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Chapter warning: Execution scene (canon character death).

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I Am the Embers of Your Fire - You Are the Breaking of My Dawn
Part 1

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Camelot is so much grander than he's imagined.

As he enters the city, he finds there are side-streets and nooks and cans everywhere he turns. And so many people! Smells, sounds, sights assault him from all sides; flags flutter in the wind on the battlements; a troupe of jugglers passing through the city are performing in front of a tavern. Singing and chatter and children's laughter reaches Merlin's ears though he can't pinpoint exactly from where.

The only time he's been outside Ealdor was in spring when he was eight, when his mother took him to the market of Ashire, one of the larger villages in the kingdom of Estecia; but this is much greater and it's not even a special market day, simply a day among so many others, like it was yesterday and will be tomorrow. Salesmen shout to get costumers' attention; he glimpses a woman carefully examining the bright fresh fruits on a stand while discussing the price with the merchant. A troupe of colourful jugglers has gathered an excited cloud of children around them. A man Merlin passes tries to sell him sweets from a finely woven basket, almost pushing the items into his hands.

Merlin reluctantly but politely declines; he has only a handful of coins and he needs to save them to get some food and a roof over his head, in case Gaius won't take him in. Though, it's very tempting - he's never seen pastries of that kind before and they look really nice and sugary, if he could just have one bite he'd be happy - but he cannot waste anything away. First of all he needs a place to stay.

"Right. A place to stay," he murmurs to himself. Gaius is his mother's older brother and supposedly Camelot's court physician. But what if he's not here for some reason? What if he doesn't Hunith's son? What if he's not physician anymore or cannot take him in? What if…?

But he's gotten this far. He cannot turn back now. He has nowhere else to go.

The sound of cornets suddenly rings through the air and the crowd surges forward, into the courtyard and Merlin follows, curious of what this might mean. An announcement maybe? Things like this didn't happen in Ealdor, the only kind of gatherings he can remember is when a travelling preacher reached the village two or three years ago and stood at the village center for three days in a row, loudly speaking of the importance of prayers and belief, and the darkness of sin.

But it's not a preacher; there are no brown robes.

The black-clad man is hooded and masked and gloved, a silent solemn statue by the corner of the wooden platform. An axe leans almost casually against his thigh. The crowd whisper, mutter quietly, a stream of voices as two armed guards escort a man (normal-looking, clothes worn; a commoner) up toward the platform. The man's hands are bound behind his back and he looks very lonely, no one rushes out to help him and Merlin can pick up scattered words like unlawful and sorcerer and death, and he shudders as if someone's opened his veins and poured ice into them. Magic. This man has magic. And now. Now he'll… Merlin swallows and tries to look some other way.

His mother must've known, yet – yet she's sent him here…!

Then the King steps out onto the balcony above. He is tall and regal in the brown cloak swung around his shoulders, and there's a flash of gold upon his head and Merlin stares at him, unable to move. He could, he could back away now and out of the courtyard and wait until this is over and then go back and search for Gaius, but he doesn't – something holds him back.

"This man, Thomas James Collins, has been convicted of using enchantments and magic. And for this crime there is but one sentence I can pass," the King says, a cold boom echoing across the yard, and nods toward the executioner.

The axe is raised and the crowd holds a collective breath. When the axe falls down, sharp and condemning, Merlin doesn't want to see, doesn't want to see, but finds himself frozen and unable to look away. The wet noise of flesh and bone and blood being torn cuts unmistakably through the air and Merlin swallows trying not to be sick. It takes two strokes, then, the masked man steps back from the platform and the body is taken away by a servant.

"When I came to this land, the kingdom was mired in chaos," the King continues, calm, collected, as if he hadn't just ordered to have a man's head severed from his shoulders. "But with the people's help, magic was driven from the realm and we found peace, and further conflict was avoided. So I declare a festival, to celebrate twenty years since the Great Dragon was captured and Camelot freed from the evil of sorcery."

Merlin bites his cheek to keep from protesting aloud, thinking of the raids on the boarders and how villages had been refused help from Camelot, Ealdor included; it's in Cenred's Kingdom after all but the King couldn't care less for what happened to the tiny village, so they have turned to Camelot, several times but to no avail - and the witch-hunts and the beheadings, the stench of burning flesh – all of this, it has always happened for as long as Merlin can recall. The elders in the village have spoken of how it was before the ban. Before people were sent on the run and fled across Camelot's borders and were hunted mercilessly, and how those helping them were found just as guilty. Before the ban, there was one thing less to fear, for everyone. How can the King not see that?

How can he proclaim such things when they're not true?

But then a wail cuts through the air and the King's speech: "My son! You took my son!"

The King stiffen on the wall and the guards by the platform tighten their grip on their weapons, as an old woman in a torn cloak breaks through the crowd to stand in front of the balcony. She looks so weary and full of grief and so angry. The anger might have been coated on the skin, seeping through her eyes. And there's something else – Merlin can't describe it properly, but it feels like there's this thin web around her, a power, silent and humming but ever-present; it's somewhat familiar.

And then he realizes: magic. It can be nothing else.

He glances around, startled. Can anyone else see, can they notice? Can they feel the power around the woman, can they reach out and touch it?

But there are no signs of it. The are no screams of "Witch!" – not yet. And if there's this web around the woman, her magic showing … is there one around him as well? Is there one around all magic users?

Merlin holds his breath.

"There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic!" the woman shouts. "It is you! With your hatred and your ignorance! You killed my son! But I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth - a son for a son!"

"Seize her!" the King yells but the woman reacts first, pulling out a pendant from around her neck and speaking words Merlin has never heard before. A wind pulls out from nowhere, wrapping around her like dust and smoke, and then she vanishes.

It takes a moment for the audience to come back to itself, and people begin to scatter. Guards rush out in search for the woman, but there's no trace of her to be found – Merlin can't sense her magic nearby anymore, she's simply gone and he wonders where to. Has she left Camelot altogether? How did she do that? He's never seen magic like that.

The King surveys the scene with dark eyes. Merlin forces his feet to move. He can't linger here.

Heart still thundering in his chest, with fear, with pity for that poor old woman, with ire - the image of the head rolling across the stone scorched onto his eyelids for a long time to come - Merlin staggers across the castle yard. He feels almost out of his skin and has a strong urge to turn and flee and run, run away from this horrible place and its axes. But he made a promise, to his mother, a promise and he can't dishonor it. She'd be so disappointed – and angry, most probably. And he doesn't want her to worry more than she already does.

"Um, excuse me," he stops to ask one of the guards standing by the one of the gateways. The man's chainmail and spear glints in the sun, dangerous and sharp, but everyone else has hurried away and the man should probably be able to help him. "Where can I find the court physician - Gaius?"

The guard grunts, looking the boy up and down, frowning at the ragged clothing. "You don't look sick or injured to me. A simple peasant like you won't be admitted."

"But I-"

"He is a busy man who tends to the court; he will not have time for your petitions. Go back to your cottage or field and mind your own business."

"Hey, Gerard, let the lad pass. I don't think he's up to mischief," suddenly a kind voice cuts in, another guard appearing. He looks at Merlin, still kindly, but there's a hint of steel in his eyes, the eyes of a warrior (it's a bit like the hardening of Will's eyes and fists Merlin has seen sometimes, that afternoon when he said he had to leave Ealdor, I don't know when I'll be back).

"Are you, boy?" the man asks, his face friendly albeit there's a sharp warning edge to his voice.

"No. No, my mother sent me," he answers truthfully, shaking his head, trying to keep his voice light and pulse steady. "Gaius is my uncle," he adds, perhaps then there'll be less dangerous questions or they'll see reason to let him pass, since he's Gaius' family. But what if they can see right through him and his fears and his secrets? What if he isn't allowed? Then what will he do, where will he go?

The man's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I never knew he had any family! Well, we all have our secrets." The words make Merlin cringe inwardly. They hit far too close to home. "What's your name, lad?"

"Merlin. My name is Merlin."

If they realized…If Gaius realized…Gaius lives here, that means, most probably, he's not a supporter of magic. How could he be? Oh, what was his mother thinking? Why has she put all her hopes in sending him here? Why couldn't he have stayed home, in Ealdor – wasn't it safer there?

Unexpectedly his face heats and he blinks rapidly. He can't think like that! His mother must've known about the ban. What was that saying again? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Perhaps that's the reason. Perhaps…

"Well then, Merlin, the physician's quarters is situated in the eastern wing of the castle. I could show the way if you wish."

"That would be very kind, thank you. Of course, unless you have other duties?" Merlin says, flashing a smile, thankful for the consideration. He's already feeling lost, like an ant running about trying to avoid being trampled. He's a bit overwhelmed with everything. Will he ever get used to it or always feel so small, running about in a maze?

The man nods and turns to his partner. "Gerard, could you take over here?"

The guard grumbles something under his breath about peasants and the king's service, but raises his spear again so it won't block their way, and the other guard leads Merlin into the castle grounds. It looks even bigger from here, the white stone shining in the sun, supported by tall pillars, and there are lots of people milling about: helmeted guards, courtiers in finely woven clothes, men and women wearing red tunics or dresses much of the same style - perhaps they're servants. They pass by a group of men in long red cloaks and glinting chainmail, to whom the guard bows his neck.

"Knights of Camelot; they are noblemen in the King's service," he explains at Merlin's confused look.

"Oh," the boy says. His only memories of knights are from when large, rough-handed men serving Cenred trampled through Ealdor, claiming whatever they wanted as they went. For a moment, he recalls the old woman's terrified screams and the smell of burnt flesh, and a shiver rattles his spine. He doesn't want to think about it, but the memory is permanent like a scar.

They reach the eastern part of the castle: they're mostly ignored. Through a corridor, under an arched entrance, up some winding stairs of a tower. "It's just up there," the guards says and points at a door, the wood dark and heavy, the handle worn. "I must return to my post now."

Merlin gives the man a grateful smile. Maybe Camelot isn't that bad. Maybe. "Thank you for helping me."

"It was no trouble, lad." The guard starts descending the stairs again, and Merlin turns to knock at the door.

()()()

He doesn't mean to startle the old man, making him fall, the wood to break. He certainly doesn't mean to use magic.

Gaius is raging: a storm in the old clever eyes, and while his body is old and slow, his mind is quick and sharp and probably dangerous. "What did you just do?!" he cries, shocked and angry and something else Merlin cannot determine, but it can't be good.

"I – that, that wasn't me, that had nothing to do with me," Merlin stutters, palms facing outward. His words fall on deaf ears however; Gaius sees through his lies like through glass.

"I know what I saw. What I wish to know is where you learned to do it! Who taught you?"

Merlin wonders what the best option is. Running now as fast as he can, before the screaming starts and guards rush in to grab him with swords in their hands - or staying, hoping, hoping the man won't turn him in, won't let him be beheaded or burned. Oh god. What if Gaius does? And his mother would find out that her son had been outed as a sorcerer and executed upon his very arrival at Camelot. Panic makes his breath painful and quick, like someone is standing on his ribcage, suffocating him slowly.

"I-I never learned it, or was taught!" he blurts out, staring at Gaius, feeling utterly wrenched and hopeless and earnest. "It just happens. It's just … I can't help it!"

He is sent a suspicious look. "That's impossible," Gaius says.

Impossible. Unnatural.

The silence after those words is heavy and laden with tension and Merlin wonders if his magic is strong enough to take him from here to someplace far away, someplace safe, back to Ealdor, in a heartbeat. He'd really, really like to just disappear. However the physician beats him to it.

"Who are you anyway?"

He answers hesitantly, the cut deep in his chest aching with the echo of the man's words (impossible impossible impossible). "I'm Merlin."

The man's eyes widen. "Hunith's son?"

"Yes!"

The man catches the still somewhat terrified look on the boy's face and there's the hint of a smile on the edge of the physician's mouth. "That explains a lot of things, Merlin. Heavens, I haven't seen you since you were a child, barely tall enough to reach my knees. Though I do not expect you to remember my visit. My, how you've grown!" And he adds in a quieter voice: "Your mother has told me of your … gift. But for it to have become this strong, and so fast…"

An unreadable expression shadows the old face.

Relief spreads through Merlin like water and he nearly sinks to the ground, unable to believe his luck. Or rather, his strange ability to survive even when everything goes utterly wrong. Gaius remembers and knows of his gift, of his magic! But he doesn't seem unkind and doesn't seem to want to turn him in for sorcery. No. The man assures him as much. "I have kept your ability a secret for most of your life, Merlin. I can do a bit longer. I promise you this."

"My mother asked me to give you this." He scrambles for the letter – neither he nor Hunith can read or write very well, barely enough to write a simple note, a plead. The old man scans the words, nodding but frowning as his eyes flicker from left to right, and his gaze turns more serious as he looks up again. Merlin wonders what he's thinking, and wishes he read the letter through before giving it to the old man: then at least he'd know what his mother was telling Gaius.

Briefly he wonders how to breach the subject of his other difference, but reconsiders after a moment. Just because Gaius is his uncle it doesn't mean he can trust him with all of his secrets. He'd already risked so much by outing his magic – that means putting Gaius at risk as well. Consorting with sorcerers is a dangerous business. And most people would surely think of his difference as some kind of magic.

"I wasn't expecting company, but I do not mind. We'll have to find some paid work for you, though."

"Thank you, Gaius." This is better than he could have expected. Gaius doesn't have any obligations to let him stay. "Thank you."

Gaius smiles; it's worn and wrinkled at the edges, but it's an earnest and kind smile. "It is I who should thank you - for saving my life," he says, ignoring Merlin's mutterings of 'no, really, it was nothing'.

"Put your pack in there," he continues and points at an adjourning chamber, up a small set of stairs. "Have you had dinner?" Merlin shakes his head, his stomach timely growling for attention. "No? You're lucky I was just planning to have a meal then. I hope you like chicken."

()()()

The physician's chamber is situated in the round corner of a tower, and from his room Merlin has an amazing view over Camelot. From here the city looks larger than before, small houses packed tightly together between the thin roads and stone walls, and in the warm night there are yellow lights glowing in nearly every window. It just stretches on and on and on, and from afar he can still hear the echoing sounds of voices.s

Despite being so far from Ealdor, maybe staying here won't be so bad, he muses as he leans over the windowsill and twisting his head to see it all, though there are large parts of Camelot he can't see from here. Tomorrow he'll explore. His new home.

But later, when curled up on the cot (silently marveling at the fact he's been given a proper bed with mattress and everything) it's difficult to fall asleep. The distant sounds and smells are different here than they would be at Ealdor, in their little hut there with its thin walls, and made uneasy by this he leaves a candle burning by the bedside for comfort.

He's hit in the gut with a painful feeling of longing. It's intense, like hunger in a harsh winter night after a year of bad harvest. He's never been this far from Ealdor ever in his life. And now he's lying here, unsure of when he'll be back in his village, back with his mother and Will: if it'll be weeks or months or years, if ever.

()()()

Why is it he drops a brick every time he's meant to be careful?

Perhaps it's a natural order.

He's just walking through the city toward the water pump to fetch some water for Gaius – glad it's not a river he has to fetch water from; that would take ages – early the next day, when he passes them by. A group of young men partly dressed in armour or chainmail. One has a red cloak over his shoulders. Merlin can recognize a few faces from the knights the day before, and his steps quicken.

That is, until he hears the taunting voice between the stone walls - not directed at him, but at another young man nearly his age, a servant surrounded by the other men in armour and armed with swords (knights?), unable to get away.

One of them orders the servant to lift the heavy-looking target across the small field, haughtily smirking at him when he nearly crumbles under the weight. "But the sun's not that bright," the servant protests meekly, trying to find a reason not to obey.

"A bit like you then," the man says and laughter rings out across the yard. Merlin scowls darkly. He doesn't like where this is going one bit – be the men knights or not.

The servant lifts the wooden thing anyway with a sigh and starts walking across the sand. "Here?" he asks.

"A bit further."

The servant moves again, starting to settle the target down but a shout stops him and the men howls with laughter.

"Keep going!" one of them shouts; "We need some moving target practice."

And the man has the nerve to draw a knife and throw it at the target the youth is carrying around, while the servant desperately is trying to hide himself behind it. Merlin feels his blood grow warmer with anger, the hum of magic thrumming in his veins. How stupid and mean can that man be! Throwing knives at innocent people and bullying them without a second thought! Had he no conscience? Eyes flaring, Merlin stops on his heels and turns around, biting his lip to keep his magic from bursting with fury right then and there.

That moment, the youth stumbles and falls, the target rolling away from him. He scrambles up, hastily trying to retrieve it but is startled to finds a booted foot steadily settled on the wooden board.

"That's quite enough, my friend."

The blonde man – who is rather handsome, Merlin's mind redundantly supplies; with a strong jaw-line and intense blue eyes and hair like summer straw – looks at him amusedly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, do I know you?"

Merlin offers his hand. "I'm Merlin."

"So I don't know you."

The men gathered behind him chuckles and smirks, clearly expecting the blonde to pounce on the dark-haired youth, bring him to the ground. If they think that to be possible, they are seriously underestimating Merlin, but he's not surprised. "Yet you called me 'friend'."

"My mistake," Merlin says, withdrawing his hand, and adds, "I could never have a friend who's such an ass."

The blonde stares at him incredulously and then starts to laugh like he's just heard the world's most hilarious thing. "You really are one of a kind. Tell me, Merlin," he says (the tone an eerie echo of Will): "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"No."

"Would you like me to help you?"

The nerve of that prat! "No. I wouldn't try that if I were you."

The man apparently thinks his words are hilarious. "Why? What could you do to me?"

"You have no idea," Merlin says, struggling to keep himself in check. If he lets this go too far he'll react instinctively to his inner wish to grab the man by the heels and hold him upside down, but Will or his mother aren't here to help him out of his tight spot, and the man is probably a knight. Nobility. If he uses his magic on him he'll definitely lose his head.

The blonde, still smiling, spreads his arms. Like he's a target and Merlin is the armed archer.

"Oh really? Well, be my guest then. Come on!"

And Merlin can't stop himself. Before he knows it he's stepped forward, fist raised, in the flash of a second it nearly comes in contact with that smug grin -

A hand grabs his, steers the fist into air and twists him around, forcing him down. Quick hot breath against his neck, tickling the skin and he shivers; the grip is firm. Metal presses into his shoulder sharply: he winces, tries to push away.

"Who do you think you are - the king?" Merlin asks mockingly, ignoring the common sense that's yelling at him to not do something that stupid and certainly not call a man wielding a very real, very deadly sword an ass. But often when his blood soars with emotion or anger, Merlin cannot hinder himself: he's never been one to hide his emotions well.

And Merlin is fuming, infuriated with the man's behavior; how could anyone be so pratheaded? That boy, the servant, he didn't seem to have done anything do deserve having the man throw knives at him! But the man is still a true ass and does it, laughing, thinking he's so great! Merlin's breath comes in angry huffs, and his wrist is twisted painfully in the man's irritated grip, and he wishes he could use his magic without losing his head for it. The man clearly deserves it.

"No," the man says, echoing his mocking tone, "I'm his son - Arthur."

The world tumbles down with a crash.

What? Merlin thinks dazed at the revelation. He thought the man was a noble or knight or something but not the prince. Definitely not. And now for that stupid mistake he's probably going to lose his head anyway, because if the man – Arthur – is the prince then he might order for Merlin to be beheaded anyway, for trying to hit the prince of Camelot or for just generally acting like a complete idiot and they can't let the kingdom be full of those, can they.

Me and my big mouth, Merlin quietly berates himself. He's pushed away and then two guards grab his arms.

"Take him to the dungeons. A night of solitude will hopefully clear his mind," says the prince, and the guards lead him across the courtyard, the grip of his wrists rough and harsh, and Merlin cannot pull out of the grip.

At least he doesn't seem to want me beheaded … yet, Merlin thinks glumly.

()()()

The cell is cold and dank and dark.

This is not how he's planned to spend his second night in Camelot. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. He only irritates people anyway – they never listen to him, always pushes him around. And this is the seat of a king who hates magic with every fiber of his being and have sorcerers burned in the centre of the city. Merlin feels sick at the thought.

The night passes slowly and Merlin crawls up in a corner, wrapping his jacket around his knees in search for some warmth. At least the floor isn't bare stone. And he was given a piece of bread and some water two hours ago, so his stomach is nicely full. But he cannot find rest and it takes a long, long time to fall asleep. Eventually his eyes slide shut, his head leaning against the wall.

Merlin dreams. Dreams of fire and dragons and lakes, and there's a deep voice chanting his name - MERLIN. MERLIN. - like trying to wake him. Curious, Merlin tries to delve deeper into the dream, reaches out a hand, but the images fades out of his grip, voices echoing and there are other sounds as well, screams and the clashing of swords and hot roaring fires.

Dawn hits him square in the face, shaking him out of sleep.

The cell door opens the same moment, footsteps echoing sharply against the floor, and Merlin blinks trying to push away the remnants of dreams.

It's Gaius: the old man pacing back and forth angrily, yet worried. "It's been merely a day after you've arrived and you've already gotten yourself into trouble! Boy, you mustn't do anything like that again."

"But he's an ass," Merlin can't help muttering. "So what if he's a royal one!"

Briefly something like amusement crosses Gaius' face, but it quickly turns serious again. "You're lucky I managed to pull some strings to get your released. There is a small price to pay, however …"

()()()

Merlin really does not like cabbage. At all. It'll take hours to get those stains out of his tunic and neckerchief. His back and wrists aches terribly too. He supposes he deserves it, in a way, for almost hitting a royal – but he doesn't regret it. No, not at all. The prince – Arthur – is completely infuriating and Merlin doesn't want anything to do with him for a long while.

After receiving his punishment - two hours of having rotten fruit pelted at him and getting mocked by children and adults alike - Merlin is dragged to the physician's chambers by said displeased physician, so that the man can look over the bruises he'd required both from his near-fight with the prince and from being stuck in the stocks. Albeit Gaius is serious in tone, from the corner of his eyes Merlin sees the old man crack a smile at the whining; "My opinion still stands. He is a total dollophead!"

"Merlin, you cannot go about speaking of the crown prince in such a manner," Gaius berates him. "If you're caught you might face worse punishment far than you did today."

"Hmpfh. He's got no right to do what he did."

"He does, Merlin. He does have all the right; it's in his blood. What a simple peasant says matters little in the end." The man presents a bucket and a cloth. "Wash up and change clothes. I need your help to run some errands for me and can't have you walking around smelling of rotten cabbage."

With a sigh, Merlin takes the things offered, his thoughts yet lingering on the prince even if he doesn't want them to – I should've hit him! He deserves it!

()()()