A/N: I can't thank Charis77 enough for her help with this chapter and I hope you thank her, too (go read her fantastic fics). Otherwise, I'd still be trying to "get this right" and you'd still be waiting. She is an immense help with these last chapters and I'd be nowhere without her. Her time and effort are greatly appreciated. IDOM. I wish it'd come back.

Chapter 26 Tomorrow's Ending

…..

Three days to go until Arthur expected him to restore the burnt crops and Merlin had already found the perfect spell; he just hadn't managed to properly cast the long and complicated incantation. The wrong inflection caused wilting, a misspoken word resulted in disintegration, and a forgotten verse exploded his test sample, covering him with grainy powder.

Gaius' timely snore sounded very close to a chortle, and Merlin sighed, rolling his eyes as if the sleeping physician had actually mocked him. He leaned into the table, his shoulders slumping further and knowing full well he was trying too hard. After all the years of hiding, his magic wanted nothing more than to burst forth in glorious freedom, but he kept failing to control its excitable release. Add to that guilt's haunting intrusion, it was no wonder he couldn't cast the spell correctly.

The burden of keeping his magic so tightly wrapped all his life still hung heavy around his neck, for he'd become a liar to save it, doubting from the start Arthur's trust in him. Most of the time, he'd truly believed he could confide only in Gaius. Well, except Lancelot, who had figured it out when together they'd killed the griffin. His friend had taken his secret to the grave. And apparently, Gwaine had known from the very first time he'd met the rogue noble, and even with his tendency to chatter, had never revealed it. There was Gilli and Will, too; and even Mordred knew he was Emrys and hadn't betrayed him. Gods, how wrong he'd been. He could easily understand how Arthur might dismiss his words claiming belief in his king and conviction for his cause. He hadn't trusted his closest friend with the most important part of his entire life. With all his heart, he'd wanted to trust Arthur—and Gwen. Opportunities had presented themselves, but several horrible events marred by magic had snatched them away, any chance of confession dying on his lips. He'd believed so strongly in the certainty of the prophecies concerning his friends. If he'd told them, it wouldn't have changed their destinies. So why hadn't he fully trusted them? Did fear of death make him a coward, stealing his courage and replacing it with trickery and deceit?

Truth was, he also didn't want to put his friends at risk. Too many had suffered or died to fulfill destiny. Such terrible losses would not be in vain, Merlin vowed. He'd bring his friends into his full confidence from now on. No more secrets. Arthur and Gwen were moving forward in unity and trust, forgiving the sins of the past. He could do the same.

As if the yoke had broken its chains, a heaviness lifted from his shoulders and Merlin exhaled a cleansing breath. So much was about to change, exceeding all he'd ever hoped and dreamed. He could freely study and practice and save lives without fear. His abilities would openly help Arthur shape the future of Camelot, uniting the land, beginning a new age, and bringing Albion to fruition. Merlin felt lightheaded and his eyes glazed, the magnitude of such feats surreal and frightful now that they were tangibly within his reach. He staggered to a bench and sank down, feeling heavy again.

Arthur believed a show of good will on behalf of benevolent sorcerers would prove magic beneficial for all. The scorched fields and orchards would regenerate under Emrys' hand, his spell cultivating and revitalizing precious nutrients in the soil, speeding up recovery and exciting new growth. The fruits of their labor would bear almost instantly, once destroyed crops bursting with life and color and hope.

That was if he could get the spell to work.

Merlin plucked at the remains of the damaged vegetables strewn across the tabletop, ruminating. Even if he did successfully revive the harvest, would saving the city and the surrounding villages from imminent food scarcity be enough to calm their fear of Emrys, at least for a time? He didn't expect them to accept a sorcerer immediately, but perhaps his actions could gain a reprieve and a hearing. After all, Dragoon was a wanted criminal; he would be forced to explain himself. He believed his explanations could stand on merit as he'd tried to help in both instances.

He gathered the dust of his failed attempts into a cupped palm, deciding he'd try again at nightfall. He risked exposure practicing the spell in broad daylight with so many people roaming about the castle; anyone could walk in at any time. He rose, dispensing the dust into a bucket and bundling the unused samples into a sack. He should seek out Kilgharrah. The dragon had a knack for aiding when matters were dire.

Merlin brushed the dirt and debris from his clothes, and then rumbled through the cupboard, searching for a piece of cloth to clean his face and hands. Calling Kilgharrah wouldn't be so easy this time with so many travelers encamped around the castle. Their meeting place had transformed into a tent city. He'd also be required to shoulder his new duties as court physician and report to the hospital as soon as he was done here. Perhaps he could speak with Maxwell and get his help identifying the error he was making with the spell, though he wasn't sure when the knight would return from his mission to Castle Chime. He might be stuck figuring it out on his own.

Merlin dipped the dingy cloth in a bucket of water over the spit fire, then wiped his face. Maxwell ranked amongst the most powerful sorcerers he'd encountered since leaving Ealdor. The knight had enjoyed the privilege of study and practice for many years and was leagues above him in magic craft. He'd also been gifted a patron who'd supported him, who'd kept his secret and used his abilities, defying Uther and protecting him. How many more Maxwells and Gregorys were out there? He'd long felt there had to be others in the kingdom like Maxwell, hiding in plain sight and living in fear, and those like Lord Gregory, risking their lives to save sorcerer friends. With the ban lifted, Merlin prayed they would step out from the shadows to work together, using their gifts to build a better Camelot for all.

Another snort from Gaius drew Merlin's attention, and this time elicited amusement at its timeliness. It didn't last. Merlin's humor dissolved into a tight frown as he considered the physician. Two days since they'd returned and color had not returned to Gaius' cheeks. His appetite was nonexistent considering he'd nearly starved to death, and he insisted on making remedies for the most critically wounded as well as treating some of them. Yesterday, he'd taken twice as long to concoct the potions—he had to sit and rest a while between each—and three times as long to make his rounds. The ailing healer had insisted restoring the harvest took precedence over Merlin's duties as his personal physician. Flourishing crops to halt starvation were worth more than his own declining health.

Merlin refused to believe such a thing. He'd already made the potions today, and only after Gaius had eaten something hearty would he allow him to care for his patients today. He'd even risked crafting the Sorcerer's Chime and chanced exposure by dangling it from the trellis nearest Gaius' cot. The healing totem would soothe his aching bones and atrophying muscles, speeding up his recovery and restoring his energy. Camelot's newest physician had taken charge, and Gaius could fall in line. Merlin intended his mentor to live for many years to come, and if the old man wouldn't take care of himself, then he'd do it for him. Gaius had been a father to him, and like a son, he'd support him in his twilight years as a thank you for all he'd done.

Merlin straightened in his seat, a thought occurring to him. Since Gaius was to retire, and he to take up position as the new court physician, he'd need an apprentice and some means to pay him. He jolted as if something sharp had pierced his body, another thought coming to him. He steadied himself against the table.

Money had never meant anything to him, save the portions of his wages he sent to his mother each month. Now he'd earn a hefty salary, enough to bring her to Camelot to live the life she deserved. The magic in him began to tingle knowing that his family would soon be together and complete and Merlin's entire countenance was revived. He'd fix the spell, get it right. He had to. For his mother. For his freedom. For Albion.

…..

Sirs Kolby and Maxwell stood before his desk, the musk of the two men permeating Arthur's quarters, familiar odors of extended missions and days of hard riding. The king shifted in his seat with frustration more than discomfort. The news that the pigeon master had been killed didn't surprise him, but he'd hoped for better. The sorcerer may have had knowledge of other conspirators, his position at Castle Chime a hub for the flow of information, and he'd needed to know how far Morgana's grasp had reached. She'd aligned with one king in the past. Were there others who'd plotted his death, awaiting benefit from her rule had she succeeded?

"Sire," Kolby reported, dirt and grime clinging to his face, chainmail, and cloak. "The pigeon keeper resisted at every turn. He wouldn't yield even with a sword to his gullet."

"He started to incant a spell, my liege," Maxwell explained. "Calling upon his sorcery."

"You couldn't gag him?" the king asked irritably, red-rimmed eyes as piercing as a javelin and hitting two targets at once. "Render him unconscious?" It was late; he'd had a long and busy day, and he'd spent the last unsettling hours reviewing his father's sealed records instead of taking that walk with Gwen in the gardens like he should have. His eyes weren't strained red just from reading in low light.

"He proved himself a threat," Maxwell asserted firmly. "Bringing him here only increased the chances of him using magic to aid Morgana."

"Her magic is bound," the king replied with equal measure and a glare that demanded submission. "We could have done the same for him. I made it clear that I wanted him unharmed."

"I feared for the lives of my men, my lord," Kolby admitted, taking responsibility. "He died by my sword."

It was done, a half-failed mission, but Arthur relented with a stiff nod, knowing that Cyr would not be the last sorcerer to distrust the crown and fight to the death rather than capitulate. "I understand the risks involved in apprehending a true sorcerer. I had hoped to interrogate him, but I'm pleased none of our own was injured. That will be all, gentlemen."

They both bowed their heads and turned to depart. "Sir Galahad," Arthur said, pinning Maxwell in place before the knight turned and threw a conflicted stare at the king. "A moment."

Kolby, having taken a few more steps and oblivious to the interchange, stopped and threw curious glances at them. Arthur dismissed him before the captain asked the question forming on his lips. Rounding his desk to stand before Galahad, he measured the man as he approached. He'd known him less than a week yet had already deemed him a fine knight with keen intellect and superior fighting skills. He was clever and obviously brave, but he held a secret and Arthur had had enough of those.

"Tell me why a noble son would have to conceal his identity." The king stared hard into the young knight's dark brown eyes, his tenor dropping dangerously. "And why you would desert the camp on the eve of battle."

Arthur may as well have punched him in the gut by the agonized look that crossed the man's face. "Sire… I…" In his search for words, his brow drew tight before meeting the king's with resigned eyes. "Yes, I… I suppose I did desert the encampment, but not the battle."

Arthur crossed his arms, his face puckering with a frown. "Explain."

"I…" Galahad closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them, his conviction was undeniable to Arthur. "Sire, the only chance we had at succeeding in this battle was if Morgana's sorcerers were eliminated before it began. I had the ability to do that. I deemed it as my duty."

"You traveled to Camelot on foot, stole Morgana's magic, and battled two sorcerers in the span of a night?" Arthur scoffed. "You couldn't possibly triumph against such odds unless you're a sorcerer yourself."

"I am, my lord," he stated matter-of-factly. "And there were four. And Emrys took care of Morgana. After he teleported us there."

Arthur froze, blinked, and then released a pent-up breath. Merlin had not told him this, yet it explained his disappearance. He returned to his chair and sat, placing an elbow on the arm and palming his cheek. After a moment of silence, he motioned with his head for the man to speak, his own words stuck in his throat.

"One I killed a few days before encountering you and Lady Guinevere in the forest. The other three here in Camelot."

Arthur listened to Galahad's account of his part in the war with expressions of awe, anger, and contrition during his telling of the beautiful, but deadly sorcerer and the demise of the Southron rear guard. Of how the apothecary had killed himself when Galahad had deflected a strike and the sorcerer had landed on his own poisoned dagger. Of the arrogant officer he'd fought hand-to-hand, and then had slit his throat, a timely strike with the same poisoned knife. How he'd kept the last one, a cunning illusionist, from joining the battle, and how he'd eventually escaped.

More acts of bravery for the sake of the kingdom. Such was expected of a knight sworn to duty, and Arthur was grateful for his many valiant men. To find another sorcerer protecting his holdings and fighting for his cause stupefied him. If the man's secret had been ferreted out, he'd likely have been killed and a valuable asset lost. Arthur wasn't sure if he was angrier at his father for feeding him lies about sorcerers all these years or at himself for swallowing them so readily. All that Arthur could see before him now was a knight protecting his kingdom and employing his own special talents.

"Can I assume, then," Arthur inferred, straightening in his chair and lacing his fingers, "that you changed your name because of your magic. To protect your family?" Galahad had confessed to a capital crime with little hesitation, and Arthur admired that he'd shown trust in his king. Or perhaps Merlin had already shared the news that magic would be freed soon and he saw no reason to fear. When the knight actually chuckled, the king's eyebrows rose into his hair, the seriousness of his questions lost.

"Forgive my impudence, my lord." Galahad cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, though the laughter did not leave his eyes. "When I was young, my grandmother confused me with her son and began calling me by my father's name. It was very perplexing for a child of three, but she'd been ill for a very long time, and everyone just let it continue. Besides, it made her happy and caused no harm. The usage of the nickname has become second nature to me. I had no intention to deceive."

"But your name is Galahad. When you presented your seal to Lord Gregory, how did he receive you?"

"I didn't realize how close he really was to my family. He knew my grandmother when they were younger and had heard of her decline in her later years. For a long time, I'd thought his visits to the manor consisted mainly of collecting taxes. I'd never suspected it was more, that he was fond of her and knew of her eccentricities. He allowed me to continue to use it because I think he knew it was what she would have wanted. Now that I think on it, it could also be why he allowed me … certain privileges."

"I see," Arthur replied, realizing that not all secrets were rooted in evil or deceit, that Galahad was just as normal as any of them. The king leaned back in his chair. "You have my gratitude for all that you've done for the kingdom, but I must insist, Sir Galahad, that you use your given name henceforth as I cannot abide any more secrets amongst my men. Hide nothing from me when the ban is lifted."

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Very good. Now, I want you detailed here in Camelot for a few rotations. Perhaps, give Merlin a hand."

Galahad's smile was broad and appreciative. "Yes, sire."

"Inform your captain that I've granted his men a day of rest. You've earned it."

"Sire," Galahad exclaimed, his joy flitting away as he took a few steps forward. "You'll need every man tomorrow. I didn't recognize Camelot's countryside with the number of banners and encampments surrounding the city. I've never seen so many people."

Arthur hummed and shifted in his chair again, leaning forward as his fists balled involuntarily. The rest of his body stiffened as well. "I wager it's due to Morgana mostly. Many want to see her pay for her years of terror against the kingdom. For… For her betrayal. Can you blame them?" Silence fell long enough for the inevitability of tomorrow to niggle its way into his consciousness before he shoved it aside. "Our numbers are more than adequate with the aid of our allies. Now take the day. We can handle it without the seven of you."

"Very well, my lord." Galahad bowed deeply, a look of deferential respect on his face. "And thank you, King Arthur. Your pardon and trust has removed a burdensome flaw in my character."

"I can only hope that others will trust me enough to believe that I mean them no harm. This kingdom must look to the future and change, or else we will destroy ourselves over something that never should have been. I'll need your help, Galahad. So will Merlin. Can I count on your support?"

"I'm here to serve, my king. I will do everything in my power to help you succeed."

"For the sake of us all." Arthur smiled with gratitude, but the expression slipped as soon as the young knight turned his back. Two sorcerers, right under his nose; he could never have fathomed that. Neither of them had held enough faith in him to confide in him, assumed he would not have made a decision in their favor had he been forced to choose. Arthur couldn't say now what he would have done then, but why hadn't they believed in him? A hand had made its way to press against the stack of thin books, the forbidden records. The gloom returned to Arthur and the weariness of the day finally manifested, every muscle in his body screaming for respite.

He knew the law and fear of execution had held them hostage, but Merlin? Merlin obviously had never trusted him fully. Had his friend truly believed in the prophesy if he had not believed in the man? Arthur lifted the thin book and opened it to the place he'd marked. Knowing now the contents of their pages and the madness of his father, he honestly couldn't blame them no matter how much it hurt.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, fingers massaging his temple. "Just damn it all."

…..

Percival was exhausted, but welcoming castle spires beckoned in the moonlight, calling him forward. He'd be lucky to snatch a few hours' sleep after getting back. He had rosters to check, rounds to make, and the daily reports of the captains to read before even considering his lumpy mattress and flat pillow, heaven in disguise. Even so, his lack of rest was worth it; he'd fulfilled his vow and found his woman. Percival was betrothed.

The farmer hadn't been as brow-beaten as Percival assumed when he'd observed the man's wife overturning his objections and taking charge when he'd first met them. In fact, the man adored his wife and simply gave in to avoid meaningless quarrels. During his visit, the two had displayed affections befitting love-struck newlyweds now, much to Percival's discomfit.

Gerans Nance had been impressed that Percival had returned the horse, a better horse, actually, losing the bet he'd extended to his wife and daughter when the knight had ridden off over a week ago. Percival had been amused until he learned the farmer's opinion of Camelot's so-called finest had been colored years ago. A patrol seeking shelter from a storm had commandeered their home, forcing the then young couple with a baby on the way to attend them as they devoured all their food and disrupted their lives. One of them had dared to touch his wife even in her delicate state. He'd defended her fiercely, questioned the knight's honor, and never trusted knights since.

Kensa Nance had taken her father up on his bet and staked her dowry on Percival's own honor, leaving it up to him whether to accept or not. Such a bold and presumptuous move. Gwaine would have thanked the farmer right away and then high-tailed it out of there. Everyone knew the rogue was happy as things stood and wasn't to be tamed. Percival, on the other hand, had fallen even harder for the girl, his feelings deepened by the blind faith she extended to someone she did not know.

She was prettier than he'd remembered—long, blonde hair, untamed but not tangled, haloed high cheekbones, one of them smudged with dirt. Clear blue eyes proclaimed intelligence and mystery, drawing him in further. Her round nose sprinkled with freckles rested above full pink lips requiring no further color. She was tall, fit, and void of excessive curves; Percival exerted great effort to keep his eyes from dropping to her small, firm breasts. Her tanned skin bore a few white scars that tracked across toned arms, professing a strength that promised a heartier body than the ladies of the court. Her hands were slender, calloused, sporting thin lines of dirt under short, chipped nails. She'd reminded him of the girls in his farming village and the qualities in the character of a simple life. Percival had smiled warmly, then removed a three-strand leather band from his wrist and tied it around hers. They were betrothed, and in a year, they'd marry.

He deeply desired the woman. He would have taken her as a wife even without the dowry, the hard-earned land of her family and the bag of gold saved over her lifetime. He'd refused the wealth. She'd lost two brothers earlier in the year, killed by "ghosts" as she'd explained, frozen to death on their way home from a hunt. Her parents' property would pass to her when they left this world. If there ever came a time to leave the great city and he laid down his sword, they could return to her property and live out their lives there. He'd be a landowner soon himself, the manor and land he'd been granted from Arthur displacing a disloyal noble stripped of his title and holdings. Percival wasn't sure how he felt about that, earning something he'd not worked for with his own hands and uprooting a family from its ancestral roots and privileged comforts.

Percival planned to visit Kensa as often as possible and then bring her to Camelot in half a year's time. She'd stay in the castle while he remained in the barracks, giving her a chance to become familiar with the city, meet his friends, and take lessons in court etiquette. He hoped Gwen could help with that part. Kensa must learn to be a lady of Camelot.

The clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone in the dead of night rang in Percival's ears, intensifying the headache that had crept in a few leagues back, but it was the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard as the knight's barracks came within eyeshot. Jumping from his horse and handing the reins to a guard and then untying his satchel, he looked up toward the king's private windows, stained glass still alight.

The tenth hour had just passed. It appeared he would not be the only one burning candles into the next day.