A/N: This chapter almost did not get posted today, but I managed it. It just required dropping in on my work to steal the work computer for a few minutes and get this uploaded. Still no internet at the apartment. This is driving me mad. If I don't have some serious quality time with tumblr soon, I might have to kill someone out of sheer withdrawal. But I did it, it's here, and enjoy!

**EDITED**

The decision was made quickly after the news of Morgana's continued approach reached the council's ears. It was not a unanimous conclusion, but the majority of the council members did vote in favor of Merlin, supporting his claim over Ellison's much to the displeasure of the Lord's father.

Everything happened very quickly after that, no one wanting to waste a moment with the threat of attack hanging over them. By noon on the next day, the throne room had been hastily decorated with banners and flowers and the announcement had been made to the people of Carthis that the coronation of their new king would take place that very evening. The ceremony was not nearly as lavish as it could have been, for which Merlin could only be grateful, but it was still a great deal of pomp and circumstance, as much as could be mustered up on such short notice.

It was all a bit of a haze in Merlin's memory, a vivid rush of impressions and sensations that didn't quite stick in his mind. The feel of lush velvet on his skin, the dark blue of one of his father's old doublets that had been hurriedly tailored to fit him better, the uncomfortable pinch of shiny new leather boots that had not yet had time to adjust to his feet, the rushing of blood in his ears drowning out all else, and the frantic thump of his heart as hundreds of eyes rested upon him, a wash of upturned faces all blurring one into the other.

He had stood tall and held his head high through the ceremony, reciting the required oaths and making the promises which were expected of him at all the proper times and without stumbling over the unfamiliar ceremonial words. He had knelt down on the steps at the front of the long room and allowed for the ornate golden crown to be placed upon his head by the Court Genealogist. He had sat stiffly upon the throne as Lord after Lord was presented to him, each of whom knelt upon the ground at his feet, kissing his ring and swearing his undying fealty.

He had looked out over the crowds of people—his people—as the cry rang out, "Long live the King…long live the King…"

He held it together admirably all the way through the official proceedings, but the moment that he found himself standing outside the doors to the banquet hall, having taken his leave halfway through the celebratory feast being held in his honor, alone for the first time all day, his carefully held composure shattered. He took off down the corridor in a dead sprint, distantly glad that all of the staff were occupied elsewhere and that there was nobody around to witness this, rounding corner after corner with no thought as to where he was heading, only needing to get away from it all.

He found himself on a bench in an alcove down a corridor with which he was not familiar, bent over with his head between his knees. His breathing came in harsh gasps, each lungful getting stuck in his throat and burning there, choking him. The crown weighed heavily on his brow. He snatched it off of his head and threw it to the ground where it clattered loudly, skidding over to clank into the wall of the cramped recess. It didn't help; the weight of the crown may have been gone but he could still feel the burden of it pressing down on him.

He tangled his fingers into his hair and struggled to calm himself. He remembered what Gaius had told him once about hyperventilation and tried to take deep, slow, steady breaths. He focused on the frantic beating of his heart, counting the beats and matching his breathing to them. Drag in air in four heartbeats, blow it out for four more. In for four, out for four. Gradually the rhythm slowed down and his head stopped spinning quite so much.

He didn't remember starting to cry but his face was definitely wet and there were droplets splattering on the stone beneath his feet. He found it rather difficult to stop, but he managed it. Once he felt steady enough to do so, he sat up and dragged the sleeve of his doublet across his face, not really caring that he was getting the expensive material wet. A glint of gold caught his eye and drew it to the crown, sitting innocuously where he had thrown it. He picked it up with trembling hands.

It was lighter than Arthur's was, more delicately made than the heavy crown that Merlin had so often polished, but it carried with it the weight of an entire kingdom, of the lives of all the people who lived within its borders. They were his responsibility now, all of them: men and women, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers. All of them would be looking to him to keep them safe from harm, depending on his leadership and his guidance. His knuckles were white with the strength of his grip, the metal of the crown biting into his fingers, and he consciously forced himself to relax his hold.

There was no going back now. It was done. He was a king now, their king. He rubbed his thumb over the scattering of precious stones in their golden settings, seeing his own face reflected back at him, colored and upside down and oddly distorted. His throat constricted again and he squeezed his eyes closed against the sight, blocking the crown from his view but unable to escape the knowledge of it.

He drew in as much air as he could and held it there until his lungs screamed in protest and darkness began to encroach on the edges of his vision and then let it out in a long, shuddering breath.

Merlin had no idea how to be a king. The very idea of it scared him more than anything else in his life ever had, except possibly the thought of losing Arthur. But there was no other choice for him now. The decision had been made and the deed was done. He was the king and there was no turning back from that, no matter how much he may want to.

He wiped at his face more forcefully, suddenly feeling rather angry at himself for his own weakness. He might not be capable of ruling these people how they deserved to be ruled, but he would certainly do them no good hiding in an alcove. He couldn't stay here any longer. He forced himself to his feet but he could not bring himself to place the crown on his head.

He began walking with no destination in mind and was surprised to find himself knocking on the door to Mordred's chambers. The young knight looked equally surprised to see him there.

"Merlin!" he exclaimed upon opening the door. Then his eyebrows contracted in concern as he examined Merlin's face, probably seeing evidence of tears there despite Merlin's previous efforts to remove them. He stood back and gestured his welcome and Merlin stepped inside, very awkward all of a sudden.

"Are you quite alright, Merlin?" Mordred asked.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Merlin assured him quickly, knowing it to be a lie.

Mordred gave him a look that told him quite plainly that he didn't believe a word of it and Merlin shifted on his feet, dropping his gaze to the floor uncomfortably.

"Just a…a little overwhelmed, I guess," he said, moving to wave his hand dismissively and finding that he was still holding his crown. He gestured with that instead. "It's just all a bit much."

"So you come to me?" Mordred inquired, his tone hard to read but vaguely confused.

The truth be told, Merlin was confused as well. Why had he sought out Mordred, of all people? He mouthed soundlessly for a moment, groping for words.

"I just…wanted to see a familiar face, I supposed," he said finally.

He wanted to be with someone who knew him as just Merlin, not as King Merlin of the house of Ambrosius. Someone who knew him from before, who didn't expect so much of him. He found himself clutching at the crown again, staring blankly at it with a sort of buzzing filling his head and obscuring all thought.

Then Mordred's hands were on his, gently prizing the crown from his grip. Merlin let go of it willingly and watched numbly as Mordred laid it atop his bureau and then turned to retrieve something from his writing desk.

"I ran into Kane today," he said.

Merlin blinked at the non sequitur. "Oh?"

"He was looking for you. He heard about what you did on the training grounds yesterday. He was very impressed," Mordred said, holding up a large leather bound book. "He gave me this to pass on to you. It's a theoretical work on the direction of energy flows. He thought it might be helpful to you. I confess that I read a great deal of it. I hope that you don't mind."

"Of course not," Merlin said blankly, his mind having trouble processing the switch in conversation topics. His thoughts were sluggish and his head hurt a bit.

Mordred placed the book back on the table, seeming to realize that Merlin was not going to take it from him. Instead he reached for a pitcher of wine, pouring two goblets and holding one out to Merlin.

"Here," he said. "Have a drink with me. Come and sit by the fire for a while. You can walk me through what you did yesterday. And I can tell you what I learned from that book."

Merlin allowed himself to be steered into a chair, to have the goblet pressed into his hand, to drink until he didn't feel quite so numb. And they talked. They talked for a long while, and by the time that the candles had guttered low in their holders, Merlin found that he had quite forgotten about the crown sitting innocuously on Mordred's bureau. He retrieved it when he went to leave, but he stopped at the door, turning back.

"Thank you, Mordred," he said sincerely.

"That's what friends are for, is it not?" he offered.

Merlin nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," he said softly, wonderingly.

The young knight smiled at him and the crown in his hands did not feel quite so heavy as it had before.

"Your sword has been sharpened, sire, and your armour has been cleaned and polished. The stables have been mucked and your dogs have been exercised. A bath has been prepared for you, sire, should you need it. And it is rather chilly outside today, sire, so I laid out your warmest cloak for you. If you would like, sire, I could—"

"No, George, thank you. That will be all, George," Arthur said through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to rub soothingly at his temples where a headache was already growing.

"If you are quite certain, sire," George said briskly.

"Yes, George, completely certain," Arthur all but growled.

"As you wish, sire." George gave him a crisp bow, suitably low and flawlessly executed, before turning on his heel to exit the room with barely a whisper of his footsteps on the stone floor.

As soon as the door was shut nearly silently behind him, Arthur heard his wife's barely stifled giggle from the adjacent chamber and turned to scowl at her.

"If I hear the word 'sire' come out of that dreadful man's mouth one more bloody time…" he vowed, not entirely sure what the punishment would be but sure that it would be appropriately painful and humiliating.

"Arthur," Guinevere reprimanded with no small amount of amusement, leaving the seat at her vanity to come perch on the arm of Arthur's chair instead. "He is not dreadful."

"Yes, he is, Gwen, he's awful," Arthur moaned pitifully.

She just smiled indulgently and stroked his hair back from his face, knowing exactly how good it would be for his budding headache. Arthur leaned into the touch gratefully, knowing that he was being petulant but really not caring.

"He's so bloody prompt and respectful and so damnably quiet."

"You only dislike him because he isn't Merlin," Guinevere said.

Of course, that was completely true, but Arthur wasn't going to admit to that. He humphed unintelligibly instead.

Merlin's absence was glaringly obvious. It had only been five days since Merlin had last been at his side, but it felt like it had been much longer than that. Several times throughout the previous day, when Arthur had been in meetings or taking audiences as was expected of him, he had found himself turning to share a commiserating or exasperated look with Merlin over some councilor's tediousness only to find the space beside him empty.

It sent a raw sort of jolt through him every time, a reminder of everything that had happened and how much it had all changed. Everything was different now—he was different now—but life in Camelot continued on as usual in spite of that.

And George had taken over as Arthur's new permanent manservant. He was the exact opposite of Merlin in practically every way, except for his frankly rather disturbing tendency to dress just like him. He was scarily efficient whereas Merlin had had a tendency to put things off for as long as possible, always prompt whereas Merlin would stumble in several minutes late every morning with an unapologetic grin on his face, virtually noiseless whereas Merlin tripped over his own feet and sometimes chattered on and on without ever pausing to draw breath.

He had only been on the job for one day and he was already driving Arthur absolutely crazy with his constant propriety, something that Merlin had never even bothered with.

George did have a knack for anticipating what Arthur would need, as he always had done in the past, but there were certain needs that he simply could not meet. Arthur was quickly coming to realize just how much he had taken Merlin for granted, his support and his advice and his mere presence. Now that he was gone, Arthur found that he missed him a great deal more than he would like to acknowledge. Council meetings were dead boring without Merlin standing at his shoulder and making disbelieving noises at the councilors' more ridiculous suggestions and muttering snarky comments under his breath whenever he leaned forward to fill up Arthur's cup.

And while George had polished his armour to a luster never before known to man, Arthur would much rather go back to the days when his chainmail was dull and lackluster but he was secure in the knowledge that Merlin had checked over every single link to make absolutely certain that they were strong simply because he cared and wanted Arthur to be safe.

George was perfectly capable of following Arthur's orders and cleaning up after him, but Merlin had actually taken care of him. He was only now realizing the difference between the two.

"Come on," Guinevere said, standing up and taking his hand to pull him to his feet as well. "You should go outside, get some fresh air. Go train with your knights for a while; it will help you clear your head."

She helped him into his armour herself rather than calling George back, knowing how counterproductive that would be to lifting Arthur's mood and probably being more efficient at it anyway, having grown up surrounded by armour and weapons in her father's forge. She placed a quick kiss on his lips before pushing him out of the door.

Arthur headed toward the armoury to retrieve one of the practice swords, heavily blunted to keep the knights from seriously injuring one another during training. As he approached, he heard low voices coming from within and stopped to listen.

"I was just always taught that magic was a corruptive force," he heard. "That those who were seduced by the power it offered became twisted and merciless, always questing for more of that power—"

The voice was Leon's, he thought, and it made sense. He had been Uther's knight before he had been Arthur's, one of his father's most loyal. He was only a few years older than Arthur himself and had grown up with many of the same influences, all of them calling for the utter eradication of magic.

"—but it sounds as if Merlin has been practicing magic for years, and he has made no move to gain power for himself."

"Well, he wouldn't, would he?" came Gwaine's gruff voice. "He's Merlin."

"Exactly," Leon sighed, still sounding conflicted by the obvious disagreement with what he had been taught. "I just have a hard time reconciling Merlin with sorcerer."

Arthur nodded to himself sympathetically, intimately familiar with that struggle.

"Where I grew up, it wasn't nearly as big a deal," Gwaine said.

"Where was that?" came a new voice. Elyan's, Arthur thought.

"Caerleon," Gwaine answered. "Magic was still against the law, but there was much less fear and paranoia as far as sorcery was concerned. Sorcerers were more likely to be slapped with a fine than burned at the stake."

"In Escetia as well." That was Percival; apparently all of his knights had just gathered in the armoury to have a chat, probably hoping to do so without him overhearing.

Part of Arthur wanted to leave, to let them discuss in private, but he also wanted to hear what they thought when they weren't censoring themselves. He was more likely to hear their honest opinion if they did not know that he was hearing them. And he would have to speak with them about it eventually; he owed them a real explanation about all of this.

"There," Percival continued, "magic was frowned upon, but not nearly so hated."

"I just never would have guessed it of him," Leon said. "He always came across as so hapless, so innocent."

"I've had my suspicions for years," Gwaine told them. "But even back then I knew him well enough to know that he would do no harm to anyone."

"When I got back to Camelot, as soon as I had worked my way back into Gwen's good graces—"

Elyan was interrupted by a snicker from Leon, which made Arthur smile; Leon had known the siblings when they were all growing up and knew perfectly well that Gwen was the one in charge of the relationship. A muffled thump and a grunt of pain told Arthur that Elyan had probably hit Leon in retaliation.

"—she told me all about the friends she had made while I was gone. She said that Merlin was the kindest soul she had ever met, and a better friend than she could ever have asked for. He confessed to sorcery for her, she told me, in front of the king and the council and all, just to try and keep her from harm when she had been accused of using magic to cure our father from a plague. She said that she never found out who had really cured him. The way I see it, Merlin's confession was an honest one. He saved my father's life, and my sister's, and gave them a few more months together. I can only ever be grateful to him for that, magic or no."

"He has always done his best to help everyone he can," Percival said. "It seems he has done so even more than we know."

"I was always told that those with magic were selfish," Elyan said, "but Merlin is the most selfless person I have ever known. With or without magic, he throws himself into danger's path for the sake of others every chance he gets."

"Always," Leon agreed. "He drank poison for Arthur without a second's hesitation."

"Ungrateful bastard," Gwaine muttered darkly.

Arthur's stomach clenched along with his fists, but Leon answered him before Arthur had a chance to reveal himself.

"And then Arthur immediately disobeyed direct orders from the King to ride out in search of the antidote," he said. "He spent two days in the dungeons for it, but he didn't care because he had gotten back in time to save Merlin's life. Merlin has obviously done a lot for him, but Art—"

"And look how the bastard repays him," Gwaine growled. "He strangles him half to death!"

Arthur could stay hidden no longer. He stepped around the corner to lean in the doorway, seeing his knights seated around the table with their practice swords before them. It looked as though they had been polishing them at one point but had given it up in favor of discussion.

"I told you, Gwaine, that it was not my finest moment," he said, drawing their attention to his presence.

Gwaine, of course, glared at him frostily, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, but the other three looked more indecisive, as though they weren't certain how to treat him after all that had happened over the last few days. Arthur focused on Gwaine.

"What I did was wrong, I know that, and I'm sorry for it."

Gwaine scoffed.

"Right. A fat lot of good that does us. Tell it to Merlin," he sneered.

"I did tell that to Merlin," Arthur insisted, much to the surprise of his men.

"You did? When?" Elyan asked in confusion. He had been asleep through most of it, Arthur remembered. Arthur had already done so by the time Elyan knew that anything had happened at all.

"I regretted my actions almost immediately and I sought him out later that night to apologize for them," he said.

"That's where you two were going when you snuck off into the forest in the middle of the night?" Leon asked, still sounding a tad irritated about it.

"Yes. Well, really, Merlin was sneaking off to contact the dragon, but I followed him with the intention of apologizing, yes."

"He was what?" Leon yelped in surprise.

"Wait, I thought that you killed the dragon," Percival put in confusedly. "Or that he did, or whatever."

"Oh, no. Apparently the Great Dragon is still very much alive," Arthur said, moving forward to collapse on the end of the bench beside Elyan and settling in to explain. "And his name is Kilgharrah. And apparently dragons can talk. Did anyone ever tell you that, Leon? Because my father conveniently forgot to mention to me that dragons are intelligent beings capable of rational thought and fluent speech."

Leon gaped at him in astonishment, which Arthur took as a definitive no.

"So he didn't kill the dragon when it attacked Camelot?" Elyan asked once more, just for clarification. Arthur nodded. "Why not?"

"He didn't need to," Arthur said. "He is a Dragonlord. He simply ordered Kilgharrah that he leave Camelot in peace. And he has."

The others took a long moment to take this in, the thought of Merlin commanding an enormous and powerfully magical creature and his orders actually being obeyed.

"I always thought it was strange," Leon said finally. "We were the only three to survive that battle. At the time, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that Merlin walked away from that fight. I guess it makes a lot more sense now."

"A whole host of things make a lot more sense now," Arthur pointed out.

"Wyverns are related to dragons, are they not?" Gwaine spoke up a bit randomly.

"Er…I believe so," Elyan said.

"Distant cousins or something, I think," Percival agreed. "Why?"

"It would just explain a few things, that's all," Gwaine shrugged with a sideways glance at Arthur.

"Oh right. On the Isle of the Blessed," Leon said. "Those wyverns seemed strangely reluctant to attack us."

Elyan and Percival nodded in agreement, but Gwaine just smirked at Arthur, knowing perfectly well that Arthur knew that was not the incident to which Gwaine had been referring. No, he was thinking of the Perilous Lands when he and Merlin had crashed in on Arthur's quest.

Arthur remembered succumbing to his strange unnatural exhaustion with wyverns closing in menacingly on all sides and then waking up to Merlin's smiling face and the wyverns nowhere to be seen. He had been far too irritated with Merlin for inviting himself along on what was supposed to be a solo mission that he hadn't thought much of it, but now it seemed obvious that Merlin had exerted his authority as a Dragonlord in order to get the wyverns to abandon their dinner.

Arthur scowled back at Gwaine, but it only made the knight smirk wider and chuckle to himself in a satisfied sort of way. Elyan's eyes narrowed at the exchange and he opened his mouth to question it, but Arthur jumped in hastily.

"At the rate we're going, we'll miss training altogether," he pointed out. Leon—good old Leon, who was Arthur's second-in-command and, really, one of them should be running the drills—jumped up immediately and the other knights followed suit in a more sedate manner.

Gwaine clapped Arthur on the shoulder with a rather predatory smile.

"Come on, princess. I feel like having a good spar," he said brightly and Arthur winced preemptively; this was going to leave marks, he just knew it.

He couldn't bring himself to feel too annoyed at the prospect of getting his arse handed to him by Gwaine, though, because the knight had ceased to glare at him like he wanted nothing more than for him to fall into the deepest pits of Hell and rot there, and that was progress. Despite what he had done and all that had happened, his friends were still his friends. And now he could only hope that Merlin would still count himself among them.