The staff itself was nothing special. It stood, like all did, leant up against Merlin's side, the head resting on his collarbone to his left, and the bottom resting on the stone floor of the spare chambers at the rear of the castle. It was good to know there were still places within the place that were guaranteed to be deserted, and Merlin had taken complete advantage when he hustled Mordred into there on the first day of battle.
The young druid had initially been furious, barely containing a hiss as he demanded to know what Emrys was doing, forcing him in here. Things had far past the point of friendship now Mordred knew what the other man really thought of him, though he was still angry he hadn't realised the truth sooner.
Why Emrys took this time, where their hatred for one another blazed at it's peak, to offer something like this, Mordred will never, in all his life, understand.
This particular carrier of magic was something that had always been bestowed upon only the most worthy of warlocks. Only those with the most important of destinies, and the most pure of hearts, would have the honour of wielding something so mighty. It made sense that Emrys would have one, have it's association with himself delivered so casually. But now, the greatest warlock to ever live, was giving this gift, to Mordred. And the boy knew, underneath all his fresh arrogance, that he was not worthy.
Words failed him for the longest of moments.
And when he finally spoke, it was as if he were just the tiny boy that had been saved by the Prince all those years ago.
'Emrys... I- I can't take this.'
'It is not your right to say so.' Merlin replied, the staff still by his side, but the fierce look in his eyes making his intention clear. 'I will not fight you, Mordred. Nor will I aid you. This,' he gestured to his side, 'has been meant for you longer than our feud has been in place, and I give it to you on equal ground. It is yours.'
The other man didn't say anything, nor did he even dare to make a move towards the staff, though his eyes were locked on it, his fingers twitching involuntarily as he felt its magic reach out to him. The familiarity of the feeling was unyielding, as if it really had been meant for him, from the moment he had been born, it just needed to be brought to him, he just needed to find it, and it, him. Without glancing at Emrys, he swallowed, blinking rapidly as the yearning to reach out got so strong he couldn't stand it.
Merlin watched him, his eyes carefully boring into those that were fixed on his shoulder, and slowly handed the staff away from him, towards the other man.
Mordred still didn't move. His lips were pressed together and his eyes were shining with longing but he did not move. 'Why?' he murmured, the word catching in his throat. 'Emrys, why?'
'Because I am not your enemy, Mordred.' Merlin struggled to keep his voice level. 'And neither is the King.'
Finally, Mordred's eyes snapped up to meet Emrys'. 'You can't use this as-'
'Mordred.' So much regret in that one word. 'You know that is not what I am doing.'
Merlin pushed the staff out all the way, pressing it into the druid boy's shaking hand. 'You know that is not true.'
Mordred's lips parted, and an inaudible cry left them as his fingers curled around the rough wood, fitting into the grooves, a perfect fit. His stomach felt heavy with confusion and a strange sense of relief. When he met Emrys' eyes, he had not the heart to hide their fear.
Of course, Merlin saw this, and every other humble gesture of the druids, as manipulative, like he was playing for time, and fixed a hard, well practised stare onto his face, before turning to leave. He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder, his eyes dangerous. 'It won't hurt Arthur,' he said. 'That is not it's purpose. It will aid you in only the way you are meant to be aided.' He made sure the boy was looking straight at him before adding, 'maybe it will show you the truth, where I clearly failed.' He shut the door behind him.
Leaving Mordred standing in the dim evening light, the moon reflecting off his pale skin, as tears steamed down his face.
He was far too young for this.