AN: I am SO sorry for how long it's taken to get this to you. I feel absolutely terrible about it. I got super busy suddenly, it was spring break and I went out of the country, then my choir went to New York City and I had neither the time to write nor a computer to do it on. I'm so so so sorry it took so long, but please accept my apologies. I really hope you like this chapter. Please enjoy, and thank you so much for reading!


A pebble wakes Owen up, digging uncomfortably into his chest as he shifts in his sleep. For a moment Owen can't remember why he's sleeping on the ground. Then he blinks his eyes open and sees a pile of furs and weak morning sunlight filtering through the gaps of a tent, and he remembers the events of yesterday, when people were running frantic with bandages and that King Arthur was badly wounded and that Owen had chosen to stay by his side until morning .

Owen sits up, rubbing his eyes and shivering. He should have gotten a blanket, because it's cold outside in autumn with winter fast approaching. He hugs himself and looks around the tent. There's nobody here besides himself and the king and Sir Gwaine lying sprawled on the ground beside him, mouth hanging open and snoring. He spent the night here too, waiting to see if his king would survive until morning.

Owen sees with a sigh of relief that Arthur did. He's asleep, and his skin is gray, but he's breathing soundly. Oddly, Owen thinks Arthur looks more peaceful like this than he's ever seen

him look when he's awake. Asleep there's no crease between Arthur's eyebrows, no ever-present downward pull at his lips. He looks gone to the world.

The air is cold and Owen rubs warmth into his arms, wondering if he should run for a blanket or stay here. As he does, he presses something against his chest. The pebble that woke him up, only now Owen remembers it's not a pebble.

He fishes the ring out of his tunic and pulls the string over his head to hold it in his hands. He'd forgotten all about it in all the excitement of yesterday, and now he peers at it and wonders what on earth he's supposed to do with it.

It looks exactly the same as it had when Owen first saw it, still silver and gold and looking like it was once ornately carved but isn't anymore. The lines and ridges have been rubbed so many times by the lonely man in the dungeon that they have become unrecognizable from the shapes they once were.

Is it a gift? The man seemed so desperate to keep it before. He nearly cried when Owen asked for it that day. Owen is sure he wouldn't just give it away for no reason now. Would he?

Owen turns the ring over and over in his hands, looping the rough string around his fingers, wondering. Whatever it is, the man gave it to Owen for a reason, and though Owen hasn't the faintest idea of what that is, he can tell it's important. He'll give it back, Owen thinks, and say he's sorry for taking it without doing anything with it.

There's a sudden sound in the silence of the tent and Owen hurriedly cups the ring inside of his hand and hides them in his lap.

Arthur is shifting, and a pained look flashes on his face before he opens his eyes. They are unfocused with sleep, but soon he blinks and sees Owen watching him with bated breath.

The crease reappears on Arthur's forehead, as well as the frown. He looks at Owen, and Owen looks back, waiting for Arthur to say something first because he isn't sure what he should say to a king who almost died. But the king looks like he doesn't know what to say either.

"Hello, Owen," Arthur finally croaks, and his voice is soft and vague, like he isn't sure that what he said is the right thing.

"Hello," Owen answers.

"Did you sleep here?" Arthur asks, brow wrinkling even further.

Owen nods. "Mother didn't want me to, but you said I could."

"I did," Arthur says. "Not sure I should have."

"Why?"

"It's freezing out," he says, after a pause, "Besides, you shouldn't have to see all of this. You're too young to witness battle."

"Mother says I need to be prepared for when I go to battle someday," Owen says at once.

Arthur smiles, but it's small and weak and somehow makes him look more sad than happy.

"My father said the same thing to me," He says. He still has that confused lilt in his voice, still as though the words seem foreign in his mouth.

"Really?"

Arthur nods.

"Can't say it didn't help, but it was hard all the same."

"What's battle like?" Owen asks. He looks down at Arthur's torso. The bloody bandages are covered by furs, but Owen knows they're there, nasty as they'd been yesterday. "Mother says that when I grow up I'll have to go to battle all the time. She says that's what a king does, except Father doesn't go to battle very much. Mother says that's why I'll have to fight so much, because he won't do it now."

Arthur sighs, then winces as the action must have sent a jolt of pain through him.

"Battle is awful," he says, "There's nothing but pain and death everywhere."

"Why do you do it then?"

"Because I must. It's my duty as king. It will be your duty too, one day."

Owen thinks of all the people he'd seen, bleeding and screaming for wine to soothe the pain in their wounds.

"It sounds scary."

"It is," Arthur says, "But we rulers have to do it. It's our duty to defend our people, so we have to make these sacrifices in order to keep them safe. If we didn't fight, then enemies would come in and kill the people, or else turn them into slaves. So we fight to save the people we love from that."

"Mother said that," Owen says quietly. "She always says that it's my job to keep my friends safe because they don't have powers to save themselves."

"She's right."

Owen frowns. He tries to imagine Mara and Duncan bleeding and screaming like the wounded soldiers from yesterday, hurting because Owen couldn't save them.

"I don't think I'll be able to save them," Owen whispers, "Mother says I have to use my powers to fight battles except I don't think I have the powers she's talking about."

"Neither did I, when I was your age. It took me years to learn how to really use a sword," Arthur says.

"No," Owen shakes his head, "I don't even know how to sword fight. Mother always said I don't need to know how because I have my powers, but I don't think they work like they should." He looks at Arthur's torso again, and thinks that if King Arthur, who is so famous for his sword fighting skills, can be wounded like this, how can Owen possibly protect Doria with his own feeble abilities?

"What powers?" Arthur questions.

"My magic," Owen says, "I was born with magic and that makes me special, Mother says. She says it proves that I'm destined to be Doria's ruler and protector and I'm gonna make Doria great one day."

"Destined," Arthur repeats, and there's a faraway sound in his voice. "I didn't know you had magic."

"Not very much," Owen confesses, "Mother keeps trying to get me to do things but it never works."

"Like what?"

Owen thinks for a bit.

"She made me kill a bird once."

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

"What?"

"I didn't do it," Owen says, "My magic couldn't do it. She got very mad because she said if I couldn't kill the little bird how will I ever kill Doria's enemies?"

Arthur gapes at him.

"When was this?"

"I don't know. A little while ago." Owen shrugs. "She said I'd get better with practice."

"And have you?"

"No."

"That isn't how magic works," Arthur says, "You're born with the amount of magic you have, no more."

"Mother says if I just keep practicing–"

"She's wrong," Arthur interrupts, and Owen sees with no small trace of alarm that Arthur looks angry now. "You only have what you're born with, pushing you will only be harmful. You're young, you shouldn't be pushed that hard. It's impossible."

Owen looks down and fiddles with the string in his hands.

"It makes my head hurt," he admits.

"Then you should stop," Arthur replies firmly. "Find something that you can do. Learn sword fighting, or archery. Those are skills you can learn."

"I'll have to," Owen says quietly.

"Does your mother have magic, then?" Arthur asks.

"No," Owen says, "I've never met anyone else with magic but me." And the man in the dungeon, Owen thinks, but he seemed more crazed by it than anything else.

Arthur is silent for a while.

"I was married to someone with magic, you know." Again there's that confused voice. "He was a very powerful sorcerer. He could have helped you." His words are wobbling and hoarse.

Owen looks up.

"You mean Merlin?"

Arthur's eyes widen.

"How do you know his name?"

"Sir Gwaine told me," Owen answers, nodding to the snoring knight on the ground next to them.

Arthur relaxes.

"Of course he did."

"I'm very sorry," Owen says, "For what happened to him and your baby."

"Thank you."

"Do you think you'll ever find them again?"

Arthur winces, though whether it's from his wound or the thought of his family Owen can't tell.

"They're dead," Arthur says, "Nobody would kidnap them and hold them for that long without asking for a ransom."

"Maybe they're just lost."

Arthur sighs, and winces again.

"I don't think so."

He looks so sad when he says it that Owen decides to drop the subject. It makes him think of the man in the dungeon, who was married once before he was trapped, proved by the ring Owen is hiding now in his hands. He's all alone from his loved one too, and he always looks unbearably sad.

Arthur shifts on his bedroll, grunting with pain as he does. Owen follows the movement and spots a ring sitting on Arthur's finger that makes Owen pause and stare.

It's silver and gold, criss-crossed with intricate carvings of runes and knots rising and twisting on the metal. It looks almost like the ring that the man in the dungeons gave him, and he holds it up to compare without thinking that Arthur will see.

He's able to see that they're almost identical except for how worn the man's ring is, before Arthur's hand stills on the furs and Owen remembers that the man had tapped his finger against his lips, telling Owen that he's supposed to keep this a secret. He rushes to hide the ring in his hands again.

"What was that?" Arthur says.

"Nothing," Owen says too quickly.

"What were you doing?"

"Nothing."

Arthur's shifting again, trying to lean forward to see what Owen has cupped in his hands. There's something in Arthur's face and Owen wonders if he's angry again, like when they were talking about Owen's magic.

"Show it to me."

"No," Owen says, hiding his hand behind his back.

"Please," Arthur says, but it sounds like a command, "I just want to see it."

"It isn't anything," Owen says, "It's just nothing. A rock. From a game I was playing."

"That wasn't a rock," Arthur says, lifting up his arm, "It looked like a ring."

"It wasn't."

Even with his wound and the bandages and the furs weighing Arthur down, he still manages to reach out and grab Owen's arm before Owen can twist away. He easily takes the ring and its string from Owen's hand.

"You're not s'posed to see that!" Owen cries, but it's too late. Arthur is staring at the ring like he's never seen anything like it, like he cannot fathom what's in his hand.

"Owen," he says, voice low and trembling, "Where did you get this?"

"Nowhere," Owen says.

Arthur snaps up his head to look at Owen and there is fire in his eyes, in his entire expression.

"Where did you get this?" He repeats, each word slow and deliberate. He clenches his fist around the ring. "Tell me. Where."

"I found it," Owen lies, "Out in the garden, I think, I don't remember–"

"You said I wasn't supposed to see it. Why?"

The look on Arthur's face is frighteningly intense, so much that Owen scrambles to his feet and backs away.

"Why?" Arthur demands.

"You're just not!" Owen cries, because he doesn't know, really, why Arthur shouldn't know where he got the ring except that the man told him to keep it a secret, and if Arthur finds out about the man then he might tell Mother and Mother might be angry.

"What's going on?"

Sir Gwaine, who must have been woken by the shouting, now sits up groggily to see Arthur holding a clenched fist as Owen tries to back away.

"The ring, Merlin's ring–"

"What?"

"Gwaine, look," Arthur gasps, and thrusts his fist out and opens it for Gwaine to take a look.

"No!" Owen shouts, because that would be a second person who sees the ring who isn't supposed to.

"It's Merlin's ring," Arthur says as Gwaine looks, "I'd know it anywhere."

"No it isn't," Owen insists.

"Whose is it then?" Gwaine asks, "Your mother's?"

"Your mother," Arthur repeats, with a funny sound to his voice like he's just thought of something vitally important, and snaps around to look at Owen, "Oh my god."

He stares, face slack with shock, and then suddenly he's struggling out of bed, shoving furs off of him and lurching towards Owen.

"Oh my god," he says again, clutching at his torso but still staring at Owen.

"What?" Owen asks frantically, because Arthur looks half crazed. "What's going on?"

"Sire, your wound," Gwaine says, but Arthur ignores him, kicking until he's off the bedroll and kneeling before Owen, the fist that holds the ring clutching at his side.

"Look at you," Arthur breathes, "Oh god, you're so big."

"Who? Me?"

Arthur opens his mouth but says nothing. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream somewhere between joy and awe, harsh breaths coming out instead of words. If he'd looked at Owen intensely before today, this is a whole new kind of stare that Owen thinks he's seen somewhere before, like Owen is the most wonderful and complex thing the world could possibly produce and Arthur cannot take his eyes away.

Then Arthur extends his arms and suddenly Owen is being hugged, crushed against Arthur's chest.

Owen stiffens. Arthur's skin is hot with fever, and Owen can feel Arthur's sweat and blood soaking into his clothes from Arthur's wound.

"Gareth," Arthur whispers, and he says the word so softly that Owen isn't sure he heard it, but then Arthur whispers it again, trembling into the air by Owen's ear.

"No way," comes Sir Gwaine's awed voice.

Finally Owen finds footing and pushes himself out of Arthur's arms.

"What's going on?" He demands. "Why did you say 'Gareth?'"

Arthur is still reaching for him, arms halfway extended like he might grab Owen again.

"It's you," Arthur says, "You're Gareth."

"No, Gareth is your baby," Owen corrects, "I'm Owen. I'm Mother's baby."

"Arthur, are you sure?" Gwaine asks with concern, but his voice is just as hopeful as Arthur's.

"I'm sure. You wouldn't remember," Arthur trembles to Owen, "My child was stolen from me eight years ago. You wouldn't remember any of that."

"But I'm not your child!"

"You look like him. When I first saw you I thought how much you looked like Merlin and I couldn't breathe. I couldn't bear to look at you. And you've got magic like he did, and you have his ring."

He barks out a startled laugh.

"And you're alive," Arthur says, "All this time I thought you were dead."

"That doesn't make any sense! I'm Mother's child!" Owen insists.

"It has to be that woman, her husband is too dumb to have orchestrated something like this," Gwaine says.

"Hey! Don't talk about my parents like that!" Owen scowls at the both of them. "You're being dumb. Give me my ring back." He holds out his hand.

"Gareth–"

"My name is Owen."

For a moment Arthur looks like he wants to argue, but then he sighs.

"Owen. Who gave you this ring? Where did you get it?"

"I'm not telling."

"Owen, please."

"Not until you give it back!"

Arthur grimaces and exchanges frantic looks with Gwaine.

"Owen please, this is important."

"No."

"Then I'll find him myself."

Arthur braces himself and lifts himself to his feet. At once he lets out a groan and almost collapses again, grabbing at his bandages. Fresh blood is staining the outermost layers.

"Arthur, maybe you should wait, let me gather the men," Gwaine suggests, but Arthur waves him off.

"Spread the word, tell my men we're searching the castle. I'm going myself. They must be holding him in the dungeons, I can make it there."

He takes a shaking step forward, going pale with the pain of it. His fist doesn't unclench from around the ring.

"Give me my ring back! He said I wasn't s'posed to–"

"Who?"

Owen snaps his mouth shut.

"Nobody. Just give me my ring back."

"Somebody gave this to you?" Arthur asks, breathing hard now that he's on his feet, "Who? What did he look like?"

Owen scowls. Arthur must take that as confirmation that Owen got the ring directly from Merlin himself, because he nods and starts walking again.

Gwaine hands Arthur his sword and holds the tent flap open for Arthur to walk through before ducking out himself. Owen runs to follow.

Outside there are people up and about, servants fetching buckets of water and soldiers enjoying a moment of morning calm. They all look up in surprise at the sight of Arthur, hunched over and wearing only his breeches, clutching at bloodied bandages and looking ahead of him with an awfully determined expression. Several people approach and tell Arthur he should get back in bed, but Arthur waves them off and continues out of the field and towards the village where the castle stands.

Owen has no choice but to follow. Gwaine walks beside Arthur, motioning to the Camelot knights that they pass that he will explain later what's going on.

The anger that Owen felt turns to fear as they approach the castle. Fear that Arthur will discover the man in the dungeons and then tell Mother, and that Mother will be so angry when she finds out that Owen has been going behind her back and against her orders all this time just to talk to this man she has locked up. He's dangerous, he knows, he's a criminal, and Mother will be angry and then she will be worried and it will be Owen's fault.

A small crowd has assembled behind them by the time they reach the steps of the castle, Camelot knights and Dorian citizens curious to see why King Arthur is so fiercely making his way into the citadel, groaning with pain all the while.

Arthur climbs the steps to the castle, panting hard. He has to stop and kneel, resting against the steps, to catch his breath. Sweat covers every inch of his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. The blood on his bandages are still bright red.

"Please don't go inside," Owen pleads while Arthur rests, "Mother will be so angry with me."

"Why would she be angry with you?" Gwaine asks, because Arthur is too winded to speak.

"I'm not supposed to have that ring," Owen says, "And if she finds out…"

"Owen," Arthur gasps, and meets Owen's eyes, "I promise you, no matter how angry your mother gets, I will make sure she does not harm you. You have my word."

Owen says nothing, certain that nothing Arthur does will stop Mother's anger. Arthur doesn't wait for a response, heaving himself back to his feet and making his way into the castle.

There are some guards standing at attention inside the doors, who startle at the sight of Arthur.

"Lord King, should you be exerting yourself like this? If you wish to speak with the Lady Beatrix we can send for her–"

"No," Arthur says, "Leave her alone. I'm fine."

Gwaine grimaces at them and Owen gives them a troubled look before following him and Arthur down the hall.

"Where are the dungeons?" Arthur asks, "Dammit, I thought I'd seen a dungeon door, where was it?"

"Here," Gwaine says, and the three turn down another hallway.

The castle is silent compared to the early morning bustle of the village outside. Here there are only the stone walls and threadbare tapestries hanging still in the early morning light. Here nobody is awake yet, nobody to see what is happening, nobody to alert Mother of Owen's disobedience.

Anxiety seizes Owen's chest. Nothing he can do will stop Arthur from finding the man in the dungeons, so all he can do is follow to see what will happen. The nearer they get to the forbidden dungeon staircase, the harder Owen's heart thumps, the louder it roars in his ears. It feels like the time Mother wanted him to kill the bird, how frightened and helpless he'd felt then.

He can't stop Arthur's advance, and all too soon they're approaching the dungeon stairs.

Arthur collapses against the doorway, staring down into the darkness below. His breaths are harsh and ragged, amplified by the stone.

"You go down," Gwaine says, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder, "I'll stand watch."

"Thank you, Gwaine," Arthur says, and then he takes a step down, and another, and soon he's been swallowed by the darkness.

Owen stands, frozen with fear, at the top of the stairs, thinking of all the times when he was little when he'd stood here and longed to know what was down there that he wasn't allowed to see, and all the times since then that he's stood here wondering if he should go down again, this time, or if this will be the time that Mother finds out. He thinks of all the times he's decided he'll be alright and bounded down the steps, eager to play with the man in the cell, and now he wishes he'd never set foot in there.

"You going to follow him, little prince?" Gwaine asks, and Owen swallows and follows Arthur down the steps.

Arthur isn't that far ahead. Owen can hear him shuffling and coughing with exertion in the dark, can imagine him leaning against the walls in pain. He runs forward and fishes through the darkness until he finds Arthur's free hand, the one that isn't still clutching the man's ring. Arthur grabs Owen's hand when they touch and holds it tight.

Together they descend into the darkness until they reach the final step. Owen bends down to find a torch he knows he left there and lights it.

The long narrow tunnel looms ahead of them, so cold, so dark, and so full of nightmares. Not so long ago Owen saw this tunnel as the gateway to adventure, but now he wants to run away from it forever, leave the adventures to someone else, someone more brave. Owen squeezes Arthur's hand, shrinking away from the way his heart is beating wildly in his chest.

"Merlin?" Arthur calls into it, so ragged that the word is almost unintelligible. It echoes through the hall, over and over, and just as it's dying away there's the answering clink of metal.

Owen finds himself trembling with fear and grips Arthur's hand tighter.

"Merlin!" Arthur calls again, and the metal sounds again, and then there's an arm sticking out of a cell not far away, chained and waving up and down at them.

Owen stumbles because Arthur starts to run, yanking Owen with him, towards that arm.

"Merlin? Merlin!"

And then Arthur is on his knees, sobbing and reaching his arms through the bars of the cell to grab at the man inside.

Owen stands a short distance away and watches the two men grasp each other, close as they can get through the bars of the cell, clutching at faces and clothes and hands.

"Is it really you? Merlin?" Arthur gasps, and the man nods frantically, cupping Arthur's face.

Arthur laughs once, a hysterical yelp that sounds huge in the dungeons, and the man laughs in return, a smile stretching across his face so much it might split. He's radiant, despite the shadows of the cell and the layers of grime and dirt on his skin, joy and wonder and absolute love pushing all of that away. There is no darkness anymore, no more sadness, no more of that horrible hopelessness Owen has seen in his face before. As he reaches through the bars to pull Arthur closer, the years of darkness and loneliness are suddenly gone, yanked from the man's mind and transformed into joy.

Arthur and the man try to embrace, but the thick bars of the cell block them from doing so. Arthur slaps them in frustration, then casts about to find the lock. It's right above his head and he reaches up to jiggle it.

"Owen, can you open this?"

Owen, surprised by being addressed after it seemed he'd been forgotten, startles.

"I shouldn't…"

"But you can. Please." Arthur turns to look at Owen, keeping one hand entwined with the man's. "Owen, this is my husband, the one I lost. I promise you I will not let anyone harm you if they get angry with you."

Owen looks from one to the other: Arthur's face desperate, the man's hopeful. The man nods, grinning, and so Owen waves his hand and his eyes flash gold the lock opens with a loud click.

And then it's like they've forgotten that Owen is there, that anything else exists in the entire world other than each other, as the doors swing open with a groan and Arthur and the man collide with such force that they're knocked to the ground. Arthur brings up an arm to curl around the man's back, strong fingers buried in his tangled hair, and holds on tight.

The room is filled with the sound of harsh breathing, muffled because of noses buried in shoulders, the sound of relieved sobs like they'd just run up a flight of stairs, or had just woken from a nightmare and found that they were still, in fact, safe.

Owen shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do but hold the torch and watch as the two sit up again, still clutching each other as though neither can believe that the other is real.

"Merlin, god, hang on, let me look at you…" Arthur holds the man at arm's length, taking in his dirty face, his matted hair, the chains on his wrist. Arthur doesn't seem to mind that the man's hair is so tangled, or that his skin is so gnarled and dirty that a thousand baths probably wouldn't clean him. He looks only happy, so dazedly happy to see him that the grim and dirt may as well be gone. Indeed, Arthur doesn't seem to mind that blood is flowing almost freely from his torso now. If it's causing him any pain, Arthur shows no notice of it.

"What happened?" Arthur asks, fingering the iron collar around the man's neck, "I thought– god, Merlin, I thought you were dead!"

The man shakes his head.

"What have they done to you? What happened?"

"He can't speak," Owen says.

"What?" Arthur asks, still gazing at the man, still holding onto him.

"He can't speak," Owen repeats, "He doesn't have a tongue."

"What do you mean?"

In answer, the man opens his mouth for Arthur to see, smile fading for the first time since Arthur came. Arthur stares into the gaping dark hole between the teeth; no tongue, just scar tissue.

"Oh, Merlin," he breathes. The man closes his mouth again.

The longer Owen looks, the harder it is for him to figure out what's going on. He watches the two embrace again, planting kisses to whatever patch of skin they can reach, until they fall into each other's arms and stay like that, holding each other on the stone floor. In the flickering shadows of Owen's torch, Arthur and the man's limbs are almost indistinguishable from one another, so closely are they embracing. There's no way the man is Merlin, Arthur's husband who was kidnapped along with their baby. There's also no way that Owen, himself, is the baby Gareth. It's impossible, because Owen is Mother and Father's child and has been in Doria his whole life, he's never even been to Camelot. Neither has the man, he's been in the dungeons for years, there's no way…

Owen can't think of any other explanation for why Arthur and the man would be holding each other so tightly, or why their rings would match, and yet he can't believe it because it can't be true.

It can't be true.

After what seems like hours the two finally break apart, the better to see each other clearly.

"These chains," Arthur murmurs, running his fingers along the metal. As he does so, the man notices the bandages around Arthur's torso, so bloodied now that it's running down his skin. He lets out a shout of alarm.

"It's nothing," Arthur says dismissively, almost laughing, but his voice is shaking and his skin is too pale. He seems not to care, too focused on the man in front of him to think about the wound in his side.

"He got stabbed in battle," Owen tells the man, "He fought the Saxons off."

The man looks disapprovingly up at Arthur, but the look is gone almost instantly to give way to relief.

"I'll get plenty of rest later, I promise," Arthur says, "I have no intention of leaving you now that I've just found you again."

The man smiles at that, then looks to Owen and extends his hand.

Owen looks at it. The fingers are dirty and gnarled and discolored, but that has never stopped him from taking it before. Curiosity used to make him take it, examine it for clues about who this man is, what he might have done to get him locked up here for seven years. He wanted to offer comfort, too, those days when the man was too sad to play, or when Owen was crying and wanted comfort himself. The hand was extended as an offering of friendship, or a plea for companionship. Now the man who Arthur is calling Merlin is offering something else, something far larger than Owen ever thought he'd have to confront. This man, who has been kept silent and restrained all these years, is claiming to be Owen's father, not his friend. to take his hand would be to accept that he is right, that Owen was stolen away as a child, that his Mother is a bad woman who steals away children and husbands.

Owen shakes his head hard and backs away.

"Owen," Arthur says, extending a hand of his own, "I know this is overwhelming for you–"

"You're not my father!" Owen interrupts, "Father is my father, Mother is my mother!"

"She stole you," Arthur says calmly, as the man from the cell shakes his head, "I'm sorry, Owen."

"You're lying!" Owen screams, and Arthur and the man who can't be Merlin have time to look upset before the sound of Sir Gwaine's voice sounds down the corridor.

"Arthur! The guard is coming!"

At that shout both the man and Arthur stiffen, and Owen is reminded that Mother knows now, that Owen has disobeyed her and gone into the dungeon.

"On no," He whispers, not wanting to go upstairs, but the men are rising to their feet and, hands clasped, are making their way towards the stairs.

Owen trails behind, torn between believing that Arthur will keep his promise and protect him from Mother's wrath, and his anger at him for daring to accuse her of kidnapping.

With each step Arthur grunts from the pain in his side. At the first it's quiet, but the second is almost a roar, stumbling over his feet.

The man from the cell instantly throws his arm around Arthur's middle and places Arthur's around his shoulders. Soon Arthur is being all but dragged along, the man doubled over under with the effort of supporting another body and his own lack of familiarity with walking more than ten steps at a time.

The sound of shouting echoes, getting louder as the trio gets nearer to the light. There are two Camelot knights at the top of the stairs now, swords drawn as a group of Dorian guards try to fight their way past. With a chill Owen recognizes Mother's angry voice, screaming somewhere in the hall beyond.

"...Get your hands off me, you have no right! Guards, guards!"

She stops abruptly as, with a groan of agony, Arthur and the man appear over the shoulders of the Camelot knights.

"Merlin!" Sir Gwaine exclaims with joy, a bright smile crossing his face as he sees the man from the dungeon emerge into the light.

Owen peeks out from behind them, then gasps with the beginnings of anger as he sees that two other Camelot knights are holding onto Mother's arms, keeping her backed up against a wall, while two more fight off the Dorian guards trying to free her.

"Mother!" Owen shouts, fear forgotten, replaced by a blinding rage.

"Owen!" Mother shouts, and when she says his name she doesn't sound angry with him at all, "My darling, come here."

Owen pushes past the wounded king of Camelot to rush towards Mother, but one of the knights grabs his arm to pull him back.

"You won't lay a hand on him-"

"No!" Owen jerks his arm out of the knight's grip and runs towards Mother, arms outstretched, and hugs her around the middle. "Stop hurting her!"

The commotion ceases. Both the Dorian and the Camelot soldiers lower their swords as Owen glares around at them, still hugging his Mother, and screams.

"Let go of her! She is my Mother! Go away!"

He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes with all his might, hugging Mother tighter, and suddenly the knights holding her are pushed aside as an invisible force hits them like a punch to the gut. As soon as they're gone the Dorian guards step in, swords drawn, daring the knights to try again to grab her.

"Oh, Owen, my baby, thank you," Mother croons, wrapping her arms around him now that she's free.

Owen buries his face into her stomach.

"They said you're not my real mother," he sobs, muffled by her dress, "King Arthur said that he's my real father and you kidnapped me and the man in the dungeons. You wouldn't do that, Mother, you wouldn't!"

"Arthur is a liar," Mother says fiercely.

"Don't listen to her, Owen."

"Shut up!" Owen shouts.

Apparently he didn't have to shout to get people to be quiet. As he does, there's a loud, pained grunt and a thump, and then all of the Camelot knights are rushing to the doorway of the staircase.

"Sire, your wound," Says one of the knights that was introduced as Elyan, "Someone fetch a physician, get him to a bed!"

King Arthur has collapsed, skin pale as the moon and covered in a thick layer of sweat, the blood too bright soaking through his bandages and pooling on the floor and onto the clothing of the man from the dungeons, who has Arthur in his arms and is frantically fluttering his hand over the wound, low rumbles coming out of his throat and eyes flickering with gold.

"It won't work, Merlin," Arthur croaks, lifting a hand to still the man's movements, "Not with the iron."

"I can get them off," Elyan says, "There's a smithy in the market just outside the castle, I need tools."

"I'll go," Says Sir Leon, and runs off without pausing to place his sword back in its sheath.

"Guards," Mother says, voice low but steady, "Whatever you do, do not let him take the chains off of that man."

"Why not?" Owen asks, raising his now tearstained face to look curiously at the chains and cuffs still on the man's wrists.

"He will hurt me," Mother answers him, "And he will hurt you too, Owen, because he's a bad, bad man. He hates me and all of Doria. I was merciful when I locked him up. I should have killed him."

"What did he do?"

"Something terrible," Mother whispers, voice shaking now as she watches the man, still desperately trying to heal Arthur, shouting as his eyes flare golden and once again flicker back to blue. Mother must be right, Owen thinks, for her face is white with fear, eyes bright with worry, and he doesn't think he's ever seen her look so afraid.

"I'll protect you, Mother," Owen promises, "He won't hurt you."

Mother says nothing, only continues to hold him and watch.

Rushing footsteps echo through the hall as Sir Leon returns, panting hard. He carries an armful of the blacksmith's tools- hammers, tongs, shears- and holds them out towards Sir Elyan as he approaches.

Only there's more people than just Leon. Owen's eyes widen in fear as he sees what looks like a crowd following behind, so many that their footsteps shake the floor beneath them, faces grim and determined. They are the Camelot knights, each and every one of them, each with their swords drawn.

"Mother," Owen whimpers.

"Run!" Mother cries, and she pushes him away from her, away from the knights, to run ahead of her.

Owen runs, heart pounding, skin vibrating with fear, as Mother follows behind. He runs as fast as he can, faster than he's ever run in his entire small little life, fast because the world is ending.

They don't get far. The clatter of the knights fighting the Dorian soldiers ring through the castle, but suddenly above the noise there's a burst of power so immense that it knocks Owen forward onto the hard stone floor, Mother falling close behind. It rolls over Owen, wave after wave of hot golden light. Owen screams, covering his eyes from the assault as the light keeps coming, so hot it almost burns his skin.

Suddenly as it came it stops. The light dims back to the cool morning sun, and although it is no longer hot, Owen can still feel power and magic crackling in the air all around him.

He sits up and looks behind him.

Already people are being pushed aside, Camelot and Dorian alike, as King Arthur and the man from the dungeons emerge from the crowd of soldiers.

No trace of illness or injury shows on Arthur's body anymore. The bandages have fallen away, revealing only dried blood smeared across a torso with no wound. His skin is no longer pale, he is no longer weak, but he stands with authority in every limb. Beside him stands the man, no longer chained, eyes shining so golden that it appears as if the entire sun is contained inside of him, bursting to get out.

Standing upright, hand in hand, both of their eyes are fixed only on Owen, trembling on the floor away from them.

"Seize her," Arthur orders calmly, "Get her away from him."

At first Owen is too shocked, too frightened, to do anything but watch as two Camelot knights stalk towards Mother, scrambling backwards on the stone floor of the corridor, and grab her by the arms.

"No!" she exclaims, and her shout unfreezes Owen from his frozen spot on the floor.

"No!" He shouts, launching himself towards her, "Stop it! Don't touch her!"

"We won't hurt her, Owen," Arthur says as the knights begin to haul Mother away. Owen chases after her, fists raised.

"Owen!" Mother cries, reaching towards him even as she is dragged down the corridor, "Owen, please, whatever they tell you, they're lying to you-"

"Get her away from him!" Arthur roars.

A pair of arms encircle Owen and pull him back from his pursuit of his mother, lifting him into the air even as he kicks and screams with all his might.

"Mother!"

She's out of sight now, dragged around a corner. The last thing Owen sees of her is her eyes, desperate and frightened and needing to be protected.

"Mother!"

Owen pushes and pushes his magic out, out, out, but the blast from before must have taken all the power in him because the knight holding onto him doesn't loosen his hold.

"We won't hurt her," the knight assures, and Owen recognizes the voice as Sir Gwaine's.

"You're a liar!" Owen screeches, aiming a kick at Gwaine's stomach but missing. "I hate you! Guards! Save Mother! You have to save Mother!"

But there are too many Camelot knights in the corridor now, so that the feeble Dorian guards have already surrendered by the time Owen calls for their help.

"Owen," Comes a soft voice, and then Arthur's face is close to Owen's, along with the man from the dungeons, the man who isn't Merlin, who isn't Owen's father and isn't his friend, the man who did a very very bad thing and was allowed to live because Mother is merciful and good.

I promise you we will not hurt her, Owen. You have my word.

The voice is gentle and sounds like rainfall hitting cobblestones, or the sound bird's wings make when they launch into flight. It makes Owen stop struggling, because it came from inside of his head.

The man from the dungeons is looking at Owen steadily, solemnly, and tenderly.

She will not be harmed.

Owen stares into the gold-blue of the man's eyes, no longer masked by a layer of milky-white film, and sees a demon.

Owen screams.

"You're a liar!"

He kicks again, this time aiming for the liars in front of him, the treacherous king of Camelot and the other man who want to take him away from Doria, who want to hurt Mother, who want to tear Owen's world apart.

"You're a liar! I hate you! I hate you! I'll kill you! Mother!"

"Take him somewhere safe," Arthur commands even as he backs away from Owen's wild kicks.

So Owen too is taken away, trapped in the arms of Sir Gwaine. He screams for Mother until that's all he can hear, and as Gwaine takes him into Owen's own chambers and shuts the door, his screams break down into sobs.