Chapter Three: Unprecedented
"You wrote it down? Were you having trouble remembering?"
"You know exactly why I wrote it, Gaius. I'm not some doddery old man—"
"What, not like I am? I ought to make you scrub my entire chambers, top to bottom, with nothing but a single rag. I'm certain I can recall everything that needs to be done—the leech tank, wiping the dust off the books, cleaning out all of my pots—without needing to write it down."
"I told you I didn't write it so I could remember!"
"And under a blanket, of all things. Did you think you were disguising it as part of the mess? Because you seldom read, Merlin, or write, though apparently you've been doing more of the latter—"
"I read plenty! Just because I don't like reading Tindell or whatever his name is drone on and on about herbs and their uses—"
"Tindell is one of the greatest minds to ever lend itself to medicine! His techniques surpass that of anything—"
"He used the word 'emulate' seven times on one page. I counted. I thought my brain was falling out my ears—"
"There's nothing to fall out! I'm convinced it's entirely empty. Not that we'll ever know, with how thick your skull is."
"Now you're just being mean."
"You'll see just how mean I can be, Merlin, when you get out of here. You will regret writing that diary."
"I would say I already regret it, with how you're carrying on, but I think it was the best damn thing I ever did. Considering."
There was silence.
"Well, I suppose I have to be glad you're okay."
"You're welcome, Gaius."
"Thank you, Merlin. I—I can hardly believe it. Freedom."
"Me neither."
More silence, the shuffling of cloth. Arms wrapping around each other, the scent of herbs.
"Don't think this doesn't mean you aren't going to be cleaning."
"I wouldn't dream of making you clean. Have to keep your hands soft and supple for physician work."
"You're a strange boy."
Gwen had gone home after Arthur's coronation, and, at Gaius's (and, surprisingly, Gwaine's) insistence, had stayed there to relax for a day or so. She'd snorted at the physician when he'd suggested it; how was she meant to relax with so many dead? With Merlin still unconscious and no sign of waking up? With Gaius all alone to look after both the wounded?
But the time in her house had been more pleasant than she'd been expecting—out of that smoky cell and Gaius's chambers, which stank of blood and infection mingled with herbs. She got to sleep in her own bed, instead of Merlin's or the stone floor, and she managed to wash and change her clothing. She didn't have a bathtub, of course, but a rag and a bucket of water went farther than most nobles would've suspected.
For a whole day, she didn't have to do much of anything, and she was too tired to think, which meant she was too tired to worry. She spent most of her time napping and sitting quietly, reveling in the quiet.
A knock came at her door, and she startled. Maybe it was one of the townspeople, hoping to spend the winter inside. Or maybe it was one of her neighbors who needed something. She rose from her seat at the table and went to open the door.
"Elyan?" she asked. Her brother stood on the other side, tired and worn. He wasn't wearing his chainmail, but his cloak hung around his shoulders, accompanied by the sword at his hip. He didn't look in any shape to be standing out in the cold. "Come in." She ushered him inside, and he sank into a chair.
When he didn't speak, she prompted, "You know I don't mind you visiting, but… Why are you here, Elyan?" He had his own chambers in the castle, as well as a dozen duties; Arthur had wasted no time putting the knights to work.
"I…" He paused and took a deep breath. "Gwen, I need you to tell me the truth," he said, looking at her almost sternly. It reminded her of their dad, that look.
"About what?" she said. "What are you talking about?"
"It's about Merlin," he said, and Gwen knew that he knew—and suspected sheknew. "You—you kept visiting him, you hardly seem angry or, or frightened… Did you know about him having magic? Being a sorcerer?"
And Gwen didn't like to lie—least of all to her friends and family. She knew how precious they were, and how precious her relationships with them were. So she only thought of lying briefly.
"I did," she admitted. "I've known he was a sorcerer for a month, now."
Elyan grimaced. "And you didn't... Did Arthur tell you? When he found Merlin's journal?"
"So he's told you, then, about it all," Gwen said, looking steadily. "Yes, Elyan. Arthur and I read the journal together."
"So you just—you knew, and you didn't think to tell me? Or anyone? You didn't think that, I don't know, he might be dangerous?" Elyan cried. Irritation flared inside Gwen; was she meant to have told this precious secret to a brother who had abandoned his only remaining family—for years?
"If you'll recall," Gwen said, "I was learning this information with the Prince Regent; who else was I going to tell?"
"I don't know," Elyan said sarcastically. "Maybe me? Your brother?"
They had never properly talked about it all, even when Elyan had been living with her. They'd each had their own jobs, and they had avoided the topic like it would've killed them if they so much as thought about it. Gwen had been so grateful that he was back that she hadn't wanted to stir up trouble, even though his leaving had hurt her, and hurt her father.
"Why should I have told you? Arthur knew, and whatever he decided was what was going to happen, anyway," Gwen said. "There was no real reason for you to know—and with everything going on, I didn't want to distract you." This was an olive branch. She didn't want to discuss this with him. "Has Arthur told all the knights, then?"
She tried not to let resentment creep into her voice, but it was hard. She remembered the soft candlelit nights spent with Arthur—not just reading, but talking and joking. They'd relaxed with one another, and it had been like a breath of fresh air with everything happening, even though they'd been learning about the harrowing experiences of one of their dearest friends.
She'd thought he'd felt the same, but he hadn't spoken with her once since everything, though he'd apparently decided it was time to tell the knights—all without asking for her opinion.
"Yes, he has," Elyan said. "He wants to—well, he's planning on a trial, for Merlin. To prove his innocence in front of everyone." There was something off about his tone.
"Do you not think he's innocent?" Gwen asked, trying to push down her feelings. Arthur had told them all that? And a trial—what for? She remembered what Gaius had said, but she couldn't fit the pieces together in her mind. The court had always been baffling to her, in ways other things were not. She could fit together the pieces of a sword or the pieces of a dress, but the way nobles' minds worked… That had never come easily to her.
"I don't know what to think." Elyan sighed. "He saved us—I won't deny that, and I'm not blind. And it sounds like he's saved us before. But how can I… It was terrifying, Gwen. He was terrifying. I've never felt fear like that, like when he called down that lightning or that fire. Only the Sluagh scared me more."
Gwen hadn't seen it all happen as Elyan had; she'd only caught glimpses from windows as she'd helped Gaius with the wounded. But she hadn't felt fear when she'd seen the lightning or fire strike the Sluagh; she'd felt relief, and no small sense of wonder. It was one thing to read about magic and power and what Merlin had done.
It was another thing to see it.
"It's Merlin," Gwen said. "He—as a person—hasn't changed, trust me. Only what he can do has changed." She hadn't needed much to trust him, and maybe a part of it had been denial or optimism or blindness. But she liked to think it had been because she'd known: Merlin was still the handsome in-a-peculiar-way, awkward boy she'd met in the stocks, who'd held out his hand and introduced himself as an idiot.
And that idiot wasn't about to hurt her, or Camelot, or Arthur, or anyone—unless they hurt him first.
"But how do you know?" Elyan asked. "I met a few sorcerers in my travels. Some of them were bad, and some of them were good, but none of them had power like that. And in Camelot? Why would he stay? He could've made himself a king."
"Because this is his home," Gwen said. "And he doesn't want to be a king—you only need to have one conversation with him to know that."
"Can I? He's lied to all of us. Why should I trust anything he says, or anything he's said?" Elyan said. "I thought I knew him. I thought I knew you, and Arthur. But none of you are acting like—" He cut himself off from saying you should or how you're supposed to, but Gwen understood.
"Don't trust what we say, then," she said, and he looked up at her in surprise. "Trust what we do, Elyan, and what we've done."
"What you've done terrifies me," he admitted. "You're not the person I thought you were."
You mean I'm not the person you left behind, she thought, but she didn't say it. It might have been better in the open, between them, the way it was sometimes better to open an infected wound to get the pus out. She would let it rot and fester before then, though. Gwen couldn't bear to say anything that might drive him off again. Maybe it made her a coward, but he was the only family she had left.
"It was bound to happen," she said instead of confronting him. "I'm—" No, she wouldn't lie to him. "I'm not sorry I didn't tell you, but I am sorry it hurt you. It wasn't my secret to tell, and Merlin hasn't exactly been open about…" Anything, really. "Well, I'm sorry."
Elyan stared at her, as though trying to gauge whether she really was telling the truth. "Alright. I just—I don't understand how you can forgive him, or forget what he's able to do so easily."
"How can you not forgive him?" Gwen asked. "He's saved us, and telling us would've meant his death; there's nothing to forgive. And I haven't forgotten anything. I trustMerlin—with my life, with Arthur's life, with yourlife."
Her brother frowned. "But he's so… He's not right. There has to be something else," he said. "He's had magic for years—his whole life, Arthur said. None of what he's done makes any sense in light of that."
"No, it makes perfect sense. You just don't understand him, yet. Give it time. Talk to him, maybe," she said. "Or with Lancelot." She still hadn't told Lancelot about her knowing. In her defense, they'd both been very, very busy. She ran a hand through her hair, which was still damp. There'd been so much dust, washing it alone had turned the water the color of Camelot's stone.
"Do you want to stay for dinner?" she asked, standing. Yes, a nice dinner sounded lovely. She had vegetables enough for soup.
"No, I—" Elyan paused. "I'm sorry, Gwen, I forgot to tell you. I didn't just come to talk to you, but I came to tell you—Merlin, he's awake."
Gwen stood so quickly her chair nearly fell. "What? Why didn't you say so when you first came?" she demanded. "Is he okay? How are his wounds?"
Elyan raised his hands. "Calm down. He's fine, as far as I know."
Calm down? Her best friend, the last she'd seen him, had been on death's door, and her brother was trying to accuse her of overreacting? She'd been forced to spoon soup into his mouth, forced to watch him shiver and burn up in turns, forced to sleep down in the dungeons with him because she'd been so frightened that he might get worse in the night, and slip away without her or anyone else even knowing.
"Don't tell me to calm down! I'm not some damsel you need to soothe," Gwen snapped. "I can't believe you didn't tell me first thing—what if Gaius needs help? I'm the closest thing he has to an assistant, with Merlin locked in the cells." She threw on her ratty old cloak—it wouldn't do much against the chill, but it was better than nothing.
She marched out her front door, Elyan following her. They went up to the castle in silence. Gwen didn't have the energy to be truly angry with him; all her energy was devoted to worrying, now. She stopped at Gaius's chambers and asked one of the patients where the physician was—the knight responded he had left to check up on the "sorcerer."
So Gwen made her way down to the cells, but she paused just before they entered, turning to Elyan.
"Why don't you eat and turn in for the night?" she suggested. He flinched minutely, hurt flickering across his face.
"But—"
"You've made it clear you don't trust him," she pointed out. "He doesn't need anymore stress than he already has, and if you come with me and upset him…" She left the threat hanging.
"But what if he hurts you?" Elyan said. "He's awake now—what if he tries to escape, and you get caught in the middle? What if he uses you as a hostage or something?"
Gwen only glowered at him before whirling around. After their whole conversation, he still had no faith in Merlin? No faith in her? She wasn't the little kid he'd abandoned, who needed looking after. She'd survived attacks and battles and sorcerers.
She wasn't about to be afraid of Merlin. Elyan didn't follow her as she left him there, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
The voices reached her before anything else.
"—asleep, it was fine. But now that the sorcerer is awake, I feel that perhaps stronger restraints might be necessary, at least for now. Some regular irons, I think, will do—only to restrict his movement." That was Arthur, Arthur who could only be talking about Merlin.
Something like anger rose in Gwen, something like fury. Merlin had just woken up, and the king wanted to put him in chains?
We'll see about that.
She rounded the corner to see Arthur talking with the guards—he must have just gotten done seeing Merlin. He looked tired (but everyone looked tired, so Gwen wasn't sympathetic. She wasn't). His clothes were dirty, likely from sitting on the floor. Once he caught sight of her, something like guilt crossed his face. The guards turned to see what he was looking at, and Gwen curtseyed to them as she approached, keeping her gaze low—as was appropriate in addressing the king.
"Your Majesty," she said, dipping her head low. "Sirs," she greeted, nodding to the guards, too. "Sire, I have spent a good deal of time with the prisoner. I would not presume to know better than you, or to advise you, my lord, but perhaps my knowledge could be useful when considering how best to restrain him." And if her anger leaked into her tone, all the better.
Arthur glanced at the guards nervously. "Yes, perhaps I could use your expertise. Why don't we discuss that—over here." And he awkwardly disengaged himself from the guards. Gwen followed as he led them down the hall and around the corner.
Once Gwen was certain they were out of earshot, she hissed, "What are you thinking, Arthur Pendragon? Putting him in chains, of all things? I thought you'd forgiven him! I thought you'd planned on pardoning him, and yet he's here in the cells—and Elyan told me about a trial, of all God-forsaken things—"
"Gwen," Arthur interrupted, laying his hands on her shoulders, and this calmed her even if she didn't want it to. "Please. I don't—please. Let me explain, okay?" When she didn't say anything right away, he licked his lips nervously.
"I'm waiting," she said, crossing her arms.
"I have to be impartial, okay? I can't be visiting the prisoner unless it's to check on security or—or whatnot. For the trial to have any legitimacy, I can't seem to have made up my mind completely about it already. So that's what I'm doing—"
"So say the security is adequate," Gwen said. She kept her voice low. "And whatever you're planning… It had better be worth it. Merlin's been through hell for you—for all of us."
"I know," Arthur said. "I know." He frowned. "And I'm trying to do right by him, but my court can't think I'm enchanted or—or anything of the sort. They have to be convinced of Merlin's innocence through his own merit."
"That's all well and good, but if his condition is worsened because of his time spent in the cells …" She couldn't finish the thought. "You should be doing everything you can to make his recovery easier. You'll need him fit for this trial, right? So use that." All this lying—all this manipulating. Gwen preferred more straightforward methods of communication.
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine," he said. "I'm not trying to hurt him. I'm trying to make life better for him."
"Perhaps you should've taken him out of the dungeons, then," she said shortly. She wasn't in any mood to be placated, not after her argument with Elyan. "You're king now—I thought that meant you were free to help." She remembered what Gaius had said, that Arthur's position was more delicate than she knew, but she didn't care. "All you seem to be doing is making life worse for him."
The king flinched, but he didn't say anything. He only looked away, and this seemed like an admission to Gwen, who stared up at him.
Arthur was silent as he turned away, and Gwen followed him back to the guards, keeping a respectful distance between them.
"Gentlemen," Arthur said, "she's convinced me. The prisoner is too weak to need fetters; by all accounts, a worsening of his conditions might make it so he is unable to attend his trial, which must go forward as soon as possible. In light of that, Gaius and Gwen are to be allowed to modify the prisoner's cell—within reason—and call on you for assistance. Bear in mind that Gaius attends to those wounded in the battle, so you are to consider her judgment sound without his say-so. The prisoner's health is paramount to expedite his sentencing."
The guards shifted among themselves. Gwen knew they were thinking about all the instances they'd given her a hard time—they were probably relieved they hadn't given her a harder time. Arthur was as good as saying she had the power to do with Merlin as she wished, short of freeing him.
I'll have one of them bring a cot down, and perhaps we can move him to one of the cells with more airflow. Yes, that was a good place to start.
She glanced at Arthur, whose expression was impassive. This was what he should've done in the beginning, in her opinion. He was too indecisive when it came to Merlin. He withheld too much, gave too little. The sorcerer—warlock, she corrected herself—deserved more after all he'd done. Even if he hadn't done it all, he deserved it because he was Arthur's friend, and he was a good man.
"Is that clear?" Arthur asked.
"Yes, sire," the guards said, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"When is the trial to take place, Your Majesty?" one asked.
"As soon as all the evidence is gathered, and the prisoner is deemed fit enough," Arthur said. "Which might be days or weeks. If that is all?" He cast one last look at each of them, and when none of them said anything, he turned his back to leave.
Gwen almost felt bad, watching him go—perhaps she had taken her anger at Elyan out on him. He had admitted that he was only trying to help Merlin, that he was trying to convince his court. She would have to go to him later, when her head was clearer.
"If one of you could lead me to Merlin's cell?" Gwen asked, turning her attention back to the guards.
"Might as well give you the damned key, with how the king was going on," one of them muttered, but he stepped forward and led her through the hallway—and torture chamber—to where Merlin was.
He looked as he had when Gwen had left him: the only evidence that he'd been awake was the crumpled blanket. The guard obligingly unlocked the door for her, closing it again behind her—she would call when she wanted to be let out, or if she needed anything.
For now, she sat next to Merlin, feeling his forehead. He was still far too hot, and despite all the sleep he'd gotten, there were still bluish-purple shadows under his eyes. Sweat stuck his hair to his head.
It looked as though his bandages on his shoulder needed changing, but she would do it when he was awake. Normally, Gaius would've—for propriety's sake as much as anything else—but Gwen knew enough, and Gaius was busy enough, that she could.
The physician must have already come down to see his ward; there were half-empty tinctures next to the water-bucket, which Merlin would have to finish when he ate next. She recognized the pain-reliever and fever-reducer, which both had to be taken with food, in two doses.
Gwen hoped he would wake up soon to eat a proper meal, but there was no reason she couldn't implement the rest of what she wanted to do, now. Even if Arthur had qualms about showing Merlin favor, she certainly didn't, and she'd be damned if she wasn't about to use her power to help him.
It began as a memory.
He was fighting Morgana again, in the courtyard. Rain stung his face, and wind tugged at his hair and clothes. He summoned lightning and fire and wind against her, more magic than he could ever remember using, except for perhaps against Nimueh. His whole body ached, his shoulder and head especially, and Morgana screamed at him silently, her voice drowned out by the claps of thunder and whoosh of flame. Rain ran down her face like tears.
Then she was gone, vanished like Morgause had, like so many of Merlin's enemies had—vanished, though she didn't vanish because he'd killed her. She still lurked out there, somewhere, and it made Merlin ache, worse than his physical wounds.
He fell to his knees as it all quieted, a great silence that was louder than his thunder or lightning had been, and Arthur was there, standing above him. His prince—his king—was speaking, but there were no words; the silence devoured them before they could reach Merlin's ears. The king realized he couldn't be heard, so he leaned in, like he might kiss him.
Arthur's breath was warm and smelled like despair and fear—and there was that same fear in his eyes, a trembling to his hands. He was mouthing I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and when Merlin looked down at his chest, there was Excalibur, Arthur's hand grasping the hilt. He fell sideways as Arthur pulled it out, and the blade was wet and red with his blood. He crumpled to the stone. There was terror in the knights' faces, in the citizens' faces—they were above him like Arthur was, surrounding him in a ring. The king got down on his knees beside him, setting his gory sword on the ground. He brought his lips to Merlin's ear, brushing away a few strands of hair.
"I hate you, Merlin," the king whispered, and the warlock could feel his lips just brush his skin. The intimacy of it made him shudder—this was wrong, wasn't it? This wasn't—wasn't how it had gone—
Arthur used his hand to close his eyes, like he was already dead, and his other hand cupped Merlin's face gently, so gently, his thumb delicately stroking Merlin's cheek. "I hate you, and I'm sorry your death couldn't be in the flames, where I could hear your sweet, sweet screams." Merlin shivered, and something clenched in his gut. "Oh, how you would have screamed for me, Merlin—"
Merlin gasped. He tried to sit up, but his shoulder jarred painfully, and he ended up flailing, nearly falling off the narrow bench. His first instinct was to get up; he needed to get up, to make sure—sure—
He sucked in air like there wasn't enough of it, and he hated that this was the second nightmare he'd had—was his mind truly so unstable? Had the hallucination of Arthur's kiss really thrown him so off balance?
The warlock glanced around, and he realized he was no longer in the cell he had originally woken up in; this one was cleaner, and fresh air came in from a barred window high on the wall. Everything was dim. Light flickered from down the hall—the guards' torches, he thought—and the moon outside.
Someone was again in the cell with him, sleeping on a cot. He could make out Gwen's features and dark curly hair. Did she not have any qualms about sleeping in this cold, dank place? And with him, no less, a known sorcerer—
Only, she'd already known that. Known it before the battle, like Arthur had. The revelation still held a dream-like quality to it, and he wasn't sure he believed it. How could he believe it? His existence had always been criminal, in one way or another—to have even the hope of change, after nearly two decades of living in fear… It was unthinkable. Unfathomable. Like Merlin was staring down into a deep, dark tunnel—one he knew led to good things, but he couldn't convince himself of it, couldn't convince himself safety was at the end of that oblivion.
Gwen knew, Arthur knew, Gwaine knew—Camelot knew. He wrung his hands at the thought of the many strangers who would judge him, want him dead. Not the idea of him, but him, Merlin, personally executed. He had put on a brave face for Arthur, and because he wanted to be free, would do anything for it, but the thought of revealing more of himself to those same strangers—
He clamped down on his thoughts forcefully. There's no point in worrying about what you can't control, he told himself, but the idea that he couldn't control any of it made it worse. The idea that Arthur was above, making arrangements for a trial, and he was to wait, and wait down here and—what would it even look like? Arthur had had to leave so soon, but he'd said—he'd needed to appear neutral. Merlin didn't like the idea that he couldn't look after him, that he was leaving the king vulnerable. But there was no point in worrying about it.
At least I know I'm not going to burn, whatever happens. He shivered, remembering dream-Arthur's words.
He distracted himself by making the great effort of pulling himself off the wooden bench turned cot, which was cushioned with a straw mattress. His shoulder wound throbbed at the effort, and his body ached, but he managed to leverage himself up and stumble off the bench.
The cold hit him hard—he wasn't wearing a shirt, only trousers. The sametrousers, in fact, that he'd been wearing during the battle. He hadn't washed since then, either; he was unaccountably dirty.
But Merlin ignored that in favor of getting to the bucket full of water—he was thirsty, and a little hungry, too. Only, he didn't see the bottles in the dark, even though they would've been obvious had he looked. The bottles were full of Gaius's pain-reliever and fever-reducer and what-have-you, positioned next to the bucket, and Merlin knocked over all of them with the loudest clatter he possibly could've made.
He winced at the noise and bent over painfully to right them. He had meant only to get a drink and go back to sleep, letting Gwen have her rest—he didn't know if he was ready for another conversation, like the one he'd had with Arthur. Or the explanation he'd given Gwaine. He still felt exposed, made all the worse because he couldn't remember exactly what he'd written in his journal.
How much did they know, about everything?
It was a relief, though, to know where it had gone, and to know why Arthur and Gwen had been acting like the biggest lunatics in all of Camelot.
"Who's there?" Gwen called groggily, and Merlin lowered himself next to the water pail because his legs were already tired from standing. His muscles seemed thin, wilted, and twinges of pain made his fingers spasm.
(It's magic, Merlin, you know they need the magic. You know you'd never felt so alive, so powerful, as you did when it was coursing through you, not suppressed or restrained. This is not how magic is meant to be.)
"Er," Merlin said. "It's—Merlin?" Gwen probably thought she was sleeping in her house, and he wondered if this was the reaction she would've had to an actual intruder in her home.
"Merlin?" Gwen repeated, and she sat up, turning her head blearily. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Getting a drink," Merlin said from the floor, holding up his cup. He brought it to his lips to prove he was telling the truth. He thought about commenting on the fact that his bench wasn't really a bed, but it was better than the floor. So he wouldn't complain. He wondered why he had changed cells, but he liked this one better, anyway.
Gwen blinked at him before her mind seemed to assert herself. "Merlin!" she said. "How are you feeling? You need to eat something, and take the medicine Gaius left—and I meant to change your bandages, only you never woke up, even when we moved you here."
It was odd, that she spoke to him like everything was normal. Like he didn't have magic, like she hadn't known this secret for weeks, like he wasn't locked in the cells. But it was also… It gave him undeniable relief, to know that she wasn't going to treat him differently, except for perhaps being a little more over-protective. She reminded him of Will in that way, who had taken pains to take care of Merlin once he'd found out about the magic. Except, of course, for all the times he'd encouraged the warlock to greater mischief.
Before he could say anything—he didn't know what to say, how could they begin to broach this topic—Gwen got up from her cot and called to the guards to fetch some food. Like she was some noble lady asking for her lunch, not a servant in the cells.
"I—" Merlin faltered. It had been no easier to talk with Arthur, but uncertainty and fear had pressed Merlin onward, then. And the king had directed the conversation when Merlin hadn't been able to talk.
But neither he nor Gwen was known for their ability to communicate clearly or concisely.
"Here, let me help you back into bed," Gwen said, coming over to him. "Gaius said you weren't to get up without his say-so—he should come in the morning to look you over. I can bring you water, and I have fresh clothes here. The guard should come shortly with your food; you'll need to finish the tinctures Gaius left." She didn't mention that one of them was still knocked over. "I'm so happy that you're awake, Merlin—you were asleep for so long, and they didn't tell me in time when you woke up before; when I got here, you were already asleep again."
She grasped his arm—his good one—and helped to lift and steady him. Merlin blinked, dazed; this couldn't be real. Gwen had known, but she was really—she really didn't seem to care about the magic, or even the lies, or the fact that Merlin had put up a shield, or killed the Sluagh, or driven off Morgana. It was like he was living in an entirely different Camelot, one where none of that had ever happened.
"You look better, except your bite is having a hard time healing. Gaius thinks the Sluagh's magic has something to do with it, or perhaps your exhaustion. But you seem to be fine anyway, so try not to worry about it, and try not to stress yourself out about—about it all—"
"Gwen," Merlin managed. "Please, I—"
It was all so much. One day Arthur had hated magic; he'd thought Gwen had feared it. Now they were both so—so—
Gwen led him back to the bench, and she sat him down.
"Sorry," she said. "I don't know why I—I wasn't always so bad as this, was I? I'm not doing a very good job." Merlin didn't know if she meant talking in general or speaking with him specifically. Her lips pressed together, and she rubbed her arm, standing awkwardly—embarrassed, it seemed.
"I… Thank you," Merlin said, and no one could accuse him of being good at talking, either. "For taking care of me. You—I didn't…" He struggled to find the words. "Arthur told me that you read my journal, with him."
"I wanted to tell you right away," Gwen said quietly, firmly. Her eyes were earnest. "If that means anything. I wanted to tell you about us knowing, so we could help you. I wanted to tell you after reading the first entry—you were so tired, and I wanted to help you more than anything. You have to know that I—that there's no need to thank me."
To Merlin's horror, his eyes began to well with tears. Could he not make it through one exchange without bawling? Only, it filled him with such sheer, unmitigated relief to know that Gwen still wanted to help him after knowing all that she did. Knowing that he'd done things he wasn't proud of. About knocking Morgana down the stairs, about releasing the dragon, about lying to everyone, not when he had to, only because it was easy, and he didn't know how else to live.
He still didn't know how else to live, what it meant to be honest about who he was and what he could do.
Gwen's eyes widened. "Oh, I didn't mean…" But she seemed to understand he wasn't crying because he was unhappy. Merlin was going to be free, and his friends—well, at least Arthur and Gwen and Gwaine—accepted him. He was going to be free. He didn't know how to comprehend the idea, didn't know how it was going to happen when it had always been illegal. It all seemed so large, so bizarre—a backwards world. An upside down world.
And it rested on him—that was what Arthur had implied. A trial… He swallowed, and a few more tears came to his eyes.
The king wanted to convince everyone, using him. What if it didn't work? Would Merlin be killed anyway? Banished? Arthur had given his word that he wouldn't be, but would he have a choice if there was danger of the populace rioting or nobles revolting? He wished he and Arthur had been able to talk more, so Merlin could prepare, but they hadn't. The warlock knew only the barest details, and the king had made it sound like he was going in blind to his own judgment—to magic's judgment.
(And still he remembered Arthur's arms around him, and he ached for comfort like that, the comfort of being held, because he was so lost, even though he was happy, and he barely knew what to think. He had never imagined it would go like this, not after all his lying and sneaking and spying.)
It was all so big, so large, and Merlin felt oddly empty, like all his emotions had been squeezed out of him, leaving only stretched-out skin. Hollow.
Gwen sat next to him on the small bench and put one arm around him; the other she used to hold his hand, leaning into him. She was warm against the cold, and he let his head rest on hers. He stayed like that, wrapped in her silent support, for a few minutes, until Merlin felt himself more under control.
She stood when the guard came with the food—he opened the cell door and passed it to her, eyeing Merlin oddly. The warlock recognized him; he'd spent more time than he cared to admit in the cells. His name was Stewart, Merlin thought. He liked to play dice.
"We should change your bandages first," Gwen decided professionally. She set the food down on the cot and moved to a satchel set off to the side. "There's also bruise ointment Gaius left, but we can do that after you eat, if you're hungry."
"Alright," Merlin said, his voice still rough from the crying. He continued to feel dazed as Gwen lit a few candles to see better with. He wondered when he might stop experiencing the situation as though he were watching it from far away, outside his body.
Gwen sat down next to him again, a bundle of clean linen in her hand. "I'm not as good as Gaius," she said, "but hopefully it won't hurt too badly. I'll need to wash it afterward." She avoided looking at his torso and unwrapped his soiled bandages with practiced movements.
Merlin winced as she pulled at the dried blood, but she was as gentle as she could be. He glanced at the wound, and it looked red and raw. He could make out the holes in his skin where the Sluagh's teeth had pierced it. After washing it using cold, clear water from the bucket, Gwen re-wrapped it tightly, but not so tight that it would restrict his blood flow.
"There are clean clothes here, if you—if you think you can manage," she said. "Or I—I suppose I could help you," she added awkwardly, "or Gaius is coming in the morning—"
"I can change," Merlin said, trying to smile. He wasn't sure it reached his eyes. "It might take me a minute."
Gwen stood and turned her back, busying herself with getting rid of his dirty bandages and preparing the tinctures he would have to take. True to his word, Merlin was slow to put on the clean trousers—he decided to forgo the shirt because Gaius would only make him take it off in the morning, and Gwen had mentioned bruise ointment. His legs and arms shook a little, but he managed to get them on eventually.
"You can look now," Merlin said once he was done.
"You'll need to eat all of it," Gwen said. She dragged a stool over to sit next to him as he laid back down, his back propped up on the cold, stone wall. "Or as much as you can." She put the plate on his lap: there were a few pieces of bread, preserves spread overtop. Merlin managed to eat them without issue, and he drank the medicine afterward.
By that time, he was feeling tired. His body was leaden and not under his full command any longer, not that it ever seemed to be.
"Don't fall asleep yet," Gwen warned. "Those bruises will take weeks longer to go away if we don't take care of them." She sounded so much like Gaius. Merlin thought sleepily that she should've been the physician's apprentice, not him.
"Okay," he said, trying to keep his eyes open. Even the uncomfortable chill of the wall against his back wasn't enough deterrence. He didn't realize he had closed his eyes until Gwen, having scooted her stool for a better position, leaned him forward. She didn't try to talk; she seemed to realize that he was too tired for it all.
Her fingers spread the paste all over his back, brisk and practiced. Merlin wondered how many knights and soldiers she'd had to do this for in the past week.
"All right, you can lay down, now," Gwen said. "I need to do your front, and you can sleep." Merlin wanted to protest that technically he could do his front, but he didn't feel like arguing, or talking, or staying awake. So he lay down without protest.
She did his face, first, and he wondered how bruised it was. Then she did his abdomen; he had substantial bruising from where he'd bashed into the rail when Morgana had torn him off the tower. He relaxed under her ministrations, and then he felt her fingers trace the burn scar along his chest, tenderly and lightly. They brushed the outside, following the scar's edges, and the sensation made him shiver.
He opened his eyes.
And even though she drew her fingers away hurriedly, he could still feel them there. It stirred something odd in him, and he could feel the tips of his ears turn red. He had thought—no. He had told himself that nothing would come of it, like his feelings for Arthur. And nothing had come of it; they'd shared one kiss when he was half-dead. Arthur loved Gwen, and Gwen loved Arthur (even if it had been a little rocky with Lancelot for a while).
Merlin didn't factor into it. So even as he stared at her hands—wishing she might touch him again or kiss even him, maybe, because they'd never kissed when he wasn't ill—he shoved the feelings down, hard, hard enough that it choked him.
Gwen and Arthur were happy with each other. Merlin didn't belong with either of them; he was destined for someone else or destined to be alone. He had contented himself with flings—quick, half-formed courtships that never went anywhere. Once, with Freya, he had thought…
But she was dead. And Merlin was not meant to be with Gwen or Arthur, even if he'd had dreams of them both, even if he'd been kissed by one and imagined being kissed by the other.
This was the source of this all: that kiss with Arthur, which hadn't even been real. Merlin was sure none of these old, ridiculous feelings would've been unearthed if he could've stopped thinking about the sensation of the king's lips on his own.
"Sorry," Gwen apologized.
"I—it's okay," he said, coughing awkwardly.
His friend quickly capped the ointment, avoiding his eyes. "Where did you get that one?" she asked.
Merlin's brow furrowed. Surely he'd written about his fight with Nimueh? Except—had he mentioned that she'd nailed him with a fireball? Or that it had left a huge scar in the center of his chest? Perhaps not. He couldn't remember exactly. "Er—it was Nimueh," he said. It was odd to reference something he'd never told her about, but she knew anyway.
It wasn't a bad odd, though.
"You fought her on the Isle, right?" Gwen asked. "To save Gaius. Well, to save Arthur, I suppose." She stared at the scar, and Merlin fought down his blush.
"Yeah," he replied, and if his tone sounded off, she didn't comment on it.
"Get some sleep," she said, patting his hand, still not meeting his eyes.
She blew out the candles, and Merlin pulled the blanket over himself to ward off the cold.
I'll try, Gwen. If he was lucky, he wouldn't have any more trouble: he wasn't interested in horrific nightmares or dreams about kissing or any unholy combination of the two.
Arthur paced the length of his chambers. Agravaine. His uncle. A traitor—and perhaps an assassin, a king-killer. A father-killer. He scowled at the floor as he walked back and forth; the stone was far too clean. He was used to seeing smudges and flecks of dirt. Merlin would've called him ridiculous for being irritated that the floor was spotless, but Arthur thought George might drive anyone to such lengths. The man would lick the floor until it shone if the king asked him to.
You're distracting yourself, he thought. And so he was: the problem of his uncle was a difficult one. An issue that made him itch to take up a sword and be done with it. Hot fury had replaced bewilderment in his gut, and his hands shook. He was certain Agravaine had been at the root of his father's death and the shield failing. Perhaps other things, too.
Even now, he plotted against Arthur, and the king gritted his teeth to think about it. His uncle had to be dealt with. Execution or banishment was the traditional method of dealing with traitors, but the king didn't know if either was a good option. His nobles might panic, thinking the charges were made up, and they were next. Arthur thought the charges even sounded made up: his blood uncle had sided with a mad witch instead of his own nephew.
Killing him outright wasn't unthinkable. Locking him in the cells indefinitely was appealing. But overall, Arthur wanted to simply buy himself time to think about it, to consider. Time to figure out the best path, and how he might do it without hurting his own plans.
Merlin was awake, after all. The trial would begin in only a few days' time—it was better to do so soon, so that no one had time to forget the terror of the Sluagh, or the relief of the shield.
I'll have to stop his visitors, too, so no one thinks he's being counseled. His sorcerer would be going in blind; it was necessary, for him to go in blind. If Merlin seemed prepared, it would feel staged. It had to feel genuine, real, even though it would be a show in all but name. For Arthur, at least.
For the rest of them, it would be anything but.
But Agravaine… An execution or banishment or any sort of dramawould not do. It would distract, would detract.
So there was only one option left open to Arthur.
"George," he called. The servant seemed almost to materialize out of the air, though he had only been standing quietly next to the wall. "Fetch me Sirs Leon, Lancelot, Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan."
"Right away, Your Highness," the servant said, bowing. He left the room quickly, and Arthur sat down at his table. His sister was his enemy. His father was dead. His mother was dead. His only remaining uncle was his enemy. He had no other family—no heir, no cousins.
No one.
He was alone, except for the people he had surrounded himself with.
When the knock came at his door, he called for them to come in. It was approaching evening, and the activity of the castle was dying down. Hopefully, if anyone took notice of the knights going through the castle, they would think they had been heading toward the kitchens or something similar. Most of the chambers on Arthur's level of the castle were unoccupied—his father and Agravaine being the exceptions.
Well, just Agravaine now.
The knights stood there awkwardly—it had only been just that afternoon, after all, that Arthur had spoken to them. He had likely interrupted their dinners: most of them were dressed in varying degrees of casual clothing, though all of them had taken their swords.
"In," Arthur said. "And sit—George, let no one bother us unless it's an emergency." His manservant gave a deep bow and retreated as his knights entered his chambers.
For all George's irritating mannerisms, he was trustworthy and diligent. The same couldn't be said of everyone Arthur knew.
"So what's this about?" Gwaine asked, making himself comfortable. Leon stood off to the side, avoiding looking into Arthur's eyes—he was clearly still uncomfortable with what he knew Arthur planned to do. "Twice in one day you've summoned us. Someone might think you liked us if you aren't careful."
"You, Gwaine?" Arthur said. "I could never like you." Lancelot also stood, but Elyan and Percival sat at Arthur's table, leaving one left. The king took it. "No, it has come to my attention that there is a traitor in my court. You all are going to be responsible for containing him."
"Traitor?" Leon repeated, alarmed. His hand automatically went to his sword hilt, as though he were ready to kill the person then and there. "Who, Your Highness?"
"Agravaine," Arthur said grimly. Percival frowned. Elyan pursed his lips. Neither Lancelot or Gwaine seemed altogether surprised. "He is in league with Morgana."
None of them questioned the particulars: they didn't need to know the why or the how. In this, they seemed to trust his judgment. Arthur supposed he'd had a lot of experience with traitors.
"But why?" Leon asked. "You are his blood nephew and the legitimate king. Morgana is…"
A half-mad, would-be tyrant, Arthur thought, but he didn't say it. Instead, he inclined his head. "I don't know, Leon, though I intend to find out."
"Is there to be an execution, then?" Elyan asked. "What do you need us for, sire?"
"I'm coming to that," Arthur said. "Now, an execution or banishment does not serve my immediate goals, gentleman, but Agravaine can't be allowed to wander about the castle and do God only knows what. I need men I can trust to monitor the situation. He's going to be staying in his chambers for the foreseeable future. He's been taken terribly ill, you see… And I will need at least two of you within his chambers at all times. Leon, you must find guards you trust; two of these will be stationed outside at all times. Make sure they understand the need for discretion. George will be delivering his meals, and I think perhaps Gaius might be persuaded to go and look him over."
Gwaine laughed, leaning back in the chair. "I always thought that because you liked to swing your sword at your problems, you didn't have brain enough to solve them any other way. But this is downright devious." Arthur didn't know whether to be offended or pleased at these words; he settled on being annoyed by Gwaine's over-familiarity. And promptly ignored it.
"As such, Gwaine and Elyan—you will be on first watch tonight; you're relieved of your other duties. If anyone asks, you've injured yourselves, or you're feeling unwell. Try not to use the main passages, and tell no one the truth of the matter. Leon, I will need your list of trustworthy guards as soon as you're able to produce it," Arthur said. He tightened his fingers to keep them from drumming on the table.
Leon nodded swiftly. "I will do so right away, my lord."
"I suppose you and I will take tomorrow's shift," Percival said, looking to Lancelot. The other knight nodded, lips pressed awkwardly together—he still seemed guilty for his part in Uther's death. Arthur thought he was noble for it: most everyone else in a similar position wouldn't have been so sad to see him go. Perhaps having something he might do about it would help him work off his emotions.
"Since everything is settled, we have only to wait for the corridors to grow more deserted," Arthur said. He ducked out of the chambers to explain the situation to George. The manservant paled, his eyes wide, but he was attentive and had clearly listened well.
Then, they left to see to Arthur's uncle. They saw no one else in the hallways, and the king had decided he would knock; if he alarmed Agravaine early, he might try to flee. The other knights waited silently, just out of sight.
His uncle opened the door, and he looked normal. He smiled when he saw his nephew, and it looked genuine. Arthur wanted to trust him, to trust in his family. But he knew family could burn him—and had burned him—badly. No, he would trust in Merlin. In Lancelot. In the men he had chosen, not the ones that curried favor with sly tongues.
"Arthur!" Agravaine said. "How pleased I am to see you."
"Uncle," Arthur greeted stiffly. He was not so good at lying—a trait, it seemed, that had not been passed down to him. "May I come into your chambers? There is something I must discuss with you—urgently."
A furrow appeared between Agravaine's brows, but he stood to the side, shutting the door behind Arthur. "Is everything alright? Does it have to do with the council meeting yesterday? Arthur, you know I want to support you in this, but it is sheer folly to—"
"It's not about the council meeting," Arthur said, gritting his teeth. Agravaine played at the doting uncle, but there was something wrong underneath. Something bleak and treacherous. It made Arthur's blood boil to see it, to know it. His uncle had manipulated him so easily. The king almost growled. "It's another matter. Perhaps we should sit down?"
And as Agravaine turned his back to sit, Arthur drew Excalibur in one swift motion and held it against the back his uncle's neck. Agravaine froze.
"Arthur?" he asked tentatively.
"Put your hands up and don't move, or I'll slit your throat," the king said. Agravaine raised his hands—they were shaking a little, Arthur noticed. "Good. You all can come in now," he called over his shoulder. The knights, who had only been waiting for the signal, entered. Gwaine carried a length of rope that George had fetched for them.
"Arthur, whatever you think I've done—" Agravaine began, but he stopped as the king pressed the blade against his skin.
"You will address me as 'sire,' 'lord,' or 'Your Majesty,'" Arthur snarled. "And you know damn well what you've done. If this were any other time, I'd be scheduling your execution. Fortunately for you, I can't have my nobles panicking over your death. Leon, search him."
The knight stepped forward and patted Agravaine down. Arthur was careful not to let his emotions cloud his judgment; he couldn't afford distraction. Leon found a few daggers and knives on his person, and, under Arthur's watchful eye, he removed his cloak, jacket, belt, and boots. They found a vial of poison in his right sock.
"Why did you do it?" Arthur asked. He tried not to let despair creep into his voice. His uncle stayed silent, but he glanced back at Arthur. There was something despicable in his pale face, something unknowable.
"You killed my sister, your own mother," Agravaine said calmly. "You and Uther—I can't bear to see you happy, when she's cold in her grave. You're a devilish child, begotten by forbidden, dark magic. You're corrupted, whatever anyone may say. Somebody born by the death of another can't be anything but wrong and evil. And someday, everyone in Camelot will see that. Someday—"
"Enough," Arthur choked. Rage made his voice shake, and his sword drew a thin line of blood on Agravaine's nape. The traitor's foul mouth stilled. Arthur shuddered, trying to get ahold of himself.
You killed your own mother. A devilish child. It was true, wasn't it? He had killed his mother—he had been born with Magic, with her death. If that wasn't devilish, nothing was.
"Sire," Lancelot said softly. Arthur lessened the pressure of his sword. "He provokes you."
So he had. The king certainly felt provoked, like a bear that had been woken early from hibernation by a hunter's spear. "Were you the one who killed my father? The one who disrupted the shield?"
"Yes," Agravaine rasped.
Arthur swallowed back fury, and it tasted bitter going down, almost burning. Like strong drink. "Gwaine," Arthur said, "gag him. Percival, tie him." They obliged him, though they all looked at him curiously, clearly wondering at the traitor's words. But none of them were brave enough to ask, and the king wasn't about to volunteer the information.
Agravine's hands were bound and tied firmly to the bed. The rope wasn't as strong as chains might be—Arthur would have to see about moving some up from the dungeons. He was gagged and sweaty. Afraid. That almost made Arthur smile in satisfaction. He would see the man dead, after the trial was over and he could afford it.
His uncle didn't deserve banishment. That was clear. He showed no remorse for what he'd done, hardly any emotion at all. He had never cared about Arthur or Camelot, not once. Once all his guile had been torn away, he hadn't even tried to defend himself.
"You're a coward, uncle," Arthur said, sheathing his sword. "A coward and a liar. Do you truly think my mother would want you to go against her only child, whatever the means of my birth?" It was a minute flinch, but it was there. "And you're selfish—you cannot lie to me that Morgana hasn't promised you power, more power than you had with me as king. You won't have any power, now—not for the rest of your miserable, short life. Do you understand?"
Agravaine couldn't speak, but he snarled through the gag. Arthur turned away. "Hungry?" he asked Gwaine and Elyan. "I'll have George fetch you something. I think the prisoner can do without, for tonight."
Gwaine and Elyan stayed behind as the rest of them left. George watched all this, his eyes still very large.
If there was any justice in the world, the next time Arthur would see his murdering, traitorous uncle, it would be the day he'd chop his head off.
"There is no sign of her, my lord," Wymond said, marking the spot off on the map. "The patrols have seen nothing; Morgana is only a whisper, now. Likely she has fled elsewhere. No one in Camelot would dare harbor her."
Wymond was an older man—hardened, with steel in his eyes and hair. His shoulders were still broad, despite his age, and his arms were thick with muscle. Uther had named him Commander of Camelot's army, technically, though he had often relied on Arthur for strategy and to lead the men. Wymond had decades of experience, and his head for battle was something to be lauded, even if he rarely fought himself anymore.
War was a young man's game, after all, though he was only fifty or so summers.
"Thank you, Lord Wymond," Arthur said. "I believe we should stop looking for now, and focus on keeping our borders secure; the fighting in Essetir is liable to bleed over if we aren't careful. Hungry soldiers might begin to raid villages in Camelot."
"I will increase the patrols there, sire," Wymond said. "Lord Aloys, anything to report?"
Aloys was older than Wymond, though he was only a General. Arthur hoped to promote Leon to General soon; First Knight was nothing to sneeze at, but he wanted Leon to be present at these meetings.
"Our spies say that Lot looks to be winning, Your Highness," Aloys said. He was rather large—it had been a long time since he'd held anything other than a ceremonial sword—but his mind was sharp and strategic. "It's only a matter of time."
"We'll be ready," Arthur said. Out of all the factions warring for Essetir's throne, there might be worse winners than Lot. In fact, Lot might be the best outcome: he was a steady man, not wont to be taken in by bribes or follow his whims like Cenred had been known to do. He might respond to diplomacy.
"Sire," Randel said, tone respectful, "if I may interject—I have heard some troubling rumors."
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line. He had not asked his councilors to keep quiet, and so he had been expecting them to bring it up. Gossip moved quickly in a castle. "Yes, Lord Randel?" he asked carefully.
"Well, are they—" Randel visibly gathered himself. He was a short, balding man wrapped head-to-toe in cords of muscle. "Are they true, my lord?"
"There are a number of rumors to which you might be referring to," Arthur said. "Perhaps you would like to clarify."
"The ones that... About the magic, sire," Randel said. "The ones that refer to you legalizing it."
Aloys and Wymond were watching him. They watched him like soldiers, like warriors. Warily, sizing him up. The king would have to tread carefully. The army's loyalty was to Arthur; Uther had seen the danger of a military divided. But it wouldn't do to alarm them unduly.
"They are certainly overblown," Arthur said. "I assure you that I have no such plans to legalize magic."
They seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
"Unless, of course, the trial proves that it should be legalized," he added casually. Better not to play it up.
"Trial?" Wymond asked. "My lord… What do you mean? Surely the evidence points to…"
"You are old enough to remember the time before the Purge," Arthur said. "You tell me, Lord Wymond: does all the evidence point to magic being evil? Because I certainly believe that Merlin's actions merit an investigation, at the very least."
"Your manservant? The sorcerer?" Aloys demanded. He seemed to realize his disrespectful tone and made pains to moderate it. "I mean, sire, I thought you planned to execute him."
"He is to be given a public trial. I am announcing it later today, in fact; it will commence three days hence." It was enough time to put together cohesion, but not so much time that it would appear that Arthur had prepared it all. Even though he did plan to prepare it all. And as soon as the announcement went out, he would have to ensure that only guards came into contact with Merlin—Gaius, Gwen, or the knights might garner accusations of favoritism. Merlin seemed well enough to survive without them for a few days, and the guards knew that Arthur wouldn't brook any abuse of his manservant.
"A public trial?" Randel repeated. "Your Majesty, this is unprecedented."
"Is it?" Arthur asked. "My father was a good king."
(This was a lie. The truth was that Uther had been a bad king, but Arthur missed the fiction, even as he knew the truth. He wanted to love the previous king, love him as he had loved his father. But when he thought about children dying, his sword stained in innocent blood… He woke up in cold sweats, screams in his ears, and found that he could never forgive his predecessor.)
"But my father didn't give magic a fair chance," Arthur continued. "You can recall what Camelot was like before he outlawed it. Tell me, was it all bad?"
Randel fingered his sword hilt nervously. He had an oddly anxious disposition for someone who had practically been unstoppable on the field. In his sixties, he still practiced regularly, and it showed in his impressive figure.
"Time has clouded my memory, sire," he said.
"Perhaps you will recall the events that took place only nine days ago, then?" Arthur asked mildly. "I think they may warrant a reconsideration."
Randel only continued to fiddle with the hilt of his sword.
"I do not think so, sire," Wymond said. "Though I will not deny the advantage the sorcerer gave us, it was magic that threatened us in the first place. I cannot forget Sigan or any of the other sorcerers that have attacked Camelot." His eyes were almost metallic, matching the harsh color of a polished blade.
"I will not ask you to forget," Arthur said calmly. "I hope the trial will clarify these matters. Merlin's actions deserve recompense."
"Even should his motives prove selfish and evil?" Aloys asked.
"We cannot know that for certain right now," Arthur said. "I would like to know, Lord Aloys, not merely suspect. Should his actions deserve punishment, punishment will be delivered. But I find myself against executing a man who saved all of Camelot." He tried not to sound sharp at the end, and he thought he succeeded. He didn't want to seem too defensive, although he knew that he had perhaps seemed that way to his councilors.
"I look forward to seeing what this trial may reveal, then, my lord," Wymond said. "You are already proving to be wise beyond your years; you will be a king as good as your father."
I'm hoping to aim quite a bit higher, but thank you. "I can only aspire to live up to his memory," Arthur said. "If I am even half as good a king as he was, I will be pleased with my legacy." His insides gave a twinge at the lie. "If that is all?" They had discussed what they'd needed to, as far as he was concerned. The specifics of the trial weren't going to get out before it was time.
None of them spoke, and so Arthur left the room to go to his chambers for lunch. It had been a long morning, and it was going to be a longer afternoon. He yearned to go down to the training grounds and work his frustration out on his knights. Unfortunately, his work was more important.
His uncle's "arrest" had put Leon's mind at ease about the assassin, and so guards didn't follow Arthur as he made his way to his rooms. George was nowhere to be seen, and Arthur nodded to the guards outside the door. The servant was probably getting lunch.
Arthur gave a strangled yelp as his eyes landed on a cloaked figure at his table. In one fluid motion, he drew Excalibur—magic was the only way they could've gotten in.
"Peace, Arthur Pendragon," the figure said, raising a hand. "I haven't come to harm you." She—they were a she—removed her hood to reveal an older, dark-skinned woman. A druid.
Arthur didn't exactly relax, but he didn't call for the guards. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why are you in my chambers?" He wondered if Merlin might be able to prevent unwanted visitors from appearing magically in his rooms, and decided it was something to look into after all this.
"I am Wymarc, an elder of the clans," the old woman answered. "Will you not sit? I believe we have things to discuss."
"We do," Arthur said. "Like why you've appeared in my chambers." He made no move to sit, but he didn't raise his sword or move closer. Alarm made his muscles tense, but he had never known druids to attack except in self-defense. And something like curiosity burned deeper than that. Why was she here, of all places? Now? She wasn't familiar, which was a relief.
If she had been familiar, they wouldn't have met on good terms.
"Your plan is ambitious," Wymarc said. "One worthy of the Once and Future King, I think. Camelot might become a safe haven, for my kind, if you succeed in legalizing magic and ridding that prejudice from this land."
The Once and Future King. Arthur had heard the term before, but he couldn't quite place it… Oh. Merlin had called him that, though he had never questioned it. He had never questioned so many things when it came to Merlin.
"And instead of seeking me out normally—you know, sending a messenger, a courtier, you decided the best course of action was to appear in my rooms as an assassin would," Arthur said. "How did you even hear such a… rumor?"
"I have heard of a trial only—and it is important to know the going-ons in a place such as Camelot," Wymarc said. That could only allude to spies. Her voice was smooth, but her accent was strange. Still, she spoke eloquently. "But the prophecies provide greater insight to your motivations, sire. As for my own motivations—I have come to offer aid, if I can. It is no small thing to change the minds of a people." Prophecies? What was she talking about?
All at once, Arthur decided she likely wasn't a threat. Sorcerers who came to hurt him were never this patient. The king sheathed his sword, sitting at the table across from her.
Besides, an opportunity such as this… A sorcerer—one who wasn't Merlin—deciding to help him, the son of Uther… This—unlike so many other things happening—was unprecedented. He had no idea of this Wymarc's influence with the druids, or with other sorcerers. Her support might prove invaluable to a stable, secure transition.
And it wasn't fair to rely on Merlin for everything.
"My manservant will be along shortly with lunch," he said. The carafe of watered-down wine was still mostly full; George never let it run low. "Would you like some wine? It would seem we have a lot to discuss, Lady Wymarc." He took two goblets and began to pour.
She smiled. It made her eyes less sad, less heavy. "We do, indeed. And I would love some wine, my king."
AN: Sorry this is late, everyone! Hopefully chapters will be a little faster now that it's the summer. Questions: What did you think of the Merlin/Gwen romance? Also what did you think of Agravaine? And Wymarc is involved now! The trial actually starts next chapter; sorry for the wait. Thank you all so much for the response!