The First Night

Merlin found Gwen in the annexe to Lady Morgana's chambers, a little before sunset. She was folding laundry with quick, agile hands, and Merlin could not help but feel a twinge of envy at her effortless skill. Whenever he tried to fold Arthur's clothes without magic, they looked as if the body inside them had been miraculously raptured, leaving only their outer vestments behind. The prince was forever complaining of creases in his shirts and lint on his breeches, and for once Merlin had to admit that Arthur had a point.

Arthur. It hurt to think of him, and the utter contempt in his voice as he ordered Merlin to silence. I should have just let you take what was coming to you, you worthless cretin. I should have let them toss you in here and throw away the key.

"Did you come to see Lady Morgana?" Gwen asked, looking up briefly from her task. "I'm afraid she's sleeping right now, but I could give her a message when she wakes up?"

"No, no, it's fine, I'll just . . . come back another time. She's doing well, though, isn't she?"

"Gaius has been keeping an eye on her. She has a headache and her ankle is in plaster, but to be honest I think she's more bored than anything. She'd appreciate a visit, if you can find the time. What with—" But there she stopped; and though her hands continued with their ceaseless folding, Merlin saw that they were trembling.

"He'll be all right, Gwen. Honest. You know Arthur, he's been injured more times than we've had hot dinners and he always comes out of it just fine. I sometimes think if his head was hanging by a thread he would just stitch it on and dive back into the fight."

"It's not his body I'm worried about, Merlin. I know he will shrug off any pain just as he always does. But Arthur's proud. He won't take kindly to what's happened, and I'm not sure if he'll ever fully forgive it."

Merlin felt his stomach fall away at that, like a stone dropped down a well. Gwen might not spend every waking minute with Arthur, as he himself did; but she understood their cocksure prince with an intuition that never ceased to amaze him. He couldn't help but know that she was right about this, as she always was about the man they both loved. "And maybe he shouldn't forgive me," he said, with a swallow. "I'm the reason he's there, after all. I should have tried harder to convince the king that it was all my fault, I should have done something."

"I – I meant Uther. Arthur's always looked up to his father, always wanted to please him. He frets for days whenever they argue, you've seen it for yourself plenty of times. This – well, this is going to destroy him."

"I know. He's so angry, Gwen, at everything. At his father, at the people, at me. He's always had a rotten temper, and I have the bruises to prove it – but never like this. I think . . . I think maybe he really hates me this time."

Gwen stepped out from behind the table, and cupped a hand gently around Merlin's cheek. Her fingers were calloused, their suede-soft colour belied by the hardened skin; but the touch itself was gentle, and for just a moment Merlin felt the weight on his shoulders lift a little. "Then why did he do it, if he hates you so much? He cares about you, Merlin. I don't think he ever truly cared about anyone before you came along. Perhaps it is no more or less complicated than that."

The hand fell away; and though he mourned its loss, Merlin straightened his spine and allowed his burden to settle back into place with a heart just a little less heavy than before. "I wanted to ask you," he said, more briskly than he had intended, "do you know if the tavern sells wine in pottery flasks, like the ones that were found in the stablemaster's possession? I thought, maybe your father—"

But Gwen cut him off from that line of questioning, just as briskly. "He wasn't a drinker, most of the time. Small ale was about his limit, and a jug or two of mead if the fancy took him. I'm afraid I don't know the answer to your question. But we could go and ask around, if you like? With Morgana asleep, I'm not really needed here for a couple of hours yet." And she smiled, to take the sting from her earlier words. "I'd like to help, if I can."

"That would be great. Thank you."

§

Which was how Merlin and Gwen found themselves pushing through the doors of The Rising Sun, just as twilight began to settle its silvered mantle over Camelot. The roar of both noise and light, heat and stink, was a shock after the quiet of the deserted streets outside. Smoke sputtered from the many lighted oil-lamps, and the tiny flames sent shadows swooning over faded, white-washed walls. There was shoving and laughter from the assembled men, and many sat at table over loaves of brown bread and sausage. Merlin smelled sweat and cooking fires and unwashed skin, and immediately regretted bringing Gwen into such an uncouth place. The tavern was full of rough men and coarse women, the kind who would not think twice about the sensibilities of a gentle girl such as her. He almost backed out of the door as soon as they arrived; but Gwen dug her thumbs hard into the small of his back, and let him know in no uncertain terms that she was not about to allow such unwonted chivalry on her watch.

The innkeeper was a big man, with arms that strained against the sleeves of his too-small shirt. He wore a begrimed burlap apron, the hem of which he busily used to dry a tankard after its brief encounter with the water barrel. "Didn't think you were the sort to come sniffing around my ale barrels, lad," he said. "But then, you're probably at a bit of a loose end right now, all things considered."

"You think I'd come here to drink while my master pays for my crime?" Merlin retorted . . . and then could have bitten his tongue clean out of his head as soon as he said it. "At least . . . it feels like my crime. I was the one who took food and medicine to old Guillam, even if it was on Arthur's orders . . . and I did sort of talk him into it, a bit. It's just, I'm convinced that Guillam wouldn't have shirked his duty like that, not on purpose. So I wanted to ask – did you perhaps sell him any wine in the past few weeks? Or know of anyone who did?"

The innkeeper appeared to consider – and then shook his head, with what looked like honest regret. "I couldn't say for sure, boy, but he never bought any from me when I was on the bar. I'd have to ask my wife about the the rest, she takes care of the noonday rush more often than not."

Merlin was about to ask if he could speak to the man's wife when Gwen came forward, and placed her hands neatly on the bar like a little girl at prayer. She had a smile on her face that would have melted rock. "Hello, Everick? I don't know if you remember me, my brother used to come in here after work for your good wife's meat pies and a jug or two of mead. I'm Gwen? Guinevere Thomas."

The sturdy face broke apart in a smile as genuine as it was unexpected. "You're Elyan's sister? Of course I remember you, time was you had to practically carry him home over your shoulder when he'd made a bit free with the drink. Well, well. And what brings you to such a raucous establishment, if I might ask?"

"I'm just making enquiries, you know. For Prince Arthur. I was wondering, do you sell your wine in pottery flasks, about so high, with a wooden stopper?" And she gestured a distance of about a cubit(1) between her two hands.

"No, Miss, they'd get broke soon as look at 'em. I use good sturdy stone jugs and wineskins, same as any other innkeeper. If the customers return 'em, they get a refund on the loan of 'em, you see – couldn't do that with clay flasks, could you, they'd never survive the night."

"Certainly not with this lot," Gwen teased. "I see Torin is up to his old tricks again – he'll have his wife coming along to fetch him home any minute now."

"I heard that, Guinevere Thomas!" called a fair-haired mountain of a man, waving his tankard merrily in her direction. "And I'll have you know that I wear the breeches in my house, even if my Mariam does hold the purse-strings. Now let me buy you a drink, before the missus descends on me like the hounds of the hunt and drags me off home!"

Merlin gazed open-mouthed at the vibrant woman who stood in Gwen's worn shoes: the woman who seemed to be not only welcome amongst these boorish men, but was actually known by them. This was no demure maidservant, averting her eyes at the slightest male attention; this was a strong and opinionated woman equal in measure to any one of them.

"Another time, Torin. I'm here on the prince's business, and we may have more enquiries to make after we're done here. Why don't you buy your Mariam a ribbon from the market with the price of my drink? I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

Torin raised his mug in Gwen's direction once more, and turned his attention back to his fellows. One of the men at his table – a young, sly-looking guard with black hair and stony black eyes – cast a speculative glance in their direction, but the rest took no notice whatsoever of the two palace servants. Merlin recognised him at once as the unpleasant guard who had escorted him to and from Arthur's cage that morning, and could not help but briefly imagine turning the man into a snake; after all, he was already a venomous worm in everything save his skin.

"That gives me a thought, Gwen," said the innkeeper, calling Merlin's attention reluctantly back to the bar. "None of the liquor sellers in Camelot sell their wares in clay flasks like you described, but there is an oil merchant in the market who uses something like it. About a cubit high, you reckon?"

"Yes," said Gwen. "With a wooden stopper."

"I think we have some in the back, if you'll wait a minute. Might be you'll recognise them up close." And the man disappeared through the door behind the bar, leaving Merlin and Gwen alone with his carousing patrons.

Merlin was not surprised when the black-haired young guard leaned perilously back on his stool and called, for the benefit of any who might be listening: "Here on the prince's business, are you? Well. Seems like His Highness likes more than one flavour of sweetmeat, after all."

A few chuckles from the men around the table at that – but just as many, Merlin noted, who stared uncomfortably into their drinks at the jest.

"You're a mouthy son of a whore, Darius," said an older man, a seasoned guard that Merlin had seen around the castle on many occasions. "Leave them be."

"Why? We all know this boy is the little princeling's bedwarmer – why else would His Highness take a whipping for him, and two days in this heat besides? You all heard him – he admitted it not two minutes ago, clear as day."

"You also heard me explain myself, immediately afterward," said Merlin. "We were both involved, we both wanted to help the old man."

"Our sweet prince never cared so much about the people before you arrived, blue eyes. It doesn't take much imagination to understand whose tongue is wagging in his ear every night." Darius let his eyes stray from Merlin to the patiently waiting Gwen, and a slip of a smile tugged silkily at his lips. "Well – one of his ears, anyway."

Merlin had opened his mouth to deny it when the fair man – Torin – spoke. He laid his tankard gently on the table in front of him, as if the abandonment of his drink was a point in itself – which, as Merlin was soon to discover, it was. "I'll not drink with a man who insults our young prince in that fashion," he said. "Guillam is a good friend of mine, and it's my belief that Prince Arthur disobeyed the king because he knew the man was innocent."

"He was lying, you fool," spat Darius. "He kept well out of it until it was his precious manservant's hide on the line. You mark my words, Torin – he'd not lift a finger for the likes of you. The nobility care for nothing but themselves."

"You're wrong."

All seven men turned flushed, drink-reddened faces to the girl standing quietly beside the bar. Merlin made eight. He watched as she took one, deliberate step forward, wisps of mahogany hair wilfully escaping their pins; and he saw a future queen where moments before had been nothing but a serving-maid.

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you, sweetheart?" said Darius. "Just like any woman who's been bedded by a handsome man. You'd believe he makes the sun rise in the morning and the rain come down from the sky, just so long as he pleasures you when they're gone."

"Have you ever actually spoken to him?" she asked – and her eyes flashed not only over Darius, but at the other six men in their turn. "Any of you?"

The grey-bearded guard nodded, and set his jug of mead on the table alongside Torin's. "Yes, Miss, that I have. I've been a guard here for fifteen years, since the prince was just a little fellow playing with his wooden swords. He's a bit pleased with himself, sometimes, just like any young nobleman with a good name and a handsome face – but there's not a malicious bone in that boy's body. I'm happy to know that when my grandchildren are grown, young Arthur will be their king. And I'll not drink with any man who says otherwise, either."

There was a pause, and soft mutterings that rippled around the table like a wind through grass. Two more men laid aside their drinks; now only two, and Darius himself, remained unswayed.

Gwen fixed her eyes on the younger of the two who still held onto his drinking horn. "And you, Jared? I thought you were a staunch believer in the Pendragon name. Tell me, how much did you pay in taxes this quarter?"

"Five percent on my profit, same as any other season. Not that it's any of your concern, Miss Thomas."

"And were it not for Prince Arthur, you would have been paying twenty percent," said Gwen. "It was Arthur who refused to collect the taxes demanded by the Lady Catrina. It was Arthur who called off the guard and returned the money already taken from the people. Perhaps you should think about that while you enjoy your sixth pint of ale."

"He killed the Questing Beast, Jared," said grey-beard. "Almost died for his pains, too. Prince Arthur has faced every creature to ever invade this kingdom, and done so without regard for his own safety. I may only be a humble palace guard, but I hear the knights' talk. Save your vitriol for one who deserves it, such as our glorious king. He's the one who condemned an old man to die in this heatwave for naught but a mistake, and then flogged his own son for trying to stop it."

A new chorus of mutters around the divided table, this one louder and more certain. On this, at least, these six men were not divided. Briefly Merlin wondered at their daring – though their voices were low and the rest of the tavern-goers loud enough to drown out the dead, it was a risk to speak so openly against the king. But these men appeared to know Gwen of old . . . and it was no secret in Camelot that Merlin himself was Arthur's man to the core. If any audience could be deemed as safe, then the two of them were surely it.

"My cousin lives over the border in Nemeth," said the last drinking man, who had yet to speak. "They call him Uther the Mad in those parts. Blinded by his hatred of magic and his desire for absolute sovereignty, so afraid of betrayal that he crushes dissenters like ants. Say what you like about Arthur, it's his father who's a real blight on this land."

"My wife's uncle was executed for sorcery," said Torin. "Poor old sod never did owt but tend his ovens and bake the king's bread for him, year in and year out. Then one day they started hallucinating up in the citadel – noblemen seeing all sorts, ghosts and goblins and what have you. Next day, Silas was taken up for poisoning the bread with his 'witchcraft'."

Merlin had heard of such a thing, back in Ealdor. There was a certain mould known to bloom in the flour sacks when the damp got in, and anyone who ate bread made from that flour suffered visions fit to scare the gods. This poor baker, whoever he was, had died for no more and no less than a spoiled batch of bread.(2)

Throughout these shared stories and ventured opinions, Darius grew steadily more and more sullen. His mouth drew down into a sulky white line; his black eyes darted first here, then there, watching each man in turn as he spoke. When both Jared and the last remaining dissenter finally lowered their tankards, the incensed young guard flung himself up from his seat and stalked away across the tavern without speaking another word.

Merlin knew he shouldn't have done it. The argument was won, and the wind blowing steadily in the right direction. Arthur might not be the universally adored king of prophecy, not yet . . . but the tide was turning ever in his favour. And Darius . . . Darius was just a lowly palace guard. Too lacking in talent to progress in the ranks, and too lazy to make up his shortfall with hard work and enterprise, the unpleasant young man had simply grown to hate those he saw as keeping him in the dirt. He was unimportant, a weed on the path of their destiny.

Still, as Darius passed by Merlin and stomped towards the door, a floorboard that had previously been secure decided to spring loose under his foot. Darius tripped, tottered . . . and landed face-first in the overflowing spittoon by his feet.(3)

Not bad, thought Merlin. For a bedwarmer.

§

By late afternoon, all the water was gone. No-one had told him how often he might be given more, or when Merlin would visit again – but as the hours blurred and the colours of the world began to shift, Arthur found himself aching for the sound of footsteps approaching his cage. For the rattle of keys on a guardsmen's belt, and a break from this unending purgatory. But as the hours drew on and no-one came, Arthur felt a little more of his resistance worn away like sand under a prevailing wind.

He had never thought, when he so recklessly put himself in Merlin's place, that it would be the isolation that broke him. The endless hours, without a single human voice or friendly face to ease his hurt. He had prepared himself for pain, and pain there was; he had expected heat and hunger and the blazing, nauseous ache in his head. But he had not once thought to prepare himself for exile.

Previous observation had taught him that those sentenced to public display were greeted with almost casual abuse. The cage itself was rare, but the stocks were regularly employed as a means of punishment (often, he had to admit, for Merlin). It was not uncommon to see gaggles of children gathered around the unfortunate prisoner, hurling scorn as they hurled their rotten fruit. Sometimes, though less often, he would see some particularly vicious drunk throw stones at the one on display – and at those times Arthur found himself repulsed by the common people, that they would think it acceptable to offer harm to somebody who could not fight back. His father would scoff, and tell him that he should not expect noble sentiments from those not noble-born. And once, not so long ago, Arthur would have agreed with him.

Once.

Today, the commoners did not jeer. They did not catcall, or lob their spoiled produce between the bars to smash against his open wounds. The townsfolk scurried past the cage with their heads down – as if his crime were too shameful, even, to be punished by aught but silence.

The bustle slowed as the afternoon waned. Fewer people ventured into the square, and as early-evening shadow tilted across the stonework, Arthur began to recognise the faces of those that passed him by. The palace servants hurried home from their day's toil, clothes damp with sweat and hands chafed red with hard work. There was Sophia, the little maid who sometimes tended Morgana on Gwen's afternoon off; there Arven, the royal carpenter. He recognised cooks and kitchen boys, char women and guards . . . but not one of them gave any indication that they recognised him in return.

You were bowing to me yesterday, thought Arthur, with a blaze of anger as sudden and as sharp as any lash. You called me 'sire', and 'my lord'. You cheered for me at tournaments and threw flowers at my feet. You cowards. You traitorous, two-faced snakes. I'll see every one of you dismissed before the week is out.

But even as he thought it, he knew that he would not. By Camelot law, they were within their rights to treat him as they would any other malefactor. He was not the prince, in this cage; he was not the first knight, the most admired young man in all the kingdom. For these two days, even the lowest of the low could abuse him without fear of retribution.

He was drifting, swaddled in a haze of pain like a caterpillar in its silk, when he heard it: the scuff of approaching feet, the jangle of the warder's keys as they moved. And voices. Hushed, succinct . . . familiar. Arthur longed to turn, and see for himself that it was not just a pair of duty guards come to toss him another water skin; but he stayed where he was, curled into a comma with his back to the gate and his knees against the bars. There he waited with his face turned away, and listened for the tell-tale clomp of uncoordinated feet behind him.

A slump. Then another, as someone's knees hit the stones hard. Arthur waited, and was at last rewarded with a fond, barely audible: "Look what you've gone and done to yourself, you prat. You're getting sunburn on those excessively broad shoulders of yours."

Arthur had to bite his tongue against a retort, as foggy and half-formed as that retort might be. He was proud of his broad shoulders, thank you very much. They marked him as a warrior, as a man who cultivated strength to protect those in need. They had attracted many an admiring glance from the passing maids and tavern wenches in his time, girls whose eyes often lingered just a little too long on the fine figure of their prince. And, if Merlin were to be believed, then they may have spared him scars that would have forever branded him a criminal in the people's eyes.

"I told you not to get dust in your wounds, you giant sock puppet," Merlin was saying. "'Don't let them touch the ground', I said. 'I can't bandage them yet, but you have to try and keep them clean', I said. Bloody useless royal ass."

He could turn now, he thought. He could speak, and fall back into the comfort of their quarrelling as if this were any other day. He could feel like Arthur again. Instead he only lay, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer on solid rock, and waited for Merlin to make the next move.

"Let's sit you up, sire. I know it's very tempting to snooze the day away in this glorious sunshine, but you've already got enough dirt in those wounds to start your own herb garden. I told you not to let them make contact with the ground. Now I'm going to have to clean them all over again. Cloth head."

Who are you calling a cloth head, cloth head? Arthur almost said; but instead he only swallowed, and steeled himself for the agony that would blaze across his back when he moved. One breath, two . . . and on the third, he put out a steadying hand to the bars and rocked himself up on one hip. It hurt. Dear God, but it hurt – like a lit taper to the wounds, searing the skin from his back anew. Before he could stop himself, Arthur let out a whimper that made the tears come stinging to his eyes. You coward, he thought, in a voice much more his father's than his own. Princes do not snivel like chimney sweeps for the sake of a whipping. You're not a child, so stop whining like one.

Arms slipped gently under his, but the body they belonged to was careful not to press against his wounds as they heaved. Arthur felt himself lifted upright until his knees were solidly under him – then the arms fell away, and with them the familiar scent of suede and oatmeal and honey. The smell of Merlin, so achingly familiar in all this sterile heat.

He heard the sounds of a bag being opened behind him, presumably Merlin's ubiquitous leather satchel – and Arthur swore to himself that he would not mewl like a child this time, no matter how much it might hurt. He would swallow his sobs as he had been taught, and would not make a sound.

When the vinegar was done, Arthur felt as if the pain was the whole world. It was a boat, and he was tethered to it wherever it may drift. He felt a trickle of warmth down his back, a bloodletting where one of the welts had pulled; he felt the skin of his face and arms tightening, sucked dry by the pitiless sun. And then coolness, as Merlin's fingers traced the salve along his wounds.

For a moment he thought he heard a whisper from behind him: a nonsense word, and nothing that he could understand. But it was just the second draught of poppy seed tea beginning to fade the edges of the world, he decided. Already he was becoming too drowsy, too lifted away by the warmth of the potion, to care very much about anything but the feel of Merlin's hands on his skin.

"Have you seen the way they all turn from me, Merlin?" he asked, so quietly he thought the boy might not even hear him. "They look away as if one glance might turn them to stone. You were there, when my father . . . when it was done. You saw the way they looked at me, the disgust on their faces. It's as if I'm not even their prince anymore."

A pause. Merlin's fingers slowed their gentle ministrations: stilled, and finally fell away. "We need to bandage you up now, sire. It will help the wounds to heal."

Arthur submitted to the bandages as he had to the rest, in silence. Then he felt Merlin's hand clasp tentatively around his arm, and turn him enough that his right shoulder fell against the bars with an indefinable clang. Merlin took up Arthur's left hand in both of his – rough with callouses, those hands, and how could one so clumsy also be so gentle? – and said: "I'd better bind these too, Arthur. They've been chafed red raw, look."

"Do what you have to. To be honest I barely noticed them."

Merlin remained unnaturally silent as he worked. He tended Arthur with a gentleness that surprised the prince – but he did so without the stream of pointless chatter that Arthur had come, over time, to expect as his due. Merlin was binding off the linen at Arthur's left wrist when he said: "You're wrong, you know. I saw the crowd today, and yes, they were disgusted. I saw revulsion on almost every face, and those that weren't disturbed by what they saw were just plain terrified. But their disgust was not for you, Arthur. Never for you."

"My father."

"Yes."

"Then why won't they look at me? Why do even the palace servants, people I have known my entire life, turn from me as if I were a cockroach that just fell into their soup?"

Merlin bound off the right wrist and gave the prince his hands back with a face as mild as milk. For a moment, he gave no indication that he was even listening. But then he said: "Your father has decreed that anyone approaching you or offering you aid will be banished. The people—they're afraid even to look at you, in case they should bring the king's wrath down upon their heads. And I can't say that I blame them all that much."

"I see."

"Do you? Do you really understand, or are you just relieved that their distrust is not directed at you? The people are scared, Arthur. You've seen them, they scurry about their business like mice constantly expecting the cat. They know the punishment didn't fit the crime, not for you, and not for Guillam. They're terrified they could be next."

Merlin's eyes had a hard, brittle shine to them that Arthur didn't recall ever seeing there before. And it frightened him, to think that his foolish, big-hearted servant had a look like this inside of him. "You think my father was unjust. Come on, Merlin, there's no use denying it. I can read you like a book."

"I think the king believes in the things he does. Camelot is rarely under threat from invaders because he is known to be swift and decisive in his actions. He doesn't shy away from the hard decisions when they need to be made."

"But—?"

"But you didn't deserve what he did to you. You didn't deserve it, but he did it anyway. I'm allowed to hate him for that."

"No. No, you're not, Merlin, because—" Because if you do, then I might just have to allow myself to hate him, too. "—because he is still your king. He is still my father, and you will by God show him some respect."

"I can't respect a king who would chain up an innocent man and beat him bloody, sire. You can't ask me to do that. I won't."

Arthur bit at his cheek until a stab of pain made him stop. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the boy's hands, remembering their gentleness on his smarting back – but already the sense of peace was fading. Already the connection he had felt to another human being was growing attenuated, straining between the two boys as if ready to snap at a breath. "If you think so little of him, Merlin, then why did you even come to Camelot? You weren't born here, you owe no allegiance to this kingdom. Why come all this way to serve a king you so clearly despise?"

"Because he's not the king I came here to serve."

Perhaps it was the opium, burning through his veins like hot cider on a cold winter's day; perhaps it was the constant pain, setting his nerve-endings alight and wearing his resistance thin. He had steeled himself against his punishment as a warrior should; he had borne the rejection of the people as only a prince could do. But this, he could not guard himself against.

He had never been trained to defend himself against the likes of this remarkable boy.

"You can go now," he said, and his voice sounded thick to his own ears. "I'll not hear you speak treason, Merlin."

Merlin hesitated, and the snap of rage that had burned in Arthur's gut all day found a new and entirely too convenient target. "I said GO! Get out, before I decide to tell my father who really helped the old man last night."

Merlin fled – and it was not until he was gone and the gate locked behind him that Arthur turned his face away, and let his body crumple to the ground where he sat. The tears spilled, then. He dashed them from his cheeks as if they offended him – which, him being the man he was, they did.

§

Merlin shivered. In the midst of a heatwave that held all of Camelot in its grip, he alone felt seized by cold.

The square was utterly still, this late into the night. Lanterns were extinguished in windows, and the people had thrown wide their shutters in the hopes of coaxing inside any passing breeze. A few torches flared in their sconce to assist the Night Watch, but their rudimentary light did not reach the cage where Arthur lay. He was cast out, even, from that.

Merlin huddled in the shadows, one hand playing fretfully over the stone wall as it cooled. Camelot was giving up its day's heat, and settling into a softer, more peaceable warmth. Merlin hoped it would at least help Arthur lie easy for these few hours, but he doubted it could help to mend whatever had been broken inside his prince. The Arthur that raged against his lot in that cage was not the Arthur who threw goblets at his head every morning: the Arthur that sometimes smiled that bright, uninhibited smile at his manservant when he thought no-one else would see. This Arthur was an inward-turning shadow, eating himself alive from the outside in.

He wished he could be angry at the prince's sudden bitterness: wished that he could protect his own mind with a wall of rage, the way Arthur so often seemed to. Arthur had thrown up his shield against any hint of kindness, and there would be no apologies, no chance of making it right. The crown prince had allowed his servant to tend him, that much was true – but that was all he would allow. And if tomorrow played out much as today had done, he may soon begin to refuse even that.

Merlin felt no surprise when soft, padded footfalls sounded behind him. As always, he smelled Gaius long before the old man reached him: the furry aroma of herbs and the fresh green of growing things, mixed with the sting of the horse-glue he used to label his medicine bottles. Perhaps that was why he always felt so unaccountably safe around the old physician, Merlin thought – he had about him the residue of living things, clinging to him like a burr to a fox's brush. Merlin's magic had always appreciated that.

"What are you still doing out here, my boy? You really must come to bed, you'll be fit for nothing by morning."

"He hates me, Gaius. I humiliated him in front of his father, in front of his people. He's never going to forgive me for this."

A breath, as if the physician were drawing in his thoughts from the surrounding air; a pause, as his logical old brain sorted through the options that had been given him. Then: "If he truly hated you, Merlin, then right at this moment you would be the one languishing in that cage."

"But how can I ever make this up to him? I've never seen him this angry with me, not really, not like this. And maybe he's right to be. He warned me not to interfere, he must have known what Uther had planned for me if I did, but I had to go and do it anyway. And now I can't even make it rain to help him survive this miserable heat. That's how utterly useless I am, a warlock who can't even make it rain on demand. Maybe I am a worthless cretin, after all. Maybe he's right not to forgive me."

He sensed Gaius drifting up behind his left shoulder, bringing that aura of poultices and potions breathing into his personal space. The old man didn't touch him, much as he might have wanted to. He only stayed at Merlin's side, and said: "Merlin, tell me honestly – do you regret helping the stablemaster as you did? I'm not asking if you regret what has happened to Arthur because of it; only if you think it was wrong to do what you did."

Merlin shook his head, emphatically. "No. Guillam was dying, I had to get him out of there. Surely it's never wrong to try and help someone?"

"Of course it isn't, my boy, and you take it upon yourself to help more than most. But are you sure that's all you were doing?"

Merlin swallowed. Shadows chased across the square as a brief veil of cloud shrouded the moon. "Yes . . . no. I just wanted him to listen to me, Gaius. Just once. But he didn't and it was left up to me, like it always is. Up to me to fix it. I thought if he saw the consequences – that I'd had to step up and do something because he wouldn't – then maybe he'd actually listen to me next time."

"You wanted to prove a point."

Merlin was silent. That fullness was in his throat again – packed tight, like a rag lodged in the crack of a draughty wall. But his eyes remained stubbornly dry, and not for the first time Merlin wondered just what he was becoming. Couldn't even cry properly, he spat. Couldn't make it rain, and couldn't even cry for your prince. You're a failure, Emrys. A disappointment to everyone who ever called you friend.

"It was supposed to be me," he said again. "I was going to take Guillam's place, it was supposed to be me. I never thought that Arthur would . . . could . . . do something like this. I didn't think he knew what 'selfless' meant."

"You did. You would never have given him your loyalty in the first place if you hadn't seen that in him."

At last Gaius laid a careful hand on Merlin's left shoulder, and involuntarily Merlin flinched at the touch. He half-turned to the old physician, already knowing the expression that he would see there. It would be Eyebrow Number Three, the I'm Disappointed In You look, and if Merlin dared turn to see it then he knew he really would cry.

"Is something the matter, lad? Have you hurt yourself?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I was out in the stables this afternoon, and then what with tending Arthur and running errands outside . . . well, I think I just caught some sun on my shoulders, that's all. Who knew you could burn through linen, eh?"

Gaius said nothing, but from the corner of his eye Merlin could see him nodding. "I'll give you some aloe to rub on it if you come inside. It'll calm the sting, and help to prevent the skin peeling. And as your physician, Merlin, I order you to get some sleep."

Merlin smiled, the first real smile he had felt on his face in over a day, and meekly followed his mentor back inside.

§

When Gaius was finally asleep, Merlin peeled of his shirt and inspected his shoulders in the misty surface of a pewter tray. He had not wanted to worry the kindly old man, but his back had been giving him some trouble all day. Not enough to cause him any real discomfort, and not enough for him to investigate the source of it when there was so much else to do – but it would throb when he moved, and the weave of his shirt rubbed unpleasantly against his skin. He had put it down to sunburn, a natural by-product of a life lived largely outdoors, and thought nothing more of it.

He wondered at his own obtuseness, now. The scratched surface of the tray reflected an imperfect image, but still Merlin could see in it the white of his skin and the lick of candlelight across the narrow planes of his back. The room lay beyond, a knot of darkness that flickered with every leap of the candle's quivering flame. And he saw red.

There, across his shoulders and back, he saw the irrefutable crimson of lash marks. They were old, perhaps as many as three weeks healed – and though they throbbed with the insistence of a rotten tooth, they were in no danger of opening anew. The flesh around the fading stripes had yellowed, well into the final stages of bruising. Merlin did not need to count the stripes to know how many were there, because he had seen each and every one of them fall.

Twenty. There were twenty.

NOTES:

1) A cubit is an ancient unit of measurement, traditionally the span between an average man's wrist and his elbow.

2) This actually happened during the Salem Witch Trials. Many of the so-called 'witnesses' who testified to seeing proof of witchcraft were actually experiencing hallucinations caused by eating mouldy bread.

3) They probably didn't have spittoons in the 6th century, since their primary function in later centuries was for men chewing tobacco to spit the used wad into – but I could be wrong. It's not like people don't spit for other reasons, right?