(A/N: Hey, guys! As always, thank you all so much for reading. It means so much. Quick note that I made slight edits to previous chapters, although nothing major. Just if you are curious and in for a re-read. Also, unrelated, but I saw Colin Morgan in A Number for my birthday and I don't know how to handle that, soooo here's another chapter to deal with my Merlin feels. Enjoy, and thanks again for reading!)
Setting up camp within Cenred's lands was not an option, as much as Arthur wanted to lose consciousness for a while. After dealing with the likes of Cian, he'd developed a throbbing headache and was now faced with the sobering reality of nightfall in enemy territory. Their little party couldn't afford to make camp—not when it would mean war with Cenred if they were discovered. That left their mission tonight as getting out of Essetir as quickly and as stealthy as possible.
With this in mind, Arthur decided to order only a single torch lit and complete silence until they reached Camelot's border.
If he was being honest with himself, the silence was partially a logical command and partially a selfish one. He didn't want to talk to anyone, least of all to Merlin, who was hanging back in the group and probably more than a little upset about what he'd just been put through. That was more than fair, but Arthur wasn't prepared to defend his choices at the moment. With two trials completed, he needed time to think. Think and plan.
This was much easier said than done. From the moment they'd left the cave, a creeping tingle had crawled up the back of Arthur's spine. He couldn't help but fear Cenred's army was imminent, about to crash upon them from the dark trees. At a time like this, he couldn't juggle his knight instincts and the emotional problem that was Merlin all at once. He'd pushed aside his knight sensibilities for the sake of the trials, and now he couldn't handle both.
But, perhaps he could.
If he combined them.
Arthur hesitated at the thought. He sat on the idea for some time, turning it over in his head like a decision might be made for him by dithering.
But the decision was all his for the making. As would all of Camelot's decisions, eventually.
"Roldan," Arthur called finally, sitting up straighter on his horse and breaking his ordered silence for the first time in several hours. He questioned his decision the moment he opened his mouth, but what else was new.
He was relieved to find his voice sounded confident. His call prompted the lead knight to halt and peel off from the pack, lighting a second torch—Sir Roldan, bald and muscular and stoic as always. The rest of the knights slowed, but Arthur signalled for them to continue on. He could feel Merlin's gaze lingering on him, but Arthur ignored that, pulling back alongside Roldan while the others moved on ahead.
Roldan was the logical choice for something like this, Arthur decided. Tall and stony faced and having spent nearly the most years in Camelot's service, Roldan was known to the court as a smart tactician. No-nonsense, and surprisingly stealthy for someone his size. He was the best choice for this plan, if it could even really be called that.
Roldan stared at Arthur now, holding his newly-lit torch aloft and not about to speak until Arthur gave him permission to do so. His respect for Arthur's status made fresh guilt crawl through his body like wildfire. Giving orders never grew any easier. It put all the more pressure on him to be worthy of the power he was given by default. And was he acting worthy of it today?
He wasn't sure. He was never sure.
"What do you make of it, Roldan?" Arthur asked, keeping his horse as close to the other knight as possible. The enemy trees seemed to close in on them.
Roldan frowned, leaning in, too. "Make of what, sire?"
"Our heading. And Cenred."
Roldan's frown deepened, but he nodded slowly. "We're making good time," he reported, his voice deep and rolling. It was comforting to Arthur somehow, despite the "but" he knew was coming. "But to be frank, my lord, we risk crossing paths with an Essetir patrol if we don't reach the border by dawn."
"Thought as much." Arthur sighed. The confrontation with Cian and the Druids had taken longer than he'd hoped, as had their journey home. Dawn was only hours out, which probably meant dawn patrols would be dispatching from Cenred's castle in their direction. Even quicker than that if Merlin was right and that smirking nomad Oliver had sold them out hours ago.
Arthur truly hoped not. He hated the idea of being double-crossed almost as much as he hated the idea of Merlin being right about something. Not to mention, had it even been worth it? Was Arthur about to risk losing good men for the sake of maybe releasing a sorcerer? He still wasn't sure if the risks outweighed the benefits. Logically, they didn't, and it all just made him feel more guilty and irresponsible.
But it was too late to play hindsight now. Arthur and Roldan were both men of action. And it was high time action was taken.
"I have a thought, Roldan," Arthur said, and he tightened his grip on his reins. He wasn't quite sure if this thought warranted an order, but here he was, voicing it anyway. "A task for you."
It was rarely a good thing when any royal said anything like that, but Roldan didn't seem fazed. "Anything you need, sire."
Right. Anything. "It's risky," Arthur warned. "But I want you to seek out the dawn Essetir patrol. Try to map their heading, or warn us if they are planning an ambush. Cenred may have been alerted to our presence. If we are discovered, it could very well give him cause to invade our lands. Knowing him, he may be looking for just such an excuse."
Roldan nodded solemnly. "War with Essetir is the last thing Camelot needs," he agreed, and he unfastened off his cape without prompt. He folded it neatly before offering it up, and it only took Arthur a moment to realise what he meant by the gesture. "If it comes to it, I will make sure Cenred holds no proof I am a Camelot knight. Your father can deny my existence. If you call on my wife and son, I'm positive they'll do the same. They'll understand the reason is to protect the kingdom."
Sometimes nobility was a nice quality. Other times it made guilt weigh on Arthur's ribcage like a too-tight breastplate. Sacrificial talk was certainly easier when he was the one dumping it on others.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Arthur responded, but he accepted the cape all the same. "How old is your son now?"
Don't ask that, his brain chided immediately.
Roldan smiled at the question. It was one of the few times Arthur had seen him crack one. "Nearly nine. He's energetic, that one. Spry. He looks up to you. And he'll make a fine knight one day."
"And you'll live to see it," Arthur promised on reflex, regretting those words even more. There was nothing worse than a promise he couldn't insure.
But Roldan knew that. He was already gearing up to go, his usual stoicism replacing his rare smile. "I hope to see you by first light, sire," he said. "And hopefully with a clear path ahead."
"Yes, hopefully," Arthur agreed, and his thoughts whirled. One last fleeting possibility. One he was even less sure of. "Although, Roldan, I have one more assignment for you."
Roldan nodded. Once again, not fazed. "Whatever you need, sire."
Arthur paused before continuing. "If it comes to it, and we are ambushed, I don't want you to fight."
That actually fazed him. Roldan's eyes widened. "My lord," he sputtered. "If talking about my son gave you any—"
"It's nothing to do with that," Arthur assured. "I know what you are willing to do. If it comes to battle, I have another job for you. I need…"
He trailed off again, still not sure if this is something to ask. It wasn't asking for confidence, necessarily. But it was admitting something he had not yet admitted to anyone else.
Roldan waited expectantly. The rest of the knights were significantly up ahead now.
Arthur chewed on his bottom lip, hesitating for another second more before just blurting it. "If it comes to battle, I want you to watch Merlin. Closely. Very closely."
Roldan was clearly not expecting that either. He cocked his head. "Merlin?"
Arthur swallowed. "Yes."
Confusion creased Roldan's features. If in the dim torchlight, Arthur could almost see his thoughts running, trying to decipher the reason behind the order. Arthur supposed that was to be expected. Merlin, in theory, shouldn't even be part of the equation. But if only Roldan knew the true circumstances.
"Of course, sire," Roldan said regardless, obedient as always. He straightened his posture, looking out at the trees. "Do you suspect him of something? Working for Cenred?"
"Not necessarily," Arthur evaded. "I… he worries me. In battle. He's better with a sword than he once was, but he's not a knight. He probably shouldn't be on these missions. I just need you to observe him. Observe, and then report back to me. And only me. Is that understood?"
Roldan nodded. "Yes, sire."
"Good." Arthur heaved another sigh. He was doing a lot of lying today. It was mentally exhausting. "Right. It's time I caught up with the others. Godspeed, Sir Roldan."
He held out his arm, and Roldan grabbed it at the elbow. A farewell as much as a good luck.
They met each other's gazes, nodding at each other, and with that, Roldan was off and Arthur was not. He was back to trotting with his silent group of knights. Back to Merlin. And back to a growing sense of guilt and fear.
It was a slight and sudden change of plans. Originally, Arthur had planned to test Merlin when they returned—conducting a potential mock attack on Camelot to see how Merlin would respond. Either way, it was time to bring others into the equation, as much as Arthur wished he could keep this all to himself. He had heard Merlin speak of his secret hopes and dreams. He'd seen Merlin defend both sides of the growing conflict.
What he hadn't seen was Merlin in action. Swirling leaves and consorting with dragons was one thing. Combat magic was another.
Killing was another, and it was only something Merlin would do if he knew Arthur wasn't watching. This Arthur knew. An ambush by Cenred—much as he did not want it—presented an opportunity he couldn't resist. Not a mock conflict. A real one. While Merlin would attempt to hide his power from Arthur, he wouldn't know about Roldan. The faithful knight could observe what Arthur desperately wanted to see and yet deeply dreaded… what Cian claimed Arthur had been blind to all this time. Not a coward Merlin. A warrior Merlin. And it wasn't so much about him fighting as it was about the way he fought. That's what Arthur needed to know.
As much as the possibilities scared him, in this trial he needed to know about the Merlin that existed when his back was turned.
He didn't like the images his mind was producing. Merlin, in battle, doing magic. He had seen magic used in battle before. It was terrifying. Bodies thrown from invisible winds. Trees come to life. Tidal waves crashing. Knights set on fire. Sorcery could come from any direction—sneakier and more sudden than any strike by a mortal army. Magic in battle was chaotic, forceful, and it was just that—a force, not a tool. Primal. A sorcerer's anger only made them more chaotically powerful, and there was little precision required. Sometimes, it didn't even look like they meant to strike. Their power billowed out of them without thought or effort.
In contrast, for a knight, forethought—and precision—was everything. Control over one's blade could be the difference between life and death. A knight was required to hit the right chink in the armour, to block a fatal strike with the most strategic of angles. Knights, from their first days in training, understood the key words control and predict and strategise.
Sorcerers, however, did not require the same lessons. And if Merlin was considered more powerful than most...
Arthur highly doubted Merlin was summoning tidal waves on the regular. That would be difficult to miss. But both Cian and the dragon implied Merlin was more than capable of formidable magic, so if not that, what sort of magic was he conducting? Was it possible Merlin did have a sense of control? A powerful sorcerer possessing both precision and restraint?
Precise and calculated sorcery was not something Arthur had ever encountered, nor considered. As terrifying as that still would be, the thought of it greatly diminished Arthur's fear of Merlin. A sorcerer with precision could be predicted, and a sorcerer with restraint could be reasoned with. If Merlin had both those things, then maybe, maybe, Arthur could let him go knowing he wasn't letting off a man too powerful for his own good. After all, that was the problem with magic, wasn't it? It gave mortal beings something greatly beyond them. They said a few words, moved their hands, and altered the forces of nature. Mass destruction and meddling with the elements wasn't what Arthur called control, and it certainly didn't teach restraint or chivalry.
Perhaps Merlin was different. Perhaps he was the exception. After all, there was an exception to every rule, and Merlin liked being an unsolvable enigma. Arthur could not pigeonhole him, even now.
In a perfect world, there would be no attack. Essetir's patrol would miss them, Roldan would return to the pack, and they'd carry on to Camelot without incident. From there, Arthur would reevaluate.
But if not, and if Cenred was destined to attack…
Well. Then Merlin's final trial was upon them.
~O~
Merlin did not like the look on Arthur's face.
He didn't know what the prince had said to Roldan, but he didn't need to. They were still deep in the thicket of Essetir, a good ways from Camelot's border, and an ambush felt dangerously imminent. They'd spent far too much time in the Druid cave… which was not Merlin's fault. That was definitely on Arthur.
He kind of wanted to scream at Arthur for that, but the prince had conveniently ordered silence.
Then again, Merlin wasn't sure what he'd actually say anyway.
The farther they rode on into the trees, the more the events of the cave were beginning to feel like a bad dream. They weren't, unfortunately, and Cian's mental warning—his voice cold and almost war-like—kept ringing in Merlin's brain.
"There is a reckoning upon us, Emrys. One in which I have not foreseen. I can sense it. We all can, and I am not surprised to find you at the centre of it."
A flash of anger had bubbled to life in Merlin at this. He was already frustrated with the whole blasted situation, so that didn't help. His mental words back to Cian were more cutting than any words he would have actually spoken. "A traveler came to Camelot," he accused, his brain flashing images of Oliver coming to court, paired with his ever-present fear of discovery. He wasn't sure that all transferred to Cian, but he hoped it did. "Bearing my Druid name. Emrys. He said he learnt it from you lot, as well as my whereabouts. So whose fault is it that we're here?"
"It's our fault that the moment Uther hears of a possible sorcerer he comes after our peaceful people?" Cian countered. "My dear Emrys, there is a reason we discuss you. You've been discussed long before you were even born. It might pain you to know it, but many of us fear you as much as Uther does. Perhaps it is because we are unsure of where your loyalties truly lie... or, perhaps it is because you don't know that answer yourself?"
A twisting, sinking feeling had settled in Merlin's stomach at this question. He'd shut his thoughts off from Cian then, unable to retort. He knew the Druid was right. He didn't have an answer. His views shifted from moment to moment, situation to situation. It was often clear which he should side with, but many times, it was not so clear cut. More times than not, he thought he didn't really agree with either side much, but opting out wasn't an option for him, if it ever was. Instead he kept finding himself in more and more situations like this one, just trying to live another day without much blood on his hands.
He hadn't reopened dialogue with Cian telepathically past that small exchange. He was satisfied that Cian had picked up on the double meaning woven into his speech, and he was relieved to have wiggled himself out of that particular hot spot… sort of. Perhaps relieved wasn't the right word. Was he relieved?
Not really. Merlin had a bad feeling it was only a matter of time before another hot spot presented itself. That, and Cian had chosen to leave him with a few mental parting words that chilled him to the bone.
"Be careful with your next steps, Emrys. Every move you make creates ripples that every sorcerer in Albion can and will feel. Don't forget that."
Right. Of course. His next, oh-so-important steps. Merlin almost laughed at the warning. He had no idea what his next steps were going to be. Hopefully, they were to trek back into Camelot and launch himself into bed for a long nap. But, by even thinking that, he probably ensured it wasn't going to happen. It seemed that was how destiny liked to play its little game: putting him in the saddle while yanking away the reins. Sometimes Merlin loved magic. Other times, he really didn't.
Why didn't destiny give Arthur magic? That was a thought Merlin couldn't help but consider at times such as this, bouncing around and brooding in his uncomfortable saddle after hours of riding. It was too bizarre to actually entertain, but he did wonder. Wouldn't that have been easier? Then it would be Arthur having to wrestle with his identity—to choose between two extremes. To wrestle with secrecy. Merlin could just be a spectator. A helpful voice now and again. Wouldn't that be nice?
But a stronger part of him balked at the idea. Who would he be, without his magic? Without this warmth that swirled within every inch of his body—an energy he was always latently aware of? A peculiar knowledge of the earth, the sea, the sky he couldn't put to words. A Merlin without that would have no destiny, no reason to move to Camelot. A Merlin without that was a nobody, and more than content to farm in Ealdor for the rest of his short life.
A Merlin without magic was just Merlin. No Emrys. No mystery. No adventure.
Merlin couldn't quite bring himself to want that. So, what he supposed he wanted was to have magic but also have no responsibility but also have Arthur at his side and also peace between Camelot and all sorcerers.
While he was coming up with unrealistic expectations, he might as well throw in a unicorn as a replacement for his current horse. With his limited knowledge of magical creatures, he figured a unicorn would be a bit more considerate and not try to eat a bush every five minutes.
In the end, he just wanted a nap. Just one. A long nap and all his worries to go on hiatus for a few hours. Or maybe just one day off work? Just one? Was that so much to ask?
Apparently.
"ARTHUR!"
The warning cry pierced the trees, shrill and loud but unmistakably Roldan. Merlin couldn't see him, but he quickly caught on to the clamour of hooves in the distance. Not a happy sound.
An ambush by Cenred. Exactly as they'd feared.
Clutching his horse's mane, a familiar stroke of fear coursed through Merlin at the sound of enemy swords unsheathing. The Camelot knights reacted in turn, drawing their own swords with their faces steely, ready to engage.
Merlin reacted too, but he ignored his sword completely, opting to push out of his saddle and drop onto the crunchy leaves of the forest ground. He kept himself low.
That was lucky. An arrow flew over him a minute later. Adrenaline shot through his body as battle cries pierced the air, followed by a mob of darkly-clad Essetir knights descending on them from the thicket. A swarm of angry, bloodthirsty men with weapons drawn. Some on horseback, some on foot, and far too many to be a normal patrol.
Great. Merlin's hands curled into fists as he attempted to calculate the enemy numbers, mentally cursing that stupid, cocky traveler for creating this terrible situation in the first place. Fate really despised his existence, didn't it? Whispering his secrets to the wrong people and placing him in the middle of yet another ambush. He'd seen his fair share by now. He couldn't even say he was surprised by the attack. Could it really be called an ambush if you were already dreading it?
And with every attack, there was only one thing to be done. For not the first time, Merlin retreated from the battle into the trees.
He had almost developed a routine. Once the chaos of fighting ensued, step one: recede, and step two: eyes on the prize—Arthur, and keeping him decidedly not skewered.
Easier said than done. Arthur had predictably thrown himself into the middle of the fight, sword first. He was deft with it, a seasoned professional, but there were three times as many Essetir knights as there were Camelot knights. They were being overwhelmed on all sides.
Merlin took no pleasure in evening the odds... or so he told himself. There was something a little satisfying about tripping up the two closest attacking knights to Arthur. Flick of his wrist—oops, one tripped on an exposed root. Throw of his arm—yikes, one missed his swing. It was subtle, Merlin's spellcasting, and almost second nature to him now. It didn't take much effort to curse his enemies with obstacles and unfortunate circumstances, although that never prevented his heartbeat from stomping loudly in his ears. Even after years of thinking on his feet and performing secretive magic, Merlin doubted he'd ever shake the fear of screwing up and letting Arthur die.
That's why he kept his eyes locked on the prince.
And that's why he didn't clock the knight sneaking up on him.
He wasn't sure what set him off to the approaching presence. A snapped twig maybe. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye. It didn't matter. All he knew was his quick reaction, whipping around palms first and a scathing non-verbal spell. The enemy knight went soaring—ramming into a tree with a resounding thunk— and Merlin didn't spare him a glance to see if he was dead. He turned back to the fight, knocking off one, two, three—five—more Essetir attackers before the battle subsided.
Arthur had the final swing, cutting down the last Essetir knight and ending the short, bloody fight. Camelot, thankfully, had come out on top, but Arthur's face didn't exude victory. Merlin could see stress in every line in his face, calculating what this would mean for the kingdom's politics with Essetir. It was already rocky, and an attack of this size more or less confirmed Cenred knew of their trespassing. War could be on the horizon… and for what? Uther's peace of mind?
Anger and frustration boiled in Merlin's stomach. All of this was senseless. Uther had nothing to fear from him and everything to fear from Cenred. If only he could say that. Prove that.
With a sigh and a moment to recollect himself, Merlin slipped from the shelter of the trees back to the main event.
He surveyed the damage, snatching up a fallen sword to feign some non-magical involvement in the battle. Two of their knights were down—Sir Edgar had taken a rough hit to the arm and Sir Bertram was bleeding from the leg. That, and one of their horses had been struck by an arrow. This compared to the close to thirty Essetir knights they'd taken out wasn't a bad loss. Merlin had to take some credit for that.
Arthur, similarly, was busy surveying the newly-created battlefield, his sword still in hand. His gaze fell to Merlin, and Merlin's heart skipped a beat to see his expression darken.
He didn't have much time to process the sour reaction before the prince went back to surveying the bodies. His motions were a bit more frantic now. He was sorting through the mess, kicking over bodies and scanning the recovering knights. Squinting at the trees.
Confused, Merlin opened his mouth to ask him what exactly he was looking for, but before he could, Arthur stalked his way and provided the answer.
"Merlin," he said, his tone grave, and a fear Merlin hadn't expected shone in the prince's eyes. He looked shaken. Shaken, and almost angry.
"Merlin," he said again, and this time, Merlin really didn't like the sound of his tone. "Merlin, where is Roldan?
