Chapter Ten: The Attack

Eventually, Merlin had to sleep. He couldn't stand it. It was driving him mad, the whispers, the pounding. He couldn't relax with the noise; every time he closed his eyes, he felt the horrible sensation of something clinging to his soul, saw how the Sluagh had torn up the old man right in front of his eyes. He smelled the rot of Flæsc, heard the wet shuck of his footsteps on the mushy, bloody ground.

And it was coming here.

He had been too nauseous to eat, too nervous to sleep. Though this time, Arthur had barely commented on it (he just continued to watch the servant like some kind of bad spy. At least Gwen had stopped trying to force-feed him every chance she got). He dropped plates and pitchers, knocked over goblets, jumped badly at noises, and had nearly gutted himself giving Arthur Excalibur.

Normally, the prince would've been furious with so many mistakes, but he'd only looked at Merlin with a horribly inscrutable face, giving nothing away. The servant hated it; he almost wanted Arthur to yell and throw him in the stocks again. That would've been normal, which might've been a comfort at this point. Anything but the silent staring—that, too, was driving him mad. More so because the prince absolutely refused to tell him why, no matter how hard he pressed.

But he couldn't sleep. So he paced during the night, after double or triple checking his preparations. His stomach growled, warring with the ill feeling in his gut. He suspected Gaius wanted to force-feed him like Gwen had, but instead his mentor settled on watching him disapprovingly as Merlin fiddled with his food in the mornings and evenings.

This night, the voices were deafening. The warlock knew this was it; this would be the night Morgana broke the barrier—he could feel it. It had been a month, the tear growing in length and breadth until there was nothing but a shredded veil between the worlds, a curtain thinner than the finest silk. This would be the night his defenses would be tested, the night his friends might die. The night Arthur would have to battle his half-sister, mere weeks after he had just wrenched Camelot back from her.

He'd told Gaius at dinner so the man could prepare. His mentor had instructed him to get some sleep, and Merlin had promised he would try. And he had: he'd lain in bed for at least an hour, failing to stop the voices and the pain in his head.

ALMOST HERE, THE TASTY SUMPTUOUS HOT FLESH—

OPEN THE BARRIER FOR THE FEAST! I'LL CONSUME THEM ALL, ONE BY ONE—

I'LL LICK THEIR INSIDES CLEAN, SUCK THE MARROW FROM THEIR BONES, SLURP UP THEIR WARM STICKY SOULS, FILL MY BELLY UNTIL I BURST AND THEN I'LL FILL IT AGAIN—

PATIENCE, THE WITCH WORKS. TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT, MY SWEETS—

Merlin threw off the blanket. He would never be able to sleep like this; he didn't care. Those things were coming. They were coming to Camelot, to his home, to devour the people he loved. He had to be awake when they arrived.

They'll approach from the West, like the book said, he thought. They'll appear as a hoard of ravens or bats, most likely. West, unfortunately, was the front of the castle; Morgana had chosen her army with care. The warlock lit the candles on his bedside table with a flash of his eyes.

He'd gone to bed fully clothed so that he'd be ready, and he didn't regret the decision, though it had made it more uncomfortable to sleep. Really, though, most of his discomfort came from the voices and the headache, the lingering feeling of spite he'd felt. Merlin knew it would only grow stronger when the Sluagh attacked, and fear swept through him.

What if he froze, as he'd done in Flæsc? What if the voices kept him from focusing properly, as they'd been doing all day? Distraction in battle was a death sentence.

Merlin sat on the floor anyway, resting his head on his knees. The giggling laughter spun around in his head, bouncing off the sides of his skull. He couldn't fight like this—his shield, the storage… They would have to do. He wouldn't be of any help in this state. Gaius had been right; he was too exhausted to be of any use.

As he sat there—trying not to listen or think or feel the pain in his head—something wiggled in the back of his mind.

lin… Merlin, can you—

He recognized the voice immediately: Kilgharrah. It had been a while since the dragon had contacted him this way, and it was difficult to hear him over the Sluagh's laughter and hunger. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. He felt for the bond he and Kilgharrah shared, and upon locating it, held firmly. It was difficult to grasp among the cacophony, but the warlock managed.

The dragon's voice crystalized in his mind, louder than the other, suddenly quieter voices of the Sluagh.

Can you hear me, young warlock?

Yes, Merlin replied. What is it? Did Kilgharrah have more bad news? If he did… the warlock doubted there was anything he could do but wait.

Tonight is the night, Kilgharrah said. The barrier is almost torn—I estimate only a few hours more. The witch has other sorcerers on her side. Mercenaries, too.

I know, Merlin said hopelessly. Would the shield hold them all? He didn't know. His smaller-scale runic configurations had been strong, but he hadn't thrown anything as dark and powerful as the Sluagh at them. And he'd been forced to do it so quickly… What if he'd missed something? What if the shield had some kind of obvious flaw? What if his other enchantment didn't work? Could you… Would you be able to slow them down?

It would be my pleasure. Merlin could picture Kilgharrah bearing his teeth in animalistic bloodlust, eyes and throat aglow with fire. Dragons were smart, and they could be kind—but they weren't human. They didn't feel like humans did, for all their sentience and emotion. The warlock felt a hot, alien glee leak from their bond. The witch has gone too far, summoning such things. She plays with realms and rules she has no business meddling in.

Merlin rubbed his eyes, which burned and stung from his lack of sleep. If he were to look in a mirror, he knew they would be bloodshot. Thank you, Kilgharrah, he said. I appreciate it.

I can feel your tiredness, the dragon responded, as though that reply—as opposed to you're welcome or think nothing of it—were perfectly on topic. His tone was almost accusatory. A wise warrior sleeps before battle. You have enough time yet. Your exhaustion will cloud your judgment and make you sloppy.

Indignation made Merlin sit up straighter, though Kilgharrah wasn't there to see it. It's not my fault all I can hear is the fucking things wanting to eat people, he said hotly. They've been in my head for days—I can't stop sensing them.

You can, Kilgharrah said. If you'd stop whining and think about it, anyway.

The warlock crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at his wall. I just told you—I can't think right now. I haven't been able to think properly for days. And wasn't that the truth. The past month had been like one big daze, Merlin feeling as though he were trapped in a giant, invisible cobweb. His movements slow, constantly feeling stuck, a million different threads tugging on him in every direction, as a malevolent, creeping spider crawled toward him.

I suppose your sensitivity cannot be helped, Kilgharrah admitted grudgingly, which was as close as he'd get to apologizing. So I will tell you: getting the Sluagh's voices from your head requires a similar magic to the kind used to purge them from your soul. They are corrupt beings, and fire—even mental fire—burns them.

If I use the spell you used to get rid of them from my soul, I won't be able to hear them anymore? Merlin confirmed.

Yes, young warlock. Then, you will go to sleep. It was more of a command than anything else, but Merlin supposed he was showing his concern the only way he knew how. He was sort of like Arthur in that respect, not that the dragon would appreciate the comparison.

I'll try. How much time will you buy us, slowing them down?

It's difficult to say. The Sluagh are formidable enemies in such great numbers, even for me and my flame. I will not have the advantage of flight over them. And the witch has a retinue of skilled, powerful mages. I anticipate I will add only an hour or two to their journey, if I am to be careful.

About dawn, then? Merlin asked. He wished there were something he could do to help Kilgharrah, but he would trust that the dragon knew what he was doing. He had lived for hundreds of years; he knew how to fight, and to avoid being injured. But if he were to get hurt, on Merlin's orders…

Yes. Prepare for the army at dawn, Kilgharrah said, and he cut himself off. The ravenous voices of the Sluagh began again at once, calling for things Merlin didn't want to hear or think about.

Merlin removed his shoes (he left the rest of his clothing on, though) and climbed into bed. He snuffed out the candles, lying onto his back. He had to focus to do this. It will be like falling into a trance—the way you did when you sent your soul to spy on Morgana. That thought inevitably led to thoughts of Agravaine, which again spun Merlin into worrying.

Focus, he told himself. His room was cold, so he tugged his blanket over himself. He struggled to recall exactly how Kilgharrah's purging spell had felt. It had swept through him, almost like a fever, too hot to process, a way of burning out infection. Their voices are only a sickness, he thought. A sickness he could overcome, if he tried.

Merlin called to his magic. It came easily, as it always did—though easier now that he was using it so often. He exhaled as it spread underneath his skin, his limbs tingling. Burn, he thought. Burn the voices out. It was a vicious thing to think, after so long of fearing the flames. Merlin tried to emulate how Kilgharrah's magic had felt as it had lashed out at the Sluagh that had clung to his soul.

He could feel when it began to work. His insides seemed to boil, too warm to register properly. Magic swept through his limbs and torso and shot up from his neck and into his head. He knew it was only illusion, but it was nearly too hot for him to manage. Sweat broke out along his brow.

Merlin held it for as long as he could stand. He didn't know how much time had passed when he finally ended the spell; he only knew he was exhausted. He waited for the voices to start up again, certain he hadn't managed it. But there was only silence. The warlock almost sobbed in relief.

Morgana was coming, but at least he would be well-rested when she arrived. Prepared. I can't believe I didn't think of using that spell, he thought. But then, his mind had been muddled from lack of sleep and the constant noise—one only he could hear.

The Sluagh would be there at dawn. He wasn't sure how the things would be able to stand the sunlight after so long in the dark, but he was certain Morgana had planned for it. Dread began to coil in his stomach as he thought about it, thought about the upcoming battle. Who would die? Merlin knew, deep down, he wouldn't be able to save everyone—it was impossible. He wasn't good enough.

Don't think about it, he ordered himself. Rolling onto his side, he did his best to quiet his thoughts. And a few moments later, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep—or if he did dream, he was too tired to recall.

That was probably for the best.


Kilgharrah's voice broke through the veil of sleep before the warning bell did. Merlin sat up in bed, trying to pull his groggy thoughts together. As he tried to stand up, his wad of blanket (which had bunched at the base of his bed while he slept) caught his feet. He tripped, yelping as he crashed to the hard ground.

Merlin! the dragon's voice thundered in his head. They are less than an hour away—you must prepare.

I'm up! he called to Kilgharrah. Gods, please stop shouting. He pushed himself up from the floor, kicking the blanket away. Between the dragon's voice and the tolling of the bell—which his mind finally registered—he felt like his head might explode.

You were fast asleep—I had to shout to rouse you, the dragon said. Merlin could feel muffled amusement through their bond; Kilgharrah knew he'd tripped.

I'm sure, the warlock grumbled, but he sobered as the full reality of the situation sunk in. This was it—this was the moment he'd been dreading for an entire month. This was what had eaten up so much of his time. How many are there?

More sorcerers have joined the witch's ranks—they felt the power of her complete Working and enjoyed its foul taste, Kilgharrah said. They've grown to two or three dozen. The Sluagh are numerous: seven hundred now, by my estimate. I slew perhaps a hundred. The mercenaries are greatly reduced; only fifty remain. I burned the rest.

The dragon did sound tired—winded. When Merlin concentrated, he could feel a few minor wounds through their bond: a tear in his wing, a slash across his leg, his tail stinging. And aches of the muscles, the kind the warlock had gotten when he first began to work for Arthur—Kilgharrah's body wasn't used to the stress of fighting.

Thank you, Merlin said sincerely as he tugged on his boots. Make sure you rest. I have to put the shield up now—I won't be able to stay in contact.

I will recuperate nearby, Kilgharrah said. Call me if you need me, Merlin. The dragon couldn't resist the call, but Merlin got the feeling he would've come regardless of the warlock's status as a dragonlord.

I shall, he promised. Wish me luck with the shield?

He could hear the echo of the dragon's snort in his mind. Luck? You had best be relying on skill—not luck. Fortune has rarely smiled on you.

Well, that was an honest and depressing assessment. Thank you for those words of wisdom. It really helps just before I have to go into battle, Merlin said.

Of course, young warlock, Kilgharrah replied smoothly, and the communication cut off. Blasted dragon, thinking he could have the last word. The warlock flew out the door and through the physician's chambers, barely stopping to say hello to Gaius—his mentor knew the plan, knew what he was going to do.

The entire castle was in a frenzy. Servants and guards and knights and nobles rushed toward their chambers or stations or to find somewhere to help. Merlin let himself blend in with the crowd, keeping his head down. Everyone would expect him to be with the prince regent, but Arthur would have to handle himself for a while.

I need to get this done quickly, he thought. He hated the idea of Arthur going out to face the Sluagh without him, even with Excalibur. The Sluagh were wretched things, and he wasn't sure anyone could really be ready for them if they hadn't been in their presence before. The malice would hit the knights and soldiers like a brick wall.

Which was why he had to get the shield up before the Sluagh arrived.

The warning bell finally stopped ringing (they must've realized they'd woken all of Albion, not just Camelot). Kilgharrah had said the Sluagh was less than an hour away—that meant dawn had to be close. The scouts should've alerted Camelot sooner, but Merlin supposed they might've been killed—or Morgana might have used magic to avoid detection. As Merlin headed down to the dragon's cavern, he noticed that the sky didn't seem to grow any lighter.

But he couldn't concern himself with that now; the shield was his first priority. Then Arthur.

In the chaos, it was easy for him to slip unnoticed down to the cave. The guards were elsewhere, likely seeing to more important affairs. Merlin unlocked the door with a soft spell, heading into the darkness. He summoned his light after shutting the door, stepping quickly down the steps. An hour would be plenty of time to get it up: with all of the magic he'd poured into it, it shouldn't need more than a minute or so to snap into place.

Once Merlin reached the bottom, he kneeled, placing his hands on the activation rune. He sent a pulse of magic racing through it, and the entire configuration lit up with golden light. The light spread past the runes, sinking into the stone and traveling up the cavern's walls.

Well, that wasn't a side effect I anticipated, Merlin thought, standing. He wondered what everyone would think; would they be able to pinpoint the wave of light's epicenter? He decided he shouldn't wait to find out.

Brushing the dust from his trousers, he hurried back up the steps, extinguishing his light as he stepped back into the castle's corridors. He didn't bother re-locking the door; he might have to go back in a hurry, and he wouldn't want to waste time with spells.

There were shouts in the halls, talk of a magical attack. The wave of gold light had definitely been noticed, then. He had to check and make sure the magic was stable, so he began making his way to the courtyard.

Merlin was so intent he nearly ran into Arthur's back as he rushed outside. The prince regent turned to look at him. A couple of the knights were with him—Leon and Percival—as well as a few guards. Leon was looking around suspiciously, as if he might catch the source of the light walking about. Percival seemed nervous; he fingered his sword hilt.

By contrast, Arthur seemed the epitome of calm. Merlin would've expected him to be angry and perhaps a little scared, certainly suspicious like Leon. But he didn't seem to be any of those things. He was looking out at the citadel with an odd, almost thoughtful look in his eye.

"There you are," he said, but he didn't seem angry that Merlin hadn't immediately come to him. In fact, he seemed almost… pleased. "Did you see it?"

"Er—" Saying no would be a very bad, very obvious lie, though it was Merlin's first instinct. "Ye—es. I did. The light. Very… um, magical." Arthur didn't even make fun of him for his stammering, facing the still-dark sky.

"I don't think it was Morgana," Arthur said.

"You don't?" Merlin asked, hoping Arthur wouldn't notice how high his voice had gotten.

"You don't?" Leon repeated (and it was unfortunate he'd managed to keep his voice deeper). "Who else could it be, sire? It was clearly magic, and Morgana is close to launching her attack."

"So she sent out a wave of light?" Arthur said, skeptical. "It didn't seem to do anything."

"That we know of, sire," Percival broke in. "I would be wary. Who knows what sort of tricks Morgana has, besides her army of—"

And that must have been when the light finally reached the outskirts of the city and grew. Light shot up from the ground on all sides, far enough to encase the entirety of Camelot (Merlin was relieved to know his calculations for the size had been correct). It rose over their heads, meeting high in the sky to form a dome.

Hours—days—of work, that had been. Merlin was proud of it, even if he couldn't share that accomplishment with anyone.

"…A shield…" Arthur muttered, staring straight up.

"Sire, it must be—must be designed to keep us in, stop us from being able to meet her outside Camelot," Leon said, distress leaking into his voice. "How did she even manage such a thing?"

Merlin wasn't surprised he'd jumped to that conclusion, though he hoped they would find it wasn't so; the shield blocked the Sluagh's magic and nothing more. Something more specific would've taken much longer. The warlock was betting, though, that with the Working Morgana and her lackeys wouldn't be able to enter either. Depending on how entangled their magic was with Flæsc, they might not even be able to send their magic through.

The mercenaries might be a separate story, but Kilgharrah had reduced their number to almost nothing. Fifty ordinary soldiers was a laughable amount to take a castle that was thousands strong.

"Let's try, then," Arthur said, breaking through the warlock's thoughts.

"What do you mean?" Percival asked, eyeing the sky with fear and distrust. They were predictable but disappointing emotions. Merlin couldn't share the joy of his success with anyone but himself.

"Let's try to get through it," Arthur said, gesturing to the shield.

"Is that wise, sire?" Leon asked. "We must focus on defending the castle; it will be our last defense against the army. Now that we can't march out to meet her… The Sluagh will be a disaster. They can fly, and we'll be sitting ducks. It will be the dragon all over again."

Just so. Merlin had taken away that advantage. The awful creatures wouldn't be able to fly through the shield and attack from they sky as the griffon, dragon, gargoyles, and others had done. All had left the knights and soldiers at a distinct disadvantage; their formations had been made to block the likes of men, not talons or fire from above.

"There may be a way through it," Arthur said. "It would be wise to investigate it before we made assumptions. Get the rest of the knights—we'll go together, in case it is a trap." Here, he eyed Merlin, for some reason. The warlock wanted to break in and say that he wasn't a knight, but he kept his mouth shut. "Tell the guards to be vigilant… And start prepping for a siege. We must check our stores."

Leon bowed, though he didn't look convinced. "As you say, sire."


The shield didn't unduly alarm Arthur. He was sure that was what it was; Merlin wouldn't have appeared so calm otherwise. This had been part of his plan—a magic shield to protect Camelot. If Arthur was right (and he suspected he was), then this was meant to take away the Sluagh's flight. There wouldn't be nearly as many deaths or destruction with it in place. And depending on what could and couldn't go through…

Let's see just what you've done, Merlin.

The citizens had been ordered inside their homes at the first sign of Morgana and her army, which they seemed eager to comply with. Arthur and his knights walked quickly through the empty streets. Though the prince couldn't see sign of the sun (odd, that), the dim golden light of the shield was enough to see by.

He almost couldn't comprehend the magnitude of the thing; just how powerful was Merlin? How long had this taken him? Less than a month, and that in itself was impressive.

A small part of Arthur couldn't believe he could think anything of magic was impressive, but there really was no other word for it. And that part of the prince was wrong to think ill of the man who had risked his life a thousand times over for Camelot.

What else could Merlin do, if given more time?

"I don't like this, sire," Elyan said, looking up at the shield. "It's eerie." The other knights—with the exception of Lancelot, Arthur noted—nodded their heads. Merlin, of course with them, gave an obligatory head nod. Truth be told, Arthur thought it was kind of beautiful—it reminded him of the rune in the cave. He wondered if he was the only one who could feel the warmth from it, almost a net of invisible reassurance.

The prince grunted—something that would likely be taken as agreement. As they finished walking to the gate, the guards saluted.

"Wasn't nothing we could do, Highness," one said, stepping forward. "The light came and just—did that." He pointed helplessly at the shield.

"Have you tried touching it?" Arthur asked.

The guard shook his head rapidly. "No, sire. It's magic—from the witch. She's trying to starve us out, mark my words."

"Hm," Arthur said. He walked up to the edge of the shield, which was just outside the gate. Leon made a noise of protest at how close he was.

"You sure you want to do that, princess?" Gwaine asked.

Arthur glanced back. "You're right." He would have to make a show of it, then—at least for now. He wouldn't out Merlin until he was certain he could control the outcome: the last thing he needed was to be worried about the man's safety. He wouldn't put it past his knights—though perhaps not these particular knights—to run him through.

Just like you almost did, his mind pointed out helpfully.

But I didn't, he argued back. I'm going to protect him, now. And I can't protect him if my people think he's the enemy.

So he would stay quiet and act ignorant. For now.

Arthur removed one of his gauntlets and tossed it. It passed through the shield without issue. But what about me? He was reaching out his bare hand when Percival put a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe one of us should test it, sire," he said. "Just in case."

"Very well," Arthur agreed, stepping back. He was certain it wouldn't hurt them, and it was likely they would pass as easily through it as the gauntlet had.

Percival pressed his lips together. It was odd to see such nervousness from the usually impassive man.

"Try just a finger," Gwaine suggested. "That way, if it does something bad…"

"Maybe someone else should try it," Elyan said. "Percival's one of our best fighters…"

"I could," Leon said.

"You're captain of the knights," Percival pointed out. "We can't lose you either."

"The same could be said of any of you," Arthur said, playing his part. "You're all valuable."

"Let me," Lancelot said, stepping forward. "I agree with the prince; I don't think it's of Morgana."

You would know, wouldn't you? But the tone wasn't bitter; Arthur was sort of glad Merlin had had someone to help him, someone who wasn't Gaius. It made situations like these go much smoother.

Merlin must have thought the same, because he finally spoke.

"I'll be on standby," he said, "if anything bad happens." Lancelot seemed to take that as a confirmation that nothing bad would happen, which Arthur had already known. Did Lancelot know this was Merlin's shield?

The knights waited with baited breath as Lancelot approached the glowing wall of light. He hesitated just long enough to be believable before thrusting his hand through. It passed easily, and the knight held it there.

"Does it hurt?" Elyan asked, walking forward.

"No," Lancelot replied. "Just… tingly. Like it's fallen asleep." He wiggled his fingers experimentally before stepping through entirely. He appeared unharmed on the other side. "Perfectly safe," he said.

"I want to try!" Gwaine said, striding through. "Whoa. It is tingly."

"Morgana's spell seems to have backfired, somehow, sire," Leon said. He poked his sword at the barrier, and it, too, passed through with ease. "I can't think of any other reason we can go through it."

"Unless it wasn't Morgana who cast it," Arthur said. He felt it was a logical conclusion to reach, given their information. "She's not one for traps as obvious as this, and how would she have cast the spell, anyway? She's yet kilometers away."

"I think you're right, sire," Elyan said. "This… It isn't her style." He leaned forward, studying the shield.

"But if Morgana didn't cast it… Who did?" Percival asked—the question on the minds of nearly everyone. "And why?" Everyone save Lancelot, Merlin, and Arthur, who all knew precisely how and who and why the shield had been raised.

For the first time, the prince regent didn't feel despair at the thought of confronting Morgana's army.

Thank you, Merlin. And at some point—preferably soon—he would say the words aloud.


"There's something wrong with the sky," Merlin observed. Arthur glanced over from his place on the battlements; with this new development, his tactics for the fight had changed. It wouldn't be a matter of armies; this would be a matter of trying to starve each other out, a stalemate of sorts.

He couldn't see evidence of her yet, though his scouts reported she was close. She would have to be using the main road—the forest was too dense to lead any kind of force through.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Normally he might have ribbed the other man, but he was inclined to give Merlin's comments more weight than previously. It was like discovering what he thought was fool's gold had been real and true all along.

(Except you never really thought Merlin was a fool, did you? You just ignored him because it was convenient.)

"Dawn should have come," the sorcerer said, leaning over the side. Arthur resisted the urge to pull him back; Merlin wasn't known for his sure feet. Just the opposite. "It's too dark."

He was right, Arthur realized. "Is it Morgana?" he wondered. Some of the others seemed to have noticed something was wrong; the soldiers on the walls were muttering and pointing.

He'd already given the announcement that the shield wasn't harmful. He wasn't sure they had believed him, but they seemed to have given him the benefit of the doubt.

"Maybe," Merlin said. "Flæsc, where the Sluagh live, is reportedly very dim. Usually the Sluagh can only stand this realm in the darkness—they only ever come out at night and spend days in caves or holes."

"So Morgana… darkened the sky?" Arthur said. The thought was terrifying; the idea of her capable of meddling with the very weather, with the earth and sky and water and air… What all was she able to do? "How?"

"I don't know." Merlin sighed. "It must be a powerful spell, so she probably—"

He was interrupted as a guard came running toward them. "Sire!" he said, panting. "The stores of grain—you need to come see."

Alarm shot through the prince regent. Now that he knew he and his people would be trapped in the citadel, with no way out, no way to get supplies in… The stores had tripled in importance. If something had happened to them… "What is it?" he demanded.

"I don't—I don't know how to explain it, sire," the guard said, but he didn't seem upset. He seemed excited. "Please, you need to come see."

Arthur swept past startled soldiers on the battlements as he descended to follow the guard, his mind racing. Merlin trailed behind without prompting, giving one last look at the sky before they entered the castle.

The two followed the guard through the hallways toward the cellar. They found the storeroom open, a befuddled-looking steward standing next to it. When he saw Arthur, he bowed.

"Greetings, Highness," he said. "I don't know what to make of it." Arthur pushed his was past him to see… "It all just… multiplied."

The room was filled to the brim with grain. Good grain, too—unspoiled. The prince, again, almost couldn't comprehend it. Just how many things had Merlin planned for? He'd known that with the shield, they would've needed food… And so he'd supplied it.

Arthur inhaled and closed the door. "Tell no one," he ordered the steward. "Store it properly and record it—I want to know just how much we have."

"But, sire… We're using it?" the steward asked. The prince nodded, noting in his peripheral vision the look of surprise on Merlin's face.

"We are. You may use servants to help you store it, but don't tell them where it came from," he said.

"It came from nowhere!" the steward exclaimed. At Arthur's look, he coughed. "Apologies, sire. It will be done—not a word. But, if I may ask… What does it mean? The grain, the shield…"

"It means—" Arthur paused. How much could he give away? "It means we have a sorcerer on our side. And I think, steward, that we should use every advantage we've been given over my sister."

"As you wish, my lord," the steward bowed. Arthur walked back to the walls, Merlin trailing after.

"Do you…" The servant paused, and Arthur looked over his shoulder. "Do you really think there's a sorcerer on our side?"

Arthur wanted to tell Merlin, right then and there. But they were in the middle of a hallway, right before a battle—a prolonged siege. The poor sorcerer looked exhausted: more exhausted than he had weeks before, when Arthur first began worrying.

Was now the right time? Would it distract Merlin? But what if—what if something went wrong? What if Arthur never got to thank him? A part of the prince wanted to go ahead with the charade to see if Merlin would confess, given enough indirect support.

Would he admit to the sorcery if Arthur promised to reward the one who'd put up the shield and multiplied the grain?

"I—" Arthur was cut off as Leon came sprinting down the corridor.

"Sire!" he shouted. "The army—it's arrived!"

Arthur swore and followed the knight, Merlin at his heels.

"How many?" the prince asked. Their scouts had given estimates, but it had been difficult with the darkness—and the nature of the army. The number of ravens or bats in the sky was harder to determine than the number of men on the ground.

"Hundreds of Sluagh, sire, though less than a thousand. Fifty or sixty mercenaries—and a few dozen sorcerers, including Morgana. None can seem to get through, my lord, save the mercenaries," Leon reported as they hurried.

That was fortunate. There was no way to take Camelot with less than a hundred men. Arthur wanted to thank Merlin right then and there, but instead he kept his gaze forward.

"What is the plan, sire?" Leon asked. They reached the wall, and Arthur peered down at the road below. Morgana rode at the front, atop a dazzling, white stallion. She was dressed for battle, donned in light chainmail, a sword at her hip. The horse pranced from side to side, clearly unsure of the shield, though the prince couldn't see his half-sister's expression from where he was. Behind her rode a few others; the rest of her army was on foot—or in the sky.

Hundreds of ravens sat in the trees on either side of the road, blackening them like rotten leaves. But there was something wrong about them; their wings and heads twitched and quivered, as though aching to move. They didn't caw—instead, little giggles left their beaks when they opened them. They were shapeshifters, and Arthur didn't know if their true forms would be more or less eerie.

"I must go down and speak with her," the prince said. At the others' protests, he said, more firmly, "I have to try and turn her back. It's clear that this isn't a malfunctioning spell of hers—she's stymied by the shield."

"Not alone," Merlin said quickly.

"Fine," Arthur agreed. "Merlin, come with me. The rest of you—keep an eye on her army, and the sorcerers. Keep your crossbows at the ready."

Gwaine made a half-hearted protest at Merlin not being a knight, but they all nodded and dispersed, intent on their duties. Many of Arthur's other knights were on the ground, preparing in case Morgana had more mercenaries and was planning on attacking from another side of the citadel. Merlin himself raised his eyebrows at the orders but didn't complain—probably he was pleased he didn't have to fight to be close to the prince.

Arthur climbed down from the wall and nodded for the guards to lift the portcullis. They did so reluctantly, clearly not accustomed to magical shields protecting them. And the prince supposed the mercenaries might still get through.

Somehow, standing next to Merlin, he didn't feel like that would be a problem.

"What are you planning to do?" Merlin asked in hushed tones as the guards finished raising the gate.

"I have to at least try and reason with her," Arthur whispered back, grimacing. "She's at a disadvantage, now. She was hoping to overtake us with one brutal attack we couldn't defend ourselves from, but now she has to wait. The majority of her army is useless, and if she's to continue to pressure us, she'll have to somehow transport supplies. We don't. It's simple logic."

"Somehow I don't think she'll see things like that," Merlin muttered, and though Arthur agreed, he stepped forward.

Morgana urged her horse forward, her eyes narrowed, searching Arthur's.

"What is this?" she hissed, glancing from Arthur to Merlin to the shield.

"I thought you, of all people, might recognize magic when you saw it," the prince said, spreading his arms. It was odd to watch her through the glow of the shield.

"Don't pretend with me, Arthur. What did you promise the sorcerers who did this for you? Clemency? You're just like Uther; you'll discard them as soon as this is all over. A hypocrite, using magic even though it's punishable by death," Morgana said. Her tone was righteous, but Arthur had known her a long time: there was a stillness to her, a sadness. He guessed the distinct lack of Morgause had something to do with it.

"I asked no sorcerer to defend me or Camelot," Arthur said. "Though I won't turn away the advantages they've given me, and I would give them clemency and more if they were to come forward. This won't end well for you, Morgana. Turn back with your army of monsters." He didn't care that he was pleading. Arthur was desperate for some sign of the woman he'd known, some sign that she wasn't completely gone.

"What? Afraid I'll win?" the woman taunted. "I would ask how you managed to get the dragon under your thumb, if only to satisfy my own curiosity."

Dragon? She must have meant Kilgharrah—but what had the dragon done? "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Arthur said. "I don't know anything about a dragon."

Morgana sneered. "You can pretend ignorance about your pet sorcerers, but the dragon? Surely you must be controlling it, for it to have harried us all the way here. You can't tell me you didn't know; the thing was clearly defending the kingdom it once sought to destroy."

Arthur raised his hands. "I tell you no lies," he said. "I knew not of the dragon, and I don't know these sorcerers—or why they defend me." If Morgana was going to refer to more than one, it was best he play along, too. But how had Merlin gotten Kilgharrah to attack Morgana? Was it simply their odd friendship? Or did it have to do with Merlin being a dragonlord?

Morgana only laughed—a slightly hysterical, mad sound. "And I suppose you'll go on a witch hunt to find them. What then? You'll burn them on the pyre, revel in their screams. No, Arthur, I will not turn back. Not after everything Camelot has done to my kind—it's time for this kingdom to be purged."

Arthur paled, though he tried to hide how badly the idea bothered him. He almost had hurt Merlin, irreversibly. He stepped forward until he was just inches from the shield. He lowered his voice, not wanting the guards to hear. "My—our—father was responsible for evil things; I acknowledge that. Please don't follow in his footsteps by murdering innocents."

"Uther," Morgana spat furiously, "has never been—and never will be—my father. I will break this paltry shield down, and you will watch the kingdom you love die before your very eyes. My only—only—regret is that Uther is too broken to see it, too." She wheeled her horse around, and Arthur couldn't help but raise his hand. She was gone, then. Gone and dead. Uther had killed her, in a way, though perhaps so had Arthur.

I'm sorry, he thought. I'm so sorry I didn't realize before. And he was apologizing to Morgana, apologizing to Merlin—apologizing to all those he'd watch die on the pyre, standing by as his father gave the order.

A hand landed on his shoulder. "You tried, Arthur. No one can ask more than that," Merlin said.

They could ask for me to succeed, he thought. "We'll just have to force her to retreat the hard way," he said. They walked back through the gate, and Arthur motioned to the guards to lower the portcullis again.

"Did you mean it?" Merlin asked.

"Mean what?" Arthur glanced behind him because of course he knew what Merlin meant.

"That you would give the sorcerer clemency?" If the prince was looking for it, he could see an earnest hope in his servant's eyes. Merlin's fingers were clenched together, though he seemed not to notice.

"I meant it," Arthur said, but Merlin didn't say anything further. "They've saved Camelot, whoever they are. I won't let that go unrewarded." It felt like a lie, when he'd been so ready to punish Merlin, but this—this—was nothing but the truth.


Morgana's fireball fizzled out against the shield, the same way two fingers might pinch out a candle. Merlin tried not to flinch, but the shield seemed unaffected. She gave a roar of frustration, and Merlin could feel her magic—and the other sorcerers'—as they searched for a weak point in the shield. What they likely didn't realize was that it wasn't keyed to the magical enemies of Camelot; it was keyed to the Sluagh's magic (something much easier to do). In performing the Working, Morgana's magic had become too entangled with the Sluagh's to pass through the shield.

Although the magic diluted the influence of the Sluagh's magic, Merlin swore the ravens' eyes followed him. He swallowed against the trickle of their malice in the back of his throat, the lingering taste of charcoal and oil and something foul. Did they know it was him that had raised the shield? Could they tell Morgana?

No, stop thinking about that.

Although Morgana—and her mages'—magic couldn't get through the shield, the mercenaries' weapons had no such issues. They'd brought no siege equipment—no ladders, rope, or catapults, but many of the mercenaries had crossbows. Not enough to harm, but enough to be irritating.

They were truly at a stalemate: Morgana and her sorcerers couldn't break the shield, but Arthur and his knights couldn't leave the shield without exposing themselves. Their best chance would be to drive them off without leaving the shield.

Merlin turned away. They would have to drive the army off before the food ran out, while Morgana would be able to get supplies. It wasn't the best solution, perhaps, but it was the only one Merlin had managed in such a short amount of time.

And if he could manage to drive the Sluagh off… The warlock was certain now that Morgana and her sycophants had summoned thick clouds to darken the sky, keeping it dim enough for her army. If he could undo the spell, they would be sent into retreat, searching for someplace dark to rest.

Merlin slunk back toward Camelot. Everyone would have to do without him for a while as he figured it out. He darted into a deserted alley, crouching down between the two ramshackle houses. Closing his eyes, he tried to sense the spell on the sky. It was difficult to feel through his own thick layer of magic, but he managed to find it.

It was thin but strong, like a sheet of steel. He probed it, searching for some kind of weakness. How could he break it? What would be the counter-spell for such darkness? "Fribcandel beswælen lyftedor," he whispered. His eyes flashed gold, and he could see his spell taking shape in his mind's eye.

But it wasn't enough to get through the combined magicks of nearly forty sorcerers. He cursed softly and tried again. It was like battering a door with his hand: it made a lot of noise, but it wasn't really effective at knocking it down.

Merlin tried again, this time pouring more magic into the spell. The curse on the sky bent slightly but didn't break, as though he'd merely made a dent. And a small dent, at that.

The warlock sighed, standing and wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the cold, he felt warm. He dreaded the thought that he might be getting sick, instead attributing it to the spell that had burned the Sluagh's voices away.

He supposed it would be best to get back to Arthur before the man started searching for him. As he walked back to the wall, he wondered at the prince regent's new attitude. How could his ideas on magic have changed so quickly, and without Merlin noticing?

Only weeks ago, Arthur had told him magic was evil, corrupting, a terrible force on the world. And now he would offer clemency to the one who had put up the shield? He hadn't even seemed alarmed to hear of the dragon. It was baffling; where had the Arthur who would've raged and been so wholly confused gone? How had he been replaced by this—this—this man who seemed open to the idea of good magic?

Merlin wouldn't dare let himself hope. Perhaps it was all a ruse, a cover… To what? Lull the sorcerer into a false sense of security? The warlock could picture Uther doing such a thing (that was how he had gotten the dragonlords, after all), but Arthur? The prince had a temper sometimes, but he was true to his word.

He reached the wall in time to see the soldiers fire a volley of arrows at Morgana and her sorcerers below. As some of them passed through the shield, they seemed to glow. Morgana and her sorcerers summoned their own magicks to turn the volley away, but the glowing ones made it through their defenses, hitting four or five of the sorcerers. They screamed and shouted in surprised, some backing up.

The soldiers on top of the wall also shouted in surprise, though Merlin heard Arthur give the order to hold and prepare another volley.

Right.. He'd enchanted some of the arrows to be resistant to magic—going through the shield had activated them, though there was nothing really there for them to resist. Other arrows would catch flame when they landed. The runes had been so delicate and small to avoid notice, some likely wouldn't even work, already damaged. But some would, and that would give them an edge.

"YOU HYPOCRITE!" Morgana roared, magic magnifying her voice. She summoned wind and fire and a host of cutting spells, slashing at the shield with a terrifying intensity. The soldiers on top of the battlements shied away, taking cover just in case.

But none got through. After a month of feeding the Working, Morgana's magic was too close to the Sluagh's—it reeked of it.

The witch seemed to have given her mages silent instructions, because some began to also throw spells at the shield. Merlin breathed a sigh of relief that none got through; all of the mages must have either helped with the Working or been around it that some of its "scent" had leaked into their magic.

"HOW DARE YOU USE MAGIC WHEN YOU CONDEM IT?" Morgana bellowed from the ground. Arthur stepped forward to look down at her, and Merlin almost wanted to urge him to get back, though he knew the shield would protect him. "LOOK AT YOUR PRINCE, CAMELOT. HE DEFIES YOUR KING, YOUR RULES. HE USES THE THING HE CLAIMS IS EVIL! YOU WOULD LIVE UNDER HIM? SERVE HIM? HE SERVES ONLY HIMSELF!"

None of the knights or soldiers seemed particularly swayed by this argument. Leon gave a belated "Fire!" and another swarm of arrows rained down onto Morgana's sorcerers. They were more careful this time, though Merlin saw a couple of sorcerer's robes catch fire, and one arrow landed on their leg.

Still, they were minor wounds, easily fixed with magic. Merlin wondered, as he made it up to stand on the wall, what it would take to convince Morgana's mages to retreat. He knew the witch herself would never give the order; she was too invested for that.

"I WILL KILL YOU, ARTHUR PENDRAGON. YOU AND CAMELOT WILL NOT MAKE IT FROM THIS ENCOUNTER ALIVE," Morgana swore with her loud, booming voice. Then, again seemingly giving another silent order, she wheeled her horse and melted into the woods with her mages and mercenaries.

The crows gave more cackles, but they didn't otherwise move, still like black leaves on the bare branches. Merlin shuddered. Morgana wouldn't go far; she would keep them trapped in Camelot. She didn't know how much food they had.

Although it was clear she wasn't gone for good, some of the soldiers and knights on the walls gave up cheers. Arthur, Merlin noticed, didn't join in, and others seemed uncertain. Likely because magic had given them this first victory.

"She'll be back," the prince said, lowering his crossbow, and Leon nodded.

"She will," he said. "Sire…" He glanced around. "What are we going to do?"

Arthur looked at him. "About what?" he asked. Merlin, who had a feeling he knew exactly what the knight was referring to, shrunk back. He couldn't afford not to hear the conversation, but he found he didn't really want to.

"About…" Leon gestured wildly, uncharacteristic for the usually calm knight. "Everything. The shield, the arrows… What does it mean?" He had lowered his voice to a hiss, but the other knights leaned in close, eager to hear what exactly the prince regent's answer was.

Merlin found himself holding his breath. If Arthur still agreed to clemency… Was this it? Was this the moment, the time to come forward? The prince would be king soon, Morgana was on their doorstep… This might be his best chance, his only chance, to convince Arthur of his good magic, his good intentions.

"What can I do, Leon?" the prince asked, equally quiet. "If a sorcerer—or sorcerers—want to help Camelot, I cannot—will not—stop them. We have not yet lost a single man, woman, or child. We have not yet had to truly engage with an enemy that may well overwhelm us. We are sheltered. Those are the facts, Leon. You nor I can dispute them, magic or not."

Gwaine, to the right of Arthur, nodded. "Whoever these people are, they're clearly against Morgana. And even if they have their own agenda… 'An enemy of my enemy is my friend,' and all that. I agree with the princess—we don't really have any choice except to roll with it."

The other knights also nodded, and Merlin's heart warmed. Even if this wasn't really acceptance, even if this really wasn't them knowing him and loving him despite his magic… It was a step in the right direction, and he found himself pleased. He didn't want to add more fuel for the blooming hope inside him, but he couldn't deny himself this, not after so long of being certain that no one save Gaius and Lancelot would ever truly know him, all of him.

"Right," Arthur said. "Exactly. Now, I just have to make sure everyone else understands this, too."


"We have to find him, sire!" Aldwin blustered. The dome of his pink head was shiny with sweat, and what little hair he had left stuck out in odd tufts. "No sorcerer can be allowed to roam Camelot freely, interfering with our soldiers' equipment!"

Arthur's jaw clenched, the only open sign of frustration he would let himself have. His situation as prince regent was tenuous at best. He had taken the crown temporarily with support from the council, but they might just as easily revoke that support if they disagreed. While none would be openly treasonous, they could make life very difficult for him.

Not to mention, if he showed support for the sorcerer… They might suspect he was enchanted, with such a change in attitude. And then, when Merlin was revealed… They might think it in the kingdom's best interest to dispose of the "source" of the enchantment. It had been their plan with the troll, after all, before Arthur, Merlin, and Gaius had broken it themselves.

And Merlin dying was not something Arthur was about to allow. He would have to get support to the warlock, though he wasn't sure how. Camelot's citizens had been fed lies about magic for so long—he had been fed lies for so long… How could he change those opinions?

How could he make sure Merlin was safe in Camelot, safe and happy in this home that had rejected him? The sorcerer had embraced it despite their hatred and distrust, despite the scars he'd earned for it. It was the least Arthur could do.

The only question was how. How, how, how?

"How do you propose we do that, Lord Aldwin?" Arthur asked coolly, clasping his hands. The walls were well taken care of, his knights and soldiers vigilant against both the mages and Sluagh lurking in the forest. The prince knew Morgana was plotting, trying to find some way to circumvent Merlin's defenses.

"Launch a hunt!" Aldwin said, in a tone that implied he thought the solution obvious. "We must send the knights out to scour every inch of the citadel!"

"And take them away from the walls?" Arthur asked. "We can't afford to divert resources from the current threat." If he could convince them to focus on Morgana for the present, he could buy time to make a plan. He could, under no circumstances, reveal that he knew the sorcerer. They would suspect him enchanted for sure, and do everything in their power to stymie him. They might try to take the regency from him, though his father was still in no state to feed himself, never mind run a kingdom.

"The prince regent is right, I think," Lady Muriel interjected, her croaky voice carrying well despite her age. "The witch is attempting to destroy Camelot, while this sorcerer—whoever he may be—is defending it."

"But—" Aldwin tried to interrupt, but Muriel held up a hand.

"I dare not speculate that the sorcerer does so for altruistic reasons, Lord Aldwin. I am merely pointing out that, as Prince Arthur said, we cannot afford to waste resources searching for someone who is not doing us any harm." Arthur met her eyes and tried to convey his sense of gratitude toward her, though he couldn't give any outward signs. Muriel nodded to show her piece was done.

"I understand your point, Lady Muriel," Agravaine interjected, "but I fear what the sorcerer may do if we leave him be. Who is to say that he isn't lulling us into a false sense of security, ready to lower the shield and let Morgana raze Camelot when our defenses are gone?"

Lord Sterling snorted. He was one of the younger council members, though that meant he was in his fourth decade rather than his fifth, sixth, or seventh. He had dark skin and hair, though his eyes were a pale green. "That seems like a rather convoluted plan, Lord Agravaine."

"The ways a sorcerer's mind works are mysterious," Arthur's uncle said, raising his hands. "They often think in twisted convolutions."

Aldwin nodded, as did a few others, but Sterling and Muriel seemed unconvinced.

"That doesn't change the simple logic of the situation," Arthur pointed out, hoping to win his councilors over with sense and not suspicion. "One of the sorcerers is trying to actively harm us. We can't fight on two fronts; would it not be best to ignore the—" Sorry, Merlin. "—lesser of two evils for now?"

"The logic is sound," Geoffrey added. He rarely spoke up, though he'd been on the council since Arthur could remember. "And indisputable. Besides, this sorcerer conjured the shield. If we were to find him and kill him, it might fall. And that would leave us at the mercy of Morgana. I'm sure you all will recall how she treated us last time." He gave a pointed look at the other councilors, who shifted uncomfortably.

Most had spent Morgana's take over either in their chambers, pretending not to exist, or going along with her for fear of death. Both options had been cowardly, though Arthur couldn't blame them: had they fought, they would've died brutally and painfully.

"I can't believe I've lived to see the day that Uther's son decided against fighting magic," Lady Eleanor said. She was taking the place of her husband, who was holding their lands on the outskirts of the kingdom. Though she was in her fifties, Arthur thought she still looked rather regal. "What kind of precedent will we set if we allow this act of magic to go unpunished? Will sorcerers think themselves free to use magic in Camelot? There will be chaos in the streets."

Would it be so bad if it were to go unpunished? Arthur thought. The other councilors nodded.

"Not unpunished," Sterling denied. "Simply delayed punishment. We don't have the resources to split our attention. Besides, we might as well take advantage of the shield. Then, we find the sorcerer and do as the law prescribes. You can't argue that this sorcerer—whatever his reasons—has given us an edge over the witch."

Although Arthur appreciated his cold logic, he shuddered to imagine arresting Merlin and executing him after promising him clemency. But Sterling's attitude only strengthened the prince's resolve: he would have to find a way to convince his council. Should they think him indisposed, they might withdraw their soldiers, their knights, and other resources he needed to run the kingdom.

They might depose him to rule through his father, a puppet king who would give them whatever they wanted. And the citizens might not realize what was happening until their prince was banished, imprisoned, or killed. It had happened to other rulers of other kingdoms; kings took their power from their nobles and their citizens. If neither listened… There might be riots, a coupe… All manner of things.

"Supposing the sorcerer won't attack us himself while we deal with Morgana," Aldwin said, bringing a handkerchief up to dab his sweaty head. "Perhaps this shield is merely a diversion so that we let our guard down."

"That's ridiculous," Muriel dismissed, waving her hand. "That logic doesn't hold."

"Pardon me, madam, but sorcerers don't use logic," Agravaine put in. "He could still try to kill us all, hiding in the shadows."

"Morgana used fairly sound logic when she took over the citadel!" Sterling said. Arthur's councilors dissolved into arguing, one side for finding the sorcerer and executing him right away, the other for doing the same but only later. Neither option, however, was acceptable.

"Enough!" Arthur shouted, standing. The table fell quiet. "We are going to drive my sister and her army out of my kingdom," he said quietly, holding up his hand to forestall any comments. He'd placed a subtle emphasis on my. He might be regent—not king—but they were deluding themselves if they thought they could dictate what happened to Merlin. "Then, we will find the sorcerer." He sat back down, to show the matter was closed.

They would not be executing Merlin, banishing him, or otherwise harming him. Arthur could see himself—and his former hatred—in the councilors' eyes. And they had seen what it was like prior to the Purge. Was it all an act? Because surely his father hadn't poisoned them to the point that they could no longer acknowledge what they must once have known.

Maybe the best way to remind them—to gain their support for lifting the ban—was to do exactly what had been done to him. He wouldn't expose Merlin's diary to all of Camelot, but his deeds… All the times he'd saved it…

That, perhaps, he could do. The only question that remained was how.

"We will have to make some sort of spectacle of him," Agravaine said. "To deter others from thinking we are becoming lenient. The peasantry can't become accustomed to the idea that they can use magic freely in Camelot."

Peasantry. It was a word his father might've used to described the ordinary citizens of Camelot. Arthur had never much liked it; it gave them an otherness, something the nobles could point to so that they might deny their duties to them.

"Yes," Arthur said, barely keeping the irritation from his voice. "A spectacle." But his uncle didn't detect the derision in his voice.

"A stoning, perhaps," Agravaine said. "Or perhaps drawing and quartering. I know Uther is fond of burning, but after so many times, the pyre doesn't instill the same fear, I think."

Arthur refused to let himself think of Merlin being burned, much less drawn and quartered. He might vomit, as he had when he'd thought of he himself running Merlin through. But that would've been a merciful death compared to Agravaine's suggestion.

The prince regent frowned as the rest of the councilors nodded—except for Geoffrey, who was looking pale. Good—at least he could count on one voice of reason. "I was thinking of a different kind of spectacle," he hinted, and the other councilors sat up.

"What do you mean, sire?" Eleanor asked.

Arthur ignored the question. "I've been thinking, lords and ladies. Things haven't been adding up. The immortal army disappeared without a trace, Morgause and Nimueh—two sorceresses that have tried to kill me and harm Camelot multiple times—have also disappeared. It was not I, nor any of my knights, who hurt Morgause. I don't recall landing a mortal blow on the dragon, and now I hear from my sister's own lips that this same dragon has harried her and her army as she approached Camelot.

"Tell me—when we find this sorcerer, should we stone him? Draw and quarter him?" His voice had gone quiet, but he knew it had carried; his councilors were so silent they might've been statues. None of them even seemed to breathe, listening to him say things he never would've thought he'd said a month ago.

"Sire," Sterling said softly, "your father yet lives. You cannot go against one of his most basic tenets when you are not even king."

"Being prince regent is not enough to delay an execution and get the answers I seek?" Arthur asked mildly. "I thought dispensing justice was one of my main functions as ruler of Camelot."

Sterling's lips tightened. "It is, my lord. But your allusions to pardoning a sorcerer disturb me."

"Your allusions to executing a man who has done nothing but help us disturb me, Lord Sterling," Arthur said. "I am the prince regent, and it is well within my power to pardon someone I find worthy. Do any of you dispute this?" He looked each of his councilors in the eye, but none protested. It was a power he held, after all.

"Sire—" Aldwin's face scrunched, as though he were in pain. "I realize that it may look as though this sorcerer is helping, but such a thing is impossible. Magic corrupts."

"Perhaps," Arthur said noncommittally. "But I find myself in need of reassurance. Regardless, the sorcerer that put the shield up over Camelot is not our most pressing issue, as we've decided." Or rather, as he'd decided, and he wasn't about to hear any more about it. He was the prince, dammit. "We need to focus our energy on Morgana. She is capable of replenishing her supplies, while we are not. And given enough time, she might find some way to circumvent the shield. We've just been given some time…"

The discussion turned from the sorcerer—whom no one but Arthur knew was actually Merlin—to Morgana and how they might prepare should the shield fall. The prince didn't think it would fall easily, but Merlin was just one man. Morgana had a few dozen sorcerers on her side, not to mention the Sluagh themselves.

Merlin himself came up to refill everyone's goblets. As Arthur's manservant, he was one of the only staff members permitted in such important meetings. If the prince hadn't been looking for it, he never would've noticed the shaking of the man's fingers as he topped Arthur's cup with watered-down wine.

Perhaps it was time to tell him that Arthur knew. That, surely, would alleviate some of his anxiety surrounding his potential discovery. On the other hand, would it distract him? Or Arthur?

And… The prince didn't know how to tell the man that he'd taken his diary and read through it. He didn't necessarily regret the breach of privacy, but he couldn't help but wonder if Merlin would be angry. Or would he simply be relieved that the prince accepted him?

He would have to discuss it with Gwen, though he knew what she would say. She was ready to tell him that they knew—ready from the beginning.

So perhaps it really was time.


It was a lot harder to speak with Merlin than Arthur thought. Every time he tried to broach the subject, they were interrupted. As it turned out, a siege was not the best time to have a heart-to-heart conversation. He thought about just blurting it out ("I know you have magic, Merlin!"), but what if that was all he could say before he or Merlin had to rush off somewhere?

Really, he thought guiltily, he should have done it before. Now he barely had time to think about it, much less actually discuss it. Morgana had spent the day after her arrival circling the shield, setting up sorcerers in intervals around it. They'd tried multiple spells to, presumably, knock it down. Nothing worked.

The next day, she'd sent the Sluagh to the shield. They had fared the same as the sorcerers, though, unlike Morgana and her mages, the shield seemed to pain them when they touched it. It was the only time their cackling giggles had stopped.

The Sluagh had yet to change from crows and the occasional bat. Arthur dreaded what they actually looked like beneath the animal skins, and he could tell they grew restless. The three days before, they'd been motionless in the trees. But today they shuffled their feet and groomed their feathers irritably, squawking and laughing at each other.

More than once, Arthur had thought he'd seen Morgana eyeing them nervously, and he wondered how well she could actually control the things. If they could hold out long enough, would the Sluagh turn on her and her mages? Would they destroy themselves, two halves of the army fighting? That would mean no wasted resources—or lives—trying to drive her off.

Some of his tacticians thought it might be best to send out a few squads of knights and soldiers to strike at Morgana's forces in an attempt to tire them out should they eventually be forced into a confrontation. They would trade out the teams for fresh ones, always retreating back to the shield.

For an ordinary army, such a thing might work; Arthur's forces knew the forest much better than any invaders would. But this was no ordinary army, and the prince couldn't justify the risk—not until they were desperate, anyway.

Fortunately, that desperation looked like it might be a while off: their food supply was well in hand, and his troops were well rested.

The only thing Arthur wished he might change was the sky. It was still obscured in darkness, dimmed for the Sluagh's benefit. If they could somehow lift it… But no. Merlin had likely tried already, and he was the only one who might be able to.

From atop the wall, Arthur eyed the dark forest. Usually welcoming and green, it looked like one dark snarl of trunks and branches. Morgana was hiding just beyond his sight, staying well out of a crossbow's range.

Even as he had the thought, she emerged from the trees, atop her white stallion. It tossed its head, but Arthur's sister urged it forward with her knees. As his men raised their crossbows to fire, she raised her hand.

"I want only to talk!" she called up. "Come and have a conversation with your dear sister, Arthur." He could hear the smirk in her tone, but he couldn't see the harm in it, so long as he stayed on his side of the shield.

He scanned his knights. "Leon," he said, waving, "accompany me." Merlin was off doing something—hopefully something helpful and possibly magical. Arthur would have to be sure not to give him grief when he came back.

"Of course, sire," Leon said, following him off the wall. Arthur gestured for the guards to raise the portcullis, and they did so. Morgana was still on her horse—she probably enjoyed the feeling of looking down at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, like she'd been crying, or she'd been without sleep for a long time. But her hair was shiny and curled nicely.

"What do you want, Morgana?" he asked, stepping forward. He kept a couple meters away from the shield, just to be safe.

"Why so cold, brother?" she said, nearly spitting the title. It stung, to know how much she seemed to hate him. "You were so eager to speak with me just a few days ago."

"You made it clear you've no intention of turning away from Camelot," Arthur said. He hated how imperious she was, the smile playing at the corners of her lips, like she knew something he didn't. He used to like the smile—it was the one she'd used when she beat him at chess or figured out the answer to a logic problem faster than him. But now the warmth was leeched from it, and all that was left was cold embers.

"Perhaps I've reconsidered," she said. "It's clear that whoever you've employed is skilled. Instead of killing them, you might consider keeping them in the dungeons until they're useful again."

Arthur gritted his teeth, trying not to let the comment get under his skin. "Again, I have not enlisted any sorcerers to help me."

"Don't play coy; it doesn't suit you," Morgana said. "There's no need to hide it—your dirty little secret is safe with me." She mimed sealing her lips.

"Morgana, I have not hired a single mage," Arthur said. "And if I had, I would surely not repay them by locking them away."

"Liar!" the witch shrieked suddenly, spittle flying from her lips. Her face contorted, rage marring her forehead and mouth into sharp, angry lines. "You're a liar, just as your father is! A no-good, dirty, rotten liar!" She sat there fuming, chest heaving. She no longer seemed so perfectly composed.

"What do you want?" Arthur repeated. He wouldn't stand here and listen to her insult him.

Morgana seemed to take a moment to collect herself, and the rage in her face cooled to a slow simmer as opposed to a boil. "I told you: I've reconsidered. I want your word that you will not chase after us should we retreat. Nor will you cross into another kingdom to capture me."

Arthur tried not to scoff. The words "Morgana" and "retreat" didn't belong in the same paragraph, never mind the same sentence. "I didn't take you for a coward," he said. Leon glanced at him, and Arthur knew he doubted the witch's words, too.

"Is it cowardly to know when you've been beaten?" Morgana asked. "I like to think I'm intelligent enough to cut my losses. Three days without any sign of the shield weakening… Your mages must be powerful."

Three days was not such a long time—sieges had lasted much longer than that, and Morgana could be patient when it suited her. But Arthur didn't know what length of time was typical for magic shields. "I wouldn't know," he said.

This comment, unlike his last, didn't send Morgana into a rage. "Do I have your word, Arthur Pendragon?"

"You would, if I actually thought you would retreat," Arthur said. "But parts of your army grow restless—they must be itching for a fight. I wonder what they'll do when they don't get it?"

A brief look of anxiety crossed her face, and he knew he'd understood the situation perfectly. "That's not your concern, is it?"

"What happened to destroying Camelot? You can't have given up so easily," Arthur said. Morgana was stubborn, and he doubted that trait had changed, though everything else had. Like flesh rotting off a skeleton—it was no longer the person it had been, but the remains were there, the most basic part of them.

And she'd been planning this for a month or more. Three days of not getting what she wanted and she suddenly decided to leave? It just didn't make sense.

"A tactical retreat isn't equivalent to giving up." Morgana looked over Arthur's soldier at the cobbled street. "I will have Camelot someday. I will have it and burn it to the ground."

"That makes you no better than Uther, for all that you're on the other side of the conflict," Arthur said. "He enjoys punishing others for his own mistakes."

"And what mistakes have I made that you're referring to?" Morgana hissed, her eyes narrowing. "I was terrified, living here with my magic. He drove me away! None of that was my fault."

"Your mistake was your failure to stay in Camelot, to earn the citizens' trust," Arthur said calmly. Her anger only served him well; a general clouded by feelings wouldn't make as sound decisions. "Your mistake was running away with a witch who wanted your home destroyed."

"Morgause was not a mistake," Morgana said. Her eyes flashed gold, and the shrubs on either side of the road caught fire, though she didn't seem surprised or alarmed. Leon flinched. "You would do well not to anger me—I might decide to prolong my stay."

"Your army wouldn't be pleased with that choice," Arthur said, gesturing at the crows in the trees. They jostled one another, nipping and giggling.

"They aren't your problem unless the shield falls, so don't worry your pretty little head." Morgana smirked and tilted her head, as though she had just thought of something. "Or perhaps you should worry quite a lot."

The alarm bells in Arthur's head began to ring, and he tensed, looking behind him—there. With dawning horror, he watched as the apex of the shield bent and rippled and began to fall.

He shouted something—he couldn't really register what—and drew his sword as the shield came entirely down. Excalibur sung in his hands, lighter than air.

"Sweng," Morgana snarled, her hand making a slashing, diagonal motion in front of her. Bright light came from her finger tips, and Excalibur leaped in Arthur's grip like it had a will of its own. It swiped through the beam of light, preventing it from making contact.

Though it missed the prince regent entirely, its range was so wide he heard Leon cry out and clutch his thigh—it must've been cut—it was difficult to see in the darkness, without the shield. Only, Excalibur seemed to be glowing faintly to Arthur's eyes.

He heard the flapping of hundreds of wings, could barely see the glisten of oily feathers—except they were changing, twisting, morphing, and suddenly Arthur felt like vomiting, felt like he had to get rid of the awful horrible feeling in his stomach. There was a dark miasma of fear suffocating him, terror and disgust vying in his throat, and the sound of flapping was overtaken by laughter. It was suddenly hard to move, though the hand holding Excalibur was still limber.

The shield had fallen, and the Sluagh had arrived.


AN: Only one chapter left, and then an epilogue (don't worry though, I'm planning on a sequel). Thanks as always for the response! What did you think? Did you like the council meeting? What about the Morgana-Arthur dialogue? Has everything made sense plot-wise?