A/N: trigger warning for self-harm for the purpose of bloodletting.

"One night. All I wanted was one thrice-damned night," Arthur snarls as he paces the length of his chambers in a fury, snatching off the coronet that he's scarce worn for a few hours. Anger simmers low in his gut, making his teeth grind and his fists clench. One night.

Footsteps clatter up behind him, and he doesn't even have to turn around to know who it is; he recognises that long-legged stride and the utter disregard for the protocol of knocking. "Arthur, there you are. Sir Lionel has asked you to come speak with him, he staying here in the city with us."

"Not now, Merlin," he snaps. He is not in the mood to visit anyone, not in this temper.

"It concerns the Black Knight, sire."

Arthur halts so abruptly Merlin nearly collides with his back, stumbling back a step. He turns to stare at his errant manservant. It might not happen often, but it is possible for Merlin to be serious, and he recognises the look of it, the hard set of his jaw and rigid posture. He nearly says no; he is no fit company when in a temper, Morgana's always told him so. However, Father is being so damnably closed-mouthed on this Black Knight, though Arthur knows that he had recognised the stranger, had seen the glimmer of recognition on his face. "Very well."

Having not seen him in person since his summer fostering at Silverpine, a part of Arthur almost expects Sir Lionel to still be the same quietly imposing man in the prime of his life. To see that the lion knight's mane has gone mostly grey is a shock, as is the slow, pained way he rises when Arthur enters the library of the de Galis townhouse. "Prince Arthur. You've grown into a fine man since last we met. It only grieves me that we are meeting under these circumstances," he says, inclining his head.

"Indeed, my lord. Do forgive me for being blunt, but Merlin says you know somewhat of this Black Knight. I'd hear it."

Lionel nods, his face set solemn, and he retakes his seat, rubbing at his right leg. "Has your father said anything to you of him?"

Arthur grinds his teeth, recalling his spat with Father earlier that night, after they'd left the Hall of Ceremonies. "No."

"It doesn't surprise me."

"Why? What does my father know of this knight?"

Lionel hesitates, then turns his gaze to Leon and Merlin. "Leave us. This has naught to do with either of you," he orders; without a word of argument, both of his sons bow and leave the library, Merlin drawing the doors shut behind him. He leans back in his chair, the lines etched in his face seeming deeper in the low light. "What I am going to tell you, Prince Arthur, is something your father would order me to keep silent unto my death. I shan't repeat it again, so I pray you listen well."

"I am."

"The Black Knight is your uncle."

"What?" Arthur exclaims. "No, no, you must be mistaken…Uncle Agravaine would never…"

"Hush. You said you would listen, so listen," Lionel says firmly. "Not Agravaine. Tristan. Your mother's elder brother. I know him by the crest he bore in the Hall of Ceremonies. No other has borne it. And I know it because he and I were friends in our youth. We fought many battles together," he explains, an old ache of sorrow painting his words. "Tristan was some years older than Ygraine. He doted on her. He wasn't wholly pleased when she wed your father, but only because I do not believe he thought any man good enough for her. When you were born…when Ygraine died…Tristan went mad with grief. He came to the gates of Camelot and challenged your father to single combat, to avenge his sister's death."

Arthur's stomach churns, and he tastes bile in the back of his mouth. "And my father killed him." It isn't a question. Single combat has only one outcome.

"He did. Tristan refused to rescind his challenge."

"Dead men do not return," he says with a sharp shake of his head. "Even if what you say is true, then this Tristan is dead and has been for 20 years. Why would he return now?"

Lionel spreads his hands in front of him. "That, I cannot say. But what has returned is not your uncle as he was. He is a wraith." He places his hand on one of the books, lying open on the table, and pushes it towards Arthur; he leans forward to peer at the open pages. There is an illustration of a snarling skeletal figure, bearing a sword and shield before an empty grave.

Arthur leans back in his chair, shaking his head again. "If what you say is true, if this is a wraith, then how can it be stopped?"

"The dead cannot be killed, my lord. A wraith is a tormented spirit returned to exact the vengeance they failed to get in life. It will not rest until it has."

A cold knot settles in the pit of his belly. "Vengeance. Against my father."

"Just so."

Forcing a trembling breath, he shakes his head. "No. No, you must be wrong. This Black Knight, whoever he might be, is a man living and mortal like any other," he protests, pushing to his feet and slamming the book shut. "I have faith in my knights that they'll defeat him."

Lionel gazes at him with dark, dark eyes that seem entirely too old. "I pray you are right, Prince Arthur," he says quietly, though Arthur can see clearly in his face that he is not.

Many of the sacred places of the earth were destroyed in the Purge, and Merlin can feel their ruins like wounds in the surface of the land whenever he is near to them.

Many are lost. But not all.

Arthur dismisses him early to stew in his own bad temper after the match, both grieved by Owain dying and angered by Pellinor taking up the Black Knight's challenge in his place. For once, Merlin is actually relieved to leave early, and he saddles the Hellion and rides out to the forest. Once he's surrounded on all sides by the trees, cool and dark and wild, he dismounts, kneeling on the leaf mat, hands pressed to the ground. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, reaching outward with his power, centering himself.

The Hellion ambles over to lip at his hair. Merlin straightens up, patting her neck. "Are you a goat now? This way, great heart," he says, mounting up and steering her in the proper direction. He keeps her under tight rein, and she chafes at it, snorting and tossing her head.

The trees slowly grew thicker the further they went, older and deep-rooted. Merlin brings the Hellion to heel and dismounts again, lashing her to a nearby tree, going forward on foot. The trees grow too thick and close for him to ride comfortably. Following the thrum of magic in his blood, a second pulse echoing his own heart, he picks his way over the thick roots and mossy boulders, until suddenly the trees stop, opening into a clearing where a ring of standing stones still remains.

It's a small circle, no more than ten paces across, but it is old. There are nine stones in all, a deep, somewhat flat-topped boulder marking the centre, grown with moss. He stops and removes his boots and socks, then steps into the circle, touching the nearest stones as he passes it, and he goes up to the centre stone, taking the wineskin from his bag. Drawing the cork, he pours the perry brandy out over the top of the boulder. It is mostly flat, with a depression in the centre of it like a shallow basin. The perry fills up the indentation before spilling over, trickling down the sides of the stone into the earth.

There's another odour beneath the sweet tang of brandy, darker and deeper and metallic. Blood. Old blood. More than one kind of tribute had been received here.

Once the wineskin is empty, he kneels down, clasping his hands in his lap, and waits. Kneeling, the top of the boulder is about eye-level, and he can hear the trickle of brandy over the stone, dripping softly onto the grass.

The wind picks up, stirring around him, rustling in the grasses and leaves, boughs creaking softly, whistling between the stones.

[Emrys.]

"Old Ones," he murmurs. "I come in supplication, to ask for your help."

[If it is in our power to do so. Speak.]

"A wraith has been called from the grave. No mortal weapon can defeat him. I have sought the answer with mortal magic and found none. What can I do? Is there no way to defeat the dead?"

[The dead do not rise without reason.]

Merlin nods, expecting that answer. "I know, but this one has not returned on his own strength. The priestess Nimueh summoned him," he replies.

The knowledge sits within him firm as stone. After having felt the effects of her magic in a most up-close and personal manner, he knows Nimueh's magic now. It clings to the wraith like a rotten odour, and one whiff of it makes his throat tighten in remembrance. He had barely been able to be still long enough to watch the match play out to Sir Owain's death. He knows little of necromancy, knowing how dangerous it can be to unbalance the scales of life and death. It is not something to be undertaken lightly, which is precisely why he has chosen to seek the advice of those wiser.

Taking a deep breath, he spreads his hands out in front of him, not having to feign humility. "She has exercised her own power to upset the balance, and she has done so for no reason other than to take her own vengeance," he implores. "Magic is not meant to be used so selfishly, and the balance must be restored. Already, the wraith has claimed the life of one knight and is set to claim another tomorrow, and the longer it continues, the more the imbalance shall grow. I ask you for your help. Please."

There's silence in the clearing, but he is aware of the stir of the wind around him, the rustling of the leaves and grass; the earth beneath him seems to thrum like some great heartbeat, deep and slow.

[A weapon can be made. It comes with a price.]

Merlin exhales a breath he hadn't realised he held. "I will pay it. What must I do?"

[Bring a mortal weapon to the standing stones after moonrise tomorrow. We will show you the way.]

"Can it not be sooner? Sir Pellinor—"

[Moonrise tomorrow, Emrys.]

He bows forward until his brow touches the mossy stone. "I understand, Old Ones. Thank you."

"So tell me again why it is you are at my doorstep asking me for a sword in the middle of the night?" Gwen asks in a low voice as she ushers him into the quiet forge.

Merlin's mouth twists into a semblance of a smile. "Because Arthur is a self-sacrificing fool that I would rather not see dead just yet," he answers, and she smothers a laugh behind one hand even as she shakes her head. He understands the feeling. He had curse the prince for a foolish ass the moment Arthur cast down the gauntlet at the wraith even as he inwardly marvelled at his bravery. "Trust me, Guinevere."

She casts a furtive glance around the forge, then walks over to one of the benches and kneels down beside it. Merlin follows suit, watching as she retrieves a long cloth bundle that's been hidden beneath the seat. "He's been saving this. Says it's the finest thing he's ever crafted. He tempered it for ages," Gwen murmurs, lying the bundle across the bench and unwrapping the cloth. The sword inside gleams dangerously in the low light, the steel pounded thin and razor keen. "And he will be furious when he sees I've taken it."

Merlin folds the cloth back over the blade and clasps his hands over hers. "If everything goes accordingly, I'll pay him thrice its worth in gold," he promises.

"And just what exactly are you hoping will go accordingly?" Gwen asks, arching an eyebrow at him pointedly.

He grins back as he takes the bundle up in his arms, straightening up. "Interesting choice of sleepwear, Guinevere," he says with affected nonchalance, eyeing the faded blue shirt and loose trousers she wears instead of a nightdress. "That shirt is much too large to be yours, though, and I'm certain I've seen it before on a friend of mine..."

She flushes deeply, trying to appear stern and failing, lips twitching as she points to the door. "Go on then, you sly bird, do what you will," she orders.

Merlin takes a step forward and ducks down quickly to kiss her blushing cheek. "Thank you, Gwen."

"Go," she repeats, her voice softer. "Save the noble idiot from himself."

Exactly what he means to do. Stealing quickly outside to where he's left the Hellion waiting, snorting impatiently, Merlin lashes the bundle to her saddle and steers her once more towards the woods, giving her head. In high spirit, she breaks into a gallop and is scarce winded when they reach the treeline. Once more, he leaves her well outside the standing stones; not knowing how long this magic will take, however, he does not tether her to a tree but instead lashes a hobble around her legs, much to her displeasure. He narrowly misses having one of his hands bitten when he retrieves the sword from her saddle.

The moon is just ascending over the treetops when he steps into the circle, and perhaps it is because the Old Ones are already present and waiting, but the sacred ground feels more alive than it had the night before. Magic vibrates in the very air, in the ground beneath his bare feet as he comes to stand before the centre stone. "I have returned, and I have brought the weapon as asked. What must I do?"

[The wraith is a being of death. A sacrifice of life must be made in order to defeat it. You say you will take it upon yourself. Is this truly your will? You do not know what is demanded.]

That deep, old blood-smell again, stirring old memories of a crowded square and sun-gilded hair. Merlin takes off his jacket, rolling his left sleeve up past his elbow, and he takes out one of his knives, gripping it tightly in his right hand. "I have an idea of it. It is my will."

[So be it. Make your sacrifice, Emrys.]

He takes the knife up, whispers a prayer asking the Maiden's mercy and the Mother's strength, and extends his left arm over the shallow basin of the boulder, inhaling deep. Gripping the knife tightly, he does his best to recall all that Gaius and Mother have taught him about blood and sinew and cutting open the body, then places the tip of the knife midway up his inner arm. He lets his breath go and jerks the knife sharply.

The pain of it makes him gasp aloud, and it is only through a force of will that he does not startle and cut himself deeper by mistake. Blood seeps out from his arm quick and steady, dripping into the basin of stone. Merlin drops his knife and fumbles blindly beside him until he grasps the hilt of the sword, holding it tight but not raising it. Words form on his tongue, strange and foreign and old. Old as stone and sea and sky. As he speaks, the night seems to grow brighter around him. Everything becomes sharp-edged and clear even as his body grows heavy and warm. His magic pulses through him like a second heart, matching the steady thrum of the earth's power all around him, in time with the pulse of blood dripping from his arm, more and more, greater than any magic than he has tried to cast before. So very vast and mighty and alive.

Blood trickles down the sides of the boulder, dripping onto the earth.

His right arm lifts, holding aloft the sword that Gwen had given him. Her father's finest work. In his heightened state, he knows the steel is keen and true; no other would have done for this. He looks up at it, shining flame-bright in the moonlight and says a single word. "Hathian."

The blade begins to heat, faster than any forge could, so hot he has to let it go and hold it aloft with his magic instead. Hotter and hotter, until the air around it ripples from the heat of it and the steel hisses like some angered serpent.

[Now, Emrys.]

He brings the sword down, quenching it in the pool of his blood.

Immediately, he is surrounded by the smell of it, the blood hissing and spitting and frothing. When he raises it out again, the blade catches fire in open air, the flames no one colour and all of them at once. He might not be a bladesmith, but he is fairly certain that isn't what normally happens. He lowers it back in again, extinguishing the flame, and when he does, he feels the magic crest and break, seeping back out of him.

It is done.

He falls to his knees, all the strength suddenly gone out of him with the ritual done. His arm is bleeding still. Merlin fumbles for his jacket, his neckerchief, anything, but his limbs are uncooperative, cold and numb. He is distantly aware of collapsing to his knees and then falling to his side, blood soaking into the earth.

Glittering darkness overcomes him.

When he wakes, feeling groggy and hollowed out, the moon is only a ghostly sliver of itself, and the sky is the cool, deep grey of predawn. Merlin rolls his gaze down and sees his arm has been healed, the cut a line of shiny, tender pink scarring, the grass beneath it discoloured with dried blood. Grasping at the rough sides of the boulder, he drags himself up to his knees with difficulty, his head spinning. He feels as though he's been scraped out and scoured with sand inside, his magic guttering low in his chest.

Lying atop the stone is the sword that can kill the dead. His blood has already congealed and dried into a deep red-black crust on the boulder, joining all the other sacrifices made in this place, but the blade itself gleams clean and new. Fine ripples gleam across the steel, and the metal has a faint reddish hue to it. When he lifts it from the boulder, it is much lighter than he recalls, and it hums with magic at his touch, reverberating in tune with his own power, separate yet tethered.

"Thank you," he whispers, wrapping the sword in its cloth once more.

The breeze sighs through the standing stones, and their reply sounds almost amused, [This magic is given strength by life. It would be quite counterproductive if you died weaving it. Be warned. In the wrong hands, a weapon of such power is capable of great evil. It is meant for Arthur Pendragon and no other.]

Nodding agreement, he stands up and staggers, bracing himself against the boulder as the world spins around him, greyness creeping around the edges of his vision. Losing so much blood and working such powerful magic at the same time has left him bone-weary and almost ill. Weaving on his feet, he staggers from the stone circle and through the thick trees. He puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. The Hellion ambles over to him, snorting at him in displeasure at being left hobbled all night. "Yes, I know. Don't worry, I'll have you spoiled in the stables shortly," he replies as he unties the hobble. She holds still once it's off, thankfully, and he leans against her solid bulk as he lashes the sword to the saddle. It takes him three tries to mount up, and when he does, she whickers and tosses her mane in obvious amusement. "I have done an incredible amount of work this night, so kindly hush and get us home," he says, nudging her with his heels.

The Hellion makes for Camelot at a surprisingly easy pace in the grey predawn light. Merlin closes his eyes and relaxes, winding the reins around his arms. At first, the swaying makes him a little nauseous, but then it becomes almost soothing. He dozes. When the sound of hooves on stone reaches his ears, he opens his eyes again. They're approaching the gates. Merlin pats her neck gently. "Good girl. Almost home."

He's scarce approached the townhouse when the stable boy Sam comes bolting out to meet him, taking the reins of the Hellion with care, watching her teeth. "Sir Leon has been in a right state since you left, my lord," the boy says in a quiet voice.

Merlin stumbles as he dismounts, grasping Sam's shoulder for support, and unlashes the sword from the Hellion's saddle. Straightening up, he describes exactly what Leon could do with that temper of his in words that would have cost him his tongue in the court. Sam flushes bright red and quickly leads the Hellion away.

He barely takes a step inside before Leon is storming up to him, still in his nightclothes. "Gods' mercy, Merlin, where have you been?" he demands, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a shake. "You cannot simply up and vanish like this without a word's notice, especially knowing that damned priestess is about!"

"Leon!" Merlin exclaims. "Please. I have not eaten since yesterday, and I am exhausted like you wouldn't believe after what I have achieved this night. Will you at least allow me to eat something before you have my hide?"

His brother glowers at him for a moment longer, eyes darting down to the bundle in his arms. Finally, scowling, he takes hold of Merlin's arm—the right, thankfully—and drags him into the dining hall. There's a light breakfast on the table. However, Leon gives a curt order to Elfgifa, the kitchen girl, and she darts out of the hall into the kitchen. Merlin sits down, propping the sword against the side of his chair, and can almost kiss Elfgifa when she sets a still-warm chunk of bread and a dish of stewed chicken in front of him, leftover from last night's supper.

"Now, tell me what damned bit of mischief you've been into now," Leon orders, dropping into his own chair.

He's entirely too busy eating to answer, not realising how hungry he truly was until now. So instead of speaking, he sets the cloth-wrapped sword on the tabletop between them; Lady Evaine would've had both of their hides for it were she there to witness it.

Leon leans forward to pull away the cloth. "Name of the Mother," he remarks, staring at the sword; the blade gleams subtly red, as though it has been burnished with carmine. Or blood, perhaps. "It's a beautiful thing. So light! And such a perfect balance, too. Strange colouring, though. The markings here, what do they mean?" He tilts it slightly to show the engravings on the flat. "Don't you have scripts in the library written like this?"

Merlin uses the heel of the bread to sop up the last of the broth, licking his fingers clean. He feels far more himself with a bit of food in him, a measure of strength returning. He tilts his head to read it. "Yes. It's a script used by Druids and other magic users." He hadn't even noticed it this morning, he'd been so disoriented. "That says 'take me up.' Turn it over." Leon flips the blade. "And that says 'cast me away.' Huh. Wonder how I managed that."

"You? What did you do to make this?" Leon asks, narrowing his eyes. He sets the sword down with care on the cloth between them. "You've never so much as touched a bellows in your life, much less a hammer and anvil. You've been gone all night. What did you do?"

Avoiding his brother's all-too-knowing eye, he reaches over and draws Leon's abandoned plate of breakfast to him, helping himself to a bit of oatcake and honey. "Magic powerful enough to defeat the dead demands a price," he says at last. "That sword is meant for Arthur and him alone, and it will kill the wraith. Or rather, kill it again."

"A price." Moving with incredible quickness, Leon's hand shoots out and grabs Merlin's left arm, squeezing; Merlin gasps aloud at the sharp throb of pain. The Old Ones had closed the wound before he bled out, but he is still healing underneath. He snatches his arm away. Leon allows it, retracting his hand. "You were favouring your left side when you came in. You took that price upon yourself, didn't you?"

"I wasn't about to ask someone else," Merlin replies stubbornly, still hugging his left arm against his chest. It aches in time with his heartbeat. "The match starts at noon. I have to give this to Arthur before then. It's the only weapon that will stop the wraith."

Leon runs both hands back through his hair. "I ought to put a tether on you and keep you bound to this house," he mutters, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes.

"I'd still cause mischief," Merlin points out as he licks a drip of honey off his fingers.

"Mm, no doubt. Very well. Go and change your clothes. I'll get dressed and find a scabbard."

As they make their through the castle, directly towards Arthur's chambers, Leon nearly ends up knocking the King's ward down the stairs when they round a corner and collide head-on with Morgana.

"My lady, forgive me, are you alright?" Leon exclaims, grasping her shoulders.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It's Arthur."

Merlin's chest constricts, and he grips the scabbard hard enough his fingers cramp slightly. "Is he hurt? The match hasn't started—"

She shakes her head again. "No, he isn't hurt, and it hasn't begun yet, though it will. He isn't in the challenge ring," she replies, and the brothers exchange confused glances. "Uther, he's ordered Arthur locked in his chambers. He means to face the Black Knight in Arthur's stead."

Merlin lets his breath out in a rush. For a brief flicker of time, a scarce breath of thought, he considers allowing the wraith to exact its vengeance upon the King. Just as swiftly as it comes, though, he brushes it aside. No. Arthur isn't ready for the throne yet. However, no matter what peril Uther might face, Merlin will never let him wield this sword, tempered in his magic and quenched in his blood. He'd sooner run himself through with it. So, they will simply have to release Arthur from his chambers and give it to him instead.

He runs up the last set of stairs and down the corridor to Arthur's chambers. There are two guards posted outside the doors. It takes only a small nudge of magic to knock them both out, sending them sprawling to the ground.

"Do say you'll show me that trick," Morgana says in an undertone.

"Certainly." He hesitates, however, when he reaches for the handle of the doors. Locked, she had said. Knocking out a few guards is an easy task, but unlocking a door without a key with Arthur directly on the other side….

"Have you a hairpin, my lady?" Leon asks abruptly. Bemused, Morgana nods, pulling a long silver pin from her carefully styled tresses. "Stand aside," he mutters, pushing Merlin out of way. He forcibly bends the tip of the hairpin out of shape, then kneels and jabs it into the keyhole. A few tense moments of careful manipulation, it catches and holds. He pushes down on the pin. The lock clicks.

"Sharp trick. Where did you learn that?" Merlin exclaims.

"You have your talents, and I have mine."

Snorting, Merlin yanks open the door to find Arthur pacing the length of his chambers in a fury. The prince whirls towards him, but the rage evaporates from his face when he sees them. "What are you doing here? How did you—?"

"No time, Arthur," Merlin insists, holding out the sword in its scabbard. "Quickly now, your father intends to face the wraith in the challenge ring in your place."

Even as he says it, the distant sound of clashing swords and the exclamations of the crowds can be heard.

"Not if I have any say in the matter," the prince snarls. He strides past them, snatching the sword out of Merlin's hands as he passes, making a run down the corridor, and the brothers make haste after him.

Morgana lifts the hem of her gown and sprints along with surprising swiftness. "He's not wearing armor," she points out as they chase after Arthur.

"I know," Merlin mutters back. He doesn't believe he could make Arthur hold still long enough to put any on, either, not with the match already begun. He can only hope that the element of surprise will be enough to allow Arthur to kill the wraith before it makes one well-aimed blow of its own.

"So…how was your father?"

Arthur snorts through his nose as he slouches in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him. Surely half the kingdom had been able to hear Uther's bellowing after the match. "Furious, of course. Shouted at me for interfering, then shouted more for running into the middle of a melee without any armour on, and then moved on to various other slights, both real and imagined, going back some five years or so," he replies dryly, leaning back in his chair and running a fingertip around the rim of his goblet. "However, since everyone else is going on about how wonderful and heroic it was for the brave prince to take up arms against the Black Knight in defense of his royal father, he can't throw me in the dungeons as he would very much like to."

Merlin's mouth quirks up as he finishes hanging up Arthur's clothes in the wardrobe. "Well, perhaps there will be a few new ballads written in your honour. Not that you need it, given your head is already as thick as your waist."

"I am not—" He snaps his mouth closed at the smile Merlin is failing to smother, and he rolls his eyes. Idiot. Turning in his chair, he picks up the sword that he had left propped beside his desk after being banished to his chambers by Father. "Here. Return this to whomever it belongs to, it isn't mine." It is a well-made sword, though. Lighter than any steel he'd wielded before, burnished a curious yet lovely reddish hue, with engravings on both sides. When he had run the wraith of his long-dead uncle through with it, the creature had let out a sound unlike any other before bursting apart into ragged pieces of desiccated flesh, bone, and cloth. The smell had been quite unlike any other as well.

"Oh, it is," his manservant replies with a strange little twist of his mouth. A smile, yes, but somewhat else too. "Yours, I mean. It was forged for you, a gift. Do you like it?"

Arthur blinks. "I do. Fine blade." He sets it back down on the table, smiling a little. "You're dismissed, Merlin. Try to be on time tomorrow morning, if you would. I have a training session scheduled early. Since Father can't lock me in a cell, he will settle with running me ragged instead. A wonderful beginning to my tenure as crown prince."

Merlin shrugs nonchalantly, coming to collect the goblet and wine. When he starts to turn away, he stops, balances the tray on his right arm, and fishes a small box out of his jacket pocket, setting it on the tabletop.

"What is that?"

"For you. I meant to give it to you after the crowning ceremony, but…" He sketches a vague gesture in the air meant to encompass the events of the past three days.

Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You actually got me a gift?"

"I know, I know, my stellar wit and company is gift enough." Merlin gives him a sly wink. "Goodnight, Arthur."

Once he's left the chamber, Arthur leans forward and picks up the small box. It's very light, and for a moment he wonders if Merlin would give him an empty box as a jest. It wouldn't be entirely a surprise, given that unique sense of humour he boasts of. At least he is alone in his chambers, with nobody to see. He lifts the lid.

Not empty. It's a pin, wrought in the shape of a sun with a tiny piece of polished sunstone at the centre, radiating golden rays outward. It's a subtle design too, small and neatly done, one that could easily be affixed to most any garment without being ostentatious. Arthur picks up the pin, lightly rubbing his thumb across the sunstone, a deeper gold than the metal around it. Most gifts he receives are embellished with the dragon befitting his house, but one can always trust Merlin to be different, if not outright contrary.

He goes to his bed and sets the pin on the bedside table before climbing into the blankets, and he gazes up at the bit of wrought gold, watching the low flicker of the dying firelight catch in the sunstone until he falls asleep, sinking into tangled dreams of blood and flaming steel, lights blooming in darkness, and burning gold bright as the sun.