Chapter XXIV: The Pixie and the Princess

"Princess?" Grunhilda called, stepping into the room.

Leon closed the door behind her. "Neither Elena nor the Sidhe within her are here," he announced pleasantly.

Grunhilda went rigid. "I don't know what you're talking about," she scoffed. "Now, if I'm not needed as a chaperone, I'll be on my way." She turned, but now Elyan and Percival had moved to flank Leon. Three knights now stood between her and the door with their hands lightly but prominently resting on their sword-hilts.

For a second—Leon wouldn't have noticed it if not for Lancelot's story—the pixie's eyes flickered red.

"There's no need to pretend," Lancelot told her. "We're all aware that you're a pixie and that Princess Elena is a changeling. Soon, Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Caledonensis will as well. We've already dispatched the messengers, you see. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if Merlin decided to pay a visit as soon as he hears."

It was so strange, Leon reflected, to see this pixie—presumably a reasonably powerful spellbinder in her own right, if she'd been chosen to protect a changeling princess—pale and flinch away at the threat of Merlin. Merlin. Leon had once seen the former manservant trip over his own feet and knock over a rack of practice weaponry. How bizarre to think that the boy who liked snarking and sarcasm could be used to frighten magical creatures into submission.

"He's quite protective of his Once and Future King," Lancelot continued, utterly blithe, "and he might take your little conspiracy to make Arthur a changeling queen's puppet… badly."

Grunhilda actually shuddered at that, the last remnants of color vanishing from her face. "There's no need to get Lord Emrys involved," she squeaked. "None whatsoever. You… misunderstood our intentions, you see. We were… trying to help with his destiny."

Gwaine snorted.

"It's true!" the pixie claimed, latching onto this excuse like a lifeline. "Part of the Albion Cycle states that a Sidhe-blooded woman, born in Avalon and raised in the mortal world, will be one of the king's chiefmost advisors, and very close to the archmage as well." She grinned, sickly and faintly greenish. "What better advisor than his queen?"

Gwaine rolled his eyes. Thankfully, Lancelot cut him off. "Of course, of course, that makes perfect sense," he stated, still in that pleasantly bland tone of voice. "But there are plenty of ways to fulfill that prophecy without subsuming and utterly destroying the mind of an innocent woman, so I think that your interpretation might be a bit off. Perhaps you and your mistress ought to abandon this plan, leave Elena alone, return to Avalon, and tell your people to find another way to help Arthur."

"An excellent suggestion," the nurse agreed, head bobbing. "You ought to send another messenger at once to tell them that we will take it immediately."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly commandeer more of Godwyn's men than absolutely necessary," Lancelot claimed. "It would be much more polite to simply send one more man with the news that you're already gone." That oh-so-pleasant smile broadened. "As representatives of Camelot, we wouldn't want to be rude."

"…Of course not," Grunhilda conceded.

Lancelot turned his mild gaze on the living barricade. "If you three would be so kind as to let Mistress Grunhilda pass, then she could speak with her own mistress right away."

They stepped aside. Percival lingered a moment longer than the other two, looming and glowering ominously at the terrified pixie. Percival was very good at looming.

Grunhilda had barely made it three steps before she paused. "Why are you following me?"

"Your friend might have questions," Leon supplied, trying to imitate Lancelot's tone and expression.

They made an odd party: one old nurse, five full knights, and a squire bringing up the rear. The few servants they pass shoot them baffled looks, but they ignore them. Soon they entered Elena's office, where she was quietly discussing sums with the steward. Her face creased with concern when she noticed Grunhilda's palpable nervousness. "What's wrong?"

"We need to speak with you," the nurse explained. She gave the steward a significant look. "Not you."

He huffed softly, opened his mouth to protest.

"Why you go eat lunch?" Elena suggested. "We can finish all this when you're finished."

The steward grudgingly acquiesced, shooting them a nasty look on his way out.

"Now what's wrong?" Elena repeated.

"It's about your blackouts," Lancelot explained.

Elena stiffened, glared at her nurse. "You told them?"

"We figured it out on our own," Lancelot said softly. He met her gaze. "You deserve to know the truth. You're a changeling, Your Highness, but you won't be for long."

Something changed in the princess's demeanor, something cold and alien glittering in her eyes. "A what?" the Sidhe demanded.

Lancelot's eyes narrowed. "We would like to speak with the real Elena."

"Who else would I be?"

"They know, Rionach," Grunhilda burst out.

"That is not—"

"And they're Knights of the Round Table!" the pixie continued, growing louder in her distress. "They've sent messengers to Lord Emrys and his king. We need—"

"Send someone to bring back your messengers," Rionach ordered, soft and dangerous, "or I will have you all killed for harboring a werewolf."

Leon's blood froze. At his side, Marrok gave a soft, strangled cry.

Stillness fell. An impasse. The other knights all at least glanced at Marrok, noting for the first time his monobrow, the hair on his hands, the amber tint to his eyes. Leon could barely breathe, a marked contrast to his squire's ragged panting.

Lancelot was the first to recover. "Do you really think that having us killed will endear you to Arthur and Merlin?"

"You don't even want to be here!" Gwaine burst out. "You wanted to leave."

"Do you think that I'll let a ragged posse of mortals drive me away?" Rionach demanded.

"You will if you know what's good for you," Gwaine snapped. "You've lost."

"You'll never be Arthur's queen," Elyan proclaimed.

The possessed princess stood. "You forget that I can send men to apprehend your precious messengers." She strode towards them, step by step by step. "If you brought a werewolf into the heart of Gawant, you could easily be spies as well, your messages subject to seizure, your lies dismissed out of hand." She stood right in front of them now, a smirk twisting her stolen features. "I haven't lost this game, Strength. You—"

Leon punched her on the side of the head. He only came to his senses when the changeling collapsed. Gods help him, he'd assaulted a king's daughter—

"I didn't know you had that in you," Gwaine said, impressed. "Good one, Leon."

"I just attacked an allied princess," he said numbly. And, worse, they knew what Marrok was, they'd heard it and it hadn't been denied and now they knew. They knew.

"And we're all very proud of you," Gwaine assured the stunned nobleman, patting him on the shoulder. "But back on topic, how do we get the Sidhe out of her before she wakes up?" This question was directed to the white-faced Grunhilda, who had been watching the proceedings in silent horror.

The pixie startled. "I—there is a potion. That is all I know of for certain. But I don't know how to make it. Why would I?"

"Can you guess?" Elyan demanded.

"I'd rather not risk killing them."

"So how are we supposed to force her out?" Gwaine demanded.

"Maybe we don't have to," Lancelot suggested suddenly. At the others' gaping incredulity, he expounded, "We just need enough time for the messengers to get beyond her reach."

"Or for her to think they're beyond her reach," Percival supplied.

"We could blindfold her," Elyan said. "Convince her that hours have passed. We just need a way to keep anybody from noticing that…."

"That I've assaulted a princess," Leon finished. Oh, gods. He'd assaulted a princess.

"I could do that," Grunhilda volunteered. She moved her hand in a turning motion, and suddenly there was a second Elena in the room. Another motion, and the real Elena disappeared. "At least long enough to ward off the steward. And I… can keep her from waking." Something glittered in her open palm. "Sidhe dust." She sprinkled it onto the invisible, sleeping princess. "And you will ask Lord Emrys to forgive Rionach's… excessive enthusiasm… for our original plan."

"We will," Lancelot assured her.

An awkward silence fell as they waited, one made more uncomfortable by the way that everyone kept shooting glances at poor Marrok but refused to say anything. Leon steeled himself. The werewolf was his squire, his responsibility.

"You cannot tell anyone about… Rionach's claim."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Of course not."

"I would never! You have my word."

Percival just looked offended.

Gwaine turned to face Marrok, open curiosity on his face. "So how—"

"I don't want to talk about it," the squire said shortly. He winced. "I mean, I appreciate you agreeing to… but I've never really talked about…."

"Merlin hid under a table once to keep me from realizing he had magic," Lancelot reminisced. "It didn't work, obviously."

"Really?" asked Gwaine. "About the table, I mean. I haven't heard that story."

And just like that, the conversation moved on. The other knights might never have learned of Marrok's true nature. Or perhaps they just... didn't care that his squire was a supernatural creature.

He and Leon could both breathe again.


Gwen had been dreading this dinner ever since Uther had dragged Morgana out of her room. It wasn't the wedding supper, but it was still unusually lavish to honor the upcoming nuptials. Cenred and his fiancée were given the places of honor, were made the object of every toast. The alcohol was another thing Gwen had been anticipating with anxiety. Thankfully Morgana had enough sense to not indulge. Cenred was not quite so sensible. It was barely halfway through the meal, and he'd just slung his arm around Morgana's shoulder.

Miraculously, nothing exploded, but Gwen was quite certain that it was a near thing. Could she get away with 'accidentally' spilling something all over her lady's dress? Morgana would have to leave then. The problem was that Gwen couldn't predict how Uther would react. He might leave her punishment to his daughter, he might have her executed on the spot. She had no idea, nor did she want to find out. But if Morgana's face reddened much more with suppressed rage, she might just have to risk it.

Thankfully for the dinner, international relations, and Cenred's continued survival, Arthur was there to run interference. He was talking very animatedly about some subject that Gwen couldn't quite make out through the hum of background noise.

For a few minutes, Gwen allowed herself to hope that they could make it through this dinner without any overt disasters. Then Uther made his toast and she cursed herself for being a terrible fool.

The king rose. "Tomorrow, we celebrate the unity of Camelot and Essetir," he proclaimed. "King Cenred is my kinsman, my cousin's own son, and tomorrow he will wed my foster daughter. Soon after, King Sarrum's daughter, Princess Orgeluse, will marry my son, the Crown Prince Arthur. Together, our three great nations will eradicate the scourge of magic." He raised his goblet high. "To the imminent extermination of all sorcerers!"

…Oh, this was not going to be pretty.

Most of the guests raised their glasses quickly, not wanting to be accused of sympathy—or worse, sorcery—with Uther right there. Some peoples' faces were carefully blank, others filled with enthusiasm. Cenred was among the latter group, drinking deeply from his goblet, and Uther drained his entire.

Neither Arthur nor Morgana took a sip.

Their refusal did not go unnoticed. That would have been too easy. People murmured to each other in voices soft as moths' wings, woven through with a frisson of fear and dread. Others held their breaths, tension holding them taut and rigid.

Uther didn't notice at first. He was drinking, a flush of satisfaction (and also probably alcohol, which just made this that much worse) on his face. Then he noticed the quiet susurration, looked up, saw that neither of his children had so much as touched their goblets.

The room fell silent. Not even King Cenred, the guest of honor, dared to breathe too loudly.

For a long moment, Uther didn't understand what had happened. He looked at Arthur and Morgana in confusion. Then his gaze lighted on the untouched wine in their goblets, and his mien darkened like a great plume of ash blotting out the sun.

"I made a toast." Sharp words, cutting, commanding. "Is something wrong with the wine, that you would disrespect me so?"

Arthur stared straight ahead, all wound up like a bowstring. "The wine is satisfactory," he replied.

Morgana, though, Morgana turned to face him, chin tilted back defiantly. "The wine is actually quite good," she retorted, her words just as sharp and cutting and fierce, "but there's quite a bit wrong with the toast."

The celebrants inhaled as one. Quite a few looked towards the doors as though calculating their odds of escape.

Uther rose, hands grasping the table in a white-knuckled grip. "You will drink," he spat.

Morgana smiled at him. "Very well." She lifted her goblet high. "To the betterment of Camelot," she declared.

Arthur nodded slowly, raised his own cup. Their glasses clinked together. "To the betterment of Camelot," he agreed.

They drank together, long and deep.

Their father was nearly purple in his rage. "To the imminent extermination of all sorcerers," he spat. "Drink."

A hint of mockery tilted Morgana's lips as she tipped her cup upside down. A single drop fell onto her plate. It was as red as her dress, as red as her jewels, as red as her blood. "I cannot," she stated. "I'm all out of wine, and I would really rather not risk a hangover on my wedding day."

Silence, save for the heavy rasp of Uther's breathing. Then his fist slammed onto the table, rattling the plates and silverware. "GUARDS!" he roared. "Find her maidservant!"

Gwen blanched, pressing herself against the wall. Hopefully it would just be a flogging, but—

"Don't you dare!" Morgana spat.

"Guinevere's done nothing wrong!" Arthur added. Both were on their feet, both ready to charge the king.

Gwen looked at the nearest door. It was flanked by two men in red. So was every other escape from this room-turned-trap.

"I warned you," Uther snarled, ignoring his son completely. "I warned you, Morgana, that your peasant friend would pay—"

"You're not going to touch her," the witch hissed. "I sent her away, you—"

"Here she is!" Strong hands wrapped around Gwen's arm, yanked her into the public eye. She jerked away instinctively, but there was another armed guard at her other side. He grabbed her as well, pinning her arms behind her back, forcing her to the floor.

"Cut off her arm," the king commanded. A death sentence: there were too few half-competent healers in the kingdom to save her from bleeding out, and that was assuming that anyone was brave enough to help her in the first place. She was never going to be with Arthur, she was going to die here in front of him and Morgana and everyone else, she would never have children or grow old or—

Morgana screamed. The guests to her right and left went flying, pushed by an invisible force. Her chair tipped, shattering into splinters. Food and drink and silverware tumbled to the floor. The chandelier broke, plummeting onto the table. Every candle flame in the room exploded into a fireball of gold and crimson. And at the center of it all, a half-trained, irrevocably exposed witch.

The guard atop Gwen leapt to his feet instinctively, sword flashing, only to freeze when he realized the source of the magical chaos. His former prisoner rolled to the side, grabbing at the pendant hidden inside her bodice. "Merlin Merlin Merlin," she choked, because there was no way that she and Morgana (and possibly Arthur, who had run to stand by his sister's side, hands clenched into fists because he hadn't been allowed to bring his sword) could get through all these people to safety.

A rush of wind, and then he was there. His eyes blazed gold; a shield of the same color burst into existence around the two of them, just in time to deflect a frantic sword-stroke. "The hell?" he asked incredulously, gesturing at the scene. He was close enough that she could hear him even through the chorus of screams and shouts.

"Morgana's exposed, Uther wants me dead, and we need to leave."

The warlock's face hardened. He gestured sharply, and Morgana went literally flying towards them. More screams sounded, followed by yet another round of cacophony as people realized who had crashed the party.

"YOU!" roared Uther, spittle flying from his lips. "I'LL KILL—"

"Bedyrne ús!" Merlin intoned. Wind whipped up around them, stirring the half-dozen small new fires into a frenzy. (The part of Gwen that wasn't in shock winced internally. Leon's parents didn't deserve this sort of damage to their home.) An arrow whizzed through the room, bouncing harmlessly against the golden shield. "Astýre ús þanonweard!"

The wind swallowed them whole.

And then they were someplace else, a still and quiet chamber occupied only by Hunith, who immediately began fussing over them. "Merlin, get Gaius," she ordered.

Her son nodded, made to leave, but Gwen stopped him. "Dad hasn't left yet. They might go after him. And—we have refugees, too, hiding in our home." She was still sitting. It had happened so quickly that she hadn't had enough time even to stand.

"They won't get them," Merlin vowed. A breeze stirred the air, and he was gone.

Hunith's hand slipped into Gwen's. "Come on," she said, trying to gently pull her up. "Let's get you to Gaius."

"Not until Dad is safe," Gwen protested, too loudly. Her ears still rang with the echoes of screams.

Morgana sank onto the floor, skin bloodless, as she began to comprehend the enormity of what she'd done. Hunith sat between them, legs folded beneath her body, and Gwen saw that her belly curved outward. That was right. She was with child.

"Congratulations," the maid said automatically. Hunith looked at her blankly, so Gwen gestured at her stomach. The mother-to-be smiled, thanked her.

Merlin couldn't have been gone for more than a minute or two, but it felt like hours before the signature whirlwind deposited him and Tom the blacksmith into the room. Gwen stumbled to her feet, grabbed her dad in the tightest hug she could manage.

Behind her, Morgana made a tiny choking noise. Merlin and Hunith were talking to her in low, indistinct voices, a comforting murmur that helped Gwen's frayed nerves as well. Her trembling (how long had she been shaking?) began at last to ease.

Then Merlin fell silent as his mother sucked in a sharp breath. Suddenly worried, Gwen twisted in her father's embrace, only to feel her face break out in a grin. Morgana was kissing him, their arms tight around each other. Hunith clearly didn't mind that they'd forgotten her; she was beaming with all the sunny brilliance that her son had inherited.

The new couple separated, Merlin discombobulated but not displeased, Morgana noticeably calmer. They exchanged shy little smiles, cheeks pink. Gwen thought, with a pang, of Arthur. Was he well? Or had Uther taken out his rage on his son? She wanted to say that surely he wouldn't, but the king had been so unpredictable lately….

Tom broke the silence. "What happened?"

"They can tell us on the way to Gaius," Hunith declared. "Unless you'd rather I bring him here?"

The younger women exchanged glances. "We can walk." Perhaps they'd be a bit unsteadier than usual, but Gaius would understand. Gods, it would be good to see him again.

Gwen took her first faltering steps towards the door. "It all started when Uther proposed a toast…."


Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Rediscovers Why He Can't Leave Camelot for Five Bloody Minutes"

Rionach: 'like a queen'

So, yay, werewolf revealed! And yes, there really is an Arthurian myth about a werewolf knight named Marrok, which is awesome. I thought that the story of another secretly magical being in King Arthur's court was too good to not include in this fic, and Leon needed a way to open up to magic. So for the last however long, he's been adjusting to the worldview changes caused by protecting his obviously innocent werewolf squire from a law and worldview that seem increasingly unfair. I might write a one-shot about it one day, or at least a tumblr post.

Next chapter: March 27. Everyone in Camelot is having a bad day. Really, really bad.

-Antares