A/N: New followers, new favourites, new reviews! Thanks so much to you all for taking the time to comment or just to tell me you want to know what happens next! It's what I need! This update has taken far too long because I can only write late at night, and these last days I was simply too exhausted, so I played Merlin the Game instead on FB – I guess you will see that when you read the chapter ;) It's good to know you liked meeting Aithusa again. I would love to see fan art for the scene where Merlin comforts her! I'm no good at all at drawing so I'll stick to writing. Here I go – welcome someone who has been absent for far too long! :D – Hunith's Spirit

Chapter 10 – The Raven Rises

'Have not your worships', replied Don Quixote, 'read the annals and histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received allover that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to re turn to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a raven?'

Don Quixote, Part I, Section XIII.

Although the spot he has chosen affords him a splendid view not only over the main courtyard, but over the upper town as well, he feels rather ill at ease, and keeps turning his head around, looking out for danger. He isn't sure why he came here; to the west tower roof, watching the preparations for the ceremony that's about to begin seemed as good an idea as any, to while away the hours until Merlin returns to the city and he can set to work again, but now he's wishing that he had tried to overcome his inexplicable fear of the open land, and followed him. Hot shame fills his heart, because he has been afraid of distancing himself too far from the castle. True, it may have been dangerous for a creature as small as he is right now, but still he's ashamed. It's almost too much for his heart – such a pathetically small heart, but it's the one he has got right now and he's determined to make the most of it. It's not the first tight spot he's been in, after all, although he has to admit it's really tough this time. Imagine being forced to watch your own funeral! As his body is missing, it's not even an actual funeral but these silly rites where they burn an old cloak of his, a sword he may or may not have used; at least he doesn't recognize it from up here, and a shield. Not a dented one with a painted Pendragon crest from the armoury, which he has actually fought with, but a ridiculous ceremonial shield that has never seen battle, coated with gold and polished to a glistening sheen. Where's the point in burning that stuff? And watching his beloved standing stony-faced and proud before the people, presenting a brave front no matter what so they see she will make a good queen – that, while certainly not pointless, is plain heartbreaking to him. Not as heartbreaking, though, as Merlin's farewell to him. Imagine hovering over your own body while your stupid git of a servant keeps blubbering away and you think, this is it, it's over, and I never told him, I never told him what he really –

He shifts his weight carefully onto his other spindly black leg. Merlin….just thinking the name fills him with longing. It's only been a couple of days, but it seems a lifetime to him, so separate is he now from all the people he loves, so removed from the goings-on of his kingdom. He's longing to be with them again, to partake in their human lives again, to be Arthur again, and be looked upon with Gwen's loving eyes and caressed by her tender hand, and to hear the cheers of his knights and his people. But most of all, he's longing to stand before Merlin and look him in the eye, openly, at last, as the equals they in truth always were. He wants to shake hands with him and ruffle his wiry dark hair, to hug him and – and sob and say thank you again, and again, and also to punch him hard in his face and call him a blundering, lying, dim-witted idiot for being so reckless. What was the bloody fool thinking, a sorcerer, playing such a dangerous game of hide-and-seek right under Uther's nose?! He could have died, could have burnt at the stakes, be drowned, or fed to the crows for no other reason than this: that for all the dangers they have braved together, for all the adventures they went through side by side, and for all the laughter they have shared, the pigheaded moron still wouldn't trust him enough to let him in on his secret.

Yet, if he is honest – and it really doesn't make any sense not to be honest at this point, what with him having feathers and being thought dead and all that – so, if he is completely honest, it hasn't been that much of a surprise to learn of Merlin's…powers. There has always been something about him; he's been thinking that right from the start, when that pale, scrawny boy with those ludicrous ears sticking out from under his shock of inky hair was foolish enough to take him on in the market, in full knowledge of his, Arthur's, fighting skills. Or, so his private verdict even then, courageous enough. When the clumsy youth had saved him from the crazy witch's dagger a little while later, completely ignoring the danger he put himself in, he thought it had been a classic case of fortune favouring fools, but still, it was extremely brave. He may have been something of a…well, a dollop head those days, but he was no idiot. He knew only too well, even then, how easy it is to act heroic if you have a hero's training under your belt, after all; but it takes much more courage than that to throw your life into the balance without so much as a chainmail to protect your neck. So despite the show of mild contempt he put on when his father decreed that Gaius' ward was to be the Prince's new servant, from that day onward he respected the strange boy who seemed so stupid in some respects, and so very knowledgeable, if not wise, even, in others.

He has the urge to smile as he thinks back. They were both so young then, and both, he realizes with a start, in dire need of a true friend. He had been pampered, and bored, but also more than a little op pressed by the burden of duty that he has been carrying since the day he was born – an explosive mixture – and as a consequence, started bullying those whose station prevented them from standing up to him. And Merlin – he had been a right country bumpkin with the laudable, if pretty naïve, conviction that it was his duty to try and fight against every case of injustice that crossed his path, even if it would get himself into trouble. And that's how it began, the unlikely friendship between the prince and his servant, with the realization that they were both prepared not to run away from duty, to stand their ground and take on destiny's challenge. Both their voices echo through his head, reverberating in his little skull.

I thought I told you to get out of my sight.

Don't fight Valiant in the final tomorrow. He'll use the shield against you.

I know.

Then withdraw. You have to withdraw.

Don't you understand? I can't withdraw. The people expect their prince to fight. How can I lead men into battle if they think I'm a coward?

Valiant will kill you! You fight, you die.

Then I die.

How can you go out there and fight like that?

Because I have to. It's my duty.

He remembers the grave, wide-eyed expression of wonder and recognition in Merlin's face when he said that, how he was clearly thinking that perhaps the prince wasn't as much of a prat as he'd seemed, and how he, Arthur, knew then that they had reached common ground there. Merlin had come back to get him to withdraw, although he ordered him not to. It was a brave thing to do, but it was also born of a sense of duty, and that was something he could understand. Thus, he gradually came to tolerate, then to accept the other boy. And one day he realized just how much he enjoyed his company, and that their banter was one of the high points of his day, and how refreshing it was to have at least one person around who spoke his mind and not what he thought the prince might want to hear, and who wasn't afraid of standing up to him if need be. He admired this simple peasant boy's candour and courage and wanted him to see the better side of himself too. That had made him accompany him to his native Ealdor when it was attacked by the barbarian. True, he liked to see justice done to brutes like that Kanan, and his heart went out to the people of Ealdor, whose own king didn't give a damn about their plight, but first and foremost he wanted to help his friend – just as Merlin's extremely per ceptive mother had told her son in a conversation he had, by chance, overheard through the open win dow. As he listened, everything danced with joy inside of him, even while being slightly amazed at himself , and feeling a bit silly, for caring so much about Merlin – "a mere servant", as his father liked to say. But he wasn't his father.

Uther had taken great care have his only son raised as a knight, and grow up with knightly values, and to great effect – greater, maybe, than the king had bargained for. For while Arthur had enjoyed showing off his fighting skills and fooling around like the next young rascal of noble birth with way too much time on his hands and a shiny sword, he had never quite shared his father's belief that a noble birth entitles a man – or a woman – to a life of privilege. A knight, however highly born, won't last a day without the abilities and character traits that are crucial to a life dedicated to serving the kingdom: courage, loyalty, outstanding swordsmanship, honour, quick thinking, endurance, patience, as well as a healthy dose of caution to counterbalance a liking for adventure. A knight is not simply granted the respect of his comrades because of who his parents are. He has to win it. Arthur was still a small boy wielding a wooden sword when he learned to judge people for their actions and achievements, instead of for their birth. And this perspective didn't change when he got older. His father, always busy ruling the kingdom or defending its borders, had neither the time nor the patience neces sary for humouring a young child, and thus Arthur grew up without Uther's contempt and disregard for the weak and the dependent, the small people whose lives never change the course of history, but without whom all the mighty kingdoms in the world would turn to dust. So it was inevitable that he would be drawn towards this underfed village boy who had saved his live, more than once, and whom he privately thought every inch as noble as the Camelot knights, if no good with a sword. Who would have believed then that one day he would kill their mortal enemy with one clean thrust and thus bring peace to the land at last?! The thought makes him want to grin broadly with pride (It was me who taught him the basics!), but in lack of a proper mouth, he just clicks his beak, and winces – or would have winced, if birds were able to – when the noise travels round the courtyard as a clear-cut clack, echoing off the slanted roofs of the castle keep.

Several heads look up (mostly belonging to knights, who automatically begin to scan the courtyard for the source of the sound and possible danger), but most of the assembled folks just stare ahead, not wishing to be distracted in their tribute of grief and respect for the deceased king. Arthur sits perfectly still, trying to impersonate a raven like the others who are lured into the keep by the smell of death which permeates it, and for what feels like the hundredth time, he's wishing that could have been given another form to take on for this desperate attempt to turn his fate around. He turns his head to glance nervously at a small murder of crows that are eyeing him suspiciously from the roof of the entrance tower. Can they tell what he is? A raven impostor? Focus! he tells himself, trying to enter the trancelike state of mind that always took possession of his human body when he was fighting, to show him where to swing his sword next, but, he thinks grimly, it's not an easy thing to remember the skills of a knight when your only weapon is a raven's beak, though he has to admit that the thing is sharp. He has been able to satisfy himself on this count when he… organized provisions. It's all too much, even for him, the master of taking everything he's feeling and locking it up in a dark corner of his heart; it has been all too much, even for him, the unbeatable, quick-minded warrior: not thinking he was dying, no, he accepted the possibility of his own death long ago, when he was knighted, and not even the thought of losing Guinevere. If he died, she would know what she meant to him, he has told her time and again and their marriage was a happy one. No, it was the idea of losing his best friend, whom he has loved just as much as his wife, even before he knew what he had done for him and his kingdom, and who only got a meagre thank you from a dying man as a reward.

Of course he usually didn't acknowledge that. Men don't, do they, unless they are standing with one foot in the grave, and if the men in question happen to be servant and king it is even more out of the question to put emotions on display. So on the rare occasions he had shown his friendship more openly, it always took a matter of life and death to draw him out, and even then, their talk of friend ship had always been hypothetical, as if they weren't actually friends. How stupid that was, now he thinks about it. They are the best of friends, and he isn't – and has never been – ashamed of that, but proud, in truth. Why did he always have to hide that behind a rough manner and a list of chores for Merlin? Who did he think was fooled by that ? Nobody, and certainly not Merlin himself. It just was understood what their relationship truly was, but it wouldn't have hurt to let it show more, or say thank you before, and not only when he was breathing his last with a sword in his side…he thought he had all the time in the world, he had felt utterly invincible, when he knew all too well how it can all be over in a flash, and then the chance to say the things that really mattered is gone forever. Just like that. But not now. Not this time, not yet.

He waves his arms…no, his wings, he's flapping his wings, let's be precise, he thinks, lest he forgets why he is here and that he isn't actually a bird. Time is ticking away, valuable time, time he should be making good use of. He has actually wasted far too much of it already on becoming acquainted with this strange little body, and mastering flight, which could be viewed as a kind of boon but in actuality is terrifying, and distracting, and he cannot afford to be distracted now. He has to stay as focused as he ever has been, and ignore the tantalizing itch in the tips of his right wing, the yearning for cold hard steel to clasp. Focus! he commands again. There's nothing he can do right now than to wait until this…event is over and he can try to approach Guinevere again. No, not try. He is going to approach her and give her some clues as to his identity, and the enterprise at hand. She is the answer to this riddle, if what the strange creatures at the lake – the Sidhe – is true: that only the one who is true kindred spirit to his own, the half that makes himself whole, can yet save him. Not alone, naturally. Merlin will help her, with his magic. Already he has worked out that he must find the dragon, Morgana's dragon, all by himself! He will visit him again too, when he's back. He will be back, because there can't be many things on this earth that could hold up Merlin, he now knows; ridiculous as it seems, for his old friend still looks as if a faint flurry might blow him away, but if he is to be believed (and again, there is absolutely no point anymore in not believing), he was the sorcerer who defeated an entire army of Saxon soldiers single-handedly. No, Merlin can take care of himself; that much has been clear long before his confession. He may have been constantly cracking jokes about Merlin hiding when the fighting started, but what he said to him on the eve of the battle Camlann was true: he always thought he was the bravest man he ever met. And between the two of them, his friend and his wife – assisted, perhaps, by Gaius' vast amount of knowledge and quick mind – will figure it out. They have to. It's his one and only chance to turn his fate around. Merlin is so quick and so observant (a quality inherited from his mother, Hunith, apparently) that he wonders how on earth he managed to pull off the clumsy servant pretense so well for so long, even with Gaius in on it…!

It's weird, how thinking of Merlin is almost more painful than watching Gwen in her funeral attire, a high-cut simple dress (now that's out of character!), blood-red in honour of Camelot. She is so serene, so self-possessed, that she seems less than life-like to him, more like a picture, like a…a beautiful embroidery on a tapestry, precious, truthfully rendered, but stiff, unmoving, inflexible. He knows it's unfair to think that; he has seen how she cried when he sat on the window sill of their bedroom, but he is her husband! Her own true love! Shouldn't there be some kind of connection between them? Doesn't she sense his presence; can't she tell he is near? He knows she is in pain, that grief must be numbing every other sensation, but still - she is so quick in giving up on him!

Merlin, now – Merlin isn't. Oh no.

He has almost solved the riddle, he's sure of that. He may not know or guess the truth yet, but he's convinced that he, Arthur, is still alive (well, only just, if one can call this existence a life), and he's also aware that the bird that's stalking him is not just any raven. How difficult can it be to put two and two together? After the first violent rush of grief, which he witnessed, confused, stricken, floating above Lake Avalon, and his own lifeless body, Arthur could literally feel hope creeping back into his friend's heart. He doesn't know how he could tell that, but apparently that's one of the things that happen to you when your soul gets separated from your body: it is as if he can see right into Merlin's head. But then he has been able to do that even before all this. Yes, he has even then known exactly how Merlin's brain works, known when he would object to a mission because of the dangers, what offends and what pleases and what upsets him, when he seems to be up to something – which has constantly been the case and doesn't he finally know just why?! And he knows Merlin's single-minded determination to pull through, no matter what the cost would be for himself, just to protect him. When Merlin had openly said that to him one day, with only the slightest hint of cockiness – I'll be at your side, where I always am, protecting you – he had answered with his customary sarcasm, knowing full well that every word was true, only not the exact and literal way in which they were true. He has al ways been at his side, and he has always relied on him. He trusts him. He will figure it out. Or he'll put him in the stocks. Oh well, jokes aren't any fun if you can't say them aloud! What wouldn't he give to be out on one of their hunting trips in the Darkling Woods with Merlin again, squatting on the mossy ground, sharing stories and laughter and simple food cooked over the campfire! Well, it shall come to pass again! When he has made it through this mess. It's a promise to keep, something to edge him on, and he is going to keep it. He always kept his promises, after all.

There, the memorial ceremony down in the yard has started. A rather well-equipped figure, Sir Geoffrey by the look of him, is taking up his position before the people as the trumpets are heard with the harsh blare that signals the death of a warrior. Members of the city guard's fire troop are placed near the stake with lit torches, ready to light it. Guinevere is still rooted to the spot, and now Gaius is standing beside her, looking grave, and unbearably sad, hands folded across his chest. He is dressed in a fine robe, which is red like Guinevere's, but embroidered in gold with leaves of the most common healing plants, and of course he recognizes the garment: a gift from himself in honour of the physi cian's birthday. He had asked Merlin what to get him, and Merlin had smiled and told him Gaius hated going to the market to shop for new clothes – "folks have taken to calling him the Threadbare Physician!" When Guinevere heard that, she went down to her favourite dressmaker's stall to choose the fabric, and sewn and embroidered the robe with her own hand, using an old one Merlin had sneaked from Gaius' wardrobe as pattern. He remembers the telltale glistening in the old man's eyes when he opened the present and lifted the robe out of the silk sheets Guinevere had wrapped it in. The same glittering brightens his sea-green eyes now and his chest heaves as he sobs, and Arthur's black eyes blink in compassion when Guinevere now turns her head to face Gaius, and reaches out to take the old man's hand into her own. So they remain, hand in hand, her long dark hair dancing across his deeply lined face in a soft breeze, mingling with his snowy strands. They look like father and daughter, grieving for a husband, grieving for a son.

It's fitting, he thinks. Gaius has cared for him since his birth, tended to all his small and greater wounds, praised his small victories and offered paternal advice and affection when his father was away on kingly duties. In a way, Gaius has been like a father to him – which would make Merlin, his ward, the brother the young prince never had. And like a brother he shall be to him again.

When the traitor's blade had pierced his body, his first thought had been that he'd done it again, had again blindly trusted the wrong person, and that Merlin, again, had known what was going to happen, had tried to caution him, but he didn't want to listen, had callously disregarded Merlin's counsel. How hard must it have been for him, to know so much without being able to act on that knowledge! To walk the thin line between doing what needed to be done and not revealing his secret! To dance around the changing moods of a king who didn't always take it nicely to be told that he's wrong – oh yes, he knows how he has been – and most astoundingly of all: being content to live the life of a servant, doing the laundry, sharpening swords, enduring the occasional insult whilst being able to blast away everyone around you with the flash of an eye! If only Merlin could have trusted him that last little bit more – if only he had just listened to his warnings! Then, perhaps, he would have been spared to feel the piece of the traitor's cursed swordslowly cutting his soul away from his body until it be came lifeless, dead to all intents and purposes but in truth only left behind like a suit of armour to be repaired while its wearer is looking for the blacksmith who knows how to mend it.

His keen raven's gaze moves back to Guinevere again, Gaius to her left side and Sir Leon to her right, and then to the men behind them: the knights of Camelot in chainmail and crimson cloaks, Percival towering above all of them, as usual, in spite of his bowed head. They are standing proud, showing everyone that Camelot is not weakened by the death of its king. The bright afternoon sun is reflected dazzlingly by the polished blades of the swords girded to their sides, and suddenly an idea flits across his mind.

He can't say that he is very knowledgeable about the workings of magic, but as a boy he loved to hear stories about it and had often sneaked down to the servants' quarters to listen to their tales of witches and magical beasts. And there's one detail in particular that's coming back to him now: that while the eye can be fooled easily by sorcery, so that a magical disguise remains undetected, it is possible to discern the true appearance of anything enchanted when said thing is reflected in a smooth surface, a mirror, or a puddle, or a polished piece of metal. His current form is the work of Sidhe magic, to help him recruit his friends for the rescue mission at hand, so it should be detectable in that way too, shouldn't it? Maybe he can give old Gaius a hint? The fairy lord said that he won't have much more than seven of "what humans call days" to have his spirit (whatever that was, exactly – it's tough to do this without Gaius) reunited with his body, and it's the third day now, so there isn't that much time left. Plus, it won't get any less risky – and they are going to set fire to his symbolic pyre any moment now, then it will be too late. Time to speed things up a little!

He raises his head into the breeze, assessing the air currents swirling around his glossy coat, and with a loud, rasping caw – to mark the beginning of the fight, in lieu of his signature sword swing – he leaps from the stone cornice where he has been perched and into a deep, steep dive right into the middle of the courtyard. The whoosh of air in his ears is exhilarating, and so is the relief of being finally active. He makes straight for Gaius, who is placed only a few steps away from the heap of wood, directly opposite the gilded shield. His eyes find the gold embroidery on the chest pocket of Gaius' robe, and also the more muted glittering of the eyeglasses for which Guinevere has specially stitched the pocket on. Before the physician can realize what's happening to him, he has pulled out the glasses with his skilful beak and flown over to the shield. Holding on to the slippery frame, he is hovering in front of the mirrorlike sheet of metal with dozens of delirious prayers resounding in his head.

The solemn atmosphere has changed in a heartbeat. Several of the knights have drawn their swords, but remain frozen to the spot, as unsure as ever how to deal with obvious sorcery – how could he ever think that Camelot could fight evil magic with sword and crossbow alone, wielded by warriors who don't know the first thing about enchantments? He is glad of their faltering, though; it gives him a few more minutes to achieve his goal. Almost standing in the air, like a kingfisher in mourning, his black beady eyes rest on Gaius (whose head has followed the black flash that took his glasses with an expression of utter disbelief), willing him to see, willing him to understand.

Time is slowing down…his moving wings seem almost stagnant as he holds his breath... and he waits... and waits... and waits...until the old man finally, finally gives a violent start and stares at him with his eyebrow raised and his mouth a perfect round o, and he knows exactly what is in the physician's mind: that Merlin has been right, again, and from far away words in Gaius' deep voice are travelling towards him that he doesn't understand, but he sees the old man's long white hair flying as he turns toward the bewildered knights with raised arms, warning them off.

When he turns around again, his bright aquamarine eyes are full of solemn wonder, and elation, and he moves his head slightly in a subtle nod, smiling at him!

Weak with relief he loses his hold of the eyeglasses, which land on the cobbled stones and shatter spectacularly into a hundred pieces as he rises high into the air again, in direction of the physician's quarters. Looking back in flight, he can see Gaius, motionless, his gaze following him, while around him in the courtyard people look at each other, baffled by the queer spectacle they have just witnessed, and then all hell breaks loose.