Fool On The Hill
Taran smiled beatifically at his guest and Arthur's eyes turned to him.
"I understand," the king was saying. "I understand the difficulties your kingdom has faced and I know how your kingdom has viewed magic in the past. I can assure you," he said and picked up his goblet and drained it, not even batting an eye when a nearby servant filled it again almost instantly, "That no harm shall come to you during your stay here. The laws of our land are ours and to be obeyed by all those within our realm." This was something of a veiled threat, Arthur knew; disturb the peace, and we shall not be a friend to you or to Camelot. "And I hope that your convoy will remember this."
It was the first day of negotiations and the second day since their arrival; Arthur's eyes closed, blocking out the image of the king that sat beside him as he gave his nod of ascent. He had expected as much as this; everyone had, it seemed, from his council to his knights alike, they had all warned him. The knights had been much more fierce, of course, and had sworn a premature vengeance on any who might attempt to harm their king. It had taken some time to make the decision to travel to Rhewogydd, though Arthur's hesitation had not emerged from fear; he was simply unused to the concept of traveling quite so far. It was more often than not the court of Camelot that hosted royal parties from distant lands.
He had heard extensively of both the frost that covered the land and of the kingdom's attitude towards sorcery; he had heard of a man, an ill-kept secret whom sat at the right hand of the King and had been named heir should the unmarried and childless Taran ever meet an untimely end. The arrival of Arthur in Rhewogydd was the proof he needed that Camelot's stance on magic was indeed changing. It was time for him to show to both his own people, and to any travellers who might wish to stay within the bounds of his realm, that those who practiced sorcery would no longer be punished. Unless, of course, they used their powers for evil. By visiting Taran's kingdom and by drawing up an unneeded treaty that would unite them under terms that satisfied both sides, he would show his subjects and everyone else that he no longer held the fear that his father had instilled in him throughout his life. In his time as a prince and finally as a king, Arthur had seen both sides of magic and now, in the seventh year of his reign, he was finally working to show his understanding; that sorcerers, just like people, common and noble alike, came in all forms. This included the good and the bad. He would not make the same mistake again.
But Arthur was not stupid. He knew for a fact that Rhewogydd's power lay in the heir to the throne and it was for this reason that so little was known about him. Arthur himself was yet to see the sorcerer; none of his consort had seen him either, and that included his wife and knights. There had been an apology, of course, when he had inquired as to the absence. There had been an apology and obvious surprise that he had known about the heir at all.
Taran had explained his missing heir and council member away by remarking that he had left for one of the lower villages; he had gone under his own volition to help with the frozen river that had diminished the village's water supplies to almost nothing. It was a noble deed and Arthur's understanding had come with solemnity. If the gossip he had overheard from passing servants was anything to go by, the sorcerer was also planning on finding a way to bring warmth and heat in spite of the ice to every home and hovel in the kingdom; no one would die of cold this winter if he had anything to do with it, no matter how long it may take him.
It only served to prove to the king that magic was indeed not evil; it was the person in command of it that divined its purpose.
He awoke early in the second week of their stay by a commotion of sudden noise that came from the courtyard outside the window of the chambers that he and Guinevere had been given. There was excitement and chatter and a joy that he could both feel and hear even in the cold silence of their own room. Leaving his slumbering wife's side, he crept up and out of the bed, careful to allow her to sleep on. Even as a great king he still slept in a pair of breeches in the way that he had done for the majority of his life; he sometimes rarely bothered with that, though the chill prevented him from doing so here, making itself known now in the prickling of his skin. His wife offered little warmth between the sheets, heavy velvets and furs. With no need to dress himself, he groped for the curtains and pulled them open in the dark, allowing nothing but more darkness to seep into the room.
Sounds of happiness were faint, muffled as they were by the thick glass of the window, but he didn't open it; he knew just how cold it was beyond that pane of glass. He could feel the frost radiating from it.
He looked down through the falling snow and onto the path that was covered with white, winding as it was about the frozen lake that led to the castle. He could see a small crowd gathered about a man on horseback whose hood was drawn up to protect him from the cold. Tall and slender, he seemed to emanate power as he handed the reigns to a servant who steadied the horse quite needlessly. The man climbed down and accepted the hand of someone who could only Taran, the king, though it was difficult to tell through the mask of the heavy snow. It was then that Arthur finally noticed a staff strapped to the man's back, humble and made of what could only be wood, he couldn't help but admire it, in spite of being able to see little of its detail from afar; he could barely make out a large, blue stone set at the uppermost point.
It took only a moment for him to make the connection and to realise that this must be the court sorcerer, the man whom he had heard so much about. The two men embraced on the path and the snow swirled about them; and then, before Arthur had scarcely time to blink, the sorcerer was led by the king into the castle. He never saw past the velvet hood that cloaked the man's face from view.
With the realisation that he would be meeting this man soon, Arthur returned to the bed and climbed beside his still-sleeping wife. He edged close to her for warmth, the type that body heat provided; he was appreciative of it more than he could say after having stood in the cold room for- he didn't know how long it had been. He couldn't pinpoint the stretch of time that he had spent standing and staring out of the window, but it had been long enough to leave him chilled to his very core. He would speak to a servant about restocking the fuel for their fire if it ever ran low again in the nights to come.
It took some time for sleep to finally reach him and it seemed that as soon as he had found it, there was a gentle knocking on the door. Guinevere was bustling about and then she was opening it, letting unwanted light into the room. Awake once more, the king sat up groggily. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked over to the door, catching a brief glimpse of one of the court members they had met earlier in the week. He told the queen that Rhewogydd's king had requested their presence at a feast that night in honour of the return of his heir. Guinevere had accepted the extended invitation without doing so much as turn around to check that Arthur was awake, much less to see whether he agreed or not. Their years of marriage had seen to it that she knew him well now, and that she even understood him enough to know that he wanted to both meet and speak with this sorcerer. She knew that he wanted to atone for his crimes against magic; both his father's and his own. But most importantly his own. He would never forgive himself for what he had done to Merlin.
It had been a month into Arthur's reign when he had discovered Merlin's true nature. He had thrown him into the dungeons without so much as stopping to blink. He had needed time to think without seeing him. The warning bells had rung mere hours later and the King's manservant had never been seen in Camelot again.
For years, he had thought it was because Merlin had been guilty of something; just having magic was a crime, after all.
It had been a long time before Arthur had realised that he had run because he was afraid.
He had discovered only a few months prior to his decision to begin a movement that would show his ultimate support for magic that it had been his own knights with their superior knowledge of the guard circulation and with the free run of the castle that came with a knighthood whom had helped Merlin escape.
He had been fine with it, in the end. But he understood why it had been kept a secret from him for so long. After all, he had held his father's views on magic. And who could have really blamed him at the time? Every magical being he had ever come in contact with as far as he knew up until then had done him some harm or other ill intent. Still, he could have used his brain, he couldn't help but think, and he could have actually realised that in all these years, all the years of closeness and all the bullying… Had Merlin ever meant him anything but kindness and protection, he would have killed him years ago. Arthur probably would have deserved it, the fool he'd been back then.
But he still didn't know that it accounted for the lies. Perhaps at the start he wouldn't have taken to Merlin's magic kindly. After all, he had been arrogant then. Arrogant enough to believe that the only righteousness in the world came from his father and, by his very birthright, from himself. And Arthur had never questioned any of his father's choices until Merlin came along. He had gone along blindly with the executions that seemed to have a weekly place in the castle's courtyard, had never questioned the evil of every single person that practiced magic and therefore went against his father's will. And then, Merlin, the stupid idiot, had gone and got himself poisoned. For the first time in his life, Arthur had disobeyed Uther in a matter that wasn't something as trivial as "stop pulling Morgana's hair". Saving Merlin's life, the life of a servant who had willingly given his own to save Arthur's, had been a cause that he wouldn't have given up for anything. Thrown in the dungeons for his trouble, Arthur had rejoiced when Merlin finally recovered, though he had remained shaky and unstable for a good week after Gaius had purged the poisons from his system. Arthur had disobeyed his father and done a thing that he believed was right and good; he had gone against Uther's will and yet he had not performed any sort of evil act. He thought now that Merlin could have told him then and Arthur would have sworn never to tell anyone, to keep his magic a secret.
There had been so, so many chances where Merlin could have told Arthur the truth. And that had stung as much as anything else, that he'd not been trusted enough to know the truth. But there had come a time when Merlin's confession would have been met as bitterly as it had in reality. It had been left too long and too many horrific things had happened to Arthur in the name of magic. His father's death had been the true blow. Left too late, Merlin had continued to hide from him until he had been caught out, doing something so stupid as to read a book of magic in the physician's rooms and, when asked if the book belonged to his uncle, Merlin had denied it. Rumour had spread fast and that had been it. Arthur could not be seen to make excuses, could not be seen to make exceptions, not for a man who had lied to him so many times and for so long. His execution had been planned for the next morning, but he had escaped long before justice could be taken.
The warrant for Merlin's arrest was still active and would be until the moment Arthur made magic legal in Camelot. Perhaps he would return then. Arthur doubted it, somehow, and the truth burned unpleasantly in his stomach, a poisonous feeling that had taken root there ever since he had realised all of the reasons why Merlin had never told him about his magic. It had been fear. Not fear of dying, no, not when he had proved time and time again that he was willing to sacrifice his life for Arthur and Camelot. It was fear of Arthur himself and fear of what he would do.
"You look every bit a King," Guinevere told him from where she sat at the dressing table, running a horse-hair brush through her dark curls, the last thing for her to do before she placed her crown on her head. She stood when she had finished and stepped across the room until she reached him, her arms going about his neck as she drew him into a kiss.
It was a hollow one. They had been hollow for some years now, and though they both felt it, neither would ever say so, too afraid of disrupting the delicate balance of their union. It had always been delicate. Arthur had just never seen it until after they had married; he had never realised it until he had been drunk one night and he had staggered to their chambers and seen Guinevere poorly concealed behind a tapestry with Lancelot.
He had known and understood who she truly loved for some time now. And, surprising even himself, he had accepted it. She supported him in matters of state and was at his side when he needed her. This was all that he could ask, especially when her heart belonged to another. Had probably always belonged to another.
They parted and he offered his arm to her. They would be here for a month and it was important that appearances be kept.
And so, after perhaps spending too long in their chambers delaying the inevitable and therefore losing all semblance they might have had of being punctual, the King and Queen of Camelot made their way to their official welcome feast. It really was remarkable how she understood delicate matters like this, though Arthur had always thought that she had simply managed to learn well in Morgana's service. She may have learned more about defiance, not that it showed, but she had been privy to matters of state that many serving girls wouldn't have had a chance of dealing with. And yet, here was Guinevere. Guinevere who had served King Uther's ward for the majority of her life, and now, she was able to understand something even so subtle as this show of power.
It would have brushed most people past and, if they'd been informed about it, it would be them who said that it was subtle. To Arthur, it was glaring. Glaring and entirely obvious and the sort of thing his father had done on many occasions. Arthur led them as he took his seat at the long table to the left of the head table, close to the King and in the place that spoke of the honour of the guests in attendance. It was a far cry for the round table in Camelot. His knights had already arrived, as had all those but Taran and his infamous ward. Various noblemen sat along the table to the right, but the head table contained other select members of Taran's house.
There was Taran's brother whose name Arthur still did not know and a woman whom he could only assume was his wife, and, alongside them, their two small children, one of whom was concentrating incredibly hard on levitating the empty goblet in front of her. It was a good thing when a combination of Guinevere's gentle nudge and the mother scolding her child prevented the goblet from rising further and allowing it to drop back down with a gentle, tinkling thump to the table. Arthur had been far too entranced by the display. Apparently, Taran's brother didn't like the innocent act of magic any more than Uther would have, if his gritted teeth were anything to go by.
Arthur made a mental note of several things in that moment. First, that he would have to check his own fascination by magic being done out in the open and without the fear of execution. He couldn't be seen to gawp at it as though it were something he had never seen before in spite of the fact that it was; he had lifted the ban on magic within Camelot after careful consideration, but his people still did not seem to believe it. It was either the fact that they feared a trap and that they would be caught and killed the moment they began to practice openly or that there simply were not that many sorcerers in Camelot. He didn't think that was true at all; there had always been a plentiful supply before. But... Arthur had once wondered if it hadn't been his manservant's power that had attracted so much magic to Camelot under Uther's ban. When he had fled, the magic had gone with him, it seemed. Second, he had to make a note of Taran's brother. He had to find out his name and just what his opinion on the laws of this land were. Perhaps he could even find out more about the King's ward from speaking with him. Even the disdainful words that he already found himself expecting to hear would add to Arthur's knowledge about this man. So far, all he had heard was praise, and that truly was it. It wasn't enough to build an opinion of someone on.
He had once learned a lesson, a long, long time ago when his father had been alive. It was one that Uther himself had taught him. To learn about a person, you had to observe what they said and what they did and that you would also learn much from what the people around them said. How others observed them would be tantamount to learning as much as you could about someone.
He turned to Leon and relayed a small request that he speak with Taran's brother and find out what he could.
Not only did he want to learn about the ward, something that might be closed off to Camelot's King, but he also wanted to find out whether or not this man would be a threat to Camelot's hope of accepting magic into its kingdom.
The buzz of the room fell to a quiet as King Taran stepped through the double doors behind the high-backed chairs of the head table, his ward following behind him, head bowed briefly, apparently checking his footing, strands of long dark hair guarding his face that fell out of the way as he lifted his head to regard those already seated.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat and his fist clenched, eyes wide and brows knitted together.
It was Merlin.
Taran smiled easily as he reached down to the long table before him and scooped up a silver-coloured goblet made of a metal that Arthur couldn't identify and he lifted it in a toast. He wasn't looking at the king, however, even as he was essentially being addressed. There was talk of a hope of peace between the countries, but he couldn't keep himself from staring at the King's Ward. Merlin who had once been his friend, his only friend and confidant and whom had left Arthur in a state of mourning when he had eventually left. Mourning and self-blame that had threatened to swallow him up on more than one occasion, though he had done his best to hide it from his subjects and the members of his court whom did not matter in a personal sense.
He stared at the tall, pale man clad in heavy, dark purple cloths and grey furs for long enough that it became obvious. Obvious enough that the Ward who, with his own goblet raised, met the gaze steadily. His goblet was of the same metal, jewelled about the rim so that it would probably be one of the most uncomfortable things to drink from and while the old Merlin whom he remembered would have fumbled clumsily and dropped such an article or spilled whatever he was meant to be drinking within an instant, this Merlin, the Ward of a King, held the goblet easily and with an elegance that Arthur never would have thought he'd have possessed.
Merlin's hair was swept back over his shoulders, a golden band encircling his head, crossing the centre of his forehead. He inclined his neck slightly, the circlet somehow coming dangerously close to falling off, a smile on his face as he listened to Taran speak into his ear. His smile seemed to widen as Arthur looked on, entranced. Merlin was busy nodding and the king was standing and Arthur could not believe his eyes. With a quick look around, it was easy to identify that his knights felt the same. They hadn't seen Merlin for years; it had been the general and rarely-spoken assumption that he had perished. No one had done so much as mention him to Arthur since he had left, though he knew that some had talked about him in hushed whispers; only in the first few months and only by Gwaine and Lancelot, but even that had dwindled and died when it had become too painful a thing to think of. The only one who looked unsurprised was Guinevere and Arthur was not not stupid enough to miss that connection. He understood now all of her secretive communications throughout the past years. She had known. She had been in contact with Merlin all this time and had told no one. Arthur didn't blame her. Merlin was just the sort to ask that she keep it a secret from them; from Arthur, Lancelot, all of them.
Taran was still speaking, Arthur realised dimly.
Guinevere was smiling graciously and nodding an agreement to the standing man who was gesturing to previously unseen musicians; a woman at a harp with a golden body and an elderly man who held aloft a flute made of bone. This was their unofficial welcome, entertainment and barely-veiled threat. There it was again. Upset our peace, you will pay. They were expected to listen, but Arthur simply couldn't bring himself to pay attention to the musicians, no matter how beautiful the music was: no matter how concerned a few of his more intelligent men were looking. He was simply staring at Merlin, head propped up with his hand. Merlin the heir, the court sorcerer and the most powerful man in the castle, and perhaps even in the kingdom. It hit him at that moment that if he wanted to, Merlin had the ability to topple Camelot and Taran knew it.
Camelot needed this treaty, even if Arthur hadn't known it when they had set out for Rhewogydd; Guinevere must have known. And she must have told Merlin, or at least done something. Or perhaps she hadn't realised; perhaps all that King Taran wanted was peace between their nations and for Camelot to renounce the ban on magic within its kingdom as a matter of principle? It was unclear. But once more, Arthur was distracted.
And again, it was by Merlin, though now the king had taken a seat, the music had faded and it was the sorcerer who was standing, his dark hair shining in the light and the high collar of his fur-trimmed coat that covered his tunic and fine breeches covered his neck, he noticed, and—
Wind was howling about the castle and roaring at the windows in a bid to shatter them altogether; he was raising a hand, but in that hand was the jewelled goblet and it was almost certainly lifted in Arthur's direction. The King of Camelot stood as an automatic reaction, heart suddenly jumping to his throat as he picked up his own goblet and held it aloft in a mirror image of the man who had once been his servant.
"To our guests of Camelot," Merlin said, and Arthur found himself swallowing in reaction, unable to even do so much as the expected smile in response to such an introduction. The sorcerer was meeting his eyes, his gaze steady as he stood tall; taller than the king, he was unashamed to realise. "I would like to wish you a pleasant stay here in Rhewogydd and it is my greatest hope that you will one day have the chance to return King Taran's hospitality."
A general consensus of cheer was made at that moment, cheer and agreement and drink was taken, Merlin's gaze unwavering as the two men still stood amidst polite applause.
It was the first time Arthur had been acknowledged since he'd laid eyes on the man after all these years, and still, he seemed almost the same. Older, more the self that had been hidden for so long, but still the same Merlin. Still forgiving, smiling, able to accept all of the hardships in his life, though Arthur was unsure if he would ever forgive the way in which he had left Camelot. And yet Arthur couldn't believe that his old manservant held any hostility towards him; he couldn't believe that he would ever wish him any harm, no matter what had happened in the past.
And he seemed to have a good life here. He was the heir to a throne and the people loved him, that much had been plain even before Arthur had seen just who the court sorcerer was. He wasn't surprised. The sorcerer had always managed to get on well with everyone.
Merlin's gaze finally wavered and dropped when the toast was through. Arthur wondered briefly why as the younger man stepped back, lowered his goblet and once more took his seat. The applause had fizzled and faded and the low hum of conversation once more appeared. Merlin was turning to speak with the king and it felt like a blow. He couldn't identify why, but suddenly, he just felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to stand and excuse himself, but he wouldn't have done so even if he were in Camelot with the people he trusted the most surrounding him. He certainly could not do so here. It wouldn't work.
He didn't know quite what had possessed him to make him leave the guest chambers that night. He had been unable to rest with the way the cold seeped through a crack in the window no matter how close he had bundled himself beneath the furs that covered him. Finally, leaving Gwen's sleeping form behind him, he had climbed from the lavish bed and dressed in silence. He left the crown he'd been wearing ever since he arrived in its box beside the Queen's. Garbed in his simplest and warmest clothes, he wrapped a fur cape about himself - a gift from Taran's brother - and pulled on a pair of boots.
The coming day would be a day free of talks in which those from Camelot would have the time and luxury to move around and outside of the castle. Something within Arthur said that he may as well do so now.
He didn't know where he was going when he started out on his walk, only that he might find himself so cold and tired by the end of it that he had no option but to return to bed and the sleep that would surely await him there. It was warmer in the corridor, somehow. Possibly Merlin's influence that it was warm anywhere he thought, and if it was with the slightest bit of bitterness, it was only because he knew very well that the man would be capable of warming the room the he and Guinevere were in. Still, he wouldn't be the one to demand conjured warmth of King Taran's ward. Merlin wasn't exactly his manservant anymore. No, Merlin was essentially, to all intents and purposes, an adopted prince of the kingdom and first in line to the throne.
Rhewogydd, in spite of its frozen landscapes and in spite of the fact that its grounds were forever covered with a layer of deep, deep snow, was arguably one of the happiest kingdoms Arthur had ever come across. He would have to walk through the lower villages to see just how true his suppositions were, but he was fairly confident that what he thought was correct. The frozen kingdom and its outlying villages were the happiest of all. And Arthur knew that it was all down to Merlin.
Lost in his thoughts and with his head bowed, Arthur's feet had taken him in whatever direction it was that they thought he should go in. He found himself stopped outside a door, made of some heavy type of wood that he couldn't identify if only because he had never been interested in wood and the type of doors it made. There was a ring set into the left side of the door and a keyhole above that. What was interesting about this lock was that the key was still in it and, after some inspection, Arthur realised it was unlocked. If he had been sensible or if he had even managed more than two minutes of sleep that night, he might have turned around and left things well enough alone. As it was, his hands reached automatically and turned the metal ring clockwise before pulling the old door open. It didn't open with a creak as he had expected it to, instead opening soundlessly without so much as a scraping against the stone floor.
Arthur was left squinting against the sudden brightness of the light that met him, countless floating orbs of brilliant, silvery light hovered about the ceiling and above a winding staircase, shifting every so often and bumping into each other as they sloped upwards and turned to the left, disappearing around a curved corner. When he could finally see again, he recognised the balls of light. There had been one to help him. So, so long ago now, when Merlin had been fighting for his life in the physician's quarters in Camelot, there had been one of these orbs. It had helped him. Nowhere else in the palace had he seen these. There had been torches, filled with a green flame that gave off far more heat than the typical torches they used in Camelot, but these… These were so like the one from what seemed a lifetime away that he couldn't pass it off as a mere coincidence. Before he could realise himself, he had one foot on the stone staircase, and then another, and another and another as he followed the procession of light upwards.
He thought he had walked for hours when he finally reached the top of the staircase, surprised to find no door at the top, but an archway that flooded into a room far larger than the one that Arthur himself was staying in. A rich, lavish bed took up one half of the room and a desk rivalling the size of the round table of Camelot stood at the other, a stool behind it that either floated or was on wheels. Bookshelves covered the walls except for two spaces; one that held a window and another that held a door, leading into what Arthur could only guess was a wardrobe for he could see none in the room. Wheels, the King thought then as he heard them scraping against the stone flags and his gaze was drawn to a mumbling pile of books on the long desk. The largest of the silver orbs he'd seen so far floated lazily above it and every few seconds, the sound of pages being turned frantically reached Arthur's ears. A book he'd not seen before was rejected, pushed away by a pair of hands and two new books were grabbed off the pile he'd thought to be mumbling and pulled down to what he could see now was the crown of a head of which dark hair was the only thing he could see so far.
More mumbling and leafing through pages and then those two books were discarded too, placed atop the first book to be shoved away from the pair of hands and head. There was a heavy sigh and yet more books pulled off the original stack and it was with those two, thick volumes removed that Arthur's breath caught and he came to the realisation that he had stumbled upon Merlin's chambers in his nighttime wandering. He had never been one to back away from what scared him, but now, Arthur found himself taking steps back to the door, unable to turn away or do so much as take his eyes from Merlin's face, angled down to frown at books for not holding whatever it was that he searched for.
He hadn't been noticed yet, or so Arthur thought, but then Merlin was speaking without bothering to lift his head. "Come in, King Arthur," he said, and the King may or may not have stared incredulously at the man who had once been his manservant. In years past, Merlin would have glanced over at Arthur by chance and then jumped a foot in the air in shock with a guilty air about him and started rambling nonsense.
A frown creased Arthur's brows and he scratched at his beard for a moment before stepping into the room as he'd been bid to. He had to wonder just who this Merlin was because it wasn't the man he had known for so long.
When had Merlin ever used a title when he wasn't trying to get some impossible idea around him or when he wasn't just being plainly insolent? Now was not either one of those times. If Arthur had to describe the way that Merlin had sounded at that moment, the only word he could have used was cold, but even that seemed overused considering the temperature of Rhewogydd.
The sorcerer waved a hand distractedly and a chair seemed almost to materialise from thin air. It had, Arthur realised after a moment or two, still so unused to seeing magic, to seeing his old manservant perform magic, it was just… he couldn't quite bring the knowledge to an automatic understanding yet. It would take some time, he thought. Time to realise that Merlin wasn't the bumbling fool he had once been. Arthur thought he was probably the foolish one for never seeing it before. He took the seat that had apparently been created just for him and watched for a time as Taran's ward flicked through books, sighed at them and rejected them from his search. Every so often, there would be a complete silence as the man read a promising passage and the large orb floating above him would drop slightly to better illuminate the page. It would soon bob back up toward the ceiling, however, when that page came up with nothing useful and yet another book was added to the steadily building second pile.
Merlin's hair was bound low on his head by a strip of cloth that seemed to be encrusted with jewels, the lengths of his waves that passed well enough down to the small of his back allowed to move freely. The same was to be said for the strips of hair free of the binding, plaited intricately just in front of each of his ears and capped off with jewelled clasps to match the band at the base of his head and the nape of his neck. Arthur had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as the sorcerer sighed with irritation and brushed the plaits from the pages he was trying to read only for them to fall back onto them whenever he moved half an inch. Obviously, this was not something that Merlin had done himself. It probably wasn't even something that he had asked for, much less agreed to. Likely, it had been done for all the pomp and ceremony and Merlin had doubtless only allowed it because he knew just how important ceremonies and feasts and peace talks were; the kingdoms were to show off their best assets and Merlin, as Taran's, would have to be seen as well-cared for. Guinevere had insisted on going through the same and she had been shown respect all throughout every moment of the negotiations, no mind paid to her birth. The same could be said true of Merlin. Not even Gwaine had laughed at the feminine styling of Merlin's hair that day but had instead looked on his once-best friend soberly and with the respect that one ought to show royalty. It was just another reminder of who his old manservant had become now. Or had he always been this, beneath the surface of all the buffoonery?
Closing the book he had been looking at with a snap and placing it to one side, looking at Arthur expectantly for a few moments before he pursed his lips. "Might I offer you a drink, your highness?" he asked and waved a hand, two delicately-spun glass, flat-bottomed goblets floated from where they had so far sat on an empty space in one of the bookshelves. They began to fill themselves with boiling hot water, Merlin's irises lost in a flash of gold before they returned to the same, greyish blue they had always been. Arthur would have been a liar if he had said it hadn't left him astounded, but he held the gaze of the man opposite him until Merlin dropped his own to take up a small, wooden box. "Envoys from a far-off country visited King Taran a few months ago," he said, and Arthur could well believe that this was how Merlin's conversational voice sounded now, devoid of anything he had been before. No more joking, bumbling manservant for Arthur to smile with and occasionally laugh at, no more steadfast friend. Just another diplomat. He was opening the box now and from it, he took a handful of leaves from inside, dropping them in each cup and watching as they sank to the bottom. "They brought these tea leaves with them. I asked them if I could have a few to keep and they graciously granted my request. It took some searching through my books, but I finally found a way of making this box reproduce whatever you put in it."
Merlin was still talking, but there was no real emotion there in his voice, so little, in fact, that Arthur stopped paying attention, though he hadn't decided to ignore what he was saying. He just could not help it. There was no engaging quality about the sorcerer's voice anymore. He watched as the leaves that had been called tea drifted to the bottom of the glass, a pale green colour drifting up from them until they had polluted the clear water until it was all one, uniform colour, still as crystal clear as before but tinted now, the tea leaves sunk to the bottom.
At any other time in his life and were this anyone else, Arthur would have been suspect; could this be poison? He had seen none appear, but magic could achieve many things with no one noticing. But he trusted Merlin. The sorcerer had lifted his own glass to drink from and Arthur mirrored his actions with the steaming liquid that had been handed to him. "It gives a clearer head when working late at night," Merlin was saying, "Yet still has the same warmth as spiced wine."
It was the exact sort of inane chatter that Arthur might have expected from one of the various manservants who now took care of his affairs for him, or the sort of boring, polite talk he might have held with a stranger. But not from Merlin. He set down his cup and watched the shapes that curled up from the liquid. It was a few moments before he realised that the shapes weren't just the usual swirls that he might expect to see. There was a knight on horseback forming in the steam, a lance in one arm as the horse reared back and galloped off to dissipate in the chill air around them. Arthur looked up to see the sorcerer watching the faded figure that he must have created with what could only be a great sadness in his face.
"You've changed," the King said after a time and Merlin tore his gaze away from the empty space that his magic had left behind, eyes focusing on the blonde man opposite him.
"Yes," he said simply and Arthur had to pretend not to notice that his old manservant's eyes were shining with tears, "At least, as far as you knew me, I have."
"What does that mean?" he asked, not entirely sure that he wanted the answer.
"Every day of my life in Camelot, those six, long years since I first walked through that courtyard and learned it was hide or die, Arthur, I was not myself. You must realise that. The very first time I walked into Gaius' chambers, I had the coordination to save his life. I hid myself… from you," he said, and there was emotion there now for the first time since Arthur had last seen him in Camelot's dungeons.
Of course, he had known it to be true, he had known that Merlin had to have kept his true nature a secret to have not been found out for the better part of a decade, but to have it said out loud, to hear it clarified like that, as a fact, an undeniable fact, it was just… It hurt, honestly. Not that he would be honest. He wouldn't say so. Instead, he did the most pigheaded thing he could think of and he didn't even do it on purpose. It was an accident. Almost like he was that idiot prince again.
"You must see then, Merlin, that my reaction to what you are was reasonable. You hid your true colours from me and from Camelot. You lied."
And it had been the wrong thing to say. Of course it had been. He'd known that before the words had even left his mouth and he could see it now in the way that Merlin's jaw clenched. In the way that the sorcerer pointedly looked away from him now. At least his anger was still the same, he thought absently.
"Oh, yes, and I'm sure that the immature brat you were when we first met would have taken so kindly to a sorcerer serving in his chambers. It would have been an excellent idea to tell you; you could have gone straight to your father and been rid of me in moments," he all but spat, venom dripping from his words. Poison and contempt for Arthur's stupidity.
The King really shouldn't have been surprised to hear his own inflections from all the times he'd called Merlin an idiot in the other man's speech.
"And then it became too late," Merlin said after the silence had stretched between them for far too long, seemingly as endless as it had been painful. "Too late to tell you as your reaction would have always been the same. Too late for all the people who hurt you in the name of magic. And far, far too late for you to believe that all I had ever done was for you and the king you would one day be."
The silence fell on them again and it was Arthur who looked away this time, back to the glass that he picked up into his hands, focusing on the warmth from it rather than anything else. Of course he understood now why Merlin had kept things hidden from him. He'd understood that much for a long time now. His gaze fell upon the constant circulation of floating orbs that drifted about the room and back down the staircase he'd come up. His mind went back to the door at the bottom, the door he'd never noticed before tonight.
"There was a key in the lock downstairs," he said, brows furrowed as he looked up from the transparent liquid and at Merlin's face instead, "It was unlocked, obviously. Why?"
"He must have forgotten," Merlin responded, a look of surprise on his face as he missed the point of Arthur's question entirely.
"Merlin, that isn't what I'm asking," he said, eyes locked upon the icy pair opposite his own that, for whatever reason, avoided him now, "Merlin, why was there a key on the outside? Why is there a lock on the door at all? You can defend yourself from anything, I have gathered that, at least. How else could you have survived all those years and all the battles you managed to wander into without a sword?" Had he really been so dim then? Well, no more. He knew the truth now and he could use it to help rather than hinder as he had done so foolishly in the past. "Surely it can't be there for your protection," he murmured then and his frown increased as he sat up in his chair, rigidly straight now, angry. "They lock you in?" he asked, all but demanded. He would go back downstairs, take the key and give it to Merlin to keep, he decided, beginning to push himself up from the chair so that he could do just that.
"Sit down," Merlin implored. "It is to keep me safe. I can't- I can't keep up wards all through my sleep to protect me from things like knives-"
If that was true, why wasn't the key on the inside for Merlin to control?
"-I am part of this kingdom, I am the King's ward… part of Rhewogydd's strength, Arthur. I need protection as the King does. I will succeed him one day."
It sounded as though he were making excuses. Of course, Merlin could blast through any lock, Arthur knew that much, but Taran may not have. Did he lock Merlin away, thinking he may escape at night? Did he have reason to want to escape? Did it give him a sense of security, to think that his biggest weapon was safe behind a secured door? And if that was true, why did Merlin let it happen? Why did he stay behind that locked door? Did he bring it up? Did he protest? Arthur didn't think so, somehow.
"If that were true, why are there not simply guards at your door, Merlin?" Arthur asked, wondering for the first time if his old manservant wasn't simply a glorified prisoner in this kingdom of ice. And if that were true, why did he not simply leave? Surely, there was nothing stopping him.
"I am needed here. It gives the King reassurance to know that I won't leave him. I wouldn't leave anyway, but he doesn't believe that, he thinks that I might get it in my head to return to where I came from."
And Arthur could contain himself no longer.
"Come with me," he implored, "Return with us when we leave, when this treaty is done, before if necessary. Come with us back to Camelot."
And just like that, the crack in the façade that Merlin had presented to him widened, shattering the armour entirely and shaming Arthur to know that it had only crumbled through anger alone.
"Why should I? I've been accepted here," came the response, all but hissed through teeth, forcing Arthur into silence that went on for long moments before the sorcerer finally began to speak again. "Delegates of his found me on the coast where they'd docked on their mission to find you. To bring a call for peace on their own terms and to say that the King would be visiting Camelot within the year."
Before he could interrupt and say that no delegation had ever appeared and that it had been Arthur who had arranged all of this, Merlin carried on.
"I was the reason they never made it to Camelot. I was starving and without so much as a coin of everything I'd saved in case you ever drove me from the kingdom, I had no way to pay for food. I had no choice because of you and they caught me using my magic to steal from their supplies. They had been the first ship in a week to arrive and with everyone busy and distracted, I thought it would be easy and that they wouldn't catch me. I think I must have collapsed, because when I woke up, I was here, in Rhewogydd, in one of the guest chambers. They'd heard about me. They had heard about me because of the issue for my arrest that you had circulated throughout the kingdom. They decided that a man of my talents would be better suited in the service of their King rather than an ignorant…" he shook his head and looked away from Arthur, the plaits that had irritated him so swinging lightly. "King Taran took me in. He gave me the formal position of his ward and guaranteed me a place on his council and eventually on the throne. I have everything I could have ever wanted, according to you."
"Come on, Merlin, that wasn't-"
"That wasn't what you meant? When you accused me of getting close to you specifically so that I could steal the throne from you? So that I could take over Camelot?" Merlin sneered and if Arthur flinched, he wasn't afraid to admit it. He could feel the power mixed with the spark of anger that radiated off the other man, could see it in the way that he sat. He had been a fool to ever think that Merlin had meant him any harm. If he had wanted Arthur dead, he would have killed him on the day they'd met. He probably would have ruled with Morgana as his queen. She may have been happy to do so once, to have seen magic legal and to have helped rule over a fair kingdom, but she seemed happy enough now, to spend her time with the druids. "I meant it, all the times I said I would serve you forever. But you… threw that back in my face the moment that you decided that my keeping something from you because it would mean both our lives on the line was grounds for treason and punishable by death. You can't touch me here, Arthur. Here, I'm free. Here, I can help people without having to hide in the shadows while I do it. Any attempt on my King's life-"
Arthur tried to tell himself that it didn't hurt to hear Merlin referring to Taran in that way. That it didn't hurt to hear him say he was free when he slept behind a door that any normal man would be unable to open. It was the symbolism of it, more than anything.
"-is something that I can take care of and stop before it can happen. He listens to me when I warn him about something. He heeds my advice and he doesn't throw himself into danger that I have to save him from and if he does for whatever reason, then I can save him straight away. I don't have to operate in the shadows any more. He trusts me with his life completely, with his kingdom and people implicitly. And that is something that you would never do no matter how many times I saved you, no matter how often I proved my worth to you. Not with the way that you reacted, Arthur."
He had opened his mouth to speak when Merlin stood from the wheeled stool and came out from behind the lengthy desk, stepping past Arthur and grabbing his fur-lined cloak up from atop a stack of books that toppled the moment the cloak was removed. The sorcerer left through the archway that the King had come through and he listened as footsteps echoed down the staircase, to the scrape of the heavy door at the bottom and then the silence that followed. He didn't know how long he had sat there before he finally stood, taking one last look about the tower room that Merlin inhabited. It was movement at the window that had him approaching as a flurry of snowflakes began to dance haphazardly on the other side of the thick glass. And there, far, far down in the courtyard was the man he had once known, saddling his own horse and riding it away from the palace, as fast as the beast was likely able to go. Stomach churning, Arthur turned away from the window, having no idea in that moment whether he would ever see him again.
Arthur dined alone with Taran that night. There were no grand feasts. Arthur understood now that Taran knew of Merlin's origins. Where he had come from and why he hadn't stayed there. The wine was hot, but Arthur didn't drink. The other king was not yet aware that he knew. It was very possible that he still thought he could surprise Arthur with the information and use his shock coupled with Merlin against him. He held the warm goblet between his hands, allowing the warmth to seep through his skin, almost burning the cold away. He leaned back in the elaborate seat he had been shown to and surveyed the other king in silence. The Rhewogydd royal ate quietly, though he shared a smile with Arthur every so often, clearly believing the silence to be amicable. Not so.
He had something to say, but he couldn't think of where to start. Or how to say it.
"Merlin," he finally said. He would go straight to the point, he decided.
Taran placed his knife down with which he had been cutting and spearing pieces of meat and looked up at Arthur. "My ward, yes?"
If he was aware that Merlin had left the palace, it did not show on his face. Perhaps Merlin had told him. He would surely be worried otherwise?
"You are aware, of course, that for years before he came to your court, he was my manservant?" Arthur asked, stunning Taran into silence. There. That was it. He had known, but he doubted that the king had ever thought he would be so forward as to simply come out with such a thing.
"I am aware," he said finally after a sip from his own goblet. Arthur still cradled his in his hands. "Merlin has discussed this with me. I had known about this when he first arrived here with my delegates, but I never pushed the matter and he failed to bring it up. However, upon your arrival, he finally saw fit to bring the subject up. He told me enough that it took an entire night and morning before he was finished and I can only assume that it was all there was to be told. I don't believe he would keep anything from me."
That was a barb. And it was a barb that hurt, splitting Arthur's skin and burying its way into his heart where it stayed, lodged and stuck, thorns motionless and aching all the more for the way they twisted. He suddenly felt sick, but refused to let it show. His hand didn't even tighten about the wine.
"I said something to him at that point and I will repeat it here, King Arthur. I told my ward that, while all of Rhewogydd would mourn to see him leave, he was welcome to do precisely that. If he felt he had outlived his usefulness here - which I assure you, he has not - I will release him of all that ties him to my Kingdom. He will be welcome to return here whenever he likes and continue his work, should matters go awry. Perhaps it is not my place to say so, but he refused my offer. He believes that there is still work to be done here. He loves my people. He wishes them naught but good and cannot see any other way in which he may use his power for the greater good. After all, Camelot still asks a certain price for his head, does it not? How could he ever hope to achieve a single thing like that? This choice is his and it is one that I gave him. His loyalty is to me now. Perhaps, Arthur, it will harm our attempts at peace, but I must say that I am happy with this outcome. I could not have Merlin leave us and walk straight into the embrace of a fire or axe or a hangman's noose. He is safe here. He is safe and does amazing things. Have you been around our outlying villages yet? If not, you truly should before you go. Never shall you find a place happier. His magic can do… wondrous things. It is such a shame that King Uther's tyranny infected your life in the way that it did. And your choices. He has been able to work unrestrained. It is quite safe for me to say that he is the greatest asset that my Kingdom has. My people are safe. They are warm, they are healed if they become sick, their crops thrive… yes, people still die, but that, Merlin has explained to me, is the way of the Old Religion. He can snatch people back from the brink of death given the right situation and save lives, but he cannot return those departed. A life for a life, he has told me. I am grateful for his loyalty to me." Taran placed his goblet down and took a breath of the cool air, only kept from being chill by the heating, maintained by a ritual that Merlin renewed once every moon. "I am pleased, Arthur, that you are ridding your lands of the ban on magic. And perhaps, one day, you may come to have a golden age caused by a sorcerer, loyal to you and only you, but it shall pale in comparison to the happiness that Rhewogydd faces. It is because of Merlin that we have all of this, that we thrive. I dare say that your casting him aside was the best thing to ever happen to my Kingdom."
That explained, at least, why Arthur had rarely heard a thing about this place until recent years. He stood and Taran did the same, custom still important even if they were both in the highest places of authority their respective countries had to offer.
"My advisors will complete the final draft of the peace treaty by first light," Arthur said, placing his goblet on the table and holding his head high, quite impressive given his six foot stature. He was well aware that, given the very nature of this place, first light was some time away, and that was all for the good. "It shall contain all that we have discussed over the course of our visit here and we shall both sign each copy and agree to the terms. My party shall leave within one week. I thank you for your hospitality, Taran."
It was with a brief, accepting nod from the other King that Arthur left, deep red cloak lined with fur stained gold sweeping about him as he exited the chamber and took the corridors, intent on finding his advisors and asking them to pick up the pace in their duties. Merlin would not come back with him. All this hesitation, all the playing for time, it had been for nothing. They would complete things and leave here before he went fairly mad with grief. Hopefully, they would be gone before Merlin returned. Arthur didn't think he could cope with that farewell, with the steel of rage shining in blue eyes that now reflected the ice of the country around them.
Taran had discovered his ward's disappearance that morning when he had left his chambers on his daily routine of unlocking the door to the sorcerer's tower; some days he would travel up the stairs and visit him, safe in the knowledge that Merlin would always be there to greet him, a continuous presence that guaranteed the safety of his kingdom.
Since the day that he had arranged things so that the most powerful sorcerer alive could be transported from Camelot to Rhewogydd, he had been sure to keep the man secure under lock and key. He had stayed in guest chambers and been allowed to leave only when escorted by guards, his ventures limited to the throne room and the dining hall only. While he had come to care for Merlin, the habit had remained ingrained deeply into his own personal rituals, and they aided him well, allowing him rest at night when he might have otherwise been constantly wondering where the man might have gone to now.
As he approached the door at the base of the steps that led up to Merlin's tower, the first thing that he noticed was the way the door was ajar, that the key was gone from the lock. A moment of stupidity on his own part, it must have been; the result of the constant feeling of apprehension that he had been suffering from ever since the arrival of the party from Camelot, ever since those from his sorcerer's previous life had come to be here. Taran pulled the key from the lock now and took the staircase up to his ward's rooms, the comforting globes of light jostling each other in their own travels up and down past the stone walls. The King smiled at them as he walked up the steps, pausing when he reached the archway that led into Merlin's chambers to look expectantly into the room. The sorcerer was not sitting slumped at his desk the way Taran had found him hundreds of times in the past, and so he could only assume to find him in his bed.
There were some that might say that Merlin had been kidnapped all those years ago, though the creature of the old religion still assumed that he had collapsed of hunger so long ago when he had been trying to steal food from his delegates' ship. It was far from the truth, of course; Taran's men had been under instructions to bring the sorcerer back with them once they had reached Camelot; it had been mere chance that they had found the man on the run at the time and they had acted quickly to escort the fugitive back to the kingdom of ice. It had been the king who had delivered the lie to the sorcerer upon his arrival, who had explained that he had required lengthy attention by his physician before he had been strong enough to wake. In truth, he had been kept unconscious throughout the long journey back across the sea, a potent potion that induced a deep sleep had been administered to him every moment he had threatened to wake. But the unpleasant business was far behind them all now, and those who had been involved were removed from the kingdom the week after Merlin had agreed to remain in the kingdom as the court's sorcerer and Taran's ward.
He turned his gaze now to the bed where he had found Merlin fewer times than he had found him slumped over his desk; usually, when the sorcerer slept in his own bed, he was sure to be awake long before the king came looking for him. And yet, when Taran approached the bed now, he saw it empty, devoid of any living creature, and he allowed the smallest surge of panic to overtake him. There was still the door that led to the bathing chamber where his clothes also resided, and this was the next place that the King tried, taking care to knock on the heavy door before he was turning the ring handle and pushing his way inside. He took a deep breath when he found an empty room. Merlin was gone. His ward had left in the night.
Aware that he had visitors from Camelot within the palace, he took care to keep his emotions under control as he left the tower and closed the door behind him. Taran's own manservant approached, the one person alive to be allowed the honour of accompanying the King about his daily tasks, and it was thanks to this familiarity that he was able to recognise the thunderous look on his master's face. "Tristan, summon two guards and have them search the grounds for my ward," was Taran's order, and the manservant nodded quickly, eagerly; he was about to scurry off to do precisely that when he was interrupted by a final request from his King. "See that they are quiet about their purpose and that our guests do not hear that something is awry."
The day passed slow, with periodic reports from Taran's guards; Merlin's horse was missing, and he had been seen by a stablehand as he had saddled up and ridden away from the palace in the middle of the night. He had not taken so much as a bag with him, according to the head of the young boy's account, and so the King held out hope that the sorcerer merely wished to be away from the place while so much was happening, while so much of his past was being dragged up. He was proved correct by his meeting with Camelot's King that night, it seemed.
He had put on a show of smiles and airs and graces throughout the time that they spent dining together and hadn't given even the slightest hint that his ward was missing when the subject of him had been brought up. Instead, he had told King Arthur what he had needed to hear, enough that he would abandon any notion of taking Taran's greatest weapon and his kingdom's protection away from him. There had been a few well placed lies as well, though he doubted that the other man had picked up on them. Arthur had been apart from Merlin for years now; he would not know what the man was like anymore, and of course, that would make him susceptible to believe any suggestion as to the way in which he may behave now. Yes, Taran had made himself quite clear; Merlin had no wish to leave the kingdom, though he had apparently been offered the chance to do precisely that. As each of the Kings parted that night, the Rhewogydd royal was satisfied that he had not even hinted at his fears that his ward may have decided to do precisely that when he had fled in the middle of the night.
There was but one thing to do, he knew as he left the modest dining chamber where they had taken their meal apart from the others and made his way to the centre of the palace, a quiet, lonely place that failed to benefit from Merlin's careful heating of the cold stones that surrounded it. There was one door to the centre of the palace that he left ajar so that he might be get back indoors, and from here, he could see the sky, a deep blue, dotted with stars with a sliver of moon to light the scene. In the centre of the earth here was a small pond, a body of frozen water that Taran knelt before now, breathing warmth onto his fingers before he reached down to press them against the ice.
"Merlin," Taran said, a simple, clear word, precisely as he had been taught. The surface of the frozen scene below him began to ripple from beneath his fingers, the ice shattering until it became a smooth, liquid surface and images began to appear on it, moving slowly until they focused upon his ward. Merlin was lying in a bed somewhere, and his eyes opened as he felt the glaringly obvious touches of magic upon his skin, as he saw the portal through which Taran could be seen, looking intently at him. "Merlin," the older man repeated, his voice distorted and gradually becoming clearer as it traveled the connection between them.
"My King," he said, quietly, his voice traveling to the crowned man with an ease now that their contact had been established. He lifted his head and then pushed himself up from the pallet upon which he had slept so that he could hold his own end of the conversation more formally than he had been up until now, sleep mussed and with his hair unbound, tangled and unkempt as it was.
The monarch watched as his charge sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes with both hands. "You did not ask my leave to travel to the villages," he said simply, hands still on the surface of the water to keep the connection open.
"I'm sorry, sire, I had word from a family here, I was needed," came Merlin's voice through the surface of the pond, drifting up to the king as he watched him carefully for any sign of falsehood. Merlin was an accomplished liar, yes, that much was true, and the king knew this from the simple fact that he had served, undetected as his true self for such a long time. He could see none now, however, and so he simply nodded as the younger man continued speaking, voice rough from sleep, yet not lacking the formalities that he so often took to using in Taran's presence. "I cannot give you a prediction on how long I shall remain here, my King; I shall require to be here until such a time as they do not need me."
If he spoke a word of a lie, it was not one that the monarch could identify. "Of course, you shall be able to take as long as you require, Merlin. And I shall tell our guests, of course, that you may not be in attendance to wish them a fair journey back to Camelot as they are expecting to leave within the week," he said carefully, and, in spite of his greatest expectations, Merlin's face was utterly immobile with the exception of the tiniest of nods.
"I understand, and thank you for allowing me to remain where I am needed, sire, it-" there was a pause as the warlock looked down, apparently overcome by some sort of emotion, "It does mean a lot to me."
"Good night, Merlin," the King said, inclining his head slightly in turn and pulling his hands back from the surface of the water, watching as the image of his heir faded, leaving the once-more solid ice in its place, spreading from where his fingertips had been and outward.
Arthur had found his advisors and been returning to his chambers to find Guinevere when he had noticed another door through which no light shone, though he looked through in spite of himself, a small sliver of hope that it might have been Merlin fuelling his actions. What he saw was the man he had dined with that very night, kneeling at a lake, his hands pressed against it as though he were trying to break the ice itself. He watched the scene unfold before him and stole away before his presence could be noticed, mind reeling. Taran had an absolute possession over Merlin, the ability to find him wherever he was and speak with him, to see him; the man locked him up at night, whether the lock and key could keep the man there or not. Symbolic or otherwise, Merlin had been a prisoner here, and quite apart from which, he must have allowed this to happen; was being captive truly preferable to returning to Camelot with Arthur?
It was with a heavy heart that Arthur returned that night to his Queen. He crept away from the door that he had found Rhewogydd's King behind and made his careful way back to the chambers that they had been given. Guinevere would understand. She had been in communication with Merlin for as long as he had been gone from Camelot, it seemed. Therefore, she simply must know the truth of the matter, she must know of the way that his once-manservant was now being treated as one of Taran's most prized possessions. Though there was a glimmer of hope, he realised as he sat with his wife and explained the situation to her; Arthur had noticed it the night before when he had been left the tower. When he had fled, Merlin must have taken the key with him because while it had been there when the King of Camelot had traversed up the stairs, it had been absent when he had come back down again.
"Arthur, there really is nothing you can do, not if Merlin doesn't want to come back with us," Guinevere said as she sat at her husband's side upon the heavy furs of their bed, placing her arm about him as he leant into her embrace, "You have tried your best. The most that we can do now is secure this peace treaty which, I think, we do need now, and then we can return to Camelot and start making the changes that we have needed for so many years now," she told him quite simply. He knew that she was right, above all else, especially given that it turned out now that she had been in correspondence with the warlock all along. "And maybe, given enough time, Arthur, maybe he'll change his mind. Everything he did for you, he did because he cared, he cared about who you would become, he cared about Camelot, yes, but you know that if he had wanted the throne for himself, he could have taken it. If he had thought that was what was best, he could have done exactly that. But he didn't, Arthur. So, maybe, once he sees the man you've become, once he sees how much things have changed, maybe he will want to come back, to be a part of the Camelot that he tried so hard to build. That's all we can hope now."
Arthur listened attentively to the Queen's words, taking comfort in her closeness and the warmth that radiated from her, two of the qualities that had once attracted him to her, so much so that he had been prepared to give up his claim to the kingdom and its throne. While he still cared for her deeply, they had long since given up any attempts at closeness, any tries of intimacy. Her heart belonged to Lancelot. Arthur's heart belonged to the past. To things that were and that might have been, though there were no chances for him anymore. He had already figured this out for himself, that there was no more he could do, but it didn't mean that he was ready to accept defeat so easily. It was not in anger that he pushed away from her and stood, pulling his crown from his head and letting it drop upon the dip in the furs where he had been sat. It was instead born of frustration. There truly was nothing that he could do. Have you been around our outlying villages yet? No, he hadn't, but he could think of a worse place to walk in, to see them with his own eyes rather than through the eyes of a King who was only shown the best of the best. If there were people starving, if anyone suffered here, if he could see something awry, perhaps he could show Merlin, and find some sort of way to convince him that this wasn't the place for him. Though, knowing his contrary manservant, he very much doubted that such evidence would make him want to leave. It would probably cause him to stay out of desire to help. It was difficult to remember that Merlin was no longer his servant, he found, as he looped a black fur cloak about his shoulders, one that had been left in the oaken wardrobe by a guest long since departed. He pulled the hood above his head and turned to Guinevere who seemed to understand immediately.
"I have to see," he said, and that was all he could say, honestly. "I have to see if it's true, to see if he really is needed here. To see if he is doing all the good things that Taran said, because if…" Arthur shook his head and looked down as he fastened the clasp to the cloak, plain ties that would not attract any undue attention, "If he is needed here, if he really is doing so much to help so many people, then maybe it will be easier to leave him here." To leave him with a man who named him heir and yet treated him as an interesting and new type of bird that needed to be kept behind bars.
"I'll make your excuses if you aren't back by morning," Gwen said, standing and taking his hands, clasping them tightly. "Good luck, Arthur."
They shared a parting kiss before Camelot's King was stepping away from her and slipping out of their chambers. He walked the length of the warm, stone corridors, following the faintly green glowing torches until he reached a winding staircase that took him down to the entrance to the courtyard. The next thing he knew, he was crossing the lowered drawbridge as the first few patters of sleet began to fall onto the ground, to the long frozen-over snow of nights passed. It crunched underfoot and he almost slipped time and time again before he reached the beginnings of what he supposed must have been one of the outlying villages where his old servant had apparently done so much to help those that lived there. It wasn't that he doubted the goodness of the sorcerer. He didn't doubt for a moment that, given the chance, Merlin would do everything in his power to assist those in need. It was Taran whom he truly doubted. The King had seemed insistent about this as a fact, almost as though knowledge that the heir to Rhewogydd's lands was doing good work that he was needed completely for would prevent Arthur from wanting to remove him from what he considered less than ideal treatment. He was lost in his thoughts as he passed the first few homes on his way, noting the flickering candles within, faintly shimmering barriers across the panes of windows that he supposed must prevent heat from escaping. He had done a similar wrong to Merlin. Less symbolic than Taran's actions, Arthur had locked Merlin away in Camelot's dungeons. At least in his tower, the man had comforts, and he could use his magic however he liked. It was a more free existence than he'd ever had within Albion's borders. Perhaps this truly was the best place for him, Arthur thought as he passed building upon building, each filled with what he could only describe as merriment.
There was no way that Taran could have possibly known that the other King would be visiting the outlying villages this night. He was clearly too preoccupied with Merlin's disappearance; whether he knew Merlin's location was not a query to which Arthur knew the answer. What was certain and quite obvious to the visiting monarch, however, was that Taran was upset enough by the sorcerer's disappearance that he had felt the need to invoke certain powers with which to locate him. He would not be worrying about Arthur tonight. It was through this reasoning that he could be certain that the Rhewogydd that he was seeing now was the real thing, not a pointless facade, erected for the amusement of those in high-up places who may need fooling for a short time.
He could hear running water and it wasn't long before Arthur found himself walking along the bank of a narrow stream, frosty grass crunching underfoot as he made his way along its side. It should have been frozen over, he realised as he followed its steadily winding path, the way that it twisted and turned about the outskirts of the village, toward the base of a hill. Taran must have been telling the truth of Merlin's escapades in the villages, that he had stopped the villagers from dying of thirst this winter through thawing their main water supply. He could see crumbling ruins atop the hill from where he stood, barely illuminated by the moon as it shone through the clouds, steadily becoming less and less visible as the hail that had been falling began to thunder down with more purpose, the wind picking up and sending a chill through the King as the old, borrowed cloak that he wore flew haphazardly about his shoulders. With the bite of the icy gale and the hard pelt of sleet and hail, Arthur was not in the wrong to assume that he was all alone as he continued along the river's edge, seeking the shelter that he thought would be offered at the base of the hill. He had wandered further out from the village than he had first expected by following the running water, though he could see through the dense, white wind that there were one or two twinkling lights, far off toward the hill, and if he could reach them, he ought to be safe for the night. It was not so far, he thought as he trudged steadily but surely through the howling wind, ice pelting his face and turning his nose numb as he dragged the appropriated cloak closer about him. With dawn not far off, Arthur continued to follow the path that the water presented him, having seen the way the river encircled the base of the hill before his sight was as utterly obscured as it was now. With the snow storm well under way, it was some time before the king realised that the ground he was walking on had become steadily steeper, though he could easily be excused for missing the second set of tracks that had begun to appear in the snow a few feet behind his own some time back, given that the foul weather covered both sets mere moments after their creation.
It was nothing personal as far as the attacker was concerned. It was no assassination attempt; certainly, it had simply been the case of the King being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The blow to the back of Arthur's head was a swift one and he felt warmth seeping down the back of his neck as he stood, stunned for a moment, the snow still flurrying about him as he dropped to his knees on the incline of the hill, his vision darkening all the more than it had been before. It was a familiar feeling, the swift fall into unconsciousness, and so it was that Arthur's body slumped down, face-first in the snow drifts. His body was searched, though nothing that could help his hungry attacker was located before the first shards of light began to filter down through the bloated storm clouds above. The monarch was abandoned where he was as the snow continued to fall, as the wind continued to blow, and as dawn's sunlight steadily began to return to the frozen landscape. The only colours against the storm were that of the grey of the ruins above him, the black of his cloak, and the red of his blood as it trickled down to stain the white all around him. The footsteps that led away from his body were quickly papered over by the blizzard and soon enough, even Arthur himself was invisible.
Arthur's vision was hazy and blurred, his head pounding and his body chilled as he lay in his bed, swaddled in furs and warmed by a fire that was close at hand, close enough that he could see the flickering orange of the flames as they devoured the fuel in the small, stone fireplace. He could feel a faint pressure at the back of his head, a patting sensation that disappeared once every few moments and stung more than he would ever admit. The night before felt like a dream as he blinked away the clouds that obscured his eyesight and his gaze fell upon his saviour. Merlin. The pain in his head intensified enough that the King drew a harsh gasp in an attempt at overcoming it, though he was hushed within moments by the warm goblet that was pressed to his lips, a silent request that he drink from it issued. There was no argument on Arthur's part as he gave in easily to the command, sipping at the liquid, the heat in it unfurling from his mouth, through to the pain at the back of his head and then throughout the rest of his body, warming the bitter chill that had ingrained itself into his very bones. His eyes closed as a wave of nausea overtook him and he could feel nothing but pain and confusion for long moments before the pain cleared, though the confusion remained.
"What am I doing here?" he asked as he tried to sit up upon the soft, down-filled mattress that covered the hard stone of the pallet, his head feeling dizzy and his vision refusing to focus properly on the man who stepped back from him now, holding a cloth that might have once been a dirty ivory colour but which was now stained pink. Arthur watched, trying his utmost to concentrate through the mist that fogged his mind, as Merlin knelt and dipped the cloth into water that began to turn a transparent, pale red in turn before the colour had disappeared with a whisper of something that he couldn't make out in his current state. The bowl of water turned clear once more and the strip of fabric came out clean. It was, Arthur supposed as he watched the process, mind sharpening as he fought through his own disorientation. Now that he was sitting upright, he could see the space that he was in, he could see the circular shape of the stone walls, the way that they curved in, the glassless window to the left of the pallet he was on, with the same, shimmering barrier he had seen in the village's windows across this one to keep the warmth in. There was a roughly cut stone archway a few feet away that must have functioned as the door into this place. Across from him, there was the stone fireplace, carved out of the very walls, with but a small hole above it in the ceiling to allow the smoke out. The building, if you could call it that, was an old and crude one, but there were signs all around that the warlock had been living here. Beneath the window with its shimmering cover of magic, there was a small cupboard, but this apparently hadn't stopped Merlin from ignoring its existence. There were books scattered across the stone-flagged floor and the small cooking pot that hung above the fire was black with soot. On top of the cupboard was folded the appropriated cloak and in a pile on the floor by the fire were the clothes that Arthur had last seen the sorcerer in; even the jewelled bands he had been using in his hair were flung atop the heap. This room was indeed more alike to Merlin than the tower had been. This place was simple, the King decided as he watched the man who had once been his friend and confidant place the cloth back down into the water and pick up the stone cup instead. This was pressed into Arthur's hands before the sorcerer was on his feet and fussing about with more adding logs to the fire, and he must have been using magic if only because each block of wood steamed as the damp that had plagued it drifted away almost instantly before it ever came within an inch of the flames.
The taste of the liquid was foul, but the king drank all the same, trusting Taran's heir implicitly because really, if Merlin had wanted him dead, Arthur wouldn't be here now. He would still be out in the snowstorm. It was a sign that his head was clearing that he could think so logically. In the past when he had been rendered unconscious, it had always taken him much longer to form an intelligent grasp on reality and he had even believed once that he had managed to slay a dragon but that he couldn't remember it. He was far better at recovery now than he had been, he could accept that much credit.
Merlin's hair was loose now and it hung down his back in soft waves, covered as it was by a threadbare shirt in a dusty sort of blue that had seen better days. He may have been wrong, but Arthur would have been willing to place a bet that the clothes the warlock now wore were those that the king had last seen him in before he had disappeared from Camelot all those years ago. He didn't ask questions about it, supposing that once the pomp and pageantry were over, Merlin preferred to return to the state that he felt most comfortable in.
"I heard you," were the first words out of the sorcerer's mouth, his back still to Arthur as he tended to the fireplace, apparently finding it easier, after all this time, to speak without meeting the king's gaze, without even having to look at him. Things had certainly changed. Merlin had changed, but not so much so that he was as unrecognisable as he had been at first. He could now see small remnants of what he had been filtering through the stoicism of his old manservant's front. "I was on my way to gather water from the stream so that I could make myself something to eat when I heard you." Even with his back turned, the slump of his shoulders was still visible, the dip of his head that had nothing to do with arranging the logs on the fire, that had little in relation to the single stir of whatever it was that was within the pot. "It was the faintest heartbeat," he continued as Arthur listened, bewildered and unable to understand, for now, at least, what it was that he was being told. "I should have ignored it, it sounded so like a bird's, but I didn't. I followed the sound because usually, when I'm out here on my own, the only heart I hear is my own. I came to a snow drift, I knelt down, and I dug, and that's where you were. Staining the snow with your own blood like you'd planned it. Of course, I'm used to finding you unconscious, but this time, I wasn't ready."
There was laughter, then. It was coming from Arthur, he realised belatedly, and he tried to cover up the sound by coughing, but failed. Merlin turned to stare incredulously at him, yet he couldn't stop himself. It was so like him, to blame an injury on Arthur, how indignant he had sounded when he had posed the accusation, it was almost like nothing had changed, but when there was no answering grin, no toothy smile to put him at ease that they really were just trading jests and goodnatured barbs, he recognised that yes, things really were different, and he sobered instantly, his chuckles dying away to nothing. "Finish that, please," was all that came from the warlock, leaving Arthur to gaze down into the cup that he thought he had already drained. Once the last few drops were gone, dissolved onto his tongue, he felt pleasant. It was the only word he could think of to describe the sensations that now flooded him, and it was something akin to getting drunk on too much wine, his nerve endings dulled enough that pain and muddiness within his own mind really didn't matter. He settled back down upon the pallet as he was approached once more with the cloth that cleaned the last of the tear in his skin that had turned his blonde hair a strange shade of copper, and he heard something, words spoken that weren't in a language that he could understand; the language of magic. He could see a gleam of gold from where he lay, and that was the very last thing that he remembered before sleep took him over once more, this time less of a blackout than it was a slow, warm drift.
When Arthur had fallen asleep, Merlin stepped back from him until he was sat on the floor by the fire, warming himself there as he looked about the one and only intact room that remained from the ruins of the hut that had once housed one of the very first Dragonlords. The magic that encircled the warlock's hiding place now was not the simple spell of heat retention that so many of the villagers benefited from. No, Merlin had ensured that none would be able to disturb him now. However hard Taran attempted to contact him with the connection that the sorcerer had gifted him with, he would find that his efforts came to naught, that there was absolutely no way of seeing him, of speaking to him. With Arthur in such a vulnerable state, it simply would not do for Taran to receive word of his injuries lest he believe that the man in his heir's care would now bend to the will of Rhewogydd's King out of some debt. While Merlin himself had been saved by this man, he was not naïve enough to believe that the safety came without a price. He had been offered anything and everything that most men would want when he had been brought here himself, but the gifts came with a short rein attached. However many freedoms he had been accorded, the lock on his door that Arthur had witnessed had only been the start of how deep the King's power over him went. Merlin was grateful, of course he was, for the chance at a new life, for the rescue from starvation when he had been nursed back to health and offered a chance to make a difference, to be allowed to continue with helping people and with making another kingdom a place where there was no injustice, no true injustice, at least. No one died for something that they had been born to, at least. Merlin did his absolute best to make sure of that.
It was entirely true that there was no one that he had ever met with more power than him; over recent years, he had begun to truly believe that he was the most powerful sorcerer to have ever lived, that if he simply put his mind to a problem, he could overcome it and without so much as the whisper of failure. But there were things that could be done to keep a warlock in check and Taran had researched these ways as attentively as was possible. When he had left two nights ago, when he had abandoned Arthur up in the tower, it had not been simply down to a disagreement or to the pain of past events that had come back to haunt him just as the King had come up the stairs and into the space where the sorcerer had needed to stay at nights in order to be accepted. He had left as soon as he had been able to because he had realised, the moment the key had been mentioned, that the way was clear, that he could leave without being under close supervision and that if he left, as soon as he was able, then there would be nothing to stop him from coming here, though he had left his horse at an inn in the lower village. When he had first found this place, this old, stone ruin, it had been alone, though it had required him to slip away during a trip down into the market to which he had been accompanied by a single guard. For his own protection, he had been told, but it had been on this day that he had longed to get away and see the kingdom for himself. To see everything on his own, without an armed knight at his side, as though he needed anything of the like. So, he had concentrated hard when he had been looking down at an amulet, sapphire on a silver chain and he had pointed it out to the knight he had been standing with who had taken care to look down at the jewellery with the hope of winning the heart of a girl he was courting and it was that distraction, that short distraction that had allowed Merlin to slip away. He had whispered a few choice words and a mirror image of himself had appeared on the knight's opposite side and spoken a few words, enough to distract the man's attention again and enough to allow the warlock to slip away unheeded. It had been an underhanded trick, and as the image was withheld by Merlin's magic for as long as he required it, none had ever discovered this particular secret. He had used the trick countless times, and had taken care in those days to never wear anything asymmetrical. It was how he had furnished this ruin to the best of his abilities and had made it his own. He had even brought his old clothes here, the ones that Taran refused to see him in but which the sorcerer couldn't bear to throw away. He had, however, had an unfortunate night spent at his newly found ruin in which he had watched, horrified through a mirror, as his mirror self did something terrible. He had intervened, claimed to have been captured briefly and that the lookalike he had just dissolved into nothingness was an enemy of the Kingdom wearing a glamour of the Court Sorcerer, there to gain King Taran's secrets. He had stopped using this trick and hadn't returned to the room on the hill for just over a year now. It was last night and the absence of the locked door that had allowed this return.
Now, from his pocket, he took the key, heavy and cold, colder than any temperature that the warlock had ever encountered in the kingdom so far. In fact, throughout his life, Merlin had only encountered these properties once before. The key began to spread a cool, tingling sensation out from where it rested in his palm and, within moments, he could feel his skin begin to lose all feeling, enough so that he dropped the key and held his hand close, as though burned. Warmth rushed to the place that the key had occupied and Merlin found himself staring at it carefully. He could feel everything. He could see everything. He had always been able to see the aura of life, of magic, of power, but the key exuded nothing. Even about Arthur, there was a subtle golden glow that covered his skin, a light all of his own. A grim smile reached his face as he breathed onto his hand, encouraging the power to return until, finally, it had. This was the void of power that was ingrained into the very metal of the lock, into the varnish applied to the wood of the door. This was the very first time that Merlin had been away from the palace without accompaniment, and while he had no desire to leave Rhewogydd permanently, his first taste of true freedom in quite some time was almost intoxicating, and if he laughed now, with sheer relief, it was because he couldn't help himself. Arthur stirred in his sleep, and Merlin had to cover his mouth so that he wouldn't chance rousing him any more than he had done.
He liked his life here. Truly, he did. He was happy in this kingdom of ice. He even suffered through being dressed up like an overpriced china doll in the name of the realm, of being able to show Taran's friends and enemies that he cared deeply for his own people, even those that he took in out of the goodness of his own heart, who had once belonged to a kingdom of another. There was something to be said for being the most important asset that a kingdom had, and Merlin understood why he was treated as such. But one thing that he hadn't agreed with was the way he had been kept behind a door, the very nature of which prevented him from being able to pass through it if it wasn't left open. It was a pathetic thing to defeat a sorcerer, especially one with as much power as he possessed, but it was a tactic that had served the king well and was apparently one that he saw no need to put a stop to. It kept his most precious commodity safe, after all. In the quiet of the ruin, Merlin gazed down at the key, at the void of knowledge it represented, and then he reached for one of the books he'd been looking at over the night by the light of one of his globes, and he had even experimented once or twice, with sending the orb toward the key. It had come a hand's breadth away from it before it had fizzled out, leaving the warlock gasping with the sudden vacuum of power within the stone room. Power that had belonged to him before it had winked out in an instant, as though it had never been there to start with. He pulled the book into his lap now and flipped through the pages, searching, unable to help but remember the simplicity of his life in Camelot, where with the help of his uncle and a few well selected tomes from the shelves of the physician's chambers, they could find every answer. It was not so now. Even when he no longer had to hide his thirst for magic, for knowledge, it was difficult. It was made all the more difficult by the fact that the books he possessed, countless volumes in countless languages, every one of them more fantastic and filled with so much lore, the practitioners of which were long dead, even with so much access to these wonderful, frankly, beautiful tomes, he was limited. Limited in that the man who supplied all of these to him was King Taran. He took great pride in having books delivered to the sorcerer's tower, often bringing them up himself so that he could see the look of delight on Merlin's face as he poured over a new grimoire or other book of magic. The problem in this, of course, was that Taran would have taken great care to ensure that any information on what properties imbued the metal and door of his tower was absent from the books. There was no answer in this book that he had discovered himself either. No way for him to discover precisely what this strange void that surrounded the key was, no way for him to figure out a way in which he could overcome it, a way that he might be able to neutralise whatever it was that the problem was. It was clear to him that the key had the ability to absorb magic, but magic couldn't disappear just like that. It could be dangerous for something like that to happen. The power must go somewhere. The question, of course, was where? Whatever this substance was, it was dangerous, for what if Taran's enemies heard of its properties and attempted to use it against him by turning it upon Merlin? Merlin was Rhewogydd's one true source of power, and if he were to be defeated by something like this, then what hope did the kingdom have? He doubted that the King would give up the secrets on his own, not when he believed it kept the sorcerer under control, and so it was up to Merlin to work alone in order to find the solution.
With his sleeve covering his hand, he reached down to pick up the key, climbing to his feet and moving quietly to the cupboard which he opened and placed the offending article inside, deciding that his first priority now was to Arthur, to helping the man recover before he returned to the castle so that Camelot's integrity would remain sound and still, he cared. Of course he did. It wasn't only about Camelot. It was Arthur too. In spite of how betrayed he'd felt, he had known that it would happen, he had. Arthur had gone through his entire life with one idea instilled constantly into him; magic was evil. And his experiences with magic and sorcery since Merlin's arrival in his life had been, on the whole, a negative one, besides the countless times in which magic had saved his life and this, Merlin supposed, really did not count, considering that Uther's son had been unaware of its good effects at the time. He was not altogether sure that Arthur knew, even now, all that Merlin had done for him throughout the time he'd spent as the Prince's manservant and, eventually, as the King's, although the latter vocation had not lasted long. Perhaps, if Merlin had been given the chance to explain himself, to tell the man all that had happened, all the good that magic had done him throughout the time that he'd been in Camelot, he might not have had to leave, he might not have been thrown into dungeons, would not have had to escape without the help of magic because that might have cemented his non-existent guilt. He'd instead fled with the help of Leon, Gwaine, Percival, abd Elyan. It had been a grim night when he had left Camelot for what he had hoped wouldn't be for a very long time but which, over the years, he had come to realise now was for good. He would not be returning there. The night had been clear and the stars had shone, and on any other, had he been free, had his execution not been planned for the very next morning, he would have been leaning out of his window and breathing in the cool air, watching the stars and maybe even writing down the ones that he had never noticed before. As it had been, he had instead ended up pushed and pulled along by Arthur's knights, the ones whom he trusted the most with the exception of Merlin himself, though the sorcerer had no doubt that this trust was now broken, given what had happened, what he had been sentenced to do. It had not been unkindly that they ferried him along and secreted him out of Camelot from under the King's nose, though Merlin suspected as he had left the group of people whom had been his friends in the clearing just before the entrance to the Valley of Fallen Kings that Guinevere had distracted Arthur for long enough that liberation of the King's old manservant from the dungeons could be well underway and even almost complete with the knights back at their chambers before the warning bells could ring. They had been unable to locate the money that Merlin had saved all throughout the six years since he had first arrived in Gaius' chambers, but they had given him all they could without the King noticing. It hadn't been much. Or at least, it had not been enough. He had got by for a while, but he'd had to pay his way to stay anonymous. Thanks to Arthur, there was a death warrant on his head, and he'd needed to cover his tracks. He had been some months in Rhewogydd before he finally plucked up the courage to communicate with his closest friend after Arthur, Gwaine, and with the knight's encouragement, he had eventually written to Guinevere, and though he had worried for a long time about it, he eventually came around to the fact that no one had come after him, that she was keeping his new secret safe.
But Arthur had seemed to be a lost cause. He still cared about Camelot, and Merlin had wished for a time when he might have been able to return to that place he'd begun to help build with his friends, but after a year had passed, he had decided that the other man would simply never see the good in magic, and in the man whom had once been his closest friend and confidant. There had been a betrayal of trust, yes, but a death warrant, with no chance of a reprieve as far as Merlin knew was an even bigger betrayal. And so, over the years as he slowly shaped a new kingdom where he had been accepted as who he was, however many conditions he'd had to be exposed to whether Taran knew he was aware or not, he had been unable to help but harbour a small slice of resentment for the man he had loved. And this was the simple truth of it. In simple terms, at the base of all the jokes at one another's expense, at the bottom of the way he had been mistreated as a servant and at the foundation of the strange and intense friendship they had shared, there was love. It was not difficult to think then, that it had turned to resentment, even if, for the most part, the love was still there. It had been there when Merlin had seen Arthur lying in the snow after he had heard his heartbeat fluttering away so weakly. He'd forgotten how to use his magic for all the time it took to get the man inside, and he'd dragged him through the snow in his panic, in his desperate need to get the bleeding Arthur into the warmth where he could be worked on safely, where he could be nursed back to wakefulness, back to health. It was only after he'd left a deep trail of blood in the snow that sank down through the layers of cold and ice that he recalled the fact that he was the most powerful sorcerer in the world. He had stopped and stepped back from the King, the man who had been his friend once upon a time, and he had looked down at him from where he lay, still bleeding all over the pallet, and Merlin had felt sick to his stomach.
No magic, he told himself. No magic. He could have used it to get Arthur indoors, into the stone ruin of an ancient home, but no more than that. He had learned the hard way that magic had a mind of its own, that even though he possessed his own, the magic would leave him one day, should he ever die, and return to the earth where it belonged. It was volatile and the Old Religion to which it belonged demanded that balance be kept, and though Merlin could usually decide whom to save, whom to give up, it was hard for him sometimes. He had been asked once by a distraught mother, one of the people in Rhewogydd's lower villages, could he save her child, she would do anything for it. The child had been near death of chill and cold, his skin a pale, pale colour, almost blue, and the sorcerer had sat the mother down and explained to her. He had been duped himself in the past when it came to sacrifices where he hadn't known enough to make his choice before the Old Religion made it for him. He had explained to the villager in the simplest terms possible, and he had only been in the kingdom of ice for two weeks before he had made his first rounds to see what might be done, how he could help, when he was presented with the situation, that to save her child, the balance of the earth would require a sacrifice. It would not care who the sacrifice was, but it would need to be chosen, if she thought that it would be worth it, if she was certain that she wanted to give something up in return for the life of her child. It was a huge thing to ask someone, and he had taken his time, as much time as he could, explaining this to her. The Old Religion demanded a life for a life, it required balance or it would take what it wanted. So, it was best to choose. And explanation was what Merlin needed to do. Because he could not have a repeat of what had happened in Camelot, to Uther. The woman, with tears in her eyes, had taken her husband's hands and taken him outside into the cold. The sorcerer had waited respectfully indoors by the child's bedside. When they had come back inside, into the place where the young couple had made their home, the woman had knelt before her daughter and kissed her forehead, cold and damp as it was from fever. She said her goodbyes and turned to Merlin with a determined look on her face. She offered her own life to placate the very nature of magic itself and the child had lived. A healthy pallor had returned to her skin as the warlock had held a small bundle of burning herbs above her, cupped in his hands, his eyes giving a flash of gold and for long moments, the child had stopped breathing. Then there had been coughing and weakly, the little girl had opened her eyes and smiled the tiniest bit to her mother. Magic had snatched the girl from death's brink, and he had needed to take a life in return, to placate the Old Religion before it snatched away someone who had not agreed. He had told the woman he was sorry once she had seen with her own eyes that her child would live. He had apologised before the life had left the woman and given his most sincere condolences to her husband before leaving. Merlin had spoken to no one for the week following, though he went around every home in the lower and upper villages, to every place in Rhewogydd's boundaries to be certain that this would not happen again, to ensure that he could save people long before they were knocking upon the door of death. He could not do this again. A life for a life. That had been some years ago now, and he had seen the child, ten years old now, running around, bundled heavily in furs and looking as happy and alive as it was possible for the girl to be. And respectfully, she had bowed at him before running off to find her father.
He did not use magic to save Arthur, not this time. He used instead his skills as a physician, and when Arthur awoken as he had cleaned the wound to the back of his head, he had barely been able to contain his relief that the man was awake, that he was alive. And then Arthur had begun to laugh and Merlin had shut down, because here the king was, laughing. Laughing after all that had happened, after everything that had gone wrong. He had given him the potion he had made upon the fireplace to drink, to send him to sleep and speed the healing process, and it was made easier with Arthur conscious, but Merlin had felt pain in those moments. When he had been laughed at, when the blonde man with red in his hair had looked at him as though nothing had changed.
No, it was clear and all too certain to Merlin that he still loved Arthur deeply, that he still needed him to be safe, to be alive, even if their destinies were no longer entwined.
With the key safely away, though the sorcerer could still feel its empty presence within the room, he set about creating a fresh orb of light that formed in his tightly cupped hands before he gently blew on the sphere and sent it to float about the ruin.
Some time later, Arthur began to stir, and Merlin made no moves to prevent him from waking. Blue eyes opened and focused on the sorcerer, and there was no fear there, thank goodness, because he didn't know that he could cope with that, could deal with the idea of fear, not right now. Things had changed between them, however, and these were not the days when the young prince could call on his manservant in the middle of the night for whatever it was that he might need.
"Thank you," the King said now, two simple words that he had rarely ever said to the sorcerer in all the time that he had served him when they had been in Camelot, and Merlin had been about to tell him that he ought to rest, not to speak, but the words stuck in his throat as he looked at him from where he had sat, cross-legged on the stone floor.
Arthur shifted very slowly until he was sitting up in bed, though he refused to wince over the pain in his head, because honestly, it was not nearly as bad as it had been to begin with, not by any stretch of the imagination, though his was, admittedly, less flexible than usual, given the fact that it hurt at the moment to do much thinking at all. "Thank you," he repeated, now that he could make the words strong, now that he could make Merlin know that he meant them, "Thank you for saving me- for saving me again," he amended, and he didn't look at his old manservant because he was not entirely sure that he would be allowed to, or, in fact, that he even deserved to. "I know that it was you, I might not be aware of all the times you ever helped me, but I know now, that it was always you," and those words were hard to admit, would have never come from his mouth, had he been thirteen years younger than he was now, a long time ago, before Merlin had ever come into his life, but it was the truth. "So, thank you, Merlin, for everything."
He glanced up then, at the man who had been his saviour so many times that he could not be sure of the number. Merlin looked as though he might say something, as though he was struggling for the right words to say, but Arthur wasn't finished yet, he realised. "And I am sorry," he said then, and watched as the old manservant's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, ever so slightly. "I am sorry that I condemned you to death without hearing your side of the story, and whether it was expected of me or not, I should have come to see you before I did anything, I should have come and found out what was going on, and why you had done what you had done because I understand, I see that there was a reason, Merlin, and I am sorry. I have come here, to Rhewogydd, not just here-" he gestured around the stone hut and he could have sworn that there was the hint of a smile from Merlin, although he tried not to pay attention to it, to the way that it made his spirits lift to see it, almost as though things had a chance at all of becoming similar to the way that they once were, "-to sign a treaty that I don't need. That Camelot doesn't need, but I wanted to be able to show everyone that we are unafraid to ally with a kingdom that so closely associates itself with magic, because I have been working, the past few years, to make it so that Camelot is a place where sorcerers are unafraid to go, whoever they are, whatever their station, provided that they do not turn their hands to evil the way the ones I seem to have met have," he said, because he wasn't about to welcome anyone and everyone, not when he knew first hand that they would cause trouble, pain, suffering, and possibly death, to others, and he would not lie to Merlin. "I know that it has been a long time since my father's death, since I should have welcomed magic back into the lands, but it is only in the last two years or so that Guinevere has managed to show me how much magic has done for me. I had suspected it, but it was only when I spoke to her that I realised it. I had heard about this kingdom, of King Taran, and of the great sorcerer who stood at his right hand as his heir, and I heard also that he was a powerful man, but obviously, I didn't know that it was you. The point was that Camelot was about to ally with a kingdom that had such a man who might one day come to rule himself. Once I have signed this treaty, and I have returned to Camelot, I will overturn the laws about magic. The papers have already been drawn up, it is just a case of making it known about the realm. I want to make things right, I want to repair the damage done by both my father and myself, and I am sorry, Merlin, that you had to hide for so long, and I am sorry that I was one of the people who made you do so. I am sorry for my ignorance, and I am sorry that I never had the chance to thank you, not properly. I would have come to find you sooner, if I had known where you were, and I am sorry that I was as self-righteous as I ever have been when I came to see you in the tower, I'm sorry that I blamed you." He wondered briefly if Merlin knew that he was apologising or if the sorcerer had been struck dumb by the constant pleas for Merlin's pardon. "I am glad that you are happy here, I am, and it's selfish of me, but I wish that you would consider coming back with us," and he knew he was pushing his luck here, given just how happy the sorcerer was here, but he couldn't help himself; he was a selfish man sometimes, particularly when it came to the matters of friendship, though he had offered a long, long time ago to give his own life in exchange for Merlin's. "Not because I think we could use your power, although I know now just how powerful you are, and not because I want to lock you up as soon as we come back, not that I think I could if I even wanted to, but because you are my friend. You were my friend. Maybe you don't think that we are anymore, but you must care even a little bit, to have come and saved me. Life without you is dull. It isn't just that I'm not attacked on a daily basis anymore, it's that you weren't there. I haven't seen you for seven years." Perhaps that was why he was speaking so much now, more than he ever usually did. Wasn't it always his manservant who would ramble on like this?
Merlin had winced as he had spoken about locking people up, and his eyes darted briefly to the cupboard. He got up onto his knees and crawled over to Arthur who tried to bite his lip on what he desperately wanted to say, and failed. "I see you finally learned to walk on your knees," he said, unable to help himself, and to his shock, the sorcerer laughed. There were no cold looks, nothing he had been expecting. There was simply laughter and the spark of joy and relief in the eyes across from his own.
"Taran's lock, the one that you saw open on my door, Arthur, I can't get through it, there's something in the metal, something in the wood of the door, that absorbs magic," Merlin said, and Arthur knew that he was trusted again. Perhaps more trust than ever before was offered him, because if the sorcerer suspected that he might use this information for ill, for some power over him, then he would never have told him. "I am allowed to do things here that I always wanted to do in Camelot, but the cost is my absolute freedom."
Arthur could see it now. As Merlin took his hands and the King did not resist his touch, he could understand. Merlin had been a caged animal, a man of such huge power, but only allowed to leave on the will of another, and that was no life, no matter what he had been offered, no matter that he had been offered the throne. The throne was inconsequential, really, given that the warlock had never wanted that.
"If you come back with us, if you want to be free, Merlin, you can. You can leave here, leave all the obligations that people expect of you, the position you might have to take up one day, and you can come back and be free. I wish that you would, but you don't even have to stay in Camelot, not if you don't want to. Please, please know-" he looked down at their joined hands, his brows knitting together, and this was a difficult thing to speak of, a difficult thing to admit to himself, almost impossible, "-that this is not a play of power, and if you don't want to be our court sorcerer, you can be an advisor, if you return and want to stay in the Kingdom, or you can do whatever it is that you want, because I want you to have the choice. You can build whatever it is that you always wanted to, because I am making magic legal, I will make it so that you never have to fear exposing yourself again. So that no one will ever have to die for the way that they were born again."
He listened to Merlin exhale, but could not find the power within himself to look up.
"I'll come back," the sorcerer said, and Arthur's head snapped up fast enough that he very nearly regretted it, but he was breathless now, with laughter and happiness and all the things that he'd found so difficult to express in a genuine fashion before this man had ever come into his life, but here, alone, he could truly feel it and mean it. Merlin was going to return to Camelot with him. If he wouldn't stay in Arthur's life while there, the King would not blame him for it, though he was sure that he would miss him more than he ever had the past seven years, now that he knew that the man was alive. But Merlin would be safe, and this was the core of the matter. Arthur laughed, his mouth open, and he found his old manservant laughing along with him, and truly, in that moment, nothing had changed.
Silence hung in the air once the laughter had faded, and Arthur's heart felt suddenly heavy as he regarded the man before him who must have spent the last seven years behind a locked door at night and supervised all day. The man who had been his best friend, who he had been willing to die for, and who had suffered because Arthur had been blinded by the hatred for magic that had been passed down by his father. In spite of the fact that Taran had been the one to come up with this idea of locking the sorcerer away, to put something into the very wood that would even stop Merlin from blasting the very door down, it was the King of Camelot who was responsible, even if it was indirectly, and he had not known of this treatment of his old friend.
It was the most natural thing when Arthur leant forward, towards the kneeling man, and brushed their lips together. It was sorrow of the time lost, of the misery that Merlin must have experienced, and of the empathy that he felt toward him. Of regret that he could not now change things so that his friend had only ever been happy, had never needed to compromise just so that he could do something as simple as live in the light, though Merlin must have had the sort of light that was marred by the dark shades of bars in a window that so many prisoners experienced. But this wasn't all the kiss was. It was the love and longing of thirteen years, the adoration that he had felt as their friendship had begun to blossom all that time ago, the laughter that they had shared, and all those times when their emotions had been high after too many near-death experiences. It was, at its centre, however, love that spurred Arthur on to kissing Merlin, that had him lift a hand to cup the warlock's cheek, that allowed a thumb to brush his high cheekbone and allowed him to conquer his own, repressed nature that Merlin had helped him break through time and time again through sheer persistence. They broke apart when the need for breath became too much, and Merlin stared at him for some time, not moving, simply looking in something akin to awe and amazement at just how much Arthur had changed and developed within himself. The King was certainly a different man now to the emotionally stunted Prince that his old manservant had once known. He would speak to Guinevere, once they returned to the palace; he would tell her of how much he loved this man, and that now that he had experienced the loss of him, and the discovery of what it was like to be around him again, he could not bear to ever be without him. She would understand. She would probably already be aware of the fact, Arthur thought as he looked up at his friend, his breathing beginning to settle down into something easier, more regular than it had been. Guinevere had Lancelot, and Arthur had never protested it, merely understood that her love lay elsewhere. He had probably accepted it so readily because his own did too.
"You're staying here until you've healed," Merlin said quietly as he simply breathed against Arthur's lips, "I cannot have the King trying to make out as though you owe me a life debt which would mean by rights, in his mind, that you would have to sign terms you might not want," and this was the sorcerer at his heart. Forever thinking of Arthur, of Camelot. Arthur was not sure that he knew a better man, nor anyone whom he respected more.
The King could not help his smiles, not with how things had changed. Merlin had saved him, Merlin had, it seemed, forgiven him for his wrongs, if the return of the kiss had meant anything, if the way that the sorcerer's lips had moved against his own was anything to go by. He felt as though he could fly in that moment. But while he couldn't, he was ready to believe that Merlin could. The man could do anything, it seemed, and when he returned to Albion with the Arthur, Guinevere and their Knights, he would do anything and everything he had ever set his mind to, and he would be free to do so. That now, was the most important thing.
Night passed and Arthur awoke the next morning with no pain. He was confused for some moments as he looked about the dimly-lit hut, but eventually, his gaze settled on Merlin who had curled up on the stone slab of a floor beside the pallet, and he had to smile. He simply could not help himself. Tentatively, the King rose, pushing himself up into a sitting position and, slowly but surely, turning around so that he could kneel upon the cold floor and, supporting himself on the rough wall, he managed, eventually to stand. Merlin, of course, slept on, and his smile refused to vanish. Arthur knew it was foolish to feel happiness over such things, yet he could not stop himself. Perhaps he had only known Merlin in the past when he had overworked himself, but he had always been under the impression that his manservant, once asleep, would not wake up for anything. Well, he may awaken if prompted to by a bucket of water, but those days of arrogance and inconsideration for the feelings of others were well in the past.
Unsteady as he was on his feet, Arthur made his way around the hut by keeping one hand on the wall and, though he debated whether or not he ought to do such a thing, given the cold always in the air here, he stepped out through the archway and into the snow. Passing through the shimmering barrier that fit into every single gap within the ruin, Arthur felt a shiver take him. He could see the palace from here, and that had been the purpose of making his way outside. This was obviously a place that Merlin considered to be safe, and was apparently hidden away enough that none could find him. None of Taran's knights or guards, at least. They were indeed on top of the hill, the base of which Arthur had fallen at, and this must have been the crumbling ruins that he had seen upon his approach, he realised belatedly, stepping away from the doorway and turning around so that he could take in the place in which he had stayed the night, the place where Merlin had sought refuge and freedom.
Something in the wood of the door, and the metal of the lock that absorbed magic. Uther would have given a great amount of money for such a prize, Arthur knew, as he took in the dilapidated and all-too ancient building before him. There were the remnants of joins about it, some rooms that had not survived the passage of what he supposed must have been time, or perhaps some magical interference, though he had never been an expert on that particular subject. There were piles of rubble on some of the more substantial chambers, though none was as complete as the one which he had come from. Looking at the place, as Merlin's protective magic twinkled its way through any cracks in the stone and across the doorway, Arthur found himself hard-pressed to think precisely why it was that anyone would wish to find such a thing, much less to implement it against the sorcerer.
Taran had found a thing which could contain Arthur's friend. The man whom he could now admit, without any trace of difficulty, doubt, or embarrassment, that he loved. And Rhewogydd's King had decided to effectively imprison him. His fists clenched with this knowledge and the chill air was good if only to buffet his senses into something more reasonable. He could not, under any circumstances, declare war for this. It was too small a thing, in the grand scheme of everything that the King hoped to achieve, in spite of how much the very idea of what had been done to Merlin ate at his insides.
Ashamed as he was to say it, Arthur was not used to the cold, and he began to shiver enough that the time came for him to walk slowly back into the hut. He resisted the urge to touch the back of his head, to feel for the wound that must still be there, having had more experience than he could count with heavy impacts and his own skull. This was probably the reason why he failed in being able to count them, the King thought with a wry grin as he went back into the warmth of the ruin. Merlin must have slept enough because he stirred as the barriers were breached for the second time that morning and slowly sat up, blinking at the man stood in the doorway. "I didn't think you would be well enough to walk for days yet," the sorcerer commented as he stood, long hair waving loosely and rather haphazardly about his shoulders and down his back, and there was something about the mess of it that had the King remembering the way his sorcerer had once been. The man he had first laid eyes upon after so many years had been so highly polished that the gleam of him had shadowed the very essence of himself, and Arthur was pleased now to see that he had not changed so much after all.
"Turn around?" Merlin asked of him, and Arthur, trusting him with his entire being as he always had done up until the reveal of his true nature, turned around. It was second nature to put all his trust in the man again. He regretted ever having lost the trust now, and wished, more than anything, that he could take the past seven years back, that he could have overruled his own laws on magic straight away, the moment he had found out what Merlin was, but he simply could not, and it was too late for such regret. He was now looking to the future, toward making his reign a right and just one for all those that would live under it. He felt fingers in his hair, ghosting over the place that had hurt so much the day before, and he heard a surprised murmur come from the warlock, loud enough that he turned his head slightly look at him.
"What is it?" he questioned, not altogether worried if only because he knew the way that Merlin would sound when truly concerned about a situation. He usually went too grave and serious and it always served to inspire more fear than it saved.
"You've healed," Merlin said simply, taking a step back from the King and clasping his hands together, frowning ever so slightly in such a way as made Arthur feel a sudden flash of concern when he turned about to look at him.
"But?" he asked, almost dreading the answer now that he saw the look on the sorcerer's face.
"No, it isn't that. I just didn't expect you to have healed so quickly, and I'm trying to work out how it happened," Merlin said, and then offered a smile to Arthur's slightly panicked look, and it helped him to relax enough that the King chanced feeling the back of his own head. To him, it felt the same as any other day, with barely a slight tenderness to the touch that might signal there had ever been any damage.
The first thought to Arthur's mind was that it must have been magic, and he sat on the floor, hand still at the back of his head. "I suppose that it is just as well," the King said finally, staring at the way in which his fingers came away bloodless from what had been a nasty enough wound that Merlin had worried for his life, "I could not have stayed here long. Taran would have become suspicious of where you really are, with my absence as well, given that he knows where you came from, and the Knights, they would have suspected foul play. Not on your part, but on Taran's. Although, I did tell Guinevere that I was going to find out whether the things that Taran told us were true, I don't think she expected me gone this long." What Arthur did not add was just how agreeable it would have been to remain here, where he did not have to think about the responsibility of fixing everything. But he needed to do just that; he absolutely had to return to the palace and set things right, and then, they would probably not sign the treaty, and leave. Arthur doubted, somehow, that Taran would be as eager to sign for peace when he would be more inclined to war. The King had probably never considered the fact that these envoys from Camelot would arrive, begin the negotiations for peace, and leave with his kingdom's biggest asset.
"I want to be sure that you're safe for travel," Merlin told him, and there was a certain firmness to his voice that had Arthur nodding in spite of the fact that, out of the two of them, he ought to be the one in command, as things had always been between them. But given the warlock's powers now, perhaps a partnership would be more adequate to describe the way they would have to behave around one another.
Later that day, Merlin took the pot from atop the fireplace and, pulling on the heavy, purple cloak with its black fur lining, made his way down to the river. Arthur watched him go, sitting cross-legged by the pallet, and it was strange to him, how it seemed now as though no time had passed, though he was fairly sure that they had never been in a situation as this one, staying in a hut that had, according to Merlin, belonged to the men who had been the ancestors of a portion of his own power, and while Arthur did not understand what that meant, he had nodded profusely as though he had. They had eaten the bread and cheese that Merlin had fetched with him on his flight from the palace, and it was all too clear to them both that they would have to return soon. The food had run out, thanks to the King's presence, and Arthur's words were true. The chaos that may ensue from their continued absence was not worth it when the alternative was returning, smoothing over the difficulties and returning, finally, to Camelot, though the latter part would take some time.
He had taken it upon himself to pick up one of Merlin's books and look through it, out of interest, more than any real pursuit, and what he found was incomprehensible, as far as he was concerned. He set the book of magic back down on the floor and looked around the place for a few more minutes, until the warlock returned, the cauldron of fresh water levitating before him. Rather than place it on the fire as Arthur's past had told him to expect, the sorcerer instead allowed it to sit in the centre of the stone flooring. His eyes flashed gold for the briefest moment and steam began to rise from the water, and once more, the King was left stunned at this display. It was only a tiny thing, of course; it was not as though Merlin had set out and moved a mountain, but even this mundane show of his power made him wonder how much ease Merlin had given up to serve him for all those years; when he could have made things so easy for himself, he instead hid in darkness. Darkness that Arthur's father had enforced and that he himself had continued. He looked away for a moment, feeling guilty until the warlock called his attention back with a cloth that he held out.
It was white and almost a rag, the sort that Arthur usually expected to see on wounds that required dressing, but it would serve a different purpose today. He needed to wash the blood from his hair, needed it so that none would realise that a King had managed to be bested by no better than a common thug. Dipping the rag into the hot water and only wincing slightly when he wrung it out, the blonde man dabbed and wiped at the back of his head for a few moments until thought he ought to dip the rag again. He let it drop into the water and was slightly alarmed to see the dull red that it became, though head wounds always bled more; he knew that from all his years on the battle field. He continued this process until finally, the cloth came down clean and Merlin finally confirmed for him that he had succeeded in cleaning himself up sufficiently.
The sorcerer waved a hand at the water which purified almost instantly, shining clear once more as the pot it had been in moved itself to hang over the fire once more. Arthur found himself staring yet again, and this time, Merlin caught him at it, blue meeting blue as their eyes met and the King attempted to smile his way out of it, but it was too late, and they both knew it.
"What is it?" the old manservant asked as the blonde looked away from him and at the wall beyond Merlin's shoulder.
"I still find it surprising that you can do all of that," he said simply, and he gave a grin when Merlin's laughter filled the stone ruin.
"I can do so much more," he replied finally when his laughter had died down, his eyes shining this time with merriment as opposed to the golden sheen of magic, "But I understand. I don't even think about it anymore, but all magic is impressive, no matter what it's doing, it's all amazing, and you shouldn't feel strange for showing it admiration. It is its own creature and has its own nature. It does deserve that sort of respect."
And Arthur nodded and did not give up the fact that the thing which he was truly showing his amazement over was Merlin and just how much he had given up over the years he had served him.
The blonde man closed the distance between them as Merlin opened his mouth to say something else about the wonder of magic and its practitioners or something similar, but Arthur wanted, more than anything now, to thank him for all that the warlock had ever done for him, and to show the man just how much he meant to him, and how much he had missed him over the seven, long years since he had seen him last. Their lips pressed together, and for once in his life, Merlin realised that it was perhaps advisable to stay silent. Well, to leave words out of the equation, at least.
For the warlock was not silent while the King kissed him, his distraction with Arthur's lips leading him to forget himself, to give the occasional gasp and surprised moan at a thing that the blonde man had only ever dreamed would happen, and he supposed, given Merlin's reactions, that he was going through something similar.
"This must have been what healed you so quickly," the darker haired of the two said as he pressed the King down against the pallet, distracted now with placing the smallest kisses of adoration that Arthur had ever experienced in his life against his cheeks and neck, though he caught a small place with his teeth that had the older of the two men gasping.
"What?" he asked rather intelligently, confusion gripping him as he tried to come to a decision as to exactly what it was that Merlin was saying to him. His befuddled sense of being was not helped any when the warlock laughed breathlessly against his skin, apparently amused at being able to make the great King Arthur lose his composure, though he had always been excellent at it when they had been young. It seemed that to Merlin, at least, it was a good thing to see again. They were not so different as they had been, at the end of all things.
"When we kissed last night," he said in the face of Arthur's indignant glare over being laughed at, "I was wishing that I could make you well sooner than I expected your recovery to be, and I suppose that my magic… responded," he added, and there was the sheepish grin that Arthur remembered from all those years ago. He could not find it within himself to mind too much when he was kissed yet again before he could ask any more questions.
The King could not be sure when his clothes left him, or indeed where they went, but gone they were, and he shot the warlock a confused look who just laughed again, and there was a lot of that at the moment, but Arthur found it easy to put the emotions down to relief that things were almost normal. Though he doubted that after this night things would ever go back to the way that they had been.
He felt keenly the way that Merlin kissed him, the way his hands felt as they left feather-light touches across his skin, and he was not altogether sure that all of the touches came from the warlock's hands; some appeared to ghost against his skin with the lightest of caresses in places different to those he could see, but it all became unimportant. When the man he loved came to deepen the bond they had always shared in such an irrevocable way, it was all he could do to hold on to him and make the decision in those moments that he probably could never let Merlin go now, however noble his intent had been when he had suggested that the sorcerer ought to leave Rhewogydd with him. Arthur felt connected to Merlin in a way that he never had before, and when they lay together, out of breath and basking in a warmth that had not been there before, the King allowed himself his moments of weakness, where no one but his old manservant could see him, twining his fingers in hair that was longer by far than any that he had seen in his dreams before Merlin had come back into his life.
He wanted, desperately, to tell him that he loved him, to implore him to never leave his side, but he wouldn't. Not when Merlin had been without true choices for so long. Whatever happened between them, whatever it was that took place from this moment on, it would be with no manipulation, no words designed to make Merlin want to stay with him without good cause. Not that Arthur was that sort of man by any stretch, but after Taran, he was wary of the sorcerer thinking him the same. Rhewogydd's King, while a seemingly good man on his surface, had a certain sense and type of rotting beneath that Arthur almost wanted to dig from this kingdom, but it was not his place. All he could do was ensure that Merlin was removed from the man and to a better place, especially now that he knew with a certainty that he had heard the words spoken with his own ears. It was the warlock's wish to be free and to return to Camelot with Arthur, Guinevere, and the knights. This night, whatever it was that they had shared, was not enough for Arthur to request that Merlin remain with him because he didn't want that choice to be taken away from him. The man who had fallen asleep at his side now would have freedom, true freedom under no terms but the sorcerer's own. He would see to that personally, if he had a chance to, which he was absolutely convinced that he did, Arthur decided as sleep came, creeping steadily up on him until it had him in its grasp and he willingly slipped into the first sweet dreams he had experienced in a very long time.
With the morning came a sight that Arthur had grown used to in the time that Merlin had served him for and that was the sight of the man moving about the room and seeing to it that things were clean, tidy, and put away. Of course, these actions only ever usually occurred in Arthur's own chambers, and this was why it took him a few moments to place just why it was that the younger of the two of them saw fit to put everything away now. It was because they were leaving. A small bag was in the centre of the room and Merlin was putting his things inside it; in went the clothes that he had been wearing since Arthur had arrived at this place, and the book that the King had inspected the evening before. Other things had been packed, though he could not tell what they were as the dark haired man continued to pile things into the bag. Finally, Merlin went to the cupboard in the corner and, opening it, he took out a small bundle and placed it on top of the book. He laced the bag up and pulled it up onto his shoulder, leaving Arthur staring at him for a moment.
"I trust you can dress yourself after all this time, sire?" Merlin asked, and there was the hint of a challenge in his smile that Arthur was only too happy to rise to. After all, the warlock had managed to change back into his clothes of pomp and pageantry, and so Arthur ought to be able to manage his own. Merlin's even seemed more ornate than anything the King had ever had to wear, and so, he climbed steadily to his feet and, once the warlock had presented him with the clothes that he had worn out on the night he had gone searching for the truth, he set about covering himself.
The picture was completed by the cloak that was not his own, and Arthur was ready. They left the hut, and as the King was walking entirely purposefully down the hill, it took him a moment or two to realise that the warlock had lingered behind, looking at the stone ruin. The blonde man doubled back on himself, trudged the few steps up that he had already taken in the opposite direction, and came to a stop at Merlin's side. He didn't say anything. Neither of them had to speak a word. A glance at the expression on his friend's face spoke every word that he could not say. It would be a hard place for Merlin to leave behind, this small island of freedom. Here Arthur stood, a fool and a King on top of a hill in a country of ice, beside the man he had loved since the moment he had met him, even if he had failed to recognise the emotions for many years. Arthur was a fool, that much he knew.
After a time, Merlin turned away from the place, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and made his way down the steep side of the hill, Arthur at his heels.
The journey through Rhewogydd's lower villages was a slow one, and this was almost exclusively down to the simple fact that the sorcerer had to stop every few metres to call in on the many homes that they passed, to be greeted by people in the roads they walked through, and it was clear to the King that they all loved him. Adored the warlock as someone whom they would never be able to do without, certainly not now that he was here, and while Arthur felt sympathy for the people now, to know what they were going to lose, but he did not feel as terrible for them as he perhaps ought to. That was, of course, some of the King's selfishness showing, and yet he was not so bothered by this fact that he thought to change it. No, the blonde was entirely happy with selfishness in this case, though it was not that he only thought of himself, not in this case, no. His thought were almost exclusively of the man who stood a few paces away from him, accepting a handful of balled up snow from a child who was very proud of their work. As they once more began their slow walk through the upper village to reach the palace, Merlin cradled the snowball close to him as though it really were a precious thing. They passed more and more homes, each with the warlock's shimmering protection over them, and it was some long minutes before the ball lifted itself from the younger man's hands and floated before them for seconds before it flew to hit Arthur square in the face. The King was left to wipe the smashed snow from his face and chase after the running sorcerer. There was nothing but happiness in the sound of Merlin's laughter, and that alone had Arthur smiling as he chased him through the last of the village.
They reached the frozen lake toward which the path lead, and they crossed the ice by bridge, stopping their running as they approached the palace. A sentry must have seen them, for as soon as they stepped onto the stone paving of the courtyard, they were met by King Taran, and Sir Gwaine, though Arthur was under no doubt that his knight had arrived by pure chance of overhearing the sentry's report; he did not think it at all likely that Taran had been courteous enough to alert any of Camelot's court.
Yes, the sooner that they could return, the better. While Arthur had trusted Gaius implicitly to run the kingdom in the time that they were away, he was aware that the old man was now well into his eightieth year, and he did not want to place undue stress on the man for any longer than was necessary.
"Sire," Gwaine said, bowing his head at the King, though his eyes were on Merlin.
"Welcome home, Merlin," Taran said, sweeping his ward into an embrace that Arthur wanted to step away from, though he stood his ground. "You have done well to return King Arthur safely to us," he went on, and the blonde man might have said something at that point, but for Merlin's interruption.
"Sire," the sorcerer began, his pack still balanced on his shoulder, "I wish to speak with you in private," he said, and Arthur simply knew that the request for privacy would be to save Taran's feelings. He watched with the faintest stirrings of jealousy as Merlin took the other King's arm and walked with him into the palace, leaving him stood with one of his most trusted knights.
When he was certain that they were alone, Arthur finally spoke. "Gwaine, Merlin will return with us," he said, "He is about to inform Taran about this fact, and then I suspect that we shall need to depart almost instantly. I do not see any future in which the man will be happy about the news and however strong or capable Merlin is, I would rather we avoid conflict entirely. Take Elyan with you, and make your way to the docks. We shall need passage by sundown," he added.
"I'll tell the others," Gwaine said as the only indication that he had understood his orders, leaving the King to stand in the courtyard for long moments until it finally occurred to him that he ought to find his wife, though doubtless, she would be in the company of Lancelot. He would tell Guinevere what she needed to know, and he knew even now that she would be happy, that she would rejoice at the fact that finally, he had found happiness. That he had Merlin back.
Arthur found himself smiling as he entered the palace and made his way up the staircases toward the chambers that he and Guinevere shared. Indeed, he had been correct; his Queen was with Lancelot, though he overheard her quiet fretting on the other side of the door. She had not expected for Arthur to be absent for so long. He supposed that Gwaine had decided not to disturb Guinevere while he alerted the rest of the knights to the situation. He knocked at the door to alert them both to his presence, knowing well enough that each and every one of his knights were bound to be on high alert with their King absent in a strange country, and after he had waited several moments, he pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
"Arthur!" came Guinevere's surprised and relieved voice as she pulled away from where she had sat with Lancelot and crossed the room, her arms wrapping about him in an embrace, "We didn't know what had happened to you when you didn't come back," she said, hugging him as tight as she would were their relationship true rather than a carefully-crafted sham. But even if their marriage had failed, this woman was still his friend. His closest, if he excused Merlin, newly returned to his life.
The thought had Arthur smiling as he stroked back his wife's curls and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
"What has you so happy?" she questioned when he drew back, her hands resting upon his chest as she looked at him, her expression one of something not unlike disbelief. Arthur could not blame her, how rare his smiles had become.
"Merlin is planning to return with us," he said, the words leaving him in a rush as he shared the good news with Guinevere, watching as her face lit up with the news and she hugged him yet again. "We need to pack away everything, ready to leave. I've sent Gwaine and Elyan to ensure that the ship is ready. I don't think it wise to overstay our welcome."
"You must be so relieved," she said to him, and that was such an understatement that Arthur laughed, a moment that gave the Queen pause as she took in this new man, so like the one she had known in her youth.
Arthur watched as his wife's lover inclined his head in a short bow and left the chamber. He then turned back to Guinevere. He could not tell her all the details, it showed absolutely no respect; she never told him all that happened between she and Lancelot, after all.
"I love him," he said of Merlin, and watched the understanding in her face as she squeezed his hands gently.
"I know," his wife said simply, and this was her consent. "We all do, but none so much as you, I think," she added, and there was a sly smile on her face that had him laughing in disbelief, but also in relief that she accepted his choice. Well, not his choice, not really. He did not believe that he had any now, not when it came to the warlock. The feelings had begun long ago, before the man had been banished from Camelot, and now that he was here, they had rekindled with a passion, one that simply could not be denied.
"You might have told me you were still in contact with him," he said, but Guinevere simply shook her head.
"You wouldn't have heard it, not at the beginning, and then I had to continue the lie. When you decided to come here… I could say nothing, you must know that. You might have called the entire visit off."
The innocence in her face did not convince Arthur for a moment, but he simply smiled, kissed the crown of her head once more, and stepped away. "I understand," he said, though he could see more than she perhaps intended. In her deception, it seemed that she had hoped for an outcome not unlike this one, for his own happiness. Arthur could not and would not hold her in a negative light for this, not when it had resulted in having Merlin back.
"Thank you," he said after a time, and that was all.
Hours passed and Guinevere was ready. She had packed away all the things that they had brought with them and sat now upon the trunk, beside the oaken box that held their crowns. She was nervous.
Arthur knew this because he was nervous himself, and his own pacing must have made an impact upon her. Her nails touched upon her lower lip, her knuckles resting just below her nose, and he could see the anxiety in the way she sat, in her very posture. He simply could not take this a moment longer. He strode to the door with heavy steps, startling his wife out of her silent contemplation of the situation.
"Where are you going?" she questioned, though he doubted that she really needed to. It was a way of breaking the silence, though she may still have felt that he may not return; as though knowing his location would help this.
"To find Merlin," he said tersely in response as he walked out of their chambers, shutting the door behind him. Lancelot, who had stood outside the rooms while they packed away their things, with no request from either monarch, exchanged a brief nod with the King, and then Arthur was off, down the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing as he searched. The place felt cold, was the first thing he noticed. The fire had been burning away in the room, and he had not felt the chill in the air, but he certainly felt it now. The green flame that had filled the torches lining the walkways was gone now, replaced by the more typical orange, the centre a burning shade of blue where it was fuelled.
Arthur followed the path that he had memorised to Merlin's tower and was walking along the passage toward it when he almost ran straight into Taran.
"King Arthur, I was just on my way to your chambers," the man said with a smile as he held his hands before him, palms facing Arthur in a way that seemed to convey surrender.
The two Kings stood in the icy passageway, looking at one another for long moments.
"Yes?" he finally questioned, waiting for the man to finally get to the point so that he might leave and locate his friend.
"I have spoken with Merlin," the older of the two men said, offering Camelot's King a friendly smile that the blonde did not return, "And he informed me that he thought it time to leave my Kingdom. He told me that he would renounce his right to the throne and his position as court sorcerer, but thankfully, after some discussion, I changed his mind. To remain here will, of course, be best for Rhewogydd, and he understands that. We spoke extensively and he agrees now; he will stay here. He has asked me to deliver the news to you personally, and requested that you leave come morning," the man said, still with the same kindly smile as though the news were not a blow to Arthur's heart.
"Thank you," the blonde man said, and that was all he could say as his throat threatened to close up. He turned on his heels and walked back the way he had come. Of course Merlin would stay. His sense of duty and obligation would see to that; Arthur had been foolish to think himself more important than an entire kingdom.
It was slowly that he returned to his chambers where Guinevere awaited him, and he knew that she expected the sorcerer to be with him, that it was time to leave, and so when he arrived alone to see her on her feet, apparently ready to be gone from the kingdom of ice, he felt his heart fall, heavier than before.
"Merlin has decided to stay here," he said, and it was a miracle when his voice stayed level, did not break in the way that he was certain it would. "He spoke with Taran and was convinced to stay," he said, sitting heavily on the bed, defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the hang of his head as it rested in his hands.
He felt more than saw Guinevere crossing over to him and placing a hand between his shoulder blades, as she attempted to support him. He did not cry. He refused to. This was Merlin's choice and he would respect it, but there was a hollow ache in his chest and his eyes stung and his wife's sympathy simply could not help him. He stood at the same time as Gwaine entered their chambers unannounced, Elyan directly behind him.
"We have arranged passage," the knight said, a smile on his face, confident that their King would be pleased at the news, but a look at Arthur's expression soon subdued him.
"We leave at first light without Merlin," Guinevere supplied when Arthur's voice failed him, and Gwaine, puzzled, watched the King and Queen of Camelot in silence for a moment. "Elyan," she continued, turning to her brother, "Relieve Lancelot and fetch Percival to be on guard for tonight."
"I'll stand watch too," Gwaine volunteered, and this had her smiling, though it was a weary smile and one that confused him.
"Thank you, Gwaine," she said as Arthur went to stand by the window and look out at the swirling flakes beyond the thick glass.
With an incline of his head to them both, the Knight went to take up his post on the left side of the door, to watch for any threats against Camelot's monarchy. Lancelot had already been relieved of his duty, and Elyan had gone to rest, leaving Gwaine alone, hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. Long minutes passed before he was finally joined by Percival, and they stood together in a silent vigil.
But he found it difficult to understand. He had seen them both on their return, had seen the happiness they had shared as they ran toward the palace, and the almost difficulty with which they had forced themselves into sobriety, and he could not understand why Merlin would want to stay. It did not add up.
"You can handle things here yourself, can't you?" Gwaine asked Percival who slowly gave a nod and offered up a grin of assurance. Of course he could. There was no reason to doubt that.
So, the Knight slipped away and down the corridors, the decision to investigate a priority within his own mind. He had passed by Merlin's tower once or twice and had attempted to visit it once only to find the sorcerer absent, though he understood now where he had been. He made his way there now with the intent of speaking to him, of figuring out just why it was that he had decided to stay here when all had been arranged for him to leave, when they had all been expecting him to go. As he came to a stop outside the door to his friend's tower, he saw that it was unlocked and, out of curiosity, he made his way up the stairs, through the darkness and into what turned out to be a room with no one in it. There were plenty of books, yes, and all the other things that gave the place away as the warlock's room, but there was no Merlin. Confused and beginning to frown, Sir Gwaine made his way back down the stairs and started an aimless walk down the corridor. He did not know where he was going, but when he came upon two servants ahead, he paused and took a few steps back until he could stand just behind a suit of armour. He listened in silence to their talk.
"You won't be needing to go and see to Lord Merlin's rooms today," one of the women was saying, and there was a clatter as something heavy and wooden was placed on the floor.
"No, I heard!" the other said, and there was a sense of shock in her voice, mixed with a sense of awe, "I'd never have thought it would happen, would you?"
"Merlin in the dungeons? No, I always thought he was happy enough here, but that can't be true if he's been locked away," the first servant gossiped as though a great injustice were not happening, "I took him down bread earlier, on King Taran's orders, but he told me to take it away again, my Lord Merlin, that is."
They had not seen him. This was good; he doubted that he would have heard a thing had he been in full view. He had heard all he needed to know, however, and he doubled back on himself to the closest spiral staircase which he took downwards, into the depths of the palace. He did not know his way around so well, had only thought to go where he had been needed, but now his friend needed his help. He found the dungeon by following the temperature, strangely enough. Somehow, the latest chill of the castle became even colder the deeper he walked, and the darkness increased, but he refused to pick up a torch, anything that might give him away. He could see his own breath forming in clouds before him by the time he reached what he suspected must be the dungeons, but he kept his breathing to an absolute minimum. There was a guard, a single guard, more fool them, and it was a swift blow to the back of the neck that brought the man down before Gwaine was unhooking the keys from his belt and stepping over his body. He hurried on into the long passageway beyond, and upon each side of the walkway were cells, small ones to start with, and getting gradually larger as he walked on, casting a look from left to right as he went, searching for Merlin.
He did not hear sobbing, as he had expected. Instead, he found Merlin in the very last cell, on its own, facing a blank wall opposite, and he fit the key to the lock and twisted it, listening to the clicks as the thing opened and the bars that made up the door swung inwards. He stepped into the enclosure in which the warlock was captive and immediately knelt before his friend who was staring before him blankly, dejectedly. He looked dreadful, Gwaine realised as he placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder and shook him slightly, rousing the sorcerer enough that he raised his eyes to look at the knight. There was a collar at his neck, something that Gwaine had not seen before, made of a thick, black metal with a deeply purple stone set into it, and the stone seemed to pulse slightly, with its own life. Behind Merlin were his hands, bound at the wrists with a pair of shackles that he immediately moved to unlock. But the key would not work. None of the keys on the entire ring worked.
Almost shouting his frustration, he calmed himself and put his hands on Merlin's shoulders once more and he tried his best to just communicate with him. "Merlin, what happened?" he implored of his friend.
"Taran drugged me," came the warlock's reply, his too easy reply, almost as though it were usual practice around here, though he wouldn't believe that. He couldn't believe that, or he would go and tell Arthur and then people would probably die. "We went to his chambers and he poured the wine while I told him that it was time for me to leave, and he seemed to agree. He was very kind about it as he handed over the wine and said that he would see to it that my things were packed, and I- stupidly, I drank." His shoulders slumped all the more, if that were possible, and Arthur would have to be told about this, that much was obvious.
"Merlin, why don't you just-" and he could see that there was something obvious that he was missing here, some vital bit of information that he'd failed to gather, but it begged asking, "-use your magic? It's not as though no one can know, it's not as though it's against any of the laws here," he said, his brow furrowed.
The sorcerer's bitter laugh was colder than even the air which they both shared, Gwaine on his knees, and Merlin seated upon the floor.
"I can't," he said.
"Can't?" the knight questioned, not understanding.
"I woke up here, with all this on," he said, with a shake of his shoulders that had the manacles behind him rattling against the circular peg in the wall, and Gwaine noticed for the first time that they were the same black of the collar, "And Taran was here, kindly enough," and the resentful notes in his voice had the Knight wincing. He could remember a time when his friend had been trusting. No longer, though. "He told me that this was for my own good, that once enough time had passed, and I had calmed my foolish notions of leaving the kingdom, he would release me back into service, but until then, he would ensure that my powers were bound."
There was something in his voice, something that was not hatred, but that was instead, a certain weakness, a weariness that he had never heard before. The sound of defeat.
"He told me that he had imbued the metal of my cuffs with the same properties as came from the very stone at my neck, the solution of which he used on the lock, key and door of the tower. It eats, Gwaine. It devours, and gives nothing back. It feels- empty, a void, and I-" there were tears then, sobs that the man tried to hold back but which were too strong to prevent, and had the knight's insides twisting in pain for his friend's anguish, "I feel empty."
The stone at his neck, the evil, pulsating thing set into the collar did not beat with a life of its own, no, but that instead moved with Merlin's life, Gwaine realised then with a feeling of dawning horror. This was the weakness in his voice, the defeat in his posture, the acceptance and the reason why he had not escaped. He couldn't, not anymore.
"I will be back," the knight promised, though he knew that nothing he could say would ever help, that he wouldn't be able to recover this piece of Merlin that had been stolen away, but he could save him, could find Arthur and bring him back among the people that loved him. "Does Taran have the key? The keys? To all of this?" he asked, and gestured at the horrible things that bound the sorcerer.
Merlin gave a nod, a tired nod that spoke the words that he could not muster, and Gwaine stood, though not before he had hugged his friend. It was not returned, but with his hands locked behind his back, he could not exactly blame him for this. Making sure that he had the keys safely stowed in his own belt loop, he gave one last look at the sorcerer before shutting the cell door and leaving the dungeons.
There was no knock at the door to stir Arthur and Guinevere from their shallow sleep; instead, there was simply Gwaine bursting into their room, calling Arthur's name.
The King sat up groggily and wiped at his face as he turned a look on the man who had woken him, and though he ought to be annoyed at being awoken, his dreams had offered nothing but darkness and a dank void that would be his life without Merlin, who had chosen to remain behind, he recalled with great clarity, feeling sick to his stomach.
"What is it?" he asked, weary.
"It's Merlin," the knight said, and something about the urgency in Gwaine's voice had the King blinking away all vestiges of sleep and concentrating entirely on the man who had burst into his chambers.
"What is it?" he asked yet again, quick as he climbed up and pulled on his tunic from where he had slung it atop the trunk his wife had packed. Guinevere was sitting up in bed now and watching the scene with worry in her eyes.
"He didn't decide to stay at all. Taran's locked him in the dungeons," Gwaine burst out with, all in a rush, "He's done something to him, bound him with something that's stopping his magic, I don't really understand, but he said that Taran has the keys to everything."
Arthur did not wait to hear any more. His vision was tinted red as he buckled on his sword belt and left the guest chambers without so much as a glance back at his wife. Their knights would protect her. He had to protect Merlin.
Of course he wouldn't have chosen to stay here. Of course not. Arthur could have hit himself for believing the lie that Taran had delivered him, for believing that after everything, after all that they had been through, the warlock would choose to stay here. It was stupid to think of even now, and besides which, even if he had chosen to stay, he would have come to deliver the news himself. He could hear a growl and it was only a concerned glance from the knight at his side that made him realise that it had come from his own throat. He was angry, and deservedly so.
He wanted to go down to the dungeons, to see Merlin, to tell him that he would fix everything, but that would only have the man down there longer, would only give Taran the chance to amass the guards and make it even more difficult to get to him. No. He would go directly to the source of this particular rot, he decided as he took a left at the end of the corridor and made his way toward the King's chambers. He paused as he stood outside the door, and listened. There was silence. The King was not here.
"With me," he muttered to Gwaine and turned on his heels to the only other place in the palace that he could think of.
It took some time, too much time in Arthur's opinion, before he found the door under which no light shone, but when he did, not a moment was wasted before he had drawn his sword, turned the handle and stepped into the room, the knight directly behind him.
Taran looked up from where he had been knelt over the frozen pool, took in the two angry-looking men stood in the doorway and smiled.
The blonde's stomach churned in disgust and his hand clenched about the hilt of his sword.
"And how may I be of assistance?" the King asked as he straightened up from the icy lake in the centre of the room and turned to face them both.
"The key to Merlin's restraints," Arthur said, jaw clenching over the fact that the man didn't even seem to know that he had done wrong.
"You're killing him!" Gwaine barked from his side, unable to control his emotions as well as Arthur, though those words had Camelot's King swallowing down on his rage. He hadn't known that. But of course, it served to reason. Take the magic from the warlock, and he would be weakened. Perhaps even to death, but he couldn't think about that right now. He had to take the key and save him.
"Of course I'm not," Taran said breezily as he brushed imaginary dust from his belt where the black key dangled, "I am simply keeping him under control, for the time being. He will forget this folly of leaving, and eventually will stay under his own will. It is what is best for him, and for my kingdom."
"Yes, and if you know what's best for you, you'll hand over the key right now," Gwaine spat, the anger apparent in his expression.
Arthur kept his own level as the other King laughed, as though this were all a great game, and perhaps it was to him.
"You fail to understand me," the man opposite them said as his arms folded, cupping his elbows in his hands, that ridiculous, smug expression on his face that had both Arthur and Gwaine wanting to wipe it straight off and preferably onto the floor, "Magic is valuable, and its users are worth twice as much. I was lucky not to have paid for this one," he added, and gave a shrug. "You can see, Arthur, that I cannot allow one of my most prized possessions to go away from here, off to another kingdom?"
"If sorcerers are something to be bought and sold and used, then why would you make him your heir?" Arthur asked in spite of the revulsion he felt, simply being in the same room as this man, though his own father had not been so different to this.
"I grew fond of him," Taran said, tilting his head to one side as he spoke, "But now I see him for the creature that he is. They all are. A valuable creature and one that has greatly assisted my kingdom, but not one that I wish to have in power, not anymore, though he shall still be of a help to me, now that I have him under control."
"You give me the key, or you give up your life," the King of Camelot finally said, testing the familiar weight of his sword in his hand, the beauty in its balance. Excalibur was a work of art, in its own way.
"I will not let you take away the most valuable thing in my possession," Taran said in response, stooping to gather his own sword from the side of the pool. He pulled it from its scabbard and flung the sheath away, and that action alone was something of a mistake, but Arthur was used to fighting, used to battle and the control it required. Even after so many years, he had no doubts that he was the best, and that he could win here.
The key, or your life. He had offered him a choice, he told himself as he stepped up and made the first swing, met at the last moment with a glancing blow from Taran's own blade, clumsily wielded with two hands.
The fight did not last long. There had never been any real contest, he thought as he pulled his sword from the King's chest and snatched the key from his belt.
Blood pooled on the floor and dripped down onto the ice, but Arthur did not wait a moment longer. Blade still dripping, he swept through the door, and Gwaine took the lead then, down toward the dungeons where Merlin awaited them.
Arthur began to run. There was no shame in this admission, he knew, and when he reached the cell of the man he loved, saw him curled up on the floor in a ball, paler than he'd ever seen him, he shoved at the door which creaked loudly open and rushed into the chamber. He knelt upon the straw and fit the key into the locks of the manacles that sprang open, finally freeing the warlock's wrists, but Merlin did not move. He was breathing, at the very least, but he stared straight into space, only blinking on occasion.
"Is he alright?" Gwaine asked from the cell door that he held open lest it lock on them.
"I don't know," Arthur said, unsurprised by the anger in his voice, unsurprised at the fact that he was taking this anger out on his friend.
He ran his fingers about the collar at Merlin's throat, searching for the keyhole, and finally, he found it, right at the back, covered by the warlock's hair. He was gentle as he swept the dark strands out of the way, and a few moments later, the collar opened and fell into the King's hands. He tried to ignore the redness at Merlin's neck, at his wrists.
And still, the sorcerer would not move.
"Merlin," Arthur pleaded, throwing the collar down and crawling around to his lover's front, to face him, to meet his eyes, desperate for any sort of indication that he would be alright. But there was nothing. He just lay there, staring into space.
The King was crying. His shoulders were shaking as he stood, head bowed. He was overwhelmed with rage, more than he had ever felt in his life. It was killing him. Gwaine had been right. In a fit of sudden anger, the need to lash out and destroy everything that had ever hurt the man he loved, Arthur drew his sword and brought it crashing down on the collar, on the evil, pulsing stone, on the thing that had helped do this to Merlin.
The stone smashed with a shatter that echoed around the chamber, and it dissolved with a sickening bubble into the blood that still dripped from Excalibur. From the darkly glittering remains, there rose a cloud of gold that circled about Arthur and filled the chamber with its shining light. Almost as though it were inquisitive, alive in its own right, it played through his blonde hair, so similar in colour to itself, but it soon left the King alone. It skimmed away from him and brushed comfortingly over the sorcerer who, still lying on his side, followed its passage with his eyes. It turned its attention to Gwaine next, who stood uneasily, though he followed his King's example, staying absolutely still as it looped once, twice about his neck, and then drifted away, back toward Merlin.
The first movement that he had made since their arrival, the sorcerer held out a hand, outstretched it to meet the cloud of pure magic that floated slowly down to him. It curled around his fingers and, in a movement so quick that Arthur might have missed it had he blinked, it flowed through Merlin's hand and into his body, every inch of him glowing the same, bright gold as what could only be his magic fused itself with the core of his very being.
The room became dark in that moment, and the King could see only vague outlines after the brilliance and light of the sorcerer's magic, but he watched intently as Merlin slowly pushed himself up to sit. The warlock cupped his hands, and in the pitch of the cell, Arthur gazed, transfixed, as a pair of eyes flashed golden and a small globe of light appeared, floating from Merlin's hands and up toward the ceiling.
Arthur dropped to his knees before him, letting the sword fall with a clang against the stone flags as he pulled the man he loved into his arms and hugged him tightly. Merlin was crying and laughing all at once, and Arthur understood. He understood the way he felt, because he felt exactly the same, the overwhelming sense of relief and happiness. Merlin always had been better at expressing himself.
It was some time before he could stand, stowing his sword in its scabbard at his belt before he was kneeling once more to help the sorcerer to his unsteady feet.
"The King is dead," Arthur told him in that moment, receiving nothing more than a tense nod.
"There are things to arrange," Merlin murmured, holding onto his lover's arms for a moment before he was supporting himself and walking out from the cell he had been trapped in, eager to leave it. He offered Gwaine a grateful nod as he passed him by, and made his way out from the dungeons, the Knight and the King following along behind him.
His walk picked up strength as he went, his boots thudding dully against the stone as he took the first spiral staircase up from the belly of the palace. As he passed by the orange-flamed torches, he snapped his hand out, eyes flashing as they began to burn a steady green, giving off the same heat as they'd had before Merlin had been subdued.
He was checking that his magic still worked, Arthur realised as he strode behind him, never once looking away from the man ahead.
Merlin turned into the Taran's abandoned chambers and approached his desk, rifling through the parchments there until he found a clean one. He dipped a quill in ink and, in a move that Arthur personally thought was showing off, though he was overjoyed to see it, he waved a hand and set the feathered pen to writing his bidding. He sorted through yet more scrolls until he found the one that he was looking for, the one that declared Merlin heir. On the clean parchment appeared writing, and Arthur leant over to read it.
Merlin was renouncing his claim to Rhewogydd's throne, and passing on the duties and title of King to Taran's brother, Yestin.
"He's a good man. I care about the people here, and he is the best person for them," the sorcerer said, rolling up the scroll and sealing it with wax, pressing his own thumb into the cooling pool rather than any ring of state. That would still be with Taran. With the two scrolls in his hands, Merlin left the dead King's chambers and made his way to the end of the palace's west wing. Here were Yestin's family's rooms, and the temporary monarch knocked upon the door.
The King's brother answered a few moments later, slightly confused to see Merlin, though he offered a smile and welcomed him inside, gesturing that Camelot's King and the knight ought to enter as well.
"The King is dead," Merlin repeated Arthur's words from earlier, handing the scrolls over to Yestin. Over at a modestly-laid table in the corner, there sat the man's wife and two daughters, interrupted from their evening meal. "Taran didn't have the time to revoke my status before his death, but I have done so for him," he added, as though he were giving up nothing at all.
But, Arthur thought, as he watched the scene unfold from where he stood with Gwaine by the doorway, Merlin probably didn't think he was giving up anything. Nothing worth having. He had never wanted a crown or power; not the power of mortals, in any case.
"I have passed the rule of these lands onto you, Yestin," the sorcerer went on, a steely look in his eye, his hands clasped before him as the new King of Rhewogydd unrolled the most recently-sealed scroll and read through it, "But I offer you a warning. You will treat magic with the respect that it deserves. I know that you disliked your brother's treatment of those with the power to manipulate it, the way that Taran would treat its practicers as people with no true value, as though they lacked humanity, if only because your daughter possesses the gift. You will respect it, and you will respect her and every other sorcerer in Rhewogydd, or you will find that you meet the same end as your brother."
The threat chilled Arthur, at whom it had not been directed, but it was apparently needless, as the new King simply smiled and took Merlin's hands in thanks.
"I will. I have always kept her talents as hidden as I could, though I think Taran began to suspect toward the end. Now she can do as she pleases. Thank you, Merlin," he said, shaking his hands and inclining his head to him.
"Thank you," the sorcerer said in turn, smiling warmly for the first time that night as he pulled back and left the room.
Packing Merlin's things took some time, but once they had it all in trunks, created with the sorcerer's magic, it was easy to transport them from the tower and to the courtyard. They were pushed from the tower window. But, rather than to fall and crash on the ground below, they instead levitated gently down and settled on the stone paving.
King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, the Knights and Merlin reached the docks as morning broke and boarded the ship that Gwaine and Elyan had seen readied for them.
The journey was long, and took well over a month to achieve before they finally arrived upon Albion's shores once more.
They docked and purchased horses, processing steadily along the road to Camelot. The warmth in the air was welcome, and yet, as soon as the castle was in their sights, the clouds opened and rain began to fall.
It was not the picturesque homecoming that Arthur had always imagined, and yet, Merlin smiled and laughed, looking up into the sky as the droplets fell.
"I have missed this," he said, drawing his horse up at Arthur's side and turning his smile upon him, "I got so sick of the snow."
Arthur understood. If he had his own way, Merlin would never be stuck in a land filled with ice again.
They were home.