Chapter Three: The Beginning
Merlin didn't bother to knock before coming in, shutting the door behind him. He set the tray down on the desk with a soft clank. The sun was just barely poking over the horizon; Arthur wouldn't be expecting him yet. And if his conversation with Lancelot took longer than he'd thought… Well, the knight was better company than the prince anyway.
The knight's quarters were sparse but larger than Merlin's. Lancelot had a wardrobe, a small side table, a desk, and a bed. The knight's armor was laid out carefully on the floor, having no other place to put it (what with the desk, bed, and table occupied).
"Lancelot," Merlin hissed, throwing open the bed's curtains. His friend was sleeping soundly, and—unlike Arthur—he didn't snore. "Lancelot!"
The man's eyes opened blearily. "Merlin?" he asked, still half-asleep. Then, he sat up. "Merlin? What are you doing here?" The knight rubbed his face, his bedding pooling at his waist.
"I was wondering if I might ask you a favor," Merlin began, leaning against the wall.
"Yes, of course," Lancelot said immediately. Then, he paused, his eyebrows drawing together. "Why exactly did you need to come into my chambers before the sun rose to ask me this favor?" Had the servant woken any other knight (except perhaps Gwaine, Percival, or Elyan), they would've demanded to know. But Lancelot took it in stride.
The warlock cleared his throat. "It's not a favor of the… legal variety." That was putting it mildly. But he knew Lancelot would be happy to agree.
"I see. Might I get dressed as you ask me this favor? It seems strange to conduct such serious business in my nightclothes." The knight pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of his bed, his bare feet brushing the cold stone.
Merlin shrugged. "I don't think your day-clothes will be offended by the slight, but it makes no difference to me." He walked over to get Lancelot's fire started. It wasn't particularly cold, but it wasn't particularly warm either. "Forbearnan," he whispered, the magic coming easily to his fingertips. The flames whooshed over the wood at once.
It had almost come too easily. The warlock normally kept his magic restricted, locked tightly inside himself where no one could see. But these past nights… He'd been using it constantly. And while this eased the tension he usually held within him, it also relaxed his magic's confinement. Still, he felt it was worth the work he'd managed to get done; the Sluagh couldn't be allowed inside Camelot.
"Is it more satisfying to do it that way?" Lancelot asked, and Merlin looked back to see him pulling on a clean shirt. He'd already put on a new pair of breeches.
"It's faster," Merlin said, which perhaps wasn't much of an answer. But he was practiced at evading questions he didn't want to answer. "I brought you breakfast." He gestured to the tray he'd set on the table. On it were eggs, sausages, and porridge.
Lancelot smiled. "Thank you, Merlin." It was bizarre to hear the words, after so long of serving Arthur. The knight sat down at the desk and gestured to the chair opposite of him. "Please, sit, and tell me this favor you wish to ask of me."
The servant sat gratefully; he'd been standing and wandering about the castle for much of the night (too much of the night, really), and he was tired. Bone-deep exhausted, as though Arthur had used him for target practice for about a month straight.
"You have heard the news, have you not?" Merlin asked, fiddling with his fingers. "About Morgana?"
"The witch stirs on our border," Lancelot replied, taking a bite of sausage. "She gathers sorcerers. Do you know something more?"
The servant nodded. "Much more." And he proceeded to tell the knight of the Sluagh, and how Morgana and the other sorcerers were summoning them, and they would come from Flæsc to their realm in three weeks' time. He explained that Arthur would be notifying Lancelot soon of his reconnaissance mission, and that he needed the knight to pretend he'd gotten word of the Sluagh from said mission.
"You've known about this all week—this army she's summoning?" Lancelot asked. Nearly half his plate was gone. "And you didn't tell me?" The note of accusation in his voice wasn't sharp but almost soft, as though the knight didn't want to startle him—like he were something to be startled, a horse or a deer.
"Er…" Merlin's tired brain couldn't think of an excuse. He hadn't told Lancelot, though he couldn't think of a specific reason for his actions. "Yes?"
Lancelot's mouth drew into a small frown. "Merlin, why? I could've helped sooner. You look like you've run yourself into the ground." Was everyone going to comment on how he looked? He was fine. He'd had worse. There was no reason for everyone to think him so delicate.
"It slipped my mind," he said. "I've been rather busy trying to figure out a way to stop the army from entering the citadel. It's difficult to learn how to do entire runic configurations in a month."
"Exactly." Lancelot pointed with his fork. "And it didn't just 'slip your mind.' You didn't think of coming to me until you needed something specific from me."
Did the knight think Merlin was using him? Using Lancelot's higher status for his benefit, his gain? The servant was first offended, then horrified. Was that what he was doing? When they'd retaken Camelot, he'd only told Lancelot of the cup once he'd needed the knight's help getting to it. "No—I, I mean, you know I think of you as a friend. I'm not trying to—to—"
"That's not what I meant," the knight interrupted gently. "I wanted you to come tell me sooner. You need to know that you can rely on others for help when you need it. You can rely on me; I know you. I know of your magic—there's no reason to hide from me."
Oh. "There's nothing you could've done before now," Merlin said, not meeting the knight's eyes. He wrung his hands. "I wasn't trying to hide from you." That was absurd; what reason would he have to hide from the knight, the knight who called him brave and said he deserved more than what he'd been given?
"I know it may take some getting used to, me being in Camelot," Lancelot said. "But I've lived here for a month now, Merlin. You can come to me when you have problems. You should have come to me. Perhaps you wouldn't be so haggard-looking now. Have you even eaten breakfast?"
"Um…" Would Lancelot be irritated if he said no? "Really, breakfast is subjective. It's not that I haven't eaten breakfast; it's that it's not the right time for eating my breakfast yet, which usually comes in the afternoon."
Lancelot's mouth twitched. "So a no, then. Here." He pushed over his plate. Perhaps a fourth of the eggs were left, as were a couple of sausages. "Eat." Merlin ate a bite, and, his body seemingly realizing how hungry he was, he began devouring the rest of the food rapidly.
"Thanks," the servant said in between bites.
"Does Gaius ever feed you?" the knight asked. "Never mind—I know he does. So this spell of Morgana's. You said it was only half-complete. Is there no way to stop it before it's finished?"
Merlin shook his head as he polished off the eggs. Swallowing, he said, "No. All the spells I looked at that required two castings to open a portal between realms couldn't be interrupted without dire consequences. If I were to try and stop it, I might end up tearing the rift wider, allowing more Sluagh through. Or the portal to Flæsc could last for months. Or it could grow and grow, innocent people ending up trapped in a realm that would slowly twist them into monsters."
He shivered. Becoming a Sluagh was a horrible process, though there hadn't been enough reports on the subject for the book to describe it in detail. He wondered how the author had even managed to get as much information as they had, but he decided it was better he not know.
"And do you have any idea how many might come through?" the knight asked. Merlin took a bite of sausage. "Or what Morgana plans to control them with?"
"I need to get a better look at the Working for that," the servant answered. "Which I plan to do today." Arthur could do without him for a day; this was important.
Lancelot nodded, agreeing. "What about the prince? And your job?" he questioned.
Merlin grimaced. "This is my job." And what an unfortunate job it was indeed.
Arthur didn't know how long he sat there, clutching Merlin's—the traitor's—journal. Was everyone destined to let him down? His father, ill. Morgana, trying to take the throne for herself at the expense of the people. Everything had fallen apart, this last month; Arthur had turned a corner only to be reminded of his—his sister, laughing with her or talking with her.
The only thing that had stayed the same was his manservant. Merlin. He'd been indispensible, helping the prince with speeches and figures (and eating and sleeping, if he were honest). And now, knowing it was all a lie…
Merlin had magic. It seemed impossible—the boy Arthur had seen last night, the one he'd tried to joke with, the one who'd set out his clothes for the morning—that boy had magic? How much of it was a lie? What was Merlin scheming? How long had he even been practicing magic?
Arthur longed to confront Merlin, even as he feared what the boy might say (I've never been yours, Arthur, only biding my time—). But he couldn't trust anything about Merlin, now. Not what he'd said, not what he'd done. It might all be a lie, a façade to lull the prince into trusting him.
The prince forced down the hurt. Because if his friendship with Merlin was a lie… Where did it leave him? He'd thought the servant had looked past his status as royalty to him, to Arthur. But that had been a lie, too. He wanted to march up to Merlin and throw him in the dungeons. How dare he lie to Arthur? How dare he use the prince?
But then, he might never know the truth of the situation; if the sorcerer had lied about his magic, what else had he lied about? What else would he lie about? What plot had he hatched?
Arthur looked down at the book in his hands. He wouldn't tip the sorcerer off, not yet. Maybe he's working with Morgana, the prince thought darkly. If he tipped the traitor off now, he'd lose the one advantage he had over her. No, better to keep quiet until he understood the man's plan.
Arthur stood, tucking the journal into his jacket. He'd have to hide it somewhere, somewhere the sorcerer wouldn't think to look. It might be difficult, considering the man's … position. The prince felt ill, knowing just how much information—sensitive information—the sorcerer was privy to. He's written my speeches, helped write decrees.
How much manipulation had Arthur been subjected to?
He didn't know, but as he left with the book's hard edges pressing into his ribs, he knew he'd find out.
Merlin had taken his herb satchel with him; there was no reason he couldn't gather plants as he came closer to the Working to investigate it. He meandered through the woods, stopping to pick some comfrey and feverfew. It was sunny overhead, and Merlin expected the last dregs of summer to begin to evaporate into the chill of autumn.
He walked past trees softly, as to not startle any animals. The twitter of birds relaxed him, even as the Working grated on him. The feeling of unease it generated became more pronounced as he came closer. It had faded after the initial casting, the way a bruise might fade with time, but now it reignited his senses. And, he realized uneasily, it felt larger, bigger, broader than it had when he'd first come stumbling into the woods to ask Kilgharrah for help. He hadn't been paying attention at the time—he'd been a little preoccupied—but the Working tasted foul. It was rotting, tainted, like meat left in the heat for too long. It tasted like Flæsc had.
Merlin tried to ignore the sensation, even as he followed it. He found some valerian root off to the side and kneeled down to pick it.
He wasn't sure how exactly he was going to discover more about the Working; he thought, as he drew closer, that he might be able to discern it. But even as he found himself nearer to the terrible thing, he couldn't tell anything more about it. Raising a hand to his temple, his eyes flashed gold as he probed the Working, trying to ascertain its specifics.
He couldn't figure it out—it slipped through his senses like oil, slick and pungent. Something—or somethings—whispered just outside his senses, and he could see that same writhing ball of flesh, the glimmer of sharp talons and wet, glistening flesh in the dim light of a crimson moon—
Panic mounted as the sensations grew stronger, surrounding him. He'd gone too deep into the Working, into this foul, disgusting spell. It was suffocating; he was back in that other place, pale trees all around—
He shook it off, shuddering as he forcibly pulled his magic from the Working. It lashed out as he called it back to where it belonged, as though itching to fight the horrible magic. But it settled soon enough, coiling back into his chest next to his heart. The Working only felt like Flæsc, he reassured himself. He wasn't being drawn back into the place, not with the tear between the worlds closed and him being awake.
Still, the memory of the man being ripped apart, the chase through the woods…
Merlin pushed it from his mind.
"What a waste of time," the warlock muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Arthur's going to yell at me for not showing up this morning, and it won't be worth it because I have absolutely nothing to show for it." What a great day this was turning out to be. At least he could count on Lancelot to warn the prince about the Sluagh.
As Merlin began to make his way back, he heard a young voice cry out in his mind.
Help! Someone help me! It reminded him, briefly, of Mordred. But although the voice belonged to a young boy, it wasn't the same. And it sounded panicked, almost hysterical. The warlock reached out with his magic, trying to figure out which direction the voice was. There.
Merlin began to run toward the voice, his satchel flapping against his side. He sprinted through the woods (praying to the gods he wouldn't trip on a root and end up flat on his face). The child kept calling, and the warlock's mind churned almost as fast as his legs.
Was it a druid? What was the danger—some kind of animal? A person? What was a young druid (if he was a druid) doing all by himself out in the woods? Merlin slowed as he found himself in the ruins of a few huts. It looked like it had been some kind of small settlement—perhaps for hunters or nomads.
Merlin reached out again with his magic. The boy was close. I'm here, he called. Where are you?
The well! I fell in the well. Panting, Merlin made his way past the crumbling buildings to a small overgrown clearing, trying to find the source of the voice. How the hell had some young mage managed to find himself trapped in a bloody well, of all things? Where were the people looking after him?
At the far end of the clearing, the warlock saw a structure made of stone. It looked like it could've been a well at some point, though moss and grass had nearly destroyed it. The warlock peered down, and at the (very dry) bottom, he saw a young boy looking back up at him, face streaked with tears. He was certainly dressed like a druid, though Merlin couldn't see a triskelion from where he was.
"Hello," he said, trying to make his voice both loud and gentle. "I'm Merlin. Let's get you out of there, huh?" He tried to recall how Gaius had handled his younger patients. It wasn't that the warlock was bad with kids, but usually he dealt with happy, lively children of the lower town—not scared druid boys trapped in wells.
Emrys? Is that really you? the boy asked, wonder in his tone (his mind-tone?). You'll get me out?
You can call me Merlin. And of course I will. Are you hurt? He smiled, trying to project confidence. He really didn't need the child to freak out any more than he already had.
He heard the boy sob loudly, and he winced. My leg, the boy said. I think it's broken, but I don't want to look. It makes me ill. Merlin could relate to that. He'd once broken his arm, and the sight of his joint bending in the wrong direction had made him violently sick.
That's okay, Merlin said. I'll take care of it once I get you out. What's your name? He kneeled beside the well's low wall, careful not to put weight on the stone. He would bet that was how the druid boy had fallen in; the entire well looked fit to collapse at any second.
Rowan.
"Well, Rowan, you'll be out of there very soon. I'm going to need you to do something for me, though—you need to stay very still while I lift you out. Can you do that for me?" Merlin asked, his voice echoing down the well.
The boy nodded. Yes.
Balancing carefully, Merlin extended out one hand. He'd never done this on a person before (there really hadn't been cause to), but he'd practiced on objects at least as heavy as Rowan. In theory, I shouldn't have any trouble lifting him out.
"Hebban," he said, his eyes flashing gold. Rowan, true to his word, didn't shift as he was moved by Merlin's magic. The boy floated upward gently, the warlock directing him as needed.
Once Rowan was over the lip of the stone, Merlin grabbed him and held him. He could see the boy better in the sunlight: he had bronze skin and dark hair, both dirty from his traumatizing adventure, and looked to be of far Eastern descent. The boy clung to Merlin's jacket and cried. He was perhaps seven or eight summers old.
"Shh," Merlin said, cradling him awkwardly. He was heavier than Merlin had expected, and he was crushing the herbs in the warlock's satchel (which he wouldn't have minded, except he wanted to use the herbs to treat the poor fellow). "It's alright. You're all right. I'm going to set you down now, okay?"
Rowan only sniffled, but Merlin took that for agreement and lowered him into the grass, careful of his leg. The fibula looked to be broken, the bone jutting out awkwardly. It hadn't poked through the skin, however, though it looked horribly unnatural.
"You can fix it, can't you Emrys?" the boy asked, his voice high with anxiety.
"Yes, of course I can. I'm a physician's apprentice," Merlin replied, kneeling beside him. He would have to set the bone and splint it, which would be painful. And he didn't know any healing spells for this particular injury. "What were you doing out here all by yourself, anyway?" Now that he was closer, he could see the boy's triskelion on his inner wrist.
"I just wanted to explore," Rowan said. "I didn't mean to fall down the well." His voice rose almost hysterically—did he think Merlin was about to blame him?
"I know," Merlin soothed. "Wasn't anyone watching you?" He pulled the satchel off over his head and examined the contents. Feverfew would be good to reduce infection initially, and he could perhaps knock the boy out to set and splint the leg. Then, it would only be a matter of taking him to his camp.
The boy stuck his lower lip out. "Sigrid was. But she was too busy mooning over Idonia to play with me. She didn't even notice when I left."
More to keep Rowan distracted from the pain he must've been in than anything else, Merlin prodded, "Idonia?" He would need to put the boy into a deep sleep to avoid the pain.
Rowan pouted. "My elder sister. Sigrid used to be fun to play with."
"Ah, I see," Merlin said. He would need to grind up the feverfew and add water to make a paste. With a flash of his eye, he had summoned a branch from above to use to carve out a bowl.
The boy gasped. "You did that without a spell!"
"Um, yes," Merlin said. He didn't know any specific spells to carve out a bowl from wood, so he directed his magic to clumsily scrape away wood from the branch until he got something roughly bowl-shaped. "How many spells do you know?"
Rowan giggled. "None, silly. I don't get to learn anything but talking without words until I'm ten." He held up his hands, fingers splayed wide. "That's how many ten is."
Merlin smiled at him before he placed a few of the feverfew leaves into the bowl and added water from his water skin. It trickled in slowly, and once he felt it had been enough, he ground it into a paste using magic. It took more concentration than he was used to; it would've been easier to flatten the entire bowl. Rowan watched earnestly, brown eyes wide.
"Could you drink this for me?" Merlin asked, holding the bowl out to the boy. "It might not taste good, but it's medicine."
Rowan nodded importantly. "Feverfew, for infection and in-flam-mation," he recited carefully (to Merlin's surprise). Druids must teach their younger children herb-lore. Grimacing, the boy drank the lot in one go.
"Very good," the warlock said, taking the bowl back. "I'm going to set your leg now, alright? But I'm going to spell you first so you won't feel it. And then we'll go back to your camp."
Rowan nodded, though there was fear in his eyes. "I don't remember where the camp is," he said miserably. "And I was too far away for them to hear me calling for help."
Merlin patted his shoulder. "We'll find them," he assured, and the boy looked slightly less doubtful. And then, only feeling slightly bad for it, he set his hand on the boy's forehead. "Mãmor." It was a word for deep sleep, and Merlin laid the boy down softly.
He set and splinted the leg as best he could (which was rather well; he had been Gaius's apprentice for years now). Then, he picked Rowan up, shifting him so he wasn't crushing the bag. His head lolled on Merlin's shoulder, his hair tousled.
Now, the camp. He supposed he could simply wander through the woods calling out with his mind, but that seemed like a method that might take all day and night. Instead, using his magic, he sent his vision forward through the forest, hoping to see some sign of the druids.
It took about a dozen tries, but eventually Merlin found what looked to be a path, marked subtly with runes that translated roughly to "safety." He walked in that direction, hitching Rowan up higher on his hip, wary of his leg. The boy didn't so much as stir.
The warlock was extra careful to look where he was going; the last thing he needed was to fall and hurt the boy further. He stepped over tree roots and rocks, narrowly missing a log at one point. His arms grew tired, and sweat pooled underneath his clothes.
He trekked for perhaps an hour (and really, just how far had Rowan gone?) before he started calling out with his mind, hoping to catch the attention of sentries he knew had to be posted on the outskirts of the camp.
Hello? Anyone there? It took perhaps ten more minutes of walking, and at this point Merlin was afraid his arms might fall off, before someone answered.
Who's there? A voice called, feminine-sounding. Merlin was so relieved he stopped, mid-stride.
Er, Merlin. I've brought a boy with me—he calls himself Rowan.
Rowan! The voice was astounded. Wait where you are; we will come to you.
Grateful he didn't have to walk anymore, Merlin set Rowan down on the ground and stretched out beside him, straightening his legs. He pillowed his jacket behind the boy's head and waited for the druids to arrive.
They did so momentarily—two women and a man. One of the women was older—she had seen at least sixty summers, Merlin would've guessed. She had dark skin and stark white hair. The warlock scrambled to his feet to greet the group, and the two younger ones stopped short, the older woman taking long strides to kneel at Rowan's side.
Emrys! The younger woman exclaimed, and she and the man looked shocked to see him there.
Merlin blushed to see the awe in their faces. I found him in a run-down well a league or so away, he directed at the older woman. Despite her age, she was swift in examining the boy, feeling his head for fever and casting a few unfamiliar spells over his body.
You put him to sleep? she asked, prodding his torso for injuries.
To set his leg. I had no sedatives with me, and I knew no spells. It would've been painful had he been awake, Merlin explained, and the older woman nodded.
You did well, Emrys. Thank you for caring for him, she said, standing. She turned to face him and gave him the traditional druid greeting, touching her forehead and tipping her hand to him. "I am Wymarc, the leader of this clan. It is a pleasure to meet you." Her voice was smoother than he would've expected, given her age, like a gentle brook.
The warlock clumsily reproduced the greeting. "Likewise. I'm happy to have helped." He tried to think of a polite way to excuse himself (it seemed this venture hadn't been a complete waste, but he still didn't know about the Working) when the younger two came forward. They each greeted him.
I am Aldusa, the woman said. She had pale skin and long hair the color of straw.
And I am Florian, the man said. He had a round face, and his skin was a shade lighter than Wymarc's.
"You can call me Merlin, if—er—you like," Merlin offered, greeting them back. It felt odd to do so—greeting somebody like this in Camelot was likely to get your head chopped off. Or at least it had under Uther; the warlock could only hope Arthur turned out to be different.
Florian stepped forward to pick up Rowan, carrying him easily. Again, Merlin found himself wondering how he might politely excuse himself. It was getting to be afternoon, and he really needed to go.
As the party of druids made to leave, Wymarc looked back at him. Follow, if you please. You have done us a service, and you appear worn by your journey. Rest with us a while.
And, well, how was Merlin—with his arms and feet aching, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat—meant to turn down an offer like that? So he picked his jacket up off the ground and trailed after them, wondering if Arthur would be angry enough to throw him in the stocks when he got back.
Arthur hid the book where he knew the sorcerer would never find it: the locked jewelry drawer in his dresser, the place he kept his rings and necklaces (which the servant had never organized). He shut it, the drawer making a satisfying clang. Then, Arthur went to find the knights.
He found Sir Leon first and told him of the mission, informing him that he would take over the knights' training for that afternoon. The knight nodded, bowed, and left, leaving Arthur there alone. He felt as if he were in a daze as he went to find a different servant to help him into his armor.
The knights' training went as well as ever, though Arthur was slow to respond when Gwaine made some inane comment. He did everything automatically, as though he were some kind of machine. He let his mind go blank—for if he thought, he knew where those thoughts would lead.
Merlin. The sorcerer. The traitor. He had betrayed Arthur, his prince, for who knew how long. Arthur didn't know why or how or—or anything. He only knew Merlin had. And he shoved even these small thoughts from his mind, for fear he might break down. Simply sit on the ground and never rise.
The servant—the sorcerer—had been his rock, his salvation, this past month. He had relied on him for help with running the kingdom, scheduling, everything. And the man was a traitor; he was a traitor as Morgana was a traitor. Only this wound was fresh.
The prince sparred with his knights in a fury, putting them through their paces. One of the knights commented that he was glad Arthur wanted them in fighting shape for Morgana, and the prince was happy to let them think that was why.
Sweat dripped down Arthur's face as he parried and feinted and slashed and hacked, directing the knights through footwork and sparring drills. He worked himself to the bone in an effort to escape this new knowledge.
And before he knew it, training was over, and the prince was removing his helm from his damp head. He drank deeply from a water skin, the sun warm and bright overhead.
Gwaine joined him. "Alright there, Arthur?" he asked, face uncharacteristically serious. The knight only reminded Arthur of the traitor; Gwaine was good friends with Merlin. Or had been, anyway. How would the knight take Merlin being a traitor? How many would Merlin hurt with what he had done?
"I'm fine," Arthur said. "You need to work on defending your left side—you're not as good at it as your right." He didn't want to lie to Gwaine, but he didn't want to burden the knight with the truth, either.
"I'll keep that in mind, princess. Just remember running us harder won't get you any closer to defeating Morgana," Gwaine said, but he clapped Arthur's shoulder. The knight frowned and looked around. "Have you seen Merlin? I wanted to talk with him about something."
"Haven't seen him all day," the prince replied. The words, however, weren't his—his mouth moved on its own. "Probably in the tavern—or helping Gaius." He gripped the water skin so tightly water gushed from the top and ran down his hand.
Arthur drank from it again to cover the spill and walked away, leaving Gwaine—still frowning—looking after him.
On his way to his rooms, the prince ordered one of the servants—George, Arthur thought his name may have been—to draw him a bath and help him out of his armor. He had no meetings to attend to this evening, though he needed to have a look at some reports and prepare for the speech he was meant to give at the merchant guild in a few days.
Normally, he might've given the duty to—but it was no matter. He could do it himself.
When he reached his chambers, the servant was waiting for him.
"I have taken the liberty of stoking your fire and laying out your clothes, sire," he said primly. He had short brown hair and was dressed similarly to Mer—no. Don't think about him like that.
Arthur grunted. "Get me out of this armor," he said, and George surged forward to help him shed his vambraces, couters, pauldrons, gorget, and chainmail. He was quick and efficient, with none of the unnecessary touches his—other servant liked to give.
Will I be able to stand having him attend me tomorrow? Perhaps that would be the time to spring his trap: guards would wait outside his chambers, and upon Arthur's signal, they would come in and arrest the unsuspecting traitor.
But the prince didn't want to simply lock him up and demand answers—he needed to know the sorcerer's plan (and, he admitted to himself, the why and how long). So he would wait until after he had sifted through the traitor's journal to decide what to do.
I could execute him here, quietly in my chambers, without any fanfare. It would be more than the sorcerer deserved, but Arthur didn't know if he could stand to watch the traitor burn on a pyre.
"—lord? Sire? Is there anything you require before I draw your bath?" George asked. Arthur looked down and realized George had finished helping him out of his armor, and he was clad in his under-clothes.
He shook his head. "But after you are finished with the bath, I will need food."
George bowed. "Of course, sire." The address—in addition to the overt subservience—was nauseating, and made Arthur want to yell at something (namely, George). But it was also so different from—from…
The servant exited the room, and Arthur fell into his chair. Alone, he put his head into his hands. Merlin. Merlin, of all people. He had known the man for years, though it felt sometimes like lifetimes.
And he has betrayed me. Was he in league with Morgana, planning on crowning himself her king?
He steeled himself. There was only one way to find out—and it would be just him. Well, him and George, but he doubted the man could read. And even if he could, he seemed the type to leave the prince regent's business alone.
Arthur took a deep breath and stood from the chair, his muscles stiff from training. He padded over to the drawer and inserted the key from around his neck, withdrawing the journal.
What if Merlin comes back while I'm reading this? Arthur thought as he sat back down. He didn't want to tip off the sorcerer early, especially if he was as powerful as Morgana—it might lead to the deaths of innocent guards or knights, and that was the last thing Arthur wanted.
But his need to know outweighed the risk. And Arthur was the best fighter in the land; was it not better for him to confront the sorcerer as opposed to anyone else? He opened to the front page, realizing that the cover was more worn than he had realized.
If Gaius were to find this, he would surely scold me. I don't think I can stand another hour-long lecture about being careful, so I'll have to make sure not to leave it lying about. Not that the lecture is more of a motivator than the pyre.
Arthur frowned in confusion. Scold him? Surely he would be more concerned about Gaius turning him in? Unless—no. Not Gaius as well, Gaius who had taught and cared for the prince since he was a babe. Gaius knew about the magic? For how long? The old physician had been a sorcerer, hadn't he? But he'd also been a staunch ally of his father's.
He started as George came in, hauling bath water, but the servant only acknowledged him with a strained bow, clearly understanding that quiet was necessary for reading
I suppose it doesn't matter, in the end. I'm keeping it with my magic things; if this is found, I am already caught. And it is all the better, really. I write this not for myself, but so that the person reading it might know the truth, if Uther doesn't simply burn it along with me.
I'm not sure where to start, exactly. It's been perhaps a fortnight since I came to Camelot—is Camelot a good place to begin? My mother sent me here to live with Gaius and learn to control my magic. Maybe the magic is a good place to begin.
Arthur's head was spinning. Merlin had had magic all along, the entire time he'd lived in Camelot? But he'd—he'd warned the prince about the evils of magic. From the sound of it, Merlin had had magic even before coming to Camelot. Had his mother taught him?
My magic isn't like most others'. Firstly, I was born with it. Mother says I've been lifting things with nothing but my will since I was a few months old. The only spells I've learned are the few I've managed to pick up in the two weeks since I got my book of spells (which Gaius gifted to me).
I feel like I'm not explaining this very well.
Born with it? Arthur's first inclination was to call that impossible, but… What reason would the sorcerer have to lie in his own diary, where he'd already confessed to the crime of practicing magic? But if it was possible… Bile rose in Arthur's throat, unbidden. Magic as a choice had always made sense to him; a person chose to break the law, and they were punished for it.
Babes using magic, clearly untaught, was a different matter entirely.
According to Gaius, a small number of people, if they study hard enough, can access some amount of magic, though this takes time and is difficult work. These are called sorcerers. A different number of people have small, innate powers—they can create fire, or turn into an animal, and that's all they can do—these are wizards. Others have greater powers, more easily accessed, manifesting as accidental magic before these magic-users are trained. Their spells are numerous, though they often have specialties. Apparently, it is uncommon to be skilled in multiple areas of magic. These people are known as warlocks (or witches).
I fall into this last category, Gaius says, though he also says how strange I am even among my own kind.
The paragraph was unwieldy (trust Merlin to ramble as badly as he did in person in writing), but it was… far more scholarly than Arthur had expected. There were different kinds of sorcerers? Categories, like the different rankings in the guilds?
Arthur had always imagined magic as chaotic, entirely against nature, and corrupting. This made it sound normal—almost orderly, like a science. The prince's mind rebelled at the notion; how could this be right? Everything he'd been taught couldn't have been wrong. His father's campaign against magic had been… If perhaps overzealous (Arthur had never approved of the raids on the lower town or against the druid camps), mostly justified.
He had seen the damage magic had done to his kingdom, seen it with his own two eyes. But the same logic came to bite him: if he believed that this was true—that Merlin was a sorcerer—why would he lie at any other point?
Or perhaps he simply believed this to be the truth. Perhaps Gaius had brainwashed him, the magic had corrupted him. But he claims to have had it as an infant, Arthur argued silently. None of it made sense, and he was sick from the force of the clashing ideas within him.
I have attempted to stop before, knowing how poorly Cenred treats his sorcerers. I lasted but a week. The power built, and with no outlet, I began using magic in my sleep. Near the end, it itched beneath my skin, and I had frequent nosebleeds.
What I'm trying to get you to understand, whoever you are, is that stopping is—or was, if you read this—not an option for me.
It almost sounded like some kind of drug. If Arthur forced Merlin to stop using magic, would it eventually dissipate, the body regaining equilibrium? Had it already corrupted him entirely? Except… That didn't make sense. How could something that showed up naturally in babes be corrupting?
And still, Merlin had lied to him. Lied to him about this, betrayed him.
I guess I should get back to Camelot. When I first arrived, there was an execution—the execution of a sorcerer. It was the first execution I've ever seen, and it was terrible. I don't think the man had done anything except practice magic (if that).
Anyway, when I got to the physician chambers (Gaius is the physician), I accidentally startled him. He was standing on the balcony, and the railing broke. He fell, but I saved him using magic. I was terrified he would turn me in. Instead, he ended up giving me a magic book of spells—true, proper spells!
Gaius had nearly fallen from the balcony? Any sort of fall for a man that age was bound to be devastating. And Merlin had—what? Saved him on a whim? Why had he helped Gaius when he'd known it would've gotten him executed—after just witnessing an execution, in fact? He must've done it for some kind of favor; sorcerers were never selfless, in Arthur's experience.
Then, there was this singer visiting the court—the Lady Helen. Except she was the mother of the man who'd been executed in disguise, and she tried to put the entire court to sleep and kill the king's son—Arthur—in revenge.
Long story short, I used magic to save the prince's life and was "rewarded" with a position as his manservant. Which is a load of shite. It's no reward at all! The prince is the biggest prat I've ever known—violent, arrogant, and completely ungrateful. When we first met…
It told the familiar story of Arthur and Merlin's altercation and devolved into increasingly outrageous insults. The prince rubbed his eyes.
In the background, George had finished hauling the bathwater, and he approached promptly. Arthur looked up from his muddled thoughts.
"Do you require my help in the bath, sire?" the servant asked.
"No," Arthur said, distracted. His mind whirred with all of this new information. "Just fetch me food."
"Right away, my lord." George bowed and exited promptly, efficient and quick. Again, Arthur could only think of the contrast between him and the sorcerer (except he called himself a warlock, didn't he? Because his powers are innate, like a voice or a hand).
Arthur stood and disrobed, leaving his dirty things on the floor. He left the diary on the table; he wanted to think on what he had read. Lifting his leg, he eased himself into the bath. It wasn't as warm as he liked it, but it would do.
What did it all mean? Why had Merlin saved his life—the life of someone he clearly didn't care for, someone who would've executed him for using magic? Was it true, what he had written?
He had to have done it for some kind of favor, for getting close to him. Except he hadn't seemed pleased with situation. Nor had he revealed any nefarious schemes. He'd saved Gaius's life. He'd saved Arthur's life.
If he'd wanted Arthur dead, he could've done nothing. But he hadn't.
The prince scrubbed his body and hair the best he could. His servant usually helped him, but he didn't feel like sharing this intimacy with George. He got out quicker than normal; he wanted to get back to reading the journal. What else had Merlin done with his magic?
Perhaps I should make a list of some kind. Except if Merlin found that list…
Arthur finished toweling off and wrapped a robe around himself as George returned with a plate full of food. It was far too much for an evening meal, and it looked as though he'd brought wine as well.
"My lord," he said, placing the tray on the table. "Will you be needing anything else this evening, sire? Could I help you into your bedclothes or polish your armor?"
"No. You're dismissed," the prince said. George bowed and left without argument, not that Arthur had been anticipating one from him. The man probably would've licked his boots without complaint if Arthur had asked him to.
The prince sat to eat. Really, where was Merlin? Arthur had assumed the tavern originally, but now… He had no idea where the sorcerer was. Meeting up with Morgana? Practicing evil spells?
He opened the journal after pouring himself some wine.
So I sort of forgot to mention in my last entry that I kind of met the dragon imprisoned beneath Camelot. His name is Kilgharrah, and when I first came, he kept calling to me in my mind. I thought I was mad, hearing voices. But it was just him, keeping me from sleeping.
Anyway, he told me some rubbish about Arthur being destined for greatness, and how I was meant to help him. But the little brat can't even dress himself, much less…
Here, it again developed into a rant worthy of treason. It sounded so much like Merlin… It ached. The insults, at least, had never been a lie. Had the playfulness been, the friendship? Had Merlin laughed at him, knowing he'd fooled him into thinking they were companions?
And the dragon. It sounded like the same one that had attacked Camelot. It also sounded as though Merlin had spoken to it—and it had spoken back. Was it possible?
Arthur pressed his lips together and flipped to the next entry.
I saved Arthur again, the ungrateful prat. The culprit this time was a man called Valiant. He was a knight who entered the tourney, but he was using a magic shield to cheat. And I knew, but I couldn't accuse him in front of the king because I'm a servant, and he's a noble. Such bloody rubbish! He ended up killing a knight, and I had to summon the snakes from the shield in front of all of Camelot to get Uther to believe me. At least Arthur agreed to be careful.
Merlin had summoned the snakes? At the time, Arthur had simply assumed Valiant had called them accidentally, that his magic had gotten out of control. But it sounded as though it had been deliberate on Merlin's part to make sure Valiant didn't end up killing him.
Speaking of Arthur, he's working me to the bone. I still barely know which armor piece is which, and he expects me to have them all memorized even though I've only been here a few weeks. He's so demanding; I have no idea how I'm meant to do all this by myself. I've been using magic to help me along, but I'm still constantly exhausted. I've barely had time to study with Gaius or my magic book.
Gwen told me I've already lasted longer than most of Arthur's servants, and it's no bloody wonder. The man's a spoiled little…
Arthur blinked. How many insults against himself was he going to have to read? Thinking back, however, he realized he had been hard on Merlin—especially since he knew now the man hadn't had any training as a servant. They had needed time to adjust to one another.
Except he's betrayed me—has always been betraying me. Arthur wished he'd been harder on the man, that his father had never appointed him. The man had done nothing but lied to him, lied to him and betrayed him. But… In the first two entries, he had saved Arthur twice and Gaius once. How was it possible?
He ate some of his meal and took another drink of wine, thinking. It doesn't make sense. He has to have some kind of agenda. Perhaps the magic simply hadn't corrupted him yet. Only, he'd had it as a babe. Unless that had been some kind of strange lie. None of it made sense.
Arthur rubbed his temple, where a headache was beginning to form, and kept reading.
There was an afnac poisoning Camelot's water supply. I helped Arthur kill it—the man's a complete idiot. I have no idea what he thought the massive gust of wind was, but I'm happy he doesn't seem to care. The afnac made a lot of people in Camelot sick—including Gwen's father (did I tell you about Gwen? She's a nice serving girl I met my first day here). Anyway, I healed her father using magic and nearly got her killed in the process. Gaius was right; I can't use my magic for things like this… I'll just end up getting innocent people hurt or worse.
Luckily, Arthur's too blinded by his own ego to see what's right in front of him. The bloody man wouldn't realize I was a sorcerer if I put a pointy hat on and paraded about in front of him casting spells.
It ended there; the entry was rather short, for something that contained so much information. Arthur had forgotten that Merlin had confessed to the crime of sorcery so early in his stay at Camelot.
The prince frowned at the book. How hadn't he noticed the gust of wind? He barely remembered it—he must've chalked it up to simple luck. And healing Gwen's father… Would Merlin have been able to heal all of the people who'd been sick, if he'd been given the chance?
Arthur didn't know. He just—didn't know. With shaking hands, he closed the journal and pushed it away from himself. Despite the lead in his stomach, he finished his meal and pulled on his sleeping trousers.
The prince locked the diary back in his jewelry drawer and sat down at his desk to do his work. He would do his best to turn his attention to matters of state—he couldn't handle any more revelations.
Your service to me will not go unpaid, Merlin, he thought, pulling out his reports. I won't punish you for your crimes until I know all that you've done. Whether that meant he would eventually have to execute him for being a traitor, lock him up, or banish him…
That was up to what Merlin had written.
The druid camp was beautiful. Children ran and played around the tents, conjuring small magicks to impress one another; the adults cleaned or tended to crops; and Merlin's senses tingled with the hum of quiet chatter in his mind.
He sat cross-legged on the ground with a steaming mug of special drink—he forgot the name. It was sweet and fruity. Wymarc, Florian, Aldusa, and a few other druids sat around a fire with him.
Many of the druids stared at him and made subtle gestures of respect and awe. Merlin ignored them, uncomfortably aware of the heat rising in his face. He hoped the redness would be attributed to the fire.
Rowan will make a full recovery, thanks to you, Wymarc said. She was obviously well-liked by her clan; they treated her with love, adoration, and no small amount of respect. They had given her a soft rug to sit on and food without prompting.
I'm certain you would've found him eventually, Merlin replied, looking away.
Perhaps, Wymarc said noncommittally. We sent out a search party, but Rowan's mental cries were too weak for them to pick up. It is remarkable you heard him at all.
Merlin didn't think it was anything to be lauded for, and he was too embarrassed to even thank her for the compliment properly. I did as I hope anyone would've in the same situation.
Aldusa and Florian spoke to each other quietly, mind-to-mind, though they glanced at him every so often. Wymarc remained silent, eating her food (they'd also given Merlin some, which he had taken gratefully. Though they ate no meat, the druids had a few goats and sheep for milk, cheese, and wool.
"Wymarc! Wymarc!" A little girl—perhaps five or six summers—approached the elderly woman, robe flying. She stopped and gave her clan's leader a more respectful greeting before asking, "Can I have a butterfly? Please?"
"Of course, child," Wymarc said, smiling gently. "A blue one?"
The girl's eyes went round, and she nodded. "Yes, please."
Wymarc cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth. She whispered a few words into them and her eyes flashed gold. When she opened her hands, a blue, shimmery butterfly stood there, wings fluttering gently. It flew onto the girl's outstretched finger and she carefully backed away, thanking Wymarc profusely.
Merlin watched the scene with a horrible pain in his heart. How innocent the interaction had been; the girl held no fear of magic, and Wymarc had no fear of being burned for doing something sweet and beautiful. He longed for it, fiercely but with a sinking hope: he feared it would never be.
Wymarc turned to look at him again. You are not as I expected, Emrys. Her brown eyes were deep and unfathomable, but they were also kind.
What do you mean? he asked, finishing his drink. Its sweet taste lingered on his tongue, making him drowsy.
Iseldir told me of how you took the cup and allowed it to fall into the hands of Morgana. I imagined you as an arrogant man with little concept of the consequences for his actions, Wymarc told him bluntly. Merlin stared at his hands. He regretted not being able to convince Arthur to leave the cup be, but the prince never listened to him when it came to things like this.
I made a mistake regarding the cup, Merlin admitted. He wouldn't address the "arrogant" comment; Wymarc had implied she did not think that of him now. And it cost us. I am not proud of the choices I made.
I suppose you did return the cup, in the end, Wymarc said. And it was so: after defeating the immortal army, the warlock had sequestered the cup away. He'd later returned it to Iseldir, asking him for forgiveness. In the chaos of the aftermath, no one had double-checked that the cup had made it to the vaults. And perhaps Morgana would've slaughtered Iseldir to obtain the cup; I cannot say.
Maybe, but Merlin doubted it. The druids had been careful. Except, if Arthur had been able to find it… And with Morgana living in the citadel at the time… He couldn't be sure.
The warlock looked up at the sky. I had best be going. Camelot will miss me, he said. Thank you for giving me food and drink.
Wymarc smiled. You are welcome anytime for the service you have done us. Before we part, may I ask what you were doing so far from the citadel? Merlin didn't know what harm it could do, especially because perhaps warning the druids to vacate the area could only be a good idea.
Morgana—she casts a Working to bring forth an army of Sluagh in three weeks' time. I came to see if I could discover more, Merlin explained. It would perhaps be wise to leave the area; the Sluagh are violent creatures.
Wymarc's face became hard, her smile dropping. She knows not what she summons. The Sluagh can't be controlled so easily. We had felt her Working, but we could not say what exactly it did, only that it was incomplete. Her hands tightened on her wooden cup (far more expertly carved than Merlin's earlier bowl).
I worry for Camelot's safety, Merlin confessed. Everything I have read about the Sluagh… They will destroy everything in their path. And I don't even know how Morgana plans to use them exactly.
The other druids were watching them, clearly listening in on their conversation. Merlin wanted to shy from their stares, but instead he focused on Wymarc's intense expression.
You are right to worry, she said. But such things have been tried in the past, though only a few have succeeded in implementing the Sluagh effectively. Merlin's hopes rose. Perhaps Wymarc would tell him of the Working, and his trip would prove fruitful in that regard after all.
Could you tell me about them? he asked.
Wymarc nodded solemnly. I will tell you what I can anticipate of Morgana's plans. She has likely promised the Sluagh they will be able to feast upon the souls and bodies of Camelot's citizens; that would be enough to entice them to come.
But she perhaps plans to betray them; for if left unchecked, the Sluagh would leave no kingdom left to rule. They would begin to ravage other lands until a different mage banished them back to Flæsc.
Is that possible? To banish them after they've come? Merlin asked eagerly. His books had not mentioned such a thing. Wymarc rubbed her chin with one bony finger.
Not as you think, she said. Many Sluagh will have gathered on the Flæsc side of the tear Morgana plans to rend open—hundreds, perhaps even thousands. To banish them back… They would not go. You might open a rift, but I doubt you could trick them into going in when they are so eager to take the peoples' souls. Afterward, when they are more sated, more drowsy, their numbers depleted… Then, a mage might persuade them back to their corrupted realm.
Merlin's hopes sank. He would have to go through with his plan to create a runic configuration to protect Camelot—as well as other defenses, ideas that lingered in his mind like cobwebs, things he had thought of before but abandoned because of their risk. And he would have to defend the kingdom against hundreds upon hundreds of the awful things. He didn't know if he could do it.
Is there anything more? he asked.
You must know that only a most powerful magic can defeat them. They are steeped in their own realm's corrupted magic, and it protects them well. Morgana is powerful enough that the threat of her magic—in combination with the lure of Camelot—will be enough for them to do as she asks. At least in the beginning. Wymarc set her empty cup aside.
What if it isn't enough? Merlin said.
They will turn on her entirely and commit terrible atrocities across all of Albion, Wymarc answered grimly. She stood, then, and the whole camp watched, as if holding their breath. We must prepare to move. I have told you all I can, and I thank you for the warning.
Merlin stood as well, understanding that the conversation had ended. Even the children had gone quiet, sensing the mood of the adults. He wondered how hard they would have to push to be out of Camelot by three weeks' time. They were likely used to leaving with little notice; many kingdoms disliked druids, Camelot foremost among them.
I thank you for the help you've given. He gave her a bow (far deeper than the ones he usually gave Arthur), and she dipped her head in return.
Good luck, Emrys.
He grimaced, knowing he was going to need it.
AN: Sorry about Chapter Two; the website was janked. Hopefully this one is good. I heard the app didn't have those problems though. And thanks for the response! Did you guys like the druid OCs? How was Arthur's reaction? How do you guys feel about how I'm doing the episodes?
