Chapter Four: And So It Begins
Things were slightly awkward between Gwen and Merlin the next morning. Merlin tried desperately to ignore the emotions swimming inside him—most prominently the butterflies in his stomach. But this flapping wasn't born of anxiety alone; it was gentle and almost delicate, a twitch of the butterflies' membranes.
He wished badly it would go away. He was meant to be past these feelings.
His muscles were strengthening, and, under Gaius's critical eye, he walked slowly about the cell. Afterward, he sat next to his mentor on his hard bench, Gwen watching from her cot.
"And you woke up last night?" he asked. "Any symptoms other than weakness? Pain? Headache?"
"My injuries hurt," Merlin said, gesturing to his shoulder and head. "And the bruises don't exactly feel great. But I'm on the mend—try not to worry so much."
"Hm," the physician seemed unconvinced. "Guinevere?"
"Everything seems to be healing well," Gwen replied.
"I'm not lying, Gaius," Merlin said, offended that he had felt the need to ask Gwen. Besides, if Gwen had noticed any discrepancies, she would've told the old man anyway. But she hadn't. Because Merlin was healing, only slower than usual.
"Oh, don't sound so upset," Gaius said, patting his knee. "You only have a tendency to play these things down, my boy." The physician seemed much happier, far better than the worry-worn man he'd been before. Merlin thought he was finally accepting the fact that Arthur wasn't going to punish him.
The warlock could hardly accept it himself. The world had begun to lose that surreal quality. Still, his conversation with Arthur still seemed bizarre in his mind's eye, though the memory filled him with odd warmth. The king considered him a friend, someone to be praised. He'd never openly admitted it before, and suspecting wasn't the same thing as having a verbal affirmation.
It made even the tips of his toes tingle.
"I've only played them down because I couldn't exactly tell people, could I?" Merlin asked. "Ah, yes—don't worry, everyone, it's only a stab wound I got from a rogue sorcerer. Oh, you didn't hear about that? Well, I killed him with my magic before he could do anything bad with his magic, so that's not unexpected—"
"Hush," Gaius said. "And let me see your back. How far did you fall, again?"
"Er…" Merlin wasn't sure. How tall was the tower he'd been standing on? He hadn't really been thinking about its height when he'd been falling off it. He'd been more concerned about what lay at the bottom of it—the ground.
"More than a hundred feet, I'd say," Gwen said. "He fell off the western tower—the one we don't put guests in because there are so many stairs."
"Right," Merlin said.
Gaius's lips pressed together tightly. "Did you use a spell?" he asked. "Or was it instinctual magic?" The warlock doubted he could've protected himself so thoroughly with nothing but instinct. He'd done it to some extent before: his magic had helped when he'd been thrown into walls. But falling a hundred feet?
"It was a spell—one that's supposed to create a sort of armor around you, I guess. It was the only thing I could think of on the spot. Well, the only one that was supposed to be used on oneself," Merlin explained. "I was winded—and I bruised, obviously. But nothing broke."
"You're lucky you didn't break your back—or your skull," Gaius muttered. "But you were quick; that saved your life."
Gwen looked vaguely ill and fascinated at it all; Merlin wondered if her fascination came from him mentioning magic.
"How on earth did you manage to do that before—before you, um, hit?" Gwen asked.
Merlin wondered if telling her the truth would scare her, but then he recalled that she had read his diary. And she didn't seem particularly scared of his ability to control lightning or fire, either. "It was… Well." It came out fumbling because he had never properly confessed to doing it, not even to Gaius. "I, er, I slowed down time. To give myself the chance to think."
Gwen's eyes widened, but she held no trace of fear—only awe. She leaned forward, and stray curls fell into her face. "Really? You can do that? I thought time was supposed to be basically impossible to manipulate."
Merlin's brow furrowed. "Where did you hear that?" All of Merlin's research on the topic said similar things, but it was bizarre that Gwen of all people knew. Had he mentioned it in his journal? He thought briefly and knew he hadn't.
"Yes, I thought that was impossible, Merlin," Gaius said pointedly. The warlock knew he must've suspected he had the ability, what with all of the other rules Merlin was able to break when it came to magic. "And Gwen asked me if she might read some of my more illicit books."
"And you let her?" Merlin asked. He knew the books his mentor spoke of, and Uther had specified that they were only to be consulted in an emergency—as in, when Camelot was in danger of being flattened by magic. Gaius hadn't even let Merlin read them without nearly a six month-long fight. The warlock would never have allowed anyone—Lancelot, Gwen, whoever—to read one of them. The risk would've been too high.
"Arthur was regent at the time, if you'll recall," Gaius said stiffly. "Do you think she was in any danger of execution?"
"Even if I was, that's my choice to make," Gwen said. "So yes, I read them. It was very… insightful."
Suddenly, Gwen's behavior seemed to make sense in Merlin's mind, the way an assassination plot sometimes fell together. With Gwen, some of the information had been missing. "You read the one by Leofwin, didn't you?" he accused. "That's why you went all crazy about feeding me: you read her passage on what happens when mages don't get enough to eat."
"Well, you can't tell me you were getting enough, can you?" Gwen asked. "You probably would've collapsed if I hadn't done something." She wasn't wrong, but Merlin wasn't about to admit it.
As he opened his mouth to speak, there were footsteps outside his cell.
All three looked up, and it was Leon. Gwen stood and gave a short bow, and Gaius gave a similar nod. Merlin could only stare at him, fidgeting. The knight's face reminded him of a portrait, where the artist seemed more intent to capture the absence of emotion than anything else. But there were small signs of Leon's feelings: the tightening of his lips, the grip on his sword hilt.
"Sir Leon," Gwen greeted.
"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Gaius asked. Both had straightened, and each was uncharacteristically guarded—guarding him, Merlin realized. It was touching, if entirely unnecessary. Even if Leon wanted to run him through, he would never do so against Arthur's orders. And it wasn't like Merlin was helpless, either; his body was damaged, not his magic.
"I regret to inform you that the king has banned the prisoner from having visitors," Leon said.
"What? Why?" Gwen demanded. Her hands grabbed at the skirt of her dress, perhaps in lieu of shaking them at Leon. "He still needs medical attention." Her tone was anything but respectful. Still, Leon didn't do more than look sternly into her face. It was an unfamiliar look; normally he was one of the friendlier knights.
"I am not privy to the king's thoughts on the matter," Leon said. "But I believe it is only temporary—no more than a few days. You might speak with His Majesty if you fear for the prisoner's health."
"Well, you only have to take one look at him to know that—"
"Gwen, it's okay," Merlin muttered. "Ask the guards to bring me the medicine. I know when to take it, and I can wrap the bandages myself. Now that I'm not in danger of dying, there's no real reason for you to be here anyway—"
"And it is His Majesty's orders," Leon asserted. Using a key he'd likely gotten from the guards, he opened the cell door. He gestured to the hallway. "I understand your concern, but I must insist that you leave. The guards will see you out."
Merlin felt a shiver run up his spine—he would be alone, here, with Leon. What if his estimation of the man was wrong? What if a lifetime of propaganda overcame the knight's good sense, and he attacked Merlin? Before, he would've trusted the man with his life. Now… Now the look in Leon's eye made him a stranger.
But maybe that was how Leon saw him, too.
Gaius tensed, but he turned to face Merlin, reaching around to hug him. "Don't be afraid to defend yourself," he whispered. "I have an old man's caution, but I fear that now that caution may not be as helpful as it has been in the past." The warlock inhaled the scent of herbs that clung to Gaius's robes and nodded.
The old man left, Gwen trailing behind.
"Good-bye, Merlin," she called. "We'll be thinking of you." She emphasized the words—Merlin knew she meant that she was going to talk to Arthur about all of this, though he knew it had to be a part of the king's plan. Somehow. He had promised not to let Merlin rot.
But what if—what if he had changed his mind? Worse, what if Merlin was remembering wrong? What if the Arthur that had held him had only been a fever dream, an opposition to all his nightmares—a wish that would never come true? Arthur was taking away Merlin's allies, preparing an execution that the warlock wouldn't be able to escape from. And would he even want to? If he couldn't live in Camelot, here where he had made his home, what was the point?
There was no point, and it might all be taken away from him, all in an instant—what if Arthur holding him, promising him freedom, was only a way to placate him, so he wouldn't struggle, so he wouldn't flee? A lie, a deception to match Merlin's—a fitting revenge.
His breath quickened, and he closed his eyes. No, it was real. You know what's real, Merlin, and what's not. Don't panic over this.
The door clanged shut, and the warlock opened his eyes. Leon watched him from the other side of the bars, the way someone might watch a caged bear—distrustful, afraid. Merlin shifted awkwardly, but there was nowhere to escape that gaze.
"I'm not going to bite you," Merlin couldn't help but say. "It's still me, Leon."
"We'll see," Leon said. His gaze narrowed further, if it were possible. "Merlin, if you have somehow deceived the king…" He inhaled, like he wasn't sure how the threat should end. A painful death? A miserable life, spent rotting in the dungeons?
"I haven't!" Merlin protested. "Please, I…" He'd known his magic would change things, but he didn't want to lose Leon. "I promise."
"Your promises don't mean much," Leon said, and Merlin flinched. Was that how everyone would see it? His word, now meaningless, just when he was actually capable of telling the truth. Free from the lies, but cursed because no one would believe him. It was a fate Merlin hadn't thought of: when it came to his secret, the worst outcome he had thought of was to die. But to live some kind of half-life, distrusted and feared by everyone, now that he could finally be wholly himself…
"You know I haven't lied about everything—about most things, really," Merlin said desperately. It had been too easy, with Gwaine, Gwen, and Arthur. This had been the pushback he'd expected—except, he'd expected worse, really. He'd expected to see hatred in everyone.
But was fear any better? He had to believe it was, had to believe that fear might lessen with time and exposure.
"We'll see," Leon said again. "I will thank you for protecting Camelot. Lancelot says you did it for us." His voice was stiff and formal, but it gave Merlin hope that perhaps Leon might accept him after all, with a little time. Even though the pang of failure cramped his gut—his shield had failed, after all. People had died because of it, and he'd been revealed. Not exactly the best outcome. "The king asked me to give you a message: the trial will begin in three days. Be ready."
Merlin nodded. "Thank you," he said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. He sat there on the cot, Leon standing there behind the bars. Like the knight thought he should speak—that there should be more to their conversation. But Merlin's eyes were becoming heavy, his limbs lethargic.
At some point, when Merlin lay down to sleep, he heard the knight's footsteps fade away, and he wondered if the trial could really convince people like Leon—or people worse than Leon—that Merlin deserved to live. That he deserved to be free.
The biggest issue Arthur saw was with the dragon.
He knew the question would come up eventually, should Merlin prove to answer honestly. And this led Arthur to the question of dragonlords. Had Merlin always been one? What exactly did it entail? He didn't know, and that bothered him. Why hadn't Merlin written more about it? He couldn't exactly ask, either—or at least he couldn't ask Merlin. He had cut off the sorcerer's visitors, asking Leon to explain the matter to the sorcerer as briefly as he could. He was expecting another dressing-down from Gwen at any point.
Really, though, it wasn't like Arthur had any other choice. And it wasn't like he was going to be imprisoning Merlin indefinitely. It was something temporary, and the sorcerer knew that. There was no reason for Gwen to be upset with him.
Still…
"Guard," Arthur said, poking his head out of his chambers, "fetch Gaius for me. Tell him my shoulder is acting up." He had hurt his shoulder in the battle. He'd over-extended it and over-exerted it from swinging his sword at an awkward angle. It had already healed nicely with some rest, but it would be a good cover.
"Right away, Your Majesty," the guard said, bowing. He hurried away under Arthur's watchful eye. The king sat down at the table to wait. He had pilfered some books off of Geoffrey that contained mentions of magic, but none of it was as in-depth as he required. Gaius might have something better, if Arthur could persuade him to share it.
The old man still seemed upset that Arthur was placing Merlin directly in the center of attention. But really, there was no other option: the king didn't exactly have other sorcerers who were eager to use their magic to defend Camelot. Even with Wymarc and the druids… Well, if Gaius knew any who had been using it to help for years, was close to both the nobility and peasantry of the citadel, and knew Arthur himself, the physician was welcome to put them forward. Arthur scowled at the fruit arrangement on his table—George believed both in decorating and snacks, apparently.
Someone knocked, and he called for the physician to come in. Gaius opened the door and closed it behind him. He seemed fresher than when Arthur had last seen him, more put together. If Arthur had to guess, his patients had mostly stabilized after more than a week with his care.
Or they'd died.
"Gaius," he greeted. "Come, sit." The situation was oddly similar to the conversation he'd had with Wymarc.
"My lord," Gaius said. "The guard told me your shoulder pains you; I must examine it—"
"That was a pretense," Arthur interrupted. "I wanted to ask you a few questions. My shoulder is perfectly fine. I apologize for the deception. Please, sit. Have some… fruit." He gestured to the central area of the table. "They are the last fruit we may see for some time, with the cold finally settling in."
Gaius eyed them dubiously, his brow already beginning to inch up his forehead. "Thank you, sire." He sat across from Arthur, looking uncomfortable. The king had to wonder if Uther had ever let Gaius sit down in his chambers. They had been friends—or so Uther had said. But Arthur couldn't picture him letting the elderly man sit in his presence.
The thought left something bitter in his mouth.
Gaius cleared his throat. "You have questions, Your Highness?"
"Yes, I do. I was wondering what you knew of dragonlords—regarding Merlin specifically," Arthur said without preamble. Gaius almost seemed to sag, and the posture aged him.
"That is… Not my secret to tell," Gaius said.
"It will have to be," Arthur said. "Because there is no one else to tell it. I must know, Gaius, for the trial. Merlin's release of the dragon… It doesn't look good, in any light." It still upset him to think about it. The dragon itself—himself, Arthur supposed—had directly only killed a few. But his fires, and the ensuing structural damage… Citizens had died from the smoke, the flames, and the collapse of buildings. The lower town had not been built to withstand such an attack. The houses were made of wood, so close together—they had been like kindling for the dragon's fire. Arthur didn't know how many blackened corpses had been dug out of the rubble.
Merlin had been put between a rock and a hard place. There had been no good choices. Arthur knew that, and he'd forgiven Merlin; he wasn't guiltless, either. The sorcerer had done the best he could have, under the circumstances.
But it didn't look good.
"Can you not omit it?" Gaius asked. "Surely there is no need for it to come up during the trial."
Arthur grimaced. This had been his first thought, too. "I will not lie during the proceedings," he said. "And the question would have come up anyway; you know as well as I that the dragon gave Merlin information on all manner of things. There is no way to omit the dragon's release without omitting his role entirely."
Gaius folded his hands in front of him. The motion shifted his satchel, and glass clinked inside it. "I see. I find I am not sure how to begin," he said.
"Dragonlords," Arthur prompted. "Begin there. What does it mean? Is it some kind of title?"
The physician shook his head. "Not as such. Dragonlords are called so because they are given powers over the dragons. Their ability to fend off the attacks, in the ancient days, gave them status—they were often the lords or kings of lands. Well, dragonlords, dragonladies, dragonnobility in general. Dragonlord is the term if the power runs in the male line—the firstborn son becomes a dragonlord upon his father's death. But the power can run in the female line as well, and then it is the firstborn daughter who is granted the power."
"Father's death…" Arthur's mind worked furiously. "What kind of powers?" he asked.
"They have the ability to command dragons; the creatures are powerless to resist in any meaningful manner. But there are drawbacks, too. Only a dragonnoble may call a dragon from its egg, and so often they were assigned to a family of dragons, to help the dam and sire raise the hatchlings. They were less like lords to the dragons and more like kin. Their powers compelled them to help the dragons, to care for them. It is said that the bond between a dragonnoble and the dragons they hatched was very strong," Gaius said. "They were taught never to command a dragon for frivolous purposes. If they abused their powers for personal gain, they were killed or imprisoned."
Arthur blinked, trying to absorb this information. "Would Merlin have felt so compelled?" he asked.
"I can't say, sire. Technically, he wasn't a dragonlord when he met Kilgharrah. He certainly felt compelled, afterward, I would judge. Merlin can be very forgiving, my lord, but I have never known him to leave a threat to Camelot alive if he can help it," Gaius said.
Arthur recalled the smell of ozone and great bellows of thunder, and he agreed. The oddity of having Merlin defend Camelot was fading, but the skinny man in the dungeons seemed far away from the sorcerer who had fought Morgana.
"And this process, to become one…" Oh. It finally clicked in Arthur's head. Merlin's father had died, in order for him to become a fully-fledged dragonlord. That would mean… "Balinor was his father," he realized. And he had told him to stop crying.
Oh.
"Yes, he was," Gaius said. "Merlin didn't explain to me the exact—circumstances—but that was the first time he met him. He had no idea—he thought his father had died, or had been a soldier Hunith had taken a fancy to. We… We never told him."
The king remembered how upset Merlin had been that entire trip, as well as Arthur's poor attempts to cheer him up. "That was cruel," Arthur said softly. "To deprive him of a father." And it made sense, too: Merlin had been a bastard. He had noticed the looks when he had been in Ealdor, the way some people avoided looking at him or Hunith. An unwedded woman with child wasn't uncommon, but in a small village like that… It had to have been difficult.
"Perhaps," Gaius said. "But it was necessary. I suppose I might as well tell you the rest of it. I helped Balinor escape the flames. Hunith, before she had Merlin, would often take the mages in until it was safe for them to go. Balinor stayed with her for nearly a year. I should've seen it then, that they had gotten fond of each other. He didn't want to leave; she didn't want him to go. But he had to—he had been one of Uther's greatest opponents when it came to the Purge.
"And then, eight months later, Merlin was born. Hunith had prayed it would be a girl, but it wasn't. It was a baby boy with glowing eyes—they didn't stop glowing until he was a month old, you know. Hunith was terrified to go anywhere, and she didn't let him leave the house until he was seven or so. Until he could reliably keep his eyes blue."
Arthur blinked. Kept inside the house—or at least away from other people—for seven years. And Balinor… Balinor had left, had died, because of Uther. Arthur's father had been responsible for nearly all of Merlin's hardship, and he wondered how the sorcerer could look at him and not see his own pain reflecting back.
It was too much to process. He'd thought these revelations were over when he'd finished Merlin's diary. He should've known better; there always seemed to be more secrets.
"Merlin didn't mention any of this," Arthur managed to say.
Gaius smiled sadly. "It is painful for him. I would imagine he toned down many of his exploits. And it is difficult to stop lying, even when you are trying to be truthful, if you have always been taught to lie."
Arthur sighed. The scars he'd seen on Merlin's torso certainly supported that notion. "I suppose," he said. He wondered if it would be fair of him to expose this pain to his court, to Camelot. And Merlin, unprepared…
Well. He would do his best to leave out the details. That was all he could do.
"What can you tell me about Balinor? Or the dragon?" he asked. "My father used the dragon as an example—to keep the last one as a trophy, beneath the castle. I had thought Balinor was a stranger to him."
Gaius shook his head. "No. Not strangers, though not friends. Balinor was his vassal; he had holdings in Camelot—ancient lands. Dragon breeding grounds, to the south. It was among the first places Uther attacked. Kilgharrah's mate and hatchlings were killed. His eggs were smashed, his siblings slaughtered. You have to understand: although long-lived, dragons are slow to breed, and eggs are slow to hatch. They take many years—decades, sometimes centuries—to mature. There were not a great many dragons, and there is only one, now."
"But how?" Arthur asked. He couldn't get his head around it. Balinor had had… lands. Merlin was a noble—illegitimate, but it made little difference with how the power ran in his blood. Balinor had been Uther's vassal, and his father had betrayed that trust. His father had killed the dragon's family and imprisoned him beneath the keep. It was all so—so twisted. "We rode against the dragon, and he killed some of my best knights. Even with three times as many men, I can't see so many dragons being killed."
"A mixture of betrayal and trickery, Arthur," Gaius said. "Your father had not yet banned magic; he was smarter than to do it all at once. No, he attacked magical creatures, first—non-humans. He convinced some of the sorcerers under Balinor that it was in their best interest to turn traitor. They used some particularly nasty spells, with Uther's support. It was a massacre. Balinor and Kilgharrah were the only ones to escape. And then Uther began to target the other breeding grounds in Albion, convincing other monarchs it was only a matter of time before the beasts turned on them…
"And soon, Balinor and Kilgharrah were the only ones to have escaped entirely. That I know of—perhaps a little lord or lady escaped, a hatchling or an egg. But not enough."
Arthur lowered his head. To wipe out an entire lineage of people… "There is nothing to be done?" he asked.
"You're already doing what can be done, Arthur," Gaius said. Arthur knew the look in his eyes: it was the look desperate peasants came to him with, when they were starving or cold and thought only he could help him. Hope, with a touch of despair. "Perhaps some might come forward if they're given incentive. And I know… His opinion might not mean much, but Kilgharrah will be pleased. As will Merlin."
"Dragons are thinking creatures, are they not?" Arthur asked.
"As thinking as you or I. Not human, but they have emotions as we do, and thoughts as we do. Their own language," Gaius replied.
"He is the last of his kind," Arthur said. "The people he killed were innocent of the crimes committed against him, and he was wrong to have done it, but…" He didn't want to understand, but dammit, he could.
Gaius was probably wrong that it had been the dragonlord influencing Merlin to mercy. The sorcerer had plenty of empathy—too much. He understood people, even if he could be awkward and entirely oblivious. He wouldn't have been heartless toward someone whose family had been murdered in front of them, who had been imprisoned for two decades—even if that someone had killed people. Even if that someone was a dragon.
He could see Merlin choosing mercy in a way he never could. Kilgharrah would never be welcome anywhere near the citadel; Arthur could tolerate his presence in his kingdom, but nothing more. He would turn a blind eye.
But nothing more.
"I understand, sire," Gaius said. His voice was heavy, and Arthur wondered if he was remembering burns and coughs and crushed limbs. "Believe me, I understand. I knew Kilgharrah from before… Everything."
"Before my father murdered the dragons and their nobles, you mean," Arthur said bitterly. The more he learned of what Uther had done… He couldn't stomach it. He wanted to turn away, but he knew he had to look if he were ever to make it right.
"Yes. Before that."
They sat there in silence for a time. Of all the information Arthur had learned…
"I'm certain you have patients you must attend to," Arthur said. "I might need to speak with you further. Most of my nobles seem reticent on the topic of magic."
"I can't imagine why," Gaius said drily, his eyebrow rising further.
"Do you have books I might read?" the king asked, almost sighing. He was not one for research. Usually he delegated these sorts of tasks to Merlin or Geoffrey.
"The in-depth ones were burned," the physician replied. "But Gwen has been perusing one of the better ones I own—you might speak with her. She can fetch it for you."
Right—Arthur forgot that she had told him about that. He nodded. "Very good. Thank you."
"Thank you, sire," Gaius said, smiling. Arthur thought he was likely forgiven for planning to put all of Merlin's activities on display.
At least he was until he actually did it. Then, there was no telling.
Gilli had not been very impressed when Merlin had contacted him originally. He'd been avoiding Camelot—and Essetir, with all the fighting. And the request itself was absurd: Merlin wanted to give him a sword, so Gilli could pretend to be someone else, so he could give it to Arthur, the Prince Regent of Camelot.
The sorcerer, sitting on a log, had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he read the note (and Merlin was truly fortunate he could read passably, because most peasants couldn't say the same). He was certain the letter had been spelled—how else could the messenger have found him so easily? He'd just left a little village and had been making his way north, traveling alone. Bandits weren't exactly going to be after someone like him—bedraggled and not worth robbing—but with his ring he was more than capable of defending himself.
His first instinct had been to decline, but when he'd looked up, the messenger was gone. Gilli had to wonder if they had been a druid or mage of some kind; was it even possible to disappear so thoroughly? He had wasted about ten minutes searching around for them, then wasted another ten glaring hard at the paper.
Why couldn't Merlin just arrange for Arthur to find the damn magic sword or something? Except Gilli himself could see the flaw with this plan: there was no guarantee the prince would use it. But as a gift from a noble…
And really, Gilli sort of owed Merlin in a way. The mage had kept quiet about his abilities and assassination attempt on the king. On the other hand, he hadn't exactly been polite about it. On the other, other hand, he was the only other mage Gilli knew besides the druid clan he'd briefly traveled with.
It wasn't like the ruse would be difficult—Gilli would only have to endure the prince's presence for a few moments. A part of Gilli wanted to see what Merlin was up to, anyway; he was curious to see how a mage so loyal to Camelot was faring.
Truly, he should've known better.
The deception itself had gone flawlessly. Arthur had taken the sword, and Gilli had been allowed to take shelter in the castle without issue. Merlin—aside from lending him a horse, an outfit, a fake letter, and of course the sword—had not really spoken with him. So Gilli had played his part as a courtier and had taken everything offered to him (shelter and food) graciously.
If nothing else, the break from travelling made up for Merlin's brusqueness—or so Gilli had thought.
But then it had all gone to hell. A shield had been put up around Camelot (a shield which had suspiciously familiar magic), the Sluagh had invaded… Gilli had vomited and almost passed out at the feel of their slimy, foreign presence. Fortunately, he'd had the intelligence to stay out of the way of everything. He wasn't exactly interested in testing his magic against one of the creatures, or the sorcerers fighting for Morgana, or Morgana herself. Unlike Merlin, apparently.
And now the mage had been arrested, which left Gilli feeling torn and somewhat stranded—if not outright resentful.
"The steward is asking to see you," one of the servants said, snapping the sorcerer from his thoughts. He'd been eating breakfast with the other servants, messengers, and pages in the little dining place off from the kitchens.
"What for?" Gilli asked. Had his ruse been discovered? Were they about to arrest him, too, for lying about his occupation? He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers, hoping it looked casual.
The servant shrugged. "He didn't say—don't look so nervous. You're not likely to be able to get back to Lord Bodrick's estate with everything that's happened; he's probably only going to be offering you a job. We're a little short on staff, now."
"Oh," Gilli said, relaxing. Well—a job would be better than travelling through the countryside in the winter. Warmth, food, and the impending execution of a fellow sorcerer. He had heard rumors of a trial, as well, and he wondered at how much of a farce that would be.
Perhaps I could help him escape… No. He had repaid his debt to Merlin, and the man had made his bed. He'd had faith in Arthur, and now the newly-crowned king could decide himself whether or not to live up to it. As a rule, Gilli didn't have much hope.
So he finished his breakfast and went to see the steward, wondering why he felt so guilty.
Those three days were agonizing for Merlin. In his sleep, he was tormented by the Sluagh, by Arthur, by Morgana—anyone his mind thought might be a threat. The horrific hollowing of that first nightmare had not been repeated, fortunately, but these dreams had hardly been better. Merlin had woken more than once to the guards yelling at him—he could never tell if it was out of kindness or irritation, but he was grateful for it all the same.
He heard Gwaine yelling once, down the hallway. He didn't know if the knight had tried to visit him only to find out he wasn't allowed or whether he had already known and tried to visit anyway. Either way, it wasn't pretty to hear, and Merlin hoped the knight wouldn't get in too much trouble.
Most of the time, Merlin tried to rest without falling asleep. He knew he needed his strength back, but it was hard to let himself go willingly into another nightmare. So instead he laid there, staring at nothing. He forced himself to eat and drink whatever the guards brought him, even though he thought he might start vomiting up his insides from the anxiety of it all.
What would the trial look like? What if Merlin couldn't pull it off? If he couldn't convince everyone of his innocence, how would Arthur condemn him? It made him want to gag, and he felt sick and sweaty. He could hear Gaius in his head warning him not to become too stressed—it was bad for a healing patient to feel too anxious or depressed, and there were medications those who were afflicted by such feelings were meant to take.
But Merlin had no medicine to take. And besides, he wanted a clear head. He could ignore his intestines twisting into knots like snakes; he could ignore his stomach trying to claw its way out of his mouth.
He vomited only once. Afterward, he used water to dilute it and some dirty bandages and hay to cover it up. The smell wasn't too bad, and he managed not to do it again. Aside from the unpleasantness of the experience in general, his injuries had throbbed afterwards.
The third day, Merlin couldn't stop moving. If the pain hadn't stopped him, he would've paced back and forth across the cell. As it was, he was reduced to shuffling every few minutes and tapping his foot anxiously on the stone. If he didn't move on his own, he shook badly. Sweat glued his clothes and hair to his skin in a sticky film, and it stung when it dripped into his eyes and wounds. He thought his heart might break his ribs with how fast it was beating.
Even with all the anticipation, he still jumped and almost fell over when the guards came. They weren't the usual ones posted in the dungeons—these were high-ranking palace guards. Lieutenants Merlin thought he recognized. They were sometimes stationed outside the throne room. He had tried talking to them a few times, but they were worse than statues; at least some statues looked interested in what he had to say.
"Is it time?" Merlin asked hoarsely, but they didn't answer. They only opened the cell door and grabbed him by his arms. The warlock hissed as the one on the left wrenched at his bite wound, but the guard still said nothing. Merlin hoped they hadn't opened it again.
Another guard was waiting down the hall for them, and this one held manacles in his hands, which he clamped onto Merlin's wrists, pulling his arms behind his back. The warlock felt it wasn't too much of a leap at this point to assume they were escorting him to his trial. Oh, gods. His trial.
He swallowed and tried not to puke on them. He doubted they would've taken it well, statues or not.
The warlock didn't resist them as they dragged him up the stairs, though he did try to wave at the dungeon guards as he passed (this only proved to be painful, as the guards' grip didn't relent).
As they brought him up to the main floor, Merlin felt faint. People were spilling out from the throne room, peasants mostly—the spots up close had been reserved for the nobles. Only the king had been allowed to sit, and Arthur certainly looked like a king: dressed in his finest red tunic and doublet, the heavy crown positioned perfectly on his golden hair. His boots had been shined to a brilliance that only George could accomplish (Merlin had even tried magic to reach the same effect, to no avail).
The murmuring of the crowd grew louder as Merlin came into view. He hadn't changed his clothes since Gwen had given him a clean shirt and trousers. His boots were ragged, his hair tousled. He knew these people, had spent his days and nights among them, helping them or working alongside them. Did they look back on their exchanges with disgust? Fear?
Their eyes followed him, and he wondered what they saw. An evil sorcerer? Another innocent mage about to be killed? A lost boy in over his head? His skin crawled with their gazes, like a million tiny ants had gotten under his clothes and were slowly chewing at him.
The nobles were assembled at the front of the room, near Arthur. Gaius was doing his best to seem impassive, but Merlin thought most people would probably see through it all. Geoffrey stood next to Arthur, and the council members—the most influential of the nobility—were on his other side. Many knights had come, some of them Merlin's friends. Lancelot, Gwaine. Percival was staring at him, but Elyan and Leon seemed to be ignoring his presence.
The guards pushed him to the ground, and Merlin willingly went to his knees, only ten feet or so from the bottom of the throne where Arthur sat.
The king cleared his throat, face impassive. But Merlin thought he could see a tightening around his eyes, a slight twitch to his fingers. Nervousness? Dread? The warlock lowered his head, lest he be seen as disrespectful, and also so he wouldn't have to look at that hardened expression anymore.
Maybe it had all been a ploy. Maybe Arthur was planning on executing him right here, make an example of him in an entirely different way. How could he have been so naive, so stupid to believe that he, and he alone, had managed to convince a king of magic's goodness? It had seemed like a dream, and so it had to have been. Merlin—Merlin had to leave—he was going to die here—
Everyone quieted as the king raised his hand.
Merlin could barely breathe.
"Let the trial commence," Arthur said. "A scribe will be recording these events for those throughout the kingdom to hear." He turned his gaze to his former manservant. "Merlin Hunithson, of Ealdor, the crimes against you are thus: the practice and study of sorcery within Camelot's walls and treason against the Crown by lying repeatedly to myself and my father, King Uther Pendragon. Tell me, Merlin, how do you plead?"
Merlin's throat was so dry he had to clear it twice before his voice would rise higher than a rasp. He didn't dare look up; he kept his gaze focused on the stone in front of him. "My lord, I am guilty of the first crime—anyone in the courtyard some ten days ago could attest to that. But while I have lied to you, sire, and I lied to your father before you, I would not call my actions treasonous."
The crowd's murmuring began again, and Merlin could make out nobles talking about how this farce could be done with, now that he had confessed. There was a harsh ringing in his ears. Was this all Arthur had been waiting for? A confession? Had holding him been a lie, a way to reassure him, to make sure he didn't run?
No. You must trust him, Merlin. You have to trust him with your life.
He shuddered as he remembered his dream, the sword through his gut. The words the king in his nightmare had whispered to him….I hate you, and I'm sorry your death couldn't be in the flames… The irons clinked together with his shaking, but Merlin forced his muscles to still before anyone could notice.
He was as afraid of Arthur as everyone else seemed to be of him.
"And why would you not consider your actions treasonous?" Arthur asked, voice slicing easily through the noise of the throne room.
Merlin licked his lips. "Because I used my magic in defense of the kingdom, yourself, and your father before you, Your Majesty. If I had not lied, you would have killed me, and then I could not have used my magic to defend you, sire."
"You claim we needed the aid of your magic?" Arthur asked, as though he hadn't read all of Merlin's secrets. As though he were hearing this idea for the first time. Perhaps Arthur should've been the one born with the magic: he was a brilliant liar—a brilliant manipulator—when he chose to be.
(Is he lying to me now? Manipulating me now?)
No. Paranoia would not control him. He could trust people with his secret… Trust Arthur with the secret all of four people in the world had known, one of whom was dead.
"Yes, my king." He could feel everyone's gaze on him, everyone's thoughts on him. They were a tangible weight, and they kept his neck bowed, his back bent. He could not have straightened himself if he'd wanted to with the force of those eyes and murmurings. "I do make that claim. I think, my lord, that perhaps the attack that took place recently might show that."
This was what Arthur wanted, right? He wanted Merlin to bring it up, to make the case? But how was Merlin meant to prove it with only his word? His word, which was useless. Leon had made that clear. It was worth less than fool's gold. He had been exposed as a liar, revealed. He felt naked, vulnerable. His clothes, his armor, his mask had been torn away. It was like his very skin had been peeled back, his flesh removed until everyone was looking at his skeleton, his very being: the root of it all.
It hurt him almost as much as it relieved him and terrified him.
"And if you're correct, what do you think that means? Should your lying—and your magic usage—prove to have been warranted, what then?" Arthur didn't wait for him to reply. "If I find you to have used your magic truly in defense of my kingdom, then I will have but one choice I can take, if I am an honorable and just king." The next words that passed his lips made this all real, and they made Merlin want to weep again. "If your use of magic proves to have been justified, Merlin Hunithson, I will have no option left but to lift the ban on magic."
It was real. Their talk had been real. This was no ploy or manipulation, and shame swept through Merlin that he had suspected Arthur of such a thing at all. The king was an honorable and just man. Beyond that, he was a good man. He was honest, unlike Merlin, and even though he might be staging this for his nobility, to convince his people, none of it was a lie. Not truly.
Merlin wondered how many times he would have to remind himself of that before it became his reality.
He lifted his head slightly to see everyone's reactions. Most of the knights and nobility seemed resigned to this conclusion, and Merlin knew Arthur must have warned them somehow. Perhaps he had sought their support. And while the castle staff didn't look too surprised either, many of the people from the lower town were shocked, whispers rippling through the crowd.
"I would call upon witnesses now—first to ascertain Merlin Hunithson's character and second to understand what took place in the courtyard eleven nights ago." Merlin thought it was kind of silly for the king to call up a character witness when Arthur knew exactly the type of man he was. But he supposed the king might be seen as too close to give an unbiased account, or perhaps Arthur wanted to seem as distanced from everything as possible—reminding everyone that Merlin was his manservant might not be conducive to his strategy. "Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, please come forward."
Leon stepped out of the line of other knights and bowed deeply to the king. Merlin tried not to cringe—the knight would definitely tell the truth, and he didn't seem to have a great opinion of Merlin at the present moment. Had Arthur told him to lie?
"Sir Leon, do you swear to the Crown you serve that you will speak true at these proceedings?" Arthur asked.
"I do so swear, my lord," Leon replied, dipping his head.
"Do you understand that if I suspect you of lying, you may be charged with treason by way of lying to the king?"
"I understand, my lord," Leon said.
"Then tell me how you first met Merlin Hunithson."
Leon took a deep breath, seeming to consider his words carefully. "The first I heard of the man, he'd been tossed into the dungeons for insulting the prince." Merlin winced. That wouldn't look good to anyone. "The first time I actually met him, he saved the prince's life. There was a feast, in the dining hall, and Lady Helen had been replaced by a sorceress bent on revenge. When she tried to end the prince's life, Merlin pushed him out of the way. The late King Uther rewarded him with a position in the royal household. I myself didn't speak with Merlin until much later—you took him with you on campaigns, my lord, and we interacted then."
"And what was your impression of Merlin Hunithson?" Arthur asked impassively. If Merlin hadn't known him as well as he did, he wasn't sure he would've known it was all a front, that Arthur planned already to lift the ban.
"Your Majesty, I thought he was highly disrespectful. He didn't address you properly and spoke to the knights with a familiarity that was unbecoming of a peasant, much less a servant to the prince. I didn't approve of his presence with us, and I know many others felt the same." Merlin tried not to begin shaking again. He had been in many terrifying situations, had faced down all manner of men and creatures, but this—this—this was worse than anything he had ever been forced to endure before. He couldn't stand this judgement, how bared he was. The warlock had lied to everyone here—had controlled his words and hidden his actions and everything else from these people—and he found that now that he was in front of them, he couldn't lie as he had before. Had this ability been stripped from him, the same as his secrets?
"However, despite his flaws, Merlin proved himself to be useful and courageous. His knowledge of medicine and bravery in battle saved knights' lives—and the prince's life. And while he was disrespectful in manner, he never truly positioned himself above nobility or disparaged us. I thought him smart and resourceful, if something of a bumpkin. I know I speak for many of us who have traveled with him when I say that I grew fond of him.
"He faced the dragon and various other creatures and sorcerers with us, and he often cooked our meals as the only servant brought on these campaigns. I—I will be the first to admit, sire, that I was shocked and devastated to learn of his treason and sorcerous ability. There was always something off about him, my lord: we rarely spoke of it, but Merlin has always been secretive about his personal life. For any other servant, that might have been seen as a way to maintain propriety, but given Merlin's… quirks, it never sat right with us.
"We could never have guessed it was anything illegal, my lord."
Merlin closed his eyes, already feeling exhausted. He wanted to slump into the stone floor, dissolving until this whole farce was put behind him. Leon hadn't been untruthful, but he also hadn't gone into how he felt he couldn't trust Merlin's word, now that it had proven to be worthless. Perhaps Arthur had asked him not to specify his true feelings.
"And so having known him for years, do you think it is possible that—although he has lied about his magic and his going-ons to his king and master—he is truthful in saying he used it to defend Camelot, myself, and my father?" Arthur asked.
"I would not discard that possibility, my lord," Leon replied. "But I would caution against trusting his word alone; he has lied to his friends and betters for years. There is no guarantee that he will stop even now."
And there it was. It wasn't the condemnation Merlin had heard in the dungeons, but it wasn't endorsement, either. Maybe that was what Arthur wanted; if all his "witnesses" gave a shining opinion of Merlin, it wouldn't exactly look impartial. Leon had an excellent reputation among both the nobility and townspeople—his response would be seen as honest, if not a direct reflection of the truth.
"Wise words," Arthur acknowledged. "You may leave, sir Leon."
"Thank you for hearing me speak, sire." Leon bowed deeply again and backed into the line of knights. Many were staring at Merlin with open hostility, dressed in their finest tunics and polished boots. Some had bandages across their faces or their arms in slings. Merlin wondered how many had been injured, how busy Gaius had been with both the soldiers and the townspeople.
He swallowed back his guilt at the thought of people he'd known being torn apart by the Sluagh, their giggles the last thing they ever heard.
You didn't hide this time. Whatever happened, you did it. You finally did your best.
If this trial ended with his banishment or execution or condemnation in the eyes of the kingdom, he would know that it was a small price to pay for human lives—for Gaius's life and Gwen's life and Arthur's life. He had traded his secrets for safety, and he couldn't regret it. Even if his best had perhaps not been good enough, in the end.
"Sir Hugo of Camelot, please step forward," Arthur said. Merlin hadn't been as close to Hugo as he'd been to Gwaine or even Leon, but the knight had never been cruel to him. He perhaps had never seen Merlin as fully human—more like a dog than anything else—but he'd always been kind.
Hugo bowed deeply as he came in front of the throne, just to Merlin's right. The warlock itched, needing to move, to release this tension bubbling beneath his skin. His magic stirred, and he shoved it back down. He'd grown lax with controlling it, and that would have to change if he were going to show that he wasn't dangerous—or at least that he wasn't dangerous to Camelot. No one would believe it if he kept accidentally doing spells.
"Sir Hugo, do you swear to the Crown you serve that you will speak true at these proceedings?" Arthur asked.
"I do so swear, sire."
"Do you understand that if I suspect you of lying, you may be charged with treason by way of lying to the king?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"You will tell me what took place during the battle with the Sluagh and the sorceress Morgana, regarding Merlin Hunithson's role specifically," Arthur said.
Merlin didn't know what the knight would say. He had never unleashed such fury in front of anyone who wasn't an enemy; even Lancelot and Gaius had never seen the extent of his power. He knew it was unnatural—other mages were constrained, were limited. Merlin wasn't. Would people understand that it was to their benefit? That this power of Merlin's… He was an ally.
Even if he scared himself, sometimes.
(The smell of ozone and blood mingling in the air. The brilliant flashes of lightning, the blinding columns of flame, bursting through the darkness. Screaming, cracks of the thunder, enough to deafen.)
What would Hugo say?
"I would imagine, sire, that his role started with the shield," Hugo said. "I know I didn't really see that part, my lord, but he and the witch—Morgana, that is—were shouting at each other. It was clear that she was angry with him; it wasn't for show, sire. They were trying to kill each other, and it wasn't pretty. She thought he was working with other sorcerers, sire, though he never said as much. I think him putting the shield up ruined her plans.
"Anyway, it wasn't just Morgana he fought. He was originally up on the Western Tower. He started the storm, sire, and brought down lightning and fire to kill those beasts that we were fighting. It was the witch that figured out where he was. She brought him down, but he fought just as well on the ground as he had up high. It was clear he was winning, and she fled when she had the chance. Then, every one of those damn creatures turned tail, too, my lord."
"And in your opinion, sir Hugo, was it Merlin who took the shield down?" Arthur asked. Merlin tried not to hold his breath.
"No, Your Majesty. I don't think it makes sense," Hugo replied. "With how he was going at everyone, and with the magic weapons… Sire, I think he was on our side, at least that night. I can't speak for any other."
"Thank you for giving your account, Sir Hugo," Arthur said.
"It was my privilege, my lord." Hugo bowed almost as low as Leon had and went back to his place.
Sweat dripped down Merlin's nose, and he averted his gaze back downward. Did he dare look up? What if all he saw was disapproval there? What if no one in Camelot was on his side, save those who had known him well? The warlock supposed having a king on his side was no small feat, but even kings weren't all-powerful, as much as Merlin knew that the people loved Arthur.
He couldn't make out any words from the crowd, not even if they were angry or upset. It was just one blurred ringing in his ears, a mishmash of nothing and everything. He wondered how long it would last before Arthur spoke again. The king called forth two more knights to corroborate Hugo's claims: Sir Bolton and Sir Kendrick.
The first, a young noble's son with an open manner and face, spoke hesitantly in praise of Merlin. He shifted awkwardly, much in the way the warlock wanted to.
"Well, sire," he said as Arthur questioned him, "I don't rightly think he could've been on Morgana's side. He was injured, after all. She was trying to kill him—they all were. And he did magic in front of us all even knowing what Camelot does to sorcerers." His eyes widened. "Not to offend you, Your Majesty—I only meant he risked himself to the witch and to us. And the witch wasn't easy on him. I saw him fall first-hand, sire, and I think he cast something. His eyes didn't stop glowing the whole time he was fighting. And I think that's the only reason he lived because even Morgana seemed surprised by it all."
Bolton seemed to be gaining speed, talking rapidly as though he were afraid someone might interrupt him. "And his shoulder and head, sire—the beasts hurt him badly. He was asleep for over seven nights, and anyone can see that he still hurts. He could have died—we would have died—had it not been for him."
It was a ringing endorsement. Merlin's ears burned, and some of the shame inside him withered away as he heard murmurs of that's true… It wouldn't make sense if he were on Morgana's side… He healed my daughter's sickness, only a few months ago…
The shield had fallen, but it was clear some didn't fault him for it. Bolton—someone who had been told about the evils of magic from a young age—had defended him. The knight didn't even know the extent of it, had barely interacted with Merlin before. But here he was, in front of all and sundry, speaking up for a sorcerer.
It soothed something inside Merlin, even as it seemed to make something else inside him break. Some of the other knights, he noticed, nodded along with Bolton's tale. Others seemed more reluctant.
But maybe with people like Bolton on his side… Maybe he actually could do this. Maybe he could take advantage of it all, convince everyone. Or enough people, at least.
Sir Kendrick was less empowering. He had never liked Merlin, who thought he was one of the many nobles who suffered from something Merlin liked to call "they-have-a-stick-up-their-ass." It was an unfortunate condition, and because of it, Kendrick liked to stick his already prominent nose high in the air when he spoke.
But his account made Merlin feel sick, sicker than he'd already been. It was factual, but the knight's dislike was clear. Merlin wondered why Arthur had even included him, then realized it wouldn't have looked "impartial" if the witnesses had all been on Merlin's side.
"I believe Sir Hugo and Sir Bolton spoke true when they detailed what happened during the attack," Kendrick began after he had given his word that he wouldn't lie. "But I believe both may be suffering from certain biases: before his treason was discovered, they were… fond of Merlin. Personally, I have always found his impudence disgraceful."
Arthur's face gave nothing away, and Merlin couldn't stand to watch. He shut his eyes as the king spoke, "Be that as it may, do you believe it is possible Merlin Hunithson is in league with Morgana?"
"No, Your Majesty." Merlin opened his eyes to see the knight bow his head. "I view his motivations less favorably than Sir Bolton, but I cannot deny that the evidence points to him being an enemy of the witch. He was grievously injured, and his life was at stake, sorcerer or no. However, I do not deny the possibility—and in fact I think it likely—that he 'saved' Camelot for his own purposes. I hope that those purposes may be revealed with further investigation, sire."
"Very good, Sir Kendrick," Arthur said. "I have no doubt they will be. Thank you for your testimony."
Sir Kendrick bowed and went back to his place in line. Merlin stared down at the ground again as the crowd grew louder. He made out words like traitor, but also savior. What did the townspeople think? More than these nobles, he cared for their opinion. He was one of them—apart because of his nature, but always connected to them in ways he never could be to nobility. Merlin knew so many of them, and he wondered how many would forgive him his lies.
His magic.
"After reviewing what has been spoken today, I can neither judge Merlin Hunithson as guilty or innocent," the king said. Merlin sagged, though he tried not to. His irons clinked behind him, and one of the guards put a hand on his shoulder, as if to tell him to be quiet. "As such, today's proceedings will conclude, and they will continue tomorrow."
Merlin almost wanted to faint at those words, but with everyone's eyes still on him, he wasn't sure if it would make him seem more or less guilty. The guards took him by the shoulders, and his injured one jarred painfully. But the guards also took his weight because Merlin's legs felt like twigs wrapped in cloth, not fit for walking on, and they trembled so much at first the warlock had almost fallen flat on his face.
As the guards escorted him to the dungeons, Merlin still didn't have the courage to look anyone in the eye.
AN: This one is actually out on time! Sorry if anyone has been hesitant because of the Merlin/Gwen stuff, but I want this to develop into a true OT3, so there will be romantic aspects from all angles to complete the Merlin/Arthur/Gwen pairing (and for those reading on AO3, I tagged each of the pairings separately because they don't get together for a while). Also, if I haven't replied to your review, I am probably going to soon. If I don't, feel free to PM me (if you're on fanfic,net, anyway). I should be replying on AO3 within the next day or so. I hope nobody minded the dragon lore and history lore I altered. Questions: How did you feel about the Gili portion (did you all forget him)? And how was the trial itself (especially Sir Leon and Merlin's inner thoughts)? Thank you all so much for the response!