A/N: And now the moment we have all been waiting for—CARTHIS! Welcome, one and all! Sorry it took so damn long to get to this point! Enjoy...
**EDITED**
The city of Carthis was enclosed by a wall which towered higher than any Camelot could ever have hoped to build, snaking its way around it in a near perfect circle of graceful white stone. Along the top were ranged a number of guards in a dark uniform accented with that same royal blue, some with crossbows or longbows in hand and others not requiring mundane weapons, all treading their patrol routes and keeping a keen eye on the city streets spread out beneath them like a map.
A ripple of motion ran down the line as the guards caught sight of the party making its way toward them and each turned to inform the one beside him. By the time the small travelling party reached the elaborate wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to the city, the message of their arrival had been passed along to the gate's keepers and it was opening wide to admit them.
The gates, tall as they may have been, were probably not nearly as intimidating as they felt to Merlin, but in his apprehension they seemed to be closing in on him from above as he passed through them, looming over him and threatening to collapse and trap him there. They did no such thing, of course, and Merlin made it through unscathed and feeling a little foolish for his irrational fear.
The guards were watching them curiously, some even going so far as to lean over the balustrade to get a better view of the men accompanying their Foremost Mage. Merlin ducked his head against their looks, very conscious of the three days' worth of the dust and dirt kicked up by the horses' hooves that coated him from head to toe, of the threadbare quality of the tatty old neckerchief that had been in his possession since before he had left Ealdor for Camelot eleven years ago, of the place in which a very determined rat had managed to gnaw a hole through the side of his left boot despite the spells he had put in place to prevent just that.
He did not want to be examined by these people, did not want this to be their first impression of the man who would soon be their king. He held on to the hope that they didn't yet know who he was, despite the fact that they had most likely known of Gerund's search and of the person he was seeking and were drawing their own conclusions as to his identity.
Though they were more likely to suspect Mordred of being someone important than him; Mordred had stowed his red cloak in his saddlebags, but he still wore the chainmail that marked him as a knight of somewhere.
The town built around the base of the castle was not a whole lot different from the lower town of Camelot. The houses weren't as ramshackle as the ones to which he was accustomed, as they were no doubt held together with a touch of magic, but they were still packed closely together on either side of the main road, interspersed with stalls and carts and barrels of wares that comprised the marketplace. Even though the light was beginning to fade from the sky, the day already drawing to a close, there were still people out and about on the streets, attending to their business while they still had the time to do so.
There was a thin woman with a gauzy scarf wrapped around her hair using magic to levitate a large jug of water from the well, clearly unable to have lifted it by hand, who passed them by. A very old man with a walking stick propped on his knee sat in the doorway of his house with a gaggle of small and very excited children at his feet, entertaining them by conjuring a shower of sparks from his fingertips and forming them into different shapes at the children's eager requests.
As Merlin watched, a young girl with freshly laundered linens piled high in her arms stumbled over a rock in the street and the pile began to teeter dangerously. It was steadied from afar by a young man's hastily called spell. Once she regained her grip and her balance, the girl smiled at him with a blush staining her cheeks and he smiled back shyly, tipping his hat to her.
All around him was magic being used out in the open, freely and without restraint. No one ducked their heads to hide the shift in the color of their eyes, no one lowered their voices when they incanted a spell, no one looked over their shoulder before they spoke. People were helping each other with magic, not hesitating to offer their skills or to accept someone else's in return. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could for a moment, stars appearing behind his eyelids, and then opened them again to make sure that he wasn't dreaming.
But the scene had not changed and he had to blink back the tears that threatened to fall, struggling to breathe through the sudden constriction of his chest, nearly overcome by the sight of something that he had always considered to be all but impossible, an idle fantasy, an unrealistic ideal. It had been so long since he had truly believed that he and Arthur could achieve all that the prophecies said that they were going to; he hadn't realized just how hopeless he had become until he saw his goal lain out in front of him and found that he had never truly expected to live long enough to see it become a reality.
The people on the streets called out greetings to Gerund as they passed him and the mage responded to each in kind, waving and returning their smiles and calling each and every one of them by name. He was obviously well-loved among the people in the lower town, his manner friendly and approachable, treating each person that he encountered as his equal and therefore worthy of respect.
Merlin wondered if his father would have been the same, if he would have been the sort of king to mingle with his people and speak to them individually, to look them all in the eye and listen closely to what they had to say. Would he have been as loved by his people as his best friend now was had he not been forced into reclusion to become the bitter and jaded man whom Merlin had known for such a brief time? He hoped that would have been the case, but they would never know.
Overall, the city seemed to be a happy place, but there was an undercurrent of tension, a sort of wariness just below the jovial surface that added a nervous energy to everyone's movements. It was no doubt the product of the death of their queen, of the uncertainty that came with having no one on the throne and the worry that someone would try to seize it by force. There were more guards ranged around the city proper than were strictly necessary, and more were set in place at the base of the palace, their eyes scanning the crowds cautiously for any sign of trouble.
These guards parted without hesitation, though, to let Gerund and his guests into the courtyard of the palace, whispers springing up in the wake of their passage. A small crowd was gathering around them, far enough back so as not to be intrusive but near enough that it was clear that they were hoping to overhear any conversation that might pass between them.
Gerund ignored them and led Merlin and Mordred toward what were most likely the royal stables. He swung himself down from his gelding and passed the reins off to a waiting stable hand, indicating that they should do the same. When they had, he told the boy to make sure that their steeds were treated with the utmost respect and care, and ordered that their things be taken to the best chambers in the west wing. The boy looked a bit taken aback at this order, his gaze flicking back over them as if he was reconsidering his opinion of them, but he hastened to obey anyway.
Gerund led them up the long flight of steps to a set of wide double doors which were opened for them by another pair of uniformed guards. Merlin trailed in after him, trying not to cower away from the eyes he felt on his back. The castle was more spacious than Camelot's, brightly lit by tall windows spaced evenly down the corridors. The chambermaids they passed nodded to Gerund and watched them all curiously as the three of them made their way toward the center of the castle.
Much sooner than Merlin would have hoped for, they stood before the doors to the council chambers, hearing the low murmur of voices from the meeting taking place within. He felt like he might be sick, his stomach currently trying to force its way out of his mouth but not quite able to fight its way past the heart that was stuck in his throat. He straightened his clothing with shaking hands and attempted to fix the way his hair was sticking up in the back despite the fact that he had determined that to be a lost cause a long time ago.
"Now, remember, Merlin," Gerund said, turning to clasp his shoulder. "You have every right to be here. The blood of kings runs through your veins. Don't let anyone persuade you otherwise."
Merlin swallowed audibly but nodded anyway; he didn't feel like he had the blood of kings, but like someone had replaced his bones with jelly. Gerund held his eye a moment longer, trying to give him courage by that alone. Then he gestured to the guards and they pulled the doors wide.
The council room contained a long, narrow table which had carvings that might have been runes or symbols of the Old Religion along its edges. It was lined with high backed chairs of a similar make and style. Seated in them were men—and a number of women, Merlin was surprised to see—wearing long blue robes similar to the cloak that Gerund still had slung around his shoulders, each with the crest stitched on the left side of the chest.
Merlin felt rather clumsily for the signet ring in his pocket, for the tangible proof of his paternity and his claim to the throne and his right to be in this place at all, tracing the ridges of the minute dragons' scales and the swirls of fire on the band. The conversation the councilors had been in the middle of faltered and died almost immediately upon their entrance as all eyes turned toward the sudden intrusion into their meeting.
"Sir Gerund," a very old and rather rotund man seated near the head of the table said as he clambered laboriously to his feet. "You have returned."
"That I have, Lord Melbourne," Gerund said, lowering his head in a respectful greeting which the Lord stiffly returned.
"You were not gone long," a man closer to Merlin's own age, perhaps a few years older, said from the middle of the table where he was leaning back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the table's edge in a repetitive pattern. "I take it that you have finally been forced to acknowledge the futility of this ridiculous search of yours?"
A few other members of the council chuckled, as if this was a long running joke among them. A muscle in Gerund's temple jumped sporadically as he clenched his jaw but he displayed no other outward sides of irritation.
"Far from it," he said calmly. "My ridiculous search was, in fact, a success."
The mirth faded at this statement, uncertainty creeping up on the faces of various councilors while others scoffed and exchanged sidelong looks of skepticism with their neighbors. None of them paid the slightest bit of attention to either Merlin or Mordred at Gerund's back.
"A success?" the young lord repeated with a bark of laughter. He rose to his feet with the swagger of a man certain of his place in the world. "You mean to say that you actually found this mysterious heir that you are so determined to believe exists?"
"There was never any doubt as to his existence, Lord Ellison," Gerund said, his polite tone noticeably forced now. "A new dragon was hatched in the time since the late prince's death."
"There are still plenty of people with the affinity, Gerund," Ellison drawled with an unconcerned gesture of his hand.
"A new dragon can only be called forth from its egg by a Dragonlord in full possession of his powers, as you well know," Gerund snapped impatiently. "No one with an affinity, no matter how strong, could have accomplished such a deed."
Ellison raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, apparently conceding the point as one for which he did not have a rebuttal, but he smiled indulgently around at the other councilors as if he were only humoring Gerund. Merlin didn't understand this talk of affinities, but he understood there was something else going on here, some history he was missing where this Lord was concerned.
"And you claim to have found this man?" Ellison asked, his voice practically dripping with doubt. "You have actually located the heir of our late, great Prince Balinor?"
Merlin bristled at the delicate slight underlining his words, the sarcastic lilt he put on the word great, and he saw Gerund clench his fists tightly by his sides as well.
"Yes," the mage gritted out. "I have."
Ellison moved toward them, his hands spread wide in an all-encompassing gesture that was both an invitation and a challenge. It was the same motion Arthur had made in Merlin's very first encounter with him, back when he was arrogant and cocksure, completely certain of his superiority and looking to bait his opponent into humiliating himself.
Ellison looked around the room, eyes passing right over the two men standing directly behind Gerund without the slightest pause. He still had a smug little half-smile on his face; while his demeanor was reminiscent of a young Arthur, that smile reminded Merlin so strongly of Agravaine, of the way he would smirk behind Arthur's back when he knew something was going to go badly, that he had to clamp down on the sudden urge to obliterate the man where he stood.
"Well?" Lord Ellison prompted. "We're waiting. Where is this long lost prince of yours?"
That was his cue. Merlin stepped forward to stand at Gerund's right hand. Ellison glanced over at him briefly as he moved, but almost immediately returned his expectant gaze to Gerund, evidently still waiting for him to produce a prince. The obvious dismissal pricked at his pride and Merlin straightened his stance instinctively, pulling his shoulders back and raising his head high.
He did belong here, he could feel it in his bones. There was something in the runes inscribed on the council table, lingering in the air itself, in the very stones beneath his feet, some remnant of the ancient magic that had shaped and laid them, that recognized Merlin's own magic as kin. It called to him, resonating deep within his soul and lending steel to his spine. He belonged here, in the home of his forefathers, and he would not be looked down upon in his own castle.
"That would be me," he said, and his voice, strong and clear, much more so than he would have expected it to be just a few moments ago, seemed to echo around the chamber. His indignation had washed away any lingering fear, at least for the moment.
Ellison did look at him this time, allowing his eyes to scan Merlin appraisingly from head to toe. His lip curled upward in displeasure at what he saw. He turned to Gerund with a raised eyebrow, not even bothering to dignify the claim by expressing his skepticism out loud.
"Lord Ellison, other esteemed members of the council," Gerund announced formally, addressing the statement to the room as a whole, "may I present to you all Prince Merlin Ambrosius, son of the late Crown Prince Balinor."
The addition of the surname caught Merlin a little off guard—he had never had a surname before, after all, low born as he had been and without a father whose name he could take in its stead—but he didn't allow his expression to show his surprise. Instead he stood tall and proud, meeting Lord Ellison's disbelieving eyes without flinching.
Then Ellison began to laugh.
"Surely, Sir Gerund, you do not expect us to believe that?" he asked through continued laughter.
Merlin's offense was mollified slightly by the fact that none of the other councilors seemed at all inclined to join in; they were looking between Gerund's face, hardened by anger at Lord Ellison's ill-mannered display, and Merlin's own, reading the solemnity there and realizing that it was no laughing matter.
"You claim that this…this boy," Ellison sneered, waving a hand at Merlin, "is the long-lost prince that you've spent the last month tracking down, the heir to the purest Dragonlord ability of them all? Ha!"
Gerund opened his mouth angrily but Merlin responded before he could, unable to let such an insult to his person go unanswered.
"This boy," he said with ice in his tone, "is no such thing. And if you will not do me the simple courtesy of addressing me directly, then I would ask that you at least refrain from such blatant disrespect while in my presence."
The silence that followed was strained and heavy with trepidation as Merlin and a no longer laughing Ellison locked eyes, staring each other down across the few feet that separated them. The councilors seemed to be holding their breath as they waited for Lord Ellison to react. He was looking at Merlin through narrowed eyes, their watery blue taking on a more considering edge as he reevaluated his opponent. A slow, sharp smile spread over his face and he dipped his head diffidently.
"My apologies, of course," he said in an overly gracious tone that spoke of anything but sincerity. "No offense was intended. I merely meant to express my surprise that the prince whom we have sought for so long would be so…"
He trailed off delicately, glancing down at Merlin's clothes, which were clearly of a quality so low that no one with noble blood could be expected to wear them, even during travel. Merlin would not allow himself to succumb to gestures of self-consciousness, not when there were evaluating stares pressing in on him from all sides.
He needed to project an air of confidence, of authority, the way Arthur always did. He needed to command the room with his presence alone. He needed to behave like a prince, like a king, even if he did not look like one, or they would never believe him to be capable of fulfilling the role.
"I will confess," he said in a tightly controlled voice, "that until recently I was ignorant of the fact that my father was born of a royal family."
The shocked murmurs that followed this admission were not unexpected; the implications of the statement were evident to anyone who knew what to listen for. The eldest of the council members, Lord Melbourne, spoke first, leaning heavily against the table.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
Merlin could practically hear the implied 'boy' at the end, held back only because of the scathing response he had given to Ellison.
"I mean exactly what I say," Merlin held, refusing to back down in the face of the man's obvious disdain. "Until yesterday, I did not know hardly anything of my father beyond the ability that he passed down to me upon his death nine years ago."
If they had suspected the truth from his previous statement, this one confirmed it, and the reactions all around the table were suitably scandalized.
"You would bring a bastard before this court and propose him fit to rule?" a heavy-set man with a ruddy face and a scowl demanded of Gerund, levering himself out of his seat and looking outraged by the very concept.
For the first time, Merlin was glad of the many years in his childhood for which "bastard" had been the first insult out of any bully's mouth, because it meant that he had long since stopped flushing with shame and indignation when the damning word was thrown in his face. When he had first arrived at Camelot he might have blustered his way straight into the dungeons had someone said such a thing to him, but now he bore the slur with little more than a slight clenching of his teeth.
"Really, Gerund, this is the alternative you present to us?" Ellison said. "Are you really so opposed to my rule that you would support a bastard in my stead?"
Merlin was shocked into finally looking in Gerund's direction; he had said nothing about there being another candidate to the throne.
"Merlin's claim is as strong as yours," Gerund insisted without returning Merlin's accusatory gaze, though he must have noticed it.
"The law states that only those children who are born of an observed marriage, or those who have been publically acknowledged and endorsed by their fathers, are eligible to rule," one of the ladies near the end of the table recited staunchly.
"And the law also states that only those of the house of Ambrosius may take the throne," Gerund argued. "There has never before been a ruler who was not either a Dragonlord or one who bore the affinity. The ability to call and consult the dragons is a hallmark of the office, one of the pillars on which this kingdom was built."
"There are only two dragons left, and only one available to us. He will not live forever and his wisdom will die with him," Ellison said harshly. "Why should the ability to call that which no longer exists be of any importance any longer?"
"If the eggs in the vaults were to be hatched, the dragons may not be lost to us," Gerund said fiercely, which drew a soft gasp from Merlin's lips; the existence of more eggs, the possibility of saving the race of dragons, was so far beyond anything he had ever imagined that he couldn't contain the sound. More eggs. If any of the dragons contained within were female, then the species could potentially be saved. His astonishment went unheeded, though, as the others continued to argue around him.
"And Kilgharrah still has years before him," Gerund was saying. "His counsel cannot be so callously disregarded."
"Eleanor's reign did not suffer for its lack," the heavy-set councilor protested.
Merlin winced; from what he had heard, Eleanor had been a fine and gracious queen even without the support of any dragon's council. The only way to counter that particular point would be to imply that Ellison was a lesser person than Queen Eleanor and not fit to rule without guidance, and somehow Merlin did not see that particular comment ending in any favorable way. So as Gerund puffed up to retort, Merlin decided that he had had quite enough of this foolish quarrelling.
"Why don't we ask Kilgharrah what he thinks?" he broke in loud enough to get the attention of all the men and women in the room.
They turned to look at him in surprise, even Gerund, as if the idea had not occurred to them at all. Granted, it likely hadn't, as none of them possessed the ability to summon the dragon and therefore they were unlikely to have considered it a possibility.
"If you need proof of my heritage, then that should do the trick quite nicely. And if you would like reassurance of my abilities despite the status of my birth, then I'm sure that Kilgharrah will be more than happy to answer any questions that you may have."
The council members looked among themselves, considering the idea. Sometime during the heated argument, Lord Ellison had lost that cocky, self-assured air that Merlin now knew had come from the belief that he would soon be crowned king, and was scowling fiercely around at them all as if they were traitors.
"Surely you aren't entertaining this…this farce of a claim?" Ellison exclaimed.
"If Kilgharrah comes to his call," said an elderly councilwoman with her silver hair swept up into an elegant bun and netted with gold thread, "then I believe his claim will stand."
"He's a bastard, Penbrook," the heavy-set man repeated yet again, as if the point had not already been made abundantly clear.
"With the means of proving his royal blood," Lady Penbrook countered serenely. "He does not need acknowledgement if his paternity is not in question."
"He is illegitimate!"
"He is a Dragonlord."
"I have seen no proof of that."
"I would be happy to prove it to you," Merlin broke in impatiently, more than a little fed up with being ignored and spoken of as if he were not there. "However, the daylight is already faded and my companion and I have been travelling for some time. Might I suggest that it may be more prudent to put off all necessary demonstrations until tomorrow?"
"I would be amenable," Lady Penbrook said easily, despite the way Melbourne, Ellison, and the brash, red-faced man for whom Merlin had yet to catch a name were all attempting to stare her into submission. "The hour grows late, my friends. Let us all retire for the evening and revisit the discussion in the morning."
Lord Melbourne did not look at all happy with this decision, but he held his tongue; apparently Lady Penbrook's opinion carried enough weight with the other council members that he didn't dare kick up a fuss. He growled a dismissal and the men and women began getting to their feet, lingering around the chambers in twos and threes as they discussed the developments of the day amongst themselves.
Merlin felt some of the tenseness in his shoulders ebb away as soon as twenty pairs of eyes were no longer fixed on him, probing, examining, judging. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt tired and sore from how tightly he had been holding himself. The servant portion of his mind, the part of him that had actually listened and taken to heart the many times that Arthur had tried to beat propriety and respect into his head, was absolutely horrified at the way he had dared to speak to these people.
They were powerful people all of them, highborn and venerated, and they were without a doubt used to being treated with the high regard that was afforded to them by their station. But if Merlin had behaved as a servant, as anything less than their equal, then they would view him as such and treat him accordingly; they would never be able to see him as their leader, their king, if he bowed and scraped like a serving boy.
As it stood, he would treat them with respect when they returned the favor and not a moment sooner. He could not back down, could not let himself be looked down upon, could not show any weakness, or they would eat him alive.
"Pay no mind to Lord Tennison," came a voice from over his shoulder.
Merlin started—he had not heard anyone approaching him—and turned to see the old woman with silver hair who had spoken for him where the dragon was concerned, Lady Penbrook. Penbrook, seeing Merlin's confusion at the name he was not familiar with, gestured with her head and Merlin followed the Lady's gaze to the heavy-set man who seemed to be so personally insulted by Merlin's illegitimate birth. He was speaking in low, harsh whispers with Ellison, half hidden from Merlin's view by a set of support pillars and sending occasional vitriolic looks in his direction.
"He wants nothing more than for his son to be on the throne. I'm afraid your claim is a rather large obstacle, one which he may not be able to overcome."
"His son?" Merlin asked.
Penbrook nodded with another glance in the other Lord's direction. Merlin looked back and understood only after a long moment of confusion.
Now that he saw them standing side by side, he could see the resemblance between Lords Tennison and Ellison; they had the same blocky shoulders, nearly identical noses over thin lips pursed in matched expressions of displeasure, not an inch difference in their heights, similar shades of dark brown hair worn long and pulled back at the nape of the neck with a leather thong. If Ellison was Lord Tennison's son, then it was no wonder that he took such an immediate disliking to Merlin and protested his claim so vehemently; if Merlin's claim were to be considered invalid, Ellison would be clear to take the throne.
"Tennison's wife Imogen was your father's cousin," Penbrook explained. "Ellison joined the council upon inheriting her estate. She was a lovely girl, really. She and Balinor got on splendidly in their youth. But Tennison was always jealous of Balinor. He is not so powerful himself, not half the warlock your father was no matter how much training he received. And he could never comprehend how Balinor could give up the opportunity to become king and seize all the power and prestige that comes with it."
"Power isn't everything," Merlin said with a furrowed brow.
"I am afraid that he would not agree with you on that point," Penbrook sighed with a rather disappointed look at the disgruntled Lord. But she turned back to Merlin with a soft smile. "But I do."
She held out her hand to Merlin and he took it, bending to press a kiss to her knuckles in a way that made her smile fondly at him. "You remind me a great deal of your father, my boy."
Coming from Lady Penbrook, the term did not carry the weight of derision that it had from Ellison. Instead it seemed affectionate, more like when Gaius said it, and the address warmed Merlin almost as much as did the comparison to his father.
"I helped mind him after his mother died," she told him. "Later, I was one of his tutors. He was a bright child, opinionated, and never afraid to stand his ground. You strike me as much the same."
"Thank you, my Lady," he said sincerely. "You have no idea how much it gladdens me to hear you say that."
"Welcome home, my Prince." With a twinkle in her eye, she clasped Merlin's shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong for someone of such an advanced age.
Merlin stared after her as she walked away, too stunned to have responded had the woman waited for him to do so. My Prince. Penbrook had already made up her mind on the matter, it seemed, and she believed Merlin to be the true heir. But it was more personal than that. My Prince, she had said, with that same warm, genuine tone she had used when speaking of his father. Welcome home, my Prince.
Merlin was still boggling over it when Gerund appeared at his side once more, apparently having overheard most of the conversation.
"That is good," he said bracingly. "Lady Penbrook is an influential woman. Her approval will go far in getting the rest of the council members on your side."
Merlin rounded on him then, snapped out of his daze, remembering abruptly that he was angry.
"You did not tell me that I would have to fight for this!" he hissed, jabbing a finger into Gerund's chest as hard as he could without making it obvious enough for the council members still in the chambers to see. "You didn't say anything about there being someone else with a legitimate claim. You told me I was the only one."
"Er, no, I said that you were the only one with a direct claim," Gerund corrected hastily, backtracking a bit at Merlin's mutinous expression. "Lord Ellison is your second cousin, and he shares royal blood with you through his mother's side. But he is three generations removed from the true royal line, while you are a direct descendant. The throne should fall to you as a true Dragonlord of the house of Ambrosius and Balinor's only son."
Merlin would have responded angrily, but a spike of pain through his temple dissuaded him from arguing as much as he wanted to. Headaches the likes of which this one promised to be were always a trial and this was not the first time he had earned himself one; he blamed his life for that. He was inordinately grateful when Mordred placed a hand on Gerund's arm to get his attention.
"Perhaps we ought to retire for the night," he suggested firmly enough that it was clear that it really wasn't a suggestion at all. "We could all use some rest and some time to clear our heads after a day like this."
"Of course," Gerund sighed, the righteousness draining out of him as soon as he really looked at Merlin. "You must be exhausted."
"Just a bit, yeah," he said. It was an understatement; with the adrenaline of the confrontation fading from his bloodstream, he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his eyes in focus. He rubbed at them, hoping that maybe that would help, but it didn't really. "It's been a long day."
"That it has," Mordred agreed.
"Right, right. Come, this way. I'll show you to your chambers," Gerund said with a gesture.
Merlin followed behind him blearily as he led the way through a number of long and winding corridors to what was presumably the west wing of the castle where he had told the stable boy to take their bags. The wall sconces had been lit all along the way and the flames flickered hypnotically as Merlin passed; it was most certainly not helping to keep him awake. In fact, it seemed determined to lull him to sleep before he even got to his chambers.
Gerund stopped eventually and waved Mordred into a set of rooms before ushering Merlin to his own across the hall. He stopped Merlin before he could enter, though, pulling him back and taking pains to look him directly in the eye.
"You did well, Merlin," he said. "You held your own against great odds and you handled yourself like a true statesman. Your father would be proud."
"Thank you, Gerund," Merlin whispered.
As he had lain dying in Merlin's arms, Balinor had said that he knew that Merlin would make him proud. It was something that Merlin strove to do every day of his life, and something that he feared all too often that he had failed to do. Hearing that he had succeeded from someone who had known his father well…it was almost enough to make him believe it.
"Good night, Merlin," Gerund said.
"Good night."
Gerund gave him another of those respectful nods that he was really going to need to stop being embarrassed by if he expected to stay here for any length of time and then left him to enter his new chambers alone.
Merlin slumped back against the heavy door as soon as it had shut behind him, going near to boneless as his exhaustion from the last two days crashed down on him all at once. He had to lock his knees to keep himself from sliding all the way down to the floor. He let his head fall back, wincing at the force with which it collided with the unforgiving wood. He stayed in that position for a while, safe in the fact that no one was there to see his moment of weakness, just relishing the chance to finally drop his guard after holding so tightly to his control for so long.
Eventually he pushed himself upright, but he swayed alarmingly on his feet and had to steady himself with a hand on the wall again. A wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he remembered that, not only had he gotten no sleep at all the night before, but he hadn't had anything to eat since high noon and it was well into the evening by now. The feeling passed quickly enough and he looked around the chambers he had been given.
Merlin wondered if these would be his chambers officially or if he would be moved into even more opulent quarters when he was crowned. If he was crowned; there was a chance, and he wasn't entirely sure how good a chance it was, that the council would rule in Lord Ellison's favor.
By the succession laws with which Merlin was familiar, he would never have been allowed to take the throne, his status as a bastard precluding him from holding any sort of power, but there were other factors in play here. It seemed that his being born out of wedlock was less of a problem here than it would have been anywhere else, as his Dragonlord abilities confirmed his parentage in a way nothing else could. But would that be enough to convince the council that he could be trusted with such authority?
What would happen to him, he wondered, if they chose to give the throne to Ellison instead of him? Gerund had said that he would always be welcome in Carthis, but if he was not needed, if there was someone else who could preserve peace, then there would be no reason for him to stay here.
And he didn't yet know if going back to Camelot was even an option. Arthur may have apologized for nearly throttling him, but that didn't mean that he would welcome Merlin back with open arms. There was far too much hurt and broken trust between them for that, and he had never said anything about changing his stance on magic in his kingdom.
Merlin forced these thoughts from his mind; tomorrow was for tomorrow. Tonight, he had a warm bed and a reprieve before the challenges that would come, and that was what he was going to focus on.
Just as the guest chambers in Camelot were done up all in Pendragon red, so those in Carthis were decorated in what Merlin assumed was Ambrosius blue. The curtains which had been pulled shut over the windows matched the quilt folded up on the end of magnificent four poster bed, which looked so thick and warm that Merlin wanted to sink into it and never come out again.
But before he could do that, someone had set out a tub of water before the fireplace, so large that it was hardly able to fit between the privacy screen on one side of the room and the ornately carved writing desk on the other. The water was still steaming despite the length of time that must have passed since it had been brought up, filling the room with the faint scent of lavender oils.
As much as Merlin yearned for sleep, the siren call of a hot bath was too strong for him to resist after three days spent on horseback and sleeping on the ground. Besides, if he was going to be contending for the crown in the morning, then he would rather be clean and presentable.
Merlin wearily stripped out of his dirty clothes and folded them neatly before putting them in the laundry basket, a courtesy that Arthur had never shown him—he wasn't actually sure that Arthur even knew where the laundry basket was, as his tendency was just to throw his dirty clothes on the floor, or at Merlin's head, depending on his mood.
He lowered himself into the bath with a groan, the heat sinking all the way down into his bones and leeching the soreness from his tired muscles. He had not had the luxury of a real bath very many times in his life. Gaius had not been able to afford a bathtub, even with Merlin's salary added to his own, and in Ealdor Merlin hadn't even had a bed to sleep in, much less a tub large enough to bathe in.
He stayed in the bath long enough that the water should have gone cold, just soaking and savoring the extravagance of it, but someone must have spelled it to maintain that temperature. Knowing that if he stayed in the bath much longer, he would inevitably fall asleep there and wake up in the morning all wrinkly and waterlogged and with a horrible crick in his neck, he scrubbed his hair through with soap and dunked his head under the water to wash it out again.
There was a pile of thick, soft cloths left on the floor beside the tub, one of which Merlin used to towel himself dry and another to wrap around his waist. There was a razor and a mirror on the vanity, but Merlin deemed that unimportant enough that it could wait until morning. He pulled his sleep clothes from the saddle bags that had been left at the foot of the bed and pulled them on.
Merlin almost opened the door to call for a servant to empty the tub, as Arthur would have done, but he stopped. He turned back and stared at the tub for a moment, a sort of panicky excitement rising up in his chest.
Before he could let years and years of ingrained caution get the better of him, Merlin waved his hand and said, "Àþwìne meresteall." The water vanished and left the tub as dry as if it had never been there at all.
Merlin let out a bark of laughter, the knowledge that, even if someone had seen him, it wouldn't have mattered because it was okay making him dizzy with the kind of euphoria he had only ever experienced in flight when he was high above the ground on Kilgharrah's back, watching the earth disappear beneath him.
Freedom, he thought. This is what freedom feels like. The heady rush made him want to run and shout, but he was far too tired for that at the moment.
The bed called out to him, tempting him away from performing more magic just for the sheer pleasure of knowing that he was allowed to. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he climbed into the bed. It was by far more luxurious than anything he had ever slept in before; he had never given into the lure of taking a nap in Arthur's bed for fear of being caught out and subsequently thrown in the stocks for it. The mattress was ridiculously soft, the blankets warm and thick, and there were more pillows than he knew what to do with.
His last thought before he succumbed to sleep was that this bed alone might be enough to make this whole nightmare worth it.