Chapter Five: Born With It
"I ask that you allow us to question him, my lord," Sterling said before Arthur could get a word in edgewise. The council had only just assembled; they weren't even there to talk about Merlin, for God's sake—because the "him" in Sterling's query clearly referred to Merlin. The councillors were there to talk about taxes, the rebuilding of Arthur's kingdom, and the crops that had been destroyed by the Sluagh.
In fact, Arthur was done talking about Merlin. The first part of the trial had gone better than he'd anticipated, and the king wanted nothing to spoil it. He needed the knights' testimonies to be clear in his councilors' minds, and that meant they couldn't be filled with whatever Merlin would say during an interrogation.
The questions his councilors might ask were things Arthur couldn't control, and that made the possibility dangerous.
"Perhaps," Arthur said lightly, "we might first discuss—"
"I second that idea!" Aldwin burst in. "Sire, I do not mean to disparage how you run your own proceedings—"And yet you continually interrupt me—"but the testimonies today did not seem as authentic as they might have."
"Are you suggesting the witnesses lied before their king—four different knights sworn to my service?" Arthur asked. Color rose to Aldwin's face at the suggestion.
"No, Your Majesty, of course not. I only mean…" Apparently, he couldn't find the proper words to express what he really meant, because he faltered and didn't speak again. Arthur thought idly it might be better if Aldwin always thought before he spoke: since he'd never had a single coherent idea in his head, the world—and more importantly, Arthur—would be spared from his endless drivel.
Arthur's fingers twitched. "Now, if that is all—"
"My lord, please allow me to continue my petition," Sterling said. "I do not mean to accuse the knights of insincerity. Nor do I mean to disrespect your authority in this matter, sire. However, there are—rumors—circulating that this is only a means for you to justify a decision you've already made, that you are staging it. I think, if we were allowed to ask this… Merlin questions, it would add more credibility to the entire affair."
Damn. If there were rumors already… Arthur had been too obvious, and if he pushed back now… The risk of giving his councillors the opportunity to question Merlin might be outweighed by the risk of them believing it was all a farce.
The king would've liked more time to think it over, but if he deliberated too much it would give the idea of a staged trial more weight. With how delicately Arthur had to tread… He feared leaning too much one way or the other, and he feared that if he toppled, he wouldn't be the only one to fall.
Well, Merlin, it seems you will have to face questions on two fronts. It was either that or show his hand and reveal that the rumors were true, that this was all a facade, a way to release Merlin from his chains. A way to release magic from its chains. He clenched his jaw, then very purposefully relaxed it.
"Very well," the king agreed. "You've convinced me. Let's—"
"When will we be able to do so, sire?" Aldwin pressed. Arthur did not sigh forcefully and vow that the next person who interrupted him would be thrown from the council chambers. He didn't. He was only envisioning grabbing Aldwin by his robes and hauling him bodily out the door. Arthur was a king—if he were going to actually throw anyone out, he'd call for his guards. That was the true mark of a ruler: ordering someone else to carry out his desires.
"On the morrow," he replied, trying not to grit his teeth. "When the trial begins, you all will have the opportunity to question the sorcerer until you are satisfied. If you are all finished…"
Muriel cleared her throat, and Arthur's eye almost twitched.
"Your Majesty," she said, "I do not mean to delay the proceedings, but I believe it would benefit us not to make a spectacle of it." She smiled. "The crowd… It is very distracting to have a public trial. Perhaps with a more private affair, we might better understand the situation." She was dangling this in front of him, the way someone might dangle a bit of meat in front of a dog. It was demeaning, but worst of all, it was working.
Do this, she had said, and you will be more likely to have my support.
And Lady Muriel's support was nothing to sneeze at. Arthur resigned himself to fighting on two fronts now: one in public, where he could control the proceedings, and one in private, where his hands would be tied—where he would not be able to truly intervene on Merlin's behalf.
"You may question him in the afternoon," Arthur said. "Here in the council chambers. Tomorrow, for as many days until you feel that you have been given the answers you desire. Is that acceptable to you, Lady Muriel? Lord Sterling?" It wasn't giving in, not really—it was a bargain, a trade. He just wished he didn't feel like he was trading Merlin.
"It is. I thank you, my lord," Muriel said.
"You have my gratitude, sire." Sterling nodded.
"Gawant has sent us a response to our query about the crops…" Arthur paused, waiting for someone to interject with more concerns about Merlin. When none came, he continued. "And we will need to—"
"Is Lord Agravaine still sick?" Eleanor asked. Arthur almost threw his hands up in defeat. What even was the point of a council? Having nobles and vassals? If they couldn't stay focused for more than three seconds, they were practically useless. The king internally took a deep breath.
"He was ill last Gaius checked; the physician says his sickness is mild but may be long-lasting," Arthur answered smoothly. He thought back to George, who said Arthur's uncle had grudgingly been eating all the food the servant had been bringing to him. The knights reported that the man didn't appear to be scheming anything, but Arthur doubted that meant much.
"I will pray for his health," Eleanor said. "Is it terribly contagious?"
"Gaius believes it best if he remains isolated, save for meals and medicines, of course," Arthur replied. The lie was sour on his tongue, like unripened fruit. But it was necessary. Still… Was he to become a liar, even to himself, as the rest of his family had? Perhaps it wasn't necessary to lock his uncle up in his rooms, to plan for his execution. Perhaps the darker part of him, the vindictive part, was only telling the rest of him it was necessary. Was that what his father had told himself before he had slaughtered hundreds? Was it what his uncle had told himself as he had betrayed Arthur, again and again, to his mad sister?
Was it what Merlin had told himself, after he had saved Camelot?
And which one did Arthur fall under? A man who lied for others, or a man who lied for himself? Or could it be both?
"How terrible," Muriel murmured. "What an awful time to get sick, what with everything happening! Hopefully Gaius will be able to rid him of the illness soon."
Not likely. "He is in the best hands possible," Arthur said. He looked around, but none of his councilors added anything. "I believe we were talking about crops?" And the possible starvation of hundreds of my people, not that you should concern yourselves with that. It's only your damn job.
But no one interrupted him this time, so they were finally able to get on with it..
"At least none of the knights lied," Elyan said, hoisting the fabric higher to get a better grip on it. With the cold coming, Gwen had decided to spend any extra time she had not helping Gaius or worrying about Merlin productively. And since she couldn't exactly help anyone by making a bunch of swords or armor, she had decided to sew clothes and blankets for the people in the lower town. Many of their possessions had burned with their houses, and some were left with only one set of threadbare clothing.
Gwen had seen more than one child running around without proper shoes or clothes. With how cold it was getting, they were likely to lose a toe or foot—or worse, their lives. She wasn't a proper cobbler, but she could layer together thick pieces of cloth to make a type of slippers, and she would use what little leather she had left from blacksmithing to shape into rough approximations of boots. Enough for the little ones, at least. She had neighbors who could use them.
"Of course none of them lied," Gwen said, nearly rolling her eyes. Her brother had insisted on coming along as she searched for fabric she could use. The market wasn't as busy as it normally was, and signs of the attack were everywhere: half-collapsed walls, burned-out corpses of homes, rubble on the ground. The main streets had been cleared, but many side alleys were still cluttered. It might have been Gwen's imagination, but sometimes she thought she could still smell smoke and ozone in the air.
It reminded her a little of the dragon attack, though there was certainly less wreckage.
"Well, I mean…" Elyan trailed off. Gwen took some more coins from her purse (her brother had given some of it to her, perhaps by way of apologizing) and handed it to the merchant selling the fabric. He smiled at her with crooked teeth as he counted them. "It's just, even with everything Arthur said, I thought at least Leon would have… He put a more positive spin on it than I thought he would, is all."
"Leon is one of the most honest men I know," Gwen said truthfully. She led Elyan past a few others who were out shopping. "Don't disparage him by insinuating that he'd lie, especially in front of the court." She had been frustrated with Leon for how he had treated her and Gaius in the cells, but she couldn't really fault him. He'd only been following Arthur's orders. And Arthur…
The king was doing his best, even if Gwen didn't understand why he had to do things the way he did. Gaius had spoken with her; he'd explained in more detail what he suspected Arthur of doing, the angle he was playing. She had let the king be (she was too busy to speak with him anyway, or so she told herself). She thought she understood the situation better now, but…
Still, the way he acted sometimes rankled. At least how he acted toward Merlin, even if it was exactly that—an act.
"He's also one of the king's most loyal supporters," Elyan pointed out. That was true.
"He likes Merlin," Gwen said. "There wouldn't have been a reason to lie." She caught sight of some herbs for sale and wondered if Gaius was running low on anything. Maybe she could offer to go out and pick some for him.
"He did like Merlin," Elyan said. "Aside from Gwaine—and I suppose Lancelot, who already knew… The rest of us aren't as convinced, Gwen." As she turned to face him, he held his hands up. "Listen, I know how you feel. And I understand that I don't know him as well as you do, but… I just can't trust him after everything."
Gwen wanted to sigh. She didn't want to argue with him about it anymore; she doubted anything she could say would change his mind. And they didn't need any more stressors on their relationship than there already were. But she wondered how much Merlin would have to do to prove to people who had known him that he wasn't dangerous to them, that he was trustworthy—if not in word, at least in deed.
"Keep an open mind," she said. "Please, for my sake as much as his. I wouldn't be able to bear seeing him… It hurts him, to know you all mistrust him so."
"Can you blame us?" Elyan asked. As much as Gwen wanted to say yes, I can blame you, she didn't. Gwen knew the others saw her as too forgiving, but… There was no reason not to forgive, in her eyes. Merlin deserved forgiveness. Even if she hadn't read his diary, she thought knowing that he had fought, had put up the shield, would be enough to have convinced her.
"No, I suppose I—"
She was cut off as a voice called across the street: "Hello, Gwen! Over here!"
It was Abigail, one of her fellow servants from the palace. She waved at Gwen as Garrick—another servant—lingered behind her, looking a little timid to approach her in the street (or more likely timid to approach her brother, the knight). Abigail pulled him forward anyway, her face red from either the cold or exertion.
"Good afternoon, Abigail," Gwen said.
"Oh, I saw you, and I knew I just had to speak with you. So much has happened, and I know you've been so busy with the physician—you just let Garrick and I know if you need anything. What on earth is all this cloth for?" Abigail said. "Oh, hello, Sir Elyan. Here, let me take some of that. Are you going back to your house?" Without waiting for a reply, she took off the top layer of fabrics from Elyan's tall pile (and promptly handed them to Garrick, who didn't seem overly bothered by being tasked as a carrier).
"Good afternoon, Garrick," Gwen said. "I'm planning to make some clothes and blankets and distribute them where I can. We'd appreciate the help taking it all home—I have enough food to make us all dinner, if you'd like. You're always welcome." Garrick had already been to her home; she had cooked him dinner a few times after his wife, Bella, had passed. He'd been so lonely and too depressed to properly feed himself.
"Oh, that would be perfect," Abigail said.
"We would love to join you," Garrick added, adjusting the fabric so it was more comfortable in his arms.
Gwen glanced at her brother, but he didn't seem put-out by their new companions. So she let Abigail drag her a few steps in front of him and Garrick, holding her arm like they were gossiping twelve-year-olds instead of adults.
"It was shocking when we heard," Abigail said, leaping right into what she wanted to discuss. Normally, she wasn't so chatty, but Gwen supposed this was big news. "About Merlin, that is. And the trial… He confessed to sorcery so quickly! All the servants are stunned—word is the steward locked himself in his room all day after Merlin was first arrested. He kept talking about grain; we thought he'd gone mad. My parents are scared stiff; they saw the lightning, after all, living out here in the town. They think Merlin's going to break out from the dungeons and kill us all."
"Is that what you think?" Gwen asked. She suspected that most everyone knew Merlin—at least those living in or near the castle. If they hadn't known him personally, they would have seen him attending the king or assisting Gaius.
"No. I don't know what to think," Abigail said. She frowned, rubbing her hands together.
"Whatever magic he's done, he's never been violent," Garrick said from behind them. "I remember when Lucy spilled hot cider all down the front of his shirt. She was nearly in tears, poor thing—you know how she gets. And all Merlin did was grin and say it was a good excuse for getting out of serving at the feast."
"Right. He was a troublemaker, and that mouth of his could be sharp, but he didn't have a cruel bone in his body," Abigail agreed. "Still, a sorcerer…"
A warlock, technically, Gwen thought. The secret of her knowledge stuck in her throat. On the one hand, if she revealed what she knew, she might lose her friends. On the other hand, it might help Merlin. Garrick and Abigail were well-liked: if they seemed to take Merlin's side, many of the servants would follow suit.
Maybe this was the type of thinking Arthur had to do when he was at court, trying to get his nobles to support him.
"I think he should be released," she said. "He's too injured to be much of a threat to anyone, magic or no." Gwen's father had never really liked lying, and Gwen thought that the truth always had a way of coming out, anyway. But how much of the truth should she tell? Maybe… Maybe she should get more information, first. God, it was exhausting to think like this. Perhaps this was why Arthur could get so grumpy after council meetings, and why he seemed so tired recently. Gwen much preferred the honest approach. "Is everyone in the lower town scared like your parents are?"
Abigail shrugged. "Most don't know what to think. And with the trial… Everyone knows someone who attended. I went and visited them—they didn't go themselves, but my older sister did. She lives with them to help take care of my father. Anyway, they weren't convinced. But she was—said she'd never seen a sorrier-looking fellow. She thinks the shield saved everyone's lives. I can't disagree with her there, personally."
"He drove everyone off—the creatures and Morgana," Garrick added. "It's obvious he wasn't working with him, even though some think he's in league with the witch."
Gwen scoffed, turning right down the street that would lead to her house. The castle loomed high in the sky, casting its long shadow over the kingdom. "That's ridiculous. He couldn't stand Morgana the last few months she was here. I think he knew she'd turned traitor." It was more of an omission that she would've liked. "I mean, they were always glaring at each other, especially when they thought no one was looking. And he kept avoiding her—he would pass her off to Gaius if she came for a remedy, and he never stayed near her longer than he had to for propriety's sake."
She realized she was rambling, but she couldn't quite bring herself to stop. "Now that everything's come out… Merlin had to have known. If she ever used magic against us—which she must have, even before we knew it—only he could have stopped it. All those times some threat disappeared, or everyone was sure the prince would die because of it. I mean, it's just—"
"We see your point," Garrick interrupted gently, and Gwen shut her mouth. She noticed belatedly they were at her home, and she brought out her old, fat key. Most couldn't afford locks on their doors, but being the daughter of a blacksmith had its perks.
"Sorry. I've just had a lot of thinking to do," Gwen said, opening it and letting everyone else enter first.
"We all have. I worked right next to him in the washroom…" Garrick trailed off as he set the cloth down on her rickety table. Elyan followed suit.
"You were closer to him than almost anyone," Abigail said sympathetically. She touched Gwen's arm gently. "You don't seem as upset as I would've thought."
"I knew he was hiding something," Gwen confessed. "I just didn't know what, at first. But the magic—it makes everything fall into place. You know, I think he healed my father."
"What?" Elyan asked, raising his head from where he'd been sorting their purchases. Gwen didn't know how he felt about her misleading her friends, though his silence during their conversation was perhaps answer enough.
This, however, had caught his attention.
"People were dying—nobles and peasants alike. Someone had poisoned the water supply. With magic," Gwen said. "But when Father got sick, he was better soon after. They accused me because of it; guards found a poultice beneath his pillow. I was arrested, was probably going to be executed, but Merlin admitted to healing my father in front of the whole court—Uther and Arthur."
"He admitted to it?" her brother demanded. "Tell me again how no one saw this coming. And—our father?"
Gwen shrugged, though she didn't want to make light of the incident. Merlin had given her more time with her dad, and she would forever be grateful to him because of it. Between Elyan and her mother, she had known even then that time with her family was precious—something to be treasured. She hadn't known what to think about the poultice, about any of it.
"I remember that!" Abigail exclaimed. "Come to think of it, didn't they clear your name, too? Merlin, Morgana, and the prince? Everyone was so worried you'd be killed."
Gwen nodded. "Yes, they did." She turned to her brother. "Listen, Elyan, I know how you feel, but for however much Merlin has lied to us, he's helped us in equal amounts. He's the reason we're all alive."
"He is, isn't he?" Garrick said with no small amount of wonder. "A sorcerer."
Gwen almost corrected him, but she decided against it at the last second. Arthur didn't want the news of Merlin's journal everywhere, and his instincts were probably right. She wouldn't pretend to understand them, but after everyone's testimonies… He was on Merlin's side (not that she had ever truly doubted it).
And they would both need whatever support she could give.
When the words on all the reports began blurring together, Arthur knew it was time to quit. It was too early—he hadn't gotten enough work done—but it wasn't doing much good staring at gibberish. Usually, this would be the point that he'd foist some of the paperwork onto Merlin. This wasn't an option tonight, unfortunately; while George had many proficiencies, reading and writing weren't among them.
"Would my lord care for some warm cider?" the servant asked, seeming to recognize that Arthur was finished.
I would care for this whole ordeal to be over, Arthur thought, but he nodded. "Yes, George." Warm cider, and then sleep. The drink might stop his head from spinning, at least. Between the trial and the damage done during the attack, he was swamped. His desk was an unorganized mess of papers, and some of them flew off in a whoosh as the king stood.
He sighed, but didn't bother picking them up. Either George would or he'd end up frantically looking for them tomorrow among the mess on his desk—he didn't much care which outcome happened, at this point. Future Arthur would be responsible for it.
The fire was well-stoked, and the king sat down in front of it as his servant poured him a mug of steaming cider he'd taken off the flames. Arthur curled his hands around it, staring at the flickering shadows playing on the floor. George was nearly silent as he finished tidying up for the night.
"I suppose I had better get into my nightclothes," the king said, almost morosely. Merlin would've already bullied him to bed at this point. The man could always tell when Arthur was at the end of his rope, and today the king felt frayed enough to snap.
"If that's my lord's wish," George agreed, fetching him a long night shirt. "Would you like me to help you wash, sire?" Merlin never would've offered to help Arthur wash. This thought served to depress him further. Merlin was stuck in the dungeons—at the king's behest, no less.
"No," Arthur muttered. George finally seemed to sense Arthur's mood and approached him to help him dress. The king stood and let himself be man-handled into his more comfortable night clothes. After his mug of cider, he felt less like his head was about to be split in two. The sky outside was dark, and, judging from the candles, it was relatively late.
"Just put out the ones over there," Arthur said, pointing, as George began to smother the little flames. "And then you're free to go—I'll put the rest out myself." He wanted to be alone, but he wasn't quite ready to sleep. Or, more accurately, he wanted to speak with Merlin, which wasn't possible.
"Alright, Your Majesty. Good night," George said, finishing up. He bowed swiftly, collected a few dirty platters, and left the room.
Arthur was nodding off, staring into the flames, when the door opened and shut softly. The king jerked awake, his hand reaching for Excalibur, until he realized it was only Gwen. She had wrapped a cloak around her to keep out the chill, and he almost hadn't recognized her.
"Gwen!" he said, wondering how embarrassed he should be about his nightclothes. "What are you doing here so late?" She glanced down at them, and he felt a faint blush come to his cheeks, though he willed it away. She'd seen him in more compromising positions. Probably.
"Sorry," she said. "Gaius mentioned you might want to speak to me about magic, and I thought I'd come see you." She grimaced. "It looks like you were about to fall asleep, though; I can leave."
Arthur sat up properly, surreptitiously wiping away the drool that had accumulated on the table. "No, no, it's fine. I did want to speak with you. Please, sit." He gestured to the chair across from him, and she sat hesitantly.
"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" she asked, looking out the window.
"I missed talking with you," Arthur said, only recognizing as he said the words that they were true. "I thought I'd see you three days ago, when I banned Merlin from having visitors."
She smiled, almost wrly. "Gaius talked me down. And I think, after watching the trial, that I'm beginning to understand how hard it must be for you. You really are doing a good job, though. I've been speaking with the other servants, and none of the staff seems entirely against Merlin."
Arthur wanted to mention it wasn't the castle servants he was worried about, but then he realized that Merlin would be worried about them—he had to know most of them, anyway, and he wouldn't like to hear that they had all turned on him. The king's major interest, however, lay in changing the minds of his nobles, as well as the kingdom as a whole.
"That's—good," Arthur finally settled on saying.
"But not the reason you wanted to talk," she said. "I can't say I'm an expert."
"It was—well, it was really more the books you were reading. I spoke with Gaius about learning more, and he said that he'd lent you some tomes." He hadn't thought to ask her specifically, not that he was against the idea. Only, while Gwen was a sweet, brave, and smart girl (an all-around catch, really), she wasn't a noble. She didn't know about politics, or the ins and outs of court. Still, he didn't want to offend her.
"I can bring them up for you tomorrow," she offered. "Or you might stop by Gaius's chambers—he keeps them there. Didn't want me wandering around reading them." Probably smart, even now that he was king.
"That would be lovely. Is there… a particular one you'd recommend?" he asked. Arthur didn't enjoy reading. He didn't mind treaties or laws—those pertained directly to his duties. But reading dusty books had always been mind-numbingly boring for him.
"Are you looking just to learn more? Or do you want something more specific?" Gwen said. "Because many are just general; Gaius said most of his books were burned during the Purge. There might be others in that room Merlin mentioned—the one hidden in the library—but we'd have to ask him to know where it is." That was right—Merlin had written about the hidden room (the one where he'd released the goblin, which still irritated Arthur).
"I need to know how to write the laws," Arthur replied. "About lifting the ban. But I don't know what to make legal and illegal, what the punishments should be… I've thought about a registry, perhaps…"
Gwen shook her head. "I wouldn't. Cedric did something similar—the mages will think you're looking to use them like he did. And that will scare them off. You want them to be visible, right? To trust you?"
Arthur nodded. "I want Camelot to be safe, Gwen, but we both know how terrible magic can be." He held up a hand to stop her protest. "I'm not saying it can't be used for good as well, but think about Sigan, about Nimueh. There do have to be some restrictions."
"Well, anything that's illegal to do without magic should be illegal to do with magic," Gwen said. "That makes the most sense, doesn't it?"
"But there are certain things that sorcerers can do that other people can't. There's no way for someone without magic to curse another, so we have to prohibit curses," Arthur said. He thought his point was a logical one. And he couldn't very well make magic legal without setting very specific restrictions—whatever lies his father told about the start of the Purge, that would lead to chaos.
Gwen bit her lip, and the gesture made him want to kiss her—she looked so worried. That thought sent a guilty thrill through his gut; how could he think of kissing her when he'd last been thinking of kissing Merlin? How could he think of loving Merlin—a man and a sorcerer—when he loved Gwen? It made him ache in a way he couldn't describe, and his cheeks, cooled from his last embarrassment, heated again.
"It's common sense, though, isn't it? You're not allowed to murder people, to harrass them. So why should you be allowed to harass them with magic?" Gwen asked. "Maybe—maybe you could take it up on a case-by-case basis, at first. You could write more laws either restricting or opening the use of different kinds of magic. You should certainly make general spells legal—household ones, maybe, or elemental ones. And healing spells. Those make the most sense to legalize, right? Especially since Merlin used those, so there's a direct line of evidence for lifting the ban on those specifically. You could lift protective enchantments, defensive spells—you really should read the book so you know the different kinds there are." Her eyes were bright, and Arthur thought that perhaps she had a better head for this than he had anticipated. She hadn't even seemed to realize she was babbling, which usually seemed to make her self-conscious; personally, he found the habit endearing.
Maybe…
"Tell me the different kinds," he said, standing up and walking to his desk. "Then show me the book tomorrow."
"Well," Gwen said uncertainly, "I don't know if I can remember them all. But I can tell you the kinds Merlin used. I think, anyway. I'm not very scholarly—you know Gaius would be better at this than me. Or Merlin, or maybe Geoffrey… And you should definitely double-check the book to make sure I'm right. And you shouldn't base laws off of things I tell you—"
"Gwen," Arthur interrupted, and this time she did seem chagrined for her rambling. "Just tell me. It might be useful for the trial, and I don't know how much time I'll have with everything going on. Have a little faith."
She swallowed awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. Her dark, shiny curls caught flickers of light from the fire, gleaming like polished metal. She was a simple peasant woman, but she'd already done something no one else in Camelot had: she'd actively learned about magic, without being a sorcerer herself.
She'd save him time and energy—two things he didn't have to waste—and he found himself grateful. He supposed she didn't need to know the ins and outs of court in order to provide useful insight or suggestions.
He also supposed, he thought ruefully, that he should've learned that particular lesson already from Merlin.
Had it gone well? Or poorly? Merlin couldn't be sure as he was led back down to the dungeons. The faces he'd seen in the crowd seemed far away, now—the whole thing seemed far away. He recalled how many people he'd noticed were absent. Had they simply not shown up, or were they dead?
The thought made him wince, even more than the pain in his arm did. The lieutenant on his left had certainly aggravated it, and he could only hope it hadn't re-opened—Gaius would have his head. But then, what was the point of his injury, of his discovery, if townsfolk had died anyway? If his best wasn't good enough, then he wasn't good enough.
There was nothing he could do about it in the dungeons, though, and so it was with some kind of relief when he was brought to his knees in his cell, the shackles removed roughly from his wrists. They felt raw, and he rubbed them gently to get blood flowing through them.
The two who had escorted him shut the door again, and Merlin wondered if perhaps their rough treatment of him stemmed from some kind of personal dislike or prejudice. He would've thought the statue-like men above such things, but maybe his attempts at small-talk before had done the opposite of endearing himself to them.
Or maybe they didn't like sorcerers. Of the two scenarios, Merlin knew which was the most likely, but he wouldn't put it past the stone-faced guards to be upset because he'd tried to speak with them.
"You alright there, Merlin?" one of the regular dungeon guards called after the other two had left. Merlin sat himself on his bench, content to sit and let the emotions of the day run out of him. He tried not to dwell on how it had gone, but…
"Fine," he muttered. His throat was dry, and he cleared it. "Thanks."
The guard looked doubtful, but he didn't say anything further. His relationship with the usual dungeon guards had only gotten more unusual: they delivered his food, water, and medicine very regularly. In fact, they seemed intent on making him as comfortable as possible, as though he were some sort of political prisoner, like a foreign noble whose kingdom might get upset if they were treated poorly. Not that Merlin was about to complain about it.
The warlock rested his head against the stone, ignoring how the irregularities in the wall jutted into his skull. He just wished it was all over already. How many more days would he be forced to expose himself to all of Camelot? He felt raw; he could still feel hundreds of eyes on him, assessing. Wondering. It had wrung him out, and even though he had done nothing but rest since his arrival in the dungeons, he was exhausted.
Hoping his sleep wouldn't be tormented by his memories or imagination, he curled up on the bench, pulling the blanket over him. Maybe when he woke up, the trial itself would be a dream.
Or a nightmare, rather.
Merlin woke to find that he had slept through both the evening and the night; the daylight drifting through the small window marked the time as early morning. His stomach rumbled, and he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. For the first time in a long while, he felt suspiciously well-rested, and he noted that the guards had already brought him breakfast, leaving it on the floor just inside his cell. If they weren't careful, they would attract rats.
He got up, and there was a twinge in his shoulder to protest the movement. He wondered, morosely, when it would be healed enough not to do that.
The food was simple fare—standard for a prisoner, but thankfully free of mold. Merlin wolfed it down and drank the medicine afterward; the guards had left it next to his meal. It tasted bitter and earthy—like dirty roots that hadn't been washed off. He swallowed it all with only a grimace, and then he found himself lacking any further distractions.
His body feeling better, he managed to actually work out some of his frustration as he paced—to the point where he felt sweat gathering underneath his shirt. It felt good to move his legs again, even though he had to be careful not to trip over the empty medicine bottle. The four walls around him had never felt closer; they creeped toward him inexorably, when he wasn't looking. The room appeared smaller than it had the day before, and Merlin frowned, trying to calm his nerves.
He ran a hand through his hair and stopped pacing, feeling almost dizzy. When would they come for him? The mystery made it worse, and the anxiety from yesterday came back full-force, churning in his gut. What if today went worse? What if everyone's words condemned him? He swallowed, closing his eyes. The anxiety met frustration—was he really so high-strung as this?
But there didn't seem to be anything to do except worry, and although Merlin had faced many terrifying things in his short life, this was worse than all others combined.
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the footsteps announcing it was time for him to leave. It was the same as yesterday: the two stoic men that usually guarded the throne room came with shackles. One held the door as the other entered the cell, manhandling Merlin to his knees.
"Is this really necessary?" the warlock protested from the ground. "I've been cooperative." The lieutenant behind him merely heaved him to his feet, pulling on the shackles he'd locked around Merlin's wrists. Merlin winced as pain tore through his arm. "Oh, I see—it's not just your voices that don't work, is that it? You must be blind as well, to not have seen that I'm not fighting you."
Perhaps he shouldn't have snapped, as the guard gave him a mean shove forward, and Merlin almost fell as his feet tangled with one another.
"That was uncalled for," Merlin muttered, walking out into the hall. The cell door was shut, and he watched as one of his regular guards frowned at the other two.
"Sirs," he said—his name was Jonathon, Merlin believed. He enjoyed a good game of dice. "There's no reason to treat him so. He has been nothing but accommodating, and by the looks of it, we owe him a great debt."
"He is a prisoner, a traitor, and a sorcerer to boot," one of them said gruffly—the taller of the two. His voice wasn't like Merlin had imagined it would be: smooth instead of rough, almost cultured. "He deserves nothing more than what we've given him."
"Only the first and the third of those are true," Jonathan argued. "And with what has been revealed so far, I don't think it likely that he will remain a prisoner for long."
The shorter one snorted. "You're right; he won't. Not with how the King has been conducting this sham, anyway."
"Take care with how you speak," Jonathan said, glaring. The taller lieutenant glared back, his gray eyes somehow familiar. "Or else I'll report you for insubordination."
"Just try it," the guard sneered, tugging on Merlin's chains. "Come, traitor. You're needed at your 'trial.'"
Jonathon watched them go, his mouth a thin line, and Merlin knew he at least had one more person in his corner. He wondered how many supporters he did have out there, people he knew and people he didn't. It was bizarre to know that strangers might be calling for his release, but the thought eased some of the anxiety in his gut. Arthur had claimed that courtiers would be spreading word of the trial—who knew how many unnamed peasants or merchants or nobles were endorsing him? And even if they didn't outnumber those who hated him and called for his death, it was somehow comforting to know they existed.
Even if it was a little scary, too. He was familiar with the sensation—it was how he felt when he thought about the druids and how they saw him. But they had only known Emrys, a figure from prophecy; these people were getting to know Merlin, the simple boy from Ealdor.
And that was somehow more frightening to him, even if it exhilarated him, too. That, at least, was unfamiliar.
"So, do you two have names?" Merlin asked, wondering if it was wise to provoke his guards as they led him up the stairs. Well, he wasn't exactly known for his prudence. "Because I've been calling you 'statue one' and 'statue two' in my head, and that seems rude."
But their brief chattiness appeared to be gone. The only sign they gave that they'd heard him was the brutal push he received at the top step, one which almost sent him careening onto his face. But the gray-eyed guard caught him by the shoulder—the left shoulder—and Merlin gasped as he was planted on his feet again.
Maybe it's not a good idea to provoke them at all, he thought, a little dazedly. The bite throbbed in time with his heart, feeling warm and swollen. He was silent as the two escorted him the rest of the way, and he'd had just enough time to work himself up again when he was led into the throne room.
It was eerie how similar it was to the previous day. The throne room was filled with ordinary citizens, the nobles toward the front with Arthur. The king looked more tired than he had the day prior, as though he'd stayed up late reading reports. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and Merlin remembered rather belatedly that he was supposed to be playing the part of a contrite peasant. He lowered his head as he was forced to his knees again, the shackles wrenching his shoulder into an uncomfortable position.
At least he could be certain Arthur was on his side—and who knew how many ordinary citizens? The nobles, he suspected, would not be; he could see the scowl on Aldwin's pinkish face even though he couldn't really see it. The guards that had escorted him stepped back, and Merlin relaxed marginally, though having them behind him made his skin crawl.
So many people were watching him, assessing him, and he tried not to let it get to him. He could stand up for himself, stand up for magic. He glanced toward those judgemental faces and swallowed, trying to school his expression.
"Today, we investigate the origin of Merlin Hunithson's magic," Arthur began. Merlin supposed that made sense: first, go over the crime that got him caught; then, go over how he had learned to commit that crime in the first place. He wondered how long it would take to recount everything. His chains clanked as his hand reflexively went to run through his hair.
He could lie through his teeth with hardly a hint of nerves showing, at this point. He had lied to Arthur—the prince—and Uther—the king—for years. He had lied to everyone else for longer.
So why was it that telling the truth made him want to puke?
"Not how he has used it, sire?" Lord Sterling asked. Merlin thought he always looked like he had a rod taped to his spine. He was kind, but a stickler for propriety. "Is that question not more pertinent?"
"Then should we not worry about how he has learned this skill?" Arthur retorted. "Or, rather, whom he learned it from? And when? I find that the question of when he began breaking the law just as important as how often. In fact, you may find that the two are linked." His voice had grown borderline sarcastic, so Merlin knew he definitely hadn't gotten enough sleep. Or he had gotten frustrated with his nobility's attitudes. He usually managed to control his temper in their presence (though, as his servant, Merlin was not so lucky), so it was a sign that they had really started annoying him.
"I apologize for my impertinence, Your Majesty. Of course you are correct," Lord Sterling said, dipping his head.
Arthur didn't say anything else, simply continuing. "You are bound to tell the truth, Merlin Hunithson. Know that if you lie now, you will be committing treason. You are under oath when you speak to the Crown." His voice was stern—more kinglike than Merlin usually heard when Arthur addressed him.
"I understand, my lord," Merlin said. He licked his lips.
"Tell us, then. Who taught you?"
Even though he knew Arthur knew the answer, Merlin still hesitated. How many others would believe him? "No one, sire. I was born with my ability."
"Preposterous!" Aldwin cried, and the noise of the crowd rose with disbelieving voices. "Your Majesty, he must be lying. Magic is learned, like any other criminal skill."
Merlin almost snorted at that, but he decided that would not be taken well. "My lord," he called, "it is the truth. I have no cause to lie—I was doing magic before I was a year old."
"Is there anyone to corroborate your claim?" Arthur asked.
Merlin grimaced. "My mother, sire. There was a woman who helped birth me"—Will's mother—"who knows as well. If you were to ask the people of Ealdor, I am certain many would support my claim." None had known of his magic, exactly, but they had known the strange things that liked to happen around him. He was sure many had suspected, even if they hadn't known precisely what was wrong with him.
"Just so," the king said. He almost seemed approving. "A few days ago, I sent out a few of my trusted knights to journey to Ealdor to investigate Merlin's life prior to his arrival in Camelot. To my surprise, the knights reported tales of magic that date back nearly two decades. Naturally, his mother's account remains too biased to be heard impartially before this court." Merlin almost let out a sigh of relief at the news that his mother wouldn't be brought into this. "However, there were a couple villagers willing to step forward and share what they know."
"How will we know they aren't biased, too, my lord?" Muriel asked.
Merlin tried not to laugh; the people of Ealdor held no love for him. He was sure some had been ready to burn him or hand him over to Cenred before he had reached ten summers. If they had any bias, it would be against him.
But then, Arthur's words fully processed. Who the hell had he brought from Merlin's village to testify? Most would be against Merlin—surely he had to know that wasn't exactly what he needed. There was only one person who Merlin could think of that might do something helpful for him, but he would be shocked if she had deigned to come. Like her son, she held no love for nobility, and kings were the worst.
Well, Merlin couldn't help but agree there.
"The two different witnesses should prevent distortion of the truth," Arthur deflected. "Their testimonies today will either support or discredit Merlin's claims. Beyond this, Lord Geoffrey has been looking into magic—to catch Merlin in any obvious lies that we would believe due to our ignorance in this matter. I believe—and I hope you all agree—that this claim bears looking into. Geoffrey?"
The stout man stepped forward, and Merlin tried not to cringe. The librarian was not his biggest fan, especially not after Merlin had accidentally gotten medicinal paste on one of his books. He would've magicked it off, except Geoffrey had witnessed the incident in question, so Merlin had had to make do with normal, non-magical methods of removal. And he had missed Geoffey's explanation of how the library was organized, so he was pretty sure the man thought he was stupid. Merlin always felt like a headless chicken when he went looking for a book, but asking the librarian would've been worse than actually having his head cut off.
The old man stepped forward, bowing. "My lord, in my research, I have found evidence that it is possible that Merlin was born with magic." The librarian looked thoroughly groomed for this occasion, and the warlock supposed he must have been given a warning from Arthur that he would be needed to speak.
"People born with magic were well-documented by the High Priestesses and Priests of the Old Religion. Although it was difficult to find references to such things now, I have discovered a few trends. It is more common for people to actively seek magic out to learn it, but it has been documented that certain individuals have manifestations of magic without them seeking it out. In a time of stress or high emotion, their magic may act without their consent. The more powerful the magic, the earlier it manifests, though it seems to be agreed that puberty is the most common time for the magic to appear."
He paused, and Arthur looked down at Merlin, who was staring at the librarian. Geoffrey had… provided accurate and helpful information. He knew he shouldn't be surprised; this whole trial was meant to go in his favor. Still, it was odd to hear the old man support him.
"Merlin," the king said, and the warlock put his attention back on Arthur. If he tried, he could pretend it was just them, alone in Arthur's chambers. A normal day, discussing normal things… "When did your magic 'manifest,' to use Lord Geoffrey's term?"
Merlin swallowed. "I can't remember a time when I couldn't use it, sire. If what my mother says is true—and I don't know why she would lie to me—I was born with gold eyes. They faded, eventually, but I have always been able to access my magic." He was sure his mother had written to Gaius about it, and he knew Edith—Will's mother—must have known. She had never spoken with Merlin or Hunith about it; Merlin hadn't even known she'd known until after he'd accidentally revealed himself to Will.
Many of the nobles frowned—Muriel in particular seemed oddly distressed by this idea. There were murmurs in the crowd behind Merlin, but he tried not to hear them; he didn't want to know if they believed him or not.
"Is this plausible, Geoffrey?" Arthur asked, turning to the librarian. The old man was gazing at Merlin with either awe or horror—it was hard to tell.
"It is unheard of, but not entirely out of the question," the librarian answered, his tone almost mechanical. "If a sorcerer were sufficiently powerful, it is possible that their magic could appear during infanthood. The earliest documented case of manifestation I could find, however, was in a child three summers old."
Naturally. Merlin knew he was supposed to be telling the truth, but what was the point when no one would believe him regardless? Or when the truth was more outlandish than a lie would be? He turned his gaze downward, trying not to look dejected.
"But it is not impossible?" Arthur pressed.
Geoffrey shook his head. "It is not impossible, my lord. However, I think it unlikely Merlin is remembering wrong, or that his mother exaggerated. Given the amount of power he seems to be capable of wielding, it would be consistent with my research that his power showed itself in early childhood. Many sorcerers would not have been able to conjure that shield—or summon lightning or fire—and certainly only the most powerful could do so all at once, as Merlin appeared to do. In fact, these feats are some of the most powerful I have ever heard of, consistent with what High Priestesses were capable of—or Cornelius Sigan himself."
The nobles didn't seem to know what to do with this information, and the knights all looked at each other—all but Lancelot and Gwaine—with something like fear in their eyes. Merlin supposed that with how little they knew of magic, they had no frame of reference for how strong or weak he was. To hear that he was on par with Sigan… He grimaced, wondering if Geoffrey had set his progress back. Even young Sir Bolton, the knight who had spoken highly of him the day before, seemed ashen.
Merlin tried not to let shame crawl into his heart, but it was an insidious thing; it kept knocking and prodding and demanding to be let in. The warlock had tried to resist it all his life, with many failures and successes. But now everyone knew how much of an oddity he was, even among his own kind. He tried not to let it hurt. He tried to revive that feeling of hope that Jonathon had given him, that Arthur had given him. But he could see his life playing out: days spent in isolation, free in name but caged by everyone's fear regardless.
Arthur seemed to sense the mood, and he began speaking again quickly, not leaving too much time for anyone to dwell on that particular piece of information. Not that Merlin thought it would help.
"Now that the possibility of this claim has been verified, I think eye witnesses are in order," Arthur said. "For our first witness, I call on Simmons of Ealdor. He has resided in Ealdor for all of his life, having been born there."
Merlin just barely stopped himself from groaning in despair. Simmons? Arthur had decided, of all the villagers he could've brought, Simmons was the best choice? The warlock wanted to bang his head on the floor. Simmons hated Merlin, and the feeling was nearly mutual. Everything was at stake, here—Merlin's life and home and freedom. And Arthur—Arthur was going to inadvertently ruin it.
The warlock revised his opinion of Arthur's intelligence (not that it had been high to begin with) and tried not to panic. From behind the knights, hidden by their bulky forms, came a crotchety old man. He hadn't changed a whit since Merlin had last seen him: thin wisps of white hair encircled the back of his head like cobwebs, and he was hunched from a lifetime of hard work. He hobbled forward, bowing awkwardly to the king.
"Mister Simmons of Ealdor, do you swear to the Crown that you will speak true at these proceedings?" Arthur asked.
"I do, m'lord," the old man replied in a creaking voice. Merlin wondered if his bones squeaked like unoiled hinges when he moved—if they did, it was too quiet for him to hear over the proceedings. How had they even managed to convince the frail man to accompany them to Camelot?
Dread pooled in his stomach at the sound of that voice, though. The old man had been fond of shouting at Merlin and Will, not like some of the others in the village: older men who volunteered to help Merlin and Will out with their lack of father figures. Not that many had been like that. Merlin had been teased for being a bastard, and Will had been teased for hanging out with him.
"Do you understand that if I suspect you of lying, you may be charged with treason by way of lying to the king?" Arthur asked, and the eerie similarities to the previous day echoed in Merlin's head.
"I understand, sire," Simmons said. The tension in Merlin's muscles reached a point where he thought they would snap.
"Can you tell me what your impression of Merlin Hunithson was in Ealdor? Did you know or suspect he had magic?" Arthur questioned. Merlin tried not to close his eyes.
"Well, he was like most any other boy, 'cept he had no father to keep 'im from runnin' wild," Simmons said. "Liked to get into trouble—and it was worse 'cause he was smart about it, too. Smart mind, smart mouth, but a likin' toward mischief. Him and Will—Will was a boy his age—liked to get up to all sorts of no-good things: lettin' out the chickens, harassing the one plowin' horse we had, gettin' into fights. Normal things kids get into." Well, Merlin supposed, that wasn't too damning. He and Will had only let out the chickens the once, and it was because Merlin thought that they didn't deserve to die. Daisy and Esmerelda had been his best friends, behind Will. He'd sobbed when his mother had killed Daisy and distributed the food to their neighbors for the winter.
He had also been trying to free the plow horse, but he thought that might not be a good thing to bring up.
"As for the magic, sire, I can't say I knew one way or another. Most folks in the village knew somethin' wasn't right, 'specially with how shifty Hunith could be about his father. And we hardly ever saw Merlin until he was bigger; he was never given to anyone else to watch. Most people did, when they got to the age they could be apart from their mother. Edith—that's Will's mother—went over a couple times, but she never said a word about the babe. It was suspicious.
"Some of the more violent-minded folks thought to examine the child themselves—for witch-marks. They didn't want a sorcerer runnin' about. But by that time, Merlin was out of the house, a mostly normal boy. He never seemed to go hungry—him and Hunith always had enough to eat, no matter how lean the winter got.
"I think I brushed it off as superstitious nonsense 'til the lad nearly dropped a tree on me. Now, don't go gettin' the wrong idea—I don't rightly think he knew I was there. It was some ways into the woods, and I was seein' if my snares had caught anything. I heard this noise—like a crack of lightning, maybe—and suddenly a tree was headin' right for me. I leaped out of the way just in time, and I marched over there to see what the hell had happened—pardon my swearin', sire.
"And there I see 'em—Will and Merlin. Will's eyes were wide, but Merlin was nearly shakin' out of his boots, all pale-like. Neither of 'em had an axe or anything to cut a tree down with. I looked at the trunk after—it wasn't an animal or anything natural that did it, neither. Well, I was furious—and maybe a bit scared, though I'm not proud to admit it, m'lord. I bellowed at 'em good, and they ran into the trees faster than a startled rabbit. I avoided Merlin after; I knew it had to be him, 'cause everyone could tell he was off." Simmons paused, as if wondering what else he could add.
And Merlin—Merlin was trying to blink back tears. Of all people, Simmons had defended him, in that weird way of his. Merlin hadn't been trying to drop a tree on him, hadn't known he was there. He and Will were only experimenting; his mother never let him explore what his magic could do, but Will was constantly encouraging him, egging him on. So he had tried to fell a tree, and…
Simmons had been angry afterward, and Merlin had been so scared that he might be burned or stoned or sent to Cenred. He hadn't dared tell his mother what had happened, and Simmons never uttered a word.
Arthur, sensing the lull, took it to mean Simmons needed another question. "Was it a feeling?" he asked. "What made him seem strange?"
Simmons seemed to think a moment before answering: "The lad was paranoid, more paranoid than some of the men who were soldiers in Cenred's army, sire. He disappeared into the woods some days. That wasn't unusual—plenty of the boys liked to play in the woods—but he never seemed to play the way they did. He just… Sometimes he acted like a normal child, m'lord, and sometimes he acted wrong."
Merlin had been paranoid. He'd been paranoid and reckless at turns, his nature at odds with how his mother had raised him. He looked up at Simmons—this old man who'd had no obligation to defend him—and wondered why he'd come. He didn't know, but he felt inordinately grateful. Again, that hope stirred inside him.
"How old would you say he was when this incident took place?" Arthur said.
"Oh, he was a wee thing—hadn't shot up like a weed, yet—so maybe ten summers, sire," Simmons replied. "Or thereabouts."
Arthur nodded. "Can you think of any other incident that seemed to indicate Merlin had magic?"
"None come to mind, m'lord," Simmons said. "Like I said, I avoided him after. I didn't want to see him burned or anythin', but he did nearly kill me." Merlin thought that was fair. And he'd avoided Simmons like the plague afterward, too. Will had teased him about it, though he thought now that it was because the boy had felt guilty about the role he'd played.
"I thank you for your testimony," Arthur said. "It's been most helpful in our investigation." Merlin wondered if maybe he was getting some kind of compensation for this, then realized that might look too much like bribery. Perhaps the knights would give the village some supplies when they went back. His mother had been worried about bandits and their food stores in her last letter; the fighting was nearer to them, now.
"I think it's admirable when anyone tries to seek the truth, sire." Simmons bowed. "I hope you find it."
Arthur smiled. "Me too." Simmons stepped back into place, behind the knights. Merlin wondered if it was to give them protection or if it was simply easier, given the layout of the throne room. "And now," Arthur said, "Edith of Ealdor, please step forward."
Merlin's eyes widened. Nevermind Simmons, how had they managed to convince her? Perhaps it had been because of his mother; she and Hunith were good friends. And with Will gone…
Edith curtseyed to Arthur, keeping her head low. Her dark hair was bound up, a few strands curling about her neck. She was beautiful—Merlin had always thought her kind of regal—but her face was lined from stress. And grief. She hadn't spoken a word, yet Merlin could see the sadness hovering around her, a ghost invisible to everyone but her, ruining her everyday pleasures.
Merlin had that same ghost. He had been so lost, after Will.
"Madam Edith of Ealdor, do you swear to the Crown that you will speak true at these proceedings?" Arthur asked.
"I do, sire," she said. Her voice was hard and rough, but it rang clear—like a cracked bell.
"Do you understand that if I suspect you of lying, you may be charged with treason by way of lying to the king?"
"Yes, I understand, sire," she said.
"Very good. Tell us, then, what your relation is to Merlin Hunithson and when—or if—you first suspected him of magic," Arthur said.
Edith cleared her throat, dusting off her threadbare dress self-consciously. It was her better one, probably—Merlin's mum kept two, one for work and the other for special occasions. But neither were up to court standards. Not that Simmons' clothes had been pristine, either.
"I was there when he was born," she finally said. "And he was best friends with my boy, Will, as they were growing up." Her stilted way of talking gave way to a more natural cadence. "There was no one else to help her when the baby came, and I had assisted in a few births already. Will was a year old already, so I left him with my husband when word came that the baby was coming. I suppose you could say that's when I first met him.
"The sky had been clear that day, but it was raining something fierce when I entered Hunith's home. That may not seem relevant, sire, but it is. I prepped everything like I was taught, but the labor was hard. It lasted almost all night. Hunith was healthy and strong, though, and she gave birth to a boy who was healthy and strong." She paused. Merlin had never heard the detail about the storm before, although the story was familiar to him.
"He came out screaming, and his eyes were glowing, sire. Glowing gold. I'd never seen anything like it—outside, the storm picked up. Wind shook the house, and I thought the walls might come down around us. But when Hunith took him in her arms, it all went quiet. Like he'd been causing that storm. Those eyes… He was a pretty, perfect little thing, except those eyes. Hunith swore me to secrecy, but I wouldn't have told anyway. I could never have hurt a baby, magic or no, sire."
Merlin could hear whispers from behind him.
A storm…
...as a babe, can you believe…
Well, no wonder there was all that lightning…
"Simmons described Will and Merlin as friends," Arthur said, almost gently. Merlin wondered how much he remembered of the boy who had took an arrow for him, the boy who had lied for Merlin even as he died. Will was always lying for him, lying to keep him out of trouble (and himself, if Merlin were honest). "Would you say this was accurate?"
Edith took a deep breath. "Yes, sire. Hunith was so scared about someone finding out about Merlin because of his control—or lack of it rather—she didn't let him out for a long while. Will didn't visit, but I did—even if Merlin only needed his mum to be happy, Hunith needed company her own age, a mother she could talk to about her problems. When Merlin was old enough to hide, we let him and Will play. They got along splendidly. And after my husband died, they could relate to each other's pain.
"As they got older, they stuck together like they were brothers. I'll admit Will was probably the more troublesome of the two. Merlin wasn't cautious, exactly, but Will could be downright reckless. I think they tempered each other and incited each other. I saw a lot of Merlin, as a child," she finished.
"Would you say he was a wicked child? Corrupted by his magic?" Arthur asked. "Possessed by it, even?"
Edith shook her head. "It wasn't an evil spirit, sire. It was him. When he was a babe, blankets would fly across the room if he was cold, or a fire would light itself in the hearth. He healed a cut on Hunith's finger, once. Nothing harmful—his magic only did things a child might want it to do. He made shapes in the dirt with it, little stories fueled by a boy's imagination."
The more cynical part of Merlin thought that Arthur had played this masterfully: these anecdotes made him seem more human, more relatable. He wasn't sure how much the testimonies had been planned, however, or if Arthur had simply tailored his questions. And… Had he really come up with this all in such a short time? When had he started preparing, started thinking about the trial?
The other part of Merlin ached. He had buried those memories, blocked Edith and Will and Ealdor from his mind. His childhood hadn't been bad—his mother and Will had seen to that—but there had always been that terror, in the back of his mind, that he would be killed. Brutally. His mother had made it clear what would happen to him, had made it clear as soon as he was old enough to understand.
Will had taken away some of the fear and shame surrounding his magic. It hadn't been something to hide around him; it was a gift, a skill to be admired and used. It had been so refreshing after his mother's attitude. The danger had been there, of course, but Merlin could pretend for a while, if he was with Will.
And then Will had died. For Arthur. For Merlin. It had torn the warlock up inside. Those wounds had reopened, weeping guilt and longing instead of blood.
"Thank you for your testimony, Edith of Ealdor. You have provided us with excellent evidence in favor of Merlin's claim," Arthur said. There was something odd in his face—a tightness Merlin thought might be recalled memories. He didn't know.
Edith curtseyed again and took her place by Simmons' side. She had avoided looking at Merlin throughout her testimony, but now she stared at him. She offered him a small, sad smile, and he tried to give one back. He wondered if she saw her son when she looked at him. If she thought that Merlin should've been the one to die—Merlin, the one with the magic. Not Will. Lively, bright Will.
Merlin wouldn't have blamed her; he'd often thought the same.
"Given that Merlin Hunithson did not choose to have magic," Arthur began, "I cannot in good conscience punish him for it. Actions are what must be judged before the court, not inborn traits. I would sooner punish someone for having brown eyes than I would punish Merlin for the simple happenstance of having magic. If I were to do so, I myself would be interfering with God's judgement—it is not for me to say whether someone should or should not be born with something.
"How someone uses that trait is another matter. I cannot pass judgement on someone with two hands, or even one—but I can pass judgement on what they do with their hands. Is it not the same with magic? Should Merlin prove to have used his magic to the benefit of Camelot and its people—as he did the night Morgana tried to invade—I will not punish him.
"For now, however, this merits further investigation to ascertain how exactly Merlin has used his magic. The court is adjourned, and the trial will resume on the morrow."
AN: Had a bit of writer's block, sorry, but I've managed to buckle down and write it! Thank you to my beta, thesteelshadow (on ffnet). Also thanks to Larch Homewood for pointing out a spelling error I made the past few chapters (that I will eventually fix). And, of course, thanks to all of you for reading, reviewing, commenting, etc.! It means the world to me :) Just a note: I'm having a very small surgery/procedure done soon, and I'm not sure if/how that will effect chapter six's posting.
Questions: was the trial okay? As in, did you like the witnesses and the modifications I made to canon? Some of it's basically fanon (and I did not come up with Merlin being born with gold eyes), but did it make sense with how I've portrayed everything? Was the rest of it good or boring? Did the characters' emotions and interactions make sense?