Chapter X: Uther's Justice

Edwin Muirden was executed at high noon the next day.

Uther insisted on viewing the execution himself. He claimed that the people had to see that their king was not cowed by a sorcerous attack so close to home, that he still stood strong against the evils of magic. Merlin secretly wondered if Uther had another motivation, if he secretly liked watching his enemies burn.

For that was Muirden's sentence: death by burning. Never mind that the sky rumbled with distant thunder or that rain had soaked the pyre wood during the night. Never mind that Muirden had already suffered so much from fire. He would burn, and it would be a slow, painful death.

Merlin's heart writhed within him as he watched the guards drag the scarred physician to his death. Edwin had clearly been beaten. The section of his face that wasn't scarred was deeply bruised, blue and black and sickly green staining his skin. He shuffled along with a limp, possibly on a broken leg.

And Merlin watched.

Muirden was not a good man. He had risked Morgana's life in his scheme to kill Uther. His attack on Merlin was self-defense, or at least close enough to self-defense that Merlin could almost forgive him for it, and the warlock couldn't blame him for wanting Uther dead. Yet risking Morgana's life so callously when she had done nothing to him, when she was a good and wonderful woman who did everything in her power to curb Uther's excesses and donated generously to the poor and was so kind to her servant Gwen, was something he could not condone.

Yet he wasn't being sentenced to death for his true crime. Instead, Uther had condemned him for sorcery and attempted regicide.

Which of those charges, Merlin wondered, merited death on slow-burning wet wood? Regicide? Sorcery? Both together? Thomas Collins had been killed by beheading.

Muirden caught sight of Merlin in the crowd. Rage flared in his eyes, rage and betrayal. He knew now that Merlin had magic, for how else could he have coaxed the Elanthia beetle from Uther's skull? He'd tried to accuse the other warlock at his farce of a trial, but for once in his life, Uther did not automatically turn on someone accused of sorcery. He understood revenge, the king had sneered. He knew perfectly well that Muirden was just looking for a way to drag his capturer down with him.

And now Muirden was looking at him, one sorcerer to another, and Merlin wanted nothing more than to look away, to cringe with shame, but he had come for a reason and he was going to do it if it killed him.

"Why?" Muirden cried silently. His voice bounced around Merlin's skull like Kilgharrah's had those first few nights in Camelot. It was thought-speech, meant for Merlin and Merlin alone. "Why?"

Just one word, but it was all that needed to be said.

Tears stung the other warlock's eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to die."

The guards had finished tying Muirden—Edwin—to the stake. Uther began blathering on about evil magic and magical evil and how he prided himself on being a just and fair king, so he was going to kill a man scarred by fire with fire, prolonging his death with damp wood. Edwin would writhe for several minutes before his body gave out.

"I don't care about me dying," Edwin cried, his mental voice saturated with anguish. "Why did you heal Uther? I could die happily knowing that that murderer was dead."

"For Arthur," Merlin whispered.

Edwin made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. He shook his head in disbelief.

"What's more important, Edwin: revenge on Uther or peace between magic and mundane?" He didn't give the other man a chance to answer. "It's peace. I think that Arthur can broker that peace if I can convince him that magic is good, and I don't think I can do that if magic kills his father and another warlock—if I—just stood aside and let that happen. He needs to trust a sorcerer for there to be peace. That's why I saved him." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You are a fool," Muirden snarled.

Merlin's eyes leaked tears. "I know. But…." He swallowed again, looked up, blinked the tears from his eyes. "But I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to see magic free. I swear to you that one day, when Arthur reigns, the ban will crumble to ashes in the breeze."

"A fool," Muirden groaned. He slumped against the stake.

"I swear it!" Merlin roared.

Uther's speech ended. He held out his hand for a long, lingering moment, and then he let it drop.

The guard lit the pyre.

Edwin cried out, unable to help himself. Then, scowling ferociously at his perceived weakness, he clamped his mouth shut. Yet he could not keep the sheer terror from his face.

"Merlin."

The other warlock looked up to Muirden's pleading gaze. "I swear it," he vowed yet again.

"I don't want to die by fire," Edwin choked out. Flames lapped at his feet. "Can you…?"

Merlin choked on a sob. "I can." It was, after all, why he had come.

"Then make it quick."

Merlin nodded. His tears flowed again, staining his cheeks. His hands trembled as he whispered the spell under his breath. "Swefne."

Edwin went limp, head lolling to the side. He wouldn't feel a thing.

Merlin let his magic flow instinctively, directing the deadly gases fire produced into Edwin's mouth and nose. From then on, it was a simple matter of keeping the healthy air away from him until he stopped breathing.

Murderer. I am a monster.

But what else could he do? It was this or let Edwin burn, and how could he subject anyone to that kind of torment?

It hurt. It was one thing to kill in the heat of battle, to defend himself and those around him, as he had done with Mary Collins. It was another thing entirely to just stand there, silent and still, feeling his magic sap the life from a fellow sorcerer. He had come here knowing that Edwin was likely to ask, knowing that no matter what happened, this death was still his fault.

The fire burned.

Rain dripped from the heavens, not nearly enough to extinguish the raging fire but just enough that Merlin's tears might have another explanation. It was dangerous to be caught sympathizing for a sorcerer.

Sometimes, it felt like everything in Camelot was dangerous. And it was—at least for him.

The crowds began to trickle away. They'd seen what there was to see, and few people had the stomach to watch a fellow human being, sorcerer or not, be scorched and roasted like a ruined poultry. Yet Merlin waited, tears mingling with rain on his cheeks, staring dully at the flames as they rendered Edwin Muirden's mortal shell to ash.

A hand touched his shoulder. Merlin jumped nearly a foot. He tried to twist around in midair, but his legs tangled beneath him and he would have fallen had Arthur not caught him.

The prince was frowning at him. Merlin swallowed, wondering if Arthur recognized the tear tracks on his face. He hoped not. Trying to look as innocent as possible, the servant followed his employer into the castle.

Arthur led him to his room, where he gestured at Merlin to pour a goblet of wine. For once, the servant obeyed without a word, handing the ruby liquid over quickly in a vain attempt to hide the shaking in his hands. Arthur looked almost surprised at Merlin's attention to duty. Frowning, he handed Merlin another goblet. "Drink."

"I don't really drink," Merlin mumbled. He couldn't afford to drink. In Ealdor, he'd sometimes imbibed just a little too much, just enough to make him tipsy, but it undermined his control over his magic. If he was stupid enough to drink more (which hadn't happened in years), he would start spouting incomprehensible prophecies. The one time he'd continued past that point, he had ended up chattering away in the Old Tongue, despite never having heard a word of that language in his entire life. At least, that was what his mother said had happened. He still couldn't remember that night.

Arthur pressed the cup into his servant's hands. "I gave you an order, Merlin," he sniffed. "As my servant, you are obligated to obey."

Merlin sighed heavily but poured himself an inch of wine. He gave it a sip and suppressed a grimace. Arthur might think that this stuff was delicious, but he firmly believed that wine was an acquired taste, one which he had not acquired.

"Why did you attend the burning, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugged. "Don't know." He winced internally at the lie, but he could hardly tell Uther Pendragon's son that he had come to offer a more merciful death.

And then he remembered his solemn vow, spoken not even half an hour ago. I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to set magic free, he had promised. What better way to start than here and now, using Edwin's death as the catalyst? It seemed fitting somehow, a last gift to his broken kin.

Merlin licked his lips, took another sip of wine to gain time. After swallowing, he murmured, "I guess I felt sorry for him."

Arthur was incredulous. "He tried to kill my father!"

"And what would you have done if he did?" Merlin asked.

"I'd have hunted him down and given him to the executioner," was the prince's prompt reply. His face darkened. "Assuming that I let him live that long."

Merlin nodded. "Exactly. You would take revenge against the person who hurt you and yours. Well, I've been talking to Gaius, and he knew Muirden's parents. They were both sorcerers, and when the Purge began, they were among the first to burn." He stared at his ruby wine. It was darker than flame, more placid, but torchlight danced across its surface. "Those scars on his face? He got them because he had to watch his mother and father die. He somehow managed to break free of the people restraining him and ran right into the fire. He tried to pull his mother away, but the guards caught up with him a moment later and dragged him away kicking and screaming. He saw his parents die, Arthur, and while that doesn't condone what he did, I just… felt sorry for him." He shrugged helplessly.

Arthur was frowning. "You're forgetting one thing, Merlin."

"What's that?"

"His parents were sorcerers, traitors to the crown and kingdom. My father is the king."

Merlin snorted. "Try explaining that to a little boy who just saw his parents set on fire for something that had been legal the week before."

Arthur's grip tightened on his goblet. "Careful, Merlin. You're skirting on treason."

This was plainly affecting Arthur. For the first time since Gaius left, Merlin felt hope prickle his heart. But should he quit while ahead or press on?

Well, his mother always said that he never knew when to quit.

"I'm not saying that he was right to try to kill the king," Merlin said. "I just wish he'd never felt the need." He shrugged, still staring into his wine. He could see Arthur's reflection in the placid liquid.

Arthur's jaw was tight, the cords in his neck a bit more pronounced than usual. "If he hadn't dabbled in magic, perhaps he could have resisted the urge."

Merlin resisted the urge to punch him. He settled for shaking his head. "I think you've got it backwards. You wanted revenge too, and you're not a sorcerer. I think that Muirden decided he wanted revenge, then used sorcery as a tool to get that revenge. Maybe using something so forbidden made him accustomed to breaking the rules, but I think that the intention was there even before the magic."

Arthur slammed his goblet down. Wine sloshed over the rim. The wine in Merlin's cup quivered in response. "A word of advice, Merlin: Don't think. You're not very good at it."

"And you are?" Merlin grumbled, slipping back into their familiar banter with gratitude.

But Arthur didn't want to play. His face was dead serious. Was that a good thing? Did it mean that Merlin's words had struck a chord, that Arthur saw something of himself in a sorcerer, that he was finally beginning to understand that things weren't anywhere near as black and white as Uther pretended? Merlin held his breath.

"Since you wasted most of the morning, you'll actually have to work for the rest of the day. I want you to dust and sweep the entirety of my room, polish all the candlesticks, replace my beddings, and muck out the stables. They'd better be clean as a whistle when I come to inspect them, Merlin, or I'll have you in the stocks all week. When you're done with that, get back here and I'll have more chores for you. And give me that," he added, grabbing Merlin's mostly untouched cup. "Why I bothered wasting it on you I'll never know."

"Maybe because—"

"Out!"

Merlin scurried away. Hopefully Arthur would cool down by the time he was done in the stables. It was possible even for a man with Arthur's temper. The state of the stables was truly atrocious.

The warlock sighed heavily, ran a hand through his damp hair, as he thought about Arthur's stubbornness. He had a long and difficult task ahead of him.

Merlin looked around the stables again, wincing at the filth. Make that two long and difficult tasks.

Part of Arthur felt bad about driving Merlin off like that. It was obvious that the boy had never seen anyone burn before; that was why he had invited his manservant to sit and drink with him for a few minutes, just long enough to recover his composure. But then Merlin had gone on about feeling sorry for him and about the nature of revenge and other things that Arthur had never really thought of, and the prince had pushed him away.

He had never really seen himself in a sorcerer before. Before, they were just traitors and criminals who wanted him and his father dead for absolutely no reason. Now….

Which came first, the sorcery or the plan?

Arthur was no sorcerer, but he knew that if someone killed Uther, he would gut the wretch. Muirden had lost both his parents.

For a crime, Arthur reminded himself. Of course Muirden hadn't understood the reason for his parents' deaths as a child, but he was a man now, capable of understanding the necessity of law.

He kept Merlin busier than usual the next few days. It wasn't because he was trying to avoid the man and his piercing words. Certainly not. It was punishment for being such a lazy sod and it doubled as preparation for the hunting trip he intended to take the moment the weather cleared.

Cooped indoors with few duties to attend to, Arthur was plagued by thoughts he would gladly have done without. Thoughts like how he had felt when Uther lay on what might have been his deathbed, knowing that the man who had done that to him still breathed. Thoughts like his knights tearing into a druid camp, its inhabitants fleeing in terror while he watched with frozen horror. Thoughts like a playful light in a spider-filled cave that seemed determined to disprove his father's claims that all magic was malevolent.

Arthur did not like to think about the implications of those thoughts. He wanted to go on believing that magic was evil and that his father was right to attack it so… zealously. Uther had to be right, because if he wasn't, then he had let children die for no good reason. They both had.

The skies remained gray for nearly a week. Rain fell in the nights and sometimes in the day. Once, it sprinkled in the afternoon before developing into a full-blown thunderstorm that evening. Arthur's mood darkened further every time he looked out the window and saw a cloudy sky. The servants (except, of course, Merlin) took to avoiding him. By the time the sun returned, he was in such an absolutely foul mood that even Uther hesitated to go near him.

But the sun did return, and the second it did, Arthur dragged Merlin out on a hunting trip. He needed to get outside, to breathe, to escape his thoughts for a few glorious hours and release some of the anger churning inside him. He was up before dawn, much to Merlin's unhappiness, and the two of them left the city when the grass was still wet with dew. It was at this point that he realized the somewhat obvious flaw in his plan: it was rather difficult to stay away from Merlin (not avoiding him, oh no, just making him do important chores that kept him and his words far from Arthur) when the two of them were alone in the forest. Fortunately, he had a ready-made excuse to keep the boy quiet. "We're on a hunting trip, Merlin. That means none of your mindless babble."

"What mindless babble?"

Arthur glared. Merlin grinned, unrepentant as usual. "Just be quiet."

Merlin bowed mockingly, but he obeyed. Well, sort of. He had a nasty habit of stepping on sticks whenever they got too close to a potential kill. Not for the first time, Arthur wondered if his soft-hearted manservant was scaring away the game on purpose. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do.

Still, despite Merlin's twig-breaking, Arthur could feel himself relaxing. The muscles in his shoulders loosened, knots fading away. Tension drained from his neck and jaw.

Here, he didn't have to worry about anything. Here, he had no responsibilities, no burdens, no disappointed father and whispering courtiers. Here in the sun and breeze, surrounded by pine and oak, he was free. He almost didn't mind Merlin's potentially-deliberate sabotage.

Almost.

Eventually, despite Merlin's best efforts, he managed to shoot a pair of hares. Not much of a prize, but he had always liked the taste of hare meat and the animals were small enough that they wouldn't squish Merlin on their way back home. Still, he wanted to get a bigger prize, so he knelt down in the dirt, seeking out tracks in the muddy ground.

After several minutes of searching, he found the imprint of a deer's hoof. Arthur smiled. "Be quiet, Merlin. And quit breaking sticks."

"How?" the servant grumbled. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a forest. Forests are full of trees, which produce sticks, which litter the ground and make it impossible—"

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"

"No, you told me to be quiet. And I am."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I'm speaking quietly," Merlin sniffed.

Arthur lowered his eyebrow and rolled his eyes. "Don't." Then, before Merlin's inevitable retort, he added, "Don't speak at all, I mean."

Merlin huffed.

"Don't do that either."

The servant grinned. Arthur was strongly tempted to make him quit that too, but he knew well the boy well enough to realize it would be a colossal waste of time.

They carried on in relative silence, broken only by birdsong and Merlin's infernal stick-cracking. Arthur told himself that he could not throttle Merlin. If he tried, Merlin would only struggle, and that would make even more noise than his possibly-on-purpose stumbling, which would scare off the rest of the game. That, and he needed someone to carry his kills.

Soon they found the source of the tracks, a fine young buck. Arthur grinned. He could already taste the venison. He signaled Merlin to get into position.

Merlin blinked at him, no comprehension in his eyes.

Arthur grit his teeth. Honestly, how hard was it for the dolt to understand a few elementary signals? Fed up, he gestured for Merlin to stay out of the way and let him do his business. Merlin appeared to interpret the gesture as 'something is behind you,' because he looked over his shoulder with an expression of mild alarm. Arthur sighed silently and loaded his crossbow. He took aim at the buck's eye.

A woman's scream rent the air.

Arthur's shot went awry, but he no longer cared. The deer bolted, but he didn't care about that either. He was a knight, a protector of the innocent, and he had been born to save the folk of his kingdom.

The prince dropped his crossbow, which had never been his best weapon, opting instead to draw his sword. He charged towards the scream, leaving his bow behind. He could always pick it up later—or, even better, send Merlin to pick it up.

A trio of hairy, unwashed men was attacking a young woman and an older man with a gray beard. The woman—a girl really, her face smooth as silk—was screaming still, kicking desperately at one of the bandits as he tried to yank her off her horse. The graybeard was trying to hold off the other two with his staff, but it was clear that he couldn't last much longer. Even as Arthur sprinted toward the fray, the staff went flying from the man's grip.

The girl was closest to Arthur. He ran past her, sword outstretched, cutting into the bandit's back. He screamed, grabbing instinctively at the wound as blood gushed forth.

The other two bandits, hearing their comrade's cry, turned their attention from the graybeard to the real threat. And also to Merlin, who was following in his master's footsteps, but mostly on the actual threat.

The fight was short and easy, the bandits fleeing when it became clear that Arthur could easily take them both on. They didn't even bother to look after their companion, the cowards. Arthur didn't give chase, though he glared belligerently as they ran.

"Don't touch that!" the woman shrieked.

Thwack. Thud.

Arthur jumped, spun.

Merlin was standing behind him, the graybeard's staff gripped tight in his hands. The third bandit lay unconscious at his feet. His temple was already starting to swell where the stave had hit him.

"You're welcome," Merlin said.

Then the girl was there, jerking the staff out of his hands. "Don't touch that," she spat. Merlin held up his hands in the universal gesture of peacemaking as she returned the stave to her father.

It was a rather strange staff, an irregular length of knotted wood covered in angular runes and topped by a blue crystal. A very large blue crystal, though he had no idea what it was. Certainly it couldn't be a sapphire? Whatever it was, it was probably worth more than Merlin's entire village back in Essetir.

The girl had another crystal-topped staff, which she held in her other hand as her father reclaimed his. Heirlooms, perhaps, or scepters. The finery of their clothing indicated that they were wealthy nobles, but their cloaks were dusty from travel, and both travelers seemed weary to their bones.

But despite her weariness, the girl was still absolutely beautiful.

Arthur smiled slightly, dropping into a shallow but courtly bow. He raised the girl's soft hand to his lips, pressed a chaste kiss to the white skin.

Beside him, Merlin made a gagging noise.

"Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot, at your service," he proclaimed.

The girl smiled. "My name is Sophia Tir-Mor."

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Breaks a Great Multitude of Sticks"

So angst. Lots of angst. But I guess it's good angst because it's got Arthur thinking? As much as Arthur can think, anyways.

Next update: October 23. There's another villain at the castle and Morgana does not approve. Also, sneaky Gwen is sneaky.

-Antares