Chapter Eight: A Coup

When Gwen mentioned the incident to Gaius that night, he didn't seem bothered by it. The old man hummed to himself, grinding herbs into powders that could later be made into pastes. Despite his initial stress about the trial, the recent proceedings had seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders—and years from his face.

"You're being overly paranoid, my dear," he said. "Though we can certainly keep an eye out, it's better not to make a fuss if we don't have to. Not right now, anyway. Everything is still… delicate."

"Alright," Gwen agreed. In her heart, she thought it was the wrong decision, but what could she do? She had no evidence, just a gut feeling. And she didn't want to stir anything up while it was all so fragile.

She didn't like, however, that the guard had access to Merlin. If Maverick had been looking to cause trouble, he could do almost anything to the warlock without anyone knowing. It was a possibility that she hadn't considered—one that shot urgency into her limbs.

Glancing outside the window, she turned to Gaius. "I had better get home, now," she said, gathering her meager possessions. The birth Gaius had attended, as well as all of her deliveries, had gone well; the woman's labor had been quick, and the babe was healthy. The physician was going to check back on them in the morning. They'd met back at his chambers for a very belated supper.

Gaius frowned. "It's late, Gwen. Not safe to be out traveling—why don't you stay in Merlin's room? Or I have a spare cot you can use; I know it's not very clean in there."

Gwen shook her head, trying not to be too forceful. "It's fine. It's a short walk to my house, one I've made plenty of times." Besides, there was something else she wanted to do, something she was certain wouldn't get Gaius's approval. "Could I borrow a sheet of parchment, a quill, and ink?"

"Whatever for?" Gaius asked, frowning. His eyebrow inched slowly up his forehead, and Gwen regretted not being a better liar, even though she didn't exactly like lying. It was just that she seemed to do it with horrible regularity, without any of the skill required to actually make people believe her.

"Er, well, you see—I want to practice my penmanship. I'm very sloppy, hardly readable. I mean, not to say Merlin's a bad teacher, of course, since he taught me, but my writing is so shaky most times, and what if I have to write a letter or something? It will be illegible. So—so I want to practice. Is all," she said, wishing she could hit herself for rambling.

Gaius's eyebrow looked like it might wriggle right off his face and fly above his head into the air. She imagined it floating there, a caterpillar of disapproval hovering over that gray hair, and she stifled a laugh. Gwen bit her lip, trying to look ashamed of her handwriting instead of amused.

"Of course," the physician eventually said, enunciating the two words slowly. His eyes thinned as his suspicion grew. "Please, go ahead. And do be careful on your way home."

"I will," Gwen promised. She grabbed the supplies and tucked them into her bag, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Gaius's eyes followed her as she went out the door, and she nearly breathed a sigh of relief after she was out from under that gaze. No wonder Merlin had never managed to hide anything from the man.

She thought guiltily about what she was going to do, but ultimately decided it was what had to be done. She wasn't even doing anything bad. It was good, in fact.

After glancing around to make sure no one was nearby, Gwen crouched down next to a torch and wrote something quickly, using the floor as a makeshift desk. Her handwriting wasn't nearly as bad as she had made out to Gaius; Merlin had seen to that. When the warlock wasn't rushed, his lettering was actually quite nice. When she'd asked, he'd admitted that his mother had taught him, though he didn't know where she'd learned herself.

Gwen waited for the ink to dry before rolling the parchment up and tucking the ink and quill back into her bag. She walked out into the courtyard—unhurried, casual. There wasn't really anyone out to see her except the guards, who gave her a quick glance before deciding she wasn't a threat.

She counted the small, barred windows from the entrance—one, two, three, four… That's it. Gwen dropped the rolled-up note and kicked it surreptitiously through the bars. Even if Merlin wasn't awake now, he'd certainly see it in the morning. And while there might not be anything for him to do, simply watching for anything suspicious would be better than nothing.

Gwen sighed, straightened her bag, and strode off into the night, nodding to the guards as she passed.

With any luck, it was nothing. Unfortunately, there seemed to be something of a luck shortage in Camelot. She sighed again because, no, that wasn't quite right; everyone's poor attitudes were just getting to her. Camelot's luck was fine.

It was just Merlin who had a shortage of it.

Merlin slept restlessly. It wasn't nightmares, though his dreams were strange; rather, it was the persistent feeling that something was wrong. Often, these foreboding sensations came with the tingle of magic—usually just before Arthur decided to go and pester some dangerous magical creature. But this time, it was all him: his suspicions, his paranoia.

But would it be paranoia if something really was going on?

His magic, coiled tightly in his chest, was silent. It didn't lend credence to either side of him—the side that thought he was overreacting to small things, and the other that smelled something rotten. The magic stirred as he focused on it, and he stamped it down. It left him feeling unbalanced, but he wasn't about to do any magic while he was in the process of being tried for doing magic. Even if he'd been cleared by the king, it was still technically illegal.

The warlock's shallow doze was interrupted as sunlight came in through the window of his cell. He sat up, scrubbing the fatigue from his face. How much longer would the trial continue? He grimaced into his palms.

Come on, Merlin. You've faced worse. He pushed his feeling of vulnerability aside—this was necessary, a small sacrifice to have magic brought back to the land. It was something that Merlin had suspected would never come to pass, and it was happening. Giving up his privacy, giving up his secrets, was a small price to pay.

And it was still as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Revealing his true self seemed like falling: plummeting through the air, his stomach in his throat, and he didn't know yet whether he would land safely or not.

As Merlin stood to relieve himself in the chamber pot, he saw something strange on the floor of his cell: it was a piece of paper. Frowning, he bent down to pick it up. Had it drifted in from outside, or was it from the dungeons themselves? He unrolled it, his brows dipping lower and lower as he read the words.

Merlin,

Something isn't right. The gray-eyed guard stationed in the cells—Maverick—was in Gaius's chambers. It seemed like he was looking for something, or maybe planting something. I don't know what. I can't prove anything, but it gave me a bad feeling. Don't be afraid to defend yourself, should you need to. Arthur would rather deal with the fallout than see you hurt, as would I.

And be careful.

There was no signature, but Merlin knew the handwriting intimately—he'd taught her, after all. Gwen's looping letters were easily recognizable. The warlock poked his head out as far as it would go through the bars (which wasn't very far), glancing both ways before determining that no one was near.

Backing up so he was in the farthest part of his cell, he let his magic free for the first time in a week. He'd gone longer than that without using it before, but it was almost painful as it bent to his wishes—as though all his limbs had fallen asleep at once, and they were waking up, pins and needles cramping his muscles. Or as though he had held his breath for too long, and his lungs were expanding and deflating painfully, unused to the sensation.

He gritted his teeth, wondering if it was worse because of how he'd used it in the weeks prior. Perhaps casting spells almost constantly had increased its sensitivity to being locked away, or perhaps it had always been this bad, and it seemed worse by contrast.

Regardless, the note turned to ash, drifting through his fingers. He dusted them around (because he was sure that a small pile of ash in his cell would be odd), and it blended in nicely with the floor's normal grime.

Merlin ran a hand through his hair (only realizing just after he'd done so that he'd put a bunch of dungeon-dirt in it) and tugged his meager blanket around him, almost like a cloak, to fend off the early morning chill. Then, he walked back and forth in his cell, wondering what to do—if there was something to do.

It was very questionable—between the other guards disappearing, their sometimes ominous suggestions, and lurking in Gaius's chambers… But it was also so circumspect. There was nothing there; they had no proof, as Gwen had written. It still put the warlock's teeth on edge, and he thought that forcing his magic back to its place inside his chest wasn't helping. What could he do about any of it, realistically?

Did he confront the guard? Maverick, apparently, was his name, and it sounded banal for a man who was so vindictive. But Maverick would probably laugh or deny it, if he replied at all. Could he take the information to Arthur? How? He could ask Gwen, assuming she visited. But then, she would've taken it to Arthur already if she thought he'd listen.

He might actually believe me now, though. It was a hopeful thought, one that was fueled by the memory of Arthur's arms around him, holding him even after knowing all that he'd done. After the rejections, the disbelief, the hope tasted so good it made him want to cry.

Was it worth bothering Arthur, though, if they had no evidence? Besides not having evidence, they didn't even know what the guard was hoping to accomplish. He didn't like Merlin, obviously, but that wasn't a crime in itself.

Mostly, they just needed more information—information which the warlock suspected he could get.

With a deep breath, he went back to his bench, laying down and closing his eyes. He wouldn't be going back to sleep; he didn't think he'd be able to, with everything. No, his plan involved using magic.

He wondered, briefly, how terrible of an idea this was. But he had to know. What if the plot involved Arthur? What if the king, or Camelot, was in danger? Merlin's role in the kingdom's safety had been revealed, but it hadn't changed: it was still his duty to protect it.

He lay there, staying absolutely still, for a few minutes—until he felt that familiar sensation. It didn't come as easily this time, probably because his magic was more controlled than before. He took deep breaths in and out, concentrating on what he wanted to see. Maverick, he thought, anyone who wants to hurt Arthur or disrupt his reign. Show me. He focused on that feeling, that desire, until his physical body faded away.

He didn't feel as loose as he had last time; he wasn't going as far. Or maybe the feeling was different each time? He didn't know. But this sensation was more solid, more like an icy lake melting in spring, a cohesive whole—not like his entire self was washing away. Only a small breeze ruffled his hair and clothes, nothing like the wind that had whipped through him when he'd traveled to where Morgana had holed herself up.

He found himself in the castle. Naturally. Merlin sighed; it was just his luck that whatever was happening was happening right here. Not that he had really expected anything different.

The warlock was in a hallway, outside a door he didn't recognize. That in itself wasn't unusual: the castle was large, and he didn't keep track of everything. He was on one of the upper levels, he thought, in the western part of the palace—where many of the nobility's chambers were.

He could hear muffled voices through the door, and he willed himself through it, knowing there was little chance of anyone sensing him. Morgana hadn't, and she was about a thousand times more magical than anyone in Camelot—except himself, of course.

At first, he didn't see anything wrong with the scene. It was Wymond, he recognized. These were his chambers, kept spartan and neat. The commander was sitting at his desk, writing something and sipping wine from a goblet. There was a man in front of him—at first Merlin thought it was Wymond's personal servant—but then he realized it was Maverick. What was an average dungeon guard doing in the chambers of the Commander of Camelot's army? Merlin drifted forward, listening intently.

"Why did you summon me, sir?" the guard asked. "I thought we were waiting longer before making our move."

Wymond said nothing for a moment, dipping the quill in the ink and wiping the excess off the sides. "I've found something that changes things, Maverick. Irrefutable evidence—it simply wasn't located in the physician's chambers like we thought," the commander replied. His expression was eerily similar to the guard's: they could've been carved from the same block of marble, their eyes painted to match.

So Maverick had been looking for something—"evidence." Of what? A crime Merlin had committed? He was already on trial; did they want to bring up something Arthur hadn't? Maybe they wanted to expose his role in releasing the dragon. Anxiety sheared through his stomach, and he went closer. The sensation of not having a body was as disconcerting as ever, but he ignored it.

"Where, then?" the guard said, irritation sharpening his tone.

Wymond leaned back, setting his quill down. "Why, the king's chambers, of course. It makes sense that he'd want to keep it close—it makes even more sense if it's what we think it is."

"Have you destroyed it, then? Since it's the source of the enchantment?"

Enchantment. They thought Merlin had enchanted Arthur, then? Or something similar. It had to be. Well, Arthur could disprove that easily, couldn't he? Though he'd already spoken with his council about it—including Wymond. If the man didn't believe the king himself…

"What would be the point in evidence if we destroyed it?" Wymond demanded, suddenly standing. "Don't be a fool. No—we'll show this at the trial today and prove what we need to in order to keep Camelot from falling into chaos. It's clear our current king isn't as strong as the last; he needs a push in the right direction."

"So we should use the chains, then? So that the sorcerer doesn't ruin it?" Maverick ignored the "fool" comment. Chains? For Merlin? He was already chained whenever he left his cell; surely they didn't want to use more? And it was related to Merlin not ruining "it," whatever "it" was. The thought wasn't as alarming as it probably should've been, but Merlin's magic was more than strong enough to take care of most problems. And Arthur definitely wouldn't let anything happen under his watch—how could Wymond and Maverick so blatantly defy the king, anyway? Or were they? What was their plan, precisely?

Maverick was definitely being purposefully vague, though—possibly to deter any overly-curious servants—or the guards that patrolled the hallways.

But Merlin couldn't help but wonder why he was helping Wymond. They shared a general unpleasantness, but the commander and the guard didn't seem to like each other, exactly.

And then it hit him as Wymond spoke.

"Yes, naturally. Don't fail me—the entire kingdom rests on this, do you understand?" Even their voices matched. There couldn't be any doubt: Maverick was Wymond's bastard. The commander had never had a wife, as far as Merlin knew, and he had no heirs. But apparently he did still have a son, one whom he'd convinced to help him with… whatever this was.

"I do," the guard said. "I won't fail you, sir." He dipped his head briefly and left, nearly going through Merlin in the process.

The warlock stood there, thinking as he stared at the commander, who had gone back to his desk, oblivious to Merlin's presence.

So Wymond thought Merlin was enchanting Arthur, then. And he'd thought he'd found physical proof of this, which he was going to bring up during the trial, presumably because it would be harder to deny in front of so many witnesses? Or was it so the king wouldn't be able to get rid of the rumors and idea that he was enchanted after that? The warlock couldn't be sure.

He had to warn Arthur though, so he could be prepared. It didn't sound like Wymond was plotting treason—or at least he wasn't planning on killing or harming Arthur—but whatever this entailed, it couldn't be good for the king's plans.

Wymond looked over whatever it was he'd written, drinking the rest of the wine from his goblet. Merlin willed himself forward until he was behind the man, peering over his shoulder to get a good look at whatever it was the parchment said. It looked like it was the second or third page of it, as it started in the middle of a sentence.

...your aid. It is said that you are close to gaining enough support from the nobility to establish your dominance over the throne. Your predecessor had more than enough experience in this area, and while I was never fond of him, I admired his ruthlessness. If you were to provide the information I have requested, I see no reason not to convince King Arthur to send troops to help with whatever issues the populace may continue to pose.

Your Ally,

Sir Wymond Sunderland, Commander of Camelot

Well. That was probably the least promising thing Merlin had learned all morning. The warlock squinted; he had to be talking about Essetir. But which of the factions was the letter addressed to? Merlin hadn't exactly been able to keep up with everything while he languished in the cells, apart from asking Gaius if his mother and Ealdor were still alright (the answer had been a very firm yes).

Regardless, it would be enough to go to Arthur with. Except he had to somehow do it before he was taken to the trial. Well, he thought as Wymond began to roll up the pieces of parchment to send them to whomever, I can't do that from here.

All in all, he felt like the endeavor had been a successful one; it perhaps hadn't been as enlightening as he'd like, but he was getting nervous being away from his body for so long with everything happening. It seemed he'd caught them in time to have just the vaguest idea of what was going on: a hazy outline, the way one's surroundings transformed, obscured into gray, formless shapes by a dense fog.

With enough effort, he thought he could probably clear that fog.

Merlin closed his non-existent eyes and willed himself back to his body. It was like snapping a door into place, a key fitting into a well-oiled lock. He slipped easily into his limbs, feeling the sudden weight of a physical body.

And… and something was wrong—he was choking; he couldn't quite breathe. It was too heavy, a weight so heavy his lungs wouldn't fill, and he didn't have enough air to scream—but he did—he was screaming, and it wasn't his lungs that wouldn't fill, wasn't his diaphragm that wouldn't move—it wasn't something else entirely—

"Well, I can't say that was the response I was expecting," a voice said—it was familiar, but there was nothing in Merlin's mind except this struggle for air that wasn't air because he was breathing. His lungs were moving, he was screaming, so he had to be breathing—

Only, he wasn't.

Arthur's councillors were upset that he hadn't given them another private interview with Merlin. He was planning to—after today's session. It was going to be the trial day to end all trial days: Merlin's role in the dragon's release was going to be revealed. He had little doubt how horribly this would be received by the populace or his councillors, but it had to be done. If it came out later, Arthur and Merlin would be all the worse for it.

And aside from a few minor details, the king wanted to be as transparent as possible. He would simply have to do damage control, and if some of his citizens turned on Merlin because he hadn't done it well enough… It would just be something they would have to deal with.

Regardless, he thought it was going decently, even with George's warning that not all of his councillors were buying it. It wasn't like he was lying, either. They wouldn't be able to prove anything because there was nothing to prove.

Still, Arthur couldn't help the nugget of worry in his stomach. There was a voice in his head—one that sounded suspiciously like Merlin—telling him that things had gone too well for too long…

But, well, as much as Merlin was right, he was also a horrible pessimist, which Arthur thought was fair, given everything. The king probably would've been a pessimist, too, if he'd been forced to hide a key part of himself his entire life.

"The red today, George," Arthur said, standing in front of the fire. "My finest one, if you please." He'd worn a rich purple the last time, to give the impression of royalty and wealth; he'd needed everyone to remember hewas an all-powerful king. Today, he needed everyone to remember that he stood for Camelot. He was the embodiment of Camelot, in fact—if he forgave Merlin for what he'd done, the kingdom forgave him.

Even if his subjects never did.

"Any other preferences, sire?" the manservant asked as he pulled it out, giving it a cursory look-over for stains or wrinkles. It was a waste of time: George was so diligent Arthur hadn't glimpsed a single wrinkle the past two weeks. It was astonishing, especially given the state Merlin had left everything in.

Come to think of it, how had Merlin managed to dress Arthur appropriately? The man certainly had never ironed anything…

"No, George—whatever you think looks best," Arthur said.

The servant dressed him quickly and efficiently, with no lingering touches or firm pats of assurance. At the beginning, Merlin being so touch-heavy had irritated him. Now, Arthur found he missed it, like so many other things. As a prince, no one had ever really laid hands on him so casually—except perhaps Morgana. He'd rough-housed with her more than once, though always out of Uther's sight.

It made him ache to think of it, palpable behind his sternum, a pain not quite physical. It traveled up to his throat, and he cleared it roughly.

"Everything alright, sire?" George asked, pausing. He cocked his head the same way Arthur's hounds did when they were listening intently.

"Yes." Arthur pushed the thought of his half-sister and Merlin's presence to the back of his mind. He was doing this for them—for the Morgana who could never be, for the Merlin who had always been.

God, he'd grown sentimental. It was enough to make his teeth rot.

As soon as George was done with the clothes, Arthur strapped Excalibur to his belt, positioning the sword just so. He dipped his head so the servant could put his crown on his head. It was a heavy, gaudy thing, weightier than his circlet had been. When he could get away with it, he'd trade it for something less formal. But for now, he needed to exude the posture and pretense of a king.

"I think that's all, Your Majesty," George said, stepping back. He wrung his hands nervously, and Arthur's fingers twitched, struck by the urge to copy the servant. Arthur took in a deep breath and let it out.

"Let's go, then."

The throne room never seemed to get any less crowded. Arthur was one of the first there, naturally (it wouldn't look good for a king to be late for a trial he had scheduled), but many of his citizens had already filled the hall. Most of the castle staff had assembled there every day, and others gathered outside the palace to hear what had happened from heralds and their friends right after the proceedings finished. It seemed to be a good opportunity for the merchants, too, who had set up nearby stalls.

Everyone trickled in, and Arthur watched them all without making it seem like he was watching them all. There were fewer knights, but many had been sent to patrol their border with Essetir or to look for Morgana. Perhaps twenty were left, including the ones Arthur considered in his "inner circle"—Leon, Percival, Lancelot, Elyan, and Gwaine. He thought he would need to expand that, at some point. Sir Bolton might be a good candidate: young, loyal, bright. And it would be good to show that Arthur was still invested in the nobility, not just the knights whom he'd promoted from peasants.

Hushed whispers echoed off the high ceiling, and Arthur tried to gauge the crowd's mood. He could hear his father's voice in his ear: If you don't understand the peasantry, they'll turn on you. Keep them in line. You get a mob of them riled, and there's no telling what they'll do. They might burn down the whole kingdom if you let them. Even if they really only destroy their own homes.

It was a… rather terrible view, but Arthur knew crowds weren't exactly logical. He also knew, though, that Uther could've avoided angering his citizens with a little more thought. The late king had never really put in place any policies to truly protect or shield the commoners.

Arthur wondered if he was any different, with how he'd often treated his servants and his citizens. He'd done his best to protect them, yes, but…

Well, there would be time to change things. Later.

The crowd didn't seem on the brink of forming an unruly mob. They seemed curious, perhaps a little fearful—maybe even excited. After the day's revelations, however, Arthur didn't believe those emotions would last.

More of the nobility trickled in: his councilors, Alloys, Gaius. Many of them refused to look at him, giving him stiff bows of greeting, the bare minimum propriety demanded. Only Sterling and Muriel seemed to have forgiven him. Not only had Arthur denied them the opportunity to question Merlin again (though it wasn't for long), he'd decided to decriminalize the druids' presence in Camelot without their input.

Maybe Sterling and Muriel had forgiven him only because they'd already agreed that the druids were peaceful, and the two knew they didn't deserve to be hunted and killed, regardless of their magic.

Perhaps that was too optimistic—maybe they'd only forgiven him because there wasn't any point in irritating Arthur like the rest of them had. And if they wanted to stay in his good graces by complying, they were more than welcome to.

Geoffrey leaned over to say something to Gaius. The physician had a muddled, sleepy look about him. One of the richer merchants had had a baby, Arthur believed. Not quite nobility, but far more influential than a commoner, merchants were interesting to deal with. His father thought they were nothing but money-misers, with none of the constraints that came with being a member of nobility. The king wasn't sure what these constraints were, but he suspected—like many things—his father had made them up. Having noble blood didn't seem to prevent anyone from doing terrible things.

At last, it was nearly time. Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, and Arthur refused to nervously shift on his own throne. Part of it was anticipation, though his buttocks did ache from the hard seat; it wasn't made to lounge in.

An aisle was left in the middle of the throne room, clear of people. Everyone stopped speaking as their ears caught the familiar clink of chains.

The two guards entered—lieutenants, Arthur thought. The gray-eyed man had only been promoted because of his connection to Wymond. A bastard, unless the king was mistaken. It wasn't an uncommon place for them, since they could never inherit. Perhaps with knighthood open to everyone, they might earn it and start noble houses of their own.

Merlin sagged between them. He didn't look well—but then, had he ever looked well, even before the trial? Sweat matted his hair to his forehead, and he stared blankly at the floor, trembling all over. Arthur repressed a frown. Was his wound acting up? Or maybe he was getting sick. He'd never had a weak constitution before—in fact Arthur couldn't remember him ever getting sick—but with everything that had happened, it wouldn't be implausible.

Since the ban on Merlin's visitors had been lifted, the king was sure Gaius would check as soon as he was able. Arthur could practically feel the physician's concern from here.

The shackles were different from the ones Merlin had worn previously: lighter, less rusted. Perhaps the other had been considered too old to properly restrain him, or perhaps the guards had simply chosen other ones.

"Today marks the fifth day of Merlin Hunithson's trial," Arthur said, projecting his voice as levelly as he could. Everyone fell silent, and the crowd watched him with large eyes and attentive ears. "Given the verification of Gaius's previous testimony, I believe him to be a reliable and accurate witness. I have decided to grant him an official pardon for lying to the Crown and harboring a sorcerer. He will remain Court Physician and will be providing more information during today's proceedings. Any other pieces of information that can be proven will be, as soon as possible."

He glanced to the side, and none of the nobility seemed too shocked or appalled. With what George had said, they had to have been expecting a pardon for Gaius's crimes. Aldwin in particular looked displeased, but it was hard to tell if that was his normal disposition or because of what Arthur had said. The others seemed impassive, though Arthur thought some of the tension had left Geoffrey's shoulders. He supposed the two old men must be friends, of a sort.

"Keeping that in mind—"

"Sire," Sterling said. "Pardon me for interrupting, but I wonder if it might benefit the Court to see a demonstration?"

Arthur itched to tell him to be quiet and keep quiet for the rest of the day's proceedings, but… Sterling was a level-headed man. Not in favor of magic, certainly, but logical. He wouldn't purposefully undermine the king's authority in front of the whole court.

Besides, showing his nobility that he would listen to (reasonable) suggestions might make some of them more favorable toward him.

"Of what, exactly?" the king asked carefully.

"His magic," Sterling replied. Beside him, Aldwin looked like he might smack the lord in a fit of rage. Arthur almost wished he would do it, if only so he would have an excuse to have the sweaty noble removed from the trial's proceedings.

The king's immediate thought was to reject the proposal—he wasn't sure Merlin would take to the idea of being paraded about like a trick pony. But then, that was what the man was there for: to be an example. A trick pony.

Arthur grimaced internally.

"Why do you feel that would benefit the court, Lord Sterling?" Arthur asked, trying not to show that he agreed with the idea. If he seemed too eager, people might suspect he and Sterling had planned the exchange.

"Master Gaius expressed in his previous testimony—as did the palace guard—that Merlin Hunithson is capable of very subtle magic. He has likely performed magic in front of everyone in this room without us realizing, and I can't be the only one curious about how he did it. Spells are usually so flashy, sire. We've seen that with attacks—even in the courtyard a fortnight ago," Sterling said. His head was tilted ever-so-carefully, a calculated blend of curiosity and innocence.

Arthur wanted to cheer. Sterling was all but publicly pledging his support to lift the ban. And with the lord's extensive land holdings, his support would be pivotal in enforcing Arthur's planned legislation.

"You make an excellent case, Lord Sterling. I agree that—"

"Enough."

The word rang out, the way a sword rasped from its sheath—a threat.

For a moment, everything was silent, still. Arthur's mind couldn't understand, at first, what had happened. Who had spoken? Who had broken his authority—the highest authority—when he could least afford it?

And there was Wymond, just to Arthur's right: standing smugly, something relaxed and unbothered in the curve of his spine.

"Would you care to explain yourself, Lord Wymond?" the king asked, voice low. The commander had never so openly disrespected Arthur, even when he'd been a young prince, untried and untrained.

"Naturally, Your Majesty," Wymond said. He stepped forward, giving the king a little bow. It was almost mocking in its shallowness. The entire throne room held its breath. "I would like nothing more than to… put forth my evidence, shall we say."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded. Something like dread began pooling in his stomach, like chaos, like spinning. He always felt this way when he sensed the brink of a disaster: as though he were at the edge of a vast hole, peering down even as the ground crumbled beneath his feet. "Explain yourself at once. You've interrupted the proceedings to talk nonsense—"

"Not nonsense, sire. Evidence, as I've said." The commander faced the crowd, turning his back on the king. "This entire trial, ladies and gentlemen, has been a farce from the very beginning." Some in the crowd gasped, nervous mutterings ringing through the room.

"—he do that?"

"The king looks displeased."

"I don't think this was planned—"

Arthur stood. It wasn't quite rage fueling him. No, he burned on something worse—fear. The commander was a flawless strategist; this wasn't some half-brained comment. This was calculated and planned.

This was a betrayal.

"Lord Wymond, you speak out of turn," the king said. You should have spoken to me about your concerns in private. "You will be quiet, or I will have you removed from these proceedings."

"Will you?" the lord asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Guards," Arthur called, raising a hand, "escort Lord Wymond to his chambers."

They didn't come.

The king didn't understand it, couldn't understand it. Why didn't they come? Why was no one answering his summons—his, the highest in all the kingdom? He had experienced coups before, hostile takeovers, but his mind didn't comprehend what was happening, at first. Those had been singular betrayals, invasions: Morgana had brought her armies, Agravaine had been working for her. His own men had never turned against him.

Arthur stood, drawing his sword swiftly. "What have you done, Wymond?" he demanded. He would not panic. He would not. But the guards weren't coming—where were they? And he had such a small number of knights, only twenty, and what was wrong with Merlin, what had Wymond done—

It felt like panic, coursing through his veins. He had been so sure, so certain that he had done everything right: he had started the trial, he had maneuvered and manipulated and persuaded his nobility, he had gotten rid of the spy. He had done everything he could have done, so why was it all falling apart?

Had it been delusion, the height of arrogance? A blindness, the same blindness that had turned his father's gaze from his own wrongdoings, from Morgana's deceit and anger; it had infected him, now, it was in his veins, racing alongside the panic—

"There is no need for that, sire," Wymond said. He spread his arms, addressing the crowd. "This is a trial, after all, not an execution. And I have evidence, as I said. You will find I have only done what was necessary to be given the chance for my side to be heard."

The crowd appeared even more nervous, the castle staff looking at one another, something like recognition in their eyes; did they realize what was happening?

"Where are my guards?" Arthur growled, knuckles tight on the sword's hilt. He stared down at the commander, a man he had known all his life. Could Camelot not go for even a single month without a violent takeover?

"No harm has come to them. In fact, most are still within the castle, where they are meant to be," Wymond said. "Some have had to be… relocated, but I'm sure they'll be back. Eventually."

Armies, soldiers, turned against their rulers. Loyal to the generals, to the captains. Bonds forged in battle, forged in blood, and where was Arthur in all of this? Had he not led these men, two weeks ago, against an incursion?

"Sir Percival, Sir Elyan, please escort Lord Wymond to the dungeons so we may continue," Arthur ordered. His knights—his knights were gone.

I will increase the patrols there, sire. Wymond's voice echoed in his head, louder than the man in front of him. His gray eyes moved across the map of Camelot, moved like the blade of a sword. Should we not send them out to protect the villages, lest the fighting spill over from Essetir and harm Camelot's citizens?

Sir Percival and Sir Elyan drew their swords, but before they could do little more than tense, over half of the remaining knights in the throne room drew their own, pointing their blades at the few loyal to Arthur. They were trapped—Arthur was stuck, without soldiers, without Merlin, for the man was clearly sick, delirious; he had not once looked up to defend Arthur, to do anything, and the two lieutenants only watched. Wymond's son was impassive, a traitor.

But what was the point of it all? Evidence—Wymond had said something about evidence—

"If you wanted to tell me something, Wymond, you should have done so earlier. Instead, you have committed treason for the simple goal of proving—what? That this trial is a farce, you said? It can't be proven; it is a lie," Arthur said. A coup, the thing he had feared all along—but from Wymond? His commander, who had no desire for politics, only battle.

But if Arthur had learned anything, perhaps it was that—sometimes—they were one and the same. How he had not seen it? Wymond had sent his most loyal knights away.

I have been unforgivably distracted.

"You do not know the truth, my lord," Wymond said. Still, his tone was not disrespectful, and, still, Arthur didn't understand. Why? Why? "You are enchanted—this sorcerer, this filth, has used his magic to turn you in favor of something you have always considered vile!"

And it all came back to this: to magic. To hate. To the ideas Uther had birthed into this world, more his progeny than Arthur ever could be.

The crowd's murmurings grew louder, some of them glancing uncertainly from Wymond to their newly-crowned king. There were a few hundred in the throne room, but would they dare stand against Wymond and his guards, against Camelot's own knights?

"That is a lie!" Arthur shouted. "You all know what enchantments look like—my father and the troll, the way the false Lady Helen put us to sleep. I am in control of my faculties. The simplest answer to my change of mind is just that: I have changed my mind! I have seen the evidence."

"Your Majesty—" Wymond smiled, almost ruefully, as though he didn't like his words anymore than Arthur did— "You do it even now. Are you not in the process of reviewing the evidence? And if you are, why do you speak as though your opinion has already been made, before the trial has concluded?"

"I would hope that, after everything we've already learned from these proceedings, we could not view magic as we did before, with the same lens of unprovoked hatred," Arthur replied, narrowing his eyes. None of Wymond's knights had dared approach him, but the threat they posed to his inner circle, to Merlin, to his people—it was implicit. Explicit, in the way Wymond watched his every move. Expectant. They were dancing with words, not swords, but injury, death—this wasn't off the table.

"On the contrary, sire; these proceedings have only furthered my view that magic can only be evil," Wymond said. "You should sit; I have my own evidence to show you. Your enchantment has made you irrational."

The king's shoulders tensed—ordered to sit on his own throne? The way Wymond said evidence, as though mocking the way Arthur had set up this trial, with proof and testimony.

Why is it that everything I set to do crumbles? I get so close I can taste it, taste the victory, sweet like honey, and it dissolves on my tongue the way illusions do. The way delusions do. Perhaps that is what I cling to, the same way my father did. Perhaps I am blind, the way he was.

It was a bad thought: madness ran in his family. Betrayal, lies, deceit. Everyone else had done it to him, so perhaps it was his turn to do it to himself.

"I mean it, Your Majesty. This will take quite a while," Wymond said, gesturing to Arthur's throne. "But it is still open to the public. You all are enjoying the show, are you not?"

The crowd was silent, and the threat was clear. I hold the power here, even if I'm pretending you still do. You do what I say, and no one gets hurt. His citizens knew what a coup looked like and had been held at sword-point before.

The king sat.

"Excellent choice, sire. First off is the matter of testimony. I trust a written document should do it? We have been rather lax with our standards, after all." Wymond smiled, a mocking twitch of his lips, the glint of humor in his gray eyes. He opened his coat—emblazoned with Camelot's crest, and it left a bitter taste in Arthur's mouth—and pulled out a book. A very familiar, very worn book.

Merlin's diary.

"This, everyone—" Wymond held it up for the entire crowd to see. "Is the sorcerer's diary. Found in the king's chambers. I believe it may be what's enchanting him. But why, then, have I not destroyed it?" The quiet was so pervasive it crowded in on Arthur, pressing down on his lungs and his throat. "With this piece of 'evidence,' the king could have concluded this trial within the day! But instead, he chose to hide it away in his chambers. People of the court, lords and ladies, I beg you to re-think everything the king has told you these past two weeks. It is nothing but the deranged ramblings of a sorcerer so caught up in his own power he didn't even realize how terrible it would look."

It was too much. "Liar!" Arthur stood, shouting, "You're a filthy liar, Wymond! I'm not enchanted, and you can destroy that if you like—you can destroy any object in the kingdom, and I will still believe what I believe because it is right, because it is logical. The only deranged ramblings here are the ones coming from your own damn mouth!" Something like rage clouded his mind, something like fear in his heart.

He had just wanted to help. He had wanted to spare Merlin—Merlin, who was so used to privacy, to hiding—the pain of having every piece of himself painfully exposed, every inner thought read aloud to the Court. So he had gathered witnesses and built his case, and he had ignored the journal because the idea of Merlin's heartbreaking confessions read to everyone, not just in the candlelight, between him and Gwen—his friend's pain…

Arthur knew Merlin would've found it unbearable. And Arthur knew he had already put Merlin through enough.

Wymond pretended not to have heard, the way someone might ignore the outburst of some senile elder. "One of the guards found it—he was so concerned about how uncharacteristic the king had been acting, visiting the dungeons and giving the sorcerer privileges afforded to political prisoners. He thought it must have been magic, and he brought it straight to me. And even if this isn't the source of the enchantment, it's damning nonetheless. Why would he have hidden it away, so obsessed as he is with 'impartiality' and 'evidence'—"

The king launched himself at his own commander, Excalibur first. Having some worm raid Arthur's chambers while the king was away—

Wymond turned, but it was the guard who drew his sword to defend his own wretched father, and Arthur could at least understand this betrayal. A son, protecting his flesh and blood. A father, using his son as a shield.

The sound of steel rang through the room, and it only took a second before the guard was disarmed and Arthur's sword was at his throat. The action had been so instinctive, he hadn't even realized what had happened until blood trickled from where the blade parted the skin, almost gently.

"This has gone on long enough," Arthur snarled, glaring at Wymond. "I am not enchanted, and you are committing treason, punishable by death. If you stop now, perhaps I'll give you a lighter sentence."

"I will not let a puppet king sit on the throne of Camelot," Wymond hissed. "That boy is in league with this kingdom's enemies: the dragon that nearly razed the citadel to the ground, the druids, Morgana!"

"You're talking nonsense! Can you even hear yourself?" the king demanded. "You will cease." His arm trembled, but he wasn't sure if it was anger or anxiety or something else entirely.

"Or what?" Wymond laughed. "You'll kill him? Go ahead—he's only a bastard, anyway. Your own knights have turned against you, your own guards. We all know something is wrong here. You will not see sense, and so someone else will be appointed as regent until we can break this enchantment."

He would throw away his son's life, a son who had raised his sword against his own king, but it didn't surprise Arthur. Maybe this was how most fathers were. Maybe most fathers were hard and cruel and knew only how to pass hatred down to their sons.

Arthur withdrew Excalibur from the guard's neck. He glanced down at Merlin, only a few feet away now that he had come off his throne, and his servant—his friend—looked worse than ever. What had been done to him? And his knights were outnumbered. What was there to do?

There could be no fighting here. Not now. His fingers tingled, and his entire body felt numb, apart from himself.

"I am not enchanted," he said softly.

"I'm afraid I must agree with the king," Lady Muriel said. "I have known him all his life, as have you, and I think you're mistaken if you think he's acting out of the ordinary, Wymond. This is a power-grab, a coup, and don't think we'll just stand here and watch."

"It's nothing of the sort," Wymond said, turning to face the nobility. "I will return the throne to its rightful owner when the enchantment is broken. And if this—" Here he shook the book— "happens to not be its source, we know someone who does know."

The commander looked at the crowd. "I'm afraid today's proceedings are over. Guards, please escort the king to his chambers."

And if the words echoed Arthur's, the king couldn't hear them. His knights were yelling, perhaps, and Wymond was telling him to put down the sword, so he did.

But it was all so far away, and as the guards gripped his arms, he could only look at Merlin and wonder what had been done to him.

AN: Sorry this is so late! School has been kicking my ass, and November is the worst month. I'm sorry this is a cliffhanger, too, but you will probably not be getting chapter nine until December (I have five essays due and i'm crying guys). Poor Arthur. And Merlin. And Gwen. So, questions: Does the Wymond reveal come out of left field or does it have a good buildup? Does Maverick being Wymond's son make sense? How were the POVs? Also, I have not forgotten about the dragon ;)