"What is that you're reading?"
Merlin looked up from the page and squinted through the shadows. Bedivere was perched at the table, a whetstone in hand and a brace of daggers laid out in front of him. He didn't know if the knight was trying to intimidate him, but the quiet scrich of blades being sharpened was a sound so familiar that Merlin had hardly noticed it. Really, there was nothing he found intimidating about Bedivere. Not the crooked nose that spoke of too many fistfights or the unmatching eyes- one a muddy brown, the other an icy blue - that gave the man an unhinged look. Not even his height, nearly half a head taller than Merlin, gave the sorcerer pause. No, Merlin didn't find Bedivere either intimidating or irritating, regardless of how Bedivere might want to be seen. It was the fact that he was there, that even after all this time, the people of Camelot were still willing to believe the worst of him.
But what stung the most was that Arthur had ordered his confinement. For a moment, Arthur had doubted his loyalty. Merlin had seen it in his eyes, that flicker of doubt and a spark of anger when it seemed the king's faith in his servant was wavering, shaken by an enemy's allegations.
He was trying to put it all out of his mind.
And Bedivere was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.
Merlin sighed and turned the page. "It's a book," he said, hoping the knight would lose interest in him and go back to sharpening the daggers.
"Aye, I see it's a book. I'm not stupid," Bedivere said, giving Merlin a flat stare made disconcerting by his oddly-hued eyes. "What sort of book?"
"An ancient history of the Five Kingdoms. Why? Are you going to report back all my doings to your master?" Merlin couldn't bring himself to even say Pynell's name. "Last I'd checked, history wasn't a forbidden subject."
"You think I want to be here any more than you do?" Bedivere snorted and shoved the daggers back into their worn sheaths. "On a fine summer's day like this, when I'm finally back in Camelot proper? There's a tavern I haven't seen the inside of in the better part of five years and a couple of barmaids who might still remember me fondly. And where am I? Stuck in here, watching you read books like this." He poked at one of the volumes Merlin had left on the table earlier. "Leefur du Carefeerden? What's that supposed to be?"
Merlin gave him a blank look. "What?"
"This." The knight held up a thick book whose cover had once been black, but was turning gray with age and wear. Warm spots of light reflected off embossed gold lettering, revealing the book's identity.
"Llyfr Du Caerfyrddin?" Merlin asked.
"If that's what the title's supposed to say. It's gibberish to me." Bedivere put the book down but didn't move his hand away. He traced the flaking gold on the cover and the the empty spots where jewels had once decorated it. "What's it about?"
Merlin sighed and marked his page. Apparently this was going to be an ongoing conversation and not a single, idle query. He leaned back in the window seat and shifted so he could see the knight without cranking his neck around so much. "It's an old book of prophecy, if you must know. It belongs to Gaius."
"A book of prophecy? Shouldn't this have been destroyed in the purge?" Bedivere's fingers pulled away from the book as though he was afraid it was going to come alive and bite him.
"Well, it's hardly my fault the knights of Camelot couldn't find a book in a library, now is it?" Merlin snapped, ignoring how Bedievere's lips quirked upward into a wry grin.
Merlin loved books and the knowledge they held. He had been grateful for Gaius's ability to squirrel forbidden tomes away before Uther could burn them. But that particular book, the Llyfr Du Caerfyrddin, always sent shivers down his spine when he thought too hard about it. It was a book of prophecies, so it should have been helpful. But they were prophecies that spoke of a man who was destined to end his days wandering through the forest as a madman. The description of the man was far too much like Merlin for his own comfort. Even the name was similar. Myrddin...
He had put it away on a high, lonely shelf in the hope that he and Gaius would forget about it. He must have grabbed it by mistake this morning when he'd raided Gaius's collection in search of some reference that would lead him to the identity of the Summer Country. Of all the things he and Morgana had prophesied, the mention of that land troubled him the most. Neither he nor Gaius had ever heard of it. So far Merlin hadn't found it listed in any of the books in their chambers.
Perhaps if he could go to the library, he would find the Summer Country listed in a crumbling history book or drawn on an old map. But that would have to wait for friendlier days.
Assuming he wasn't executed or exiled first.
"You're a strange man, sorcerer." Bedivere rose from the table and stepped away from the shrinking patch of sunlight, moving deeper into the shadows. Merlin tracked his movements by the soft scrape of boots against the floor. He walked slowly, strolling through the room like he wanted to memorize every detail. Past the table of jars of herbs and medicines and away, nearly to the door to Merlin's room then back again, coming to a halt just outside the little puddle of sunlight. He kept himself where he could see Merlin, but Merlin would hardly be able to see him.
"I have a name."
"Aye, you do. They call you all sorts of things out there. Sorcerer. That they spit out like they're talking about a nest of vipers. Arthur's Shadow. I've always heard you called that, even before the magic business. Not sure why." Merlin saw Bedivere's outline as he leaned against the wall and heard the faint creak of well-worn leather and the rustle of linen sleeves.
"Probably because I had to follow Arthur everywhere. A servant doesn't always get called by his proper name," Merlin said. He opened the book again, turning his gaze back to the pages in a bid to ignore Bedivere.
The knight persisted. "There are some who call you catamite."
Merlin's fingers twitched against the book's spine. He kept his face impassive. "And there are some who will repeat any lie they like." He glared up at Bedivere as best he could, still only able to pick out his outline and the whites of his eyes. "Is there a purpose to this, or are you always an insufferable ass?"
Bedivere laughed. "Peace, little brother," he said, his tone bordering on mockery. "I'm only trying to figure out what sort of man you are. In the south, far away from here, we hear the most fantastical tales. Can you really fly?"
"If I could, do you think I'd stay in here with you?"
"I think if you meant to leave, you'd have been gone by now. But I'll take that as a 'no'." Bedivere hooked a chair with a foot and pulled it toward the light. With a careless flip of his shaggy hair, the knight flopped down, stretched his legs out, and rested one booted foot on the opposite end of Merlin's bench. "They say you nearly burned Blackheath to the ground. Is that true?"
"Is this your roundabout way of interrogating me? Trying to find out if I've committed some great crime that I should be hanged for?" Merlin glared in the knight's direction. Bedivere was still in the shadows. The contrast between light and dark made him hard to see. But there was a way to take care of that, and with his already frayed temper threatening to break, his magic was rising, unbidden. "Leoht," he whispered.
Every candle in the room flared to life and a globe of pale blue appeared in Merlin's hand. With a flick of the wrist, he sent the ball to float above Bedivere's head, bathing him with cool light. The knight went cross-eyed as he stared up at the little orb, destroying unflappable air he was trying to give off.
"What's the matter? Don't like the light?" Merlin asked, trying- and failing- to keep a grin from tugging at his lips.
The discombobulated look fell away from Bedivere's face as he scowled back at Merlin. "The light's fine. It's the magic that's weird. Suppose I should be glad you didn't set me ablaze." He settled back into the chair. "So what's the truth about Blackheath, then? That was the wildest of all the tales. They say you set fire to the castle and opened up the skies to summon lightning and thunder loud enough to make the ground shake. They say every crow within ten miles of that castle fell out of the sky, dead. They also say you died and came back to life at Arthur's call."
A chill raced down Merlin's spine at the last. It was the vaguest of pale recollections, that moment when he'd seen the Cailleach's face and turned away at the last, drawn away from her by a clarion call he could neither resist nor put a name to. He wet his lips and stilled his trembling fingers. He hadn't put his half-gloves on that morning, and with his sleeves rolled up the scarring on his wrists was plain to be seen. Merlin looked away. "You'll have to ask someone else who was there. They tortured me for days and then burned me alive. My own memories of that battle are fragmentary at best."
He let it stand at that, and the quiet lengthened between them. Merlin wasn't sure what unnerved Bedivere- his answer, the stories he'd heard about Merlin's abilities, or the way the silence held out against the outside noises that should have filtered into the room. Whatever it was, Bedivere pulled his feet off the bench and shifted in the chair. The old wooden joints creaked like it was about to fall apart beneath him. The knight let out a long breath, shaking at first, then smooth. "You're a strange man, Merlin."
He bit back the sour comment that had been ready to fall from his lips. Bedivere's tone had been conciliatory. Merlin could at least not act like a bratty child in return. "So I've been told."
He managed to read another half-page before Bedivere spoke again. "They say you can see the future. Is that part true?"
"That part is true," Merlin sighed. It seemed the day was not fated to be a day for learning. He set the book aside, careful not to vent his frustration on the delicate pages. He looked up at Bedivere and was surprised by what he saw. The knight leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees with his head tilted like a curious puppy's. Under his dark thatch of sun-streaked hair, there was only curiosity in his mismatched eyes.
'Not a day for learning. But perhaps it can be a day for teaching.'
He leaned back against the bench and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms loosely around his shins. "What is it you want to know, then?"
"About what?" Bedivere's eyes widened.
"About magic," Merlin said. "Or whatever it is you're trying to dance around without bothering to say it. You're too tall to dance gracefully, and since you've already called me a freak among other things, you've done enough to insult me. We're both still here, alive and well, and we're going to be here for a while. You might as well get it off your chest."
Bedivere sat up, his back straightening against the chair's worn wood. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but no words came out. He brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose before scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I fought alongside Pynell at Tintagel last winter. The men we were fighting, the sorcerers, they fought like demons. Summoned flames out of the air and threw the men off the walls like they were brushing dust off a shelf. Our men died by the score, and still Pynell ordered us forward. Up the ladders, though they flung fire at us. Battering the gates despite the tree roots that rose up to catch the men's feet. And we fought on, in the rain and snow and blood, with the ground turning to mud beneath us. It was like fighting something out of a nightmare." Bedivere looked away, his eyes haunted.
"I don't know when the battle turned in our favor, what it was that allowed us to overrun them at last," the knight continued. "But by day's end we'd retaken the keep. When the final count was taken, they'd had just under two hundred warriors to our three thousand." Bedivere bit his lip and glanced back up at Merlin. "The old gods are real, aren't they?"
"Yes, they are." Merlin held the knight's gaze and smiled. "Did you think your one god was the only one out there?" Bedivere swallowed, but didn't answer. "The world is a bigger place than we can imagine, full of strange people and even stranger beliefs. But how are any of us to know if all gods aren't actually the same?"
"Then you're not trying to convert Arthur to the Old Religion?"
Merlin laughed. "No. Certainly not," he said, waving an apologetic hand at Bedivere. The knight's expression had grown stormy in the face of Merlin's mirth. "Sorry. I only know my own path, Bedivere. I think it would be arrogant of me to think that I could point anyone toward some greater truth."
"But these gods, they speak to you, don't they?"
"Through me." Merlin's voice was soft. "Like on a still summer's day, when you only know there was a breeze because the wind chimes rang. That's all I am. A voice in the wind. A tool of the gods. It's not a comfortable thing to be."
Bedivere leaned back in his chair. There was a thoughtful look on his face. "There are many who crave the sort of power you have."
"Truly? I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Look where it's gotten me. I am hated and feared by people all across the realm. I have been tortured and nearly executed for having magic. And even though I have Arthur's favor, he has ordered me to be confined because I have been accused of treachery. Why would any man want this life?" In that moment, Merlin wished more than anything that he could be back in the forest with the Druids, listening to Niniane sing. "If I were other than who I am, I would be far happier."
"Then why do you stay?"
"Because my place is with Arthur. Just as yours is," Merlin said.
Bedivere looked down at his hands. "I have to admit it, Merlin. You're not at all what I expected you to be."
" And you, Sir Bedivere, are not what I expected."