The Diary

by ADraconicScribe

Arthur's worried about Merlin. The servant's been off for a while now, and he won't tell the prince why. So when Arthur comes across his journal, he begins to read it, hoping to discover what's plaguing Merlin. Instead, he finds out his servant's been hiding more than what's upsetting him (a sort of "watching the show" fic). Meanwhile, Morgana stirs. BAMF!Merlin

9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: The Art of Secrets

It's important to remember that all Magicks take incredible amounts of energy. A mage using their power regularly—especially a young mage—will require more sleep and meals in order to remain hale. Magicks shouldn't be performed when tired. In the first place, the spell will backfire if the mage lacks the energy for it. In the second place, Magicks require absolute concentration in order to work, though focuses make this easier. Hunger and lack of sleep ultimately prohibit safe, effective Magicks from taking place.

Gwen sat on the bench, head ducked over the book. Gaius and Merlin were out—something about a woman giving birth. She had decided now was a good a time as any to read the book Gaius had said she might read, away from Merlin's prying eyes. She could only imagine what he might think if he saw her, the questions he would ask.

She wanted to tell him, badly, but she knew it was best to respect Arthur's wishes, at least for now. The prince had at least seemed to accept their friend's magic, but she understood a part of him might not have been ready to confront Merlin.

She wasn't sure she was ready, either.

Thus, it is a Mentor's duty to supply their Apprentice with all they need to keep healthy: a warm bed, plenty of food, and careful training. Many kingdoms that have Mage Guilds will review these Apprenticeships to ensure that these stipulations are met; it is important that Apprentices not be abused or mistreated, especially because such things can malform their Magicks.

That was interesting. Gwen had never heard of such a thing, though she supposed it made sense. She knew men who'd been put down, could see it in their eyes as they decided to use their meager power to hurt others. But for it to affect magic…

Magic is tied heavily to the spirit and emotions of the mage. An angry mage may be able to cast a spell of fire, but ask them to conjure the illusion of a butterfly, and they will fail. Mages who are oft mistreated have Magicks more prone to violence and outburst, as they are quicker to anger and point out injustice.

Quicker to anger. Could magic be affected by temperament, then? The same way a warrior's fighting style was influenced?

To illustrate my point, I shall use one of the Apprentices I knew—a young girl the High Priestesses had to take in. Her master had used her harshly, but her Magicks had been stronger than his. One night, as he beat her nearly senseless, her magic lashed out and killed him. Such a thing by itself is not bad: it is as much of a reflex as shielding one's eyes from the sun.

Gwen considered this "reflex" a bit stronger than that. It made her sick, knowing that someone could kill will only a word and a gesture. It just… how could someone fight back? A sword could be blocked, a knife could be dodged, but magic—magic made someone helpless. She didn't hold it against Merlin—it had been clear from the beginning that he hadn't had much choice in learning magic—but him having that power made her uneasy.

But her master had starved her, beaten her, and deprived her of nearly all that was needed to make her human. Learning control afterward was difficult. Even if she showed no outward signs of distress, glasses would break when something upset her. She once set her bed sheets alight. The Priestesses had to be gentle but firm with her, coaxing her to learn control and restraint.

Because of her starvation, her magic refused to be called upon unless she was in great emotional turmoil—it wished to preserve itself, and its energy, for her time of need, as magic is wont to do. She had difficulty with delicate spells, even more so than one might expect with her amount of power.

That, too, was strange. The whole notion that sorcerers—or mages, as the book called them—needed to be well-fed because of their powers was an odd one. But she supposed it was no different, again, from that of a warrior: he had to be well-fed in order to fight properly.

Eventually, she grew so frustrated with the entire process she fled the Priestesses. They found her, a year later, after she'd been executed. She had murdered three in cold blood, for they had upset her, and she had limited control. She'd been hanged.

Gwen shuddered. This apprentice—her tale of corruption reminded her too much of Morgana. Setting cloth on fire, running away… After Merlin's confessions in the diary, there was no doubt in her mind that Morgana could've come back to Camelot if she'd chosen. But she'd stayed away, she'd run away.

Did the fear of living in Camelot count as abuse? Uther's constant shadow, knowing that a misstep might get her killed… Had it driven her magic to madness? Was there such a thing?

And Merlin, was he set to go down the same path? It couldn't be healthy, how he lived. Constantly tired, and he never seemed to eat enough… and from what she'd spoken to Arthur about, it seemed he was expending quite a bit of magic. What if he passed out because he was using too much energy and not eating enough? She'd seen such things a few times in new recruits: squires who pushed themselves too hard, or newly-appointed knights.

The point being, that it is vital to find those who possess natural inclinations for Magicks early and train them well.

Gwen closed the book, hearing footsteps outside. Getting up, she tucked the tome back on the shelf—and not a moment too soon, as Merlin came in a second later, satchel of herbs and potions slung over one shoulder. He looked worse, somehow, than she'd remembered. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his cheeks looked more hollow than usual.

"Gwen," he said, summoning a tired smile. "What are you doing here?"

Gwen shoved down a stab of guilt as she prepared her tongue to lie; it needed the preparation, for she was unused to such glibness. "Gaius said I could borrow one of his books on—" What could I realistically have an interest in? "—herblore. I was just looking for it."

"Which one?" Merlin asked as he removed his satchel, setting it on the table. "He made me study all of them, when I first got here—I know where to find them." Gwen could only imagine trying to study to be a physician, a sorcerer, and a servant all at once. No wonder the man was such a scatterbrain.

Don't be rude, she chastised herself. He wasn't that bad… Most days. She remembered more than once he'd lost his train of thought, mid-sentence. And when he'd forgotten to put on his boots before he'd left to serve Arthur (he had complained of his feet being cold, without ever realizing). That had been… Well, she hadn't been able to help laughing at him.

"Um, I forget what it was called…" Gwen trailed off, biting her lip. She didn't enjoy this, fooling him. A small part of her thought it served him right, after all the lying he'd done, but mostly it made her sad. Had he felt this same pit in his stomach every time he'd lied to them? This same cloying stickiness in his throat, his tongue twisted and warping to produce falsehoods?

"Let me think." He walked to book shelf, close enough that Gwen could smell the herbs on him—and something that reminded her of trees and rain and grass. Not an unpleasant, dirty smell, but odd. "We have The Beginner's Guide to Healing—that talks of herbs among other things. There's A List and Uses of Various Herbs—"

"That's the one!" Gwen interrupted, smiling. He pulled it down from the shelf, and the thing was so thick she thought it might be too heavy for his too-thin arm. He handed it to her. "Thank you," she said, tucking it in one arm. Am I going to have to read this now? It almost seemed to weigh more than the metal she used in blacksmithing.

"You're welcome," Merlin said, but then winced and rubbed his temple, exhaling carefully through his nose.

"Is something the matter?" she asked. Aside from the obvious.

"Only a headache," he said, grimacing. "Won't go away." He looked so pitiful, like some kind of half-drowned cat—sad and shaking and miserable. Well, he wasn't really shaking, but Gwen thought it added to the effect.

"Have you tried a potion?" she asked.

He just shook his head. "No—it's not that kind of headache."

She cocked her head. "There's more than one kind?" Was he about to make something up to throw her off the scent? Lie to her? But then, why lie? What other reason could he have to wince and rub his temple except for a headache?

You're getting paranoid, Gwen.

"Naturally," he said, but that was all. "That's a thick book, Gwen—took me a few months to read it. I'm sure Gaius will let you borrow it for that long; we've both practically memorized the thing. What did you want it for?" He'd changed the subject to swiftly and directly she wouldn't have been suspicious if she hadn't known to be suspicious.

Then again, it could've just been in her head.

"Well, since I sometimes help you and Gaius with patients, I thought it might be good to learn a bit more about it all, especially given…" She trailed off.

Merlin rubbed his temple again. "Given Morgana? Or given that Camelot seems to be the biggest magnet of trouble in all of Albion? I swear, I haven't heard of any kingdom having as much trouble as this, even the unlucky ones in fairy tales."

"Something has got to inspire them," Gwen said.

"I suppose," he said, distantly. "Anyway, I had better get back to Gaius. Don't want him making me clean the leech tank." He eyed the glass container in the corner with considerable distaste. "Again."

He gathered some tinctures from the cupboard, tucking them into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder once more. There was a distinct weariness to his movements, as though his bones were older than his skin.

A mage using their power regularly—especially a young mage—will require more sleep and meals in order to remain hale. Magicks shouldn't be performed when tired…

"Alright. I'll see you later, Merlin," Gwen said, an idea brewing in her mind.

"See you later, Gwen," Merlin said, not looking up from where he was rearranging the things in his satchel. Gwen pushed open the door and left.

---

Arthur was grateful for his uncle coming to aid him in his time of crisis. The prince barely even had time to visit his father, and when he did, a lance of pain went through his heart. To see him so weak when once he'd been so strong… Just staring…

The prince regent would do his best to be as good as (better than) his father, though he knew the man would never agree with all the decisions he'd made (especially about a certain servant). But there had always been things they'd disagreed on—things Arthur had been punished for speaking his mind on. He could recall clearly being thrown in the dungeons for disobeying the king, or speaking when he shouldn't have.

But his father had always been there to teach and support him. He felt that he was listing without that support, falling just ever-so-slightly sideways. And Agravaine provided new support, support like that of a father, though he was only his uncle. Arthur felt like they had connected in the short time they'd known each other.

He'd seen, however, the suspicious looks his servant had cast at the man; he wasn't blind. And while he would've chocked it up to paranoia before, he knew better now.

It was time to see Merlin's judgment in real-time, not through the hindsight of a journal. But how to ask him? Arthur watched the servant arrange the bedclothes, which he really should've done that morning. His papers lay haphazardly over his desk, reports of activity on the border (or lack thereof) and his men's supplies.

He decided he would draw the man out at first, distract him from Arthur's real purpose. It wouldn't do for him to realize what the prince was doing—and he was apparently smarter than Arthur had ever given him credit for (though dumb enough to leave his magic stuff lying about his room, covered by only a blanket).

"So, Merlin, interested in telling me where you've been wandering off to?" he asked, pushing his fingers against one another.

"What do you mean?" Merlin turned around to face him, and Arthur had to admit his appearance had somehow grown worse: the darkness under his eyes looked less like bruises and more like they were ringed with holes; his cheekbones cast stark shadows on his cheeks; and he winced as he faced the light of the window, rubbing his temple.

"Well," Arthur began, dragging out the word, "you certainly haven't been here, doing your job, when I go into council meetings. And since you haven't deigned to attend the meetings—"

"You said you didn't need me there!" Merlin exclaimed.

"—I had assumed you would be attending to chores. Only to find that my chambers, my laundry, my horses are all in the state I left them in," Arthur finished, as though Merlin had never interrupted. "I had hoped you would've taken to using your time more wisely."

"It's not my job to care for your horses, Arthur. That is what stable boys are for—working in the stables. I am a manservant, meaning I serve a man—namely, you, though how you can be considered a man when you act like a bloody child—"

"You haven't answered the question," Arthur noted, looking down at one of the reports. "So what is it? The tavern?" He knew very well it wasn't the tavern; that had been an excuse Gaius had concocted that evidently irritated Merlin to no end.

And there it was: a scowl on his features.

"I was helping Gaius—a woman gave birth in the lower town today," Merlin said, rubbing his temple again.

"Ah, Gaius." Here was his opening. "Your great uncle, right?"

"On my mother's side," the servant replied, looking confused. "Why?"

"Nothing—I've just been thinking of uncles lately," he said elusively, but the hint was large enough that Merlin would've had to have thrown himself out the window to avoid it.

"Right. Agravaine." Another scowl tried to morph his features, but only for a second; he fought it down and turned away, resuming his tidying.

"What? Not a fan?" the prince asked innocuously. Now he would just need the man to say—or imply—why. Arthur wanted to trust Merlin's instincts; they were often right. But there was a desperation in him to trust his family more—his blood family, which always seemed to abandon or betray him. His parents in his time of need: once as a babe and now as a prince. His half-sister, intent on slaughtering him and his people. And now his uncle…

Was it too much to ask for that one stay by his side, no ill intent, simply there to love and guide him, as family should?

"He's, uh, fine," Merlin said, unconvincingly. Arthur nearly rolled his eyes; it was a wonder the man had managed to lie so well for so long. "I mean, he's only been here a week or so…"

"Yes, and you've managed to give him about a hundred dirty looks in that short time. You're lucky he hasn't noticed." Arthur began to sort casually through his papers, hoping to convince Merlin that his answer would hold no weight—it wouldn't do to make the sorcerer flighty.

"He wouldn't notice a servant if they went naked through the castle, so long as they bowed and served him food and drink," Merlin muttered.

"You don't like how he treats the staff, then?" Arthur asked. "The steward has reported no complaints from George."

"George wouldn't complain if Agravaine took to beating him every hour," Merlin said. That, probably, was true. The man was frightening in his dedication and subservience. And dullness.

"It's Lord Agravaine, Merlin. And has he been beating George every hour?" He mostly emphasized the title to see what reaction it would provoke, and he wasn't disappointed; Merlin gave an irritated grimace, his hands tightening around the pillow he was fluffing.

"No," the servant grumbled.

"Then I don't see why you hold such animosity toward him," Arthur said. He began to underline the most pertinent information from the reports with his quill. He would re-read those when he was less distracted, try to figure out what they meant. Villagers had reported strange weather patterns on the border, though there'd been no sign of Morgana or any other sorcerers.

"He just—I don't like the way he looks at you, when he thinks no one's paying attention," Merlin admitted. "It's… hungry."

"So you don't like him because he looks hungry," Arthur concluded.

Merlin sighed in exasperation. "No, Arthur, not that kind of hunger. I mean, I get this feeling—"

"A funny feeling, huh?" The prince knew he was being unfair, but he didn't want Merlin to take his only remaining, functioning family member from him. Even though, thinking about it… Merlin's funny feelings had often been right, and they had likely been informed either through magic or through Merlin's own strange way of ferreting out information.

If Merlin suspected Agravaine of something, Arthur would have to keep a closer eye on the man, uncle or no. But it gave him a heavy heart to do so. And to think, the man I trust the most at this point has been lying to me for years… This made him ache almost unbearably, and he found himself staring at the papers in front of him without really reading them.

"Laugh if you want," Merlin mumbled. "The man's up to something." He didn't even try to convince the prince further. Did he truly think so little of Arthur, that he wouldn't value his opinion?

You've never outwardly valued it before, he thought. Even though he had talked with Merlin over various proposals, gotten his opinion—even implemented some of them. And the speeches… Merlin had a nice way of putting together formal but sincere words, whereas Arthur tended to oscillate toward one or the other.

But did Merlin even know that Arthur sometimes took his advice?

Likely not. Clearly the man hadn't been paying attention.

"You're exceedingly paranoid, Merlin," Arthur told him. Perhaps he could talk to the captain of the guard and ask him to put more men near Agravaine's room, under the guise of being worried for his safety.

Or I could confront him, another part of him pointed out.

About what? Merlin doesn't like how he looks at me—not exactly solid evidence. He's probably innocent, and the man is being paranoid. But he would post the extra guards, in case Merlin's instincts proved again to be correct. I should've done similar things when he confessed his feelings to me before.

But there had been nothing to back up those claims, and often it seemed that they had come to nothing, though in reality Arthur knew now that Merlin had simply taken care of the threat without him ever knowing. Sofia came to mind, as did Cedric.

"And you're exceedingly careless," Merlin shot back. "I thought royalty was supposed to be suspicious of everyone?"

"I'm suspicious of you—suspicious you're talking with me to avoid doing work. Go on—it's time you fetched me lunch." He smiled at the servant, slightly mocking. "I'm feeling peckish."

Merlin let out a frustrated groan but did as his master bid. Arthur let his smile drop as he left the room.

God, could this whole thing get anymore complicated?

---

Merlin was done gathering herbs, and so he made his way back to Camelot.

Walking—moving from one place to another, through the use of his legs—was proving to be more difficult with every passing sleepless night, not to mention the horrible pain in his head. He blinked at the darkened forest around him, which blurred into one vague, shapeless form, like he was crying.

He wavered on his feet and almost tripped but managed to catch himself in time, shaking his head until his vision came back into focus. That wasn't a good sign, was it? He longed to let himself slide to forest floor and sleep right there, but it wasn't to be: he had things to do tonight.

He made his way through Camelot, and was grateful no one tried to speak with him; he was too tired to make good conversation. He was less grateful for what was waiting for him as he entered the physician chambers: mainly, one very wearied-looking Gaius.

"Er—" Merlin's tongue stumbled over a greeting as he closed the door behind him, staring at the older man. The air between them had been frosty, ever since he'd decided to do as he would to protect Camelot—against his mentor's advice.

"How many times must I ask you to at least leave a note?" Gaius said, voice disappointed. "I've come to expect to wake up and see you gone from your bed, but the familiarity doesn't stop my worry that you'll go and get your fool head arrested or worse!"

Guilt bloomed in Merlin's gut like fast-growing mold, making him feel sick. It wasn't a nice compliment to his headache. Had he really neglected his mentor so? He guessed the only time they had really spoken over the past couple weeks had been about patients—nothing personal. The warlock hadn't wanted to bother him with what he was doing; the physician wouldn't approve, and Merlin spent every free second he had working on illicit things.

"And now," Gaius continued without letting Merlin speak, "there are bruises beneath your eyes darker than the night sky, you always look half a second from falling asleep, and you wince as though the slightest noise pains you!" His raised voice did, in fact, pain Merlin, and he did his best not to wince and prove his mentor's point. He squinted and screwed up his nose, trying to regain control of his face.

"And you're doing it again! What on earth has happened to you? You owe me an explanation, at the very least." Well, Merlin couldn't say he was wrong; he did owe Gaius an explanation of what he'd been doing. He'd told him of the shield, but many of the other preparations he had neglected to mention.

But he felt as though there wasn't any time for such talks. He itched to be working, to be readying what needed to be ready. Morgana loomed all the closer, the barrier a pulsing louder with every day, like a dead heart preparing once more to animate a corpse.

"I…" Merlin rubbed his face and sat across from Gaius. He would do his best to soothe the older man's worries before going out again. His mentor waited expectantly, eyebrow creeping up his face. "I've been very careful not to be seen, Gaius, with what I've been doing."

"And what exactly have you been doing? As I recall, the shield was finished some time ago," Gaius said, tone close to irritated but not quite. "I know it is habit, Merlin, but I would really prefer you not lie to me."

"I haven't been lying!" Merlin protested, stung. Habit? Why did Gaius have to make it sound like some sort of addiction rather than a strategy to keep himself alive? "I just—I knew you wouldn't like what else I've been preparing. I'm not even sure it will work, to be honest. I won't have time to test it out."

"So, further preparations. They won't do any good if you run yourself into the ground," his mentor pointed out, gesturing to Merlin's battered form. "If Morgana came now, she'd blow you over like so much grass."

"Good thing I'm a bit heavier than grass, then," the warlock said. "She might have a harder time of it."

"Not by much." Gaius's face took on a physician's cast: clinical but not unkind. "When was the last time you ate, Merlin?" The servant thought back—he'd had an apple that morning, and a bit of cabbage soup for lunch, but… Other than that, nothing. Had he truly eaten so little?

"I ate lunch," Merlin said defensively. "I know I need to eat—I'm not starving myself."

"Be that as it may, you're clearly not eating enough," Gaius said. "You know great Magicks require energy. You should be eating more, not less."

"There's no time to worry about that, not when Morgana's army is so close!" Merlin gestured to the moon outside. "I can eat more later."

"There won't be a later if you don't have enough energy to beat her," his mentor said sensibly. "And it seems you have a bit of time, now—time that should be spent sleeping, mind you, not gallivanting off to gods only know where. I'll make you stew—there's bread in the cupboard. Get yourself some." His tone said it was a suggestion; his phrasing said it was an order.

The older man stood and began to gather ingredients for a rich stew. Merlin's mouth watered, and he sighed, knowing when he was beat. He would never be able to defeat his mentor and his body both. Might as well give in—after he ate, he would do what he needed to do.

He got up, rifling through the cupboards until he found the bread. He sliced a couple of thick pieces off and set them on a wooden plate, taking it back to the bench. Even the act of standing had aggravated his head, and he rubbed his temple, grimacing.

"How long have you had that headache?" Gaius asked, and Merlin realized his mentor was watching him. Making sure he stayed put and ate, probably. Nosy old man, Merlin thought, but it was mostly affectionate.

"I'm not sure," Merlin said honestly. "Five days, a week? It's—the weakening of the barrier between here and Flæsc… I can hear it—and them. Pounding against my skull."

"Surprising, given how thick and stubborn it is," Gaius muttered as he dumped the vegetables into the broth, followed by chicken. "Have you taken anything for it?"

"I tried a couple of pain relievers the first few days, but they didn't help," Merlin replied, ignoring the thick comment. He wasn't thick. His skull was the proper thickness, thank you.

"I suspect only strong magic might prevent the opening portal from bothering you," Gaius said, his voice hushed on the word "magic." No matter how many times they discussed it, he was always cautious. Not that Merlin blamed him; he suspected neither of them wanted to see the other burn, or be burned together.

(Would Arthur really do that? some part of him asked, but the question was moot because Uther was still king—the prince couldn't go against such strong precedent while his father yet lived.)

"Too bad I can't," Merlin grumbled. The stew began to smell tantalizingly good, and he could feel his mouth water. He tore off a bit of bread and ate it, but it didn't do near enough to satisfy him.

"The illegality of it has never stopped you before, but yes—I wouldn't attempt it," Gaius said, stirring the pot of food. "Especially since I suspect it may subside with food and rest; you can hardly fight off the intrusion when you're running yourself ragged."

"It's not like I have a choice," Merlin argued, finishing the piece of bread. Damn, he should've eaten earlier. He hadn't even realized how hungry he'd been.

"You've chosen differently in the past," his mentor said mildly, sprinkling a few herbs into the stew for added taste. "I don't see why you shouldn't apply that same principle now."

Merlin pressed his lips into a thin line, running a hand through his hair. They'd already had this discussion, and he didn't feel like arguing with Gaius on a good day—never mind when he was so tired he could barely think straight. "You know very well why," he finally settled on saying. "You haven't felt them, Gaius—you can't hear them." He rubbed his temple, the pounding and whispers seeming to rise in volume as he concentrated on them.

"Hm," Gaius grunted, unconvinced. They waited minutes in silence as Merlin tried to keep his eyes open, the warmth of the fire and smell of stew lulling him to sleep. Eventually, it was finished, and his mentor dished out a bowl and placed it in front of him.

"Thanks," Merlin said before digging in. He swore he had never tasted anything so good.

"Don't choke." His mentor raised a judgmental eyebrow. "You should sleep after you finish—goodness knows how long it's been since you've slept the whole night through."

The warlock shook his head immediately, spooning another hot mouthful past his lips. It heated him from the inside out like soft furs on a cold night (not that Merlin had any soft furs; he just thought this was what they must have felt like). "I can't. I have things—things I have to…" His eyelids began to droop, and the spoon went slack in his hand.

His brain couldn't form complete thoughts, but he vaguely registered Gaius helping him from his seat and to his bed, taking off his boots and pulling the thin blanket over him.

"Y—you drugged me," Merlin slurred, trying to push some accusation into his voice. It came out sleepy and syrupy.

"You're of no use to anyone—least of all Camelot—when you're in such a state, Merlin," Gaius said gently, patting his hand. He had no right. "Get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

"All the better to yell at you," Merlin mumbled before he couldn't fight any more, and he slipped into a deep, restful sleep.

---

They read more of the entries: together, Gwen and Arthur read of meeting Gwaine (and the knight's secret noble past, which irritated the prince because, well, how many secrets did his friends have?); of Merlin sending Morgana toppling down the stairs and begging the dragon to fix his mistake (and neither Gwen nor Arthur were sure he had made the right choice, though he had certainly made a Merlin-ish one); of Elena and the sidhe inside her (and the pixie that had a crush on Gaius, which Gwen found more disturbing than funny); and of Merlin helping rescue her brother, Elyan, plotting against a scheming, conniving Morgana all the while.

This entry started off rather predictably:

Arthur is the most self-righteous, gullible, irritating twat I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

The prince sighed, and Gwen let out a smothered giggle. Arthur did his best to school his expression so he wouldn't scowl at her, instead glowering at the blazing fire. The nights were growing colder, even as the deadline for Morgana's army approached. But she would come long before any snow covered the ground, which Arthur could only see as a blessing.

"How many times am I going to have to read insults against myself?" he asked the flames. They only crackled in response, though he heard another muffled snort from Gwen.

"How many times did you do something that deserved to be insulted?" she asked, which Arthur refused to dignify with a statement. Why were all his servants so mouthy?

He continued.

Apparently, Camelot has some bogus thing about the crown prince going on some gods-forsaken quest in order to prove his worth. And Arthur just had to have a "vision"—not a drop of magic in his body, don't know how he would ever see a bloody vision of anything—about retrieving a trident from the realm of the Fisher King, which, by the way, is now called the "Perilous Lands."

"Wait—did you see something?" Gwen asked, genuine curiosity in her tone. Arthur looked at her. Why does Merlin constantly have to make me look bad, even when he isn't here?

"No," Arthur admitted grudgingly. "It was a quest my father and I agreed on before-hand, to keep with tradition. It wasn't supposed to be anything I couldn't handle."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "I thought you did handle it."

The prince sighed. "You'll see." He kept reading.

And the worst part? Apparently I'm not allowed to come with him! He has to do it "alone." Well, he can die bloody well alone then.

That was the end of the entry, so Arthur moved to the next:

So I may have followed him. But the cabbage-head was about to die, so I'm justified (besides, he's already a decent crown prince. I don't know about this "let me go on a quest so I can get killed" rubbish. Who the hell sends their only prince away on a solo mission? That just spells disaster).

"Wow, that was almost a compliment," Arthur said, his voice deadpan. "A 'decent crown prince.' I think I might be glowing." Merlin's logic did make a sort of sense, except for the fact that the whole thing was pre-arranged and centuries-old tradition for Uther's lineage. All first-born sons had to go out to prove their worth: retrieve an item, defeat something, rescue someone.

"Don't get used to it," Gwen said. "I don't think it will last."

Arthur snorted.

Morgana apparently gave him some kind of gift before he left—a bracelet. I knew she could only be up to something bad, so I asked Gaius about it. It was a phoenix's eye, meant to suck the life out of the wearer.

"Oh," Arthur said softly. That was why he had been so weak. Morgana. He had thought it was strange, how tired he'd been. He'd simply thought that he'd over-exerted himself, or he'd come down with some kind of sickness. But it had only been his half-sister, looking to assassinate him once more.

The thought made him ache.

"I remember this," Gwen said, and Arthur looked at her in askance. "I saw Morgana using magic, after you left. It felt… wrong. I told Gaius, and he said—well, he told me that she had turned, though not in so many words. I knew he was right: she was… darker. I—I knew she couldn't be my friend, not anymore. Not like that."

"You—you knew?" Arthur asked, unable to keep the betrayal from his voice. Had everyone known how horrible she'd been except for him? Was he destined to only learn his friends' secrets after they had become a danger? At the last moment?

"Arthur, no—it wasn't that I didn't trust you," she said. "I wanted to tell you; you have no idea how much I wanted to… But my word against Morgana's? With how much Uther adored her? I would've been executed."

"I would've defended you," Arthur said, a lump in his throat. Why had she hid this from him? She always seemed so… honest. But, then, so had Merlin. Everyone had secrets, apparently.

Well, everyone but him. Merlin and Gwen knew basically everything about him, but they had never returned the same courtesy.

"I don't think it would've been enough." Gwen bit her lip and wouldn't meet his eyes. "You know how much Uther loved—loves—Morgana."

"At least now I know why," Arthur said bitterly. The words were like acid, bubbling up from his gut and burning his throat along the way. "I can't stand these secrets, Gwen. They… they tear me apart, inside and out. Is there no one who will tell me the honest truth?"

"You know very well I would've lost my head, Arthur Pendragon," she said sharply, glaring up at him. "You can afford to be honest when you're in a position of power. I can't—and nor can Merlin. If you speak honestly, and someone doesn't like what you say, nothing happens. If I speak honestly, and someone doesn't like what I say, they might beat me. Or worse."

She was right, but it still stung. "But you can speak honestly to me," he said softly. "I have mistreated servants in the past—but never beaten them. And I would never let anyone hurt you."

She laid a hand on his arm. "I know. Even before you changed, you were mean but never cruel, not like that. But this isn't about just you and me—it's about everyone. You must know that I have no liberty to speak, not as a servant, and a woman one to boot."

Her eyes were a warm but fiery brown. And she was right, again. How many times had Merlin been right about a noble but unable to bring up an accusation without fear of punishment? A servant had to have overwhelming proof before they could do anything—a peasant's word against a noble's meant virtually nothing; the noble would win without trial for the peasant.

But the lower classes have no honor, he heard his father's voice say. No loyalty. Of course their word cannot be trusted; they have inferior breeding. No intelligence or integrity—just seething masses.

Arthur had never felt as such, especially after meeting Merlin and getting to know Gwen. Both were as loyal as Leon, and they were more intelligent than half his council, at least in the ways that mattered. He was in no place to judge her choices, not from where he was, from his station. The crown weighed heavily on his head—but a serving tray could be a burden, too.

"You're right," he said, taking her hand. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back. "I didn't think."

"I know." She took her hand from his gently. "It's one of your defining features, as Merlin would say. And I know it won't be the same when you're king. It gives me hope—you give me hope."

"Now you really do sound like Merlin. Insult me one moment and give me a pep-talk the next," Arthur said. "But thank you."

"If I were Merlin, I'd insult you again," Gwen warned.

"And ruin the moment." He grinned before continuing.

I went after him. Fortunately, I met Gwaine in a tavern nearby. Once I explained everything to him, he agreed to help, and we rode out to find that stupid, ridiculous man.

And he's lucky we did! I found him collapsed in the Fisher King's castle, about to be eaten by wyverns. They're close enough to dragons that I was able to order them off, and Gwaine didn't seem to notice, thank the gods. I got that stupid bracelet off him, and he woke up.

That was interesting. He could order wyverns around? What all did being a dragonlord entail? He wished Merlin had written more about it, as much as the topic was painful. Arthur still felt cold when he thought of what he had almost done in the dragon's cavern, the beauty of the magic that would've been wiped out.

The beauty of Merlin's magic.

Naturally, he was anything but pleased to see us (never mind that we'd just saved his ungrateful life!). We went searching for the trident together, and I met the Fisher King.

"He didn't tell me this part," Arthur said, but his tone was more resigned than anything else. The prince probably wouldn't have believed him anyway.

He gave me a vial of water (he said I'd need it. Why is it that everyone who gives me advice is so cryptic I can't even do anything with said advice?) in exchange for an end to his suffering. I gave him the bracelet, and he died almost right away.

Arthur found the trident, and we left. I've hidden the vial underneath my floorboards.

"That still doesn't seem like the most secure place," Gwen commented. "Though I suppose it worked for years."

"Until he forgot to put his books back underneath it." Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder no one found out before now."

But he was somehow grateful the man had forgotten. If he had found out some other way… In the heat of battle, in the quiet of the night… Would he have gone through with his darkest thoughts? Would he have told Merlin to kneel—on the forest floor, on cold stone, in a field somewhere? Would he have drawn his sword, steel sliding from its sheath, flashing in the sun?

Would Merlin have bowed his head, looked up at him? Would he have tried to run or just accepted it? He never would've raised a hand against the prince—Arthur knew that, at least. Would he have cried?

The noise of blade shearing through flesh—would it have sounded the same? Different? The body toppling, the head rolling, mouth agape, eyes wide—betrayal, that the man he had given so much for had killed him without so much as speaking to him—

Arthur felt sick. His stomach roiled, and bile rose in his mouth, choking him, a sour hand gripping his tongue.

"You're right," Gwen said. "He needs to be more careful." She seemed not to notice Arthur's racing thoughts, cold sweat prickling his forehead. He couldn't believe how close he had come to that scenario—so close to the edge of something irreversible, something that would've killed him. Slowly, perhaps, bit by agonizing bit, the way an infected wound could kill a man if left untreated to fester.

"Yes." The prince cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Well. It's late." He looked out the window to find his words to be true.

"Right again." She stood and kissed him softly on the cheek. He didn't even feel it—he only felt cold, despite the fire. "Good night, Arthur."

He managed a "Good night, Gwen," and just seconds after she left, pulled the chamber pot out. The nausea reached a crescendo and he vomited, feeling utterly sick. How could he have almost done such a thing?

…decent crown prince…

…no loyalty…

…the cabbage-head was about to die…

…no intelligence or integrity…

Arthur's head spun with voices. Merlin's, his father's, Gwen's. He pushed the chamber pot away and rinsed his mouth with the last bit of wine from his pitcher.

…you give me hope…

That hope would be deserved. He swore it; when he was king, things would be different. Things would be better.

First, he just had to fight off Morgana's army. And sleep. Sleep sounded good.

---

When Merlin woke up, he was surprised to find himself in bed—and with his shoes removed, no less. He often found himself, upon waking, in the goblin's room or the dragon's cavern. Or, once, in the forest. That had been awkward, especially because a few squirrels (and a fox) had decided he'd made a good pillow and had not been happy when he informed them he had to be going.

Then, the warlock recalled exactly how he'd gotten there—and why he wasn't anywhere else: Gaius had drugged him. The hazy, warm cloud of sleep dulled his anger, but he knew it would get clearer as he awoke more thoroughly. He stretched, light from his window indicating it was just before dawn. At least he wouldn't be late; he had no desire to trigger one of Arthur's strange moods and been thrown in the stocks again.

He sat up and swung himself out of bed, walking over to the bucket of water he kept by the wall. Splashing water on his face, he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had never found a proper explanation for Arthur's bizarre behavior (behavior which hadn't stopped, frankly)—or been given a proper apology, for that matter, although things between them had mostly returned to normal.

Merlin dressed himself, thinking about all the things he had pushed to the back of his mind in favor of concentrating on Morgana: Arthur's oddness, his missing diary, even Agravaine… I'm not about to put out a campfire when the whole forest is ablaze, he told himself firmly. He laced up his boots and left his room.

The main chambers already smelled strongly of herbs, and he noticed Gaius preparing some early-morning potions.

"Was drugging me really necessary?" Merlin asked crossly.

"Good morning to you, too, Merlin. Breakfast is on the table," his mentor said, not even turning around. Sure enough, there was some watery-looking oatmeal and an apple, along with a pitcher of watered-down wine.

"Are you even going to answer me?" When silence met his question, Merlin sighed and crossed over to take his seat. He spooned oatmeal into his bowl (dribbling a little on the table, but he didn't care enough to clean it). It tasted bland, like it always did, but it was food. He ate quickly.

"How's your headache?" his mentor asked.

Merlin realized that it was no where near as bad as it had been the night before—just the barest whisper of the pulse, dulled to the far reaches of his mind. "Better," he answered grudgingly. "But you still shouldn't have drugged me."

"You wouldn't have gotten any sleep otherwise," Gaius said, finally turning. His eyebrow rose. "I did what I needed to, my boy. You were about to pass out—any magic you might've done would've been barely-controlled and dangerous."

He was likely right, but it still hadn't given him the right to put Merlin to sleep. "It wasn't that bad—I've managed on less." For brief periods of time—far briefer than these agonizing weeks had been—but Merlin wasn't about to qualify his statement. "And now I'm behind."

"What on earth could be so important that—" He stopped as the door swung open, Gwen poking her head in.

"Er." Both of them stared at her. "Hello, Gaius, Merlin." She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Sorry—I didn't mean to interrupt anything." In one hand, she held a basket.

"Don't worry about it, my dear," Merlin's mentor said, waving a hand. "Sit down, sit down. Did you need something? Perhaps you were hoping to read—"

"No!" Gwen exclaimed, glancing around nervously. Gaius's eyebrow began to again creep up his forehead. Was she embarrassed that she had borrowed the man's book? Merlin blinked; they both knew she could read, so it wasn't as though she were pretending to read, as the servant had heard one noble once accuse her. "I—I mean, that's not why I'm here. I brought pastries." Here, she smiled and held up the basket.

"Oh, well, thank you," Gaius said, taken aback.

Gwen set the basket down on the table and opened it, releasing a sweet smell that almost made Merlin melt into the floor it smelled so good. "I asked the cook if she might give me a few—she never uses the first batch she makes, you know, says they're never as good as the others. And she likes me, so she said yes, and I thought it was far too many for me to eat on my own, so I knew I had to share—and of course you both came to mind—"

"They smell lovely, Gwen, thank you," Merlin interrupted, giving her his largest grin. She could go on for hours if he let her, and he thought he might spare her the embarrassment. He wondered why she had grown so flustered around him.

"Well, here—take one," Gwen said, handing him one of the pastries. Merlin wasted no time biting into it. It was really quite good, though it was still a tad too hot.

"They're good," he said after swallowing. Gaius came and took one as well.

"This was very thoughtful of you, Guinevere," he said.

"Yes, especially since I have to live with Gaius's cooking." Merlin polished off the pastry as his mentor scowled at him. "There's only so much tasteless gruel I can eat."

"If my cooking is so terrible, perhaps it would be preferable to starve," Gaius suggested mildly. Merlin just grinned at him and took another pastry. He noticed that Gwen seemed to be watching him from out of the corner of her eye, as though she were taking note of how he ate.

It was a tad disconcerting. And as soon as he finished with that one, Gwen not-so-subtly pushed the basket closer, although between the oatmeal and the pastries, Merlin felt rather full.

"I think I'm okay," he said.

"No, I insist," Gwen said, pushing it even closer. "I don't want them to go to waste." He wasn't expecting her tone to be so firm.

"Um, I'm sure the other servants would love to finish the rest for you," Merlin said, leaning away from the basket. "And I should really be getting to Arthur—the prat needs waking, dressing, feeding just like any child, really can't neglect him—"

The warlock stood before she got any more ideas about the amount of food he should be eating and left the room, only feeling slightly bad. Why was it that his friends had to be act strangely now? Why not a month ago, when he had time to deal with their strangeness? He shook his head and continued down the hall and up the stairs.

Gwen's behavior only grew more erratic as the day went on.

Merlin would be doing some menial chore—taking laundry down to the washroom, fetching food for the prince, delivering notices to other nobles—when the serving girl would come out of seemingly nowhere and corner him.

With food.

She offered him bread, fruit, meat, and Merlin had to wonder where the hell she was getting it from. Was she stealing from the kitchens? The servant grew paranoid whenever he had to leave Arthur's chambers, peering around corners and glancing behind himself. But she always seemed to know where he was, like she had some sixth-Merlin sense.

After he'd delivered Arthur's dirty dishes to the kitchens, he almost ran back up the stairs, terrified Gwen would corner him with more food. She was like a witch in one of those old stories, fattening a child in order to make them good for eating. Except this was his friend, and she had apparently lost her damn mind. Maybe the stress of Morgana's encroaching army had finally made her snap.

As Merlin almost sprinted past the guards at the end of the prince's hall, they watched him, confusion clear in their eyes.

"Something the matter, Merlin?" one of them called, but he didn't answer, wrenching Arthur's door open and darting inside, closing it with an audible bang. Gwen can't get to me here; she wouldn't dare come into Arthur's chambers with so many people about.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice cut through his thoughts. His back pressed up against the door—as though he was preparing to keep it closed physically, if Gwen tried to force it open—the servant looked over. "Why are you running into my chambers like a chicken with its head cut off?"

Merlin straightened, fixing his crooked neckerchief and brushing down his tunic. "Well, sire, I'm fairly certain chickens can't run anywhere with their heads cut off, so I certainly haven't been mimicking one."

"Answer the question. You look like you're about to fall over with fright," the prince commented. The prince was sitting at his desk, quill in hand; evidently he'd been in the middle of writing something.

"It's Gwen," Merlin blurted.

"You're… afraid of Gwen?" Arthur repeated, disbelieving. He snorted derisively and dipped the quill into the inkpot again. "Has she threatened to sew up the holes in your clothes?"

This Merlin took offense to—he took care of his clothes. There weren't any holes to sew because he'd already sewn them. "No," he said, stepping away from the door. "She—" He glanced behind him, as though she might magically appear, summoned by her name. He lowered his voice regardless. "She keeps trying to feed me."

"Feed you?" Arthur echoed. "Ah, yes, the worst of crimes. I'll be sure to speak with her. It's pointless, anyway—you've always looked like an under-stuffed scarecrow."

"At least I don't look like an over-stuffed cow," Merlin retorted. "And it's terrifying, I tell you. She's been following me, offering me—apples, pears, bread, chicken, tarts. She's gone insane!"

"I'm not fat, Merlin—if I'm overstuffed, it's with muscle. And you're being ridiculous," Arthur said. He leaned over the paper and tapped the desk with one finger. "This proposal is headache enough without you distracting me."

The servant put aside his bewilderment at Gwen's behavior (which he could add to the growing list of things he would need to figure out after he had helped drive off Morgana) and moved closer.

"What's the proposal for?" he asked. Arthur had yet to write a word. "Is it for the council?"

"We must begin evacuating the outer-lying villages out of the Sluagh's path. And we must give them the resources to do so," Arthur said. "Really, we should've done it earlier, but… It will be difficult to persuade the council; they won't want to waste resources on—" He stopped, realizing who he was talking to.

"Worthless peasants?" Merlin offered, not unkindly. "Well, you'll have to make it high-handed, then. Like it will help the crown's image, maybe—or benefit it somehow. Increase the masses' loyalty to the Pendragons, or something."

The prince tilted his head. "Yes, something like that might work. In fact…" His eyes gleamed. "I have other things I need to review, so this is your task for the afternoon."

"What? But I'm supposed to clean your—"

Arthur shook his head. "No. This is what you're doing—you can do your chores afterward." Merlin sighed, knowing by now it would be pointless to argue, even though it might mean he would have to stay late. He had things to do—important things.

But he took a few sheets of paper, one of Arthur's quills, and an inkpot (he took the quill the prince had been using, just out of spite, and Arthur gave him an irritated glower). The servant sat at the table, running a hand through his hair. How to phrase this?

At least Gwen wouldn't be able to ambush him for a few hours.

---

Arthur only glanced up as Gwen came into the room. He was exhausted from the day, but they had so few entries left… He wanted to finish them before Morgana came. He wanted to know Merlin, know all he had done, in case—in case the unthinkable happened.

He was sat at the table, as he normally was, the journal in front of him. He'd poured two goblets of wine, and the fire still warmed the room, shielding them from the chill of the wind.

"Good evening," Gwen said, sliding into the seat next to him.

"Good evening," Arthur greeted. He side-eyed her before asking properly: "What did you do to Merlin?"

A furrow appeared before her brows. "Nothing, as far as I know."

"Funny, because he came into my chambers this afternoon like some great beast was after him. I thought he might pass out from fright. He complained of you… trying to feed him, I believe it was," Arthur said, raising an eyebrow. It was difficult to make out with her darker skin, but he was certain her cheeks warmed.

"Well, if I did, it was for his own good," she said. "I've been researching magic, Arthur—" Here, the prince spluttered—"and a sorcerer—or mage, as they're called—needs to be well-fed when they perform magic. So I thought…"

"Ambushing him with food at every opportunity would get him to eat more?" he asked. "No wonder he thought you'd gone mad."

She smacked his arm—not enough to hurt, just playfully. "He needs to eat more, even if he weren't doing magic. I was only trying to help."

"If by 'help' you mean terrify, you did an excellent job. And how on earth have you managed to do any research?" He himself had gone (surreptitiously) looking in the library for information on the rune he'd seen, but had found nothing except a few bestiaries detailing vicious magical creatures that could rend a man limb from limb. He'd even tried looking for the room that had housed the goblin (that Merlin had released!). The prince hadn't had any luck, however; he suspected his father had burned them all.

"Gaius has a book," Gwen replied. "On basic magic. He lent it to me—and I managed to do it without Merlin knowing. I still think we should tell him." Arthur shook his head, and she didn't press the subject.

"So what did you learn?" he asked.

"Well, apparently there are different levels of magic one can have—labels that tell you the sort of training a mage has gone through. 'Mage' is the term for any magic user. And, well, it tells about the different kinds of magic—did you know there were different kinds? I didn't. And other things," she said. Her voice was full of fascination, and Arthur couldn't help but hold the same interest, though it was tinged with a wary fear.

"Why on earth would my father let him keep such a thing?" It didn't make sense. Unless he'd kept it illegally, but then it seemed like too much of a risk to let Gwen read it.

"Gaius said for research purposes. It contains no spells, only basic information on magic-users and magic," Gwen said. "I can see how it might come in handy at times."

"Yeah," Arthur grumbled, "especially for teaching wayward sorcerers." He pulled the journal closer and opened it. "Shall we?"

She nodded, so he began:

Ye gods, I hate my life. I can't tell you how much, reader. I've done a lot of things to protect Arthur and Camelot, but never have I had to make such a sacrifice. I'm comfortable in the shadows, behind the scenes. But this?

I suppose it was all worth it, in the end. Morgana's schemes grow darker by the day. I had thought that perhaps Gwen of all people might be spared; they've been best friends for as long as I've known them. But I shouldn't have underestimated how evil Morgana's grown.

"He likes a bit of build up, doesn't he?" Arthur muttered, and Gwen gave an un-ladylike snort. Well, it was true; the man was going on about all the horrible things he'd had to do without explaining them. And this "Gwen might be spared" nonsense—what in God's name was he talking about?

She framed Gwen for enchanting the prince to fall in love with her. She planted some kind of fake magical poultice beneath Arthur's pillow and led Uther out to where he and Gwen were having a secret picnic in the woods. The king knew that the only way his son could ever be in love with a servant was if he'd been enchanted. I didn't know what to do; Uther was about to execute her. He wouldn't accept that Arthur was well unless the sorcerer that had enchanted him was dead.

"That was her?" Arthur exclaimed, rage creeping into his voice despite himself. Of all the foul things she could've done… She knew herself the fear of a looming execution, as a person with magic. And to burden a friend with such fear, all the while trying to kill her…

Gwen's lips were tight, but she didn't look surprised. "I knew she was acting oddly," she said. "I just didn't think… I thought she was still my friend, even after what I'd seen. I wanted her to be my friend." Her voice was also pressed tightly, bound in emotion.

"Wait. I remember this—except I don't recall Morgana being involved at all. It was that old sorcerer…." Arthur trailed off. "He didn't—no. He did. I knew that old man looked familiar!"

"What do you mean? What did he do?" Gwen asked, but Arthur just cleared his throat and kept reading.

So I gave him a different sorcerer. I aged myself to a man of about eighty—and it was one of the worst things I've ever done. My whole body ached, and I had a headache (I think from the transformation). It was very taxing.

Anyway, I staged a whole thing with me planting another poultice. Arthur "caught" me, but he was a little slow on the uptake (as he usually is). It was nice to call Uther a toad to his face and get away with it, though. I've wanted to insult the man the first damn day I got here.

Arthur couldn't exactly blame him, not after everything he'd read, but it still rankled that his father was so disliked. He wondered what the townspeople thought of the king, now infirm, if they would turn on him given the chance.

(Can you blame them? He turned on them without so much as a thought. He's the worst kind of hypocrite. He lied about magic, about using it. And he murdered people for having the same power he once sought. Not execute—murder. An "execution" implies formality, a wrongdoing. What Father did… It was little more than slaughter.)

"I can't believe he did that for me," Gwen said. "I was so scared, so certain I would die…"

"None of us were about to let that happen," Arthur reassured her, putting a hand on her arm. "If Merlin hadn't taken the blame, you know one of us would've helped you escape. I could never have watched you die, Guinevere." And clearly Merlin couldn't either.

She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I know—but not everything goes your way, Arthur. I was ready to die on that pyre. Not wanting, but ready."

The silence, broken only by the crackling fire, lasted for a few moments before Arthur continued.

There was a slight problem, however: I couldn't change back. So there I was, stuck in the cells. I thought that at least I'd spared Gwen the pain. And it's not like anyone but Gaius would know it was me who'd been executed. Merlin would've just—disappeared.

What a horrible thought. Arthur imagined his servant leaving, never to return. How confused and worried he would've been—though his father would've sensed it, the prince would have never been able to share his torment with anyone. The king wouldn't have allowed it.

But Gaius came through. He managed to brew me a potion that would change me back (and I'll never take my young body for granted again). I escaped the pyre and changed just in time. The after-effects left me a tad dazed, and Arthur (the ungrateful prat), thought I was drunk. As though I would drink when I thought one of my dearest friends might be executed.

"That was a bit unfair of you," Gwen said. "And after all he did—"

"I didn't know!" Arthur protested. "I thought he'd been drinking because he cared about you. He always seemed to disappear when something big was happening; I thought it was a coping mechanism of some kind."

"It's a wonder none of us pieced it together before now." Gwen sat up, staring at the journal. "All the signs are so clear in retrospect."

"He's a good liar," Arthur said, and if it came out bitterly, neither of them commented. It was true, if not exactly right. The prince suspected it was more that Merlin was good at coming up with a persona that could conceivably cover for him, rather than lying directly. While Merlin had often lied poorly, he had built such an air of… incompetence and innocence that no one had ever suspected him seriously of sorcery.

He continued:

Arthur also thought I'd been at the tavern all day because of course I hadn't been able to attend him as an eighty year old (and he gave me extra chores as punishment), but no one died, so I think it's a small price to pay.

"Well, I think it's a small price to pay," Gwen said lightly, rubbing her neck.

"We owe him a lot," Arthur said, sighing. And I nearly repaid him with death. The horror of the situation hadn't entirely worn off, and the prince doubted it ever would. Murder was like that. He could still recall vividly many of the men and women he'd killed over his life, if not their names.

He began the next entry.

Never let it be said that I like Uther. I don't. He's a terrifying tyrant who's hunted down thousands of people like me. But I can't ever seem to let him die. Arthur loves him too much, and it would throw the kingdom into instability. Arthur doesn't deserve that, not from me.

It was humbling to see how far Merlin was willing to go for him—and gratifying to know their friendship had never been one-sided, as Arthur had originally feared. The reminder of his father, however, was painful, knowing that the man lying a few hallways over was considered a tyrant by so many, and had caused so much grief.

Arthur might have disagreed with his father over many things (and he continued to think about how the man had lied about the circumstances of his birth), but he still loved the man. He doubted that would ever change.

But there are other sorcerers who aren't as understanding. And the worst part? I can always empathize with them. I know why they do what they do, the pain that they hold in their hearts. The only difference I try not to let mine fester and spread to the rest of me.

It started with a tournament (as many bad things do). The King decided to join (something he hasn't done since I came to Camelot years ago), as did a young sorcerer. He uses a ring to help channel his magic.

"That won't end well," Gwen said. "You know, I think Merlin might be right about tournaments."

"He doesn't like them because he can't fight to save his life—with swords, anyway. Pure and simple jealousy."

"Yes, I'm sure that Merlin—a man who can summon fire to his finger tips and animate dead things to life—is jealous of knights who wield steel," Gwen said sarcastically. He could tell she was startled by her own words; she paused, as though rolling them around on her tongue.

He could do those things, couldn't he? It was still a foreign image, even though Arthur had seen the man performing magic. Since the prince didn't have a comeback to her (rather valid) point, he kept reading.

I told him to drop out—that should Uther find out, he would be killed. He didn't listen, and the sorcerer hurt one of his opponents badly using his magic. I feared for the King's life (though perhaps "fear" is too strong a word).

I told him to drop out again, but he didn't listen. When he met with Uther in battle, I used my magic to thwart his. He was right angry with me afterward, called me a traitor to our kind. But he shouldn't have gone around using magic to hurt people and win glory like some obnoxious knight!

"We're not obnoxious," Arthur couldn't help but interject, frowning down at the diary. He didn't care what Merlin said; being a knight was a noble and worthy profession. "And I can't believe he got so close he could've killed my father." It was a slightly horrifying thought, knowing that someone which such ill intentions had made it so far.

"Merlin didn't let him," Gwen said reassuringly, tone gentle. "There's no point in worrying over something long past."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, and he read the last paragraph.

We departed on decent terms, though. I told him that he would be welcome back, should magic ever return to Camelot.

The corners of his mouth dropped again. "He can't make promises like that—the man tried to kill the king." He wouldn't be welcome in Camelot no matter what.

"Surely you have to understand why he did it," Gwen said. "And he didn't go through with it—he left when Merlin asked him to."

"Only after Merlin proved capable of stopping him," the prince pointed out. "And I understand why he did it, but threatening the king's life can't have such minimal consequences."

He could tell Gwen disagreed by the way she closed her mouth, but she clearly didn't want to argue. He didn't want to argue, either. And unless Merlin told them the sorcerer's name and description, Arthur would have no way of knowing if the man returned—assuming he welcomed magic into Camelot…

The thought made him dizzy, so he pushed it away. He had the diary to deal with, and the Sluagh. Morgana. It could wait. That future—that possibility—would have to wait.

"Are you up for another?" he asked, and Gwen nodded. So Arthur began the next entry.

A lot has happened since last I wrote, reader. Morgana has taken Camelot; she has finally revealed her true intentions. She has crowned herself queen while Arthur and I were away attempting to retrieve the Cup of Life.

Arthur paused. They were close to the present: this had been only been weeks before. He fought back the memory of it: the horror at the discovery of his sister's heritage and what she planned to do with it; the fear for his people, his father; the sick feeling in his gut that he wouldn't be able to take back his kingdom.

It was a fool's errand from the beginning. The druids had kept the Cup—a powerful magical artifact—safe for a while now. If it hadn't fallen into Morgause's hands all that while, the thing was safe enough.

But of course Uther didn't see it like that. So Arthur and I went after the Cup, and about five minutes after getting it, we lost it to Morgana and Morgause. We also met up with Gwaine along the way (arguably the only good thing about this whole venture).

"I can't believe you lost it so quickly," Gwen interrupted.

"Merlin's exaggerating," Arthur said. Though not by much. They had lost it rather quickly; it likely would've been safer with the druids. I wonder where it is now… He'd put it in the vaults, but he couldn't help but think Merlin might have taken it out. "It was longer than that."

"Still," Gwen said. The prince continued.

When we returned to Camelot, Morgause, Cenred, and Morgana had already created an immortal army with the cup, using it to take the citadel. There were dead in the streets, houses burned and defenses destroyed.

And then we had to leave. We're living in a cave now—Gaius, myself, Gwaine, Arthur, and Elyan, Gwen's brother.

"It ends there, but I'm assuming he explains what happens in the next one," Arthur said.

"We're nearly at the present," Gwen said, almost guiltily. Arthur understood: this close to where they were now made it all real. She probably felt bad about violating his privacy. The prince understood, but he didn't agree.

He had originally vowed to read the diary's entirety to know whether Merlin should be punished—likely before he banished the man. Now, he was reading it for an entirely different reason. But he would finish it nonetheless.

"So we are," he said. He started to read the next entry.

We've re-taken Camelot! Emptying the soldiers' blood from the Cup of Life destroyed Morgause's immortal army. I pray to the gods that Arthur will not ask why Lancelot and I were unable to take out the warning bell. We did not even attempt it.

Arthur couldn't find it in himself to be surprised. He was sure now that if Merlin had truly attempted to take out the warning bell, he wouldn't have had any trouble. Though why the man hadn't tried was another matter.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. We were still hiding out in a cave, and the prince despaired of re-taking Camelot. I could tell his father's fate and Morgana's betrayal had disheartened him. I did my best to convince him to at least try.

He had felt terrible during their time in the cave, like his whole life was crumbling beneath his feet, cracking above his head and raining down in huge, deadly chunks. Merlin had managed to lift him out of his funk, but only a little.

I also accidentally broke the vial of water the Fisher King gave me. But it was okay. Freya came out of the water and told me, in not so many words, that I needed to retrieve Excalibur because it had the ability to slay the undead. So I did as she said.

"This is such a short explanation for something so strange," the prince commented. He took a sip of his wine. "You would think he might've been more surprised to see someone who'd died in some water."

"He likely didn't want to dwell on it," Gwen said. "I'm sure Freya is painful for him to think of." The reminder that Merlin had liked Freya—and that Arthur had killed her—sent both guilt and an odd sort of jealousy through the prince, though he couldn't identify the reason for the latter emotion.

"Likely," he finally agreed. He read:

Gwen and Leon escaped the citadel, and we met up with Lancelot and a companion of his he'd been traveling with—a big bear of a man called Percival. Unfortunately, Leon and Gwen led soldiers to our cave, but with everyone we managed to retreat to an ancient castle.

There, Arthur knighted Elyan, Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot. He came up with a plan to rescue Uther—a plan in which Lancelot and I were meant to take out the warning bell. Instead, we found the Cup (it was so powerful I could sense it) and emptied it. Gaius had said this was how the immortal army had been defeated before, and the tale proved true: all the soldiers turned to dust. I pray Arthur will not ask about that either.

"Did you?" Gwen asked, and it took Arthur a moment to realize what she meant.

"No," he replied. "I was so grateful at the time—I assumed that something had happened to Morgause or Morgana to break the spell. Never did I suspect that Merlin, of all people…" Saved Camelot by emptying the cup himself. He'd never suspected Merlin of any of the courageous things he'd done. Before all this, he only suspected the man of going to the tavern and shirking chores.

Morgause confronted us and fought. She was injured in the battle, though I know not how badly. Morgana was so distraught she nearly brought down the castle in her grief. Many are dead, but many more are alive. Still, I cannot help but dwell on the people I knew. I wish we had been able to save more.

I know, though, I must be thankful that others survived.

"That's the end," Arthur said. "I don't know how many more entries there are." Merlin had filled up much of the book, and the prince only had to flip thirty or so pages before he reached the end.

"I suppose you had better read the next one," Gwen said. Arthur nodded and took a sip of wine before he read.

I fear Arthur will never accept magic. He blames it for Morgana's treachery, for her corruption. He can't see the real culprit: her fear and her anger and her hate. He confessed this to me: if magic could make wicked those even as good as Morgana, it was truly evil. I can never tell him. Even if he were to decide to spare my life, our friendship ending would be too much for me to bear.

The admission—among the other words—made Arthur's mouth go dry. Had Merlin truly grown so despairing? The prince thought he would have been delighted that Morgana was gone, perhaps even secretly pleased that Uther was indisposed (he regretted thinking this unfair thought almost immediately). But this Merlin—this was a Merlin who was afraid he would be keeping secrets the rest of his life.

And I cannot guarantee that he would spare my life. He would regret it, I think, but Arthur in the grips of his fury doesn't always think of the consequences. He tried to kill his own father, after all, for his hypocrisy. I don't dare wonder what he may do to me if he found out I am the thing he most despises.

Arthur blinked. Merlin knew him too well, most days. It made the prince feel naked, exposed, even though his servant wasn't here to condemn him. He had almost killed Merlin in the grips of his fury, not thinking of the consequences.

(Did you? Would you have ever gone through with it? You stared at him in that cave—in the midst of doing magic—and refused. Face it, you never could've struck him down. Not in sleep, not unawares. Not on the pyre or chopping block. The most you could've done is banish him.)

"Arthur," Gwen broke through his thoughts, patting his hand. "You didn't hurt him. You don't despise him." The words soothed him slightly, though his insides still churned fiercely.

"But I was so close. So close," he said hoarsely. Gwen just sat there, as though she didn't know what to say, patting his hand. Her callused fingers were rough, but he didn't mind—it gave them texture, character.

They sat like that for a time, Gwen offering him what comfort she could. Part of the prince wanted to bury his face in her hair and have her arms wrap around her, but another part of him knew he didn't deserve even these small ministrations; after all, he had almost killed Merlin, not the other way around.

He glanced down at the diary—it was an entry he'd read before. "I've read the rest of it," he admitted. "Though I don't mind reading it again, if you'd like—"

Gwen was already shaking her head. She withdrew her hand, peering down at the diary. "No, it's fine. I don't suppose there are any more life-shattering revelations in these last few pages?"

"Not as such," the prince replied. "More of the same, though Merlin admits that he will be trying riskier magic, knowing that Camelot can't currently withstand the full strength of an army right now."

"Riskier?" Gwen said, pulling the journal toward her. "More risky than what he's already done? I fell like he's been plenty risky." She had an odd gleam to her eye, and she looked at the nearly-finished loaf of bread Merlin had left in case Arthur wanted to finish it.

"I think if you try to feed Merlin anything more, he might explode," he said.

"Only one way to find out," Gwen muttered, but he pretended not to have heard. "Anyway—I think it best I go back." The serving girl rose. "Good night, Arthur."

"Good night," he said to her back as she left his chambers.

---

Merlin closed his eyes. He'd decided to cast the spell in his room; Gaius would be just outside if something went wrong (not that he was telling his mentor what he was doing). He sat cross-legged on his bed, still mostly fully dressed, though he'd taken off his shoes. Whatever Arthur said, he wasn't a heathen when it came to dirt—he just didn't have a lot of time to be clean.

His headache had gradually returned, the pounding accompanied by a chorus of demonic whispers. Merlin's mind flashed back to that place—to Flæsc—whenever he heard them. The dread mounted within him; it was close, so close, to the final summoning. The thinning between the barriers would tear, rent apart by Morgana and her band of mages.

Gorge rose in the back of Merlin's throat, imagining how the vicious things he'd seen in his short time in the other plane would come through in a great gray torrent, flooding through the sky. She would do it under the cover of darkness, of course—the Sluagh wouldn't be used to the sun's brightness.

Merlin tried to calm, centering himself. You've done this before. Twice on accident, once on purpose.

His magic thrashed within him, in time to the pounding and whispers. It didn't like how thin the barriers were; it wanted to do something about it. The warlock reigned it in forcefully, as he'd done all his life, and it settled back down, a soft warmth next to his heart.

Merlin didn't know where Morgana was, but it was possible to focus on a person and not a place when soul-walking. So he focused on what her magic tasted like, on the image in his head. She had fair skin and dark hair, a painted face and a fancy dress. But her lips were twisted into a devilish smirk, and her eyes glowed a polluted yellow.

The warlock forced himself to relax, though it wasn't too difficult when he was so tired.

This sensation was different than the one he'd felt in Kilgharrah's clearing, perhaps because of the distance: a watery feeling, washing him away as though he were a stain on a table, or a message written in sand. It loosened him, separated him, and he was gone—whisked away by his own will, this time, and not the pull of the thinning barriers. He could feel wind whipping through his ethereal form as he travelled leagues in an instant. One moment in Camelot, the next somewhere else entirely.

He found himself outside a rather normal-looking camp. There were ten or fifteen tents set up, surrounding a fire pit. The flames burned low, but they were bright enough to illuminate the cookware beside it—pots, bowls, spoons. Sentries stood on the outskirts.

It all looked normal, but Merlin realized he could feel the magic encasing it; it was suffocating and eerily familiar. It tasted like acid and rot and like sweet, heavy honey, like Morgana. The place was steeped in her magic, entwined with other, unfamiliar ones. Spells meant to shield it from prying eyes, from being heard or detected in any way.

Good. That meant it had worked; he was where he needed to be to ascertain her plans, to learn more about her numbers.

Merlin walked through the camp slowly, just in case someone sensed him. Most of the tents were dark. The warlock poked his head inside one (quite literally—his head went through the skin wall), and found a sleeping man, comfortably layered in furs. He backed out, glancing around at the other tents.

As he did, he heard one of the sentries give a call. He froze, irrationally terrified at first that he had somehow been spotted. But then he realized they were pointing to an approaching figure in the distance—a person on horseback, toward the camp.

"Alert the Lady Morgana," one of the sentries said. "Lord Agravaine approaches."

Merlin went absolutely cold at the words. No. He had suspected the man of wanting the throne, perhaps influencing Arthur for his own benefit—but Morgana? The man was siding with Uther's daughter instead of Ygraine's son? How did that make sense? At least he knew now why he'd felt such a vile sliminess from the man.

The warlock watched the figure—which soon grew clearer, transforming into Arthur's uncle. Agravaine reigned in his horse and came to a halt, dismounting. The sentries bowed to him, one taking the reigns from his hands.

"We have told the Lady Morgana of your presence," one said. "She is ready for you—this way, my Lord."

Agravaine said nothing, just nodded briskly and followed the sentry. Merlin trailed after, anxiety mounting. What if Morgana was somehow able to sense him, even in this state? Kilgharrah had said she wouldn't be able to, not if he didn't use magic, but what if he was wrong? The dragon wasn't often incorrect, but if he was now…

There was no time to over-think it. Merlin followed the traitor, crushing the irrational urge to get out of sight.

The sentry showed Agravaine into a large tent. Inside, hunched over a table, was Morgana. She looked far less poised than when Merlin had last seen her, though no less beautiful. Her hair was smooth and brushed, but greasy, as though she hadn't washed. Her dress was elegant but torn near the bottom and splattered at the hem, as though it too hadn't been washed.

"My lady," Agravaine said, and the way he spoke the words, oily and dripping in adoration, made Merlin's skin crawl. The lord bowed. "I am pleased to see you well."

"Dispense with the flattery, Agravaine," Morgana said. Her eyes were steely as she gazed at him. "Have you news?"

"An update—Arthur still readies defenses. He refused to ride out to try to fight you, my Lady, no matter how I attempted to persuade him. He prepares as though Camelot were about to come under siege," Agravaine said. "I have the exact number of men here—as well as the preparations I've managed to glean. He has no suspicions of me, but some council members regard me warily." He withdrew a piece of parchment from his cloak, handing it to her.

Morgana took it and unfolded it, scanning the figures on the page. She laughed. "My brother's never had any brains. He knows what I bring, but he can't even find proper defenses—my army will tear Camelot to bits." Her tone was delighted and dark, like the caw of a raven when it spied a feast of corpses.

Agravaine inclined his head respectfully. "Naturally, my Lady."

Morgana traced a hand over the table, and Merlin saw that a map of Camelot—specifically the citadel—lay on the table. "Tell me—what of the knight who somehow got wind of the Sluagh?"

"I know not how he truly came by the information. His goes by Sir Lancelot, and he's one of the peasants Arthur knighted. But his story—it doesn't line up. He claims that a mercenary told him, but we both know that's impossible." Agravaine moved to the table. On the corner were a pitcher and a couple of goblets. He poured himself some wine and sipped it.

"This reeks of a spy," Morgana all but snarled. "Someone in this camp must have betrayed me—but why?" She tapped angrily on the table with one fingernail. "They have all lost someone to Uther's hatred, down to the lowest guard. Their fury toward him and Camelot is real."

"Perhaps there is someone else playing the game, someone we have yet to spot," Agravaine suggested, again taking a sip of his wine. "Is it possible to have gotten the information through other means—without a traitor?"

Morgana stopped tapping. "A traitor is the most simple and logical explanation," she said, though she didn't contradict Agravaine's thought process. Merlin felt his heart speed up, and he wondered how—since he didn't technically have a body in this form. Perhaps he expected the bodily reaction to his feelings, and so he felt it. "But if a mage were to sense the barrier weakening, they might be able to gather the rest of the information. If they were powerful enough."

"But what mage would be powerful enough to do such a thing and give that information to the Pendragons, of all people?" Agravaine asked. He looked down at the map of the citadel, glaring at the castle.

Morgana stared at him. "Emrys," she hissed. Merlin shuddered at the sound of his other name, said with such vehemence. "But—no. Impossible. Morgause said he was but a myth."

"Who is he?" Agravaine asked.

"Morgause…" Morgana trailed off, eyes far away. Merlin wondered where the other witch was, as injured as she was. Or if she had already passed—Morgana seemed distraught enough. "Morgause told me there were prophecies about a warlock, a powerful warlock. The most powerful in the land, destined to aid Arthur and the Pendragons, keep them in power. A dog, she described him as. Or perhaps a wolf, acting like a dog. She said he couldn't be real, that no warlock would ever debase himself like that—some other man's pet, ready to come as called."

The words were nearly spat, derisive. Merlin felt a tendril of her magic creep off her, making the pitcher of wine rattle. He felt sick—was that how the magical world viewed him? Not the druids, but other magic users? As some kind of—Pendragon weapon? A dog?

It doesn't matter, Merlin thought. I'm defending innocent people, and Arthur is good for Camelot, whatever they say. He's kind and just and fair. Even if he doesn't like magic.

"Examining those prophecies might bring greater insight, my Lady," Agravaine said. "Because I can't imagine a traitor within our ranks." Oh, I can, you slimy, miserable little snake. Though perhaps that was insulting to snakes—Merlin was sure most of them were better than this man.

"Neither can I," Morgana admitted. "Still, all avenues must be exhausted. How long will your absence from Camelot be?"

"I told them I am taking a brief trip back to my lands," Agravaine said. "It will be a few days before they expect me back."

Merlin wished he had some sort of proof—other than his magical soul-walking—that Agravaine was a lying prick. Arthur hadn't known his uncle long, but the warlock could tell he was already forming an attachment to the man. The prince wanted family that he could rely on desperately. He wouldn't want to hear that Agravaine was a liar.

"Then you can help me with the prophecies and potential traitor both," Morgana said. She laid her palm flat against the center of the castle, right where the throne room would be. "How fares Uther?"

Merlin's form shivered, and he realized that his magic was growing taxed. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem to maintain the spell for longer, but with how much magic he'd been expending lately, with so little sleep… Gaius might have given him one good night's rest, but that couldn't make up for weeks without.

Agravaine sneered. "He clings to life, barely. His vitality is gone—as is his mind. All he does is lie in bed." His lips curved into a cruel smirk, a wicked gleam entering his coal-black eyes. "I'm afraid your betrayal broke him, my Lady."

Morgana's mouth matched his. "Oh, how wonderful that is to hear," she purred. "It is no less than that bastard deserves; I would love to watch the last bit of life leave him." Merlin felt sick at the words: he didn't particularly like Uther, and he knew Morgana hated him, but to wish such a thing on anyone… The warlock had thought about letting Uther die—more than once. But never had he contemplated murdering the man in cold blood.

"Razing Camelot will be equal in satisfaction, I think," Agravaine said, finishing his goblet of wine. "And he may yet live when you take it."

"Doubtful." Morgana snorted. "The Sluagh have been given instructions to devour anyone within the citadel. I would prefer to kill some of them myself, but… It's best not to take chances, I've found."

The warlock thought of what he'd seen nearly a month ago, when Morgana had first begun her wicked spell to tear open the barriers. His mouth went dry, thinking of the same happening to the knights or Gwen or Arthur…

You won't let that happen.

Merlin's form wavered again, and when he looked down, his hands were transparent. He frowned. Just how much magic had he been expending lately? Surely not this much. Not enough that he couldn't hold this spell—that he'd done twice before, once when he was dying—for longer.

"That's wise of you, my Lady." Agravaine dipped his head.

Merlin focused on his need to stay, to learn more about Morgana's plan. Sweat broke out on his brow. Was it just that he was making an effort, whereas before he'd done it all accidentally? Or had he been exhausted afterward, and the effects of the soul-walk had been masked by his near-death experiences?

But despite his best efforts, the tent began to fade, Morgana's voice becoming quieter and quieter. The tighter his hold on the image, the more it slipped from his grasp. His soul slammed back into his body, traversing vast kilometers in an instant. Merlin doubled over on the bed, his headache now a roar inside his head, like rocks tumbling down a mountain slope. And the voices. He could hear the Sluagh—much louder than before.

—A feast, a delicious feast, taste the fleshy, fatty souls, dance about the blood and bone—

—Nearly time, nearly time. Days left, only days. We're coming, coming, coming, coming to kill you all, destroy it all—

—Such wonderful smells, smells so good, the warm hot bodies and slimy innards, all waiting to be torn into, soft soft skin—

Merlin moaned quietly, clutching at his head. He hadn't realized how much his magic had been shielding him from Flæsc's influence until it was too tired to do so. His magic stirred weakly in his breast.

The warlock's mouth was dry, so he stumbled off the bed to fetch himself a drink, and the cool water in the ladle had never tasted better. As he drank his fill, the voices eased, though the pounding grew no better. He slumped on the ground, rubbing his temple.

Ye gods, even if Morgana does win, I'll be thankful to get rid of this bloody headache. He glanced out the window; it was late, but he felt his stomach growl. Food, then sleep. He wouldn't be able to cast anymore powerful magic tonight.

I'll have to do something about Agravaine, though. The man couldn't be allowed to roam freely. But what to do? Merlin was too busy to keep an eye on the traitor, and he knew Arthur wouldn't believe him—not after Cedric and the troll. The prince never believed him, not unless he had physical proof. And even then, he would never want to think poorly of his uncle.

Merlin heaved himself to his feet, nearly knocking over the bucket of water in the process. His head felt cloudy, but it was clearer than it had been moments before. He tugged at the door and did his best to be quiet as he staggered into the main physician chambers.

Although he knew it wouldn't do any good, he downed a pain reliever. He also ate a pear, which Gwen had managed to give him. She truly had gone mad in one short day, obsessed with feeding Merlin. But now the warlock was grateful; the spell would've been all the worse—especially after the magic he'd already exerted—if she hadn't given him so much food.

After finishing his food, Merlin walked back to his chambers and collapsed into bed. He was too tired to change into his nightclothes, so he simply closed his eyes.

He was asleep in seconds.

---

The next morning, Merlin was on his way to the knights' quarters when he ran into the man he wanted to see.

Lancelot looked slightly worse for wear: there were bags under his eyes, and his shoulders sagged. Likely he'd been busy training new soldiers and running drills, preparing for Morgana. At least Merlin could be assured that the man would be better protected than most.

He tried not to feel guilty about the rest of the knights, who he couldn't protect as effectively.

"Merlin!" Lancelot said, smiling. "What are you doing in this part of the castle?" Despite his appearance, his gear looked to be in good condition—his chainmail was polished, his sword sharp. Lancelot could never be accused of looking shoddy, which couldn't be said for some of the other knights.

"Looking for you," Merlin said, glancing around. No one was around, but he didn't feel comfortable talking openly in the hallway, when anyone could come up on them without warning. "I, er—" He paused. The knight was already so busy; could Merlin ask this of him?

No. He said he wanted to help.

The warlock swallowed down his instinct to lie, and spoke honestly. "I need your help. Could we speak in your chambers?"

Lancelot immediately understood, gods bless him. He nodded, the smile fading from his face. "Of course, my friend." He walked down the hallway, back to his room, where Merlin followed.

"What is it?" Lancelot asked, turning to face Merlin. He kept his voice hushed, despite his urgent tone. "Has Morgana accelerated her plans? Has she—"

"It's Agravaine," Merlin interrupted. "He's in league with Morgana."

"Prince Arthur's uncle?" Lancelot said, his nose wrinkling. "Why on earth would he side with her over his own flesh and blood?"

Merlin shrugged, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest. His headache was gentler today, as were the whispers. He could only hear them if he concentrated, murmuring foul things. "Hell if I know. Power? Riches? He likes her? Who knows—and there's no point in speculating."

"How do you know?" Lancelot said. He raised his hands as Merlin's eyebrow twitched in irritation—it was one thing from Arthur, but Lancelot? "I don't doubt you; I just want to know."

"He's gone on a trip for a few days—says he's visiting his lands. But I spied on Morgana's camp through… magical means, and he went straight to her. Told her about our soldiers, our defenses. Called her 'my Lady.'" It still made him feel sick, knowing someone so close to Morgana was staying in the heart of Camelot.

Lancelot's expression mirrored his emotion. "But she doesn't know about everything you're doing, does she? We still have the advantage."

Merlin thought uncomfortably of Morgana's knowledge of Emrys. She might anticipate some kind of interference, if she suspected him—or his alias, rather—as opposed to a traitor. But she won't know the specifics. And unless Agravaine happened upon his shield, or one of the other defenses he'd set up… She would have no idea.

"Yes," Merlin said, not quite meeting Lancelot's eyes.

"Is something else the matter?" the knight asked. Merlin knew he should tell him, tell about how strangely Gwen and Arthur had been acting, tell him about Morgana and Agravaine's conversation of Emrys. Tell him about how exhausted he'd been, how much magic he was expending, just keeping the Sluagh's voices out of his head. Tell him about the missing diary.

But he settled on lying—as he always did. Because he was a liar, even among those who knew the truth. At this point, Merlin wasn't sure if he could learn to be anything else. "No," he said, trying to be convincing. "I just—will you be able to keep an eye on Agravaine, when he comes back? I know you're busy with preparations, and training, and worrying about the Sluagh—"

"It's fine, Merlin," Lancelot interjected calmly. He put a hand on Merlin's shoulder—it was large and warm. "Don't worry. I can keep an eye on him. I know you're likely far busier than I. You're certain there's nothing else weighing on your mind?"

He was giving Merlin an out, a way to express himself, unload his feelings. But the warlock knew that to burden Lancelot with his worries would be unfair, no matter what the knight said. These weren't things he could help with. He was better off not knowing. Merlin himself couldn't even help with half his problems, not with more immediate ones.

He shook his head. "I'm fine. I promise. She's coming in a few days, you know."

"I do." Lancelot's dark eyes were serious. "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"I'm always careful," Merlin said, straightening from the wall. When I can afford to be, he added silently. Now wasn't one of those times, but… Again, Lancelot didn't need to know such things.

The knight eyed him, unconvinced. "You're far braver than Arthur gives you credit for. I hope you understand how much you deserve, for what you do for Camelot." Merlin felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks. Lancelot patted his shoulder, grinning. "And perhaps once you get credit for your bravery, you'll stop blushing like a maid on her wedding day."

The warlock ducked out of the knight's hand. "I do not blush like a maid," he denied, his cheeks reddening further. Lancelot kept grinning, and Merlin knew he'd lost. He just wasn't used to such compliments. Whenever he and Gaius spoke of his magic, it was always Gaius admonishing him or chastising him for his use of it. His mentor praised him only after he had saved Camelot. Before, it was always warnings. As though Merlin hadn't seen the executions with him.

He knew it was only because the old man cared, because he was worried. But it felt nice to be thanked preemptively. Lancelot's words left a warm, mushy feeling in his gut. Like he'd eaten a warm bowl of stew.

"You do," Lancelot said. "But we can still be friends."

Merlin rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Well then, you'd best be careful yourself, friend."

"I will," Lancelot promised solemnly.

---

Arthur couldn't help but watch Merlin. Knowing all that he'd done for Camelot… He couldn't help it. The man was fascinating. So innocuous, so… plain, if one didn't know him. Only a servant (until he opened his fat mouth, at least).

No one—least of all Arthur—could have ever suspected him of being a sorcerer. And a powerful one, too. Or powerful enough to defeat many of the others that had attacked Camelot, not even mentioning the magical creatures… And here he was, laying out Arthur's food like a proper servant. Well, he was doing it perhaps a little sloppily, and the prince watched as he stole a sausage, not even trying to be sneaky about it.

"I saw that," he said, glancing up.

"Well, with the way you can't keep your eyes off me lately—" Merlin began, but he was interrupted by a knock at the door. For a brief moment, Arthur could've sworn he saw an excited look cross the man's face, but it was gone a moment later.

"Enter," Arthur called. In came a guard, who bowed promptly to the prince. He was dressed smartly.

"A message, my lord," the guard said. "If it should please you to hear it."

"Go ahead." Arthur made a go on gesture.

"A courtier arrived not five minutes ago, bearing a gift from Lord Bodrick of Rockfallow," the guard said. Out of the corner of Arthur's eye, he saw Merlin perk up. He swore the man looked more like an excited puppy by the second.

Arthur had met Lord Bodrick only once, as a young boy. The noble had seemed like a doddery old man then—he was probably ancient now. Why on earth had he sent Arthur a present? What could it possibly be?

"A gift?" he repeated, and the guard nodded.

"Yes, sire. A sword, it looked like. The courtier waits outside the throne room, at your leisure," the guard explained. "He also comes with a letter from Lord Bodrick, explaining the gift's circumstance." The prince wasn't sure how much circumstance could surround a gift, aside from, Here, it's a present for you.

Arthur had received many presents in his lifetime, usually from nobles attempting to curry favor with him. But rarely had he received one from so far away—Bodrick was lord over land on the western border of Camelot. He often sent his son to Camelot to speak for him, and he was never late on taxes.

"Very well," the prince said. "Tell the courtier he is to wait an hour or so. Make sure he is well fed and well watered—it is a long journey."

"Of course, my lord," the guard said. He bowed again, knowing when he was dismissed, and exited the room, closing the door respectfully on his way out.

There was a beat of silence, Merlin still setting the table, before he broke it. "Must be some special sword, for him to send it all this way." Arthur tried to look at him closely without the servant realizing—though he recognized that the servant had definitely been bothered by his strange behavior.

"Yes," the prince agreed, his brows furrowed. Merlin's comment was cryptic at best, meaningless at worst. Was it innocuous, or was Merlin involved with this gift somehow? "It must be."

He and Merlin switched places; Arthur sat at the table to eat, and Merlin went to his desk to organize the papers and read over some of the things Arthur had written. Not because Arthur ever made mistakes (he was the prince regent), but sometimes… His eloquence was too sophisticated for even the likes of court (it definitely wasn't that Merlin was sometimes better at choosing words than him. Because he wasn't, to be very clear).

They passed perhaps forty minutes in silence before Arthur was finished. Then, Merlin helped him finish dressing: his crown (the thin, practical one that didn't make his neck ache), cloak, and sword strapped to his belt. He let the servant straighten out the cloak and pat him down for dust, trying not to think about how the man was a powerful sorcerer. It just seemed wrong, to have the man who had saved Camelot and the royal family so many times serving him.

"Something the matter?" Merlin asked as he finished his odd ministrations.

Arthur shook his head, and the servant stepped back. "Of course not." My sister is marching on Camelot in mere days, you're a secret sorcerer, my father lies infirm, and now some lord I've met only once has sent me a sword, of all things. He said none of those things, though he could see a gentle understanding in Merlin's eyes.

But the sorcerer said nothing, just patted his forearm. Arthur swept out of the room, Merlin trailing a few steps behind—though not because he actually respected the prince, of course. The guards bowed to him as he entered the throne room. They waited for him to look properly princely before they sent the courtier in.

He was a plain-looking man, of average build, fair skin, and dark hair. His clothing was tattered.

The courtier seemed horribly nervous, sweating painfully and looking everywhere but at Arthur. But he managed to bow deeply to the prince without impaling himself on the sword, which he carried length-wise in both hands. It was wrapped in heavy leather—not a sheath, as Arthur would have expected.

"Good morning, my prince," the courtier said, straightening. "I come bearing I gift—this sword—and a message. From Lord Bodrick."

Arthur itched to rise and take it, but a prince was never supposed to bring himself down to the commoners' level (or so his father said). But then he imagined Gwen or Merlin standing before a prince in a foreign court, and he stood.

"Thank you for delivering it," Arthur said. "I will see to it that you get a warm bed for the night. Or perhaps the next few nights. I doubt the roads are safe, and the witch moves."

"Th—thank you, my lord," the man said, clearly taken aback. The prince frowned. Surely his people didn't think he was some sort of slave driver? He knew when to reward hard-working citizens.

(Or attempt to murder them when their back is turned, a dark voice whispered. Arthur ignored it.)

"Of course. Now, I will see the note."

"Er, yes, sire," the courtier said. He didn't seem to know what to do with the sword in his hands. Merlin stepped forward.

"Allow me," he said, gently taking the sword from the courtier's hands. The man gave him a relieved smile and dug into his battered satchel. He withdrew an envelope and handed it to Arthur.

It looked real enough: it was sealed with wax and pressed with Bodrick's coat of arms—a bear's rearing form. The prince broke it easily and pulled out the parchment. Unfolding it, he scanned the artfully-penned words:

To Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon, Current Regent of Camelot,

I am saddened to hear the news of your Regency—though of course I know you to be a great Crown Prince, and I am certain you will make an equal Regent to the Citizens of Camelot. That news, indeed, is not the cause of my grievance; no, I am saddened for King Uther, who has been an excellent Ruler over the Great Kingdom of Camelot for twenty years now. I pray for his swift recovery.

However, I thought such an important event should not go unmarked by your vassals. Although I acknowledge that this is not a celebratory time, I ask that you accept the gift I have included nonetheless. I regret that I could not see you in person, my Prince, but I fear I would not be able to withstand such a harsh trip at my present age.

The sword I gift you is not an ordinary piece of steel from my personal collection. Rather, my best blacksmith forged this sword, many years ago. I myself dared not touch it for its majesty; I have known from the very beginning that it was made for Royalty.

With the pressing news of your Regency—and Morgana to the border—I could not in good conscious keep it for myself. God has made it clear that He wishes for you to have it, and I am but His humble servant.

And so I have shipped it to you, my Lord, with the hope that it will serve you well. Please accept my apologies that I could not be there in person. I wish you and his Highness nothing but the best of health.

Your Loyal Vassal,

Lord Bodrick, Baron of Rockfallow

And it certainly sounded like some stuck up elderly lord. Really. What was he meant to do with a new sword? He had dozens of swords; this one would serve him no better in the fight against Morgana.

"I will see the sword, now," Arthur said, tucking the parchment back into its envelope. He stuffed it into his belt (perhaps not the most princely thing he could've done with it). Merlin presented it to him without fanfare, but Arthur noticed an oddly excited gleam in his eye.

I swear, it's just a bloody sword…

But as the prince unwrapped it, he realized that this certainly was not an ordinary blade: it was a thing of beauty. The hilt was simple but elegant in design—not gaudy like some of the other swords lords had gifted him over the years, but far from plain. Odd symbols decorated the sides of the blade, but they somehow fit it perfectly. It seemed to buzz as he held it, giving off a feeling of surety, of rightness.

This was his sword.

Enraptured, Arthur gave it an experimental swing; the grip was perfect for his hand, and it whistled through the air with exquisite balance. So caught up was he in its beauty, he almost missed the look of strange pride in Merlin's eyes.

Could this be the sword he had described in his journal? The one that had been forged in the dragon's breath, made for him? The one his father had wielded against the wraith?

What had Merlin called it…

The name came to his lips as swiftly a bird alighting on a branch: "Excalibur." He breathed it, a quiet whisper. This was Merlin's work… but how? How had he arranged this farce, a ploy to get him this magical sword?

That doesn't matter right now. Something more to figure out later.

He turned to the courtier, narrowing his eyes. What was his part in all this?

"Tell me," Arthur began, "what is your name, messenger?"

The courtier swallowed. "Gilli, sire." Arthur didn't sense a lie, but with how poorly he seemed to be at spotting them, that didn't mean a lot.

"As soon as the roads are safe—and Morgana's threat has passed—I will send you back to Lord Bodrick with my thanks," Arthur said. "Until then, you will have a room in the guard's barracks. You—" He gestured to one of the men against the far wall. "Show Gilli here to a bed."

The guard bowed. "Of course, my lord."

The two left the throne room as Arthur went back to admiring the sword. It almost seemed to sing in his hand, a beautifully tragic thing for something meant to slaughter and destroy.

Merlin stepped back into the shadow of Arthur's throne, returning his silent, constant place at Arthur's side.

Thank you, the prince told him silently. I will repay you, for all you have done. Soon.

Soon.

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AN: Thank you all so much for the response! Happy 2021-I hope you all have stayed safe during the holidays. I really appreciate the favs, follows, and reviews (though I'm sorry I haven't responded to the ones for chapter 8! I promise I will soon; I just got busy). Please enjoy this extra long chapter. Questions: What did you think of the last entries? Even if you disagree with Arthur and Gwen's decision not to tell Merlin, can you understand why? Have you gotten tired of them saying hello and good night to each other? Was Gwen involving herself in Merlin's eating habits amusing or irritating?