Merlin loved magic.

It wasn't just the things it did for him and his allies, though he supposed that was part of it. It was the rush in his ears and the heat in his veins; it was the light in his eyes and the seething, limitless expanse of power that was so easily within his reach.

To most of Camelot, Merlin was nothing. He was a servant, a nobody, unremarkable. The eyes of those who were judged to be more important slid past him without truly seeing him. Even his friends knew that he was, whether they believed it or not, beneath them. That was one of the things he truly hated about Camelot.

With his magic, however, he was Emrys. He was a man to be feared, respected, and above all, he was well known. Emrys, the warlock. Emrys, the sorcerer. Emrys, the most powerful of all.

But for that particular moment, he was just Merlin. Stupid, stupid Merlin.

Over a month had passed since his unplanned excursion into Cenred's kingdom. Arthur had, with some reluctance, stopped interrogating him about it, but it wasn't forgotten, and the king's overly attentive eyes were somehow annoying and endearing at the same time.

Gold flared as Merlin allowed the dripping rag to slip from his grasp, and it continued to scrub the floor of Arthur's chambers by itself, much to the warlock's relief. Under the gaze of an irritatingly observant nobleman during a very official dinner the night before, Merlin had been forced to stand ramrod straight with an increasingly heavy jug of wine in his right hand. And, because it was more proper, he hadn't been permitted to switch it to the other hand. The dinner had dragged on for far longer than Merlin was happy with, and he'd woken up the next morning with a badly aching back.

His tormentor was the Lord Wallington of Tournay. He was a short, thin man with very little hair and eyes that were large enough to look freakish and irises that had little more color than a glass of water. His skin was pale enough to be nearly translucent; his veins were dark and easily visible against the stark white.

The Lord was uptight and very strict with servants in general, and so it hadn't taken him long to pinpoint Merlin as the insubordinate and beautifully incompetent manservant that he was. He had made it his personal mission to set Merlin right, and Arthur looked on with an unashamed touch of glee.

The unfortunate thing about the use of magic to complete chores is that the moment anyone walks in, one must immediately cease and desist, which at times is easier said than done. When Arthur walked in, a bucket of soapy water floated midair just over Arthur's bed—the only place that Merlin could be certain that he wouldn't knock his head on it—and the cloth was drawing figure eights on the floor. When the door started to open, Merlin didn't consider such things before breaking the enchantment.

Arthur was simply overjoyed to find that Merlin had taken the initiative to throw a bucket full of soapy water onto the king's bed. So overjoyed that he volunteered Merlin to muck out the stables as soon as he was finished with drying out the mattress and changing the sheets.

xXx

So no, Merlin was not completely forgiven for his disappearance, even after a month passed. Arthur had quickly gotten over Merlin having worried him; not that Arthur would admit it, but Merlin's reappearance was enough of a repayment for that misdemeanor. Arthur was displeased because Merlin was blatantly lying to him, and honestly seemed to think that Arthur was stupid enough not to have noticed.

Arthur had stopped openly asking about what had happened during Merlin's six and a half day absence a few weeks back. He was hoping to catch the manservant by surprise with an attack question, but so far, the opportunity hadn't arisen, and truth be told, he wasn't sure what to ask.

And also, subtlety wasn't his area of expertise. Sneaking a question on someone for him usually was just asking a question. He thought he was being subtle and effective, but Arthur's perception of himself was not particularly relatable to the way other people perceived him. Arthur's perception was generally a bit more positive.

And yes, the king was displeased enough to allow the Lord of Tournay to antagonize Merlin just a bit. That was something Arthur usually would not stand for, not that Merlin needed to know that Arthur would ever take such action in his defense. No, Merlin didn't need to know that at all. And he had every intention of stepping in if Lord Wallington attempted to actually initiate disciplinary actions. He just wanted to let Merlin flail a bit beforehand.

It's not like he didn't deserve it, lying to Arthur like that. Merlin doesn't lie to Arthur, he just doesn't. Perhaps he doesn't always tell the truth, but Merlin rarely lied, and if he did, Arthur could quickly draw out the truth with a bit of prodding and a few queries about Merlin's mental wellbeing. He always got the truth though. At this point, he knew Merlin, and Merlin him, too well for either to be able to successfully tell a lie.

Well, or so he thought, but that would come later.

"I thought it'd be…bigger."

Mordred gave Morgana a critical look. "Why?"

She glared, sensing the humor in his gaze. This was no place for laughing. "Well, it's not very impressive like this," she shot back with a touch of menace.

"It's not meant to be impressive, it's meant to be effective. It gets the job done."

"I suppose it will have to do, then."

In front of them was a stone. It wasn't especially large, nor was it very colorful. It was just…a rock. Black opaque and awfully nondescript. The power flowed off of it in waves, but to anyone but a sorcerer—or sorceress—it would just look like…a rock.

What it looked like didn't matter, she decided momentarily. If it wanted to be a depressingly small rock, so be it. That stupid little rock would bring down an empire. She wouldn't even have to throw it at anyone.

She was glad for that. That could be a little embarrassing.

"Are you ready?"

Morgana glanced at her associate. "I suppose."

"Then let us begin."

They joined hands and began to chant.

The boy couldn't have possibly been more than nine or ten, but there was a certain kind of maturity in his eyes that could only be achieved through seeing the type of horror that stains a person's consciousness and plagues their dreams.

This child, so young was he, had been through hell and lived to speak of it.

He sat in a trembling heap on a low bench outside of the kitchens, a blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders. His wide eyes bored blankly into air ahead of him, staring at something that only he could see. A wooden cup of water was loosely grasped in his left hand. As Merlin watched, his fingers slackened and the cup dropped to clatter against the stone tiles. Only then did he move, his head twitching downwards to view the source of the sound. The cup rolled further and further away, and he made no move to stop it.

The water streamed towards a lower point in the grounds of the courtyard in a web of intersecting rivulets. With the firelight reflecting off of it, it looked almost like blood, but Merlin shook off that disturbingly morbid thought.

"He's an odd one, ain't 'e?"

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin. Mileon stood beside him, leaning slightly around the corner to watch the boy as well.

Mileon was even younger than Merlin had been when he first arrived in Camelot, but he'd been working in the palace kitchens since he was just a boy. His mother had been a scullery maid; he'd practically grown up in the castle. He had all but attached himself to Merlin's side since the first time they met, and his raw optimism and endearing naiveté made it impossible for Merlin to send him away.

"D'you know what he's doing here?" Merlin asked after a moment.

"Maisy says his village was attacked. She reckons he's the only survivor. He's getting an audience with His Majesty. You'll probably be in there," he added enviously, "So you better tell me what he says."

"Don't get excited. Arthur might have me mucking out the stables again."

Mileon snorted. "Nothing unusual there."

Merlin hummed in agreement.

"MILEON!" Cook's voice echoed raggedly down the hall. Both winced at the sound.

"Guess I should be going," Mileon told him with a slightly trembling smile. Merlin understood; Cook was a fearsome woman at the best of times, and she sounded angry. He gripped the younger man's shoulder reassuringly for a moment before allowing him to leave.

Cook tugged him forward as soon as he was within reach and struck him with her open palm before loudly beginning to scold him. Merlin's mouth hardened into a tight line, but he had long since learnt better than to intervene. He turned away to walk back to Arthur's chambers.

"Um…"

The little boy grabbed for his hand. His small hands were icy, and his nails bitten down to stubs. Merlin hadn't been able to tell from the angle he'd been at before, but he had a bruise under his eye and blood dripped sluggishly from a cut on his cheek.

"Will I be able to s-speak with the king soon? It's important, C-Camelot isn't safe, he needs…he needs to…I need to speak with him."

Merlin carefully led the boy back to his bench and replaced the water cup in his hand; a whispered word and a flash of gold refilled it.

"I'm sure he'll see you soon. He's very busy. It will be alright. Everything will be just fine," Merlin reassured him unsurely.

"No, no, you don't understand. I don't have much time; I need to see him now."

"What do you mean you don't have much…?"

The boy coughed weakly; Merlin trailed off when he saw the blood that came off on his hand. "You're hurt."

"No, it isn't important. I need to see the king, I need to see him now, please…"

"Just a bit longer. I promise."

Not sure what else to do, Merlin sat with him for a few more minutes. He was clearly in some sort of pain, but he refused to submit to an examination, and Merlin was having trouble finding any wounds on him.

The closest servant, an elderly butler named Silban, walked away with a goblet of wine in hand, leaving the two for the most part alone. The boy leaned forward, his hand fisting in Merlin's tunic.

"Camelot is in danger, Emrys. They are coming."

His voice was scarcely above a whisper. Merlin locked eyes with him. "What?"

"Beware. It is not as it seems." The boy's sleeve dropped back a little, revealing a spiraling tattoo.

Druid markings.

Those were his last words. The boy couldn't have been more than seven years old. No one had even bothered to ask him his name.

xXx

"And that's all he said?"

"For the tenth time, Arthur, yes. That is all he told me."

"Are you absolutely certain? I don't care if you didn't think it was of importance. Is there anything else he said?"

Merlin glared. "That is it. I promise you. That's all."

Arthur crumpled into a chair, his energy seemingly leaving along with his anger. "What does that even mean? If only I'd gotten out of that stupid council meeting. It wasn't even important we were talking about the tax on juice products…"

"Juice products are taxed now? Dammit…"

"Merlin! I don't think that the price of your choice breakfast drink is the issue right now."

"Well, don't be ridiculous. You can drink juice at more times than just breakfast, it's an all-day activity, Arthur."

Arthur glared.

"Well, blimey. Alright, then. Just trying to help."

"Well, you're not!" he exclaimed emphatically.

Merlin backtracked, shoving down the prickling of annoyance. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"No, don't be." The king dropped his head into his hands. "Shouldn't have gotten angry. And don't call me that."

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Are you quite alright, Arthur?"

"Shut up." There was a beat of silence. "Guinevere told me to be nicer to you, alright? No, shut up, Merlin, shut up. I ignored her and she somehow found out so I'm just doing it. Don't look so smug; I'm not doing it for you."

"Of course you aren't, my lord."

"I meant that one, though. Don't call me that."

"What? I've been doing that to appease you for years, and I didn't have to? It's your official title. That was me being polite."

I just don't see why my friends should have to use my 'official title'. No, he wouldn't be saying any such thing. It would only go to Merlin's head. "It's pretentious."

"You're pretentious," Merlin muttered under his breath.

"Heard that."

"You were supposed to." A pause. "Am I excused?"

"Officially, yes. Unofficially, no, come over here."

"But if it's unofficial…can't I ignore it?"

"Fine. I take it back, officially, no, come over here."

"Prat."

"Heard that, too."

"Again, Arthur. You were supposed to. Now what is it?" He took a seat beside him at the table.

"What do you think I should do?"

"Uh…am I really the one to ask?"

"I know, I thought that too. But there's no one else here, so what should I do?"

"Alright. I have a three-step plan prepared, and I'll tell you, but you mustn't interrupt."

"Agreed. What is it?"

Merlin stared at his king. "What do you think I do with my time, Arthur? I don't organize plans for every situation you might come upon in advance."

"But you always…"

"I always what?"

"I don't know. You just…you always know what to do."

Merlin laughed humorlessly. "Trust me, I don't."

Arthur gave a decidedly cynical chuckle. "Yeah, neither do I."

They sat in silence.