Chapter Two: The Journal

Six Days Earlier

"Where were you this morning?" Gaius asked, sitting across from Merlin at the table. The warlock was practically inhaling his dinner—he hadn't eaten all day. He'd put Arthur to bed for the night (this was what he called it in his head, "putting Arthur to bed." The man was a child, really, needing his blankets tucked in and everything). The prince had been predictably furious at his servant's tardiness. "You weren't in your room when I woke. I hardly knew what to tell Arthur when he came storming in here, demanding to know where you were."

"Sorry, Gaius." The two had barely spoken five words to each other the whole day. Merlin had been tasked with mucking out the stables and scrubbing Arthur's floor as punishment—two of his most labor-intensive chores. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Perhaps you could apologize by telling me where you were," Gaius said mildly, his eyebrow raising.

Right. Yes. Morgana had been like a weight on him all day, lead bound to his limbs. He hadn't been able to focus—though perhaps that had been accidentally projecting himself into another realm in his sleep. After leaving the forest, he'd been dazed, off-balance. Distracting sensations had kept him from fully focusing on his chores: an odd wornness, a bad taste lingering in his mouth, tingling in his hands. His magic had been agitated, but tired at the same time—like a cornered animal that had fought until all its energy was gone.

And just thinking about what he'd seen in his dream… He hadn't been able to avoid thoughts of that crimson-lit world.

Merlin didn't meet his mentor's eyes. "What do you know about the Sluagh?" he asked, stirring his stew. Turnips and cabbage, mostly.

Fortunately, it seemed Gaius was in the mood to humor him. "I recall hearing—or perhaps reading—the term, but I cannot remember where. Why do you ask?"

"I—" Merlin scrubbed a tired hand over his face. A month. A whole month to figure out what to do. What am I supposed to do? He felt that same choking panic, that same anxiety he always felt. It had gotten easier to manage, but it had never truly faded. He was constantly drowning, in over his head. Camelot—and Arthur's life—often rested on his shoulders—and, he'd realized throughout the day, he'd failed them.

Truly, he had. He might have helped to drive off Camelot's enemies; he might have saved Arthur's life. And yet, neither had been enough. People had still died—people he might've saved, had he been but faster and stronger. Braver.

He knew this, now: Camelot could not withstand an attack so soon after the last. Their men were depleted, their fortifications weakened, their people disheartened. Not to mention… He recalled the invasive, perverted feeling of something clinging to the most intimate part of himself. The Sluagh, trying so desperately to tear apart his soul as they had torn apart that old man and devoured him…

He refused to think of the same thing happening to Camelot's citizens.

In the past, the warlock had let his enemies make the first move—striking pre-emptively had never been his strategy. Instead, he had fought the battles as they came, learning what he needed to on the fly.

A month. A month to prepare. He would not be idle, as he had been in the past—Camelot (Arthur, Gwen, Lancelot, Gaius, Percival, Leon, Gwaine, the townspeople) could not afford it. He couldn't strike first; the shadows he lived his life in would never permit it. But perhaps he could protect better. More thoroughly.

"Are you alright, my boy?" Gaius asked, reaching across to take his hand. He won't like this, Merlin thought. The older man's mouth drooped, concern etched in the lines of his face.

"I'm fine," Merlin assured. This new vigor, alight inside him, gave him new purpose. He gripped Gaius's hand gently. "I'll tell you what happened." And he did. He told him of the dream (though his words were shaky when he spoke of the man, when he admitted his own helpless paralysis), of waking up sick, of what Kilgharrah had said. Gaius was quiet throughout, as he often was when Merlin spoke to him of his adventures. After he finished, the quiet stretched, broken only the soft crackling of the fire.

"You should've woken me," his mentor finally said.

"There was nothing you could've done," Merlin muttered, though he felt guilty for it. He wondered if perhaps his magic had urged him to find Kilgharrah, or if he'd known, somewhere inside, that Gaius hadn't had the ability to help save his soul. "I still don't understand how I did it—the projecting. I've never done anything like it before."

"I don't believe that's quite true," Gaius said.

Merlin blinked. "What do you mean?"

Gaius's eyebrow somehow seemed to inch higher and higher on his face. "When Arthur sought the Mortaeus flower, a ball of light appeared in your hands. You called his name, telling him what to do. It makes sense that you projected yourself unconsciously in an attempt to protect him."

"Oh." Merlin had forgotten he'd done that. It seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago, Nimueh poisoning him. The warlock barely remembered the event itself: it remained a haze of pain and desperation in his mind. Though, if he concentrated, he could recall seeing Arthur, clinging one-handed to a precipice. "But you truly know nothing of the Sluagh?"

"You can begin searching through my books tonight, if you wish," Gaius said, standing. He moved across to his shelf. "I have some on other realms. But depending on how close the Sluagh are to magic…" He picked out a few and dropped them on the table in front of Merlin.

"I know." He wondered how much knowledge had been lost in the Purge, knowledge that could've taught him about himself, about magic. Uther had been thorough in his self-appointed goal to eradicate all magic. And though Arthur wasn't so zealous, he also wasn't much better.

And whose fault is that?

"I'll help you search tomorrow," Gaius said, sitting down again.

"Gaius." Merlin searched his mentor's face. "Camelot is weakened and not yet ready to take on another army. I fear—I fear staying entirely in the shadows this time will not be an option if it is to stand."

Gaius's mouth tightened. "Merlin, whatever you are thinking, it's far too risky. Arthur will have your head—or Uther, should he recover." Though the physician had quietly informed Merlin that the king grew worse, not better. He was unlikely to ever heal from the betrayal of his daughter.

"Better the head of one man than all the heads in Camelot," the warlock shot back, and he recognized, as it came from his mouth, that he'd been thinking it quietly in the back of his mind all day. "I can't watch people die anymore, knowing I could've done something." He'd done it so often before. Of course he'd eventually stopped the threat, but he often spent time panicking before hand, trying to figure out what to do.

It was the price of secrecy. But the price was too steep, this time.

"Think of Tom—and Gwen. Overt interference in the past has only led to the accusation of innocents," Gaius pressed. "You can't be thinking to do such a thing."

"You didn't see them," Merlin said. The shifting forms, the laughter. The malice. The place of flesh, the terrible trees, the red moon. The way they had torn the man apart. A nightmare—the memories had a distinct fuzziness to them, but they had been all too real. "Arthur won't be able to defeat Morgana alone—and there are other sorcerers with her, this time."

"I am not suggesting you don't help, my boy. I only ask you take no unnecessary risks!" Unnecessary risks. Gaius meant risks to Merlin himself, but really they were risks to Camelot. When Merlin refused to act, it wasn't him who suffered for it.

"I have no choice," Merlin whispered. He'd never had a choice, really. Poison Morgana, Merlin. Release the dragon, Merlin. Defeat the sorcerer, Merlin. Save Arthur, Merlin.

Save Camelot, Merlin.

"There is always a choice," Gaius told him.

Merlin looked up. "Then I choose this. The army will not enter Camelot; there are ways to defend a city. Great shields, runic magic." He'd been toying with the idea for a while. His spell book mentioned such things, though it never went into any detail. It was a spell book, after all, not a book on runes or Workings. Things Merlin had only read hints of.

"And you think you will be able to do this? By yourself, in such a short amount of time?" Gaius questioned. "Merlin, think! This is madness. Camelot has faced armies before. There will be a way to defeat it—a way without taking such risks like open magic!"

But Merlin had thought. He had thought for a long while. And he was constrained, limited by the shackles of secrecy. Caged by lies. And people had died because of his need for shadows. "Gaius, the army won't be human. How well can Camelot defend against such things?" It may be madness, but I will not return from this battle to find my friends' bodies lying in the courtyard.

Who knew what sort of magic the Sluagh was capable of on this side of the tear? A shield alone might not even be enough; Merlin would have to look into all sorts of magic to make sure Camelot was as strong as he could make it.

"So research the Sluagh. Please, don't be foolish," his mentor begged. "To do such open magicks as you say…"

"The king is ill," Merlin began. "Arthur is an excellent regent, but he is new to the role. Morgana has other sorcerers on her side, though I don't know how she persuaded them. What I usually do will not be enough." It was something he feared: failure. Failing Arthur. Failing his home. Watching as Morgana—leading an army of horrific creatures—destroyed Camelot and everyone within it.

"I could not bear to lose you," Gaius confessed. "Not to the pyre, my boy." That was another of his fears. Merlin didn't want to die, but he wanted everyone else to die less. The stew tasted poorly in his mouth—flavorless.

"And I cannot bear to watch all of Camelot burn. I will research the Sluagh—and Morgana's Working. But I don't think there will be anything as convenient as spilling a cup of blood this time." And really, it had been rather convenient. Many of the solutions to Camelot's magical problems had been convenient, though others had not been so easy to solve.

"And how do you plan to get all this information?" Gaius asked. Merlin had been thinking about it all day, and it had finally come to him as he'd passed the royal library.

"The goblin room," he replied. "And if it's not there, I'll muddle through. I have a month."

"A month can pass in the blink of an eye," his mentor warned. "Especially when trying to do something as you plan to do."

He wasn't wrong. Merlin finished his stew, eyeing the books. Each of them was thick, and it would take hours to look through them properly. Magic might speed it along, but he would have to actually read any relevant information he found. And he was already tired from staying up the night before, as well as fighting off the attack on his soul (even though Kilgharrah had done most of the heavy lifting).

"I'll make it work. I need to warn Arthur about the army, somehow," Merlin said, thinking. He couldn't pass it off as a "funny feeling." One didn't get funny feelings about armies, and it wasn't like Arthur would believe him, anyway. He thought Merlin was a fool.

Don't be so bitter. He doesn't think you're a complete idiot; he considers you a friend. Even if he never voiced such things aloud.

"And how will you do such a thing without alerting him to your magic?" Gaius asked. "You cannot do so many things at once—you'll be overwhelmed." I'm always overwhelmed. It had grown easier with time, though. And this would only be a temporary situation.

"I have a month," the warlock repeated. "I'll muddle through." He'd always muddled through, always seemed to choose the wrong thing. Healing Gwen's father, poisoning Morgana, releasing the dragon. It always spun out of control.

He prayed to the gods that this choice was the right one—the one that would save Camelot and Arthur. His home.


Later that night, Merlin cursed softly as he knocked over a vase from where it rested on a shelf in the library, quickly extinguishing his magical light. Glancing around, he darted behind a bookshelf (nearly bumping his shoulder into it in his haste) as a guard came to investigate the noise. The warlock crouched down, hoping the guard wouldn't move further.

He heard a crunch as the guard stepped on a broken piece of vase, and Merlin winced. Geoffrey will ban me for life if he finds out I broke that. He could see the light from the guard's flickering torch.

"Must've been a rat or something," the guard muttered before leaving.

Why do we even have guards so close to the library? Except they were always patrolling at night, making sure no one was trying to sneak around the castle to relieve the nobles of their valuables.

Merlin waited until he could no longer hear the guard's footsteps before sighing loudly in relief. With a whispered, "Léoht," his light re-formed, hovering just above his palm.

The library was almost eerie in the dark, shadowy shelves extending on either side of him. His boots made soft noises on the stone as he searched for the shelf he'd originally stumbled upon to open the goblin room.

How does Geoffrey find anything in this place? Despite his years of living there, the warlock still wasn't sure how the old man organized the books, though there clearly was a system. He'd explained it once, on Merlin's second or third day in Camelot, but Merlin had forgotten. He didn't have the courage to ask again, though it was humiliating to always need help from the librarian, who clearly didn't like him.

It was toward the back, maybe? Merlin made his way around, glad this time that Geoffrey hadn't fallen asleep at the desk. It was no wonder the man had back problems, sleeping like that. Instead of prescribing draughts, Gaius ought to tell him to spend the night in his bed.

The warlock found a familiar range of titles. He began fiddling with the books, trying to find the right one. The things hadn't been dusted in ages, and Merlin sneezed once, twice, three times—all in succession—as he searched for the book to trigger the entrance. He was beginning to think he had the wrong section of shelf when there was a noise—a sort of click—and he was rotated into the goblin room.

It looked as he remembered: dirty, cobwebs in the corners, books and knickknacks littered on tables and shelves. It was all decaying, dying, and Merlin felt almost a sense of loss. These are all that's left of Uther's Purge. These, and a few vengeful sorcerers. The bones of something that had once been lively and beautiful.

Gods, you're becoming gloomy. Just look for the damn books.

Using a spell he'd learned from his spell book, he tried to bring forth books that contained relevant information. Five flew from their shelves in unison, and Merlin yelped, ducking. They soared above him and landed with a collective thunk behind him. He turned, wincing; the tomes had to be old. But as he bent down to pick them up, they seemed to be in relatively good shape, aside from the dirt.

"Áswæpest," he whispered, and the books practically gleamed as the dirt vanished. He didn't necessarily need spells for many of the things he did, but after going so long without knowing any proper ones… He enjoyed the way the language of the Old Religion rolled off his tongue, as swift and smooth as water.

He settled down onto the floor, his light bobbing beside him, to read the books. Three of the five weren't in the common tongue. Of those, two were in Latin, and one in an old dialect Merlin didn't recognize. Perhaps Gaius will. Or perhaps he knows a translation spell.

He opened the one called Otherworldly Realms and Their Residents. He flipped through the pages, flying past lands of the Fae (including the Sidhe) and the land of the dead, guarded by some being called the Cailleach. And then he saw it: the Sluagh. And the realm they resided in, called Flæsc in the old tongue.

The Sluagh, also known as the Underfolk, are corrupted beings that found themselves trapped in Flæsc. The realm's magic is spiteful and invasive; beings who are trapped slowly transform into monsters, giving into madness and the ravenous hunger that mark this realm. These beings include Fae, mages, and non-magical humans. Anything that wanders into their realm is twisted into something filled with malice, though the Sluagh are the only sentient creatures within Flæsc.

Despite the Sluagh's intelligence, their corruption can make them difficult to reason with. They hunger for souls above all else, though it isn't clear why, for they do not require souls to survive. There is some speculation that they resent their corruption and take it out on the unwary. Other scholars have theorized that by taking a person's soul, they prevent the person from passing into the afterlife, something that has been denied to them by their transformation.

No one who has seen the Sluagh and lived to tell the tale has been able to describe them. There are reports of dark laughter, and some glimpse specific body parts, such as claws, fangs, or eyes, but none can give a complete description of the creatures, aside from the horror they felt at seeing them.

The Sluagh attack only from the west—and they travel in large groups called hordes. They may take on many forms when in our world, though they often prefer crows, ravens, bats, or other winged beasts to disguise themselves. They fight savagely, devouring both flesh and soul, and are stronger than any average man. Their stamina and endurance are unmatched, and only powerful magic is capable of defeating them.

Though they cannot access their magic except to change forms, it brings crop-blight and ruin wherever they pass. Water is tainted; the very young and very old die; babes are born with deformities. If they have a weakness, it is their madness. They fight chaotically and without coordination, though this can also make them unpredictable.

However, the barrier between our world and Flæsc is thin enough only on Samhain for the Sluagh to come through naturally. Elsewise, there are ways for mages to bring them forth…

Merlin thought, I need to write this down. His journal was back in his room; he'd have to either bring it here, or bring the books there. He examined them critically—it looked like they'd fit under his board. The warlock nearly dumped them all on the floor again as he gathered them in his arms, standing.

At least he'd found some information, though it looked as though the Sluagh were going to prove formidable enemies. He wondered how Morgana planned to control them; from the sounds of it, their goal would be to destroy Camelot, not overtake it for her to rule. And depending on how many she summoned… There had to be a way to figure it out. He needed to find the exact spell she'd used.

Merlin looked down at the books in his arms.

This is going to be a long night.


Present Day

On the bright side, Merlin no longer had to warn Arthur about Morgana.

The prince paced back and forth across his room, the sort of prowl that meant he was deep inside his own head. Sometimes he paused to say something, but it wasn't really directed at Merlin. He was saying his thoughts aloud; he would expect input from his servant later.

Merlin sat at the table (because he was sore enough without sitting on the floor, he didn't care what Arthur said) polishing Arthur's gorget. Without thinking, he polished symbols into the metal with his cloth. Luis for protection against magic; Uathe for defense; Duir for strength; Saille for healing; Eadhadh for shielding. His eyes flashed gold, imbuing the invisible runes without his deliberate will.

Oh, shite. He closed his eyes until the magic passed. Like putting magic into words in the old tongue created spells, putting magic into the Old Religion's symbols created a lasting enchantment. The strength and longevity of the enchantment depended on the amount of magic put into the runes and how long the runes themselves lasted.

Merlin had spent nearly all of last night testing runic configurations (the word for when a sorcerer put magic into more than one rune. The runes had to be linked together, as well, for the magic to flow and work). He'd also spent the past few hours testing configurations. It had been an unconscious, accidental thing to polish the shapes into Arthur's armor. His exhaustion dampened even the panic at the thought of Arthur seeing.

If I don't get more rest tonight, I might just start casting spells in the courtyard.

"Sleeping, Merlin?" the prince said, and from his tone, Merlin knew he couldn't have seen anything.

"Only resting my eyes, sire," Merlin replied. He wanted to add something like they were tired of looking at Arthur's face, but it didn't quite sound witty enough. He opened his eyes as the magic passed completely and carefully resumed polishing.

No more of that, now. You'll prove to be the idiot Arthur claims you are.

"Hm." The prince sat next to Merlin, finally paying attention to the dinner his servant had brought him. Arthur was tense, his shoulders practically scrunched to his ears. His hands were white around his fork. "I just wish we knew what she was up to."

There was no need for the servant to ask for clarification; it was obvious who the she was.

"Not anything good," Merlin replied. He set aside the gleaming gorget in favor of Arthur's pauldrons.

"Yes, thank you, Merlin, for that brilliant commentary. Where would I be without you?" the prince asked, spearing a piece of meat—boar, Merlin thought.

"Probably dead," the warlock muttered, keeping his eyes on the metal in front of him. He did his best to keep to non-runic shapes.

"What was that?"

"I said 'probably not fed,'" Merlin said, speaking louder. Arthur took a sip of his wine and leaned back, watching the fire.

"I'm the prince," he said. "I can fend for myself." It was clear his heart wasn't in it, focused as he was on the news of his sister. I have to figure out how to tell him about the army.

"And yet I bring you all your meals. I don't think you even know where the kitchens are." That probably wasn't true. Arthur knew the castle layout for the sake of defending it, though he likely wouldn't have known where the kitchens were otherwise.

The prince gave him the look—the Merlin-you-are-an-idiot look. "So says the man who couldn't hunt an animal if it came and laid down at his feet." On a better day, Merlin might have had a response, but today all he did was grunt, setting down Arthur's beautifully polished pauldrons. He set about finishing the armor with the prince's helmet.

They sat in companionable silence for a time, the only noises the crackling fire, Arthur's utensils, and Merlin's polishing.

"I have to send out a patrol to investigate further," the prince said finally. He'd cleaned off his plate. "Perhaps go myself. We must know what she schemes."

She comes with an army of corrupted, evil Fae and humans called the Sluagh. It would be so easy to say it, to tell Arthur what he faced. It would be so easy, but also so, so hard. Merlin couldn't do it; he refused to risk his life here. You risk it anyway.

"You're regent now, Arthur. Maybe you should allow Sir Leon to go out again," Merlin suggested. "Accompanied by a small band of knights for reconnaissance." If he could get Lancelot on that patrol, he could tell his friend what was happening. Then, Lancelot could tell Arthur. It was the perfect opportunity.

The soft light seemed to set the prince's hair a-glow. He sighed. "You're not entirely incorrect." Which was as good as Arthur saying Merlin was right. "I'll send him with Sir Barric, Sir Rodney, and Sir Hadden. They are skilled at being unseen—"

"No!" The word tore out of Merlin's throat before he could think twice about it, and he accidentally dropped his polishing cloth. Arthur turned to him incredulously.

"And why ever not, Merlin?" the prince demanded.

"Er." Oh gods. Think, man! "They may be skilled at being unseen, but they are poor at blending in with the common folk. Might, um, Sir Elyan or Sir Lancelot be better choices?" His voice rose too high at the end in his haste for Arthur to reconsider his pick for the patrol. He covered his burning ears by bending down to pick up the cloth. When he came back up, Arthur was still eyeing him oddly.

"That's a valid point," he acknowledged. "Sir Rodney is rather stiff and formal, even for a knight. And Sir Barric disdains the common folk." Merlin had rather gathered that fact from his infrequent run-ins with the distasteful man; he'd almost pushed Merlin down a set of stairs once. "Sir Elyan and Sir Lancelot will make excellent replacements."

The servant tried not to let his shoulders sag in relief. He knew Lancelot would be willing to help him (especially since it would give Arthur the information he needed to prepare Camelot).

"When will you send them?" Merlin asked.

"Tomorrow at noon, I should think. They will make it to the border by evening, take up in one of the taverns nearby. And it will give them enough time to prepare. I need to formulate a strategy." That would provide Merlin with plenty of opportunities to tell Lancelot.

How much easier this would all be if I could only tell you, Merlin thought with some frustration. He set Arthur's helmet down more firmly on the table than he intended to, rattling the dishes.

"If you're done denting my armor, this needs coming off," Arthur said, rising and gesturing to his (many) layers of clothing. Obligingly, Merlin helped him with his cloak and doublet and shirt and belt. Arthur removed his boots and pants.

The manservant bundled up the clothing that had been removed. The shirt, trousers, socks, and cloak needed washing. He brushed the doublet off and laid it across the table as Arthur pulled on his nightwear. It was nearing the Equinox, but it wasn't cold enough yet for the prince to need to sleep with a shirt.

"Shall I leave the fire?" Merlin asked, beginning to put out the candles as the prince climbed into bed.

"Yes," Arthur replied.

The manservant briefly organized the prince's desk for ease of use in the morning. He piled the soiled clothing into the corner to pick up tomorrow. He stopped the watered-down wine and put the polishing cloth away, making an effort to be quiet as he gathered Arthur's dirty dishes.

The prince's soft breathing filled the chamber, which, Merlin knew, would give way to snores soon enough (Arthur refused to believe his manservant's staunch assertion that he made noises like an angry bear when he was asleep, which Merlin thought was sheer vanity).

"Good night, Arthur," he said quietly, not sure if the prince was still awake. But he heard a mumbled "shut up, M'lin" and smiled. He opened the door and left the chambers, muffling his yelp as he saw a shadowy figure standing in the hall. He just barely managed not to drop all of his plates, which surely would've caused enough of a racket that Arthur would've stormed out to see what was happening.

The figure stepped into the light. "I'm sorry, Merlin! I didn't mean to scare you," Gwen said, voice hushed. "Here, let me help." She took away a couple of the top dishes Merlin was trying to juggle.

"Gwen!" Merlin greeted in delight, doing his best to smile. He didn't want to worry her; Gwen had enough of her own troubles right now, trying to find work. He knew she'd been doing odd jobs around the castle—extra washing, helping with banquets—and supplementing her income with on-the-side sewing (and a bit of blacksmithing, though she kept that secret from everyone but Merlin. It wasn't ladylike, after all, and people wouldn't buy her trinkets if they knew a girl had made them). "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, of course. Arthur had you late tonight, didn't he?" Gwen said as they began walking down the hall.

The manservant shrugged. "No later than normal. You could've come in, you know." Arthur (and Merlin) would've enjoyed the distraction. Gwen was good fun to be around: very cheery and positive. Arthur would've said that Merlin was cheery and positive, but Gwen seemed to radiate the emotions.

"It wouldn't have been proper—there would've been gossip," Gwen replied.

"That's not what you said when you and Arthur ate in his chambers—practically alone, might I add—a few weeks ago," Merlin said. Alone except for Merlin. It seemed the two could never go on a proper date without their chaperone (when Merlin had made to leave, the prince had asked who was meant to pour the wine, and Gwen had said to stop teasing him. The three of them had ended up sitting, drinking, and eating together).

"Merlin!" She laughed. "I suppose you're right. It just would've been awkward. And it was you I wanted to speak to, not Arthur."

"Something not meant to reach his royal pratiness's ears? Have you done something, Gwen?" Merlin teased, louder now that they were out of the hall. They made their way down to the kitchens together, and the manservant could pretend this was during one of his first months here. When nothing had been so complicated, and keeping up with Arthur, chatting with Gwen, and studying with Gaius had been all he seemed to do.

"No." Gwen eyed him, almost nervously. "It's just—are you alright?"

Oh. That. First Arthur, now Gwen. Were all his friends going to ask him that? Was he really so transparent? You did sort of start accidentally casting spells right in front of the prince, one part of him said. Shut up, Merlin told it.

"I mean—you look really tired. Not how you normally look." When the warlock didn't respond immediately, Gwen hurried to say, "Maybe it's none of my business, but you've really been helpful about keeping me on my feet ever since Morgana, and I want to make sure you're okay. I—I didn't mean to offend you, if that's what I've done."

"It's fine, Gwen. I'm not offended." She must've been tired, too; she hardly ever rambled like that in front of him anymore. "I haven't been sleeping well, is all." They reached the kitchens, and both of them paused, knowing the conversation wasn't over.

"Is something bothering you?" she asked, her brown eyes earnest.

There's an army of monsters and a group of sorcerers—led by Morgana—headed to Camelot, and I have to figure out how to stop them. His research into the Sluagh had only reinforced his determination to set up magical defenses for Camelot; regular wood and steel would do nothing against the things. And the thought of Gwen or Arthur being ripped apart, as the old man had been…

He looked away from her eyes. Somehow, her open concern was better at cutting him than Arthur's veiled worry had been, though he had felt just as guilty for lying. "Nothing you can help with."

"You don't know that until you've told me," Gwen said gently. "Please, Merlin. You've always been there for me; let me be there for you."

He couldn't. He couldn't tell her or Arthur or anyone but Gaius, Lancelot, and the dragon. There was no one else to tell; he wouldn't risk it. Will had known and had died, and Gaius and his mother had come close.

"Thank you. You're a good friend, Gwen. I—I'll be okay," Merlin assured. And then, because she looked like she might argue, he darted into the kitchen to escape. A coward's move, perhaps, but he was nothing if not a coward. The kitchens were nearly empty, but it was no place for a private conversation.

Gwen followed him a moment after. She tried to carefully disguise the hurt on her face, schooling her expression, but Merlin could still see it in the way she delicately placed the dishes down. He knew her too well, and he wondered if she could see the guilt and regret in the way he moved.

"Good night," he told her, and she nodded.

"Good night," she said, but she did not meet his eyes as he turned and left.


Arthur's lazy, good-for-nothing, troublemaker of a servant was nowhere to be found. He was meant to be bringing the prince breakfast and helping him dress. Instead, Arthur had been forced to dress himself as best he could and ask a guard in the hall to fetch a servant for him.

I'm meant to be telling the knights their mission, not looking around for a lackadaisical servant! But here he was, tromping through the halls and demanding to know if anyone had seen Merlin. Everyone shook their heads, answered, "No, sire," and moved on. It was probably un-regent like behavior, but if Arthur had gotten away with it as a prince, he could get away with it now.

"Merlin!" he shouted again, hoping the boy's overly large ears would catch the sound of his voice. But there was no reply or sheepish-looking Merlin poking his head around the corner. Arthur had been hoping to go over his plans about the knights with Merlin before he sent them out.

Arthur practically ran into a serving boy, and he didn't even bother to assure the poor stuttering teenager that it was all right before charging off again. If Gaius tells me he's in the tavern… Merlin had already been severely late almost a week prior, without any true explanation. In fact, it had been the beginning of his sleep-deprived, gloomy state. Maybe disappearing again will set him to rights. But knowing Merlin…

At last, the prince reached the physician chambers. He knocked (in case Gaius was with a patient in a state of undress, which had unfortunately happened before) and entered when he heard no reply.

"Gaius?" he called. The room appeared to be empty. The workbench and table were as cluttered as ever, filled with medicinal things Arthur knew nothing of. Was his court physician missing along with his bumbling manservant? Arthur had hoped to ask him if Merlin's workload needed to be lightened, if his apprentice work in combination with his job was creating too much stress.

Dammit, Merlin. Why do you always have to be so difficult, even when you're not here? Perhaps Arthur could find some sort of clue as to what was troubling his manservant. He gazed critically over the chambers. It doesn't appear to be more cluttered than usual. But it was hard to tell. Maybe Merlin's room would offer more answers.

Arthur stepped up the stairs into his manservant's chambers, stuffing down the feeling of guilt at rifling through Merlin's things. I'm not going to snoop, he told himself. Only look around. And he was the prince; he had every right to be there. It's my castle, after all. Well, my father's.

He refused to let the thought go farther than that. He didn't want to think of his father, and he stuffed the image of the king in bed, looking broken and sickly, out of his mind. His father would get better.

Merlin's room was an absolute disaster. It looked as though a storm had torn through it, clothes scattered everywhere but the cupboard, bedding on the ground. There was a small figurine on the table in the corner, and candles nearly burned to stubs littered the floor. Really. Arthur knew the man was capable of cleaning—why did he insist on being such a slob?

The little hypocrite always chastised Arthur when his chambers became a mess (which the prince had been more than irritated with at the beginning, because he was a prince, and Merlin had no right to scold him for anything).

Arthur toed around some of his servant's clothing, unwilling to pick it up. Not only was it likely crawling with fleas, but picking through Merlin's things felt dirty. He cursed when, moving closer to the bed, he almost knocked over an inkpot—though it was stopped, thankfully. A ragged blanket had hidden it (and didn't Arthur pay his servant well enough that he could at least afford proper bedding?). The prince carefully lifted the blanket to reveal a book in some kind of strange language, a quill, and another book, one with a blank cover.

"And what do we have here?" He picked up the book in the strange language and flipped through it. It held images of strange symbols, ones he didn't recognize. He set it down and examined the blank book. It was sort of reddish-brown, filled with coarse paper. When he opened it, he recognized Merlin's writing. Scholarly notes, perhaps?

He turned to a random page.

had the ears and voice of an ass! It was the funniest thing. I can't stop laughing. If the goblin hadn't insisted on possessing people and wreaking havoc, I might've thanked him for it. It was gold, to hear Arthur braying—

Oh. He'd found Merlin's journal. That little rat, I knew he thought it was funny. What a sentimental thing, keeping a diary, but it fit. Merlin was an emotional girl on the best of days. Arthur made to put it back down, but he paused.

Maybe this could tell him what was wrong with his manservant.

Arthur glanced at the door guiltily. Was he really so desperate for answers that he'd read Merlin's diary? But—yes, he was. He couldn't stand not knowing what was wrong with his servant. It wasn't curiosity, exactly. Almost a hurt, though that didn't make sense.

But also, it did. Because whenever the prince was upset, Merlin pried it out of him, and somehow—miraculously—made him feel better. His "pep talks," where he boosted Arthur up when he doubted himself, telling him that he had faith. Him letting Arthur blow off steam when his father angered him.

But when Merlin was upset? He didn't tell Arthur. And sure, Arthur maybe wasn't the best at comforting people, but did his servant really think so little of him?

This might be the only way to know.

So Arthur did something he wasn't exactly proud of. But he'd done a lot of things he wasn't proud of, for the sake of necessity. He sat on Merlin's bed, the frame groaning precariously, and searched for the latest entry. It would have to recent, right? He noticed the same symbols from the book near the back—perhaps Merlin did use this to take notes.

He finally came across what seemed to be the latest entries to Merlin's diary. He scanned them, looking for anything that seemed suspect—there.

I don't know who I am. So Merlin was having a bit of an identity crisis then? Was that what was getting him down?

The bumbling servant or the powerful warlock?

Arthur's eyes froze. He seemed to be made of stone. He re-read the line. Re-read it again. No. No. That's impossible. His manservant—a warlock? It had to be some kind of… lie. Some kind of joke. But what reason would he have to lie in his own diary?

A mixture of both? Neither? I may never know, may never have the opportunity to find out. Still, I know I must not let myself grow resentful. I have faith that Arthur will make a good king; he already makes a good regent. That will have to be enough, even if he never frees my kind.

My kind. Arthur. He'd been mentioned—mentioned in this, this sorcerer's sick journal. How could it sound so like Merlin, but at the same time so wrong? Merlin, his idiot servant, his friend, couldn't be a sorcerer. He couldn't; he'd helped Arthur against magic!

I will continue to support him and support Camelot. It has become my home; I could not turn my back on it now. I will fight for it, whatever may come. The hope that I may one day do so in broad daylight, in front of everyone, fades bit by bit from my sight. Gaius and the dragon say to have hope—that the day still comes. Gaius, I know, is only placating me. He is more of a pessimist than I. And I can't trust whatever the dragon sees; he is too vague and cryptic.

Arthur barely registered the words, though his eyes roved over them. Magic. Magic. The thing that had corrupted Morgana and caused so much grief and pain to his people… He couldn't bear the thought of Merlin, the man he had trusted so very, very much, betraying him in such a way.

And yet, he had. Merlin had betrayed him. He'd taken up sorcery, Camelot's greatest enemy. It was evil. The servant had known that, had known how it twisted and hurt. He had to; he'd seen the same things Arthur had. So why had he decided to take it up? Why had he betrayed Camelot and Arthur, as Morgana had done?

But Arthur is my friend, and I love him well. That doesn't include the knights or Gwen, or the others I know in the citadel. I will not abandon them, even if they may later abandon me for my magic.

The room spun around him, and the prince clung to the book like a lifeline, crinkling the pages. His servant's sloppy writing wrinkled. He could not recall the words he had just read; he could not even seem to recall why he'd come. There was no getting around this—this magic. It was like there was a blockage in his brain, an insurmountable barrier to his thoughts.

Merlin was a sorcerer.


AN: Thank you to all the guests who reviewed! You all left some lovely compliments (and thanks to non-guests who reviewed). I have a lot of this already written, so my plan is to try and update every week (feel free to pm me or leave a review to update if I forget). What did you guys think? Did you like the reveal with Arthur? What about Merlin's and Gaius's conversation?