A/N: Sorry guys, this is a shortish chapter, and all a flashback! It just felt right here. The next chapter will return to the actual interaction between Merlin and Arthur which I think most of you are waiting for!

Arthur was thirteen years old when he first learnt that no one was beyond the stain of magic.

After the convulsions of the Great Purge, the Kingdom of Camelot had settled into an uneasy peace. Even then, a small, steady stream of executions for witchcraft continued to take place: hangings, beheadings, drownings, and Arthur's least favourite, the burnings. Most of these seemed a distant affair to the young prince. Once he had become inured to the horrors of his first few witch-burnings, he had almost stopped noticing them.

In early spring, the farmers plucked out weeds from their fields, and cast them into great bonfires to burn. King Uther likewise uprooted and burned the practitioners of sorcery, their screams mingling with the melodies of returned songbirds. In summer, bodies swung from the gallows in the palace courtyard, a grim harvest, timely as the sweet apples suspended from the tree branches in the Citadel's orchards.

These were all part of the rhythms of the seasons, as little noteworthy as the coming and going of the snows.

But these dangers, the evils of witchcraft and the violent retributions they invited, were sealed away outside the gates of the Citadel. Within the safety of its halls, where Arthur spent his days, sorcery had been banished and purged completely, and the people laughed and made merry, with no fear in their eyes.

Or so Arthur had thought, until the day Niclas had committed the unpardonable sin.

From his toddling days, Arthur had grown up surrounded by the sons of powerful earls and barons. Blessed by Nature with strength, leadership, and charisma to equal his family name, Arthur had been the apple of the court's eye. Through pagehood and squirehood, Arthur and his companions had charged around the castle and its grounds, boisterous, swaggering, arrogant, engaging in feats of swordplay, always seeking to overthrow each other.

But then there was Niclas, Baron Yarwood's son. Niclas was different, and it had started from a very young age.

Niclas was fidgety and dreamy, and always staring at something others could not see. When forced to duel by the swordmaster, Niclas would hold his blade like it was a foreign object, with an expression of distaste on his face. He swung it oddly gracefully, but ineffectually, like a maiden twirling a baton during a festival pageant. He hated combat practice, and would attempt to escape at every opportunity. But whenever Niclas was made to sit in the armoury and clean weapons as a punishment, Arthur would find him happily staring at the shields with their coloured devices, his fingers tracing over the lines and patterns, as if they revealed shapes to him that others were blind to.

Several times Arthur and the other boys were deputed to pull Niclas out of Geoffrey of Monmouth's library, where he spent hours absorbed in books, or out of the College of Heralds, where he loved to listen to the lute. They would force Niclas to accompany them, for the elders insisted that a nobleman's son must be raised in the society of his peers. But even as the other boys become more raucous and wild in each other's company, Niclas would grow overwhelmed and try to hide himself in a corner. He seemed to listen most intently to silence, and the loud voices of the other boys were unbearable to him.

When they tried to include Niclas in horseplay and wrestling, he became alarmed, and shrank from physical touch. If struck in a friendly manner, he cried more easily than a maid. They could not even take him hunting, for he would ride off in a different direction from the others, claiming his horse was telling him where it wanted to go, and then everyone would have to stop and find him again, or he would be lost in the woods, and they would all be punished.

Everyone assumed that Niclas would grow out of his strange behaviours, but in the meantime he was most unpopular. Arthur, however, discovered an odd sort of tenderness towards the boy. Even as he despised Niclas for his weakness, his alienness, his failures to live up to the Knight's Code, and the general air of worthlessness that clung to him, part of Arthur felt that it was a prince's duty to care for even the most wretched of his subjects.

And there was something almost fascinating about Niclas. The dreamlike way he moved through the world, always lost in his imagination, roaming in search of a tune others could never hear. The intense, nervous energy about him. The sense that he had wandered into the court by mistake from some other world, and never quite found his way back. When he was alone with Arthur, away from the company of the other boys, he seemed to come out of his shell. A strange glow suffused his features, and his frightened face relaxed into a pixie-like grin. He would dash about, all limbs, like an airy sprite, and words would pour forth from his mouth, stories from the books of romance he had read, told with such nostalgia in his voice that it seemed he must have walked in those enchanted kingdoms, all those centuries ago.

One evening Arthur had gone to find Niclas in the woods, where the boy loved to wander. Arthur found him twirling about in a grove with a stick in his hand, and wildflowers woven into his hair. As ridiculous as the other lads found him, Arthur thought Niclas looked more dignified in the forests than he did in the castle. Here, there was almost a regal quality to him, and he did not stick out like a sore thumb.

"Niclas," Arthur had said. "Stop this. Come back to the Citadel. How are you ever going to be a knight, and fit in at court, if you don't outgrow these absurd ways? You are an only son! Don't you care about your parents' honour?"

Niclas had stopped spinning and looked at Arthur with defiance on his face.

"I don't care!" he said. "I don't care about your court. I'm going to another one. One where I truly belong." He lowered his voice, and shadows crept into his eyes. "I've heard the voices, Arthur. Can't you hear them? The Lords and Ladies of the Woods. They've been whispering to me since I was a little boy! I think I understand now, why I'm so unlike everybody else. I must be one of them. They left me here by mistake. But they will come back for me."

Arthur felt sorry for Niclas. The poor boy was so lonely, so unwanted by everyone, that his warped mind had invented friends for itself. In his usual childish way, he could not tell the difference between reality and the tales of Lord Oberon and the Faerie Queen, which he had read about in the epic poems. His imagination had filled the woods with companions who cared for him, and shown him a court more welcoming than Camelot's.

Arthur said, "You mustn't speak like this. People will think you're mad."

Niclas laughed. "I am the only sane man in the asylum." He looked up at the rising moon. "Some time soon, I think, I shall find my way back. But I might not be able to take this body with me. I couldn't find the easier doors, the ones hidden under hills and standing stones. There are harsher ways to the land of Faerie. You can travel by fire or water, by rope or knife, if you don't mind pain…" He looked at Arthur. "You've been a good friend to me, Arthur. My only friend. I want you to know that."

"Enough of this nonsense," Arthur said, seizing Niclas by the arm. "You're coming back with me right now."

Arthur wished to God he had never seen Niclas that night, or the night that came later.

As they entered their thirteenth year, Arthur and his peers grew steadily more confident in their powers as squires. They frequently fought alongside their masters, and for youths of tender age, acquitted themselves well in combat.

Niclas had given up hope of becoming a knight. At first, he had shown a keen interest in entering the Church, but then he had suddenly gone off that idea, perhaps because his parents could not afford him to be celibate. Next he had fixated on learning the art of the Heralds, but minstrelsy was unthinkable as a primary occupation for a nobleman. Finally, it seemed that Niclas would become a scholar outside the Church, thanks to the intervention of Gaius and Geoffrey of Monmouth, who had many academic contacts. While this poorly paid role would still allow Niclas to support a family, it would mean a greatly diminished standing for his House, which had been expected to produce a knight as its head. Niclas' parents were sore aggrieved, and his father did not trouble to hide his anger and embarrassment at his son.

Later that year, it was announced that since Niclas was not to serve as a knight, he was to be pledged to a girl from another minor family, to "give his life focus." The actual marriage would not take place until both parties reached the age of majority, but the betrothal ceremony would be conducted after Samhain.

Arthur had seen little of Niclas in the preceding two years, for the prince was busy with his knightly training, and with the increased duties his father had given him. Arthur did notice, however, that Niclas had become increasingly withdrawn, secretive and irritable. He barely emerged from his chambers, and spent all his time poring over old grimoires. Arthur once tried to bring Niclas out of his isolation by asking the other boy if he had read any more fairy romances, but Niclas reacted with anger and shame, telling Arthur that as he was no longer a child, he had put away childish things. There was little trace left of the impish lad Arthur had once known. There was no dreamy light in his eyes, only shadows cast by a waking nightmare.

At midnight, four days before the start of Samhain, a letter was slipped under Arthur's door. He had been lying awake after a hard day's training, dreaming of slaying dragons like his father, when he heard the rustle of parchment followed by softly retreating footsteps. He got up, lit a candle and unsealed the letter, and read by the flickering glow. The lines were in a hand he recognised as Niclas':

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time;

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night

Of our solemnities.

There was a violet pressed into the parchment.

Embarrassed to be receiving strange poems from Niclas as if he were a lovesick maid, Arthur burnt the note and cast the flower away. He tried to put the whole thing out of his mind, but the reference to four days disturbed him.

At sunset of Samhain day, the Citadel went into lockdown. It was said that the Veil between the worlds was thin on this night, that unquiet spirits roamed the land, and witches were at their most powerful. The common people observed customs inherited from the Old Ways, trying to keep themselves safe from eldritch forces. It was a time when the powers of the Old Religion waxed strong, and Uther had ordered the members of the court confined to the Citadel.

When the warning bell rang out late that night, announcing that someone had broken the curfew, Arthur knew instantly that it was Niclas.

The prince used his knowledge of the castle's layout to steal out of the Citadel, praying he reached Niclas before the guards did. He knew how it would look to his father for anyone to be roaming on Samhain night, especially a person as strange and friendless as Niclas.

He oustripped the guards and slipped through the shadowy lanes, heading straight for the woods on the outskirts of the city.

Niclas, the fool, had not even bothered to conceal his location. He had made a fire! Its red glow seeped through the trees.

Arthur crashed through the branches, pushing them aside, and entered the clearing.

Niclas stood before a blazing bonfire, a wild look on his face. He was alone, but the fire cast many strange, flickering shadows, which moved about, making it seem as if the clearing was filled by a crowd of unseen people. Niclas had garbed himself in a fine silken tunic and cloak, which must have been his engagement suit. His hair was crowned with a wreath of oaken twigs, and behind him, tree branches had been cut down and woven into the shape of an archway, a doorway in the woods, like the entrance to a bridal pavilion. The whole scene looked like a pagan mockery of a betrothal ceremony, and as the wind sighed through the branches, making music like wild piping, Arthur remembered how the Old Gods were loose in the woods this night, and shivered with fear.

"Niclas!" he shouted. "Come away from here! The guards are coming!"

Niclas turned, his face radiating with joy as he saw Arthur. It was only then that Arthur noticed the knife in Niclas' left hand, flashing in the firelight.

"I knew you'd come!" Niclas said. "I was waiting for you, Arthur. Hlafordas ond hlæfdigan wealdes! Onlucan þone dor!" Niclas' eyes gleamed as bright as the fire.

Something changed in the clearing. Time seemed to slow, and the firelight bled into the world, dyeing everything golden. The tree branches turned silver, and bore silver leaves and silver blossoms, more delicately wrought than anything fashioned by any human smith. The boughs shook gently, and a flurry of crystal petals filled the air, showering down upon Niclas like grain thrown on a new-made bridegroom. The wreath of twigs in his hair bloomed into yellow oak-flowers, and his nuptial finery shone like spun gold. The archway of twisted branches behind him shivered, and light streamed from it, as though a doorway in the woods had been flung open.

Niclas turned and looked at the archway, tears on his cheeks. "I'm not sure if I can do it," he said. "The Veil is thin on Samhain, but I'm not strong enough to open it all the way. I just need my soul to get through. The body can be the sacrifice..." He turned back, and stretched his hand out to Arthur. "Please, Arthur," he said. "Will you hold my hand?"

Unsure what was possessing his limbs, Arthur closed the distance between them and put his hand in Niclas'. Arthur had noticed that the shadows around the fire were deepening, looking more substantial. He almost fancied he could make out humanoid shapes crowding around them, and his gut was screaming at him to flee. But Niclas seemed unconcerned, and turned back to the doorway.

"I wanted to say farewell to you," Niclas said. "Samhain is a time of homecoming. The spirits come back to this world to remember what they've lost. But my home lies somewhere else."

Suddenly, Niclas kissed Arthur on the lips. Arthur was too shocked to move. The other boy tasted like salty tears, and wildflowers.

Niclas dropped Arthur's hand and went towards the archway, his cloak streaming in an unseen wind.

"Halt!" Guards burst upon them, spears lowered. Two of them charged Niclas, who did not hesitate, but turned the knife up towards his chest.

"No!" shouted Arthur, lunging forward and catching Niclas' wrist as the knife came arcing upwards. As the boys struggled, a guard came up behind Niclas, aimed the butt of his spear, and smashed it into the back of Niclas' head, knocking him to the ground.

What followed was the most frightening two days of Arthur's short life. He was confined to his chambers, and interrogated repeatedly by King Uther and Archbishop De Croismere. He knew something terrible was about to happen, and that he was in more trouble than he'd ever been in. Under repeated questionings, he confessed that he'd seen Niclas using magic, that Niclas had sent him a note four days before the events of Samhain, that even as a boy Niclas had wandered in the woods and claimed voices were speaking to him.

On the third day, Uther came into the room with the Archbishop and two large, frightening monks. They carried a large tub of water, which was placed on the floor of Arthur's chambers. The doors were locked.

Despite his protests, Arthur was stripped naked by the Brothers, and held under the water again and again, so long that he felt his lungs would give up and he would surely be drowned. After Arthur was brought up out of the water the fourth time, retching and crying and trembling, Uther's eyes softened, and he said, "Surely that is enough, Raimund."

"Have you forgotten the circumstances of his birth, sire?" cried the Archbishop. "You know the sorcerers have designs upon him, and they have already put their mark on him. Will you risk their corruption remaining within him to fester?"

Uther looked away, and Arthur was submerged in the holy water again.

When the ordeal was finished Arthur was wrapped in blankets and dumped on the bed. All the strength and resistance had been purged out of him.

The Archbishop looked at Arthur sternly. "Niclas committed an unpardonable sin. And because you did not mention his strange behaviour earlier, you partook in his sin. Had we uncovered his sickness at a younger age, we could have saved him. But he was left to wander on his own, and unclean spirits tempted him in the wilderness, and led him into destruction. They meant to use him to destroy you as well, and they almost succeeded."

Arthur was silent, numb from the cold, his teeth chattering.

"Do not hate us, Arthur," said the Archbishop. "This was for your own good. We had to cleanse your body and your soul of the sickness Niclas invited with his fiendish rites. It is fortunate the guards found you when they did. Baptism by water was sufficient to save you. But for Niclas it is too late, and he shall have the baptism by fire."

Frozen nigh unto death as he was, Arthur felt more chilly still.

"Your Grace," said Uther, "is this necessary? The Yarwoods are an old family. Such evil tendencies may be found among the best of Houses. I can make the boy disappear. Perhaps… one of your monasteries… there are places for such people. Places where they never see the sunlight. He will be good as dead."

"His weakness almost cost you your son! The boy chose to flaunt his wickedness publicly! The poison is strong in him, and will only grow stronger with age. From what Arthur reported, the boy himself wants to die. He knows a creature like him was condemned to a life of suffering, and so long as he breathes, his parents' life is misery. So release him from his torment, before his sin grows and consumes us all."

"And Arthur?"

"Confine him to his chambers for two weeks. Let him fast and pray strictly. At the end of that time, let the first thing he sees be the consequences of tolerating sorcery."

No, thought Arthur. God, no. Why did I stop Niclas? Everything that happens to him now is my fault.

The two weeks went by far, far quicker than seemed possible.

A special pyre was built for the warlock who had threatened the king's own son. The whole court was in attendance. Niclas' mother was not there. It was rumoured she had died of a broken heart, which probably meant she had taken her own life, for mortal sins apparently ran in that family. Niclas' father looked ashamed, but almost relieved to be free from association with his son, and Arthur hated him for that.

"Even the greatest family trees," said Uther, "sometimes put out diseased growths. They must be pruned at once, to stop the sickness from spreading. Just as farmers pluck out and burn the weeds, so the healthful plants may grow."

"Yes, Father," said Arthur dully. He did not dare to look at Morgana's face, for she had been fond of Niclas, and she would not forgive Arthur for his role in the boy's condemnation.

When Niclas was brought out, he almost looked like somebody else. His messy locks had been shorn clean off, and he was so thin and emaciated, Arthur could count his bones. He was heavily bruised, and some of his limbs looked mangled, and not quite right.

They interrogated witches much more harshly than the questioning Arthur had endured.

But the strangest thing about Niclas was his eyes. There was nothing in them. They had the blank look of a complete stranger.

Arthur felt a surge of relief overwhelm him. That wasn't really Niclas down there! Niclas had been right after all - he had been able to pierce the Veil, to separate his soul from his body, and send his true self flying on wings to Fairyland. All that was left behind now was this shell… this sacrifice.

The gods had to be appeased.

"You must watch, Arthur," said Uther, placing his hands on Arthur's head. "You will not look away, even if he was your friend."

"Yes, Father."

But it wasn't really his friend. Even the screams didn't sound like Niclas.

For a long time after that, Arthur had bad dreams. He couldn't understand why, if Niclas had committed the unpardonable sin, Arthur should be the one to feel so guilty.

But the evil memories receded with time. There were many more witch-burnings, after all, and Arthur's mind could not hold the details of all of them at once. These things were as regular as the seasons.

After that, every once in a while, Arthur would see someone who would remind him of Niclas. He couldn't say why, exactly. There were certain boys or men who had a touch of the Fey about them. Sometimes it was a certain expression, or the way they moved, or a turn of phrase they used, or a mad, nervous kind of energy about them. Something just out of Arthur's perception would stir the cobwebs of his memory, and direct his attention to them for a moment.

But only for a moment. He would pass on, and give them a wide berth. He had no desire to partake in someone else's sin again, and he became very good at ignoring signs that he did not wish to see.

Arthur cleared the crest of a rise and sent his courser thundering down the grassy green slope. When he had ridden a good ten yards, he reined the horse in, and wheeled it round.

Merlin appeared on the rise above Arthur, drew his mount to a halt, then sent it trotting down towards the prince.

Arthur looked at Merlin, truly looked at him, for what felt like the first time in a long time.

Merlin appeared the same bumbling servant he always had been to those who did not know him. But Arthur marked the changes well. The tiny slip of a boy who had first stumbled into Camelot all those years ago had grown into a tall man, taller than Arthur, and even broader of shoulder. His charming quicksilver expressions, which had flitted across his face like ripples on a pond, had solidified into something more sombre. Those elfin, impish features, always so quick to crack into a grin, had hardened, become stronger and more grave. And those eyes, once so bright with hope, were grimly determined, yet filled with unspeakable sadness.

There was a painting in Camelot, which had been commissioned from one of the great masters of Nuova Italia. Uther had ordered it during one of those crazes for Joseph of Arimathea which swept through the land whenever someone claimed to discover the location of the Sacred Grail. It was said that Joseph of Arimathea had visited Brython after burying the Saviour, and that he had brought the Grail into the country, so that now his image was bound to pop up wherever knights quested in search of holy relics.

This painting had been very lifelike, and focused purely on the two men. The master lay dead, and the servant cradled his master's cold dead limbs, weeping in the depths of human agony. The beauty of the male body had been exquisitely delineated, and indeed people whispered of this particular artist that his passion for the male form exceeded the bounds of propriety, but nobody minded in the far South so long as he provided the Church with beautiful art, and was discreet about his personal failings. For God could create sublime things even out of degraded instruments.

Merlin's eyes reminded Arthur of Joseph's eyes in that painting. They were filled with unspeakable grief and suffering. But Joseph was wearied, physically and emotionally, from carrying the body of his master along the desolate paths of the killing fields. Merlin wore that expression all the time, regardless of what he was doing.

It is me, thought Arthur. Hasn't he been carrying me this whole time, too? I am his burden, and he can never put me down. Not until the end. Maybe not even then.

Merlin stopped his horse in front of Arthur and looked at him, waiting for him to break the silence.

"I want to tell you a story, Merlin," said Arthur.

A/N: laorart, thanks for your question!

I actually made a mistake there, it was supposed to be the Old French form, but I think the Old French should be, "à Dieu vos comant." I believe the modern French equivalent should be, "à Dieu (je) vous (re)commende." (Not sure if that makes sense grammatically in modern French though)

The Old French form is what the Normans brought into English. "à Dieu vos comant" was translated into Saxon/English as "God be with ye." Just as the French farewell was shortened to "Adieu," the English was shortened to "God be/Good Bye," which we still use today! Isn't that nice!

Unfortunately, I don't even speak modern French, so it would be too ambitious for me to try and make the Normans speak historically accurate French phrases all the time. To make matters worse, not only did the Normans speak older French, but the Norman dialect had some very different features and pronunciation from Standard French (I believe that's still the case in Normandy today, even though most people there speak Standard French now?) I'm not even going to embarrass myself by putting more than a smidgen of French in here and there. If I do use any French from now on, I will probably limit myself to modern French, and everyone will have to use their imaginations I guess!

To all readers, I should include a general note on my use of languages: I only speak modern English fluently, so please take anything else I write, whether in Old English, Latin, French etc. with many grains of salt. I am using online resources to cobble together a sprinkling of other languages to add flavour as the story requires, but you can't trust anything I write in them! Be warned!