Chapter Eleven
They have three days. Two now, Merlin thinks, if the pale glow of moonlight streaming into the cave is an indication of their passing from one side of the night into the other. Will and Djaq had brought good news: their friends are alive. But they had also brought with them a single piece of parchment that set their joy teetering on edge. It was a notice. The steward had wasted no time in drafting and circulating it all across Nottinghamshire, wanting each and every person – every knight, every thief, every king – in the vicinity to know that in three days time there would be a public execution of a Camelot knight who has aided in the plot to kill King Leofrick. Leon.
It made no mention of Marian or Edward, but that did not ease Robin's concerns. Instead, it spiraled the evening into a heated argument over what to do, when to do it, and who will be apart of it. Hardly a surprise, really. The makeshift council consisted of two prideful groups, lead by two strong-willed men, who would rather cut out their tongues than use them to affirm one another.
Only one thing was agreed upon, and that was the fact that the execution itself would be the best time to make a rescue attempt. Leon, and with any hope Marian and her father, would not be under lock and key, guarded deep within the walls of Nottingham castle. Rather they would be out in the open, surrounded by spectators, much like the day when the men of Camelot first arrived. It had been done before. Now, with their numbers doubled, they ought to be able to succeed that much easier.
But there is a problem. Something no else has taken into consideration because it is a secret that Merlin has kept to himself. Something he fears could upheave the entire operation and cost him the life of his king. And that something is what Vaisey did not have at Brom's execution. The singing bangles. As much as Merlin would like to believe that they are harmless treasures merely worth their weight in gold, he knows better. He felt them, their seduction. So strong he could barely resist them himself. But with their true owner currently residing as a captive beneath the one who now possesses them, Merlin can think of only one other to turn to.
He props himself up onto his elbows. Around him shadows of his friends and the thieves sleeping soundly litter the cave. When it was clear the squabbling would continue, Djaq administered doses of painkillers to anyone who needed it (which happen to be every single one of them), imploring them to get rest so that a rational course of action can be decided in the morning. Within the hour, they were all dead to the world. And have been ever since.
Little John and Gwaine currently snore a duet, while Much mumbles in his sleep, and several others breathe deep and rhythmic. Beside him, Arthur is motionless, not making a sound. Whatever injury he suffered to his ribs must be stifling any snoring or audible breaths. For a minute, Merlin wonders if he is awake, but his face is too tranquil to be alive with his current worries.
Reaching to the ground below him, Merlin curls his fingers around the thin shaft of the crutch Djaq fashioned for him, and uses it to help him to his feet. He quietly weaves his way through the sea of sleeping men, careful not to trip over any sleeping on the ground, including Robin, who he almost did not see tucked away within the shadows.
"O drakon! Emala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes!" Merlin shouts into the sky as he hobbles his way across the rough terrain towards the nearest clearing. It is a humbling experience to witness the Great Dragon descend so obediently upon him whenever called, but today, with his lack of fluid mobility, Merlin arrives at the field to find Kilgharrah already waiting patiently for him. His gold eyes shine through the nighttime air and survey him with concern, but Merlin can only smile up at his beastly friend, finding his presence to be of more comfort than he realized he even needed.
The Great Dragon leans back on his hind legs, settling in and lowering his head down as Merlin uses his crutch to propel himself a few steps closer, entering into the blanket of the beast's shadow, "I have never been more glad to see you."
"It is late, young warlock."
"Sorry..."
"It is not a complaint," his gravel-laced voice says, "but a beacon of your heavy burdens. What is it that troubles you?"
"I need help," Merlin says immediately. He readjusts the crutch beneath his arm, leaning more firmly against it for support. "I think...I think we're in over our heads. I don't know what to do."
"There will always be a time when the one who faces an obstacle cannot see how to overcome it," he says. "It is only when you begin to climb the barrier that you find the footholds that will lead to the other side. You have never failed Arthur before, what makes you think this time will be different?"
"Our friends. They have been taken captive by Morgana and Lord Vaisey," says Merlin. "Leon is to be executed in a few days, but with the steward trying to turn all of Mercia against Arthur for something he didn't do, and with the knights all being wounded...with me being wounded...any course of action could cost us one or all of our lives. How am I supposed to protect so many from so much?"
"Merlin, your destiny is not to save them all. If you try, your efforts will be stretched too thin, and an Albion united under the Once and Future King will not come to pass. Your one and only concern must be Arthur's safety. He must return to Camelot, alive, and continue on destiny's road. Then, and only then, will the Old and New Religion be able to coexist in peace."
"I know that," Merlin says, "But Arthur has an agenda here that cannot be swayed. If I could take him back to Camelot right now, I would, but he is a man of honor. No matter how much danger he is in, he will not cross the border between our kingdoms until he has fulfilled his promise to Marian."
"Then you must help him fulfill it."
Must. It is a word that Merlin has been hearing far too much of over the course of his time in Camelot. Every time it is spoken, it is as if the scarf around his neck gets tied a little tighter. He tugs lightly at it with his free hand.
"I'm trying," he says, his hands become clammy the more he tries to weave a picture of what must also be done, "But before he will try to dethrone Lord Vaisey, he is determined to get Leon and Marian to safety, which will require the knights and thieves to rally up against a power that is beyond them. Something they don't fully understand. I don't even know if I fully understand it."
"The witch."
"In part. And...I think...the steward himself."
"The steward is no sorcerer, Merlin," says the Great Dragon, "You can sense that as much as I."
"He stole something from Marian. A pair of bangles. Bracelets. I've never seen them in any of Gaius' books, but they hold a magnitude of magic within them that is beyond what I have ever experienced. What ever he plans to do with them will not be good for Arthur. I was hoping you would be able to tell me what they did."
"There is a time and a place for such insight to be given, young warlock, but it is not here and it is not now. Nor is it by me."
Merlin frowns, staring up at the giant creature to determine whether his defiance is out of sincere foresight or mere obstinance. "I have to know. Arthur's life depends on it." A few words is all it would take for the Great Dragon to forfeit the answer, but this is his friend, not his slave, and he never takes joy in treating him as one. "I thought you were with us. I thought you wanted us to fulfill our destinies. Why would you turn your back on us now?"
"Do not accuse me of disloyalty for sending you on a path other than the one you find easiest. There are many sorcerers in Mercia, Merlin. Find just one. They will tell you. And it will serve you for the better in the end."
"Could you...give me a name?" Merlin asks, "Maybe? Or where I might find him?"
"A name will be revealed in time. As will his location." His skin is cold and damp as Merlin runs a hand down his face, but before he can open his mouth to respond, Kilgharrah says, "You will either have to trust me or compel me, young warlock. Which will it be?"
There is a part rooted deep within Merlin that wishes so badly to force the Great Dragon into compliance, but with nearly a thousand years of wisdom over him, Merlin cannot stomach the thought of exhibiting such arrogance. "I trust you."
"You came seeking my help and I have provided you with less than you desired, but let me offer you this..." Kilgharrah stands to his full height, signally that the end of their conversation is close. "There are many in Mercia with ties to Albion's king. To his past and to his future. They will try to reenter his life now, when the threads of his destiny are most vulnerable of breaking."
"Robin and Marian..."
"To name a few. But there are more. And they, too, are coming. Promise me you'll take care. For if you let the wrong ones get too close, it will be his undoing."
With every passing second, as the dangers around him and his friends seem to multiply, a string of words move more eagerly toward the tip of Merlin's tongue. An enchantment. One that, if spoken, would render Arthur unconscious. It would be a far easier solution to simply haul him back to Camelot and out of harms way, but there is something in his gut that tells him Camelot's border would not be enough to stop Morgana and Lord Vaisey from carrying out their plans. No, Arthur is right: the steward must be removed.
But with whose help?
"Can any of them be trusted?" he asks, thinking of Robin Hood, his men, and Marian – all of whom have been and could prove to be of great support to them.
"Yes, of course, but it is your duty to sift out the gold from the grime."
Merlin nods, "I'll do my best." He starts to pivot carefully around his crutch, the walk back to camp becoming less appealing the more tired his good leg becomes from his dependance on it. But Merlin suddenly stops...
A gentle breeze blows from behind, enveloping him in a warm embrace that smells of smoldering ember and ash. Its heat closes in around him until its dense haze seeps through the fabric of his clothes and the protection of his skin to meld into his very veins where it flows rapidly throughout his body. The wound clamped around his calf, rigid and thumping against the tender sinew of his muscles, releases its grip, melting away and taking every ounce of pain with it.
Shifting his weight, Merlin puts pressure on his leg, smiling when it finds it can hold him up entirely on its own. He bounces lightly on it before spinning around to look up at the Great Dragon.
"Much rests on your shoulders, young warlock, you will need your strength."
"Thank you..." Merlin says as he watches Kilgharrah's wings spread out over ahead and stir up a whirlwind. He begins to take flight. The thunderous flaps echo across the Sherwood forest, and before long, the Great Dragon's majestic presence fades away until it appears as nothing more than the distant silhouette of a fluttering bat.
Merlin smiles down at his healed leg, flourishing his crutch through the air, quite pleased with the fact that its abrasive structure no longer has to be thrust into the pit of his arm in order to take a single step in any direction. He spins around with a renewed energy, ready to make his way back to the others when he drops the crutch to the ground. A heavy rock sinks to the bottom of his gut.
On the edge of the field, staring up into the sky where Kilgharrah had just vanished, stands Robin. He had come silently. And now he remains silent, surveying the empty canvas of night speckled only by the stars. There is no telling how long he has been there or how much he has heard.
Merlin walks hastily toward him, "I can explain..."
"Is it true? What that thing said about Wart?" Robin asks quietly, slowly lowering his eyes to meet Merlin's. "Is he our only hope for peace in this land?"
There is a second when Merlin cannot seem to form words. This outlaw, who has just witnessed his magic, witnessed a conversation between a Dragonlord and his dragon, and has witnessed the reveal of his biggest personal secret – a secret that if made public could ruin not only his own life, but the lives of many – shows no concern for any of it. His first inquiry, what is most pressing to him, is the truth about Arthur's future.
"When I told you he was destined for greatness," Merlin finally says, "I meant it."
Robin searches Merlin's face with an emotion the young warlock cannot quite place...pity? Sadness? Hurt? But none of them make sense. His eyes droop with a swirling flurry of thoughts that remain confined behind his closed lips, and Merlin, unacquainted with the bandit's mind, cannot begin to decipher them like he often can with his king. Robin's brow twitches together to form a momentary crease as he drops his gaze to the grass between them, and his fingers fiddle aimlessly with the string tied at the nock of his bow, a common habit, Merlin is coming to discover.
"He doesn't even know, does he?"
"He...knows he has expectations to live up to," Merlin says, "But beyond that, I am not sure he thinks he is meant for anything more than a short time on the throne of Camelot, for good or ill."
Ruffling his own hair, Robin seems to struggle to process the reality of his childhood friend's fate, "After all he's done...the mistakes he made, the people he tossed aside..." he shakes his head, "How is it that he is the one meant for glory in the end?"
Merlin tries to choose his words carefully. "I know Arthur has hurt you," he says, taking another tentative step his way, "just like magic has hurt him. All here are in need of atonement for what they have done. Maybe then you'll see the king he is striving to be and he'll see people of magic for who they are rather than for what his father has taught them to be."
"If that's your wish, it seems to me you'd be a good place to start where that's concerned," says Robin. He cocks an eyebrow as he flicks an accusatory glance Merlin's way. "But you keep it a secret...why?"
"Because if he isn't ready to openly accept sorcery into Camelot, I'd be forcing his hand against me, becoming one more mark on his tally of people who've betrayed him." Merlin's face contorts at the very thought of it, shaking his head adamantly, "I could never do that to him."
"A good friend if I ever saw one. But apparently not all share your consideration towards him." Robins gestures his bow towards the sky, tipping it in the direction that Kilgharrah made his leave, "That creature said there are people from Wart's past that could be his undoing while here in Nottinghamshire. But he didn't name names...only confirmed possibilities."
"It is difficult to determine the paths people will choose to take. He could not name names because it would alter my judgment and may have ultimately condemned-"
"I just don't want it to be me, Merlin." The words come rushing out of the bandit's mouth, not with the urgency of annoyance or denial, but of pure fear. He swallows, knowing that Merlin is well aware of this. Setting his jaw, Robin looks down at his bow, trying to stop up the crack that has unwillingly allowed his inner frailty to leak out for Merlin to see. His voice becomes stronger, "I only mean...no matter what faults he carries -"
"You don't have to explain," Merlin says. "I know it won't be you." As he stares at Robin, and he sees it now: the two little boys, broken-hearted and calloused over by the years of dragging around with them a severed half of a friendship that will not be mended until one makes the first move. One must be willing to extend their half out and give the other the opportunity to fuse it with their own. But they have both experienced so much hurt. And something that has been repaired either grows stronger in the end, or becomes more vulnerable to shattering. It is a risk neither one is willing to take.
"Listen," says Robin, turning the focus outward, "As much as I'd like to, I can't very well refute the word of a talking dragon." He tosses a hand skyward. "And if this is all meant to be, if that is the king Arthur is meant to become, then I want to be someone who will help it come to pass. We'll get him back to Camelot safely, but you're going to have to trust me. Can you do that?"
"You've given me no reason not to," Merlin says, suppressing a grin as he bobs his head to the side and adds, "You know...apart from the dragging me to your camp, holding me hostage, your general disdain for the very man you're swearing to help-"
"I saved his life!"
Merlin's grin finally breaks through, "And that pompous attitude..."
Robin cracks a smile, "You are a cheeky one, aren't you?" He shoves Merlin's face away before pointing to the crutch abandoned on the grass. "Don't forget that. Wart's thick, but he'll notice if you're miraculously healed. They all will. And we have a walk to take tomorrow morning." He turns and heads back towards the cover of the forest.
"A walk?" Merlin asks, scooping up his crutch before hurrying to catch up to Robin, falling in stride beside him. "Where are we going?"
"Barnsdale," he says. "I know a sorcerer there, and I think he might have the answers we need. I'll need you to keep an open mind though."
"Why's that?"
"This sorcerer? His name is Brom."
There was little sleep to be had upon returning to the cave that night. On top of the matter of encountering Brom once again, Merlin's mind was full of other words from his recent conversations; ones that, while in the moment, he was not able to digest properly. Kilgharrah had said it was here, and now, that Arthur's destiny was most vulnerable, which can only mean it is the outcome of these events that Albion, and Arthur's very life, will hinge on. Even by Gwaine's standards, the odds are not looking in their favor; a dozen men against an entire kingdom? One with magic at its very core nonetheless? It was all Merlin could do not to roll over on his cot and retch his nerves out onto the floor.
But then there was also the matter of Arthur's undoing; people from his past who will return to cause his downfall. It has been made clear on several accounts that Morgana wishes nothing but harm to come to Arthur, and given all that has happened during their time here, the help they received, the words spoken, Merlin cannot believe that it would be Robin or Marian. Robin is determined for it not to be him. It seems too easy. Too black and white. As if no sorting need be done as Kilgharrah suggested. And that is most worrisome of all. Who is out there? Are there any with layers of grime that can be wiped away to reveal gold? Or any covered with gold that can be flecked off to reveal nothing but malicious grime beneath?
The thought haunts Merlin, even now after the sun has risen and his friends with it. After another good night's sleep, they are far more spirited; it shows in their eyes, in their speech, and most of all, in their appetites. The porridge barely makes it to their bowls before it's gone and they all wait their turns to receive treatment from Djaq for their day old wounds. Allan was the first to go so that he could head into Nottingham to retrieve updated information, followed by Arthur, and now Gwaine. The feisty knight and the Saracen bicker quietly off to the side as she works on him, frequently distracting Will as he tries to draw Nottingham's castle in the dirt to explain the various entry points of the courtyard to Arthur, who remains rapt even amidst their moments of interruption.
"You're awfully quiet this morning," Percival says from beside Merlin. Apparently it was a strategy gone wrong. Merlin had hoped the quieter he was, the less he would be noticed, and the less likely it would be for Djaq to realize she had yet to examine him. "Your leg giving you grief?"
"What? This thing?" Merlin says with a smile, "Nah, can hardly even feel it."
Percival laughs, "Right. Nothing but a scratch, eh? A true soldier..."
"Ah!" Gwaine cries out, drawing everyone's attention from their various places around the fire. His arm is curled up against his body while his free hand grips his shoulder tightly. Sweat pours down his face, seemingly taking the color on his cheeks with it. "The hell was that!?"
"Did you want me to leave it dislocated!?" Djaq says, forcing him to sit up tall again. "Don't be such a lily flower..."
"A lily– what does that even mean?" Gwaine squeezes his eyes shut tight as the small woman beside him pries his arm from his own grasp to double-check her work.
"You're a fragile beauty," Percival grins, then looks at Djaq. "Careful. He can't help it."
"Well I won't argue the beauty part," says Gwaine, "But as for the other bit..."
"It's simply untrue," says Arthur.
"Thank you..."
"No man with a skull that hard can be considered fragile," Arthur continues with a smile, bringing out a few laughs, and Merlin is glad to see another night of rest has done him good as well.
Before Gwaine can rebut, Elyan says, "Arthur's right. I mean Gwaine's neck alone..." he shakes his head, a gleam of mischief in his solitary good eye, "the strength it must have to hold up a head with that much weight on it..." A round of laughter circulates the dying fire, and out of the corner of his eye, Merlin spots Robin looking at him. They lock eyes briefly while everyone is unaware of anything but Gwaine's misfortune. The bandit nods his head towards Arthur, urging Merlin on.
"It always comes back to the hair..."
"It is quite voluptuous," Djaq teases, running her fingers through it to pull it up gently before letting it fall back to his head. But before she can finish the motion, Gwaine gets to his feet.
"Come on..." he says, motioning out, "Pick on Perce for once, would ya?"
"What's to pick on?" Elyan asks, shifting his eye towards Percival, who only watches Gwaine get riled with amusement, daring him to find something.
"Just look at him," he says, seizing this opportunity to mock his friend. Merlin scoots along the log to sit closer to Arthur, but remains silent, unsure of how to begin as Gwaine continues, "He's...tall."
Arthur glances toward Merlin, raising a quizzical eyebrow when he realizes how close he has suddenly become, "What do you want, Merlin?"
"Nothing. I mean, I don't want anything...exactly..."
"Tall? Is that all you've got?" Elyan asks with a chuckle.
"No?," Arthur says, "Well you're here and you have that face."
Merlin frowns, "What face?"
"The face of an infant in need of burping. Unless you're looking for a few smacks to the back, I suggest you just let it out."
"No," Gwaine shifts his weight, "He's also bald. Or...almost is."
"You...want me to burp?"
Arthur stares at Merlin, "I want you to say what it is you need to say, or give me some breathing room. I'll take either one."
"It's...um..." Merlin rubs his face and looks over his shoulder toward Robin, who watches them from where he leans against a tree near the campfire. He knows he must tell his king about the bracelets, but he had hoped he wouldn't have to, that Kilgharrah would have had the answer and they wouldn't have to discuss one more advantage the steward has over them or the subject of sorcery or the implications that will arise from learning that these magical artifacts were once housed within Marian's very home. Arthur glances toward the bandit as well, his brow instantly furrowing.
"Has he said something to you?"
"No...well, yes, but..."
"There has to be a joke in there somewhere, eh?" insists Gwaine as Djaq forces him to sit back down, "Something about the weather up there not being suitable for growing hair."
"Did he threaten you about something?"
"No. No..."
"Are you certain?" Arthur shifts his focus back to the bandit, his gaze scrutinizing. "Because if he has..."
Percival laughs, "Apparently not as suitable as down where you are, little man."
There is another round of laughter. But it is louder, even without Arthur and Merlin joining in this time. The sound of Much's laugh breaks through all the others, overflowing with merriment as he points at Gwaine, "Because he's short!"
Over it all, Merlin and Arthur still manage to hear Robin's voice. "I can feel your judgment from all the way over here, Wart," he says, shoving himself off the tree to step in closer – a movement that causes Arthur to get to his feet. "Your lack of confidence in me is no way to repay our hospitality."
"Wait, sire," Merlin whispers urgently, trying to grab his king's sleeve to pull him back down to his seat, but he is out maneuvered as Arthur effortlessly swings his arm out of reach. The joy around them, and all the smiles sparked by it, slowly melts in confusion.
"It's incredible, really," says Robin, "Even after yesterday, you still don't want to believe anything but the worst in me."
"Forgive me for remaining cautious."
"I thought we put our differences aside for now," Will says tiredly from his place on the log.
"Yeah, what's this about?" Djaq asks.
"I don't know," Arthur says, looking between Robin and Merlin. "I have yet to hear it. But whatever it is has my servant's nerves on edge."
"You have him on edge. I'm just trying to help," Robin says. "So if you'd just quiet the hooves of your high horse and listen to what we have to say-"
"Help me?" Arthur nods, unconvinced. "Somehow I doubt that's what he was about to tell me. Merlin..." He motions for Merlin to go ahead and speak, but Merlin would rather not. He was silent for too long and now he knows his king's irritation is inevitable. "Come on, don't be afraid."
Merlin scratches his temple, "Actually...he is trying to help, sire." Merlin risks a glance up at Arthur, "When Vaisey raided Marian's...I may have forgotten to mention that he took with him something, a pair of objects, bracelets, that I think hold some sort of magic. I don't know what he intends to use them for, but Robin knows a sorcerer that might be able to give us some answers."
"You 'may have forgotten to mention' it?" Arthur says, his voice raising ever-so-slightly in pitch with his annoyance, "You learn of a mysterious magical object falling into our enemies hands, and you just...forgot to mention it to me, your own king?"
Merlin stares up at him, finally realizing there is only one thing to say, "Yes?"
"For the love of..." Arthur mumbles, massaging the bridge of his nose.
"It doesn't have to be right now," Robin says quietly as if not wanting to disturb Arthur, though everyone there knows he cares little where that is concerned, "But whenever it's ready, I'd love to hear that apology you owe me." He grins at Arthur, resting his hands comfortably atop his hips and rocking back on his heels.
A long-suffering sigh slips from Arthur's lips as he looks down at Merlin, "Now you see what you've done? You've put Hood in the right." He turns to Robin, "It's true. I do owe you an apology. You and your men have been nothing but cordial since you came to our aid yesterday, and jumping to conclusions was no way to compensate for that kindness. Perhaps, in addition to working on his short-term memory, my servant will learn to form prompt and complete sentences when they are needed so that we may avoid these inconveniences in the future. Isn't that right, Merlin?"
Merlin nods, but the quirk of his king's eyebrow draws out exactly what he asked for, "Yes, that's right, sire."
Robin continues to smile, but the vanity that previously lifted it into place is replaced with sincerity. He gives a friendly nod, "No harm done, Wart."
"As of now," says Much, "But if what Merlin says is true, then we are planning a rescue that just might turn out to be the death of us all. And I, for one, am not ready to go just yet."
"We'll figure something out, Much," says Robin.
"We had better do the figuring quickly," Gwaine, whose color is slowly returning, says from where he sits obediently once again; Djaq stands at his shoulder, adjusting a sling around his arm. "Leon is set to be executed at dusk tomorrow."
Arthur immediately looks to Robin, "Where can we find this sorcerer friend of yours?"
"Barnsdale. It's a fair distance from here."
"Then we should leave at once," he says, turning to pick up his sword and slipping it into his belt. Merlin watches as the knights begin to stir, unable to get to their feet as quickly as Arthur, and having to muster up enough energy to fight their evident pain; Percival still struggles with his knee, while Elyan must adjust his eye patch to ensure it is secure.
Just as he is about to protest, Robin beats him to it, "Wait, just hold on a second. There is a certain level of discretion we need to maintain here. A dozen men infiltrating one man's home in a small village will not go unseen. Merlin and I can manage on our own." He speaks directly to Arthur now, "You and your men should stay behind. As it is they're in no shape to be doing much of anything and we'll need them at their best tomorrow."
"They can stay," says Arthur, glancing around at the three wounded. "In fact, that is an order." His gaze shifts back to the outlaw, "But I'm coming."
Merlin, nearly forgetting to use his crutch, gets to his feet, "Arthur, maybe Robin's right. You-"
"Do you realize, Merlin, that anytime I have taken my eye off of you for more than two seconds while we've been here, you either end up captive or unconscious?"
Thinking back, Merlin remembers Robin's knife pressing to his throat while Arthur was busy fighting, the magic he used amidst the bedroom fire taking it's toll while Arthur searched for a way to survive, getting caught by Robin after evading Arthur to spy on Sir Guy and Morgana, and ultimately getting shot and being consumed by the darkness when Arthur sent him a separate way.
"It's a phenomenon, really," Arthur says. "I don't know how you manage it."
"Talent, I suppose."
"Or utter stupidity..." he offers as he passes by to head towards the edge of the forest. It doesn't surprise Merlin that Arthur is already taking the lead. He makes a habit of pouring over the maps of any region he intends to visit, more for safety reasons, but this time, it offers the added convenience of not having to rely on a bandit's guidance to get him through the woods.
"Do you realize, Wart," asks Robin, "that you are, in fact, campaigning to be included in a quest that is comprised solely of visiting a man of magic?" He folds his arms with a vague smirk. "I don't think I've ever been more proud."
"Shut up." The king's quick and stunted reply brings back the mirth that was previous stifled by the shift in their conversation, but none of the grins are wider than the ones that are exchanged between his two travel companions.
It's an odd feeling, traipsing through the woods again with Robin at his side; it was something Arthur had written off, along with a list of other things he was certain would never happen again. Having been assumed rather early on in his life, it sat near the top of the list, but continued to visit his thoughts no less than the ones at the bottom whose ink is still fresh. He gives his shoulders an involuntary shrug, hoping any old sentiments will slip off and remain abandoned in the middle of the forest floor where they can finally be forgotten.
"You know," Robin says after a long bout of silence, "The fact that you showed up in Locksley at all yesterday...I can't exactly say I'm not shocked."
"Nor I," says Arthur, pushing a low hanging branch out of his way. "After waiting the better half of a day, I was beginning to think you weren't going to come."
"Yeah? You try orchestrating the fill and transport of all those baskets and see how punctual you are." He shakes his head, slipping through the open path in the brush behind Arthur before he has a chance to close it, "Lots of supplies to procure..."
"You mean steal."
"I mean buy," he pauses then adds with a crooked smile, "with stolen funds. Thank you for that by the way. You were a tremendous help."
Arthur glances at him out of the corner of his eye, "What are you talking about?"
"Well," Hood begins, clearly pleased to elaborate, "were it not for the mediocre escort you provided, my men and I would never have been able to pinch that tax carriage so easily."
"You got nowhere near that carriage," says Arthur, refusing to give into his goading.
Robin chuckles, "Oh, didn't I? While you and your knights went back to the castle to sulk over the absence of your puppy, my men and I set out to finish what we started. You left it completely unguarded. Very sloppy of you, your majesty."
A deep crease forms in the middle of Arthur's brow as he checks back over his shoulder at the gimpy puppy himself before turning his attention back to Robin, "You're lying. I heard no news of that."
"It's been a long few days," Merlin interjects. "Does it really matter anymore?"
"You're a guest, Wart," says Robin, ignoring Merlin, "Or were a guest, is more like it now, I suppose, eh?" He skirts a large tree trunk, "In Camelot you may be the prime audience member for issues of state, but here you are nothing more than the victim of a magic show. Seeing and hearing only what the magician allows in order to manipulate your perception of reality."
Arthur stops walking, "Hang on-"
"I think," Merlin says as he begins talking loudly over Arthur, "maybe we...should...you know, just be thankful. Any negligence that may have taken place did help to feed an entire village after all."
There is a brief pause that falls over the three of them, its silence filled only by the rustling of the underbrush. Arthur, spotting the rise of a smirk on Robin's lips, pivots his head to look sharply at Merlin, displeased that his own servant would give the bandit a chance to settle that blasted smugness upon his face again.
Coming to stop beside him, Merlin takes a moment to adjust the crutch beneath his arm, grimacing as he does so. "Right, sire?"
Arthur slaps him upside the head.
Merlin flinches, "Ah, what was that for?"
"Negligence?"
"Oh," Merlin says. "Well not yours, sire, obviously. And actually...now that I think about it...yes, you are definitely right. There is no way they could have got to that money. And certainly not past you of all people. How could they? You never forget anything, never make a mistake, you think things out, always with a plan, that's how you operate, and you would never even be capable of slipping up or making even the most minute mistake. It's just not in your nature, sire-"
"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur continues after Robin, bored by his servant's ramblings and more interested in what Robin is peering at through the thicket. "What is it?" he asks quietly as he stoops down beside him.
"We're here," says Robin. "Brom's house is just at the bottom of this ridge. If we can slip in through the back, we should be able to avoid being seen by too many."
Arthur stares at the small house, not because it has particularly interesting architecture or because the activity of the hens in the coop are overly enthralling, but because of the person it holds inside, "Brom? As in..."
"One and the same," Robin pats Arthur's shoulder. "Stay here. Wait for my signal." Pushing his way through a gap in the branches, the outlaw scurries down the side of the ridge and across the small plot of field to the safety of the overhang shading the back doorstep. He knocks.
The door cracks open then swings wide, presumably at the sight of Robin, but before the man inside can fully emerge, Arthur quickly diverts his gaze toward his servant, who comes to join him. It is an impulse he cannot explain. All he knows is that he does not wish to see the face of Brom. Merlin is enough of a distraction for the time being, sweating at his temples like a pig and breathing as though he just sprinted across the forest rather than limped along at an irritatingly laggard pace.
"Did you know it was him all along?" Arthur asks as Merlin drops his crutch bitterly to the ground between them, and rubs his sore armpit.
"I...might have."
"And you just 'forgot to mention' that as well, did you?"
"I told you not to come, but you didn't listen to me – as usual. How is that my fault?"
"Because you're an idiot, that's how!" Arthur shifts to face his friend more directly, "I dismissed the pleas of his wife and sentenced the very man we're seeking help from to death. This isn't just going to be water under the bridge."
"It might be if you just apologize," Merlin says. "It's a good first step anyway."
"Apologize."
"Yes, and while I know you're not exactly fond of doing it, I've seen you-"
"First of all, this is no small matter. I didn't break a pot or trample their garden. An apology might do good there, but not here," Arthur says. "Second of all, regardless of how I feel about Vaisey now, Brom was guilty of treason against what was a potential ally at the time. My sentence stands. I have nothing to apologize for." His words make Merlin stop. For once he has no quick reply, no argument. He just stares at him, his brow knit together tightly and his eyes drooping with a disappointment Arthur is not accustomed to seeing on his face. It makes Arthur shift his weight and opt for a view of the cottage after all.
In the threshold, Brom himself stands at the door with Robin, apparently taking part in a civil conversation. He works on a small piece of wood in his hand as they talk, whittling it into something that can't be identified from this distance. Taller than Arthur remembered, and quite grizzly, Brom doesn't look anything like he sometimes imagines sorcerers to be, but instead appears altogether normal, mundane, not eccentric like so many others he's encountered.
But there is something else different about him. He labors over a piece of wood that could quite simply be whispered into whatever form he desires without lifting a finger, just as he most certainly could have saved himself from the gallows without waiting for the heroic displays of a band of outlaws. Yet he allowed the steward's judgment to pass upon him unchallenged. The only thing Arthur can't understand is why.
"You don't mean that." Merlin's voice breaks through Arthur's thoughts; he stares down at the pair as well, but his face is rigid, his jaw set to contain harsher words Arthur knows he is holding back. Merlin doesn't look at him, but continues talking, "Everyone in that square saw your reluctance. They saw that you wanted to show Brom mercy, but didn't – not out of your own judgment, but out of Vaisey's. So you can't tell me that you have no regrets."
Arthur studies him a moment, "You're forgetting your place, Merlin. I was in a tough position. One that you wouldn't understand. A difficult decision needed to be made. Either way I was going to disappoint someone."
"I know that."
"But you don't think I appeased the appropriate person?"
"I think you successfully earned the favor of someone of benefit to you," Merlin says. "Your father would have been proud of the choices you made that day."
It's not an insult. But it certainly stings.
"That's not a real answer," Arthur says.
"You wanted me to remember my place. That's what I'm doing."
Arthur lets out a small breath, "Fine...I like you better quiet anyway." He is not going to apologize. Not to Brom, not to Merlin. And the fact that their conversation has been cut short makes it that much easier for him to keep his resolve on the matter.
"You really want to know what I think?" Merlin asks once his moment of pouting is finished, clearly unable to keep his opinion locked in silence behind his teeth. Arthur should have known it wouldn't be so easy.
"Not usually," he says.
"I think you're an arrogant clotpole-"
"And this is why," Arthur immediately says, standing to dust himself off.
"-which means!" Merlin continues, latching onto Arthur's arm, using it to assist in pulling himself to his feet, "which means that you want to be liked by everyone. You want all of their approval. Their praises. But you'll never get it."
Arthur yanks his arm from his grasp, "You're an encouragement, Merlin, truly."
"No, listen to me Arthur. You are a fair king, one who rules with his heart, but you let Lord Vaisey get into your head that day. To doubt your heart. But you can't do that. Because as soon as you do, as soon as you let anyone else decide what is right, you will no longer be the king that Camelot loves or that all the realms admire. You will disappoint everyone, including yourself."
"I stopped doubting it and look where it has gotten us," Arthur throws his arms out. "A treaty is no longer an option – not while Vaisey rules. My men can barely hold themselves up, one is even in line for the gallows, Marian is Vaisey's prisoner, and I'm looking to a sorcerer for help. I swore to bring Camelot peace and instead...because I..." he waves a hand toward Merlin, finding great discomfort in using his words, "ruled with my heart, I am bringing them to war."
Merlin furrows his brow, resting his hands on his king's shoulders, "I would fight a thousand battles against Mercia if it meant keeping the King Arthur that spares people from injustice and avoiding the one that sacrifices his integrity to pacify some...gold-toothed gopher."
The stern expression on Arthur's face, deeply etched with turmoil, slowly gives way to a small smile, "A gopher."
"It was either that or a hedgehog, but he doesn't have the hair-"
Arthur's smile grows until it breaks out into a chuckle. "On this rare occasion, I think you might have just proven to be actually funny."
"I'm always funny, you just don't always have a sense of humor."
"That's debatable," Arthur says flatly. He glances down towards Robin, noticing that Brom is no longer standing with him at the door. He must have retreated inside because Robin continues to talk to the empty threshold, motioning towards them every now and then with great intensity. Just when Arthur thinks he will be refused entrance, Robin looks up to the ridge and waves them over with a simple flick of his hand.
Arthur stays where he is. A weight harnesses him to the spot in which he stands, threatening to settle there for good unless dealt with here and now. "I do owe him an apology, don't I?"
"You can make amends, Arthur," says Merlin at his shoulder. "There doesn't have to be shame in regret."
He looks over at his friend a moment before he takes Merlin's crutch in one hand and works to keep Merlin's arm slung over his shoulders with the other, bearing most of his weight for him, "I hate it when you make sense..."
"One of us has to."
"This is the second apology you've cost me today," Arthur says.
"Sorry..."
"No, you're not."
"No, I'm not," says Merlin. "But I have to set a good example. You won't learn these things on your own."
"Merlin...shut up."
With Arthur's help, the two quickly descend from where they are perched above the town, so much so that Merlin's good foot cannot hop fast enough to keep up with Arthur's pace, leaving it to drag along defeated in the grass behind them. Brom's home blocks them from being seen by the bustling village center, but that does not ease Arthur's worries enough to slow him down. They draw only the attention of the neighbors, some of whom are working to sow the soil behind their houses, while others hang their damp laundry out to dry. Robin, who waits for them outside, catches Arthur's shoulder before he can step inside.
"Let me do the talking," he says.
Even after searching the bandit's eyes, Arthur cannot be sure what they are getting themselves into. There is no fear in them, no sense of danger. More than anything, there is reluctance. It is a satisfying sight to see Robin nervous. He realizes he is not fully in control of what is about to happen here. Arthur has some say. And Arthur will have his say. He'll make sure of it. He continues through the door, and is immediately met by Brom, who relieves Arthur from the duty of hauling Merlin, helping the tired servant into a nearby armchair.
"There we are..." his gruff voice says with surprising repose as he situates Merlin's injured leg on top of a three-legged stool. "That ought to ease it a bit, eh?"
"Thank you," says Arthur. "We appreciate your willingness to help."
"Willing, but do not make the mistake of thinking I am not reluctant."
"No, and you have every right," Arthur begins as he rests Merlin's crutch against the end table beside him, but his mind drifts from his own words when he sees a piece of parchment laying on top of a pile of assorted papers and books.
"What is it?" Merlin asks. Arthur lifts it carefully from its place, finding it rigid and crisp against his fingers, having most likely just dried after spending the morning out in the dew. The black calligraphy scrawled across it is bold and unmistakeably legible, reading: "PROCLAMATION! 1000 GOLD PIECES FOR THE CAPTURE AND LIVE DELIVERY OF THE VILLANOUS TRAITOR AND KING OF CAMELOT, ARTHUR PENDRAGON. BY ORDER OF LORD VAISEY, REGENT AND STEWARD OF MERCIA."
"Huh. Would you look at that?" says Robin, peering over Arthur's shoulder, "That's an impressive accomplishment there, Wart. I didn't even know you could put out a warrant for a king."
"Cross the steward harshly enough and even political decorum is tossed out like scrap for the fodder. He'll do whatever it takes to gain his ends," says Brom, lowering himself into a handcrafted rocking chair, whittling more bits off of his piece of wood, which up close is looking more and more like a rabbit with every flick of his knife
Arthur shakes his head as he stares down at his name. There has been a price on his head before, but this time, to have it so official and so public, is a new, bitter sensation that will not quickly fade or be forgotten, "Surely the people of this kingdom will see past his lies." Arthur drops his hand to his side in exasperation, the parchment crinkling against his leg, "These allegations are ridiculous."
"That may be," the sorcerer says, motioning his knife briefly toward the proclamation, "But whether they are true or not, that reward will feed a family for months if not more."
"He's right," Robin says, making himself comfortable on a bench near the fireplace. "Whether it's honest money or not doesn't matter if it'll keep someone's children alive a little longer."
"And if you think these aren't desperate times, Your Highness, you are mistaken," Brom never shifts his gaze from the work at hand, remaining focused, "I suggest you watch yourself because your pleas, however convincing, will not be heard over the growl of hungry stomachs."
"A fair return of fortune, I'd say," says Arthur, glancing from Brom to Merlin. His throat goes dry as he tries to summon a further apology, but only manages to clear his airway after his crippled friend urges him on with a nod, "Listen...what I did before...to you...to your wife-" Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Robin shaking his head, countering the silent advice Merlin has given him.
Brom blows he sawdust free from his figurine, now quite complete in its form, and leans back in his seat to finally level his luminous russet eyes upon him. "Your words are unnecessary. What happened cannot be made up for with words," he says, "only actions. You're here, the steward wants you dead, and you are now in the company of Robin Hood, a man I have entrusted the life of my family to over and again." Brom glances at Robin before a creak in the plank flooring draws all of their attention to the bedroom door where Catraine emerges. In her arms, she holds a young girl with wild curls that remind Arthur so much of Leofrick's. Only this child eyes him warily, not with the admiration and trust that Mercia's little king always seemed to. Brom keeps his gaze on his wife, but continues to speak to Arthur, "I am choosing to believe all that means you are well on your way to restoring the honor you lost that day."
"Brom...what's going on?" She walks with great hesitation into the room, lowering her eyes when she approaches Arthur. "Your Majesty..." She dips into a curtsy, the light that illuminated her face with hope the first time they met is nowhere in sight, nor is the fluidity of her bearing. In it's place is a constraint that he has only seen when a meek villager would be forced to speak before his father, as if they have been out in the winter's cold for too long, and their joints can barely move when told to. If this is what it is like to be feared, he wants none of it.
Arthur gives her a nod in return, but before he can say anything Brom speaks up, "Robin has asked a favor of me, Cat. I can hardly refuse him after all that he has done for us."
"Then it's true. Everything that happened in Locksley," she says, keeping her eyes focused on Robin and doing her best to blind Arthur out of her periphery. "You...are with King Arthur now."
"He is with us," Robin corrects, getting up to walk over to her. He strokes the little girl's hair, resting a hand on Catraine's arm, "You believed in him once before. He won't let you down again."
She is not convinced, the guard she keeps up around her is thick and frigid. "What is this favor you are asking of my husband?" Again, she does not look at Arthur. But the large eyes of the little girl in her arms seem fixed on him. Arthur shifts uncomfortably.
"We just have a few questions that need answering."
"Concerning what?" Brom asks.
"The steward," says Robin, taking his seat once more. His tone slips from business to conversational, another tactic Arthur remembers him using years ago. To ease tension and encourage compliance. He adds as an afterthought, "He hasn't tried to collect you again, has he?"
"No," says Brom, reaching out to beckon his wife closer, "We moved here from Clun, then...well...I suppose his mind has been occupied with trying to catch bigger fish." He nods to Arthur as he takes his little girl into his arms, "I suppose I have you to thank you for that."
"My pleasure..." says Arthur wryly, leaning back against the edge of their dining table.
Brom situates his daughter onto his lap, "But I don't expect we'll be safe for long."
"Where will you go?" Robin asks.
"We can't cross any borders, what with Cenred's land to the south, Camelot to the west, and The Perilous Lands to the north. Our only option seems to be trying our hand at Mercia's seaboard. See if we can't wait things out there."
It didn't seem right, putting Camelot among the same lot as Escetir and The Perilous Lands. It has and always will be a place where Arthur wants people to be able to turn to for refuge, but Brom is not mistaken. If he crossed the border with the current legislation in tact, he and his family would only be on the run once again. And, as he learned with his father, no matter the intention, exceptions cannot be made on an individual basis. Just. Fairness. Equality. If one person cannot wield magic in Camelot then no one can.
"Your help is bringing us one step closer to our ultimate goal," Robin says, "If we can achieve it, you and your family won't have long to wait."
"What is your goal?" Catraine asks, pulling up a stool to sit beside her husband.
"I made a vow to a friend-" Arthur begins.
"Marian," Brom nods, "Yes, she was the first to apologize on your behalf."
Arthur can only stare at him a moment, taken aback by the realization that Marian had already tried to right his wrongs. From the very start, she was actively working toward his success. "Y-yes...um..." he tries to realign his thoughts, "I promised that-"
"To put it simply," says Robin, "We want to put someone better on Mercia's throne. The thing is...something has come up and we need to make sure it won't turn our efforts into a suicide mission."
"Robin said you have some knowledge of magical artifacts?" Merlin says, finally deciding it is his turn to join the conversation.
"That's right," Brom throws a glance Arthur's way, undoubtedly looking for his disapproval, but Arthur does his best to keep a neutral face. "What sort of artifact are we talking about?"
"A pair of bangles," he says, and Arthur isn't entirely convinced Merlin remembers the details of them given they were seen amidst a flurry of mayhem. "Silver...etched with leaves and vines. They had a few gems on them, but had one large diamond in the middle. Black, I think."
Brom studies Merlin in silence before saying, "You think? No. You're far more certain than that, aren't you? You know. Because you've been thinking about them. Ever since you saw them. The image of them is burnt into your memory, isn't it? That's what they want."
"You know what they are then?" Arthur asks, trying to divert the conversation away from the unnerving notion that inanimate objects can have desires.
"I'm sure there are many bangles that look like you described, but only one pair has reason to worry you. So, yes. I know what they are. What I don't know is why you are asking about them. They are the only pair of their kind still in existence, and as far as I know they are safe-"
"The steward has them now," Merlin interrupts. "He stole them from Marian."
Brom mutters something beneath his breath, unwrapping one arm from around his daughter to reach up and rub his forehead, "Are you absolutely certain about that?"
"What is it?" Robin asks. "What are they?"
"The Cuffs of Diraddiad. Harmless in the right hands. Devastating in the wrong ones." He looks between the three of them, "If Lord Vaisey is successful in his endeavor to use them...I fear the difficulty of fulfilling your vow may have just increased tenfold. "
"What do they do?" Merlin presses as Arthur's stomach twists into knots, knowing without a doubt that they are, in fact, in the wrong hands.
"They were originally designed to relieve a witch or warlock of their powers," he says. "It was a drastic measure taken to avoid persecution during The Great Purge." His eyes meet Arthur's first before looking to the other two in the room as well. "Very few truly wanted to be rid of their gifts, so they were made to be enticing."
Arthur's brow begins to knit together as the words sink in, "Why then...would they also have that effect on Merlin?" All eyes in the room turn to Merlin, who remains focused on Brom.
Brom is very careful in choosing his words, "Because...as with all things in life, there is a balance that must be maintained. A dichotomy spinning in perfect unison. A life is given, a life must be taken. One's magic is taken, to another it is given. You see?"
"Wait...wait..." Robin leans his elbows forward onto his knees, squeezing his eyes shut while he processes this. "So if Vaisey has them, and he has no magic to give, that means he's planning to...take?"
Brom nods, filling his daughter's face with glee as he reveals the tiny wooden rabbit, handing it over to her eager hands,"The steward is going to turn himself into a sorcerer."