Merlin is beginning to wonder if he should be concerned by Arthur's occupation with hunting. He would have imagined that with as many duties a prince had that Arthur would be too busy to bother. Apparently not.
He follows along after Arthur and two of his courtier friends—he doesn't recall their names—carrying a game bag over one shoulder, wishing that he was just about anywhere else at the moment. He'd even take washing the prince's malodorous socks over this, especially since it's simply them going around on foot. No horses, no hounds. So he doesn't even have Allegra to keep him company, and he's the one left carrying everything.
He's not even certain what the hell it is they're hunting, just that he is about this close to cracking Arthur upside his stupid golden head with the quarterstaff, and his feet hurt. There's an uncomfortable prickling all up his back, too, a nervous sort of sensation that something is not right. He can't understand what it is, though.
Merlin stares at Arthur's broad back as he stops; just ahead of them, he can hear something moving through the undergrowth. From the sound of it, he would say it's a deer, but it sounds far too big. A hart, perhaps? The prince gestures to the other two, and they both creep off to the left, no doubt going to circle around and surround it. He steps closer when Arthur waves at him. "Merlin, we are going to surround it. Now go in there and flush it out," he whispers.
"Me? Do you even know what it is?"
"No, we do not. That's what makes it fun."
Narrowing his eyes, he hisses, "You've just said yourself you don't know what it is. What if it is something dangerous?"
Arthur gives him the crooked grin that Merlin both hates and loves to see in equal turn, depending on the situation. He reaches over with his free hand and pushes the quarterstaff off Merlin's shoulder, forcing him to snatch at it before it falls. "You're armed. Go on, then."
Whispering a string of curses under his breath, he sets down the game bag—if he has to run for it, he doesn't want to have its weight—and starts forward into the glade, holding his quarterstaff firm in hand. If it is anything more dangerous than a particularly large hart, then Prince Prat will be getting cold bathwater for the next week, he decides.
Merlin peers forward and stops directly. The quarterstaff slips from his numb fingers with a muffled thump.
A unicorn stands in the glade before him. It's the purest white he's ever seen, right down to its hooves, with a crystalline spire of horn jutting from its head, spiraled through with threads of gold. Its eyes, though, are black, deep and wise and endless, gazing at him with such infinite compassion. He feels unworthy to even stand before it, even though his very body seems to hum with light in its presence, wanting to fall to his knees and simply give thanks for being allowed to see something so precious. He takes a step forward, one hand lifting, and it snorts quietly, blowing warm air across his palm. His fingers touch the velvety nose; he could very well weep for the sheer joy of it, gasping softly. And then he feels that sickly prickle crawl up his spine again, and he remembers Arthur and the courtiers and their crossbows.
"Go," he whispers. "Please go. They'll kill you."
The unicorn only snorts again, stamping one hoof on the leaf mat.
"Go, I beg of you," he implores, tears prickling at his eyes; it stares at him with that endless gaze. Trust me, the dark eyes say. A rustle of cloth, the creak of a bowstring. "Arthur, don't!"
He feels the bolt as surely as it had punctured his own side, the quarrel striking clean between its ribs into its lungs, and his own cry echoes the unicorn's scream as it falls to the ground. Blood spreads across the gleaming white coat, and he can feel that overwhelming warmth and love and light seeping away with it, dripping out between his ribs like a handful water through his fingers. Merlin falls to his knees, the impact jolting up his legs, and he strokes a hand over its head, tears blurring his vision. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so very sorry."
One last huff of warm breath, then the last of its life drains away. The ground seems to open up beneath him, a cold void breaking all around. All the air is drawn from his lungs in an instant, snatched clean away, and everything in him curls up in agony at the loss of such goodness.
"Ha! A unicorn!" Arthur declares gleefully as he bounds down the slope into the glade, hoisting his crossbow. He seems so damnably happy.
Merlin could throttle him with his bare hands.
"Arthur…what have you done?"
Morgana gasps aloud, startling so roughly she knocks a book off the edge of the table, nearly sending her inkwell and journal over with it.
"My lady?" Gwen asks, looking up in surprise. "Are you alright?"
"I…yes, I-I'm fine," she replies, though it feels as though she's just taken a blow, cold all over. She sinks down into her chair, one hand pressed to her side. What was that?
Arthur makes him carry the unicorn horn to present to the King. Of course. He's almost of a mind to stab the foolish prat with it.
He tries to beg off, as even looking at it makes him feel sick and cold all over again, but Arthur only laughs and tells him to stop being such a girl's petticoat, Merlin. So, standing in the council chamber before Uther, Merlin holds the cushion away from him as best he can without being obvious, his jaw clenched so hard that his temples are throbbing, sure he'll end up being sick if he opens his mouth even the slightest bit. He doesn't dare lift his gaze, either, lest the King see the seething fury that's currently eating away at him.
When Gaius mentions the legend of misfortune bound to whoever kills a unicorn, Merlin fervently wishes it to be true. Perhaps it'll serve to teach Arthur the lesson of not harming innocent creatures that do him no harm for the sake of sport. He's always believed that Arthur is in dire need of a good lashing; perhaps a bitter taste of adversity will serve him the same.
As soon as he can, he hands it off to another servant and all but bolts from the council chamber, fleeing before Arthur has the chance to get even so much as a word out. He doesn't rightfully give a damn if the royal ass puts him the stocks or even the dungeons, he can't stand to be in the fool's presence just now. So he walks away, not much aiming to go anywhere, just away. It's a very large castle. Excellent for avoiding people.
He's so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he doesn't even notice Morgana approaching him until she seizes his arm hard, nails biting through his sleeve. He jerks his gaze up in surprise. Morgana is pale and wide-eyed in a way he hasn't seen her since she's learned of her visions and begun meditation to control them. "Is it true?" she demands in a hoarse whisper, shaking his arm a little as she stares at him. Her eyes are almost entirely green and overbright, smudged kohl giving her a drawn, almost spectral appearance. "Did Arthur truly kill a unicorn?"
"Yes," he replies, tasting bile. "How did you…?"
She releases his arm and takes a small step back, breath coming shallow and tremulous. One hand is pressed to her right side, he notices, clutched under her arm, tight over her ribcage. Right where the bolt had struck the unicorn, where he'd felt a sharp echo of pain himself. He had thought it was his own imagination. "I had a dream," she whispers, shaking her head. "I didn't know what it meant, I couldn't make sense of it. I was going to tell you when you returned from the hunt today, but...I think this is what the warning was about."
Merlin touches her arm, the one she has clutched around her middle. "Did you feel it?" he murmurs.
She stares at him for a moment, then nods shakily. "As though I had taken the bolt in my own flesh."
He lets out a slow breath, taking a step back to shove a hand through his hair. When he turns back, she's still staring at him with fever-bright eyes, trembling slightly. Merlin reaches out and lays his fingertips feather-light on her arm; if they hadn't been standing in the middle of an open corridor, he would have embraced her. "I will be to your chambers later, and you may tell me what you've dreamed. Perhaps we can still make sense of it," he says quietly.
Morgana nods, but her mouth trembles slightly. She gives voice to the dark thought that's been coiled in the back of his head since the crossbow sang. "Something terrible is coming, isn't it?" she whispers.
Merlin doesn't answer her aloud, but he can feel the truth of it.
Something terrible indeed.
"Already we've caught seven looters attempting to break into the grain stock," Father says with disdain, shaking his head. "They're to be executed on the morrow. I want you to keep the stores well-guarded, understand?"
"Yes, Father." Arthur thinks that execution is perhaps taking punishment a touch too far, but he's wise enough to not argue it now. The King is already in a foul mood from news of the wells going dry and the crop dying. He knows very well not to test his father's patience whenever sorcery is involved; disturbingly, an image of Merlin being led to the block drifts across his mind, and he hastily shoves it away, focusing on his dinner.
Across the table, Morgana seems bound and determined to try and flay him alive with her gaze alone. She's not said a word the entire meal, and her face is set in a murderous expression.
It's not the first time he's ever earned that look from her, though usually he knows what he's done to earn it. Whatever has her in a fit now, he has larger problems to think about and resolves to ignore her. Another few moments of silent glaring, however, he gives up and meets her eye across the table. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asks.
"Like what?" He could have stropped a knife on her tone.
"Like you wish to carve me up and eat my liver."
Morgana's mouth curls slightly, though her gaze is still cold enough to freeze water. "Oh, I would very much enjoy carving you up, but I would not feed the least piece of you to even Celeste." With that, she pushes back from the table and stands. "Do excuse me, my lord, I've quite lost my appetite," she says frostily, striding out of the hall.
Arthur watches her go in bafflement, then exchanges a glance with Father, who seems in turn amused and confused himself. First Merlin, and now her. What has he done to either of them? With a shrug, he reaches over and draws her half-eaten plate towards him; if there's to be food shortage, he'll not let it go to waste.
No matter what their age, women are a mystery.
"Gréot gecymen, lecan. Gecymen gé drýe wæter," Merlin incants over the bucket of sand. Again, his magic surges up…and again, it breaks against some unseen cliffside. He scowls, propping his chin in his palm as he glowers at the sand. "I know that Arthur is an ass, but you could at least accede some ground," he mutters. Apparently, the unicorn's curse is no mere myth, but he would have thought that it would only affect Arthur. Then again, unicorns were part of the magic of the land. If one was slain, then why should the land not suffer as well, and not merely the one who had done the slaying?
"Have you no luck?" Leon prompts, peering into the library.
"None. Whatever magic this is, it is greater than mine." He gestures to the precarious stack of books beside him as proof.
The curly-haired man smiles a little as he steps in, coming to sit down in another chair. "Greater than yours, truly?" he asks.
Merlin gives a half-hearted shove against one shoulder. "Whilst I appreciate your faith in my abilities, there are magics I cannot undo," he replies, reaching down to run the sand through his fingers yet again, wishing he could just understand. It hardly seems fair to him that the entire kingdom should suffer for the folly of one man, prince or no, but he's long since given up on trying to fully comprehend the will of the Old Ones and the preservation of the balance. It's not something for mortal minds to grasp, he believes. "Not yet, anyways. And the magic of the unicorns is…very raw. Primal. It's a part of nature, and trying to force it could very well tip the balance."
"Which would be even worse, I take it?"
"Oh, absolutely." He heaves an enormous sigh and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Whatever this is, Arthur brought it upon us, so it must be his to undo."
Leon shakes his head. "It is hard to believe that Arthur's truly brought suffering to his people."
"Yes, well, that is what will happen when you're an arrogant fool who gives no thought for any but yourself," Merlin snaps back, kicking the side of the bucket. At Leon's raised eyebrows, he sighs and slumps back in his chair, repentant. "He didn't do it a-purpose, I know. He's just…so damnably vexing sometimes. Anhora tried to tell him last night in the vaults, but he doesn't believe himself at fault. I suppose I'll have to try and talk sense to him, but we both know how well that is going to be received."
"Indeed," Leon chuckles. "But you must at least make the attempt."
Merlin grumbles wordlessly, hands pressed over his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. That does not mean he'll listen to me."
Even if the prince does know about Merlin's magic, he does not always wish to hear of it. Arthur still gets tense whenever the subject is brought up to him, and when Merlin once tried to explain a feat of magic to him, Arthur had cut him off and ordered him off to run errands. Merlin understands that twenty years of fearing magic is not something to be unlearned in short order, so he does try not to press, hurt though he is. But now it seems he will have to press, and a great deal as well, because he does not believe Anhora lied to them.
Whatever ill-fortune that the unicorn's death has brought upon Camelot, it is Arthur's doing.
Merlin's eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. A smile plays at his lips.
Perhaps there is something he can do to help.
"Do you really believe that the King will stop distributing rations?" Gwen asks in an undertone as they walk through the courtyard, watching the people queuing up to receive their share.
Morgana shakes her head slightly, but in her heart, she knows he would. "I don't know. Let us hope that a solution has been found before then." Summoning a smile, she links her arm with Gwen's. "Let's talk of something other than food, shall we? Perhaps you can tell me somewhat about the dashing Sir Lancelot?" she suggests, and the other woman flushes deeply, ducking her head.
Abruptly, Merlin comes darting around a corner, almost falling over himself, and hurries up to them, grinning broadly. "Good morning, Gwen, Morgana. I have something to tell you."
"You also have an excellent sense of timing," Gwen says gratefully. "What is it?"
Glancing about, he leans closer and lower his voice, "It's to do with the drought. It's caused by magic. I have an idea, but I will need your help, my lady," he says with a grin, and Morgana narrows her eyes at him even as she smiles. "Come with me."
They both follow him to the north wing of the castle, scarce used, and he leads them to a staircase of one of the towers. "Just up here. Gwen, would you wait here and let us know if anyone comes?" Merlin asks.
"Of course. Just don't be long, my lady, you have a lunch with the Duchess of Powys to attend."
"It shan't take long," Merlin reassures, then starts climbing the stairs. Holding her skirts, Morgana follows him, up and up and up, until at last they come to a closed door at the very top. He waves a hand over the lock, and it springs open with a whine of rust, hinges squealing protest after no doubt years of disuse. He steps in and holds the door open for her to enter.
Morgana looks around the small, empty room, wondering when anyone had been up here last. There are cobwebs clinging to the rafters and in the corners of the room, a few broken pieces of furniture left abandoned, worn down by exposure to the elements. The roof gapes open, a large hole punched clean through, the edges of the stone blackened as though burnt somehow. Perhaps some lucky stroke of lightning. Through the narrow window, she can see far beyond the city to the outlying woods and beyond, blurring into green smudges on the horizon. "What magic can you possibly hope to work here that will help lift the curse?"
"Not lift it, but perhaps alleviate its effects. I had the thought, if I cannot turn the sand back into water, then perhaps I can bring the water to Camelot instead," he explains, pointing upwards through the open roof.
"Rain," Morgana understands, grinning broadly. "You mean to bring the rains. Merlin, that is brilliant. Can it be done?"
"It can, but I will need your help. Your magic is closer to the element of water, and this is not something easily done." Merlin stares up at the blue sky, the small, innocuous white clouds dotting the vast expanse, hands propped on his hips.
"Have you done it before?" she wonders.
He huffs. "I tried once, when I was younger. Middle of a dry spell, hot as seven hells, and I wanted nothing more than for it to rain, just a little bit."
"What happened?"
Merlin chuckles, ducking his head. "I made the well overflow and flooded the courtyard. Don't know how I did it exactly, but I did," he laughs, then turns towards her. "I'll guide the spell. I just need to borrow some of your strength to cast it true. Clear your mind, the way I showed you, and say the words with me. Ready?"
She nods and steps forward.
He holds out both hands before him, palm up, and she rests her hands atop his, feeling the bright, tingling surge of magic wash against her skin. She breathes deep and steady as she did when meditating, gathering herself into her centre, pushing aside all other thought like sweeping dust from the floor. Merlin's thoughts brush along hers feather-light, imprinting the spell bright into her mind, and she nods, gripping his hands tightly.
"Tídrénas!" they chant together, and Morgana can feel her magic rise in her, new and familiar, joining with his like a river running into the ocean. For a moment, she feels resistance, some unseen force pushing back against them, a dam blocking the way. Merlin's hands tighten around hers, and then, all at once, something gives, running out of her in a great surge that staggers her. Morgana has to sink down to her knees before she falls over, still gripping Merlin's arms in hers, and he drops down clumsily beside her.
"Did it work, then?" she wonders. It must have, for she feels as limp and wrung-out as a dishrag.
"I think so." Merlin tilts his head back, peering at the sky through the hole in the tower roof. A breathless, weary little laugh spills out of him, and he points upwards. "True enough. Look."
Morgana laughs when she sees the clouds beginning to form. "Well, then, let's get out of here before we get drenched."
Arthur leans against the battlements, looking out at the city; the castle walltops gave the most wonderous view of the city, all the way to the lower towns, but today it does nothing to alleviate his temper. He's called off the normal training practice with the knights, since he knows exerting oneself in this kind of heat without water is a terrible idea. Father won't be happy about it, but then again, it seems nothing he can do will make Father happy these days.
A breeze slides across the walls, surprisingly cool for this late in summer, and he glances up at the clouding sky. Let it rain, he prays. Even if the wells have run dry, just let it rain a little, please.
He hates to think that he's brought this onto his own people. He loves Camelot. Not just as its prince, but as one who'd lived there his entire life. It's his home, and he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. To think that he's responsible for its water turning to sand, the crops turning rotten…. He leans forward with a groan, resting his head on his arms. The old sorcerer, Anhora, had said he would be tested, that he would have to make amends for the unicorn to lift the curse, and what that might entail is beyond him. What sort of test? How was he to know it?
Something cold touches the nape of his neck.
Arthur swipes a hand over his neck and feels only a droplet of water. A spot of white drifts past his face. Then another. Baffled, he extends one hand, watching as it lands on his palm…and melts. Snow. In the summer.
He looks up towards the sky in disbelief. The sky's gone completely grey overhead, blanketing the sky, and the snow is falling fast and thick, the wind blowing frigid cold. The light clothes he wears are made for summer heat, and the next gust of wind makes him shiver all over, and he wraps both arms around himself, hearing faint exclamations of shock from below as the snow reaches the ground.
"Alright, Anhora, you've convinced me. I'm a believer," Arthur mutters, backing away from the battlements and hastening inside.
"Well, they can always melt the snow for water, right?" Morgana supposes, wrapped in a heavy cloak usually worn in winter. The wind is still biting cold, though it'd stopped snowing after only an hour. "So it did work. Just...not exactly in the way we expected."
"Rain, snow, or hail, I'm just happy to have water," Gwen agrees, sipping from a goblet full of said water that she'd melted from the snow.
Merlin opens his mouth to agree as well, but before he can get a word out, a handful of half-melted slush is forcibly shoved down the back of his shirt, running a frigid trail down his spine. All that comes out of him is a strangled half-screech as he whirls around, clawing at the back of his shirt uselessly.
Leon glowers at him, flicking melted snow off his gloves. "You really have absolutely no concept of subtlety, do you?" he hisses in a low voice, conscientious of the open space they stand in. "A snowstorm in the midst of summer, what is the matter with you? The King is in a fury, and people are near panic."
"They have water, don't they?" Merlin snaps back, grimacing as he gropes awkwardly behind him, scraping the rest of the icy slush out of his shirt and off his skin before it all melted and soaked him. "Panic or not, they'll have at least a little water until Arthur can fix this." He's seen people outside with buckets, cook pots, even bowls and cups, scraping up the snow even as they cry sorcery; the King's own men are out there collecting snow in barrels for water. Some are even eating it without bothering to melt it first, despite the danger of doing so. Even if the spell hadn't quite gone as they intended it, he can hardly feel sorry for attempting it.
Leon's ferocious scowl doesn't abate, but he doesn't argue further either, silently acceding the point. Instead, he stoops and grabs another handful of snow, this time shoving it directly into Merlin's face, catching him by the nape of the neck so he can't escape. Morgana and Gwen both laugh, the traitors.
He shoves Leon away from him with a gasp, his face numb with cold, slush dripping from his chin and nose. Before he can retaliate, however, Arthur calls his name. "With me, Merlin. Now."
Shoving past Leon with a muttered curse, he tries to dry his face off with his neckerchief as he follows the prince. "Yes, my lord?" he asks snidely.
For once, Arthur only gives him a weary look. "Merlin."
Somewhat chagrined, he lowers his head in deference. He might have been furious at Arthur for slaying the unicorn, but his anger's tempered out into something closer to sympathy in the past few days. An arrogant, stubborn, prideful ass the prince might be, but Merlin's never doubted that Arthur loves Camelot and its people, and to see them suffering for his actions has taken a great deal out of him. There are shadows beneath his eyes, and a drawn look to him that has nothing to do with a shortage of food.
"I've…given thought to what you said about this…Anhora," he says slowly. "With the crops dying so suddenly, the water turning to sand, and now this." He gestures towards the snow-covered rooftops of the town; Merlin opens his mouth to explain, but Arthur holds up a hand to forestall him. "I've decided you're right."
Merlin snaps his mouth shut.
"Tell me true, do you believe that Anhora isn't responsible for laying this upon us?"
"Yes. He's what he says he is, Arthur. The keeper of the unicorns. Like a priest or a holy man who keeps a temple. If you desecrate the temple and incur the gods' wrath, you cannot hold the priest accountable."
Arthur raises his eyebrows, mouth curling up slightly. "Surprisingly well-said. So this is my doing, then."
"I fear so."
"Then it is also mine to undo," he says, jaw set in a stubborn line. He's quiet for a moment, staring out at the town. His voice is rougher when he speaks again. "The King wants to stop distributing food to the people. He says that we must conserve what we have for the army. Apparently, it makes no difference to him whether or not he guards a kingdom of the dead."
Merlin's stomach rolls over, thinking of all the people at the gates, pleading for help, and how it one could not be moved by it. "Could you not ask one of the other kingdoms for help? You have treaties with Mercia, Nemeth… "
Arthur scoffs. "I asked the same question. He said he would rather starve than beg for their help, that as soon as they know we are weak, they will overrun us. He told me I have no pride." He shakes his head. "As if I can think of such a thing when our people go hungry."
"What will you do?"
The prince sighs, then turns his gaze out once again. This time, he's looking past the city, towards the forest. "Anhora said I must make amends. Tomorrow, I will do just that."
For all his faults, Merlin must admit that Arthur is a brave man. Brave unto the point of foolishness.
Merlin paces the length of the chambers once more, shoving a hand through his hair. "Arthur, let me come with you. I can help you," he insists, reaching over to pack for him even as he says it. The man has absolutely no idea how to properly pack anything.
"No. Whatever test Anhora has planned for me, it is my responsibility, and mine alone. You're staying here," Arthur repeats firmly. He's already in his mail and armour, which means he expects a fight. And yet he insists on going alone.
"Do you not think it better to have someone with you who actually understands the workings of magic?" he asks, trying a more practical angle.
"You didn't slay the unicorn. Hand me my sword."
He slams the scabbard down on the table. "Damn it, will you not listen to me? What happened to not thinking of your pride?"
"Merlin!" Arthur thunders, silencing him as surely as a blow. He heaves a sigh, shaking his head, and his voice is lower, gentler when he speaks next. "I know you want to help. I know you know more of magic than I do. But this is my test. This curse is mine to undo. Not yours. Stay here."
"And if you are killed? How will Camelot be served by losing her prince?"
"Then I will have died knowing I did all I could." Arthur takes the scabbard from the table and buckles it about his waist, then grabs his bag. "Consider this the day off you've been begging of me. Do whatever you wish with it. I'm going on my own."
Merlin watches him go, hands clenching in fists at his side. Once the door's shut, he turns and kicks over a chair with a strangled curse, hopping back on one foot. Stubborn ass. Grumbling, he rights the chair and leaves the prince's chambers. By the time he's made the courtyard, Arthur is riding out of the castle gates. Scowling at the shrinking figure, he starts to walk home, then pauses. Of course. He sprints back to the townhouse as fast as he can, running directly to the stables. "Sam, bring me my saddle, quickly now," he orders, and the boy darts off. He turns towards the Hellion's stall, where she's eyeing him up with interest. "Prince Prat has given me the day off whilst he does something idiotically brave on his own. He said I may do whatever I wish with it. Shall we go for a ride, then?" he asks, and she snorts loudly, tossing her particolored mane. "Exactly my thinking."
Llamrei is a fine mount, to be sure, fit for a prince. But no Camelot-bred horse could ever match the Aragonians' mounts for speed and endurance. Catching up to Arthur is no challenge for the Hellion. In fact, Merlin has to rein her in before she can catch up to him entirely. "The idea is that we follow him unnoticed, not run right over him," he reminds her, and she snorts at him indignantly, shifting beneath him.
Anhora must have told Arthur to go somewhere else, for no sooner than the prince enters the forest does he come riding out again, setting out at a good pace. Merlin lets him get a decent lead, keeping him in sight, then knees the Hellion forward, keeping her reined in tight.
"Oh, Maiden have mercy. You must be jesting," he mutters aloud when he sees where Arthur is bound to: the Labyrinth of Gedref. "Anhora, I am beginning to seriously dislike you."
By the time he reaches the entrance to the labyrinth, Arthur has already gone in ahead of him. Merlin leaves the Hellion tethered to a tree beside Llamrei and unlashes his quarterstaff from her saddle, slinging it over one shoulder before heading in.
The labyrinth itself isn't magic, or at least not in any way he can sense. But every wall of green looks precisely the same as the next, and the ground doesn't hold track well. Merlin turns a corner and finds himself facing another branching path, swearing under his breath. If only he had a great ball of thread that he might retrace his steps, like in the Hellene myth he had in his library. He glances around the next corner and unslings his quarterstaff with a scowl. "You!"
Anhora turns to face him, holding a sword up before him.
"You said that Arthur would be tested, yet here you are waiting to trap him."
"This trap is not for him." He lowers the blade until the point touches the earth. "Gehæftan."
Arthur hears the ocean.
Following the steady, rhythmic sound of waves crashing against stone and the smell of salt, he walks around another corner of hedge, abruptly facing an open archway that leads out onto a broad stretch of uneven rock shore. There is Anhora, the old man's ragged white robes ruffling serenely in the salty breeze, one hand grasping the deer-antler staff as always. There is also a table of all things, two goblets sat upon it, two crude seats made from cuts of log, and—
"Merlin?"
"I'm sorry," the younger man says without sounding the least bit apologetic.
"How did you even catch up with me?" he asks, then shakes his head as the answer to his own question comes to him. "That damn horse." He turns to look at Anhora, the old man standing silent off to the side. "Let him go. I gave you my word that I would take whatever test you wished, and I will keep it, but not until he's released."
"I am afraid that is not possible. He is part of your test. Please sit," Anhora says; Arthur glares at him. "If you refuse the test, then you will have failed, and Camelot will be destroyed."
Damn. He walks over and sits down on the other crude seat, setting his sword on the table beside the goblets. "I thought I told you to stay home," he says, raising his eyebrows at his fool manservant.
"You said I had the day off, that I could do whatever I wished. The weather's fair, I decided to take a ride," Merlin replies with a flippant grin.
"Of course you did." He turns his gaze back to Anhora. "Let's get on with it, then."
"There are two goblets before you. One contains a deadly poison, the other a harmless liquid. All the liquid from both goblets must be drunk, but each of you may only drink from a single goblet."
Arthur resists the urge to beat his head against the table. "What kind of ridiculous test is this? What does this even prove?"
"What it proves is for you to decide," Anhora replies mildly. "If you pass the test, the curse upon Camelot shall be broken."
He puts his fingers to his temples. "You know, when he said that I would be tested, I imagined a test of strength or something of the sort. I wasn't expecting a philosophy lesson from a forest hermit," he sighs out.
"More of a logic puzzle, truly."
"Shut up, Merlin."
Merlin chuckles quietly, lacing his fingers together before him, staring at the goblets. "There must be a way around it, a way to determine which one is poison," he murmurs.
"And I will drink it."
Merlin kicks him hard beneath the table. "No, you will not."
"This is my doing—"
"Damn it, Arthur, I don't care if it is your doing or not. You are the prince of Camelot, the future king. It is more important to everyone that you live. I am a servant and a sorcerer besides."
Arthur can't help the soft laugh that slips out of him, staring across the table at the young man. "I never knew you were so keen to die for me."
"Yes, well, I can hardly believe it myself."
"I'm glad you're here, Merlin." And he is. Despite having ordered him to stay behind, Arthur is grateful to have him here, irreverent and rashly noble. He wonders if this is what it's like to have a friend, wishing they were somewhere far away from danger and yet being grateful to share in their company one last time.
Merlin grins and slaps one hand against the tabletop. "I have it. We pour all the liquid into one goblet. Then we can know for certain it is poison and it can all be drunk from a single goblet."
He smiles a little. "You really are smarter than you look, Merlin."
"Was that almost a compliment? Are you feeling well?"
Arthur drops the smile from his face and points to the empty air behind Merlin. "Look out!" The instant the young man turns, he snatches both goblets from the table, pouring the contents into one.
"Seven hells, Arthur, I will drink it!" Merlin protests, sounding furious and anguished in one. He makes as if to reach across the table, but Arthur holds the goblet well out of his reach.
"Yes, well, you know me, Merlin. I never listen to you," he replies. His heart is pounding rabbit-quick in his chest, and there's a rushing noise in his ears like wings buffering around his head, and yet he feels surprisingly calm in it. He gazes at Merlin's familiar, sharp-boned face for another heartbeat, then drains the lot in one go before he can lose his courage for it, hearing Merlin's strangled cry.
It goes down easy enough, whatever it is, and the taste of it is heavy and sharp on his tongue. And familiar. A breathless gasp of a laugh slips out of him just as he falls down into a cool blackness.
When he rouses, he can still hear the ocean pounding against the rocky coast, there's a dull throb in the back of his head where he'd fallen from his seat, and he can hear Merlin quietly muttering a string of insults and swears against him that sounds almost like prayer. Without opening his eyes, he mutters, "If this is the afterlife, I've been cheated."
"Arthur! You're not dead, it wasn't poison, it was—"
"A sleeping draught. Yes, I know. Tincture of opium, a very strong one. Your mother's given it to me before," he mutters, opening one eye to a slit, squinting up at the young man. "Was that the test?"
Merlin nods, kneeling beside him, his eyes suspiciously wet. "Yes. You've passed it. You've proved yourself pure of heart, just like the unicorn. That was what it was meant to prove. Because you were willing to sacrifice yourself."
He hums, closing his eyes for a moment. "The curse is lifted, then?"
"It is. You've done it, Arthur."
Grinning, he squints up at Merlin. "Well, in that case, shall we go home? I'm famished."