I don't know what's wrong with him, I truly don't." Merlin blows out a breath as he traces along the woodgrain of the tabletop, then takes another drink of his ale, making a face at the taste. They should've gone back to the townhouse and had perry instead. "We were almost like friends for a moment, and now he's just…" He flaps a hand in the air, making a dismal noise. "Said that I could go home and think about whether or not I wanted to be his servant. As if poison, monsters, and sorcerers haven't made me think about it enough. All I want is for him to trust me. I swear, I don't know why I bother."

"I don't know why you care so much," Will remarks only partly under his breath, nose-deep in his own tankard.

At his other side, Lancelot snorts as he picks apart a berry tart, and Merlin remembers why they came to the Cockerel again—Aislinn's berry tarts could make a strong man weep. "He's been a proper slave driver on the training field, so I don't believe it's restricted solely to you. My arms are still sore."

Merlin snorts. "No, that's just him." He puts his head down on his folded arms and tries to think if he's done anything worth the prince's anger.

He does wonder what it is that's changed, though. Before the Questing Beast, they had been something like friends, or at least getting close to it. And now…Arthur's almost as much of a wretched bully as he'd been when they were children. Merlin would still like to beat him over the head with something heavy, but he'd also like to know what it is that's wrong first.

Lancelot licks a bit of jam off his fingertips. "So, tell me again, who is this Cedric fellow?"

Merlin hisses through his teeth as he sits up, plucking a tart off the plate Aislinn had left for them. Sweets might not make things alright, but they certainly help make it better. "He just shows up out of nowhere, keeps…" He makes another indistinct derisive sound, waving a hand. "Most sycophantic little wretch I've seen, and I know George. Goes on about how he's only ever wanted to serve in the royal household and the 'great and noble' Pendragons."

Will chokes on his drink for laughing.

"Oh, shut up, you." Merlin kicks his ankle under the table. "He wants my job, I know he does."

"Couldn't fathom why. Who would want to work with the pretty boy anyways?" Will swipes a dribble of ale off his chin, pausing to run his eyes appreciatively up a passing barmaid. "If he was any more an ass, you could hitch him to a plow and take him to field."

Lancelot nods, sliding Merlin's abandoned tankard towards himself. "He has a point there."

"I don't know, either, but I do know it cannot be anything good." Merlin takes out one of his knives and rolls the hilt between his palms, watching light catch on the blade. He would very much like to pitch Cedric headfirst out the gates, but Prince Prat not hearing a word he says, there's not much he can do other than try to speak sense at him. "Oh, seven hells on him anyway, let us speak of something else for a while."

"Is it true that there's treasure under the castle?" Will asks immediately; Merlin and Lancelot both stare at him. He shrugs. "I dice with some of the guardsmen."

"Well, do try not to make it common knowledge, but yes, there is. Gaius believes the tomb belongs to Cornelius Sigan and wants Uther to seal it entirely." Now Will and Lancelot both stare at him, and he remembers that neither of them grew up anywhere near Camelot or its knights. "Sigan was thought to be the most powerful sorcerer ever to live," he explains, reminding him of what Iseldir said about Emrys. "Supposedly his magic helped to build Camelot itself, but the king grew fearful of his power and had him executed. Sigan cursed Camelot, said that one day he would return and have his revenge. He had developed an obsession with the power of life and death, wanting to defeat mortality."

"Do you think he really did it?" Lancelot wonders. "Could he?"

"Might have. Uther thinks it's superstitious nonsense."

"Odd for him. Doesn't His Majesty take everything to do with magic seriously?" Will manages to put a remarkable amount of derision in the address, making a face as though he's tasted something unpleasant.

Merlin turns the knife between his fingers. "Yes, but over the years, Sigan's been made into a nightmare figure. Mothers use him to scare their children into behaving. 'If you steal sweets from the market, Sigan will get you.' That sort of thing. And the man's been dead for centuries, why should Uther care about the words of the dead?"

Lancelot leans in, lowering his voice slightly. "You don't believe it, do you? That it's just superstition?"

He shares a long look with the knight. "No, not entirely," he says at last. The power of life and death isn't something to trifle with lightly, and what it would take to truly defeat mortality…he's not sure he wants to have that kind of knowledge. But a man obsessed would have few issues with paying it, especially with the power he was purported to have. And then there are the dreams. Morgana had come to him the morning after the tomb had been unsealed with a vision that had left her almost as thoroughly unsettled as the Questing Beast. He'd helped her walk through the vision, but the images she saw made no sense to either of them: a flock of ravens descending on Camelot, crystal exploding into a thousand shards, blue eyes turning black, leering faces of gargoyles all around.

He has a great deal of sympathy for the seers of old who had to puzzle through this nonsense constantly.

Aislinn brings another round to them; Merlin fishes a silver coin from his purse and rolls it across the tabletop to her. She catches it with a laugh, vanishing the coin neatly into her bodice with ease of long-practice.

"If that tomb's full of treasure, then it's kept locked up, isn't it?" Will asks abruptly, gazing after Aislinn.

"Absolutely. I saw it myself. Cornelius took his wealth with him to the grave in a most literal fashion," Merlin agrees with a chortle. He'd never seen so much wealth in one place. How a man executed by the king ended up buried beneath Camelot with such valuables with him, he hasn't the slightest idea. Perhaps the old king had given more weight to Sigan's curse and hadn't wanted to keep any of his belongings near. He cocks his head at Will. "Why do you ask?"

"Who's got keys?"

"The King charged Arthur with guarding it, he has the only one," Merlin replies, puzzled. "He never goes anywhere without those keys, though, keeps them in his chambers." Even when Arthur took his bath, he kept them in his sight; at night they were hung directly beside his bed where the slightest jingling could wake him, ever the light sleeper.

"But Prince Prat sleeps like anyone else does. Who gets into his chambers then?"

Merlin stares at him. "I do…as his manservant. Oh, seven hells."

Slightly drunk though he might be, he manages to sprint up to the castle in excellent time, taking the stairs two at a time. Coming around a corner, he almost collides full-on with Gaius, barely managing to fling himself out of the way, tripping on his own feet and landing hard on his backside, almost biting off the tip of his tongue.

"Merlin, there you are," Gaius says in surprise. "I was on my way to speak to you, there's something—"

"I have to speak to Arthur first, he's—"

"It has to do with Sigan's tomb." The physician's hand, surprisingly strong for his age, tightens around Merlin's arm. "Do you remember the stone embedded in it?"

He blinks a few times to clear his head, recalling the blue stone, the size of a man's fist, set in the engraved likeness's chest. He had felt a chill upon seeing it, but he'd brushed it off as standing in a gravesite at all. Places of the dead made his skin itch from time to time. "Yes, yes, I do. It didn't look like any jewel I've seen before," he says absently. "What about it, Gaius? I need to speak to Arthur."

"There was an inscription around it. I translated it last night. 'He who breaks my heart completes my work.' I don't believe it is a gemstone at all. I believe it is Sigan's soul."

Merlin's back prickles again, the fine hair on the nape of his neck standing to attention. "His soul? He did it, then? Found a way to best death?"

"In a way. In order for a soul to truly live, it must have a body to inhabit. Otherwise it is little more than a shade."

He who breaks my heart… "And if the stone is broken free of its setting, then Sigan's soul will be released. He'll be free to possess someone, take their body and…complete his work," he murmurs, remembering the tales Lionel had told him and Leon as children. How Sigan had sworn vengeance against the king of Camelot and all who would hold the throne after him, vowing to bring the glorious castle he had built down upon them in retribution for betraying him. "I have to speak to Arthur now."

There are exactly three people in the castle who have the nerve to enter Arthur's chambers without permission. One is Father, because he didn't need permission. The other two are his idiot manservant…and Morgana.

She strides in and slams the door shut so hard it rattles the hinges, striding up to his table. "You put Merlin in the dungeon? Arthur, have you taken leave of your wits?" she snaps, hands on her hips and high colour in her cheeks.

"Do come in, Morgana. Please, sit down, it's not as though I was having supper," he replies in the driest voice he can muster, tilting his chin up to gaze at her.

"Merlin. Dungeon. Explain."

He sits back in his chair with a scowl. "I don't know what you want me to say, Morgana. He nearly kills me on my horse, he sets loose half the stables, he tries to tell me that Cedric is possessed by a spirit, and then he threatens the man with a knife in my chambers. What should I have done? Let him go on about his day? If anyone has taken leave of their wits today, it would be him."

Morgana's face has gone white, her flush draining away. "He said that? A spirit?" she asks in a small voice, a sharp reversal of her previous tone. "Cornelius Sigan?"

"Yes. Some nonsense about Sigan taking his revenge on Camelot, as though I am some boy to be frightened by children's tales," Arthur scoffs, shaking his head, but then he notices that Morgana is even paler, if possible. "What?"

She shakes her head, taking a step back. "Oh, Arthur…"

A heavy impact shudders through the castle, vibrating in the floor, the walls, the very windows trembling. One of the hangings falls from his wall. "What in seven hells was that?" he mutters, pushing to his feet.

Outside, people begin to scream.

How he is meant to fight an enemy he can hardly see and cannot pursue into the sky, he doesn't know. Whatever these creatures are—the gargoyles, truly?—they are both dreadfully fast and strong, and they have a method of swooping down onto the heads of unsuspecting people, tearing into them with efficient viciousness, and then taking back to the air again before anyone can gather themselves to counter. Even with torches blazing everywhere, they're near impossible to see against the night sky, and people are falling to them like wheat to a scythe. And as they take shelter inside the citadel, the creatures are assailing the walls themselves.

Arthur hastily ushers another handful of fearful commoners into the citadel, a few bleeding knights amongst them, trying to pick out the dark figures against the sky. "Is anyone injured?" he asks, turning to his men.

"Just Leon," Geraint supplies.

He turns on heel to face the temporary ward, and immediately picks out the tall form of his First Knight. Morgana is at his side, holding a wadded cloth against the side of his head. Blood coats the side of his face and neck in a red mask, slicking his hair down. "Alright?" he asks brusquely.

"Fine, sire, fine. It's only a lump, a bit of falling stone, nothing serious," Leon insists, trying yet again to push away Morgana's hands without being forceful.

Despite being far smaller than the knight, however, she's not to be deterred. She keeps a hand against the cloth, holding him still with her other hand on his neck. "He's losing a great deal of blood, and a wound to the head can be fatal even if it doesn't seem to be. He's not going anywhere." Morgana tightens her grip a little.

"I am not—" Leon pushes to his feet sharply, then goes grey beneath his mask of blood; he sits back down again.

Arthur admires his tenacity if nothing else. "Stay here," he orders. "Is there anyone else outside?"

"Guinevere," Morgana says in a fearful voice, raking her gaze around the ward. "She must have gone to get water from the well…"

Behind him, Lancelot makes a ragged sound in his throat; Arthur turns just in time to see him go bolting for the doors. Swearing aloud, he draws his sword and sprints after him, ordering Geraint to hold the doors. "Lancelot! Guinevere! Inside, quickly, inside!" he shouts as they come running back towards him.

"Arthur, down!"

A firm body collides with his just as white-hot pain etches a line up his back, and he nearly breaks his nose against the cobblestones, scarce able to get his hands down in time to absorb the impact. A gargoyle screeches as it swoops over their heads, winging away into the dark. Arthur turns his head to see Merlin's drawn white face beside his, smudged with grey dust. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Saving you, as usual," the young man snipes back. "Get up, we need to get back inside!"

Scrambling to their feet, they bolt back for the citadel, close on the heels of Lancelot and Gwen. Every step makes his back hurt, and he can feel a warm wetness seeping through his gambeson and tunic. Once back inside the hall, Merlin all but drags him over to one of the empty cots and pushes him onto it. Quick as anything, he undoes the buckles of Arthur's armour and takes it off; the metal plates are near buckled in places, deeply scratched. "Sit forward, arms up," Merlin barks, and he obeys without thinking, feeling the weight of his mail come up and off.

"If only you were this efficient all the time," he mutters as the young man unlaces his gambeson and pulls it off along with his tunic, which sticks wetly to his skin. Not a good sign.

"All the trouble I went through to heal your shoulder, I would greatly appreciate if you could keep it intact for at least a few weeks before getting injured again," Merlin scolds as he swipes the blood off Arthur's skin, quickly pressing a compress over the deep scratch that's running halfway up his back. The gargoyle that had snatched at him wasn't lucky enough to land a serious blow, but its stone claws are indeed sharp enough to cut through mail. He steps around to stand in front of the prince, looping a length of bandage around Arthur's shoulder to keep the compress in place. "How many times will it take?" he asks in a low voice, the good natured humour gone from his voice.

"Will what take?" Arthur grumbles, fighting a wince as the bandage is tightened.

"For you to listen to me," the younger man replies. "Don't fight the Black Knight. Don't kill the unicorn. Don't go after the Questing Beast alone. Don't listen to Cedric."

He sighs heavily, picking up his tunic, and frowns at the sodden fabric. He'll go without it; uncomfortable but only temporary. "Yes, well, hold off on the 'I told you so' until later, if you wouldn't mind." Studying his torn mail, he debates whether or not it'd be worth putting back on, then decides it'd be better than nothing and shrugs his gambeson back on, doing the ties up roughly. It sends an ache up his back, and he wonders if it'll be another scar. He's acquiring quite the collection. "How did you get out of the dungeons anyways?" he asks as his manservant helps him back into his mail. It gapes a little at the shoulder, but it doesn't hinder movement, at least.

Merlin gives him a flat, unimpressed look.

"Ah. Right. Well, then, what do we do now?" Knowing Merlin had been right is unpleasant to say the least, considering all he'd done, but he is listening now. They have to do something, and do it quickly before any more people die.

"Sigan's—" Merlin snaps his mouth shut and utters a few colourful words, taking a step back.

It doesn't take long to figure out why.

Father comes striding over to him. "Arthur?" he says, eyes on the blood-soaked tunic beside him, the ruined armour.

"It's nothing, just a scratch," he reassures.

"Have we driven the creatures out?"

He shakes his head. "No, sire. They have control of the lower town, and the market's been all but destroyed."

"And how many dead?"

"Too many to number."

Father's mouth tightens, and Arthur feels all of ten years old again. "I'm sealing the citadel," he declares.

What? He hears Merlin's indrawn hiss of breath, though thankfully Father doesn't. "You can't!" Arthur protests, lurching to his feet. "There are people still out there coming for shelter!"

"I have no choice!" the King thunders. "I have to protect those who have a chance. If I don't, we will all fall. Where are you going?" he demands as Arthur snatches his sword up and strides towards the doors.

There's a handful of knights standing guard at the door. With Leon injured, Lancelot is in his place, giving orders to the others. "There are people trapped on the drawbridge," he says, speaking to both his father and his men. "I am not leaving them out there to be slaughtered."

A hand grabs at his arm, trying to halt him. "I forbid you."

"It is my duty to Camelot!" he replies sharply, snatching his arm away. He turns to his knights, sees the grim determination in their faces, and nods. "On me. To the drawbridge, forward!"

The courtyards are frightfully empty, most of the people having either fled or taken shelter, but for the bodies of the slain. Distant cries and screams can be heard from further out in the city, the shrill shrieking of gargoyles cutting through the darkness. The air's thick with that smell, blood and gore and human fear; it's not something he ever wanted to be able to smell in his home. As they head forward, it only gets worse, and Arthur dreads what he'll see even before they make the drawbridge.

It's worse than what he thought. "Check for survivors," he hears himself say in a hollow voice, sword lowering to his side.

"Arthur," Merlin says softly, and he twitches at the sound, turning to look at his manservant, realising for the first time that the idiot isn't wearing anything that might even serve as armour, nor is he armed with anything other than that damn quarterstaff of his and probably some hidden knife somewhere. As though that will do anything against one of those beasts. "We have to stop Sigan. He's the one controlling them."

"And Cedric?" The man might be a thief and a grave-robber, but Arthur doesn't want to kill him right off.

"Cedric died the moment Sigan's soul was released," Merlin replies, shaking his head. "Two souls aren't meant to exist in one body, and Sigan is very powerful."

Arthur lowers his voice further, almost a whisper. "Is his…ability greater than yours?"

"Yes, but—"

Something rushes through the air overhead, and a gargoyle lands in the midst of them, shrieking. Arthur shoves Merlin behind him, raising his sword before him. "On me! Form up!" Lunging forward, he slashes at the creature, aiming for its throat. He lands the blow…and immediately wishes he hadn't. Though the gargoyles are animate, they are still indeed formed of stone. The impact reverberates agonizingly up his arms, sending fire lacing through his injured shoulder, and he nearly drops his sword, hands and wrists stinging like seven hells. "Retreat! Back to the square!" he shouts.

Another dives at them with a roar, coming between the two of them and the others. Just like that, they're cut off.

"Arthur! Merlin!" Lancelot shouts.

"Retreat! Back inside, that's an order! Go!"

As the knights retreat towards the citadel, Merlin pivots on heel and points his quarterstaff towards the other gargoyle like he's holding a crossbow. "Ástryce!" he hisses out; his eyes flare into gold, like sunlight catching on still water. The creature bursts apart into a shower of granite mid-lunge.

The other one shrieks, claws flashing towards him. Arthur flings himself to the ground to avoid them, hears Merlin's voice again, and feels chips of stone rain over his head and back. When he lifts his head, there's only a scattering of rubble. He peers up at the young man in amazement. "Well done," he says dumbly, a strange flutter in his chest.

Merlin holds an arm out to help him up. "We have to stop Sigan. He'll not stop this until everyone is dead, and he'll bring Camelot down on our ears if he must," he says intently, eyes blue once more. "And I have an idea."

"I'm listening."

"Sigan!" Merlin shouts, walking forward into the empty square. "Show yourself, Sigan!" A gargoyle dives towards him, claws outstretched, and he points his quarterstaff up at it, magic surging up hot against his skin. "Ástryce!"

Bits of rubble rain down as it bursts apart mid-air, and he covers his head with both arms to protect himself from it, coughing at the dust.

"Who would have guessed it. You, a sorcerer," Sigan drawls as he stalks forward, dressed in finery that must surely be of his own conjuring, nothing that Cedric could own. Glossy black feathers frame him in fluttering motion, sweeping to the ground. He inhales deeply through his nose as if catching some wonderous scent. "And a powerful one at that." His eyes—Cedric's—spill from blue into black. Magic pours off of him as heat from an oven, but it isn't hot. It's cold, the kind of deep, penetrating cold that scalds the flesh as surely as flame, snaking across the square to curl around him.

Merlin gasps at the frigid touch, shaking his head as if to physically dispel the cold prickle of Sigan's magic against his skin. His power pushes back against it, and though he may not be as powerful as the other sorcerer, he can keep it away from himself. "I shan't let you hurt anyone else," he says, forcing his voice steady. "Camelot is no longer yours, Sigan. Your time is done here."

"Is that so? Who will stop me, child? You?"

He lifts his chin. "I will."

Sigan's mouth curls up, and he shakes his head. "Such loyalty. And for what? The young prince? He does not deserve it. He treats you like a slave. Cast you aside without a moment's thought," he says, such empathy in his voice.

"That doesn't matter," Merlin replies with another stubborn shake of his head.

"But it must hurt, does it not, to be overlooked, to be so put upon, yet all the while you hold real power."

"That's how it has to be."

"Does it? You're young, Merlin. Look inside yourself. You have yet to discover your true power. I can help you," the sorcerer coaxes gently, taking a half-step closer. He lifts one hand, extending it palm-up. Inviting. "Think, Merlin. To have the world appreciate your greatness. To have Arthur know you for what you are. Together we can rule over this land. Arthur will tremble at your voice, he will kneel at your feet."

"If you think I want that, then you don't know what lies within me at all. And you…you don't know what true power is. I have something you don't."

The other man lifts his eyebrows, smiling in the way of an adult indulging a small, ignorant child. "Oh? What is that, then?"

Merlin grins. "Friends."

Sigan's brows draw together, and he opens his mouth to speak…but all that emerges is a strangled gasp, eyes going wide and frantic, staring down at himself. His hands lift to curl around the sword blade protruding from the centre of his chest, mouth working noiselessly. Arthur yanks the sword free and takes a step back, battle-tense as he stares at the sorcerer. Weaving slightly on his feet, Sigan tilts his head back, mouth falling open, and he screams.

The sound almost has weight to it, scraping against the air itself, and only by force of will does Arthur not drop his blade to cover his ears. Merlin does cover his ears, face screwed up in discomfort. All the fine hairs on his body stand to attention at once, the skin of his back trying to crawl right off; even his teeth ache from it. The hideous sound seems to go on forever; as it ends, Sigan collapses to the ground in the boneless, limp way of a dead man, but Arthur doesn't lower his sword just yet. "Is he dead? Truly this time?" he asks cautiously.

"I believe so." Merlin steps closer, Arthur tensing nervously, and he reaches down to touch his fingertips against Sigan's chest. "Yes, he's dead. Look." He points upwards.

Arthur looks up and sees that the gargoyles have returned to their perches, going still and inanimate once again. Cold stone, nothing more. "How did you know that would work?" he asks, looking down at his sword. There's no blood, strangely enough.

Merlin straightens up, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "I told you that it has a magic of its own, did I not? The power of life and death, just like the wraith. Sigan manipulated it to his own ends to survive his first death, so only a weapon forged in that same power could kill him true the second time. Well done, Arthur." He offers a small, crooked smile. "Thank you for trusting me."

Arthur slides the blade home in its scabbard. "Yes, well, I am beginning to understand that in all your blathering, Merlin, you do, on occasion, say something worthwhile." He glances around the ruined courtyard, then turns his gaze towards the citadel and sighs deeply. Reparations is going to be a delightful process, he's certain. Speaking of repairs, he's certainly begun bleeding through the bandages and feels it oozing down his back. "Come on. We need to go in and tell my father it's safe."

"So…does this mean I have my job back?" Merlin asks with a little smile as they start picking their way across the ruined courtyard towards the citadel. The sudden lack of clamour from the gargoyles is almost disconcerting.

"Perhaps. I've not forgotten your lazy insolence. Or that you called me a clotpole," he says flatly, throwing a glance at the younger man. "However, there was some truth to your accusations." A thought comes to him, and he grins and claps a hand to Merlin's shoulder. "Not to mention, I now need someone to repair my armour."

Merlin's smile vanishes.

By the time Merlin is given leave to go home, dawn is come and gone and the sun has climbed above the treeline.

Once he'd redressed Arthur's shoulder properly, the prince had ordered him to go and help wherever he could whilst he and his knights restored a measure of order to the city. With the citadel unsealed, more wounded had come in, and he had mostly been a runner for Mother and Gaius, fetching more herbs from the physicians' chambers. Sprinting up and down the stairs, however, he'd slid on what he hoped was just water and bruised himself in some interesting ways. It hadn't surprised him a bit to see Morgana helping tend the injured, but he'd gotten a pleased laugh when he found Will sitting on the floor in some unobtrusive corner with a handful of small children, entertaining them with a far more embellished and fantastical telling of the battle of Ealdor.

"Oh, there you are! Where have you been?" Clory exclaims, taking Merlin by the shoulders and giving him a little shake when he comes limping into the townhouse, then crushes him in a firm embrace. He chortles, resting his chin atop her greying head. "We've been worried for you. Your brother's already gone to his chambers, his head's aching him something fierce. Lady Hunith sent something along with him for the pain."

"He'll need to take it when he wakes, and only after he's eaten," Merlin says automatically, knowing that she'd very well sit on Leon and spoon-feed him if she must. He rubs a hand back through his hair and grimaces as the feel of stone dust and sweat and probably a bit of blood too. He needs a bath. Maybe after a nap. "If nobody is hurt, I believe I need to make a visit to my bed as well. Will you wake me in a few hours?"

"Of course. You go rest, dear boy." She gives his cheek an affectionate pat, then bustles off.

He puts one foot on the bottom stair when Elfgifa darts over to grab his hand. "Yes, little one? I'm quite weary," he says with gentle patience.

"Of course, my lord, but…do you not want to look at your new books?" she asks, fair brows knitted together. "You always look at your new books before you go to bed."

Merlin blinks. "New books?"

She tugs on his hand. He lets himself be guided away from the stairs to the library, the girl pushing the door open for him, and inside, she points to an inelegant stack of books and a tumble of scrolls bound with faded, frayed ribbons on his desk. Baffled, he releases Elfgifa's hand and crosses to the desk, picking up the topmost book. It's old, he can tell by the dust that's accumulated on most of them and the cracking, crumbling leather bindings; when he opens it, gingerly, the first page is stamped with a familiar seal, the ink faded but still recognisable: a raven. Sigan. "Where did you get these?" he asks, staring at the girl.

"Prince Arthur, my lord," she replies, not yet comfortable enough to address him by name like Clory and the others. "He came here when Mistress Clory was looking after Sir Leon, and he took me and Beryl and Sam up to the castle into this big dusty room, and we helped him carry all of it back here."

"He did?" Merlin looks down at the books and scrolls, suddenly feeling far less tired and a great deal warmer. Sigan wasn't only the most powerful sorcerer of his time, he was an innovator. He had created new things, spells and potions, and of course, he sealed it all away with him in his tomb to keep any of his rivals from stealing them. Which means there are entirely undiscovered magics sitting on his desk, untouched for centuries. "Thank you, Elfgifa. You may go," he murmurs. Once she darts off, he gazes at the haphazard pile of books and scrolls on his desk, ancient yet wholly new, smiling despite his aching weariness.

He closes the book in his hands and hugs it to his chest, then makes his way up to his chambers with it.

He's surprisingly relieved to return to his duties the next day. The King is striving to regain a degree of normalcy after Sigan's assault, though his mood is most assuredly black after yet another assault of magic on his kingdom. Limping a little on the stairs up to Arthur's chambers, Merlin tries to imagine what shades of colour Uther would turn if he knew a sorcerer also saved his kingdom and chuckles gleefully to himself.

"Well, it certainly is good to see you in a more charitable mood today," Arthur drawls as he walks in; he's sitting at his desk, filling out the last of what looks to be an impressive stack of parchments, if the well-chewed end of his quill is anything to go by. "I need my mail and gambeson both repaired in time for training this afternoon, and I have a knighting ceremony first thing tomorrow morning, so my armour had best be polished as well, along with my boots. I want to be able to see my reflection, understand?" he says without looking up from his writing.

"Yes, of course, sire." He gathers up the prince's armour, setting them in a sturdy-woven basket, easier to cart down the stairs; all the while, he casts furtive glances in Arthur's direction, wondering if the other man will say anything about his impromptu gift. "Thank you, Arthur," he says at last, unable to hold his tongue.

The prince arches one eyebrow at him. "For what, letting you polish my armour?" he asks dryly. "It isn't anything to be excited about. They are your normal duties, in case you've forgotten."

"For the books," he clarifies, somewhat baffled. "The books you sent to the townhouse. You abducted half our household to help you deliver them."

Arthur sets down his quill and laces his fingers together in front of him, elbows on his desktop. "Can't say I know what you're talking about, Merlin. My father instructed me to be rid of Sigan's works, which is exactly what I did," he says equably. He pushes to his feet and shrugs his jacket back on, gathering up the stack of parchments; when he notices Merlin still standing there gazing at him curiously, Arthur casts a pointed glance towards the basket still in his arms. "Armour, Merlin. Armour. I need it ready sometime before supper, if you would."

"Of course, sire." He pauses, debating, then bends and silently sets down the basket full of armour. The prince's back is turned to him as he collects pages from his desk, which is the only reason that Merlin's able to dart over and fling both arms around Arthur, giving him a brief, hard hug. "Thank you anyways. Clotpole," he chuckles, then drops his arms, snatches up the basket, and bolts before Arthur has the chance to throw something at him or worse.

Arthur, however, remains still at his desk, his breath trembling slightly, hands gripped so hard around the parchment that he's near tearing it. His entire back feels as though it's burning where Merlin had pressed against him, even through his jacket and tunic, and his heart is pounding like he's just come off a full training bout. Forcing his grip to slacken, he smooths the creases out of the pages, breathing deeply. There it is again, that strange little flutter in his chest, the sensation of something being missing. He had hoped it would dissipate on its own with some time, but it doesn't seem to be going anywhere at all.

He's not certain if that's a good thing or not.