Chapter Twenty Five

It was the only name Merlin was sure would grant him a timely audience with the steward. And he had been right. The name preceded him, sparking an emotion he had not seen before from Sir Guy – a man who seems to avoid feeling much of anything if he can help it. But just now the young warlock saw it, sweeping across his face in a moment of unprepared vulnerability: fear. It was quickly washed away by animosity, perhaps to a higher degree than is usually displayed by the man, but that single crack had not been missed.

Even now as they march towards the throne room, Guy glances back over his shoulder to check on Emrys. The tall man in black leads the four of them through the halls with Allan only a step behind him, and Merlin and his escort to follow after that. He's paranoid. Merlin has seen that look before where he – or at least Emrys – is concerned. No doubt from the same woman who has instilled the same distrust into Sir Guy.

As they round another corner, it hits him square in the chest. An invisible force that knocks the wind from his lungs and sends bursts of light exploding behind Merlin's eyes. He stumbles, losing his footing as his legs grow weak.

"What is this?" Guy asks sharply, the scrape of his blade sounding as it's drawn from its sheath. "What is he doing?"

"I don't know, my lord." The guard tries to keep Merlin on his feet, clenching his meaty hand around the sorcerer's arm. But Merlin feels sick. He sinks further towards the ground.

The rumble of Guy's voice barking orders is lost, buried beneath the agonizing yell of a man. It erupts between Merlin's temples and drowns out all else. It's one of them, he knows it – one of the sorcerers at the mercy of Lord Vaisey somewhere in the castle.

There's no telling how long the druid was tortured, but when the screaming ends and Merlin's vision clears, he finds himself layered in sweat and staring up into the eyes of Allan A. Dale. The former outlaw has a good grip on the front of his robes – presumably in an attempt to help the guard keep him standing. But when their stares lock, the faintest crease knits in Allan's brow.

Merlin steadies himself on his own two feet, pushing the two men off of him. "Give an old man some space! Can't you see he needs a bit of room to breathe without taking in the likes of your putrid musk and rotting breath assailing his senses?"

"What happened?" Sir Guy asks as he takes a tentative step closer, sword still ready in hand.

"Nothing worth soiling yourself over." Merlin points a decrepit finger towards the man in black's defensive stance. "A fainting spell is nothing to take up arms over."

"That's what that was?"

"What did you think it was? Me surrendering my broken body over to the ether where the spirits of the High Priests and Priestesses of the Old Religion who have long since passed would reach through the veil to pour their powers into my earthly vessel so that I may have the power to vanquish anyone who dares rise against me?"

Guy does not lower his weapon, nor does he respond right away, instead throwing tentative glances towards his two comrades. Beside him, Allan shifts his weight.

"Can...you do that?"

"A secret told loses its worth, and I'm not about to spend it on a two-faced pickpocket!"

"Enough of this." Guy's lips curl into a sneer. "He's toying with us." He turns to continue down the hall and the others under his charge waste no time following after him, sure to drag Merlin along at their clipped speed whether he can manage the pace or not.

The heavy doors of the throne room clank open to reveal Lord Vaisey finishing up with his latest tutelage session led by a scrawny, copper-haired young man, not much older than Merlin. The boy now lies in a mass on the ground, motionless, and Merlin knows it was his voice he heard crying out. Every muscle in the young warlock's body goes rigid with anger. His escort must have felt it for he jerks him along as if to ensure his cooperation.

"My Lord..." Sir Guy strides towards the throne, barely casting a single look down at the poor boy's misfortune as he passes.

"Perfect timing, Gisbourne. We were just finishing up." The steward sweeps his goblet off the table next to him, but pauses before the rim gets to his lips. He furrows his brow as though he is trying to place a familiar smell in the air, and returns the goblet to where it previously sat. "Heavens. Oh my...whatever could this be?"

The man in black clasps his hands in front of him, waiting for the steward to regather his attention. "My Lord-"

Vaisey sticks a finger into the air to keep anyone from interjecting further talk. "Ooh, now this is something new. I've not felt anything quite like this yet. It's so...potent, so bright, so...volatile. My dear Gisbourne, what have you brought me?" As the steward sweeps his eyes across the four of them, they get no further than Allan A. Dale before he's on his feet, appalled. "You?"

Allan's eyes widen, horrified at the prospect of having those descriptions attributed to himself. "What, me?"

"He's not who you sense," says Guy, starting to turn towards Merlin, but Vaisey seems puzzled.

"He's not a sorcerer?"

"No, my lord."

"A captive?"

"Not exactly."

"A new servant?"

Sir Guy sighs. "No, my lord..."

"Then why is he here?" Vaisey immediately fixes his stare on the outlaw, wagging his finger between the two of them with greater disapproval. "With you. Armed. And still drawing breath?"

"You can rest easy, he's on our side," Guy says, hoping to quickly dismiss the topic. He starts to gesture towards Merlin again. "But more importantly, we-"

"Our side?" Rising to his feet, the steward glares at Allan. "You mean to tell me this boy, who infiltrated our walls and played a part in spoiling the festive execution of Camelot's king-"

"With all due respect, you didn't see me help them one nick in all that," says Allan.

Vaisey cocks his head to the side, a predator analyzing his prey.

"I-I mean, I was there, yeah," Allan quickly concedes, "but I had to uphold my cover, didn't I?"

"Allan has been my source for quite some time now." Guys shifts his weight, clearly irritated by the delay in conversation. "He may no longer have his position within the outlaw's ranks, but I believe it to be a mistake to dismiss him now when he still knows advantageous information."

"How advantageous?"

"I know their plans." Allan steps forward to be shoulder to shoulder with Sir Guy, while Merlin does everything in his power not to physically react to the treachery unfolding before him. "The ones they're probably acting on right now while your men stand around twiddling their thumbs." This earns a sideways glare from Guy – a silent warning – before he forces his attention back to the steward. Allan continues, "Maybe it's just me, but I sure wouldn't want to get caught with my pants down in a situation like this."

"Do you expect me to be concerned? A dozen children frolicking in the woods with swords are no match for me and my army."

"What of Camelot's army?" Allan offers.

Merlin furrows his brow at that.

"Yes, do tell," says the steward, trying not to show his piqued interest. "What of them?"

Folding his arms, the former thief takes his time to consider it. "Give me a place in your ranks and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Vaisey gives an exasperated sigh, "Alternatively, I could not give you a place in my ranks, and pull everything you know from your tiny brain word by word with excruciating tedium."

A bit of perspiration collects at Allan's temples, "But what fun would that be, aye?"

"For you? None."

"My lord, I would prefer to keep him alive and functional if at all possible." Guy's drawl brings the outlaw some relief. "His navigation of the woods and further knowledge of Hood's tactical approach could also prove beneficial, and save me time-"

"Your compassion is so odious sometimes...yes, yes, we'll keep him snuggled right at your side, now go on boy."

Allan cracks the faintest grin before he gestures his chin out towards one of the stained-glass windows. "As we speak King Arthur and his knights, Robin Hood and his band...they're all retreating. They want to take Leofrick across the border to Camelot, get him safe, gather reinforcements." He shrugs, shifting to rest a casual hand on the hilt of his sword. "Then they'll be back, and my guess is, it'll be a more even match than you'd be comfortable with, my lord."

The room takes a moment of silence to digest this new information – new to Sir Guy, new to the steward...new to Merlin.

"What is their course?" Vaisey asks Allan.

"They mean to head southwest, my Lord, crossing the Camelot border just north of the river," he says. "If you let them get too far, they'll try to lose you in the Mountains of Andor. There'll be no hope after that."

Merlin watches Allan, looking for any tell that might give him insight into these claims.

"Interesting if proven to be true," says Vaisey. "But you understand that precautions must be taken. I can't very well risk all of this on the words of...well...you."

"I'm no liar."

"We all know that's not true, now don't we?"

"I'm not lying about this." He amends.

"You'll forgive me if I take a moment to make sure of that." He sweeps his hand through the air. "Fanächt áit a bhfµil tú!"

The steward's eyes blaze gold before Allan's posture goes rigid – he arches back as spasms take hold, consuming his body in tremors. He grunts, frozen in place, the muscles in his neck taught and twitching as though they're no longer being controlled by his own will. The steward approaches, slow and calculated as he fixes his attention solely on Allan.

"Now, now," Vaisey coos, slithering closer. "This won't hurt a bit if you are indeed telling the truth as you claim. Inïs an fhírinnè..."

Those words. Merlin had not heard them before, but he finds himself fearing for the poor, albeit traitorous, thief in front of him. Whatever such an enchantment does, it can't be good.

Presumably thinking the same thing, Gisbourne takes an involuntary step back, as though half expecting Allan to start coughing up blood or contracting opens wounds across his body from an invisible blade. But nothing befalls him. He stays immobile, his eyes full of more than pain – panic – as the stewards draws in.

"Tell us why you're here..."

Allan's neck seizes, shuddering as his words are choked back and new ones are pulled from his mouth. His voice is hoarse, strained, as if compelled to speak. "Robin caught me. He found out I'd been selling his secrets to Gisbourne, that I wanted Arthur Pendragon and his knights gone. He banished me."

Vaisey studies him closely. "And now you want revenge?"

"Yes." Allan answers too quickly. He cries out as his body gives a more violent shudder; the tendons beneath his skin strain, and his veins bulge until his pale complexion is riddled with blue lines. "No! N-No!" The change of heart seems to bring him relief – if only temporarily.

"Ooh," Vaisey clicks his tongue in regret. "Those pesky lies will due you no good. What is it you really want in the wake of your exile, Allan A. Dale?"

He convulses, withdrawing a pained groan before he's forced to continue. "I know where my allegiance lies now, and I want to do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty."

"Loyalty. An admirable quality, yes." A toothy grin slowly spreads across the steward's face, allowing his jeweled tooth to gleam in the light. He feigns ignorance. "Tell me again...who has yours?"

Allan struggles, battling his will to be stronger than that of the enchantment's. The muscles in his face twitch with words he's trying to hold back. His neck is taught and his limbs rigid with effort. Sweat dribbles down along the raised arteries beneath his skin. "You."

Merlin winces. The resulting cry of agony that rips from Allan's mouth pierces his ears. Guy keeps his gaze firmly on the floor, and the steward couldn't look more pleased, though a red hue of fury commingles with the delight on his face. He watches enraptured, waiting to see how much pain the thief can take before he relents with the truth.

"Robin!" Allan practically screams, his voice cracking. He is drenched in sweat now, his clothes damp, and his hair clinging to his forehead. "I am loyal to Robin!"

Guy stays stoic, hands clasped firmly in front of him, but he closes his eyes in a moment of brief dread. Silence hangs in the air.

That is, until Lord Vaisey's clapping shatters it.

"A valiant effort, I must say. Endearing, even. Do you see what he did, Gisbourne?" Vaisey smiles. "He thought he could win his master back by double-crossing us. Simply precious." He links his hands behind his back and studies Allan. "Now I assume those so-called 'plans' you so graciously gifted us with are all false, correct?"

"Yes..." The outlaw's voice is hoarse, resigned, defeated.

"What are their real plans?"

Allan twitches, but beyond that he shows no signs of fighting the truth. His head hangs, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. "They want to kill you. They think you're weak, that you haven't yet gotten control of your powers. Once you're dead, they're counting on the allegiance of the soldiers to fall into a more favorable line."

"What is there plan of attack?"

He shakes his head, "I don't know."

"No...you don't, do you?" Staring at Allan, Vaisey addresses his second in command. "Gisbourne. Gather your men. I want the forest swept and flushed of everything that draws breath. I want every stone overturned, every log rolled over, every stream sifted until you find them, and when you do I want the carcasses of two dead kings returned to me on a platter, do you understand?"

"Is it wise to relieve the castle of men, my lord? When your life may be in danger?"

Released from his invisible clutches, Allan gasps, collapsing onto the floor in front of Vaisey, who prods him with the toe of his boot. "This mutt wanted to draw the soldiers from the castle, send us scattering across the countryside in a wild goose chase. To make room for his friends, no doubt. I think it's a rather fine idea."

The outlaw writhes on the floor, lifting his confused gaze to look at the steward.

"You're playing into their hands?" Guy asks.

"We cannot lose, Gisbourne. Either you and your men find them, or they come straight to me. And rest assured, we will give them the warm reception they deserve."

"Of course, my lord." Guy hesitates, glancing down at Allan then to his master. "And what would you have become of the boy?"

"Best to take him with you."

Guy furrows his brow. "For what purpose?"

"He knows the location of their hideout."

Allan tries to find the strength to push himself off the floor. "I'd never tell you-"

Face contorting in rage, the steward kicks Allan across the face before stooping down to snatch his broken jaw in his hand, forcing the outlaw to look at him. Blood drips out of the side of Allan's mouth, running over Vaisey's fingers.

"Don't worry, dear boy," Vaisey hisses. "You won't have a choice in the matter. Äch an fhírinnè a labhairt..."

Allan winces as though expecting more pain to befall him, but none seems to come.

"My lord-" Guy steps forward, his tone clearly intending to address some business, but Vaisey backhands the man as he rises to his feet in a fury, leaving several streaks of Allan's blood smeared across Guy's face.

"Did you think you would come out of this unscathed? I've forgiven your incompetence over and again, Gisbourne. I have turned a blind eye to the weakness in your compassion, but you bring a mole into my presence and vouch for him without so much as a single doubt in your mind. You've run out of pardons, my friend. Now get out of my sight. Emrys and I have much to discuss."

Something ignites behind the steward's eyes as he looks at Merlin for the first real time since they arrived. They're hungry, drawing a slow, toothy smile from his cracked lips.

"I must say, I am most delighted." The words nearly slur from the steward's lips in insatiated anticipation. They are alone now. The others were dismissed, and not a one of them dared to keep the temperamental sorcerer waiting. "I've heard tales of a man," he says. "A lone magician – who possesses a power to rival that of even the High Priestess. And now here you are." Vaisey spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. "I admit, I feel unworthy."

"You are," Merlin says with the graveled voice of Emrys. His words are slow. He is deliberate as he looks upon the cuff wrapped around the steward's wrist. "But it's not my presence that is unmerited." Its power pulses. It thickens the very air around them.

"Oh, come now..." Turning his hand over, Vaisey admires the fine piece of jewelry. "Surely we can agree that a man is deserving of anything he is successful in taking."

"Whether it's his to take or not?"

"I find possession to be a more convincing argument for ownership than mere conviction." He waves his hand in distaste as though fending off a foul odor threatening to assail his nose. "It cuts out the tiresome semantics of it all."

"An interesting stance for a man who has severed the hands of starving people because they possessed borrowed bread."

The steward grins.

"What is it you want exactly?" He strolls across the floor, narrowing the divide between them – just enough that Merlin can make out the beads of sweat glistening on his face. They betray his arrogant demeanor. "My men are no match for you. Not even Gisbourne. I don't fool myself into thinking they would be capable of bringing you here against your will. So it begs the question...why have you come?"

"The reason has never changed. Arthur Pendragon entered this kingdom in search of peace, and I don't intend for him to leave without it."

"Yes, I'm all too aware of your devotion to the Pendragons-"

"To Arthur." The old wizard corrects with a fervor that is more malevolent than the steward must have been expecting.

Lord Vaisey studies him a moment. "Yes...to Arthur." He begins to pace, moving laterally as he attempts to show dominance while maintaining his distance. "Which regrettably causes all the more confusion. He is out there, and yet...you are here. I should think it'd be easier to protect your ward if you were at his side."

"Not when his biggest threat resides here in the castle."

The steward all but laughs. "Ah, my old chap, you flatter me. But you see, coming here – as noble as you may think it – really is a service to me more than your king." He stops, all mirth leaving his face. "Imagine the reverence that shall befall me when word spreads that I have bested Emrys."

"You are a novice. To try and kill me would be in vain," says the warlock. "But if you were to remove the cuff, restore the High Priestess of her powers, I'll need not interfere."

"Kill you?" Lord Vaisey is incredulous. "A legendary wizard waltzes into my throne room, and you think the only plans I have for him are murder? A clue: No. It's not. I would not dare to waste such divine intervention by obliterating the potential before me. Not when it would look so good on me."

"If you think I will teach you as you have forced countless others-"

"No, I don't expect you to comply." He twists the piece of silver around his wrist fondly. "Not willingly, that is."

Merlin eyes the bangle, its beauty enhanced against the coarse pallor of the steward's skin. The black stone glints beneath the light, winking at a notion both powerful and dangerous all at once, and the dragonlord finds it difficult to look away. He hears it – the song the pair first sang to him in Marian's bedroom – ringing in his ears, high and clear. He tries to drown it out.

"You'll be sorry to hear, the cuffs don't work under coercion," says Merlin. "Both participants must be compliant."

"La-dee-da-dee-da..." He drawls, a certain bite entering into his words as he goes. "Rules, rules, rules. How boring life must be to always go by the book, Emrys. No, you see, once the Lady Morgana is – how shall I say it? – dead, and the transfer of her magic is complete, I will have the power to amend some of those pesky restrictions." The steward's eyes level poisonously upon the elderly sorcerer.

"It's not possible..."

"Oh, but it is...from the very fires whence it was forged, so too can it be altered."

Merlin does his best to show no reaction. The sentiments churn in his stomach, but he keeps his attention steady and his stance stalwart. The room's warmth floods in through his veins, leaving a familiar path of searing heat throughout his body, and causing his fingers to tingle. Lord Vaisey gloats silently. Unaware.

Taking a breath, Merlin thrusts his hands out towards the steward. "Forþ fleoge!" Through the golden haze he can see the scattered emotions flit across the steward's face; a jolt of surprise, the wide-eyed onset of fear, and the resolve that all-too-quickly replaces them both.

"Coinnigh sé ann!" The stout man extends both hands out in front of him in defense. He skids backwards at the force of Merlin's blow, but never loses his footing. His cracked lips part with triumph. The jewels on his teeth glimmer with the same sinister sparkle that has ignited in his eyes.

In front of Vaisey's palms, Merlin's conjured spell hovers with obedient restraint. It's hardly detectable by sight aside from the thin, transparent film that envelopes the ball of energy, and distorts the young warlock's view of his opponent. The trapped kinetic current roils in the bubble, eager for its wrath to be released.

Merlin stands, mezmorized and horrified by the spectacle before him. He has never seen a defensive enchantment quite like it.

"Dül araís!" Vaisey shouts.

The effects of the aging spell leave Merlin unprepared; without the strength and agility of his youthful body to aid him, he finds his own magic being thrown back at him in a haste that is unavoidable. The invisible force strikes true, crashing into Merlin. Searing pain explodes across his chest, knocking him from his feet, and throwing him into the wall meters behind him. The wind is forced from his lungs. His head snaps back against the cold, hard stone. And his feeble body is left to crumple in a heap on the floor.

Vaisey chuckles.

Writhing, Merlin wills his muscles to lift himself up, but they protest, unable to do little more than throb and ache, rendering him immobile.

Shoes thud against the stone flooring, drawing near. Along with the laughter.

"How terribly underwhelming." says Vaisey. "I would have thought a man who has haunted the nightmares of the High Priestess her whole life would be able to vanquish little ole me with not but a mere snap of his fingers. What a pity. I myself was hoping for a bit more grand of a display."

"You should feel no pride," Merlin groans, managing to climb onto all fours, "for besting me with the gifts and knowledge you tortured out of Mercia's witches and wizards to take for yourself. They are a peaceful people." He looks up through his curtain of white hair that has fallen into his face, his palms burning against the floor beneath him. "And you are a monster."

Outside, distant thunder rumbles.

The steward curls a lip in distaste. "Do not pretend your hands are clean, old man. That your conscience is at rest. How many lives have you taken with the mere utterance of a word? And for what? A boy unfit for Camelot's throne. Awendaþ eft-"

Merlin shifts, watching in vain as the steward makes his approach. He groans. "Ná labhäir..."

The smirk on Lord Vaisey's face vanishes as he tries to incite the last of his conjuring spell. He chokes. Cutting the enchantment short, and gagging on his words, the steward tries to speak, forcing them from his throat, but he can only groan with as much misery as Merlin feels.

His face beats red with fury. It's clear that for all the things Vaisey has learned from his unwilling tutors in a short amount of time, he has not yet mastered the art of non-verbals.

The young warlock turns, using the time given by Vaisey's distraction to grapple with the wall. His aged fingers claw at the grooves in the stone, utilizing any leverage to help hoist himself up from the ground and get his feet back beneath him.

Just as Merlin finds his footing, the air shifts and the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He spins. Vaisey lunges at him – a thirst for blood in his eyes and the silver flicker of a dagger in his hand.

The two collide. Merlin's vision flashes gold. He doesn't need words; the magic pulsating in the air around them feels the young warlock's call for aid, rushing to his submission, and thrusting the steward back from him, where he's tossed across the throne room floor.

The clank of Vaisey's dagger echoes through the chamber as it bounces from hilt to blade before falling to rest at Merlin's feet, its silver finish now marred a deep red. The young warlock stares at the blood, as if trying to make sense of it, before casting his eyes down to his side. Crimson quickly spreads across his robes.

Deep within his bones a cold draft rattles, but he keeps his eyes on Vaisey this time, clutching his wound as he takes one unsteady step towards him followed by another. Whether he makes it out of this castle or not, there is one thing Merlin is certain of: He will not leave Arthur to defeat this monster on his own.

"Gærrtha amäch aér..." He hisses through gritted teeth.

Lord Vaisey, still crumpled on the ground, goes taut. His entire body seizes in pain, but as Merlin gets closer, he can hear him. Quiet and low. A rumble from deep in his gut. Merlin takes several shuffled steps to skirt around the steward's fallen form, peering into his face. He is not groaning in agony as Merlin had suspected.

He's laughing.

"A master of magic...the mighty Emrys...brought down by a rudimentary blade."

Merlin furrows his brow. He should not be able to speak. The enchantment-

"You're weakening," he says, though his voice is strained, answering the young warlock's unspoken protest. Blood paints the steward's teeth, a result of his battering.

"Gærrtha amäch aér!" Merlin repeats more adamantly, urging the full impact of his spell to take hold and end this. Vaisey grimaces, but his wriggling body sways in front of the young warlock as his vision begins to swim.

The steward's chuckle becomes more riotous despite being laced with pain.

"Ic þé wiþdrífe eit!" He thrusts a hand out.

A sudden gust of wind tears Merlin from where he stands, tightly binding his arms to his sides, and suspending him in the air. Below him, Vaisey continues to show his glee as he climbs to his feet, careful to avoid the steady drip of blood flowing from Merlin's wound.

"Oh this is good, yes, this is simply...spectacular!" The steward stares up at him, marveling at him with a childlike wonder, but Merlin can only return his enthusiasm with confusion. "Emrys, yes, it all makes sense now, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid not," says Merlin muses, blinking in an attempt to simply keep his own consciousness. But all it took was those three words, and he suddenly understood Vaisey's growing delight. His voice wasn't coated in the usual gravel accompanied by eighty extra years of age – it was strong and clear. That of a young man.

A chill runs down his spine at the revelation, numbing his extremities, and seizing his lungs until only the pounding of his heart in his ears assures him that he's still alive.

Vaisey is overjoyed as he watches it dawn upon Camelot's servant.

"Líg dül," he says, stepping back to avoid Merlin as his body is released, dropping to the floor.

Landing amongst the small pool of his own blood, Merlin catches himself on all fours. He stares at his hand in front of him, dyed a vibrant red, but capable and smooth – lacking all wrinkles and age spots that were previously there.

His beard is gone. His hair short. And the robes across his shoulders stretch ever-so-slightly as the muscles of his youth return to his bones.

"Merlin..." Vaisey grins, his teeth still coated in red, and the gash atop his head now dripping down his temple in a thick stream. "How gravely I underestimated you." He goes down on one knee, leaning in close to inspect his new discovery. "Here I thought you were just a bumbling fool wrought with the luck of serving a legend. As it turns out, you are the legend. And your king, the fool."

The young warlock can't lift his eyes to the steward. It smothers him. That vulnerability upon being stripped of his deepest secret – and by his enemy, no less – keeps his gaze fixed securely on the floor between them.

"I was impressed by his tales at first; insurmountable odds, vicious beasts, inescapable peril...yet he triumphed over each one time and again. His valor was said to be so great it'll be recounted to all the children of the five kingdoms until his death. But now, knowing you were by his side all the while, well...it's hardly a guess as to how he managed it. It wasn't by brave feats and extraordinary talents – not performed by him, that is. No...it was you."

Merlin stays quiet, though the distant thunder rumbles once more, and a heat rises to his cheeks.

Propping his chin up in the palm of his hand, Vaisey settles in, his inspection of Merlin giving way to pity. "All those miracles. All those victories. And he still hasn't a clue, has he?"

Merlin shifts with unease, pressing a hand back against his wound to hinder the blood flow and pacify the bile threatening to rise in his stomach.

"No, of course not." The steward's words are soft, feigning a deeper sympathy, but the delight in his eyes cannot be dimmed. "I considered for the briefest of moments that he could have knowingly kept you in his pocket, allowing you to cultivate substantial notoriety for him." He shakes his head. "But the earnestness in his eyes...that is a naivete that cannot be forged. You can see it. He has too much faith – in goodness, in people, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah...all a waste. He's no deceiver." Lord Vaisey smiles, "You, however...oh, you are a good one."

Merlin grits his teeth as he feels himself succumbing to blood loss. He doesn't have the energy to defend his intentions against this man, nor, does he suspect, the time. Flexing his fingers, he tests the palpability of his magic. It feels distant, slipping away in his weakened grasp. It's only when he focuses, beckoning it back to him, that his fingers begin to tingle once more.

The thunder draws nearer.

"If he only knew the poetry of his situation," says the steward. "Of the abomination he harbors."

"You should stop underestimating people."

The young warlock's entrance into the conversation seems to please Vaisey. He grins, licking some blood from his jeweled tooth as he leans in closer, as though he fears the secrecy of their gossip is in peril. "You think he'll accept you once he learns the truth?"

"He knows me."

"Does he? I'd be willing to bet he doesn't know you as well as I do."

"You only know what I can do." Merlin shakes his head, invigorated by the burning sensation rising in his palms. "Not who I am."

The steward twists his mouth.

"More semantics," he says. "And more deception, it seems, if you've convinced yourself he'd accept you despite the things you've done – the lies you've told, the secrecy you've maintained, the exploitation of your alliance with him for your own benefit-"

"It has never been for me," Merlin says, the bite in his words cutting through the sky in a sudden clap of thunder.

Lord Vaisey shifts his eyes. First to the stained-glass windows that rattle at the volatile shift in the air, then to the stone blocks beneath them that vibrate with discontent.

"Ah, there he is," he whispers in awe, sliding his attention – hungry for the power that resonates around them – back to Merlin. "Emrys..."

Bits of stone start to crumble from the ceiling, raining dust upon them as the entire throne room quakes on its foundation.

Merlin struggles to contain it. The magic around him floods in, setting alight in the young warlock's veins until it rages in his ears. He knows he could do it. He could call the storm right now, use it to strike the castle and turn it to ash – and Vaisey with it – ending this war and saving his friends, saving his king, all at once. It would be easy.

But his lungs constrict, and his eyes sting as it dawns on him: he could do it, but he won't.

Victory is so close. It sits at his fingertips. Tempting him.

Yet he has to resist. Vaisey isn't the only one in the castle. Beyond this room are dozens of innocents; dutiful soldiers and servants trying to fulfill their pledge to the throne. The throne. Not to Vaisey. To take him down would be to take them all down with him, turning Merlin into the abomination the steward accused him of only moments ago.

The young warlock squeezes his eyes shut, his arms shaking and his core temperature continuing to rise as he battles to defuse the power boiling within him. Amidst the sounds muddled beneath the rush of magic in his head, Merlin hears it. A faint scrape and clink.

Before he can fully register the metal ring of Vaisey reclaiming his dagger from the throne room floor, its hilt crashes into Merlin's temple. His magic flees. His body falls. And the world goes dark.

Arthur hefts his armor onto his shoulders, which sag as the full weight of the metal comes to rest on him. When he and the Knights of Camelot first set out for Mercia, he thought the only use he'd have for any of it was giving his uncle peace of mind as they traversed through bandit-infested lands. He never anticipated actually needing it for combat.

He never anticipated combat, for that matter.

But the pieces are already in motion. Merlin scouts the castle in preparation for their infiltration, while Elyan does his part in keeping the young King Leofrick hidden and safe until they've secured the kingdom for him. Securing a kingdom – he and the knights are used to high stakes, but even so, turning over the entire reign of a kingdom from an unbalanced sorcerer to a little boy is a big enough job to give Arthur pause.

He glances at the men around him; these knights and thieves who have begun to clad their chests and limbs with whatever is left of their armor to salvage. Some of them test out their faded or healing injuries, while others sharpen their blades. They seem calm. At peace with what lies ahead.

They're use to high stakes. They're also used to hiding any fear over it.

"I know that look." Marian comes up next to Arthur, dressed like the Night Watchman without the mask, and helps him with the buckles of his armor usually left to be fastened by Merlin. "What are you thinking about?"

"About a hundred things, really." He pulls on his gloves, keeping his tone light. "Merlin's absence, whether or not he's actually just loafing in a tavern with a pint of mead, the throbbing spot on my shin where Leofrick last got me, if Elyan's gotten any bruises himself by now. But mostly how utterly good it's going to feel to strip Vaisey of his title, his magic, and everything else that doesn't belong to him."

Marian tightens one of his leather straps. "You don't regret it? Getting involved, I mean."

"I was involved the second I stepped foot over that border. The steward was never going to let me leave here alive, much less sign a peace treaty."

"Some would say it's foolish for a king to put his life in danger by taking such risks."

"Would they?"

"Still, others would say it's noble."

"Who should I believe?"

"I'd certainly hate for your pride to be stroked, but if you believe it's folly, well, you'd do it anyway, wouldn't you?"

Arthur cracks a smile. "Gladly."

"What a surprise." Marian fastens the last strap before coming around in front of him to straighten his gorget. "There." She looks up at him a moment, the small stretch of silence giving greater meaning to the words that follow after. "I just wanted to thank you. I know it's by my request that you're still here, and in this mess."

Shaking his head, Arthur tries to dismiss it. "No, I told you-"

"No matter what Vaisey's plans were for you from the start, you could have retreated by now. Spared yourself and that of your men. But you stayed."

"Truth is, I've tried living life for my own sake. It didn't bring me much apart from empty victories and a lot of remorse. I thought I'd give the other way a go."

"Living it for the sake of others?"

"It's worth a try."

Unable to keep a smile from peeking through, Marian picks up Arthur's sword from where it rests against a nearby tree, pressing the hilt into his palm. "Let us hope your blade cuts just as true."

"Master!"

Leaves rustle, and Arthur and Marian turn to see Much hopping over a fallen tree as he breaks through the forest's shroud.

"There are men on the road," he says, pointing behind him. "Soldiers."

"Which way are they headed?" Robin asks, sticking an arrow he had been refining back into his quiver. He takes a few deliberate steps towards the panting outlaw.

"West. They just crossed the Great North Road."

"How many?" Robin looks over Much's shoulder as if he might be able to see for himself.

The baffled outlaw shakes his head with a shrug, "Too many to say."

"But why?" Djaq asks. It's a simple question, yet one that came up short of answers.

Gwaine sits on a stump not too far away, taking a break from sharpening his blade. "Does it matter? The more of them that are out here, the less of them that will be in there." He points his dagger in the direction of Nottingham.

"That might be," says Leon. "But you don't think it'd be good to know exactly what a group that large is planning?"

"I don't sniff an ale on the house, I just drink it."

Before Leon can vocalize the words behind his disapproving frown, a rudimentary pulley system made up of reeds, hollowed out branches, and hand-woven baskets comes to life seemingly of its own accord. Stationed near the perimeter of the camp, a branch tilts down to dispense a small rock from its carved out shaft, which topples into the waiting basket, weighing it down, and triggering the release of a heavier branch that slams into the side of an old shield, ringing out like a gong and leaving the knights baffled by the seemingly autonomous contraption.

Gwaine furrows his brow. "The hell-"

"They've tripped the alarm," says Will, looking to Robin for direction. Only his attention is already on Much.

"You said they were on the road."

"They were," says Much.

"Clearly that's changed." Readying his bow, Robin strides towards the edge of camp. "It's not a military convoy, it's a search party. And a bloody big one."

"This is Allan's work." Much bristles, his tension evident in the antsy twitch of his muscles. "He's given them the camp's location, and now they mean to flush us out."

"Easy, Much. I'm going to have a look. Stay here." Robin beckons Arthur to follow with a jerk of his head before disappearing into the woods.

"Just like old times." The quiet voice draws Arthur's attention back to his side where Marian looks up at him with a teasing glint in her eye. For once, she doesn't seem hesitant about the two of them going off together, as if she knows what transpired between them down by the river.

Arthur offers a faint smile before hurrying after Robin.

They can hear the soldiers before they see them. Slowing their steps as they crest the top of a small ravine, Robin and Arthur duck behind some overgrown brush to look down at the steady stream of soldiers milling their way through the thick vegetation of the forest. Most have abandoned their horses, no doubt finding it too difficult to maneuver over the rough terrain. All except for two.

Sir Guy sits tall atop his steed as he skirts around a large tree trunk. He watches his men scavenge through the foliage with little more than vague interest and mild irritation. Not far behind him is Allan.

"Bloody snake..." Much mutters, startling both Robin and Arthur. "Hopping in bed with the enemy as soon as we give him the boot – and without an ounce of shame on that conniving mug."

"Much, I told you to stay back at the camp."

"I tried, master."

"Not very hard, it seems."

"I had to see this for myself. See if I was right." He jabs a finger towards their former comrade down below. "I knew he gave us away."

"Something's not right," says Arthur. Even through his obscured view of the former thief, he can see Allan's posture is not straight and dignified like Guy's, but rather bent forward in a slight slump. His shoulders sag. And his gaze wanders, scanning the high grounds near their ridge line; not menacing, ready for the hunt, but something else, something he's seen before in the eyes of Gwen as she pleaded with him not to be banished from Camelot.

He lowers his gaze, unable to look at him anymore.

"No, it's not right." Venom still drips from Much's words. "None of this is right."

"Wait." Robin holds up a hand to silence his friend, his brow furrowed. "They tripped the alarms." He shakes his head. "Allan would know better than that if he meant to ambush us."

"Maybe he doesn't care," says Much. "Look at how many of them there are. We'll be crushed."

"But why give us any warning at all if it can be avoided?"

Arthur surveys the stream of men – some trickling further west into the forest, some passing them by to go further south, and several standing guard near Guy and Allan. Plenty of soldiers, even one ginger outlaw, but no halfwit servant. "Hold on. I thought you said Merlin was scouting the castle."

"Yeah, that's right." Robin shifts, distracted as he keeps his eyes on a few soldiers closing in on the hillside below. "What about it?"

"Launching a search this big takes time," says Arthur. "Not much if you're well organized, but even then, Merlin should have seen this unfolding. He should have been able to get to us well before they did."

"I'm sure he's fine-"

"I'm not worried about his safety." Though perhaps, admittedly, he is a little. "If we would have known they were coming, we could have been ready and taken advantage of all the time we had."

"You mean to set more traps?" Much says.

"No, I mean Gwaine's right. Every man that's out here looking for us is one less man that will be in the castle."

"Leaving the steward with a weaker defense," Robin says.

Arthur nods. "And us with an easier in. We can't let this chance pass us by, not when it might be our best shot. We need to get the others."

"We're doing this now?" Much asks, scrambling to his feet as Arthur and Robin abandon their hideout to make for camp.

"We're doing this now."