Epilogue

If Uther felt any compunction at standing before the people of Camelot with such blatant intent to lie, then you would never know it from his face. He was an impregnable fortress, a man as unassailable as the citadel itself. No matter what Uther Pendragon might feel on the inside, his outside was always nothing less than impenetrable.

It had been a week, since Arthur woke to find himself safe in his own bed. A week, and this was the first time the prince had ventured from his chambers in all that time. He had had visitors – Gaius, Leon, Guinevere, even Morgana – but he had seen no-one else in all that time. Now the crowd below him turned their faces to the royal balcony like daisies to the sun; so many people, each with their own expectations of the prince he had almost forgotten how to be. Arthur wanted to run . . . but instead he had to carefully gather breath into his lungs, and with it construct some kind of armour against their stares. He had to remember what Merlin had told him, of the people's deep regard for him despite his fall from grace. But more than that, he must remember after seven days of freedom what it meant to be a prince.

"People of Camelot," said Uther. "No doubt there have been rumours in recent days, of a sorcerer who not only dared to live openly in our fair city, but who took it upon himself to wage a one-man war upon the entire royal family. I am happy to inform you that the sorcerer has been found and punished for his crimes, by none other than my own son, Prince Arthur Pendragon.

"You will recall that when last we gathered here, it was under far less pleasant circumstances. Not two weeks ago, Arthur was found guilty of interfering with the king's justice and punished in accordance with the law; I can now reveal to you that this was part of a larger subterfuge, to uncover the sorcerer in our midst. By creating the illusion of a rift between myself and my son, we were in fact laying a trap for this enemy of Camelot – it was our belief that he or she would attempt to ally themselves with Arthur against me, and in so doing, condemn themselves beyond all reasonable doubt. I cannot tell you how much it pained me, as a father, to allow my own son to undergo such a trial – but I never once doubted that he would play his part with honour. He is a shining example to us all – of courage, of loyalty, and most of all, of sacrifice. Come forward, Arthur, let the people see you are none the worse for your ordeal."

Arthur had to bite his cheek against the rage that wanted to come. It flooded his mouth, hot and salty and sweet. But then it came to him that it was only his own blood he tasted; he had bitten so hard to keep his anger in that he had inadvertently let the blood out. The sea of faces watched for him, their anticipation almost palpable on the pleasant summer air . . . but for a moment, stultified by disbelief, Arthur found that he could not move.

His hesitation went unnoticed by all save the wide-eyed idiot beside him: an idiot who recovered from his own shock long enough to nudge Arthur in the ribs, and gesture frantically forwards. Arthur cast a vague sneer in the general direction of his manservant, and took the three strides to his father's side. The roaring of the crowd fell like fur against his ears. They cheered and whistled, threw favours into the air like bright confetti . . . but Arthur heard none of it. He heard nothing until Merlin took him by the arm and gently, firmly, led him back inside.

§

The passageway was cool, and blissfully dim after the harsh white daylight outside. Arthur shook the summer blur from his eyes, and waited for the shadowy haze to coalesce into four stone walls around him; instead he saw the glowingly pale face of his manservant, blue eyes blinking owlishly into his.

"They won't really believe all that nonsense, will they?" asked Merlin, once they were safely back inside.

"They'll believe what they want to, Merlin. People usually do."

"But it doesn't even make any sense. I mean, was old Guillam supposed to have been in on it, too? Was I? Surely the king could have come up with a better cover story than that one, it's as thin as the blankets on my bed. Just saying."

Arthur bridled, feeling muscles stiffen where it would most cause hurt to his still tender back. Merlin could sometimes show an uncanny ability to know exactly what his master was thinking – and more than that, the ability to say just what Arthur most needed to hear – but this time, that most valued of gifts appeared to have left him. "What you're saying, Merlin, is getting dangerously close to treason. My father is a brilliant strategist, thank you very much, and he's more than capable of making a speech the people will want to hear. All you're capable of is driving people to drink."

"I thought you'd be pleased," said Merlin, momentarily crestfallen. "I thought you'd be thrilled that your image remained intact, you made enough fuss about it at the time."

"I did not 'make a fuss', Merlin. And you and I both know it's not my image that needed fixing."

For a moment, Merlin was silent. His girlishly plump lips quivered, just a little; his eyes were a bright shock in his moon-milk face. Then he took a cautious step forward, bringing himself fully into Arthur's orbit. Since that day a week ago, when Merlin tended to wounds no longer strictly in need of tending, any closer physical contact between the two had ceased. Now the boy looked as if he wanted to break the flimsy barrier of protocol between them, and offer by touch the comfort he couldn't seem to give by words alone. "Look, Arthur, I . . . I won't deny that your father came out of this looking better than he had any right to. And, if I'm honest, he probably did it more for himself than for you – but it doesn't change the way the people feel about you. You're their hero. They would follow you into hell(1) itself if you asked them too."

"I know, Merlin. I know, but . . . but I wanted it to be real. What I did – for you, for Guillam, for that poor woman who couldn't pay her taxes – that was real. Standing up to my father, for once, that was real. But now the people will believe this . . . this fairytale instead, and not one of them will know what I really did."

"It means that much to you, that people know the truth?"

"Well of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand. How could a clod-hopping yokel like you have even the faintest clue what it's like, having to smile and pretend that everything is fine when all the while you're—Just forget it, Merlin. You wouldn't understand."

Silence settled over the two awkward boys, like dust over an empty room. Merlin only darted one, incautious glance at his master from under his eyelashes, and Arthur could not even begin to understand the look he saw there. It was as calm and as deep as the ocean – and for a moment, felt every bit as old. "But I do understand," said Merlin. "Everyone . . . everyone has a certain image of you, an image that leaves out so much of who you really are. The people look at you and all they see is the prince, the king's strong right hand. Just once, you wanted them to see that you had a will and a mind of your own. That you could be something more than merely your father's son."

Arthur felt a jolt shoot through him as he recognised his own thoughts in his servant's mouth. As always, this endlessly surprising peasant boy held a mirror to Arthur's own self, and forced him at sword point to look. "My father has made everything about magic since the day I was born, Merlin. He sees enemies behind every rose-bush, so much so that nothing else even matters to him anymore. I don't want to be like that."

"Then you won't be. The fact that you even . . . the fact that you would even think that is what makes you different, Arthur. You will be the greatest king that Camelot – that the world – has ever known. And until then . . . until then, I'll know what you did. I'll know, and I won't ever forget it."

Arthur felt his mouth open over empty air, too stunned, for once, to speak. He didn't like to say it out loud – it would sound so very much like bragging – but he had always had the sense that Merlin looked up to him, in some small way. Not as the other knights did, lapping up his every demonstration for the perfect example of knighthood that it was . . . but as if the idiot boy were waiting for something. He would catch Merlin's guileless eyes watching him, sometimes, a look that was almost hunger on his ardent young face. Arthur knew better than to mistake it for hero-worship; he had seen enough of that on his trainee knights, on bested opponents in the jousting arena or tournament ring. What he saw on Merlin's face was beyond him to understand . . .

. . . because it looked so very much like love.

"Come on," said Arthur, with a vigorous clap of his hands. "You still need to polish my boots before we head down to the town. And don't even think about forgetting my lunch, Merlin, or I might just have to put you in the pig-sty with all the other lazy swine."

§

Guillam's house felt different, in the soft afternoon. Not only in the physical sense, with the spell long dissipated and all the shutters flung wide to the sweet summer air, but also in a metaphysical one. As soon as Merlin cautiously pushed open the door, he felt the comfortable weight of habitation breathing from inside. There were fresh flowers on the table, marigolds and meadowsweet no doubt gathered by the wife of his eldest son; a freshly-made bed, turned down neatly by the same conscientious hand. And across the room, where before Merlin had discovered only stale bread and green bacon, he could see a freshly-baked pie on the little stone shelf. Guillam was clearly being looked after, and Merlin felt a stab of compunction at having not checked up on him sooner.

"Guillam?" Merlin called, when he saw that the main room was empty. "Are you here?"

"And where else would I be, lad?" came a disgruntled voice from the little back scullery. "I've no job to go to anymore, thanks to Uther. Oh, and you can take that look off your face – I'll not go repeating that sentiment to any but my family and your good self. I've seen enough of the king's mercy to know how well that would go over."

Merlin only pressed his lips together at this well-deserved jibe, and let the old man's treasonous thoughts spark against him without igniting his own. It pained something in him, to hear the once-sunny Guillam reduced to this sort of bitterness: this kind man who had served the king faithfully for thirty years, turned enemy by Uther's rage. And it was Uther's rage, despite what he had told Arthur that day. Rhys may have guided the king's hand . . . but his magic had not been strong enough to influence a person's heart.

"I actually came here on Arthur's behalf," he said, cautiously. "Not that I didn't want to see how you were doing, of course I did, but he's been keeping me pretty busy this past week and I couldn't get away before now—"

"I know you did, Merlin. Don't mind me, son, I'm just mad at the world right now."

Merlin saw Guillam's squat shadow before the man himself ambled through into the house, drying his hands on a scrap of old cloth as he came. He bit back his first retort – that it wasn't the world the old man should be mad at – and instead mumbled: "Right, of course. Anyway, um – Arthur wanted to talk to you, if you have a moment. He's waiting outside."

"I would have thought he'd be off basking in his glory right about now. Not sure why he'd have time for me when there are sorcerers still to hunt."

Merlin eyed Guillam sharply at that: recognising the tense set of his shoulders, the tightness around his lined eyes and age-thinned lips. He had been more than a little wrong-footed, when he first encountered this new and sour Guillam – but now, he thought, he might have an inkling as to the cause. "You don't know. Guillam – have you been listening to that utter codswallop that Uther was peddling from the balcony this morning? All that about a setup, and Arthur and I playing along to catch the sorcerer? Because believe me, it's not true. That's just Uther trying to save face after making a serious political mistake. I would have thought you of all people would know that."

The ex-stablemaster's mouth had fallen open, at that. His soft blue eyes – the colour of a clear spring sky, Merlin had often thought – glinted with something dangerously close to remorse. "You mean that you . . . and the prince, you were both . . ." But there his words gave out, and the old man crumpled softly in upon himself like a bedsheet spread wide to the air.

Merlin stepped forward and put his arm around Guillam's shaking shoulders. He had never thought, when he heard Uther's calculated lies, just what effect it would have on those who knew the truth – but now, it seemed, Arthur had been right to react in the way that he did. Thanks to Uther's treachery, Arthur's true acts of kindness had been all but erased.

"Are you all right?" Merlin asked, when the silent shaking had ceased. "You know, I was actually trying to cheer you up, not depress you even more. I didn't think I was that bad at being a shoulder to cry on."

"Oh, get on with you, you haven't depressed me. Idiot boy. It's just that . . . if it wasn't all some grand scheme of Uther's, that means that you . . . God, Merlin, you shouldn't have risked yourself like that for me. Not that I don't appreciate it, but look what almost happened. Look what that bastard almost did to you."

And what that bastard really did do to Arthur, Merlin thought . . . but Guillam would arrive at that conclusion for himself, given time.

"I'm fine," said Merlin. "Arthur's fine, we're both fine. But I imagine he is getting a little impatient, by now."

Guillam laughed shakily, and cuffed at his eyes with one dirty sleeve. "Bring him in, then, boy. You mustn't leave the prince standing outside like a horse waiting to be shod."

Arthur looked decidedly out-of-place in the modest little house. His shining golden head just brushed the lintel of the tiny doorway, and his Camelot-red shirt blazed in the dim stone interior. Merlin felt a stab as Guillam prostrated himself before the prince, head bowed so low that his chin dipped down onto his sturdy chest.

"None of that," said Arthur. "This isn't an official visit, after all."

Merlin hauled Guillam upright by one elbow, and then forced his head up to meet Arthur's gaze. It was calm, if a little amused, and Merlin felt the stablemaster's body gradually begin to relax against him.

"I understand," said Arthur, "that my father has issued you a full pardon for your unavoidable absence the week before last."

"He did, my lord."

"But you didn't accept his offer of reinstatement, is that correct?"

"Begging your pardon, sire – but I don't think I would feel comfortable in my old job anymore. Not that I haven't loved my work, these past thirty years . . . but if I may speak openly, my lord, it just wouldn't be the same after everything that's happened."

Silence, thick enough to stir with a spoon. Merlin knew Arthur's moods as well as he knew his own, and could see the shadow of a smile embroidering the prince's lips – but Guillam clearly took the quiet for displeasure. It was only when Arthur let out a sudden bark of laughter that the ex-stablemaster dared to look up.

"So you would not work for my father after his lack of faith in you. I can understand that. And I can appreciate how hard it must have been for you, to refuse his offer when you have worked in the royal stables for almost half your life. But this offer does not come from my father, Guillam. It comes from me. Our stables need a good man to keep them in order, and I can think of no-one better suited to the task than you."

Guillam's weathered old face visibly softened at that. He fumbled a brief bow that owed much to Merlin's steadying hand, since he would have fallen flat on his face without it, and said: "I always did say you were a good lad, Your Highness. And maybe it's above my station to say so, but . . . you'll make a fine king, one day. It would be an honour to serve you, if you'll have me."

"Good man. You'll be in my employ from now on, Guillam, so any problems should be reported directly to me. I'll see to it you receive the two weeks' wages owing to you, as well as a raise of ten percent going forward. Does that meet with your approval?"

"You've made an old man very happy, sire. And thank you. Thank you." And Merlin could see, from the shine in the man's bright eyes, that it had finally dawned on Guillam just how much he really owed Uther's son.

"I do have one condition, though," said Arthur. "You'll be needing a new stablehand, when you return. Owen has been doing a fine job in your absence, but the work is simply too much for one boy. I want you to go to the cobbler's in the lower town, name of Brulyn, and ask after a boy called Bran. He has a withered arm, but I've seen him perform intricate sleight-of-hand with that limb that would make a conjurer jealous. He's your boy, if you'll only give him a chance."

Guillam was already nodding furiously, and for a moment Merlin feared that his head might fall right off his neck like a sunflower popping off its stalk. "I will do, sire. And thank you again."

As the two boys bid the man farewell and stepped out blinking into the afternoon sunlight, Merlin could not help but glance sidelong at this new and more considerate Arthur. When had this happened, that the knife-wielding bully with the perpetual sneer had begun to rule with his heart? Or had he always been that way, and simply guarded his secret too jealously to let anyone see?

"What's that face for, Merlin? You look like a particularly secretive weasel."

"No, nothing, nothing. I was just wondering when you found the time to interview for stableboys, that's all."

"Merlin."

"I mean, you haven't even left your chambers in – ooh, it must be nine days now. Or did you talk to them through the window?"

"Merlin."

"Shut up?"

"You see? You're not a complete idiot, after all."

§

It was the summer that should have been, and yet so rarely was. Merlin could remember long, fresh Junes and ripe, rich Julys in the fields of Ealdor – days that stretched on into Autumn, with all the heady sweetness of August and the russet orchards of September still to come. He remembered them, as the young are wont to do, as endless days of freedom and sunshine; but deep down, he knew that they had been nothing of the kind. Long, arduous hours of toil in the fields; wildfires blossoming in the haystacks, and thunder storms that rocked their little house until the tiles came crashing off the roof. There had never been a perfect summer . . . but now, somehow, there was.

He had continued the intermittent bursts of rain over the scorched kingdom of Camelot: gentle rains that fed the thirsty ground, but did not overwhelm the dying crops. Livestock were led out to graze on the new-grown grass; the marketplace became a glut of soft summer fruits and bright, fresh vegetables. But if Merlin were honest, it was in the people that he had detected the greatest change. There was a spring in their step that had not been there before, and smiles where before were only frowns.

It was slow to dawn on him, this change. At first he took it as no more than a consequence of their reversal of fortune – with the weather restored and the land beginning to heal, the crippling anxiety that had twisted the gut of farmer and trader alike had been lifted. The harvest was assured, and the animals growing fat again on the new cud. But over the following days, Merlin began to see a pattern in the smiles that came his way. He began to see that the change came, not only from prosperity, but from a newfound sense of freedom.

Though Cook would still sputter and scold, she had taken to setting aside little dainties for the prince's table whenever Merlin came to collect. She would slant a squint-eyed look at the boy, and scowl as she spat her various instructions . . . but always there would be an extra dish of strawberries or an almond pastry tucked onto Arthur's tray. For a time, he thought nothing of it . . . until the day that he discovered Arthur in the laundry rooms.

Merlin could count on one hand the number of times that the prince had ventured into the inner workings of the citadel. Always it had been during times of attack, when the regular ways had become barred; never, so far as Merlin knew, had Arthur voluntarily chosen to visit the bowels of the castle on a whim. Yet one day, for no reason that Merlin could see, that was precisely what he did.

It was an ordinary day, barely a week after Uther's deceitful address, and Merlin had scuttled below stairs to fetch fresh sheets for Arthur's bed. Down here, where the laundry belched its plumes of boiling-hot steam, it was all too easy to remember the heatwave that had almost taken Arthur's life. The women staggered and sweated under armloads of washing, gasped over the vats as they stirred them with long wooden poles. But sometimes they would laugh, too, and the room was as thick with their chatter as a tree full of squirrels.

Dolores, the red-faced tartar in charge of inventory, was piling linens in Merlin's arms when he thought he saw a flash of bright hair amongst the mob-caps. At first he dismissed it as belonging to one of the younger girls, perhaps an apprentice too conscious of her looks to hide away such hair under white cloth . . . but then the figure took a step to one side, and Merlin saw that it was a man. The motion brought him squarely into the light of one of the flanking windows, and in the stain of the coloured glass his hair gleamed like burnished bronze.

You sly old dog, thought Merlin. Sneaking away for a bit of a secret tryst, are you? His eyes fell almost carelessly onto the woman with Arthur, confidently expecting the gentle curves and fawn-soft skin of Guinevere . . . and then froze with the stack of linen in his arms and the smile dying on his lips.

She was none of the regular washerwomen, of that Merlin was sure; he had come to know every one of them since his appointment as Arthur's manservant, by sight if not by name. But Arthur, it seemed, did know her; and the woman, in return, appeared to know him.

"Who is that woman?" Merlin asked, with a nod of his head towards the two. Dolores squinted in the direction he indicated, and Merlin could see the moment that she recognised the prince writ plain on her face.

"She's just one of the temporary workers. Filling in while we're short-staffed, seeing as how there's so many off sick. She does well enough, I suppose."

"But . . . what is Arth—I mean, what does Prince Arthur have to do with a washer-woman?"

Dolores' eyes were bright now, and gleamed like river-stones in her round red face. "Well, she was always saying as how His Highness sent her here personally, to work off her debt, you know. Load of poppycock, or so we thought. I mean, everyone knows it's a debtor's contract for those what don't pay the king's taxes – why should the Prince make an exception for the likes of her?"

Because he is not his father's son, came to Merlin's mind, unbidden. Not anymore.

In these bright, warm days, the town was alive with traders plying wares from as far afield as Mercia and Nemeth. Though Arthur rarely ventured into the lower town without armed escort, he had taken a fancy one day to see this influx of goods for himself. Merlin, eager for any activity that would get him out of polishing Arthur's boots, had readily agreed.

The prince should have seemed out of place in the market, where the farmers and livestock smelled equally as bad as each other. Whenever Uther was forced to venture this far from the citadel, his fine silks and calf-skins set him apart from his surroundings like a peacock amongst hens – but to Merlin's surprise, the same could not be said of his son. Though his clothes were of finer cloth and his pale body moved in an aura of its own cleanliness, he had somehow left behind the swagger that would otherwise have said him apart. Only his mother's ring betrayed him for the high-born prince that he was: that, and the reactions of the people as he passed.

Merlin saw it out of the corner of his eye, at first. A girl, as like to the washer-woman as Arthur was to Ygraine, who pressed a clutch of buttercups into his hand as he walked by; an old man with white hair and shabby clothes(2), watching him with worshipful eyes; a group of men of whom Torin was one and Jared another, bending their heads in a modest show of respect. Perhaps Uther had disseminated his lies, and made of Arthur's sacrifice just one more battle in the war against magic – but there were those who knew the truth, and would see to it that others did, too. They would remember the day their prince defied his father for the sake of an old man and a serving boy – and they would remember his kind heart, long after they forgot all about the sorcerer's death.

He really is the Once and Future King, thought Merlin, as he fell into step beside his prince. He really, truly is. And you know what? I wouldn't wish for any other.

NOTES:

1) Although the modern perception of 'hell' wasn't common until Dante's Inferno was published in the 14th century, it is ridiculously hard to come up with a time-appropriate phrase that works in its place. Plus, Morgana told Uther to "go to hell" in "The Witch's Quickening". So, forgive me this little liberty.

2) I'm thinking this was the old man from "Beauty and the Beast, Part Two" – the poor soul who was about to be arrested for not paying Katrina's inflated taxes. What do you think?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is Part One of a much longer work I have all mapped out and ready to write, assuming people enjoy this. My intention in "The Rising Son" was to show the beginnings of a new Arthur, one that would ultimately become a legendary king. As much as I adored Arthur on the show, largely due to Bradley's heartfelt performance, I always felt that something in his character arc was lacking. He was undeniably kind, honest, just, and brave – but the writers never really let him develop into the kind of king that would be remembered for all time, a king that legends were made of. So, this is my Arthur – and this is the start of a rift between father and son that will culminate in Part Two, and ultimately lead to the foundation of the Golden Age in Part Three.