Arthur didn't go back to his chambers when he eventually stumbled back into Camelot.
His emotions were still a tangled mess. Part of him had hoped if he'd stayed there long enough, slumped against that tree, they'd have straightened themselves out and he could wrap his mind around all this.
But of course he wasn't that lucky. If anything, he was even more conflicted about what course of action to take. The only thing he'd known for sure was that he couldn't stay in that forest anymore. Everything kept switching from blue to gold and he felt like he was going mad.
He'd thought maybe returning to Camelot would clear things up a bit, releasing him from the elemental woods. Trees that used to seem benign to him now felt magical. Every gust of wind emanated from Merlin somehow, and every leaf twisted as if it were going to mystically transfigure into something else. Here, in the city, magic was outlawed. Everything before him in the dark marketplace was supposed to be grounded in reality. Everything was under his father's control, and, eventually, his.
Tonight, however, it didn't seem to be so. Every home harboured a sorcerer. Every bed of straw hid a magical talisman. Every walking staff an instrument of magic.
Certainly, sorcerers had infiltrated Camelot before, but never, never had one gotten so close to Arthur. Merlin was his manservant, standing by his side every day since the scrawny boy from Ealdor had saved him from—well, from one of the infiltrated sorcerers. Arthur may not have been happy about it at first, but he had never questioned the act. Merlin had saved his life and before long, the servant had become one of the few things Arthur could rely on. Knights came and went, but Merlin was fiercely loyal and all his own. Despite being a simple servant, Merlin treated Arthur like an equal, and Arthur hadn't realised how much he'd needed that before then.
Now all that had been flipped on its head. Merlin was not a simple boy from Ealdor, nor was he just a manservant with a knack for banter. And here Arthur had thought Merlin couldn't keep a secret for his life.
Clearly, he was more than capable. Merlin was a sorcerer, and not just that, but a sorcerer the Druids held in high regard. Emrys, supposedly the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived. How could Merlin, Merlin, be Emrys? What could he possibly hope to gain by lowering himself to the status of a servant?
The obvious answers flipped through his brain. Secrets. Surely, Merlin had heard plenty of court secrets, but no matter how hard Arthur tried, he couldn't force himself to believe Merlin would sell him and Camelot out. Somehow, the idea of Merlin having magic seemed much more believable than such a straightforward plot. There was nothing straightforward about this.
But if not secrets, then what? Arthur didn't see what Merlin hoped to do with his knowledge of Camelot that he didn't already have at his fingertips. He had full access to the citadel, Arthur's chambers, everything. He had the full trust of the court, the staff—even Uther, for the countless times Merlin had proven his loyalty to the crown. If even his father hadn't questioned Merlin's loyalty, the naysayer to end all naysayers…
It didn't add up. None of it did. It seemed as if Merlin, Emrys, was more than content with living in Camelot as a servant. The greatest sorcerer ever, polishing Arthur's armour for the rest of his quiet, secret life. It sounded ridiculous even in his head. Sorcerers didn't put themselves below regular people like that, not without some superior agenda. They were powerful. Magical. Near inhuman and living on a different plane of reality.
But Merlin didn't seem to fit that mold. Arthur had seen frustration at the class system, yes. General disagreement toward the execution of magic users, which made sense. Arthur, too, had had his misgivings on it in the past, as well as Morgana and Guinevere. But Merlin seemed to genuinely enjoy life in Camelot. He was always there if Arthur needed him, prattling and all.
That was the part Arthur still couldn't seem to grasp. The whole thing was making him dizzy, and one question sent him spiraling into disbelief and confusion.
If Merlin is Emrys, why is he here?
He couldn't let it rest. Everything he'd been taught about magic thrashed around in his mind. Arthur knew his training required him to report Merlin to his father immediately, but he pushed his voice of reason aside. This was different. This was Merlin.
This was personal.
Before long, Arthur was at Merlin's window, ironically the place he'd set out to be originally. It seemed like ages ago. He'd been another person then. Merlin had been a different person then—in Arthur's head, at least.
To his surprise, Merlin was still awake, perched on the edge of his bed and mindlessly sharpening one of Arthur's swords by hand. As Arthur pressed himself to the cold stone wall, peering up through the window at his sorcerer manservant, he was surprised Merlin wasn't using magic to sharpen it. Did Merlin really do his chores by hand, even when he could do them magically?
Arthur had seen him use magic to create the paste back in the forest. Supposedly, Merlin was an incredibly powerful sorcerer, and yet, here he was, sharpening Arthur's sword as if it was a completely normal routine for him, even when alone.
It just kept getting more and more befuddling, but Arthur didn't have any more time to dwell on it. Merlin's door opened with a creak and Gaius entered.
Merlin looked up at the noise. He smiled at the physician before going back to the sword. "The guard all right?"
"Yes," Gaius answered, and he pulled up a chair, settling at the foot of Merlin's bed. "The paste is healing his rash well. Thank you for that."
"My pleasure." Merlin help up the sword to the light so he could inspect it. He didn't look at Gaius, clearly hoping the "thank you" was all he'd come to say, but Gaius wasn't finished.
"Merlin," the physician began, and his tone shifted from pleasant to serious.
Merlin grimaced, shutting his eyes. "What?"
"On my way back, I ran into Uther."
Pressed against the wall outside, Arthur flinched at the mention of his father. He watched Merlin critically, and the servant's expression shifted in the smallest of ways. His eyebrows furrowed. His neutral expression turned darker, and his posture grew stiff.
There was a small pause before Merlin responded. "What's the king doing up at this hour?"
"He couldn't sleep." Gaius' gaze flickered to the sword instead of Merlin. "He's worried."
Merlin frowned. He placed the sword on the bedspread, continuing to stare at himself in the blade. "About Emrys?"
Gaius nodded, his mannerisms not unlike how he acted with sick patients—calm and honest, but a little too grim to be comforting. "He asked me if I thought it would be wise to send Arthur out to find the Druids and see what they know. I can't say I didn't expect the question."
Merlin wrung his hands like he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. "What did you say?"
"I said it would be dangerous and I'm not sure what good it would do, as we don't even know if this sorcerer means any harm."
"I don't."
Gaius gave a thin smile. "Of course not. You and I know that. But Uther will never see it that way."
Merlin picked up the sword again and ran a rather strong stroke down the blade. It made a distinctive schink sound, and from the shadows, Arthur flinched once more. "Do you think Arthur might?"
Gaius' smile faded. "You can't tell him, Merlin. Not now."
Merlin groaned, dropping the sword again and falling back against his pillow. "I know, Gaius, but this... this is what I was worried about! This is why I summoned Kilgharrah. The Druids know I am Emrys, and they know the prophecy. Kilgharrah said the Druids would lay down their lives to protect it, but I don't see why they would. I find it hard to believe an entire magical race thinks I have any hope of turning this kingdom around."
"You don't know that," Gaius argued. "You can't know that."
Merlin shook his head, slipping off his bed and pacing. "I'm just being realistic. I've met my fair share of sorcerers who think what I'm doing is nothing short of betrayal. They'd probably like to run me through just as much as Uther."
"Those sorcerers are narrow minded. Consumed by hatred after years of persecution." Gaius' voice hinted at deep-rooted frustration. "They don't see the future you do, and they don't have the patience to wait for its time."
Merlin went to his windowsill, clutching the worn wood in a death grip. "Maybe," he whispered, but he didn't sound too convinced. "But Kilgharrah did agree if Uther gets his hands on the prophecy, it would be disastrous."
"Yes." Gauis sighed. "Yes, there I must agree. If Uther were to hear you are destined to unravel everything his regime has built, he would go mad trying to find you and kill you. It would consume the rest of his reign, and possibly Arthur's, too."
Merlin returned to his bed, retrieving the sword and running his thumb over the smooth hilt. "I'm not unraveling everything," he murmured. "I'm just trying to turn around the parts that need to change. The hatred of magic. The needless bloodshed and conflict. The distrust. But that can't be done with magic. It's diplomacy. That's what the other sorcerers don't understand. Turning Camelot around is something only Arthur can do."
"And only with you at his side," Gaius insisted.
Merlin sniffed, lying back. "So everyone keeps telling me."
"You know it's true."
Merlin closed his eyes. "Maybe," he said again, and this time with more conviction. "Either way, Uther mustn't get his hands on the prophecy. I'm assuming he's going to send Arthur out after the Druids tomorrow?"
"That is the way it's looking, yes."
Merlin turned his head to look at the window again. "Maybe there is still something I can do," he whispered. He picked up Arthur's sword one final time, checking the sharpness of the blade before sheathing it.
Gaius studied his charge's face critically. "Get some rest," he decided. "You need sleep. And maybe try not to worry so much. It's not good for you."
"I feel like half of my destiny is worrying," Merlin grumbled, but he obediently curled up in his blankets. "Kilgharrah is right. No one ever told me it would be easy. I'm lucky to have you, Gaius."
Gaius smiled, and he shook Merlin's foot affectionately. "And I you, Merlin. Good night."
"Good night."
And with that, Gaius left. Merlin let out another long sigh, scrunching up his pillow and staring up at his ceiling like maybe it might provide him with answers. Eventually, his eyes fluttered closed and his grip on his pillow lessened.
Arthur watched him carefully, both waiting to see if Merlin was actually asleep and also processing. Like before, the mass amount of information he'd just heard swirled in his head like a tempest. He felt more like slamming his brains out against the wall than dealing with it.
And yet, something about this conversation differed from the one Arthur had heard before. This one had mentioned other sorcerers, and not in a friendly way. Arthur bit his lip, trying to make sense of it all. He couldn't find any way to twist what Merlin had said to paint sorcerers in a good light. Apparently, the other sorcerers Merlin had met did not agree with whatever it was he was doing. "Turning Camelot around," as he'd put it. If anything, these sorcerers seemed to label him a traitor. Merlin feared they'd kill him if given the chance. It was ironic, really, as Arthur's father definitely wished for the same thing.
Merlin seemed to be straddling some sort of dangerous line, working an agenda that didn't align with any other sort of party but his own. Gaius was in on it, and it involved him—Arthur. Merlin had said that only he would be capable of "turning Camelot around." It was a diplomatic matter, whatever that meant.
Normally, the thought of being wrapped up in a sorcerer's plan would make Arthur's blood curdle, but not this time. Instead, he felt cold. Something he'd hadn't been able to put his finger on had hit him full in the face. Pieces were falling into place. Merlin was worried about Uther getting his hands on a prophecy—a prophecy that spoke of Merlin unraveling everything the king had done in his rule. Or, not everything, as Merlin had insisted, but the parts that required unraveling.
Arthur could take a wild guess what those were. The ban on magic, first and foremost. Of course Merlin would want that. He would want his own freedom. But past that, Merlin talked of bloodshed. Distrust. Conflict. All of which were issues right now. Was that Merlin's other aim? Achieving peace?
Slowly, Arthur shook his head, feeling the back of his skull scrape across the stone wall. It served as confirmation he still stood there, braced underneath Merlin's window. It made no sense. Peace between the kingdoms was a far-fetched fantasy. His father said war was inevitable and Arthur had always agreed, but he had to admit, the idea of achieving peace stirred something within him. Up until this point, all his father had done was prepare Arthur for the continuation of his rule. Rarely was Arthur's opinion taken into account. Arthur tried not to think much of it. After all, one day he'd be king, and until then, he obeyed. Such was the system.
But Merlin had challenged that. More than once. "When you're king, things will be different." He said it often. So did Guinevere, but Arthur was not about to speculate her involvement in this. His heart could only handle one betrayal at a time.
Was this what Merlin believed this prophecy foretold? Staring at Merlin, he'd never felt like he was looking at more of a stranger. Somewhere within his warped sorcerer brain, did he... did he really think he could serve as some sort of undercover advisor to Arthur? Encouraging Arthur to defy his father? Twisting his thoughts in the hopes that when Arthur was crowned, he'd follow Merlin's advice?
It seemed like an incredibly undermining and slow undertaking for a sorcerer, especially since Arthur couldn't imagine Gaius or Merlin assassinating his father to speed up the process any. They'd had chance upon chance to do it if they wished, and Gaius had always been loyal to Uther, even when it was obvious he disagreed with him. Perhaps he was being naive, but Arthur couldn't picture the physician aligning himself with any sort of plan that boded ill for the king.
But the possibility still gnawed at the back of Arthur's brain. He didn't want to believe it, but if Merlin was half as powerful as the Druids claimed, he could easily enchant Gaius into joining his backward crusade. He could easily have enchanted Arthur himself.
Arthur didn't feel enchanted. He'd been enchanted before and he knew what magic felt like, but at the same time, he couldn't discount the possibility. Merlin was the closest person to him. Whenever Arthur had defied his father, it was usually at Merlin's urging, but... Arthur would be lying if he said he hadn't had rebellious thoughts before Merlin voiced them. He did disagree with his father often...
But he couldn't be sure his ideas were his own. Merlin could have planted them in his mind. In fact, Arthur couldn't rule out anything when sorcery was involved and—and by God, why hadn't Merlin told him?
That's where the stab really lay, he realised. That Merlin had lied to him. All this time. If Merlin really wanted to bring peace to the kingdoms, or—or just strike out what he believed to be black in Uther's rule, why hadn't he told Arthur? Some little part of him screamed the answer—would he have listened?—but he still felt so utterly betrayed by the lies that he couldn't bring himself to care. If Merlin really meant no harm, if he wasn't enchanting anyone, and if he really trusted Arthur to accomplish this wild plan of his... why hadn't he just asked?
It was the hurt that finally took hold of him after a good ten minutes of standing there. With red cheeks and twisted features, that sense of betrayal compelled him to draw his sword and bring his fingers to the cold latch of Merlin's window.
It didn't take much to pull it all the way open. Some latent part of Arthur's mind wondered why it wasn't protected by a magical shield. Was Merlin just that confident? He supposed he had every right to be. No one would suspect powerful magic to be locked inside such a scraggly figure. No one had.
Swinging the window open with calculated force, Arthur crossed the sill and came to a rest on the worn floorboards. Blood beat in his ears in tune with his racing heartbeat.
He hated it for speeding. But his heart be damned. After all, it had been Merlin who had told him to listen to it. Right now, Merlin himself had messed it up so bad Arthur could no better understand what it was telling him to do than he could understand the person before him. A sorcerer? A servant? A friend? An enemy? All four? Did Merlin even know the answer to that? Because Arthur sure didn't.
He did know one thing. What his head was telling him. The logical part—the part that had trained as a knight and a prince long before Merlin sauntered into the picture. That part of him told him everything he'd heard from Merlin tonight was nothing more than a confession of guilt. The man before him was Emrys, a dangerous, hunted sorcerer, and the best thing under the law for Arthur to do right now would be to strike him through the heart where he lay.
Fair trial be damned, Arthur's father's voice said inside his head. A magic above all magic? Strike him now, Arthur. Strike him while this great threat can still be squashed.
Latching onto his burning sense of betrayal, the only feeling that made sense right now, Arthur raised his sword like he'd done countless times before. Both hands wrapped around the grip, the tip facing down, the bulk raised over his head. Balanced and graceful, sharpened and cleaned just that morning by...
He couldn't allow himself to think about it. It wouldn't be the first sorcerer he'd killed, unconscious and unarmed. But not really unarmed, right? He'd always thought that. Justified it. A sorcerer had no need for a sword. Certainly, Merlin had never asked for one. His mind, his hands, his eyes were his weapons, and Arthur had always thought it was a kind, merciful death—caught unawares. It spared the sorcerer from the morbid anticipation of execution.
But staring down at Emrys... no, Merlin… God, this was not some random sorcerer strewn unconscious in the woods. This was his manservant, the closest thing Arthur had ever had to a friend tucked halfway underneath his covers with one toe poking out at the corner. His breathing even, his hair tousled even from the mere half hour he'd been asleep. As Arthur watched, he rolled over with a groan, dragging his blankets with him in a great heap.
"Stop," Merlin murmured vaguely, and despite his ungrateful tone, a ghost of a smile was visible on his lips. "Stop it, you... you dollophead…"
Arthur's hands began to shake. The blade was before him, held directly over Merlin's vulnerable chest, but wavering, visibly shaking in a physical manifestation of his weakness.
Arthur took one step back and almost tripped flat on his back over another one of his swords—the one Merlin had been sharpening for him. For him, without complaint and without magic, just before bed.
That did it. Any resolve Arthur had held crumpled back into a dark hole of uncertainty. His sword slipped from his grasp and it was a miracle above all others he was able to catch it before it clattered to the ground.
The failure served as an answer to himself. He couldn't kill Merlin. He couldn't do his duty, not like his father would wish him to.
But it didn't excuse anything. It didn't bring any sort of closure to the confusion swirling within him. By the law, he should skewer Merlin right now, but he couldn't do it. By the law, then, he should drag Merlin straight to his father, or, at the very least, tell Uther all he had learned, but he couldn't do that either. His father cared little for the "why." Merlin would be executed by the king's hand, completing what Arthur couldn't do, and Arthur would be left with greater uncertainty than before. Uncertainty and guilt and grief, because he was lying to himself if he said he wouldn't grieve.
Merlin had confessed. He'd said more than enough for Camelot to pass judgment. In the eyes of the law, Merlin had already seen trial, but that wasn't good enough. With a sudden rush of resolve, the only true resolve he'd felt since the moment Merlin had opened his mouth in the forest, Arthur reclaimed a hold on his sword and pressed the tip to Merlin's chest.
The fabric of Merlin's thin nightshirt bent from the force of his blade. Its touch instantly stilled Merlin, as if even in sleep he sensed what was becoming of him.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered, his voice wavering at first before growing decidedly steely. "Emrys. By the power invested in me as Crown Prince of Camelot and by the power invested in me as your Master, in the light of such abnormal circumstances, I hereby put you under a trial of my own design. You've already failed in the eyes of my father, if he were to hear what I've heard. However, if you truly are the sorcerer the Druids say you are, then as future King of Camelot, I want to know just... just why you're here. I want to know why."
The last word came out with true venom. With practiced grace, he retracted his sword and stepped back to the window.
"It'll be a fair trial," Arthur promised, and in that alone he was sure. "If anything you have ever said to me is true... don't fail it."
And with that, Arthur slipped back out the way he had come, shutting the window behind him and sheathing his sword with a schinck that rang through the still night.
He didn't look back, but if he had, he would have seen Merlin starting awake from a vivid nightmare, clutching his chest because he was sure there had been a sword there.
In the thin light of the moon slashing through the window, his shaken blue eyes shimmered with the slightest, defensive tendrils of gold.
