The air was hot, muggy, searing, and stifling. It seemed in great company with the low sounds coming from the room at the top of the stairs. Here and there soft thumps and diluted soft place clinks could be heard as the light at the bottom of the door was distorted and blotched out to murky shadows time to time as feet crossed the threshold.

Inside a hunched figure, their form crumpled and misshaped by their wrinkled and tarnished tunic, sat on a stool, the legs warped from years of abuse. Around them sat many vials, pewters, scales, rods for stirring, a fire pot for melting, and many bushels and throngs of herbs of variety. A book lay opened at the far end of the table and the figure reached an ink stained hand, with cracks of dry skin running on the open membrane like maps, and old remints of scars on the young looking hand, riffled through the pages until they sought the one they had been looking for. They made little huffs and grunts and they traced down the list and looked back and forth between the volume and the items spread about them.

"Three mithqal of Groundsel," the young man muttered as he measured out the herb in the stilted weight scale. He read the nicks as the scale settled on the wooden axle and ceased to move. He then, carefully, transferred the herb into the pewter bowl with the other already crushed, filtered, measured fixings. He was careful not to breathe in any fumes…no, not yet.

He mustn't.

Groundsel was a nasty herb. The picking of it was nasty business, nay; the herb itself was death in itself. Merlin had gone out early that morning to retrieve it. He had risen early, donned his ratty blue dyed cloak, and slipped past the sentries at the western gate overlooking the village and woods. There was, of course, no need for such sneaking around the grounds like some petty thief, but Merlin did not want anyone to know of his business, especially the king.

He had tracked three miles through Godforsaken woods; the ground, a mud trap from the rains that had all but infiltrated the lands the last couple weeks, hard to walk through even with the usual bramble and thicket. The herb only grew in the dark, where little light hit the woods. It took Merlin a good hour or so to find it, hidden beneath an old fallen timber log. He cut it with his dagger, a quick clean cut, and wrapped it in monk's cloth, as he congratulated himself on a job well done. He could now finish what he had started many months ago.

He set the bowl with all the herbs on the frame in the makeshift fire pit on his work table. His eyes sparked gold and fire jumped into the world. He raised his hand, a smile on his established, gaunt face which for the first time in his life was ghosted with a beard. His tongue, already forming the words of the enchantment required to finish this project, was stilled as the door to his workroom connected to his personal chamber was thrown open and hammered against the stone wall.

Merlin jumped his heart beating fast. Before he could even bat an eye he felt strong hands grab the back of his tunic and he was thrown against the wall. Colorful sparks shot like fireworks behind his eyes and he grimaced in pain. He went to moan in resort to this abuse when he felt cool metal work still kiss his throat.

"Speak in that tongue of yours and you'll be most sorry," the voice said, calm and cool.

Merlin knew the voice of course. Who did not? It was a voice loved by all and feared by only a few. It was the voice of courage, valor, honor, respect, and all that Britain stood for. Opening his eyes, the warlock was met with a smooth, white, clean face, the lips full and breath smelling faintly of wine and spice. Rolling his eyes upward Merlin looked into the blue eyes not filching. The sword bit lightly into his neck like that of a lover.

"Sire."

Arthur, king of Camelot, looked at his longtime friend, advisor, protector, and manservant. His hand that held his sword wanting to pull the sword away, instead he forced it more against Merlin's skin.

So the rumors were true then, he thought crest fallen, not wanting to believe them, but having the evidence in front of him it was hard to disprove it. Merlin was trying murder someone of the court; someone who lived under the thatched room and stone walls. Trying to kill him, if what he was told true.

"On behalf of my law and crown you will be sentenced to death. Hanging from the gallows for all to witness and to see, for no lesser punishment will correct your wrong doings, no evidence or plea will save you. You have tried and concocted a mean to kill someone of court or myself." Arthur's voice held a twinge of tearfulness to it as he looked at Merlin who stood silent. All preambles came to a stop and just one word came out, "Why?"

"I wasn't trying to kill you or anyone of the court."

Arthur shook his head," the evidence is plain to see here, this potion is one to bring on death. Countless witness saw you entering the woods this morning; have taken note of your odd behavior as of late, so have I…"

"I wasn't trying to kill you or anyone of this court," Merlin said again and took a deep breath, "The Potion your Grace…is for me."

Thank you for reading. Please review I would like to know your thoughts and comments. Shall post again soon!