Archive of Our Own

1. Gaius

“Good morning, Gaius. You practiced magic before The Purge, didn’t you?”

On second thought, maybe there was a better way to broach this conversation with the old physician, given the startling shade of grey his face has just turned. And especially given the relatively recent events in which Arthur, with the help of Agravaine, accused Gaius of sorcery, threatened to execute him for it, and then basically pronounced himself content to sit back and let Gaius be kidnapped.

Then again, Arthur has been up all night trying and failing to draft new laws on magic from scratch, and it took him until the new day broke to accept that he simply doesn’t know enough about magic to write anything about it at all. So Gauis will just have to excuse his sleep-deprived brashness.

“M-My lord?” Gaius stutters, sending an alarmed glance at Merlin, who is sitting stiffly at the table and apparently has eyes only for his bowl of grits.

Arthur waves his probably valid concerns away with an airy hand. “I’m not after your head, Gaius. I’ve just recently come to the conclusion that I can’t be a good and fair ruler of Camelot if I don’t even understand the basics of what magic is and how it works and who practices it.”

As he waits for Gaius to process this apparently earth-shattering revelation, Arthur roots around on his shelf of common potions, looking for something with a little kick to pick him up before breakfast. Upon finally locating the little green bottle of caffeine concoction, Arthur turns around to catch one brief moment of an intense stare-down between the physician and his apprentice before Gaius turns back to him.

“To be clear, you’re only seeking information about magic, sire? This is not a request for, ahem, me to perform any sorcery?”

“Oh, no,” Arthur laughs awkwardly. “Just information. For now, anyway. But maybe when I legalize magic you can use that for healing!”

He just barely manages not to grimace at that promise. As much as he intends to keep his word to the spirit of the Druid boy he killed, he still hasn't quite gotten over that instinctive fear and suspicion that any use of magic gives him.

Merlin chokes on a spoonful of grits and spews a chunky spray of cornmeal all over the table. Arthur can’t quite keep from making a face. Honestly, his idiot manservant would be the type who can’t even eat breakfast without being a clutz.

“Is this because of that spirit that possessed Elyan?” he asks breathlessly once he has stopped coughing.

Arthur grumbles internally at how well Merlin seems to read him, but externally he wipes the scowl off his face in favour of a confident smile. “I can hardly treat the Druids with respect if I’m keeping their very way of life outlawed, now can I?”

Gaius sits heavily down on the table bench, looking shocked. “You’re really doing it? Revoking the laws against magic?”

Arthur nods with only a hint of uncertainty. It’s not like he feels good about this, what with all the mad sorcerers who have tried to kill him and his father and destroy his kingdom and whatnot in the past. But he’s at least willing to admit that maybe the laws are also punishing some people who don’t deserve it, and killing some people who shouldn’t be killed.

Gaius seems to accept his hesitant confirmation for what it is. “What do you want to know?”

Arthur leans forward eagerly. “How would one go about allowing freedom of magic but not the freedom to harm with magic? Are there entire magicks that only cause harm? Is there even a limit to what magic can do?? Are there different kinds of magic users? Are there or have there ever been distinct cultures, practices, societies, hell, even separate systems of self-government among or for sorcerers?”

Realizing, belatedly, that he has probably presented too many questions all at once, Arthur trails off. Merlin looks like he’s literally been bored to tears, if that wet gleam in his eyes is anything to go by. Gaius is staring at him with a very disconcerting combination of pride and apprehension.

“With all due respect, sire, I do have patients to attend to this morning,” the physician says. “Might I suggest some reading material on the subject instead?”

Arthur blinks, repeatedly. “We have books on magic? Here, in Camelot? That survived The Purge??”

“Ah, well.” Gaius’s face, only just recovering from that nervous ashiness, takes on a damning flush. “Many of us hoped this day might come, when the knowledge would no longer be banned, and so sought to safeguard some resources on the off chance that they might once again be of use…”

Arthur lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You smuggled away magic books under my father’s nose? And, what, hid them in the physician’s chambers this whole time?”

With another shifty look at Merlin, Gaius shakes his head. It occurs fleetingly to Arthur to wonder why Gaius feels more uncomfortable admitting to this in front of Merlin than he does in front of Arthur, King of Camelot, son of Uther, heritor of The Purge, et cetera. But only fleetingly.

Or, perhaps, he really doesn’t have any books here at all, as evidenced by his next suggestion. “On your word that such possessions will not serve to incriminate anyone, sire, perhaps I might accompany you to speak with Geoffrey of Monmouth?”

The fact that the old stodge Geoffrey partook in librarian High Treason is highly amusing. The fact that Gaius insists on accompanying Arthur down to the archives to vouch for his motives, lest Geoffrey deny all knowledge whatsoever of the Hidden Tomes of Magic only makes it funnier. The disappointingly small, dusty stack of books and scrolls Arthur lugs up to his study— okay, fine, that he makes Merlin lug up to his study— is notably less funny.

Nevertheless, he sets himself to work with determination.

2. Geoffrey

Arthur is proud to say he is only slightly unnerved by the forbidden magical texts that stuffy old Geoffrey managed to squirrel away during The Purge. In the archivist’s dubious defense, he seems equally as uncomfortable admitting to the extent of his treason as Arthur feels about discovering it.

He is therefore reluctant to return to the library several weeks later, but that is, alas, where one generally goes when one desires further information about something. In this case, Arthur has familiarized himself, optimistically, with all sorts of agricultural charms and metal-strengthening enchantments and healing poultices for various ailments; he has skimmed, nauseously, past a parade of gruesome slow-and-painful-death and mind-control spells; and he has made a valiant attempt, genuinely, to understand the theory and practice of magic; but he has read very little about how to govern a kingdom in which the Old Religion is freely practiced.

“Laws?” Geoffrey scoffs bitterly when asked. “King Uther burned all records of magic-friendly laws the day he banned the practice.”

Arthur hums out his agitation. “Do you think there are other laws on record that might be similar to those governing magic? Like, erm, laws that regulate…” He frowns as he tries to find a suitable comparison to magic. Arms? Medicinal herbs? Religion? It is all of that and more.

He is rescued from his deepening consternation by a timid suggestion from the librarian. “If I may, sire?” Geoffrey gets a wave to continue and nods with his usual obsequiousness, which is officially no longer fooling Arthur in the slightest. “King Uther demanded that Camelot’s allies ban magic as well, but it’s possible that some of those rulers weren’t quite as vehement in their compliance.”

It takes a moment of furrowed brows for Arthur to parce through that statement. “You’re saying they may not have burned their own copies of their pre-Purge laws on magic?”

“I do believe it is possible, sire.”

Arthur nods thoughtfully. “I suppose it would be diplomatically sound to advise our allies of such a drastic impending change in attitudes.”

“Aye, sire,” Geoffrey replies, sounding politely exasperated. Arthur thinks that’s rather rich coming from the man who just admitted to two decades’ worth of High Treason, but his idea is nevertheless a good one, so he lets it slide.

(He's been letting a lot of things slide lately, ever since a certain insolent manservant wormed his way into Arthur's life. Which means, like most problems in Camelot these days, this is almost definitely Merlin's fault.)

Arthur lets several more of Geoffrey’s comments slide during the coming weeks, each more bewildering than the last. Comments like, “you’ve taken a particular interest in elemental magic, sire?” while gesturing at a stack of books out on his desk that Arthur barely skimmed through and that really should have been put away by now, given that Merlin took them to return to the library ages ago. Or, in response to an inquiry about the identification of dangerous magical beasts and beings, “I’m afraid the most helpful books are no longer in my possession,” followed by a flustered refusal to elaborate on who else would possibly have them instead.

Arthur can't be bothered to worry about Geoffrey, though. Winter is starting to set in around Camelot and there's so much to do preparing for the harsh days ahead, not to mention the ongoing negotiations with Nemeth, that he struggles to find time to devote to the study of magic and its governance.

Nevertheless, over the course of the following month, Arthur writes to his neighboring rulers and receives a very interesting variety of correspondence in return. Olaf’s missive consists of two pages of aggressively formal language that basically boils down to, you’re making everyone’s lives difficult with your contrary ways and if you persist in your troublemaking I will not hesitate to invade. On a brighter note, that is soon followed by a supportive response from Queen Annis, who has indeed managed not to immolate her pre-Purge laws and quite graciously provides him with a copy to consult.

The reactions of Arthur’s Council of Advisors is the expected clusterfuck, a combination of quiet pride from a few, thoughtful concern from several others, blustering outrage from many, and no less than four accusations that Arthur himself has been enchanted. Most surprising, in Arthur’s opinion, is his Uncle Agravaine, who rejects the idea vehemently and then proceeds to throw out a shockingly wide range of reasons why repealing the ban on magic is a horrible idea, many of which make little to no sense.

In Agravaine’s defense, however, he does also bring one valid concern to Arthur’s attention, which is the fact that The Purge wrought utter havoc on the communities and systems utilized by the kingdom’s magic-wielders, and any regulations established before that time, such as Caerleon's old laws, may be insufficient to govern the practices of whatever magic-users remain.

Of course, this comes out as, “Any sorcerers who survived The Purge will only find more freedom with which to seek your downfall! Legalizing sorcery would boil down to an announcement of Open Season on the throne of Camelot!” but Arthur is not unfamiliar with the leaps of logic necessary to dig out nuggets of wisdom from unlikely places.

Arthur proceeds to tune out the rest of Agravaine’s increasingly desperate diatribe, turning this thought over in his mind. He has only a handful of advisors who seem willing to put in the work to re-legalize magic, and yet none of them will have any more insight than Arthur himself has into how The Purge changed the foundations of magical society.

“Gaius, if you’ll stay behind?” Arthur asks once the Council session has concluded.

“Sire, I must insist—” Agravaine begins.

“You’ve made your thoughts clear on this, Uncle,” Arthur says firmly. “If you wish to raise other concerns, you may do so at our next meeting. Until then, I need to speak to Gaius. Privately,” he adds, when his uncle continues to try to linger.

Agravaine finally leaves in a huff, followed out by Gaius’ Judgemental Eyebrow. Geoffrey lingers as well, but only to clap Arthur fondly on the shoulder and say, “My lord, it gives me great pride to see such a rich subject permitted to be freely studied once more.”

Arthur gives him an uncertain smile in return, and then shakes it off and turns back to the physician. “Gaius.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I think I need to speak with some sorcerers directly.”

3. Mildred

The first person Gaius gets him in touch with is not actually a sorcerer at all. Arthur supposes that's fair, given the valid reasons all sorcerers have to be wary of a meeting with the King of Camelot. He allows himself a brief moment of frustration at the vicious cycle of can't repeal the magic ban without talking to magicians, but magicians won't talk to me before I repeal the magic ban, but after that he gets down to work.

Arthur accompanies Gaius through the Lower Town to Mildred's house, feeling vulnerable without his familiar chainmail— left at home upon Gaius' suggestion— and not a little bit nervous about the reckoning that is to come.

Mildred is an old crone of a woman who must be pushing eighty, with white fog in her eyes and white wispy hair and white cobwebs staking their claim on dusty corners of her rundown little white-snow-covered shack. Though not a user of magic herself, she is nonetheless willing to speak to Arthur about her deceased son, executed during The Purge eighteen years ago. She's also something of a friend of Gaius, although so was that traitorous dungheap Dragoon, and look where that got him.

Nevertheless, Arthur greets her politely and accepts a seat on a rickety chair beside Gaius and across from Mildred's hardened but slightly off-centered gaze.

"So you're the Pendragon King claiming to return magic to Camelot," she says, voice gnarly and raspy in turns.

Arthur bites back a sarcastic response and then also pushes back an annoyingly intrusive wish that Merlin were here to be sarcastic on his behalf. That is, assuming Merlin would have taken his side anyway, which he never does.

But enough about Merlin.

"I've come to believe that my father committed a grievous wrong in persecuting people for the mere act of sorcery," he says instead. "I do intend to repeal his laws but I was hoping to get a better understanding of the state of magic users now, after so many years of oppression, to ensure that the new laws I put in place are just."

Alas, no amount of diplomacy or even boyish charm is enough to spare him completely from Mildred's decades-long pent up tirade about King Uther's war against magic, which Arthur bears stoically, if a bit impatiently. He does feel bad for the ways his people have suffered, but he also came here for a reason and he doesn't have all day to sit around getting lectured for the sins of his father.

He finally cuts in when he can take it no more. "But do you know anything about who and how magic is practiced today?"

Perhaps he should have predicted that was not the best question to interject with, but it seems his diplomacy dozed off somewhere down the line.

"I'll not be giving you any names, boy!" Mildred snarls.

At the slightest hint of aggression, and against his better judgment, Arthur's mind reverts back to that decades-old fear of magic and all who associate with it; only with great difficulty does he wrestle back his urge to grab his sword.

"I don't—" As his adrenaline rush abates, Arthur's hand creeps back up from his side and now would dearly like to palm his face in frustration. "I'm not looking to arrest anyone. I had just hoped you could point me to somebody who has more, er, recent experience with magic."

The old crone either doesn't hear or doesn't care. "You can take me away in chains if you want, highness, but I'll not be giving anybody up to you! I'll walk gladly to the pyre knowing you'll get no more information out of me—!"

It is at this point that Arthur stands, gives Mildred his perfunctory and probably completely unheard thanks, and pulls Gaius out the door. Honestly, this is the last time he takes any of Gaius' recommendations about sorcerers.

"Sire," Gaius says during their brisk walk back to the castle. "Perhaps you may have more luck convincing people to speak openly about magic if you send an emissary in your stead."

Arthur frowns, already unhappy to be fielding yet another suggestion from the physician so soon after his most recent and utter failure. "Like a knight?"

He can't tell for sure, but he's pretty sure he sees Gaius wince from the corner of his eye. "Maybe not anyone with quite so… militaristic a role in your court. No, I was thinking perhaps Merlin or I could go forth and bring you back a record of their testimonies to review."

"Merlin?" Arthur says doubtfully, wrinkling his nose.

"The very fact that he's… unassuming may put them at ease," Gaius says. It's far more placid an adjective than any Arthur would have used for Merlin, but for some reason it rankles to hear anyone else insult his manservant; only Arthur's allowed to do that. "Whereas your knights, and even yourself, sire, can be quite intimidating for someone who has spent decades living in fear of the King and his men."

"I can see why they might trust you," Arthur allows. "If you knew some of them before the Purge, and they know you're a close enough advisor to speak truthfully about my intentions. But Merlin?"

"I'll vouch for him as my nephew and apprentice, and they’ll open up to him because they know he has the King's ear, as his personal servant." Gaius lingers in a shadowed archway of the citadel, peers every which way for eavesdroppers, and adds in a low voice, "With some tutelage, I believe Merlin capable of some small amount of magic, sire. All he needs is one flashy spell to convince them he's one of them."

It reeks of underhanded tactics, if not quite espionage, but Arthur must begrudgingly admit that it's a decent strategy for winning the trust of a group of skittish sorcerers.

Who would have thought Gaius had the guts or the wiles?

"Very well," he says.

4. Iseldir

Arthur finds himself with a relatively free weekend and an itchy restlessness under his skin, so he rounds up three of his knights and his trusty sidekick and sets off for the border of Cenred's kingdom.

They ride for almost an entire day before they reach the area where Arthur and Merlin, erm, recovered the cup of life from a group of Druids, but also where Arthur returned the Druid boy he'd rescued from his father's manhunt. He figures a 50/50 track record for positive interactions with a Druid camp that he's personally visited twice and not once razed to the ground is about as good a chance as he's going to get to start making inroads here.

They ride until their horses come to a halt all of a sudden, not scared but none of them willing to move further. Just as he and the knights go to draw their swords, a man in green robes appears from the shadows of a tree.

"At ease," Arthur calls to Percival, Gwaine, and Leon, but also ostensibly to the Druid scout. "I mean you no harm. I was hoping to speak with Iseldir."

The scout doesn't respond right away; he seems to be assessing their little envoy, and spending a suspicious amount of time scrutinizing the men behind Arthur instead of the king himself. "State your name and business with Iseldir," he finally says.

"I am King Arthur Pendragon, and I wish to extend a hand of peace and friendship to the Druid people, so that we may work together to bring magic safely back to Camelot."

"Magic never left Camelot," the scout says enigmatically, but he turns his back to them and sets off through the trees. "Follow me. I will take you to Iseldir. Leave your horses here; they will be safe."

They crunch through increasingly leafy foliage for about ten minutes, until the ground opens up into a lush valley studded with colorful tents and campfires, clotheslines strung between trees and children prodding goats along a burbling stream.

There are adults, too, who quickly realize there are visitors in their midst. But instead of the expected urgent whispers or excited chatter, there is only still silence, heads peeking out of tent flaps and peering around tree trunks with no warning whatsoever. It's extremely unnerving to be the subject of such intense stares without any kind of gossip or exclamations to hint at how these spectators feel.

The scout leads them to a central stone-lined fire pit surrounded by large twisting tree roots that uncannily resemble benches. Arthur recognizes the tall stature and curly grey hair of Iseldir standing there, along with another man and two women, all three of whom appear at least twice his age and much less impartial in their expressions.

Arthur shakes off their chilly welcome and turns to the one familiar face of the group. "I thank you for agreeing to hear my piece, Iseldir," he says. "I come to you today in the spirit of friendship, reconciliation, and new beginnings. I intend to lift my father's ban on magic and, in the interest of transparency and goodwill, I would like to offer you the chance to help me rewrite the laws governing the use and users of magic."

A ringing silence follows Arthur's carefully-rehearsed speech. He forces himself to stand still and not fidget, as he can hear Merlin has suddenly taken to doing with fervor somewhere behind him, as he waits for some kind of response.

Even more unnerving is the fact that none of the Druids are even looking at each other, let alone Arthur. He would have at least expected raised eyebrows, or meaningful looks exchanged, but— nothing. Just strangely unfocused gazes into the distance, that seem to converge at some point on something behind him. It reminds Arthur of the way Old Mildred looked at him through her cataracts, but he's pretty sure not all of these Druids can be blind.

Against his better judgement, Arthur finally gives in and turns to see what they're looking at— but nothing. It's just Merlin, and behind him Percival, and behind him, what looks for all intents and purposes like an unoccupied, russet-coloured tent, nestled among the trees.

He is utterly unprepared to be addressed once again; when a Druid finally speaks again, Arthur jumps a good foot in the air and his hand reaches instinctively for his sword as he twists back around to face his eerie welcoming committee.

"We have waited many trying years for your message of peace, young Pendragon," says the old man on Iseldir's left. "We commend you on your change of heart and agree to aid you in this endeavour."

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest, and he can't quite keep from licking his lips nervously. "Will you come back to Camelot with us and provide guidance on the ways and needs of the Druid people?"

Once again, his request is met with several minutes of discomfiting silence. Finally, "None here can speak for the entirety of our tribe," says the elderly woman on Iseldir's right. "We shall decide together what we value most and prepare for you a list of what we desire to see from you, King Arthur. Return in a fortnight if you truly wish for our input."

"Have you not a leader who can speak on behalf of your people?"

Astoundingly, even this relatively simple question elicits a long moment of silence before the last Druid woman answers. "The Druids have neither kings nor lords. We the elders provide wisdom and guidance, but all decisions made for the people of our tribe are made by the people of our tribe. We must convene amongst ourselves and come to an internal consensus before we can make any demands of you."

Arthur keeps his heavy sigh to himself. "Very well. I shall return two weeks hence to hear your communal wisdom."

"Farewell, King Arthur," says Iseldir. "We shall meet again soon."

5. Adalbert

On a quiet morning a sennight before Imbolc, Arthur is lunching and legislating when Merlin comes in with two scrolls clutched in his hands. "For you, sire," he says. "About magic."

It's a shockingly concise statement coming from Merlin, but Arthur is too intrigued by the words on the page to spare him another thought. He's pleasantly surprised to discover a halfway-intelligible record of attempt number two with Mildred, who apparently opened up to Gaius and/or Merlin about her son's practice of magic, the ways his life changed during the Purge, and the ways Mildred suffered in his passing.

"I can't believe you got anything helpful at all out of the old crone," he comments around a mouthful of food.

He can practically hear the smirk in Merlin's voice as he responds. "Oh, you know, everyone just loves me. It's a gift and a curse."

"Shut up Merlin," Arthur mumbles half-heartedly. He is loath to acknowledge that anyone, let alone his idiot manservant, managed to win over someone that he could not.

He gets no reply but for Merlin's obnoxiously cheery humming as he cleans out the ashes from the fireplace. The smugness wafting off of him is enough to make Arthur bristle.

"Say, wasn't Gaius supposed to be teaching you magic?"

The humming comes to an abrupt halt and the hearthbrush clatters to the floor. "What?" Merlin says, sounding horrified.

"Oh come on, don't deny you'd literally need magic to charm that old hag into being helpful."

Merlin breathes out a nervous little laugh. "Just my natural charisma, sire, that's all."

"Oh, for—" Arthur turns around in his chair to fix Merlin with his best unimpressed scowl. "I'm not going to drag you to the pyre for learning one little spell, with my blessing, in order to conduct interviews on my behalf."

"Oh, yeah. Right. That."

"So?"

"So?" Merlin repeats blankly.

"So, has Gaius taught you any spells yet? Don't tell me you're out there getting sorcerers to trust you based on your absolute dearth of physical threat alone."

Merlin scoffs. "Just because you can't possibly fathom how far the simple act of not being a prat could take you—"

"Nah, it's definitely sorcery," Arthur says dismissively. “Go on, then. Show me.”

He proceeds to amuse himself with the range of emotions that war over Merlin's face in response to a direct order from the King to perform an act that is still technically treason. The longer Merlin's anxiety continues, the harder it is for Arthur to hold back his smirk.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven't learned any magic yet," Merlin finally says. If the excruciatingly long pause before his answer wasn't enough to give that away as a lie, the careful panic in his eyes sure is.

Arthur looks him over slowly— just to draw out Merlin's nerves, of course— eyes lingering on his long legs, slim wrists, the sharp contrast of his dark hair on his pale neck. He finds himself standing, taking firm strides to loom over Merlin where he's backed himself against the wall, reveling in the anxious bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Merlin?" he asks, and his voice comes out surprisingly deep.

There's a long moment of silence before Merlin answers, during which Arthur only watches him so closely in order to categorize each nervous tell. He can't quite fathom why his gaze lingers so long on Merlin's lips, but surely he can trust his instincts on this without subjecting them to undue scrutiny.

"N-never, sire," Merlin stutters.

Some part of Arthur wants to push, to see just when and how Merlin will break, but he catches a gleam of true terror in his eyes, and the strange, aggressive tension flows out of Arthur all at once. He takes a step back and realizes just how close they'd been standing.

"Ahem. Well." He casts his eyes about for a distraction and they land upon the other scroll Merlin brought. "Let's see what else you found out, then."

He dives back into his seat at the table, snatches up the roll of parchment, and hunches determinedly over it. Adalbert, son of Ulrich, it is titled.

-cobbler in lower town
-took in neighbor fleeing from the king's forces for 2 nights until witch's friend smuggled her out of the city
-witch enchanted tools for longevity in gratitude
-has lived in fear ever since
-looks forward to lift of the magic ban for: 1. more enchanted tools, 2. can sleep soundly again

"Honestly, Merlin," Arthur grumbles. "What kind of useless testimonies are these? Are you ever going to talk to an actual sorcerer?"

Merlin throws his hands up in Arthur's peripheral vision. "It's only been a few weeks!" he despairs. "Do you know how hard it is to track down anyone even remotely willing to admit to some association with sorcery? These things take time!"

Arthur snarks back at him, condescendingly, just because he can, and sinks himself into their usual bickering with relief. Whatever that moment was, earlier, it's gone now and soon to be forgotten.

6. Cliodhna

Arthur returns to Iseldir's camp (or maybe not Iseldir's, if their claims to non-central governance are to be believed) with the same group of knights as before. He’s glad for Percival's bracing presence, Leon's steadfastness, Gwaine's unruffled ease, and, most of all, Merlin's comforting familiarity as they return to the site of those avid stares and unnerving silences.

A different scout greets them, with much less suspicion this time, and leads them back to the settlement.

The same group of four are once again waiting by the central fire, the three elders and Iseldir, who Arthur is starting to suspect is only there because he's the only one Arthur knows by name.

"Greetings," Arthur says, skin already itching with the gazes of what must be every single person of the camp. Even the children have abandoned their play to crowd around the small delegation, whispering amongst themselves. Arthur has no idea what an Emrys is or why they're so excited about it; he's just relieved to hear literally anything spoken aloud in response to their presence.

One of the old women steps forward, back hunched and frizzy curls gone grey, her teal cloak and the dark skin of her face emphasizing unnervingly bright blue eyes.

"Welcome, King Arthur," she says. "We are gladdened to see that your resolve has not wavered."

"I promised to return and I have," Arthur says, keeping most of the affront out of his voice. "Just as I have promised to legalize magic and I will."

"Then you have our blessings and our support." She waves him forward to sit on a root bench, then continues to gesture until all of his knights are seated as well. "I am called Cliodhna and I have been nominated to speak on behalf of our people. I shall tell you the ways and wants of our tribe, and I shall begin with a demonstration of the value we place on hospitality."

As if on cue, a flurry of movement comes from a tent to his left, and several older children pour out of it, hands laden with wooden cups and bowls of food. There's a brief scuffle among two girls over, apparently, who gets to feed Merlin, which has him blushing quite fetchingly.

Ahem. Which has him blushing quite embarrassingly. For him.

Once they are well supplied with broth and seeded rolls and sweet honeyed water, Cliodhna sits across from them and looks expectantly at Arthur.

"Merlin," he whispers harshly. "You're to take notes."

Merlin startles at the address; his bowl jerks in his grip and soup sloshes over the sides and down his hands.

"Honestly, Merlin," he groans. "I am trying to make a good impression here."

His good-for-nothing manservant coughs, eyes widening, and he shakes his head, presumably to get a grip on himself, as he rummages in his bag for a quill and ink. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, and, "it's fine," although Arthur definitely didn't ask after his well-being.

"Do excuse my… assistant," Arthur reassures Cliodhna, as she seems unnecessarily concerned about Merlin. "He's a little clumsy but I assure you he's capable of documenting your valued input.”

Cliodhna only continues to stare at Merlin, who frowns, face twitching, back at her.

Finally, with no warning whatsoever, Cliodhna turns her attention back to Arthur. "Hospitality is one of the five sacred tenets of the Old Religion," she begins, and Arthur nods eagerly to hear more as the scratch of Merlin's quill starts up beside him.

The elder continues to speak, first about the Old Religion, then about the Druid ways of days past, the fracture of their community a few years into The Purge, and the foundations of their society that they've had to alter, adjust, or leave behind. She talks about their magic, too, of course, and it's interesting and helpful from a perspective of good governance, but what sticks with Arthur the most is how much The Purge changed every facet of their lives.

It makes something in Arthur's stomach twist, to hear Cliodhna speak so plainly about the sacrifices they've made to their values in order to survive, the sacred lands they were forced to abandon, their concerns about the precarious balance of magic that hangs over them just as heavily as King Uther's ever-present threat of the hangman's noose.

Cliodhna speaks until dusk is well and truly upon them, and then calls the children back over to ply them with more food and shows them to a guest tent for the night. Arthur thanks her with equal parts gratitude and guilt, and sleep is slow in coming.

They are fed once again in the morning before they depart, Arthur just barely awake enough to take in Cliodhna’s parting advice.

"You should know by now that I speak only for my own tribe, King Arthur," she says gravely. "If you truly wish to understand and honor the varied tribes of the Druid people, then you must extend a hand of diplomacy to each of them in turn. We shall write to our brethren to vouch for your sincerity, but you would do well to take all possible steps to show your goodwill openly."

"How—?"

But Cliodhna is already waving over a young man, just old enough to be a knight. Surprisingly, he bypasses Arthur with barely a glance and stops in front of Merlin, to whom he bows, of all ridiculous gestures, and extends a parcel of moss green fabric, the same shade as his own robes.

"It would be taken as deception or invasion for you or any of your trained fighters to approach a Druid site in clothing that masks their purpose," Cliodhna says. "But to dress… your assistant… in the garb of our people shows both our favour and your embrace of our culture. Please accept this gift, young… Merlin, and use it well in this quest to return the freedom of magic to the land of Albion."

It's a lovely gesture, of course, and valuable advice for magical diplomacy moving forward. Still, Arthur finds himself sulking during the long ride back to the citadel, brooding over the young Druid's beaming smile and the thought of Merlin in some other man's clothes.

7. Philomenia

The outreach into Camelot's urban magic community is slow-going, especially given Gaius' preoccupation with a pox outbreak in one of the outlying villages. Based on Merlin's ever more obvious absences, though, Arthur can only assume he's out among the local sorcerers, trawling for stories or at least connections to someone else who's willing to talk.

It makes him anxious to imagine for reasons that Arthur chalks up to a lingering fear of what vengeance angry sorcerers might attempt to enact on the King's personal manservant. His concerns never seem to abate, no matter how many times Merlin comes back unharmed.

He eventually snaps and takes his restless unease out on Merlin, as he always does, by means of a shoe thrown at his head and a demand to see what miraculous results he's achieved only a week later.

Merlin gives him a funny look but brings him a short scroll of notes from someone named Philomenia, no further identification given.

-daughter W visited neighbor boy in her 7th summer, saw his father doing magic
-came home and conjured light w spell she overheard
-W is now 20 and still has nightmares abt guards coming for her, execution
-never realized before how young kids can start using magic if exposed to it. would need some kind of formal instruction for control if allowed in future. Says kids are enough trouble w/o magic
-hopes to see the day only bad magic is punished

Arthur sets the scroll down and sighs. This Philomenia has a point about the need for supervision of young magical children. He's more annoyed about the fact that Merlin has finally managed to document a useful perspective for him, and now Arthur must either acknowledge this or be a prat about it. His perpetual tetchiness, which has persisted for reasons entirely unknown, precludes him from providing any semblance of genuine praise.

He settles on, "It's about time you managed to collect one single useful bit of testimony. Took you long enough."

"Of course, sire," Merlin says, but he sounds much too smug about it.

Arthur scowls. "All you did was write down somebody else's decent opinions."

"Transcription is an honest day's work, sire," Merlin says, in that infuriatingly mild voice he uses when he's secretly laughing at royals.

Arthur lets out a scoff. As if Merlin's ever done an honest day's work in his life! All he ever does is skive off his duties for the tavern, berate Arthur with his treasonous insolence, and— oh, speaking of treason…

"You didn't use magic to win her over, did you?" he asks.

Merlin descends into a very suspicious coughing fit. "What? No! Of course not!"

"Nothing? Not even a little party trick?"

"No!"

"I guess you really are that useless, then."

Bingo. Arthur smirks at his own genius as Merlin’s indignation visibly grows.

"I'm not useless!"

Arthur leans forward. "Oh, so you do know some magic, then? Let's see it."

At last, Merlin looks sufficiently riled to lift Arthur's mood. He's also finally giving Arthur his full attention, which is a bonus. Not that Merlin has ever been hard to distract from his half-hearted chores.

"I'm not answering that," Merlin says. "It's still technically illegal!"

"I'm the king and I say it's not."

"You can't just say it's legal and make it so!"

"I'm the king! It's as good as. Go on," Arthur goads. "Show me what you've got."

Merlin slowly holds out his hand, palm up. He opens his mouth and then hesitates to glance uneasily at Arthur.

"Is it not equally treason to ignore a direct order from the King?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, if I was so inclined to have your head for something, I would have done it years ago, for all your insubordination."

After one last long, lingering look, Merlin turns back to his hand. He frowns, furrows his brow in concentration, and yells, "forbearne!"

A little flickering flame appears in the middle of his cupped palm. Arthur stares at it, waiting for something else to happen, but— that’s it. After a lifetime of fearing magic and anyone who so much as read about it, it’s something of a letdown to see it performed in front of him like this: practically harmless and utterly unimpressive. It very clearly took a lot of effort on Merlin's part, but it’s no more fire than could be found on a candle.

And yet. Merlin looks so happy all of a sudden— relieved, first, and then, having ascertained by Arthur's reaction that he's not about to die for this little splinter of flame, truly joyful — and his face pulls into little balls around his cheekbones, he smiles so widely; and his eyes crinkle around the corners, and Arthur feels like he's temporarily forgotten how to breathe. He musters an impressed expression on his own face, so as not to discourage Merlin, and maybe also in the hopes that it will keep him smiling like that for a little longer.

Distantly, Arthur thinks to himself that he would have embraced magic years ago if only he'd seen Merlin practice it like this— that anything that can make him look so proud, so free, so happy, can't possibly be evil.

8. Taliesin

Leon stays back from Arthur's next envoy to the Druids, in order to attend to the knights’ training in Arthur's absence. It's strategically sound, especially given the as-yet-undiscovered identity of the traitor in his court; but Arthur insists on three knights, minimum, for the treacherous journey ahead, so he brings Elyan along.

Elyan's fine, really. A great knight and an honourable man. It's just that things have been a bit chilly with him— and not without reason— ever since Arthur banished Guinevere. Seeing Merlin in his stupid green Druid robes, sticking out like a sore thumb and clashing horribly with the rest of their red capes, does not improve his mood in the slightest.

So their ride out to the Druid camp is a rather quiet and awkward one. Luckily it's short, and even more luckily, they encounter no bandits along the way.

Arthur's not even positive there is a Druid settlement in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, but he knows it's a site steeped in Old Magic, so he figures it's as good a place as any to go looking for them.

Sure enough, they're not tromping through the valley for long before an old man in a rough brown robe appears from the thick fog, or possibly out of thin air.

"I've been expecting you, King Arthur," he says. There's something off about his voice, or maybe his appearance, or his something, but Arthur can't quite put his finger on it.

"You heard from Cliodhna?" he asks hopefully. "Of our efforts to involve the Druids in the re-legalization of magic in Camelot?"

The man laughs a slightly unsettling laugh. "Heard from her? No. But I have foreseen this, our second meeting, for many months now."

Arthur tamps down as best he can on his shock. "Our second meeting? Do I know you??"

"I am Taliesin," the man says, staring at Arthur as if he can see right through him. Feeling silly and paranoid, Arthur gives into the urge to check behind him, but no, there's nothing to stare at but Merlin, a horse, and a bunch of vine-draped trees. "You were on the brink of death when I met you last, and you were healed with ancient magic of the Old Religion. It brings me joy to see you repaying that favour with an open mind to our ways."

"You saved my life?" he asks incredulously.

"I healed your wound, young Pendragon, for it was not yet your time to die. Come; I shall take you to the Druids you seek."

Taliesin starts walking, and Arthur motions for Elyan and Percival to take the lead following him. He stays back, wracking his brain to remember some time he was on the brink of death in this general vicinity.

"Merlin!" he hisses. His manservant looks over his shoulder, guilt written all over his face. "Is there anything you perhaps forgot to tell me about a certain injury I might have sustained here? From a certain arrow that didn’t pierce my armour??"

Looking pained (as he should), Merlin slows his horse to fall in beside Arthur. "Listen," he says in a low voice. "I was desperate, okay? He just showed up as I was panicking, I didn't have any other choice—"

"I'm not angry he saved my life," Arthur whispers harshly. "I'm angry you lied to me about it."

Merlin throws his hands up, which has the unfortunate side effect of jerking the reins in his hand and disgruntling his horse. "I didn't know how you'd react to the whole magic bit! More importantly," he continues when Arthur tries to interrupt, "I didn't know how your father would react."

"He wouldn't have executed me for being healed by magic while unconscious and dying," Arthur scoffs.

He gets a dark and unimpressed look from Merlin for that. "And what would he have done to the sorcerer who performed the magic on you while unconscious?"

"If he knew he'd saved my life…" Arthur protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

"If I'd told you, you would have felt duty-bound to tell your father where to find a rogue sorcerer, and honour-bound to Taliesin to protect his life from your own father."

"You still should have told me," Arthur huffs. "Any other great magical secrets you've been keeping from me?"

For a moment, Merlin looks so stricken at the question that Arthur almost wonders whether it sounded more like a vicious accusation than the scornful yet harmless jibe he meant it as.

Before he can react, though, a new voice interrupts; Taliesin is just there, with no warning whatsoever, walking between their two horses. "Let not this grudge of old come between you, for a difficult decision made from affection and under much strain."

Once he's gotten over the shock of the sudden appearance of this mystical man, Arthur manages to force a smile onto his face. "I cannot hold ill will against either of you for actions that saved my life and eased my conscience." He's pleased to find, after a moment, that he's even able to mean it. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for your actions, Taliesin."

"Peace, young King," Taliesin responds. "You repay your debt to magic with each step you take toward the Golden Age of Albion. And here, we arrive at your next." He gestures down the small crest they've just summited, at the familiar colorful tents of a Druid camp nestled in the dry hollow of a gorge. "This is where I leave you."

"What?" Arthur says. "You're not coming with us?"

"I am not of the Druids, Arthur Pendragon, but of magic itself. Fare thee well."

And just like that, Taliesin is gone, as suddenly as he had arrived.

9. Oberon

Arthur takes the lead on his little team's descent into the narrow valley in which the Druids have made their camp. The slope is too steep and hazardous to bring the horses with, so they tie their mounts to a tree and pick their way slowly down between rocks and roots.

By the time they reach the bottom, a small horde of children have gathered there: many of them mud-splattered and rosy-cheeked, all of them gazing avidly at the newcomers.

Arthur stands awkwardly before them, trying to remember the last time he played with a child. Luckily, he's not floundering long before he realizes almost all of the kids are in fact looking at Merlin. "Look at him!" They whisper excitedly to each other, and, again, that strange word: "Emrys!"

Eventually, a competent adult weaves his way through the crowd and presents himself. He's stout and bearded with cheerful brown eyes, and not nearly as ancient as the last spokeswoman was, which Arthur decides to take as a good omen.

"Welcome… King Arthur." He sounds warm and sincere enough, if it wasn't for that strange hitch, as if he had been about to, what? Greet someone else first? Absurd. "I am Oberon, and I have been elected to speak for my people."

"You have received word of our mission from Cliodhna?" Arthur tries again, desperate for some normality after the very strange omniscience of Taliesin.

"We have heard the tale of your meeting with our sister tribe," Oberon confirms. "Yet we would be much put at ease to hear directly from you of your intentions for this visit."

Arthur hurries to explain everything over a familiar bowl of vegetable soup: his remorse for actions committed in his father's name, his struggles to write a law about a way of life he doesn't understand, and his plans to allow magic users their input into the future of Camelot.

By the time he's finished, they've amassed quite a gathering of interested adults around the small clearing, not to mention the gaggle of children quite literally hanging onto Merlin, much to the scandalized shame of at least a few of the nearby parents.

Once he stops talking, Arthur is met once again with that strange silence and distant gaze, as if Oberon needs time to process all that Arthur has said. Finally, he nods and looks back at Arthur.

"We believe you to be genuine and we have faith that you will build a kingdom that is full of magic, peace, and prosperity. We have prepared a list of our demands, many of which include reparations for what we lost under the reign of King Uther. Do you intend to make up for the tyranny of your father, young Pendragon? Or are we only to receive your lenience moving forward?"

Arthur very diplomatically holds in a wince. He's known for months now that those sorcerers who survived The Purge would feel entitled to compensation for all they have lost. Camelot was once a prosperous kingdom, but for the last several years it has been fraught with battles won only at great cost, and it's no longer the bastion of wealth his father once dreamed of.

"I will hear your demands and I will strive to provide you with what recompense I can afford without impoverishing my people."

This is met with a long, hard look that, for once, seems actually trained on Arthur. Finally, Oberon nods.

"We once inhabited a fertile swathe of land between the northern edge of the Darkling Woods and the bank of the River Severn. We would take back that land which we had carefully cultivated for decades, so that we may till it once more and connect once again to the earthen source of our magic and nurture the seeds our ancestors planted and solemnly vowed to protect many long years ago."

Arthur's glad to hear Merlin dutifully jotting that down, because he definitely lost the train of that request somewhere in the middle. Fortunately, Oberon is unfazed by Arthur's polite clarification and proves more than willing to expand upon relevant parts of Druid culture that Cliodhna didn't get around to.

Thus Arthur learns a whole lot more about the Druids, and even some about magic itself. All of it is helpful, most of it is interesting, and much of it is heartbreaking.

He learns, for example, that the Druids used to be completely vegetarian: living off of the land and what sustenance they were freely given by their dairy cows or egg hens. But they had to leave their lovingly cultivated farms behind for a nomadic life on the run, and reluctantly violated their vows never to do harm to a living creature when their plant reserves grew scarce and hungry winter months proved unbearable for the children and elders.

He learns that some tribes practice certain magics more than others, and that those with an affinity for the earth— like Oberon's people— who dedicated their lives and their life-force to agriculture and construction, lost the most and felt the worst disconnect from their magic when they were forced to flee their homes and land.

It's an emotionally exhausting few hours he spends listening to Oberon speak, and occasionally offering possible alternatives to their demands. He makes no promises but plenty of apologies, and is feeling utterly drained by mid-afternoon. Fortunately, it is reasonable to take his leave early, as he has no intention of staying overnight in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.

Once again, Merlin is presented with a Druid robe before they leave. It's stupid to be so upset over a gift to his manservant, especially because he's still not sure why it's so upsetting; so Arthur thanks them politely and then hauls Merlin by the arm all the way up the hill to their horses.

10. Daria & Ezgani

Arthur is poring over maps of the outer edges of Camelot, tracing the borders of Oberon's people's ancestral land and trying to figure out how to appease the Lords from whom he'll have to take it back. Just another land-ownership headache to add to the continuing conflict over Gedref. He hates this side of politics, that of placating entitled noblemen who care more about their own holdings than the good of his kingdom.

It's a bit rich of him to call anybody else entitled, he knows, and Merlin would surely give him grief for that if he knew what Arthur was thinking. Or if Merlin were here, which he isn't, for the fourth night in a row. George hasn't looked so pleased in ages, and Arthur's glad someone, at least, is enjoying Merlin's absence, because Arthur sure isn't.

But speak of the devil (or the drunkard) and he will appear: Merlin waltzes into his quarters, bearing dinner almost two hours late, looking too giddy not to be inebriated.

"At the tavern again?" Arthur asks. He was angry a second ago, but for some reason it's distant, now, in the face of Merlin's contentment.

"Just in the lower town," Merlin says, "then I took a quick jaunt to Reimir, just outside the South gate."

"Why on earth were you in Reimir?" Arthur asks, curious despite himself.

Merlin breaks into a grin and pulls a roll of parchment out to twirl triumphantly between his fingers. "Because I finally got hold of a sorcerer, that's why."

Though he was very hungry a moment ago, Arthur abandons his newly-arrived food to snatch the scroll from Merlin's hand. "No way."

"In fact," Merlin continues, sounding extremely smug, "I got hold of two sorcerers."

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur says on reflex, but his attention is already elsewhere; he only vaguely registers his manservant taking a seat across from him as he reads over the notes.

Daria, baker, lower town
-used to have farm in outskirts w husband, both sorcerers
-used magic to keep crops healthy, watered
-few years into the purge, neighbors turned us in for bounty
-they came for us in the night
-husband stayed behind to hold them off while I ran into forest
-they killed husband and burned house down
-made it to cousin's home in the city
-cousin had 4 kids, no room for me, I had no skills outside farming, no way to help cousin out or pay rent elsewhere
-eventually got work w baker years ago
-would like my farm back but don't want to face neighbors who betrayed us
-want to know where husband's remains ended up
-would like to pay back cousin for his trouble
-want king to acknowledge the harm done to us and undo decades of hate-mongering
-would be willing to accept employment at new farm, charm entire villages’ crops

Ezgani of Reimir
-learned magic from mother before purge
-wrote runes on door to ward off thieves, illness, rats; on windows to keep out cold
-stopped practicing after purge but runes were already there, got both parents executed for that
-orphaned at 12, w care of 2 younger siblings. Stayed in house bc safest place they had, still scared of being dragged away like parents
-younger brother killed 5 winters ago trying to assassinate the king
-dont contest his treason but my parents were good, law-abiding people back when magic was legal. Never used it to hurt anyone
-as compensation, wants dowry for sister to marry into a good family + pay magical healer to cure daughter of palsy
-sad I've forgotten most of the ways of the old Religion bc learned rituals from parents

Arthur sets the scroll down and pushes his abandoned plate away to rest his forehead in his palms. "How can you be so cheery after that?" he moans.

Merlin looks up from where he's blatantly stealing entire tomatoes off of Arthur's plate. "Hmm?"

"That," Arthur nudges at the scroll with his forehead. "Just reading that makes me feel like shite and yet you waltz in here looking like you've spent all day at the tavern."

"Oh honestly, I've been to the tavern barely twice; I've no idea where you got the idea that I'm some kind of lush to rival Gwaine."

"Merlin."

"What, you really want to know?" Merlin asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I'm asking, am I not?" Arthur drawls.

"I guess… I mean, it was hard to talk about their suffering, yeah, but it was still… nice, to be around my own people…"

"Your own people?" Arthur wrinkles his nose, noting with mild interest how Merlin stiffens at the question. "You mean peasants?"

"Yeah." Merlin rolls his eyes ostentatiously. "Peasants. Except it's nice to be around others who don't think of us as peasants, but just one of the townspeople. You know?"

He really doesn't know, and some of that must show on the half of his face not pressed into the tabletop, because Merlin sighs. "Here, I'm just a boy from a poor farming village in the borderlands; even most of the castle servants are city folks, people who've lived and worked in and around the citadel for generations. But in the outskirts, I'm, well… a bit of an inspiration. A peasant and a bastard to boot, and look where I am now, personal manservant to the king."

Arthur frowns. "You're a bastard?"

Something closes off, cold and aggrieved, in Merlin's face, and Arthur instantly regrets his question. He really only wanted to know more about Merlin and his life, honest.

"I mean, never mind. It doesn't matter. People look up to you? And you like it? I mean, you want that?"

After a long, tense moment in which Arthur frets that he's been irredeemably rude, Merlin's face softens into a much more natural scowl. "Believe it or not, it is actually nice sometimes to be treated with respect."

Then he flicks a pea at Arthur's face.

11. Khalistor

They venture forth next into the Forest of Ascetir for the visit Arthur is perhaps most nervous about. Somewhere among the trees lives the group of Druids who kidnapped Morgana, who corrupted her, and against whom Arthur led his father's knights in a proper bloodbath to bring her home. He's equally dreading the encounter and relieved to get it out of the way.

Merlin's wearing the robes he was gifted by Oberon. They're navy blue and they bring out his eyes, but the aesthetic appeal is overshadowed by the fact that they were a gift to Merlin from somebody else. Still, they need all the Druidic goodwill they can get for this meeting, so Arthur doesn't complain. Aloud.

They wander the snow-covered forest for hours until a young woman in blue robes hops down from a tree branch in front of them, sending their horses rearing back.

"You are Arthur Pendragon?" she says.

"Yes."

"You are here to treat peacefully with my people?"

"Yes."

She appraises him, long and hard and not a small bit skeptical. "You have not come here to slaughter any more of my kind?"

"No," Arthur insists.

"Very well," she says after a nerve-wracking pause. "I shall take you to my village. Draw your sword and you shall forfeit the hospitality of every Druid that remains in Albion."

That really sets the tone for the rest of the tribe's welcome, to be honest. The girl leads them to a familiar set-up, root benches around a stone-lined fire, and a man steps forward. He's heavily scarred, with rich dark skin, more salt than pepper in his bushy beard, and the left sleeve of his robes falls flatly in such a way that suggests his arm is not all there.

"I represent my people today," he says, voice deep and strong. "I am Khalistor, son of Erdigris. Father of Aglain, against whom you led your knights, fatally, several years ago."

Shoulders squared, jaw high, Arthur says, "I'll not deny it. Only clarify that the actions I took sprang not from hate but the desire to rescue the sister of my heart and see her safe and happy."

"Rescue!" booms Khalistor scornfully. "The Lady Morgana approached us of her own volition, seeking guidance to control her magic and freedom from the oppressive terror of life as a witch under Uther's regime."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, and then really considers the man's words. At the time he had been so sure she was kidnapped by enemy forces, but, given what he knows about Morgana now…

"I apologize for the harm I caused you and your people by acting in ignorance,” he ultimately says. “I hope I can begin to make amends today."

That ringing, all-around silence asserts itself again on the clearing. Arthur waits it out patiently.

"We believe your regret to be genuine, but you have much still to do in order to make amends," Khalistor declares. "Come, sit and partake of our hospitality as we discuss the terms of the kingdom's peace."

So Arthur dutifully accepts yet another bowl of vegetable and barley soup, this time served with some delightfully crunchy biscuits, and sets Merlin to his usual transcription tasks while he negotiates with Khalistor.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he has several demands, and they are not soft: he says his people want monetary compensation for lives lost, a plot of land in the kingdom that will not be subjugated or ruled by any Lords, and a permanent seat for a representative of the Druids in his Royal Council of Advisors— which, Arthur has to admit, is an excellent idea, and something he should have thought of himself.

Honestly, the most surprising thing is that Khalistor and his people are even willing to negotiate peace talks at all, especially given how very recently Arthur, in particular, has come after them.

After several hours of fraught but respectful diplomacy, Arthur finally works up the nerve to ask about it. "Why even bother with this?" he blurts out. "How are you so willing to work with me after everything I and my father have done to you?"

Fortunately, Khalistor doesn't seem offended by his candidness. "We have been grievously wronged by Uther Pendragon's war against magic, but we are not so steeped in resentment that we cannot recognize that you are not your father; and we aren't so steeped in hatred that we would set ourselves against Emrys and the future you will bring."

There's that word again: Emrys. But Arthur's never heard it applied to him and his kingdom, and he tries not to react visibly to the realization that the Druids seem to have… what? plans? foreknowledge? Ideas, at the very least, about Arthur. "What exactly do you mean by that?" he asks weakly.

"It has long been foretold that a great king would unite the kingdoms of Albion and restore magic to the land after an age of darkness."

"Who, me?" Arthur definitely does not squeak.

"Do you not seek to restore magic to the land, Arthur Pendragon?"

"I do, but…"

"The prophecies are very clear about the blessing of Emrys on the ascension of the Once and Future King, who will bring forth the Golden Age of Albion."

Arthur's ears ring with the metaphorical pressure he feels, pressing in on his shoulders like another cape. Distantly, he registers Merlin's noises of surprise beside him.

So Emrys isn't just some children's game; it's a title of prophecy, a special word the Druids have used for generations to anticipate the dawning of a new era of peace in Albion. The same way some people talk about Armageddon or the apocalypse to denote the end of the word, he supposes. Except, he very much hopes that Emrys will not be nearly so cataclysmic an event.

12. Abdel

Arthur is presiding over a trite land dispute among two yeomen and trying not to sulk about Merlin abandoning him, again, to fraternize about the lower town when two guards barge into the throne room, hauling between them a boy of no more than twelve.

"Your majesty," says the senior of the two, one of his father's favoured patrol commanders named Caspien. "We caught this little urchin stealing wares in the market. When he tried to outrun us, he sent barrels and hay bales flying into our path." And now that he mentions it, Arthur can, indeed, spot the straw and dust clinging to Caspien’s hair.

Arthur takes a good look at the boy forced to his knees before him. He's thin, with messy dark hair and clothes that seem more patch than tunic, and he's shaking uncontrollably from head to toe.

"Thank you. Leave us," he tells the guards, and dispatches the bickering yeomen with slightly more grace.

"But, sire—" Caspien starts.

"He's just a boy," Arthur says.

"He's a sorcerer!"

"He's— how old are you?"

"Ten winters, your majesty," the boy replies breathlessly.

"I think I can handle a child," Arthur reassures his guards. "You may go. Except— George. Bring us a plate of food."

Once they're alone, he steps down from his throne to sit on the bottom-most step to the dais. It takes several minutes for the trembling boy to look up, but when he does, Arthur pats the stone next to him. "Come, join me. What is your name?"

The boy walks shakily over and seats himself two arms-lengths away. "Abdel, my lord," he whispers.

"Well, Abdel, I have many questions for you, but you should probably know first that I have no intention of executing you."

Abdel's shoulders drop in tandem with his jaw. "Truly?" he gasps.

Arthur sighs. "I suppose a boy your age has never known a king who would be unwilling to kill a child for magic, but I give you my word that I do not intend to be such a one."

Just then, George arrives with the requested food, and Arthur passes the plate over to Abdel. "Eat," he orders.

The boy needs no further encouragement; he digs in with relish. Only after several minutes does he slow down enough for Arthur to risk asking him questions.

"Were you stealing food in the market today?"

Abdel nods warily.

"Will you promise not to steal going forward?”

The waver in Abdel’s gaze is answer enough. Arthur holds in a sigh and tries a new tactic. "Would you abandon your thievery if you always had ample food to eat at home?"

Abdel nods again, this time around a mouthful of pickled egg.

"Alright," Arthur decides. "Given your age and your understandable need, which as your King I find to be my own fault and not yours, I shall not punish you today with more than the stern lecture you are receiving. But bear in mind that I will not always be so lenient."

"Th-thank you, sire."

"As to the matter of your magic," he continues, ignoring the sharp inhale from beside him. "I do not intend to keep the practice of sorcery outlawed much longer, and therefore I see no benefit in charging you with any related crimes now."

Abdel beams at him. "So it's true, what they're saying? You want to undo the ban?"

"Indeed. And I was hoping I might have your help with that," he says gravely.

"Mine?" the boy squeaks.

"Well, you know I was raised by King Uther, so it should come as no surprise that I actually know very little about magic. Probably less than you, even."

"But you're the king! Erm, sire. Your majesty."

"Well, exactly," Arthur smiles. "I'm the king, so I need to know about these things in order to rule properly, don't you think?"

Abdel looks too overcome for words, and seems to decide that the best way to avoid answering incorrectly is to stuff an entire shallot into his mouth all at once.

While the boy attempts to chew and swallow all that onion, Arthur lays out his requests. "I was hoping you could tell me what you know about magic, and how you use it and where you learned it."

"Of course, sire."

Abdel finishes all the food on his plate, and then all the food on a second one, over the course of Arthur's subsequent impromptu lesson in sorcery. Arthur never gets around to reconvening his court, but he considers the time very well spent: it's imminently refreshing to finally learn magic from someone who has more or less the same level of understanding of it as he does, not that he'd ever admit that aloud.

He sends Abdel off with a burlap bag full of apples well before sunset, and yet only a few hours later, Merlin barges into his quarters without so much as a knock, three fat scrolls clenched in his hand and a wild look about his eyes.

"Is it true?" he demands.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is it true? That you arrested a boy wizard and proceeded to pardon him, feed him, quiz him about magic, and then send him on his way?"

"Oh, Abdel?" Arthur says cheerfully. "It is true, yes. Awful chatterbox, that one, but his smile was just too cute, what with all those missing teeth."

Merlin stares at him with something like wonder in his eyes and something like pride on his face. Arthur finds himself entranced by it, up until Merlin ruins the effect with an enormous scowl. "Well, word spreads fast and it'll only spread faster in the morning," he grumbles. "You're going to be the death of me."

13. Sir Philip

Arthur doesn't have to wait long to learn what Merlin means by that, as he returns the next evening with no less than seven rolls of parchment crowded under his armpit, and brings just as many new testimonies back to him every night that week.

"I don't even have to seek them out anymore," he exclaims, looking amazed but also slightly harassed as he deposits the latest pile of notes on Arthur's desk. "People know who I am now, and they look for me, they're literally travelling in to the citadel from all over the kingdom, and they just pull me aside and tell me to pass their story along to the king!"

"Well, what do you know, you're famous," Arthur says with a smirk. "And just how do the masses know to identify you? The gangly boy with big ears and a neckerchief?"

The ears in question flush slightly at this, which Arthur smugly takes as confirmation that his guess was at least partially correct.

"The very handsome and capable man with the very fashionable neckerchief, you mean," Merlin sniffs.

"Ah, but you do admit you're known as the neckerchief fellow, then." Arthur smirks down at the offending garment, only to pause in consternation. The cloth Merlin's wearing around his neck is… different. It takes him a few moments to put his finger on it, but he could swear that not only has he never seen this particular sapphire blue color on him before, but also that it's, well, softer and less frayed than what Merlin normally wears.

"Is that a new neckerchief?" he blurts out before he can feign indifference.

"What?"

"It's…" he reaches forward and trails two fingertips lightly along the fabric. "It's not silk, but it's not whatever it usually is."

His eyes flick up to Merlin's face in time to see him blush. "It was a gift," he mumbles.

"A gift!" Arthur echoes. Something in his gut clenches. "You know, it's common courtesy for someone courting a member of the royal household to approach the king first for permission."

Merlin turns a delightful shade of red at that, which for some reason has Arthur's stomach doing flips. "Nobody's courting me!"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "What's the gift for, then?"

"I…" Merlin’s composure finally cracks and he starts to fidget, hands coming together to— to play with a ring on his finger that definitely didn't use to be there. Arthur’s stomach stops flipping and starts twisting itself up in knots instead.

"Sometimes the people I'm interviewing just… give me things. Little tokens of their appreciation, for, well, ostensibly for passing their message on to the king, but I think really they're just grateful to have someone who will listen, you know? And they've been living in fear for so long that now that they have hope they want to share their happiness, and so they…" he shrugs. "They give me things."

"What else have you gotten?" Arthur splutters.

Merlin rolls up his sleeve, revealing a bracelet of woven ribbon. He reaches under that blasted neckerchief and pulls out five different amulets of feather, stick, stone, and twine hanging from leather cords. He pulls from his pockets at least seven different flowers in varying states of preservation, an entire handful of copper coins, two feather quills, four linen pouches of what are presumably herbal poultices, and, worst of all, three folded scraps of cloth that Arthur suspects are more neckerchiefs.

"And that's not even counting the food," Merlin adds.

Arthur stares at the small pile of gifts laid out on his desk and the jewelry adorning Merlin's hands and neck, and fights back the impulse to wrap Merlin in one of Arthur's own cloaks, one of the full winter ones that will cover up all these trite tokens of affection from other people. A velvet one, in Pendragon red, with the dragon emblem embroidered large in gold so everyone knows he's Arthur's, only Arthur's.

"Take this and go," he says, hoarsely, before he can do something rash like throw the entire pile of trinkets in the fire or forbid Merlin from ever leaving the castle again.

Whatever's in his face, or maybe his voice, it's unnerving enough for Merlin to actually take heed without argument. He scrambles to stuff everything back in his pocket— Arthur is gratified to see at least one sprig of dried lavender snap in his haste— and flees Arthur's study.

It takes a long time for Arthur's blood and thoughts to stop thundering, but he does eventually manage to sit down and turn his attention to the testimonies Merlin has been gathering all week.

Sir Philip, the first one is from, and Arthur has to blink repeatedly and rub his eyes before he accepts the title written on the page.

-practiced old religion w/ family since childhood
-gave up magic at kings command but couldn't stomach orders to round up and execute my own people
-used magic to fake grievous injury, get retired from service
-sheltered dozens of sorcerers in small estate I was given
-too old now to take up sword again but remember a time when sorcerer knights were trained in battle magicks
-for king Arthur I would be willing to help implement that anew

Arthur blinks again at the last note Merlin has written down. The concept of a trained battalion of sorcerers is something that has haunted his nightmares since he was a little boy. But one loyal to Camelot…

He stews on the idea all night, and the next morning, too, watching his mundane knights hone their skills at sword and shield. He is proud of them, of their dedication and their training and their resourcefulness, but he's seen how little power they often have against a talented sorcerer.

Eventually, he acknowledges the core truth that has driven all of his best decisions over the course of his short reign as King: he will do whatever it takes to keep his people safe.

He will summon Sir Philip as soon as the new laws are in place.

14. Amaryllis

Arthur clears his schedule for the next few days to lead an excursion up north, in search of the tribe of Druids Khalistor hinted he might find there. It's perfectly within his rights as King to cancel a council meeting and knighting ceremony for this, and it’s only because it's been so sunny recently that the lingering snow has melted, and it has absolutely nothing to do with his burning need to remove Merlin from the vicinity of his mob of adoring fans in the lower town.

They ride north for most of a day before they reach the right spot in the Darkling Plains, but they do eventually cross paths with a Druid scout, and make their dutiful way to the nearby encampment.

An extremely old woman named Hester speaks for her people. There are few trees in this part of the plains, which means they are bidden to take seats on suspiciously conveniently shaped rocks covered with a suspiciously comfortable amount of lichen and moss. At least it's an interesting change from the sculpted root benches of the other Druids.

Hester has little to contribute to Arthur's plans for the magic ban that hasn't already been proposed and discussed with Druid representatives already, and what she does have to say comes out in rattling words interspersed frequently with pauses for breath. It's excruciating, but at least they don't have a whole lot to go over, and Arthur is relieved when they conclude the diplomacy part of their visit before dusk.

There's no point starting to ride home now, when they'd be stuck making camp in the middle of the Darkling Woods when night falls, so Hester graciously lets their envoy stay and take advantage of their hospitality for the night.

The group from Camelot is left mostly to their own devices, sitting around the campfire as the adult Druids congregate to prepare dinner. Arthur stands up to stretch and notices the crowd of curious children huddled together behind him, whispering among themselves— Emrys again, mostly— and casting fervent glances at their visitors.

Arthur decides, in a fit of boredom probably stemming from the drudgery of treating with Hester, that it might help his image as a kind and benevolent king to make friendly with the little Druid children. He walks slowly over to the group with his most welcoming smile and crouches down before a girl with wavy blond hair and wide grey eyes.

"Hello," he says, stretching out a palm. "I'm Arthur."

The girl giggles and places one tiny hand shyly into Arthur's own.

"What's your name?" he prods.

"Amaryllis," she whispers, and then bursts into more giggles.

Arthur can't help but smile at her antics. "It's very nice to meet you," he says.

Another young girl pushes her way over to stand next to Amaryllis. "You're really the King?" she asks.

"I really am."

"The Once and Future King?"

"So they say," Arthur replies, with a little less certainty.

"You're bringing magic back to Albion?" pipes up a boy from the middle of the crowd.

"I sure am. In fact," Arthur turns around and hollers, "Merlin!"

"Sire?"

Arthur beckons him over and addresses the children once more. "I've already started to allow magic in Camelot," he says. "This here is my servant Merlin, and he's been learning sorcery. Show them, Merlin."

A raucous wave of whispers and exclamations break out at that; Arthur hears "he's going to do magic for us!" and several proclamations of the expected, "Emrys!"

Merlin, face flushing from the tips of his ears down to his neck, clears his throat. "I don't know if—"

"Just shut up, Merlin, and do the flame thing."

He sighs, but holds out his hand obediently and says, "forbearne." It's only because Arthur's already transfixed by the blush on his cheeks that he notices Merlin's eyes flash gold.

Arthur’s mouth goes dry. It takes him a very long few moments to remember where he is and who else he's with, and when he does, he can feel his own face heating as he turns back to the children.

They're all, to a one, frowning expectantly at the little flame in Merlin’s hand.

"But even I can do that," Amaryllis' friend pouts, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

Some of the older Druids, who have also gathered around to watch, snigger at that. Arthur huffs and starts to straighten his legs, already plotting a noble speech about progress taking time and, oh, something about how it's the thought that counts, as a gesture to prove that he won't prosecute sorcerers in his kingdom, et cetera, but Merlin stays his rise with a hand on his arm. He looks utterly unruffled by the lack of praise from his audience.

"Well then, you must be quite the talented little witch," Merlin says to the girl.

"Do something else!" the same boy from the back shouts.

Merlin shoots a nervous look at Arthur, frowns at the children, then looks back at the little flame in his palm again and says something else. His eyes are no less transfixing the second time they glow gold, but Arthur manages not to drool so obviously over it this time.

The flames in Merlin's hand multiply and float up, then, with another whispered word, they turn pink and blue and green and violet. Merlin lifts his hand as if to physically toss them at the children, and the lights follow that trajectory, arcing down to zip around the kid's heads like a bunch of rainbow fireflies.

The crowd of children dissipates as they shriek and chase the colored flames every which way. With them gone it's just Merlin standing there next to Arthur, watching the kids with a soft smile on his face and looking more content than Arthur has possibly ever seen him.

15. Vox Populi

Back in Camelot, Arthur slowly makes his way through the ever-growing pile of testimonies Merlin has been collecting.

They're from all sorts of people: midwives, healers, herbalists, monks; innkeepers, shepherds, blacksmiths, tanners, merchants, stablehands; beggars, prostitutes, thieves, and mercenaries; fishermen, fishmongers, fishwives; freemen, widows, a town crier; minor lords and ladies and no fair few of their footmen, ladies’ maids, cooks, and stewards; two squires, a page boy, another knight, and an irrationally high number of court jesters; and many, many more who have chosen to remain anonymous. The stories they tell are heartbreaking in ways Arthur would never have expected.

When I was a child too young to work, I used to grow flowers from the mud puddles on the streets of the citadel and sell them to passersby in return for sweetmeats and hair ribbons and coppers.

My son was three when the old Religion was banned and for years after he cried at night when I refused to make the pretty lights for him to sleep under. I lived in fear for years that someone would hear his request and turn us in.

I killed all four of the knights who came for me and I don't regret it.

A local group of mercenaries caught me spelling the well against mold, and instead of turning me in they’ve been exploiting me for a portion of my profits. I've been barely scraping by for 16 years now and I’d started to despair of ever seeing the day when they could no longer hold my magic over my head like a threat.

I used magic to ease my neighbor's troubled birth and her husband chased me out of the village for it.

Sometimes when I relax too much into my weaving, I accidentally revert to the ancient patterns of power. I don’t know how many are still alive today who would recognize them as belonging to the Old Ways, but I burn them all as soon as I notice, just to be safe.

My daughter was barely strong enough to clean the dishes with magic, so I figured Uther's men wouldn't bother with her. I was wrong.

I fell in with a group of criminals for my own protection, and then never made it out. I use my magic for petty crimes, now, but I still wish for a day when I don’t have to be a criminal by my very nature alone.

I've been running from town to town since I was twelve summers, fleeing each one before I could be discovered. I just want to settle down in a real home.

We watched our neighbors drown and my siblings and I had nightmares for years.

I’m not much longer for this world, and I had begun to fear I would never come to see the day when magic was practiced freely once more.

My brother is a bard and I haven't seen him in twenty years because King Uther banished him from the kingdom for the tales of magic he told.

Sometimes I still wake in the night and stoke the fire with magic before I'm lucid enough to catch myself.

I only hung the sorcerer's chime up for a few days, to try to ease my ailing father's passing. It still brought the King's men to our door, and my father's last act was to take the blame for me.

My wife fought off an entire pack of bandits single-handedly and then was burnt at the stake for it.

I never wanted to be a criminal. I always strove to be a good man. But the Old Religion is as much a part of my life as my family or my trade, and I could never bear to give it up, even at risk of death.

I try to incorporate as much of the Old Religion as I can into my work as an herbalist, even knowing how dangerous a line I toe between altruism and treason.

My son never had magic, I know it; but he was born different and the neighbors already called him mad, so it was no great leap for them to accuse him of witchcraft when the knights came knocking.

I rejoiced at the news that King Uther had died.

Their suggestions for new laws, desires for reconciliation, and demands for reparations are both better and worse than Arthur had suspected:

I want to resume my position as guardian of a sacred site of the Old Religion.

I want the temple to the Old Gods in the citadel rebuilt from the very stone of its ruins.

I want a new building designated for sorcerers' apprentices to learn a magical trade, like the one I studied at in my youth.

I want the king to build and stock a new home for the Sorcerer's Guild in the Upper Town.

I want reduced tariffs on import of materials commonly used in magic rituals.

I want the ban lifted on cultivation of most magical herbs and the husbandry of harmless magical beasts.

I want the king to buy me new spell books.

I want the king to burn all the records of people suspected of sorcery or consorting with sorcerers.

I want the king to tell my neighbors I'm not something they need to fear.

I want the king to participate in a ritual of Old Religion to restore the flow of magic throughout the land.

I want the king to lead a pilgrimage to the Isle of the Blessed.

There's nothing you can do to replace the family grimoires King Uther torched.

There's nothing you can do for the dragons he hunted to extinction.

There's nothing you can do to bring my child, parent, spouse, sibling, mentor, friend back.

There's nothing you can do to erase twenty-five winters of sorrow and fear.

Arthur reads it all and takes into himself and upon his shoulders the collective pain of his people, all the suffering his throne has caused. He struggles through each and every account of heartbreak, desperation, terror, and hope, his heart aching with them. He winces at every confession of unrepentant violence, but aches far more, and far more often, with every account of senseless suffering.

When he's finished the last of the notes, heart heavy, he asks himself, asks the ghost of his father that still rallies sometimes in his mind, was it ever worth it?

16. Orquidea

There's rumour of a Druid tribe near the border with Mercia, but this one takes some time and investigation to locate. They end up spending almost a sennight among the outer villages, trawling the locals for information. On the seventh day, they ride past a small town nestled between a lake and the rolling foothills of the Holgoen mountains. Merlin must see something there because he turns down the dirt road towards it without explanation, and it's all Arthur can do to maintain some semblance of authority as he sighs and gestures for the knights to follow.

They split up in pairs to do the usual sweep of the town, chatting up barmaids and plying coins into eager hands, searching for some clue about the local Druids. This time, though, Merlin wanders off alone, asking only brief questions of the local vendors, and it's odd enough behavior that Arthur feels more or less justified in following him. He makes his way with purpose to whom Arthur eventually learns is a seamstress named Orquidea, who can't be much past middle-aged but nevertheless looks frail and worn before her time.

Arthur can't get close enough to hear their conversation, but he watches Merlin introduce himself, presumably, and then take a deep breath and say something else. The woman's whole demeanor changes, her face alighting with hope, which makes it all the easier for Arthur to pinpoint the moment when she catches the— despair? grief? regret? — in Merlin’s face. Her entire body crumples as Merlin says something else, and her wails are the first semi-audible part of their conversation: a name, Freida or Rhea or something like that, howled in a voice of utter heartbreak. Arthur could swear he sees equal grief in Merlin’s face, too, before he draws the woman into a shuddering hug.

Arthur pulls his mind back into himself, feeling guilty for eavesdropping on what is obviously a deeply personal moment, though he can't help feeling disgruntled to be so left out of whatever harrowing tale his manservant is delivering. Shouldn't he at least know whom it is Merlin is mourning?

He pushes aside something bitter that is definitely not jealousy, and strides determinedly away from the doorway of the little old seamstress' home. Because he has Druids to hunt down, and obviously Merlin is too busy doing… well, something that's not hunting down Druids.

Somehow, Arthur is proven wrong on even that account when they all meet up later at the tavern in whose stables they left their horses. It's only obvious Merlin has been crying if you know which signs to look for: a lingering pinkness around the eyes, a slump to his shoulders, a crust of snot on his sleeves. But he makes no mention of it when he says, without emotion: "The Druids can be found a half-day's walk to the east of here, behind a foothill to the south of the stream that we can follow up from the village mill."

Arthur is not alone in his appraising glances for this, and he thinks he even catches Gwaine clocking the signs of recent distress on Merlin's face, but all the knight says is, "well I'll be. How'd you hear that?"

Merlin reaches into his bag and drops a tattered grimoire and a handful of scrolls onto the wooden table-top. "There was a sorceress who's lived in the village ever since she was banished by the Druids. She's dead now but nobody wanted to touch her things in case they were cursed."

"And of course you couldn't possibly follow the good sensible example set by the locals," Arthur sighs.

Merlin only shrugs unrepentantly. "I don't seem to have been cursed yet. And you're the one who wanted to learn about magic anyway."

"And where the Druids are," Leon adds.

They find the Druids the next morning, and of course now that Arthur has finally gotten used to the staring and the long silences and the children giggling about Emrys, these Druids have to go and make everything weird again.

In a way, at least. Because there are technically kids whispering about Emrys and staring and long silences, but the whispers soon turn subdued, almost fearful; and the adults who stare at Merlin are uncharacteristically quick to look away, and the initial silence seems to stretch longer than ever.

Maybe it's because Merlin spends most of his time just sitting there with his arms crossed and a horrible glower on his face, which he refuses to drop no matter how many times Arthur admonishes him not to ruin all his attempts at diplomacy.

The elder in charge does finally get around to the negotiations they came for, but he doesn't push as hard for concessions as the other elected leaders had, and his explanations of Druid culture that Arthur still occasionally requests are provided with less pride and more shame than Arthur is accustomed to. He keeps steering into wavering tangents: launching into self-flagellating soliloquies about the Druids' vow to do no harm to living creatures, and their responsibilities to heal or send for healing for anyone who has been harmed, including by magic and even when it comes at personal risk to them, and how they have erred in the past but they do so solemnly swear to never again forsake their duties to their fellow humans.

It's all a bit lost on Arthur, who honestly keeps getting distracted by Merlin's moodiness and Arthur's own confusing thoughts about how vehemently he resents not knowing every detail of Merlin's inner thought process and also, embarrassingly, how much he misses Merlin's easy smile.

In the morning, when they leave, the elder pulls Merlin aside with the usual bundle of Druid robes that Arthur is genuinely starting to hate. But this time he watches Merlin shake his head and reject the gift, saying something in return that elicits a fervent nod and a hanging head from the elder as Merlin walks back to the horses.

"You better not have just irreparably insulted these people, Merlin," Arthur growls.

"I haven't," Merlin snaps back. He says no more for the rest of the journey home, riding stone-faced and silent, and ignoring the looks of concern frequently cast his way.

17. Freya

Arthur watches Merlin closely over the course of the following week, keeping a keen eye out for further signs of distress or perhaps even clues as to what that whole debacle was about. Every time Arthur's tried to question Merlin about it since, he's been either blatantly ignored, ungracefully brushed off, or silenced by a brusque head shake.

So he waits, and he monitors the tension in Merlin's shoulders, which doesn't ever seem to abate, until one day it swells, agitation leaking out of every finger-tap and object dropped distractedly. It still takes all day for Merlin to work up to whatever is bothering him, and it's only after Arthur's dinner has been cleared away, his fire stoked, his bath emptied, and his sheets turned down that Merlin pulls a scroll from a small pouch hanging off his breeches. He's already at the door by the time Arthur recognizes it as another sorcerer's testimony, and he’s well and truly fled by the time Arthur's made his way over to the table to read it.

Freya, deceased, story recorded second-hand
-She killed a man who was attacking her, so his mother cursed her to kill forevermore
-Every night at midnight she turned into a man-eating bastet
-She was cast out of the Druid camp and then captured by a bounty hunter
-She escaped the slaver but was killed one night while transformed

How to prevent such tragedies in the future in a fair and just kingdom?
-Include in every trial a chance for victims of curses and enchantments to prove the harm they caused was unwilling
-Hire sorcerers skilled at breaking curses so that nobody need live in fear
-Build secure but humane accommodations to restrain unwillingly dangerous individuals until they can be rendered harmless
-Establish diplomatic and academic connections with neighboring kingdoms to share knowledge when solutions are hard-found

It takes several re-reads for Arthur to put his finger on what about this account is so different from the rest: it's not rushed. There is a distinct lack of shorthand and abbreviations, and even Merlin's usual chicken scratch is notably more legible. These are not the notes of a manservant rushing to jot down the words somebody else is speaking; it's… a story that he already knew when he sat down to write it.

Freya, he thinks, and he can hear her voice being wailed by the stoop-shouldered and care-worn seamstress. He can see Merlin crying alongside what could only have been Freya's mother, and later glaring daggers at the nearby Druids.

For the first time in years, it hits Arthur that Merlin must have some semblance of a life outside of his service, that he must have friends who do not live or work in the castle. That he even has secrets he's never told his king.

It hurts, for reasons Arthur doesn't want to explore. It's not like he would have expected Merlin to tell him everything— it's hardly fitting for a king to be chief confidant of his own manservant— and yet, now that he thinks about it, he would have liked that nonetheless. He wants to know every secret Merlin has ever kept, every facet of his life. What's more, it makes him sour and uncomfortable to know that he doesn't.

He watches Merlin even more closely after that, searching for lines of grief on his face or twitches of deceit in his fingers. He doesn't find much, but he does note a slow relaxation in the stiffness of Merlin’s spine with every day that goes by that Arthur does not ask him about the testimony he delivered or the seamstress he visited or the Druids he scorned.

Eventually, after much haranguing of Geoffrey for his elusive books on magical creatures, Arthur learns what a Bastet is and what it looks like, and he remembers the one he killed with his own hands three years ago.

He remembers how Hengist had tried to accuse Merlin of helping that Druid girl escape, and succeeded in accusing him of stealing Arthur's food. He remembers how Guinevere had refused to accuse Merlin of stealing Morgana's dress, even though he clearly had. He remembers how Merlin had been particularly twitchy and hard to pin down during that time. And he remembers, with a dull weight on his chest, how Merlin had seemed sullen and sad afterwards, how he fumbled through tasks with uncharacteristic weariness.

Well, damn, he thinks. What is he to do with this realization now that he's made it? And also, how many more sorcerers and/or magical beasts has Merlin been consorting with behind his back? First that strange Taliesin man, and now this? Regardless of the legality of doing so and the utter recklessness it would have required to confess, Merlin still should have told him.

Arthur sits on his hurt, keeps it wrapped up tight even as Merlin seems to shake off his melancholy and move on.

He feels fresh waves of something akin to paranoia, now, whenever Merlin leaves his side for the lower town or outlying villages, wondering whether this will be the time he attaches himself to some new woman, be she magic or tragic or both. Every time Merlin comes back with another scroll in hand, Arthur scrutinizes him for some sign of new attraction, until Merlin finally calls him on it.

"I'm not being corrupted by the sorcerers," he says with a roll of his eyes.

"I never said you were!"

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"I am not!"

"You are!"

The bickering continues until neither of them remembers what it started about, and Arthur does his best to put Freya out of his mind.

18. Mithian

Arthur has gotten so swept up in this sorcery project that he's managed not to dwell on the significance of his peace treaty with Nemeth over the disputed lands in Gedref. Alas, that willful obliviousness is shattered by the arrival of Princess Mithian.

"How come I didn't know about any of this?" Merlin demands. "How come you didn't say anything?"

Because I couldn't bear the thought, Arthur thinks. Because it doesn't feel as real in royal correspondence as it does spoken aloud to a friend. "That's what confidential means," he says instead.

"You still love her," Merlin says about Guinevere, and Arthur only realizes in that moment that it's no longer true because he's somehow gone and fallen in love with Merlin instead.

The epiphany rocks him to his core, which is what he blames for snapping at Merlin when his stupid loveable manservant keeps trying to foist feelings for Guinevere back onto him.

He tries to hold onto that irritation towards Merlin in order to focus on courting Mithian properly. Because, unhelpful realizations about love notwithstanding, this is first and foremost a diplomatic engagement and he will honour it for the good of his kingdom.

Still, it's hard to concentrate on wooing the princess when Merlin keeps interrupting their conversations and bespelling Arthur into increasingly more humiliating mistakes. Or maybe Arthur just really is that clumsy these days, and he's blaming Merlin out of wishful thinking. What a strange year it's been, that now he suspects magical sabotage of his diplomatic endeavours and his first reaction is, I hope Merlin's jealous.

Alas, his good mood comes crashing down around him when Merlin accuses Agravaine of treason. What's worse, he can't quite quash that flicker of unease inside that suggests this is the first sign that magic has corrupted his beloved manservant, as magic is always wont to do.

He’s ashamed to even think it, though that shame doesn’t preclude the thought from lingering. He’s put so much work into understanding magic and the people who use it. He’s carefully catalogued every instance in his mind when magic was used for good rather than evil: the poultice that cured Guinevere’s father, the ball of light that illuminated his path to safety out of the cave of the Morteus flower; the windstorm that saved Ealdor; the Cup of Life that restored Sir Leon to full health when he was on the brink of death. And yet… Merlin started practicing magic, and now he is trying to turn Arthur against his most trusted advisor. The correlation is damning.

Arthur spends the rest of Princess Mithian's visit in a rather distracted fugue; it's fortunate that she's one of his only peers not inclined to take advantage of such a weakness. Indeed, such nobility would be a welcome trait in his wife and queen, along with her skill at diplomacy, love for hunting, and personable demeanor. It's quite a shame, then, that Arthur can't bring himself to commit to a future with her.

The night before he's supposed to seal their engagement, Arthur stays up late, brooding over the ring he's found on the forest floor. It used to be his mother's, and then Guinevere's, and he wants to take its reappearance as a sign that it's meant to fall into new hands soon. Still, he can't help but worry about Merlin's suspicion of his loyal uncle and the evil grips that magic might be even now sinking ever deeper into his soul. But—

"How could I make myself love another?" he asks Merlin. Hypothetically, of course. "Tell me that."

"You must do what your heart tells you, sire." It's an awfully romantic notion coming from someone who just days ago asked Arthur to cast aspersions on the character and devotion of the only member of his family he has left.

"What if I don't know what that is?" he confesses.

"I think you do," says Merlin.

Once again, he's right, and Arthur can't help but resent him for it, a little. It's not fair for Merlin to know him so intimately, and entice him so sweetly, even now that he's slipping under magic’s dark thrall.

But Arthur wakes in the morning after a restless night and he knows what he has to do. It's the only thing he can do.

"Tell me," says Mithian, amidst her dignified departure. "Who is it that trumps a princess?"

Arthur is painfully aware of Merlin's presence nearby, near enough perhaps to overhear this conversation. He decides to play it safe and vague. "No one. And anyone."

"What great family is she from?" Mithian demands.

"None," says Arthur, remembering a humble little one-room hut in a poor farming village, a fiercely protective mother, an unmentioned father. "A servant," he adds, when Mithian seems inclined to continue.

The princess purses her lips, the only sign of the insult he's reluctantly caused. "And for her you would risk your kingship? Your kingdom?"

Arthur can't help but feel that he's risking his very soul now, not to mention the eternal damnation of his entire people, what with the king's heart so firmly in the grasp of a sorcerer. Still… "Without him, they're worth nothing to me."

A beat later he winces, hoping desperately that his slip of pronoun might have gone unnoticed.

Mithian's eyes widen, but her face softens a beat later. If Arthur had to guess, he'd hope it lessens the insult of being thrown over for a servant if it's not a question of her beauty or her character but her immutable gender.

She smiles softly. "I would give up my own kingdom to be so loved."

Quietly, Arthur wonders if he might not have to do so anyway.

19. Alator

Over a month after Arthur’s pardon of Abdel, the rushing stream of testimonies from Camelot's surviving sorcerers finally starts to slow. That’s not to say that the scrolls stop coming entirely; Merlin is still mingling with the general public a few days a week, although the frequency of such visits has dwindled now that it seems most of the magicians who would be inclined to come forward have done so.

It is a welcome relief, not only because Arthur is starting to lose his grasp on his sanity with each brand new neckerchief Merlin wears, but also as a matter of time management. Now that he feels he has a decent understanding of the issue of magic and magic users in his kingdom, Arthur needs to find time to actually start writing the new laws, treaties, and declarations he’s been researching all this time. Not to mention the fact that Arthur might as well just scrap the feudal system altogether and start from scratch if he wants to accommodate all of the Druids’ demands.

It’s taken him so long to draft a solid set of working laws that half of his advisors have decided that his stated intention to lift the ban on magic was nothing more than a lark, or a prank, or a passing fancy, since he’s made no actual progress on it during the months that have since passed.

So of course, just when Arthur starts to feel like he has a decent handle on this project, he receives another scroll from Merlin that has him wishing all over again for his father’s easy, simple morality about magic.

To King Arthur of Camelot, the missive reads, where Arthur was expecting scratchy, informal notes from Merlin and instead finds a letter written in a foreign hand.

I am the Catha, warrior and priest of an ancient clan of sorcerers. We relocated to a remote isle when magic was banned from Camelot in order to remain faithful to the Old Religion. Our numbers have since dwindled but our hearts and our magic remain strong. We are some of the most highly disciplined, versatile, and technically precise battle mages left in all of Albion.

We have been shunned, persecuted, and sometimes even hunted in every corner of the five kingdoms; many long and fraught years we have waited for our ways to be accepted once more. We have loaned our services and particular skills out to any who would ask it over the course of our exile, but our true loyalty has always been, and remains, with those who seek the peace and prosperity of a magical Albion. To that effect, I have already pledged our fealty to Emrys, and now I do the same to you, our Once and Future King. Should the time come when you have need of the Catha, we shall not hesitate to assist you.

Alator, Catha, High Priest of the Old Religion

Arthur puts the letter down and rubs his temples. The more he learns about sorcerers trained in magical battle, and whatever else these Catha people do— about which he has absolutely no interest in extrapolating further— the less confident he feels that his father didn’t maybe have some truth to his concerns about sorcery after all.

“And why would he declare his and his entire clan’s allegiance to me?” he grumbles to himself. “It’s not like I’m planning to go to war.”

“Aren’t you?” comes Merlin’s voice in response.

Arthur jumps; he hadn’t realized Merlin was still in his chambers. “What are you talking about?”

Merlin only shrugs. “I mean, Morgana’s still out there, isn’t she? Last I checked she hadn’t given up on her quest for the throne.”

Arthur frowns. “I’d rather thought she might still… come around, once she saw me embracing magic.”

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin sighs. “Maybe she might have once, but… I wouldn’t count on it.”

He doesn’t want to acknowledge the wisdom in Merlin’s words; it hurts too much to think about. “Where’d you get this letter?” he says instead.

“What, Alator’s?” Merlin checks. “He gave it to me.”

”In person?”

“Well, yeah. You know the drill by now; people just come up to me and ask me to pass along a message to you.”

“But– but—” Arthur splutters. “He comes across as some kind of, of, mercenary battle mage!”

Merlin shrugs. “Yeah, he is a bit. But he’s loyal to you, so—”

“But you had no way of knowing that when he just, what, approached you in the street?!”

“Ah.” Merlin says. “No, of course I didn’t know who he was. But, as you can see, he did me no harm, so—”

“But he could have! You just let some kind of leader of the magical assassins chat you up in the middle of the lower towns?”

“In broad daylight? Yeah. Besides, everyone there knows me; they wouldn’t have let someone just walk up and kidnap or murder me or whatever.”

Arthur’s mood only fouls further at that. “Of course, you were perfectly safe surrounded by your crowd of infatuated magical peasants! Next thing you know, this Catha will be showering you with gifts, too!”

That absolutely exaggerated complaint is met with a suspiciously fidgety silence from Merlin. Arthur raises his head to glare at his stupid loveable idiot manservant. “Merlin,” he growls. “Please tell me this Catha assassin did not shower you with gifts.”

Merlin scratches at the side of his neck. “I guess he’d heard it was something of a tradition among the Druids?”

“He gave you clothes?”

“A robe,” Merlin shrugs. “Pretty similar to the Druids’, only it’s kind of an orangey-red colour, which is nice because I was getting pretty tired of all the natural forest coloured ones—”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts before he starts to seethe in earnest. “Shut up.”

20. Magali

Arthur leads another group of knights down south, searching for the most elusive Druid tribe yet. It turns out, only about half of the population is the actual tribe of Druids, with whom Arthur originally came here to treat. Honestly, they’re more of a loose conglomeration of magical people with nowhere better or more welcoming to be at the moment, separating and congregating as they see fit.

The Druids stand out in their blue and green robes, but it's disconcerting to see their distinctive garb interspersed with the eclectic mix of styles from their companions. There are several people in familiar linens and cotton, like the village folk and townspeople Arthur's accustomed to seeing in Camelot. There are also scarred men in hard leather gambesons, children in cloaks that appear to be fashioned almost entirely from one single wolf pelt, and a group of women wearing colorful headscarves.

He tries not to stare too obviously at the variety around him, and takes comfort in the fact that they can't gift Merlin robes if there's no one fashion that can represent the whole community. It's flimsy logic, he knows, so he tries not to examine it too closely.

They’re a tougher crowd, having attracted quite a number of Druids and independent sorcerers who survived attacks and fled for the safety of a system of caves in the mountains of Asgard. The reactions Arthur receives contain far more wariness and far less awe than those of the other Druids he's met, but he doesn't take it personally.

Nevertheless, it seems that news of Arthur's purpose has preceded them, because his envoy is formally welcomed by an elected spokesman named Wilbur.

He recounts the history and lifestyle of the group, and the requests agreed upon by the Druid tribe that makes up about half of the gathered number, then sits back and allows various other individuals to present their own grievances and petitions. Arthur fields several rounds of grief-ridden blame as well as demands that he replace what was lost or destroyed during The Purge.

One of the last to step up and speak is a woman named Nia. "My husband, Aemon was ruthlessly hunted down, well past the border into Mercia, and slaughtered by King Uther's men," she says. "He was one of the last dragonlords."

Arthur stifles a gasp and hears Merlin fail to do so in his periphery. "We made the acquaintance of the dragonlord Balinor a few years back," Arthur says to her. "He was an honourable man. I'm sorry he's gone."

A woman standing somewhere off to Arthur's right lets out a horrified exclamation. He turns with mounting dread to find her, dark-haired and dark-eyed, pushing her way through the crowd of onlookers with a skinny boy of maybe fifteen trailing in her wake.

"Balinor?" she demands. "You know of him? He's— he's gone now?"

Arthur swallows down a lump in his throat and gestures for the woman to join him; she declines. "Yes. It was no more than four winters ago. We were traveling to Camelot when we were attacked by Cenred's men. He was killed in the skirmish."

The tears that have been running steadily down her face turn into great heaving sobs.

Immediately Merlin jumps up from his seat, shoves his parchment and quill into Arthur's hand, and approaches her. Arthur can't make out what he's murmuring to her, but he guides the grieving woman gently away from the staring crowds. A beat later Nia scurries after them, presumably to lead them back to their tent.

Arthur doesn't begrudge Merlin this chance to impart comfort, but he does, as the night wears on, grumble to himself about being left alone to weather the reprimands of several more lone survivors of families otherwise wiped out during The Purge. When Merlin fails to reappear from wherever he got hauled off to by the time dinner finishes up, Arthur heads off to track him down.

He meanders through the labyrinth of multicolored tents, each new person he encounters pointing his way to Nia and Magali’s home. Magali being, he learns, incidentally and with a wince at his own insensitivity, the cousin of Balinor.

He knows he's finally found the right tent when he hears Merlin's familiar voice from inside, asking, of all things, what dragons like to eat. Arthur rolls his eyes and flips open the cloth doorway of the tent.

"There you are, Merlin!"

Merlin jumps and spins around to look at him. Arthur frowns at the sight of the puffy pink skin around his eyes and nose. Merlin seems to be making a very annoying habit of using these excursions to hunt down family members of people he watched die. If Balinor, too, turns out to have been some former lover of Merlin’s, Arthur is probably going to punch something, most likely the wall of the tent, which will probably send it crashing down around their ears.

“What’s going on here?” he demands.

Merlin makes a failed attempt to rub surreptitiously at his eyes. “I was just explaining to Magali and Simeon what happened to Balinor, and then they were telling me some of their dragon lore.”

“Why would you need to know about dragons when they’re all extinct?”

“No reason.” Merlin shrugs awkwardly. “I just think they’re cool.”

“Well, no matter,” Arthur says, valiantly ignoring his lingering unease at whatever this is. “It’s time for bed. C’mon, I’ll show you our tent.”

Merlin winces and looks at Magali and the boy— Simeon, he supposes— then back at Arthur. “They’ve actually offered to host me for the night, so…”

“Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you alone all night in en— erm, new territory. No offense, of course, I’m sure you’re lovely,” he adds to the ladies Nia and Magali, offering them a winning smile. They barely react, seeming more concerned with Merlin, because of course they are.

“Right, yeah.” Merlin nods and pushes himself onto his feet. He turns to Magali. “I meant what I said about coming to the city when the laws change. And of course you know where to find me.”

“Of course, dear,” Magali says, wrapping Merlin into a warm hug.

Arthur tries not to grimace at the absolutely inappropriate display of affection, and pulls Merlin away as quickly as he can.

21. Avi

Camelot has melted well into the throes of spring when Merlin comes up to Arthur, grinning, and says, "Avi has agreed to speak with you!"

This means absolutely nothing to him at first, but Merlin explains that Avi was a renowned scholar of magic before The Purge who managed to hide themself successfully from the numerous manhunts sent after them and has been biding their time ever since.

Regardless of Arthur's lingering misgivings about magic and its possible corruption of Merlin, it's too good an opportunity to pass up. He just has too many lingering questions and nobody who has yet been able to answer them.

So he follows Merlin to an inconspicuous room in a tavern, having already been warned that Avi is too wary to invite the king into their home, painstakingly hidden as it has been from the crown for many years.

The scholar in question is tall and willowy, with high cheekbones and dark eyebrows, red hair down to their shoulders, and a very uninformative plain black robe.

"Avi," Arthur acknowledges once he's done with his inspection. "It is a privilege and a pleasure to meet you. I am grateful for this chance to learn what I can from you."

Lunch is on him, steaming fresh from the tavern kitchen in honour of the king, and the three of them crowd around a small table in a rented room to speak frankly about magic.

Avi is truly an invaluable resource, answering all of the lingering questions Arthur's had about dark magic and the enchanted items down in the vaults and the dangerous spells that the common sorcerers don't know and the Druids avoid for fear of upsetting The Balance.

“But how do you know magic isn’t a corruptive force?” Arthur insists, two hours into their discussion.

Avi sighs. “How would you go about measuring corruption, sire?”

Arthur flounders for several moments. “When… how often you start doing bad things?”

His reward for that response is a look of utter hopelessness on the scholar’s face. “The only people who are corrupted by magic are those who see it as power, as only a means to their selfish end," they insist.

“But magic is power,” Arthur says with a frown.

“Magic is also beauty and life and balance, for those who respect it properly.”

“Magic corrupted Morgana and now it's—!" He shuts his mouth with a fierce click before he can impulsively mention his concerns about Merlin. "She loved my father and me like family, and she cared about justice, and then she started doing magic and she became— became—” he trails off, either unable or unwilling to put a label to Morgana.

“I cannot speak with confidence about the motives of the Lady Morgana,” Avi says slowly, their expression growing heavy with grief. “But I know all too well how fear and helplessness in the face of tyranny and hypocrisy can turn good people vicious, desperate for a semblance of the control or safety they have been long denied.”

Eventually, they reach something of an impasse, and Avi graciously allows Arthur to drop the subject of corruption in order to finally ask questions about the Druids that he would never dare ask one to their face. For instance, "Do you know why they take so long to answer questions?"

Avi considers this for a long moment, then has a flash of realization followed by a bout of ringing laughter. Arthur waits them out, mildly insulted and not at all pacified by the insouciant smirk on his manservant’s face.

"Forgive me, your majesty," they say when they've finally calmed down. "I believe I— allow me to explain. One of the most common magical skills taught among the Druid people is the art of speaking directly to somebody else's mind."

Arthur blinks as he processes that, and then gapes when he relates it back to his original question. "You mean— all that time, they've just been talking about me amongst themselves? In their heads?"

This time Merlin, too, descends into sniggers. Arthur glares at him, which is dreadfully ineffective.

He groans and rubs his temples in defeat. "Any other special skills the Druids have that I should know about?"

Avi clears their throat and resumes their professional academic demeanor. "In addition to the mental communication, almost all Druids are capable of sensing the strength of a person's inherent connection to magic. They also have a very high incidence of the gift of prophecy."

Arthur vows to come back later to whatever the inherent connection to magic thing is. "Prophecy," he repeats eagerly. "One of the Druids mentioned a prophecy. He said it was about me."

Avi nods solemnly. "That of Emrys and the Once and Future King."

Arthur sighs. "So it's true, then? Or at least, an established, erm, prediction? That I'm destined to bring about some golden age of Emrys?"

At that, Avi's eyebrows raise and they swivel their gaze to look at Merlin, who only widens his eyes. It takes Arthur a couple seconds of silence to catch on, but—

"You're doing the thing!" he splutters. "The— speaking with your minds!"

Merlin tears his gaze away from Avi to give Arthur his most innocent expression. "No we're not."

"You so are!" he accuses. "I didn't even know you could do that! Are you— have you been using it all this time to speak to the Druids?"

"Of course not, my lord."

"Don't lie to your King, Merlin," Arthur says through gritted teeth. "Or I'll have you in the stocks for a month."

Merlin's shoulders slump. "I can only talk to them when they talk to me first, and I only ever did it to vouch for you."

"Why would they ask you your opinion?" Arthur scoffs.

"Uh." He shrugs. "Like Avi said. They can sense I've got a connection to magic, you know, since I've been practicing for a few months. So they figured they could trust the assurances of a sorcerer in your household."

"And you didn't think to mention this to me?" Arthur glowers at him. "You know what? Never mind. We'll talk about this later." He turns back to Avi. "You were telling me about the prophecy of Emrys."

22. The Prophets

Avi glances warily between Arthur and Merlin, and when they do speak, it's hesitant. "The prophecies are as old as the land of Albion itself. It's not just the Druids who believe in them, although their insular culture and respect for the Sight have made the idea of predestination more prominent in their society than among the general public."

"Do you believe it, then?" Arthur pushes. "That I'm supposed to unite all the five kingdoms and spread magic throughout the land?"

"I do," Avi hedges. "The signs are unmistakable."

Arthur frowns. "What signs?"

"Well, those who have studied such prophecies have always known that the man destined to become the Once and Future King will be heralded by the presence of Emrys at his side."

Arthur frowns harder. "I thought Emrys was just some fancy name for the reawakening of magic after the Purge?"

Avi coughs awkwardly, eyes darting again to Merlin. "Emrys is a warlock, your majesty. The most powerful sorcerer of all time— some even say he is magic incarnate— and the one who has and will ensure you see your destiny through to the end."

The revelation rocks Arthur back in his chair and leaves him speechless for many minutes. "Emrys is a person?!" he gasps. Merlin descends into a very unsubtle coughing fit; he’s probably laughing at Arthur again, but that's the least of Arthur’s worries at the moment.

Honestly, it's a bit difficult to decide what to panic over first. The fact that he's been destined for some kind of partnership with the most powerful sorcerer of all time? The implication that if magic and power both corrupt, then the wielder of the most magical power of all time would logically be the single most corrupt sorcerer to ever exist, and he’s supposed to be in league with Arthur? What his father would have said about that if he knew?

"He has and will ensure my destiny?" Arthur repeats. "You mean he's already done something? For me?"

Never in his life has Arthur received such a look of scathing condescension from anyone— other than his father or Morgana— as the one Avi is currently making in his direction. "There has been talk among the Druids for some time now about the presence of Emrys in your life," they say after a weighty pause. "They are quite assured that he has been protecting you from your enemies for many years."

Arthur scoffs. "I'm pretty sure I would have known if I had an all-powerful sorcerer intervening in my affairs."

Merlin snorts; Arthur ignores him.

"My lord…" Avi pauses. "It may be that Emrys has so far preferred to work quietly from the sidelines. But his influence on your life is unquestionable, as is his acceptance of your shared destiny."

Arthur shakes his head, but he can't bring himself to deny it again. He leaps from his seat in order to pace the length of the small tavern room, trying desperately to disbelieve it. Alas, he ends up instead remembering a litany of magical creatures he supposedly killed that he shouldn't have been able to; entire supernatural revolts mysteriously foiled; impossible escapes that miraculously turned into mere close calls or serendipitous seismic coincidences.

"There's an all-powerful sorcerer who's been intervening in my affairs," he acknowledges aloud, feeling out the shape of that truth on his tongue. "And he's been doing so to… protect me. Why?"

"Because he believes in the beautiful future you will build as High King of Albion," Avi says gently.

Arthur frowns again and takes to pacing some more as he digests this. "Wait a minute!" He whirls around to stare agape at Avi. "Every time I go to visit the Druids, they're always talking about Emrys! He must be— he's been following me— and the Druids can sense him there—"

He stops when he notices a muscle twitching in Avi's cheek. The scholar is staring determinedly at a point over Arthur's shoulder, and Merlin is bent over with his head in his palms.

"What?" Arthur growls.

Merlin drops his hands to reveal a remarkably straight face. "What, my lord?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. "Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you, my lord."

"I'll have you in the stocks for a month," he threatens.

The corner of Merlin's lips finally stops quirking. "Yes sire."

Feeling the first stirrings of self-doubt along with the expected embarrassment, Arthur looks imploringly at Avi. "Why me?" he asks. "Why wouldn't Emrys pick someone else?"

"He didn't pick you any more than you picked him," Avi explains. "It was both your fates. You are the prophesied King because Emrys chose you, and Emrys chose you because you are the prophesied King."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Avi only shrugs. "Destiny is funny like that."

Arthur scowls, but proceeds to his next question. "You called me the Once and Future King. What does that mean?"

"It means that you will spend some time in Avalon after your death, but that one day you are destined to return to this land, when Albion's need for you is greatest."

"Return to life?" Arthur scoffs.

"To lead the people of Albion out of the age of deepest darkness, and once again restore peace to the kingdom," Avi confirms.

Arthur would dearly like to tear his hair out, but alas, it’s a distinctly un-kingly habit in which to indulge. "And I've got no choice at all about being ripped from my eternal slumber and thrown back out into some hellish future, then?" he grumbles.

"If you are as great a king as your destiny demands, then you will do so out of duty and love for your people," Avi says quietly.

Arthur makes a face and flops back down into his chair. As much as he'd dearly like to argue with that, he can't.

23. Merlin

A few weeks later, Arthur is walking through the castle halls when he rounds the corner and his breath stops short. Merlin is hurrying in his direction, and his hair is long enough to curl at the tops of his shoulders and it’s braided through all over with lobelias.

“Merlin?” he gasps with what little air he can find in his lungs.

His manservant skids to a halt, eyes locking on Arthur’s and widening comically, and every visible inch of skin flushes a deep pink. “What are you doing here?” he blurts out.

Arthur crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and says, smugly: “I live here.”

“I mean— you’re supposed to be at training! In the yard on the far side of the castle!” Merlin insists, hands fluttering nervously around his head as if that could cover up the evidence of his slow descent into a human rose garden.

“Elyan got a bad knock to the head so I was just taking him up to Gaius. More importantly, where have you been?”

It should have been impossible, but Merlin blushes even harder. “I was just, you know, in the lower town. Talking to people.”

Arthur laughs brightly. “Sorcerers did this to you?”

“I’d like to see you say no to three five year-olds and their puppy dog eyes!” Merlin grumbles.

“And these adorable, irresistible five year-olds are already skilled enough in magic to grow your hair long enough for flower braiding, all by themselves?” he says skeptically. Because nothing would be more satisfying than the implication that Merlin did this to himself, that idiot loveable girl's petticoat.

“If you can’t believe there are five year-old girls out there who have mastered every hair-styling spell under the sun, then you don’t know anything about five year-old girls.”

Arthur lets out another bark of genuine laughter as Merlin pushes determinedly past him. “You sure you don’t want to come back out on the grounds with me?” he cajoles. “Say hello to the boys? I think Gwaine and Leon could be talked around into some braids, too.”

“Good-bye, cabbage-head!"

“Let me know if you need help with your deflowering!” Arthur calls over his shoulder after him. Merlin flushes to the tips of his ears and all the way down the back of his neck.

Arthur returns to training in a terrific mood, but grows pensive as the evening approaches. It’s all to do with the delectable image of Merlin with little blue flowers all over his hair, of course, but just because it’s a nice fantasy doesn’t mean it makes him happy. That is to say, the fact that Merlin looked so happy has finally forced Arthur to confront the fact that he hasn’t always seemed nearly so content.

It’s never occurred to Arthur before to wonder if his servants like their jobs; honestly, he’s not quite sure he cares overmuch about any of the others even now, but the notion still applies to Merlin. And it’s clear now that he’s truly enjoying his time in the lower town and outer villages and Druid camps, and apparently charming the pants off of everyone he meets there.

Arthur should feel glad that Merlin is thriving. He wants him to be happy. He does. He just hates that Merlin seems to be happier among other people than he ever has been with Arthur.

The shame of it keeps him tossing and turning all night. When Merlin walks into his chambers the next morning to wake him up, Arthur is already sitting, fully dressed, on the edge of his bed.

Merlin stops short several feet away. “Is everything alright, sire?”

“Are you happy, Merlin?” Arthur asks. It takes him a phenomenal effort to force the question out around the rock in his throat.

“Am I happy?” Merlin repeats incredulously.

“Are you deaf as well, or just honestly this dumb?” Arthur snaps, then immediately regrets it. And not only because his tendency to insult his manservant at every turn is probably no small part of the reason why Merlin enjoys the company of all those other people instead of Arthur’s.

“Just caught by surprise,” he says mildly. “I haven’t really thought about it, but yes, I suppose I am.”

Arthur grimaces through the effort of asking his follow-up question. “Are you only happy now because you’ve been spending so much time in the lower town?”

Merlin frowns and crosses his arms. “If you’re trying to accuse me of skiving off for the tavern again—”

Arthur groans out his frustration, loudly. “That’s not what I mean!”

“Then I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re trying to mean!”

“I mean you’re— you’re going out to the lower towns and outer villages and being showered with flowers and food and trinkets, and it’s clear they all love you, and it’s clear you’re enjoying your time with the sorcerers more than you’ve ever enjoyed your time in the castle as my manservant, so I just don’t understand why you bother sticking around!”

Merlin’s face softens, although Arthur could swear there’s also a wily little glimmer of something like amusement in his eyes. “There’s no place I’d rather be than by your side,” he says.

Arthur crosses his own arms stubbornly. “Even though I insult you and throw things at you and make you muck out the stables when you annoy me, while every sorcerer and Druid in the entire blasted kingdom seems to adore you?”

Merlin shrugs. “I’d rather be here with you, if it’s all the same. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds, as Arthur’s eyebrows rise incredulously. “They definitely treat me better than you do, which was fun for a while, but my true purpose is to serve you, really. I love getting to know the sorcerers and feeling like I’m helping them, but I haven’t forgotten that I’m doing all this in order to help you free magic in Camelot. I believe in the king you’re becoming and the kingdom you’re building, and all I want is to keep being a part of that.”

He flashes that knowing little smile of his, the one that only appears in his rare moments of great wisdom, and Arthur believes him.

24. Emrys

A week before Beltane, he's returning from yet another visit to yet another group of Druids with Percival and Merlin when they are ambushed by a large pack of bandits.

They're hopelessly outnumbered, no thanks to the fact that Arthur had decided he could spare only one knight from spring training for the trip. Between the three of them, they put up a brave effort, but it's a losing battle they're fighting and Arthur knows it.

One moment he's been forced back onto one knee, desperately contorting himself trying to block the sword coming for his head. The next moment the bandit is thrown back, arcing impossibly high only to make impact with a sickening crack against a nearby tree.

Arthur blinks dazedly, trying to make sense of how that happened, and he realizes that not only his most imminent foe but every single one of the bandits is now unconscious on the ground. He eagerly checks on his companions: Percival is in roughly the same state of bewilderment, but uninjured enough to be upright, and Merlin is bleeding lightly on one arm and has eyes only for Arthur.

"I'm fine," he says, standing up on shaky legs. "That was…"

"Magic," Percival breathes, awed.

"Emrys," Arthur corrects. He spins around, looking desperately into every gap of the trees, peering closely at each rustling bush. "EMRYS!" he yells. "Was that you? Are you here?"

It can't possibly have been anyone else, but Emrys does not respond.

“Please!” he yells. “I’d just like to meet you! And thank you for protecting me, in this and everything else you’ve done. Please, Emrys?”

Nothing moves, and nobody responds; it’s as if Emrys was never here at all.

“I’m sure he’ll show himself when he’s ready,” Merlin says hesitantly.

Arthur waves off his lukewarm reassurances and broods in silence for the rest of the ride back to Camelot.

Two days later, though, Merlin barges into his study with two scrolls in hand. One, a collection of two more sorcerers’ life stories, he drops unceremoniously on the desk. The other scroll he hands directly to Arthur. “Letter from Emrys,” he says.

Arthur jumps up so quickly his chair topples over behind him. “Emrys gave you a letter for me? When? Where was he? What did he look like?”

Merlin pales. “Erm, no, he… gave the letter to Miryan, who gave me a testimony.” He indicates the other inconsequential scroll. “She said she didn’t get a good look at him, though; he was… under a cloak. He just told her to pass it onto me when she saw me and then disappeared into the crowd.”

“Damn it,” Arthur swears. “Why can’t he just approach me in person?”

“Maybe that’s explained in the letter?” Merlin suggests hopefully.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he wastes no more time opening the missive. It’s… baffling, in appearance alone: the letters look like the handwriting of a peasant trying to copy the flowing cursive of a scribe, and it’s unsealed but nonetheless written on royal-quality vellum. Arthur wonders if this is supposed to send some sort of coded message, but he can’t fathom what that message could possibly be.

His Majesty King Arthur,

I apologize that I have not yet revealed myself to you. I hope you can understand that I do so not with any desire to deceive you but because I work best from the shadows. I have been defending you from your enemies for many years now, and they are much more easily dispatched when they do not know the extent of your protection.

In recent months, especially, my anonymity has been more important than ever, for the High Priestess Morgana has learned of my involvement in your affairs and has been seeking my location and identity ever since. For as long as she remains fixated on me and not you, I am happy to suffer her futile attempts.

However, your enemies are not all lurking beyond the castle walls. You may not want to hear it, my lord, but your uncle Agravaine is in league with Morgana. He has been passing her information and attempting to sabotage your decisions since the very day he arrived in Camelot. I beg you to take heed of my warning and allow him no further access to your confidence. Blockade your siege tunnels and prepare for war. They will not wait much longer to put their dastardly plans into action.

With devotion,

Your sworn protector and humble servant,

Emrys

Arthur scowls and crumples the letter in his hand.

“Sire?” Merlin says uncertainly.

“I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, that all you sorcerers have decided to try to pit me against Agravaine, but I won’t stand for it.”

“Arthur—”

“No. I won’t hear it. He’s the only family I’ve got left and I trust him with my life,” Arthur insists. “And I’ll surely trust him over the word of some blasted warlock who’s too cowardly to speak his treasonous accusations to my face!”

“Sire—”

“And who’s even to say the man in the cloak was Emrys at all? Or that Emrys is really on my side? If he’s truly the most powerful sorcerer of all time, then who’s to say he hasn’t just enchanted all the Druids into believing he’s benevolent?”

“Arthur, you’re being—”

“Enough,” he thunders. “Get out of my sight before I exile you.”

25. Agravaine

It’s nobody’s fault but his own, then, that Arthur is so blindsided by Agravaine’s involvement in the attempted coup on Beltane. There he is, marching next to Morgana and Helios at the head of an invading Southron army that’s crept in through the siege tunnels, just as Merlin and Emrys both tried to warn him.

How could he have been so stupid?

It’s a blessed relief to float through the next day in a daze, the stabbing pain of his broken ribs and the much deeper ache of betrayal smothered beneath a fog of contentment. He’s almost sorry to wake the next morning with his lucidity back, along with the cold hard consequences of his naivete.

“You and your kind bring nothing but misery to this land,” Tristan spits.

It’s a wake-up call to hear those words said about royals when Arthur’s own father used to say the same about sorcerers. All at once, Arthur remembers how he let Merlin’s, and later Emrys’, accusations about Agravaine taint his hard-won goodwill towards magic. How he almost condemned an entire people twice over for the sake of one devious, conniving relative. He’s been so, so stupid.

“I feel like such a fool," he says that night, leaning up against a tree, the warmth of Merlin's shoulder seeping into Arthur's side. Merlin, the kind, perfect human being that he is, doesn’t even say I told you so.

He doesn’t deserve Merlin’s gentle and steadfast support, and he definitely doesn’t deserve any love the man may feel for him. Maybe that’s why he embraces Guinevere, grateful for a familiar source of comfort, or perhaps just someone who has been equally as foolish as he.

But of course he doesn’t deserve any comfort at all, so he shouldn’t be surprised when Helios’ forces arrive in Ealdor to roust them from their slumber. He’s been so stupid, he despairs again, fleeing once more, this time into the tunnels outside of the village.

He should have trusted Merlin, back when he first voiced his doubts about Agravaine. At the very least, he should do something now besides hide in these dismal tunnels and let his defenseless friend double back alone, twice, to fend off their pursuers.

Instead, he lets Merlin run off again with nothing more than a “Don’t do anything stupid,” as if Merlin is still only Arthur’s incompetent manservant. What if he’s about to be killed by Arthur’s homicidal uncle, and the last thing Arthur said to him was some gruff, emotionally-constipated expression of concern?

A clattering from back in the tunnels makes the decision for him. He turns around.

“What are you doing?” Tristan hisses at him.

“Merlin,” is all he can say in response.

He runs back along the tunnels as quickly as he can, each heartbeat echoing, Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.

His breath catches in his throat at the sound of several bodies making contact with rock at high velocity. It’s a fight, and it’s a brutal one, and Merlin is all alone—

He careens out of the tunnel into the slightly larger opening where the path branches to his left. Merlin is alone, yes, but so is Agravaine across from him, who is staring with much less anger and much more awe than Arthur would have expected from him in a confrontation like this.

“You have magic!” Agravaine accuses.

Arthur breathes out a sigh of relief, finally taking note of the Southron bodies sprawled out behind his uncle, and Merlin, standing tall and unharmed.

“I was born with it,” Merlin replies.

Wait, what?

“So it’s you. You’re Emrys,” breathes Agravaine.

Arthur gapes at the scene before him, all thoughts of intervening swept away by waves of shock. There’s no way—

“That is what the Druids call me,” Merlin says. His voice is hard, his face stony. There is no trace of confusion or deception in his expression. But he must just be saying that, right? To intimidate Agravaine?

“And you’ve been at court all this time. At Arthur’s side.” Agravaine laughs, and he’s rewarded with a flinch. “How you’ve managed to deceive him.”

More than anything else, it’s the flash of guilt Merlin betrays at those words that convinces Arthur they’re telling the truth. He’s Emrys.

Merlin is Emrys.

For the umpteenth time today alone, Arthur realizes how stupid he’s been.

Agravaine keeps talking, inching forward slowly, and beneath the tumultuous roar of his thoughts, Arthur’s instincts scream at him that he’s about to pounce. A moment later, Merlin realizes the same; he raises his hand as if in warning, but the way Agravaine stills, Arthur thinks it may be a threat. To use his magic.

Even though part of him is railing at his body to get involved, to insert himself boldly between Merlin and Agravaine with his sword swinging, another part of him is holding himself back, bitter with the knowledge that Merlin— that Emrys— is more than capable of handling himself.

Agravaine whips a hand forward and launches a dagger at Merlin’s chest. Before Arthur can even think to jump in, Merlin has stopped its trajectory dead in the air; then, with a flash of gold in his eyes, he pushes his hands forward and sends both dagger and foe slamming back into the wall of the caves.

Merlin has never looked so truly dangerous as he does in this moment, resolute amidst the bodies of the men he’s just killed. Yet, Arthur can’t find it in himself to fear him.

He steps forward and inadvertently sends a stone skittering across the ground.

Merlin whirls around toward the noise. “Arthur!” he says, eyes widening in realization, voice wavering into a panicked pitch.

“You’re Emrys,” Arthur says numbly.

Merlin does not try to deny it. “Yes.”

Arthur nods. Merlin says nothing else, watching him carefully.

“I’m probably going to be mad at you later,” Arthur sighs after a long moment of consideration. “Once we’re not in a state of perpetual crisis. But.” He steps forward, tilts Merlin's chin up with one hand on his jaw, his thumb lightly stroking Merlin's cheek. Arthur scans Merlin’s eyes for any hint of that corruption he has feared, the sign of an evil sorcerer who’s let his limitless power go to his head.

It’s not there. There’s only trust, and sea-blue irises, slowly giving way to black. The same Merlin he’s always known.

“For what it’s worth, I think I’m glad it’s you," Arthur decides. "There’s nobody else I’d rather have at my side.”

26. Kilgharrah

Merlin is quiet through the rest of their flight through the tunnels of Ealdor and their subsequent trek to the Forest of Ascetir. Arthur’s pretty sure he means it as a courtesy, a chance for Arthur to put his thoughts in order without distraction. Only, Arthur would kill for a distraction at the moment, because the more he thinks about it, the more foolish and undeserving he feels.

He’s not only a king who lost control of his kingdom, now; he’s also a king who’s been betrayed by a relative for the second time in five years, a king who was so oblivious he couldn’t identify a sorcerer literally under his nose for almost a decade, a king who’s no better, no worthier, than anyone else— nothing special about him.

By the time they make camp in the Forest of Ascetir, Arthur is readily agreeing with every derogatory comment Tristan makes. He berates himself for his many stupidities; wallows in the hurt he feels and causes by the insensitive way he rejects Guinevere; writes off every word of encouragement from Merlin as the trite, empty words of a servant valiantly trying to reassure his king.

The anger he has been expecting ever since Merlin confirmed he was Emrys finally appears, but it’s defensive; a flimsy cover for his damaged pride and deep humiliation. He can’t help but fixate on the several conspicuous signs he missed, the serendipitous coincidences he so blithely wrote off on a weekly basis, the occasions when he was surrounded by people who were all in on the joke.

“Oh, for the love of—! You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?” Merlin huffs.

“No,” Arthur admits glumly. “Thank you for trying though; it was very kind.”

“Is the faith of the Great and Powerful Emrys not enough to get through your thick skull?!”

“You literally signed that letter your humble servant,” he despairs. “And I still didn’t realize.”

Merlin snickers, and Arthur’s spirits lift briefly at how the mirth brightens Merlin's face. But only briefly; the weighty extent of his failure descends back upon his heart a moment later.

Arthur smiles wistfully at him. “You really had me fooled, you know. Of course, if you ask Morgana and Agravaine, that’s not exactly a hard thing to do these days.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I should be more discerning. Wise. A statesman. Instead, I’m…”

“You are and will be the greatest king Albion has ever seen,” Merlin insists softly. “It’s your destiny.”

“You’re just blinded to my faults because you’ve served me for so long,” Arthur says.

"Very much the opposite, actually, but fine," Merlin huffs and pulls himself, and then Arthur, to his feet. “If that’s how you want to be, then you don’t need to take my word for it.” He begins to tug Arthur away from camp until they reach a large clearing in the trees. Merlin tilts his head back and roars something in a deep, guttural language that sends shivers up Arthur’s spine and blood down to his groin. A few minutes later, an enormous black dragon with gimlet golden eyes lands on the ground before them.

A very familiar dragon.

One that Arthur may or may not have built his already shaky self-esteem upon having killed.

“If this is supposed to make me feel better, it’s not,” Arthur mutters to Merlin.

“This is an auspicious meeting indeed, young warlock,” the dragon purrs. “Has the moment of truth arrived?”

“He knows about my magic and my title,” Merlin replies, as if he just casually converses with great dragons about the fate of the world on an everyday basis. “But he won’t believe in his own destiny.”

“You are the Once and Future King, Arthur Pendragon,” the dragon says. “I would not have granted Merlin nearly so many favours to save you and your various unworthy relatives from terrible fates if I did not have utter confidence in your destiny.”

Arthur blinks back about two dozen incredulous questions and several biting accusations, and glares at Merlin instead. “And you think your word is supposed to be less dependable than that of the dragon that tried to destroy the citadel? The dragon that’s supposed to be dead?”

Merlin winces, but rallies. “Exactly! What motives would he have for lying to you? Obviously he’s not giving you a pep talk out of some kind of lingering love for Uther!”

“He’s trying to get me to walk into a trap because he wants me dead?” Arthur suggests.

Incredibly, the dragon laughs at that. “It seems you and you alone can restore the king’s faith, young warlock,” he says. “That is as it should be, for you are the only one who shares his destiny.”

“Right, yeah,” Merlin sighs, running a hand wearily through his hair. “Two sides of the same coin. Got it.” He thanks the dragon for frying a good chunk of the Southron army to a crisp, then sends him off to round up the other Camelotians taking refuge in the forest and turns back to Arthur.

Arthur is already peering expectantly at him with his eyebrows raised. “Two sides of the same coin?”

“Because our fates are so heavily intertwined,” Merlin says, twisting his fingers together in a rather ineffectual visual aid. “We’re two halves of a whole.”

Arthur sighs. “I hate to say it, but you’ve all got the wrong king for that.”

“You heard Avi: you’re the right king because I chose you." He steps closer to Arthur, looks him boldly in the eye. "And I chose you because you’re a good man, and a fair ruler, and your people love you.”

“I’m not, though, so you’ll have to un-choose me and pick someone else!”

“I won’t, Arthur!” Merlin insists. “I choose you, I’ll only ever choose you!” His eyes glimmer but his brow is fierce and his jaw set. “I’m your protector and you are my king.”

Somehow, even though Arthur is being morose and petulant in equal measures, Merlin still looks at him like he’s seeing the great and noble sovereign everyone expects him to be. And, reluctant though he is to believe it still, when Merlin looks at him like this, Arthur wants to live up to that expectation. He wants more than anything for Merlin to choose him, now and in all things; and so he wants to be worthy of being chosen.

“I'm your destiny?” Arthur whispers. He leans forward, slowly, hopefully, until his forehead rests against Merlin’s own. "And you're mine?"

“I’m yours,” Merlin murmurs in confirmation. “And you’re mine.”

Arthur can hold back no longer: he tips his chin forward to meet Merlin’s lips with his own. Holy of holies, Merlin kisses him back.

27. Morgana

They infiltrate the castle the same way Morgana and the Southrons did: through the siege tunnels. Arthur still feels a bit like he’s dreaming, but he’s tethered to the earth— to his kingdom— by the exquisite sword in his hand, the incredible warlock at his side, and the small yet tenacious army at his back; and reality descends heavier with each step he takes into his occupied citadel.

Arthur barges into the throne room, riding the thrill of a turning battle, and comes to a stuttering stop across from Morgana.

It’s a special kind of dismay to find only hatred in her eyes and cruelty in her words, even though he already bears the scars of her first betrayal and the still-bleeding cuts of Agravaine’s. It shouldn’t even be possible for Arthur to feel any more naive than he already did, and yet only now does he realize how high his impossible hopes for her redemption had climbed.

“What happened to you, Morgana?” he breathes. “I thought we were friends.”

“As did I, but alas, we were both wrong.”

“I’ve been trying to be better,” Arthur says, and he can’t quite keep the plea out of his voice. “I’m revoking the ban on magic, I’m setting land aside for the Druids. You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Morgana—”

“I am afraid of nobody!” Morgana screeches. “Nothing you do now can reverse the suffering of my people! No sorcerer can be content with a Pendragon King on the throne!”

“You can’t blame me for my father’s sins,” Arthur insists.

“You’re not as different from Uther as you think,” Morgana spits.

Arthur bristles. “Nor are you.”

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana says, eyes flashing. She says it with such relish that it breaks Arthur’s heart all over again. “Not even Emrys can save you now.”

“Are you sure about that?” Merlin interjects.

Morgana sneers at him, uncomprehending, and shoots a spell at him. Merlin counters it as Arthur ducks out of the way. All around him, the fighting erupts once more, Knights of Camelot clashing with Southrons along the outskirts of the throne room while Merlin and Morgana engage in a fierce and terrifying battle of magic in the center.

“YOU!” Morgana shrieks. ”You’re Emrys? Arthur’s skinny little snooping serving boy?”

Arthur fends off a Southron blade just long enough to glance over to where Merlin has his teeth bared in a rictus of a grin. “All that effort you put into hunting me down and I was hiding in plain sight,” he jeers. He stomps his foot and a rumbling wave of energy ripples out through the stone floor, knocking Morgana off her feet.

Another Southron lunges at Arthur, and he is swept into battle once more. The next time he has a chance to breathe, Morgana is backed into a corner, clutching at her side, and Merlin is visibly wavering, face creased with regret, no sign left of the hardened, disciplined defender who killed Agravaine.

He sees Morgana recognize that weakness for what it is, sees her raise her hand and prepare to strike while Merlin is indecisive, and then— a great blast of fire knocks her back so hard it carves a crater into the thick stone wall. Arthur can’t determine whether she’s still alive before Helios himself takes a swing at Arthur.

It’s a hard-fought battle, vicious and skilled on both sides. Arthur holds his own for several grueling minutes until a bolt of lightning strikes Helios down where he stands. Arthur looks up to see Merlin shoot him a wink and then whirl back into the battle still raging around him, side-by-side with a fearsome-looking bald man sporting neck tattoos.

With Morgana and Helios both incapacitated, and Merlin and his, erm, friend making quick work of the Southron army, the fight wraps up in rather short order. As soon as the last of the fighters in the throne room are dispatched, Arthur works his way over to the pile of rubble where Morgana's broken body lies. He kneels over her and reaches tentatively for her pulse, but—

“I’m sorry,” says Merlin’s voice from behind him as a warm hand cups his shoulder.

“She never would’ve given up otherwise,” Arthur admits around a lump in his throat. “She was too far gone.”

“I’m sorry about that too.”

Arthur shakes his head and blinks back his tears. “Maybe if I’d gotten around to changing things sooner—”

“This started well before your father died,” Merlin says. “I don’t think there was anything you could’ve done.”

Arthur sighs heavily and allows Merlin to help him to his feet. “Did you— was it—?”

“It was Alator,” Merlin answers, glancing back at the rest of the room. The large bald man is gone, presumably to take out more Southrons in the rest of the castle, but Arthur has no doubt as to his identity. “I sent for him as soon as we arrived in Ealdor. He’s… good at what he does.”

Arthur grasps his shoulder in thanks, too overwhelmed to try to put any more of his feelings into words. Merlin touches his cheek lightly in acknowledgement and then backs away.

Arthur looks around helplessly, aware of the fact that he should be ordering around his surviving knights, taking charge of the castle's recovery. Didn't he agree just this morning to step up and be the king Merlin wants him to be? But...

“I imagine we’ll be turning the banquet hall into an infirmary,” Merlin says, voice gentle in the face of Arthur's complex grief. “If Gaius was captured, you should probably have Gwen take over the operation for now. I’ll head out into the lower towns and scrounge up some sorcerers to start helping out— healing or putting the city to rights or something.”

Arthur nods mutely. “Thank you,” he manages to rasp out. He soaks in Merlin’s tired but reassuring smile, then heads out to find Guinevere.

28. Epilogue: Aithusa

That spring melts into a disconcertingly quiet summer. Well, quiet in that there are no additional attempts on Arthur’s life or sovereignty over the next few months. There is no quiet to be found in Arthur’s Council of Advisors when he finally presents his plans for re-legalizing magic in Camelot, but that was always to be expected. Luckily, he faces very little protest from the general population, who have been slowly warming back up to magic, thanks to Merlin and the undeniable role sorcery played in the battle to oust Morgana.

The magicians of the lower town and outer villages come out in full force to witness Merlin’s official appointment as Court Sorcerer. They pack into every corner of the throne room and out into the castle corridors, and when the ceremony is over they conjure so many flowers and butterflies and stars of light in celebration that everybody present walks around with a fine layer of glitter in their hair for days afterwards.

Arthur formally hosts Hunith in the castle for the ceremony, both to support Merlin and as an expression of gratitude for her hospitality during the invasion of Camelot. Over dinner, he hears all about her tour of the citadel with Merlin and Guinevere, peppered with exclamations of pride in Merlin’s new job and excitement about his relationship with the King. Arthur would tease Merlin about his blush if he wasn’t equally red himself.

The next morning, they take Hunith on a short ride out to Reimir, where Nia, Magali, and Simeon have settled down in a small cottage. Arthur gets to witness the formation of an instant bond between Magali and Hunith, two women who are ostensibly connected only by their love for one dead man and Merlin. He’s baffled by it until Nia takes pity on him and starts to wax poetic about the shared struggles of widowed single mothers, let alone single mothers to teenage boys with dragonlord blood. Merlin huffs his offense, but doesn’t attempt to refute it.

They partake in a delicious lunch prepared by Camelot’s kitchens, then Simeon leads them to a small meadow on the outskirts of the village and bounces on his feet with an inordinate amount of glee while Merlin summons a dragon.

“I will not be held responsible for what I say if he keeps on the way he was last time,” Arthur warns his partner.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t call Kilgharrah,” Merlin replies.

“What? Then—”

He’s cut off by a barely-human shriek of delight from Simeon as a pearly white dragon lands in their midst, her body barely the size of a fawn.

“Oh, honestly,” Arthur grumbles. “How many illicit dragons are you sheltering these days?”

Merlin ignores him. “This is Aithusa,” he tells the group. “I don’t think she can talk yet— can you?” he asks. Aithusa shakes her head, a bit slowly, but with serpentine grace. “Right, well, she can’t talk back, but she can still understand you, so, I think yes or no questions should suffice, Simeon.”

The boy launches into a veritable inquisition; the rest of their company listens with interest for a while, but eventually, when they realize Simeon’s questions may well and truly be endless, they leave him to it and break off into smaller groups.

Arthur and Merlin lean back on their palms, legs stretched out in front of them in the long grass, thighs touching. Arthur watches the dragon from afar. Her very presence feels like a shameful reminder of how horribly insensitive he was about Balinor. Not for the first time, nor even the hundredth, Arthur wishes he’d known the full extent of Merlin’s powers sooner, at the very least so he could have stopped putting his foot in his mouth at every opportunity.

Laying there in the slow heat haze of early Litha, surrounded by people Merlin loves, and who love him and know him for who he truly is, Arthur finally finds the courage to ask.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he murmurs. “When I said I wanted to lift the ban, or even when I learned about Emrys?”

Merlin sighs and lies all the way down, arms folding back to pillow his head. He looks up at the sky as he thinks but at Arthur when he answers. “I meant what I wrote about Morgana searching for me. I couldn't risk you telling Agravaine. But also… Emrys is such a heavy destiny, you know?”

“I do know,” Arthur says, with feeling.

“I worked so hard for so long just to get to that point— to keep you alive, and to keep you from hardening your heart against magic like Uther had, and to keep my own secrets during his reign, because I couldn’t keep you alive if I was burned at the stake—”

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers mournfully.

He puffs up his cheeks and then lets it all out in a drawn-out exhale. “It was hard, that’s all. And so when I finally started to see it happen, finally got to coax magic out from the shadows and connect with my own people and watch you learn about it and embrace it… it was such a beautiful, hopeful time. I just wanted to enjoy it for what it was, without the added burden of— of destinies and dynasties, you know?”

Arthur thinks about the Merlin of those halcyon months when he walked around with flowers in his hair and tokens in his pocket, a gleam in his eyes and an easy smile. “I know,” he whispers. “I remember how free you looked. How happy you were.”

Inadvertently, Arthur recalls the previous day’s ceremony, the bustling, colorful crowd of Merlin’s supporters and admirers forced to the back of the space by rows of stuffy diplomats and courtiers. A cape of Pendragon red in lieu of Druid-green robes; the solid gold coronet of the Royal Consort instead of a crown of flowers. The onus of reviving a defunct court position and converting it into one of the most important roles in a kingdom destined to unite all of Albion. He wonders if Merlin might already long for those gilded days of hope and frivolity, daunted by the hard work that lies ahead.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, as if he can hear his thoughts clouding over. “I’m happy now, too, you know. I only ever wanted to be by your side.”

Arthur turns his head to take him in, to read the truth of Merlin's words in the softness of his smile and the crinkle of his eyes. “You’ll always be by my side,” he says, reaching out to entangle Merlin's fingers with his own. “I promise.”