A/N:
Happy 2020! So sorry for the looooong wait for this chapter! But it's a long chapter, so hopefully that helps?
1) I don't own Merlin. (Still.)
2) The gorgeous cover art is by the wonderfully talented AlexandarCho and is used with the artist's gracious permission (check out the original on deviantART!)
3) There are two quotations—from Aristotle and Shakespeare, respectively—in the third scene of this chapter; citations in the A/N at the end.
4) A sincere thank-you to everyone who's read, followed, fav'd, and/or reviewed this fic since its inception—your kind responses have completely exceeded my wildest expectations. As of now, this fic has reached 1000 favs, 1500 follows, and has nearly 2000 reviews. I'm floored, seriously. In spite of the 100k+ words I've written for this fic thus far, I really, truly don't have the words to convey just how much your encouragement means to me.

Ok, no more waiting! Oh, wait...

Chapter 91: Waiting Game

It wasn't an easy thing, waiting.

If he'd had proper use of his legs, Merlin would have paced. But that wasn't an option, so…

He waited.

He waited for the imminent interrogation Morgana had warned him about. He dragged himself through the slow, torturous task of sitting up.

Can't very well stay curled up on the floor—won't give Aredian that satisfaction.

After some thought and a few failed alternatives, he settled on wedging himself straight-backed against the rough stone wall of his corner cell. His burning, unresponsive legs, though—well, they were another challenge entirely. They were dead weight, dragging him down each time he tried to move. He pushed and pulled on them until his left knee was pulled up close to his chest while his right leg lay stretched out in front of him. The arrangement was far from comfortable and it stretched the ankle chains to the limit, but if he angled his left leg just right, it would stay where he placed it. It wasn't ideal—nothing about his situation was—but he just might make it through the whole blasted inquisition without giving away just how broken his body was.

So he waited.

At least like this, he thought as he leaned his head back against the wall and took shallow breaths, his shoulders rising and falling ever so slightly, breathing hurts a lot less.

It turned out that apprenticing under Gaius had done him some good after all, he mused as he waited for the sharp pains from his wounds to dull down again. Thanks to his mentor's unwavering enthusiasm for anatomy and physiology—along with an unquenchable zeal for teachable moments—Merlin had a pretty cohesive idea by now of how one's lungs, diaphragm, and back muscles were supposed to work.

Or in this case, how he could pawn off most of that work.

He'd figured out that at this angle, the wall—which was already doing an admirable job of keeping him upright—also forced him to breathe high and shallow, which meant his aching midsection wouldn't have to shift quite so much with every breath. That, he decided, more than made up for the pressure it put on the bandages on his back.

So he waited, knowing that soon Aredian would arrive to question him. At least an hour passed, though, judging by the rays of pale, cold sunlight filtering in through the tiny cell window. He waited, counting the time in shallow breaths and in the gradual progress of narrow sunbeams across the cell floor as the sun passed its zenith and fell quickly toward the horizon in an early dusk that hinted at the approaching Yuletide. He waited, feeling anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach where his trapped magic curled and writhed against the powerful runes etched deep into the cold iron cuffs.

He waited, letting his mind drift like the dust swirling gently in the fading sunbeams. He waited, remembering his conversation with Morgana and her plan to find a way to control their strange connection. For the first time since Pontefract—since the confession and the skirmish and the mortal wound—he felt something akin to hope.

Maybe the path to the pyre isn't the only way out of the dungeons, out of this entire mess.

It was a peculiar thing, hope—something distant and half-remembered, hidden down deep inside him along with his magic. But maybe, just maybe, there was still hope, because Morgana was—well, she was remarkable.

Always has been, he thought, but now…

But now he'd seen another side of her—an inner strength, a deep resolve—first in her letters and now in her magic.

If anyone can find a way—

If anyone could save him, it just might be her. His magic shivered at the memory of her magic flaring powerful and sparkling against his own when she confronted him about shutting her out of decisions that affected all of them. She'd been right, he realized.

I was so focused on Arthur, on what was broken—

But her words—or her magic, or both—had knocked sense back into him; it was like coming out of a cave after having forgotten about the existence of the sun. Until now, he'd almost forgotten something Gaius had written in one of his messages: how, after destiny had shifted, Morgana was "bound to Emrys for better or for worse."

What if...what if it really could be 'for better,' even now?

Maybe there was still hope for that part of the prophecy, at least, because Morgana still wanted to work with him rather than simply be rid of him, even now after his lies had been exposed, unlike—

Well, not all the lies, his conscience chided as Merlin shifted uneasily in the fading daylight. She still believes Father was Emrys.

Perpetuating that lie to Morgana and Gwen, well—it had been an accident, really. When Gwen had slipped into the dungeon to talk to him, he'd been barely coherent, dizzy with pain and still reeling from that first experience of Morgana's magical signature fighting against his own. Even as Morgana's accusing 'All I ever did was trust you, but you lied to me' had echoed in his mind and his magic, Gwen had put the pieces together and realized that Balinor was Merlin's father. And Merlin, caught completely off guard, hadn't been able to force himself to form the words he'd said to Arthur: 'My father wasn't Emrys. I am.' Instead, he'd been unable to do anything but nod.

In the aftermath, it hadn't seemed like this new betrayal really made much difference. Morgana and Gwen believed Emrys was dead.

It wasn't true, obviously, Merlin had thought as he'd lain on the cold dungeon floor that miserable night, But give a few hours and…

So what good would it have done to tell them the truth then?

Maybe it was selfish, but he'd decided they were better off not knowing. Especially Morgana, who'd been so open, so trusting, in her messages to Emrys. So how would she react, he wondered—not for the first time—if she learned now that she'd been corresponding with Merlin all along?

I never meant for it to go that far.

And he had no idea how to fix it now. He didn't know if he could say the words again, not after how Arthur had reacted…

The chain connecting Merlin's wrists clinked softly as he moved to rub one wrist where the rough metal of the cuff had scraped it raw. The last light faded, and still Merlin waited for the witchfinder, trying not to think about Arthur but thinking about Arthur all the same.

And Gwaine and Lancelot and the rest—

He hoped against hope that they were safe and that they'd been able to treat Arthur's leg. He was sure it had been broken—the sight of Arthur collapsing was burned into his memories.

At least Leon always took the battlefield healers' training seriously. He'll do his best.

So Merlin waited, wishing he was there to help Leon and trying not to think about the ways a broken bone could kill a man.

Blood loss…

Thoughts of Freya's final moments ghosted through his mind. He shoved them away.

Infection…

Merlin pushed past the memory of the wine-based antiseptic pouring through his own raw wounds like liquid fire—hotter than the fire Nimueh had thrown or the lighting he'd commanded in return on the day he'd offered his life for Arthur's. Arthur had lived then, and so had Merlin, but would they both be so lucky this time?

Arthur couldn't, mustn't, die—not like that, not after everything we've been through.

Merlin wrapped his arms around the leg pulled up to his chest, resting his forehead on his knee. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the prickling heat behind his eyelids—a sharp contrast to the chilled air as evening approached. He opened his eyes and exhaled slowly—carefully—as the spark of hope, flickering just out of reach like his magic, insisted it couldn't have all been for nothing. Arthur's newly-knighted men would do everything in their power to save him, just like Merlin would if he were there. The fear crested and ebbed away like the tides on the Gedref shore, even as the afternoon light dwindled.

He waited, trying not to wonder what Arthur and the rest of their companions all thought of him now that they knew—or if they'd even think of him at all.

Odds are they think I'm dead, anyway. And even if they don't—

Merlin remembered the look on Arthur's face. It would be foolish to hope for a rescue.

Still, the hopeful part of his soul—the part that dared to hope that Arthur was safe, that Merlin might heal, and that Morgana might just be able to pull off the impossible—wondered if Gwaine and Lancelot had been able to talk to the rest, but to Arthur especially—to help him see that all of it was for Arthur. Merlin had committed treason—technically, yes—but not in the ways that mattered most.

I just hope one day he'll understand that.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

So when Aredian arrived at Merlin's cell in the graying afternoon twilight, Merlin was waiting expectantly for him, still seated just out of reach through the cell bars. With a flickering torch in hand, the witchfinder strode down the dungeon corridor, his satchel slung across his shoulders and his long coat billowing behind him. The knight-captain from the skirmish trailed along in his wake like an overgrown hound dutifully following its master. Aredian set the torch in a rusty sconce, wrapped one hand casually around a cell bar, and looked down at Merlin appraisingly. Merlin rolled his head to the right to return the witchfinder's gaze, defiant and unblinking. As Aredian stood then, leaning against the iron bars and—for the love of Camelot, the man was smirking!—it occurred to Merlin that, if he'd had proper use of his legs just then, Aredian would have been well within arms' reach.

And then, warded cuffs or not, I'd—

Aredian addressed Merlin.

"My, my," he mused, "You're much less dead than I'd expected. You must be quite proud of yourself."

Merlin channeled his violent inclinations into what he hoped was biting wit.

"Yes, well, I'd had such a good streak of not-dying—figured, why break it now?"

"I can't say I'm disappointed," Aredian said, his face splitting into a smile that could only be described as predatory.

The sight made Merlin's skin crawl.

"After all," Aredian continued, "We have so much to discuss."

"Really? I can't think of anything I'd want to discuss with you."

Aredian laughed. The sound echoed off the stone walls and iron bars, grating against Merlin's ears. He clenched his jaw but kept his eyes locked on Aredian as the witchfinder turned to the knight-captain.

"I'll need a chair."

The knight-captain nodded once and headed back toward the guards' station without a word. Aredian reached into his satchel and produced a small glass inkwell and a little silver knife. After casting a quick glance over his shoulder towards where the knight-captain had just disappeared around the corner, Aredian pricked a finger and squeezed a drop into the black ink, which flared Camelot red at the impact. Aredian swirled the inkwell and murmured a few words.

"Geníwe þone drýcræft."

Merlin stared, his mind spinning, as the red ink shimmered blue for a moment before fading back to the original black—just as pale gold light flickered in Aredian's eyes.

What?!

Aredian glanced at Merlin as he stooped to set the inkwell on the ground, one eyebrow twitching upward in smug amusement.

"We all have our little secrets, don't we?"

Merlin's mind was too busy trying to make sense of what he'd just witnessed to even bother trying to come up with a suitable reply.

Aredian stowed the knife back in the satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound ledger and a brown quill—just as the knight-captain rounded the corner again, carrying a rough wooden chair from the guards' station. The knight-captain deposited the chair in front of the cell then stood at parade rest against the corridor wall behind Aredian, who settled himself in the chair with one leg crossed, the open ledger balanced on his lap. He leaned over, dipped the quill in the inkwell on the grimy floor, and—quill poised over the ledger—looked back at Merlin with a glint in his cold eyes.

"Now then, Emrys, shall we begin?"

Merlin's mind broke loose from its stunned spinning at last. It kicked into overdrive, thankfully reengaging his mouth as it did so.

"Emrys?" he repeated, wearing the best incredulous expression he could muster—which frankly didn't require much imagination given what he'd just seen Aredian do—and barked out a loud, forced laugh. Doing his best to ignore the fresh fire that raced through his crossbow wounds, he launched headlong into mocking Aredian.

"If you've got me confused with a Dragonlord, you might want to have Gaius examine your head."

He trailed off into indignant muttering, effortlessly keeping his words just loud enough to be sure Aredian still caught them. It was, after all, an art he'd perfected after two years by Arthur's side.

"Me, Emrys? And Uther thinks I'm the one with the mental affliction…"

He rolled his eyes as he addressed Aredian directly again.

"Well, this is going to be fun. Are you going to confuse me with a Sidhe next?"

He leaned his elbow on his knee—narrowly averting a hiss of pain as he moved—and propped his chin on his hand. Glaring petulantly up at the witchfinder, he added, "Or maybe a unicorn? I know, I know, the resemblance is striking."

"Enough games," Aredian snapped. "I heard your pathetic little confession to your precious prince."

He jerked his quill toward the knight-captain.

"We both did, in fact."

Another witty retort died on Merlin's tongue. He swallowed hard.

Aredian continued, "But what's far more interesting to me is that the court still doesn't know, nor does the king. Let's discuss that little detail, shall we?"

"So why didn't you just tell them already?" Merlin blurted.

Aredian arched a brow as he jotted something in his ledger.

"You understand secrets—they can be so useful sometimes."

Merlin chastised himself for playing into Aredian's hands with his hasty question, but it was too late to take it back and he still wanted to know, so he tried again.

"But that, why wouldn't you—I mean, not telling them...what's in it for you?"

Aredian paused his writing, hmm'd thoughtfully at the page, then refocused his full attention on Merlin.

"I think, Emrys, the more important question is: What is it worth to you to keep that particular fact private?"

He can tell the whole of the five kingdoms for all I care—if only Morgana and Gwen don't have to know.

"So what are you going to do?" Merlin asked cautiously.

"Hmm," Aredian mused, jotting another note in his ledger. "I haven't quite decided...really, that depends on you."

"What do you mean?"

"If we can have a civil little chat—and I'm satisfied that you're cooperating fully—then I'm sure we can come to an arrangement...for now."

"But what about him?"

Merlin jerked his head in the direction of the knight-captain, still standing aloof.

"He's a smart man," Aredian observed, not even bothering to glance back at the man in question. "He recognises how...advantageous it is for his, shall we say, fortunes if he agrees to keep that matter private for the time-being."

Bribery...figures. Merlin rubbed his temples. "And what about you? What exactly do you want to know?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Aredian smiled, sharp and eager, and glanced down at his ledger. "Let's start with an easy question: how long have you been practicing sorcery?"

That...huh, I actually could answer that.

Merlin paused and took a—careful—deep breath.

If he doesn't ask about Arthur or the others, if he follows Morgana's orders and stays on that side of the bars, then...then maybe she won't have to know that I...

Aloud he answered, "All my life."

"Really? Hmm, fascinating." Aredian jotted a few notes. The quill scritched sharply across Merlin's raw nerves. "And was your father the one who started teaching you spells from the cradle?"

Merlin's heart clenched.

"No," he spat. "Uther drove him away before I was born."

Aredian raised an eyebrow in what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

"Then who?"

"No one," Merlin stated, articulating the words coldly. "No one taught me to start using magic. I was born with it."

Aredian eyed him with a suspicious squint.

"So you had no dealings with Balinor?"

"Not until you forced me from Camelot."

Aredian ignored the jab, adding smoothly, "And you had no dealings with the Druids or the Catha? No dealings with the high priestesses?"

Merlin hesitated; he was sure Aredian noticed, but before the witchfinder could say anything, Merlin plowed ahead.

"No, I never trained under anyone. Until I went to Níþdraca, I had always worked alone."

"So you'd never even met the high priestess Nimueh?"

Aredian's words circled Merlin like a prowling bastet. Merlin glanced down at his cuffs, twisting the chain in his hands as he answered.

"Uh, no...no, I haven't."

Aredian pounced.

"Now, see, that's interesting, because I think you've not only met Nimueh—I think you killed her."

Merlin's jaw and stomach dropped.

How did he—?

"Hmm, no surprise there…" Aredian muttered as he scribbled a few more lines in his ledger.

"But—no! I didn't—I didn't say anything!"

Aredian's cold eyes flicked up from his notes to meet Merlin's.

"You didn't have to," he said, waving his quill at Merlin, "It's plain enough."

Merlin swallowed hard. It was going to be a long afternoon.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Morgana, as had previously been established, was tired. No, her inner monologue amended, as she glanced enviously at Ambrosius who was perched napping near the hearth, Tired doesn't begin to cover it. Not when she was sitting at the table in her chambers, staring blankly at a pile of scrolls by candlelight.

Why didn't I read at least a couple of these while Sir Geoffrey was hunting for the rest?

She sighed and leaned both her elbows on the table, her head in her hands.

Well, that would have been smart, but of course I didn't, so...

Both she and Ambrosius glanced up at the sound of the latch. Gwen slipped in from the hall, carrying a chamberstick with one hand and balancing a small basket of mending on her hip with the other. She took one look at Morgana and discarded her basket by the door, quickly crossing the room to her friend. Ambrosius, unconcerned, merely trilled a sleepy greeting and resumed his contented dozing.

"What is it, Morgana?" Gwen asked in concern, placing her chamberstick on the table.

Morgana gestured to the mountain of scrolls, which seemed to loom larger by the minute.

"A little light reading before bed."

Gwen didn't say anything, but she scrunched up her mouth and crossed her arms, one hand fiddling with the fabric of the opposite sleeve. Morgana knew that look—it meant Gwen had an Opinion but was arguing with herself about voicing it.

"What?" she asked Gwen, too tired to be more specific.

Gwen nodded to herself and stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Morgana's shoulder.

"You're exhausted—you've barely slept for days. Can't these wait until morning at least?"

Morgana did her best to smile up at her friend.

"I wish...but unfortunately, no."

Gwen sat in the other chair and leaned her elbows on the corner of the table between them. She eyed the mound of parchment.

"What are they, exactly?"

"Tax levy records—the last ten years' worth, to be specific." Morgana groaned and let her head fall forward on the table with a soft thunk. Voice muffled, she added, "—Plus selected documents from the fifteen years before that."

"Um, why?"

Morgana didn't bother to lift her head from the table.

"Because the council's—uh, I thought for sure I'd mentioned…"

"Oh, sorry, no, I didn't mean—" Gwen interrupted, "Um, I remember—about the vote, that is."

In her peripheral vision, Morgana watched Gwen reach out to run a finger over the yellowed edge of the nearest scroll as she explained her question.

"I just meant, why now? You spent all afternoon in the library reading these; can't the rest wait until tomorrow?"

Morgana grudgingly propped her head up on one hand and confided her predicament.

"I, uh, wasn't—well, I was in the library...but I..." Morgana bit her lip. "Um, I didn't actually read any of these."

"Then what were you doing all afternoon?"

"Research."

"Research?"

"As it turns out—long story—there's a section of magical texts in the library—"

"Sir Geoffrey's library?"

"—Sir Geoffrey's library," Morgana confirmed, feeling marginally less tired as she thought about her discovery. "I saw them—um, their magical signatures?—when I was looking for Merlin's."

"Does Sir Geoffrey know about the—no, wait, later," Gwen cut herself off.

Morgana waited in fond amusement as Gwen stared at the scrolls and verbal-processed.

"...There are magic books in the library. The royal library. Along with the tax records. Which you didn't read when you said you did. You weren't reading the legal documents because you were reading the illegal books instead. No, not reading, researching…"

Gwen shook herself out of her thoughts and turned back to Morgana.

"Researching what, exactly?"

"Magical connections—scrying, telepathy, auras, anything that might be related to what's going on between Merlin and me—"

Morgana realized only too late—as Gwen's eyebrows quirked up in amusement—just how that turn of phrase had sounded.

"And what exactly is going on between you and Merlin, then?" Gwen asked, her eyes twinkling impishly.

"Gwen!"

Morgana could feel the heat in her cheeks and the butterflies in her stomach—but they weren't the good kind of butterflies, not like the times when Gwen had teased her during the weeks when Merlin had been away. Now Merlin was back and things were even more complicated than before. His magic, their connection, his injuries, her crown—there was just too much. She couldn't process feelings, too, not on top of everything else. So, in true Pendragon fashion, Morgana deflected as she gestured toward the legion of legal documents.

"Now, seriously?"

Gwen gave Morgana a measured look, as though she could see right through her.

"Oh," she murmured, more to herself than to Morgana.

If Gwen understood something Morgana didn't, she kept it to herself.

"You're right," Gwen admitted instead, then added with a soft, teasing smile, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist—you did make it too easy that time."

Morgana shoved Gwen's shoulder in playful indignation, but the anxious butterflies calmed as they both broke down in tired laughter.

Sometimes...well, what else can you do?

Their laughter ebbed away and Morgana's eyes wandered back to the looming pile of scrolls. Gwen followed her line of sight.

"You were saying—something about magical texts in the library?"

"I was hoping if I could find a way to control or, um, maybe even block the magical connection, then Merlin might actually focus his efforts on getting better instead of just trying to talk me into executing him."

"Oh," Gwen breathed, "Still?"

Morgana nodded and Gwen reached for her hand in solidarity.

"So, what did you—um, did you find what you were looking for?"

"A few theories about what might block or dampen the connection—talismans, mostly—but nothing really conclusive, unfortunately. I'll talk to Gaius tomorrow; see what he thinks. But first..."

Morgana sighed and stared at the scrolls again.

"First, I'm going to spend the night reading these."

"No, you're not," Gwen announced decisively.

Morgana looked back at her friend, startled. She'd never heard Gwen speak to her—to anyone, actually—like that before.

"What?" was all she could manage before Gwen started pulling her to her feet and pushing her away from the scrolls toward the changing screen.

"You're not going to read them. You're going to get some sleep. We can't have you dozing off during the council meeting in the morning, can we?"

"But I need to—"

"No, you don't."

"But how will I—?"

"Because I'm going to read them for you."

"What?" Morgana asked again, her mind too tired to follow this twist in the conversation.

"If you think about it," Gwen said sheepishly as she crossed to the cupboard and pulled out Morgana's nightclothes, "I've actually had one of the finest educations in the kingdom—thanks to you."

Gwen turned back to Morgana with a sincere smile.

"Remember how—back when I first entered your service, when you still had your daily lessons with Sir Geoffrey—you'd always tell me all about what you were studying when I helped you dress for dinner?"

Gwen draped the nightclothes over the changing screen as she spoke.

"And when you disagreed with his interpretations of the historical sources you were studying—"

"—Which was always!"

"Always!" Gwen agreed, laughing, as she began untying the lacing down the back of Morgana's long gown.

"So you'd tell me all about source material—both content and context. And then," Gwen teased as she helped Morgana pull the loosened gown over her head, "You explained in great detail exactly why his views were wrong."

Gwen ducked out of the way as Morgana pulled her hands free and chucked the gown at her.

"Of course he was wrong!" Morgana waved her hands as she spoke. "He worships the ground Aristotle walked on, always droning on about eudaemonia, never mind that Aristotle also said, The male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; and the one rules—"

"—and the other is ruled; this principle, of necessity, extends to all mankind, I remember!" Gwen finished the quotation.

Gwen gathered up Morgana's rumpled gown as she added in her new, candid tone, "And honestly, given his views on both women and the serving classes, I must say I'm doubly offended."

This new, forthright side of Gwen—well, Morgana was enjoying this turn of events immensely.

"Aristotle," Morgana declared in agreement, "Had no more brains in his skull than I have in my elbows."

Gwen laughed easily as she crossed to the bed to turn down the covers and fluff the pillows while Morgana pulled on her nightgown.

"To be fair, he did make some good points...but that admittedly wasn't one of them," Gwen mused. "Anyway, the point is, you learned all of that...and then you taught me."

She gestured toward the heap of scrolls. "Now let me return the favour."

"But—"

"You're exhausted—we both know you can't go on like that forever; no one could. You don't have to do this—all of this—by yourself."

She came over and helped Morgana with the laces of her nightgown, adding softly, "Morgana, you are not alone."

Her words hit Morgana with unexpected force; Morgana didn't realize she was crying until Gwen pulled her into a tight hug.

"You are not alone, not anymore," she repeated, "You have me, and Gaius, and—"

" —And Merlin," Morgana sniffled, finishing the thought as she hugged Gwen back. "You're right—thank you."

Gwen pulled back to give Morgana a mock-stern look.

"So you'll go to bed and let me read these?"

Morgana nodded gratefully. "Yes, please."

"Good," Gwen smiled warmly as she pulled Morgana over to the bed and practically shoved her into it. "I'll take notes—we can go over them in the morning if you like."

Morgana settled into her pillows and watched drowsily as Gwen flitted about the room, banking the coals on the hearth and snuffing all the candles except one before settling at the table with a scrap of blank parchment, a quill and ink, and the first of the scrolls. Ambrosius roused himself from his napping just long enough to relocate to the back of Gwen's chair in sleepy camaraderie.

Gwen stroked his soft feathers lightly and glanced over at Morgana.

"Go to sleep, Morgana. It'll be all right, I promise."

"Thank you," Morgana whispered before falling into the first peaceful sleep she'd had since before Emrys' last message arrived.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"This might sting a bit," the head Druid healer said to Arthur as he knelt down and placed his hands on Arthur's broken calf.

That must be universal healer code for 'Good luck, this'll be brutal,' Arthur thought just before the Druid began chanting.

Arthur clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the edges of the fur-draped bench tightly with both hands as his broken tibia knit itself back together. It wasn't quite as awful as when Leon had set the freshly-fractured bone—but barely.

At least I didn't black out this time.

He was still breathing hard when he opened his eyes to see the head Druid healer still kneeling and frowning down at Arthur's leg. The cluster of other healers stood muttering to one another in one corner of Rhiannon's tent while his knights hovered protectively in the other.

"What is it?" Arthur asked when he'd caught his breath.

The healer sat back on his heels and looked up at Arthur.

"Well, um...the thing is, we can do quite a lot for healing standard injuries—fevers, cuts, simple fractures—"

Sir Leon took a cautious step forward and interjected quietly, "But this one—it isn't simple, is it?"

"No," the healer sighed, "No, I'm afraid it's not."

Arthur couldn't say he was surprised—he'd guessed as much—but it was the first time someone had actually admitted that fact aloud. His mind leapt forward like a high-strung horse given free rein.

What if the Druids can't really treat it? What if it never heals right? What if I can't fight or ride or—?

The thoughts raced after one another, faster and faster. He reined them in as best he could and focused all his attention on the Druid healer still kneeling over his leg.

"So what does that mean?"

"I've...I've stabilised it, sire, and cleared the infection, so the fever will break soon—not more than a couple of hours."

The healer met Arthur's eyes then glanced back at his leg again.

"But, uh, there are...fragments, pieces that didn't…that I can't..."

He absently fiddled with the amulet hanging around his neck, worrying at the leather cord.

"And I'm not sure if—"

He sighed and let go of the amulet.

"In the long run, sire, I'm afraid there's nothing to do but wait and see."

Arthur nodded but couldn't find the words.

If even magic can't mend it—

He couldn't think about that; there was too much to think about already.

Leon crossed the rest of the distance to Arthur's side, diplomatically offering a hand to the kneeling Druid and offering thanks on Arthur's behalf.

The Druid bowed to Arthur and murmured, his voice heavy with apologies, "I'll fetch a fresh splint, my lord..."

Rhiannon rose from her seat to thank the healers before they filed out of her tent into the night. She turned once more to Arthur and his knights.

"My king, you and your companions are welcome to remain here under our protection for as long as you wish. This meeting tent is yours for the night; I will have someone fetch additional bedding." She bowed and turned to leave, adding, "Tomorrow, if you wish to stay, we will arrange for proper accommodations for you all."

"Rhiannon," Arthur called just as she pushed the tent flap aside to leave.

"Yes, my king?" she asked, turning back.

Arthur inclined his head respectfully but didn't dare to stand on his still-crippled leg until the healer could bring him a new splint.

"Thank you," he said simply, "For everything."

She smiled, bowing in return.

"I know you have many questions and we have much yet to discuss, but it can wait until the morning. Rest well, Arthur."

With that, she slipped from the tent and disappeared into the settling darkness of the Druid camp as one by one the cookfires were extinguished and the merry voices died away, replaced by the soothing sound of the wind whispering through the forest.

Gwaine looked up at the ethereal orbs glowing brightly in small clusters across the ceiling of the tent.

"...Do those stay like that all night, then?"

Percival burst out laughing and—somehow, in spite of everything—Arthur couldn't help but smile.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Once a handful of Druids delivered a new splint and the additional bedding Rhiannon had promised—and had dimmed the orbs to Gwaine's satisfaction—Arthur and his knights lay down on their bedrolls on the deerskin rugs. A heavy silence settled over them that no one else seemed willing to break, but Arthur simply didn't have the words. He was still exhausted from the week's ordeal, but his mind continued to race as all the What ifs—about broken bones and broken bridges and Destiny—continued to chase one another through his thoughts. It was more than an hour later, long after the fever had broken as the healer had promised, that Arthur finally, finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

A/N: So...was it worth the wait? *waits nervously*

Spell translation:

Geníwe þone drýcræft = (approx) 'Renew the magic' — Merlin now knows Aredian can do magic but Merlin doesn't know what the previous spell on the ink was, so he can't tell what Aredian's planning to do with it.

Quotations:

Aristotle's misogynistic remarks come from his Politics (Book 1, Chapter 5). He does have some good points...but this definitely isn't one of them. :/ Special thanks to my husband (who once went to a philosophy discussion meet-up where he ended up having to politely-but-systematically dismantle someone else's argument when they tried to say that Aristotle was right to think that there are 'inferior' categories of people) for sharing his copy of this book with me.

The insult that Morgana directed at Aristotle is a slightly modified quote from Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida: "Thou hast in thy skull no more brain than I have in mine elbows." I've decided that I like giving Morgana little bits of Shakespeare throughout this fic...this wasn't her first quotation from the Bard and it won't be her last! Btw, if you've never looked up compilations of Shakespeare's insults, you're sorely missing out. They're quite ridiculous and most of them frankly sound like the sorts of things that Merlin and Arthur would say to one another in canon (including a couple about toads). As a starting point, I recommend an artfully-constructed infographic entitled 'A Grand Taxonomy of Shakespearean Insults' :) And I know for a fact that I'm going to use at least one more of the quotations on that particular infographic in a later chapter of this fic ;)