Chapter Text
Arthur leaves the audience with his father in a determined stride that does little to conceal his fury. If his father would only listen. If he could be reasonable about magic, for once.
It has been a year of the Questing Beast terrorizing the kingdom. Arthur’s knights have done all they can to protect the population, but Gaius is unquestionably, frustratingly correct: no mundane means can defeat this magical threat. Camelot needs help, urgently, and it needs help from sorcerers.
And that is one thing that Uther can’t countenance.
Arthur grits his teeth as the memory of their debate flashes in his mind’s eye. Uther has as good as said that he’d rather his people perish than thank a sorcerer for their salvation. These are not the words of a worthy king. These are the words of a—
Arthur won’t quite call his father a madman, not even in his heart of hearts. But he cannot doubt that Uther’s stubbornness will lead the country to ruin. Already, the neighbouring kingdoms have begun to cast a predatory eye at Camelot, enfeebled by its internal struggles. Their allies are starting to push demands of treaty renegotiations, and not ones beneficial to Camelot. It’s only a matter of time till someone feels the country is weakened enough that it would fall in an invasion.
Uther realizes all that, he’s made it clear. But it’s not enough to make him seek magical intervention. He’ll abide anything but that.
Arthur expels a breath and nods reassurance at Sir Leon, who falls into step beside him, concern writ large on his kind face.
“Sire?” Leon asks. “What are our orders?”
Arthur has made sure, in recent months, to leave his disagreements with the king behind closed doors, far from the prying eyes of the courtiers or enemies looking for discord within the Pendragon fortress. Leon can be trusted, of course he can. But Leon has sworn an oath to his sovereign.
So has Arthur, as his conscience uncomfortably reminds him. But Arthur has a duty to his people, not just to his king. And if there is already one person about to commit high treason… well. There is no need to expand that number.
“Our orders remain unchanged,” he says. “The king wants us to patrol the outer villages, engage the Questing Beast if we see it. You will take the knights and ride out at dawn.”
“And you, Sire?” Leon queries, forbearing to comment on the futility of his own orders.
Arthur gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I will pursue a different path.”
Leon can’t know, not without being prescient. And yet: “Sire, is there anything…”
“A mythical beast has been ravaging the kingdom for months,” Arthur says. “We have had crop failures, a plague and, last week, someone tried to kidnap the king’s ward and set fire to her quarters. I’d say there’s plenty to be concerned about. But it’s nothing you can help with, beyond what you’re already doing.” He clasps Leon’s shoulder.
“Yes, Sire,” Leon says. “If you’re sure.”
Leon is the closest Arthur has ever come to having a friend. Arthur wonders what Leon would think of him if he knew where Arthur would be riding under the cover of darkness.
Once, when Arthur was small, an evil sorceress tried to kidnap him. He remembers the terror of his body seizing, immobile; recalls the darkness of the blindfold and the overwhelming feeling of being powerless. His father and Gaius arrived in time, and nothing dire truly happened, but Arthur had still cried, clinging to Uther’s tunic the way he hadn’t allowed himself in years. I’d never let them hurt you, Uther told him, stroking his hair. His grasp was tight, squeezing the air out of Arthur’s lungs. Arthur didn’t mind. No witch or sorcerer is taking you away from me, Arthur.
And it isn’t magic directing Arthur’s steps that night, as he saddles his horse and rides towards the forest, away from the castle where his father sleeps. But magic is what he is hoping to find. Druids, to be precise. They have no obligation to help him, they have every right to hate him and his family for what’s been done to them. They might kill Arthur on sight, for all that they proclaim themselves peaceful.
But if they know something, the tiniest thing—if they can give Arthur a hint of where he might find answers—if Arthur has to grovel, he’ll do it, just to get some help. And if they do ask for his life, it will be worth it so long as they agree to turn their magic to Camelot’s aid.
Camelot cannot cope on its own. Arthur sees it, even if his father refuses to. And his father might never forgive him, but, if Arthur doesn’t do this, doesn’t at least try, he’ll never forgive himself.
***
The mists of the Isle of the Blessed ward off all warmth, even on a summer evening such as this. Merlin adjusts her cloak more snugly around her shoulders and reaches for the vial of crushed mugwort. Nimueh didn’t tell her what this potion was for, merely set her to prepare the herbs on the altar. It reminds Merlin of something, but she’s sure she’s never made it before.
“Forbearnan,” Merlin mutters, and a fire of an exact require size bursts under the cauldron before her.
“Good,” Morgause approves, watching her closely.
Morgause has never seen Merlin make a true effort. She has no notion that Merlin can light a fire, and do a great many other things, without saying a word at all — with a mere wave of her hand.
“Yes, the little lamb is making progress,” Nimueh says, and an inflection in her voice makes Merlin want to stiffen, to look around and assess the look on her face. But doing so would be a mistake; she’s learned that by now. Instead, she fights to keep her fingers steady as she crushes the herbs, and waits for Nimueh to continue. “How sad that, for all this training, the girl will never join us as a Priestess.”
Nimueh doesn’t sound sad. She sounds goading, and succeeds in her effort when Morgause immediately rounds on her. “Whatever do you mean, sister? Merlin will make a worthy Priestess, and you well know it!”
“Oh, I know that she could, if she chose to.” Nimueh gives a trilling little laugh. “But even now, the little lamb has no desire to be here. Do you, Merlin?”
Now, Merlin does lift her gaze. Nimueh is smiling at her, all teeth. The fire’s flames are reflected in her eyes, making them dance with devilish glee.
“I don’t know what you mean, Priestess,” Merlin says calmly.
Nimueh has teased her before, peppered her conversation with hints that she saw right through Merlin’s pretence. But she’s always abandoned the topic before it got truly dangerous. She doesn’t abandon it today.
“Well,” she says, cocking her head to the side, “wouldn’t you leave us in a heartbeat if you could go back to that village where your mother lives?” She winks at Merlin like she knows how her heart is thundering in her chest. She very probably does.
“Merlin knows exactly where she belongs. Here, with us,” Morgause snaps.
“Oh, sister, I never knew you to be so naive!” Nimueh throws her head back to laugh. “But if you’d like, we’ll make a wager. You think you’ve tamed her, and I say she stays only because she fears for her mother’s life. Why don’t we test it?”
Merlin, frozen in place, watches as Morgause’s eyes narrow and, for some reason, drop down to the herbs Merlin’s been arranging on the altar.
“So this is what it’s about,” Morgause says. “You’d planned it from the start. Very well, sister. I wouldn’t want you to question Merlin’s loyalty.” She walks over and lays a hand on Merlin’s fingers, strokes across her knuckles in a caress that makes goosebumps break out across Merlin’s flesh. Merlin looks into her eyes, and sees no mercy in them. “Finish the potion, Merlin. You want to show Nimueh that you know where your place is, don’t you?”
“Yes, Priestess,” Merlin says. She’s amazed her lips can move enough to form words.
She’s remembered, now, why the concoction she’s making seemed familiar to her. A page from one of Morgause’s books swims up in her mind. Merlin never read it very closely, because she never thought she’d have need of a spell to reveal a person’s innermost desires. It had seemed like such a useless thing, not at all dangerous. Merlin should’ve known better. All the spells in Morgause’s books have their use, and it’s often deadly.
Moving by rote, Merlin finishes the potion, and Nimueh pours it into a clear bowl. Morgause herself says the needed incantation, and then there’s nothing to do but for Merlin to put a drop of her blood into the bowl, and to gaze into it, Nimueh and Morgause arranged by her sides.
Merlin knows what she will see before her blood even dissolves in the milky potion. The bowl smoothes out in the imitation of a mirror, or a window, similar to when Morgause has used scrying spells in the past. But this is different, because the spell isn’t looking into reality; it’s looking into what Merlin wants most. And it’s not, of course, Cenred’s castle, and it’s not Morgause or Nimueh or the Isle of the Blessed.
Damningly, inevitably, the image of Merlin’s mother in her ramshackle house in Ealdor swims up to the surface of the bowl. For a moment, Merlin forgets to be afraid, because this is the first she’s laid eyes on her mother in a year, and she drinks up her image, even though it be a construct of her own mind.
Then, the bowl is sent careening to the floor, and the moment shatters. Merlin lurches away from the altar as Morgause turns to her, fury written in every line of her face. The rage holds only for a moment; then, it smoothes out into a smile that is somehow even worse. Merlin hardly dares breathe.
“Oh, Merlin,” Morgause says. Merlin flinches when she extends a hand towards her, but the hand only settles on Merlin’s hair, stroking it. “You silly girl. It’s all right, I’m not cross. I’m only a little disappointed. But I know this is only a passing fancy, and pass it will.”
It sounds like a threat, but Merlin isn’t sure what retribution will follow. She doesn’t take her eyes off Morgause, not even when Nimueh resumes her mocking.
***
Arthur moves quietly through the dark forest, headed for where he thinks the druid encampment should be. That’s where he last heard of it being, anyway; heard and hadn’t reported to Uther. There should be a path, right there after boulders, and then—
The merest rustle is his only warning, and a spell hits Arthur in the back. Tree roots twine about his legs, pinning him down, rendering his thrashing useless. His sword lies, gleaming with reflected moonlight, a few feet away.
Three hours into his journey, Arthur hasn’t yet come across any druids. But he has, it seems, located a sorcerer.
Straining, Arthur turns his head to the side. At first he sees only a dark silhouette, but then his assailant bends down and Arthur catches sight of an unfamiliar face, a smile stretched in mirth.
“Well, look who it is!” the man says. “Arthur Pendragon, all alone and far from home.”
“Wait!” Arthur says, straining against the bonds. “I haven’t come to fight you, I—”
The man isn’t listening. He says, “I hate to damage the goods, but it’s a long way to Cenred’s castle. Just lie still, would ya?”
And then a blow strikes Arthur’s skull, and he tumbles into darkness.
He wakes up chained in a dungeon, head feeling like it might crack from pain. It appears that he was unconscious for a long time, because morning light is pouring into his cell between the bars on his windows.
“Arthur Pendragon,” a woman’s voice says from right next to him, and he whips around to stare at her. His head throbs reproachfully at him for the action. “Well, this is certainly an unexpected honour, and quite the best news I’ve received in the past day.”
If they’d met under other circumstances—say, at a ball or another noble assembly—Arthur might’ve called the woman beautiful. But at this moment Arthur isn’t inclined towards gallantry. He’s quite sure she’s a witch. Perhaps it’s the aura around her, air shimmering with energy where it touches her skin; perhaps it’s the way she’s looking down at him, self-assured and dangerous without holding a single weapon.
“Where am I?” Arthur asks. It is one of his least favourite questions to utter.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” the witch says, and there’s nothing respectful in the way she says his title. “We’re treating you to royal accommodations. The king of Essetir himself is your host.”
It takes effort not to visibly react to this news, because, while Camelot’s prince would make a valuable hostage anywhere, Cenred’s castle is about the worst place for Arthur to be. Cenred will milk this opportunity for all it’s worth, hurt Camelot as much as he’s able.
Camelot can’t afford being hurt any more right now.
“Do you think your father will pay up a handsome ransom for you, Arthur?” the woman inquires. As he opens his mouth to reply, she continues: “Well, we’ll find out if we ever think of asking him. After all, you’ve just arrived. It would be rude to make you think we want you gone already.”
She bends down and runs her hand down Arthur’s face. He jerks away, but his chains will only let him so far.
“And who are you?” Arthur asks through his teeth.
The woman surveys him, her gaze almost a physical glide against Arthur’s skin.
“Oh, Arthur,” she says, smiling. “Do you know, if you hadn’t come to me, I would have come to you? Though maybe it’s best that we meet like this. More time to talk.” She steps away.
“I’m not interested in playing your games,” Arthur says. “Just say what you want with me and get it over with.”
Depressingly, what she most likely wants is Arthur’s death. It’s what most of the Pendragons’ enemies want. But her manner is too strange, too mild; it sets his teeth on edge the way a knife at his throat wouldn’t have.
“No need to rush,” the witch says. “Surely you aren’t uncomfortable here?”
She laughs with a pointed look at his restraints and walks towards the door of his cell.
“I’m Morgause, by the way,” she says. “Pleased to finally meet you, Arthur.”
Her footsteps echo in the stone dungeon as she walks away, his cell’s door firmly locked.
Slumping against the wall, Arthur admits that maybe his daring venture out into the forest was not the best thought-out plan.
Hopefully, he can muster up a better one for his escape.
***
After the fateful journey to the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin passes a restless night. She dreads to think what punishment Morgause will exact on her for disloyalty. She is certain that a punishment is coming.
When Merlin sees Morgause the next day, however, she spies a singularly pleased expression lighting up her face.
“Ah, Merlin, just in time for your lesson,” Morgause says, as if nothing ever passed between them, as if she hadn’t found out last night that Merlin wishes to be as far away from here as she can. “Before we begin, however, I might as well tell you the good news. We have a new guest at the castle, and a high-born one indeed. Arthur Pendragon is paying us a visit.”
Merlin startles. “Arthur Pendragon is here?”
“He has spent a most comfortable night in our dungeons, I imagine,” Morgause says airily. Her manner betrays the intensity of her emotion, however; she’s as near excited as Merlin has ever seen her.
Arthur Pendragon, then, is as much of a guest as Merlin is, except with fewer comforts still.
Merlin shivers, torn between curiosity and an unwilling sort of sympathy. Arthur Pendragon is Uther’s son; Morgause and Nimueh have told her enough to know that he’s not blameless in his father’s policies. And yet she would not wish it on anyone to end up in Morgause and Cenred’s power, on the receiving end of their wrath.
“What will you do with him?” she asks, and immediately feels she has made a fresh misstep; Morgause’s gaze sharpens on her.
“I think you mean to ask what we will do with him, child,” Morgause says. “What do you think we should do?”
Merlin drops her eyes. “I imagine His Majesty will want to question him, ask him about Camelot.”
“I didn’t ask you what Cenred wants to do,” Morgause says. “What do you want to do to Arthur Pendragon, Merlin? What do you wish on the man who has oppressed your people, killed defenceless children just for having magic, and hates everything we stand for?”
“I’d want to make him… pay.” Merlin tries to sound decisive, but Morgause smiles in a way that freezes Merlin to her very bones.
“Oh, child,” she says, putting a hand against Merlin’s cheek, petting it gently. “I hoped your heart was with us at least thus far. I see I was wrong.”
“Priestess,” Merlin gasps, “I didn’t mean—please believe that I’m fully—”
“Do not be alarmed, child. I am not angry with you,” Morgause says, just as she did last night. Morgause lies. This is still about the test Merlin failed. If not for that, Merlin could’ve continued playing her uncertain answers off as being shy and slow, but with Morgause seeing right through her now—
Once the lesson ends and Morgause dismisses her, Merlin retreats to her room and paces it from corner to corner, again and again, until a maid knocks on her door and asks her if she’s all right.
***
Cenred was, apparently, away at the time of Arthur’s capture. He returns the next day, and Arthur is immediately hauled off to meet him.
Arthur’s guards drag him through the corridors from the dungeon to a hall that looks more like a large cave. They push him down in front of the throne, manacles still binding his arms behind his back and flagstones digging into his knees. This doesn’t stop Arthur from glaring at Cenred as haughtily as he can manage.
“Arthur Pendragon,” Cenred drawls, leaning against the throne’s arm. He turns to Morgause, who’s standing by his side. “I foresee much amusement for you, my lady. I know you’ll make our guest feel welcome.”
Then a door opens at the end of the hall and Arthur glances in its direction to see a girl enter.
“You summoned me, Priestess?” she asks, quiet.
“Merlin!” Morgause exclaims, smiling. “Do come here.”
The girl walks over to Morgause, and Arthur blinks, momentarily thrown. He hadn’t expected a demure damsel in this dark castle filled with ruffians and mercenaries. Next to Morgause, she looks thin and awkward, her plain blue dress contrasting with the richness of Morgause’s outfit.
Merlin—if that is her name—spares a glance for Arthur and a cloud seems to pass over her face. She doesn’t ask any questions, but Morgause answers them anyway.
“Child, meet Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” she says. “As you see, he’s decided to pay us a visit.”
“I want information.” Cenred leans forward. His expression is, as ever, that of a hungry mongrel, greedy for fast profit. “I need plans, schemes of Camelot’s tunnels. I want its weak points.”
“Of course,” Morgause agrees.
“Ask him nicely or torture him, I don’t care,” Cenred flings out.
Morgause nods. The girl seems to find the stone floor more interesting than any of the hall’s occupants.
Cenred gives Arthur a wide smile. “I’m sure Uther can spare him for a while.”
Arthur’s gut twists at the thought of his father. He doesn’t know where Arthur has gone, whether Arthur left voluntarily, but, with the situation in Camelot, he will jump to the worst conclusions. Unfortunately, they will also be the correct ones, but Camelot’s resources are stretched thin enough without a search for the missing prince.
He ought to have told someone where he was going, which direction he’d head in. He should’ve confided in Sir Leon, treason be damned.
“Do you dare bring Camelot’s wrath upon you, Cenred?” Arthur asks out loud, keeping his voice level. “Anything you do to me will be repaid tenfold.”
Cenred slouches lower on his throne. “Let Uther try.”
He seems remarkably unbothered, which bodes ill for Arthur personally and for Camelot at large.
Arthur raises his chin higher, eyes boring into Cenred’s.
“Do your worst.”
They waste no time.
Morgause withdraws a knife and, with a whispered word, sends it flying over to Arthur, stilling only once it hovers over chest. He grits his teeth, expecting the blade to cut in, but then Cenred speaks up.
“Actually, you know what? I’ve a fancy to try the old-fashioned way for now,” he says. “Been itching to do this to Pendragon for years. Shall we start with twenty lashes of a whip?”
The knife retreats as Cenred waves a guard over.
“Very well,” Morgause says, indifferent. “Merlin, you may sit down. This will take a while.”
“Yes, Priestess,” the girl says.
She sits down on the steps of the throne, at Morgause’s feet—clearly a practiced motion. So she is to be the audience for Arthur’s torture. Arthur supposes it is a regular thing around here—a nice dysfunctional family activity, or whatever she, Morgause and Cenred are together. The girl has dark hair, so she could well be Cenred’s daughter, depending on how old she is. He has no wife as far as Arthur knows, but news of illegitimate offspring conceived in his youth wouldn’t surprise him at all.
Arthur has no chance to think any more after that, because blows start raining down upon his back, and pain drowns out all his other awareness. He discerns a flow of conversation around him—talking about him, even, possibly—but all he knows is agony, and his sole remaining focus after that is not to shame himself and Camelot by crying out.
When the blows finally stop, Arthur is gulping in harsh breaths, head lowered to hide the tears streaming down his face.
“What do you think, Merlin?” he hears, from very far away. “Is it not pleasing to have him brought so low, knowing what his family has done to you?”
Arthur glances up, to where the girl is staring at him. Morgause has a hand on her shoulder.
What has Arthur’s family done to her?
“The blood of hundreds, thousands of sorcerers is on his hands,” Morgause continues. “Upon his birth, the rivers ran red with it. And all he cares about is his pride.”
Magic, Arthur realizes. The girl—like Morgause—must have magic.
I’m not what you think, Arthur thinks of saying. I don’t kill sorcerers, I’ve tried to stop it—
But he hasn’t done enough, of course. And perhaps it’s inevitable that he’s paying for it now, just as he’s tried turning to magic for help.
“Very well, I’ve had my entertainment,” Cenred says. “You may start on him, Morgause. And make sure the girl pays good attention.”
***
The images stay with Merlin as she climbs the steps to her room. Arthur Pendragon hadn’t looked much like a powerful prince as he knelt on the stone floor with blood running down his body, handsome face contorted, lips bitten in an effort not to scream.
It’s not the first time Merlin has seen prisoners in Cenred’s castle, nor is it the first time she’s witnessed such violence. It’s the first time she was specifically summoned to watch, though, as if a part of this spectacle was for her—as if she was supposed to derive personal satisfaction from the sight.
She’s certain that this was not a punishment for her earlier misstep. This was just a spectacle Morgause put on. What has she got planned in response to Merlin wavering in her loyalties?
The answer comes to her the next day, when she arrives for her scheduled lesson. Morgause’s face wears the mingled expression of gravity and gentleness, and she takes Merlin’s hands in hers as she says:
“Oh, child, I fear I have some terrible news.”
Merlin fights not to tremble, but, up this close, she’s sure Morgause can feel it. Morgause squeezes her hands tighter.
“It’s about your mother, Merlin,” she says, and for a moment the world is full of nothing but lights and noise, spinning too fast for Merlin to hold onto.
Her knees buckle, and Morgause is the one to catch her, to hold her close. “Poor darling,” she says, carding a hand through Merlin’s hair. “We just got word today—there was another raid on your village, and help didn’t get there in time. Your mother was one of the first to perish.”
Cradled in Morgause’s embrace, Merlin thinks, you killed her.
Anger pushes through the tidal wave of grief, and for a moment Merlin wishes to raise her arms, wrap them around Morgause’s throat, and squeeze until life departs from the murderess’s body. What does it matter what becomes of Merlin now? There’s nothing else left for her to lose.
This is, of course, exactly what Morgause wanted. The thought resounds in Merlin’s mind, beats against the insides of her skull even as she distantly hears herself make awful keening noises, feels her tears soaking Morgause’s dress. There’s no home for Merlin left to return to, nothing waiting for her outside Cenred’s fortress.
She remembers those final moments when she saw her mother, before riding off with Cenred’s knights. All Hunith wanted was for her to be safe. All Merlin wanted was for Hunith to be safe in return. Fearing for her mother’s life, Merlin has tried to seem tamed, to give Morgause to reason to punish her. She has learnt silence, more profound than ever before. She has learnt obedience.
She has not played her part well enough. But perhaps there was never a way to play it to Morgause’s satisfaction.
“Shh, child, it’ll be all right,” Morgause murmurs, rocking Merlin gently in her arms. “Cry it all out, let it hurt, I’m here for you, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here. I’ll take care of you.”
Morgause must think she has cut the legs from under Merlin, left nowhere for her to run. She must believe that, having lost everything else, Merlin will cling to the last thing she has, stay by Morgause’s side by lack of choice if not out of genuine loyalty.
In one thing, at least, Merlin has played her part well: Morgause doesn’t know her at all.
***
Slanted moonlight falls into Arthur’s cell from the window high above; it illuminates the bars on the doors, the solid lock, the impenetrable stone walls.
Magic, Arthur has discovered, gives an extra edge to torture. Morgause could hurt him and heal him afterwards only to hurt him once more. This process has brought much enjoyment both to her and to Cenred, but Arthur would, if at all possible, wish to avoid it happening again.
Arthur won’t give up Camelot’s secrets. He won’t shame himself by begging, either. But he’ll have to figure out a way to escape somehow, because the prospect of his life spent here, as Morgause’s plaything, is not to be contemplated.
He repositions himself with a wince, providing momentary relief to his chained hands, and considers what he’s seen.
Cenred and his twisted smile. Morgause and her fearsome power. The girl, Merlin. Nameless guards.
Arthur won’t find many friends here.
Lost in his bleak ruminations in the middle of the night, what Arthur expects least of anything else in the world is for the girl to appear before his cell and open the lock on his door with a wave of her hand. Yet, this is exactly what happens.
“Come on,” she says, and the chains around Arthur fall away with another flick of her wrist. “Get up. We don’t have much time.”
Arthur stares at her even as his hands fly automatically to massage his wrists. He stumbles to his feet. “We—”
“Gods, you’re slow.” The girl steps closer, and now Arthur can see her face; it reflects nothing but grim determination. “Are you injured?” she asks.
“No,” Arthur says, though the more correct answer would be not anymore. Morgause healed him before throwing him back in his cell, but Arthur’s body still protests at the abuse it has taken. “I can follow. Are you—are you rescuing me?”
“Quickly,” Merlin says, and pivots towards the door.
She leads him through the winding corridors of the dungeon past several sleeping guards. Arthur staggers after her, head still reeling with the sudden reversal of his fortunes. He’s been magically set free by Morgause’s protégée. Nothing of what’s happening makes any sense.
Arthur doesn’t question it, of course. They pass by collapsed guards—fallen in positions so awkward, Arthur instantly understands they were put to sleep by sorcery—and arrive at a side door pretty much unhindered. Arthur can only gape at the girl as she removes obstacles in their path with a casual wave of her hand.
This is magic, put at Arthur’s disposal. This is what it can do.
Through a silent courtyard, Merlin takes them to the stables. They lead two horses away by the reins; more guards are put to sleep at Merlin’s approach. There is a short fight at the gates, but Arthur can hold his own, and Merlin’s magic works quickly on those who would impede their flight.
Passing through the gate, they mount the horses and Merlin directs them to the forest.
“Quickly,” she repeats, again and again. “They’ll notice very soon.”
Sure enough, they’ve hardly begun to ride when the bells sound at the castle; they spur their horses, tearing through the undergrowth.
“The trail,” Arthur says urgently. “They’ll find it at once.”
“No, they won’t,” Merlin says, a look of concentration on her face.
Looking behind them, Arthur can see that it’s true: even as they ride, the path rearranges itself, leaves scattering over the hoof marks, the bushes straightening up, branches mending.
“It won’t work forever,” Merlin says. “Morgause will tell. We need to go faster.”
“We need to find a river,” Arthur says. “Can she trace is if we go via water?”
Merlin glances at him. “I don’t know.”
She changes course slightly anyway, because apparently she knows where the nearest river is.
They splash into it, and the horses don’t at all like the idea of treading through cold water. Arthur and Merlin urge them on regardless, and keep going until the beasts start breathing heavily, until they begin staggering, until they become unable to even trot. They merely walk like somnambulists, with their heads held down.
Finally, Arthur voices the inevitable. “They can’t go on.” At that point, Arthur himself is winded, and exhausted beyond belief, and his head is spinning, but the fear of capture still drives him on. He slides off his horse, leaving one hand on its heaving side.
Merlin dismounts too, and glances around. The sky is washed-out grey, and so is she in this light. If a new day is dawning, only several hours have passed, but to Arthur it feels as if they’ve been on the run for eons.
One by one, Merlin stops by each horse and puts her hand onto their sweaty foreheads. One by one, the horses fall.
Arthur shudders. “Are they—”
“Asleep,” Merlin says. She lifts her hands and then, incredibly, both animals rise out of the water. Arthur watches, transfixed, as the horses’s bodies descend onto the right riverbank and lie there, looking for all the world like the animals collapsed right at that very spot quite by themselves.
Merlin lowers her arms, looking still more exhausted than before. Her eyes, a bright gold a few moments earlier, fade back into blue. “I cannot track people over water, so maybe, if we go to the different bank now and keep going, they won’t find our trail,” she says, as if continuing an earlier conversation. “But Morgause is stronger than me.”
“You’re very strong,” Arthur says with feeling. Over the past few hours, he’s seen her do a myriad things helping their escape, all of them effortless, all of them as if for Merlin they’re as natural as it is for Arthur to wield his sword.
Merlin doesn’t respond to Arthur’s words or to his stares, only directs her steps to the opposite shore from where the horses are. When she and Arthur get themselves up onto the bank, they’re both sopping wet; this doesn’t last, as Merlin dries them at once.
“Thank you,” Arthur says. “I—I should thank you for everything you’ve done. Without you, I—”
“We’re not safe yet,” Merlin says.
From then on, Arthur and Merlin must travel on foot. Now that he’s no longer focused on pushing his horse to the limit—now there’s nothing to distract him from his thoughts—Arthur faces the fact that he’s lost in the wilderness with no supplies whatsoever and only a sorceress as his guide. He doesn’t know her motives. He doesn’t even have a weapon. Her magic has protected him thus far, but it could just as easily turn against him.
Some time later, Merlin stumbles for the first time. Arthur has to hold her up before she falls, and she shrugs him off. Then she stumbles again, and her pace slows more and more, and Arthur realizes that, very soon, they’ll have to stop somewhere, because neither of them can keep going at this point. They’ve been relentlessly on the move for hours, now, with no food or drink or rest.
Arthur starts looking out for shelter, and eventually, he spots it: a cave that looks like it would fit them both inside.
“Merlin,” he says, feeling strange calling the girl by her first name. They were never truly introduced; between them, they simply know who the other is, and even that information is rather limited, for Arthur. “We should rest here.”
“We need to keep going,” Merlin replies, even as her steps falter again.
“We can hardly walk,” Arthur says. “We need to rest a short while at least.”
Merlin turns to eye the cave, and apparently the sight of it is tempting; she hesitates, then nods and follows Arthur inside.
It’s not warm, but it’s dry, and it’s not entirely out in the open. It won’t make them immediately visible.
“We should find water,” Arthur says. “If I find saltwater, will you be able to—” He gestures with a hand as if to indicate, spell it drinkable.
Merlin lowers herself wearily onto the cave floor. “I don’t know. I’ve never used so much magic in one day.”
Sat on the ground like that, she looks like an ordinary bedraggled girl. Her dress is torn in several places and dirty besides; her hair is completely dishevelled, sticking out of her braid and providing a rather messy frame for her thin face. Hard to believe that this slip of a girl—Arthur could hold both her wrists in one hand, easily—has led him out of captivity and did all the work assisting their escape.
Magic. Arthur still can’t wrap his head around it.
He longs to collapse on the ground, following Merlin’s example. However: “I’ll search for water and something to eat,” he tells her, before dragging himself outside.
He collects some berries, which will have to do for now. He finds a spring, though, which is just as well; he has nothing to store the water in, but he drinks some and he’ll know where to take Merlin.
When he returns to the cave, she’s still sitting where he left her, but now she’s cradling a small flame in her hands.
Arthur stops, gaping. “Is that—”
“It doesn’t burn me,” Merlin murmurs. “But it’s warm. Water, did you—”
“Yes, and some berries, too.”
He shows Merlin where to find water and they share their meagre rations; then, they both settle inside the cave, not in the least bit sated, but grateful for the reprieve from constant moving.
“Why did you save me?” Arthur asks, the question having burnt at him for all these hours.
“To spite Morgause, mostly,” Merlin says. She’s got her little flame again, and she’s watching it now.
It’s a callous answer. Arthur swallows, stung.
“I was going to leave,” Merlin continues after a moment, still addressing the flame. “I thought I might as well free you. There’s no need for you to suffer them, and taking you away frustrates their plans.”
“And you’re… not with them?” Arthur hazards. Stupid question; obviously she isn’t. She looked like she was, though. Arthur thought she was Cenred’s daughter, and he’s still not very clear on that point. “Who are they to you?”
“I was a prisoner too,” Merlin says, tipping her head back. “And now I’m free. Because Morgause killed my mother, and she doesn’t have anything to hold over my head anymore.”
Arthur stares at her. As he watches, tears start flowing down the girl’s face, but she just sits there and does nothing to wipe them away or comment on them in any fashion.
They sit like that for a long time.
***
When Merlin wakes up, she realizes two things: that she’d fallen asleep, and that Arthur Pendragon is still there. He’s also apparently failed to kill her while she slept, so either he’s willing to let her live despite her magic, or he feels that he needs her to survive. If it’s the latter, very possibly he isn’t wrong. She’s been doing her best to obscure their steps, to weave what protective charms she knows over them; she hopes that they are working, that this is why Morgause hasn’t yet found them. Or maybe it is truly harder to track their steps over water.
“We should get going,” she croaks. She’s not sure what time it is, but the sun is starting to get lower in the sky. They should be on the move already.
The prince shoots her a surprised look, then relaxes as he takes her in. What did he expect, magical rituals upon awakening?
“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m ready when you are.”
They stop to drink again, and eat some more berries, and Merlin can acknowledge that resting was a good idea; she feels somewhat more coordinated as they walk, and they cover ground faster.
“This wood,” Arthur Pendragon says. “Am I right in thinking that it lies between Essetir and Camelot?”
“Yes,” Merlin says. “We’re heading in Camelot’s direction, but it won’t be forest all the way.”
“You’re taking me to Camelot,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Merlin thought they had covered this yesterday. Perhaps she remembers it incorrectly; her impressions of that last part of their flight are hazy at best. Everything has been hazy, truly, since Morgause told her the news about Hunith.
“I had to take you somewhere,” Merlin says. “Choosing the direction of Camelot was not difficult.”
“But where do you want to go?” Arthur Pendragon asks. “Is it not out of your way?”
Merlin has nowhere left to go; Morgause made sure of that. At the time of her escape, away from this castle and the people in it was her only destination. And then it seemed logical to drag Arthur Pendragon after her. Dimly, she recognizes that Arthur Pendragon is her enemy too, but she has no true fear to spare for him, not next to Morgause.
But after this, after she’s sent Arthur Pendragon on his way—what will she do?
“I don’t know,” she says.
She finds, after some contemplation, that this point is not very important. Not being a tool in other people’s hands, not being hunted—these are good goals; but, as for specific locations, Merlin can’t muster up any ideas. Not Ealdor, certainly; there’s nothing left for her there now.
“Where are you from?” Arthur Pendragon inquires.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Merlin says.
“I admit to being curious,” he replies. “When I first saw you, I thought—” He hesitates, but Merlin doesn’t prod him. She’s not that interested in hearing what he thought when he saw her standing next to Morgause.
They walk through the evening in silence.
They make a temporary stop at sunset, and Arthur Pendragon looks around wistfully. “I bet I could hunt, if I had a weapon,” he says.
“I could make you one,” Merlin offers.
His startled gaze flits to her. “Can you? Would you?”
“Bring me a tree branch.” Merlin sits down with her back to the tree trunk and closes her eyes. Her body feels like it’s too heavy to ever move again.
The prince returns with a solid branch she breaks and whittles with magic into an approximation of a spear.
“You give me this,” he says, weighing it in his hand. “Morgause called me your enemy, and you’re giving me a weapon.”
“If you have it, you can hunt. You said so yourself,” Merlin reminds him. “It’s useful for us both. Besides, you need a weapon for when we go separate ways.”
“And you are not afraid—” He trips over the words, blue eyes clouded.
“Of Arthur Pendragon, who has the blood of sorcerers on his hands?” Merlin settles more comfortably against the tree. “You could’ve killed me yesterday. Surely you don’t need a weapon when I’m asleep.”
“You don’t like me or trust me. And yet you arm me, so as to make me more dangerous. I do not comprehend you at all.”
“I do not comprehend you either. Why kill those who have magic?”
Arthur Pendragon stops mid-motion, looking pained. “I have, in the past, allowed things to happen that I greatly regret. But I do not believe in the indiscriminate killing of magical people, and—actually, the night I was captured I had set out to find some druids.”
“To kill them?” Merlin asks.
“No!” The prince says, and he sounds indignant that someone would suspect him of doing what he has in fact done before. “To seek their help.”
Merlin snorts. “Why would they help you or anyone who bears the name of Pendragon?”
“I don’t know, but I was willing to take the answer no if it meant I had at least tried to solicit their advice.”
Merlin looks at him—really looks at him. The prince’s clothes are in a state that’s even worse than hers, because his shirt is torn and barely clinging to his wide shoulders at this point; he was never given a fresh one after the whipping. Mud and stains are covering him all over, and his hair is no longer the shining gold it was before, but matted and greasy. Still, his face is wearing a determined expression and he stands tall, as if he expects to go out and command an army at any moment. Camelot’s handsome young prince, wearing the mantle of responsibility with ease. Or that’s the impression he wants to give, anyway.
“What was so important that you had to turn to magic users for advice?” Merlin asks.
“Camelot,” he replies simply. “My father still doesn’t want to consult magic on this, but I think he’s wrong.”
Merlin thinks again of Gaius’s letters. Maybe there is hope after all. Maybe, when Uther’s heir succeeds him, things will be different.
Or maybe Arthur Pendragon is just saying this because he’s here with a witch and feels afraid of her powers, or indebted for his rescue.
“I’ll go and try to find some food,” he says, and walks away, the new spear in hand.
When he returns with a freshly caught hare, he also has to be the one to gut it and do most of the cooking, since Merlin is in a half-doze. She does conjure up a fire, though, and makes sure it doesn’t produce too much smoke.
In this past day, she’s concentrated harder than ever in her life, trying to push her magic to the limit. It’s exhausting, to keep it up for so long.
“We should bathe soon,” she says after the meal, because they are undeniably a mess, even more so now.
The prince looks down at himself in distaste and agrees. They won’t be able to change their clothes, but getting somewhat clean would be preferable.
It takes them a while to locate a river, but eventually they find themselves at a quiet shore. Until now, trekking through the wilderness, Merlin hasn’t had any time for embarrassment or even for recognizing the connotations of their forced proximity. Now, as Merlin prepares to unlace her dress in preparation for bathing, the prince having disappeared with a blush on his face and a mutter about how he’ll stay within shouting distance in case of anything, the inappropriateness of the situation is borne powerfully upon her. Even if they are not—even if they don’t see each other in a state of undress, there is still more intimacy implied in the episode than there should be between a young man and a young woman who are virtual strangers to each other.
At the end of the bathing interlude, they avoid each other’s eyes and walk on, determinedly not talking about it.
It is during that part of the road that they see their first people. They are only some hunters, but both the prince and Merlin take alarm, thinking for a moment that Morgause has caught up with them.
“How far into Camelot’s territory will you take me?” Arthur Pendragon asks, when they stop to rest again, which is not until many hours later.
It’s another cave, which offers protection from the rain. They had been lucky with the weather so far, but of course the rains were bound to set in eventually.
“I don’t know,” Merlin says, sprawling on the cave floor. Even talking feels like too hard a task.
Right then, a menacing rumble comes from the depths of the cave.
***
Arthur is on his feet and holding his spear in his hand before he’s fully processed what he’s heard; Merlin scrambles up, too, and they both back out of the cave and into the rain. It’s a rookie mistake, not to have checked that the shelter is free of other inhabitants, but Arthur is so tired. Several days on the run, very little food and rest, constantly aware of danger—it’s been wearying, and Arthur has slipped up.
As a reward for his inattentiveness, he gets a giant ugly beast advancing at them.
“Does your magic tell you anything about this?” he asks Merlin, not taking his eyes off the creature. It’s got far too many sabre teeth.
“I—no,” Merlin says, in a high voice. “I’ve never seen that before and maybe I can try to—something magical, let me see—”
Whatever she does, the result is that the beast buckles and then roars, charging straight at them.
“Fall back!” Arthur snaps, as he dives to the side.
Merlin darts in the opposite direction, but not fast enough; as the beast rushes out of the cave, it catches her with its claws, and Merlin screams as blood spurts out of her leg. Arthur curses and, without much else for it, jumps at the creature; trying to avoid all the teeth at once is a challenge, but Arthur isn’t the first knight of Camelot for nothing.
A spear straight to the heart, and the beast falls dead, apparently available for killing by perfectly mundane means.
Arthur pauses only to check that the creature won’t get up again and then dashes to Merlin’s side, falling next to her where she’s holding onto her bleeding leg and gritting her teeth.
“Are you all right?” It’s an ugly wound on her calf, and Arthur winces to see it. “Can you—the magic—”
“I’m trying,” Merlin says.
If it’s working, it’s very slow. Arthur looks around. They’re out in the rain, and that can’t possibly be helping.
“We should get back inside,” he says. “I’ll check that there are no more surprises. Can you make a light?”
Before now, for similar requests, Merlin lit up a branch, making him an effective torch. Now, she seems to be in too much pain to bother with anything more than a small hand-held flame which she pushes onto Arthur and then returns attention to her wound.
Arthur will admit that his first instinct is to recoil from the fire, but it does not, in fact, burn him. He cradles it between his palms—magic, he’s holding magic—and heads back inside the cavern, feeling warm licks of flames against his fingers.
The cave is blissfully empty except for some bats. Arthur finds Merlin again and tells her this, repeating that they should move back in. The flame, when he releases it, just fizzles out in the rain.
“I don’t know if I can get up,” Merlin says. She tries to stand and lets out a cry of pain, quickly collapsing again.
“It’s all right,” Arthur says, and moves in to lift her. It will be easy enough to carry her inside.
“No,” Merlin says, pushing him away, “I’ll—just give me a moment, I’m just—”
“I swear on my honour that the only thing I’m trying to do is move you out of the rain, if you allow me,” Arthur says, looking her in the eye. The embarrassment of the bathing episode still lingers. Since then, it’s been harder to ignore that, sorceress or not, Merlin is young woman whom he is, essentially, compromising by spending so much time alone with her.
Merlin lets out a half-laugh, half-sob, covering her face. “You couldn’t take advantage of me if you tried. I’m not afraid of you, I—fine. Do it.”
Arthur tries to be as gentle as possible when he lifts her into his arms, but he still jostles her injury, and winces at her suppressed whimper. “I’m sorry,” he says, walking with quick steps towards the cave. Merlin weighs next to nothing, which he had expected, given her thin frame.
He deposits her carefully on the floor and settles next to her to take a look at her calf.
“We should bandage this,” he says uncertainly. They don’t have much in the way of clean cloth.
“I’m working on making it better,” Merlin says. “It’s not easy when it hurts.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Arthur asks.
She shakes her head. “Not unless you’re willing to look for herbs in the rain. And even then, I’m not sure they’d help.”
“Name them,” Arthur says at once, getting up. “I’ll do it.”
She looks up at him, surprise written clearly on her face.
How little must she think of him?
She lists the herbs she needs and, when he admits to not knowing all of them, explains what they look like. Arthur sets out, shivering, into the rain, and wanders about for what he fears is far too long trying to spot them in the undergrowth.
He hasn’t found all of them by the time he returns, but he hopes it’s enough. Merlin thanks him and sets about making a tincture of some kind; it’s the first time Arthur has seen her do magic that doesn’t involve just willing things into existence, and he finds it strangely fascinating. Merlin, however, is frowning; it seems that simply crushing the herbs together might not bring the desired result, though she’s willing to try regardless.
Arthur has spent all of his life fearing magic, being told it was the most destructive force in the world. Now, he’s huddled in a cave with a sorceress, and he’s actively trying to help her get better. It doesn’t even feel strange until he thinks on it.
“I apologize,” he says, watching as she spreads the crushed herbs over the wound. “If I had thought to check the cave, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I didn’t think of it either,” Merlin says.
Yes, but it’s different, Arthur wants to say. Because he’s the leader, he’s responsible for his men… Except he’s no one’s leader here, and his men are far away in Camelot. Here, Arthur plays a supporting part at best, and he’s been trying very hard not to be a useless ballast to Merlin. Taking responsibility for their trip would be presumptuous of him, to say the least.
After they’ve slept, Merlin’s wound doesn’t look much better. Merlin is feverish and cross, gazing at her leg as if it’s betrayed her.
“You should go on,” she says. “At this point, I’ll only slow you down, and you need to get to Camelot as soon as possible. I don’t have anywhere in particular to be and I can take my time. My magic will heal this soon enough.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Arthur says firmly.
Merlin glares at him. “Why ever not? Nothing ties you to me. Your life is in greater danger the longer you linger.”
“You’ve said that you have no regard for my life,” Arthur points out. “But you have done all you can to save me, and for this I am more grateful than words can express. Let me return the favour. You need a physician.”
Merlin looks alarmed at this. “We can’t by seen by people,” she says. “We’ll be recognized, and—”
“I don’t think anyone would recognize the heir to Camelot’s throne in me now,” Arthur says ruefully. He’s very aware of how his appearance has deteriorated. The growing beard itches, and he has never felt so unkempt for so long. “And, short of forcing me by magic, you can’t make me go and leave you behind.”
Merlin blinks at him, visibly taken aback at his persistence. She truly must have thought him a monster.
He remembers Morgause’s words: The blood of hundreds, thousands of sorcerers is on his hands. This is, probably, what she’s been telling Merlin all along.
Arthur is not blameless. He knows this better than anyone. But he is not a monster that has slain thousands of people for no reason, nor would he ever do such a thing. He is, or at least tries to be, an honourable man. And he will not leave his saviour here alone, uncertain that she’ll survive in the wilderness.
***
Arthur Pendragon goes out scouting at first light, telling Merlin that he’s going to try to find a village. Given the amount of pain she’s in, Merlin is disinclined to argue, but she still wishes that her herbs had worked, or that her magic were closing the wound faster. It’s getting better, Merlin thinks; but it’s a slow process, and she’s been taxing her magic a lot, all through the fog of exhaustion.
The prince sees her as near-omnipotent, expecting her to have a magical remedy to every situation. In truth, Merlin is stumbling along, just as he is; she doesn’t know the limits of her power, and she certainly doesn’t know all the spells in the world. Morgause and Nimueh are far beyond her.
Nimueh. Merlin closes her eyes and wonders what Nimeuh is doing now; if she’s helping Morgause look, if she’s angry at Merlin. She probably is. Merlin has, after all, betrayed a priestess of the Old Religion to abscond with Arthur Pendragon. There is hardly a greater insult she could’ve dealt.
She’s fallen into a light doze by the time Arthur Pendragon returns, winded from a fast walk. “I’ve found a small habitation,” he says. “We may as well try our luck.”
“And if we get caught?”
“We’ll work on it then.” His mouth is set in uncompromising lines, and once again, beyond the acquired look of a vagabond, Merlin can see a steely commander. For all that he’s powerless before the likes of Morgause and Nimueh—and, in many ways, Merlin herself—Arthur Pendragon is hardly a child, and in his own way he must be perfectly competent.
“How far is it?” Merlin asks.
“I can get us there,” he replies, which is not really an answer.
Merlin doesn’t want him to carry her, because that’s humiliating and unnecessary. She ignores the way her leg refuses to hold her weight and insists on hobbling out of the cave while grudgingly holding onto Arthur Pendragon for support.
They make it about ten steps in what feels like a century, and Merlin is too tired for words.
“It would really be no trouble if you let me carry you,” Arthur Pendragon says.
Merlin seriously doubts that it’s no trouble, because he’s also exhausted and she’s an extra weight. But she slumps and nods, and then he sweeps her into his arms—he seems keen to do this before she changes her mind—and sets off at a brisk pace, as if to demonstrate how much easier this is.
Prat, Merlin thinks, but can’t muster up any real vehemence.
She puts an arm around his neck for balance and feels very awkward about it for about three strides, at which point he stumbles on uneven ground and her leg protests at being jostled. She can tell Arthur is trying to cause her as little discomfort as possible, but she’s stifling pained gasps for much of the way regardless.
It takes them a fair while to reach the village, which is is barely fifteen houses huddled together.
“If they don’t have a physician, maybe we can at least find proper beds to sleep in,” Arthur says as they’re walking up the road.
“A proper bed? In a village like this?” Merlin repeats. “I can tell you were raised in a castle. We’ll be lucky to get some hay.”
The village does, it turns out, have a local woman who is good with herbs; this transpires in a conversation with half the inhabitants, who have come to gape at Arthur and Merlin. They hardly make an inconspicuous pair, and Merlin would worry more about this if she weren’t in so much pain.
They’re directed to the healer’s hut, where Arthur lowers her onto a cot and retreats to let the healer do her work. The woman is old, grey hair falling about her face, but her hands move gently and her eyes are shrewd.
“That’s a nasty wound, love,” she says. “Drink this, now.”
Merlin drinks, not questioning what she’s given though it tastes rancid. In a low voice, she says: “Thank you. We… You should know that we can’t pay you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t fret about that,” the healer says, patting Merlin on the shoulder. “Besides, I’m sure we can think of a thing or two. That young man of yours over there, he looks like a strapping lad. I’m sure he can put in a day’s work and help us out.”
Merlin startles, glancing Arthur’s way. Arthur looks equally baffled, like he didn’t expect either to be referred to in such terms, or to be requested for manual labour. Being the prince of Camelot, he probably doesn’t often, if ever, get people treating him so casually.
“I’ll be glad to help,” he says in cautious accents.
“There we are, love, all sorted out,” the healer says, and puts a compress on Merlin’s calf. “My roof needs mending and the men might want some help in the fields—you go ask, there’s a good lad. But do my roof first; it leaks when it rains.”
Arthur blinks, and for a moment Merlin is concerned that he’ll say something out of place and ruin their anonymity. But then Arthur only rolls his shoulders and asks where he might find the tools.
Merlin hopes he can mend roofs. It’s entirely possible that such subjects are not covered in the education of crown princes.
***
By evening, Arthur has gained greater insight into the lives of peasants than in all of his years before. When he’s a prince, there’s always a degree of deference, even when he’s visiting and insists on little ceremony; this is what a lack of ceremony actually feels like. The other men clap him freely on the back and scold him for being slow with his tools for one so strong in body. They lend him a shirt to replace his rags, ply him with a mysterious brew and also share a hearty warm meal at the end of the day.
Arthur makes sure that Merlin, too, has had something to eat. When he checks on her in the healer’s hut, Merlin is asleep, hair strewn over the bedding, features still tight with pain.
Upon walking into the village, he stuttered over the introductions. I need a healer, my… sister is hurt, he said. He had to define their relationship somehow, and at that moment nothing better came to mind. And this is another thing he didn’t expect: to be called out on the lie.
One of the men—the village elder, a sturdy man with a weather-beaten face—draws him aside over a pint of their brew, and fixes him with a stern look.
“Now, lad, about that girl you’ve just come back from,” he begins. “That ain’t your sister, is it.”
Arthur tries to arrange his face into an innocent expression. This trick frequently works on overly-curious courtiers. It does not work on this man.
“Don’t take me for an imbecile, lad,” he barks. “You look nothing alike, and you don’t act like family. But you’d better tell me at once if there’s some mischief here, because I’ll wager you ain’t married, either.”
“We aren’t,” Arthur says truthfully. “But there’s nothing to dishonour her, I swear.”
“Then why were you stumbling alone in the woods, and where are you taking her? Where’s her family?”
There are many tales Arthur could spin here, fanciful descriptions of rescues from bandits and chance meetings in the forest. He can tell at a glance, though, that nothing so elaborate will be believed. The man—and, possibly, all the others around—already have a clear picture of what happened to land them here, and, to avoid suspicion, Arthur would do best to stick close to that imagined script. Even if it’s not the one he would’ve chosen.
“We’re not married yet,” he says, “but I’m taking her home to my—to my mother. We’re running away from her village, who treated her badly and would’ve kept at it if I let them. But if we reach my home safely, we can get married like we want to.”
The man squints at him. “You have an honest look about you, and I’ve seen you with her, so I’ll trust you. But no ill had better come to that girl through you, you hear me?”
Arthur nods, wincing mentally as he imagines how little Merlin would appreciate a high-handed villager coming to the defence of her virtue. Merlin is the girl who overpowers a castle of guards with a flick of her wrist and beds down, fearless, in a cave beside an enemy she thinks might kill her. She’s not some defenceless damsel, and these are very clearly not her concerns.
Merlin, when Arthur visits her again later that night, listens to him relating the encounter with a little frown on her face, but without protest.
“It did sound unbelievable, especially when you sounded so unsure that I was your sister.” She sighs. “With our looks, even cousin may have been better. No matter; it’s too late now.”
Arthur takes a close look at her, noting the return of colour to her cheeks, the way her eyes look more alert than they did this morning.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Much improved,” she says. “I think, now that I’ve had a little bit of rest and a proper salve, my—” She lowers her voice. “—magic will finish the healing. We can leave when you like.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Arthur says. It would be unwise to dally any longer, but he’s also loath to move Merlin too soon; he has a clear idea that she might be exaggerating her readiness somewhat. She did, after all, seem very chagrined to be the cause of their delay, and she’s stubborn to a fault. “Oh, and you were right about the hay, earlier. That’s what I’m getting as my bed.”
Merlin smiles, then, and Arthur blinks at the way it transforms her. It’s the first time she’s smiled in his presence, but suddenly it seems to him that her face is ideally suited to such an expression.
“Of course I was right. I hope you’ll find your lodgings comfortable,” she says. “I get the sick-bed, as you can see.”
The cot is barely off the ground and the mattress seems negligible. If they were in Camelot, she could’ve had a soft bed of silks and feathers, and healers and servants waiting on her every need.
If they were in Camelot, she might’ve already been executed as a sorceress. It’s a sobering thought.
“Sleep well,” Arthur says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
It occurs to him, as he leaves, that this is the most civil exchange they’ve ever had; these last few days, they’d go to sleep in tense silence, never saying a word beyond what was necessary to assure immediate survival and arguing when they ventured to other topics. Now it’s as if, by rejoining civilization, they have acquired a veneer of civility themselves.
Arthur hopes it lasts.
The next morning, the villagers are reluctant to let them leave, but Arthur and Merlin both insist that they must be on their way. They thank everyone profusely for their hospitality, accept the proffered skin of water, and double their gratitude when the man who scolded Arthur yesterday comes out leading a horse by the reins.
“Send her back here when you reach your village,” he says, stroking a white flank. “We can’t be without her too long, but there’s no urgent work for her to do right now. Your girl can hardly walk,” he adds, nodding at Merlin. “If you must hurry, put her on horseback and be on your way.”
“Thank you,” Arthur says, as sincerely as he can. “I will send her back, I swear.” To himself, he vows to do something for this entire village—send back gifts, money, something. He wishes he could admit to being a prince and promise this openly.
He helps Merlin into the saddle, says his final goodbyes and then they’re off, the road singing under Arthur’s feet. He’s feeling much better, both physically and spiritually; Merlin’s leg is improved; and they have a horse.
Once they’re entirely out of sight of the village, Merlin stops. “You’d better get up behind me,” she says.
“Are you sure?” The horse looks like she can handle their combined weight, the good working mare that she is, but, all the same, Arthur hesitates.
Merlin huffs. “Yes, of course. We have a horse, and we need to go fast. We’re not actually engaged and fleeing to your village; we’re fugitives in this kingdom, remember.” She doesn’t look entirely comfortable making the offer, but she clearly means it, and she’s right in her assessment of their situation.
“Very well,” Arthur says, and levels himself up behind her. For a moment, he’s not sure where to put his hands, but, really, there’s nowhere else except her waist. He’s very aware of every breath Merlin takes and the way her hair tickles his nose, and this is all incredibly inappropriate.
***
They cover a lot of ground on horseback; the forest path gives way to plains on which they might be more easily seen. Merlin layers enchantments over them, trying even harder than before to make them invisible. She’s sure they’re approaching Camelot’s territory now. Uther’s kingdom. Her skin crawls to think of it, but… on the other hand, there’s Arthur. She doesn’t actually wish him harm. The more time she spends in Arthur’s company, the more she thinks that Morgause had to be lying for most of her descriptions of the man; anyone as proud and selfish and cruel as that wouldn’t have behaved as Arthur has these past few days.
She’s always known that Morgause lies. The trouble is that, sometimes, she also tells the truth, and it’s hard to tell one from the other.
Merlin and Arthur stop when the horse starts getting visibly tired; this time, instead of running it to complete exhaustion, they take some rest. They settle beneath a canopy of trees, and Merlin works her magic to fashion a roof over them from the leaves and twigs scattered around. Now that she’s had a good night’s repose, magic comes more easily to her fingertips, and, though she’s been keeping up warding spells all day, it’s no hardship to do this extra thing.
Arthur watches her work, in that avid way he gets when he sees her do magic.
“You’re feeling better, then,” he says.
“Much.” Merlin waves a hand and a little fire appears on the ground before them. “I think my magic was… tired, perhaps. I was tired, and maybe it all went into sustaining me. Now, I can use it more freely again.”
Arthur sits down opposite her and extends his hands to the flames. “When did you learn magic?”
She glances at him, but sees nothing but earnest curiosity in his expression.
“I was born with it,” she says.
A small crease appears between Arthur’s brows. “You didn’t choose to learn it?”
“I chose to improve it, I suppose,” Merlin says. “But, no, I had the ability from before I could walk. My—my mother said I was a handful.”
The thought brings a fresh stab of pain, and Merlin swallows against it. To distract herself, she concentrates on her injured leg, unwrapping the bandage and inspecting the wound.
Were she not magic, it would still have been an ugly gash. But Merlin’s powers have been working to heal her, and by now the wound is already closed, the skin around it a tender red.
“If I thought you’d take anything from the rulers of Camelot, I’d offer you a reward for saving me,” Arthur says then, his voice surprisingly solemn. “Is there anything I can give you? Anything at all?”
Merlin raises her head to look at him. “No.”
Arthur nods, an unhappy set to his mouth. Shadows cast by the flame dance across his face, illuminating what seems to be some internal struggle. “What do you plan to do after we part ways?”
Merlin shrugs. “You’ve asked this before.”
“You didn’t say anything then.”
That may be because it’s less that she’s going somewhere and more that she’s moving away from where she doesn’t want to be.
Arthur takes a deep breath, as if having decided to take the plunge, and looks her in the eye.
“Merlin, I know you want nothing to do with my family,” he says, “and I understand that. But I also must ask—” He breaks off, as if trying to find the right words. “I’ve told you that, the night I was captured, I had been looking for druids. I haven’t told you exactly why.”
He pauses. Merlin waits, not encouraging him to speak, but not stopping him, either.
“For months now, Camelot has been under attack from a magical beast,” Arthur says heavily. “We’ve faced our share of magical threats, but we’ve always survived them before. This time, however—every sting, every bite of the beast is fatal. It is ravaging the country, killing countless innocents. I’ve fought against it time and time again, and my knights are powerless to stop it. The physician, Gaius—” Merlin startles, not having expected to hear Gaius’s name. “—he says that the beast can only be killed by magic. My father won’t listen to him.” That last is said with more bitterness than Merlin has heard from Arthur’s mouth so far.
“So you went in search of druids who might tell you about the beast,” Merlin says. “Because you won’t defend magic, but you will turn to it when you need something done.”
Arthur’s expression hardens.
“I was raised on tales of how magic was evil,” he says. “For many years, it was one of the immutable truths in my life. I’d seen nothing but grief from it. And I know that the Pendragons have brought this on themselves; those who have magic have ample reason to hate us. Hate me, personally.” He clenches his jaw. “But the people of Camelot should not have to suffer for the sins of their rulers. It’s not my father out there, attacked by the Questing Beast. It’s the ordinary citizens, and we can do nothing to help them. I cannot simply let this stand. I went out to find someone, anyone, who might point me in the right direction, anyone with magic who would help, and—I know I cannot ask this of you, but I have no right to keep silent. Merlin, would you please consider coming to Camelot with me and helping to rid it of the Questing Beast?”
Merlin watches his face, looks into his eyes, darkened by the night’s shadows and fixed determinedly on hers. He knows exactly how presumptuous it is of him to ask this, she can see that. She notes the fear lurking in his expression, too—of the beast or of her refusal, she’s not sure.
“You’d ask me to save Camelot,” she says. “The kingdom that purged all sorcerers from its lands.”
Arthur’s gaze doesn’t waver. “That was the will of the king, not of Camelot’s people. They are not to blame. They should not suffer.”
That much, at least, is true.
“If you do this, you will save dozens, hundreds of people,” Arthur says, leaning forward. “Your magic saved me. I know it can save them, too, and they are far more deserving of it.”
He would beg; Merlin sees it clearly. If this was what she required, he would fall to his knees in supplication and abase himself, only so that she would agree.
All he cares about is his pride, Morgause said.
This does not appear to be the case.
“If you want my help, this cannot be where it ends,” Merlin hears herself say. “You’ll have your own part in the bargain. You will swear that you will do all you can to end the persecution of magic in Camelot.”
She didn’t realize she would say this until she’s said it, and it feels strange, negotiating with the prince like this on behalf of magic at large. But Merlin was almost a priestess of the Old Religion, not so long ago. She will never tie herself to the Isle of the Blessed, and she’s never wanted to; and yet, Nimueh and Morgause have taught her enough. She will defend magic, even if she feels no kinship with its emissaries.
“I swear,” Arthur says, sitting straight and looking directly at her, no hesitation in his manner.
He makes the promise too easily.
He’s also holding himself tight as a string as he waits for Merlin’s answer. If this is an act, then all of him in the last few days has been an act, and not even Morgause credited him with so much duplicity.
“If we go to Camelot, you’ll be in danger,” he adds, ducking his head a little. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if any harm befell you, and I swear also that I will protect you as best I can.”
Merlin snorts, then. “I’m not afraid.”
Arthur frowns. “My father—”
“I’m not afraid of him, either,” Merlin says. “His prisons can’t hold me, and fire won’t touch me. I’ve escaped harsher jailers.”
As she holds Arthur’s gaze across the fire, she thinks back to a different conversation, in a different life.
They will kill you, Will said. The king of Camelot is right there, and everyone knows he’s mad with hatred of sorcery. You’ll be completely defenceless.
Merlin has come very, very far from the girl who sat under a tree with Will that day. Nimueh and Morgause have tried to mould her into a killer like them; Merlin has more dark magic at her fingertips than Arthur can imagine. She knows far more of murder than of healing. Next to Morgause and Nimueh, Uther Pendragon fades into insignificance. And Merlin is anything but defenceless.
“So will you come with me, then?” Arthur asks.
“I’ll come with you,” Merlin says, not quite believing herself as she says it, and yet feeling something fall into place as she does. This is, inexplicably, the right choice. “But don’t forget about your end of the bargain.”
“I won’t,” Arthur says, blowing out a breath. Even in relative darkness, she can tell how his expression has brightened. He smiles, open and joyful like Merlin hasn’t seen before. “I—Merlin, thank you. There are no words enough to express my gratitude.”
“I didn’t say I’d get rid of your beast for certain,” Merlin points out, not sure what to do with such onslaught of positive emotion. Nobody has looked at her like this, with genuine happiness and appreciation, in a long time. “Only that I’d try.”
“That’s more hope than I’ve had in months,” Arthur says, and he sounds entirely sincere.
***
They cross into Camelot on a rainy afternoon, but Arthur’s soul sings jubilantly regardless of the weather. The kingdom has not been saved yet, nor is he free of the menace that chases him from Essetir; he and Merlin are still alone in the woods, and far from home. The plains are behind them, and mountains loom not so far away; they have reentered the forest, and they don’t know what manner of dangers might await them there.
But Arthur is on his own soil, now, and, best of all, Merlin has agreed to help him.
He didn’t expect her to say yes; it was a forlorn plea, one he had to make because she was a very capable sorceress and had helped him once already. He knew of her distaste for the Pendragons and for Camelot, and he did his best to convince her, but to hear his prayers answered… Perhaps he’s done Merlin an injustice in thinking too little of her. He believed her willing to sacrifice innocents to her anger; but then, she thought him a selfish monster. It could be they both stand to learn a thing or two.
On the most recent leg of their journey, the long hours on horseback eventually start affecting Merlin, who isn’t as used to life in the saddle as Arthur is. When he asks her if she would like him to take the reins, she hesitates only for a moment. The new position is… slightly compromising, given that he’s now got Merlin bracketed between his arms. She seems to feel it too, since she holds her back very straight, making sure it only comes into minimal contact with his chest. That minimal contact is still, Arthur must concede, rather a lot, and he’s grateful that no one from the palace is here to see him engaging in such loose behaviour.
“Tell me,” he says, both because he feels the need to fill the awkward silence with conversation and because he’s genuinely curious, “that Morgause and Cenred have not yet found us, is it extremely good fortune, or have you been—is it your magic that has—” Arthur doesn’t actually have the vocabulary for what he’s trying to ask. He’s not used to talking about magic like this, out in the open. It still feels like treason, even if he’s sure it’s for a good cause—even if he plans to stand by the vow he’s made.
“I’ve been trying,” Merlin admits, slumping slightly against him before straightening up again. “I don’t know how effective my spells can be against Morgause.”
“Does it take much effort?” Arthur asks. “Does it tire you, using magic like this?”
Merlin thinks over the answer for a few moments. “It’s easier when I’m at full strength. But, yes, I feel the difference.”
Something else Merlin is doing to protect them, then; something Arthur had no idea about. He remembers her pallor and exhaustion after the injury, the way her magic wouldn’t heal her quickly. Clearly, this shielding effort has cost her.
“Thank you,” Arthur says quietly.
She only nods, and Arthur feels the movement against his shoulder. Her hair, a dark messy halo, reaches out to tease at Arthur’s face again. He fights against the urge to sneeze.
“Where is this Questing Beast of yours, then? How are we going to find it?” Merlin asks. There’s a drowsy tone to her voice, as if she could fall asleep right there, on the horse and in the hold of Arthur’s arms. After the days they’ve had, Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if she were capable of sleeping even here.
“I have no way of knowing where the beast is now,” he says. “I’ll need to consult Sir Leon, inquire from my knights as to where the beast was sighted last.” Assuming that Sir Leon is still alive, that he’s survived the encounter Arthur sent him to. Arthur has to believe it is so.
At his answer, Merlin tenses, drawing away from him insofar as it’s possible in their current circumstances. “And your knights, I suppose you expect to find them at the citadel?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, because, truly, they must stop by the castle before they go further. If nothing else, he’ll need to consult Gaius on how, exactly, the beast can be killed with magic—ideally without revealing that he now has the means to do so.
“You want us to go to the royal fortress?” Merlin attempts to turn around and look him in the face, but of course such a manoeuvre is hardly possible while on horseback. She steadies herself against Arthur’s arm. “Do you expect to ride into the city, present me to the king as the sorceress who’ll help you, and get on with the hunt after?”
Arthur frowns. “I’m aware that it won’t be so easy as that. My father must not know that you have magic, or he’ll attempt to stop us.”
“You ask me to hide my magic?” There’s a decidedly displeased lilt to Merlin’s tone.
“At least for a time, until the beast can be killed.” Arthur tries to sound conciliatory. “Confronting my father will create an unnecessary delay. I know you say you can escape if he learns of you, but my hope is that you won’t need to flee as soon as you arrive.”
“You’re very presumptuous,” Merlin says. She sighs, but Arthur is also close enough to feel her relax slightly, and he supposes that this signals her surrender to the scheme. “Then how, pray, are you envisaging our introduction? How will you explain appearing after having gone missing, with me in tow?”
“I can say the truth, that I was kidnapped, and that you rescued me,” Arthur suggests.
“At which point the king will offer me a reward and send me on my way.” Merlin huffs. “How will you explain your continued desire to communicate with me? We’ll need to work together, will we not?”
That is true, and it’s an aspect Arthur hasn’t considered. It seemed to him so simple: reaching Camelot, bringing a sorceress, getting rid of the beast. But, in Camelot, Arthur is not entirely free; he is the prince, and he has the king and the whole court to navigate. He will want to stay in close contact with Merlin, but he cannot fathom doing so in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion or cast dishonour on them both. To keep her near, one might imagine giving her a post in the royal household, but everything in Arthur cringes away from the very idea of asking Merlin—powerful, proud Merlin—to, on top of hiding her magic, take up the role of a servant to further his lie.
Besides, if Arthur were seen frequenting a female servant, it would give rise to rumours immediately. It’s bad enough that they’ll appear having travelled together, unchaperoned.
“I suppose you could pretend that you’re in love with me,” Merlin says dubiously, and Arthur startles to hear that her thoughts run alongside his. “That would give you a reason to keep me close, and—”
“I’m not going to cast you in the role of my mistress,” Arthur interjects. He can’t help his lips curling in distaste.
Merlin huffs again. “You and I would both know it isn’t true. But insofar as excuses go—”
“I won’t dishonour you like that,” Arthur says, and this time he possibly sounds harsher than intended, because Merlin responds with a surprised silence.
“It doesn’t matter, you know,” she says, after a few moments. “My reputation in Camelot means nothing to me.”
Much regarding her own future seems to mean nothing to her, from what Arthur has understood.
“It matters to me,” he insists. “Besides, I will not be known as a man who ruins a woman’s reputation just to sate his desires. What kind of a prince would that make me?”
“A very ordinary one, to hear Cenred tell it,” Merlin mutters.
Arthur only frowns at that.
They ride in silence until the sun starts getting lower in the sky. Then Arthur suggests, “We could say that you’re my wife,” and feels Merlin’s full-body startle.
“You must be jesting,” she says, incredulity thick in her voice.
“I am not.” Memories of their stay in the hospitable Essetir village have flitted through Arthur’s mind as they rode. They were taken for a couple then, and people would’ve easily believed them married, had Arthur thought to say so at once.
He imagines declaring this to the villagers, stopping before them as he holds Merlin in his arms: I need a healer for my wife. Nobody would’ve questioned him, he’s certain.
In Camelot, many will, because he is the prince and a prince cannot simply strut in and say that he has chosen a wife without reference to her dowry or to political interest. On the other hand, being Arthur’s wife will also give Merlin the immunity of a royal and place her near him to talk as much as they like, as privately as they wish.
“Your father will not stand for it,” Merlin says.
“I’ll deal with him.”
The king will be furious. The king will be furious with Arthur regardless, because what Arthur’s doing is treason, and his vow to help magic users will make it worse.
Uther might, of course, try to declare the marriage invalid, but he’ll be forced to stop short of a scandal that will further weaken Camelot in the eyes of its enemies. The prince marrying a no-name girl against his father’s wishes is one thing, but the king and the prince publicly quarrelling will be seen as a breach in Camelot’s defences. Uther is enough of a politician to grit his teeth until he can act with impunity, at which point the ruse will have played out already. Or so Arthur hopes.
“And what after, when the time comes for me to leave?” Merlin asks. “Will you just say that your beloved wife conveniently vanished?”
“Surely, with your magic, we can stage an accident of some kind?” Arthur asks.
Merlin seems to think it over. “Probably,” she admits. “But I still think this plan is too outlandish. It will make me the target of the king’s rage from the moment we cross his threshold, and that will, surely, make our task harder.”
“Believe me, arriving with you on my arm and declaring you my mistress wouldn’t endear you to my father either,” Arthur says dryly. “Except then, if he were to do everything in his power to separate us, there would be little to stop him. If you carry the protection of my name, at least you will have that.” Arthur winces as soon as he’s said that, thinking of how Merlin must hate donning the name Pendragon, even temporarily.
“Whatever happens, it will only be pretend,” Merlin says, voice hard. “I’m not marrying you. I’m not pledging myself to you, or to Camelot.”
“It would only be make-believe,” Arthur agrees. “And I imagine it’s only for a few days.”
In truth, at this stage—having lived through all these desperate months, knowing how much Camelot needs aid—Arthur would’ve married her in earnest, had she wanted it. There is very, very little Arthur wouldn’t do to rescue Camelot from the downward spiral of destruction. It’s just as well that Merlin requires the exact opposite of him—not to be bound by anyone, not to be restricted in her freedom.
Arthur only hopes that she’ll be able to put up with the ruse. The royal court is a trial at the best of times, and Arthur’s not sure how long her patience will hold out.
“Well, yes, it had better be for a few days only,” Merlin says, and then continues unexpectedly: “Any more than that, and the news of my whereabouts is bound to travel back to Morgause. And she will want to find me.”
Arthur frowns. “Will she want—what will she want with you exactly? Revenge?”
Merlin shrugs, which Arthur takes for an affirmative.
“Will it be safe for you to travel on your own, after?” he asks. “If Morgause is searching for you?”
“As safe as it is gets with Morgause on my heels,” Merlin says. She still sounds remarkably unconcerned with her own fate, which irks Arthur for no reason he can discern. “Anonymous and alone, I might be able to disappear,” she adds. “In the public eye in Camelot, I’ll be making myself a clear target.”
“You’ll also be behind Camelot’s walls,” Arthur can’t help pointing out.
Merlin snorts. “And if those walls were truly strong, Cenred wouldn’t have sneered at Camelot’s defences.”
The matter-of-fact dismissal is hard to hear, and Arthur grits his teeth against uttering an unwisely sharp rejoinder. It stings because it’s true: Camelot has become weak, and this is the whole reason for Merlin’s invitation there.
One last thought stops him.
“I know that you have no love for my father,” he says. “And I understand. But I trust that you will not—that you would not—”
“Kill him?” Merlin asks coldly.
“Harm him,” Arthur forces out. “I know of your grievances against him, and I will hold to the oath I gave you. I will do all I can to reverse his policies and stop the persecution of those who have magic. But he is still my father.”
They ride in silence for a few steps—long enough that Arthur gives up hope of Merlin saying anything. Then:
“A future of murder and destruction is what I’m leaving behind,” Merlin says. “I could’ve had that path, had I chosen it. I have no doubt that Morgause and Cenred would’ve pitted me against Camelot sooner or later.” She pauses. “I have no wish for that. But I cannot promise not to retaliate if I’m attacked.”
Arthur blows out a breath. He’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t come to that.
The forest path is taking them closer and closer to Camelot. As the tired horse plods on, Arthur tries to think ahead to the problems that await them at the destination. Still, he cannot contain the rush of excitement that the thought of being back at the castle brings him.
That excitement increases tenfold when they hear voices ahead and Arthur recognizes them as those of his knights. Merlin begins to make a familiar gesture for masking their presence, but Arthur stops her with a hand on her arm.
“No,” he says, heart beating joyfully. “No, it’s all right. We are among friends.”
Arthur is not yet at home, but he might as well be.