Chapter I: The First Decree
The young man knelt on the ground, one hand pressed against the barren dirt, the other clutching at his belly. He breathed deeply, letting the power flow through him, into the land. His fingers tightened against his shirt and at the bandages underneath.
When he opened his eyes, they were bright, brilliant gold, a shade that no human had ever borne, at least not permanently. They were physical proof of his long-prophesied identity, the mark of the most powerful warlock to ever live, and they were full of exhaustion. For in that land of myth and time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rested on the shoulders of that young man. His name… Merlin.
As far as his energy levels went, it was a middling day. He tired too easily, magic draining from him into the kingdom to which he was bonded, but he could focus and do most of his usual magic, albeit with less stamina. On good days, he was almost his old self, save for the new stab wound that flatly refused to heal. On Bad Days, though… suffice to say that he was very, very glad that they didn't occur very often.
"I think that's enough for today, Basu," the warlock rasped. He stood slowly, dizzily, spots swimming across his view. "You know, we're almost finished here. By the end of tomorrow, this place might actually be habitable."
His companion, a great red wyvern with only three legs, looked at him dubiously. Merlin huffed. "Okay, fine, two days." He'd promised his mother that he wouldn't work himself to the point of collapse, and he had every intention of keeping that promise. When he'd first taken up the Fisher King's mantle, he'd been unconscious for days and perpetually exhausted for well over a week after his awakening. In other words, a week full of Bad Days. It wasn't an experience he was eager to repeat.
"All the water in the city is drinkable, at least," the warlock continued. He gestured at a half-ruined well, one of the many in Listeniese's long-abandoned capital. "Speaking of which, I ought to get you some water before we leave." He strode over to the well, a bit more slowly than usual, and dropped the bucket down. Unlike the well, the bucket was new. They'd brought it so that Basu wouldn't get thirsty. Summer's heat was beginning to fade now that the equinox was fast approaching, but a creature of his size needed quite a bit of water.
Basu gulped down his drink, looked expectantly at his master. Merlin lowered the bucket again, drawing up more liquid. The wyvern drank only a few mouthfuls this time.
"I'm going to check on Arthur," Merlin announced. "No, Wyrmbasu, don't look at me like that. I have more than enough energy to look in on him for a few seconds." That was all he'd need to reassure himself that of course the prince was fine, he was in the heart of his kingdom surrounded by people loyal to him. Yes, he had scheduled a coup for today, but he'd been careful to acquire the full support of Uther's council, and it wasn't like the mad king presented a preferable alternative. Arthur was fine. The nasty feeling in Merlin's stomach was just that damn stab wound bothering him again, not any real indication that his friend was in trouble.
Then he actually cast the scrying spell.
Arthur knelt in a crimson puddle with his father's body at its center. The prince's—no, he wasn't a prince anymore—face was numb with shock and grief and a little bit of disbelief.
"The king is dead," proclaimed a familiar voice. Lord Leodegrance, who had been hosting the royal family while their castle was being repaired. "Long live the king!"
"Long live the king," Merlin echoed, staring at his friend's stricken visage.
The Butcher King who had hunted and persecuted and murdered his people for twenty-one long years was dead. He would never again have children thrown in wells or their parents burnt alive. He would never hurt another spellbinder, and so Merlin could not mourn his passage. Indeed, a small, vicious coil of satisfaction curled in his gut, because that man had hurt him and his family, and Merlin's baby sister had to spend the next twenty-seven days (he was counting) in Avalon because Uther had nearly killed her in the womb.
The Butcher King was dead, and for that Merlin was glad.
But Arthur had lost his father, and so Merlin felt the unwelcome pangs of sorrow, too. Arthur looked so utterly heartbroken, kneeling there in his father's blood.
Merlin sighed heavily as he let the image disperse. "Uther Pendragon is dead," he stated. The words sounded unreal in his own ears. He'd feared the King of Camelot since he learned what fear was. He'd spent every day of his life—every single day—in the long dark shadow of the Purge. Intellectually, he'd known that the man wasn't immortal. Hell, he'd known that Uther was likely to die within the next few months. He'd prophesied it himself. But actually saying that the king was dead felt like stepping out of his old home in Ealdor and suddenly realizing that the mountains just weren't there anymore.
Basu's chirp drew the warlock out of his reverie. Merlin startled slightly, swaying a bit before regaining his balance. He'd scried for longer than he'd intended, which had used more energy than he'd wanted to expend. He caught himself against the wyvern's side with a murmur of gratitude, then climbed astride. Basu unfurled his great wings and then they were off.
As the Perilous Lands blurred below him, Merlin found himself wondering if they could perhaps stop by Camelot's capital before returning to the camp in Gedref. Every fiber of his being demanded that he go to Arthur. What if the killer who'd struck down his father attacked again? But instinct and reason agreed that the assassin had had only one target, and Arthur wasn't the one who'd instigated another kingdom-wide murderous rampage.
Besides, if he tried to teleport to his friend's side, Merlin would pass out. He'd poured too much into Listeneise.
But he could, theoretically, guide Basu towards the city rather than the Labyrinth. It would take longer, of course, but they could do it. Except Merlin rather doubted that the guards were letting Arthur out of their collective sight any time soon, and he doubted that the prince—king—would appreciate his friend trouncing his protectors just to talk with him.
(Although, if he used thought-speech…. No, no, Arthur would need to focus. Merlin couldn't go around distracting him, especially when he had no idea what he would even do once he got to Camelot. Just being there wouldn't be enough if his presence took away everyone else.)
Arthur had people. If Merlin went to him, he'd only get in the way. Besides, he had other duties.
His own people needed to know.
So when he arrived back at Gedref (he'd fallen asleep for a time on Basu's back, again. Thankfully the wyvern was a remarkably steady flier or he'd probably have fallen to his death several times over), he mustered up his magical reserves to ensure that his thought-speech was heard by every man, woman, and child in their camp.
"I have news," he called silently. "While scrying the Once and Future King, I saw his father lying in a pool of blood, his throat pierced by an arrow. Uther Pendragon is dead. We will hold a meeting in half an hour at the northmost coastal exit." It occurred to him after the message went out that he might not have the authority to call an assemblage like that (he was not magical royalty, just considered rather important in their culture), but it was too late. He'd kicked the hornet's nest, so now he had to deal with the swarm.
Sure enough, he could barely walk five steps without someone materializing out of the bushes with a thousand questions: Who killed him? Was their king in danger? Had he legalized magic yet? How soon could he set them free? And the one question that everyone asked, often multiple times: Is it true?
Merlin gave the same answer to every inquiry: I'll make everything clear at the meeting.
By the time he arrived at the meeting place, he'd attracted quite a following.
The people he really wanted to speak with were already there: his mother and father, Gwen and Morgana. And Gaius, paler than usual, face tight with a grief that he could not show. Come to think of it, the physician wasn't the only person who looked stricken. Balinor's jaw was tight. He had known Uther years and years ago, had fought to take his throne back from Vortigern, though decades of betrayal and genocide had understandably destroyed his affection long ago. And then there was Morgana, who had been raised by Uther, who had discovered mere weeks ago that he was her father by blood.
"Are you all right?" Merlin asked softly.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Morgana demanded. Her nostrils flared. "He was evil. He did so much evil, to so many people. He hurt everyone here and killed the two hundred seventy-three people who aren't here—and they're just his latest victims. He—" But here her voice broke. "He shouldn't mean anything."
Merlin took her hand in his. "I'm sorry that this is hurting you."
"It shouldn't."
"There's a lot of things that shouldn't be," the warlock sighed.
"Is Arthur all right?" Gwen asked quietly. She wasn't just asking about his physical wellbeing.
"When I saw him last, he was holding himself together," Merlin assured her. "I almost went to him then and there, but he was surrounded by people who would have killed me on sight, and I didn't think he'd appreciate me fighting them all just for a bit of comfort." He grimaced. "And if it was a spellbinder who shot Uther, he might not want to see me."
"I doubt that," Gwen replied. She bit her lip, then forged on. "He might need to see all of us, sooner rather than later. He needs someone to be there for him."
"The crown is a heavy burden," Gaius murmured. "Its weight has crushed so many men."
"It will not crush Arthur," said Gwen, all calm assurance.
"It will not crush you, either," Merlin added in private thought-speech. He would have said it out loud, but her father Tom had just arrived and he didn't know if the blacksmith knew about Gwen and Arthur. He kept forgetting to ask.
Gwen smiled back at him.
The half-hour was almost over, so Merlin climbed up a rock on the shoreline to address the assembly. He told them about his impromptu decision to scry Arthur, the scene he'd witnessed, the fact that Uther Pendragon was dead. (Maybe, if he said those words enough, they would start to feel real.)
An excited ripple ran through the crowd, joy and triumph and relief and hope. They had never known Uther the man, just stories of a distant monster who wanted them all dead, who had ruined their lives, driven them from their homes, and ordained the deaths of their kin. Most of them were completely, unequivocally glad that his reign of terror was over.
Merlin let them talk among themselves for a few moments before he lifted his hand for silence. Quiet was slow in coming, but at last he could address his people again.
"Many of you asked me if this means that we are completely and totally free. As much as I wish I could say we were, I must instead ask you to exercise caution." The crowd was muttering again, not nearly as happily as before, but the warlock forged on. "Arthur Pendragon will end the Slaughter. He will stop the persecution of our people. But as much as we all wish otherwise, he cannot do this in the space of a few hours. He'll have to unmake dozens of laws and treaties, all while opposed by three-quarters of his nobility and a fair portion of the populace, not to mention Sarrum of Amata." The crowd hissed. "We need to remain patient just a little while longer so that Arthur can free us without inciting a civil war."
"I would fight for him!" someone cried, interrupting Merlin's explanations.
"And I!" vowed another voice. Soon half the audience was shouting their allegiance to the Once and Future King, promising to fight for him and their freedom.
Merlin had to wait far too long to address them again. "I would fight for him too!" he shouted. "I have fought for him! But our king has a responsibility to all his people, not just us. He needs to walk the path of peace. And that's better for us, too! In the long term, we'll be safer if we don't win our safety with bloodshed and violence because the people won't see us as intrusive conquerors. I know it's hard to wait when everything we want is so close, but acting too outrageously will only cause him and us problems. Remember tomorrow, not just today. Give Arthur time so that he can grant us our liberty."
"How much time?"
Dammit. He'd been hoping that no one would ask that.
It took far too much effort to keep his face blank when he responded. "I have barely been in communication with Arthur since we arrived in Gedref. I don't know the timeline of his plans, or what sorts of things people will do to oppose him. All I know is that he will legalize magic as soon as he possibly can."
The crowd's mutters had a distinctly dissatisfied tone. Merlin thought back to Morgana and Gwen's stories of riots and fought back a wince. He didn't think that his people would do anything of the sort, but it was still better to nip this frustration in the bud.
So he shouted, "But no matter the exact timeline, the end is in sight! Uther Pendragon is dead. His renewal of the Slaughter will peter out as soon as the people of Camelot learn that Arthur, who was thrown into the dungeons for opposing his father's massacres, is now the king. The word is already spreading. Even now, mere hours after Uther's death, we are safer than we've been in twenty-one long, horrible years."
It seemed to be working. The quiet backdrop of voices wasn't unhappy anymore. In fact, a joy was building in the audience, increasing their volume, animating their every gesture, lighting their faces. Some of the glee was malicious, yes, but there were those whose happiness had less to do with Uther's death than with Arthur's ascent.
Their king was on the throne, and the first glimmers of dawn brightened the horizon.
A few pockets of laughter bubbled up. The pallor of disbelieving shock was thinning as the news sank in.
They weren't completely free, not yet, but… it was the beginning of the end.
Arthur stared at the corpse of the man who had shot his father in mute grief, a whirl of emotions storming beneath his collarbone. He looked so ordinary: sun-weathered face, brown hair tinted gray, lines of joy and sorrow by his mouth. They might have passed each other on the streets without Arthur noticing him.
But this man had killed a king with a single well-aimed shot, then run himself through before the guards could bring him to justice.
In a numb sort of way, Arthur was glad for the man's suicide. This way, he wouldn't have to execute him. Wouldn't have to put him on trial, to hear the horrible details of whatever awful thing Uther had done that had provoked his attack. For he had no doubt that his father had provoked it. This man, this citizen-turned-assassin, had almost certainly lost at least one loved one to the renewed Purge. He might have lost his entire family.
(Maybe he'd been on the Isle of the Blessed, seen his loved ones choke and collapse, hidden himself from the soldiers hunting his kin like animals.)
Arthur thought of Edwin Muirden's scarred face, of red spirals and the way that vengeance begat vengeance. Yes. He was grateful that this man, this unidentified man, had taken his own life, however shameful that gratitude might be.
"Has the body been searched for signs of sorcery?" Sarrum demanded. It was literally the first thing out of his mouth now that the guards had brought in the cadaver.
"We wanted Pr—King Arthur to see immediately that the assassin was dead."
King Arthur. Gods. That was his title now.
(Oh, gods, he wasn't ready for this, what had he been thinking with his planned usurpation, he had no damn idea what he was supposed to do—)
"I see him," the new king said softly, dully. "You did the right thing. Tell me, did he have any last words?"
"No, sire," the guards' spokesman replied. "He was already dead when we arrived." A moment's hesitation, then, "What would you have us do with the body?"
A distraction. Something to focus on other than the second corpse, the one even now being cleaned to lie in state. Good. He needed that.
"Have him searched for any sign of his identity. A birthmark, a tattoo, anything of the sort. Have his description circulated among the populace with the assurance that no one will be punished for stepping forth to claim him. They will be questioned, yes, but not as suspected accomplices."
"You think he acted alone?" Cenred asked.
Arthur gave a very un-regal shrug. "I see no reason that this scheme would require co-conspirators." Another thought struck. He turned back to the guards. "Have the building searched, too. It was an inn, correct? Speak to the innkeeper, the patrons—but remember that they are innocent witnesses until proven otherwise, not suspects." In a perfect world, he wouldn't have had to specify that last bit.
In the world his father had helped create, he did.
Anger surged sudden and hot, but not at the killer. At his father. Arthur wanted to yell at him, to tear him apart for being so damned stubborn and vicious that some random nobody had died to kill him and that this assassin would probably be hailed and remembered as a hero for putting down the mad Butcher King of Camelot, and this wouldn't have happened if Uther had just listened or stopped or if Arthur had made him listen, made him stop, kept him safer….
His breath caught, and it was becoming very difficult to hold back his tears.
Somehow, Arthur maintained his composure.
"Your Majesty." Ugh. Sarrum was talking again. Why couldn't he just shut up and go away? Cenred too, and all these stupid guards, and Lord Leodegrance, who hadn't actually said much since he'd declared Arthur king but whose presence nonetheless stung like salt on an open wound. "I brought but a small honor guard, but my men will gladly assist you on your quest for vengeance against the sorcerers who murdered your father."
Arthur stared at him blankly. "What makes you think he was a spellbinder?"
"Who else would hate your royal father enough to murder him?"
"Anyone whose friends and family he struck down for no damn reason." He frowned. "Speaking of. Where are the scribes? Someone, bring me to the scribes." He turned back to the kings—the other kings—and inclined his head. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesties. I should give you time to fully move into this castle. Please, take the rest of this day to make yourselves comfortable." Back to the slightly alarmed guards. "Now, the scribes."
They did not try to make conversation as they led him to the library, then ran off to find scribes (except for a pair of men who remained at the door, because the king had just been assassinated and they couldn't lose Arthur too, not so soon after the last one).
Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth had done very well in finding scribes and assistants for himself. He'd assembled a little team for himself, three young ladies and two lordlings. They all bowed as they entered their new headquarters, but Geoffrey was the only one to speak.
"Sire, I am sorry for your loss."
Arthur met his gaze, saw genuine grief there, grief and pity and compassion. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Thank you, Sir Geoffrey." Another swallow. The librarian didn't comment. "Is this everyone?"
"Yes." He smiled ruefully. "I… felt it better to tread carefully."
"I know." Gods, he knew too well. "Wise of you."
"Thank you, sire."
Arthur sighed. "We'd best get this over with. One of you, take notes. I'm just giving you the gist of the command. It's up to you to make it sound suitably fancy and kinglike." Was his father's body even cold yet?
One of the girls grabbed a quill and parchment.
"This second Purge is over," Arthur proclaimed. Strange, that speaking could make it so. He'd spent so long unable to overturn his father's commands, but now, no one could countermand him. Not directly, at least. They'd have to be sneaky about it, indirect, just like Arthur and Morgana against their father.
(Could his sister possibly know yet? Gods, would he have to tell her in person? He hoped not.)
"Guards are no longer allowed to kill people without a trial. No one can kill anyone else without a trial. There will be no more of this murder in the streets."
A tension settled over the room. They must have heard the rumors of Arthur's allegiances. They must have some idea where this was heading.
"And, as of this day, the first of my reign…." Treaties, and laws, and legacy.
Justice, and reason, and the future.
"…magic is no longer punishable by death."
They startled at that. Perhaps they'd expected him to go all the way and legalize sorcery wholesale.
"There will be a fine instead." Because he couldn't legalize magic right away. It was too strongly entrenched in the law of the land, not to mention their treaties with other kingdoms. But nothing that he'd read indicated the penalty had to be fatal. "I'll send the details out in the next few days, but for now, note down that the fine can only be charged after a fair trial with the same standards of proof that we use for other crimes. And, hell, I'm issuing a blanket pardon for all acts of magic from the beginning of the Purge until now."
One of the lordlings spluttered. "Sire, you—your father—"
Arthur fixed him with a flat stare. "I am fully aware of how my father would react to this. I'm doing it anyways."
"The sorcerer has taken over his mind," breathed the other lordling, all appalled wonder.
"Merlin can barely manage his own mind," the new king snapped. "And, Merlin, if you're scrying this right now, tell your minions to let this message through. They've been intercepting the messengers and changing my father's orders," he added, seeing everyone else's confusion.
The first lordling spluttered. Two of the ladies were giving their king nervous looks as though they expected him to start foaming at the mouth any moment now. The third held herself completely rigid.
"Sire," began the second lordling. He stopped, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, but couldn't find any words.
"That explains a great deal," commented Geoffrey. He alone remained unperturbed.
"As most of my father's recent orders involved mass executions, I thought it best to let them get away with it. Besides, Merlin wouldn't listen anyways. The idiot says I'm his king, then smiles and nods and ignores half his direct orders." No, no, this was no time to rant, no matter how much he wanted to. "None of the things about Merlin go in the letter. Obviously. Polish up the language, then bring a draft for my approval before sending it out."
The second lordling regained his tongue. "Sire, I must protest!"
"You do that."
"I cannot—I will not work to restore sorcery," he proclaimed. "Sir Geoffrey, my king, I resign my post, and I beg Your Majesty to reconsider this—this madness. It will destroy the entire kingdom!"
"Camelot survived centuries before the Purge," Geoffrey reminded him. "Attacks from spellbinders only began after King Uther outlawed their way of life."
"You, surely you can't support this," he choked. He looked around at his compatriots, none of whom had spoken. "Tell them! Make them see what sort of disaster our king is inviting!"
"A druid saved my mother's life." It was the third lady, the one who had remained perfectly still throughout the argument. "She healed her leg after Mother fell from a horse. It was a bad break; she probably would have gotten gangrene and died if this druid hadn't used magic to help her." She swallowed hard, but when she lifted her gaze to Arthur's, her eyes were hard.
"Blanchefleur, you can't," the lordling begged. "The druid probably caused that fall in the first place just to trick you!"
Arthur was getting tired of this. "You resigned, did you not? I only want scribes and this meeting. You're dismissed."
He spluttered all the way out the door. It would have been amusing if he weren't so heartsick.
"I have… business to attend to. I'll be in my chambers when the draft is ready."
Blanchefleur curtsied, elbowed her fellow ladies until they did the same. Geoffrey and the remaining lordling bowed.
Arthur went to his room, closed the door behind him, and finally allowed himself to break.
Alternate chapter title: "In Which Wyrmbasu is Basically Merlin's Justifiably Skeptical Babysitter"
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. Never have, never will. Same with the Arthurian legend, though that's public domain by now. Yay public domain!
Next chapter: July 24. Arthur stands vigil. Merlin breaks tradition, but in a good way.
So. This is it. The last book of the main series! (Unless things get totally out of hand or I lose my mind or something.) So far, I have 11.5 chapters and the epilogue finished; I also wrote a one-shot in this universe, "Heoruwearg," about the time that Leon and Marrok learned that Marrok was a werewolf and only panicked a little. Love you guys! Stay safe, and happy reading!
-Antares