A/N: Hello, my friends. Last chapter was mostly all about Arthur. This one is all about Merlin whose been sorely missing from the action. It was long overdue and I hope you enjoy.

Thanks again to KIMMIKY, my muse and inspiration across the pond.

Many thanks to you for reading my humble story, and to those who have taken the time to leave a review, your feedback mean a lot and they keep me going.

As usual, I don't own Merlin.

….…

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 14 Son of the Earth

He barely noticed the red-gold embers and sparks dancing in the pit so close to him nor its heat penetrating the bare surfaces of his skin to near burning, Merlin's thoughts solely on Morgana and the three other sorcerers standing in the way of their victory. Four people that held the entire battle in their terrible hands.

The camp had settled for the night, most of Arthur's men preferring to sleep in the open rather than the tents offered by their allies. The night air before battle was what they needed, damp and cooling; the nocturnal sounds calming, familiar; a lullaby to most of them. They'd moved to half a day's ride from the castle walls and being this close to home was comforting even though the march to battle and potential death would begin shortly before dawn.

Merlin was quite pleased with himself. Excalibur was where it belonged and Arthur…well, he could tell there was something different about the king. Imbued with his blood the weapon reacted only to Arthur's touch, though he still could not have removed it if he had not believed that he could.

Arthur was conceived with magic, innocence borne to the ruin of them all, the life-altering and blood-drenched pact between a selfish king and an ambitious witch were paid with not only his mother's life. The ancient secrets of the weapon were loosed by the king's own life source and eventuated a side effect he had not considered. The sword, crafted with the skill and pride of a master blacksmith and powered by the ancient fire of a dragon, was never used or brandished before Kilgharrah breathed on it. When first he held the transformed weapon, he felt its unadulterated power tamed, reserved, waiting for someone other than him, forged for none other than Arthur Pendragon. He did not know the extent of its true power until it bound to the king.

How Arthur would accept it, he was uncertain.

On two separate occasions, the sword had been used and came back slightly tainted. First, unintendedly when Uther wielded it against the Black Knight, despite his best attempts at keeping it from him, the evils it absorbed from the black-hearted king and the foul wraith-knight became a part of it. And then again with intent in Merlin's fight against the Immortal Army, each time it touched an undead soldier left a mark of impurity. The numinous power of the Lady of the Lake had somewhat lessened the influence of the wickedness that befell it whilst in her charge and the lake itself, the passageway of the dead had also imbued it with knowledge from all the ages past. All the combined experience of deceased Pendragons and the countless ancestors of others.

Would the king realize his deception?

When Arthur and the sword connected, even the protection of his glove could not restrain his inner power nor hold back the tide of wisdom and knowledge it bestowed upon him in glorious fashion. It filled Arthur with more than just confidence. He had visibly changed, and Merlin wondered if that was why the Great Dragon always insisted that only Arthur wield the weapon, a gift of enlightenment in the right hands or a curse of damnation in the wrong. An amplification of one's own true nature, a good man becoming better, a bad one becoming worse. What exactly he experienced, the king had not let known, but how magic affected his beliefs and mindset now was a conversation Merlin both dreaded and anticipated.

Arthur was right, though to hear him voice such sentiments was more than a little disconcerting at first, the subtlety of the king's consideration to use magic as a tactic the first indication to Merlin that he was most decidedly different. The Southrons were undisciplined sell-sword dressed as soldiers, and if caught by surprise would be no match for Camelot's revitalized strike force. Men they could fight.

The High Priestess and her sorcerers tipped the balance in the enemy's favor, however, even with Camelot's numbers they had no answer for them, not with the stance the city and indeed the entire kingdom's usual stance on the practice. It did not surprise Merlin that no one stepped forward during the war council, given Arthur's violent history against sorcerers, the subtlety of his comments lost on them all.

Well, he amended, not entirely all. He had caught the inference and perhaps there were some amongst the rest of the company who had also perked up though he was certain none would take action. At least not openly. Since Excalibur was free, its power seemed not be exclusive to Arthur. Merlin kept feeling fleeting brushes of magic against his conscience, subtle, happy magic that promised no real harm. He couldn't pinpoint where it came from and didn't want to, really. It was safer for everyone to not know. Unless they were there to harm Arthur, his citizens, or his allies he would not seek them out, and such uplifting magic reminded him of the peace loving Druids, not the revenge-fueled sorcerers he'd been forced by circumstance to battle in the past. Could it be that since he helped create the sword that his magic was a little bit sharper and he could somehow sense a calm and relatively stable magic?

Now, if only he could come up with a plan where he could use his own magic, not expose himself, and certainly not get killed, he could possibly even their odds. A thousand questions flashed through his mind, and sadly, the answers were not at all encouraging. His thoughts ended up being rapid chaotic tangles, a heated internal debate spanning many minutes and leaving him entirely oblivious to the outside world.

How could he use magic to stop Morgana without Arthur finding out? Don't let him see me cast the spell. Obvious. "I am, after all, still more powerful than she is, I think," he whispered, with subdued yet cautionary pride.

But Morgana had grown powerful too and was able to be unsubtle about her show of strength. Everyone knew what she could do. So how could he fight against a powerful High Priestess in front of Arthur without revealing his magic? Not possible. Not directly at least. "I may as well place my head on the chopping block for him."

Well then, Merlin, what will be the best defense not just for Arthur, or Gwen, but anyone I care about if I can't use my magic outright? A protection spell, perhaps? "Too noticeable, even the oblivious prat may become suspicious if a sword to the heart did not kill him." Merlin chuckled at how dense Arthur had been at times, mostly accepting and not questioning some of the outrageous excuses he'd let drop without even thinking, but then he quickly sobered knowing that now the king would not be so easily deceived.

Come on, Merlin! What spells did he know that would cause the most harm to Morgana and the sorcerers? A killing spell? Again, far too obvious. "And I've got to find them all first. That could be tricky considering I don't know any tracking spells."

Arthur would pursue Morgana, he was sure of that. He would allow no other to tackle the problem his sister represented, so he must remain with the king to keep him safe. Sword or no sword he had no defense against her brand of sorcery. No matter what spell he used, he would have to speak such a powerful enchantment aloud to cast it. A death sentence to be sure. If he must expose himself, then he would because Arthur must survive.

But Merlin was not yet ready to die. There had to be a solution.

Gods and Goddesses, how do I keep a powerful High Priestess from killing us all with Arthur so close? "I must make the first strike." Perhaps he was looking at this the wrong way and instead of throwing power at the problem he must use subtlety. Something she would not expect.

But how? Enchant her without her knowledge? "She'd be at a definite disadvantage in such a situation."

Enchant her with what? A binding spell? A poppet? "Hmmm. That could work."

To do that, what would I need? What must I do? How do I get close enough to Morgana to keep her from killing us? How could I get close enough...?

A smile slowly came to his lips just this side of sly, the genius of his plan coming together with perfect clarity and Merlin quickly stood, heading toward the latrine ditch, only the merest hint of a spring in his step so that no one would suspect him leaving the camp nor see him when he turned west. He had to get to Camelot tonight. The longer he could unknowingly drain Morgana's magic the longer it would last in the battle and the harder she would find it to break.

Through all of his internalized tussle, he had remained unaware of the night around him, trusting in his guise as a trustworthy, but idiotic fool to slide all unwanted gazes away. If he had looked over to his right he may have been understandably horrified to note the intense scrutiny, borne of the curiosity he had engendered within the mind of a certain young knight. But he never thought to look and remained ignorant even when the man left his own warm bedroll to follow him.

…..

The range of emotions that played across Merlin's face was that of someone trying to solve a problem or someone plotting a great deal of mischief and believing they had the beginnings of something marvelous. Maxwell saw all the expressions of uncertainty turn to hopefulness from his sleeping spot by a downed tree. He watched Merlin argue with himself intensely then come to agreement with a great deal of evidently smug satisfaction before leaving with a slightly swaggering stride in the direction of the latrine. He rose quickly, quietly, and followed his fellow sorcerer. Something was stirring in the winds and he had an inkling he'd want, no, needed to be part of it.

Arthur, upon returning from late counsel with Queen Annis, saw them both leave one after the other. "Where on Earth are they going?" he asked himself, the flap of his tent in his hand. This was not the first time his manservant mysteriously disappeared, sometimes for days at a time only to return with some ridiculous excuse like his most recent one of knocking himself out when he stumbled over a root while searching for herbs in the middle of the night and then getting lost.

Arthur had been a gullible fool to let such nonsense pass unchecked. That incident happened on the same night that Elyan escaped from the dungeons after his second assassination attempt on him and Arthur never bothered to put the two together until now. But just lately he had been adding up the facts and very little of his servant's activities added up correctly. Most often two and two would add up to five or three, or some ridiculously long complex number he would never believe in a million years. The king sighed, so much coming into focus now and yet leaving greater confusion in its wake. He went into the tent. Whatever they were up to, Merlin and Maxwell both, they'd better have a damn good explanation for deserting the camp so close to battle. And be back in time for the start or so help him he would have them in the stocks for a month and use them as target practice with potatoes every day, twice a day if they missed the battle entirely.

…..

Maxwell was not in the habit of confronting anyone about their magic, it was not his place to judge or condemn or reveal their secret to them or anyone else. It was suicidal too, if it backfired and exposed his own secrets somehow, he could die himself.

But Merlin was different than any other sorcerer he'd ever encountered and lured the knight like a moth to flames, enough possibly that to burn for him didn't seem so farfetched. Despite his age and station, his truly scrawny, mild mannered and yes, dilapidated outward appearance, the servant had intelligence and wisdom, gentleness and compassion, qualities that his great power thrived upon, not consumed. Destiny had somehow brought him to the most unsafe place in the kingdom for someone like him, let alone the manservant to a king who by his own laws would execute him if he knew what he truly was. In so many ways, Merlin was special. He felt compelled to speak to him, their talents desperately needed in so dire a situation, and his curiosity was so damn insatiable. There was no choice in it. He had to speak to him.

The swish of a tree limb snapping softly back into place was all the warning Merlin needed to be on high alert. It could be any number of nocturnal creatures foraging, plenty of activity this time of night, this time of year. But he learned a long time ago to trust his feelings; his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion, though his zeal sometimes did lead to detrimental outcomes. He was reckless, he knew, but this time Merlin was positive he was being followed. He took a sharp left turn around a wide oak, cast a concealment spell, and waited.

Maxwell should have seen Merlin continue past the oak, but there was no visible sign of him. He bit his lip, sighed, and continued in the direction the sorcerer had been traveling. West, toward Camelot.

The knight's eyes widened with awe because he knew Merlin used a powerful spell to conceal his aura and block his ability to sense him, his presence had just winked out of existence. No one had ever done that before. Maxwell stopped and surveyed the now empty darkness. With any other sorcerer, he could easily see the concealment spell because it was magic itself and would still manifest in his inner vision. Merlin's power was undeniable, though, and Maxwell spoke into the black void the night had become. "I know you're here, Merlin."

Maxwell walked right past Merlin just as he stepped from his hiding place behind the oak, yet still hidden with magic. This time, he pursued, the concealment spell absorbing his footfall and even the soft sound of his breathing. Only a few paces to the right of the knight, the warlock checked he wouldn't easily see him and removed the spell.

"Why are you following me?" Merlin asked with suspicion, his anxiety at Maxwell's motives deepening his voice and imbuing it with a subtle power.

Maxwell spun around, startled but for only a second. "Because you need me," he replied more calmly than his pounding heart.

Sir Maxwell had a familiar sense about him despite the fact that Merlin had never seen him before yesterday. The way they fell into a rhythm and methodically processed the treachery at Chime seemed like they'd been working together closely for many years. It was a pleasurable experience in retrospect, the operation they came up with later to capture the bird keeper even more scintillating. Still, what he had to do tonight, a knight could not help. "I'm just going for a walk." Merlin haughtily passed him. "I want to be alone."

"A walk this late at night in a war camp with Morgana's forces just round the corner? I'm not a fool Merlin." Maxwell's tone was so mild, a statement of fact with no real criticism attached. Merlin merely looked at him, saying nothing, telling him with his reticence and the arrogant set to his shoulders he could believe what he liked. Maxwell sighed within his own mind as the sorcerer turned away again. He was obviously not used to anyone noticing anything. Just how many times had he done something similar? "I know what you intend to do," he said, not deterred by what he knew were lies designed to protect his true activities and coming into stride with him. "I can help."

Merlin came to a hard stop. His voice was level, unpretentious from years of practice, any panic he might be feeling well hidden behind those depthless eyes. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Maxwell considered his answer. It was understandable that the sorcerer would not be forthcoming, they were strangers, and trust had to be earned in today's world and most certainly if one had magic. When he replied, it was earnest, honest, and as unthreatening as possible. "I have magic." It was startling how freeing it was to say it out loud like this and to a man he barely knew.

The warlock's lips parted with an intake of air, clearly startled and a little fearful. "What?"

"I was thirteen when I came into it, scared the hell out of me. Especially because of the law, the hatred, and persecutions, and being a squire at Lord Gregory's manor was not a good place to be. I didn't know what to do, and there was no kind of privacy in the barracks, so I had little chance to rage. Was constantly at outs with the other boys because in the little free time we were given, I would disappear into the woods just to get some peace from the constant struggle. I had to contain it. If I'd been more of an emotional type, I think I would have been exposed long ago. When I finally accepted what I was—that took a hell of a lot of time of course and Sir Ector's help—I had to embrace it, else I would have lost my mind I think or been found out and killed. I didn't learn any spells until I became a knight and was able to visit Helva a few times a year. Told everyone else I was going to live off the land around Stowell for a spell. You know, a rite of passage in the wilderness with little more than a horse, a few provisions, and a sword."

"Sounds kind of dangerous." Merlin's voice sounded both awed and fascinated in equal measure.

"What? Helva, being a sorcerer in one of the most dangerous kingdoms there is, or the lies?"

Merlin didn't know how to answer that with the many secrets he had to contain, so he stayed silent. He understood the lying. It was a constant companion since he was old enough to recognize the reasons for doing so. His shoulders unconsciously drooped with the weight of his guilt. It, along with all of its consequences added to the muck that he was a sorcerer only intensifying the danger and complexity of his life.

"Indeed, it was," Maxwell admitted, bobbing his head. "All of it. Lord Gregory became suspicious with so many tales from my squire mates, and then the lone trips as a knight, I think he thought I was some kind of spy, had me followed on one occasion. I don't think he knew the truth was supposedly far worse in the eyes of the law. When I returned, he summoned me to his privy chamber surrounded by his most-trusted knights. He outright accused me of sorcery. He was quite harsh and unforgiving. He said if I denied it, I'd surely be executed anyway. I was terrified, more than at any point in my life so far. So I told the truth.

"Turned out my Lord was a lot more sympathetic toward sorcerers than anyone would have guessed, thought them advantageous, and was really only testing my honor. I guessed over the years he had a couple more tucked away somewhere, but we, none of us, knew of the others. Because of my abilities, I could tell they were not in the military. There was another squire once, but he was killed by mercenaries whilst on patrol." He still remembered his comrade, his kin, though they had not been friends. They had never gotten along, the other too arrogant and self-assured, and constantly amused himself with tricks that bordered on cruelty against others that always made like accidents. Maxwell never laughed at those.

"Lord Gregory released me, giving me my own quarters, and even some tomes to study. He told me that if I were found out by the wrong people, he'd deny everything and put me to death himself. I believe that was his way of assuring me I wouldn't go to the flames. It was actually rather comforting in a way." He paused for a moment of reflection, gaze far away and slightly puzzled. Merlin patiently waited entirely captivated by such a tale despite himself.

"Very odd. You'd be amazed at how many people so far removed from Camelot that really are sympathetic, or tolerant, or simply just look away. We're more trouble to their comfortable lives than most want to deal with; all of them unaware of what we do to protect them."

So true, Merlin thought. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd saved Arthur, or Gwen, or Camelot from a threat or a creature intent on harm and everyone turned a blind eye on how they'd actually rid themselves of them, and even if he did something heroic in plain sight it was laughed off as a fluke. It seemed his life was full of peril, strife, heartache, loneliness, he could go on with all the negative epithets, and only Gaius and the Great Dragon knew of it. Neither of them could truly share his burdens, nor understand the sacrifices he'd made to keep them safe.

The sorcerer-knight sobered. "Lord Gregory never threatened me again, and I gave him no reason to. But a few weeks later, the manor caught fire and his family was trapped inside. I managed to save them with magic before the fire consumed them and his precious manor, mostly." He smiled then, a much more carefree, boyish grin than Merlin had been able to muster in this last year or so. "He always believed that magic could be used for good. He was grateful for my help, though, he did tell me I could be a bit quicker about it next time." Oh, to live a life so close to normal, even with the burden of responsibility magic gave to a person.

He should not be so swayed, so affected by such stories. A lifetime of fear could not be easily influenced by a stranger's confession no matter how much trust it showed and Merlin was still exceptionally wary. Maxwell was a knight, practically a lord and far removed from the dark clouds that hung over the lands closer to Camelot, and he did not know him well enough to gauge his honor. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to trust me." He was hoping Merlin would share his secret and he sighed when he did not, covering his disappointment with a confident smile that flashed across his face. "Like I said, you need me. Whatever you're planning to do has to do with the sorcerers." He hesitated then for the merest fraction of a second and Merlin wondered what else there could be to make him look so solemn and yet so self-assured. "I have another ability that can help us find them, Merlin. I can see people with magic and I can sense it also."

Merlin's jaw worked and his eyes glazed over. Was he saying what he thought he was? "Um, I…" He was exposed without performing magic or even getting caught mentioning it, and there was no way he could deny it if what the knight said was true. He should have been nervous, terrified, but strangely he wasn't. If he could deny it, he wasn't sure if he would. Maxwell knew his secret, and yet he still felt safe.

"It's all right," the knight said. "I know you can face them alone, but I want you to know that you don't have to." He held out his arm and Merlin took it firmly after only the barest of hesitations, acquiescing with just a nod. For what more could he do? "You're secret is safe with me."

Maxwell smiled innocuously, reassuringly, then became all business. "I assume you're going after Morgana?" Merlin nodded. "Once we're inside the castle, I will be able to find the other sorcerers…and then…kill them."

Merlin visibly showed his displeasure, his composure commanding now, his arms crossed. "No. It's too dangerous. You could get caught. Or killed. And killing the sorcerers outright could just bring Morgana's wrath to the fore if she knew of it. It's too dangerous a move so early in the game."

Maxwell hummed. "It's a risk worth taking. We can hit them on two fronts now, which are surely better odds. We're at war, and hard decisions must be made."

A deadly encounter to retake Camelot was real and imminent, and Merlin knew there was no doubt Maxwell's abilities could be useful. If he could attack Morgana's magic at the same time as Maxwell took on the sorcerers, Morgana might never know until too late that her powerful allies would not come to her aid.

"We're losing the night, Merlin. Do you have a better plan?"

"Very well. You can search for Morgana's followers, but only on one condition." Maxwell cocked his head. "Only observe tonight. Gather whatever information you can. Tomorrow, we take them together. Morgana has to be dealt with first."

Ah. How could he have forgotten how shrewd the man really was so soon? Maxwell yielded with a nod, and Merlin smiled satisfactorily. "Let's talk on the way," the Warlock said, resuming his hurried stride and covering distance in one step that most would take in three. "I'll use a transportation spell to get us closer to the castle once we're safely clear of the camp. It could be problematic if I just popped in out of thin air and someone is around. noisy and messy at times depending on what's nearby."

Maxwell was shocked but didn't miss a step to keep up with the warlock. They were about the same height, but Merlin's legs were longer. "You can do that?" It took an inordinate amount of power for such a spell, and complete control. He'd been told it was a very dangerous practice.

Merlin just shrugged, a goofy grin on his face. "A dragon taught me, reluctantly mind you. He, uh, got tired of me asking for a ride. I'll get us as close to the castle as I can. It could be problematic if I just popped in out of thin air indoors and someone was around." There were two types of teleportation spells, one preferred by the sorcerers of light magic, and the more turbulent one performed by agents of darkness.

The knight's eyes had grown large again and he laughed. "I should have known. You're a Dragonlord, too. You have the strongest aura I've ever seen. In fact, I've never seen anything like it."

The pace slowed, decelerating to a brisk walk. "Why?" he asked intensely curious, his eyes wide with a tinge of wonderment. "What do you see?"

The few who he knew that had magic and knew the full extent of his gifts always asked that question. He didn't always tell them, it was not always a good idea, but there was so much innocence in the sound of Merlin's voice that he just could not resist responding with a wide smile. "Well, all sorcerers have a thin layer of light about them, like a second skin, I suppose." He talked with his hands, making sweeping gestures and hand signs for emphasis and visual effect. "The dormant ones are really faint, atrophy I think, like a limb that never gets used. But the powerful ones, or the ones who practice their magic regularly, the aura is a little thicker, and so much brighter, and shines with basic colors of differing shades. With you, well, it's radiating outward like a sunburst not a layer at all. And its color: you're…golden…with flashes of every other color running through it, like the rays of the sun shining through rain clouds and making a rainbow in every drop. Nothing like any other sorcerer ever. I saw a unicorn once from a distance when I'd just gained my spurs and that radiated outward but still not like yours. When yours touches those you love or care about, it seems to curl round them somehow."

Merlin's eyebrows rose in surprise and the tips of his ears turned red with modesty whilst Maxwell only grinned. Throughout his life, all he'd ever heard was how evil, harmful, and ugly magic and sorcery was. That it corrupted, and consumed hearts and souls, and didn't have a place in Uther's twisted idea of a perfect world. Neither he nor magic had ever been described like that, with splendor and purpose and necessity. He wanted so much for Arthur to understand that magic was as exquisite and pure and as simple as Maxwell pronounced, its only darkness is when those who wielded it chose to make it so. He wanted Arthur to know that not every sorcerer was the same.

Merlin's head was bobbing again, his gaze steady on the path in the distance. "That's extraordinary," he whispered, his eyes bright and with a smile of their own.

"You're not just a sorcerer, are you, Merlin? You're a Warlock. And there's so much life in you, you can't die, can you?"

Merlin stopped suddenly, the brightness fading into a terror-stricken horrified glaze, lips twisting as he bit into a grimace. His voice trembled. "Why would you say that? What do you know?"

"Calm, Merlin." Maxwell placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a Child of the Earth, the source elemental that binds them all. You're as much a part of it as magic is, and it will not allow you to die. Just like the unicorns." He leveled his gaze. "Don't worry. I'll take it to my grave."

Dazed, all Merlin could manage was a whisper. "What…?" He looked so shocked, so forlorn. His world had twisted around him out of all recognition.

Maxwell sobered quickly. He was only a few years older than Merlin, yet much more versed in the art of magic than he had a right to be in regards to the Warlock. He'd been fortunate to study openly, to practice freely and in relative safety. He wondered what Merlin would have achieved had he the same opportunity. He shouldn't have just blurted it out, should have realized not everyone would have been so blessed in their education.

"I—I'm sorry, Merlin. It's just that I sense an ancient and benevolent power in you that binds to the Earth. Connecting you to its streams, plants and herbs, the very trees, they will protect you. With all your great wisdom, I just…I thought you knew."

"I—did not." Did the Great Dragon know of this? Why had he not told him? Why would he keep such a monumental secret from him? Merlin thought his burden was heavy as it were, but now, it seemed he had the weight of the eternity on his shoulders. Kilgharrah would answer for this, and for not warning him of the effect of Excalibur upon his king, upon himself. Why must he always make everything harder to bear?

The young knight sighed regretfully seeing some of his air of innocence visibly stripped away. "Again, I beg your forgiveness for imparting such knowledge to you, and I promise I will share what I know; what I've learned through books and travel and instruction. But now, our mission is dire."

It was possible that it wasn't only because he'd helped to create Excalibur, that maybe since being stuck in the bolder, it had somehow connected to the magic of the earth and matured. And since he was a Son of the Earth, he could now sense Maxwell because of it. Was this why he'd felt familiar?

Merlin had waited all his life for someone to understand magic the way he did. Gaius understood the science and the application of it, causes and effects, but not the fear and discipline and loneliness of living it. Lancelot had tried for a time and honestly, it had been wonderful having someone closer to his own age to share it with but he held even less knowledge than Gaius had. Neither did his mother and all three never saw what holding such a gift really meant. Not really.

Maxwell was like him, and the man had trusted him enough to take him into confidence, unafraid of betrayal even though he had not earned it. The tension in Merlin's shoulder relaxed under Maxwell's reassuring grip, the trembling turning into a slight shiver. "Yes," he said, his throat tight with all the attendant complications of what this now meant. That connection he'd felt in the tent, the wisps of happy magic touching his were from Maxwell. They were kin. And somehow Excalibur wanted him to know. To be prepared. "Of course. Thank you."

Maxwell nodded, now entirely confident in his decision to reveal his magic to a perfect stranger. They were kin, after all, more so than any other magic user Maxwell had ever come across. And under these circumstances, he relied heavily on instinct and intellect. He measured the man and did not find him wanting. He was a man with a kind and gentle heart, trusting and agreeable. Yet he also sensed the wizard within, a formidable opponent with the mettle of any battle-hardened soldier, powerful enough to kill him with thought alone if he wanted to protect his secret. And yet he could also sense that he wouldn't resort to so drastic an action unless it proved necessary. Such wisdom was rarely found in one so young. He also sadly believed the Warlock was unaware of his own potential, influence, and true worth. It really was no wonder why most of the knights and citizens at the camp and even the king was fond of the servant. But that fondness was never voiced, never acknowledged and it had left the man with no true idea of what he meant to them all.

Walking in comfortable silence while he absorbed this new information, their pace a casual stroll, Merlin whispered, "I wonder what Morgana's aura looks like." He thought he'd said that in his head, then grinned embarrassingly upon realizing he'd spoken it out loud.

Maxwell hummed thoughtfully. If Merlin was pure light and she pure darkness, he could almost imagine what he would see. "I'm not sure I want to know, but I guess we'll be finding out soon enough."

…..

After the countless times he'd slipped in and out of the castle without anyone the wiser, Merlin knew of all the forgotten and less secured passages within the Citadel, weaknesses in defense he used to his advantage time and again. On one hand, he'd wanted to warn Arthur about them. Any determined intruder could find a way in and do their dirty deeds, or a traitor to worm out without so much as a sideways glance from a guard. Agravaine was such an example.

He wondered why Leon had never reported Agravaine's clandestine departures, or arrivals for that matter. Unless his being a trusted uncle to the king gave him certain automatic rights, such as never being suspected of treachery no matter his late night activities. It had baffled him that nobles were never queried on such but the peasantry interrogated thoroughly. Especially considering peasants usually had more reason to be out and about after hours.

Even so nobles could come and go as they pleased, what business did a lord have to leave the Citadel at odd hours of the night and day? Perhaps the guards thought he was secretly meeting a lady outside the walls for some romantic encounter away from curious eyes and loose lips, and thought it best not to include his departures in their reports. Had they known his unknown paramour was Morgana who plotted with gods and goddesses against their very existence, so many evils could have been averted. If they had only accosted Agravaine for his comings and goings treating him to the same intense scrutiny as the servants, much may have come to light sooner.

Maybe they were threatened or bribed by the wayward lord. Merlin already knew of several accomplices within the walls of Camelot. He would be sure to root them out if they were still alive once the kingdom was set right under Arthur's control. Though he would not put it past Morgana to kill them all herself just to be rid of anyone who might seek to become a double agent and play them off one against the other. She had become altogether ruthless in these last years.

On the other hand, telling the king about the flaws in the castle's protection would severely deplete his available safe entry and exit routes and make it more difficult for his comings and goings. These weak points helped to protect Arthur if—no, when he needed to, the way he needed to. Merlin decided then that after this was over, he'd research how to erect magical wards around the soft spots and other less secure areas that would be undetectable to the eye yet provide the necessary protection against unwanted guests and people like him if breached.

Maxwell disguised as a nondescript Southron and Merlin in the scarlet robes and pure white facial hair of Emrys, they parted down different passages upon reaching the upper levels leading into the heart of the castle. They both had different tactics and intentions for accomplishing their missions, Merlin to bind Morgana's magic and hopefully scare the living daylights out of her troops enough to leave them unsettled and on edge. Troops with hardly any sleep were next to useless after all. And Maxwell to seek out those lesser sorcerers, measure their powers and try to figure out ways of defeating them cleanly and quickly. They would return to the rusted gate on the outer curtain wall in one hour or less. Maxwell insisted Merlin leave without him if he did not return at the appointed time, pressing that the king needed him for the coming battle, the servant more valuable to their cause than the knight. Maxwell promised that he would hole himself up until the battle commenced tomorrow if he did not make it out. Merlin had reluctantly agreed with his promise not to come looking for Maxwell no matter what happened.

….

Emrys finished his deed more swiftly than even he could have predicted, encountering hardly a soul near the royal chambers and securing the cursed poppet under Morgana's bed with little difficulty. But his attempt at slipping out as undetected as he entered was foiled spectacularly when none other than Morgana herself spotted him, ending with him giving the Southrons a merry chase through the castle with smoke and illusion aiding his every step. It was almost fun, even when the warning bell soon followed. But now dressed as a hooded Southron, he easily blended in with them and returned to the rusted gate, a small smile on his lips at the Southron's stupidity. It had only taken him a short time to change their odds and give them a better chance at retaking the castle without a one-sided magical offensive from Morgana. And if the caliber of soldiers set running after him was any indication, the army would have fewer problems than they thought. Deciding not to change back into his servant's clothes until he and Maxwell were safely back in the shelter of the forest, he melted into the shadows of an alcove, noiseless and patient, a discipline learned the hard way from countless long and boring council meetings with Arthur over the full span of six years servitude.

….

Maxwell lied, having no intentions of returning in one hours' time, his mission to eliminate the enemy sorcerers stuck firmly in his gut. And no sooner had he emerged from the dark southwest passages of the lower levels, and Merlin as Emrys hobbled off in a different direction down the dimly lit corridor, rather quickly for a man of 80 years, did Maxwell drop the pretense that he would only observe and collect information. He planned to kill them just as he said.

Confronting three sorcerers in which he knew nothing was as Merlin had definitely implied very foolish. They could have a range of talents that may far exceed his own above-average abilities. There was a better chance that he would not make it out of this alive, but it was a risk he was willing to take. As a knight, he was used to odds being so far removed from being ideal. Merlin's sense of caution was admirable but just the elimination of one sorcerer before the fighting started in earnest would ensure a much better survival rate for the strike force, and that in his mind was well worth the gamble.

Maxwell reasoned it was no different from any other dangerous mission he'd undertaken in the service of Sir Gregory, except that he was doing this completely alone with no one to watch his back. If Ector had been alive, he would have demanded to be a part of this had he known and there would be his cover. He would have insisted in that overly dramatic yet sarcastic way of his, that Maxwell had never been able to say no to. And he would have been full of irreverent whispered commentary and snide jokes whilst still being cognizant of the very mortal peril they were in. He shook those forlorn thoughts away. Now was not the time to dwell on what could have been.

The castle was unfamiliar, having never had cause to visit before, not even a call to battle. Its sheer size and number of places the sorcerers could be daunting in itself. The Clarwick knight moved casually among the trespassers, dressed in black and gray and a scarf covering his nose and mouth, striding along with a confidence he did not feel in order to blend in, his senses on high alert and caution dogging every step. A lot of Southrons were dressed like he was, others wore hooded capes or nothing at all to conceal their faces. It didn't matter what the sorcerers looked like though; he could spot them easily enough as long as they were accessible. But Camelot was so big, they could be anywhere and there was little of the night left in which to find them.

Taking a corner, a flux of Southrons moving with purpose in the slightly angled hallway momentarily startled him before he merged into the flow. He hadn't expected so many still awake this time of night and that may prove to be problematic if his targets were wandering around the great castle or in the presence of others. But he would deal with that sooner than he thought, the aura of a sorcerer no more than forty paces in front of him. He followed, watching a robed figure climb the winding stairs of the southeast tower, and two Southrons trailing behind him.

The greatest weapon in a sorcerer's arsenal was speech. Without it, he was just another man. The ability to evoke an incantation committed to memory still required the right pronunciation, intonation, inflection, and even a bit of faith to fuse properly with the natural magics of earth, fire, water, and air else the spell could go terribly wrong, or nothing would happen at all. Warlocks and witches, and in rare cases the sorcerers classed as high priests and priestesses of the Old Religion, were the only ones with sufficient power to cast a spell with only thought. Maxwell meant to silence their voices first.

He reached the bottom steps, ascending swiftly and just in time to see the two Southrons exit the stairs a few floors up while his target continued to climb, then exiting on the next level up, the highest level. He followed the sorcerer until he came to a door slightly open with a sign on the wall next to it that read "Court Physician." Smiling widely at his luck, and then twisting his face in mock pain, he entered cradling his left arm.

The soft clink of glass bottles stopped at the sound of his footfall at the threshold, and the sorcerer turned around in surprise. His aura, a dark shade of blue, had depth, but not substance, yet he was powerful enough if potions were in his arsenal. From the looks of the quarters, Maxwell could tell that he had settled in nicely, making use of the previous occupant's home and wares. If he had a guess, the sorcerer had the knowledge to use these medicinal items, applying his skills as not just a physician, but also an apothecary. He could heal with magic. Older than he had guessed and hunched, his head was nearly void of light brown hair though what was left was streaked liberally with gray. Dull brown eyes, small and conniving, glared at him, and his lips twisted into a sneer, obviously irritated at the interruption.

"What is it?" he snapped in a raspy voice, the usual patience and empathy of physicians clearly not in his repertoire. It was rather obvious this was not his typical profession. The man practically hissed at him.

Maxwell was not intimidated indicating his protectively held arm with a tilt of his head. "I think I broke my wrist," he said, his eyes slipping minutely to the intricate rune around the sorcerer's neck, elaborate patterns that he recognized but could not decipher from this distance. He grunted, suspecting it provided protection against killing spells. He hoped the apothecary thought it was a groan indicative of his pain. He would have to do this the knight's way, or something close to it, at least.

The sorcerer huffed with impatience and ill humor but summoned Maxwell forward with a querulous wave. "Let me have a look," he snarled. "I can't very well diagnose for meself without examinin' you."

Maxwell played his part well and held out his arm tentatively, grunting with faux pain as he did so, but knowing that anyone could tell there was no damage to his wrist just by looking at it, the bruising that accompanied broken bones simply not there. The old sorcerer took his forearm in a firm grip and pulled him closer with one hand, and none too gently so that Maxwell stuttered forward one step involuntarily.

The warning bell suddenly rang out and Maxwell pulled his arm from the other man's hold just as the apothecary pulled a dagger from under his robe with his free hand and tried to thrust it clumsily at the knight.

Maxwell easily blocked the small but no less deadly dagger aiming for his gut and shoved the sorcerer backward with a word and an invisible blast of air that sent him reeling, flipping him over a low wooden stool and landing hard on his face.

"Gesweorc, hine beclyppe!" He spoke calmly enough to incant the strangling spell while he rushed the fallen sorcerer, now struggling to breathe on the floor. Maxwell needed him alive long enough to ask a few questions on the whereabouts of his like-minded friends, and he knew just the spell to extract that information.

Kneeling beside him and turning him over, he barely heard the last breaths of life escape the apothecary, his tongue already blue and swollen, eyes bulged and glassy. Maxwell's own eyes widened. He had never seen the strangling spell cause such an effect, but upon closer observation saw a tiny scratch on the dead man's jawline, fine and small and still beading blood. Maxwell's eyes immediately sought the delivery mechanism, the dagger still held tightly in the dead man's grip.

Careful to retrieve it by the handle, he lifted the weapon and inspected the blade. A thin layer of darker gray sticky residue laced the edge marring the polished steel. "Poison." He padded down the corpse, discovering a bandolier of throwing knives and the sheath for the dagger. A piece of cloth doused with more grayish deposits lined the inside of it and soaked the killing edge with poison each time it was placed within. He carefully sheathed the dagger. These were assassin's tools and he found it poetic justice that the sorcerer had accidentally killed himself with his own weapon.

Unclasping the bandolier and the dagger's belt, Maxwell set them aside, then pulled the surprisingly heavy body into the small storage room at the top of a short flight of stairs. He wasn't too taken aback to find it doubled as sleeping quarters, and actually thought it fortuitous, though the person to whom they actually belonged possibly would not think so when the Citadel was restored to its rightful ruler and the body discovered.

He lifted the corpse onto the bed with a little difficulty and was just about to cover it with a thin and worn blanket when he glimpsed the runes glinting once again with the ancient symbols around the apothecary's neck. Times like these, he was thankful for his less than legal education, having studied runic philosophy and interpretation in great detail in Helva his first year there, and less so every year since. Cutting the leather strap and slipping it from around the sorcerer's neck, he secured it in the folds of the Southron jacket he wore. He pulled the blanket up to the dead man's neck and studied his work. As far as anyone could tell from a distance, a patient was fast asleep on the narrow bed.

Maxwell yawned, loud and obnoxiously, embarrassing himself even though he was alone. One thing for certain, he was exhausted and needed rest if he were to be effective when the battle commenced tomorrow. He noticed a cot in the main chamber and decided that was a good place to start. Descending the steps and closing the door behind him, he scooped up the discarded weapons. He removed his jacket, strapping on the bandolier and the dagger's belt, then concealed them as best he could underneath his jacket lest someone recognize them as belonging to the apothecary.

Scanning the rather large chamber, his eyes following the stairs leading to a winding walkway that leveled out before a large bookcase high in the rafters stuffed full of tomes of all sizes. He ascended the steps and squeezed into the extremely tight spot, grunting and squirming as softly as he could and endeavoring not to topple the more precariously piled volumes, before he was able to stretch out somewhat more comfortably and still remain hidden from immediate view should someone enter. Exhaling a few times, he felt the tension leave his shoulders then his whole body relaxed at the relative safety. The warning bell had stopped and he prayed that Merlin had not met a foul end. He somehow knew he had not, for the man was as wily as a fox.

It didn't take him long to fall into a light and dreamless sleep. With one ear cocked for trouble true, a man still had to take rest where and when he could get it in such trying times.

….

Merlin waited impatiently the last hour having lost all semblance of stillness and self-assurance before making the decision to return to their camp without Maxwell but with much indignation. It'd been over two long hours and there were few left before daylight broke. He would have to transport closer to the encampment than he'd prefer, but he still didn't think he'd get any rest. He should have known that whether it was the knight's sense of duty or he had considerable skills as a sorcerer, the man definitely had killing on his mind.