Chapter Seven: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
Even after Gwen left—looking conflicted, sorrow in her eyes—Arthur stayed awake, staring out the window down at the courtyard. His kingdom slept; the only evidence of life was in the flickering torches and guards that periodically shifted. This kingdom, a beautiful kingdom, one he had been raised to serve and protect and cherish.
How many good deeds did one have to do before they outweighed the evil ones? Arthur had thought about it often—his mistakes, his triumphs. Was his legacy going to be one of destruction or one of happiness?
And most importantly, did Merlin's deeds outweigh his sins? He had saved Camelot—Arthur, Uther, everyone—many times over. The griffon, Edwin, Sigan, Sofia, the afnac, Nimueh. Were those heavier than releasing the dragon?
If a man snaps and kills another, does the fact that he helped people before negate the crime? Arthur didn't think so, and how could he make an exception for one man? Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—his mind swirled with the name, even as others pounded against his skull. Morgana, the Sluagh. His father, who might never get better, though he hoped, every day, that he would.
(Do you truly hope so, Arthur, even though you know what kind of a man he can be? Others name him tyrant. You yourself have called him unreasonable, and no one can doubt he is full of hatred. Is that the hallmark of a great king? Or even a good one?)
Morgana was coming, and Merlin might be needed to help defeat her. Arthur could see the logic in that. But if he was to punish Merlin anyway, was it right to delay justice?
Arthur imagined running Merlin through when the servant came with breakfast, and his stomach churned so fiercely he thought he might vomit. He thought of burning him, beheading him, and he could barely picture it. But he knew if it had been any other who'd released the dragon… He would've already arrested them and been preparing to execute them. How could he let Merlin go, knowing that?
I am a murderer a hundred times over… The man had even admitted it. A confession in writing. And what other punishment could Arthur give out except execution for a murderer who'd killed hundreds?
Indirectly, his mind told him. Arthur stood and began to pace. Indirectly, yes. Merlin hadn't breathed the flame or destroyed the homes himself, but he'd known what would happen when he released the beast; he'd seen it in the crystal, and he'd suspected long before then.
Is it any better than what you've done? Arthur had made mistakes, certainly, but nothing that had so caused the death of his people—save, perhaps, the unicorn. He knew some had died from the famine and drought, peasants who couldn't find enough to eat or drink. Aren't those deaths on your shoulders?
Supposing he was playing devil's advocate… He hadn't known for certain what would happen when he slayed the unicorn. He also hadn't caused as much destruction. Is murdering a few hundred better than murdering a few hundred and destroying their homes as well?
I also stopped it, he thought. He'd managed to end the curse… with Merlin's help. And he supposed the warlock had become a dragonlord, preventing the dragon from coming to Camelot. How had that happened, exactly?
No time for that now. Arthur continued to circle his chambers, his feet growing cold against the stone. I must decide. Soon—before Morgana comes. He wouldn't face two threats to his people.
Except—Merlin wasn't a threat, was he? But surely he'd fight back if I tried to kill him, Arthur thought. He might target Camelot's people if Arthur went after him. Might use them as hostages. An untenable situation when he was facing Morgana head-on.
But if I kill him, Gwen would never forgive me. Nor would many of my knights. He'd lose Gwaine for certain—and Lancelot. Percival might follow, and Elyan would likely side with his sister. That left Leon, of his most trusted circle. Unless—they wouldn't have to know it had been Arthur. The prince was fully capable of hiring someone, or leading Merlin to the woods and disposing of him there. No evidence.
That's the coward's way, Arthur thought. Who was he to hide in the shadows like some kind of criminal? Like Merlin himself? Murdering someone in cold blood… No, I would have to make my decision known. I could kill him in secret and use the diary and spell books as proof of my righteousness. No one could dispute them. And he might lose the knights, lose Gwen—but it would be worth it if he could dispense justice for his people.
That, after all, was one of his main functions—his duty as prince regent. And Merlin couldn't be allowed to continue unpunished for what he'd done. And should he not be rewarded, then, for everything else? A voice pointed out. It seemed logical, sound, but the prince couldn't trust it.
The warlock had to be punished. If not execution… Banishment, at least. But what kind of justice is that for the families of those who died to the dragon's flame? To know the one responsible for their deaths roams free… And a magic-user to boot. If he were to reveal one of Merlin's crimes, he would have to reveal them all.
Again, the sickness rose in Arthur, and he collapsed into a chair in front of the dying fire, exhausted. A part of him couldn't believe he was considering this, murdering a man who had saved him a thousand times over. Another part of him couldn't believe he hadn't killed the evil sorcerer already.
And still a third wanted to go back, longed for the ignorance, the days when Arthur could smile and think on Merlin without this terrible, yawning pit in his gut.
Merlin still couldn't find the diary. He'd searched everywhere—again. And now here he was, pacing out in the woods, meant to be gathering herbs. He swept back and forth, nearly spilling the plants he had managed to gather from his basket.
He'd gotten the runes working without incident, he'd managed to figure out what the Sluagh were and warn Arthur—why did everything have to go sideways now? Just when he felt he might get away with all that he was planning?
But then, no one had turned him in. No one had said, Look, I've found the sorcerer's diary! No one had accused him, tried to kill him. Perhaps it had simply been lost, and now it was resting somewhere, yet unfound. Or perhaps…
Perhaps someone had found it and had no intention of bringing it forward. But why? Were they waiting for the right moment to spring it on him, to blackmail him? Having a sorcerer under one's thumb—especially one as powerful as him… It might be too tempting for certain nobles to pass up. Never mind that I won't support them. I'd rather be exposed as a sorcerer than use my magic for ill, as someone's puppet.
But maybe… No, absurd. Merlin nearly tripped over a root with the force of his stride, breaking undergrowth and scaring the squirrels and birds. What if someone had read it and realized that he meant no harm to Camelot? Could it be possible that they were simply keeping his secret safe?
No, I must prepare for the worst possibility. But how? Was there any real point in worrying about it with Morgana looming on the horizon? He could feel the Working, the barrier between world's pulsing and writhing, ready to split at her command. The malice leaked from the other side, saturating the air. It was gathering, becoming stronger. Sometimes it kept him awake at night, the feeling that he was breathing in something heavy, something like smoke or ash. Sometimes he could hear voices, just out of the range of his hearing…
He shook his head. If anyone had found his diary (assuming he hadn't simply lost it), they hadn't come forward. Merlin didn't have time to investigate it; there was still too much to do. So he would continue as he had, and if the time came when whoever it was did something with the information… Well, Merlin didn't know what he would do. But he'd have to do something.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool air of the forest, and unfolded his list of herbs. He still needed mugwort, creeping bellflower, and red elder-berry plants. Not to mention the plants needed for a more… illicit ritual.
At this rate, I'll have performed all of the different kinds of magic to help Camelot. Complex runes, magically-imbued plants… They would certainly know a sorcerer resided in Camelot. But what would they do about it? With the shield, Morgana lost the advantage of the Sluagh's flight. It would turn into a long, drawn-out siege.
And what would Arthur do, knowing a sorcerer was in the citadel? Would he use resources to search for Merlin even with Morgana on their doorstep? Merlin didn't think so, but he couldn't know for sure. Arthur could be blindsided by magic, sometimes. He'd likely think the sorcerer put the shield up for their own benefit, not Camelot's.
He found the mugwort and red elderberries quickly enough. So all that's left is… the creeping bellflower, allium, and goldenrod. The latter two he would imbue with spells, which he would then put in the citadel's grain storage. If they were to have a siege, he would make sure Camelot was well-stocked.
With the weather, it was difficult to find the proper plants. But once he did, he coaxed them back into bloom with a bit of magic (they had lost their flowers with the encroaching cold). Then, he plucked them up and tucked them into his satchel, right at the bottom.
After finding the other herbs for Gaius, he trekked back to the citadel, grateful to be farther from Morgana's Working. The itch in the back of his mind lessened with the distance, though it was strong enough now that he could still feel it, even when he wasn't trying.
He nodded to the guards at the entrance to the courtyard, and they nodded back. Tiny figures raced along the walls—soldiers likely preparing for the upcoming battle. As he made his way to the physician's chambers, someone called out behind him.
"Merlin!" The servant turned to see Gwaine trotting up behind him, grin spread wide over his face.
"Hi, Gwaine," he said, trying to smile back. It was difficult with how miserable he felt—his diary gone, the Sluagh approaching, magic still to do. "How are you?"
"Fine." He clapped Merlin's shoulder. "And yourself? It looks like Arthur's been working you to the bone." Then, seeing the satchel, he amended, "Or Gaius."
If he comments on how tired I look again… Merlin didn't know what he'd do, but he was exhausted enough without everyone pointing it out to him. "We have to stock up before it gets too cold for the plants," he explained. "And, you know, because of Morgana." He lowered his voice at the end. It still felt wrong to acknowledge her in the open, somehow, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe after the year of hiding her treachery, always guarding his true feelings and what he said about her…
"Ah, we beat her before, and we'll beat her again," Gwaine said, though Merlin could see the troubled look in his eye. The knights had been running around making preparations, and they knew how badly the fight could go for them. Arthur had done his best to relay the important information about the Sluagh to all of them (information Merlin had given him), and their odds weren't good.
Well, they wouldn't be good if they didn't have me. But they did—and so their odds were… Maybe still not good. But better, at the very least.
"Right," Merlin said. "I mean, it can't be any worse than defeating an immortal army." He fiddled with the strap of his satchel as he said this. It definitely could be worse. Especially if the shield doesn't work. Or any of my other spells don't work. If his plan to increase their food supplies failed, the citadel's people might be doomed to a slow starvation.
"That's the spirit!" Gwaine said, clapping his shoulder again. "Anyway, we were hoping to go out to the tavern tonight. Since everyone's been stressed about Morgana, I thought maybe we should relax a little."
"I don't know…" Merlin glanced up at the castle, avoiding his friend's gaze. He didn't want to see the disappointment there, or worse—hurt. "There are so many things I have to do—potions for Gaius, bandages, salves…" Really, he planned on enchanting the grain stores tonight (though he did still have to do those things for Gaius, who refused to let him shirk his apprentice duties).
"Mate." Gwaine patted his arm. "You need to relax. You're running yourself into the ground. I don't know if it's the princess or Gaius or Morgana, but we've all noticed how tired and busy you are." It didn't take a genius to guess who "we all" was—Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, maybe Leon. Lancelot likely would've been a part of the group, too, if he hadn't known exactly what was going on.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Merlin complained, turning away. "I'm not anymore tired than usual."
"You almost fell asleep on the training grounds the other day," Gwaine pointed out. "Have a few drinks with us—loosen up for one night. You're a lightweight, so I promise you'll sleep like a babe afterward."
"I can't afford a night of drinks," Merlin said. He began to try and walk toward the physician chambers again, but Gwaine stepped into his path.
"Then I'll pay," he said, raising his hands.
Merlin scowled. "That's not what I meant." He meant he was too busy. Too busy for anything but work—there would be time for drinking after they stopped Morgana. Assuming they did stop her.
"I'm not asking you to get drunk, Merlin," Gwaine said. "You haven't been to the tavern with us in a while—we've hardly seen you at all. We're worried about you, mate. A night won't kill you."
But it might kill you, if I can't do everything in time. It might kill Arthur. Lancelot. Gwen. Others.
The servant tried to duck around the knight, but he was blocked again. "Gwaine," he warned. "I don't have time for this."
"No time for friends?" Gwaine asked. "You've become a workaholic. Worse than an alcoholic, in my opinion. At least they know how to have fun." Merlin practically growled at the absurdity of it. With all the lies Gaius had told of him being in the tavern, Arthur probably did think he was an alcoholic. And here Gwaine was getting after him for working too hard, though they were days from a battle.
"Move," Merlin said. When Gwaine just stood there, the warlock glowered and shoved himself through, bumping into the knight's shoulder and sending him backward a few steps.
I don't have time for this, he thought again. He didn't have time for anything right now—not the magic, not the apprentice work, not serving Arthur. Time was a commodity too precious to waste.
"Make that tired and irritated," Gwaine said, following him up the stairs.
Merlin sighed. "I am not tired," he snapped. At Gwaine's look, he added, "Or irritated. Please, Gwaine, I'm trying to work."
"Let me help then," Gwaine said as they made it to the door outside the physician's chambers. "It'll be just like old times. Only, instead of polishing boots for the princess, we'll be doing something actually useful."
The idea itself wasn't bad—it was actually kind of nice, to know he had friends that hadn't forgotten him, even if he hadn't been elevated in status with the rest of them. The only issue was that Merlin wasn't exactly planning on doing physician duties, or rather, he wasn't planning on doing only physician duties. And he wasn't about to practice the spell he'd been learning in front of Gwaine.
So the warlock offered the knight his best smile. It wasn't convincing, judging from the look on Gwaine's face. "I'm sure your busy with your own duties," he said, and before the knight could protest, he continued. "But a lot of its—difficult work. And I appreciate it. Really. We can go for drinks after all this is over, yeah?"
Gwaine frowned, his eyes searching Merlin's. "Okay, mate. I won't argue anymore. But I know there's something going on—something more than what you're telling me."
"Nothing's going on," Merlin denied. "Not everything is a grand conspiracy."
"It is when it comes to you," he said softly. "No, don't deny it. You're always… apart. Thinking about something else. You know more than you should, sometimes, know where to poke and prod to get answers."
"I have to go," Merlin said, putting his hand on the handle of the door. Everything inside him was screaming to escape—escape Gwaine's discerning eyes, escape his words. His senses were buzzing, alarmed. "I have tinctures to make."
"Fine." The knight sighed. He gestured with one hand. "Go, then. I'll let the others know you're not coming."
Merlin darted inside the physician chambers, and he couldn't help the sense of relief he felt at the door between him and Gwaine. He felt guilty about it, but the knight… Others thought him weak of mind because he liked a good tankard of ale, but there was a sharpness behind his affable exterior. Merlin sometimes forgot.
"Did you get what I asked for?" Gaius's voice cut through the warlock's thoughts. The older man was standing at his workbench, making something that smelled foul.
"Yes," Merlin said. Moving to the table, he sorted the plants quickly into piles, leaving the allium and goldenrod in his bag.
"Hm. Good. Thank you, Merlin," the physician said absently, inspecting the plants. "This will do nicely to help us recover our stores."
Merlin peaked into his bag—he'd grabbed enough allium and goldenrod to give himself a few practice tries if he needed it. There was no time like the present, he supposed. He could make the tinctures afterward, then enchant the grain stores.
"What do you have there?" Gaius asked.
"Something for later," the warlock said, closing his bag. "Don't worry about it."
"Oh, my boy, I'm always worried about things concerning you."
Merlin's experiments with the flowers had gone better than he'd expected. He had sometimes done similar things in Ealdor, when the winters were harsh and they had hardly any food. He could almost stretch the grain they'd stored; what should've lasted a day lasted a week. Others in the village had commented that Hunith seemed to give away too much of her stores to others to have any left for herself and Merlin.
But with Merlin's magic, that hadn't been the case.
It was supposed to be impossible to duplicate things that would last, especially food. But the grain tainted with Merlin's magic had always seemed as nourishing as the other kind.
The spell he was using was technically for growing plants, not duplicating grain. In order to last, however, the grain couldn't be made from just magic—it had to have a base. The other grain, along with the flowers, would provide that base.
So, flowers tucked into jacket, he made his way to the granary. It was kept out of the way from the castle's main hallway, though the stairway to the cellars wasn't too far. There weren't many guards; stealing grain wasn't high on everyone's list of priorities, especially with Morgana's encroachment.
Merlin did his best to stay alert as he avoided the few guards he saw, though he was so tired it was hard to pay attention. He slipped into the grain room without much trouble, though he almost immediately tripped once inside. It was dim, and the room was filled with bags of grain. Where would he put all of the extra he produced? It wasn't something he'd considered.
"Damn," he muttered. Couldn't he just… leave it on the floor? The castle cats kept the mice away. "You know what?" Merlin said to the empty room. "I'll fill this whole place up. Who cares?" There was enough here to last the entire citadel maybe two days—and enough to last the castle two weeks. But Arthur wouldn't let his people starve.
"And if I need to, I can always make more," Merlin said, putting his hands on his hips. Then, he went over and opened a few of the bags, trying to (unsuccessfully) keep the grain from spilling. The flowers pulsed softly to his senses as he brought them out.
He didn't know much about flowers, but his book said allium was for good fortune and bounty—the goldenrod for something similar. Merlin kneeled, tucking the small bundles of plants near the bags. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the magic inside them.
It had been easy to create more apples when he'd been alone in his room: he'd gone from two to three to five to eight. (He wasn't sure how he would explain this to Gaius if the physician saw. Why would he ever need eight apples?) This was a similar principle. Just… More.
"Alan felaæ hwæ," he whispered. As magic began to flow through his hands, he repeated the words. "Alan felaæ hwæ." Mimicking the magic in the flowers helped to direct his own, and soon the grain began multiplying. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his vision fuzzed, but he managed to stay awake. "Alan felæ hwæ."
Merlin didn't know how much time had passed, but the entire room was filled. If anyone looks in here… The grain reached the ceiling and sloped gently to rest where he'd stood. His legs shook. But it was done. He grinned broadly at the pile; this would be enough to keep Camelot from starving as he—and Gaius, Arthur, and the knights—figured out how to drive Morgana and her army off.
Arthur fingered the hilt of his sword as he tracked Merlin out of the corner of his eye. It had been difficult that morning, to watch the man who had murdered so many (saved so many) walk free, unmolested. Innocent—or so he appeared to be. He tried not to watch him overtly; the servant was suspicious enough already.
But Merlin did his chores obliviously, just his normal duties: dusting, sweeping, picking up laundry, re-arranging things. Arthur had been marveling at this for days, this ability to simply blend it, to appear normal. Average. Even below average, to some.
"Ready for a fight with someone, sire?" Merlin asked, glancing at him as he bent down to retrieve something that he'd dropped.
Arthur's fingers stilled, and he stiffly dropped his arm down to his side. "No." I'm ready to execute someone. He couldn't believe he was looking at the person who'd released the dragon, who'd condemned so many to death. I could do it now. He's barely even paying attention.
His hand balled into a fist.
"Could've fooled me," Merlin said, raising his eyebrows at the fist. Arthur flexed his hand. He itched to punish the sorcerer for his crimes—to hurt him, as Arthur had been hurt, as his citizens had been hurt. His mouth twitched. "Has something happened?"
"No," Arthur repeated, teeth grinding. He had a council meeting soon—he needed to check on preparations, make sure everything was ready for Morgana. They had managed to raise troops, gather supplies, but still Arthur worried. What if it wasn't enough?
You know it will be, if you let Merlin live. He hasn't failed you before, a voice said.
Failed? He failed when he allowed my citizens to die in the flames! he shot back at himself.
Just like you failed when you allowed Uther to murder those same citizens, burning them just as the dragon did? He growled, shaking his head. This was the time to be deliberate and clear-headed. Instead he found himself arguing with his own mind—it was madness, sheer madness.
"You'll defeat her, Arthur," Merlin said. Arthur realized the man was standing closer, and he resisted the urge to shy back from the—the murderer (Camelot's savior). "You have before. Her hate makes her weak, makes her blind. You have so many people who will support you—given freely, willingly. Morgana must bribe and threaten to get anyone to follow her, but everyone knows you're going to be great. They're not waiting to turn on you—and that's why you'll win."
He smiled gently, hope in his eyes, and Arthur closed his mouth with an audible clop. Had he been more worried about Morgana (and honestly, with this whole situation, he knew he should've been), the little speech would've made him feel better.
Now, it just made him feel guilty. "That—that means more than you know, Merlin," he managed, and Merlin turned away, though there was still a soft worry in his eyes. Those eyes aren't waiting to turn on you. But wasn't that what Arthur was doing?
No! Merlin was a traitor: he had lied and schemed and killed people, innocent people, and he needed to be punished.
(He had loved and lost and saved people, innocent people, and he needed to be rewarded. Cherished for the ally he was, supported for all he'd done for Arthur and Camelot).
Bile rose in the prince's throat as he watched the servant continue to clean. Lying was like a disease, something that made him physically ill. Had Merlin felt like this, sick with turmoil, when he'd lied to Arthur? To Gwen? To everyone?
"It's time for my meeting," Arthur said. "I won't require you to attend—I need you to polish my armor—and take out my hounds." Anything to get Merlin away from him, at least for a while. The prince needed to think, to focus.
"What? But—that's not my job!" Merlin sputtered. That was true: Arthur made him clean the stables and take care of his horse and hounds out of pure spite. But now he did it because he needed peace, damn it.
"Your job is what I say it is," Arthur declared.
"But—"
The prince glared at him sternly. "Don't make me make you muck out the stables as well, Merlin," he threatened, and Merlin's mouth closed. He face scrunched in a look of awkward irritation, and he squinted at Arthur sourly.
"Morgana isn't what's bothering you, is it?" he asked, in a fit of insight. Arthur felt panic flash in his chest, tightening his ribs. Does he suspect? Does he know—somehow? Merlin's powers in the diary had seemed almost limitless; did he have some way of knowing what Arthur knew?
Don't be ridiculous. You're overreacting. "Just do as I ask," Arthur said before he left his chambers, his red cloak billowing in his wake. He barely resisted the urge to slam the doors behind him, and the guards outside jumped at his abrupt exit. Damn that man. Damn him and damn what he's done. Why did everything have to be so—so complicated?
Arthur barely realized when he made it to the council chambers. The guards bowed to him, opening the door to let him in. The councilors stood as he entered, rising as a sign of respect. He summoned his best fake smile and gestured for them to be seated as he took his place at the head of the table.
The rest of the meeting passed quickly, Arthur for once focusing on the problem of Morgana instead of the problem of Merlin. Making battle plans, figuring supplies, ensuring the troops were well supplied—these were the things he'd been made for, not dealing with lying sorcerers.
Everything was well in order, it seemed. There had been no additional news at the border, nothing new to report on the Sluagh (though if there had been, he suspected Merlin would've already told him). Arthur left the council chambers feeling better on that front, but far worse on what to do with Merlin.
Do I kill him? Banish him? Imprison him?
(Do I reward him? Knight him? Make him a lord?)
The prince didn't know.
That night, Arthur left a note in his room, telling Guinevere that he had gone out to clear his head, that he wasn't interested in reading from the diary tonight, though she could if she was so inclined.
Arthur dressed lightly. He took a dark-colored cloak with him. Hopefully it would help him blend into the shadows, should he need it. He checked that his daggers were in his boots, that his sword was attached securely to his hip.
Am I really doing this? He poked his head out of his chambers; the guards were at the end of the hall, looking for potential assassins or thieves. Quiet as a mote of dust, Arthur slipped down the other end of the hall. He still had to pass guards, but these would be easier to sneak by.
He kept his breathing silent, his footsteps soft. The prince descended the castle until he reached the physician's chambers. He thought it might have been better to sneak through the window, but he suspected that would have proven difficult. As Arthur reached for the door handle, it opened.
Only his quick reflexes saved him. He sprang backward, behind the door and into the shadows, as Merlin peered out from behind the door. His manservant glanced in either direction, but the door hid Arthur from his sight.
The servant stepped out, letting the door shut behind him. He moved forward without spotting Arthur, using the dim light from the window to see. Merlin began to make his way down to where the stairs were.
What the hell is he doing sneaking about my castle at this time of night? But Arthur could see nothing to do but follow him. He did his best to shadow Merlin from the farthest he could without losing him, though the secret sorcerer moved swiftly and silently—far more steady on his feet that Arthur had ever seen him.
The prince tailed him down, down into the castle. Merlin took care of the guards with ease, and Arthur watched, heart in his throat, as the sorcerer's eyes turned a bright, unambiguous gold. (Also, he realized he might have to start overseeing the guards' training; they shouldn't have been falling for such ridiculous, obviously magical tricks.)
I should do it now. Sweat broke out on Arthur's brow as Merlin placed his hand on the door in front of him. They were deep in the castle—even deeper than the dungeons, by Arthur's estimation. The prince swallowed. There, in the chamber, wherever it leads, that's where I'll do it.
That's where I'll kill him.
The lock clicked as it opened, and Merlin slipped inside. A second later, Arthur followed. He eased the door open carefully, closing it behind him with a gentle click.
It led to a magnificent cavern, stalactites clinging to the ceiling and stalagmites rising from the stone ground like towers. The door opened to a ledge overlooking the cave, and precarious-looking stairs wound their way to the chamber's floor.
Merlin was already making his way down these stairs with a confidence Arthur had rarely seen. His steps were sure, his back straight. Arthur shook when he realized the light source was coming directly from Merlin's hand—some kind of magical light. Proof, right here in front of his eyes, that all he had read was true. It was true that Merlin had released the dragon, true that he was a sorcerer.
(True that he'd had magic since birth, that he'd used it to save Camelot and Arthur a hundred times over.)
The light was blue, and it washed over the cave gently, softly, like the light of the moon. It swirled, and Arthur realized he recognized it—it was the same one that had appeared to him when he'd been fetching the Mortaeus flower. It's all been true, every last word in that damn book.
Sometimes it had seemed so distant, reading it. Like a book full of tales, stories of far-away lands and people, people he'd never met and never would meet. But this was real, this was true. Arthur's head spun, but he tightened his grip on his sword handle.
The tale will end here.
He followed Merlin down the stairs, stepping lightly—both to remain undetected and so he wouldn't fall. When the sorcerer reached the bottom, Arthur watched as he pulled books out of some nook near the wall, brushing them off with his hand.
When the prince reached the ground, Merlin was kneeling, absorbed in one of the books. The light floated above him, illuminating his dark hair and pale throat—the throat Arthur was prepared to cut. He could see the man's jugular, blue-green and pulsing faintly. The prince regent unsheathed his sword silently, feeling like a coward.
This is the best way. He won't even know what happened. Simply there one moment and gone the next—a swift, painless death. There was nothing more he could ask from Arthur.
The prince crept up behind him. He could hear Merlin muttering to himself—and it sounded so normal, as though Arthur had stumbled upon him reading in some alcove, shirking his chores. He raised the sword, bracing his arms. He'll die like any other man. There was nothing special about him, save for these very brief facts: he was a sorcerer, he had lied to Arthur, and he had killed Arthur's people. (He was a friend, he had protected Arthur, and he had saved Arthur's people.)
Merlin shifted, leaning forward. For a moment, Arthur was afraid that he'd somehow detected something was wrong. But no—he placed his hands on the ground, and by now Arthur was too curious to continue (too afraid, hands shaking, insides quivering. How could he kill his best friend?).
Gold spread from Merlin's fingertips, brilliant lines of light tracing paths along the floor like sprouting vines. Arthur realized they were following a pattern, and soon an entire rune had lit on the floor. It flared a bright white and settled into a soft gold.
The prince stared. His father had schooled him briefly in runes—taught him enough to be wary, to know they held exquisite power. Evil things, he'd said. You'll see them in druid camps. They're meant for spells of torture, of summoning the darkest of evils you can imagine.
He never could've imagined how beautiful one might be. It shone like a diluted sun, warm and gentle. It was roughly circular, stretching at least thirty feet across, and it felt… good. Like a hug or a kind word, like hope or a sturdy shield, like a blazing hearth or strong stone walls. Like safety. Arthur basked in this feeling—for just a moment, only a moment—because it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His sword lowered almost against his will as Merlin stood, walking around the outside to inspect the rune.
The prince darted behind one of the stalagmites to hide himself. A look of utter concentration was upon Merlin's face—his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together. Rarely had Arthur seen him so focused as he examined the lines of the rune, touching it here and there as though to check something.
And, if Arthur were true to himself, the man was almost as beautiful as the rune itself. His eyes shone lightly in its glow, and his skin adopted a strange luminescence. The precious feeling of safety and goodness only strengthened as the sorcerer walked around the rune. Arthur thought he could see Merlin's veins, streaking down his arms and in his neck, pulsing with golden light. He looked entrancing, like a fairy out of the stories Uther had used to warn Arthur of the dangers of magical creatures.
The sorcerer didn't move awkwardly, as he often did in the prince's presence; he moved with an odd sort of grace, gangly limbs coordinated, muscles shifting just below the skin. They, too, seemed almost to glow, and Arthur found himself mesmerized by the man's form, contrasted so sharply and wonderfully with the dark rock. It took his breath away—the expression of focus, the way his body moved, the golden light, the feeling of peace.
And then the moment faded as the rune's light faded, and the weaker blue light over Merlin's head became the cavern's only source of illumination. Arthur could make out broken chains in the corner, and he realized this was where the dragon had been imprisoned.
But the thought didn't fill him with anger, with rage, as it had before. Here in this cavern, here with this strange and wondrous man, Arthur understood. He understood like he hadn't before—because he had refused to let himself understand. His servant had done his best. Untrained, left nearly on his own, with nothing but a cautious, elderly man to guide him. The prince felt that the words of the journal were sinking in—the entirety of them, the desperation, the tears—assimilating inside him. Merlin had done his best, but he'd never faltered. The prince couldn't say the same.
Had Arthur truly been prepared to kill him?
He stayed motionless, sword hand limp at his side, as Merlin took the books up with him out of the cave. Merlin, the man who had been willing to trade his life for his, the man who had almost died for him—been executed for him, because Arthur had no doubts now about what would've happened if the sorcerer had been exposed.
The horror continued to dawn slowly. Would Merlin have even stopped him if he had known Arthur was trying to kill him? Or would he have let Arthur behead him, burn him, run him through? The idea of him resisting seemed laughable now, though Arthur had seriously been considering before. Taking his citizens as hostages, attacking simultaneously with Morgana? His thoughts had been so muddled, so polluted with his obsession, his vicious prejudice against magic.
In the dark of the cave—it was pitch-black now without Merlin's light—Arthur sheathed his sword. He wondered what the rune had been for, and he recalled Merlin writing in his diary about taking risks. What was this magic, which had given him such an impression of safety, going to do?
He committed it to memory. Arthur wondered, briefly, why he was so against telling Merlin, even now that he'd had the revelation about the man's character. He couldn't be certain if it was because he wanted Merlin to come to him, to trust him, or something… deeper. More serious.
Arthur knew he couldn't lie to his knights—or his people—for long. But how he would approach portraying Merlin to them… That would take some consideration.
And Arthur realized, suddenly, that he was speaking in terms of letting Merlin use his magic freely, in Camelot. Even though his father still lived, even though Morgana loomed, ever-present…
Whatever happens, Merlin—I will not let anyone in Camelot touch you. Not as Arthur had almost done. The sorcerer deserved better, and if that wasn't the strangest thought…
He stood there a few moments, relishing in these new emotions, before attempting to leave. The prince quickly understood that it had been a mistake to let the light go without him. He groped around in the dark before finally finding the stairs. He used his hands to help guide him, and he touched each step before placing his weight down.
At the top, he could see the faint, flickering light of a torch between the door and the ground. He reached toward it gratefully, ready to go to bed, before he realized—with a flash of anxiety—that it was locked.
Oh God, I'm so stupid. He'd forgotten that Merlin had unlocked it. Was he going to be stuck here for the rest of the night? And what if the sorcerer found out he'd been down here, spying? He'd have to confront all he'd learned, confront Merlin, moments before their confrontation with Morgana. Neither could afford the distraction.
To be fair, though, Arthur had already been very distracted by Merlin.
He glared at the door. There was nothing for it; he couldn't afford to be stuck here all night—or all of tomorrow. Arthur began to pound and kick at the door, more to make noise than anything else. He yelled for someone to open the door, knowing the guards would likely hear him. This went on for ten, twenty minutes before he stepped back.
Perhaps he could break the door down, if he went about it the right way.
He backed up farther (careful not to get close to the edge) before running at the door, shoulder primed to hit it—
And he launched himself into the bright light of the hallway, nearly flinging himself onto his face from the momentum. Three guards stood around him. One had a ring of keys dangling from his hand, and all had their mouths agape.
"…Sire?" one asked tentatively.
Arthur straightened, dusting himself off. He cleared his throat, feeling more embarrassed than he ever had in his life, as the three stared at him in bewilderment. "Only checking the security of the room," he said gruffly. "I misplaced my keys and locked myself in."
The guard holding the keys furrowed his brow in confusion. "But how? You lock it from the outside—pardon my impertinence, sire." Damn. That was a good point.
Arthur's mouth twitched. He was about to sound supremely stupid, but it was better than the alternative—the truth that he'd followed a known sorcerer down into the cave, prepared to kill him, but had decided not to. "I locked it before I closed the door," he said. "To prevent interruptions."
The same guard tilted his head. "…But you locked yourself in, my lord…" Was this why Merlin sounded like half his brain was gone most of the time? Arthur longed to wipe that befuddled, slightly judgmental look off the guard's face. He was the prince, goddammit—the prince regent, no less. That was supposed to mean respect.
"So I did," he admitted through gritted teeth. "And I thank you for your service and vigilance."
"…Of course, sire," one of the other guards said. But they all continued to stare, slightly bewildered that their prince regent had somehow managed to lock himself into a mysterious room looking for security threats in the middle of the night.
"That was a dismissal, men," Arthur said, and they nodded and bowed quickly, their eyes wide. They left without a backward glance, as though the prince's apparent stupidity was contagious.
This is all Merlin's fault, making me look ridiculous… But the thought, usually so normal and cheerful, seemed cold and disingenuous when, minutes before, Arthur had been prepared to kill him.
The prince regent sighed, squared his shoulders, and began to make his way back to his rooms.
Gwen didn't know what to do. It had seemed so clear-cut before: Merlin had lied, yes, but he'd also used his magic for good. He'd saved them, and he'd been born with it—without a choice. But now that she knew he'd released the dragon…
She could understand, on some level, why he'd done it. His mother had been on the line; he'd taken a magically-binding oath. He'd owed the dragon, and Kilgharrah had given him the knowledge to save Camelot fifty times over. And in his position, she thought she would likely have done the same.
Still, it was hard to accept, and she knew Arthur was taking it hard. The note he'd left last night had worried her—she hadn't expected him to cancel so abruptly—but she'd caught sight of him this morning. He'd looked well enough, if stressed. Certainly nothing out of the ordinary.
She scrubbed the cloth vigorously. Fortunately, she'd grown calluses long ago—the hot water no longer bothered her, as it had when she'd been a young girl. Nor did the repetitive motion with the brush peel the delicate skin of her palms—it was tougher and used to the work.
I just don't know enough! She fretted, adding more soap to the basin. If only she could speak to Merlin about it all… But no, she didn't want to betray Arthur's trust like that. You're already betraying Merlin's, she told herself. You should've convinced the prince to tell him.
Gwen sighed, itching her cheek with her forearm so she wouldn't get suds all over her face. If you can't speak to Merlin about the magic, about everything, what can you do? She wished, not for the first time, that she were more educated. She knew her sums—and Merlin had taught her to read, and writing had been easier after that. But she still lacked so much knowledge.
You can get it, though, can't you? You have the keys to unlock those doors, Gwen. It had been something her father had used to say when she asked something she could figure out on her own. There wasn't a chance Geoffrey would let her use the library—she was a simple peasant girl, after all—but Gaius…
How to do it without him becoming suspicious? That would be the difficult part.
Gwen stood and began to rinse and wring out the clothes. She'd hang them to dry and come collect them when they were finished. Drying her hands on her skirt, she cleaned up her washing station, giving the others in the room friendly smiles.
As she made her way toward the physician chambers—dodging other servants along the way—she pondered for an excuse. It wasn't enough to say she was interested in learning about magic; saying something like that would get her executed for certain.
Nerves rose in her, but she shoved them down. She was harboring a sorcerer now—harboring him with the prince regent. And Gaius knew of Merlin, too; if there was anyone she could speak to about this without repercussions, save Merlin, it was the old physician.
At the door, she faltered. What if he saw through her? You're being ridiculous. Just go in. Gwen knocked so as to not startle Gaius, and entered.
The room seemed much the same as it always was: slightly cluttered and heavily scented with herbs. Gaius was in the midst of grinding some mixture, though he looked up at her as she shut the door behind her.
"Gwen," he greeted. "What can I do for you?"
For a moment, all she could do was stare. How could he act so normal? How could everything be so normal? Merlin had magic, he'd saved them, he'd released the dragon. He was like Morgana (oh, please, let him not be like Morgana), but only time would tell how much.
Gwen didn't know if she could handle another best friend betraying her, betraying Camelot, and turning to violence and hatred. She had loved Morgana, and she loved Merlin—she wouldn't be able to stand it.
"Guinevere?" Gaius prompted, and Gwen managed to summon a smile.
"Sorry, Gaius, I'm a little distracted today. And what I wanted to ask you… It's not, well—it's—" She struggled to find the words. "It's about magic," she blurted, and clapped her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to put it so bluntly.
Gaius blinked at her, mouth a tiny "o" of surprise, but he recovered himself quickly. "What about it? I'm afraid you and I both know that it's very much illegal. What has possessed you to even ask such a thing?"
Gwen bit her lip, her mind racing. "It's Morgana. I just—with everything that's happening, I felt I should know more about it. I know it's… not technically allowed, but…"
"That's putting it mildly, my dear." Gaius regarded her seriously as one of his eyebrows crept higher on his forehead. "And I'm sorry, but there's nothing for me to tell you; the study of magic has been made punishable by death. Don't risk your head for mere curiosity."
Frustration welled in her gut. How could he say that to her while he harbored a sorcerer? She closed her eyes briefly to calm herself. He'll never give in if you act like a lunatic. "It's not only curiosity," she said. "I want to be prepared for when Morgana comes—and I want to make sure I know more of magic, so if—so if I see signs of it again, I'll know."
"See signs of it again?" Gaius asked. He suddenly seemed guarded. "What do you mean?"
"Only that Morgana's nightmares came true," Gwen said. "I know it now, and I knew it then. I told no one, but I wonder… If I had known more, perhaps I would've been able to help her. Before she—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
Morgana had been her best friend. She wouldn't have turned her over to the king for anything, but she hadn't known for certain it was magic, after all. So she hadn't told anyone, not even Morgana herself. If she'd known more…
None of what she was telling Gaius was a lie. She knew that as the words fell from her lips like air from her lungs. How long had she been carrying around these feelings?
"You mustn't blame yourself," the physician admonished. "Morgana made her own choices." He sighed. "God knows we all tried to help her, in our own ways."
"But there might be someone else I can help—now. I just don't have the knowledge, like with Morgana." She worded her words carefully. She'd keep her promise to Arthur.
Gaius turned to her, almost suspicious. "Do you suspect someone?"
Gwen fumbled. "No," she said quickly. "Not currently. But I don't know what to look for, do I?"
"No." Gaius sighed. "I suppose you don't. Sit down, my dear. I must finish this, and then we can discuss the topic further."
Gwen had to stop herself from crowing in victory as she sat at the table, trying to summon her patience. "Do you need any help?" she asked, but he shook his head. She watched his old, skillful hands mix the tincture as he'd done a thousand times. He'd taught her a little of herb lore, and she was pleased that she was able to recognized the plants he was using.
He bottled it carefully when he was done and blew out the fire. He placed his dirty equipment at one end of the work station and rinsed his hands in a bucket of fresh water he kept in one corner of the room for the exact purpose. Gaius moved to the table and sat across from her, easing himself into his seat with an old man's slow grace.
"Arthur is regent right now," Gwen said abruptly. "I don't think he would react as harshly as Uther if he were to find out, especially if I were to explain it to him." And with everything else happening. He's been so distracted lately, with Morgana and Merlin and his father…
Gaius's lips tightened, but he nodded. "I think you're right. The prince has always had a merciful heart." The more merciful than the king's went unsaid, but Gwen heard it anyway. "Very well. I have one book I can show you—on the condition that it stays here. You may read to your heart's content, but only in my chambers."
Gwen tried very hard not to let a huge grin spread over her face. "Thank you, Gaius. You can't know how much this will ease my mind."
"Don't be so certain, my child. Often, ignorance is more comfortable than knowledge." Gaius got up and moved to the bookshelf. "Uther allowed me to keep this under the pretext that I used it only to defend Camelot from magic. He burned the rest of the books on magic—with their owners, of course."
She could tell he was trying to keep the bitterness from his tone—trying and failing. Gwen couldn't help but sympathize, shuddering to think of Merlin burning at the stake. Arthur would never, she assured herself. And Uther… She hated to think it, but she didn't think the king would ever be well again.
"As such," Gaius continued, "I have only the basics, really. No spells, of course, only descriptions of magic and how such things work. You must promise you won't tell anyone I've let you read this." He removed one thick tome from his shelf, carrying it back to the table. Stacking it in front of her, his gaze was stern.
"You have my word, Gaius," she said. "Truly."
"Thank you. That means wonders for this old man's heart." Gwen ignored the unlike other young men I could name. She had a feeling she knew. He bustled back to the workstation, and she drew the books closer. The outside didn't show the title, but she found them when she looked inside. The book was called A Basic Guide to Magicks.
"Is it alright if I start now?" she asked.
"Go ahead," Gaius said, beginning to pull out different herbs for a new potion.
Gwen flipped to the first page, and a cloud of dust rose into the air. Coughing, she swept her hand in front of her until the dust dispersed, leaving her with mildly stinging eyes.
The book appeared to be written by someone called "Cecillia Leofwin." A woman, then. Gwen hadn't ever read a book by a woman before. She squinted down at the tiny print, trying to accustom herself to the old-style script.
This is a beginner's guide to Magicks. In this book, I will be describing the basic schools of magic, mages and their classifications, different focuses, and the structure of Magick Society. It's important to know that the information I cover is very general and broad. I have listed more specialized readings at the back of this guide for those interested.
Some may wonder at my qualifications, but I assure you I have had adequate schooling. I am a sorceress trained at the Isle of the Blessed under the High Priestesses. Although I never went so far in my training as to become a Priestess myself, I have received certification to perform Magicks as far as Rome itself.
As I will explain later, Priestess training is extremely versatile. I am qualified in basic defensive and offensive Magicks, as well as Elemental Magicks. I have limited training in Transmutation (though I hold a fascination for this school), and am highly skilled at using Runes. Please allow these qualifications to ease your mind; I am more than capable of explaining the basics.
Without further ado (I've never particularly believed in long-winded introductions), let's begin.
Well. Gwen had no idea what half those words meant. Transmutation? Elemental? If this was what this woman meant by "basic," Gwen didn't know if she would get anything out of this.
She glanced at Gaius, who was busy preparing what appeared to be a salve. She couldn't believe Uther had let him keep this; it might as well have been a book of spells, with how often it spoke of magic.
Perhaps he chose to look the other way. Uther was a known hypocrite; Gwen wouldn't put it past him to have allowed Gaius to keep the book in case it ended up benefiting him.
You've gotten cynical, Gwen, she scolded herself. She suspected that if anyone ever accused Gaius with this book in front of the king, Uther wouldn't turn a blind eye then. He might've lit the pyre himself.
Odd, though, that the witchfinder never used this. Perhaps the king had known and had told Aredian that the physician had been allowed. Or Gaius hid it. Either were good possibilities. But the physician did have all those books on curses, spells, and magical creatures.
She kept reading.
The top of this page was titled "Magic and Its Schools."
Magic, properly defined, is energy that can be accessed to accomplish a goal. This energy can be found from within or outside the body. Often, the energy must be shaped in order to accomplish its task—this is done through spells, rituals, and runes. Anything that helps shape magic is known as a focus. Some mages may use physical focuses, such as staffs, jewelry, or wands, to help with casting.
Gwen tilted her head. Energy… She had never thought of magic that way before. And what did "within or outside the body" mean? Which of those applied to Merlin? Or did both?
Magic is broken down into Schools—these define what type of magic is being used, and sometimes what focus is being used as well (as is the case with Runes).
Healing is often considered the most useful of Magicks, but it one of the hardest to master. It takes intricate knowledge of the human body, as well as the ability to bypass the patient's own energies. While this is easier to do because of the body's natural inclination to heal itself, Healing Magicks take precision, patience, and skill.
Healers must train for years to become proficient under the eye of watchful master. Healing Magicks are capable of undoing otherwise fatal wounds or illnesses, as well as speeding the rate of the patient's healing. It is most difficult to heal oneself, though some masters are so good at it they hardly age.
Interesting that the first School the book explained was healing. Gwen had often thought on the destructive quality of magic, but never its potential for good (at least not before reading Merlin's journal). She wondered how many lives could've been saved in Camelot if people had been allowed to use magic, especially healing magic.
She kept reading.
Transmutation Magicks refer to the use of magic to turn something into something else. Animation is a sub-class in Transmutation, where the mage takes something that is not alive and makes it alive. It's important to note that transforming a substance into something that's alive is always temporary; it is impossible to permanently animate something. An example of Animation would be a golem, in which a mage animates clay, dirt, stone, or wood to do their bidding. Often, these materials are shaped into a living form—such as a man—before the Animation for ease of movement.
It was so intriguing that scholars had actually divided up types of magic, as though it were a proper discipline instead of, well, magic. But she supposed that before Uther, it had been a proper discipline. She wondered whether Merlin would've been taken as some sorcerer's apprentice for training. Or did he even need training, having been born with magic?
Enchantments are by far the most common type of magic. One might enchant a broom to sweep, or water to boil. It is most often described as a sort of "invisible hand." Enchantments may be used to move objects, summon objects, stop things from falling, or throw objects around. This is one of the easiest branches to grasp, and it is one most masters will start with when training apprentices.
Gwen could recognize some of the magic she'd seen in these pages. She'd watched sorcerers throw people around—she assumed they might count as objects. Certainly that was what it seemed like the book was describing.
She glanced outside and realized she was needed elsewhere—she had chores that needed to be done. It had taken her ages to read even that much, what with the tiny script. I'll be back, she promised as she closed the book. Gaius looked over as she stood.
"Thank you again for letting me read this," she said. "It was… very helpful."
"You're very welcome," he said, pausing his work. "But you mustn't tell anyone what you read."
"Of course." She smiled. "My lips are sealed."
AN: Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows! I really appreciate them. Also, Arthur finally chose! I hope it came through with the parentheses and Arthur's parallel thought processes that he was never actually going to hurt Merlin. What did you think of his segment? And Gwen's reaction-as well as the excerpt? How about Merlin and his magic?
