Content Warning: This chapter contains a graphic description of a medieval flogging. If this is something you think might upset you, I've marked the beginning of the scene with a 'Warning' tag. Since it's the last scene of the chapter, you can safely skip to Chapter Five without missing anything plot-wise. When I say it is a blow-by-blow account, I mean it.

The Sacrifice

There was a place Merlin went to, sometimes. When Will had died, only months before, he had needed a space where not even Gaius would find him: where the prince would not make fun of his dismal attempts at polishing, or launch random objects at his head. Even Gwen, who was kindness itself, had felt like salt on an open wound. And so Merlin had come here, to this untravelled spot in the citadel's west wing, and thought.

It was a store room, on the surface. Little more than a nook beneath an awkward twist of staircase, tucked askance against the passageway so no-one would even notice the little wooden door set there. But Merlin had. Perhaps, he postulated later, he had sensed this tiny room with some reaching thread of his magic. So much of the castle was made of unliving stone and man-made steel, iron and glass and all things cold; the things behind this door had once been alive, and maybe a little of their power lingered still.

On his second visit here, Merlin had also discovered a magpie nest just outside the storeroom's window. Perhaps it had been their life he sensed, even through the closed door: their life, which drew him onward like Theseus through the labyrinth. Most birds, he knew, had learned to shy away from the humans of the castle itself – but these magpies seemed to have accepted Merlin as one of their own. He could never quite hear their thoughts, despite the tendrils of magic he sent into their cold, covetous little minds; it was more a sense of belonging, of locking in to a collective soul that thought only of eating and roosting and mating.

Sometimes, Merlin really envied those birds.

Today, there was no harsh cawing from the nest above. Feeling unexpectedly bereft by the magpies' absence, Merlin instead settled himself among the stored tapestries and ancient books, and sent his magic outward into the once-living things around him. Wool, linen, wood pulp and vegetable dyes; all a part of the natural world that grew, and thrived, and lived. Now that he sought for it, he could feel their fragile ghosts of life in the darkness . . . but they could not warm him. Even the woods and fields, with their rich cacophonies, would have slid off him tonight like water off an eggshell.

You thought that because I've put my own neck on the line for your miserable hide once or twice, that that somehow gives you the right to question my decisions? To question the king's?

"I thought you were a good man," Merlin said, to the shadows that lay like a pall over the debris of decades. "I still do, but . . . but when it comes to your father, Arthur, you're nothing but a coward."

And he did think that Arthur was a good man. Underneath the bravado, underneath the acid tongue and the toxic masculinity, Merlin believed there was a kind heart forever at odds with the tenets of his upbringing. Because to think otherwise was to entertain the unthinkable. That Arthur – glorious, golden Arthur – was not the man that Merlin had needed him to be. Not the other side of his coin, but only an arrogant prince cut from the same cloth as his father.

No.

Had Merlin, in his need for a purpose, somehow made of Arthur a hero that did not even exist? Perhaps never would exist. Had he been blinded by the dragon's auguries, so sure of his destiny in Camelot that he had failed to see the prince for what he truly was? He hadn't thought so. Not until tonight, when Arthur turned him away for what felt like one time too many.

But I've seen that king in him. I've seen him act out of kindness, out of nobility. I've seen him risk his life to save complete strangers; I've seen him defy his father to keep his people from starving, and drink poison so that they might live. I've seen him pardon a thief who stole so that his family might eat. I didn't imagine those things.

I didn't imagine him.

But here, curled up in the dust of years and watching the tiny window for the first pale streaks of dawn, Merlin was finding it hard to believe a word of it anymore.

§

When daylight came, Merlin woke to find himself stiff and sore against the tumbled tapestries. The air was so hot and so dusty that it felt as if he swallowed a rag with every breath.

He flopped bonelessly over onto his back, and stared up at the soft nets of spider web on the ceiling above. If he listened he could feel them up there, spinning their silk around the careless carpet moths who dared to fly too close. His magic breathed through the moted air towards them, picking out their individual life-forces like tiny sparks of light in the gloom.

Spiders.

Arthur had fought spiders for him, once.

The dawn was growing stronger in the gash of a window, turning the sky from indigo to a flush of burnished gold. Merlin creakily got to his feet, and clambered over the rugs and leather-bound books to look out on the square below. A quick glance up to the ruffled mound of the magpie nest showed it to be once again empty – but then Merlin saw a swoop of black of white from the corner of his eye. Wings flapped overhead, as one of his thieving bird family dropped onto the window ledge beside him.

"There you are, Maggie. Been up half the night, have you?"

The magpie only danced aside with a flutter of her wings, and peered at Merlin with her bold, blank eyes.

"Yeah. Me too." Merlin looked out over the dawning grey of the courtyard, letting the momentary chill of daybreak ruffle the hair from his brow. Below was the cage, a hulking black shipwreck in the subaqueous light. As the lightening sky sucked the shadows from the ground, Merlin could see Guillam hunched in one corner like a knuckle of rock in an iron-grey sea. Four days without food had worn away the sturdy stableman's body, and left his weathered skin as white as ash.

With a quick glance around the square to make sure no early risers or returning patrols would see him, Merlin let his magic swell until it pushed against the underside of his skin. He felt the spark ignite in his eyes, the twitch of life in his fingertips. "Tídrénas," he murmured . . . and felt an answering breeze rising to his call.

Below, the detritus of a thriving city skated across the cobblestones in the sudden breath of wind. Merlin looked up at the paling blue of the sky, expecting to see clouds begin to form in response to his command . . . but then the wind dropped. The stirring of rain in the air was snuffed out, the taste of metal gone. Only the black-eyed bird remained, looking at him with a kind of blind curiosity.

"He's going to die. Isn't he?" Merlin asked the bird. The magpie scuffed its wings in an agitated flurry, and then settled beside him with that same, inquisitive look in its eyes. "And don't look at me like that. I'm trying my best, all right? It's just . . . it's like I can only control the elements when my emotions get the better of me. Thunderstorms, lightning – I've done all that and more, when I really needed to. But this? This is the sort of thing the High Priests of the Old Religion used to do in their sleep. And here I am, not even able to get up enough of a raincloud to water a dandelion."

The magpie flapped drunkenly to one side, as if dancing away from the momentary breeze that Merlin had created.

"Just the one of you today, is it? Sounds about right.(1) So tell me, Maggie – am I an idiot to stay in Camelot? What I just did, well, that would get me burned at the stake in the very spot that cage is in right now. Even if it was a total failure. Even if I didn't actually manage to do anything with it except startle a pea-brained bird."

The magpie dropped its head, and hopped neatly onto the back of Merlin's hand as if in quiet commiseration. Merlin remained as still as the stonework, feeling the hard little talons dig painlessly into his knuckles. Slowly, aware that any sudden movement would startle the creature, Merlin raised his arm until the magpie's bright black eyes were on a level with his own. "You've seen him, haven't you? Prince Arthur. You've seen him do the right thing, even when his father would have it otherwise. You, you know he isn't just the spoiled bully that everyone else sees. Under all that dunderheaded swagger and all that prattish, insufferable pride . . . you've seen him. You've seen the Once and Future King."

This time, Merlin felt a flare of light inside the tiny mind of the magpie: a push back against the magic he had unthinkingly sent out to it as he spoke.

"Thank you," he said, and bowed his head to the silent bird. "You're right. This isn't just about Arthur; a good man is going to die if I don't do something. I've saved his royal arse enough times on my own, there's no reason I can't save Guillam's, too. I just have to figure out how."

At that the magpie cawed, showing a ululating expanse of ridges inside its beak; and Merlin watched as something small and hard fell from its mouth, ringing off the window ledge with a metallic chink! He caught it as it bounced off the stone, and held it up to the gathering daylight to see what his thieving friend had brought him.

It was a nail. New, but bent almost double by a misplaced blow. Merlin couldn't be sure – he had witnessed the scene only from the sidelines, and had not gotten close to the blacksmiths as they worked – but he thought it came from the hideous cage that even now streamed black fingers of shadow across the wakening square.

"All right," said Merlin – and with a deep breath, set the nail down on the ledge. "You're right, Maggie. I know what I have to do. But you'll come visit me, won't you? You and your family?"

The bird cawed once more. It really did seem, to the frightened boy, that the magpie was giving him her word. "I'll hold you to that. And maybe . . . maybe then, Arthur will listen. Do you think so, Maggie?"

But to that, the bird had nothing to say.

§

As badly as Arthur would have liked to have a nice, satisfying yell at Merlin for failing to wake him, he knew that when his father said 'immediately', he meant 'immediately'. Merlin would just have to wait. It might even give Arthur something to look forward to, once the unavoidable business of crime and punishment had been dispensed with. Perhaps he would even get a chance to throw things.

He came upon Gaius in one of the passageways between his chambers and the square, and was a little chagrined to see that Merlin was not with him. Surely the lazy bag of bones wasn't still asleep, with half the castle twittering nervously through the passageways like caged birds? Arthur had stopped to peer from one of the passage windows, and seen the townsfolk creeping from their homes to congregate under the watchful eyes of the citadel guard. Everywhere, a quiet unrest seemed to permeate the very stones. But, this was Merlin. Of course he was still asleep when the case he had taken such a passionate interest in was about to break wide open.

"Gaius," he said, with a nod of greeting.

"Good morning, sire. I take it you are on your way to your father to oversee proceedings?"

"Sir Leon just informed me that I was needed on the balcony. Something to do with the stablemaster's case?"

Gaius' familiar, softly drooping face gave away nothing. "I was hoping you could tell me, sire. I've been informed that I'm to receive Guillam in my chambers this morning, and to be prepared to treat him for prolonged sun exposure. I can only assume that the king has found whoever was really responsible for the Lady Morgana's fall."

So, his father's gambit had worked. Be it through Guillam's disclosure or the real perpetrator's folly, the saboteur had been caught after all. Arthur was relieved to hear that the old man would be spared a further two days in the blistering heat, and would be treated for whatever ill effects he had suffered thus far; perhaps, if new information had come to light and absolved him of blame, he might be pardoned altogether. But Gaius' incomplete scraps of information raised more questions than they really answered; who, by all that was holy, had wanted to harm Morgana? Was it a part of a larger plot, or merely an opportunist looking to avenge some petty slight? He knew that his father would choose to believe the first, and the thought made Arthur weary to the very depths of his bones.

"Gaius, have you seen Merlin this morning? He seems to have made himself scarce just when I wanted him." Probably too much of a girl to watch in case there's an execution, Arthur thought. He'll be hiding in a cupboard somewhere, pretending he was polishing a mop, or something.

"I imagine you saw him more recently than I, sire. He told me last night that he would be late running errands for you, and not to wait up for him. Perhaps he crept in and up to his room without waking me?"

"Perhaps."

Arthur. I don't think he'll survive another two days out there.

No. He wouldn't be that stupid. He wouldn't be.

I wasn't about to stand by and do nothing when a good man's life is at stake.

Surely not. Not when Arthur himself had ordered him to stand down. And what could Merlin hope to achieve, other than to give the man food and something to bring his fever down? Of all the stupid, reckless, idiotic things to do—

Any subject approaching him or offering him aid in any way will receive twenty lashes, and will thereafter immediately take his place.

And with a plummeting sensation in his stomach that left him hollow and reeling, Arthur finally understood.

"Sire?" Gaius' wrinkled face showed the faintest hint of concern, at last. "I apologise if I said something amiss. Was Merlin not running errands for you last night?"

With a deep breath, Arthur met the old man's faded blue eyes and dredged up a tiny smile. "No, that's exactly what he was doing, Gaius. You know Merlin – he always does precisely as he's told."

§

I can't believe I did something this stupid because a bird told me to.

But it was done, and not even the knowledge that he had let his heart rule his head was going to change that. Instead Merlin fixed his eyes on the small patch of sky in the window, and watched it bloom from gold to an aching cerulean blue. It was going to be another blistering day in Camelot, and the stones beneath his hands already warmed to the heat of the rising sun. No clouds gathered, no breeze stirred. For that brief hour, it felt as if the world held its breath on his behalf.

It had still been just barely night when Merlin returned to the cage. The light was still grey, the colours washed from the square like wine stains from a crisp white shirt. Merlin had been racing the dawn as he gathered what he needed from Gaius' supply cupboards; the shadows of the courtyard clung to the base of the buildings, and left him horribly exposed. He had brought Guillam an aloe balm for his sunburn, and a tonic of coriander and comfrey to help ease his growing fever: things that would help very little, but served well enough as a reason for his unsanctioned visit. It had been difficult to administer the tonic through the bars, but after a brief struggle Merlin had been able to slip his arms between them and hoist the man upright. The effect would not be immediate, Merlin knew; but he nonetheless thought he had seen the hitch of the old man's chest ease, just a little. After a few more minutes, Guillam slid painlessly into a less troubled sleep.

So now the die was cast. The sky, in his brightening swatch of window, promised a day that would scorch the flesh from your bones. Right now he was cool, bathed in an underground chill that was sheer bliss after so many days of incessant heat; but later, he knew, he would burn. Later, he would bleed.

He had never known a whipping before. Heat, he had known, and was in some small way prepared for – there had been days in Ealdor where the sun was a blaze of white in an endless blue sky, and the crops began to perish in the fields. Days when the entire village would turn out to water the withered ground, or gather what they could before the harvest was lost. On those days Merlin and his mother would work for hours, carting barrels of water on hand carts or cutting the grain with sickles until their backs were sore. They would stumble home in the cooling twilight, with their heads pounding and their skin burned raw – but the sickness would pass with a good night's sleep. Their aching bones would recover after a few hours of ease and rest. Heat, Merlin was confident he could take . . . but a flogging was something he had no frame of reference for. And that terrified him more than words could say.

What if he disgraced himself, in front of the few people whose opinions really mattered to him? Gaius, Gwen . . . Arthur. What if he screamed, cried, begged . . . all things he had witnessed, whenever some poor soul was forced to endure the lash? He thought he could stand the pain, but the humiliation would scar far worse than any whip ever could. The thought that people – that Arthur – might see him as a coward was more than Merlin thought he could bear.

The day was bright when Merlin heard the clap of footsteps approaching along the passageway outside. Two sets of feet, if he heard aright, wearing the heavy-soled boots of the guards of Camelot. With a shuddering breath, Merlin pushed himself up off the floor and stood facing the barred front wall of his cell. So this was it. His knees almost failed him as he stood; the quickening throb of his heart resounded in his ears.

Merlin tasted something hot and mineral in his mouth, and with a moan understood that he had bitten his own tongue. In his stricken state, he had failed to notice that his teeth were chattering. He spat the taste of metal onto the flagstone floor, and felt the world dip and swoop as he saw blood glaring red on the trampled hay.

My blood, he thought, and stared unseeing at the small coin of scarlet between his feet. Funny. For all my magic, for all my differences, it looks much the same as any other's. Just my blood.

He wondered how much more of it he would be seeing, before the morning was through.

§

Despite the earliness of the hour, the square was already thronged with people. Shopkeepers, called away from the important business of opening their premises for the day; stall holders, obliged to pause in setting up their wares in order to investigate the furore. Guards, washerwomen, servants, children – all had congregated at the rumours of a public flogging and incarceration. When the guards first dragged him from the dim interior of the cells, all Merlin had been able to see was a murmurous mass of figures behind a glare of sun-blindness; then his eyes had cleared, the blindness had blinked itself away . . . and Merlin saw that the crowd were not gawking avidly at the spectacle, as he had feared. In fact, they seemed to cling to the periphery of the square as the shadows had done before them.

Merlin let his gaze dart quickly around the assembled men and women, searching for specific faces in the crowd. First he found Gwen, her doe-skinned face pale and her hands wringing themselves to rags in her skirts. Beside her he saw the grim-faced cook, the kitchen boys and the stablehands and the chamber maids. All stood with eyes turned dull, and lips kept ominously sealed.

Perhaps they won't think me a coward, after all, he thought. Perhaps . . . perhaps they'll even feel proud of me, a little bit.

Now if only Arthur would.

He saw Gaius standing alone to one side, far closer to the looming black cage than the townsfolk had dared to venture. On the surface he had donned the unresisting mask of the court physician, there only to ensure the prisoner could withstand the punishment as ordered; but Merlin knew Gaius better than almost anyone. He knew that each of those masks held subtle distinctions that very few could tell apart. This one, the professional face of the court physician, was all that kept the old man from crumbling like stone under the ivy's pull.

The two guards brought Merlin to a halt beside the empty cage, and with a quick shake turned him around to face the balcony. Uther stood in his usual place between four of his personal guard, and if Merlin had harboured even the slightest hope that the king would show him mercy, then one glance at his face shattered that hope. Yes, he had hoped. As foolish as it seemed, Merlin had been holding out some, small hope that Arthur would speak out on his behalf. But Arthur . . . Arthur was not even here. There would be no reprieve from that quarter.

"Merlin of Ealdor," said Uther. "This morning you were apprehended providing aid to the prisoner Guillam Le Frye, in direct opposition to the will of your king. This is not the first time you have disobeyed me, or called into question my judgements regarding law and order. Tell me, boy: were you not made aware of my edict concerning the prisoner?"

For a moment, Merlin could not reply. His tongue was stuck fast to the roof of his mouth, his cheeks sucked dry of all moisture. One of the guards gave him a short, sharp shake, and with an effort Merlin said: "I was aware of it, my lord."

"And yet you purposefully disobeyed the orders of your king. Such an act could be viewed as treason, boy. Why would you take such a risk?"

"I couldn't stand by and watch while an innocent man died. Not when I could help him. Sire, you hired me as your son's manservant because I was willing to risk my life to save his. It shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I would do the same for others."

He heard a stirring of muttered voices behind him at that. He couldn't tell if it was merely at the fact of his insolence, or was a reaction to the words themselves – but suddenly the hush of the courtyard was drowned in a rising murmur of unrest.

"Silence!" Uther bellowed. "I will have order. Merlin of Ealdor, for knowingly interfering with the king's justice, you are hereby sentenced to twenty lashes by braided whip and to serve the remainder of said prisoner's sentence in the cage you see before you. Let this be a lesson to all the citizens of Camelot – that it is your duty to uphold the laws of this land, and to respect the course of justice in all things."

The guards took this as their cue, and on Uther's order Merlin felt his shirt torn from his body. Stood only in his worn brown breeches and weathered boots, he could feel for the first time how fiercely the sun beat down on his bare skin: how exposed he was, with nothing but air between his unprotected back and the whip.

And he was terrified.

It was then that another voice was raised above the crowd: one voice, in all that discontented hush, that dared to ring out above the rest.

"Father! It was me. I ordered him to do it."

§

The babble of the gathered townsfolk was rent apart as if by a thunderclap. Arthur wondered, in the wake of it, if this was what madness felt like – because surely only madness could explain what he had just allowed to leave his lips.

Madness, and Merlin.

"Did you hear me, Father? I ordered my manservant to take food and medicine to the prisoner, and to do all he could for him. He cannot be held responsible for carrying out his master's orders."

Silence, echoing into the far reaches of the square. Echoing in Arthur's ears, a harsh, resonant clamour. Perhaps there was a storm brewing a ways in the distance, he thought; he could feel the hairs on his arms crackle with the approach of it, taste it thick and metallic on his tongue.

His father's face looked down from the balcony above without so much as a flicker. If Arthur had hoped to see some subtle shift in the king's expression, some softening of his resolve, then that was only his foolish boy's heart speaking. "And why would my son knowingly interfere with the punishment of a convicted criminal?" said Uther. "As first knight of Camelot, it is your duty to maintain law and order in the kingdom. You, more than anyone."

"He didn't, sire!" Arthur heard the commotion away to his right as Merlin battled against restraining hands. "Please, my lord, he knew nothing about it until this morning. I swear to you, I was acting alone."

"Are you calling my son a liar, boy?" Uther's voice was glacial. "He is a knight of Camelot, and it is his sworn duty to be truthful in all his dealings. He would not lie to his king. Would you, Arthur?"

"Merlin was only acting on my behalf," Arthur said, again. "My servant may not know one end of a broom from the other, but he has always been quick to divine my wishes. You chose him well, sire."

"Then your servant puts his loyalty to you above his duty to his king. You are still only crown prince, Arthur. I think both you and this boy forget that. I am the king of Camelot, and until my death I expect you to abide by my rule."

"Sire, please." Merlin again. "Please, I was the one that suggested it, if anyone is to be punished then it should be me—"

"SILENCE!" Uther roared. "You, boy. If I hear one more word from you, then whichever of you is responsible will receive thirty lashes. I will speak with my son without your interference."

So his father still blamed Merlin for this transgression. Attempting to aid the stablemaster was just such a Merlin thing to do, after all. Arthur stole a glance at his servant, still restrained at the arms by two of the citadel guard. The boy was so young, so naive . . . but so stupidly, idiotically brave.

And Arthur would not have had him any other way.

"Father," he said. "I have confessed to the offence in front of witnesses. Merlin's only crime here is that his loyalty to me sometimes blinds him to any other responsibility – but if I've learned anything as crown prince, it's that a good ruler does not punish loyalty in his subjects. Please don't punish Merlin for my mistakes."

Not once, in the past few minutes, had Arthur looked away from the immovable figure of his father on the balcony above. His fingernails had carved bloodless crescents into the meat of his palms; the weight of the interminable blue sky seemed to be crushing him, a great load bearing down on his shoulders from above. It was with his heart in his mouth that he saw his father shake himself free of the stalemate, and signal for the guards on the balcony to follow him out. Then the king and his men disappeared, and Arthur finally let himself look for the boy he was trying so foolishly to save.

Merlin no longer struggled against the two uncertain guards; he only met Arthur's gaze with unnaturally bright eyes, and mouthed, No.

Arthur tipped his chin a little higher, set his back a little straighter, and looked away. He watched, as every pair of eyes but Merlin's watched, for the king to arrive and settle the matter once and for all.

It could only have been a few minutes, but to Arthur those minutes dragged as nothing in his life had ever dragged before. As a knight, he was used to standing at attention for long periods of time: used to the punishing heat and the glare of the sun on stone. But as the minutes passed he nevertheless felt sweat begin to crawl down his spine: felt his traitorous heartbeat quickening, quickening, until it echoed in his chest like the thunder of hoofbeats. His eyes fell, inevitably, on the dull black iron of the cage. It seemed to absorb the sunlight, somehow, sucking the life and light from everything around it.

Still, his father did not come.

To punish me, he thought, with a welcome spurt of anger. He's going to make us wait. He wants us to stand here and look at that cage, and wonder which of us will suffer for this.

He was standing with his back to the crowd, but he could hear them rustling and murmuring as the time stretched away into silence. He tried to keep his hands behind his back and his eyes front, but there were too many things in that square that simply refused to be ignored. Over the topmost bar of the cage, where wall met roof, a pair of heavy iron manacles had been slung; to one side the executioner stood, his hood for once discarded, a plaited whip clasped in his gnarled brown hand.

A hunting whip, Arthur noted. It was perhaps five feet long and as thick as his thumb, made of braided cowhide that tapered to three wicked-looking knots in the end. It was not the worst he could have faced, he knew that; there were cats in the dungeons that would tear the flesh from a man's bones, and leave him crippled for life. It was not the worst . . . but those knots would make him bleed, all the same.

That was when Uther stepped out from the shadow of the archway ahead, and into the hollow silence of the congregation that waited there. Arthur watched dully as his father strode across the square . . .

. . . reached out his hand . . .

. . . and took the whip from the executioner without a word.

Of course.

Only the king may strike the crown prince, and live.(2)

§

"I can't watch this." Merlin's throat locked around the words; tears clogged his oesophagus and he hated the sound of it, how wet and fractured his voice had become. "Gaius . . . this is my fault."

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and his mentor's breath blown hot against his ear. "It's not your fault that Uther has decided upon such a harsh sentence, my boy. Arthur is strong; he will live through the experience, and one day he will have forgotten this ever happened. I can't say with certainty that the stablemaster would have done the same."

Merlin took a shaky breath, and without turning reached up his hand to cover Gaius'. "It should be me up there."

"He made his choice, Merlin. You have to accept it."

"No. No, I can stop this, I can—"

"Merlin." Although Gaius' voice was still gentle, Merlin recognised the note of finality underneath. With each passing season, that tone had become less frequent; but on those rare occasions when it was still brought to bear, Merlin had long since learned to listen. "Even if you did stop it – what would that achieve? You wouldn't be preventing Arthur's punishment. You would merely be postponing it."

"Then what do you expect me to do? I'm supposed to protect him, Gaius. Not the other way around."

"If there's one thing I know about the two of you," said the old man, "it's that you are more alike than either of you want to admit. Be strong for him, as he is being strong for you."

For me. The stubborn prat is doing this for me. And Merlin knew, with a pain in his heart sharper than any lash, that he didn't deserve any of it.

Arthur stood, proud and silent, and met the king's gaze with calm blue eyes. Most of the assembled crowd would see the hero knight of Camelot, a man unfazed by violence and immune to fear. They would whisper in the taverns that night of their crown prince, facing down his father as fearlessly as he might any mythical beast. But Merlin had been in Arthur's service for almost two years, now; he had watched the prince when he thought no-one was there to see his mask slip. Now he saw the way Arthur's eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, towards the whip in Uther's hand: saw the ivory skin pale, if only by a shade.

Despite what Arthur liked people to think, Merlin knew that he wasn't made of stone.

Two guards had moved up behind Arthur, and had reached to seize him by the arms – but Uther stopped them with a raised hand. "No. My son will not attempt to run. He will submit himself without question to his king."

The guards fell back. Arthur's unearthly calm appeared to have affected them as it had affected the entire square, for there was not a single catcall from the assembled crowd. They stood in quiet horror at the sight of their prince, the golden heir of Camelot, facing the lash like any common criminal.

And yet looking so much like a king.

With his gaze never once leaving his father's, Arthur grasped the fine linen of his shirt and slid it silently over his head. In the garish sunlight his body was the colour of boiled cream, the hair on his chest a tarnished bronze. Merlin saw his master shirtless every day, and thought nothing of it; in the privacy of his chambers, Arthur's nakedness was of no more or less import than whether he wore shirt or armour, helmet or coronet. Whatever he wore, he was master. Here, under the gaping eyes of his future subjects, this sudden baring of Arthur's pale body made Merlin clench his fists in helpless rage.

Arthur dropped his shirt on the ground – one careless, defiant gesture that made Merlin's heart feel uncomfortably large in his chest – and walked purposefully towards the looming man cage. Of his own free will he reached up and placed his hands inside the manacles; and of his own free will he stood, back straight and eyes front, as the executioner locked them closed.

"Arthur Pendragon," came Uther's cool, unmistakeable voice. "For interfering with the king's justice, you are hereby sentenced to twenty lashes by braided whip, and a sum of two days and nights in the cage previously occupied by Guillam Le Frye. You will be given water and appropriate medical care by the royal physician, but will receive neither food nor shade until your sentence is served. Do you have anything to say to your king?"

"No, Father. I have said all I came here to say."

"Then so be it," said Uther. And he pulled back the whip, ready to strike.

§

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT

One.

Merlin bit down on his tongue as the first lash cracked against Arthur's back. The pale flesh crimsoned under the leather, and Arthur let out a soft grunt as his body jerked forward in the chains. If Merlin had held out any last, febrile hope that Uther would find reason to excuse his son, then it died with that first, sickening lash.

Two.

The townsfolk were eerily silent, as they watched. At any other flogging there would be jeers, catcalls, a sense of derision from the more pitiless members of the crowd – but this crowd was struck dumb with horror. This was their prince, suffering the lash at the hand of his own father. Their prince, who stood with head bowed and eyes closed in quiet submission. Arthur would put on as good a show of fortitude as he could, for as long as he could . . . but Merlin knew his master better than anyone. Those knotted hands, the twitch of muscle in his reddening back – they indicated all too clearly that he was aware, and hurting, and refusing to let his father see.

Three.

Merlin swallowed his rage as the third stroke drew blood. Just a spot, merely a dark pebble-dashing like that of a grazed knee, but livid against the milk-white flesh. Soon the skin would wear away, the layers peel back like that of an onion, and Arthur would bleed for real.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Arthur's breath came now in short, sharp gasps. His body was alight with sweat, his pale skin like wax – all but his back, which blazed as red as sunburn in the ferocious sunlight. It took all Merlin had, not to hurl himself between his master and the rising whip: not to wrap his arms around Arthur and give his own back to the raging king. Perhaps he even made some move to do just that – because the next thing he knew, he felt Gaius' bony hand lock warningly around his elbow. "No, Merlin," said the old man. "It would be unwise to make Uther any angrier than he already is, right now."

Seven.

Eight.

At last, a soft whine came from Arthur's throat. It was a sound that Merlin had never thought to hear from this proud, brash prince. It was too raw, too helpless, to ever come from Arthur Pendragon.

Nine.

Ten.

As the whip flayed open his left shoulder, the prince finally let out a single fox-bark of pain. On his back, five of the ten lash marks oozed blood in slick, scarlet beads.

Eleven.

Twelve.

This time the crack of leather on flesh was sharp as splintered bone in the quiet. Arthur's red, red mouth trembled around a sob, and his chest heaved with the pain – but still he bore the lash in silence. Still, he would not scream.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

It was then that he broke. At the fourteenth stroke the whip curled around Arthur's side to snap across his left nipple; and Arthur let out a high, cracked scream that made something in Merlin's chest split open like a nut under a stone.

I can't watch this. I can't. Arthur . . .

The fifteenth and sixteenth lashes fell to deafening silence. Uther and the assembled crowd would never see the desperate determination on Arthur's face as they landed: his jaw clamped shut, his eyes staring ahead and aware of every aching second between blows. But Merlin saw. Merlin saw, and was so proud of his master that he thought his heart would burst in his chest.

On the seventeenth, his knees gave out. Arthur was trembling from the clutch of his knuckles to the base of his spine, and his breath was a quick, high gasp in his throat – but he would not give in. Please, Arthur, Merlin begged. You don't have to prove anything. Not to Uther, not to them, and certainly not to me. Scream if it will make it easier. Cry. Anything.

Just don't be such a bloody hero.

But he would not be Arthur if he did. He would not be the proud, pigheaded man that Merlin had so grudgingly come to respect.

Eighteen.

The golden head sagged onto the straining white arms, at last. Blood spattered the ground as Uther pulled back the lash, dragging its slithering weight through the dirt; and now at last the king hesitated, white scar bisecting his brow like lightning. Arthur's back was raw, clawed through with red; he was choking back sobs that sounded wet and claggy to Merlin's thunderstruck ears. Uther's arm pulled back, and the lash flew once more.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

"Get him down," said Uther, as if the scene disgusted him. He was still holding the bloody whip, but his eyes never once rested on the broken form of his son. They darted from the guards, to the aghast townsfolk, to Merlin and Gaius standing alone beside the cage. As if Arthur were not even there.

"Gaius. Go and prepare what you need. I expect you back here in an hour to tend my son."

To tend your son. Your son, who you flogged so mercilessly that he can barely stand. Your son, who you won't even look at.

Merlin had hated Uther before this. He had hated him for every unjust execution, every raid on a peaceful Druid camp, and most of all for his bitter, blatant hypocrisy – but he had never felt it in his gut like this before. His magic was hissing and spitting like fat on a griddle, and it wanted something, and it was angry. Merlin was aware of a heat bubbling up from under his skin, seeping from his pores as the blood seeped from Arthur's back. He had felt this autonomy from his magic before – but always it had been with a sense of aching protectiveness towards the prince, wanting that which made it whole. Now, though, that power wanted something different.

It wanted to kill Uther Pendragon.

And Merlin really didn't know if he would be able to stop it.

NOTES:

1) This is an old superstition, the idea that you can predict the future based upon the number of magpies you see at any one time. It has an associated rhyme: "One for sorrow, two for joy, three for girl, four for boy. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told." I'm pretty sure that Merlin, with all his incredible power, is above believing in peasant superstitions – but that cutting wit of his would probably enjoy the irony of a single magpie, anyway.

2) When I was researching medieval crime and punishment, I discovered that throughout much of British history, only the reigning monarch was legally permitted to strike the heir to the throne. I admit I was thrilled with this little nugget of information, because having Uther actually whip Arthur himself added immensely to the emotional impact of the scene.