who he was thinking of.

“Like my father.” 

“…Yes.” 

“How could you stand it? Living so close to him, attending me while he went on his rants, all these years? You must have hated him. Every other magic user does, even the pacifists.”

“I don’t like hating people.” 

“Come on, Merlin. Morgana hates him, and she’s seen more of his good side than anyone, including me.” 

“You love him.” 

“We aren’t talking about me.” 

“But we are.” Merlin heaved another deep breath. He probably needed sleep, Arthur thought. They both did. But the idea of trying to sleep with so much left unsaid seemed ludicrous. “Yes, alright? I hate Uther. He’s a tyrant and a hypocrite and a bully. And I don’t just mean everything about how he treats magic users; I hate how he treats you. He yells at you to think for yourself, then when you do he yells at you for not being an obedient dog.” Merlin’s fingers clenched into a fist and relaxed again. “But he’s still your father, and you love him, and I love you more than I hate him.” 

Arthur sucked in a breath.

Arthur did love his father. The last few weeks, he’d tried to hide that from himself, and felt a little sick if he thought of it, but he did. One major act of rebellion wasn’t enough to put an end to years of dancing to his father’s tune, begging for affection, for praise, for pride. To be told he was a worthy heir, that Uther knew he would be leaving his kingdom, his legacy, in good hands. 

I love you more than I hate him. 

And his father loved him, that was the real rub of it. Uther had proven that; had locked Arthur up so Uther would fall to the Black Knight instead, had been so overcome with grief that it had broken what had clearly been an incredibly powerful enchantment when he’d been married to Katrina. He loved Arthur. 

But when Arthur had said I will not let you harm Morgana Uther had said If you fight me on this, you will be executed alongside her.

I love you more than I hate him. 

Arthur shoved Merlin to the ground, climbed on top of him, and kissed him so hard he half expected to knock him out. 

He had thought they had a thousand things, a million things, to talk about, but he thought perhaps Merlin had just said the only thing that mattered. I love you more than I hate him. And Arthur loved Morgana, loved Merlin, loved everyone else scattered through this ruin, trying to sleep, more than he loved his father.

He broke the kiss when he realized he was out of air, inhaled, and said, “We need to get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start planning how to save Camelot.” 

Chapter Text

Gwaine spent all night waking up every hour or two and checking Merlin was still there, tucked up against Arthur’s side, chest still moving up and down. 

He was Gwaine’s best friend. Before the last few weeks, he’d been his only friend. Maybe Arthur had been one too, but it had been hard to say. But Merlin had been… Gwaine knew what sort of man he was, how quickly he got on people’s nerves, how little it took for him to be kicked to the curb. Merlin had never had enough of him, and somehow he’d spread that to the others. 

And for a few nightmarish hours, he’d been dead. He’d been dead and Gwaine had felt as if the rest of the world had gone with him, because how long did he have now before he lost the few friends Merlin had gotten him? 

Not long, going by the way he’d tried to break his hand on Arthur’s face, his mind filled with nothing but Merlin’s unseeing eyes. 

Nobles always turned on the people they were supposed to protect. That had been the first lesson Gwaine had ever learned, and he wanted to believe Arthur was the exception, but if the prince made one more indication that he thought any less of Merlin just because Merlin could summon fireballs- 

Well, Gwaine wasn’t a citizen of Camelot. It wouldn’t be treason. The trick would be getting Merlin away from him. Arthur didn’t deserve Merlin’s loyalty on the grounds Gwaine couldn’t imagine anyone deserving the kind of loyalty Merlin showed Arthur. He could probably have run through Merlin himself and Merlin would have let him. 

There had been a brief second where Gwaine had wondered if that had been exactly what happened. He was glad he hadn’t said that part aloud; he doubted Arthur would have shrugged that off so easily. 

Anyway, the princess had better not let it come to Gwaine having to step in between the two of them. Gwaine was maybe ninety percent sure Arthur had realized the error of his ways after yesterday, but Gwaine had met stupider people. Anything could happen. 

They were all sitting around their big round table, having a meal that was technically breakfast, but it was some time after mid-day. After the exhausting day they’d had the day before, even the sun hadn’t been enough to drag them up for the first few hours. Gwaine was watching Merlin and Arthur closely, and so far things seemed to be going well - they were sitting close enough to touch, and Merlin looked tired and sad - Archimedes, Gwaine thought, with a pang in his own chest, because he missed the dog plenty even without thinking about why Archimedes was gone - but not frightened or angry or resigned. 

Arthur’s face was difficult to read, which typically meant he was thinking, which was a dangerous sign. But as long as what he was thinking wasn’t ‘ways to cut Merlin’s head off without his magic turning me inside out’ Gwaine didn’t have much of an opinion. 

Arthur stood abruptly with the air of a man who had finally forced himself to act, and he needed to do it now or he was going to lose his nerve. 

“I said as much yesterday,,” Arthur said, “but I’m returning to Camelot. I have to do what I can to protect my people from Cenred’s army, and…” He broke off for a moment, then seemed to recover himself. “I refuse to spend the rest of my life in hiding. I refuse to allow my father to hunt down the people I care about like dogs. If that means I have to take the throne from him by force… so be it.” Arthur looked between Merlin and Morgana. “He is wrong. He has spent two decades executing innocents, and using their outrage as justification. I will not allow the two of you to be his next victims.” 

Arthur looked over the table, over the people sitting around it, and although there were bags under his eyes, although his chainmail needed cleaning and his tunic was developing holes, he held himself more like a king than any man Gwaine had ever seen. 

“I told you yesterday I would not think less of any of you if you did not join me. I stand by that. I am under no illusions about how this may end. We may be killed the moment we set foot inside Camelot’s walls, or imprisoned and executed. Should we-“ Another brief stumble, and then, “-defeat my father without turning the soldiers of Camelot against us, we will still have an immortal army to contend with. But I have to try, and I would be honored to have any one of you beside me in the attempt.” 

Leon rose to his feet first. “I helped you escape Camelot because I believed you would be a better king than your father. I would be honored to help you take the throne and prove it.” 

Merlin stood next. “Without my magic, I’m not much use to you. But you aren’t going on a suicide mission without me.” His voice was quieter, more serious, than Gwaine was used to hearing it. 

Well, Gwaine had never liked it when people were serious, and he loved impossible odds. He stood up. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin, the princess keeps you around for your lively commentary, not your magic.” He flashed them both a grin. “And don’t go thinking you’re leaving me behind. Never gotten to dethrone a king before. I’m looking forward to it.” 

“That isn’t the point of this, Gwaine,” Arthur said, but he was fighting a smile. Job well done then. 

Morgana stood, and Arthur had the gall to open his mouth to protest before she cut him off. “Don’t even think about trying to tell me to stay somewhere safe, Arthur. Camelot is my home too, and it’s my magic that set us against Uther to begin with. I deserve to see this through.”

“And me with you,” Gwen joined in. “I may not be much use in a fight, but I know the castle better than any of the rest of you, except maybe Merlin, and the other servants trust me. That’ll be as useful as a sword.” 

“Maybe more,” Merlin said. “If we can get to Uther without having to slaughter a bunch of guards to do it, that’s better for everyone.” 

“We’re with you too,” Tristan said, Isolt standing at his side with a face of determination. “If you’ll have us. Never had much use for kings, but you’re not like other kings, Arthur. You’re worth following.” 

“And we’d be lying if we said we weren’t looking forward to toppling Cenred for the second act,” Isolt said. 

“Me as well,” Percival said. “Cenred destroyed my home, killed my family. If I can stop him doing the same to others, I will.” 

“It isn’t how I would have imagined serving Camelot,” Lancelot said, “but I’m with you, and honored you’d have me.” 

“And if you think you’re leading my sister into more treason without me coming along, you’ve got another thing coming,” Elyan said, and he flashed Arthur a smile. “And I suppose you’re pretty worthy of it, sire.” 

They all stood around their table, waiting for Arthur to respond, and for the first time in his life, Gwaine felt like he was part of something, something bigger than a tavern brawl or a game of cards. Something worthy.

He wondered if his father had felt this way, serving Caerleon, and then he looked at Arthur, who was looking them over proudly, and Gwaine knew Arthur would never fail his people the way Caerleon had failed Gwaine’s mother. 

Here’s a man worth dying for, he thought, and almost laughed at how much he never would have believed such a man existed not so long ago. 

“You all may not be knights,” Arthur said, voice thick with emotion, “but you’re more worthy of the title than most of the knights I’ve known. Should we succeed in this, and I become king, I promise you, you’ll all be knighted, however many laws I have to overturn to do it. Including you, Isolt. I can think of plenty of men who could only wish to be half the fighter you are.” 

She smiled at him. “Never thought I’d meet a man who could admit it. Especially not a noble one. I’d kill myself before I was knight for Cenred, or for Uther, but you, Arthur… I’d be honored.” 

Arthur looked down at Excalibur on his hip. “Well, we’ve all dispensed with legality and official titles. If you’re all willing to follow me as your king…” He drew the sword. “Then it’s only right I give you what honors I can.”

Despite the hollow feeling in his chest where Archimedes and their magic were supposed to be, despite the fact that he’d slept for twelve hours and could do with twelve more, despite how useless he felt as Arthur prepared to charge into impossible odds, Merlin’s heart swelled with pride as he watched Arthur knight his people. Even Leon had insisted on being reknighted, pointing out that the wanted posters suggested Uther had stripped him of his rank, and that he’d rather be knighted by his ‘true king’ anyway. Arthur was doing a good job of keeping his face passive, but Merlin could see how deeply touched he was to have earned the loyalty of so many. 

Gwen bumped her shoulder against his and smiled at him. “He really has come into his own, hasn’t he?” 

Merlin nodded, and realized he was smiling too, despite everything. “I wish it had been under better circumstances, but…” 

“No,” Morgana said, “you don’t get things like this under good circumstances. I can’t say I enjoy being on the run like this, but I think it’s the best we could have hoped for.” 

The three of them were watching the unofficial knighting ceremony with more reverence than any similar ceremony in the halls of Camelot would have garnered. Merlin could feel the pride glowing off them both, equal to his own. 

This was the king prophecies had been written about, Merlin could see it. Nevermind the lack of a crown, or formal attire, or ceremonial armor, or cloaks with the Pendragon gold printed on them. Arthur didn’t need any of those things, no more than any of his new knights needed noble blood or formal training. 

“King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table,” Morgana said with a smile when the small ceremony ended. “Where rank and bloodlines don’t matter.” 

“I hope so,” Arthur said. “I feel like I’ve made a lot of big promises.” 

“You’ll keep them,” Merlin said. “I’ve never known you to break your word, even when Uther’s tried to force you.” 

Arthur took his hand and threaded their fingers together, and Merlin almost pulled away on instinct before remembering that this was allowed now. There was no cruel king to catch them, no secrets looming between them to twist his stomach with guilt. 

If he’d only still had Archimedes, still had his magic, it would have been perfect, even with Cenred and Uther laying in wait. 

“We’ll set out for Camelot at first light,” Arthur said. “Tristan, Isolt, can you pick us out a clear path there?”

They nodded. “We can have you there in three days,” Tristan said. “Soon enough?” 

“It should be,” Leon replied. “Armies are slower than a group our size. I don’t imagine we’ll have a lot of time for planning once we get there, though.” 

“We’ll have to do our planning in advance then,” Arthur said. “What do you expect from the Camelot soldiers when we arrive?” 

“They’ll be under orders to arrest us immediately. In the case of the Lady Morgana, they may have orders to kill. But if we try to talk to them… I’m not certain they’ll be eager to act on those orders.” 

“Oh?” 

“I may have been the only one to go so far as to help you escape, but you’ve held more loyalty from most of the knights than your father for years now. You’ve proven time and again that you don’t consider your people expendable, and that you won’t ask anything of them you wouldn’t be willing to risk yourself. Uther, on the other hand, cares about as much for his people as an archer cares for arrows in his quiver.” 

“You think we may be able to take over without a fight?” Arthur’s voice was hopeful. 

“We may, sire, especially if we emphasize Cenred’s threat. No one wanted war with Essetir, and now his army is unkillable. If your focus is on stopping that, I think the knights will be inclined to listen. They may allow us to speak to Uther without violence.” 

“And once we do get to Uther?” Morgana asked. “What do you plan to say to him?” 

Arthur’s face was grim. “That he needs to choose his battles more wisely, for a start. The important thing right now is Camelot. If his hatred of your magic and my disobedience keeps him from seeing that…” His jaw worked furiously for a moment. “We’ll deal with Uther when we get there. Merlin, you know the most about magic. Can you tell us anything about Cenred’s men we don’t already know? Anything that might help us defeat them?” 

Merlin’s heart kicked up a few beats in alarm before he was able to remind it that it was alright, that Arthur knew, that Arthur wasn’t going to have him beheaded or put to the torch for what was burning in his veins. 

What had been burning in his veins. It was hardly even a smoldering ember now. 

“Every Essetir soldier we’ve encountered so far has been immortal, only killable by Excalibur, right?” 

“You finished off a few,” Arthur corrected. “When you…” 

“I don’t think I could do that again,” Merlin said. “Definitely not now, but even at full strength - I think that was the kind of a spell I could only have done with the desperation of my own death on top of me.” 

“And you’re not getting that close to dying again,” Gwaine said, like it was a threat. 

“I don’t plan to.” Merlin rubbed at his chest instinctively. It still ached, and then there was the dull, cold spot inside it where his magic was supposed to be brewing, where his connection with Archimedes was supposed to wait. “Well, assuming Cenred’s managed to make his entire army unkillable, that would take nearly unfathomable amounts of magic. Magic doesn’t like being used to disrupt the natural order.” 

Arthur frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Merlin hesitated. He really wasn’t much of a teacher. So much of what he knew about magic was instinctive and just made sense to him. But Arthur - Arthur, finally, after all this time - was asking him to explain, and he would do his best. “Despite what Uther would like people to believe, magic is natural. It’s part of the world, and it’s everywhere. Making it do something like letting people survive getting their heads chopped off makes it push against the world it’s supposed to work with. It takes a lot of energy, and if you do it too much, or not well enough, it’s likely to backfire.”

Everyone was still watching him with furrowed brows, trying to follow. “Think about it like… healing,” Merlin said, grabbing onto some remembered conversations with Gaius. “Morgana, healing Lancelot’s wrist was much easier than healing Tristan’s stab wound, right?” 

She nodded. “And I tried to heal you, after… But it didn’t work.” 

“I’d be more frightened if it did. Bringing someone back from the dead is… Not completely impossible, but most magical texts will warn against trying, and for good reason. Archimedes was only able to do it with me because he and I are part of each other. It was like a massive healing spell for him. But that’s my point - a broken wrist is a pretty minor injury. You bandage it and put it in a sling and it will heal on its own after a few weeks. A stab wound is much worse - without magic, Tristan would have needed a skilled physician to survive that, and he would have been bedridden for a considerable amount of time. And no physician is good enough to bring someone back from the dead.” 

“Magic is doing what nature could do on its own,” Morgana said. “An injury that could heal with time alone is easier to magically heal than an injury that would need a physician’s assistance.” 

“Exactly. To heal Lancelot’s wrist, you were essentially just hurrying what would have already happened. In Tristan’s case, you were hurrying the healing and acting as his physician, so it was more difficult. And don’t ask me any more questions about healing magic, because I’m complete shit at it. But only extremely powerful magic could have brought me back once I was gone, and it almost certainly would have killed the user. And no sorcerer has enough power to make an entire army immune to death.” 

“How is Cenred doing it then?” Arthur asked. “A group of sorcerers?” 

“Not likely,” Isolt answered before Merlin could, then shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I don’t know much about magic, but I do know Cenred pretty well, unfortunately. He’s paranoid and controlling. He wouldn’t like having to rely on a bunch of people to keep his win secured.” 

“I agree,” Merlin said. “Not with - Well, I’ve never met him, personally. But group casting is a lot of work. I could see someone using a group to do a spell like this for the duration of a battle, but not for the duration of the whole march from Essetir to Camelot. It’s more likely that he’s using an enchanted item, which is actually good news for us.” 

“How so?” Arthur looked tentatively hopeful, and an emotion Merlin couldn’t name jumped in his chest at being able to do this. To offer Arthur a solution, after so many times of knowing the answer and not being able to say. “Enchanted items have never been anything but a headache in the past.” 

“The hard part is finding them. But once we do find it, we can undo the spell, and everyone it’s affecting will become mortal - assuming they don’t just drop dead immediately.” 

Leon’s eyebrows jumped toward his hairline. “Is that likely?” 

“Yes. Like I said, this is magic that goes against how the world works. That’s the kind of magic that always makes Uther start yelling about costs. I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m willing to bet the cost of this one is all those soldiers’ lives. They’re immortal while they’re bound to the spell, but if that bond breaks, there’s a good chance they’ll die along with it.”

“Bet he didn’t tell them that while they were signing up,” Tristan said darkly. 

“So we have to find how they’re powering the spell,” Arthur said. “He won’t have left it in Essetir, you don’t think?” 

Gods, but it was strange to have Arthur asking him questions like this. Like he was an authority on something. He’d given Arthur advice before, plenty of times, and Arthur even took it more often than not, but that was usually about emotions, about Arthur being torn between his father and his conscience. Not like this. Not like how Arthur spoke to his knights. 

If this was the world Arthur was working to build, the one represented by their Round Table, then Merlin couldn’t wait to see it. 

“No. Very few enchantments can just keep going all on their own. They need a sorcerer to direct it, at least, and the soldiers probably have to keep themselves tied to it somehow. A drop of blood on a jewel once every three days or something like that. He’ll likely have it with him, along with whatever sorcerer is directing its magic for him.” 

“I doubt he’ll be nice enough to leave it lying around where it’s easy to find,” Gwaine said. “But lets say we get lucky. We get our hands on whatever it is - then what?” 

“Excalibur both negates and channels magic. That’s how it can kill the unkillable. Get whatever it is to Arthur, and the sword can destroy it, or get it to me and I can undo the spell.” He paused, considering for a moment. “Or get it to Morgana.” 

Morgana’s eyes widened. “Me? But I don’t know anything about undoing enchantments or… Whatever this is.” 

“I’m hesitant to tell you it would be intuitive, because for me, all magic is intuitive. But I’m pretty sure this would be. Magic wants to follow the natural order. It takes a lot of work to keep it from that. You’re a Seer and you’re good at healing magic, both things that involve being in tune with the world around you. I think you’d be able to feel where the spell is weak, and from there it’s just a matter of applying pressure. You wouldn’t need a lot.” 

“You lot make it sound so easy,” Elyan said. “Just find the magical item making everyone unkillable and break it. And probably kill the sorcerer that’s sitting on top of it. Oh also, it’s going to be in the middle of an entire army of unkillable men, and exactly one of us has a weapon that can deal with them.” 

“Nobody likes a pessimist,” Gwaine said. 

Elyan was right, though Merlin didn’t say it. He was confident whatever it was would be close by, but that would only make it marginally easier to find. It would have at least a decently powerful sorcerer nearby, and Morgana was still learning the ins-and-outs of magic and Merlin was useless. Cenred would likely have members of his all-powerful army guarding it. Their odds weren’t good.

“We have to try,” Arthur said firmly. “There’s no point traveling today, so anyone with a head for battle strategy, I want every possible way Cenred could come at Camelot covered. I want to have at least a basic plan of action when we get there, to present to the knights. We can’t expect them to follow me over my father unless I’m better prepared to face Cenred.” 

The new knights huddled closer together, leaning over the table. Tristan produced a map, which Arthur promptly started scribbling over, updating it with insider information, Leon making occasional notes. Sticks and rocks became soldiers and walls. 

Merlin sat back, feeling the ache in his chest and not knowing if it was grief or the sword wound. He barely knew the first thing about military movements; certainly not enough to be of any help amongst all the knights. His job was exactly what it had always been, it was just no longer shrouded in secrecy - he was to deal with the magical part of the problem, while Arthur dealt with the military. 

Except that his approach to magical problems was hurling as much magic at it as he could until it went away, and the only magic in him right now was a dull ember that was what remained of Archimedes. He could feel magic trickling back in, but he may as well have been waiting for a leaky faucet to fill up a lake. If they were expecting to fight Cenred in less than a week, Merlin would be lucky if Archimedes was sufficiently recovered  for Merlin to even be sure he was coming back, that he wasn’t going to be replaced by something else, nevermind Merlin having enough magical reserves to deal with a sorcerer willing to mess around with the powers of life and death. 

“You look like you’re thinking hard,” Gwen said, sitting down next to him. 

“Trying to be helpful.” 

She looked over at where Morgana was bent over the table alongside her brother and his knights. “I understand. I might be able to help us get in without getting arrested, but this-“ she waved her hand toward the impromptu war council in front of them- “is beyond me.” 

Merlin sighed. “I’ve never been much good at the waiting part.” 

Gwen gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You’ve always been helping Camelot, haven’t you? From the shadows.” 

Merlin found himself trying to look anywhere but at her, or at Arthur. He settled for a few broken stones of the ruin they were hiding out beside. “I try to.” 

“Excalibur - Is it the sword I gave you for Arthur, when he was going to duel the Black Knight? Is that why it has my father's symbol on it?”

Merlin nodded. “I enchanted it, so Arthur would be able to kill the Black Knight. I had some help, but that’s a long story.” It struck him that sooner or later he was probably going to have to tell everyone about Kilgharrah, which was a less than happy thought.

“And you brought it to him when we fought that sorceress - Lunete.” 

Merlin nodded again, trying not to let his features show the stab of pain that went through him, wanting to say it had been him and Archimedes both. “I hid it, after the Black Knight. I was afraid Uther would want to keep it.”

“And you did save my father, didn’t you? When he had the plague?” 

Merlin hissed in a breath, hearing the question like a kick in the ribs. “Yes. You were my friend. Pretty much the only one I had. I wanted to help, and I could help, and I - I’m sorry you were locked up because of me. And I’m sorry I couldn’t save him from Uther-"

Gwen yanked him into a hug hard enough to knock the words out of him. “Thank you. For trying. For all the extra time with him you gave me. And for everything else I know you’ve done that you’re not telling me yet.” 

“Yet?” 

“Oh, once things calm down I’m getting the knights together and you are going to tell us about every single impressive thing you’ve ever done. You don’t get a choice.” 

“You’re awful hopeful about how things are going to go.” 

“Didn’t you see the look on Arthur’s face? He never loses when he has that face. He’s too stubborn.” 

Merlin had seen it, and he knew what it meant, but he also knew that it was an expression that usually led to Merlin doing something truly impressive from the shadows while Arthur did something incredibly brave and stupid on the frontlines. Now, there was only Arthur. 

Maybe Arthur could do it without him. 

But even if he could - If Arthur could do it without him, what good was Merlin?

Gwen and Merlin eventually took to fussing and Arthur and his new court - and his heart swelled a little with pride to think of them that way - were finally forced to give in and get some sleep, with plans to pack up and move out at first light. 

“You’ve done everything you can,” Merlin said firmly, pushing Arthur down onto his bedroll. “Looking at that map until you go cross-eyed won’t help.” 

Arthur knew Merlin was right, but he hated having nothing to do. If he’d been in Camelot he would have had a thousand things to do - some of them necessary, some of them only for his own piece of mind - but out here, with so little information and even less equipment, he could only make vague plans and hope for the best. 

He wasn’t really one for ‘hope’. 

He expected Merlin to have lots to say. Inane chatter to distract him, or perhaps some of his rare words of wisdom that sometimes came when things looked bleak. But Merlin only settled down next to him and stared up at the stars above them, his mind clearly elsewhere. 

Arthur elbowed him in the ribs, and when that garnered no reaction he did it again, harder this time. That it earned him a scowl, at least, though Merlin was still clearly barely paying attention to him. 

“If I have to stop worrying about it, so do you,” Arthur told him. 

“You have to stop worrying about the battle,” Merlin retorted. “I always worry about you.” He then blanched, and it was clear he hadn’t meant for that to sound quite so sincere. 

“You know, Merlin, even taking my guardian sorcerer into account, I can look after myself.” 

“History begs to differ.” Merlin rolled onto his side though, and pillowed his head on one arm. “I’m usually planning as much as you are, before you charge into trouble like this. But with my magic out of commission, I…” He swallowed. “You have no idea how much you count on me,” he said quietly. 

“Don’t be stupid.” Arthur was not good at talking about his emotions, which Merlin was well aware of, and teased him for often. Still, the last few weeks had given him some practice and he always did his best work under pressure. He threw an arm over Merlin and penned him in, making sure he couldn’t sit up or roll away without having to put up a fight. 

Merlin glared at him. “Is this your new tactic? Just pin me down somewhere whenever you want to talk to me?” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so committed to dodging questions.” Arthur leaned over and kissed him, partially because he thought it would probably be good to assure Merlin of where they stood, and partially because he hadn’t done it nearly as often as he would have liked to. If they survived Cenred, he had a lot of missed time to make up for. “I am fully aware of how much I rely on you, Merlin, and that is without taking the magic into account.” 

“Knowing you couldn’t start a fire without my help isn’t the same thing as knowing how many times I’ve saved your royal backside with magic.”

Arthur pinched his ear, which finally annoyed Merlin enough to chase most of the distraction out of his expression. “I can so start a fire without you.” He hesitated. “Can you start a fire on your own, or do you always use magic when I’m not looking?” 

“Of course I can do it on my own, I’m not that reckless! Your chambers being cold isn’t worth my ending up on the pyre.”

Arthur gave him a hard look and Merlin sighed. “Fine. Sometimes, when the weather’s bad, sometimes I use magic to get the fire going while we’re camping. Very occasionally.” 

“That’s what I thought.”

“I’ve always hoped you’d react well to my magic, but I thought I’d have longer before you started bullying me about it.” 

“You slept through the part where I was going to be nice.” Really, Arthur could barely spare Merlin’s talents a thought. Morgana could see the future, Merlin had come back from the dead, an army was marching on Camelot, and there was a good chance Arthur was going to be dueling his father to the death before the week was out. Falling back on mocking Merlin was safe, familiar territory, and the magic had dropped so far down on the list of Arthur’s priorities that it was as good a thing to bring up as Merlin’s clumsiness. 

Merlin sighed. “I just don’t know what good I am to you now. For this. I’ve been helping you with magical threats to Camelot since we met, and now I’m useless.” 

Arthur cuffed him lightly over the head. “You know, when you told me about the magic, I was afraid maybe the bumbling idiot part of you was all an act. I’m glad to see it wasn’t.” 

“Hey!” 

“Merlin, did you miss the part earlier where you told us everything about how to break Cenred’s enchantment that makes his army immortal? A thing we would have no way of knowing without you?” 

“Yes, but-"

“But nothing. Did you miss the part yesterday where I said I wanted you to be one of my advisors, if I ever became king? Something I said before I knew you had magic?” 

“No, but-"

“Have you missed, perhaps, the part where you are a genuinely awful manservant, but I’ve kept you in my employ for the last three years anyway? Because I simply enjoy your company and I think you make me a better person?”

Merlin looked startled. “You do?” 

“No. I don’t think that. I know that. You never let me get away with anything less. Do you think the prince you met when you arrived in Camelot would have helped Morgana? Do you think I would know Guinevere’s name, even, much less think her worthy of a place on a king’s council?” 

Merlin tried to squirm away, proving that Arthur had made the right decision in penning him in. “You’d have gotten there on your own.” 

“I most certainly would not have. Or do you think any other servant would have needled me for hours on end about why, exactly, I think my noble blood makes me so much more important than everyone else?” 

“It’s a stupid thing to think,” Merlin grumbled.

“It was. And I would have gone right on thinking it if you hadn’t come along and demanded I explain myself.” 

“Okay, fine, you appreciate my company even without the magic, but this fight with Essetir-"

“We’ll manage, Merlin. Or we won’t, and we’ll have done our best. Including you. Now, get some sleep, before Gwen hears us whispering and comes over to lecture us both.”

Merlin managed to fall asleep to the sound of Arthur’s even breathing, helped along by the fact that Arthur was a good bit heavier than him and still laying half on top of him. 

An hour later, he was awake again, heart pounding so hard he half expected it to break free. 

Sleep had always been good for his magic, as though in his dreams he was pulling apart the tangles of spells and forcing them to explain themselves. He often woke up with a fresh understanding of what he was trying to do, and the next time he tried whatever kingdom-saving spell he was attempting, it would take. 

He didn’t want the understanding he woke with tonight. 

The last dregs of someone’s life were powerful. It was why so many curses involved a death, why trading a life for a life couldn’t be ‘bring this person back from the brink of death and take away my health’. Lunete could have - would have - killed them all with the final spell that had exploded out of her, if she hadn’t died with Excalibur buried in her chest, absorbing the worst of it. Merlin had killed a handful of Cenred’s unkillable soldiers with the last of his life force, even though he hadn’t been able to work out how to do it while at full health. 

It was the death. The dying itself had power. There was more power in the last moments of a life than the entirety of the life before it. 

And Archimedes, buried deep within Merlin’s chest, was in the last moments of his life, or would be if Merlin pulled on that magic and snuffed out what was left. 

A spell powered by what was left of Archimedes would be able to kill whatever sorcerer guarded Cenred’s secret and made his army immortal. If they found themselves surrounded, what was left of Archimedes would be enough to lash out at the army, to kill the unkillable. A desperate move, a horrific sacrifice, the very thing he had hated Lunete for doing, had killed Nimueh for doing. The lives of others were not bargaining chips, were not the tools of the powerful to spend and do away with as they liked. 

But Arthur was going into this fight without the magical help he’d come to rely on, whether he knew he relied on it or not. How long before Arthur finally realized he wasn’t just a lucky man, that it had always been Merlin, not gods or fate, that kept him alive? If he had to, to save Arthur’s life, would Merlin be willing to sacrifice Archimedes, his friend, his partner, his savior, to protect him? 

It wasn’t even a question, and Merlin wrenched himself free of Arthur and stumbled as far from camp as he could manage before he lost the contents of his stomach on the forest floor. 

Chapter Text

Whatever progress Arthur had made in improving Merlin’s mood had apparently been undone in the night, because Merlin was pale and quiet as they began their trek to Camelot the next morning. He wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, his smile was pathetic, and his insistences that he was fine couldn’t have been less convincing. Arthur finally gave up after an hour and sent Lancelot to bother Merlin instead. Maybe the man who had been in on the secret for so long would have better luck. 

“You really take your duty as a king seriously,” Tristan said, as Arthur fell into step with him and Isolt, deciding he could make himself decently useful by helping to scout the area. “Most I’ve met just see their people as the source of the tax income, and easily replaceable.” 

“Met a lot of kings, have you?” Arthur asked, a little bit curious and not quite ready to admit to anyone who hadn’t known him then how much he had once been amongst those types. 

“A fair few. I was a very popular bard, back before I stole Cenred’s wife and went on the run.” 

“Did you ever play in Camelot?” 

Tristan hummed as he thought back. “Not for the royal court, no. I’ve played at a few noble houses, and of course at some taverns, but I suppose I wasn’t to Uther’s tastes.” 

“If we win this, you and Isolt won’t have to worry about Cenred chasing you anymore. Will you go back to performing?” 

Tristan stumbled for a moment, looking surprised, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “I…” He and Isolt looked at each other. “I don’t know. I… don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No,” he said, more firmly. “No, I think my days of playing music for rich mens’ parties are behind me. I’ve seen too much of what kind of blood is paying my wages. Besides, I swore an oath to you yesterday, did I not? From bard to bandit to knight. No one can say I haven’t led an exciting life.” 

“That oath was not exactly binding.” 

“It was to us. Legally, Isolt and I are no more married than all of our little bunch are knights. Legally you aren’t a king. I don’t think any of that matters to anyone here.” 

Arthur looked over his shoulder at their group. They were not the ragtag group that they’d been when they’d first met up for this mad adventure. Despite their lack of uniform, despite the holes and dirt in and on their clothes, they held themselves like a unit, like knights. Hands rested on the hilts of swords with the air of men who knew what to do with those swords. They marched like men on their way to battle, with no illusions of what that meant. Even Morgana and Guinevere, both of whom kept their heads high, daring anyone to suggest they stay out of danger. 

Arthur was already feeling plenty determined, but he felt a fresh surge of it. He would not lose these people. He would not repay this incredible show of loyalty by allowing them to die in his defense. 

His father was wrong. About everything. Magic was not evil. The people of Camelot did not exist to improve the lives of the select few who lived in its castle. Knights did not exist to die for their lords. And loyalty was not to be repaid with abandonment. 

He thought again of a yellow flower, crushed in his father’s gloved fist. 

“I am going to kill my father.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud so bluntly, with no room to imagine they might be able to talk the man down. Tristan raised an eyebrow at him, and his gaze shifted behind them. Arthur turned and realized he’d said it loudly enough that the others had heard, and they’d moved closer, watching him. 

Morgana’s expression was hard, angry, as though she wanted to do it herself. Merlin’s was sad, like he hated knowing Arthur was going to have to carry such a thing. Leon’s expression matched how Arthur felt - a man who didn’t like the situation he was in, but who knew he had no real choice now. Not if he wanted to hold to his own honor. Everyone else was a mix of the three. 

“He won’t surrender,” Arthur said. It seemed important, suddenly, to speak it into existence. To admit it to himself, to force himself to face the truth of the man he’d once dreamed would approve of him someday. “It doesn’t matter what we say, what we do. It isn’t about magic anymore, or Cenred’s army, or anything else. I defied him. If I went back to him on my belly, groveling and begging for forgiveness, he might consider letting me off with a month in the dungeons, and give me back my title as heir once I brought him my sister’s head. Anything less, he’ll kill me. He doesn’t allow threats to his authority.” 

Arthur rested his hand on Excalibur’s hilt. He wondered if Merlin had also given it some enchantment that made it so comforting, so familiar, as though Arthur had been born to wield it, just as it had been forged to be wielded by him. “He is an unyielding man,” Arthur said. “He’ll die before he admits that he was wrong, or that he needs outside help. He will allow Camelot to die before he admits that.” 

“He’s always said his loyalty was to Camelot above all else,” Merlin said, and for a moment Arthur was baffled by Merlin appearing to come to Uther’s defense. The truth reached him a moment later - Merlin was making sure Arthur knew what argument Uther would use, once they reached him. 

“Only Camelot under his leadership,” Arthur said grimly. “Only the Camelot that lives in his mind. The Camelot that is filled with people, with opinions, with sorcerers who have committed no crimes and commoners with the nobility of knights, it isn’t real to him. It doesn’t respect him, and nothing that doesn’t respect him is worthy of acknowledgment in his eyes.” 

Merlin’s smile became a little more genuine, pride beaming out of his face, and it strengthened Arthur’s resolve. “I don’t want to kill him,” Arthur continued. “I imagine it will ruin my sleep for the rest of my life. But I swore an oath to Camelot, to her people. That oath is more important to me than any I might owe to my king. To my father. I will give him one chance to stand down. But I know him too well to think he’ll take it.” 

“And to think,” Morgana said, “I used to think you’d make a bad king.”

Arthur was going to kill his father, had accepted he was going to kill his father, and Merlin wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about it. Wasn’t that part of his duty too, to protect Arthur from the ugliest decisions, from constantly having blood dripping from his hands? 

Or maybe Merlin had assigned that to himself. Maybe that had been the dragon’s influence, and Merlin had believed him, because there was no one else to listen to, and maybe Kilgharrah had been wrong. Maybe the old dragon had lied, as he’d lied about plenty of other things. 

Two sides of the same coin, Kilgharrah had said, again and again and again, but when had Merlin allowed Arthur equal footing? He had thought, just a few days ago, that he seemed to be doing far more than half the work, but whose fault was that? It had not been Arthur who had ordered Merlin to make a deal with Nimueh to keep Arthur from dying of the questing beast’s poison. It had not been Arthur who had proclaimed it was Morgana’s destiny to destroy everything Arthur and Merlin cared about and ordered Merlin to pretend he didn’t realize her struggles with magic, leaving him to grapple with if he could stand by and watch someone go through the same terror he had, alone and unaided. 

A fresh realization hit him like a lightning bolt and he actually stopped walking for a moment, before Lancelot asked if he was alright. 

The witch will attack Camelot. She will lead Arthur into darkness and away from his throne. 

And, from a certain way of thinking, she’d done just that, hadn’t she? Arthur had committed treason to protect her, and now the only way he was likely to end up Camelot’s king was through patricide. 

Maybe it wasn’t that destiny was cryptic. Maybe it was as simple as destiny could take any path it wanted to. 

Lancelot touched his arm, concern clear on his face. 

“I’m alright. Just thinking.” 

Lancelot didn’t say anything to that, didn’t take the bait to say dangerous, don’t overwork yourself the way Arthur would have. Instead he just kept on looking concerned, the sentiment of you can talk to me, if you need to written all over him. 

Merlin managed a smile, though he knew it didn’t look genuine. He was pretty certain he hadn’t managed a genuine smile since losing Archimedes. “I’ve gotten so used to protecting Arthur it feels wrong to let him do this.” 

“Kill Uther, you mean?” 

Merlin nodded, his gaze moving unbidden to find Arthur near the front of their group. There was no sign of hesitation in his posture. No trace of guilt. “I’ve saved Uther’s life too, you know. For Arthur’s sake.” 

“But he doesn’t need you to, this time.” 

And maybe that was the real problem, not Merlin’s conscience. Maybe it was that he didn’t know where he stood beside King Arthur, beside the man who could make the hard choices, take the massive risks. 

Maybe… Maybe Merlin’s bit of destiny was done. Maybe he’d carried out his part of the prophecy, or maybe he’d ruined it, or maybe it had never been real in the first place. 

And maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe he wasn’t following Arthur because a cryptic dragon had told him to. That dragon had told him not to help Morgana and he hadn’t listened, and he couldn’t make himself wish he had, however this mess turned out. 

“I think I need to talk to him,” Merlin said, and Lancelot nodded, with that look in his eyes like he’d thought that all along, but had thought it would be rude to just come out and say so. 

Merlin jogged up to Arthur’s side and knocked their shoulders together in lieu of a greeting. Arthur grinned at him, his face bright, and it was briefly impossible to believe that they were heading into a war against an unkillable army, plotting a coup, and looking their own deaths in the face. Not when Arthur looked that happy to see him. 

“I’m proud of you,” Merlin said, “but… You’re sure about this? About Uther?” 

Arthur’s face darkened and he tightened his grip on his sword, but he nodded. “I’m not looking forward to it, and it’s probably going to have me doing a lot of that ‘looking out my window and being broody’ thing you’re always getting on me about, but my father…” Arthur took a deep breath. “He isn’t a good man. He isn’t a good king. Half the values he instilled in me he doesn’t stand by, and the other half I believe he’s wrong about.” He reached out and Merlin allowed him to take his hand. “And as long as he rules, you and Morgana will never be safe. How many more people like the two of you are there? People who just want to live their lives, but my father has a vice grip on their necks? How many people have-" He hissed in a breath, closing his eyes. “I’ve led some of his raids, you know? I’ve killed people for his mad crusade against magic.”

“I know.” 

“I have to make up for that. And I can’t while he rules.” 

“I just don’t know if I could do it.” 

He expected Arthur to make a quip about how it was a good thing it was him who was doing it then, but instead Arthur looked at him, unusually serious. “You could.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“How much of Camelot have you been carrying these last few years? The griffin, the dragon, making me this sword… If that’s what you think of off the cuff, how much have you been carrying alone? You can make hard decisions when you have to, Merlin. But now neither of us have to make them alone.” 

That made Merlin feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes and throat, so he swallowed them back and said, “You’ve come a long way from the prat who insisted he had to let himself be beaten to a pulp in an arena.” 

“Oh, not so far. I think I’d prefer being beaten to a pulp for the enjoyment of spectators, just now. We’ll have to have a grand tourney when all this is over.” 

Merlin made a face to be sure Arthur knew what he thought of that. “Did you mean it, about making me an advisor?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then my first piece of advice is to stop having those. Do you know how often people try to kill you during them? Because the answer is always. There has never been a single tourney or joust or melee or whatever else where someone hasn’t shown up and tried to kill you. Usually with magical weapons.”

“Well, I’m fortunate to have you then, aren’t I? And just think, you won’t even have to skulk about to deal with it anymore. First sign of cheating and you toss them out on their ears.” 

“They’re all cheating,” Merlin said seriously. “Every knight in the land. We should call off all competitions immediately.”

Arthur put him in a headlock. 

“I’m starting to think you don’t take my authority as an advisor seriously,” Merlin said, once he’d wrestled his way free, accompanied by some cheering from Gwaine, and some traitorous cheering from Elyan, who’d had the gall to cheer on Arthur. As though he didn’t know who did most of the cooking. 

“That’s the benefit of being king, Merlin. I don’t have to actually listen to my advisors, I just have to let them lecture me sometimes.” 

“I’m going to turn you into a toad.” 

Arthur laughed, then seemed to think of something and laughed louder. “You were a fox! You’re this all-powerful sorcerer and you were stuck as a fox?!” 

Merlin glowered at him. “I’d never done animal transformation before. It took me a while.” 

“Of course, of course. A while in which you were truly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Keep mocking me about it. See how often I kiss you.” 

Arthur’s argument to that, of course, was to kiss him, and Merlin allowed it. He wasn’t a very good kisser, he thought. Himself, not Arthur. Arthur was doing great. But Merlin knew his head was always somewhere far away. They’d yet to have a kiss when Merlin wasn’t distracted or worried about something, often about his own lies or inadequacies. Thankfully, he didn’t think Arthur had noticed. Or maybe he had, and was just being decent enough to not point out that Merlin was a dreadful kisser. It wasn’t as though Merlin had had much practice, just one drunken dare with Will, and that brief moment with Freya- 

He almost stopped walking again. “I’m an idiot,” he said, so stunned by his own realization he said it aloud. 

“You aren’t usually so quick to admit it,” Arthur said, eyebrows raised with amusement. 

Merlin ignored him. “I’m not going with you to Camelot.” 

“What? Of course you are.” 

“No, I - I mean, yes, I will, but you’re going to go ahead and I’m going to catch up. I need to go to Lake Avalon first.” 

Arthur was looking at him like he was crazy, which was fair because Merlin could tell he was doing that thing he was so good at, where his head ran out in front of his mouth and he couldn’t keep up. 

“My magic,” Merlin said, trying to explain, trying to turn his gut feeling into words, and turn those words into something that would make sense to Arthur, who was still taking most of the magic stuff on faith. “I don’t have any, and you’ll need me. You’ll need every advantage you can get once Cenred’s army gets there. But if I get to Lake Avalon - I think I can fix it. Fix Archimedes. Fix me.”

Arthur was looking at him warily. “What does that mean?” 

“I - I don’t know how to explain it. I won’t be much behind you, I promise. Lake Avalon isn’t that far from Camelot.” He didn’t realize he’d stopped walking and gotten very loud until he saw Arthur’s gaze flit over his shoulder, silently asking someone Do you know what he’s going on about?

Merlin huffed. “Who knows more about magic here? If I go to Lake Avalon, I think I can get some of my power back. Enough to help, at least.” 

“It would only add half a day or so,” Leon said hesitantly, looking between Arthur and Merlin. “Though that might be more than we have.” 

“You go on ahead,” Merlin insisted, hoping Arthur would listen without him having to try and explain that he wasn’t ready to share Lake Avalon with all of them yet. To explain Freya. It was too intimate, too personal, still too painful to think of, her dying in his arms and thanking him as though having been kind to her for a few days was such an accomplishment. Not to mention he didn’t think ‘I have this friend, she’s sort of a ghost and sort of a spirit so she knows a lot about magic, oh and also you killed her one time’ would reassure Arthur about this plan. “You go on ahead. I’ll move faster on my own, and if this works, I can get from Lake Avalon to Camelot like that.” He snapped his fingers. 

“Can you really?” Morgana asked, and when Merlin looked at her her eyes were hungry. That had replaced the fear at some point, after she’d found her knack for healing magic. Her desire to learn more about magic, about this strange, forbidden world she’d found herself in had been growing and growing. Now the fear was gone completely and there was only the curiosity, strong and fierce. 

“Lake Avalon is… special,” Merlin managed. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’d feel it, I’m sure. It has a strong connection to magic, and to-“ He cut off, because, again, he didn’t think the world of the fae or the lands of the dead would be overly reassuring to anyone. “It’ll just help, trust me.” He looked imploringly at Arthur. “Don’t make me sneak off in the middle of the night to do this.” 

Arthur still looked uncertain, but he nodded. “I suppose, if you’re sure. But you aren’t going alone.” 

“I’ll go with him,” Lancelot volunteered, and then shrugged when Gwaine looked at him, almost wounded. “I’m used to watching his back while he does his thing. It’s nice to not have to worry about hiding it anymore.” 

“Well, if you’re all done wringing your hands about it, we still have daylight to burn,” Isolt called, sounding bored with the entire thing. “If you want to split off for Lake Avalon, there’s no point for a couple more days.” 

“This is safe, right?” Arthur asked in a low voice as they started moving again. “Because I swear, Merlin, if you run off to try to get your magic back and I lose you again-“ His voice choked off and Merlin had an odd, out-of-body moment of realizing that he hadn’t given much thought to how his death had affected Arthur. He’d known of course. Archimedes had told him about the fight Gwaine and Arthur had had, and Arthur still had the fading bruises from it on his face. Merlin had woken up to be hugged more times than his ribs could take and Arthur had been uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful. But it was now, hearing that thread of fear in Arthur’s voice, that hammered it home. 

Two sides of the same coin, and Merlin spent so much time worrying about Arthur’s half he didn’t typically think about his own. 

Merlin took Arthur's hand. “I promise. I’m almost certain this will work, and I know it’s safe. There’s a… Well, it’s a long story, but there’s a spirit in Lake Avalon, and she’s a friend. She kept Excalibur safe for me until I could give it to you.” 

“A spirit did?” 

“I’d love to give you a full rundown of all my adventures,” - except maybe that one, Merlin thought - “but we don’t really have the time right now. Forced marches through the woods are to be spent complaining that my feet hurt and you should carry your own bag.” 

Arthur scowled at him. “I’m carrying my own bag right now.”

“See! I’m having a good influence on you!” But Merlin let the teasing drop and tugged Arthur a little closer. “I love you, Arthur. I don’t think I’ve actually said that yet.” 

Arthur took a sharp breath and Merlin was pretty sure that was a blush creeping over his face. 

“I love you,” Merlin pressed on. “I’ve been - It was too hard to think about, when I was worried about how you’d feel about the magic, so I didn’t. As a sorcerer in Camelot, I am really good at not thinking about things that bother me. And I’m so used to that I - I don’t know. I don’t think I’m making sense. But I love you, and I’m going to help you, and we’re both going to live through this and you’re going to be a king and do all sorts of incredible things. And this is how I can help you do that.” 

Arthur nodded at last, though he looked less than thrilled about it. “Alright. You’ll take Lancelot, and you’ll let him keep you safe, and I swear, Merlin, if he comes back and says you gave him the slip, I am finding that dragon you let out and I am feeding you to it.” 

“Kilgharrah wouldn’t eat me,” Merlin said. “He’d just lecture me to death.” 

“Even better.” 

Chapter Text

Morgana kept her thoughts largely to herself as they traveled, considering all of her possible arguments in case Merlin or Arthur, or even some of Arthur’s new knights, decided to try to boss her around. 

Once they stopped for the night, Morgana snatched up Merlin’s arm and dragged him away from Arthur, informing the boys that someone else could handle setting up the fire for the night because she needed her magical tutor right now, thank you very much. 

“You have that look on your face that says I should be afraid,” Merlin said warily and she flashed him a sharp smile. 

“Only if you try to disagree with me.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that.” 

They sat down and Morgana tugged off her boots with a sigh of relief. She’d never been much of a ‘sit around and read all day’ sort of girl, but this was far more walking than she was used to. She could feel that she was stronger, between the fighting practices they were still finding time for and the traveling and even her increasing skills with magic, but she was still getting some impressive blisters. Thank the gods Merlin had known how to make salves that helped with them. And now she didn’t even need those, thanks to her new talent at healing magic. 

“I’ve been thinking about how I can help with Cenred,” she said, and then rushed to cut Merlin off before he could think about arguing with her. “Do not even try it, Merlin, whatever idiocy is about to come out of your mouth, I don’t want to hear it. I am helping, and you’re going to help me help.” 

“I feel like Arthur is going to throw me into a water trough for even asking this - but what are you thinking?” 

“This lake. Would it help me too?” 

He tilted his head at her, his eyebrows knitting together. “Help you with what?” 

“My visions.” 

He just looked at her, blankly, and Morgana huffed out an annoyed breath. “We have to find whatever Cenred is using to power this spell, right? And I can see the future. Why shouldn’t I be able to find out where he’s keeping it, or at least what ‘it’ is?” 

Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again, which was a good sign. Morgana knew him well enough to know that meant he was thinking about it. “That’s… not a bad idea,” he said at last, and Morgana resisted the urge to tell him that her ideas were usually much better than his, as he was clearly still thinking through it. “It couldn’t hurt, at least. I don’t know much about seer magic.” 

“Oh.” He looked up at her and she gave him a small smile. “I was sort of hoping you’d been lying about that.” 

He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be angry or anything, I just-“

“-Felt guilty about hiding it from Arthur. I know. And I should be grateful that you helped me at all.” Should be, and was, somewhere behind the little voice determined to be in a snit that he’d hidden things from her and insistent that she didn’t need to be grateful for him treating her with some basic decency. “Take me to this lake and help me find out how to send Cenred’s army packing, and I’ll forgive you.” 

Merlin laughed. “Straight to blackmail, is it?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. I can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a shot. Even if you can just learn a little more about Cenred’s sorcerer, I think it’d be worth it.” 

“Good! Now you just have to convince Arthur.” 

He stared at her. “I have to convince Arthur?”

“You’re his magical advisor, aren’t you? Go convince him to let me go with you.” 

Merlin groaned. “I’ve already told him no about being a court sorcerer twice, but he’s not listening to me.” 

“Of course he isn’t. Arthur learned a long time ago that the best way to win an argument is to refuse to have one.” 

“That makes no sense.” 

“Spoken like someone who’s never worn a crown.” Morgana patted Merlin’s arm. “You’ll have to learn, if Arthur’s going to start dragging you to council meetings.” 

“I think I’m going to let Cenred kill me, actually.” 

She flicked his ear hard enough to make him make a face of betrayal and pull away - though Merlin was known for theatrics, so who could say if it had actually hurt. “It is too soon for those kinds of jokes.” It came out both more and less angry than she’d meant it to, her voice thick and watery. 

Merlin’s eyes dropped to the ground. “Sorry.”

“We - Don’t do that again.” 

“It’s not like I planned it.” 

“You are the only one who can teach me anything about magic and I didn’t appreciate being made to feel like I was on my own.” She’d thought she’d been handling the ‘Merlin died and managed to come back again’ thing rather well, actually, but apparently her emotions had just been waiting until she let her guard down. “And you are my friend, and I don’t actually have very many of those!” 

“…Sorry.” 

Morgana smacked his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, you idiot! We need you!” 

“Oh, come on, Morgana-“ 

She smacked him again. “You are one of us, and you’re our friend, and you are the only one Arthur even sort of listens to, and when you died I thought he was just going to lie down right next to you and die too, so you have to take care of yourself!” She realized she was crying when she tried to gasp for air and hiccuped over the tears instead. “And now I’m crying because you’re too dumb to just promise me you’ll be careful!” 

Merlin looked more frightened than she thought she’d ever seen him. “I… promise to be more careful.” 

She hit him a third time. “Sound like you mean it.”

He scowled, rubbed his shoulder, and scooted away from her. “I promise to be more careful, if only because at the rate you’re going I think you’ll learn necromancy so you can bring me back and kill me again.” 

“Good. Now go convince Arthur to let me go to Lake Avalon with you while I go cry on my girlfriend, who is wonderful and never does stupid things like dying.”

Merlin went, looking baffled, and it occurred to Morgana that he and Arthur both had the same bewildered expression whenever they knew they were in trouble but couldn’t quite figure out why. She would tease them over that later. Sometime when her emotions weren’t flying all over the place, and maybe after she’d had a bath. 

She missed baths. And real beds. And well cooked food, because while they always managed something edible they’d never managed anything Morgana could call good, though she wasn’t saying so because no one else was and she didn’t want it to be one of those things where she was being a spoiled princess and not realizing it. She lorded her better understanding of other people’s lives too highly over Arthur’s head for her to slip up like that now. 

She did find Gwen, and practically collapsed against her. “I’m ready to go home,” she admitted without meaning to. She’d tried to convince herself it was a grand adventure when this had started, then a valuable learning experience, then a necessary evil, but she was really just tired. She felt selfish and insensitive and stupid for it, but this was just Gwen. Gwen never made her feel like a stupid little girl or a brash and careless noble. She could admit wanting to go home to Gwen without thinking of all the sorcerers Uther had driven from their homes. How many lived nomadic lives, even now, how many lived in pathetic hovels to avoid drawing attention to themselves, how many had surely died of exposure or starvation or poisoning because they’d only known enough magic to heat their tea or ease a headache. 

Well, she could admit it without all that coming spilling out of her mouth in a spew of self-hatred, anyway. 

“We’ll be home soon,” Gwen said, untying Morgana’s hair and running her fingers through it. She sounded nervous but determined, as though insisting Arthur could do it would be enough to make it true. 

They might be, but so many wouldn’t be. Would never be. 

But Arthur had done all this to protect her, magic be damned. Arthur was watching Merlin like a hawk, to make sure he was safe, not out of fear. 

The dead would never come home, but maybe… 

Morgana had stopped allowing herself to think much about the future when she’d realized her dreams were real, that magic had been forced upon her. That was why she had allowed herself Gwen, allowed herself to talk back to Uther so much, allowed herself to break so many rules. She had always known, deep in her gut, that there would be no future, or else that she would have to spill a lot of blood to make one where she didn’t have to cower. 

There would still be blood, but maybe, with Arthur, there would be a fresh start to follow it.

Arthur was doing great with this ‘two of my favorite people have magic’ thing. Which was to say that he was doing great at not actually thinking about it for more than five minutes at a time, tops. That was pretty great too though - when they’d first gone on the run he hadn’t been able to think about Morgana having magic for more than thirty consecutive seconds. Progress. 

Besides, he had lots of other things to think about, like how to get back into his castle and how to convince his own knights not to stab or arrest him, and how he was almost certainly going to kill his father soon - he could think about that one for almost three minutes before he had to distract himself now - and how an unkillable army was marching on his home. There was hardly time left over to be thinking about how Morgana had magic when she wasn’t even very good at using it, or how Merlin had magic when he couldn’t access it right now. 

Okay, so he was avoiding thinking about it because he could tell he would end up panicking if he did, and if he panicked he’d say something stupid, and the last time he’d said something stupid Merlin had gone and died, so that was to be avoided at all costs. None of that was the point at all. 

“You look like you’re thinking too hard, friend,” Tristan said, and sat down beside Arthur without waiting for any sort of indication it was alright. He and Isolt had been withdrawn and contrite after the confession of their original intentions, but the impromptu knighting ceremony had not only given them back their confidence but had made them markedly more affectionate. At that moment, Isolt appeared to be attempting to teach Gwaine a dance, though it was possible it was a very clever ruse to get him to trip over a tree root and break his neck. 

Arthur rubbed his forehead. “Can you blame me?” 

“No. But if we were in a city I’d definitely be buying you a bottle of wine right about now.” 

“Aren’t you worried? You and Isolt signed up to con a runaway prince to his death, and now you’re marching into impossible odds.” 

Tristan gave him a thoughtful look, but Arthur didn’t know him well enough to guess what was going on in his head. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be trusting them. His father’s voice was certainly shouting as much in his ear. But he’d been letting his heart lead the way over his head since he’d decided he wasn’t going to let Morgana burn, whatever the consequences, and his heart said they belonged at his side as much as the others. 

Arthur hadn’t inherited his father’s paranoia, it seemed, and he supposed he should be grateful for small favors. 

“You don’t strike me as someone to be afraid of poor odds,” Tristan said. 

“I’m not.” He wasn’t afraid of anything. That had been drilled out of him so long ago he barely remembered the lessons. 

A brief image of Morgana, then Merlin, on a pyre flashed behind his eyes, but he shoved it aside. He wouldn’t let that happen, so there was no point in worrying about it. “I don’t like leading others into situations I know they have little hope of surviving.” 

Tristan smiled. “That’s why we’re following you.”

“I’m honored by it, but I think you all could stand to learn some self-preservation.” Arthur looked over at where Merlin and Morgana were talking and did not wonder if they were talking about magic. “Some of you more than others.” 

Tristan followed his gaze and laughed. “Never tell a man in love not to follow his heart. He’ll only do it anyway, and attempt to hide it from you.” 

“Speaking from experience?” 

“Do you know what Cenred would have done to me if he’d ever realized I was in love with his wife? Execution would have been the kindest outcome.” 

If even half the stories Arthur had heard about Cenred’s cruelty were true, he could believe it. “At least you two were planning to run away though. You knew it would end.” He pulled his gaze away from Merlin with a herculean effort, a little afraid Merlin would realize he was watching and come over to ask what was wrong. Arthur didn’t know what was wrong, wasn’t sure if anything was wrong, only knew that part of him wanted to shake Merlin until some sense fell into his head, screaming Why would you stay in Camelot, knowing what my father would do to you? 

“I didn’t, actually.” 

Arthur looked at Tristan, silently prompting him to go on. 

“Cenred is a paranoid man, and controlling. He didn’t allow his beloved fiancée much in the way of privacy. She was always with him or with servants who knew to report to him if anything happened he wouldn’t approve of. We managed snatches of private conversations here and there, but never more than a few sentences. Everything else was faith. Faith that she felt the same way I did, that she would want to come with me, that I was reading the situation correctly when I thought she looked like she’d rather die than allow him to touch her again.” 

“You spent three months conning your way closer to Cenred on the faith that Isolt loved you back, enough to anger the cruelest king in Albion over it?” 

“Yes.” Tristan said it simply, like it was obvious. The sky was blue, grass was green, he had risked being tortured to death in the hope that the woman he loved returned his affections. 

“What would you have done if she hadn’t? If you’d come to rescue her on her wedding night and she’d turned you down?” 

“Assuming she didn’t tell Cenred about it, I would have stayed right where I was, where I could hear her voice and see her smile.” He nodded his head toward Merlin, who now appeared to be a victim of one of Morgana’s flares of temper. Arthur knew better than to attempt to rescue him. “Not unlike what your love has been doing for you, I suppose.” 

I love you more than I hate him. 

Arthur managed a deep breath. “I don’t know why that upsets me,” he managed to admit, “but it does.” He loved Merlin for it, so much that it was driving him mad for them to have no privacy, time, or energy to be alone and for Arthur to show him just how much he loved him for it, but at the same time Arthur felt sick every time he thought of it. 

“Isolt told me once that she felt like the sun had fallen in love with her. Wonderful and flattering - and terrifying, because what if the sun decided you weren’t worth all it had suffered for you?”

Tristan’s stories were often unbelievable, and many of them were incredibly inappropriate, especially in Morgana’s company, but having so many of them had apparently given him great insight in cutting to the emotional heart of the matter. That was it. Merlin had spent years in Camelot, watching people like himself be executed, serving wine to a man who would have destroyed him if he’d known, and he’d done it for Arthur. Because he loved him, because a prophecy told him to do it, because Merlin was a glutton for punishment, it didn’t matter. He’d done it for Arthur, and Arthur didn’t know how he was supposed to be deserving of that. 

“Love doesn’t care about earning what it takes, or someone else earning what it gives,” Tristan said, standing up again. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you insist on thinking of it like that.” 

And then he strode away to either join in Gwaine’s attempted assassination or to save his fellow knight, and Arthur only had a moment to be surprised at his sudden departure before Merlin had taken his seat. 

“My first thought when we heard that Morgana was Uther’s daughter was that she’s way too nice to be related to you, but I see the resemblance now,” Merlin said by way of a greeting, theatrically rubbing his shoulder. 

“Made her angry, did you?” 

“It isn’t like I wanted to get stabbed.” 

Arthur’s stomach dropped at the reminder and he scowled. “I agree with her. You need to be more careful.”

“I would have been fine if they hadn’t been literally unkillable. Don’t worry so much.” 

Arthur deepened his scowl. “Apparently I have to. I saw a few of your scars. How many more do you have? How many times have you gotten hurt because of me and not told anyone?” 

Merlin winced. “I was hoping you’d missed those.” 

“Still keeping secrets?”

“No! No, I just…” Merlin sighed. “They’re long stories. And we don’t really have the time for long stories, and I don’t have the energy.” He rubbed at his chest, something Arthur had long since realized was a habit of his when he was uncomfortable with a conversation, and that Arthur now realized was over the spot where the burn scar bloomed across the skin. 

Merlin was right, they didn’t have the time or the energy, but Arthur would have to make sure they got it, once things were calmer. There were clearly a great many things he needed to know.

“The important thing is, you don’t get to add to the collection. I don’t allow my knights to run recklessly into danger alone and then go off to lick their wounds in secret, and I won’t let you do it anymore either.” 

“I think I prefer you throwing goblets at my head over you being a mother hen.” Merlin shook his head. “But we can argue about that later, when I have magic to be reckless with again. Morgana wants to come to the lake with me, and I think it’s a good idea. Two magic users at their best is better than one.” 

It was as though he didn’t respect Arthur’s unspoken rule of ‘no more than five minutes of thinking about magic’ at all. But he didn’t respect any of Arthur’s other rules, so why should this one have been any different?

“You think it would help her too? She isn’t hurt.” ‘Hurt’ seemed like the wrong word for whatever Merlin was, or Archimedes was, or- Arthur had barely followed any of that, and he didn’t especially want a lesson in the finer points of magic. That wasn’t even lingering prejudices against it talking - he’d never been one for the mechanics of how things worked. The point was, ‘hurt’ felt like the wrong word, but it got the idea across. 

“I think so. She wants to try to focus her abilities to see if she can find whatever Cenred is using to power this spell, and I agree that it’s worth a try.” 

“Is it safe?” He felt like he’d already asked that about this lake a thousand times, but maybe that was just how many times he’d thought it. “I just got you back, and I’ve gone through all this to keep her safe. I’m not letting either of you do something stupid because you want to be helpful.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, and we all know you never do stupid and self-sacrificing things.” He shook his head. “It’s safe. I can’t promise it will work, for either of us, but it’s safe. I told you, the spirit in Lake Avalon is a friend.” 

“I didn’t realize spirits had friends.” It came out sharper than Arthur had meant it to, his mind drawing up all the spirits and magic users he’d met who’d seemed too busy plotting murder to be having drinks at a tavern.

Thankfully, Merlin either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. “Most don’t. They’re not usually malicious, they just don’t really understand humans. Or care. But the one in Lake Avalon is… different.” 

His tone was odd, choked, and Arthur looked at him inquiringly. 

The smile Merlin gave him back was sad. “It’s a long story. And one I would prefer to tell after all this is over? Please?” 

Arthur forced himself to nod. He was torn between never wanting to know another thing about magic and wanting to force Merlin to tell him everything right now, but he was managing to keep his mouth shut. There would be time later. 

Or there wouldn’t be, because they’d all be dead, and it would be a moot point. 

“You’re still taking Lancelot. And if you can talk her into it, I would prefer if Gwen went with you as well.” 

“No arguments from me.” 

“Isn’t that a switch.” 

“You know, if you’re just going to be mean about it, I don’t know if I want to help you become king.” 

This was good. Arthur liked this. Their easy banter, the playful insults. Much easier to handle than talks about magic, or the future. “You’re just trying to avoid taking the council seat I’m giving you.” 

“Yes. Those meetings are boring enough when I have to serve you wine, but at least I don’t have to pretend to be interested at the same time.” 

I love you more than I hate him. The words just kept echoing. 

Isolt was right, it was like being loved by the sun. Warm and wonderful and terrifying, because one wrong move and he might be burned to a crisp. 

Except that Merlin wouldn’t do that. Except that maybe love was baring your throat to someone and not even caring if they used that to hurt you. 

I love you more than I hate him. 

And the one thing Arthur wanted, more than anything else in all the world, was to be worthy of that love. 

Chapter Text

Arthur pressed his forehead against Merlin’s. “Promise me,” he ordered, even though Merlin had promised him over and over again already. “Promise me you won’t take any stupid risks.” 

“I promise.” Merlin had sounded sincere and concerned the first few times; now he mostly sounded annoyed. Arthur supposed he was sounding like a bit of a nervous mother. 

Arthur pulled back to meet Merlin’s eyes. “I mean it. I would rather have you alive without magic than lose you because you’re so determined to get it back.” 

“It isn’t that dire.”

“No stupid risks.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, Arthur. No stupid risks. Like Lancelot would let me anyway.” 

Arthur looked over at Lancelot, who nodded. “I’ll bring him back to Camelot safe if I have to drag him.” 

“Good. Gwen, Morgana, I expect you to help him.” He let go of Merlin at last, and it took a significant force of will to do it. He then turned to Morgana and hugged her as well. 

They’d never been a hugging family, all the more so because he hadn’t known she was family. His father had always said kings ruled alone, and that meant not going around hugging everyone you felt a little fond of. 

But he’d be damned if he’d let Morgana go off to do who-knew-what with her magic without making sure she knew she was his sister and she wasn’t allowed to go off and let herself be killed either. 

“I’m less worried about you being an idiot,” he told her, “but you’re making me the same promise. No stupid risks. If we have to go through Cenred’s army one man at a time to stop his spell, we’ll do that.” 

“Of course,” Morgana said sarcastically. “Don’t worry, Arthur, I’d never dream of allowing anyone but you to martyr themselves for Camelot.” 

“They do seem to have the safer job, princess” Gwaine remarked, like the traitor he was. “Seeing as how we’re planning on marching into a city that has a price on your head, staging a coup, and then fighting an immortal army.” 

“With seven people,” Isolt added helpfully. 

“With seven people, exactly, thank you, Isolt.” 

“We’ll have more than that if this goes well,” Arthur said.  

“And they’ll have magic if their part goes well. Stop worrying about it.” 

Arthur would have been annoyed at that if Gwaine’s own nerves hadn’t been so clearly written across his face. If only there was a spell that would allow them to skip ahead to two days from now when, for better or worse, everything was sure to be over. 

Arthur, Tristan, Isolt, and Leon had been scouting. Cenred’s army wouldn’t be far behind them. They’d be at Camelot’s gates tomorrow morning, assuming an immortal army bothered to wait for the sun to come up and didn’t attack in the dead of night. 

Morgana put her hand on Arthur’s shoulder, her face softening. “We’re all fighting for Camelot, Arthur. For your Camelot. I can’t promise I won’t take some risks to have a home where I’m not terrified to sit down at the breakfast table.” 

He couldn’t begrudge her that, but he still turned to Gwen and Lancelot and said, “Look after them.” 

They both nodded, expressions serious. “We’ll do our best to join you before Cenred arrives,” Lancelot said. “Magic or not.” 

Arthur didn’t want to allow that. He wanted to tell Lancelot that if Morgana and Merlin didn’t come up with some magical trick that would ensure victory he was to take them as far from Camelot as possible. 

But they wouldn’t listen. Lancelot had sworn his loyalty, and he’d meant it. Merlin followed him into certain death all the time, protestations be damned. And Morgana would refuse on general principal, because gods forbid Arthur ever win an argument with her. Unfortunately, it seemed unlikely Gwen would be willing, or able, to knock the three of them out and drag them off. 

So Arthur settled for one last long look at the four of them, feeling just the way he did when he sent out scouting parties into dangerous territory, unable to go with them. Perhaps his father was right and he would make a poor king, so unwilling to give orders that might get someone killed. 

Perhaps his father was wrong, and it was that reluctance that had bought him such a loyal group. 

“Come back safe,” he ordered them. “I need every one of you if I’m going to build this kingdom you all have so much faith in.” 

And they finally parted ways, Merlin’s group to Lake Avalon and Arthur’s on toward Camelot, each step like a weight in his stomach.

They reached Camelot a little past noon, and the timer that persisted in Arthur’s head told him they might have as little as fourteen hours before Cenred arrived. 

Despite the fanciful way Gwaine kept referring to it, they did not plan to march in through the front gate, dramatic as it would have been. Gwen and Merlin, it seemed, knew Arthur’s castle better than he did, and had laid out several options for them to get in without being immediately dragged off to Uther. 

They paused at the tree line as their group prepared to split yet again. 

“No stupid risks from either of you either,” Arthur ordered, and Tristan and Isolt just flashed him matching grins. 

“No stupid risks?” Isolt asked. “Like being one of ten people to follow an absolutely insane prince into impossible odds?” 

“Exactly like that,” Arthur said, doing his best ‘arrogant prat’ voice, as Merlin called it. 

Tristan and Isolt would go in the front, demanding to speak with the king, to tell him they’d killed the traitorous knight and the witch, but if he wanted them to hand over his son, they’d have to renegotiate the price. That would keep him and his most loyal knights busy and in the throne room, so Arthur and the others would know just where to find him when they were ready. The rest of them would go in through one of the tunnels and try to convince the knights to follow Arthur over their king. 

It was an insane plan and felt more insane with every step closer to it they took, but it was all they had, and Leon seemed to think it had a good chance. “The knights already see you as a better leader than Uther,” he’d said. “Once we tell them what’s coming, they’ll prefer to take their chances with you.” 

And if that worked, Arthur would have to see how things with his father played out. If the man would step down, if he would agree to let magic help him, if they’d be able to lock him up out of the way - or if Arthur would have to kill him. 

“Last chance to have us try to kill him for you,” Tristan said, and his tone was light but his expression was heavy. 

They’d offered when it had first been suggested they distract Uther. Arthur had turned them down then, and he shook his head now. “If I have to commit patricide to save my people, I’ll do it myself. I won’t hide behind someone else.” 

Tristan nodded. “Good luck then. And try to make it fast - we can bullshit with the best of them, but I hear Uther Pendragon has a bad temper.” 

The two of them exchanged handshakes and shoulder slaps with the other knights, as casual and friendly as if they’d known each other for years, and the group split. 

Arthur thought again that he should fear they might betray them as soon as they were in front of Uther, but his father’s paranoia just seemed to slip off him. If they betrayed him, then he wasn’t the sort of leader who could do this after all. And he could not be everywhere at once. He had to trust that Merlin and Morgana wouldn’t push themselves too far, that Lancelot would keep them safe, that Tristan and Isolt were loyal to him, that the four knights still at his side would back him up as he tried to convince the ones inside that something terrible was coming - and that something else terrible was already in Camelot, sitting on her throne. 

He hadn’t thought he possessed so much faith in others.

“Sir Leon,” Arthur said as they stepped out of the passageway into the dimly lit basements of Camelot, “once we have the time, remind me I want to increase the security of my castle. That was far too easy.” 

Leon smiled. “You didn’t realize that on our way out?” 

“It occurred to me, but frankly, I had other things on my mind.” 

They’d taken the route that led them closest to the barracks, to reduce the odds of a citizen or servant seeing them and reporting it to Uther. Arthur was hopeful that any guards who saw them would attempt an arrest first. So far, so good - Arthur hadn’t heard any frightened gasps or pounding footsteps, and nobody had shouted at them to stop. 

They stepped into the main room of the barracks, where off-duty knights could usually be found playing dice or cards and gossiping like fishwives, and the door was barely shut behind them before a guard had leapt to his feet so fast he knocked his chair over, sending it skittering across the floor. Arthur’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, hoping he wouldn’t have to draw it on his own men, knowing he’d need to hold off on allowing this to become a fight as long as he could, if he was to have any hope of convincing them he wasn’t just hungry for power. He’d ordered the others not to draw their swords until he did, or unless they were certain they were about to be run through. 

But instead of the clamor of metal being drawn, the knight who shot to his feet - Sir Pellinore - said, “Prince Arthur! Thank the gods. Please tell me you’re here because of that damn army heading our way?” 

“You know?” Leon asked. 

“That Cenred’s got a damn immortal army marching for him?” another knight answered. Sir Bedivere. “We know. They wiped out a patrol a few days ago; Fergus made it back to warn us before he died of his wounds. But the king isn’t doing anything about it!” 

Arthur realized the table, usually covered with whatever game the knights were playing, was instead littered with mugs and bottles of alcohol. Rare in the barracks; drinking was typically reserved for the tavern. But if they thought they were sitting around and waiting to die… 

“What do you mean, not doing anything?” Arthur asked. 

“He’s just giving his usual speeches about how Camelot will stand against the evils of sorcery!” Pellinore said. “That no tricks of magic will bring us down! Like shouting at Cenred that magic isn’t allowed in Camelot will make them all fall down dead at the gates!” 

That, Arthur knew, was very like his father. If he disagreed with something hard enough, surely it would cease to be an issue. Arthur had no doubt Uther would be willing to fight against that army as hard as anyone - but that wouldn’t make the knights and citizens of Camelot any less dead. 

“But you’re back!” Bedivere said. “And you - you’ve led us through - Well, alright, not worse, but you got us through the griffin attack, and the dragon, and that Cornelius Sigan thing with his gargoyles. If anyone can get Camelot through this-" He broke off hopefully.

Arthur could hardly believe his ears. He had hoped, in the best possible outcome, that the knights could be persuaded to listen to him as they held him at swordpoint. He had never imagined they’d be relieved to see him, arrest clearly the furthest thing from their minds. 

He wouldn’t get a better opening. 

“We can beat them,” he said confidently, looking around at all the knights gathered around, all of them watching him with fear and hope. He drew Excalibur from its sheath and heard a few gasps of astonishment at the gleam of the blade, the glint of the golden runes in the candlelight. “I have returned to Camelot in spite of my father, because I will not abandon my people to be butchered, no matter the odds. This blade is the reason I survived my own encounter with Cenred’s men, but my father will not approve of its use, because it was forged with magic.” 

He laid the sword down on the table, amongst the abandoned mugs. “I came here, to the knights I’ve led into battle countless times before, because I could not go to my father. I will not allow my sister to be burned because of my father’s fear.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. There would never be a better opportunity. “You say I’ve brought us through magical attacks before, Sir Bedivere. But this one is worse, and I am no longer your prince, so I have to now confess to something that would make my father see red. Morgana was not the only magic user hiding at the heart of Camelot.” 

He chose his words carefully - if the men saw any trace of doubt in him, any fear, it would burrow into them and he might lose them. 

“Merlin,” he said, and he said it like a prayer. “He has been at my side since the day he arrived in Camelot. Many of you have remarked on his bravery, on his loyalty, his determination to be at my side no matter what we faced. But you did not know the half of it.” Arthur had not known the half of it. He suspected he still didn’t. “For the last three years, Merlin has served Camelot as bravely as any knight. When we charged the griffin, he enchanted the spear that made it fall. When the dragon rained fire down on us and you all marveled that more houses didn’t burn, that we weren’t all cooked alive in our armor, it was because Merlin was damping the flames even as they left the beast’s mouth. The magical threats that Camelot has faced, time and time again - Swords alone cannot defeat magic, no matter what my father insists. Merlin has been with us, all this time, adding his magic to our strength. Magic is not the evil my father insists it is, and without magic, we will not be able to save Camelot when Cenred arrives.” 

There was a moment of surprised silence, before Bedivere said, “Merlin? A sorcerer?” 

“You didn’t know?” Lucan said. “I thought it was one of those secrets no one talks about, like-“ He glanced at Arthur and cut himself off. “Well. I saw him explode one of those gargoyle things with a wave of his hand. He’s got a way to stop Cenred?” 

Either Arthur was incredibly unobservant, or Merlin had been so dedicated to stopping him from noticing that he hadn’t bothered to guard his secret from anyone else. 

“Merlin?” Bedivere repeated, and Arthur felt a rush of affection for him just for being as stunned as Arthur had been a few days ago. “But - he trips over his own feet going up the stairs more often than not!” 

“Who says sorcerers have to be graceful?” Gwaine said, and the knights seemed to notice Arthur’s companions for the first time. Arthur pulled his thoughts away from wondering just how many people had known Merlin’s secret and kept quiet because they assumed Arthur already knew. 

“The men beside me have proven themselves worthy of being knights of Camelot, even though my father would disagree on the grounds that they do not have noble blood. Two more are in the throne room with my father now, buying me time to talk to you all. Another is with Merlin and my sister, helping them prepare to defend Camelot, even though its king would see them dead.” Arthur held himself as straight as he could, imagining himself as a king, as though the crown was already on his head, as though a cloak of Camelot was around his shoulders, as though he were in a gleaming suit of armor rather than ripped clothes and dirty chainmail. “Magic is no more evil than our swords. It has saved Camelot before. It can save Camelot when Cenred comes - which will be by dawn tomorrow. But it cannot save Camelot if my father kills the people who can use it.”

“You want to overthrow the king,” Bedivere said. He breathed the words out, like he couldn’t believe it, even as he said it. 

Arthur felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “Want to? No. Especially because I have little hope that my father will step down peacefully. You all know how fanatical he is about his hatred of magic - he ordered his own daughter executed over it. I have no desire to kill my father, or to start my reign as king with blood on my hands.” He clenched his fists. “But I want to see Camelot burn before Cenred’s army even less. He will either kill everyone here, or put Camelot under his boot. I cannot stand by and watch that happen.” 

“I am from Essetir,” Percival said. “Cenred cares nothing for his subjects. My family is dead because they had the misfortune of living in a town that his army passed through when they were low on food. They didn’t demand the people hand everything over - they took it. They didn’t wait for people to raise weapons against them - they killed them immediately rather than deal with protests. Camelot won’t survive him winning this fight, one way or another.” 

Arthur nodded. “I don’t enjoy having to ask this of you. I know the oaths you’ve taken as knights. I am asking you to choose between your king and the people you’ve sworn to protect, and I wish I could see another way.” He lifted Excalibur off the table. The sword almost seemed to echo his pleas. “But Camelot will not survive without magic. So I am asking you, not only as knights, sworn to defend those who cannot defend themselves, but as citizens of Camelot, with friends and families living within these walls - help me stop my father’s hatred from dooming us all.” 

The silence that followed was the longest few seconds of Arthur’s life. Every option ran through his mind, lingering over the idea that the four loyal men beside him might be run through for this hubris. 

Sir Bedivere spoke first. “I think we can all only speak for ourselves in this - But I’m with you, Prince - King Arthur.”

“As am I,” Pellinore said. “I’ll die for my honor, or my king and country, or to protect merchants from bandits - but I can’t see the sense in dying to protect a man’s hatred. Not when you’ve proven yourself to be a better man a thousand times over since you came of age.” 

The others began to come forward, one after the other, some making some small speeches, some only agreeing, some not speaking at all, only nodding and reaching for weapons with a confidence that left no doubt to their intentions. 

Arthur didn’t know how he’d earned such loyalty, but he would not fail it. When he stepped into the throne room, he would not hesitate. He couldn’t. 

He would kill his father. 

Chapter Text

Even with weeks to reflect on it, Leon couldn’t pinpoint when his allegiance had shifted from the King of Camelot to Arthur. He had been in Camelot since he was ten, sent to be a knight by parents who had little enough use for their third son and none at all for their fourth. As long as he didn’t do anything especially shameful, he was free to do anything he liked. 

He supposed treason was shameful. His parents had surely been told by now, and he spared a moment to wonder how they’d taken the news, and if he had already been fully disowned. The little part of him that had still dreamed of being a great enough knight to make them proud didn’t even twitch at the thought. Instead, he thought of Arthur’s unofficial knighting ceremony; five commoners and a woman and Leon kneeling in front of him. The strange pride that had filled him, even though he was already a knight. The insistence that Arthur knight him along with them because he was part of something different now. Still loyal to Camelot, to be sure, but loyal to her because to be loyal to Arthur was to be loyal to Camelot. 

Arthur had snuck up on him. He’d been a child, getting underfoot in the barracks, insisting he was ready for bigger weapons, sharpened weapons, heavier armor, thicker shields, and it was honestly a small miracle he hadn’t managed to take out an eye before his body caught up with his ambition. Then Arthur had been a cocky teenager; a damned good fighter, to be sure, and not a bad commander, but still a child in Leon’s eyes, and Leon had rarely paid him any mind. ‘I don’t think I share the prince’s sense of humor,’ he’d said once, shrugging off a group that was taking volunteers to accompany Arthur on a hunting trip. A ‘sense of humor’ that had the boy throwing things at servants and shouting insults and throwing a tantrum at the first inconvenience. Leon hadn’t thought much of it at the time - that was how princes were, and as long as he stayed strong and brave on the battlefield, what did it matter to the knights? 

But then Merlin had come. Word had swept through the barracks, laughter muffled behind gloved hands, of the peasant boy who had appeared from nowhere, insulted the prince to his face, and then challenged him to a fight not once, but twice. ‘Held his own, even,’ Sir Pellinore had said when he relayed the story. ‘Didn’t land a hit, of course, but he’s a fast bugger. Even impressed the prince, I think. Didn’t have us arrest him.’ 

After that, the changes had been like an avalanche - once they started, the following ones just came stronger and faster. Arthur had mellowed, had grown kinder, more perceptive, had started asking after families of knights who were far from home, had taken to stopping in inns and taverns just to ask how things were, had fought with the king about bandits, about nobility, about whether or not it was worth it to risk one’s life for a servant. 

‘Some say the boy has too much power over the prince,’ Sir Lucan had said once, nodding toward Merlin’s retreating back as he trotted after Arthur. 

‘They wouldn’t if he was a noble,’ Leon had replied, barely thinking as he said it. ‘I think it’s about time the prince starts his own circle. Even if it’s… unconventional.’ Because Merlin was as brave and loyal as any of them, there was no denying it, and he had no oath or family honor spurring it. He didn’t even have loyalty to his king and kingdom - Merlin was from Essetir. 

And somewhere in that, Arthur had turned into a king, and a friend. And somehow that loyalty had overtaken Leon, until he had known that if Arthur was to commit treason, Leon would too. It would be better than being the guard outside Arthur’s cell, or a silent witness to his execution. 

And now he marched alongside his king toward the throne room to kill his former king, and he couldn’t even find it in him to feel guilty about anything other than how he knew this would hurt Arthur. Leon’s own father meant little to him - when had he last seen the man? Ten years ago? Fifteen? - but he still couldn’t quite imagine dealing him a mortal blow. 

But Arthur’s face was grim and determined, and Leon would not undermine him by asking if he was sure again. They’d offered - him and Gwaine and Tristan and Isolt - to do the deed themselves, if he needed. He’d refused, and Leon knew, painful as it was, that he was right. He would have to do it himself. 

In the end, most of the knights had followed them. Some with hope and faith lighting their features, some with fear, some with obvious reluctance. A few had held their ground, insisted on their loyalty to Uther, and Arthur hadn’t needed to give any orders to deal with them before the others had knocked them unconscious. 

‘You’re our best chance at surviving this, sire,’ Pellinore had said grimly. ‘I won’t stand by and watch that chance disappear.’ 

Leon had been grateful, and he knew Arthur was too. Fighting his own men might well have been more difficult for the prince than fighting his own father. At least his father had brought it on himself; the knights were only trying to keep their oaths. 

So, not even an hour later, they were wearing fresh armor, cloaks of Camelot around their shoulders, Arthur’s Round Table knights flanking him as they strode toward the throne room, a sizable portion of Camelot’s army following behind, faces grim. The others were preparing defenses and spreading the news through the castle. Magic was their only chance of survival, and Arthur was their only chance of it being allowed to help. 

If Arthur didn’t win this - which Leon wouldn’t allow, but the thought crossed his mind all the same - Uther would have his hands full dealing with all the sudden cases of treason among Camelot’s knights. Arthur’s knights. 

Leon recognized the telltale signs of Uther’s temper flaring when they burst through the doors. Tristan and Isolt must have been talking circles around him, and Leon saw flashes of relief on both their faces as they sprang away from Uther and moved to fall in next to Gwaine. 

They should have looked out of place, in their cobbled together armor that marked them as bandits, but they didn’t. Still, Leon would make sure they got their own clean sets of chainmail and Camelot cloaks as soon as this was over. 

“…Arthur.” Uther said. He had frozen where he’d been arguing with Tristan and Isolt, and barely seemed to have noticed the small retinue that had followed his son into the room. 

“Father.” Arthur stepped forward and the knights allowed him to, though a part of Leon wanted to yank him back again. 

Every knight of Camelot who had spent any amount of time with Arthur knew he wanted nothing more than to prove himself to his father. Allowing his friend to do this twisted Leon’s stomach. 

“You’ve returned.”

“I have.” 

Uther’s eyes flicked away from Arthur to Leon, then to the other knights, and his mouth thinned with disapproval. “My bounty hunters told me the witch was dead. Were they lying to me?” 

“You mean Morgana? Your daughter?”

Uther flinched a little at that. “I had not intended for either of you to learn of that.” 

“I gathered as much. No, she isn’t dead. I will not turn on my family for things beyond their control.” 

“Magic is evil, Arthur.” 

“Morgana is not.”

“It will corrupt her, if it hasn’t already.” 

“And so you would kill her, just like that? For a corruption you only believe is coming?” 

“Arthur-"

“Power corrupts. Fear corrupts. Grief and anger corrupt. None of those things are exclusive to those who wield magic. Cenred has no magic of his own, but it is his evil, not that of whatever spell he’s found, that threatens Camelot.” Arthur’s head was held high, even though Leon knew his chest had to be tight with grief over what he needed to do. He looked more a king than Uther ever had, Leon thought. “I asked the knights what you’re doing to prepare for Cenred’s army. They tell me you have closed your eyes and are hoping it will simply go away.”

“Camelot has stood against worse threats than this,” Uther said dismissively. Out of the corner of his eyes, Leon saw the side of Gwaine’s mouth pull up in a disdainful sneer. Leon was too used to concealing his opinions to wear a matching one, but he felt it. Perhaps Uther had been a good commander once; now, he trusted in his legend and his confidence to win wars. 

“With the help of magic,” Arthur said. 

Uther stared at him, and if any part of Arthur wanted to shrink away from his father’s judgment he hid it well. 

“You never exterminated magic, father, only drove it into hiding. Some of it has come back for revenge for what you did. But some of it - This is their home as much as anyone else’s. And they’ve fought to defend it as bravely as any knight. Cenred’s army is unkillable by normal means. We need magic.”

“Never. I welcomed magic in Camelot once-"

“And then you destroyed it because of the actions of one sorcerer!” 

“Magic murdered your mother, Arthur.” 

Leon had been privy to enough arguments between Uther and Arthur to know that the mention of Ygraine usually stopped Arthur in his tracks. This time, Arthur seemed to have been ready for it. 

“No.” 

Uther’s face contorted with fury. “You dare-"

“After Morgana, I don’t think I can ever trust another word you say. But it doesn’t matter. However my mother died, it was not magic. No more than anyone would say it was torches and swords that killed all of those you’ve executed since banning magic. If my mother was murdered, then it was a person who murdered her, not magic, and I will not let you use her memory as a weapon any longer. Not against those I love.” And with that Arthur removed his gauntlet and tossed it to the floor between them. “Uther Pendragon, I challenge you to a duel to the death. I will return magic to Camelot and allow it to help save us from Cenred, or I will die trying.” 

Uther stared at his son as though he had never seen him before. As though it had been some other young man who had taken his sister and fled into the woods a month ago. In some ways, Leon supposed it had been. Like most nobles, Arthur had always been protected from the worst choices. His father would make them, or the council, or the knights. Bad news was couched in the deferential language given to nobles, hiding just how bad the news was. Never saying a word of how a better choice could have avoided it. Even on the training field, the knights knew to never give their all against their prince - what if they hurt him and risked their own careers? Even Merlin, it seemed, had protected Arthur from the worst of Camelot’s potential losses. 

Everything that had happened in the last month had forced Arthur into positions Leon would have done almost anything to spare him from, but perhaps they hadn’t been doing him any favors. If he was to be king, he deserved to be a king who had all the information he needed to make those hard decisions - however unpleasant they inevitably turned out to be. Only telling kings what they wanted to hear was part of how they’d ended up in that mess of a having a troll for a queen. 

“Your mind has been corrupted, Arthur,” Uther said, and there was a rare note of vulnerability in his voice. “But it isn’t too late. If you tell us where to find the sorceress responsible-"

“I am not enchanted,” Arthur said, “and you will never see Morgana or Merlin again. I promised them I would protect them from you, and I will.”

“Merlin?” 

“Pick up the gauntlet, father. Cenred will be here by tomorrow. Camelot needs to prepare.” 

Leon had feared Arthur might balk once he had to look his father in the eye, but being in the room with him seemed to have only strengthened his resolve. Arthur loved his father - but he loved Morgana and Merlin more, and he knew he had no choice but to choose between them. 

“You don’t need to do this, Arthur.” 

“Unless you’re willing to admit you’ve been wrong, I do.” Arthur gave a bitter, sad smile. “And I have never once heard you admit to being wrong. Something a ruler should never do, isn’t it?” 

A flicker of anger passed over Uther’s face at having his lessons thrown back at him so flippantly. “I love you, Arthur. Don’t make me kill you.” 

Arthur drew Excalibur. “I won’t.” 

The throne room was absolutely silent for a long moment. Leon watched as Uther took in Arthur’s expression and accepted that he meant it. Watched as his eyes tracked over Excalibur and realized his son was holding an enchanted weapon. 

“I love you, Arthur,” Uther said again, “but Camelot must come first.” 

“I agree.” 

Uther reached down and picked up the gauntlet.

Arthur felt as though he were outside of himself, watching his father pick up the gauntlet. Calling for Geoffrey, for a scribe, for servants to prepare the dueling grounds. 

Arthur took comfort in the predictable nature of that much. 

He prepared in the barracks. He didn’t know if he’d have been allowed to change in his room. He wondered, for a moment, if he’d ever see that room again. If he won, he’d be king, and the king’s chambers would be his by right, if he wanted them. 

He didn’t think he did. The idea of sleeping in his father’s bed while the man’s body cooled - 

A squire helped him into his armor, mercifully cutting off that line of thought. It felt wrong, having someone who wasn’t Merlin fasten the straps, head tilted deferentially away, not meeting his eyes. 

Merlin always held his gaze before a fight, whether the fight was meant to be serious or not. Always worried. Arthur had made fun of him for it more times than he could count, but he’d appreciated it. Merlin’s awareness that Arthur wasn’t infallible, wasn’t untouchable. 

Had he ever told him that? Ever thanked him? Probably not. Expressing gratitude didn’t come easily to him. He’d always told himself that Merlin knew, understood, and didn’t hold it against him, but now he kept thinking of the fear in Merlin’s face when he’d confessed his magic. Fear of Arthur. 

They hadn’t talked about that. There were a lot of things they hadn’t talked about. No time, Arthur had been telling himself. Really, Arthur just didn’t want to. Didn’t want to talk about how terrified the man he loved had been of him, didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he’d had every reason to be. Certainly didn’t want to try to tackle that conversation while preparing to duel his father to the death. 

All he wanted, when all this was over, was to fall into bed with Merlin and not get out of it for a month. Maybe two. 

But when this was over, he would be king, and his father had left behind a terrible mess. If Arthur didn’t deal with it, who would? 

“Sire.” 

It was rare that hearing his title made Arthur feel comforted instead of burdened, but coming from Leon it didn’t seem such a heavy thing. Arthur managed a weak smile. “Not yet.” 

“You will be,” Leon said, as though he could speak it into existence. “And you already are, in every way that matters. To us, at least.” Leon nodded for the squire to go and reached out to adjust Arthur’s pauldrons himself. 

His knights. His Round Table. The sight of them made Arthur breathe easier, and he took a moment to appreciate how natural the Pendragon red and gold looked on them. Leon had found chainmail and cloaks for Tristan and Isolt now as well, and even though it was clear Isolt would be better off in something custom-made, the new armor fit them better than their bandit leathers had. 

His knights. The future of Camelot. 

He was going to have a lot of laws to overhaul once he was king. Commoner knights. Council members with magic. Courting a servant - or, once Arthur wrangled him into taking that promotion, a court sorcerer, which might be worse. Legitimizing his half sister as a member of the royal family. 

But he was going to make something, and these were the people who would help him do it. 

“Last chance,” Tristan said, a forced smile on his features. “I could still put on your armor and do it for you.” 

“You’re a good three inches broader than him,” Leon said, mouth quirking up in a smaller but more genuine smile. “I think Uther would notice.” 

“Nah,” Gwaine said, “nobles never notice anything. Kings least of all. Look at Merlin.” 

“To be clear,” Arthur said, jumping on the opportunity to speak to Gwaine without Merlin in earshot, “you didn’t know about that, right?” Seeing as a good number of Camelot's rank-and-file apparently had, Arthur was doubting everything all over again.

Gwaine sighed. “I have never wanted to lie to you so badly, but no, I didn’t. Should have though. You know that gatekeeper in the Perilous Lands greeted us as Strength and Magic? I was so distracted by him turning my sword into a bouquet of flowers I didn’t even think about it.” 

That certainly made Arthur feel less idiotic. 

“That make you an honorary noble, Gwaine?” Elyan asked, elbowing Gwaine in the ribs. Gwaine gave him a dramatic scowl, as though it could possibly have hurt through the chainmail.

Leon patted Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re as ready as you’re going to be, Arthur.” 

He felt more ready for having seen them, despite them only having been there a few minutes. “I’ll see you all when this is done.”

“You better,” Isolt ordered, and Arthur couldn’t even find it in him to sass her about giving orders to her king. 

He belted on Excalibur himself. He didn’t know if it was the sword’s enchantments, the fact that it had already seen him through so much, or if it was because the sword had come from Merlin, who couldn’t be here now, but he didn’t like others handling it. 

A sword of magic, to kill his father. Merlin had assured him the sword’s only special skill was that it could kill the usually unkillable, that it didn’t go so far as to allow Arthur to cheat, which was more touching than Arthur expected Merlin had meant it to be. Arthur had few enough skills. He wouldn’t allow an enchanted sword to take the place of one of them. 'Against a normal man, it’s a normal sword,' Merlin had said. 'Against something like the Black Knight, or familiars, or Cenred’s unkillable army… Well, it manages to still do all the usual sword things. It won’t help you get a killing shot, it just makes the killing shot actually work.'

So against Uther, it was really just a lucky charm. That worked for Arthur. 

Somehow, he’d expected it to have gotten dark by the time he and his father stepped onto the dueling grounds. Instead, it was bright, the sun only now beginning to meander toward the horizon. It should have been nearly dinner time, Arthur realized. Not that he could imagine being hungry right now. Maybe never again. 

“Arthur.” His father’s voice interrupted his carefully maintained state of not thinking too hard about what he needed to do. “Reconsider this.” 

It was less of an order than Arthur might have expected. If he was feeling generous, he might say it was the closest to begging he’d ever heard his father come. 

“I can’t,” Arthur said, and he was proud of how even and firm his voice sounded. Almost kingly. “Your fear and hatred have caused enough harm, father. It ends today.” 

“You don’t understand what you’re trying to do. What I have saved you from by-"

“You have saved nothing and no one,” Arthur cut him off. “You have drowned children, burned farmers. You have condemned your own daughter to a life of terror.” He fixed his father with a hard stare. “Not that you would have ever admitted she was your daughter, if you had your way. You’ve always told me how much you loved my mother, but that didn’t keep you from going to another’s bed, did it?”

Uther’s face stiffened into anger. “How dare you-"

“I didn’t do this. I’m only doing what everyone else has had to do, all these years. I am reacting to it.”

“Do not make me kill you, Arthur.” 

“I don’t intend to die today.” 

“And you believe you can kill me?” There was a faint note of disdain in Uther’s words. Arthur wondered if it was his skill Uther doubted or his resolve. 

“I believe you raised me to know my duty was to my kingdom above all else. Right now, Uther Pendragon, the greatest threat to my kingdom is you. And I will protect her, and all of her people.” Even the magical ones. Perhaps especially the magical ones. 

Something shuttered in Uther’s eyes, and he became, once again, the cold, impassive man Arthur had spent so many years trying to earn affection from. “Very well.” 

Uther placed on his helmet and Arthur did the same, and he didn’t linger on the thought that he had just seen life in his father’s face for the last time.

Isolt had been present for more than a few duels to the death during her time in Cenred’s court, but the one between Uther and Arthur was the first she felt she’d ever watched. She’d spent those other clashes largely focused on Cenred, gauging his reactions and choosing her own to avoid his temper. She’d been too focused on that to pay much attention to the blade or footwork or to care who won. 

This duel was making her a little sick to her stomach. They were apparently doing everything mostly by the book - and she was taking Leon’s word on that, since Cenred and his men had never paid more than lip service to the idea of knightly honor - just sped up. Instead of a challenge issued for the duel to commence the next day, when both parties would have time to rest and prepare, they were doing it right now, with the proper witnesses but none of the usual crowds and fanfare. 

Isolt doubted too many people would be eager to come out and watch their king and their prince try to kill each other anyway. Come to see it for themselves, maybe, but there probably wouldn’t have been much cheering in the stands, even if they’d been packed. 

“He’ll win this, right?” Elyan asked nervously, looking between them. “I mean, if he doesn’t-“ 

“He will,” Leon said, though the tightness of his jaw and the evenness of his words said he was no more relaxed about all this than the rest of them. “He surpassed Uther’s skill a long time ago. Uther hasn’t exactly been an active king.” 

Tristan put his arm around Isolt’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I’m more concerned about his will than his skill,” he said. “I know Arthur said he could do it a dozen times, but plenty of men think they can do something until they’re faced with it.” 

No one said anything to that. There was nothing to say. Arthur would do it or he wouldn’t. If he didn’t, they’d probably all be hung for treason, assuming Cenred didn’t show up first. 

Isolt leaned more heavily against Tristan and made a half-hearted attempt to map out an escape route, if it came to that. 

She didn’t want it to come to that. She’d grown fond of the prince. He was everything princes were in storybooks, right down to the shining golden hair. He’d make a good king, if he could clear the bad ones out of the way to have a chance at it. That was the trouble with good people; they were always so reluctant to get rid of the bad ones. 

“He’ll do it,” Isolt said, without realizing how fully she believed it until the words were out. “He’ll do it for Merlin, if nothing else.” 

Camelot would fall if Arthur failed, but that was an abstract. It was hard to hold an entire city, such a massive group of people, in your head and think of them all as one thing that needed your protection. A single person was a better focus - and Arthur’s single person was Merlin. Their little team of knights might manage to escape if Arthur lost, lose themselves in mercenary work in some distant kingdom. They wouldn’t be important enough for Uther to chase. Morgana? The girl was smart, with a ruthless streak that Isolt knew came from being a lone deer in a forest of wolves. If Arthur died, Morgana would cut her losses and run, never to be seen again, or only returning once she was certain of victory. But Merlin? Merlin who had died once and seemed more worried about Arthur when he came back? Merlin who, even now, was taking gods-knew-what kinds of risks to get his power back for Arthur’s sake - because Isolt knew the look in his eyes too well to think he’d be careful if he thought Arthur needed him? 

Merlin would shatter at Arthur’s loss, and he might well take all of Camelot, and maybe a few surrounding kingdoms, down with him. 

As long as Arthur remembered Merlin’s life was at stake, he’d win. That was one person no amount of self-doubt would be able to say was better off without Arthur. 

“Uther’s still his father,” Elyan said, voice strained. 

“I didn’t say it would be easy for him,” Isolt said. She tugged anxiously at the sleeves of her new clothes. Her new armor, that of a knight of Camelot. Leon had insisted, despite everything. Some priest or lawmaker or something - she thought Leon might have said but she couldn’t remember - was looking over some piece of parchment. Making Arthur’s potential takeover of the throne nice and legal. “But I’m more worried about him being able to lead a fight against Cenred after killing Uther than I am about him killing Uther in the first place.” 

“He’ll do it,” Gwaine said, voice lower and more serious than Isolt had heard it since they’d met, even while Merlin had been dead. Then, the grief and rage had been loud and clear. Now, Gwaine’s voice was flat and his eyes were fixed on Arthur. “He’ll make a damn good king, I saw that ages ago. He’ll beat Uther, and he’ll beat Cenred.” Gwaine’s hand flexed against the railing of the stands. “It’ll be after that he needs us. And we’ll be there.” 

Leon nodded. “Well said. We’ll make a knight of you yet.” 

The attempt at light-heartedness fell flat between them, but Isolt knew she appreciated the attempt regardless. The others probably did too. 

Leon straightened. “Finally.”

The waiting was over. The king and the prince stood in the middle of the dueling ring in full armor, swords drawn, expressions hidden under their helmets. No one cheered, the way they did for all the duels Isolt had seen in Essetir. The audience held its breath. 

This was a fight for Camelot. Not even just for the next day - if Uther won, and then, by some miracle, defeated Cenred, Camelot would still be ruled by a short-sighted man with a bad temper. Merlin and Morgana and all those like them would still have prices on their heads. Good, honorable men like Lancelot would still be denied knighthood because of their birth, while men like Cenred - and Isolt was sure there were plenty of men like Cenred, lurking amongst Camelot’s army - were allowed to do anything they wanted. 

A headsman’s axe hovered over Camelot, ready to slice away either the existing way of life or the potential of a new one. 

Isolt knew Arthur would win, but she would feel a lot better once she could say he had won and they could move on to the issue of the unkillable army, which somehow felt like the less daunting task just now. Better than watching someone who was barely more than a boy kill his father to protect everything else he cared about. 

Their skills were clear even before the first swing. There was no amateur move of going in hard and fast, trying to frighten their opponent. It was almost too bad. Isolt had already been through enough training sessions with Arthur to know how quickly it would have been over then. 

Instead, they were almost mirrors of each other as they slowly began to move, to circle like wolves looking for an opening. Isolt wondered if they’d been trained by the same person, or if Uther had trained his own son, once. 

Uther’s hatred was legendary outside of Camelot where the people weren’t so censured. Not just of magic, though that was the largest example. But Uther hated like Tristan loved. He had driven his wife’s brothers away long before she’d died, and the stories never agreed on what had been so wrong between them, but everyone said it was Uther who held to the grudge, not even inviting the men to Ygraine’s funeral. Former residents of Camelot and traveling merchants spoke of his disdain for everyone but other nobles, and even those had to grovel and flatter to be deemed worthy of his decency. Isolt had seen it during the two brief meetings she and Tristan had with him; the disgusted curl of his lip at the pair of them. Their low births, their foreignness, their profession, that Isolt was a woman who had dared to pick up a sword - Isolt couldn’t say for certain which had been the strongest, but she was sure he had been revolted by all of it. 

Even the way he’d talked of his children had seethed with hatred. Even as he’d instructed them to do whatever they could to keep Arthur alive and make Morgana’s death quick, the hatred had been there. Speaking of Arthur as though he were a difficult child, not a prince and an heir and the leader of Camelot’s knights. Speaking of Morgana as though she wasn’t there at all, as though it were something else in her skin he was ordering them to kill. 

She would have to talk to Tristan about it, later. Maybe he could find the words to convey to Arthur how much different it was that Uther would kill him because his hate was stronger than his love, as opposed to that Arthur would kill Uther because he loved so many things so very much. 

“I don’t leave people behind,” Arthur had said after they’d saved her from Cenred’s men and stitched up Tristan’s wound, and Isolt had never felt so much shame. He was a better man than she could have expected. Than she’d thought existed. 

Like a prince in a storybook, she thought again. Except when those princes fought the evil king he was never their father. 

Arthur took the first swing, his fantastic blade skimming along the side of his father’s armor, the older man lurching back and Arthur pressing his advantage for several swings. Then Uther found his footing, blocked a few hits, and pushed back. 

Uther’s superior resolve versus Arthur’s superior skill. Isolt wondered if Arthur had managed to focus on the grim stakes of the fight, or if part of him still hoped his father would come to his senses and surrender. 

That wouldn’t even be a matter of Uther’s hatred. Uther’s pride was legendary too; he would never pass over his crown of his own free will. He had chosen to force his son - his only son - to kill him, and it was Arthur who would have to pay the highest price. 

Isolt had thought Cenred was the most she would ever hate someone, but Uther was certainly giving him some competition. 

Arthur stumbled, went to the dirt. Isolt’s breath caught in her throat. Gasps rose from the scattered spectators. All the watching faces were pale, some tinged with green. 

Camelot was a ‘soft’ kingdom, as Cenred had always put it. Its dueling grounds were for sport, not blood. Not killings. No one watching was used to shows like this. 

Isolt was gripping Tristan’s hand so hard it hurt, and he was gripping hers back just as strongly. Gwaine was cursing softly, the words having an almost prayer-like rhythm to them. Isolt couldn’t tear her eyes away from where Arthur scrambled in the dirt long enough to look at the others. 

Arthur pushed himself back with one foot, tried to get himself up with the other - Wait. Isolt knew that move. 

“The best time to attack is when your opponent thinks he has you beaten,” Arthur had said, gesturing for Morgana to sit down, as though he’d just thrown her to the ground. “Not many men remember to keep their guard up when they go in for the killing blow.”

Arthur moved as though in time with the memory, surging up, ducking under Uther’s swing. The man had overextended himself, confident that Arthur wasn’t going anywhere, and Excalibur slid into the exposed gap in Uther’s armor, sliding past his armpit and into his chest. 

Arthur leapt back and away before Uther even began to fall, Excalibur so well made it looked like it hadn’t even resisted as he’d pulled it free again, braced to defend himself if Uther was well enough for another attack. 

He wasn’t. He stumbled back, then fell, blood oozing out of the armor. He kept his hand on his sword, somehow. 

The spectators let out the breath they’d been holding. That was a fatal wound. The blood was dark and thick as it stained the sand, announcing to all watching that something important had been pierced. It might be a slow death, depending on where, exactly, Arthur had managed to strike, but it was over. 

Still, Uther’s hand managed to grip the hilt of his sword. 

Arthur stepped closer to his father, though too far away for Uther to hit if he somehow still had the energy to strike. Isolt was pleased to see it - a little paranoia was necessary if a king wanted a decent life expectancy. 

“Yield,” Arthur said, voice carrying grandly through the nearly empty dueling grounds. “Admit your defeat and I’ll do what I can to make your passing painless.” 

Isolt thought she could hear a plea in his voice, but maybe she was only imagining it. Knowing it must be there because she’d seen how heavily the weight of what he had to do had sat on Arthur’s shoulders. 

She could tell Uther had said something, could see Arthur’s stance reacting to it, but it must not have been a surrender, because he didn’t move closer to his father. 

Uther’s hand was still on the sword. 

“Yield,” Arthur said. “I did not do this because I relished the idea of being your executioner. You are still my father and I would not see you suffer needlessly.” 

Still, nothing. 

A full minute passed. Maybe a second. Maybe even a third. 

And then Uther Pendragon’s body shuddered and went slack. The sword rolled away from his fingers at last, the hilt sinking into the blood-clotted sand. 

“The king is dead,” Leon said, his voice tight and choked, but loud and full of authority all the same. “Long live King Arthur.” 

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Lancelot said, looking nervously over the trees as though he’d be able to see the spires of Camelot. “We’re here. Now what?” 

Morgana looked over the lake. It was lovely, but the biggest indication of magic she could sense was the lack of people. Such a picturesque spot should have hosted a fishing village, or a little inn, but instead it was undisturbed. No boats, no houses on the waterfront, not even remains of an old firepit to indicate a hunter had stopped there one night. It was almost otherworldly, but she didn’t feel what Merlin had seemed so certain she would. 

Merlin made his way down to the water’s edge, then turned and waved Morgana toward him. “Can you feel it?” 

She stepped forward, opening her mouth to say no, she couldn’t, and could he maybe try to explain just what ‘it’ was, but then the magic of the lake hit her like a wall. Merlin had said it had a connection to magic, but it felt like he’d been underselling it, like she was standing at the edge of an ocean of magic. 

It knocked the breath out of her. It felt incredible. It felt beautiful, and old, and powerful. And it was more than a little intimidating. 

She was glad Merlin was there with her. She felt safer for his presence, his obvious ease with the magic of the lake. 

The look on her face must have been all the answer he needed, because Merlin smiled his broad, toothy smile and turned back to the water. “Just wait there a second,” he ordered the three of them. “I’ll call Freya.” 

Morgana expected him to start chanting, or maybe cut himself and bleed into the water. Instead, Merlin only crouched at the water’s edge, put one hand down so his fingers just barely skimmed the surface of the lake, and called, “Freya?” 

The water rippled, as though a strong breeze had just swept over it. It shimmered, like the sun had moved just enough for its rays to bounce off it, and the water shifted to a silver shine. 

A moment later, a dark-haired woman rose out of the lake, water streaming off her. Through her. She was semi-transparent, as though made of water herself, and wore a dress that looked like something that belonged in Morgana’s own wardrobe. 

When she saw Merlin, she smiled. 

“Hello, Merlin. Run into trouble again already?” Her smile fell away and she tilted her head. “Where is Archi- Oh. Is that why you’ve come?” 

Merlin nodded. “Can you help?” 

The lake spirit - Freya - seemed to consider. “I can take you to where you would need to go,” she said after a moment. “But you would have to find your own way back. Not everyone can.” 

“I’ll risk it.” 

Lancelot made a noise of protest and leapt forward. Freya seemed to jump - or shimmer, or whatever a being that seemed to be made of water did when startled. “You brought friends.” 

Morgana might have expected irritation, but instead Freya only smiled wider. “You’ve told him. Your king.” 

Merlin flushed pink. “I did.” 

“And it went well.” 

“It did.” 

Morgana wasn’t sure she agreed, what with the entire business of Merlin having spent the better part of a night dead, but she didn’t think now was the time. 

“Good. You carry too much, Merlin. It’s about time you let your Arthur take some of it.” 

Merlin was turning even redder. Lancelot, for his part, remained focused. “How much risk is this, Merlin? You promised Arthur-"

“No stupid risks, not no risks at all. If it’s possible to make it back, then I can.” Merlin looked at Freya again. “I mean, I am Emrys.”

“It isn’t only about power,” Freya said, “but don’t worry, Sir Lancelot. I wouldn’t have told him I could take him if I didn’t think he could come back. I am a spirit, but I am not slave to the Old Religion, forgetting that Merlin is a person before he is a creature of magic.” 

“How did you know his name?” Gwen asked. Her tone and expression were hovering between frightened and fascinated. 

Freya looked at Gwen and smiled again, dropping into a small curtsy. “And Lady Guinevere. I am a spirit. We know many things. Telling them is difficult, I’m afraid. And they aren’t always true, the things we know.” She then looked at Morgana, and this time it was several seconds before any light of recognition came into her features. “And the Lady Morgana. You have avoided disaster then, Merlin.” 

“Only to immediately crash into a new one,” Merlin said grumpily, and he jumped into an explanation, giving Freya a quick rundown of Cenred’s approaching army, his loss of Archimedes - and with him his magic - and Morgana’s hope to use her own gifts. Morgana thought he left out a great many details, but maybe Freya had other ways to know them, because there was no sign of confusion on her face. 

“I can take you to where you need to go, Merlin,” she repeated. “And I know you well enough to know it likely you will be able to find your way back again. But Morgana…” She tilted her head, and Morgana felt oddly as though she could see into the spirit-woman’s mind, see the thoughts running through it. “You are a Seer,” Freya said at last. “You would think Seers could always find their way home again - but many never do. They go into their visions, and they do not return.”

“That won’t happen to me,” Morgana said firmly. She wouldn’t let it. “Can you help me?” 

“You will not need to go so deep as Merlin,” Freya said, looking between the two magic users. “I can guide you close. But you will also need to find your own way back - and it will be more of a fight for you. Seers see too much, sometimes. They stay in worlds they prefer, and abandon the one that is real.” 

“This is the world I prefer,” Morgana said fiercely. “That’s why I’m fighting for it.” 

Freya inclined her head, apparently acquiescing. 

“Wait,” Gwen said softly, and then she was pressed against Morgana’s side. “Are you sure about this? I know you want to help, but I don’t want to lose you.” 

Morgana squeezed her hand. “You’re as bad as Arthur,” she scolded lightly, and Gwen scrunched up her nose to show what she thought of that assessment. “I’ll come back to you,” she promised, and leaned in to kiss her. “You’re the world I prefer. I won’t be trapped by another one.” 

Gwen threw her arms around Morgana’s shoulders and squeezed, hard enough to cut off her air. Morgana hugged her back, harder than she’d ever held anyone. 

They broke apart and Gwen took a deep, bracing breath. She nodded once, firmly, and said, “Be back soon then.” 

“I love you,” Morgana said. “I can do this.” 

Lancelot was still frowning. “I think this is the opposite of what Arthur had in mind.” 

“It’s no more dangerous than what Arthur and the others are doing right now,” Merlin told him. “And Arthur never needs to know the details.” 

Morgana covered her mouth to make it a little less obvious how much she wanted to laugh at that. Lancelot scowled at Merlin, unamused. Merlin beamed back at him, wearing the shit-eating grin that Morgana knew her brother had fallen in love with. 

Finally, Lancelot threw up his hands and stepped back to stand next to Gwen. “Fine. But know that you’re risking my life too, because if this kills either of you I’m going to drown myself rather than tell Arthur I let you do something so dangerous.”

“Understood,” Merlin said, still smiling. Then he looked at Morgana and sobered. “Alright, Freya. Let’s go, while there’s still time.” 

Freya nodded, and looked at Gwen and Lancelot. “I am not harming them,” she said. “I promise. There is no cause for alarm.” 

And then she reached out and pulled them both under the water.

Morgana gasped at the shock of the cold water, but she didn’t breathe any in. It seemed she’d no sooner broken the surface of the lake than she’d come up somewhere else. 

Somewhere dark. Somewhere that moved around her, full of whispers she couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere that was full of magic. 

It was dizzying, like Morgana had just drunk enough wine for ten people and then tried to swim back to her room in the dark. 

“Follow your magic,” Freya’s voice said from somewhere nearby, but Morgana couldn’t see here. “This place is not evil, but it does not care about you. Only your own magic will look after you.” 

Morgana looked around, her eyes adjusting. The place wasn’t truly dark, she realized, it was only that the light and colors and shapes were so different from what she was used to that it had taken her a minute to adjust and begin to make sense of it. 

She was in the middle of what she could only describe as a sea; a sea of magic, rather than of water. Currents swirled around her in every colors she could imagine, twisting this way and that, some quick, some slow, some wide enough to be a road, others so thin she could only see them if she twisted her head just right. 

Her own purple light called out to her, standing out against the rest even though it was not the largest or the brightest, or anything else remarkable. 

For a moment, Morgana wanted to wait, wanted to examine the others. She could hear voices in them, almost understandable, almost familiar. There was so much here, so much she could learn…

She reached out, caught herself, and forced herself to turn towards her own magic. Freya had been right - this place was tempting. Morgana could easily imagine how she could get lost in all those currents forever. 

Morgana stepped forward into her magic, the feeling of it as familiar as her favorite blanket, as Gwen’s arms, as Arthur’s voice. It swept her away, the surrounding currents of magic blurring together as she went. She wasn’t sure if she was moving or being carried, and she didn’t think it mattered. 

She pried her thoughts away from the beauty of it, from wondering how it all worked and what it all was, and tried to focus on why she was there. What she was searching for. 

Oh, but she did hope she would be able to come back someday, when things were calmer. This was the world Uther sought to destroy, still vibrant and strong despite his best efforts, and Morgana wanted to learn everything there was to know about it. 

Later. After Cenred and Uther were dealt with. She and Merlin could find a way to explore it safely, to learn without risk of never coming out again. 

First, she had a mission to complete.

The source of the immortality of Cenred’s army, Morgana thought. I need to know where it is.

Her magic surged along and Morgana felt something like a nudge, some sort of acknowledgment, as though her magic had responded and agreed. 

It carried her on and on, through a great sea that seemed to have no end, but then - it did. She stumbled forward as the current stopped and her feet stood on solid ground, the magic around her replaced by walls of canvass. A tent. 

“Sister?” 

Morgana’s heart lurched in her chest and she looked - her eyes struggling for a moment, as though they had forgotten how to see anything but the sea of magic - to see Morgause standing in the tent, staring at her, her hands braced on either side of a magnificent golden chalice. 

That was it, Morgana knew. The cup seemed to sing its power to her, and she knew if she could somehow take it into that sea she would see the magic pouring off it in magnificent waves. 

Morgause put the cup down and hurried to Morgana, her face astounded. “How are you here?” She reached out, brushed her fingers along the sleeve of Morgana’s tunic, and frowned. “You aren’t here. But this… This is much more than the small amount of dream-walking I’ve done to speak to you before. How are you doing this?” 

Morgana opened her mouth, eager to tell her half-sister everything - and then shut it again as the rush of this strange new magic and seeing Morgause so unexpectedly faded a fraction. “It’s a long story,” she said instead. “What are you doing, Morgause?” 

Morgause’s pause was just long enough for Morgana to be certain the woman was lying. “I march on Camelot. To protect you. I had heard Uther discovered you.” 

“You haven’t reached out to me.” 

Morgause and Morgana had spoken face-to-face only once, the first time, when Morgause had found her, given her the bracelet that had kept her visions away, and told her how they shared a mother and a gift for magic. Morgana had been thrilled to hear it, and equally thrilled each time Morgause had reached out to speak to her through her dreams since then, but she’d barely thought of Morgause since fleeing Camelot. She’d been preoccupied. 

Morgana thought of Arthur, who shared as much blood with her as Morgause did. Had her connection with her sister been anything other than a desire to feel wanted and safe somewhere? Because the spark of comfort, of familiarity, of home was no longer between her and Morgause. 

“It is… difficult, to dream-walk when you don’t know where the other person is,” Morgause said, and Morgana once more felt certain the words weren’t entirely true. The current of her magic seemed to pulse around her, warning her of deceit. “With you no longer in Camelot and not wearing your bracelet, I could do little beyond assure myself you were still alive.” 

“My brother saved me,” Morgana said. 

“Your brother?” 

“Arthur. Did you know Uther was my father?” 

Morgause’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly. Morgana felt that was true, at least, that she was as surprised as anyone that Morgana was more than Uther’s ward. “Truly? Then that is all the more reason for us to stand together, sister. We can do more than remove Uther from his throne; we can place you on it. Remove the stain of Pendragon from Camelot forever.” Morgause had moved so close, her eyes alight with excitement, that Morgana would have been able to feel her breath on her face if they had been in the same place physically. 

“Arthur is the heir to Camelot, not me.” 

Morgause waved a hand dismissively. “You are the elder. And Arthur is little more than a boy, he can be removed easily enough. Especially if he believes you to be indebted to him.” 

“I am indebted to him.” 

“Why? Because he was not as cruel as his father would have him be? He is still a Pendragon. No. Come meet me, we’ll be outside the gates of Camelot in a few hours, I only paused to strengthen the Cup of Life’s magic before we arrive. You and I will take Camelot together, dispose of Cenred before he gets ideas above his station, and place you on your throne.” Her eyes were crazed. She was looking at Morgana, but was more looking through her, her mind dreaming up how she could use Morgana’s bloodline for her own gain. 

Morgana watched her sister, a gnawing feeling rising up in her gut. Arthur had thrown everything away to save her. Morgana was starting to suspect that Morgause saw her more how Uther did than Arthur - as someone to love when she was cooperative, and something to discard when she wasn’t. 

Morgana stepped toward the cup. “What is the Cup of Life, exactly? How can a cup allow you to conquer the strongest kingdom in Albion?” 

Morgause was only too eager to preen to her attentive pupil. “The druids would use it only to heal their wounded. A waste of potential. With my training as a High Priestess and the magic of the Isle of the Blessed, it has granted the army of Essetir immortality, and it will remove them from my kingdom the moment their usefulness has run its course.” She paused. “Our kingdom, I mean. I am so glad you found your way to me, sister. Truly, this is what destiny willed for us.” 

Morgana reached out for the cup. She couldn’t touch it, exactly, but when her fingers reached where it should have been she felt a thread of her magic wrap around it and settle in. 

She would be able to find the cup when she returned to Camelot, and then she, Merlin, or Arthur would destroy it. Morgause had just confirmed Merlin’s theory that the army would vanish as soon as the cup was out of play. Morgana could feel the sea of magic behind her, knew she could jump back into it and ride the current back to Lake Avalon, where Gwen was waiting for her. 

She hesitated. “Uther will be dead by the time you reach Camelot,” she told Morgause. “You don’t need to attack.” 

Morgause blinked at her, surprised. “What do you mean, he’ll be dead? Are you in Camelot already?” 

“Not me. Arthur.”

Morgause scoffed. “Arthur, kill Uther? He’s been Uther’s loyal lapdog since the day he was born, just as Uther intended. He won’t do it, whatever he’s promised you.” 

Morgana tilted her head. “What do you mean?” There had been something strange in Morgause’s words. “Was there something unusual about how Arthur was born?” 

Morgause sneered, the nastiest, coldest expression Morgana had seen on her sister’s face yet. Crueler than even the times she’d talked about how badly she wanted Uther dead. “He’s the reason for all of this. Uther’s Purge. All of our people, burning on pyres for nothing. Uther traded his wife’s life in exchange for a son, and then was angry when he was made to pay. But he got what he wanted - a perfect copy of himself. We’ll remove both of them, and our people will live freely again. With Uther’s daughter on the throne.” 

Morgana’s heart stopped. All the death, the executions, the fear - because Uther had made a deal with magic? Because he had done the very thing he claimed was so evil? Because he had made his own son out of magic? 

Arthur could never know. The thought settled in even before the full truth of what Morgause had just said did. He would carry Uther’s sins his whole life, Morgana knew, and he’d carry what he would have to do to stop them. Morgana wouldn’t make him carry the idea that he was somehow responsible for those sins, that his very existence had been paid for in the blood of people like her, like Merlin. 

“Arthur is not like his father.” The defense came out without Morgana thinking about it. Her hands were balled into fists. “He saved me. Where were you, Morgause, when Uther locked me in a cell? Are you going to try and tell me you were on your way? If it wasn’t for Arthur, I would have burned.”

“He is his father’s son, and whatever promises he made you, he will not keep them.” 

Morgana took a deep breath, trying to slow her suddenly racing heart. “Then see.” 

“See what?” 

“You can look into Camelot, can’t you? Look through the mirrors? You told me you watched me that way before you reached out to me. Look. See if Uther still lives. If he does, if Arthur’s gone back on his word, I’ll join you. I’ll tell you everything you need to know to win this fight.”

Morgause gave her a hard look, her earlier elation about Morgana’s bloodline fading into irritation. “Fine. Let’s see what the young Pendragon is made of.” 

She spat the name Pendragon. As though it wasn’t Morgana’s name too. As though Morgana didn’t have as much of Uther in her as Arthur had in him. 

Morgana realized she wasn’t afraid of what they’d find. She needed to see it, needed to know that Uther was dead and would never lock her away again, but she wasn’t afraid they would look in to find that Arthur had rolled over to Uther. A month ago that would have been unthinkable, but she’d seen the determination in his eyes. Uther Pendragon would die today, if he hadn’t already. Morgana would be free. Merlin would be free. All of their people would be free. Morgana thought of Mordred, the druid boy she’d helped smuggle out of Camelot half a lifetime ago. He would grow up in a world where his existence was no longer a crime. He would no longer have to cling to the kindness of strangers, or fear the sight of crowds or men in armor. 

Arthur would free them. Not Morgause, and not Morgana. Morgana had too much anger. Arthur only wanted things to be better. For everyone. 

Morgause chanted her spell, hand braced at the top of a mirror. Morgana realized she was holding her breath. She was sure Arthur wouldn’t let her down now, but the fear was there all the same. She wouldn’t be able to be breathe freely until she knew Uther was gone. It was just as well this was how things had gone; Morgana didn’t think she would have been able to return to Camelot without knowing for certain. 

The image in the mirror solidified into the familiar walls of Uther’s chambers, as though the mirror beside Uther’s wardrobe had become a window. The man himself lay on the bed, wearing half his armor, his hands resting dignified on his chest and a black funeral shroud beneath him to keep the death off the blankets. 

Arthur’s voice came to them, echoey and distant but understandable. “Hang tradition. Cenred’s army will be here by morning. Even if they do not attack until dawn, I will not let everyone else prepare for battle while I sit here and do nothing. The vigil will wait until Camelot is safe.” 

Morgana’s stomach twisted at the mention of the vigil. She’d forgotten about that - the Pendragon tradition of staying at the bedside of their deceased predecessor from sunset to sunrise on the night after their death. Time to reflect on the past, to grieve in privacy, and to accept the weight of the legacy now moved to their shoulders, Uther had explained when Morgana had first heard of the tradition and been horrified by the morbidity of it. She remembered thinking Arthur such a boy that day, sitting across the table and scoffing at her reaction. Now she wondered if he’d been putting on a show for Uther, hiding how he truly felt about the idea of spending all night beside his father’s corpse one day. Now, he would do it with the added weight of having been the one to kill the man. That thought dampened the joy Morgana might have felt at the confirmation of Uther’s death, though her relief still beat strongly underneath it. 

“There,” Morgana said, and she was pleased that her voice came out stronger than she felt. “Uther is dead. Call off this attack, Morgause. Only innocents will be killed by it.” 

Morgause’s face twisted in fury and she wrenched her hand off the mirror, the image of Arthur arguing with the aged advisor vanishing. “Uther may be dead, but Arthur is not!” 

“Arthur has done nothing to you.” 

Morgause sneered. “He has been Uther’s dog this long. I will not allow him to walk away from that. Has he truly convinced you he’s been an innocent bystander in Uther’s genocide? He’s the leader of Camelot’s knights! How many of our people has he hunted down and slaughtered?” 

Morgana felt her fists clench and forced herself to relax them again. It was not as though Morgause was wrong. How many times had Morgana herself lectured Arthur for following Uther’s cruelty? Wasn’t that why she had never even considered telling him of her magic, until the witch hunter had come and taken the choice from her? 

But there was, despite how much Morgana had disliked the idea, despite how certain everyone had been it wouldn’t work, a reason Arthur had insisted he would give Uther a chance to surrender. To change his mind. To see reason. Because without offering second chances, the Purge would never end. Would Morgause consider the people of Camelot who had not rebelled to be equally deserving of death? What of Merlin, who had been standing at Arthur’s side all this time? Would being a magic user himself protect him from vengeance? What of the druids, who had only fled and not fought? 

It had to stop somewhere. Arthur was trying to make sure the ‘somewhere’ was with him. 

“He saved me,” Morgana said. “He knows he was wrong. He knows Uther was wrong. He will make a better world. A fairer world. What will you do, if you crown me as your puppet queen?” 

Morgause did not object to the ‘puppet’ comment. “I will make us safe! I will ensure we are never prosecuted again!” 

“How? By staging a trial for everyone who hasn’t launched a revolution? By slaughtering every person who doesn’t have magic of their own? Do you think the people will ever trust me, if I take the throne with the help of your army?” 

“We will make them.” 

Morgana shook her head. “I will admit, there have been times I’ve forgotten, frightened and angry as I’ve been, living under Uther. But Camelot is my home, and I love it. I will not help you invade it. I will not help you kill its people who have committed no more crimes than any magic user who has only tried to keep their head down and their family alive.” She almost stepped back into the whirls of the sea of magic, but stopped herself, biting her lip. 

“I have little enough family, sister. Stop this attack, and Arthur will pardon whatever else you’ve done. You can help us build a future where our people are free to practice their talents. You are a High Priestess, you could teach-"

Morgause’s lip pulled up in disgust. “I would sooner slit my own throat than work with a Pendragon.” 

Morgana took a deep breath, trying not to feel the hurt too deeply. “Then I suppose you do not wish to work with me.” 

Morgause startled, as though she had forgotten Morgana’s tenuous claim to the throne already, but she did not take it back. 

“Goodbye, sister,” Morgana said sadly. “I suppose we’ll meet again in Camelot.” 

She stepped back into the currents of magic and let them sweep her back to the waters of Lake Avalon.  

Chapter Text

Freya led Merlin deep into the sea of magic, past the swirling currents and into blackness, deeper and deeper until Merlin began to feel the pressure of it, like a weight threatening to crush his skull. 

“Good luck,” Freya said, sounding reluctant to leave him.

“Thank you, Freya. For everything.” She had become a spirit for him, though neither of them were entirely certain how she'd managed it. But she'd wanted to help, to pay him back for the little scraps of decency he'd been able to show her, and she'd done so. Just guarding Excalibur would have been plenty, but bringing him here, this place where life and death and magic met, was something he knew he could never have done on his own, not with his magic gone and Arthur needing him in a few hours. 

She kissed his cheek, and she was gone.

The bright currents of magic had been left behind. They were for the living. This place, here, was dark, cold, empty. It felt like where Merlin had been when Archimedes had come and traded their lives. Perhaps it was. 

A burst of gold flared across Merlin's senses; the vibrant, rich color of his magic. 

“Merlin,” a voice rumbled. Merlin felt it in his bones more than he heard it with his ears. There was something familiar about it, in a way Merlin couldn’t put words to. “It was expected you would come.”

“I need my magic,” Merlin replied. “I can't help Arthur retake Camelot without it.” 

“You come to protect the destiny of Emrys then.”

“...Yes?” Merlin hesitated at the voice's wording. “Aren't I Emrys?”

“Yes… and no.”

Merlin bit back an annoyed huff, but privately thought this voice was already proving to be as pleasant to talk to as Kilgharrah. Hopefully it would prove more trustworthy. 

“You are the Emrys of now. The vessel. You are not the first. You will surely not be the last.”

“What does that mean?”

“Emrys is magic. Fated, now and always, to protect the magic of the world from those who would destroy it.”

“Like Uther.”

“A pitiful, fearful man, but dangerous all the same. He removed much magic from the world, and so Emrys came forth to restore it.”

This version of the prophecy was even heavier than the usual ones. “Me.”

“This time, yes.” Images suddenly bloomed to life around them. “There have been other threats to magic throughout time, throughout worlds. Those who desire power. Those with fear. The world itself.” A dragon flew past them, large enough to make Kilgharrah look like a toy, scales as black as the night sky. Men with grim faces lowered a torch to a pyre where a frightened young woman was tied to a stake. A mountain exploded into flame, spewing what seemed like endless clouds into the sky. 

“When the threats come, Emrys is called forth from this place. A vessel of potential is found, and Emrys pours magic back into the world.” A silver-clad warrior with a spear and a wardog. A middle-aged man surrounded by impossibly tall buildings, an unusual rodent braced on his forearm. A young woman with brightly colored bracelets, a white cat draped across her shoulders. Merlin himself, standing on the battlements of Camelot, Archimedes beside him. 

“No pressure.” Merlin shuddered. “This is the longest the prophecy has ever gone without mentioning Arthur.”

“The Once and Future King.” An image of Athur spun up beside them, followed by several other men. Somehow, Merlin felt sure they were all Arthur, despite how different they all looked. “He has appeared often, and proven himself a strong ally to magic many times, it is true. But Emrys restores balance with or without him. He simply makes for a good story.”

“But without Arthur…” He couldn't complete the thought. His world revolved around Arthur, had done so almost from the moment they'd met. He had thought them vital to each other, and now this voice was telling him they were merely… convenient? A good story? 

“Emrys is not a story. Emrys is magic. A force of nature. A part of the world. Emrys can do more with a man like the Once and Future King, but as long as Emrys exists, magic will pour into the world. That is why Emrys is called. To restore the balance. When Emrys is in its home at the center of the sea of magic, it is because the world holds enough magic to maintain its balance, and pours the excess back into the sea. When Emrys takes a vessel, it is because more magic must be drawn from the sea of magic and into the world of man. You do this much with your existence, Merlin.” There was a pregnant pause. “Or… you did.”

“Until I died, you mean?” 

“Simply dying would mean little. Emrys has died before. Emrys returns to the core of the sea, and a new vessel is chosen, if one is still needed. But you…” The gold swirled around them and Merlin reached out to it instinctively. He couldn't quite reach, though he could feel the familiar warmth just past his fingertips. “You and your magic are caught between. You, half-alive in the world of men. Emrys, here, between the core and the world. Your familiar separated you with its sacrifice, but your refusal to lose your Archimedes prevented Emrys from returning to its usual place in the sea of magic. Such a thing… Well, it has never occurred, but perhaps it should have been expected. Emrys has always required a familiar in the world of man, to contain so much, and the familiar has always loved their master dearly. And been loved in return. Now, you, Merlin, must settle the path of Emrys, of yourself. The current state of things is unbalanced. It mustn't continue.”

“Can’t I just… take it back?” Merlin asked. He reached out for the light again, but again, it stayed just out of reach. 

“Not unchanged. Actions have consequences. Death leaves marks. Sacrifices demand respect.”

“What does that mean?” This was leagues worse then dealing with Kilgharrah, who always had his fill of riddles eventually, or at least grew tired of Merlin's company and sent him away.

“Do you wish to return with power? To continue as Emrys?” 

Merlin wasn't sure what to make of the question. After so many years of everyone - Gaius, Kilgharrah, the druids - telling him about his destiny, having someone ask him if he wanted it was as surprising as going down a staircase and finding a stair missing. 

“The connection can be severed,” the voice said. “Emrys will return to the sea of magic, and you will be able to return to the world of men, no longer weakened from its absence. If Emrys is yet needed, a new one will be found. You need only remove what is left of your familiar.”

“Kill Archimedes, you mean.” What a bizarre thought. It was as if someone had asked if he'd like to chop off his arm and then return to life as normal. Even when things were at their most difficult, even when Merlin had struggled to see the lighter parts of his magic, he had never wished it gone, anymore than he'd wished to no longer see color just because he had a headache and yellow seemed too bright that day. He certainly wasn't going to kill his partner in order to get rid of it. “No. I want my magic back. What do I need to do?”

“If it is power to protect your King you seek, you should know that you have only scratched at the surface of the potential it is to be Emrys.” More images moved around them, and Merlin could barely make sense of them. Magic and lightning running together through bits of metal and exploding into pictures and information. Someone speaking and someone else hearing from miles and miles away. A corpse staggering to its feet, the rot vanishing from its skin as life returned to its features. “Time unlocks all knowledge, but your familiar's sacrifice has brought you here, to this chance to learn it more quickly. The army your king prepares to fight would fall as nothing.” Someone else with the gold eyes of Emrys snapped their fingers and an army of corpses with gnashing jaws collapsed into nothingness. 

“What's the catch?” Merlin asked, because he'd learned his lesson from Nimueh well. The more you wanted something, the more awful it would be to get it. Arthur’s life in exchange for Gaius's. The cure for a curse in exchange for a dragon razing Camelot to the ground. Arthur's acceptance of his magic for Merlin's life, for Archimedes. As much as Merlin liked the idea of nothing ever posing a threat to Arthur - to any of his friends - again, he didn't doubt the price would be unfathomably high.

The gold swirled closer and Merlin snatched at it. To his eyes, it looked like he’d missed again, but his fingers grew hot, and the gold grew brighter, brighter, until it was a blinding light. 

When the light faded, he was in Camelot. Camelot, with her banners snapping in the wind and the sun castling a warm glow over her white stone walls. 

Home.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it while they’d been tromping around in the woods. Too worried about everything that had gone wrong and all the things that still could. But it was home, despite its unfortunate king, and he took a deep, relieved breath at seeing her again. 

The sun dropped away, and Cenred’s men came from the darkness, grinning savagely, drunk on their immortality. Arthur and the knights were around him, faces grim and frightened, accepting of how short their lives might be. 

You are Emrys. You need only take what is already yours. 

A soldier leapt at Arthur, and Merlin flung out his hand without waiting to see if Arthur could bring Excalibur up in time to block. 

The magic keeping them alive unraveled under his fingertips, unspooled like a dropped skein of yarn. Merlin lifted his other hand, reached for the threads of the others, and he felt them drop from farther and farther away, out past the city gates into the fields where Cenred waited. 

Merlin sensed Cenred, the only life in that field untouched by the magic. He was like a lit candle in a dark room. 

Merlin snuffed out the flame. 

He was standing in a tower, the walls lined with bookshelves so tall the most effective way to find anything was with magic. He had a desk buried under papers, scrolls, his own scribblings. Out the window was Camelot, alive and gleaming. Safe. 

A golden age, Kilgharrah had promised. And there she was at last. 

Merlin closed his eyes. Some distant part of him knew he was still in the sea of magic, but he also knew this was true, was real. Was more than a vision of the future - he was stepping into it. Tasting what it held. The golden age of peace, of Arthur’s reign, that he’d fought so hard for. 

He opened his eyes and he was looking at a massive, beautifully carved wooden round table, with knights of Camelot all around it. Arthur leaned forward, expression serious, as a knight Merlin didn’t recognize reported on the latest threat to Camelot. 

Merlin followed the report out into the woods in his mind’s eye, found the bandits’ camp, and snuffed them out the way he had Cenred. 

Safe. 

He was in the tower, the tower he knew to be his, again. Merlin felt lighter than he ever had. This was what the magic had been for, all this time. To protect Arthur, to protect Camelot, to make it safe. To protect what was his. He could feel the beating hearts of everyone in Camelot. He could feel the loyalty in every knight, and he knew that if it wavered he wouldn’t allow the knight responsible the opportunity to fail. 

And he could feel his knights, Arthur’s knights, the Round Table. Could feel Gwaine sitting at the bar in the Rising Sun tavern, could feel Lancelot going through his paces on the training field. Everyone where they should be, safe and under his protection. 

A weight lifted off his chest. He’d done it. Would do it. It didn’t matter. 

He could feel Arthur in the throne room, and could feel a heavy weight in the man’s heart. 

That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. 

Merlin reached for the door of the tower - and stopped. He could move no farther. 

He had stepped into the future, and there was no version of this future where he stepped out of the tower and raced to Arthur’s side. 

How could that be? He had always been at Arthur’s side, from that very first feast. How could he not be now, now when they had gotten everything they’d fought for all this time? 

He tried to move to Lancelot, to Gwaine, and stayed still. 

To Gwen. Morgana. Leon, Elyan, Percival. Tristan, Isolt. 

Archimedes. 

His familiar was not gone, and yet he was. Merlin looked down at his own hand, where the faintest swirls of gold danced around his fingers. 

The power of Emrys. He and Archimedes were both Emrys, and they were now so closely connected, so deeply merged, that there was no longer space for them to separate, to speak. 

The power is its own price. 

“They’re afraid of me,” Merlin said aloud. “They trust me to look after Camelot, but they’re afraid of me.” 

And who wouldn’t be? What kind of fool wouldn’t fear a man who could snuff out the life of a bandit from fifteen miles away?

Camelot’s golden age, her safety and the safety of all those who lived within her walls, and all it would cost was Merlin’s place at Arthur’s side. All it would cost was their late night conversations in front of Arthur’s fire. All it would cost was the way Gwaine liked to loop his arm around Merlin’s neck and drag him off into trouble. All it would cost was the look of fascination in Lancelot’s face when he watched Merlin perform a spell. All it would cost was Archimedes’s individuality. Merlin's humanity.

Merlin’s stomach churned. 

He could hear Kilgharrah’s voice growling around him, talking about the importance of sacrifice for the greater good. For Camelot’s greater good. 

Because that was what Merlin was for. To protect Camelot. To protect Albion. And here was a promise of how to do it. How selfish to want to throw it away because he wanted to go for drinks at the Rising Sun, because he wanted to gossip with Gwen in the corridors until Arthur shouted at him for being late. 

“I would rather have you alive without magic than lose you because you’re so determined to get it back.” 

Merlin closed his eyes again and let his magic rise up, wash over him. 

“I would rather have you alive without magic.” 

Arthur’s words echoed in his ears and he clung to them. Arthur was more than a prince, and Merlin was more than a destiny. 

He felt Archimedes’s shape in the swirl of magic and caught at him. “Just him,” he said aloud into the empty blackness of the sea of magic. “The rest of the power can stay here.” 

He thought of Archimedes, of the songs he’d sung as  a bird, back in Ealdor. Thought of how pleased he’d been when he’d learned he could frighten the knights as a dog. He thought of the offense he’d taken to the idea of being a rat, thought of the long conversations about magic and duty and love and humanity they’d had. 

The ember in Merlin’s chest caught. He and Archimedes tumbled back through the sea of magic, into the waters of Lake Avalon, and Merlin caught a glimpse of Freya’s proud smile as she pushed the two of them safely to the shore. 

Chapter Text

Arthur thought he was handling himself well, all things considered. He’d only thrown up once, and had managed to keep himself together long enough that only George, most discreet servant in all of Albion, knew about it. He’d kept himself together well enough to give orders about what to do with the king’s body, to give a speech to the knights and ready them for the coming battle. Then he’d gone to his rooms to get ready, lost the contents of his stomach, and allowed George to clean his armor and help him back into it. 

He hadn’t let George touch Excalibur, had cleaned the sword himself. He wasn’t sure if it was the weapon or his father’s blood he was being possessive of. It seemed wrong that someone else should remove the evidence of what Arthur had done from the blade. 

The sun had slid past the horizon as Arthur prepared. The knights were gathering the citizens and bringing them into the citadel - and spreading the word of what had happened, and why. 

Arthur desperately wanted to know what the people thought of him now. He remembered Merlin telling him about the vigil they’d held when everyone had thought he’d surely die from the questing beast’s poison, and wondered if he still inspired such loyalty. Did they think he’d done this for his own power? 

George secured Arthur’s pauldrons and Arthur gave himself a mental shake. It didn’t matter right now. Once Cenred was defeated, then he could look around and see where he stood. If the people hated him then - Well, at least they would be alive to do it. 

“Do you want your crown, sire?” George asked, eyes cast deferentially away from Arthur’s face. He’d nearly forgotten what a change Merlin had been, always looking Arthur straight in the eyes, always confident that they were equals. 

Arthur didn’t know anything about the old religion. He didn’t know if it had gods, or if it was only a philosophy, a way of life. He cast a wordless prayer into the ether for Merlin’s safety anyway. 

“No,” Arthur said. “Crowns and capes only weigh you down in battle.” He tightened his hold on Excalibur’s hilt. One sword against an army. 

George nodded and stepped back. For a fraction of a second, his eyes darted to the window and away again. 

“Merlin will be here soon,” Arthur said, reassuring himself and George in the same breath. “He’s never let Camelot down yet.” 

George nodded. 

“You should join the rest of the servants, George. You’ve done everything you can for me.” 

George bowed respectfully and left the room, maybe a little quicker than was necessary. The man had the perfectly expressionless face of the best-trained servants, but even he had to be feeling the fear of what was coming. What had been done to prepare for it. 

Everyone was frightened; Arthur could feel it radiating off the walls as he made his way to the courtyard, where Leon would be giving out the orders. But what frightened them most? The immortal army marching on them? Their regicidal prince? Or the magic users that were supposedly coming to save them, even though they’d only ever seen magic used to harm? 

Not everyone in the courtyard was in armor, and the sight made Arthur stop mid-step, confused at what he was seeing. 

“Volunteers,” Gwaine said, appearing and bumping his shoulder against Arthur’s. “Leon tried to talk them out of it, but they say this is their home too, and that if it’s that bad we’ll need every man. We’re setting them up as archers and lookouts, trying to keep them away from the worst of it.” 

Arthur swallowed past a heavy emotion that had lodged itself in his throat. “I suppose we could always use more eyes. How’s the rest going?” 

Gwaine grinned at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll kick their asses, Princess, don’t worry.” 

Arthur tried to return the smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Any sign of Merlin and the others?” 

Gwaine shook his head. “Not yet.” 

Arthur tried to tell himself that was no real cause for alarm, not yet. It didn’t have much of an effect. He wanted Merlin at his side. Not his magic - just him. Merlin had stood with him against the dragon, the questing beast, and damn near everything else that had threatened Camelot over the last three years. Now Arthur knew that Merlin’s presence had meant he’d always been in less danger than he’d thought, but that wasn’t what he was longing for now. It was just Merlin’s steady presence, the silent faith he always had in Arthur, the stubborn courage overruling any and all preservation instincts the man ought to have possessed. 

“He’ll make it,” Gwaine said, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was confidence or bluster in his voice. “He’s never let any of us down yet, right?” 

Arthur nodded. “Absolutely. He won’t start now.” He cast around for something to lighten the mood with. “Besides, he keeps telling me how important his magic is. If he doesn’t show off tonight, he knows I’ll call him a liar.” 

Gwaine laughed. “Well, come on, we’ve got an army to prepare for. We can’t let Merlin do all the work when he gets here, there’ll be no living with him.” 

A chorus of voices rose from the west gate, and Arthur’s hand shot to Excalibur, pulling the sword halfway out of the sheath before he registered that the voices didn’t sound frightened or even angry. Then a blur of black came pelting toward him, nearly glowing in the torchlight, and a familiar mass of fur and muscle slammed into him, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground. 

“Archimedes!” 

The dog reeled back, mouth gaping open in a canine grin, tail wagging so fast it was a blur. <Arthur!> And then, even happier, <Gwaine!>

“He talks!” Gwaine said, startled, and then he had an armful of excited war dog and it was his turn to focus on not falling over. 

“Give it a bit,” a wonderfully familiar voice said. “You’ll stop being impressed when you realize how talkative he is.” 

“Merlin!” Arthur couldn’t spare a thought to what his men would think of him, or rumors that might spawn in the wake of this. He pulled Merlin into a hug, crushing him against his chest. This was what it had all been for - to be able to pull Merlin to him and know that he was allowed, that Merlin would be safe, that he wasn’t putting Merlin’s life in danger just by being happy to see him. 

“You’ve been enchanted,” Uther had said, the words gargled by the blood welling up in his father’s lungs. “Morgana or that boy. Your mind is not your own. You must fight it, Arthur. I know you’re strong enough to overcome this.”

Arthur wasn’t ready to think about his father’s greatest declaration of faith in Arthur’s strength coming in such a form. But he knew he wasn’t enchanted. This wasn’t like Vivian or Sofia, where he had returned to himself with only a few hazy memories of what had come before, where, according to Merin and anyone else who’d seen him, he’d had no thoughts outside of his new ‘love’. He was still sick over Uther. He was still worried about Cenred. It was only that Merlin muffled it, shouldered it, made it feel manageable again. 

Merlin was grinning at him when Arthur pulled back to look him over, assure himself that Merlin hadn’t done anything stupid in order to get Archimedes back. “Alright?” Arthur asked. 

Merlin nodded, looking happily toward Archimedes. “You?” 

Arthur nodded, though he felt his face fall. “As I can be,” he said. He looked past Merlin to see a somewhat haggard looking Morgana, accompanied by Gwen and Lancelot. “Good. You’re all back.” 

Lancelot shook himself. “Some of us somewhat frazzled. Merlin didn’t warn us before warping the world.”

Merlin waved him off. “I just temporarily shortened the distance between Lake Avalon and Camelot. It isn’t even that hard.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What? We needed to get back while there was still time to be helpful! The sea of magic took longer than I thought it would.” 

“The what?” Arthur asked. 

Merlin shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Morgana thinks Cenred will be here soon.” 

Arthur put ‘sea of magic’ onto his mental shelf of questions, and turned to his sister, who nodded. 

“I found how they’re maintaining the spell, and marked it out so we can find and destroy it, but Morgause knows I stand against her. She’ll be pushing Cenred to move faster.”

“Morgause?” Arthur asked. 

Morgana hesitated, then said, “My half-sister. On my mother’s side. She… It’s a long story. She wanted to use me to get to Uther. When it didn’t work, she lost interest in me. Now, I’m a threat.”

“She’s Cenred’s sorceress,” Merlin added. “We’ll probably need to deal with her before this is over.” 

“I can handle Morgause,” Morgana said firmly, hands balled at her side. 

Arthur had even more questions - he wanted nothing more than for everything to calm down so everyone could tell him all the things they’d apparently been hiding from him for who-knew-how-long - but there was an impending army to deal with. “Stay close to me, then,” he told Morgana. “We can deal with her together.” 

Morgana seemed to pause for a moment, then she nodded. “Alright. She’ll probably be after you anyway. She views you as no better than Uther.” 

“And there’s no reasoning with her?” It was a vain hope - if there had been, Morgana would have said so already. Still, he had to ask. 

Morgana shook her head. “I already tried. She’s lost to the idea of revenge. It doesn’t matter to her who she takes it out on.” 

Sir Bedivere ran up to join them, bowed quickly to Arthur, and then, shockingly, gave a stiff semi-bow toward Merlin and Morgana as well. “Sire, the lookouts have seen torchlight approaching. There’s enough of them for it to be Essetir’s army.” 

“How far off?” 

“Less than an hour. Do we think they’ll wait until morning?” 

“No,” Morgana said, before Arthur could. 

Merlin nodded. “The kind of magic Morgause is throwing around, the darkness won’t bother them, and they’ll have higher endurance - if they get tired at all. They’ll be pushing for every advantage they can get, especially now that they know you have at least one magic user on your side.” 

“The pri- The king said you could help us defeat them?” Sir Bedivere asked, clearly trying to keep the fear out of his voice and not quite succeeding. 

Merlin looked startled to realize the question was directed at him. “Yes.” He looked around for a moment, apparently overwhelmed by having people actually know how integral he was to their survival, and then focused on Arthur. “Morgana and I talked a little bit before we came back. Morgause will be after either you or her - your best chance is to stay together and let her come to you. Morgana marked out the chalice the spell is coming from. I can follow that and destroy it. Camelot just has to hold on until then.” 

Arthur nodded, and looked over to see that, at some point, the rest of his Round Table had moved to join them, silently waiting for orders. 

“Sir Bedivere, take over getting everyone into position here. The rest of you, with me, I want to get a better look at the situation.” 

They followed Arthur up onto the battlements, though Gwen split off from them with a squeeze to Morgana’s hand and ran to join the people setting up the infirmary they’d no doubt need within the hour. 

From the top of the castle, Arthur could see the approaching lights that meant Cenred was moving steadily closer. Around him, archers and lookouts glanced at him nervously and looked away again. Arthur wished he knew if it was his title that intimidated them or the fact that he’d killed his own father just hours ago. Or perhaps the two powerful sorcerers walking at his side. 

“They’re coming in from the west,” Arthur said. “They must have gone around, hoping to catch us off guard by not coming from the northeast.” That was likely a blessing for Camelot - if they had come from the expected direction they could have arrived hours sooner, and things might have been lost before they’d put up a fight. 

“Too bad they didn’t know about our secret weapons,” Gwaine said, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. 

Arthur nodded. “Merlin, how long do you think you’ll need to destroy the - what did you say it was, a chalice?” 

Merlin nodded. “Morgause will have it guarded, and under magical protections, but it shouldn’t take me long.” He grinned and buried his hand in Archimedes’s fur. “Archimedes and I think we have a new spell that should make getting past any guards easy. With any luck, we’ll also take the worst of the army’s attention off Camelot.” 

“I don’t want you taking stupid risks,” Arthur warned, but Merlin only grinned wider. 

“Sorry, you’re not talking me out of this. If I’m right about what I think we can do now, I want to see what I’m capable of with it.” 

Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of that, and Merlin’s cocky grin was more than a little unsettling - was this how Merlin felt when Arthur boasted about his skills in battle? - but right now he had to trust that Merlin and Morgana knew what their magic was capable of, while he saw to the logistics of the men on the battlefield. 

“Alright,” Arthur conceded. “You’ll handle the chalice, which will deal with the army, and then, hopefully, we’ll only have Cenred and Morgause to contend with. Morgana, where do you think we should try and fight with Morgause?” 

“The courtyard,” Morgana said without hesitation. “We don’t want to be in the center of town, where she can try to bring buildings down on us.” 

Merlin nodded. “Good thinking. And you’ll want to be able to attack Morgause without worrying about avoiding property damage, or getting Arthur caught in the crossfire.”

Arthur nodded, and looked at his knights. “Elyan, take as many people as you need and do whatever you can to bottleneck them between the west gate and the courtyard. Even immortal, their numbers will only help them so much if we can control the battlefield.” Elyan nodded and rushed off to do as he was told. 

“Leon, I want you up here. You’re a fantastic strategist; I want you managing the battlefield and calling out new orders if they’re needed. Pull some squires to serve as runners, or I’m sure some of the civilians would be willing.” 

A familiar flicker passed over Leon’s face; the expression of a man who didn’t want to be kept out of the thick of the fighting even if it was the best move, but he nodded. “I won’t let you down.” 

“I know you won’t.” Arthur shared a quick, speaking look with the knight, and moved on to his next orders. “Lancelot, you have a gift for leadership. Since I’ll be serving as bait in the courtyard, I want you leading the men at the gates. Don’t let anyone make any stupid sacrifices and do what you can to funnel the army towards me. Remember, aim to cripple them, not to kill. They can walk off a deathblow, but if you can damage a few limbs, take a few weapons, or rip off some armor, it’ll be that much easier for me to finish them off when they reach me.”

Lancelot gripped the hilt of the sword Arthur had given him and stood a little straighter. “Yes, sire.” 

“Gwaine, you’re strong, fast, and have a unique fighting style. It won’t be easy, but I want you moving between me and Lancelot, exploiting any weak spots you can find. I’ll spread the word that you have authority over any knights you pass - if you see an opportunity, I want you to take it. But no-“

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “No stupid risks. I know, princess, that’s been your favorite phrase all day. Don’t worry, I won’t break any of your knights.” His tone was light, but Arthur could see in his stance that he was already taking the task seriously, thinking about what he could use to buy them the time they needed. 

Arthur turned toward his last three knights and almost hesitated before steeling himself. Cenred had left them no choice - any opportunities for peace between Essetir and Camelot were long past, at least while Cenred still breathed. “Cenred will run, if he realizes he’s losing, won’t he?” 

Isolt nodded. “He’s a coward. If victory isn’t a sure thing, he’ll light out like a fox that’s been caught in the hen house.” 

“Then I want you three to make sure he doesn’t.” 

A fierce, angry fire lit in Tristan, Isolt, and Percival’s faces, just as he’d known it would. 

“If he escapes today,” Arthur went on, “I have no doubt he’ll try again. Probably with something even nastier. I won’t give him the chance. I want you three to track him down and make sure, whatever else happens tonight, that Cenred’s threat to anyone, here or in Essetir, is finished.” 

“With pleasure,” Isolt said viciously, and the men on either side of her nodded their agreement. 

Arthur looked at them, looked at the archers around them, looked down at the dots of movement beneath them as everyone scrambled to prepare as best they could. His people. His people who would fight for their home, fight for him, with everything they had. 

He would not fail them. 

“Alright then,” he said, trying to sound less nervous than he felt. “Everyone to your places. Merlin, do you want to tell us what this spell you’re going to try is?” 

Merlin looked down at Archimedes. “Ready to show them our new move?” 

Archimedes barked, tail wagging. He reared up on his back legs as Merlin leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. Merlin glanced at Arthur with a smile that said he knew Arthur wasn’t going to approve of what he was doing and he thought that was hilarious. “Tell them not to shoot at us, would you?” 

Arthur didn’t have time to respond to that before magic began filling the air around them. 

Arthur hadn’t really had the time to think about it, but Archimedes looked a little different. Still recognizably the same creature, but it was like seeing someone for the first time in years and recognizing them past the marks of age, beyond the weight change and the new hair style and the different clothes. And there was a glow to him, faint wisps of that golden light that had come off him as he’d given his own life to bring Merlin back to them. 

Now, the gold began to grow, rolling off Archimedes first and then off of Merlin too. Arthur’s stomach lurched for a moment, remembering what had followed the first time he’d seen this, but he forced himself not to react. Merlin hadn’t shown any sign he was worried about how this would go, and Arthur had to trust him. He was already trusting him with all of Camelot. And there was no time to make Merlin run all his plans past Arthur before acting on them, even if Arthur thought Merlin - impulsive, abrasive, contrary Merlin - would do it if Arthur demanded it of him. 

The gold grew brighter and brighter, as though the man and the dog were lighting a sun between them, until it was so bright that Arthur - and everyone else who was still standing up there with him - had to take a step back and lift an arm to shield his eyes. The last thing he saw before the light blinded him completely was a shape at the center of the light tip over the wall. 

Arthur shook his head, spots clearing out of his vision, and had just enough time for his heart to lurch in his chest at the realization that the shape had been Merlin and Archimedes before the two of them shot past, climbing up into the sky. 

He wasn’t sure how he recognized them. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was that he thought he could recognize Merlin anywhere, in any form, now that he knew what the man was capable of. Whatever it was, he had no doubt it was Merlin he was seeing. Shouts went up around him, and he could hear Leon calling that there was nothing to be afraid of, that it was on their side, but Arthur couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beautiful black and gold dragon spreading its wings above his castle. 

Chapter Text

It took Arthur several minutes to stop staring up at Merlin, twisting above them, glowing against the dark sky. It actually took shouting from the lookouts to make him remember that he had things he was supposed to be doing, extremely important things, and he couldn’t stand there, slack-jawed because Merlin had pulled out yet another unexpected trick. 

At least, when he recovered himself, Morgana looked almost as stunned. 

“I take it he didn’t warn you he was going to do that either?” 

Morgana shook her head and shut her mouth with visible effort. “I guess he really wanted to prove he’s as powerful as he told you he was.” 

Arthur looked up at the dragon again. Merlin - and Archimedes? Both? Magic was giving Arthur a headache - wasn’t even a quarter as large as the great dragon had been, but he was still impressive, and would have been terrifying if Arthur hadn’t known he was on their side. He was looking down on Camelot, likely getting the lay of the land, and Arthur wondered just how much Merlin had absorbed all the times he’d let Arthur ramble to him about strategies. 

“We should get down to the courtyard,” Morgana said. “The army will be here soon.” 

Right. The army. The immortal army that was the entire reason Merlin was currently hovering in the air as an enormous glowing dragon. 

They made their way down, assuring more than a few people along the way that yes, that was Arthur’s dragon above them, and no, he definitely wouldn’t harm Camelot. 

He knew, logically, that the people were being as accepting of all this as they were because it was less terrifying than the approaching army, but he was still touched by how many people looked reassured by Arthur’s faith in Merlin. He hoped it would continue once the danger had passed.

Merlin felt drunk and dizzy with delight. Hauling himself and Archimedes out of the lake had been exhausting, like he’d been pulling ten Arthurs, all in full plate mail, and then he’d spent several minutes coughing and heaving for air while Lancelot rubbed his back and looked increasingly concerned, but everything since then had been better than Merlin could have dreamed. 

Once he and Archimedes had caught their breath, and Archimedes had changed forms several times while running exuberant laps around them to celebrate his return to the world of the living, Merlin had felt his magic rising up in his chest like someone had cleared a blockage for a well. And it felt… freer now. Somehow even easier to get to, even though it had come to him like breathing all his life. Some connection to having gone down to its source, he was sure. 

And Morgana had been successful in her own mission, had made it back safely. Merlin had brought them all safely to Camelot before it was too late to join in the fight. And hadn’t that been a shift, arriving at the gates to see the guards faces flood with relief at the sight of him. Arthur had convinced them that Merlin was powerful, was on their side, was someone to be relieved to see. 

Kilgharrah had promised a golden age, and Merlin could feel it now, just below the horizon, ready to fill the sky with light. 

Perhaps he should have practiced the dragon transformation first, instead of just trusting his own certainty that he and Archimedes had learned enough about animal transformation and been so thoroughly bonded together that they could do it. Perhaps he should have given Arthur and the knights more of a warning that he was about to transform into a great fire-breathing beast. 

Gods, but the look on Arthur’s face, equal parts shock and admiration, had been so incredibly worth it. 

He and Archimedes were one and separate. The dragon was both of them, the magic of them, of Emrys, twisting in the skies above Camelot. They moved together the way Arthur and his knights did, seamlessly anticipating the other’s needs before they had to ask. Merlin could scarcely tell where one of them began and the other ended, and yet he was certain that they would separate as easily as they had joined when the fighting was done. 

He had regained his magic, he would protect Camelot, and he and Archimedes would both keep themselves and everything that mattered to them. It was all so fantastically wonderful that Merlin was having a difficult time focusing on the fact that they still had a battle to win before they could celebrate. He’d chosen the option that meant he was still going to have to work for their future, and that didn’t mean spending all night in the air, laughing at Arthur’s dumbfounded expression. 

He spun in the air, testing out his maneuverability, and looked down into Camelot. The people were far below him, barely distinguishable save where they moved across her battlements and the stones of her courtyard, but here and there he could make out someone craning their neck to look up at him. 

But no one fired an arrow. No one pointed up and screamed, no one ran for cover. Arthur had told them he was to be trusted and they had listened. 

Merlin thought briefly of Gaius, wished he were there, and then, through the old familiar grief, he let himself acknowledge that it was good the old physician was dead. He would have argued against Arthur standing against his father. He would have insisted that Uther’s death would lead to nothing good. That to kill him, even in the most honorable way Arthur had at his disposal, would be to become no better than him. 

He would have been wrong. 

When this was over, he and Arthur would grieve for their fathers. And they would admit that they had to step out from the mens’ shadows. 

But first, Merlin had a magical chalice to destroy. 

He could see Cenred’s men coming on at a forced march. Morgana had said Morgause would be furious, and they’d both suspected that would make her come faster, more aggressively, and it looked like they had been right. 

Merlin hovered in the air, Archimedes keeping them aloft with his animal and magical instincts as Merlin considered the scene unfolding below them. 

It would be too much to say Camelot was truly ready for Cenred, against such odds and with so little time to prepare - Merlin felt a twinge of guilt at the memory that he could have stopped this with a snap of his fingers but pushed it away - but there were no signs of panic below. Fear, certainly, but determination more than that. And there was Arthur, who Merlin would have recognized through anything. Leading his men like the king he already was in all but the strictest formalities. 

They would hold while Merlin did his job, and Merlin’s heart warmed at the delight of not being alone in his defense of the kingdom. If this was what it was to be part of something greater than himself, then for the first time Merlin thought he truly understood the bond amongst knights that Arthur was always going on about. 

He wasn’t a knight, would never want to be - he didn’t think he had it in him to be that ‘chivalrous’ and ‘honorable’ and he certainly had no interest in their stupid tournaments - but he was one of them. That was his king down there shouting orders, his brothers-in-arms falling into their places. 

A far-off clash of metal and shouts reached Merlin’s ears as the army reached Camelot’s walls. 

Merlin pried his eyes away from the people below him with great effort. As much as he wanted to watch his friends, to dive down if any of them needed him, he had his own job to do. He flapped a little farther into the air and reached for Morgana’s magic. The spool of purple, like a fine line of thread, trailed through Camelot and out past the gates, out to where the chalice wouldn’t be at risk of Camelot’s defenders stumbling over it by accident. It wasn’t much of a camp, but Merlin supposed they were expecting to tear through and sleep in Camelot’s castle tonight. 

He twisted in the air and followed the thread, heart jumping with a fresh surge of delight and excitement - once this was over, he and Morgana could really start talking about magic. Merlin would no longer have to couch everything he said inside a half-truth. They would no longer have to speak in hushed voices, worriedly glancing at the door and wondering if someone might burst in, might have seen Merlin enter and wonder what he was doing. Merlin could teach her in earnest - and maybe she could teach him too. Her magic was so different from his own, the thread of purple narrow and tight, more felt than seen. When Merlin had cast similar spells it hadn’t been a thread but a glow, diffuse golden light leading him down the path like tiny fireflies. 

They both had so much to learn. And what a joy it would be, to learn without having to hide, without Arthur’s latest emergency breathing down Merlin’s neck. 

Morgana’s trail led into one of two tents that were nicer than the rest; obviously meant for Morgause and Cenred, not their rank-and-file. Merlin nearly dove for it, stopped himself mid-swoop with a mental shout that sounded just like the one he was always using on Arthur - Does this maybe scream ‘trap’ to you?!

Merlin felt Archimedes roll his eyes, but then they set their combined senses to determining just what Morgause might have left behind for them. 

The first layer of defenses was obvious - a handful of immortal soldiers, who were looking up at the gold and black dragon with uncertainty. Merlin felt his scaly mouth peel back into a fanged grin. They wondered if their newfound immortality was enough to protect them from a dragon - from a creature everyone had thought Uther had hunted to extinction. 

<Let’s show them what we’re capable of,> Merlin and Archimedes thought as one, and they dived down, opening their mouth and breathing out magic. 

It probably looked like fire from down below, but Merlin didn’t think he’d quite learned that trick yet. Instead, they were exhaling their magic in its rawest form, a form they could only access while in such a magical form, a form Merlin hadn’t even known it could take until his trip to the bottom of Lake Avalon. It bloomed down across the soldiers in a great golden cloud, and Merlin swooped out of range of their bows - he wasn’t sure how much damage this form could take and didn’t want to find out if he didn’t have to - as he felt his magic catch in theirs. 

With all the destructive force of fire, it burned the magic where it connected, severing it from its source. 

The soldiers had time to feel what was happening, for a few of them to let out wordless cries of alarm, before the magic that had been sustaining them crumbled, and they followed suit, collapsing to the ground in a clatter of armor. 

Merlin twisted around to make sure he’d gotten all the ones who’d been on guard duty, very much hoping so - he wasn’t tired yet, but he definitely felt the hit of that attack in the depths of his magic. He’d do what he had to in order to win this fight, but he would prefer if he could do it without ending up drained and exhausted again. 

One man stood at the center of the crumpled guards, his face gaunt with fright. He looked up at Merlin, and in the glow of his own magic Merlin saw the glint of metal on his brow. 

Cenred. 

They looked at each other for a moment. Merlin knew he’d caught Cenred in his attack, proving Isolt had been correct - Cenred had not taken on the spell of immortality itself. Merlin tilted his head, considering the tyrant king below him, wondering how much physical attack skill he had in this form - he was sure he looked impressive but he was more magic than body - and if he should try just charging down there and biting Cenred’s head off. 

As though he’d heard the thought, Cenred proved Isolt right a second time - the man turned tail and abandoned his post, his men, and his sorceress to the fight. 

For a moment, Merlin almost chased him on instinct, catching himself mid-flap of his wings. He had a job of his own. It was someone else’s to ensure Cenred never threatened Camelot - or anywhere else - ever again. 

Merlin reached his magic back towards Camelot and found Tristan, Isolt, and Percival as they dodged around enemies, making their way out of the walls to find their target. 

<Follow this,> Merlin said, and knew they’d hear him as he tied a rope of light around all their wrists, the other end of it trailing at Cenred’s fleeing feet. 

Then he returned his attention to Morgause’s tent. 

<Like this,> Archimedes said, and he tugged at their eyes, making the world shift just a little sideways. It was disorienting, dizzying, for a moment, and when it righted everything looked just a little bit different. As though Archimedes had adjusted how they saw color, changed the trees to a slightly darker shade of green, the moon above to a lighter shade of white. 

Once he’d adjusted to it, Merlin could see why. There was magic dancing along the fabric of Morgause’s tent, like a second, magical tent clinging to the first. Wards. 

<I can’t tell what they do,> Archimedes said. 

<Do we need to know?> Merlin asked, and he felt Archimedes grin in reply. 

They shot toward the tent, breathing magic as they went. The fabric tent was unharmed, but the magical one began to snap apart, just as the real one would have if they’d been breathing real fire. 

Morgause made good wards, Merlin knew enough about them to tell that much. Fine, delicate, intricate work that he was sure would have stopped most magic users in their tracks, taken them hours to unravel with careful, painstaking attention. 

But Morgause hadn’t expected it would be Emrys coming for her wards, and, just like when he’d fought Nimueh what felt like such a long time ago, Morgause’s attention to detail made little difference in the face of his overwhelmingly superior magical strength. 

It took several minutes, Merlin twisting this way and that to attack the wards from different angles, occasionally changing course to deal with some soldiers who had realized a new, real threat was attacking, but at last Merlin landed beside a completely normal tent, only the faintest wisps of Morgause’s bright red magic clinging to the threads. 

He was breathing hard, but unhurt. Enough left to destroy the chalice still, and that was all that mattered. Once he’d destroyed the army, Arthur and the others could do the rest. 

The cup was impossible to miss; gleaming gold, the magic pouring out of it like a waterfall. 

Merlin took a deep, bracing breath, snatched it between his teeth, and shoved his magic into it with all his might. 

For a moment, maybe longer, maybe hours - magic at such close ranges was heady, distracting, impossible to see through - it felt like he was shoving at a wall. And then, just like a wall might have once it had endured too much, Merlin felt his magic triumph, the magic of the chalice shattering and pouring out into nothingness.

They would be dead without Merlin. 

Arthur had known that already, their small skirmishes with Cenred’s army had proven it, but only a few minutes of fighting had driven the point home - one man with an enchanted sword couldn’t hold off an army. 

Morgana was at his back, breathing hard as she shouted spell after spell, knocking the soldiers back or flinging nearby items into them. It was making Arthur think of all the times over the years he’d gotten a lucky break by an enemy tripping or a tree branch falling, and he really was a bit of an idiot to not have realized someone around him was using magic, wasn’t he? 

Things to never mention to Merlin. He’d be insufferable about it. 

A sharp whistle met Arthur’s ears and he turned to see Gwaine kicking an Essetir soldier toward him. Arthur leapt forward, ran the man through, and jumped back again just in time to catch another soldier that Morgana had shoved toward him. 

He’d lost sense of time, but it couldn’t have been long. It also couldn’t last much longer. Arthur was already breathing hard, his heart pounding in his ears, and if he was tired, his men would be too. Once a soldier was tired, it was only a matter of time before they made a mistake that got them killed, and once one man started dying others always seemed to follow in a hurry. 

He wanted to look up, see if Merlin was still visible, see if there was any hint about how much longer they needed to last, but there wasn’t time. Merlin had come through for him before, every time Arthur had needed him. Times Arthur hadn’t even learned about yet. Arthur had to trust he’d do it again. 

And he’d have to hope it came fast enough to protect all of Camelot.

Percival yanked an enemy soldier off his feet and threw him into two others, sending all three tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Isolt and Tristan followed on his heels, Isolt taking advantage of an opportunity to kick a sword away from its owner as they went. 

Part of her didn’t like leaving Arthur and the rest behind, but more of her was eager for the chase. To end Cenred at last. 

She’d have to thank Arthur for giving her and Tristan the opportunity. 

Merlin’s magic trailed out in front them, and the three of them pounded after it with all the focus of a pack of hunting dogs. It was fortunate that they’d already made their way past the bulk of the enemy when Merlin’s order to follow his magic had blared through their heads, because all three of them were too set on their target to watch their backs. 

Tristan’s expression was darker, angrier, than she’d ever seen it. Percival, who had been laid-back and friendly in the weeks she’d known him, looked ready and willing to tear Cenred to bits with his own hands. Isolt’s own teeth were bared in a snarl. 

She should have killed him the night she ran, but she hadn’t been brave enough to risk it. Outrunning him had felt safer. 

Now she was dressed as a knight of Camelot, the best quality sword she’d ever held sheathed on her hip, and Cenred would be dead by the time the sun came up in the morning. 

The three of them raced past the army, which mostly seemed happy to let them go, likely assuming they were cowardly deserters. Gold and black burned nearby, Merlin in his new, magical form, ripping into something. But the path he’d made them went past him, so they did too, bounding into the forest, drawing their swords as the leaves overhead began to blot out the moonlight. 

Merlin’s path kept things lit for them though, and they spotted Cenred, turned back towards Camelot, face twisted into an expression Isolt had learned well in her three months of engagement to him - calculating how he could turn this into a win, how he could turn his flight into an act of bravery and strategic brilliance. 

Percival reached him first, punching him across the jaw and sending him to the dirt before Cenred realized he had company. 

Isolt stomped one foot down onto Cenred’s wrist. “Cenred.” 

For a moment, Cenred stopped struggling to gape up her, squinting to make out her face in the dark. Isolt could see his expression just fine - Merlin’s magic stilled burned around them, filling the gaps between the trees with gold. “Isolt?”

“And her husband,” Tristan said, resting a foot on Cenred’s chest, and bending close to bare his teeth in an unfriendly grin. He looked up at Percival. “And a survivor of one of your raids against your own villages. We thought, since your whole army is going to die tonight, we should make sure their commanding officer goes down with them.” 

Cenred brought an arm up, clapped his hand over Tristan’s ear, and took advantage of Tristan’s ensuing flinch to grab him by the ankle and shove him off. Isolt sprung back before he could take a swing at her, drawing her sword. Her heart was pounding, but it was anticipation, not fear. The last three years had turned her into a fighter, while Cenred, without the weight of his court behind him, was just a pathetic man with a sword. 

She, Percival, and Tristan circled Cenred, keeping an equal distance between them, the gold light floating between them. Isolt could see in Cenred’s wide-eyed expression that Merlin’s golden magic wasn’t there for him, that they were barely more than moving shadows in his eyes. 

Good. Let him know what it was like to be afraid for once, to know something was coming for him that he had no way of stopping. It would never occur to him to be introspective, to wonder if this was how his wife had felt on her wedding night, how his citizens had felt when they had realized it was knights, not bandits, bearing down on them, but she would know. She and Percival and Tristan, they would know. 

And it would never happen again. 

“How did you end up helping the Pendragon brat?” Cenred asked, spinning around and yanking his sword up as Percival took an experimental step toward him. 

Cenred was a coward, but he was still a king, a knight, a man who had been trained to kill and to take power since he’d been able to walk. They had him outnumbered, but that was no reason to take risks. He wouldn’t leave this forest alive, and he wouldn’t take one of them with him either. 

Isolt knew, somehow, that the two men agreed with her. They would let Cenred get angry or desperate and leave himself open. Thanks to Merlin, he couldn’t get away from them. 

“He’s an easy man to help,” Tristan said. “Unlike some royalty I can think of.” 

Cenred jumped toward his voice. Tristan skipped back easily while Cenred struggled to keep his footing and his guard up. Isolt stepped forward and back again as he twisted toward her. He was fast. She’d forgotten how fast. 

But fast couldn’t make up for being outnumbered three to one. Percival swung at Cenred’s back and he spun away from Isolt quick enough to block it, but the moment his body jerked at the impact Isolt sprung forward and slammed her boot into the side of his knee, shoving him sideways with a cry. He went to the ground as easily as Lancelot and Percival had weeks ago, and with a more unpleasant sound - she hadn’t been wearing armored boots then, and she hadn’t had the intent to kill. 

“I’m not usually a killer,” Percival said, voice tight and cold. The sort of voice you knew to be afraid of, unless you were sure it wasn’t aimed at you. “But I’m going to enjoy this.” 

“We all are,” Isolt agreed, and she could hear that her voice sounded the same. 

Tristan ran through Cenred’s arm and confiscated his sword. Isolt and Percival did the rest, driving their swords into the gaps in his armor, under his arms, at the base of his throat. Isolt took special pleasure driving her dagger into his groin. 

The golden light of Merlin’s spell faded away as Cenred’s blood seeped into the forest floor, leaving Isolt blinking against the suddenly oppressive darkness. 

“Good riddance,” Percival growled. 

Tristan spat his agreement. 

“Come on,” Isolt said, yanking her sword free of Cenred’s chest. “We should get back to our king.”

Arthur had always been rightfully proud of his skills in a fight, so when his breath started to stab in his lungs, he knew his men had to be struggling. How many had he lost already? How much longer could they hold out? 

A crash echoed through the courtyard and set his ears ringing. He ripped his sword free of a soldier’s chainmail and twisted to look. 

He saw Elyan, face shiny with sweat, but grinning at his handiwork. Shattered bits of wood and chunks of metal littered the ground, surrounding a sizeable number of dazed Essetir soldiers. 

Arthur grinned back and bounded over to dispatch them. Behind him, Morgana shouted something that sounded like it would hurt her throat to say and there was a flash of purple-blue fire. 

“Have you seen Merlin?” Arthur asked Elyan as he finished off the soldiers. His words came out winded - he was more worn out than he’d thought. 

“Saw a flash of gold a minute ago. Looked like magic. I mean, I think it did. It’s not like I-"

“Arthur!”

Arthur spun, already racing back to Morgana’s side. 

A wind rushed into the courtyard, buffeting aside Essetir and Camelot fighters alike, and at the center of it was a blonde woman, her face contorted with fury. 

Arthur didn’t need Morgana’s next word to realize who she was. 

“Morgause.”

When Morgause had first come to her, Morgana had thought she seemed like something out of a storybook. She had been everything one might want from a long-lost sister - beautiful, caring, protective. Always willing to listen. To offer comfort. A better version of Arthur, in every way. 

None of that was in her face now as she came striding toward Morgana and Arthur, face so twisted and red with fury that she was barely recognizable. Magic crackled off her like a storm, tossing nearby soldiers this way and that. She had no concern for friendly fire - one Essetir soldier crashed into a wall with a clang of metal and a sickening crunch. He began to cry out for help a moment later, realizing that the spell kept him alive, kept him from knowing pain, but the human body just didn’t get up and walk away very well when half its bones where shattered, even with the protection of the spell.

Morgause ignored him. “Both of Uther’s children, in one place,” she said. “How fortunate for me.” 

Morgana had a fleeting moment to wonder if all the affection Morgause had ever shown her had been a lie, or if it had been real and then superseded by Morgana’s parentage. She wasn’t sure which would hurt more. 

Morgana felt Arthur’s presence beside her, just far enough away that they wouldn’t trip over one another. A month ago it would have been unfathomable, how comforting his presence was. Now, he was everything Morgause had pretended to be. 

“Stand down,” Arthur commanded, his voice ringing out over the clang of battle around them. “I know of the pain my father has brought to you and your people, but he’s dead. We have an opportunity to start over.” 

Morgause sneered. “I would never take an offer of mercy from a Pendragon, even if I believed it.” 

“He’s being honest,” Morgana said, and despite her best efforts she could hear the pleading in her words. “You can help us repair what Uther destroyed. This doesn’t have to-"

Morgause raised her hands and spoke. “Līeġbryne.”

Morgana’s own hands flew up, her mind throwing up a wall between Morgause’s spell and Arthur and herself. “Gūþbord.”

The fireball hit the invisible shield and shattered like a snowball, spraying flames harmlessly around them. 

“Impressive,” Morgause said, her eyes narrowing at Morgana. “I haven’t been the only one teaching you, have I? The dragon that was circling overhead a few minutes ago?”

Morgana held her head high and said nothing. She’d watched enough tourneys to know the trick of getting your opponent to talk so you could dive in and attack while they were distracted. She wouldn’t take the bait. 

“It was an impressive light show, I’ll admit,” Morgause went on. “I actually thought it was a dragon for minute. But a good illusion spell isn’t going to win this fight for you. Did you think I’d run?” 

“I wish you had,” Morgana said. “I don’t want to kill you, sister. But you aren’t giving me a choice.” 

“You had a choice. You chose him.” Morgause waved a dismissive hand toward Arthur. A discarded sword flew toward them and bounced harmlessly off Morgana’s shield. 

For a moment, Morgana felt herself back in Camelot’s dungeons. Cold iron shackles cutting into her wrists. The damp seeping up through her shoes. The terror gripping her chest, wondering if Uther would at least grant her the mercy of the headsman’s axe over the pyre. 

And then Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin rushing into the dungeons, Leon watching the way behind them, Elyan their way out. Arthur’s grim expression and the quiet acceptance in it, that he knew what he was giving up and had decided Morgana’s life was more important. 

“He chose me.” Morgana focused her breathing, the way Merlin had helped her learn to. She centered her balance and focused her mind, the way Arthur had taught her to when wielding a sword. And she tried out one of the spells from Lunete’s book, one that had felt instinctive from the moment she’d read it. “Līeġetsliht.”

Three blindingly bright bolts of purple lightning exploded from Morgana’s palm and shot toward Morgause like arrows. Morgause shouted a spell that could barely be heard over the crackle of magic, and when the light faded she was still standing, but Morgana could see her shoulders heaving with exertion. 

Morgause gave Morgana a smile that was more of a grimace, a savage baring of teeth. “Have you forgotten I’m not alone?” Morgause tossed her head back and shouted a spell towards the heavens. 

Essetir soldiers turned towards them. They abandoned fights with Camelot soldiers, who had been valiantly holding them back from their distracted king. The way they moved reminded Morgana of the familiars; like puppets on strings, mindless things. Morgana felt a pang of sympathy for them. Had they wanted this fight? Had the spell twisted them into Morgause’s creatures, making them thirst for blood in a way they wouldn’t have before? 

So much death staining Camelot’s stones. So many grudges taken too far. So many executions motivated by fear and spite and pride. 

“How long do you think you can guard against them and me both?” Morgause asked, smirking. She looked like a great cat, confident in the approaching destruction of her prey. 

Arthur cut through two soldiers in as many strokes, moving like it was effortless, but Morgana was close enough to hear his labored breathing. He was tired. She was tired. They had been doing well against the soldiers, and Morgana thought the two of them, tired as they were, could defeat Morgause, but they had no hope of holding back both at once. If Merlin didn’t-

It was as if Morgana’s mounting desperation had summoned him. A wave of golden magic washed through Camelot’s walls, and as it swept away again it took the immortality with it. Morgana felt it go, some of it lifting off its hosts like cobwebs being swept away by a broom, more of it being ripped free like tearing through the stitching of a shirt. Soldiers cried out in alarm and stumbled in the darkness. Others fell like their strings had been cut, collapsing into lifeless heaps. Still others turned to dust, their armor clattering empty to the ground. 

Several victorious howls rose up from Camelot’s soldiers, and Morgana heard Lancelot shout from the gates that now was the time to press the soldiers who were still alive, to finish this. 

“You were saying?” Arthur asked. Morgana could see that he was trying not to, but he was grinning. Probably feeling stupidly proud of and besotted with Merlin. 

Morgause screamed; a wordless, animalistic sound that Morgana felt reverberate up through the cobblestones. Morgana could hear her own victory in the sound - that was the cry of the defeated. 

But Morgause wasn’t the surrendering sort. Wind whipped up around them, shrieking like the damned, stinging Morgana’s eyes. Electricity crackled through it, sending flashes of brightness through the night. 

If Morgana had been in Morgause’s place, she knew she would have focused all her efforts into one final spell, consequences be damned, and hope she took her enemies out with her. It was what Morgana would have done to Uther, given the chance. It was what Lunete had tried to do, what Merlin had done. 

“Stay close to me,” she ordered Arthur, and though she could tell he was itching to help his men finish the fight, he did as she said. Morgana allowed herself a fraction of a second to marvel at what a miracle that was, and then began building her shield. 

Merlin had taught her the basics of it. A way to contain any other fires she might accidentally start, and keep her from injuring herself at the same time. Morgana had practiced it many times since, as much for the ritual as the protection. Now she ground her teeth together, jaw set so firmly it ached, and poured herself into it, as though she were the very stone making up the wall she pictured in her mind. 

She felt almost as though she were back in the sea of magic as her world became more sensation than sight. Morgause’s storm versus Morgana’s shelter. Arthur’s steady presence at Morgana’s side, Excalibur in his hand, its magic shining like a beacon. 

She was going to kill her sister. 

It was a hazy, distant thought, not quite real. Was this how Arthur had felt, just hours ago, as he’d prepared to kill Uther? Were they doomed to be a family forever with blood on their hands, thanks to Uther’s fury? Uther had killed his wife, Arthur his father, Morgana her sister. For a single dizzying moment, Morgana thought Morgause might have the right of it - perhaps the entirety of the Pendragon line should be destroyed. 

Morgana fumbled blindly at her side until she found Arthur’s free hand. Physically, it was of no comfort - no one clung to harsh metal gauntlets in times of fear. But Arthur was as much a feeling as the magic, as the sword, and Morgana found comfort in his simple, steady loyalty instead. 

Her brother. Her brother, who turned drunkards and criminals into knights of the realm, simply by trusting that they could be. Who saved servants as readily as nobility, who had somehow turned from a little boy who broke things when he didn’t get his way into a man who held firm to his beliefs, his morals. 

Morgause’s storm crashed down on top of them with as much fury as the dragon had. The world was lost in swirling clouds and flashes of lightning, the feeling of magic hammering against magic. Morgana felt the hits against her shield in her teeth, in her bones, at the base of her skull and the backs of her eyes. Arthur’s gloved hand shifted in hers, took hold of her wrist and held her tightly, anchoring her. 

Merlin had turned into a dragon and destroyed an entire immortal army. Morgana could defeat one over-extended witch.

The pressure built and built against the shield, and then, with no warning at all, it was gone. Morgana’s pushing to keep it upright felt like a door swinging open and her stumbling through it, unprepared for the change. 

Arthur caught her before she went to the ground, caging her in his arms, Excalibur either sheathed or dropped. The world filtered back in, sensations replaced by the sights and sounds of things once more. 

Morgause was crumpled on the ground. Morgana’s stumbling, the loss and swing of power - Morgana closed her eyes. Morgause had collapsed from exhaustion, and Morgana had dealt the final blow by shoving what was left of her barrier back at the threat. 

Arthur said nothing, just kept one arm around her chest, holding her upright, and one hand placed gently on her back. 

I know. I understand, he seemed to say. We’ve won and we’ve lost at the same time. 

Morgana allowed herself to collapse into his chest. 

Her and Arthur. The last of the Pendragons. The last of nearly anyone. No more mothers or fathers, aunts or uncles or long-lost siblings. Just them. 

They would manage with that, she thought. They still had each other. That would be enough.

Arthur hovered over Morgana, letting her grieve for her sister, letting it look like she’d just overextended herself, like she was just exhausted from so much magic. No one needed to hear her ragged breathing, her not-quite sobs. 

If Morgana wanted it, Arthur intended to find space for Morgause in Camelot’s crypts. She had been dangerous, certainly, and they hadn’t been wrong to kill her - but Arthur couldn’t honestly say she was worse than Uther. And she was family to Morgana, which was enough for Arthur to regret her death. She could be laid to rest in the same place as the rest of the family, if Morgana wanted to visit her. He could have his Round Table see to it - they would understand, and they would keep it amongst themselves. 

Lancelot ran up to them, beaming through a layer of sweat, grime, and blood. “It’s over.” 

Arthur had guessed as much. He’d listened as the sounds of fighting faded away, gradually replaced by cheers and triumphant whistles. He’d wanted to join them in finishing off the Essetir soldiers, but Morgana had needed him more. He supposed he’d eliminated his fair share earlier, before Merlin had gutted them. 

Speaking of which- “Has Merlin returned yet?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Not yet. But Percival, Isolt, and Tristan have, and they said they saw him take off as the soldiers fell.” 

Arthur wished he knew what that meant. The idiot hadn’t managed to get himself stuck as a dragon, had he? It seemed like the sort of thing Merlin was likely to do - pull off something incredibly impressive only to be unable to undo it afterwards, like some of the castle’s cats who would get themselves stuck on high shelves and cry until one of the taller servants came along to rescue them. 

Morgana pushed herself up and shook Arthur off. He could practically see her putting up her noblewoman mask, the picture of composure. 

He couldn’t fault her for that. It wasn’t as though he’d been eager to burst into tears in front of everyone after Uther. 

Fighters and civilians alike were filing into the courtyard, looking dazed by the victory. 

“An immortal army,” Sir Bedivere said quietly, looking around at the surprisingly minimal damage. “And we won.”

“How could we not?” Lucan cried out, his voice nearly manic with his relief at being alive. “The Lady Morgana was more than a match for that sorceress! Did you see her destroy that fireball?” 

“And did you see that dragon?” someone asked. “And it was on our side! A bloody dragon!” 

Someone whooped and it caught, everyone suddenly shouting and cheering and laughing, sharing which part of the fight they’d found the most impressive. 

“They’re taking this well,” Morgana murmured. 

“Nothing like being saved from a horrible death to make you change your mind about magic, I suppose,” Arthur murmured back. But where was Merlin?

Merlin, melodramatic as always, answered the unspoken question a moment later, appearing as a glow that Arthur mistook for the rising sun for a moment. 

The chatter in the courtyard stopped, the people holding their breath as they waited to see if the dragon remained their ally. 

Of course. Arthur was impressed - he wouldn’t have thought Merlin had such a knack for the look of things. But he was returning after the fighting was over, still as a dragon, to prove he was no threat, that he wasn’t some wild animal that they’d gotten lucky with. 

Merlin landed in the courtyard with only a little bit of stumbling, and Arthur mostly managed to keep from laughing at him, and covered most of the remainder of his amusement with a cough. Coughing after a battle was typical, it was thirsty work. 

And then Merlin bowed. His massive black and gold horned head bent down, his front knees bent, and a godsdamned dragon was bowing to Arthur. 

Morgana elbowed him in the ribs just in time to keep his mouth from dropping open in shock, which probably would have lessened the effect Merlin was going for - assuming anyone was able to take their eyes off the glowing dragon that was currently bowing in the middle of the courtyard. 

The glow grew brighter and brighter until Arthur had to squint and turn his eyes away. When it faded again, there was Merlin, as human looking as ever, down on one knee with his head bowed. 

“People of Camelot!” Arthur called. “Although I have a substantial amount of paperwork to do to make it official, may I present to you all, Camelot’s new Court Sorcerer - Merlin.” 

Merlin lifted his head a little at that, just enough to for Arthur to see the smile tugging at his mouth. 

Arthur offered Merlin his hand and hauled the other man to his feet. “Come on, Merlin. You and I have a lot of work to do.” 

Chapter Text

If anything, Merlin thought ‘a lot of work to do’ had massively undersold the task before them. 

First, there had been Uther’s vigil, because immediately after staging a mild coup and right before uprooting centuries of law was not the time to buck tradition. So Arthur had spent all day cleaning up from the battle, and all night sitting alone in a room with his father’s corpse, while the Round Table hovered around the door and tried not to look too worried. 

Then there’d been the funeral, and then the coronation. As soon as the crown was on his head, Arthur had repealed the laws against commoners and women in the knighthood, promptly followed by officially knighting his Round Table. He’d then made Gwen the head of household, because the previous head of household had needed to be removed because he was making such a fuss about there being commoners in the knighthood. Arthur and Morgana had both suggested making Gwen into a noble, but she’d refused. Not that it made much difference - word had gotten around about her relationship with Morgana and half the staff was already treating her as a noble by association. And she was part of the Round Table, which was practically a form of nobility all by itself, just due to how much Arthur favored them. 

Then, an increasingly sleep-deprived King Arthur had announced the official repeal of the ban on magic. Some lords who’d been exceptionally loyal to Uther, along with a few who’d been hoping to have the new king’s ear, had argued, and Arthur had put all of his pratly training to use, making sure they knew that he was the king, and he would be doing this whether they liked it or not, so they’d best learn to live with it. 

'I don’t want to become a tyrant,' Arthur had told Merlin once they’d caught a moment of privacy, 'and I expect you to tell me if you think I’m becoming one. But those are the two big things they’ll try to stop, and we have to get out ahead of it while everyone remembers it was two sorcerers and a handful of commoners who saved Camelot. If we put it off, they’ll find more excuses and it’ll be harder to prevent riots about it later.' In this instance, Merlin had been willing to trust that Arthur knew what he was talking about. 

And then, just as things had started to calm down, word had been sent that Cenred had no heirs, but as he’d still been legally married to Isolt, she was now the queen of Essetir. She, of course, had promptly handed the entire kingdom over to Arthur, doubling the size of Camelot with the stroke of a quill. A good thing in the long run, Merlin was sure - and he was certainly glad Ealdor was now inside Camelot’s borders - but it was another massive stack of work for them to deal with. 

Overall, Merlin thought Camelot took the whole thing rather well, likely warmed to the idea because anything beat being destroyed by an unkillable army, and Arthur and Merlin and the new knights had swept in like the heroes in one of Tristan’s ballads. A few nobles protested, and a few knights threatened to quit, and Arthur informed them of which way the city gates were. Only a few followed through. The others tried to assert their dominance on the training grounds, and Leon made sure Isolt and Gwaine, in particular, were well set-up to knock their naysayers on their asses. 

It was the nobles who hadn’t been there for the fighting that were the biggest problem, whining that Camelot was going to the dogs, or at least that was how it sounded to Merlin when he and Arthur and sometimes the rest of the Round Table did dramatic readings of the angry letters. To Merlin’s surprise, they were mostly upset about the commoner knights, not the magic. He supposed they could see the use of magic, or maybe they’d been more aware of Uther’s paranoia than he’d thought, while they apparently thought giving commoners swords was the first step on the road to senseless slaughter in the streets.

The answer, Arthur said, was a tourney. 

'They’re arguing that they’re not real knights. Jousting is the most classic knight activity there is,' he’d said. 

'Because there’s no bloody point to it,' Gwaine had replied grouchily. 

'I see what you’re saying,' Tristan had said diplomatically. 'If we act how they expect knights to act, do what knights are expected to do, they won’t have a real argument. One problem - how many of us know how to joust?'

The answer had been only Lancelot and Leon, and Percival barely even knew how to ride a horse, so the members of the Round Table had spent the last month arguing policy, ironing out the finer points of legal magic and the Court Sorcerer position, rooting out dissension, repairing the damage to the city, and teaching its members how to ride horses really fast and crash into each other with sticks. 

So now, instead of dealing with one of the millions of actually important things going on in Camelot, Merlin was sitting on Arthur’s right side while Gwen and Morgana sat on his left, preparing to watch a lot of people in armor make questionable decisions. For morale.

“Quit your sulking, Merlin,” Arthur ordered. “You’ll have people thinking you’re cursing the knights.” 

“Maybe I’m thinking about it.” 

“We’ve talked about it being too soon for those kinds of jokes.”

Merlin deepened his scowl and Arthur flicked him on the ear with a chuckle. 

At least Arthur was doing better. He’d been horribly morose the first week or so. Understandably, of course, but that hadn’t made Merlin feel any better about it, or any less useless. 

It had gotten better once they’d gotten some time to breathe and Merlin had officially moved from the antechamber into Arthur’s room and they’d started sleeping in the same bed at night. Arthur, Merlin had learned, was a cuddler, and arguing about whether or not that was true every morning seemed to be great for his morale. It was certainly good for Merlin’s. 

“Anyone want to take bets on who will win?” Arthur asked. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Morgana asked. “Leon has the most training, and you’ve said yourself he’s nearly as good as you.” 

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Morgana, or I’d be taking your coin purse. Leon is going to throw the match during the finals if he’s up against one of the others.” 

‘The others,’ Merlin knew, referred to the rest of the Round Table. The commoners turned knights trying to prove themselves today. Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Really? After the tantrum you threw about him throwing a match against you?” 

“That wasn’t a tantrum, Merlin. And this is different. The others know he’s going to do it, and we agreed it was a good idea. Leon is already a noble. If he wins, we prove nothing.”

That made sense, but Merlin rolled his eyes about it anyway. “Alright, I’m betting on Lancelot then,” he said. 

“Gwaine will be heartbroken. Who, coincidentally, is who I’m betting on. Morgana, Gwen?” 

“I’ll bet on Elyan,” Gwen said. “I don’t know how good his chances are, but he is my brother. And I’m proud of him, however well he does.” 

“They’ve all come far,” Arthur agreed, his voice glowing with pride. “I’m eager to see what we can do together once things calm down some.” 

Merlin forgot to look annoyed long enough to smile at him. Things had been hectic, to be sure, but there was already so much potential. Now they just had to keep things on course. 

“I’m betting on Isolt then,” Morgana said. “Us women have to stick together, and she’s meaner than any of you lot anyway.” 

Arthur laughed at that. 

<I bet on Gwaine too!> Archimedes said from where he was already propped up on his back legs, front paws on the railing, tail wagging as he waited for the excitement to start. He liked the energy of the crowd more than the actual sport, but since the two went hand-in-hand he always claimed to be a big fan of jousting. <I want a steak if I win!> 

“Archimedes says he bets on Gwaine too,” Merlin said. Archimedes could now speak to the others when he wanted, but it didn’t come naturally the way talking to Merlin did, and he tended to forget when he was excited. Just as well. Merlin had noticed Arthur was still jumping with surprise whenever Archimedes spoke to him. 

“Your dog is smarter than you, Merlin,” Arthur remarked. “I’ve always thought so, but it’s truly surreal to be proven right.” He tossed Archimedes a handful of roasted peanuts, which the dog dropped down to devour with great gusto before returning to his vantage point. 

Despite his best efforts to keep Arthur from noticing, Merlin enjoyed himself. He’d found himself getting invested more and more in these stupid competitions the fonder he’d grown of Arthur, and now there were seven more knights out there he was proud to see showing off. He was on his feet and shouting right alongside Arthur and Archimedes by the time the last few rounds started. 

Leon went down to Gwaine, and Merlin couldn’t be sure if it had been intentional or not, which he knew meant Gwaine would demand an honest rematch the moment there was time. Percival lost to Pellinore, who in turn lost to Elyan. Isolt unseated Bedivere and two other knights before being taken down herself by Lancelot, who had already taken down Tristan two rounds earlier. Gwaine and Isolt then butted heads so fiercely that for a moment Merlin thought they’d take out each other and leave Lancelot to win by default. Gwaine pulled through with a victory by the slimmest of margins, and Merlin guessed Isolt was now all the more motivated to become an excellent jouster, before Gwaine got too big of an ego. 

When Lancelot finally took the championship Merlin felt as though his face may split open from his proud grin - but that didn’t stop him from being to sure to be smug at Arthur. 

“Be honest,” Arthur said, in that tone he always insisted definitely wasn’t whining, “Did you cheat? I know Lancelot’s your favorite.” 

“Who says he’s my favorite?” 

“He’s known about your magic the longest.” 

“Not on purpose. And I’d never help Lancelot cheat. He’s too honorable, he’d never forgive me. He wouldn’t even take credit for the griffin thing; he had to run off into the hills!” 

Arthur nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer, until he’d thought about it for a moment and said, “Wait, Merlin. Would you help anyone else cheat?” 

Merlin avoided that question by hopping the railing to go greet the knights, who were staggering past, looking exhausted but pleased with themselves. 

“Think we proved the point?” Tristan asked. 

“You all did excellently,” Arthur said proudly. “Let them try to argue you aren’t worthy of the title after that.” 

“I still don’t see what’s so impressive about being able to hit someone with a lance while on a horse,” Merlin said. “But I’m proud of you all anyway.” 

“He’s mostly saying that because he bet on Lancelot,” Morgana told them. 

Gwaine clutched a hand to his chest and stumbled back dramatically. “Merlin! I thought we were friends!” 

Merlin fixed him with a cold look. “I used to think that too. Until you carried me around like a purse for two days.”  

Isolt threw her head back and laughed. “I was wondering when you were going to start making him pay for that!” 

Gwaine shook his head. “Alright. A night to celebrate, and then we’re all uniting to knock Lancelot off the throne and teach Merlin how to make a good bet. Tavern? Come on, princess, you need the break.” 

Arthur shook his head, but Merlin and Morgana shot each other a glance and took up positions on either side of him. 

“One night off won’t kill you,” Morgana said. 

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but Merlin cut him off. “And it won’t cause Camelot to crumble into the sea if they see their king drinking with his knights. I promise to teleport you back to your room if I think you’re about to get up on the table and start singing.” 

“I would never - Is that something you can do?” 

Merlin shrugged. “Get drunk enough and we’ll find out.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes, but obligingly let them lead him into The Rising Sun. “I’m doing this to keep you degenerates out of trouble. I can’t leave all the responsibility to Leon.” 

“I appreciate your sacrifice, sire,” Leon said gravely. 

Drinks came, and cups and pitchers were passed around the table. 

“Okay,” Gwaine said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve been waiting nearly two months for this. Finally time for us all to play a drinking game together.” 

Merlin leaned back, rubbing one of Archimedes’s ears between his fingers, as he watched his friends - mostly Tristan and Gwaine - debate over which drinking game would be best. 

The Rising Sun, the tavern was called. A fitting name, he thought, as he could see the dawning of Camelot’s golden age in the faces around the table.