Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Right, so, I lied to most of you, and I apologize. :) For those reading my Heart of Gold, it appears that I've hit a major bump in the road, and I'm suffering from writer's block. After some encouragement from peacelight24 and contemplating, I thought it best not to force Heart of Gold (I did manage to get approximately 212 words written!) and instead write this for you...so, um, ta da? ;)

On another note: WOW. :D Thank you so much, everyone! I'm floored by the responses to this fic!

Anyway, for someone who was so terrified to write this scene and once refused to write it, it really was incredible at how this spilled out. *rolls eyes at self* It's not perfect (far from it), and it certainly feels all off to me and a bit rushed. *shrugs* Oh, well, it's the best I can offer, and I hope I don't disappoint. :)

Sword in the stone, some sarcastic humor, a larger role for our dearest Guinevere that I thought would be fun to add, and bromance... pretty jam-packed chapter. Enjoy:


Scene 3: The Sword in the Stone

When a soft tap hit him, Arthur jerked awake in a panic, but after that hand rested peacefully on his shoulder, he relaxed considerably, knowing that it was Merlin (it almost made Arthur laugh giddily to think that he was relaxing in the presence of a sorcerer) who had woken him. At the sight of him crouching over him with an undecipherable look in his eyes, however, that familiarity didn't stop his hand from reflexively shooting up to hit his friend's arm, and it didn't stop him from whispering in alarm, "What?"

"There's something I need to show you."

Apparently, there'd be no room for argument. Merlin, whose voice was full of obstinate earnestness, stepped over him without waiting for what he knew would be an irritable Arthur's complaining, and he began to walk away from the campsite, obviously expecting the King to follow.

It was probably a sensible idea because Arthur, who was never a morning person and infamous for it—well, had he not been so weary from his mild depression and late night excursion (which was all a dream, he felt the need to remind himself… he really was in no mood to get riled into another furious rant), would have certainly and mercilessly made Merlin's life hell for waking him just to simply "show him" something.

But then there was something in his servant's tone that made him know that he didn't have much a choice in the matter anyway. So, confused, curious, and only a fraction—albeit a large fraction—as annoyed as he might have had been a week ago, Arthur tilted his head back so that he could find his sword, yanked it from where he had stabbed it into the ground in his frustration with that damn secret-keeping, friendly-with-a-dragon idiot of his (no, he wouldn't think of it), and, with a small huff, hauled himself up to follow his wayward friend.

However, when he saw Merlin waiting for him at the edge of the trees with crossed arms and with an impish smile on his face and an almost gleeful, mischievous glint in his glowing slate blue eyes, he had reason to grow suspicious. Quite suspicious.

So, it was only natural that, once Merlin began to lope ahead with an obviously specific destination in mind, Arthur grumbled, "This had better be good because this really isn't the time for one of your ridiculous games."

Of course, Merlin ignored him…as was only expected.

And knowing Merlin…Arthur now correctly assumed what it was Merlin was after. He wanted to cheer him up, lift his spirits, raise his morale…or whatever the hell else those optimists do to help the troubled, suffering pessimistic folk. That, or he was going to spew something wise. Perhaps both?

Sometimes you can't really tell with Merlin, but either way, Arthur was not in the mood for either the sporadic bouts of wisdom or the positively jolly optimism.

Really, Merlin? Now? At this bloody hour of the morning?

It appeared so, so Arthur decided that, if he wasn't going to get breakfast, he might as well satisfy himself by overindulging on sarcasm.

"I was thinking—"

Oh, no, the fugitive royal groaned to himself. Merlin thinking—this did not bode well…at all.

"—about last night," the servant started musingly. His gesticulating looked rather funny from behind, and if Arthur, whose humor suddenly disappeared, hadn't felt his gut drop into a pit of hopelessness at the reminder, he might have laughed and teased Merlin for it. "How you were saying that you've give up all hope…how you're a poor leader and shoddy King."

"Shoddy?" Arthur objected.

He had officially decided: Merlin was a horrible optimist.

"Alright—shabby," Merlin corrected with teasing exasperation.

Make that beyond horrible.

"…Thanks."

"Well, it reminded me of a tale Gaius once told me."

Arthur raised his eyes to the sky and said with forced patience, "Merlin, I'm really not interested in your favorite bedtime stories."

As Merlin paused and briefly checked his surroundings, the King felt the smallest twinge of guilt—he really shouldn't be taking out his negative emotion on Merlin, of all people, especially when he was now aware of what Merlin could do to him if he chose. Not that he would, he knew, but it still unnerved him a little more than he'd care to admit.

But then Arthur's subconscious gently reminded him of how Merlin had stood before the dragon without so much as a flinch… and that only reminded him that there was no reason to be unnerved. To stand before that bloody massive dragon, with its bloody fangs and claws, and talk with it,Merlin proved to be just as much an idiot—if not more of an idiot—after the revelation as he was before.

If the pair of them survived Morgana's new reign, Arthur wasn't going to let Merlin off easy. Oh, no. Not at all.

When Merlin turned to look at him over his shoulder, Arthur had set an unimpressed look on his face, but this didn't deter Merlin. In fact, this seemed to amuse him, and with smiling eyes, he ordered, "For once in your life… Just. Listen."

The subtlest feeling of déjà vu washed over him, but he brushed that aside as he made a face at Merlin and threw up his hands in a mocking surrender.

Before Merlin turned back, he blinked and hesitated for a millisecond, looking as though he was waiting for Arthur to begin protesting again and as though he was prepared to launch into and end any verbal spat Arthur might try to start with him.

After the moment passed and Arthur said nothing, Merlin seemed to detect no intentions of sabotage from Arthur on his precious story-time, took the gesture for what it was—a sarcastic, By all means, go ahead—and without qualm, did just that.

"Many years ago," he began, turning away and continuing to walk, "before the birth of the five kingdoms—" to his credit, Merlin had adopted a nice cadence to his speech that would have put many a bard to shame, but once Arthur heard these words, having heard them in some form or fashion many times before, he rolled his eyes in impatient exasperation "—this land was in an endless cycle of bloodshed and war, but one man was determined to end all that. He gathered together the elders of each tribe and drew up plans for the land to be divided. Each would respect the others' boundaries and rule over the land as they saw fit. That man was Camelot's first king, ancestor to all that followed, including you, Arthur," he said, twisting to acknowledge the man behind him.

"Bruta."

"You know the story."

"Yeeesss, every child in Camelot does," Arthur drawled in a flat tone, not following where Merlin was going with all this. "Can I go back to bed now?"

"No."

Arthur bit back a loud, obnoxious groan. Why, Merlin? Why drag me out of bed and torture me like this?

"Because there's another part of the story—" Merlin's bright eyes shone with some form of strange excitement when he looked back at his King once again "—that you haven't heard."

"Really?" Arthur asked, sounding completely uninterested and beyond annoyed with the rambling fool leading him gods knew where.

His obvious apathy, unfortunately, did not dissuade Merlin, who seemed to be really getting into his story-telling, from continuing.

"When Bruta was on his death bed, he asked to be taken deep into the forest. There, with the last of his strength, he thrust his sword into a rock."

Arthur's brow furrowed in disbelief and denial. There was no way in hell that happened. A dying man couldn't possibly…Hell, no man could! Only magic…

Ah. For a moment, Arthur had forgotten who exactly it was that he was listening to and who exactly it was that was telling him this "story," and his previous skepticism about Merlin's motives for bringing him out into the forest returned.

"If his lineage was ever questioned," Merlin was saying, "this—" his eyes flicked to Arthur, who found himself walking to Merlin's direct right "—would form a test, for only a true King of Camelot could pull the weapon free."

Arthur abruptly halted, and without thinking, he asked in tone of a father talking to his very obviously guilty child, "Are you making this up?"

Merlin spluttered for a moment, and Arthur was almost fooled into thinking the servant was genuinely offended until his eyes flicked shiftily and his affronted tone colored with defensiveness. "'Course not!"

The King wasn't exactly sure what to think. Sure, he now wondered how it was that he never detected one of Merlin's lies before, but he also knew that, somewhere in that mass of fiction, there was a single thread of truth—and that truth, he sensed, was far more powerful than any of the lies.

"Alright," he said, trying to glean something more from Merlin. "If it's true, why haven't I heard this story?"

"Well, history really isn't your strong point, is it?"

Says the man who has had little formal education, Arthur quipped to himself.

Unfortunately, he couldn't deny Merlin's point—even if it was only used as a diversionary tactic—and he persisted, "Then where is this rock?"

"Oh, it was lost many years ago during the Great Purge, but…" A hint of a smile appeared in Merlin's voice. "I've managed to find it."

Of course you have, Merlin.

"I've never heard so much rubbish in my entire life," Arthur blurted.

Merlin halted again and asked, "Are you calling Gaius a liar?"

"No, I'm calling you an idiot."

Merlin's grey-blue eyes averted from his, and with the smallest tinge of humor in his voice, he asked, "What's that then?"

It didn't matter so much that some part of Merlin's story, if not all of it, was complete hogwash and fabricated fiction. No, it didn't matter. Why should it matter how it got there or how Merlin found it or how the sorcerer was most likely the one who put it there in the first place? Because it was there. The sword, the stone. The sword in the stone. In all its glory. It was there, right before his very eyes.

And it sang to him.

It was his sword. His. With every fiber in his body, he knew. That sword it was his and his alone.

He felt Merlin's careful, joyous gaze gauging his reaction, and when the servant began to pace to the rock, Arthur, after one dazed moment, followed, and, he and Merlin side-by-side, entered the sunlit clearing.

It was even more beautiful than it looked from afar. Sunlight streamed in narrow beams through the canopy of trees above to hit the glittering hilt and marked blade, and the untarnished gold and silvery iron cast luminous shimmers across its stony sheath. While Arthur, awe-struck, openly admired the lithe grace and power that so greatly contrasted with the almost shameful isolation of its imprisonment, he sensed that this was more than a weapon, more than a tool to fight with.

It was a promise, a hope, a destiny.

He was so entranced that he didn't notice that people—his people, his Knights, even Gwen, who had definitely been asleep when they left camp—beaming widely at him and observing him with the uttermost respect and faith, filtered slowly into the clearing, but when he did, a brief flash of surprise, relief, and hope passed over him only to be replaced by panic.

When an overwhelmed Arthur spun around on Merlin, the smiling sorcerer-servant was watching them all with smugness and pride seeping from every pore. It couldn't be more obvious: Merlin had somehow found them all and had told them this story…

"What the hell are you playing at?" he hissed with wide sapphire eyes.

"I'm proving that you're their leader and their King," Merlin said calmly, his eyes emphasizing each 'their' by flashing to the gathering behind the stone.

"That sword is stuck fast in solid stone!"

"And you're going to pull it out," Merlin said matter-of-factly.

Was he now? Would he really be the one pulling it out? Because he knew that no mortal man of sinew, no matter how strong, could either have placed it there or pulled it free. A man of magic, on the other hand… He saw it—there in Merlin's eyes.

Gods, if that fool used magic in front of all these people for nothing

"Merlin, it's impossible," he protested.

"Arthur," Merlin said, his eyes unfathomably deep and shining with truth and fierce belief, "you're the true King of Camelot."

He couldn't pull it out—he couldn't… but there was Merlin and there were his Knights and his people standing, waiting…staring expectantly at him…

"D'you want me to look like a fool?"

"No, I'm going to make you see that Tristan's wrong!" he exclaimed passionately. "You're not just anyone. You are special. You and you alone can draw out that sword."

When turned from Merlin to the sword to hide the pain in his eyes, he hid a sigh. How could he be special…when he had guessed that it would be Merlin's magic that would release the sword for him? That that sword, though it called to him, was never his to take under his own power?

They were waiting for him, their eyes shining, and Merlin, who believed in him so much that he'd go through all this trouble…do all of this. For him.

He had to trust Merlin. How couldn't he?

With a hardening resolve, Arthur slipped his sword from his belt and stabbed it into the ground at Merlin's feet, where it wavered with the force of his thrust, and he studied Merlin's soft smile and confident eyes before saying, "You had better be right about this."

Merlin followed like a shadow behind him as he, with leaves crunching underfoot, slowly made his way to the rock, and after scanning his audience once more, he chose to ignore them and focused on the glorious sword.

So, with nothing more to lose, Arthur grasped the hilt—the contact with the thing sent a warm, wonderful tingling sensation down the length of his arm—with both leather-coated hands and now feeling self-conscious at the amount of eyes in front of him, pulled with all of his might.

It, much to his surprise, dismay, (Dammit, Merlin! What the hell are you doing?) and his more logical expectation of the non-magical variety, didn't budge.

"You have to believe, Arthur," Merlin said from behind him in a calming, deep voice—his "wise" voice.

Arthur, no longer feeling annoyance at Merlin for making him struggle and instead feeling more and more like a disappointment to all those who looked up to him, tugged all the harder, and he began to tremble and exhaled heavily with the exertion he was putting into it.

"You're destined to be Albion's greatest King."

With these words—words ringing with fierce devotion and irrevocable certainty—echoing in his mind, Arthur released the hilt and stared unblinkingly at his sword.

"Nothing, not even the stone, can stand in your way."

It suddenly hit Arthur like a lightning bolt, and from under his lashes, he looked at the crowd, who observed him with nothing less than love.

He closed his eyes, and he finally saw what it was that Merlin was trying to get him to understand.

It shamed him to think he had been so selfish… so weak. It shamed him to think that he had forgotten what truly mattered…that he had forgotten what it meant to be one of Pendragon blood.

These people, all of them, were not there for the sword. They weren't there to see the impossible become possible, the unreal become real. They were there for Camelot—for him. Because they believed in what he stood for. Because they believed that he could lead them to victory and avenge them all. They, uncaring of his faults, had forgiven him for the suffering he caused or, more likely than not, they had felt that there was nothing to forgive, just as Merlin had…

Arthur might have thought that Merlin was intending that the sword was what would ultimately prove his worthiness to himself, but it wasn't. He should have known better. It was that his people had gathered together, that they still held hope within their breasts, that they were all together, alive, and prepared to fight... for Camelot.

Just as he, Camelot's sovereign, should have been for them.

Their spirit and their belief embraced him, and he felt lighter, freer than he had in a long time. The poison of doubt soaked away; the poison of two snakes' betrayals had been purged from his mind by Merlin, by them all.

He had them—their everlasting, immovable loyalty.

He had the people's love.

He had, at his right hand, the one sorcerer who, miraculously, despite everything, had not become corrupt and never abused his powers in greed or selfishness, who had never left nor will ever leave his side. His noble best friend of not-so-noble blood, who had only ever served Arthur, his King, and who used his magic to protect and defend.

What more could he want? What more could he ask for?

Unbidden, one hand wrapped itself around the hilt of the yet-to-be-named blade of legend, forged by man, guarded by magic, and begotten in the Dragon's breath…

He was ready to fight. He was their King.

"Have faith."

Merlin's magic, golden and pure, enveloped him, and with his sorcerer's help, he eased his sword from the stone and held it aloft, an indescribable feeling of confidence, power, and hope coursing through his veins.

"Long live the King!" Leon shouted, breaking the awed silence.

The crowd took up the cry, but it was Merlin's wide, lopsided grin of pride on his back that touched him above all others'.

He was done whining; he was done moping. What was done, was done, and there was nothing to do to change that.

But the future…that was of his making, and with them there with him, truly nothing could stand in his way.

~…~

Arthur had not realized that Merlin had returned to his rightful spot at his King's right hand until he felt him grip his shoulder gently, and when the elder tore his ocean-blue eyes from his sword to face the younger, whose dusky cerulean eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, he whispered on an exhale, "Merlin…Thank you."

Merlin's broad smile grew, and he asked, "Whatever for?"

The King, unable to exactly express the depth of his gratitude in words, didn't answer and instead he smirked and lightly punched his friend on the shoulder.

Before Merlin could hurl a witty insult at him, Leon called, "Alright, Sire?"

The people and knights had seemed to understand that, after Arthur freed the sword from the stone—it had not been the time for touching reunions or celebration. No, despite their glee at having found their King once again, they, whispering amongst themselves and knowing there would be time yet to celebrate when they retook Camelot, had filed away back to their camp and would humbly and solemnly await their King's orders. Only those of the King's inner circle untangled themselves from the mass and maneuvered their way to his side.

Arthur greeted Leon and gripped his arm before turning to Percival to do the same. Guinevere—he only briefly passed his gaze and smile over her, and in doing so, he noticed her widening eyes fixated on the sword with an expression akin to recognition and complete shock.

However, when Percival clapped Merlin on the back and boomed, "And you Merlin? You must've been awake all night searching for us. I'm surprised you're not dead on your feet," Gwen, unknowledgeable of Arthur's eyes on her, immediately tore her gaze from the sword to study Merlin vigilantly.

Merlin did not notice, rolled his eyes, and answered Percival teasingly, "All the better now that I've recovered from nearly getting run through."

While Arthur felt a rush of gratitude for Merlin's efforts and amusement at the servant's tone, the giant of a Knight groaned and threw his hands to the sky, exclaiming in exasperation, "Honestly, Merlin, what did you expect when yousnuck up behind me? I did apologize."

"I'm sorry. Did you just say that Merlin snuck into your camp?" Tristan, who, with Isolde, had just joined the little group, asked incredulously.

Arthur, who still watched Gwen, whose eyes were completely unreadable, curiously from his peripheral vision, snorted, and Merlin glared at him. "Funny, Tristan," the servant mumbled while Percival and Leon, inquiring the presence of the newcomers, exchanged raised eyebrows.

Tristan winked. "I try." Smirking still, he turned to the King and said with a guarded tone, "That was quite a display, Arthur Pendragon."

Isolde, rolling her eyes at her lover, muttered, "Not now, Tristan! We shouldn't quarrel now, of all times, and we should introduce ourselves."

"And we should be on our way," Arthur interceded, suggestively nodding his head in the direction the rest of his people had gone.

So, with Leon, Percival, and the two smugglers tentatively introducing themselves—Isolde cleverly failed to mention Tristan's and her profession, for lack of better word—and with Merlin, who sent one last bright glance at Arthur behind him, reluctantly in tow, the aforementioned began to walk and soon settled into a companionable relationship as the men began to swap stories and information.

The King himself was about to follow—he was interested to hear Percival and Leon's tale about Merlin's unexpected, surprise visit the night before—but when he saw that Gwen had hesitated for longer than he had, he paused and, after a small debate, he turned back to her.

Eyes closed, the woman was now pinching the bridge of her nose, and conflict danced across her face like torchlight on a corridor's walls. "Guinevere?" he asked gently.

Her eyes flew open, and after a weak smile replaced her anxious, thoughtful frown, the only sign of her trouble remained in her heavy brow, which was pinched with befuddlement.

"Sorry, Sire. I'm coming," she said, avoiding his eyes.

"No, don't apologize," he said gruffly. "You looked…" he trailed off. "Is there something the matter?"

If she was confused or surprised about the genuine concern coloring his voice, she did not show it, and instead she bit her bottom lip and looked sheepishly up at him from under her long lashes. "It's just my imagination, my Lord."

His nose twitched at her using his formal title, and he was surprised at how much it bothered him that she (Merlin was the only other person he secretly could not stand using his titles) should find it necessary to use it.

"Nothing to worry over," she continued dismissively. "Shall we catch up with the others?"

Having suspected the reason for her distractedness, however, he stopped her as she tried to move around him and said in a voice both stern and gentle, both mildly exasperated and understanding, "Gwen…"

With her doe-like eyes softening in the realization that he wasn't going to let her go without giving him a real answer, she sighed and said warily, "It's just…I thought I recognized the sword—your sword—as…as one of my father's own."

Arthur ran his eyes down the length of the blade and lazily flipped it over a few times over in his hand. "Let me guess," he said, not taking his eyes from the weapon, "The last time you saw this it was in Merlin's hands."

Gwen gaped at him, which was answer enough for him, and spluttered in amazement and confusion, "How—how did you…?"

He, with a knowing smile, shrugged noncommittally at her question and slipped the sword into his belt. He knew how observant and intelligent Gwen was, and he could see in her eyes the suspicion of the absolute truth beginning to form and wondered how long it would take before she was absolutely sure...and how she would react when that time came.

He hoped to the gods that she didn't fear him…Merlin, who must have been terrified of just that for the whole of his life, deserved better.

"But, Arthur—"

"Don't question," he cautioned softly, turning away. With a chuckle and on an impulse, he teased under his breath, "It'll end up driving you mad."

Immediately, he cursed himself for nearly admitting and certainly hinting to Gwen what he knew, but at the same time, he felt immense relief upon opening up to someone.

"You seem to speak from experience," she said carefully, her eyes flashing across his face.

Arthur snorted. "C'mon. This is Merlin we're talking about."

After witnessing her amused smile, he, without another word, began to trek after others, but she called suddenly, "Arthur!"

He twirled back to her with a questioning, expectant look, and blushing, she said, "I'm glad you're back."

Without shame, he responded, "Me, too."

Deep within, he felt something of what had been and what still was and wondered if he and Gwen couldn't still be friends after all.

~…~

The instant he and Gwen, whose face betrayed nothing when she found herself next to Merlin (much to Arthur's relief), caught up with the others back at their large camp, Arthur began to pepper Leon and Percival, who had been spying on the movements in the castle, with questions about Helios and Morgana's defenses.

"What about the drawbridge?"

"Well manned (1)."

"As are the Northern Gates (1)."

"Battlements on the South-side?"

"Arthur, even if we can get inside—she has an army," Percival reminded him as they stopped.

"And we have what? A few hundred?" Arthur guessed, pausing and allowing the group to form a circle.

Percival nodded gravely. "And they still outnumber us."

"Yeah, but only three-to-one," the King said dismissively.

Leon smirked and exhaled a small chuckle.

"And you think they'll fight?" Isolde asked, her hand on her own sword's hilt.

"They fight for Arthur," Leon answered.

"It's not me they have to fight for," the King corrected humbly. "It's for Camelot."

"No, Arthur. It's you the people love. And you they'll lay down their lives for." Leon's eyes flicked to Merlin, who was smiling with satisfaction at the Knight's strong words of faith. "Know that I would ride into the mouth of hell for you," he vowed.

Without hesitation, Percival agreed, "And I."

Arthur saw Isolde exchange a look with Tristan, and with eyes brimming with the fondness of brotherhood he rarely displayed to his Knights and with a hint of a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth, he looked between them thankfully.

"And I."

Merlin's oath did not surprise him, but, of all the others, his seemed to be the most binding and rang with the most promise—the power of their bond sang through his eyes—and when he looked at Merlin, he saw no servant in shabby clothes and a ratty neckerchief—no, that image was gone long ago. Here, he saw the friend who had an insolent tongue and a heart of gold (2), the brother in all but blood he had never expected to have.

Drawing his new sword, he grinned and said confidently, "Then to the mouth of hell it is."

~…~

They were going to attack during the late morning the next day. Arthur had decided upon late morning instead of the typical dawn because—well, just that: they would expect an attack at dawn.

In the late morning, they would be more at ease, and they would be anxious for the coming guard change (Leon had discovered that they shift guards at midday) so that they could rush happily to the tavern for their midday meal. Therefore, not only would they be fatigued and lazy near the end of their shift, but they would also be fighting during hottest, most uncomfortable hours of the day, and they would be distracted by hunger.

Leon was to lead a group of knights to storm the castle, get to the dungeons to release the rest of the soldiers and knights held captive, and avert the attention from Arthur's small party, which was compromised of only Gwen, who had glared at him until the suggestion that she remain behind died from his lips, and Merlin, who was silent for most of this meeting and who alternatively listened with the greatest attentiveness and then stared off into space with misty eyes.

The two smugglers—they were not included in their fighting-men tally nor were they a part of the meetings because Arthur had suspected that the pair did not wish to be involved, so he respected the decision he thought they would make and made plans around them. He didn't expect them to join him, but should they do so…all the better.

Percival and Leon had not liked (well, that was an understatement: they protested heatedly and loudly for nearly an hour on the subject) that Arthur didn't choose a few knights to go with him, especially when he not only had to watch his own back but Merlin's and Gwen's, but the King was firm on the matter and reasoned that he could find Helios and Morgana all the easier in such a small group. Eventually, finally realizing that the stubborn-headed King would not budge no matter how many times they reminded him of the might of Morgana's magic, the uneasy, unhappy Knights dropped the subject and hoped that Arthur knew what he was doing.

What they didn't realize was that Arthur knew exactly what he was doing, and they did not realize that their solution—and their secret weapon—was sitting right there in their circle with them.

To deal with Morgana—Arthur had a special, sneaky-like pep-talk prepared for Merlin.

He could only hope that Merlin was powerful enough to do what needed to be done.

When night had fallen and all the plans were set, Arthur slowly walked through the camp and made sure that all the preparations were running smoothly and that everyone had what they needed. This truly needed to be done, but Arthur used it as the perfect cover and the perfect excuse to "casually" pass by Merlin, who was tending to the campfire, and to allow his nerves to leak through the careful defenses he had been trained to posses.

His efforts proved to be fruitful when, within a few long strides, he heard Merlin jog up from behind him to speak with him.

"You alright?" Merlin asked.

"…Yes," he answered simply with an even, clipped tone that suggested he really wasn't in the mood to talk.

It was a tone Merlin always ignored.

"D'you think there're too many of them?" the servant asked.

When Arthur looked at him, even though the question was one that a man would ask were he fearing the outcome of the battle tomorrow, he saw little fear.

He didn't want Merlin to concern himself with the men when Arthur needed—desperately needed Merlin to focus all of his strength on the witch, so he answered cleverly and confidently, "Southrons are men like you and me." It was obvious Arthur was indirectly referring to the few immortal armies Camelot had faced in past years, and he clarified further, "Men we can fight. But Morgana—" he shook his head with genuine worry. "Her power is so great, and we've got nothing to answer it with."

Arthur knew he got his hidden message through to Merlin the moment the sorcerer-servant jerkily stopped in his tracks and inhaled sharply through his nose…

"I never finished Gaius' story."

…Or maybe not.

The King rounded on his friend and begged in exasperation, "Not now, Merlin, please!"

"Could you just listen?" Merlin mimicked his tone, placing his hands on his narrow hips.

After detecting the fierce obstinacy in those cobalt eyes, Arthur decided to humor the idiot, and he bowed his head in a permissive gesture.

With vague smile playing at the edges of his lips, Merlin said, "When the sword was thrust into the stone, the ancient king foretold that one day, it'd be freed again—in the time that Camelot needed it most."

Arthur found himself trying and failing to withhold a grin at Merlin's insistence that he continue to play up the supposed "story."

But then something changed, and Merlin's eyes deepened with wisdom, and the words became imbued with power and immutable truth: "The man who freed it would unite the land of Albion and rule over the greatest kingdom the world has ever known." He gave a small shrug and said, "That man is you, Arthur."

Not sure what to take as fact and what to take as fiction (or even what to take as a bizarre blend of the two), Arthur's brow furrowed as he carefully studied Merlin, who exhaled and smiled his trademark, lopsided smile, which contrasted yet fit with those profound eyes so well that Arthur was only confused further.

"You're making this up!"

The grin morphed into a teasing smirk, and Merlin asked, "Why would I do that? Your head's already as big as your waist."

Arthur had to refrain himself from looking down at his gut and instead he kept his eyes locked with Merlin's.

"I believe it though—" pride seeped into his voice, and that smile graced his lips "—and I believe in you. I always have."

Arthur didn't know how exactly this conversation turned from a subtle 'Merlin-go-use-your-secret-magical-powers-and-help-get-us-the-hell-out-of-this-mess' pep-talk to another of Merlin's wise, inspiring speeches that laid forth all of his loyalty for his King to see, but when his friend turned away to return to the fire, Arthur contemplated the sword Merlin had given him and found that was more than glad that it did.

It meant that there was nothing to be afraid of.

~…~

Arthur had long since learned the gift of being able to control his sleep (in Camelot, he slept like the dead, but during dangerous excursions such as these, he slept very lightly and was ready to spring into action at any sound that jolted him from his fitful half-sleep), so, though Merlin was as silent as a ghost when he flipped out of his covers and sat on a log to stare at the spitting flames of their fire, Arthur heard him, woke fully, and controlled his breathing accordingly.

Luckily for him, he was already sleeping on the side that faced the fire, so instead having to go through the trouble of shifting "in his sleep," he only had to crack his eyes open to see the whole of Merlin's face across the fire from him.

The servant was fiddling with his fingers, and a heavy shadow of deep contemplation had settled on his brow and darkened his face. Arthur watched him with a growing respect and wondered if he had ever seen the young man so serious about something before…

Or better yet: how often had this very expression taken place of the goofy smile out of his line of vision?

However, that all changed when the most diabolical grin spread across Merlin's face and when his eyes glinted and narrowed with impish mischievousness. Sparks spitting and smoke rising, the firelight played across his already elfin facial structure and threw shadows that made the sorcerer look as though he truly was one of the dark Fae of nightmare.

As Merlin, who very clearly had a very wicked, though brilliant plan in mind and who appeared to morph back into human form out of the light of the flames, determinately stood to his feet and carefully snuck away in the direction of the citadel, Arthur, still slightly stunned by what he had just seen and suddenly terrified for the idiot, thought to himself with a small shudder, I would not like to be Morgana right now.

It took everything he had to remain still until Merlin disappeared from sight, and all the while, his mind bickered with itself as he tried to decide whether or not he should follow. He had thought Merlin would use his magic in the battle—when he was fully rested and prepared—and he wondered if this little mission the sorcerer decided to go on would drain him of his strength. If it did? If it didn't? The fool was selfless to a fault, and Arthur didn't want him, who already didn't know the meaning of self-preservation, to exceed his limits—whatever those may be.

But most importantly on Arthur's mind: what if he got caught? Killed even?

The thought of Merlin's death…that was unbearable.

But, he, who trusted Merlin with his life, would have to trust him in this.

In the end, he sighed, knowing from the way Merlin's eyes hardened mercilessly and resolvedly that there was absolutely no chance he could dissuade him from going, even if he did reveal what it was he knew, and knowing that he would only get in Merlin's way, so all he could do was hope to the gods that Merlin didn't get himself hurt and that he came back to them.

His reluctant approval of this idiotic, reckless, I-plan-to-sneak-into-Camelot-under-Morgana's-very-nose mission did not mean that he couldn't set a time limit whatsoever.

When he turned over on his other side with every intention to wait the next two hours (and that was almost too generous of an already worried Arthur) before he went after the idiot, his sparkling blue eyes fell on Guinevere's for one split second before they flew closed.

It didn't fool him: she was awake and had seen exactly what he saw.

And both he and she, not bothering to hide or pretend, breathed sighs of absolute relief when Merlin returned two hours later dressed in a Southron's leather uniform and black hood.

~…~

Arthur was genuinely surprised that Merlin even managed to stand upright, and as he studied his ditzy, half-asleep friend, who was swaying on feet with a vague, distant expression, he winced and really hoped that whatever it was he did last night worked and that adrenaline would wake him up enough to keep him from getting stabbed and coherent enough to do any magic should whatever it was he did last night fail.

Sighing, he snapped his fingers in front of Merlin and said, "Wakey, wakey."

Merlin started, and with a weak smile, his eyes followed Arthur as he moved around him.

"Look like you've been up half the night," he said casually, curious as to what his friend's reaction would be.

To his utter surprise, Merlin said immediately and truthfully, "I was. Couldn't sleep."

"I thought you said you had faith in me," Arthur teased lightly.

Merlin looked at him and smirked, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Idiot, Arthur thought fondly as he, gaining confidence, growing calm, and brightening his spirit and mood as he always did after his bantering with Merlin, shrugged and walked away.

Because, this was how it was between them and how it always would be—for they knew each other better than they knew themselves, and though they bickered and quarreled with wit, they fought together with sinew, sword, and magic, side-by-side, King and sorcerer, as one.

And in less than an hour, they were going to stand at Camelot's walls and fight for her freedom. Together.


(1) These actors need to stop MUMBLING! *tears at hair* If anyone can tell me what Percival exactly says here, let me now. I kinda spun my own line there based on what I thought I heard. Edit: I thank fin1013, Ryne42, and one anonymous reviewer for being so kind as to take the time to check those lines of not only Percival but also LEON for me. :)

(2) Reference to my fic Heart of Gold, just because I couldn't resist throwing it in there somewhere

AN: Lol, can someone say cheesy? \^.^/ I hope that this simple twist to the sword drawing scene did not sap any of the meaning from the original. :) The next chapter...I'm not sure exactly how it's going to go. I might not have all the patience to describe the whole fight and fill in all the holes... we'll see. ;D

Oz out.