Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.

They were in Camelot.

Arthur was painfully close to his castle, and yet he had never felt so far away. He was stuck in the enemy's camp with no way to help Guinevere or his knights prepare for the battle that had suddenly appeared at their gates.

He sighed; it was a terrible mess.

But at least he had found Merlin.

The warlock was now resting, his head on Arthur's lap, and body spread out on the grassy floor. Merlin looked peaceful in sleep—so unlike what he'd looked only an hour before. Arthur closed his eyes, sadly, but easily bringing to his mind's eye the warlock's face and the emotions that had flitted across his features just prior to his collapse.

The exhaustion had drawn his cheekbones into harsh lines, shadowing sunken eyes and cheeks, and his eyes were dulled, though a fiery struggle took place just under the surface. Worry and fear had radiated off the man's expression in waves—worry and fear for Arthur and his kingdom… not himself.

After Merlin had passed out, Arthur had struggled frantically to reach him, shoving men aside with his shoulders and bound hands. They held him back though, as the rebels would not let him approach Merlin on the field. Then the guards had whisked them all away into a tent, warlock included.

Arthur's heart pounded against his chest, and he had to force himself to push away the horrible emptiness that had filled him in that moment, as Merlin fell forward. However, instead of subsiding, the king's past emotions roared back into full force as he remembered surveying his surroundings, and then the feeling of growing horror when he'd placed his location.

Before his eyes, beyond a few trees and the open expanse of grassy field, had been Camelot's walls—and even further, the towering citadel—glimmering in the sunlight.

The brief glance he had been afforded of his kingdom was a painful one, and the anxiousness that followed was relentless. Arthur, the warrior king, did not do patience well—as Merlin always jibed—and so, the weaponless state he was currently in did not sit well with him. His arms ached with a need for movement and the weight of a sword, while his tense muscles were ready to spring to use. But, instead of a warrior's outlet—weapons and swift battle exercises—Arthur had used his pent up energy to assess his soul-brother for injuries, gently cleaning and bandaging the strange new mark—another scar, Arthur had realized, clenching his jaw in anger—on Merlin's arm, and then positioning himself to cradle his brother across his lap, brushing raven locks from the warlock's forehead as he slept.

The Pendragon had yet to push the brand's swirling image from his thoughts, the phoenix and sword etched just as clearly into his mind as it was etched in Merlin's own skin. What purpose the mark held, other than humiliation and a conveyed, but forced sense of ownership, only showed Arthur how crazed Dariac was in his quest for domination.

The king's ire itched against his own skin, begging to be released on the men that had harmed the other half of his soul. A growl found its way from Arthur's throat, breaking the tent's silence. His hands still making pathways in the unconscious sorcerer's hair, the Pendragon looked up, finding the worried gazes of his companions. Arthur's eyes searched the tent for the umpteenth time, seeing, but not connecting his view with any real cognitive function.

"How is he?" someone asked—Gwaine, most likely.

"Still asleep," the king murmured back, unwilling to raise his voice to its normal, confident tone.

He didn't feel all that confident.

Arthur shifted, listening to the soft sigh that fell from the knight's lips. His head and vision dropped back down to the occupant of his lap, and the king was once again struck by how childish—how innocent—Merlin appeared in his sleep.

The warlock didn't deserve the harsh reality Fate had served him.

He never did.

Arthur's hands tightened in his brother's hair before he forced himself to take a deep breath and control his anger.

He once promised himself that Merlin would no longer bear the hefty weight of his secrets, or gain any more scars in the name of their shared Destiny; whatever hardship they faced, they would do so together… but now, Arthur found himself holding his brother's limp and injured form.

His father had once said to him, "a king is nothing without his honor," but Arthur couldn't find the honor in a king who'd broken his promises to the most loyal of subjects.

What type of king was he?

Again, the forlorn weight of judgment and self-doubt burdened his heart, though this time, the only man who could pull Arthur from his depressed thoughts lay before him, unconscious.

He sighed.

When would their struggles end?

Tristan burst through the great wooden doors, a grim expression on his face. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, a battle-ready reflex brought on by the situation that Camelot was presently in; the knight took a deep breath, unhappy to be the bearer of bad news. The chatter of the council paused as Arthur's temporary first knight—acting in the absence of their king and Leon—entered, startling them out of their meeting's dull atmosphere. Gwen sat at the head of the long table, adjusting to a straighter posture at the knight's entrance, a worried frown overcoming her features.

"Tristan, what is it?"

His hurried gait came to stop in front of the queen, his cloak flowing around his boots with the sudden halt. He bowed quickly, "An encampment has been spotted on the northwestern side of the city walls. They bear the heraldry of a phoenix and sword—a crest I've never seen before; it does not belong to any kingdom we're aware of."

A frown pulled at Gwen's face as she tried to process the report, "What are their reasons for camping so close to the city?"

"I do not know, Your Highness," Tristan replied simply, his worried gaze revealing his unease with the situation.

The queen hadn't seen this side of Tristan since Arthur had asked him to put aside his life of smuggling and become a knight. It had been Merlin's idea, she remembered fondly, to give Tristan a sense of security and structure in his life, after the loss of Isolde. He was excellent with a sword, and knew the layout of the kingdom well—both products of his illegal lifestyle. He had been hesitant at first, but once he accepted the offer, became one of Arthur's most trusted knights, running the operations of a southern outpost. Tristan had only recently relocated to Camelot, in order to give the king and Merlin his support, when the ban on magic was repealed. Gwen had a feeling she would need his support in the coming days.

She sighed, and then shifted her gaze to the physician, "Gaius, do you know anything of their crest?"

The elder man nodded slowly, thinking over what to say, "It sounds familiar, but I cannot say for certain. I will do some research."

"Thank you Gaius." Knowing they would remain blind until learning more, Gwen turned back to Tristan, "Have a patrol sent out to determine their goal. If they mean us harm, we will have to prepare."

She released a frustrated breath, looking out the window and wishing for the hundredth time that her husband were by her side. The relationship Arthur and Merlin were forging with the Druids was very important, but Guinevere knew she couldn't face a battle on her own; she might have been the daughter of a blacksmith, but she was not a warrior queen.

Hurry back my love, she thought, Camelot needs its king, and I my husband.

Merlin groaned, a headache pounding through his skull and bringing him back to awareness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this weak, tired, or miserable. For a second, he thought Gwaine had succeeded in dragging him to the tavern, but then the events of the past few days flooded his thoughts, flashing across his eyelids in a rapid blur. He frowned at the familiarity of waking up after passing out as a prisoner—not from alcohol consumption.

He'd have to take Gwaine up on his offer some time, if only to break the cycle of acquiring these types of morning headaches from dangerous circumstances, rather than a carefree cup of ale.

Unwilling to open his eyes, Merlin decided to take a few moments of ignorant bliss, and focus on working out his sore muscles and relieving his headache. Shifting on the dirt, Merlin noticed, however, that his head was not resting on the hard earth; instead, his neck was titled to rest his head on a slightly higher, and much softer surface.

"Merlin?"

The warlock froze, almost afraid he'd mistaken the familiar voice.

Could it be?

He remembered catching a glimpse of his brother, right before he passed out—but he had thought it was just his imagination conjuring up an image in his exhaustion-hazed mind.

Was his brain still messing with him, or was he really there?

"Arth'r?" Merlin coughed out the word, his throat feeling like he'd swallowed gravel. His pillow shifted beneath him, and suddenly Merlin had the overwhelming urge to open his eyes—to discover if he was truly beside his king again. Fierce emotions brought the warlock scrambling upward, and gave him a renewed effort to open his eyes. However, the gentle hands above him had other ideas, and held him down, placing his head back against the soft surface.

"Merlin, just stay down; you need to relax," the concern spilling from the words were almost as heavenly to the warlock as the voice that had spoken them.

He drank in the familiar way Arthur breathed his name, his soul-brother's every lilt in the pronunciation washing over Merlin like a tide of relief. The king's assurances resounded with such a strong a combination of concern and hopeful anticipation that, while Merlin felt like death—no doubt telling him how much of his magic Dariac had pulled from his soul, his body heavy, and his eyelids even heavier—the warlock couldn't help the small smile that stretched his cracked, split lips.

He'd found his king again.

Finally, Merlin's will to see his brother was stronger than the fatigue he'd felt since waking, and his eyes blinked open. At first, all Merlin saw was blurs of gold, dark shadows, and splotches of a familiar red. Then, the colors morphed into shapes that nearly made the warlock cry from joy.

Arthur was looking down at him—Merlin realized he was carefully placed across his brother's lap—his blue eyes shining with both worry and joy at seeing the warlock's kaleidoscopic eyes.

The king turned slightly, and spoke, but Merlin was still not aware enough to make out the words. He brought his hands back into Merlin's field of vision, and a waterskin was gently lowered to his lips.

"Drink."

Merlin obeyed, eagerly pulling water from the skin, and relieving the horrible dryness of his throat. When finished, Arthur laid the skin on the ground next to him.

"Arthur." The warlock breathed again, his eyes returning to the slate blue gaze of his king. They sat there for a moment, basking in the feeling of being in each other's presence.

"What are you doing here? How—how did they get you?"

"Looking for you, you idiot." A fond smile formed on Arthur's face, "Just didn't expect to get trapped inside a shielded camp."

Merlin narrowed his eyes at the comment; did that mean his soul-brother had been bested in a fight? Even with a sorcerer, Arthur could hold his own for a while. Merlin was suddenly overcome with the need to examine every part of Arthur, to make sure that he was uninjured—that his Destiny was safe. He again willed his tired body into action, tensing the muscles of his arms as he tried to sit up. The movements pulled on the brand, stretching the puckered skin; he let out a small groan, but out of habit quickly hid his discomfort. Merlin was used to masking his pain from others, and while it didn't matter anyway—Arthur would have noticed his arm by now, there was no use hiding the pain this time—the reaction was far too ingrained for Merlin to try and stop it.

"Merlin," Arthur frowned, the concern in his gaze clear, but knew he couldn't stop the stubborn warlock.

The Court Sorcerer made a few more grunts before pushing off of Arthur and getting his legs—now chain free—to rest beneath him. He tucked his arm across his chest tightly, hoping to ease the throbbing pain he had just caused with his actions. Moving his focus away from himself, and turning his attention back to Arthur, Merlin noticed, with a shock, that the king and warlock were not alone.

All around the small tent sat his friends; Gwaine was staring back at him, a calculating and worried set of emotions dancing in his eyes. Leon and Percival sat a bit farther away, nodding when Merlin's gaze found theirs', both of their postures tense with concern for their sorcerer; and out of the corner of his eye, the warlock spotted the final occupant of the tent. Cadan sat with his arms pulled around his knees. Fear shone in his expression, but he gave a small smile to Emrys as they made eye contact. Merlin returned the grin and then looked back to Arthur—he looked tired, but thankfully, unharmed. His lips fell into a frown when he found the king already staring at him, his steely blue orbs narrowing as he tried to predict Merlin's state of health.

Merlin mentally prepared himself for the concerned wrath of his king, but surprisingly, Gwaine—not Arthur, for once—was the one to break the silence.

"It's good to see you up, mate. You had us pretty worried." The words lacked the roguish knight's normal cheerfulness, but the relief in his tone was clear.

Merlin tried to give the man an encouraging smile, though ended up with more of a grimace, "Yeah, sorry about that; for a while there, I was pretty worried myself…" the warlock released a sigh. "…But I didn't really have much of a choice."

"So it's true then?" Arthur balked, his face turning a shade paler than usual, "Dariac… has control of your magic?"

Merlin cringed at the king's remark and looked down at his hands, his gaze flicking unconsciously to his wrist. The warlock was surprised, though, to find that his makeshift bandage had been replaced with proper wrappings; maybe Dariac had a healer finally pay him a visit.

"He told you?" The warlock asked, and just as the words left his mouth the atmosphere of the tent sunk, Merlin confirming their fears.

Leon pulled his lips into a grimace, "Not exactly, but he hinted at it."

Merlin nodded, but remained silent. A pregnant pause followed the knight's response until another question was voiced.

"The brand… that's what's binding you to Dariac, isn't it?" Cadan asked quietly.

Merlin started, I guess they were the ones who treated my wrist, he thought wryly, no hiding now.

He brought his gaze up to the sorcerer, his ingrained habit of half-truths already providing a lie on the tip of his tongue. He didn't want to worry his friends any more than they already were, but at the same time, he couldn't hide what Dariac had done—the information was too important to keep to himself. Merlin swallowed his excuses and gave another curt nod.

"Yes." He almost had to force the simple response out of his mouth, the desire to not verbally acknowledge his predicament tightening his jaw.

Beside him, Arthur sucked in a breath.

The warlock's gaze flickered to the king, but he didn't dare keep his eyes there for long, even if he knew what he'd see: anger against those that had harmed his soul-brother, concern, worry, fear…

"How?" Arthur wanted to understand—he needed to know what his Merlin had been through.

"I-uh," Merlin coughed. He didn't want to relate details to his brother, as they would only make the king angrier towards their captor, and that would most likely cause more problems the next time Dariac paid them a visit.

"It's an ancient binding spell, involving some extremely dark magic," the warlock provided a vague answer, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his king.

It wasn't.

Merlin watched a host of emotions flicker through Arthur's contemplative blue eyes as the young man's lips sloped downward into a tense frown. He could almost see the wheel's turning as Arthur tried to fit the pieces together, trying to find another question—one so specific Merlin would have to answer—for his brother.

"So instead of… manacles," the king faltered momentarily, "Dariac's branded the curse onto your very skin?"

Merlin sighed, "Yes. They had the manacles on me originally, but the brand…" his eyes shifted once again to his wrist, "…was always part of their plan; they knew the chains couldn't hold me forever."

"So, the brand's effects are permanent?" Horror flashed across Percival's face.

Silence reigned once again, before Merlin answered, his voice hollow, "I don't know."

The stuttering breath he took forced the warlock to pause a moment before he could continue, "I've tried to reach it, but… my magic always slips through my fingers. I should, eventually, be able to break it, even if it's only temporary; as long as I can gain some semblance of control to use in the coming battle... I just have to keep trying."

The others exchanged hesitant glances, the silence becoming tense and awkward as they didn't know what part of Merlin's explanation to comment on.

Finally, "So if Dariac has your… magic, as well as his own…" Percival started to ask the question that had been silently blanketing the room in despair.

Merlin's heart sank.

"How could we hope to defeat that?" Arthur finished for the knight, trying to conceal his own hopeless emotions by adding a rougher undertone to his voice. The warlock felt a rush of affection for his brother that was quickly overwhelmed by a crushing sense of guilt. It was his fault that the king felt so despondent.

"I won't let him take Camelot, Arthur." Merlin's voice filled with conviction, his eyes two dots of blazing fire, "I will die before I let anyone harm you or the city."

"And I won't let you die for me, you idiot!" frustration and anger filled the royal's exclamation, his shoulders stiff and his nostrils flaring as he failed to reign in the ire his hopelessness had caused. "I forbid it."

While the tent's other occupants fell completely still at the outburst, the warlock merely gave the king a knowing look, "And when have I ever done as I'm told?" Merlin answered with his usual banter, a small, sad smile gracing his elfin features.

The words were meant to lift the somber atmosphere, but the group knew what lay beneath the warlock's comment. If it came down to Arthur's life, they all knew what would happen, despite the king's protests… and that was hardly a laughing matter.

Arthur released a shaky sigh—which could have been a laugh, only the breath had caught in his throat and erased all notions of a chuckle from the king's mind—his thoughts turning to their situation's quite possible, and serious, conclusion. Determination swelled in his chest then, filling his soul just as clearly as his lungs filled his body with air.

"It won't come to that, Merlin." The king proclaimed with a soft, but confident edge to his voice, one that immediately grabbed the warlock's attention, "we're in this together; we'll get your magic back—together," You're not alone this time, and I won't abandon you, the more emotional words sinking silently between the spoken ones.

A sad, but equally determined grin spread across Arthur's face, causing one of equal ferocity to appear on his brother's features. The king moved his right hand to the warlock's shoulder, squeezing once in a comforting gesture, "whatever it takes."

Dariac blinked up at the towering walls of Camelot, rising like a challenging warrior before him.

Soon, the man thought to himself, this warrior will not be standing with such confidence.

The idea comforted him, and he released a satisfied sigh.

Looking beyond the shadowed wall, up at the sky, the first of the night's stars were starting to appear, dim lights blinking in a multicolored sea of fabric.

The timing could not have been better—another part of the plan that had been perfectly orchestrated.

Tomorrow would make twenty years since his daughter had been taken from him.

Twenty years.

As the length of time sunk in, Dariac found his eyes blurring with tears.

He'd been without the love of a family for nearly half his life.

No. No, that wasn't right.

The sorcerer shook his head, attempting to clear the though from his mind.

He'd found a new family; after being condemned by his village—his wife, his family—Dariac had been brought into the Phoenix. The rag-tag group of sorcerers hadn't been much at first, but Viltus had fixed that, just as he fixed everything.

Everything but the cause of his own demise: sickness.

The years Viltus had trained Dariac, though, were some of the fondest times he could recall, the man patiently teaching his distraught, bitter student the ways of the Old Religion—of the High Priest.

Freedom of Magic; their purpose flapped like a banner in the wind.

Dariac knew that if magic had been free when his daughter had taken ill, she would have lived.

That fact alone drove him to the depths of the arts, seeking to learn everything he could on magic.

Years later, both his role as leader of Viltus' tribe and his quest for magic's freedom drove him to Morgana. The deathly pale, and feverishly aggressive High Priestess was the perfect ally for the tribe of the Phoenix; though she was distracted to the point of obsession when it came to the sorcerer Emrys, Morgana's taste for blood knew now bounds.

That was how Dariac knew the Phoenix would rise from the ashes… just as the age of magic would—both becoming stronger than ever in their times of trial.

They'd concocted multiple plans for the fall of Camelot—some of them almost making his skin crawl with sick delight—and just as many for its blond-haired boy king.

But Morgana's fears were quickly brought to the forefront of the battle: Merlin was Emrys.

As unexpected as it had been, the events following were nothing short of a dream—or nightmare. The battle of Camlann had taken place, and yet, the Phoenix was not on the path to resurrection; Morgana had been slain, and the Pendragon saved… and that pest of a manservant had been named as Camelot's Court Sorcerer.

Magic was declared free, but Dariac knew the truth. It was feared.

It was hated.

Magic was not free.

It would never be free, as long as a Pendragon dictated said freedom from the throne of Camelot.

But soon… soon, Camelot would taste the outcome of its choices. The thought made the sorcerer crack a grin, the power of his excitement raising his body temperature.

Then, suddenly, Dariac realized the warmth he felt was not just emotional; the sigil hanging from his neck was glowing, the heat of the metal steadily rising. With a surprised grunt, the man reached beneath his tunic, and gripped the disk, wincing at the discomfort of the object being held between his fingers. Pulling the cord from around his throat, Dariac dropped the pulsing sigil to the grass. He turned, spotting a sword and polishing cloth leaning beside a nearby tent, and then leaping towards the fabric, used the blue material to protect his hands. The sorcerer returned the sigil to his grasp, feeling the magic thrumming through the object.

He growled, his eyes blazing.

Emrys.

The white-knuckle grip Dariac had on the sigil went unnoticed. His attention solely focused on his building rage, he briskly walked towards the center of camp—towards Emrys.

No more games. This time, he would pay.

"So, what are your plans?"

The Pendragon started, broken out of his reverie by Merlin's lilting voice. "What?"

"Escape plans," the warlock stated matter-of-factly from where he was resting against Percival's shoulder, the knight having offered to support his Court Sorcerer for a turn while their king stared off into space.

Arthur stared at him quizzically. How did they…

"You've been sitting there with your face scrunched up for hours, mate." Gwaine laughed, answering the question that Arthur had barely even thought.

He scowled, "I have not."

"Yes you have. You were making your 'planning face,'" Merlin winked at the other knights, never passing up an opportunity to antagonize his king. His voice took on a more serious note, "Now, what have you come up with?"

Arthur turned his gaze to his brother, noticing the soft smile and shining eyes. Merlin still looked exhausted, but being surrounded by friends had helped him gain the hope he so desperately needed.

Hope he couldn't continue to offer.

Arthur cursed himself for not having come up with a substantial plan. He was a tactical expert, after all—a king and a warrior—yet he was out of his element when surrounded by sorcery.

"Well, we're in the middle of their camp—it'd be no use to try to force our way out, with no weapons; besides, we have to deal with Dariac and get your magic back first."

Merlin nodded, subconsciously bending his head to look at his arm. The king forced down the rush of anger that swept through his veins at the warlock's action.

Dariac would pay for hurting his friend. Arthur sighed, knowing he couldn't dwell on that right now—he needed to focus on getting them out of this situation first.

Leon spoke up from the other side of the tent, "So we have to wait until we're near Dariac—take him on when we have the advantage of numbers."

"But what if we never get that chance?" Gwaine threw his hands towards the doorway, motioning to the men standing outside the tent, "we're dragged along by his lackeys every time we go anywhere."

Arthur's features fell slightly at his knight's conversation, but ever the blind optimist, the king pressed forward, "We just have to get the upper hand somehow," he added fervently, "if we can get ahold of our guards' swords…"

Everyone knew what the Pendragon was doing, and while the situation was not as easy as suggested, Gwaine couldn't help but give a slight smirk towards his king, and try to lighten the mood, "I've been in more than my fair share of tavern brawls, princess. I don't need a sword to beat these guys."

Arthur heard Merlin snort, and after catching the grin that'd formed on the roguish knight's face, the king turned to see his friend roll his eyes.

"I'd like to see that theory tested." Percival grinned at his brother-in-arms.

A few more chuckles echoed through the tent, but silence soon followed, as each member of the group was lost in their own thoughts.

"It'll take magic to win." Merlin finally stated softly, his voice filled with sad certainty.

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn't come. He wanted to give his Court Sorcerer the impossible hope that they could defeat this army of sorcerers without his magic… but did Arthur really believe in that possibility?

The others seemed to realize the truth as well, as the tent was blanketed with an air of desperation.

Then, "I'll do what I can to help you, Emrys." Cadan broke the silence, his offer voiced in a soft and humble tone.

The king watched as both sorcerers locked eyes, and Merlin—though his posture was still slouched in an unconscious display of defeat—nodded in appreciation. Merlin moved his gaze towards the floor, his mind turning over different plans and possibilities.

Then, suddenly, the warlock straightened, his eyes burning with an intense, hopeful spark. Arthur's brow scrunched in confusion, and he was about to ask what Merlin was thinking, when his brother quickly turned back to Cadan.

"Can you feel my magic—can you sense it in me?" He asked urgently.

Cadan looked surprised at first, the expression then melting into one of possible excitement, "Yes—I can still feel it, and that it is restrained. I also sense it in Dariac," he stumbled over the words; hope returned to his features, while the knights stayed silent, confused at what was happening before them.

Merlin breathed a light sigh, a small smile playing at his lips. "Good, good…" his voice retreating to a quiet murmur.

Arthur frowned in miscomprehension, what on earth was going on?

The king cleared his throat, attempting to get Merlin's attention, but the warlock was completely unaware of his surroundings now, his focus turned inward and at Cadan. "I need you to help me get ahold of my magic. I can only get it so far before it slips away… if I had help from you, on the outside, maybe I can reach it."

Cadan's eyes widened at the idea, a mix of nerves, fear, and slight hesitance at handling the magic of Emrys. The knights though, nodded at Merlin's revealed plan, slowly understanding the sorcerers' conversation.

Arthur, in some part of his mind knew this was dangerous—as Merlin's plans always seemed to be—and so, finally willing to interrupt the warlock's train of thought, he began gently, "Merlin…"

The warlock in question turned towards him, "Arthur." He spoke calmly, head tilted but eyes glinting with a rebellious shine.

"Are you sure about this?" He had no idea how one could 'pull' on magic, but he didn't like the way it sounded; it reminded him too much of the Isle of Avalon, Merlin writhing on the grass as his immortality was stripped from his soul.

Merlin's eyes softened at the wavering concern in Arthur's tone, "It's our best shot. And I'll be fine," he tacked the assurance onto the end, knowing while he would attempt his plan anyway, the king still needed to be comforted in some way.

Emrys then turned to the Druid, "are you ready?"

Cadan nodded, clumsily pushing himself off the ground, and moved to sit in front of Merlin and Percival. The warlock stiffly stretched out his branded arm and placed his hand, palm up, on Cadan's bent knee.

"Hold on to my arm—here—" he moved the Druid's hesitant hand to grip his wrist, right above the bandaged brand, "and concentrate on pulling my magic to the surface."

Arthur glanced at the knights; they too watched the arrangement with confusion and worry, but in order to let Merlin focus, they kept silent.

Merlin closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of concentration. Cadan followed suit, and quickly shut out the world around him.

The Camelotians looked on as the Druid started murmuring; the words of the Old Religion were stumbled upon at first, as Cadan searched for the right phrases to help Merlin, but after a few repetitions, they flowed together seamlessly.

Arthur frowned as he watched the magic being performed, his teeth tugging at his lower lip in a worried tic—which only intensified as his brother grunted and bent forward slightly.

Lines of pain creased the warlock's brow, his eyes still held shut. "Pull harder," he growled through his clenched jaw. Cadan's grip tightened on Merlin's wrist as they both renewed their efforts. Merlin's breath quickened and, soon after, his lungs heaved as he gasped for air.

Gwaine shifted from where he had been pacing earlier, behind Arthur, but Leon silently stood and moved towards the knight, grabbing his arm in order to hold him back from interrupting.

Then, to Arthur's surprise, the brand started to release a faint glow underneath the bandages, one that grew brighter with each sound of discomfort that fell from Merlin's lips.

A smile appeared on Cadan's face, filling Arthur with hope.

Was it working? Would Merlin soon have his magic back?

Suddenly, the soft, fading light of the descended sun filled the tent as the flaps were wrenched back. Dariac stormed through the opening, the glowing amulet clenched in a firm grip. Leon and Gwaine—already standing—started towards Merlin, but more rebels quickly entered behind their leader, preventing the prisoners from coming to the warlock's aid. Dariac lunged straight at Merlin, wrenching him from Percival's side and Cadan's grip. The warlock's eyes flew open, and he gasped as the magic was sucked back into his connection with Dariac, the disconnection from Cadan's spell making him dizzy and disoriented.

"I've had enough of you." The leader growled menacingly, twisting Merlin's shirt with a cruel yank, "It's time we ended this—once and for all."

He pulled the warlock a step towards the tent's opening, causing Merlin to stumble.

"Stop!" The guards blocked Arthur's vision of what was happening, but his commanding tone split through the air. Dariac whipped his head to King of Camelot, a sneer growing on his face.

He didn't acknowledge the Pendragon's order; instead, he continued to the exit, grounding out, "bring them too," to the rebels holding back the imprisoned group.

Dariac let out a low laugh, roughly shaking Merlin in his grasp, "it's time for Camelot to witness the death of its king."

Atop the parapet, the territory of Camelot was spread out below, the disappearing sun casting its last golden shadows across the now tent littered landscape. A frown settled on Gwen's lips as she looked down at the camped army. Beside her, Tristan stood, his tense frame straight as his eyes searched the scene below.

"I'm not sure what else can be done, M'lady. We've sent missives to Nemeth, as well as a few other neighboring kingdoms."

A grunt sounded from the queen's right, from where the physician stood against the wall, the worried set of his features only strengthening Gwen's own troubled expression. "The small group of sorcerers Merlin has collected won't do much good, I'm afraid; they haven't had any training, and are still too weak to fight with an enemy of this caliber."

"Could we not send for the Druids?" Hunith's quiet voice joined the discussion. She offered her arm to Gaius, who took the proffered assistance with a slight nod; he was not as young as he used to be, the climb to the parapets having exhausted a good deal of his energy—already waning from a long day of council sessions and gathering medical supplies.

"We tried," Tristan's lilting response was only slightly muffled by the breeze, "but they must have wards up—with most leaders attending the peace talks, extra security measures have been put into place; our sorcerer's can't find the Druids with their mind link, so I've sent out patrols to find their campsites."

Gwen sighed, "Has anyone attempted to reach Arthur or Merlin via magic?"

Gaius nodded slowly, though his expression was not promising, "The same wards are being used at the gathering. Merlin is unreachable by our sorcerers until they are down."

The queen's hands flopped onto the top of the wall in a release of frustration. She took a deep breath, attempting to focus on the many times she'd watched Arthur prepare for battle; what would he do in such a situation?

Drawing a blank, she looked back towards the ground, her eyes catching a glint of metal reflecting the sun's dying rays.

"Maybe there is some way of contacting one of the dragons?" Hunith's question, though, immediately dropped to the back of Gwen's mind—her gaze still fixed on the tent-strewn landscape.

The queen gasped, a hand unconsciously flying to her mouth, because, emerging from a tent—shoved forward by guards—was Merlin, and behind him, the King of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon.

AN:

There you have it! Next chapter, the excitement comes to a peak! But, until then, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter.

Thanks again to all of you wonderful souls who read, favorite, follow, and review this story. Reviews are always appreciated ;)

The next update should be in two weeks, as usual, but it's the last month of the semester, so... you never know. It's starting to get pretty dicey. But I'll try my best!

Mirror