Warning: Slight dub-con kiss
Chapter Eleven: The Best Laid Plans
Merlin didn't know what to believe, and he didn't know how to ask Arthur. His eventual fate rested with the prince regent, but he didn't even know whether said prince regent had been truthful when he'd spoken to his advisors about the unknown sorcerer.
He'd sounded truthful. And there was no reason to lie in the council room, unless Arthur suspected one of the old fogies was the sorcerer. So… That only left the option that he'd been giving his actual opinion.
No immediate search—no immediate execution. Arthur had even caught onto the odd inconsistencies of his own victories. Maybe… Maybe it was time to tell him; this was the most receptive Merlin had ever seen him, and he didn't think he'd get another opportunity.
The warlock, huddled in an alcove, didn't know what to do. The shield was holding—they had time. This had to be the opportunity he'd always been waiting for—what else could it be? This was it. He put his head in his hands, and he realized they were shaking.
Could he really do this? Confess to years of lying and take whatever punishment Arthur gave? Merlin wanted to trust Arthur to make the right decision, to pardon him or at least not banish or execute him. He wanted to so badly. But the prince had always been adamant that magic was evil—before now, at least. How had his attitude changed so quickly?
Merlin sighed and straightened. Tonight. He'd do it tonight; he could be decisive if he had a deadline, so he would make a deadline. No choice—he'd confess, and then he'd see if Arthur was good for his word. He was man who lived by his honor, if nothing else, so he'd have to be, right?
Right?
He wanted to check in the armory, see if he might enchant a few more miscellaneous weapons and armor, but something cold trickled down his spine, liquid dread pooling between his shoulder blades like icy sweat. He shivered. Something was wrong—horribly, utterly wrong.
And he realized that the feeling of his magic—an extension of himself, like hearing his own voice—was fading. Fading… But how? Why? Panicked, Merlin began to run and eventually broke out into a full-blown sprint. The Sluagh—they were excited. He could hear the voices in his mind again, their twittering and hunger—but why could he hear them, why could he feel them—
His shield was gone.
The warm blanket of safety (of himself, and that was kind of weird to think about, as though he'd cloaked Camelot in a shield of his own skin) had vanished. There was nothing preventing the thick, heavy malice from asserting itself on Camelot's unsuspecting citizens.
It didn't freeze Merlin as it had when he'd first felt it, when he'd seen the old man torn apart—maybe because he had a physical body to prevent it, maybe because he'd gotten used it. But he still felt an intense nausea. Ignoring it, he raced down the stairs as fast as he could without feeling like he might fall. He still almost tripped when he hit the bottom, though he recovered himself quickly.
He could hear shouting and screams from the courtyard, could hear the Sluagh—but not in his head, he realized with horror. Outside, through the windows, the creatures chuckled and called for flesh and souls.
The warlock tried to shut his ears to the noise as his thoughts flew through his head faster than his pounding heart. How had the shield fallen? He hadn't felt Morgana and her mages penetrate it; it was like it had simply faded. There should've been magical power enough to last for weeks—he'd checked.
But it dawned on him as he saw that the door leading to the dragon's cavern was ajar. The runes. Someone had disrupted them. Why hadn't he re-locked the door?
But there was no time for guilt or regret: the Sluagh were in the city, sorcerers were in the city, Morgana was in the city. But… Would the shield only trap them inside? Merlin shook his head, trying to clear his unhelpful, panicked thoughts. The shield was one-way, allowing anything with the Sluagh's taint to leave—a precaution he'd put in place in case any of Morgana's people had been inside the city when he'd put the shield up.
But it seemed he hadn't taken enough precautions.
Merlin stumbled down the steps that led to his runic configuration; it was dangerous to take the precarious path so quickly, but he didn't have a choice. The rune felt cold and empty to his magical senses, though he could taste the remnant of his magic. As though it had simply leaked away.
There. With his hastily summoned light, Merlin could see the problem: his runes had been severed. Without the physical shape to contain the magic and tell it what to do, his magic had left the configuration and dispersed into the earth and air. The warlock knelt beside the breech. One of the main connecting runes—Uathe, which he had used to stabilize the rest of the runes he'd used—had been cut through with perhaps a pickaxe or sword. The smooth curve had been marred, leaving ugly scratch marks on the stone floor.
Examining his configuration closer, Merlin could see that Ohn and Gort had also been scratched at, their lines no longer melding together. Who had done it? Had Morgana snuck one of her mages in? But no—this looked like it had been done by hand, and Merlin had a sneaking suspicion he knew the traitor already.
Agravaine.
The warlock ran a hand through his hair. How to fix it? He'd passed out the last time he had fed the shield magic, but he would be needed to drive the Sluagh off, and that would require a disguise—but he'd be too exhausted to turn into Dragoon, maybe he should change before, but then he might be too tired to do the shield, and both would leave him too tired to actually drive the Sluagh off!
Merlin almost cried with the impossibility of it all. He should've told Arthur sooner; Camelot was going to fall. He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes—there was no point in breaking down when there was work to be done. That would come after. If there was an after.
He closed his eyes and centered himself. Opening them again, he held out a hand. There was no spell he knew of to get rid of scratch marks out of stone, but he knew a spell to get them out of tables. "Undēst awyrdnys," he said, and it worked well enough when combined with his will. The floor smoothed, and Merlin once again had a fresh canvas.
"Forćeorfe stán eac brád ond gewill," he said. It had taken him hours to carve the runes—he'd had to do it precisely and slowly. Hopefully this would be quicker. And it was: under his steady hand and firm will, the runes re-connected. Merlin didn't waste a second being pleased; he placed both hands on the outer edge of the configuration and called to his magic, pouring it forth.
It seeped from his fingers easily, like water seeping from clouds that had been waiting for days to unleash the torrent in their bellies. Like a storm, but it swirled out of his fingertips, not the sky. The rune glowed, which he considered a good sign. He wouldn't have to give as much as he'd given last time; just enough to get it up for a few days, so he'd have enough left over to fight the Sluagh…
But that still seemed like too much. Sweat beaded on Merlin's brow and ran down his face, as though he really were caught in a storm. It soaked his tunic through, and he felt a horrible tightness in his head.
The rune kept taking, and the world went blurry. Merlin urged the magic to go faster. He didn't know how many lives had already been lost, how many had already been ripped apart and had their souls devoured. The malevolence seemed less oppressive here in the cave, though maybe he was simply too far gone to feel it.
The warlock shook—he felt so cold, too cold, like he'd taken a dip in icy water. He'd done that once: Will had dared him to go out on a frozen pond near the village, and Merlin had misjudged the thickness of the ice. He'd fallen, but used magic to get himself out, dry himself off so his mum wouldn't suspect he'd been playing where she'd told him not to play…
The memory seemed so far away; everything seemed so far away. It was fading. Had it been enough magic? Would the shield go up?
It would have to. With a trembling, almost limp hands, Merlin moved away, stopping the flow of magic from his body to the configuration. Then, as he tipped—the ground seemed to be moving, suddenly, just like it had when he'd fallen through the ice—he reached out an arm. It landed on Beith, the activation rune. It stood for beginnings, change, and release.
The shield sprang up as Merlin felt himself fade, just like his magic had when Agravaine had compromised his runes.
Merlin drifted in and out of awareness. He could sometimes remember there was something important he had to be doing, but most times he just felt too weak to move. Why was he lying on the ground? Had he fallen? He didn't feel hurt; he just felt sort of dizzy… And confused.
There was something foul in the air—that was what he was supposed to be doing. He struggled to formulate the thought, as though his mind had been dunked underwater. The foulness, laughter and evil twisting together into one…
The Sluagh.
How could he have forgotten the Sluagh? Merlin struggled to rise, groaning, but his body wouldn't let him. He had given too much to the shield, pushed his body too far. Even his magic, swirling inside, couldn't help him—the human body wasn't meant to run on magic alone; it was meant to run on food and water and rest.
Just how exhausted had he let himself become?
His body wouldn't cooperate, so Merlin just let himself lie there, sometimes aware of what he was supposed to be doing, sometimes blissfully ignorant. Like a puppet with its strings cut, its master looking over it and willing it desperately to move. But that wasn't how puppets worked.
"Merlin?" A voice cut through his thoughts—a familiar voice that sent relief and panic coursing through him in equal measure. It was hoarse from shouting, and something about it seemed off. "Are you down there?" Concern, that was it. This voice was never concerned—only playful and teasing and sometimes serious.
Footsteps, down the stairs and alighting onto the cavern floor. Something flickered in Merlin's vision when he opened his eyes: flame. The voice was carrying a torch.
"Merlin!" the voice cried, and he wanted to tell it to stop worrying and stop shouting—that he was fine but his head ached. A hand cradled his face, warm and callused. That felt nice because Merlin was cold—very cold. It was good the voice had a body because he himself did not. One of them at least should have one.
"You're freezing," the voice said. Merlin wanted to say obviously, but his vocal chords were as useless as the rest of his body. "Come on, let's get you out of here—it can't be good with how cold you are."
That warm hand left his face, and Merlin wanted to cry. But then he was slung—awkwardly—across a shoulder. This was familiar, somehow. He'd been carried like this before, when he'd been in pain. "Don't fall asleep," the voice ordered, and finally Merlin could place it.
"'Rthur?" he slurred. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, like it wasn't really a tongue, just a wad of dry, rough cloth. And then his brain put together what it meant. "Arthur!" he said, more coherently. Arthur, who wasn't supposed to know, who had found him passed out next to a very obviously magical configuration.
"Don't move!" the prince regent hissed. "It's hard enough carrying you and this torch up these ridiculously steep stairs."
But… But… Was this a dream, some sort of hallucination? Arthur had to know—why was he carrying him out of the cave? To punish him? Yell at him? Merlin didn't feel like being yelled at; his head felt terrible as it was. He wasn't ready to be imprisoned or banished or executed or any such nonsense. In fact, he was ready for bed, if nothing else.
He tried to express this, but what came out was something like, "Don't be mean," mumbled between his cotton tongue.
But Arthur—if it was Arthur—didn't laugh. "I won't," he soothed. And they must have reached the top a moment later, because Arthur set Merlin down. The warlock's stomach was bruised from where the prince's muscular shoulder had pressed against it.
Then, Arthur picked him up again, but with both hands, like he was some kind of maiden. Merlin wanted to argue that he could walk, but he was still shaking.
"I'm not sure how the shield fell," Arthur said. "But I know it was you that made it, Merlin."
The warlock protested weakly, his head lolling against the prince's chest. "Uh-uh."
"Don't be an idiot—of course it was. And you put it back up again," the prince said. They had to be going up more stairs, because the ride became bumpy. "Listen, Merlin, the Sluagh are still outside. Not all of them made it through before you put the shield back up, and they haven't breached the castle—yet. Morgana's toying with us; I think she wants to watch them kill as many people as possible before she comes in. The enchanted weapons help, too. I don't know how much power you've used, but if you have any left…"
Merlin stayed silent. He had power, yes, but it was confined within him, and he wasn't supposed to let it out. Also, he couldn't walk. That felt like an important factor when he considered helping.
The warlock could hear the whooshing in Arthur's lungs as he exhaled. "I guess that was a stupid question, with how ridiculous you're being right now. I'm going to put you somewhere safe, okay?" This was more gentle than Merlin could ever remember Arthur being with him, like he were glass instead of flesh and blood. Like he might break if the prince were to even raise his voice. "But I want you to know that even if Camelot falls… I'm grateful for all you did to protect it, and me, and all of us. So—thank you."
Merlin sighed. It had to be a hallucination, but it was a nice one. Nicer than any of his usual dreams. Arthur carrying him to a safe place… Thanking him… It was all too good to be true. The real Arthur would be angry when he found out. "You're welcome, Arthur," he whispered.
"Also, if we get out of this—" They were done climbing the stairs; the odd jolting was gone, and Merlin could hear Arthur's boots on stone. Very realistic for a hallucination. He could smell sweat and blood on the prince's armor, and screams outside… Very realistic… "—I want you to know that I have a plan. I'm not going to reveal you. Not yet, anyway, not while my father lives. But afterward… If it all works out, you won't have to hide ever again. Not from me, not from anyone.
"And others like you won't have to hide, either. Not if I can help it, and I'll be king—so I can help it. I so swear, if we both managed to live through this battle. And we both will live. I'm not sure what's wrong with you, but you can't die on me. Okay?"
Arthur was rambling. The prince never rambled—except maybe to Gwen. Well, he'd rambled to Merlin before, too, but rarely, and never about this. Never rambled about Merlin to Merlin. That wasn't a very realistic part of the hallucination. "Not gonna die," he muttered. "Just tired." That was true—he'd almost died enough to know the difference. And even though this was only a dream, he still wanted to reassure the prince. It was what he did.
"I hope so," Arthur said, and he sounded worried again. That wasn't right. "If Morgana takes the citadel, I want you to run. If you can. I don't—I want you to live, Merlin. And I don't think you can fight her like this. So just, just run." Merlin didn't want to upset him by disagreeing, but he knew that if Morgana ever took Camelot, he would not be running.
The prince adjusted him awkwardly as he opened a door. The room smelled musty, and Merlin opened his eyes. When had he closed them? Everything was blurry, but he thought he recognized a set of guest chambers located near the prince's rooms.
Arthur set him on the bed—a bed meant for nobility, not for Merlin, and left him to start a fire. This, at least, the warlock could help with, and the logs blazed as soon as the prince placed them in the hearth. He yelped, startled.
"Warn me, next time," he said. "I nearly burned my hand." Merlin would've been sorry, but he was too tired and too cold. And too grateful for the fire.
The blurry outline of the prince—more a blob of armor and flesh with yellow on top—covered him with the thick blankets. Merlin hummed thankfully, closing his eyes again.
"I would've brought you to Gaius, but he's overwhelmed right now with the wounded," Arthur said. "You aren't injured, as far as I can tell. Just… don't die." There were rustling sounds, but the warlock didn't bother looking, contented with the noise of another person.
"Won't," Merlin promised, turning hazily to where the prince's voice was coming from. "Pr'mise."
"Fine. Then sleep." Arthur seemed to pause, and something warm and dry and chapped pressed itself into Merlin's lips.
Oh.
It wasn't invasive, and if Merlin had been more with it, he would've enjoyed that part of the hallucination. As it was, he had resigned himself to letting go of those feelings as soon as Arthur had started showing interest in Gwen.
The kiss was nice, even though it only lasted a moment, and Arthur was gone. The door opened, closed. Merlin sensed he was alone, save for the screaming and sounds of battle outside.
Even with the noise, he slept deeply. If he had any other dreams, he couldn't recall them. He couldn't say how long he was asleep; the battle was still raging when he woke.
Merlin's eyes opened, and he immediately tried to sit up. Where am I? He looked around, bewildered. A fire was going in the hearth, and he was wrapped in warm furs—a noble's room and bed, not his own shabby imitation in the phsycian's chambers. His muscles felt wrung out, stretched thin like an old rag, and he fell back onto the bed without meaning to.
He'd been fixing the shield… Had it worked? He reached out with his senses and breathed a sigh when he felt his magic there. But he could also feel the Sluagh—they'd entered the citadel when the shield was down…
Merlin felt like he was forgetting something. How had he gotten here, again? He couldn't have walked here; he'd felt so weak after he'd put the shield up. He shook his head. There wasn't time for this—he had to be out there, now. He would need a disguise… Something…
No, there wasn't time for that either.
The human body wasn't meant to run on magic. This was true—Merlin had known it all his life because he'd still needed food and sleep and shelter. But he'd never tried to live off of his magic before because it had never been necessary. There had always been enough food, and he'd always gotten enough sleep.
This wasn't the case. He had to move now.
So Merlin closed his eyes and concentrated. He pushed his magic from where it usually rested, a tight orb of power and light. It went eagerly enough—it was less like Merlin was pushing and more like he was directing it to where it had always belonged, like steering a parched horse toward a stream. Unnecessary.
The magic seeped into his muscles and bones and tissues and skin. Merlin's eyes burned gold, and he finally had enough strength to climb out of bed. Doing this might bite him later, but right now he had no choice. His movements were fluid and more graceful—like his magic's previous lack had stopped him from having full control over his own body.
Merlin opened the door and looked left, then right. No one. Good. There might still be a chance at anonymity, though he still couldn't recall how he'd gotten into the bed.
He had no time for a disguise, but magic worked from a distance, and eyes did not. It would be hard to tell who he was if he stood at the top of Camelot's tallest tower—impossible, even, but he would still be able to help.
There, Gaius, I'm not completely suicidal.
Merlin ran toward the stairs—it was odd, controlling his body through his magic and not his will. He took the steps two at a time, emerging into the top room. It was sparse, not used for guests or even storage, its out-of-the-way location making it impractical. Merlin locked the door behind him, in case some guard had the idea to come up and stop him. It would buy him a few minutes, at least.
The balcony was terrifying and exhilarating; in fact, Merlin wasn't sure why it existed. It was so high as to be dizzying. Wind whipped his clothes and stung his face.
But that wasn't the only terrifying part: Camelot was under attack. The shield held, soaring above the citadel, but it didn't stop the monsters already inside. The Sluagh flew in miniature hoards. Their forms seemed to twist and shudder when Merlin tried to look at them—he'd see a flash of feathers or fur or mottled skin. He might see one eye or two or three, gleaming black talons and brilliant white teeth. Sometimes the teeth were shaped like a wolf's, other times like a person's, and the blunt familiarity of them was somehow worse.
They flew by, giggling and shuddering, maws covered in blood. Some had grown satiated and seemed to be killing for fun and not for food. Others tormented the soldiers and citizens before devouring them: flying up high and dropping them, only to catch them again, ripping off limbs one at a time. He could see as souls left the body—color seemed to fade from the flesh, a hollow shell of nothing.
It made Merlin sick.
And there, in the courtyard, just outside the castle, was Morgana. She did no magic; she was taking it all in. He couldn't make out her features from his height, but he could sense her magic and predict her satisfaction. Atop her horse, she hadn't had to lift a finger to take the city, only watching as Camelot's last defense—knights hunkered down, defending the entrance to the palace—was picked away, one by one.
That made Merlin furious.
The sickness and anger raged inside him, and he flung out a hand, his eyes still glowing. He had never needed a spell for this. The clouds that had served Morgana and her army so well began to collect, growing thicker and more wild. They darkened, and Merlin's eyes seemed to grow brighter as he called down lightning, one of the most powerful magicks he was capable of.
Thunder crashed through the sky, following the brilliant flash.
Morgana didn't dodge, but Merlin could tell she hadn't received the full force of the blast; his aim had been off, slightly, and he'd struck the horse. Still, she and the beast both fell, and shouts of panic from the other mages just made it to his ears above the wind.
He wasn't sure if he was somehow enhancing his senses, or if his eyesight and hearing were just that good naturally. It didn't matter.
The lightning came faster—a bolt at the Sluagh diving for the knight's formation, one at the mages gathering to cast some spell together (he had almost felt it take shape, like an inhalation, air that never escaped from the lungs). The lower town had caught fire, so the rain came next: a great drenching, cleansing rain. The stench of blood and death were overpowered by clean water and sizzling ozone.
Still Merlin targeted the ones he saw as most problematic. The Sluagh didn't seem to have any resistance, so his lightning must have been powerful enough. They no longer laughed, and instead were watching for where he was.
No one seemed to have figured it out, in the dark. Morgana had made it out from under her horse, and Merlin levied another bolt at her, one she managed to dodge. He growled in frustration but turned his attention to other things.
There was Arthur—the knights were advancing, and the prince was leading the charge because of course he was. The mages tried to cast spells at them, but Merlin called upon the ground under their feet, ordering it to shake.
Morgana's sycophants lost their footing and tumbled, the knights pressing their advantage. Some wielded weapons capable of deflecting magicks, others wearing armor that would protect them from it.
The mages began to retreat, and the Sluagh had spread apart to make themselves less of a target, attacking one at a time in order to deter the knights and continue their feast.
"Byre," Merlin ordered, and the wind came swiftly to his beckoning, like a hound quick to heel. It blasted the Sluagh away in a wave, not enough to harm but enough to send a message. Still, the creatures were relentless; they dove again and again, throwing their lives away as Merlin summoned the lightning to destroy them.
So distracted by this part of the battle was he that the warlock didn't feel the tendrils of magic wrapping around his waist until it was too late.
Morgana had found him.
He had only a split-second to think oh, fuck, before the witch yanked him off the tower, the rail slamming painfully into his stomach, and then he was plummeting one hundred feet below to his death.
The wind tore at his clothes and took away his breath, but Merlin didn't need to speak. Using instinct—and perhaps only instinct—he slowed time to a crawl. Usually he slowed everyone else, but this time he slowed himself, too. Only his thoughts remained free.
He would die if he impacted the ground—only a Merlin-shaped smear on the cobblestone. So, how to avoid that? A spell, obviously, but he could only think of ones he would have to cast on himself, which was finicky at best. Except… Yes. A spell designed to be cast on oneself. He'd found it in one of the books from the goblin's room, but he hadn't had time to test it out.
No time like the present, Merlin thought. "Gecreæftgian byrla, cbeft ferjgt, stán baan," he said and, praying to the gods, allowed time to resume as normal. He couldn't help but close his eyes before impact, even though he was fairly certain the spell had worked.
The warlock hit the stone ground with a smacking noise, but nothing broke. The spell—meant to strengthen the body to withstand strong, killing blows—had worked. Still, all the breath was knocked from his lungs, and he ached all over, like he'd been training with Arthur for an entire day.
The sounds of battle raged around him, louder now. The rain muffled everything and made the cobblestones slick underfoot. Some of the water had mingled with blood, turning it dark and red, almost like spilled wine.
Merlin lay there, stunned. No one seemed to have noticed him, save Morgana. He could make out her shape, a hazy silhouette approaching out of the corner of his eye. Her forehead was bloody, and her dress was torn.
"Merlin?" she said, and she sounded lost. It was just the two of them there, a quiet confrontation in the rain. Her eyes were filled with pain and questions (like why? And How could it have been you, all along?), but her mouth hardened. "I should have known," she snarled. "You didn't just betray me—you've betrayed your entire kind."
"You really should have known," Merlin laughed, breathless. He didn't feel quite ready to stand after his fall, but he knew he would have to. She knew—Morgana, arguably his greatest enemy—knew. The realization seemed to steal the breath from his lungs all over again. He would never be able to hide his true skill from her, not after throwing lightning around. Not after this. She knew, and here he was in the courtyard, about to fight her. "All the evidence was there."
"You are a worthless, spineless MISERABLE LITTLE WORM!" Morgana roared. Her hand whipped up. "YOU LIED TO ME! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Merlin couldn't help but flinch at that one, still lying, seemingly helpless, on the ground.
"Sweng!" she shouted, eyes burning.
"Scield!" Merlin said, and a golden barrier sprang up between Morgana and himself, deflecting the spell that would've done its best to slice him in two. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, trying to put space between them.
"Where are the rest of them?" Morgana demanded. "Where are you hiding the fucking other traitors?" Merlin thought it best not to answer. She still seemed to think he was working with others, and he saw no reason to disabuse her; she might still underestimate him, if she thought him incapable of performing feats like these on his own.
"Wáce ierlic!" Merlin called, but Morgana again dodged, the magic dissolving to the left of her. "Bifian," he commanded, and the ground beneath her feet shook, as it had beneath the mages, though this spell was more localized, requiring more focus and thus a verbal incantation.
Others had taken notice of their fight, and anxiety began to churn inside Merlin. This was it; he had been revealed. He could hear gasps, shouts that they had found the sorcerer, that it was Merlin. He didn't hear Arthur's voice in the cacophony, nor any of the knights', but he wasn't paying attention very closely. It was hard to worry and fight Morgana at the same time.
The Sluagh, too, had taken interest. They began to laugh and speak into his mind, distracting him.
We almost got you last time, sweet morsel. How lovely it will be to taste your soul again, and the delicacy of flesh to go with it.
So this is the sorcerer that has kept us from our feast for so long. I am going to make you pay for that, one slow bite at a time—
Perhaps we should eat the prince in front of you, just to make you cry—such delicious, salty tears you will have.
The beasts hovered above, as though anticipating the outcome of the battle. Merlin could still hear others, however, fighting the knights. At least the mages had been scared into leaving—the warlock had killed a good number of them, and the knights had not let them escape without paying the price of the battle in blood.
Morgana recovered her footing in time to yell, "Forbærnan ácwele!" Fire burst from her hands, coalescing into a dense ball. Steam rose from it in the rain, and it hurtled toward Merlin.
The warlock clapped his hands together. "Byre!" Wind rushed from above, so powerful it stung his eyes and pushed him back. But it scattered the flames, and Merlin was grateful he didn't have another scar on his chest to match the one Nimueh had given him.
"You're worse than a cockroach, Merlin. Just DIE! Forfyllan heorte!" Morgana screamed.
This was a dark spell, meant to stop someone's heart inside their chest. On anyone without magic, it would've been deadly, and Merlin had to wonder how powerful Morgana thought he was. As it was, his magic overpowered her own; it was the invader inside of him, trying to gain control over his body. She was at a disadvantage, and he swiftly bore her out.
But as he was preoccupied doing this, the Sluagh had grown bored watching. They dove from above, and though Merlin ducked, one sharp talon caught him above his eye, and teeth clamped down onto his shoulder. He screamed, feeling hot, wet blood drip down his face and into his right eye, blinding him.
"Tasty," a voice hissed, and he knew it was the Sluagh. He had fallen to his knees under the onslaught, and the one that had bit him seemed to be licking its chops with a long, purple tongue, like a thick worm. "Succulent—your magic gives it good flavor. I wonder how good your soul will taste?" Its mouth opened impossibly wide, ready to take a proper bite this time, but Merlin thrust his hand out.
"Edwylm!" This was a harsher fire spell than forbærnan, or even the one Morgan had used. With sheer force of will, the Sluagh burned in a column of flame twenty feet high, blazing into the night. It made a horrible noise as it died, but Merlin didn't care.
He didn't care. His mind raced with the images of their slaughter, with the horrible, slimy feeling its teeth had left, the image of the man calling for help, but he'd been frozen—he couldn't afford to be frozen now, and so he had killed them, killed them with lightning and with fire—because fire was the worst death he could imagine, though he'd made it so quick and so hot only the Sluagh's twisted, malformed skeleton remained, charred in the rain.
The other Sluagh that had been hovering in the air, waiting for a meal, fled for easier targets, but Merlin didn't let them go. Without a word, lightning came from the sky and took them down with great cracks. He could hear how loud it was, now that he was on the ground.
Morgana, who had obviously been watching to see him die with great eagerness, paled as he growled, "Edwylm!" at her, too.
"Scield!" she cried, but still her feet were singed, and the column spurted into the sky uselessly, deflected. "These are no parlor tricks!" she called. "Who trained you?"
But Merlin wasn't interested in talking. He was tired and achy and he wanted this done, damn it all. He wanted to get on with it, whatever happened next. Prison, banishment, an execution. He didn't know, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that, either.
(Except for in the dark recesses of his mind, where he worried because he had been exposed—oh gods, everyone knew, Camelot knew about his magic, and they would kill him he would die in the flames like he had killed the Sluagh oh gods he was going to die Gaius had been right this had been a mistake, all of it, Merlin was dead he was dead Uther was still alive and he would die, right here in this courtyard.)
So wordlessly he called down lightning. Again and again he struck her shield, and the Sluagh, and he wasn't sure how many he killed. But he was soaked to the bone, and the light of his white-hot bolts dazzled his eye.
Morgana cried out as her shield began to crack, fissures spreading through the small golden globe like spider webs.
"Edwylm!" he shouted again, and it shattered. Panting, he watched his blue-hot flames disperse before they could do the witch any true harm.
"You're a traitor!" Morgana shrieked. "A traitor and a liar! That's all you've ever been, Merlin! Do you understand? And I'll peel your flesh right off your bones until your lies and your betrayals are all you have left! Befléan!"
Merlin deflected it with a "Todælan," and a wave of his hand. The witch howled in frustration, and for the first time, she looked wholly and completely mad. He'd seen the insanity lingering in her eyes, in her face, but her entire body contorted with the force of it, and her magic saturated the air, filling it with a disturbing, foul taste.
"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU'RE DEAD! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" Without her saying a spell, a whirlwind appeared around her, tossing even the remaining Sluagh through the air. Merlin shielded himself with one arm desperately. Pushing out her hands, everyone within a twenty-foot radius was thrown back, including Merlin.
Without the strengthening spell to protect himself, his head hit stone with a crack, and the warlock saw stars. He could hear harsh panting, screaming, and the magic faded—had Morgana worn herself out? Merlin knew he wouldn't last much longer, not with how he was punishing his body, but she too had to be tired. "Bedyrne! Astyre banonweard!" Morgana shouted, and Merlin recognized it as the spell Morgause had used to take herself and Morgana away from Camelot.
The witch had fled.
Merlin struggled to his feet in the pelting rain. The storm had gotten away from him, and the spell, no longer maintained by Morgana's mages, had given way. The sky would grow lighter now, once the clouds had spent themselves.
You will leave, Merlin ordered the Sluagh. Surely they would listen now that so many of them were dead. His head spun—it was difficult to concentrate, and he didn't think he could hit one if he tried. Reaching out to their malevolence and evil wasn't pleasant, but he wanted them gone. They had caused death and destruction despite all he had done to stop them, and it made him sick. Sick in his stomach, sick in his heart, like a disease that had spread from one organ to the next.
I have killed scores of you today, but for those of you that remain, your deaths will be far more painful than the mercies given by fire or lightning. He couldn't make good on the threat, but all that mattered was that they believed it.
So he called on his coldest tone, channeling Sigan and Edwin and Nimueh and even Morgana—all of the powerful, evil sorcerers he had met. This time, he would be the evil one, even though his muscles longed to give out, only held up by branches of his magic, even though his eyes drooped and his brain filled with fog. He forced himself to seem strong, to straighten. He was a threat.
You will return to Flæsc. If I find you here after this, the minutes you have left will be spent in agony. You will not linger in Camelot or anywhere in this realm. You will go back. I will not open a portal for you or coerce you to enter: this is your one and only warning. If you leave, you live. If you stay, you die. He didn't know how many of their twisted skeletons lay in the courtyard, how many had he killed, so many, too many and not enough, not enough because how many had died?
Silence met his answer. He heard no more giggling, no more flaps of wings. Nothing. Until—
As you wish, Emrys. You have staked your claim over this dominion quite clearly. We will take our hunger elsewhere. He sensed no lie in the words, and most of the remaining Sluagh were satiated with the feast they'd had. Merlin didn't know if they would be able to find any body whole enough for a proper burial.
And the presence, the malevolence, was gone. It must've been easier for them to go home than it was for them to leave. Merlin collapsed to his hands and knees, his bluff over. Everything was over. Not just the battle, but everything. His life would never be the same, and he was too tired to hope it would change for the better.
This was it.
Footsteps. The remaining knights were surrounding him—he saw no familiar faces. Where were Leon and Percival and Elyan? Gwaine and Lancelot? Arthur? Had they lived? Died? Tears stung his eyes. He was so, so tired.
"—What do we do with him?" one knight asked—Sir Hugo, Merlin thought. Hugo had been kind to him; on one of his first campaigns, he had shown Merlin stretches to get the knots out of his back from riding so much. "We can't just leave him be!"
"You saw what he did to those beasts," another hissed. That was Sir Kendrick. Kendrick was meaner than Hugo. "We had best wait for the prince regent. He was over that way, last I saw him. One of us should go fetch him."
"I can't believe it," Sir Mave said. Mave had poor footwork—Merlin knew because Arthur often compared it to his own. "Merlin, of all people… A servant, and Prince Arthur's, to boot."
"Gentlemen," a voice called—and this one, Merlin realized with mingled dread and relief, belonged to Sir Leon. "Stand aside. The prince comes." They seemed to do so, to Merlin's hazy vision. Everything was wobbly.
"Does he know—" Kendrick began, but Leon cut him off.
"Yes," the first captain said curtly.
And then there was Arthur, alive and whole, and Merlin wanted to weep, wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to say he'd been planning to tell him. It seemed like every emotion he'd ever felt was trying to rise in him, but it all just became one jumbled mess, sinking from his heart to his gut and rising back again all the way to his head, making him dizzy and ill.
The battle was over, but Merlin didn't know what would happen next. The warlock couldn't look into his prince's face, couldn't see the hurt and anger he knew would be there. He remembered the hallucination, the soft press of lips to his own.
(But if it had been a dream, how had he gotten to the guest chambers?)
He was shaking again, delirious from blood loss and wracked with anxiety.
"Sire," Hugo said, "he ran the witch off. I don't know what scheme he—"
Arthur raised a hand, forestalling any more. "Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot," he said, and for the first time Merlin realized his friend was behind the prince, brow furrowed with worry. He looked hale. "Arrest the sorcerer and escort him to the dungeons."
There was no malice in his voice—in fact, it was said gently, almost soothingly. No anger. Merlin tried to speak, but nothing came. He had rehearsed this moment in his head for years, but when it was finally time, there was nothing.
There had been no coldness in those words, but still, Merlin's heart broke.
Arthur couldn't believe what he'd just done. He'd kissed Merlin—Merlin, of all people, who might be dying, shaking in the guest chambers above... And Arthur, Prince Regent of Camelot, had kissed him!
But when he'd looked at the man, swathed in blankets and so ill because of what he'd done to protect the kingdom... And Arthur hadn't known if he would see him again, alive and well... He'd regretted so much: regretted not telling him about the diary, regretted not thanking him properly, regretted how he had treated him... And a feverish sort of desperation had overcome him, the regret of never—never telling Merlin how much he meant to his prince…
So he'd pressed his lips to Merlin's cold mouth in a plea, in a promise. In an acknowledgement of the feelings he had never dared acknowledge. For how could he have? By the time he'd had the slightest inkling of them, he had already been courting Gwen. So he'd shoved the thoughts of how charming and attractive the man could be to the back of his mind, shoved them so deep he had forgotten they'd ever existed at all.
But they had resurfaced, dredged up by these overwhelming, new emotions for his manservant—awe, gratitude, and an ache of sympathy. He still felt like he didn't properly understand the man, but it didn't matter; he understood the important pieces. He understood the bravery and compassion and selflessness, and by God, Arthur realized, I'm in love with him.
How could he be in love with Merlin? He was in love with Guinevere, a woman who was compassionate and brave in her own way. His feelings for her hadn't dimmed, but he'd kissed another—a man and one of her best friends, no less. How could he face her now and tell her he loved her? Had it been a lie, a sham?
But no—he did love her, loved her wholly and with all his heart. She was level-headed and kind and just a bit shy. Only, he loved Merlin, too. He wondered at choosing between them, but perhaps his behavior proved he was worthy of neither. Perhaps he was destined to be alone, without a partner because he'd spoiled his own relationships.
Beyond all of these thoughts, Arthur couldn't believe he was having them in the midst of a crisis. Camelot was about to fall to Morgana and her forces, and here he was worried about his love life. He had moved briefly from the battle in order to check and see that his friend—and greatest asset—was okay, not to have—this.
Priorities, Arthur, he ordered himself, moving faster down the stairs. If he lived through this, he could figure things out. The sounds of battle raged outside, and he was glad to see that his knights had held, though it wasn't their doing alone—random pieces of equipment had been enchanted. Certain shields would deflect magic; others had swords or maces that would wound a Sluagh, where regular steel only irritated the creatures.
Knights that had such equipment were ordered to the front, defending the castle from the invaders. The enchanted armor and weapons made them uneasy, but they were practical men—they would use the magic, for now, so long as it helped them defeat the greater enemy. Archers still harried Morgana's forces, some of their arrows exploding or alighting on impact.
Still, Arthur thought Morgana could've gotten through had she tried harder. The Sluagh attacked brutally, but without proper coordination, although their very presence disturbed the men—forms that never seemed to settle, changing out of the corner of their eyes. A palpable evil, like a thick miasma in the air—many of Arthur's men had been sick, though they seemed to have adjusted somewhat. The shield had helped.
Morgana's mages, formed up behind her, hardly fought except to lob a spell at Arthur or his knights every so often. His sister seemed to be reveling in their helplessness and desperation. Arthur, having reached the courtyard, looked out at her from behind the safety of his line. He'd drawn Excalibur on his race to get to the battle, and he held it ready, his eyes darting over the chaos. It was difficult to make everything out, even with the light from the put-up shield.
The sense of safety Merlin's magic had brought had dampened the Sluagh's own vicious malice, though the prince still felt vaguely ill at the feeling.
"Sire!" Leon called, falling back from the line. "Your orders?" The cut on the knight's leg was neither deep nor long, thankfully, and he walked well enough.
Arthur cleared his voice to make it loud enough so that everyone would hear. "My orders stand!" he bellowed. "We fight for Camelot until the last man!"
"For Camelot!" his men echoed. It rippled through the ranks, and they held firm, even as they were picked off by attacks from above, even as they watched their friends and family and people they knew be eaten alive by the Sluagh, their souls devoured.
For his part, Arthur began to ward off the Sluagh with Excalibur. His sword stood apart from the others Merlin had enchanted; the blade only had to touch the beasts and they crumpled to foul-smelling ash. He waded in among the knights, defending them from the attacks and trusting them to watch his back.
The beasts soon grew wary of him—and Arthur could hardly articulate their forms more than this, because his mind couldn't seem to choose an image of them to keep inside his head. One moment the Sluagh would seem like snakes, worming through the sky on leathery wings. Another moment they were shaped like wolves, all mangy fur and long, long limbs ending in sharp talons. But the teeth were always there, and the laughter was always there.
The prince crouched. He'd taken up a shield and did his best to hide beneath it, only leaving to lunge at the Sluagh. He cut one's horrible voice off mid-giggle, and it dissolved into ash that got into his mouth and face. Arthur had no time to think, never mind wipe it off, and he continued to strike as best he could.
The Sluagh avoided him, choosing instead to take easier opponents. But occassionally their victims had a surprise up their sleeve—a surprise for both the Sluagh and the knight. Arthur's men could still not identify the swords that were enchanted by sight alone—Merlin had been too clever for that. The only way they discovered this was when they engaged with one of the creatures. This was the only way the creatures found out, too.
"You won't last much longer!" Morgana called over the din, voice likely enhanced by magic. "Why not surrender and spare the ones who remain? I can promise them a swift death, more merciful than being torn apart and eaten."
The prince gave no answer, and he knew his men were no cowards to be tempted by the offer.
But it was true that they wouldn't last. They'd been forced back, through the streets of Camelot, by Morgana and her army—which, at less than a thousand total, was perhaps not to be called such. His men had been picked off from above all the while, killed and devoured, as they had retreated toward the castle. And here, in the courtyard, they were just barely defending the entrance.
The battle had been swift—it had not yet been three hours—but already Arthur's men had been reduced drastically. Upon the wall's initial fall, Morgana's mages had killed hundreds with waves of flame, though they seemed to have less of this reserve, now. And Arthur's larger force couldn't be used properly in the close confines—he'd tried sending them around to force Morgana between two forces, but the Sluagh had made such a tactic impossible. Arthur had sent a good number of soldiers to their death.
So here they were, and the prince's only hope was passed out in the castle. Not that Arthur blamed Merlin—these were impossible odds, simply impossible. He doubted that the warlock could overcome them even if he were to wake.
The prince continued to fight, trying not to think about his doomed kingdom. Morgana made no further taunts, though he could sense triumph in her silence. Arthur grew fatigued as he sliced at Sluagh, trying desperately to save his remaining men from the gruesome fate. It was grim, awkward work to always aim straight up and fight an enemy that was so flexible in its movement. His neck and shoulder ached from the familiar movement. The shouts and laughter and steel resounded in his ears, and it would've been monotonous had it not been so chaotic.
But this rhythm was broken when thunder roared across the landscape—louder than anything Arthur had ever heard—accompanied by brilliant white lightning. A scream—animal, a horse—and shouting—but from the enemy—Arthur could hardly see, blinded as he was by the lightning—it had to have been magical—
Merlin.
The knights' voices shouted all around him, barely heard over the ringing in his ears.
"Did you see—"
"The aim wasn't quite right—"
"The sorcerer! He's here, he's come to kill as all—"
Merlin must have struck something; Arthur couldn't see from where he was. He needed to find Leon, change his plan to factor in Merlin. Merlin. How had he done this? He'd seemed half-dead when Arthur had left him in the guest chambers, content that he would be safe, at least for a time. How could one man have so much power? To put up a shield, to enchant, to summon lightning. How? How?
None of the men around Arthur seemed to have figured out where the sorcerer was; that was good. But they were still distracted, as though they weren't in the middle of battle.
"Fight!" Arthur bellowed. "Hold the shields, damn you!" The knights reacted immediately to his words, as they were trained to do. And just in time—the Sluagh came diving from above—they must have been as blinded as the knights had been—but they raked their claws across the shield—and then—
More lightning, all in succession. Arthur let himself move, knowing that Merlin wouldn't hit anyone that wasn't an enemy. He moved so that he was behind his line, glancing wildly around for Leon; they had to figure out how best to use this—
And great sheets of rain began to come down, obscuring visibility. The smoke that had been lingering in the air—Morgana had set fire to the lower town as she harried them through it—dissipated. She had to be distracted; the Sluagh had to be distracted. They wouldn't get a better chance, and Merlin would cover them.
The prince raced toward the front line, trying not to slip in the mixture of ash, blood, and water on the ground. "Charge!" he called when he reached it, and he saw Morgana's mages—he could see them now, and the witch's horse was gone, a blackened corpse. They raised up their hands to cast something, but the stones beneath them trembled. They were knocked to the ground, and Arthur kept running, trying to keep the momentum.
The mages and knights clashed, swords flashing in the light, screams as the mages were cut down. Arthur himself gutted one, sliced another, and stabbed a third. It made him sick, to kill so wantonly, but the mages began to retreat, and—where was Morgana?
The Sluagh, which had begun to dive for the exposed knights, were struck by brilliant arcs of lightning, though Merlin couldn't get them all. Arthur was again shocked—and awed—that the man was even able to fight at all. Had magic been involved in his recovery?
Well, no time for that now. Ordinarily, Arthur would've sent a contingent of knights after the fleeing sorcerers, but he needed them all here to defend the castle from the remaining Sluagh—and Morgana, who hadn't run with the rest.
A few Sluagh rushed him from above, seeking to overwhelm him, but he thrust his sword at one, catching its—leg? Tail?—and it dissolved into ash. The other two didn't wait, and one caught him on the forehead as he killed the other.
The one who'd wounded him shrieked, winging away, but Arthur thought he saw a glimpse of a long tongue lapping at his blood on its talons, and he held back bile. He'd watched them swallow limbs and heads—and a strange nothingness, a distortion, which had to be the soul—and he was about to lose his lunch over blood?
Arthur turned back, about to shout for his men to re-group on the castle's steps to allow Merlin to pick the remaining Sluagh off, when a great whoosh of flame erupted from within the courtyard. Morgana? Merlin? The prince feared the latter; the kingdom wasn't ready—he wasn't ready. He didn't have a plan for this. His plan had been to wait.
"Fall back!" Arthur ordered. "Defend the castle, and back into formation! Don't let the beasts take you so easily!" The knights did as ordered, but the Sluagh seemed to be ignoring them, instead drawn to the noise of the courtyard. The prince watched in shock as one, a good hundred or so feet away, went up in a torrent of flame. Merlin, it had to be—here. Something began to constrict around Arthur's chest. The prince would have to help him flee, then, at least while his father still lived. To Ealdor, with a horse, a bag of coins. But would Merlin consent to that?
The constriction curled up to his throat, and he followed the men back toward the castle. He was so distracted he was an easy target, but the Sluagh were themselves distracted enough—or perhaps wary enough of his sword—to leave him be.
Oh, God, Merlin is here. Here, performing magic, indisputably, in front of dozens of knights. He spotted Leon, Lancelot, and Gwaine among the throng of knights, and the three drew closer to him, carefully keeping an eye on the sky.
"What do you think is happening, sire?" Leon asked, looking in the direction of the noise. It was hard to see or hear with the rain, and a throng of men blocked their view besides. "Is it—the other sorcerer?"
Arthur couldn't make his mouth move; he just shook his head, perhaps a little too vigorously. A plan, a plan. What could make an entire kingdom support the innocence of man they had seen commit a crime punishable by death? His mind raced.
Some will give him a chance by virtue of him having saved them… Others still will accuse him of only saving his own skin, or having some nefarious scheme… But… If they had indisputable evidence that he had only ever served Camelot…
He thought back to his lessons, obscure precedents he'd read with Geoffrey when he'd been sixteen or so summers. Would that be enough? His father had murdered thousands, condemning hundreds more to live in fear of execution and torture. Would the stronger precedent win out?
But in light of the evidence… What evidence is there, besides this…
It would be tricky to do such a thing, but Arthur would convince them—convince Camelot—that Merlin deserved to live. Deserved more than that, really, for all he had done. He had promised to see to it, so see to it he would, father be damned. Was he not acting king? Prince regent? It was well within his right to demand such things.
"—sire! Sire!" A knight was calling his name, urgent; Arthur snapped to the present. He could not afford to be so lost in thought in the midst of battle. Again, he had lost himself.
"Yes, man?" It was Sir Bolton, a young noble's son.
"The sorcerer—Morgana—they're—it's your manservant, my lord!" the knight finally stammered out, over the noise of the lightning and rain and shouts. Arthur felt himself pale beneath the dirt and grime, and he was only glad no one could see very well; he had a feeling it was not anger showing on his face.
He schooled his expression as Leon stared at the knight incredulously.
"Merlin? Merlin is the sorcerer? How—are you certain?" his first knight demanded, and Arthur recalled that Leon would have been too young to remember times clearly before the purge—many of his knights and soldiers were too young—war was a young man's game—
"I saw him casting spells with my own two eyes, sir," the knight said, in deference to Leon's rank. "He flung lightning and fire about without so much as blinking. Sire, please, what shall we do? He and the witch are… Well, we could not easily arrest and take either prisoner in the present state of things."
"I think it best we get under cover," Arthur said, delaying the question. "You will tell me in detail what you have seen." Enough to buy time—could it really be time to put this all into motion? After a month of secrecy, after a month of exhaustion, was it really time? And after all of it—Merlin had ended up revealing himself anyway.
To protect you, Arthur. You and Camelot—you cannot forget that. No, he wouldn't forget. Surely everyone could be made to see…
He and the other two knights made their way under the shelter of the roof, so that the Sluagh would have a harder time abducting them. Here, Arthur saw Gwaine, roughly bandaging a weeping cut along with a handful of other men who were not so badly off they couldn't still fight.
"Princess!" Gwaine called, tone far too gleeful for the circumstances. "How goes the battle? We can hardly tell in this storm."
Before Arthur could make some kind of answer—still he didn't know what—Leon stepped in. "The witch's mages have been routed, and the sorcerer picks off the Sluagh when he can—he is fighting Morgana presently. Only—"
"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Gwaine came closer, and he finally seemed to notice Leon's solemn mood. A talon had scraped across the knight's upper arm, and the bleeding was sluggish, Arthur was satisfied to note. "Why so glum? We are winning, aren't we, even if some sorcerer is helping—"
"It's Merlin!" Leon exclaimed, with hardly more courtesy than the knight had had in telling him. "The sorcerer—it's Merlin."
Gwaine's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped; for once, it seemed, he didn't have anything to say. He glanced from Arthur to Leon as if suspecting some sort of joke, but the prince couldn't think of anything less funny at the moment.
"I think you had better tell us in more detail what you saw," Arthur said to Bolton. He said it quietly, but firmly, and the knight's adam's apple bobbed uncertainly.
"Yes. Right," he said. "Well, we were near Morgana, sire, and we had thought we might gang up on her—to get her to follow the rest of her sorcerers, you see, but before we could, the sorcerer—that is, Merlin—came plummeting from above. He must've been targeting the beasts from atop one of the towers. He hit the ground, but he appeared uninjured—" Arthur tried to give no audible sigh of relief, but it was a near thing—"In fact, I think the ground cracked a little—had to have been some kind of spell, sire.
"And then, well, he and the witch began to yell and throw spells at each other, and we didn't know whether we should try to stop them, sire. We all know magic's evil, but Merlin had to be the one who put the shield up—saved our hides, in my opinion, pardon my saying so, sire. And I myself got one of the magic swords—" Here, he sort of fingered the hilt guiltily—"So we just sort of let them fight," he finished lamely. "And I thought someone had better run to tell you, my lord, seeing as he's—well."
Seeing as he's your manservant, Arthur finished in his head.
"You did well," the prince said, clapping him on the shoulder. He looked to the other two, trying to gauge their feelings on the matter. Leon's face was pinched: he was clearly upset. Gwaine's was uncharacteristically hard to read. "What do you think, sir Leon?"
His first knight looked surprised to be asked; their usual course of action was that Arthur came up with an idea, then the knight's opinion was consulted. Leon cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't rightly know. It's just… Merlin. All that time—except, how long has he—" He cut himself off.
"We should help him," Gwaine put in. "If for no other reason than 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' We've no idea of his intentions, but he has yet to try and level Camelot to the ground, which is a sight better than Morgana."
The prince couldn't tell if this logic was offered because Gwaine was upset with the lies and the magic, or whether the knight was hiding his true feelings on the matter. Gwaine had never professed to be outwardly anti-magic, but neither had he seemed to advocate for it—not that he could openly support such things in Camelot.
Leon nodded, looking to Arthur. "I cannot help but agree, sire. Usually I would not advocate for supporting an unknown magical factor, even briefly, but the witch's threat isn't to be ignored."
The prince found himself relieved: if his knights thought so, after all the pain magic had caused them, perhaps there was hope yet that other minds might be persuaded. "I think we have our course, then. We shall help the sorcerer—for now." He added that last bit mostly for their benefit, not for his. Arthur simply couldn't reveal how far his opinions had swung, from the spectrum of hatred to—to—
Well. He had said he wouldn't worry about that now.
"And then?" Leon asked, which had to be on their minds. "He manipulated lightning, sire—we can't easily contain something like that." It didn't escape Arthur that he'd said something and not someone. "And that is supposing he even manages to kill Morgana—or run her off."
"Are there not cuffs for such powerful sorcerers?" Bolton said. "The king says they are made of a special material that binds a sorcerer's magic."
Arthur refused to consider it. Merlin wouldn't run, not if Arthur explained it all to him—which he would, which he was going to do, just as soon as they got out of this blasted nightmare. Even if Arthur didn't explain it to him, Merlin wouldn't run anyway. And the prince hoped their earlier conversation would allay any anxiety Merlin had over it.
The prince shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." He said it more severely than perhaps he meant to, because Gwaine's eyes went even wider.
"You can't just kill him in the courtyard," the knight said, barely reigning in a panicked, angry tone. "Are you going to stab him in the back, like some kind of coward?" he demanded.
Leon stepped forward. "Gwaine, you go to far; you can't speak to him like that. Merlin has broken the law, and the sentence is death. If the prince regent chooses to—"
Arthur held up a hand, forestalling further conversation. "That was not my meaning, Gwaine. You misunderstood. Should Merlin prevail—" And although Arthur was worried about his health, for he'd looked like death warmed over when last he'd seen him, he had no doubt Merlin would prevail, should it cost him his life. Not that Arthur would allow it to come to that. "—we will not be having an immediate execution."
The tension in Gwaine's shoulders relaxed. Arthur longed to tell him they would not be having an execution at all, but there were too many prying ears. He would have to assemble his most trusted knights, tell them everything. Well, perhaps not everything. Most things.
"Sire, you can't mean—" Knight began, but he was interrupted as a blast of terrific wind slammed into their sides, even from under their cover. It came not from above but from the area where Morgana and Merlin were fighting; it had to have been magic. It nearly swept Arthur off his feet, and it made Gwaine stumble. Bolton fell. But the wind passed as quickly as it had come, and Leon helped the young knight back to his feet.
Without a word, they all rushed to see what had happened. Arthur's mind raced with possibilities. Had Morgana cast the spell? If she had, Merlin must have received most of the blast, knocked through the air. And if it had been Merlin… Why would he have used a spell that risked doing harm to his allies?
As they went, the prince noticed a distinct lack of Sluagh—he could make out twisted forms high above—the clouds had lessened, slightly, letting in a little light. Some of the Sluagh were rising above even the shield, trapping themselves outside their feast.
Arthur worried that they were off to terrorize the rest of his kingdom, the outlying towns much less prepared than Camelot to fend off an attack… But Merlin would not have let them go, if that had been the case. Unless he'd been incapacitated…
Somewhere along the way, Lancelot had found his way to their party, his face unreadable. Likely he was hiding his concern, same as Arthur. Their way was blocked by a throng of knights, their attention centered on something Arthur couldn't see—but he had a feeling he knew who it was, regardless.
"Gentlemen," Leon called. "Stand aside. The prince comes." The knights parted before them, each looking at their bedraggled regent. Arthur knew he was not so imposing as they might have hoped, but his intent wasn't exactly to intimidate Merlin. Considering their earlier conversation—and the kiss, Arthur thought with a wince—the warlock would likely be more confused and upset than anything else.
"Does he know—" Kendrick, who was near the front, began. Arthur could almost see—he craned his neck—
"Yes," the first captain said curtly.
And then there was Merlin, alive and whole, and Arthur wanted to run to him because he looked like hell. Blood caked the right side of his face, and Arthur couldn't tell where he was cut. Likewise, blood ran down his arm and side—from his shoulder, Arthur thought, but it was difficult to tell. He was trembling, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from blood loss.
Arthur tried to catch his eye, but the man refused to look at him. And his eyes—they were burning a steady gold, the color a match to the shield above—they didn't even flicker, not like flames. Was he casting some kind of spell, even now?
The prince didn't know. Why wouldn't he look at him? Surely he had to know that Arthur wasn't angry with him, not after the prince had carried him out of the cavern and put him safely out of the way.
It didn't matter. All that mattered was his plan, and Merlin would play his part well, intentionally or not.
"Sire," Hugo said, "he ran the witch off. I don't know what scheme he—"
Arthur raised a hand, forestalling any more. Merlin would be an example—a way to free Merlin and all the other sorcerers in one fell swoop. Changing such a law immediately, when he was not yet king… Even if he had been, repealing the ban would have been a lot of work, not in the least because he would require justification.
But the justification was here—it was all here. Merlin was the justification. Merlin's actions would defend themselves, would defend magic. The means were clear—as was the sentence: nothing but clemency and a reward. But the how—the how finally came to Arthur.
"Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot," he said. "Arrest the sorcerer and escort him to the dungeons."
There would be a trial. A public trial, one Arthur already knew the outcome of, so perhaps something of a worthless trial from a judicial standpoint. But a trial nonetheless, to convince everyone, once and for all, that magic—and Merlin—deserved to be free.
AN: And that's the last chapter (only an epilogue left)! Thank you all so much for the response. I hope the climax didn't disappoint (and don't worry: like I said, there's gonna be a sequel (spoilers: it's gonna be called The Trial)). Also, if any of you are confused about the pairing, I list it in the warnings on Chapter One. I figured with so much Arwen you deserved some Merthur too. We are basically caught up to what I have pre-written, so updates might be slower.
This was supposed to be out earlier, and while I could blame it on work or school, the truth is I was playing a lot of Animal Crossing instead of editing... Sorry. :/ Questions: How was the climax? Did you like the two POVs? Was the fighting written okay? Are Arthur and Merlin's feelings clear? What about the magic? Also, I re-arranged some stuff in editing, so please let me know if there are weird/confusing typos.