Arthur tried to focus on his speech. He was due to give it in mere minutes, and he knew it could use some last-minute revisions. He likely should have let Merlin help when he'd offered, as Merlin had a knack for speech writing, but he'd wanted to do this for himself.
Unfortunately, chances were good now that he'd forget the whole thing the moment he went to deliver it, and his mostly eloquent speech would be reduced to a few (hopefully moving) sentences.
Merlin had just had to tell him about Gwen now.
The fact that he had her back didn't make a difference. He'd still turned her away—and in the end, it had only been because she'd been enchanted. Enchanted, like his father had thought he had been when Arthur had been caught with her.
He was little better than his father before him, handing out judgements strictly on what he thought he saw rather than what he was actually seeing.
Gwen had never said anything about it, though. By unspoken agreement, they avoided the entire subject as much as possible, and the few times it did come up, they did not dwell on it. Yet now, Arthur wondered if she'd known somehow that…that she'd been….
He'd played right into Morgana's hands.
If he had not run into Gwen at Ealdor, he may never have seen her again. She would have been a distant memory, and he would have married for the reasons his father thought proper: politics, not love. Marriage to form or solidify alliances, as was expected. He'd have wed Mithian after all, perhaps, once he'd been through his pining, or even the less gracious Elena. Whatever the mutual decision in the end, it would have been made for the better of Camelot, and it was unlikely things would look as they did now.
He wondered at times like these whether his father would be proud of him and what he had done. He had ignored tradition, ignored the betterment of Camelot, and wed a commoner for love. He had defied the usual way of doing things of always rising above everyone else and brought back the round table. He bestowed knighthood on anyone who had proven themselves worthy of it instead of merely a handful of noblemen. And now he was directly disregarding his father's own work and rewriting, bit by bit, the laws against sorcery.
He might not have done much yet in terms of the last one—indeed, he had done very little so far—but he'd set it all in motion. One small change to begin it all. One small change to rewrite the structure of Camelot herself, for her society, since the Great Purge, had rebuilt itself around Uther's strict anti-magic laws.
He was on the cusp of making what could well be one of the most important announcements of his reign, and then Merlin had divulged that particular bit of knowledge he'd been keeping secret.
He had no time to properly make peace with the past, with Gwen or with the memory of Lancelot. Oh, and Lancelot— He'd known of the knight's feelings for Gwen, of course. He'd never been able to bring himself to step in—to step up—because Gwen was a commoner, and surely Lancelot would have been better for her than he could ever hope to be.
But then Lancelot had lain down his life, and Arthur had dared to hope again, despite knowing full well how foolish he was being. And then he'd finally worked up his nerve—to defy his father, tradition, and the past, as much as to ask Gwen what he truly wanted to ask her and to admit to the strength of his feelings—and he'd been happy, and then Lancelot had come back and everything had fallen to pieces.
Only it had never been Lancelot at all.
And Arthur had been too preoccupied, too worried over what might happen and what was happening, to notice. He was supposed to be prepared for such things, even if such things weren't heard of. And he'd allowed his joy of having Lancelot back be overtaken by his jealousy, and—
He should have known better. Lancelot had never done such things before, once he had known how Arthur felt for Gwen and Gwen for him, and he certainly would never have dared to try to come between them.
Yet when it appeared that Lancelot had, Arthur's fury had overtaken his common sense and happily rewritten his opinion of Lancelot's character.
But he'd been wrong about Lancelot, just as he'd been wrong about Merlin.
All because he couldn't see what was right in front of him and because he refused to make the little connections that would make everything clearer.
There was a knock at his door.
Not Merlin, then, as Arthur could count the number of times he'd actually thought to knock on one hand.
"The people are gathered, sire." Gaius's voice. "It's time."
A part of him really wished it weren't.
Arthur looked down at his speech one last time, not even remembering now how it was supposed to begin. With a sigh, he got to his feet and strode quickly across the room. Gaius was waiting for him outside his chambers, and Arthur caught sight of a familiar-looking yellow liquid in a small vial. He shook his head. "I've no need for it now, Gaius. Perhaps later." If things get worse.
Gaius raised his eyebrows but did not argue, instead tucking the vial away. "The courtyard is full," he said, which did nothing for Arthur's sudden attack of nerves and made him question his wisdom in refusing the calming draught. "Gwen is waiting to make her entrance with you."
"And Merlin?" Arthur croaked, suddenly wishing he had something with which to wet his mouth—wine, water, anything.
"I sent him down to assess the mood of the crowd," Gaius replied evenly.
Arthur hadn't felt this uneasy since he'd ordered his first execution. Then, it had been on Agravaine's recommendation—and goading, if Arthur were perfectly honest. But Elyan had been wrong when they'd all been in the throne room two days ago. This was Arthur's decision alone, and it was a decision which would influence Camelot's legendary rise or her unspeakable fall. The fate of the kingdom rested on his shoulders.
He couldn't afford for this to be a mistake.
He couldn't afford for the timing to be wrong, as the councilmen believed.
Merlin thought he'd turn out to be Albion's greatest king, that he was in fact the Once and Future King—he still didn't know what that was supposed to mean—but Arthur rather feared that if he wasn't careful, all of Merlin's work thus far would be for naught. To be fair, he wasn't sure precisely how far Merlin's actions reached. He knew little of what Merlin had done beyond keeping him and their friends alive, slaying a few magical creatures and upsetting a few of Morgana's and Morgause's plans, but Arthur was now quite convinced Merlin had done as much for Camelot as he had.
And Arthur had been serving Camelot much longer than Merlin had.
He just wished that Merlin's deeds—or more specifically, his means of accomplishing them—didn't seem so contrary to his character.
Or that they didn't belie what Arthur currently envisioned any revisions of the laws forbidding sorcery to be.
Guinevere caught his hand when he met up with her. "You'll do well," she assured him, giving him a brilliant smile. "I know you will."
Arthur, who by now didn't remember a word of his speech, appreciated her confidence. He gave her a quick kiss before turning to the doors and walking out onto the balcony. His father had stood in this very place more often than Arthur cared to remember, sending sorcerers to their deaths.
Arthur wondered now, as he never had before, just how many of the accused truly had had a grasp of magic—for if they had, would they not have used it to escape?
Merlin had.
But then again, Merlin was powerful, and it was entirely too possible that any magic-users Arthur's father had condemned to death could command only a little magic, enough to sooth aching joints or keep the last little bit of firewood burning longer than it should but not enough to save themselves from the death sentence they faced.
The faceless crowd below was just as large as it had ever been for an execution, and Arthur felt grateful; he hadn't realized how much the doubts of his people had distressed him. They still had enough faith in him to come. They'd hear the truth from him now. They'd understand, and they'd stand with him rather than surge against him.
Somewhere, lost in the sea of faces, Merlin stood.
A part of Arthur wished he could pick Merlin out. After all, if it weren't for Merlin's pointed reminders or his…his magic, Arthur may not be making this announcement quite yet. He might have been waiting for a better time, as the council had suggested. He might have still been putting it off because it was difficult and because he didn't want to think of his father's disapproval in this venture.
Merlin hadn't forced his hand to press forward now, however. Arthur quite readily believed what he and Gwen had told the councilmen. It would not be prudent to ignore the offering the Druids had given him—especially when the cost to give it had been so great.
And he had promised, and it had been more than a hollow vow to save his life and that of one of his knights.
Arthur began speaking with a confidence he did not feel, and he scarcely remembered the words after they left his mouth. He thanked those who had gathered and acknowledged the rumours that had been circulating of late. He made it quite clear that he would never bow to Morgana and that he was not being influenced by her ideals.
And he spoke the truth about what he was doing, just as he had to the council.
"My father," Arthur said, "persecuted the Druids for the way they chose to live, but I do not believe Camelot should be so cruel as to attack those whose practice of magic is saturated within their ways of life when they mean us no ill. From this day forth, Camelot will be at peace with the Druid people, and they will be able to travel freely and trade with us as they once did."
Murmurs and cheers alike, a disquieting mix when the former could not be completely drowned out by the latter.
Time to tell more than he'd planned, then, if only because nothing would still the rumours but the truth itself.
"My recent search for the man known as Emrys," Arthur continued, "was sparked by the last contact I had with the Druids. I have since learned that although the man is known to them as a sorcerer, he is loyal to the kingdom that would see him dead." Arthur paused, noting with satisfaction that the murmuring had died away to silence.
If he said now what he had told Bronwyn, he would be repeating an outright lie. It would be easy enough to say. 'My search was unsuccessful, and I am inclined to believe that he does not exist.' Arthur, however, didn't want to say the words. If he were caught out in a lie, his people might be inclined to believe that the truth of what he had said before stood for nothing.
"I was unable to bring the sorcerer to light," Arthur said instead, which really wasn't a lie as Merlin still stood quite firmly in the shadows at the moment, "but it is my belief that the Druid people are not mistaken. I have no wish to bring harm upon the sorcerer who may have very well saved my life and my kingdom."
The muttering started up again with renewed force, and Arthur wished he could see Gaius's face and know precisely how much damage he had done. He had not told as much to the council; there, he had minced his words and said as little as possible. Here, he'd allowed himself to be carried away in his defence for Merlin as he had so often before.
He could not unsay what had been said; he could merely make the best of it.
"You are all quite aware," Arthur said carefully, "that I have not actively sought out sorcerers as did my father before me. This in no way means I have any intention of standing back and letting those with magic destroy our kingdom, and I will not see it fall to the ravages of Morgana. Yet over the course of my search, I have come to believe that not all magic and magic users are to be inherently distrusted. Though Camelot's bans still currently stand, there will come a time in the future when they will be amended to reflect the change in our kingdom. It will be a change that will see magic use fairly judged and its misuse punished as with other crimes, where the misunderstood need not fear for their lives and where the benefits of small acts of magic can spread throughout the land once again."
Another swell of muttering.
Guinevere stepped up beside him but didn't say anything, merely taking his hand and giving it a good squeeze. Be careful, it meant. But it was a bit too late to be careful. At any rate, he had already made up his mind. He'd made it up a long time ago.
And Merlin had realized that even before he had.
"I expect that this will be the end of secrets between us, should I choose to allow you to stay," he'd said.
"Sounds to me like you've already made up your mind," Merlin had quipped back.
Arthur had been thinking short term. He'd let Merlin stay for now, keep his secret for now, until he'd sorted things out. But Merlin had been right in thinking Arthur had made up his mind for good, that it wasn't just a temporary matter to be re-examined later. In truth, he'd made his decision even before he'd properly confronted Merlin and simply hadn't admitted it to himself. He'd even told Gwen. "I don't want to see the back of him either."
He was not going to let himself be forced into losing a friend who had shown how much he'd earned that friendship time and time again just because he didn't want to rush into things.
Oh, Merlin still had eons' worth of explaining to do, but Arthur was going to make sure Merlin had the time to do it.
Merlin—Emrys—had helped him. Arthur didn't necessarily approve of his methods, but perhaps he'd misjudged something. Perhaps, once Merlin explained himself, it would be easier to swallow. And if not, then Merlin…. If not, then Merlin would have to await judgement on his crimes, just as Morgana would hers if she ever turned up again once he'd changed the laws.
Arthur didn't like the idea, but he liked it a good deal better than being rid of Merlin altogether.
Besides, if he was to think the worst, keeping Merlin by his side was better than sending him away. It was better to have him where he could keep an eye on him. If he was astute enough, he would not be blind to any changes as he had been in the past.
"We have lived too long in fear," Arthur elaborated, "and we have let it cripple us instead of teaching us to be more careful. I am well aware of the dangers of sorcery, but I do not feel we should forevermore be blind to its benefits. For the betterment of Camelot, we must embrace change once more. We need not mistreat those who would help us. As such, I feel we must examine the laws against sorcery more closely."
Guinevere spoke her own appeals before the hum of the crowd could grow any louder. It was a dull roar by the time Arthur delivered his closing remarks. The inattention made him wonder whether he could call this venture a success.
He didn't know whether he'd lain to rest the rumours or provided the fuel for them to burn for a long time yet.
He didn't know whether he'd made a crucial mistake.
It was better than she could have hoped. Arthur, fool that he was, had gone further than she'd expected him to. He'd as good as declared magic acceptable.
Under different circumstances, she might have been pleased. After all, a Camelot which did not shy away from the sight of magic but instead embraced it was something she strived for. But Arthur didn't know what he was doing. He didn't appreciate magic. He didn't understand the rituals or the care needed when casting spells. He had no concept of the balance upon which it hung, nor the sheer power it granted its user.
He still had the blood of her kin on his hands, and no amount of apologetic action would wash it away.
He was only doing what he was to protect Emrys, which did nothing but confirm the fact that he had discovered the sorcerer's identity. It was almost laughable, really, Arthur trying to protect the sorcerer who had infuriatingly managed to protect him time and time again. Anyone with any sense could see what he was attempting to do. It was as plain as day.
Fortunately, Camelot's citizens weren't quite as unobservant in this matter as they had been in others.
It was simple to encourage them. "He does not act as he has in the past," she'd murmur. "No son of Uther's would allow such things." Sometimes her accusations would be less veiled. "His ear has been bent by another. He is little more than a puppet for the sorcerer he seeks to protect." Other times, she'd play the role she'd taken on days before. "The king speaks lies. He told me himself that he thought Emrys nothing more than a mere story. How are we to trust him when he speaks to the contrary now?"
Whatever she said was received readily enough. She always said something along the same lines, and it always served to nurture the growing doubt. Arthur had hoped that his announcement, his insistence that he had no contact with her, would stamp out the seeds she'd sown.
She wasn't about to let that happen. Not when she was so close, the time to act so very near to being ripe. And soon, Arthur would regret his words, for they had done nothing but seal his fate.
Merlin could read the unease in the crowd around him easily enough. No one seemed quite sure what to think. Some thought the king wise; others, foolish. Some thought his determination, his actions, admirable. Others called such actions deplorable. Still others insisted that they were signs that he was enchanted.
He hadn't expected the mood to be particularly enthusiastic by any means, but he had hoped it would be more decisively positive than this.
At least he didn't have to say the reaction was decisively negative, although Merlin didn't think either Gaius or Arthur would be pleased with the torn nature of the crowd.
People were most divided over the last issue Arthur had brought up, the one which had caught Merlin by surprise. As far as he'd known, Arthur had been simply going to address the rumours regarding Emrys in passing. He'd thought the speech, as a whole, would be focused upon Arthur's amendments regarding the Druids.
He'd never dreamed Arthur would expand it.
He was happy, of course. Arthur wasn't going to be an absolute prat and do something he'd regret. Even though he'd done nothing official so far, he'd made it clear that, should Emrys come to light, he wouldn't be locked up in a cell to await his death or banished on the spot. That meant, of course, that no one else could pressure Arthur into making such a judgement call. Admittedly, that is what had worried Merlin more than any decision Arthur might have made on his own.
Arthur might be the king, but the laws were in place, and he couldn't blatantly disregard them on a whim.
Truthfully, the only thing keeping the grin off Merlin's face now was the knowledge that bright smiles would stand out in a crowd full of furrowed brows and pursed lips. Even with a cloak hood pulled low over his face, he'd be recognizable enough as the king's manservant if anyone got a good look at him. And even if he weren't, such an open display of support wouldn't be the best thing at the moment, what with the mood of the crowd being what it was.
The things he overheard when he was trying to (discreetly, of course) make his way to a side entrance of the castle, even though they were only snatches and snippets of conversations, spoke volumes.
Merlin sought out Gaius first, not wishing to tell everything immediately to Arthur. He'd have to tell him sometime, of course—and sooner rather than later—but Gaius might have a way of saying things that made it all seem less…fruitless.
Of course, Merlin hadn't opened his mouth once he was back in the chambers he shared with Gaius before Gaius said, after only glancing up from his books on the table, "Arthur's speech did nothing to dispel the rumours."
It was not a question.
Merlin, knowing Gaius had read his expression, nodded glumly. "Doesn't seem like it," he admitted, "but it is early yet."
"But not so early that we cannot see what is coming," Gaius said grimly, "and all due to a loose-lipped aide if my suspicions are correct. Do you recall the boy Balin?"
Merlin nodded slowly. "He's the one who wishes to take a post here in hopes of becoming a knight in the future."
"He'll have a tougher time of that now," Gaius said. "He said something to those he fancies as his friends, who in turn repeated what he'd told them in confidence to the guards, who informed our recent visitor."
Merlin frowned. "Bronwyn, the woman who was worried about Emrys?"
"Indeed," Gaius confirmed. "I've no doubt now that she repeated something of this to others. It is little wonder that the tales are not wilder than they are."
Merlin grimaced, being well aware of how the truth could be twisted once it became gossip. Even in Ealdor, it had been worrisome enough that he'd been extremely cautious—on his mother's insistences—not to reveal his magic to anyone. That Will had found out had been equal parts boon and bane, for while he then had had a confidant and playmate his own age, he had had to take greater care that no one else discovered his secret.
Just because he had not faced death for the practice of magic in Cenred's kingdom, it did not mean that he would have been welcomed.
He'd have faced scorn and taunts from the other children, lashings out of fear from the adults who better understood the power he had. Had Cenred discovered him, he might have been taken away. His mother had never elaborated on could have happened, but Merlin's imagination had supplied more than enough terrifying scenarios to keep him in check.
Sorcerers were feared there, a different sort of fear than that which pervaded Camelot. Ealdor was one of the more distant outlying villages, near the border with Camelot, so Merlin had not been quite as aware of it as he might have been. Hunith had cautioned him again before he'd come to Camelot, and he'd heard her say that magic was outlawed there, but until he'd arrived, the reality of it hadn't quite… sunk in.
She had been sending him to Gaius, after all, to better learn to control his magic. Even she hadn't known she'd been sending him to meet his destiny. She'd thought he would be the court physician's apprentice; she hadn't thought he'd become so close to the crown prince—and that much closer to danger—by being made his manservant.
Merlin regretted nothing of it, though. He may no longer be the naïve boy he had been upon his arrival, and he'd since done things he wasn't proud of, but there was little he would change, given the opportunity.
He might not be entirely happy with how Arthur had found out his secret, nor all the circumstances surrounding it or their current dilemma, but he was well aware that it could have been much worse.
"So we've no good news to tell Arthur?" Merlin asked.
"I fear not," Gaius replied.
"Has George reported in? Maybe he heard something positive." Merlin wasn't quite able to keep the note of desperate hope out of his voice. He hadn't told Gaius all he had heard, but it was clear he didn't need to. But maybe, just maybe, he'd missed something. Maybe he'd stood in a part of the crowd that had been particularly loyal to Uther. Maybe—
"From what I understand, he heard precisely what you did," Gaius replied, dashing Merlin's hopes. "I informed him that we would tell Arthur and Gwen. It was perhaps my imagination, but I do believe he looked grateful."
Merlin pulled a face. He wasn't looking forward to telling Arthur the news, either. "We'd better get it over with, I suppose," he said dully.
Gaius gave him a sympathetic look. "Waiting will make the pain no less," he said simply. "Come, Merlin. They'll be in the royal chambers. Gwen knew to wait for us, and she'll have told Arthur all I have not."
Merlin sighed but started back towards the door. "Do you think we'll be lucky this time? That we'll have been twisting ourselves into knots worrying over something that'll come to nothing?"
Gaius, in response, handed Merlin what he recognized as a calming draught and said, "Arthur believed he might have use of it later."
Merlin pocketed it unhappily, knowing it was too much to ask that this would amount to nothing. Words could be just as destructive as swords and all the more dangerous for it, given how often they were underestimated. Though they worked in subtle ways, the destruction they wrought was nothing of which to be dismissive.
Wish though he may, these circumstances would be no different.