"Do you truly believe this is going to work, Prince Arthur?"

He looks down at the diminutive woman beside him. "It will. I have faith in them," he remarks, glancing back at the people of Ealdor, arming themselves for battle. A part of him clings to doubt, but he refuses to let it show on his face. Their weapons, such as they can be called—rakes, hoes, cudgels, anything heavy and firm enough to land a blow—might not be castle-forged steel, but there's determination in them, a fierceness. This is their home. "So, my lady, tell me how you came to know Hunith and Merlin," he asks, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

"I am no lady, Prince Arthur. Just Anna will do," she replies with an amused smile. "Hunith used to live here, in that house you and your companions are staying in. She and I have been near to sisters. I was there when she gave birth to her son. She lived with me and my husband for a time afterwards. Merlin and William were friends for a time as they were the same age, and when she left Ealdor, I helped her get away from Essetir's soldiers. That is why I came to Camelot. I knew she would help me if she could."

"I'm sorry that my father couldn't," he says honestly.

She shakes her head, smiling up at him. "You came. So did they. That is enough." Anna glances back at the others. Father had said that taking an army beyond the ridge of Ascetir would be an act of war…but they could hardly be considered an army. Merlin and Leon, who had come with Anna on their own at first. Morgana and Guinevere, who refused to be talked out of accompanying. Lancelot, who would follow Merlin or Guinevere alike to the ends of the earth. Arthur knew he would never hear the end of it if he didn't go, but more than that, he didn't want his idiot manservant to get himself killed. And he knows that it is right to help these people, abandoned by their own king and left to fend for their own.

"Some don't think it so," he points out.

"I know my son can be…ornery. He gets it from his father," Anna accedes, knowing exactly who he is referring to, a sad ghost of a smile touching her lips at mention of her deceased husband. "But he does mean well, and he frets worse than a fishwife in his own way." She reaches up and pats his arm. "Thank you. Truly."

He smiles back. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be…tomorrow."

"You as well, Prince Arthur."

"Are you certain you're ready for this?" Arthur asks. "You've never been in a true battle before, you know that."

Merlin smiles a little as he fixes the buckle on his vambrace. It feels passing strange, to wear chainmail, to not have his knives in sheathes on his wrists. Leon wouldn't hear of him going to battle without it, however. Mail might be heavier than the padded gambeson and leather he's used to fighting in, but at least he still has movement in his arms, enough to wield his quarterstaff properly and make a proper throw with his knives. "Not particularly, no, but I am not going to turn tail now," he replies, fumbling the catch again.

"Here." Arthur takes a step to him and fixes it for him, settling the small buckle with ease of long practice.

"Thank you." He swallows hard, running his fingertips lightly along the cool steel, missing the familiar presence of his wrist sheathes. He picks up his quarterstaff and turns it lightly in his hands, anything to distract himself. "Arthur," he says quietly, and the prince raises his eyebrows at him. "Listen…whatever happens today…I just want you to know…"

"Yes?"

"Arthur!" Merlin whispers a few vile words under his breath as Morgana appears in the doorway. "They've crossed the river," she says, voice taut.

His expression immediately turns grim, his battle-mask settling in place. "Very well. Everyone in positions. Now."

For a moment, a single, delirious moment, Arthur almost believes they might actually achieve victory over Kanen and his men. The villagers of Ealdor are full of righteous fury, protecting their homes and families, and between the six of them actually trained to fight, they can even hold some ground. But still, these men are unremorseful murderers, wearing armour and bearing steel, most of them mounted, and they outnumber the commoners.

"Move!"

A powerful body crashes into him, almost taking him near off his feet, just as a spear flies past him, just where his chest would have been had he stayed still. He very nearly runs them through, then checks himself with a strangled curse. "I thought you had left."

Will gives him a feral grin, all teeth. "So had I. Come on then, pretty boy, don't just stand there." He snatches up a sword from one of the dead men and charges into the melee.

Arthur glares at the other man's back.

The wind begins to pick up, a cool breeze blowing up against him…and then it continues to build, gathering, circling. As he watches, a whirlwind begins to form in the middle of the village, spiraling upwards until it's thrice a man's height, taking those near to it right off their feet. And standing just before it, standing unafraid, Merlin and Will. His breath catches sharply in his throat.

The wind does win them the day. Kanen's men flee from the display of magic—for it is surely magic, Arthur knows it true as his own name—and the villagers raise a short, bedraggled cheer as they retreat, scattering. Someone gleefully shouts that Kanen himself is slain, dead by Lancelot's hand. Arthur doesn't hear it over the sound of blood pounding in his ears as he strides forward, gripping his sword hilt tightly.

"Who did that?" he demands.

Merlin and Will both turn towards him, others slowly beginning to gather around them.

"Wind such as that does not appear from nothing," he snarls, jabbing the blade towards the swept-clean ground where it had formed. "I know magic when I see it, now which of you did it?"

Will's jaw gets a stubborn set, his shoulders tensing. Arthur's blood chills, however, when Merlin takes a step forward, a restraining hand on his friend's arm. "Arthur…" he says softly, so softly, and in his name alone there is a lifetime of secrecy laid bare.

"No." The word leaves him flat and empty. "You're a liar. You do not have magic."

There is more sorrow in Merlin's voice than Arthur has ever heard from anyone. "I do. I'm sorry, truly—"

"Shut up, Merlin."

"I've always had it—"

"Stop."

"I use it to protect you, I swear—"

"I said, shut up!" Arthur raises his sword arm unthinking, still running hot from battle. He's not sure what he meant to do, if anything at all. However, Leon suddenly stands before him, bringing his blade down across Arthur's hard, driving the point downwards to the churned earth. He snaps his gaze up at the other man, one he had named his First Knight, his second. "You would dare…"

"You are my prince. He is my brother," Leon replies, his voice strained.

Merlin steps forward, grasping Leon's arm. "Don't," he pleads, eyes damp. "Please, I beg of you, don't."

Leon looks pained. "Merlin…"

"Don't," he repeats, then steps around his brother to face Arthur directly. The prince still has his sword drawn and held before him, his hand working around the hilt. He takes another step forward; Arthur starts to retreat, then holds ground, jaw tight. Another small step, and the point of the sword is level with his breastbone, just touching the rings of his chainmail. It would cut clean through the mail, he knows. Merlin raises one hand, agonised by the way Arthur watches his hand as though it is a live serpent, and grasps the end of the sword in his bare hand. The edges bite into his skin, but it's hardly the first time he's shed his blood on it. Perhaps not the last. He moves the blade left and up a few inches. "My heart is here, Arthur," he says quietly.

There's a faint sound of fear from someone behind him; he doesn't turn to see who it is, holding Arthur's gaze.

His arm trembles, and he holds the sword for only another heartbeat, then drops it as though it's a hot brand he can't stand to keep grip on a moment longer. "Gods be damned, Merlin!" Arthur exhales in a ragged breath, taking a step backwards, shoving both hands through his hair.

"Arthur—"

"Don't!" he shouts, then takes a shuddering breath. "Leave me be. Go…help the others. See to the wounded. Do whatever you wish, just…leave me be." He turns and strides away from them.

Merlin forces himself to breathe again, shoving away tears with the heels of his hands, then leans down and picks up the sword. Feeling numb down to his bones, he carries it back to his old home, and he sinks down to his knees on the rushes, gasping in great, ragged breaths like a man half-drowned.

A cold, damp cloth covers the back of his neck, a gentle hand applying pressure. "Slow down, or you'll make yourself faint," Gwen says as she kneels down beside him.

He chokes on a sob. "Gwen—"

She throws both arms around his neck, embracing him tightly.

Merlin shudders and wraps his arms around her, burying his face against her neck for a moment. "He'll hate me," he moans. "He does already."

"No, he doesn't. He's hurt, but he's too fond to hate you." Merlin shakes his head despite her insistence, and Gwen leans forward to press a sisterly kiss to his brow, hugging him closely to her. "Have faith, Merlin. He's too stubborn to admit it, but he cares for you."

"You aren't angry. Did you know?" he asks, trying desperately to think of anything other than Arthur and the fury, the hurt in his eyes.

When she sits back, she touches his cheek with callused fingertips, then gently lifts the half-forgotten sword from his lap. "My father's finest work," she murmurs. "He tempered the steel for a hundred days, he told me. There were times when I worked the bellows with him, keeping the flames the right colour. I gave it to you because you said you needed it to save Arthur. And the next day, you gift him with a blade that can kill the dead when nothing else could. I would know it anywhere." She turns slightly and sets it down on a bit of clean straw, then cups his face between her hands, brushing the tears off his skin. "Merlin," she murmurs.

He lets himself be held a moment longer, then draws away and scrubs his hands against his eyes, scouring away tears. "Let's go. The others will need our help. There's been damage done." He fumbles off his vambrace, then wriggles out of the chainmail, sniffling as he packs it back into their belongings, once more putting on his jacket and tying his neckerchief on. He looks more himself with it, and a small, sad smile touches Gwen's lips. He uses a bit of scrap cloth to wipe the blade clean, then leans over and gently lays it atop Arthur's bedroll, staring at it for a long moment.

When they step back outside, the rest of the villagers are cleaning up the aftermath of battle, collecting up fallen weapons, catching abandoned horses, dragging away the fallen. Lancelot is helping one of the men with the horses, calming them as they snort and stamp, unsettled by the scent of smoke and blood. Morgana is collecting the weapons and piling them in an empty hay cart, as nobody seems to want to touch them. "Where's Leon?" he asks, looking around.

Lancelot scratches at his neck. "He, ah…"

"Went to shout at Arthur," Morgana says, sparing the other knight. She comes over and takes Merlin's hands in her own, her grey-green eyes damp. "Merlin…"

"Don't," he murmurs, shaking his head, though he doesn't shake off her hold. "Please just don't. Are all the fires out? Is anyone injured?"

"A few. Nothing severe. Over there," she replies, nodding in the direction of the wounded, gathered around the well.

Merlin releases her hands and starts towards them, but Will catches his arm, tugging him to a halt. "Thank you," he says quietly, squeezing Merlin's elbow. "You didn't have to do that for them, not after what they all did to you."

He nods once. "You should go see to your mother. Ask Guinevere about the weapons. Her father's a blacksmith, she can tell you what to do with them." When Will drops his hand, he goes over to the few injured people, kneeling down to the nearest of them, a young woman pressing the wadded-up folds of her skirt against her left leg. "Here. May I see?" he asks gently; she stares at him for a long moment, then releases her skirt and extends her leg slightly. There's a tear in her skirt, a cut on her thigh underneath. Not deep, but it is bleeding, and he very much doubts that any of Kanen's men bothered to keep their weapons clean.

Healing magic is a tricky thing. Most never know just how intricate the human body truly is until it needs to be repaired. It is why Merlin never did much studying with Gaius, as his great-uncle's knowledge of magic is specialised to healing, though he does know the basics, such as how to stop bleeding, purge infection, cool burns. He cups his hands around her wound and coaxes his magic into it, watching her eyes widen when she feels it dance over her skin. Once the blood flow's stopped, he bandages it up, then goes to the next man, holding a wounded shoulder.

He does his best to ignore the way they stare at him.

It still hurts when one greying old man snatches his bleeding arm away from Merlin's extended hand, muttering under his breath about demon spirits.

By the time he's finished healing those who would let him near, Leon's returning to the village, his face grave. Merlin straightens up, his chest tightening when he sees Arthur a few paces behind. His face is set in stone, wearing the cold, inscrutable mask that is every inch the Crown Prince of Camelot and not at all Arthur. "We should be leaving soon," he orders, not looking at Merlin at all as he addresses them. "Finish whatever you are doing now, then make ready to leave."

Morgana opens her mouth, but Merlin hastily grabs her arm, digging his nails in to quiet her. Whatever hold Arthur has on his temper is tenuous at best at the moment, sure to shatter with one wrong word, and there is little Morgana does better than rouse temper.

A hand touches his back, and he turns to see Anna standing beside him with Will at her elbow, her son glowering at Arthur. "If you want to stay…if you need to hide…my home is open to you still, little one," she murmurs, her gaze lingering on the prince. "Hunith is near to a sister to me. It would not go amiss."

"No," he replies softly. "Thank you, Anna, truly, but…I've made my choices. I don't intend to run from them now." He takes a breath and glances back at Arthur. "I'm going back to Camelot."

Arthur stares into the empty air before him without seeing, tracing his fingers along the wood grain in the tabletop. His head aches, a steady pulsing just behind his temples and at the base of his skull. Everything in him feels scraped raw and tender, as though he's been scoured through with sand, and so many emotions vie for dominance that he feels ill with it all.

The sound of knocking seems to reach him from someplace distant, and he only vaguely hears himself calling, "Enter," in reply.

However, he comes crashing back into himself, once more immersed in the revelations of the past several days and the fearsome questions he grapples with, when the door opens.

"You wanted to speak to me, my lord?" Hunith asks, her voice admirably steady. She must know he knows, and yet one couldn't tell she was afraid looking at her.

He gestures wordlessly to the other chair, and she crosses the room to sit, angling herself to face him. For a long moment, Arthur gazes at her without speaking, chin propped on his fist. Hunith, for her part, doesn't flinch beneath his inspection, only gazes back, impassive.

"Why?" he asks at last.

"You would do well to ask why the sun rises in the east." Hunith smiles a little, more of sorrow than humour. Then the expression leaves, and she takes a deep breath, somber once more. "When I first knew that I was with child, I was terrified. I was unwed, I was alone, I had scarce more than the clothes I wore. Were it not for the kindness of Anna and Hughes, I surely wouldn't have survived. But it all paled when I first felt my son stir within me. I loved him. I thought I had felt love before, but that…. It is like comparing the light of a burning torch to the dawn itself, fiercer and hotter than anything I had ever felt before, and I knew that I would do anything for him. I had never done harm to another person in my life, and yet I would have gladly killed anyone with my own hands if they wished to harm him." She pauses, looking at her hands. Not a lady's hands; rougher, stronger, faintly scarred. "He did magic before he could turn himself over or raise his head. It was a part of him as much as breathing. It could no more be parted from him than his own blood. I was afraid again, for I had heard what was happening in Camelot. I feared it would spill over into Essetir. I feared someone would learn of his nature and turn him in. So, I taught him to hide, to never reveal himself to anyone, to keep his magic for himself. Perhaps I taught him too well."

"Why Camelot?" Arthur forces the words out, voice rough.

"There are those within this kingdom who know that your father is wrong. That magic is not evil, that it is a part of nature and should be honoured and cherished the same. The only family I had left was in Camelot. And if Merlin's magic was ever discovered…" She takes a deep breath, a faint trembling in her voice as she puts words to one of her deepest fears for the first time. "I would rather him die clean than be chained up and made to attack on command like a well-trained beast."

"What was I to you, then? A means to an end, a convenience in whatever long game you had?" Arthur demands sharply, then clenches his jaw. He hadn't meant to say that, or at least not word it as such. The question had been gnawing at him, though, burning in his chest with the need to be spoken.

The look Hunith gives him is one of utter horror. "No! Never. Gods' mercy, you were a child," she exclaims, shaking her head. "You were a child. A very sad and lonely little boy who had been deprived of his mother. And I was a mother who had been forced to give up her child. I did not get close to you for some…expedience or to try and shape your will. I did it because it soothed the hurt in my heart, and because I hoped it might do the same for you, even if you were too young to understand it." She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, resettling herself. She lifts her chin to meet his eye once more. "Is there aught else you wish to ask me?"

Arthur shakes his head, not trusting his voice, and gestures towards the door. He needs to think. He needs the past week to not have happened.

Hunith stands up, but she doesn't leave. Instead, she comes around the corner of the table to stand beside his chair; after a second's hesitation, she lifts a hand to smooth down his hair. It pains him to be still, to not lean into her hand as he had so many times before, callused, gentle mother's hands. "I loved you, Arthur. I love you still. You're the son of my heart as Merlin is the son of my body. I know you might not believe it now, but it has always been so. I am truly sorry to have given you this pain. Understand that it is part of what we hoped to avoid. Perhaps that is the folly of all parents, the desire to shield them from the unpleasantness of life. Whatever you decide, we will abide." She lowers her head and presses lips to his temple, stroking his hair once more before stepping away and leaving his chambers, closing the door quietly.

Arthur stares at the closed door for a long time.

One could be wounded in battle without feeling it. After his first true battle—one of the border provinces, a band of Mercian raiders—he had been surprised to find an arrow-gouge in his arm, a knife gash on his thigh. He is just as surprised now to feel a prickling heat rise behind his eyes, tears making hot tracks on his skin. He presses the heels of his hands against his closed lids, a wretched sob catching in his throat.

It hurts.

It hurts more than he would ever have reckoned.

He scrubs his hands through his hair, down his neck, and his ring catches against the pin on his collar. He fumbles it off, holding it in his palm. The sunstone gleams a deep honey colour, golden rays spreading out from it. A gift, not the only one he'd been given that day. A sword a strange hue of red, lighter than any steel he'd held before, able to kill that which was already dead.

Given to him, not used against him, despite who he was. His father's son.

What was it Leon had said, or rather, shouted at him back in Ealdor? There are families born of more than blood and seed. Lionel and Evaine had taken Merlin in, raised him as Leon's younger brother. Hunith has loved Arthur like her son, been the mother he had lost and never known. Morgana has been the nearest thing to a friend he had for a long time, the sister he never had the chance to have. She and Merlin are friends too, full of deep and abiding fondness for each other, extended also to Guinevere and Lancelot. All of them bound to one another with love, not fear or obligation.

In Arthur's memory, he does not recall Father ever saying he loved him, and he has never presumed so, either. He doesn't recall ever telling his father what his favourite colour was, or what he would like to name his own sons one day. He surely never woke teary-eyed and fearful from nightmares and thought to visit his father's chambers, because he had never thought that his father might comfort him. He had always considered himself a political necessity. A king's heir, not a father's son.

He closes his fingers around the pin.

"This isn't how I wanted to tell him," Merlin murmurs, his face buried in his hands. "Maiden have mercy. Did you see his face? He'll kill me."

"He will not." Gaius potters about his bottles and vials, though his hands are trembling too much to do anything of use. "You are more his friend than his servant."

A harsh laugh breaks out of his throat. "Friends is an exaggeration, and executing magic-users never presented much of an issue for him," Merlin replies bitterly, recalling the gleam of sun on white-blond hair and sickly-sweet blood smell. "He's been perfectly content to stand beside his father and watch without a word since we were children."

"Uther forced him to attend those executions, even when others spoke against it," Mother says in a surprisingly sharp tone, and then her voice softens slightly. "And Arthur was not…well, afterwards."

At that, he lowers his hands and turns to look at her. "What do you mean?"

She's quiet for a moment, frowning, then says hesitantly, "He would not eat. Sometimes for days. He would not sleep until Gaius or I gave him valerian, and when he did sleep, there were times he woke screaming. Or he would get out of bed and roam the halls without waking at all." She turns her gaze up to Merlin, stern once more. "So do not think that he is unaffected by these things."

Merlin ducks his head, chastised. "Uther didn't notice?"

"He might have, if ever bothered to look." She takes a step closer to him and rests a hand atop his head, smoothing his hair. "Have faith, Merlin mine. Arthur is a better man than you think," she whispers.

A brisk knock on the door startles Merlin halfway out of his skin. Leon rises to open the door; on the other side, George stands stiff and proper as always. "Prince Arthur requests his manservant at once," he says in his crisp voice, then turns and walks off.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, then pushes to his feet. He takes two steps to the door, then turns around and throws his arms around Mother, hugging her briefly but tightly. With her herb-and-woodsmoke clinging to his clothes, he walks out and goes up to the prince's chambers.

His heart and his stomach both give a nervous little flutter when he walks in and sees the sword lying on the table in front of Arthur; in the warm light from the hearth, the steel's reddish hue is deepened to a colour almost like watered wine. He wonders if he can be killed by a sword he crafted, if its power will be broken when he dies. Without a word, Merlin approaches the table, but he doesn't sit down, staying on his feet beside the other chair.

Arthur looks up at him, his blue eyes pain-bruised and weary. "I…understand," he begins slowly, "why you couldn't tell me, Merlin, but—"

"I was going to," he blurts out, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, and Arthur gazes at him, obviously waiting for him to continue. "After Mordred, the Druid boy…when I saw what you did for him, I told myself I would, I just…I didn't know how," he says helplessly, aware of how pitiful that sounds, despite being the truth. All his life, he had been taught to keep his magic secret from everyone, except for the handful who already knew; he'd mastered the art of sidestepping questions before he had become a man. It had been different with Morgana because people who have magic feel like kin to him, a secret shared. "I was afraid. I'm sorry. I truly am."

"Afraid," Arthur repeats, sounding almost pained. "Of me? Of what I would do?"

Merlin swallows hard, forcing the words up past the thickness in his throat. "Of what you would think of me."

Solemn, he looks down at the sword between them. He reaches out and lays his fingertips against the hilt but doesn't grasp it, doesn't lift it. "Morgana once told me that one day, I will have to decide what sort of king I am going to be. One who does what's right, or one who does what his father tells him to. I do not intend to be one who execute his rescuers." He withdraws his hand and raises his gaze to Merlin's. "Swear to me, Merlin," he says softly, voice rougher…and trembling just the slightest, too. Another might not have heard it, but Merlin did. "Swear you never use your magic against Camelot. Please."

"I swear," he whispers, stepping closer, and he goes to one knee as knights do when making their oath. "By stone and sea and sky and all they encompass, in the name of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. My magic is yours and yours alone."

"Thank you," he murmurs, eyes closed. When he looks back at Merlin, a faint glimmer of humour is back in his gaze. "Besides, as I see it, I execute you, Leon runs me through, Father executes Leon for regicide, Morgana poisons Father's supper and crowns herself Queen of all Camelot, which is, all in all, quite an unsatisfactory situation," he reasons out, ticking off on his fingers, and Merlin snorts despite himself. Arthur's mouth curls up the slightest bit. "Now, answer me one thing. Did you conjure the light I saw in the mortaeus cavern?"

"I did, but I didn't know it. Mother told me once I was well. Apparently, I was delirious and spouting all manner of things." He hadn't known he could do magic in his sleep, much less when he was ill, but apparently so.

"Mm. Dismissed, Merlin."

He gets to his feet, hesitating. "My lord, do you—?"

"Goodnight, Merlin," Arthur cuts him off, though not unkindly. A hint of a smile returns. "Do make an attempt to be here before high noon tomorrow, hm?"

Merlin presses his lips together on a grin, and he sketches a low bow. "Of course, sire."