"The body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the face of a bear." Merlin snorts loudly through his nose, leaning back against a tree with arms folded across his chest. "I'm impressed, Arthur, truly. I now understand completely why I have to write your speeches ahead of time."

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur tugs the tunic the rest of the way on, not quite as fine as he's used to but still comfortable. They smell different, too, like loam and fermented berries. "What is that smell? Whose clothes are these?" It's not an…entirely unpleasant scent.

Merlin's brow furrows. "Mine. I washed them especially."

Oh. He busies himself with tying the blue cloak around his shoulders, hoping the folds of the hood hide the flush he can feel crawling up his neck.

"You're truly determined to do this?"

"I am."

The young man sighs and runs a hand back through his hair, ruffling it into disarray. "Very well, then. You'll stay with us at our townhouse," he declares; Arthur raises his eyebrows, but Merlin keeps talking without letting him answer. "We're near enough to the pitch that you can get there without being seen by anyone, and even if you are spotted, nobody will be suspicious of an armoured knight leaving our home. And I…I will have to find someone that can pass as a knight, to appear in your stead. Naturally. We'll have to tell Leon, of course. Come along." Without waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking back towards the city.

Arthur stares after him in disbelief, then draws up the hood of the cloak and follows after his manservant, knowing it's meant to be the other way around.

He's only been to the de Galis household once, when Sir Lionel told him about the wraith. It'd been late, and he'd been in a temper, so he hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings. It's a lovely home, well-kept and tasteful; the furnishings are older, years showing in the threadbare spots in the rugs and the small nicks and scratches on the furniture, but it's all lovingly tended, polished and swept and cleaned. A girl of perhaps ten winters comes to greet them at the door and take Arthur's cloak, giving him frank, curious eyes.

"Elfgifa, tell Clory to ready the guest chambers, please," Merlin instructs, and the girl darts off. Once she's out of earshot, he turns to face Arthur, halting him in the entryway. His expression is set in uncharacteristically stern lines, jaw set and chin lifted. "Now, I know it's difficult for you to act like a courteous human being at times, Arthur, but I do hope you understand that you are a guest in our house, and these are not your servants. I'll not have you treating them unkindly." His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.

"Of course," Arthur replies, not sure if he ought to be offended; Merlin eyes him for another long, calculating moment before turning away. "I'm surprised you have such young servants."

"Clory's family has worked for ours for generations," Merlin says by way of explanation. "The younger ones, they spend a few years learning the finer points of keeping a household here in the city."

"Ah."

"Now, you'll have to stay inside between the tourney matches, but the garden is walled if you have must go out—"

The door swings open, and they both turn as Leon walks in, still in his armour, with a helmet tucked under his arm. He stops in place, looking between them in bafflement. "Arthur? What are you doing here? I thought you had left for the northern plains. And why are you wearing Merlin's clothes?" he asks, raking his gaze up and down. His mouth opens as if to ask something else, but then he stops and closes his eyes with a deep sigh. "Oh, Maiden have mercy, what is it now?"

Once Leon is out of his armour and into fresh attire, the three of them take a light lunch in the hall, served by a steely-haired woman who can only be Clory, their mistress of the household. Arthur explains his plan, kicking Merlin under the table whenever his manservant snickers. By the end of it, Leon has his head buried in his arms on the table; when he sits up again, he takes his goblet and pours himself a fresh measure of wine. "You truly wish to do this?"

"Yes. You heard Sir Geraint. He withdrew when he could have easily unhorsed me because I'm the prince. How am I meant to prove myself if my opponents aren't giving me their full measure? Have you ever held back when we sparred?" Arthur demands, looking at his manservant. They now have regular matches in the meadow outside the city, and it's the only consistent challenge he has, since neither of them have ever had a clear victory.

"Short of breaking a bone or purposefully crippling you, no." Merlin arches his eyebrows with a smile, quite amused. "In case it has escaped your notice in my time as your servant, Arthur, I do not actually care that you're a prince. You are a prat first and a royal second."

Rolling his eyes, he turns instead to his First Knight. "And you? The same?"

Leon raises his glass in a toast, smirking. "If I had tilted against you, you'd still be cleaning sand out the back of your armour."

"Good to know," he snorts, at least somewhat assuaged. "So now, all that's left to do is to find someone who can stand before the people at the tourney and ensure they have a convincing enough title to enter without suspicion. Can you manage to do this yourself?"

Merlin gives him a flat look. "You were unaware Lancelot wasn't a noble until I told you. I believe I can manage."

"Oh. Right." He had forgotten about that. "Well, make haste on it, the tourney starts tomorrow."

Though he would never admit it in so many words, he's actually impressed. The scruffy peasant Merlin had found can act the part well enough, and with a bath he even looks partway decent. With Leon's guidance on how to properly behave, they might actually manage to succeed. "Sir William of Deira," Arthur mutters to himself as he walks through the small walled garden which lies behind the townhouse. He's not used to having his freedom curtailed, save for those handful of instances when he managed to sufficiently anger Father, but at least he can still come stand outdoors.

"Rolls off the tongue rather pleasantly, doesn't it?"

He very nearly startles at the sound of Merlin's voice, turning on heel; a breath leaves him in a sharp exhale when he catches sight of the young man out of his usual borderline peasant attire into soft, oversized sleepwear, the neckline of his shirt almost falling off one shoulder. Barefoot, too, a sight he's never seen before. Somehow it makes him seem younger, more vulnerable. "How did you know I was out here?"

Merlin walks over to his side and points upward at one of the upper windows. "My chambers."

"Ah. Is this the Lady Evaine's?" Arthur asks, gesturing to the surrounding garden. It isn't near as expansive as the one she keeps in Silverpine, but it has the same militant tending.

"Of course. Beryl keeps it between her visits. I help sometimes, collect some for Mother and Gaius. Sit vigil." He reaches down to brush his fingers over the tops of the nearest plants, plucking a leaf from one of the herbs to inhale its fragrance.

"Vigil? For what?"

The young man gives a little scoff. "Do you think I can observe the festivals of the Old Religion here? Yule? Samhain? Lughnasadh?" he asks. "I cannot always go venturing out to the darkling wood, either, so I do what I can here." He nods towards a small tree in the corner of the garden, a small patch of clear space beneath its branches. It seems quite an ideal place for one to keep vigil.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, surprising himself. Those days are meant for merriment, gaiety, not for sitting quiet vigil in a patch of garden. He had never given much thought to the idea that Merlin would celebrate the festivals in a different manner, but now he remembers their visit to Silverpine, the perry brandy Merlin had poured over the roots of the yew tree, tribute to the Old Ones. Surely, on his own, he would celebrate them with magic. But here in Camelot, he couldn't. It sounds a terrible kind of confinement.

Merlin gives him a surprisingly soft look, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "No matter. You should get some rest. The tourney starts tomorrow, you'll need your strength."

"Yes, right. Goodnight, Merlin."

"Goodnight."

"Well, nobody can ever say Geraint allowed you to win this year," Leon chuckles as they make their way back to the townhouse, Arthur once more in his disguise, hood raised to hide his face. "I've never seen a man thrown so far from the saddle in a tilt. Did you see his face when he got up? Had the seven hells knocked into him."

It had been rather funny to see Geraint's squire having to come fetch the knight off the pitch, weaving a little when he walked. "The crowds certainly adore their Sir William, don't they?" Arthur muses wryly. He considers it a miracle that William had managed to stay on his horse at all, but he can scarce believe how many ladies he's seen fluttering their lashes at him.

"Indeed. Speaking of, I am going to escort Sir William to the Cockerel and ensure he doesn't say anything once he gets ale into him. Tell Merlin not to expect me until late, yes?" Leon says, clapping him on the shoulder and heading off down the street.

Merlin. His useless wretch of a manservant who couldn't even be bothered to show up at the damned tourney.

Again, little Elfgifa is first to meet him when he enters the townhouse, quickly darting over to stand expectantly at his side; dress her in livery, she'd make a passable footman. "Where's Merlin?" he asks, handing her his cloak.

"Library, my lord," she answers, pointing him in the proper direction.

The de Galis library isn't like the royal archives, which are musty and cobwebbed, layers of dust on near every surface to be found. The wood surfaces are all polished, not a strand of spiderweb to be found anywhere, and it's surprisingly well-lit considering the flammable contents of the room. There's a spacious desk, a table with a few stools tucked neatly underneath it, and a curious heap of cushions strewn on the floor in front of the hearth, currently unlit.

"Would you care for something to read, Arthur?" Merlin's voice says, and he startles at it, looking around; his dark head appears from behind a stack of books on the desk, smiling.

"Have you a life of Alexander?" he fumbles out, his mind going wholly empty.

"Three, actually. Give me just a moment, I'll find one for you."

Arthur crosses to the desk, eyeing up the lamp set amidst the books. Geoffrey would have kittens to see it. "Does that seem entirely wise to you?" he asks, nodding towards it.

Merlin glances at the lamp and grins. Holding up one hand, he rubs his fingertips together, and golden sparks jump from them as from flint and steel. "Quite," he replies. "How went the tourney?"

The tourney, right. "If you had been there, perhaps you would know."

That earns him a sideways glance and a decidedly sly grin. "Yes, well, you see, Prince Arthur is currently in the northern plains hunting a beast conjured by sorcery, which means until he returns, my days are my own."

"How do you still have a tongue with that kind of insolence?" he muses, what has now become a private jest between the two of them. He gestures to the desktop. "Well, what here is important enough to keep you from the tourney?" Arthur recognises some of Sigan's ancient books amidst the clutter, the scrolls sealed with the raven crest.

"I've finished making fair-copies, and now I've started to translate Sigan's work into Alban. Most of them are written in different languages. I prefer to do it myself, as you can see." He holds up ink-smudged hands with a chuckle, then gestures towards the table. "Sit down if you'd prefer, Arthur, you needn't stand."

Arthur retrieves one of the stools from beneath the table and sets it beside the desk. Indeed, of the three books that Merlin has open on the desktop, one is a lexicon, though he doesn't recognise the other language. "You make the fair-copies and translate them yourself? And you do this for all of them?" he asks, eyeing up the stacked books.

"Mm. Slow work, sure, but I find it…relaxing. The translating is what takes longest, anyways. I have a replication spell to make the fair-copies." He moves to the next page and begins to sketch out an illustration of some sort. It looks like a kind of star chart to Arthur, but he has no idea what the various lines and symbols drawn across the constellations could mean.

He watches with quiet fascination as Merlin spends a moment studying the chart and consulting the lexicon, then replicates the sweeping lines, managing to do it perfectly in single, clean strokes of the quill. Arthur's gaze slides away from the parchment, coming to rest on Merlin's wrists, the tendons on the back of his strong hands, the way the sharp bones move beneath surprisingly fair skin. Blood beats hard in his ears, a dull rushing sound in time with his heart. He hastily leans away and stands up. "A life of Alexander?" he asks, proud his voice comes out steady.

"Ah, right." Merlin sets down the quill and turns to survey the shelves a moment, then plucks a slim book from one of them. "This is the best one." He holds it out, but when Arthur reaches for it, he withdraws. "And seeing as how it means so much to you, O gracious one, I will be at the tourney tomorrow." He sets the book in Arthur's hand.

"And you have my deepest thanks for your patronage, Merlin," Arthur drawls back. He snatches the book from his hand, tucks it under one arm, and leaves the library, beating a hasty retreat to his guest chambers. Once there, however, he sets the book on the bedside table; he wouldn't be able to read it if he tried. He throws himself down on the bed, takes a pillow, and presses it over his face, wondering how hard he would have to press in order to smother himself.

This is, quite possibly, the worst idea that he's ever had.

At least there's only one day left in the tourney. Surely he'll be able to survive that long.

True enough, Leon doesn't return to the house that night, though according to Merlin, it's no cause for worry. "If they've gone to the Cockerel and drunk themselves sodden, like as not he'll stay the night. There's lodgings there as well, and the proprietor's a friend of mine," he explains as they take supper in the hall. "So, tell me of the tourney. Was anyone injured in any of the matches? Who's advancing to the semifinals tomorrow?"

"I am, for one," Arthur replies with a well-earned bit of pride. "So is your brother. Alynor, Bors, and Erec. Lancelot as well. You know, I saw him wearing a lady's favour today."

"That's surprising to you?" Merlin sounds more surprised by his reaction to it than the news itself.

"Somewhat. Half the ladies at court would like him to wear their favour, but he's always rebuffed them, oddly enough." He's always thought that the knights were supposed to pursue the ladies, not the other way around, but amusingly, Lancelot has gained a reputation for being a white hart. "I wonder which one finally managed to bring him to bay."

The younger man snorts. "None of them have."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks, puzzled. "One of them must have or he wouldn't be wearing their favour."

Merlin cocks his head as though Arthur is somehow being difficult a-purpose. "He's hardly going to wear another woman's favour when he's courting Gwen, though, is he? Like as not it was hers, not a courtier's."

Arthur's goblet arrests halfway to his mouth. "He's what? Since when?"

"Courting Gwen. Has been for the past three months." His eyes widen slightly in dawning comprehension. "Did…did you not know?" When Arthur only gapes in response, he bursts out in laughter, leaning back in his chair for mirth. "Well done keeping abreast of things, clotpole!" he guffaws.

"It isn't a laughing matter, Merlin!"

"And why not?"

As long as the idiot has lived in Camelot, one would think he's learnt something by now. "A knight cannot court a peasant, it's improper. If anyone were to bring it before my father, Lancelot might well be stripped of his knighthood."

Humour evaporated, Merlin gives him unfriendly eyes. "What is so very improper about a man courting the woman he cares for? Simply because she is a commoner, does that makes her unworthy of being loved? Or only of being loved by a noble? What is it? Afraid to dirty your illustrious bloodlines?" he sneers, spitting the words as if they leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

"That isn't what I meant, and you damn well know it," Arthur snaps back.

"Oh, do I? What did you mean, then? Tell me why it is improper, other than the fact that the nobility looks down on those of low birth as if we are somehow lesser than they are and we are not all people."

He opens his mouth to argue and falters. To say that it was simply the way things were done sounds rather pitifully like an excuse.

At his silence, Merlin continues on, "Perhaps you have forgotten, but Lancelot is not actually of noble birth. Neither am I, for that matter. Does that make him worth less than the other knights to you?"

That stings his pride, to imply that he would ever hesitate for one of his own men. "Of course, it doesn't!"

"And what of me? Am I worth less to you than those sycophantic courtiers you call your friends?"

"Come now, you aren't like—" Arthur sketches a gesture in the air. How had this conversation gone so very wrong?

Merlin's eyes narrow, sharp with anger. "Yes, I am. I may have been raised by a lord's family, but I am no more a noble than Guinevere. I am a lowborn bastard born in a village so small it has been forgotten by its own king," he reminds in a cold voice. "I had thought perhaps you had learnt something about humility and honesty, but it seems that I am sorely mistaken." He pushes back from the table sharply, rising to his feet. "I've quite lost my appetite. Goodnight, your majesty." With that, he strides out of the hall, leaving Arthur staring after him open-mouthed.

Striding out of the hall, intent on shutting himself in his chambers, Merlin nearly collides with Leon as his brother comes near sprinting into the house. "What are you doing?" he exclaims, looking in disgust at the mud he's tracked into the house.

Leon grips his shoulders. "Where is Arthur?"

"In the dining hall, why?" Merlin snaps back. He doesn't even want to think about that stupid, condescending, classist prat. Anger simmers away in his chest and stomach, mingling with an unexpected, stinging hurt he doesn't care to think too deeply on at the moment.

"Because the King has just told me that there is an assassin in Camelot. Searching for Arthur."

He exhales heavily, shoulders slumping, a neat dose of frustration seeping in. "Maiden's mercy, not again. Is it something to worry on?"

Leon blows out a breath, releasing his shoulders. "Yes. Whoever it is, they've already killed a guard. Broke half the bones in his neck and scarce left a mark. They know exactly what they're doing. Now, nobody knows that he is here with us, but still, we need to—"

Merlin holds up a hand to forestall him. "Tell him yourself. I am going to bed. If it's still an issue tomorrow, let me know." Brushing past Leon's startled expression, he makes his way upstairs towards his chambers; if there is an assassin here to kill Arthur, the mood he's in at the moment, he almost wants to help them. Maybe he'll leave the girth strap on his saddle loose tomorrow, let him unseat himself and enjoy a faceful of sand. See how proud Sir William is then.

Surely the cheers of the crowd can be heard all the way in Ealdor when Arthur unhorses Sir Bors, but Merlin, having placed himself firmly amidst the crowds instead of on the field with the other squires and servants, is scarce impressed.

"You don't seem much impressed by Sir William," Lancelot remarks, sitting on his left with Guinevere. He had been unseated by Alynor in the semifinal, watching the rest of the tourney from the crowds until it ends. There's a kerchief tied around his wrist, pale blue and embroidered with chains of small white flowers around the edges; the favour that Guinevere had given him. The sight of it both amuses and irritates Merlin, recalling the previous night's conversation.

Folding his arms with a scowl, he replies, "I think he's a supercilious pig." He turns his gaze away from the pitch towards the knights' tents, watching Arthur duck into the tent. A moment later, William emerges to a roar of cheering, grinning and waving. Merlin smiles a little despite himself; no doubt the man is having the greatest week of his entire life. With Bors defeated, there's only one match left: Arthur and Sir Alynor. He rakes his gaze across the tents...and frowns.

Who is that? Alynor has no squire, which means there is no reason for anyone to be in his tent. A sinking sensation develops in the pit of his stomach, and the nape of his neck prickles. Oh no. "Excuse me," he says, getting to his feet, shuffling pass them and hastening down the stairs. Forcing his way through the crowds to the edge of the pit, he reaches the edge of the pitch, venturing into the brightly-coloured tents. Blood pounds in his ears as he circles around the side of the tent and finds the edge of the heavy canvas, pulling it back just enough that he can see a man clad in armour stride out. Just enough to see the crumpled, misshapen heap of cloth on the floor, a limp hand protruding out from beneath the edges.

Maiden have mercy. Merlin leaps back from the tent and takes off back towards the pitch. Not quickly enough. Just as he gains the edge of the course, he sees the imposter—the assassin, it must be, who else could it be?—shatter his lance against Arthur. For a split second, he hopes that he is wrong, that this isn't what he thinks, but then he sees Arthur slump over the neck of his horse, one hand pressed against his side where the lance had struck.

As Arthur circles back around, Merlin reaches up to grasp the reins, helping him down from the saddle and near dragging him back into the tent.

"I have to be back on the course in five minutes," Arthur gasps out, taking off his helmet and dropping it unceremoniously to the grass underfoot. He winces sharply when he falls into his seat; there's blood trickling through the rings of his mail.

"No, you are not. Arthur, that isn't Sir Alynor. That man has been sent here to kill you, you cannot tilt against him again," Merlin insists, prying the other man's hand from the wound so he can peer at the damage. There's a neat puncture in the mail, right in the vulnerable gap between the chest and shoulder plates, but he sees no splinters of wood in the wound. Which means it must've been metal, some kind of bladed tip on the lancehead.

"I have to, or I forfeit the match."

He cannot believe this. "Did you not hear me? He is trying to kill you. He tipped his lance, that's what wounded you. And besides that, you cannot joust in this state, you are losing far too much blood."

"I have never withdrawn from a match, I do not intend to start now," Arthur replies stubbornly.

Merlin glares at him for a moment, inwardly cursing the bullheadedness of bloody royals. Stepping closer, he puts his hand against the prince's bleeding side, murmuring under his breath. Arthur lets out a sharp gasp, one hand gripping Merlin's wrist hard. "I burnt the wound. It'll slow the bleeding, but not for long. Make the most of it." Staring at the prince, he shakes his head, twisting his arm out of Arthur's grip to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You would risk your life for your pride? You have nothing to prove," he murmurs.

"I have everything to prove. To myself," Arthur replies with an attempt at a smirk, though he's far too pale. "Hand me my helmet."

As the prince advances onto the course, managing to both stay on his horse and hoist his lance, Merlin stares across at the other man who is most assuredly not Sir Alynor. The flag goes up. Arthur has despaired at his use of magic before, but he often forgets that to be a servant is to be unseen. Of all the people at the pitch, not a one of them has eyes for him. "Unbinde þé téage," he whispers under his breath.

The girth of the assassin's saddle comes undone, leather straps slithering apart and trailing loose. The saddle wobbles; the lance's deadly point drops.

Nearly all of the observers come to their feet at the blow, exclaiming as Arthur unhorses the false knight in a great shower of splintered wood. The man crashes headfirst to the ground, tumbles over in an ungainly heap, saddle and all, and doesn't rise.

Merlin sprints around the roaring onlookers to the other end of the pitch, helping Arthur down from the saddle before he falls and gives away the game. He draws one arm over his shoulder, letting the prince lean into his side. "Well done," he murmurs under his breath as they hobble back towards the tent to the sound of thundering cheers and applause. "Now, you are going to sit still and let me look at your damn side before you go out there and reveal yourself, or you'll collapse before you get to the trophy." For lack of proper bandaging, he takes a stray pennant, folds it up, and presses it hard against the wound; working one-handed, he starts to undo the buckles of the armour, easing the plates aside for a better look.

"Will you be alright, sire?" William asks uncertainly, hovering to one side.

"I've had far worse." Arthur sounds genuinely amused; bearing a small, wan smile, he holds out the helmet. "Go on, then. Your people await you."

"That was a kind thing you did," Merlin says in a passably idle tone as William takes the helmet and ducks out of the tent. "What happened to your moment of glory?"

The prince shrugs one shoulder, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Perhaps there is a time for humility."

"You, humble? Will miracles never cease?" he chuckles, and Arthur rolls his eyes skyward. He guides the prince's hand over to hold the folded pennant over the wound; taken by a flush of daring, he squeezes Arthur's hand in his own, letting himself hold on for a moment longer than entirely necessary, brushing a thumb across his knuckles. "You've done well. Truly. Now hold that firm, I'll see if I can find needle and thread."

Outside, the crowds chant William's name.

Arthur reclines back on his elbows, fighting a wince at the ache in his side, but all things considered, he's fair off for having nearly been assassinated again…and that's a horrible thing to be accustomed to thinking.

"Well, Arthur, have you sufficiently proved yourself?" Morgana asks teasingly, shading her eyes and smirking at him.

"Until next year, yes," he replies, and she rolls her eyes. Everyone had gotten a good laugh out of the deception once Merlin had explained it all to them; all teasing aside, he does feel better, knowing that he has won on his own merit and not simply for who he is. Glancing over at Lancelot, sprawled across the grass beside Guinevere, he understands somewhat better now why the other man had been willing to lie to become a knight. He's had to do near the same, only in reverse. Smiling, he turns his gaze back towards the pitch, watching the brightly coloured tents come down, groundskeepers tending to the well-abused grass. Later, he'll have to attend the farewell feast for the departing knights, but for now, they're all allowed a moment's leisure.

"I must admit I still do not understand what kind of joy men take from this. You are purposefully trying to injure one another...for the sake of entertainment and personal glory," Guinevere says, gazing at the empty pitch. "A man died in the last tourney, and two have died in this one."

Merlin lifts a hand. "One of those men was an assassin attempting to kill Arthur."

She shakes her head, making a face. "Still. A bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. You are all fools. It'd be more fun to play our own games," she says with a sideways glance over at Lancelot. The others laugh agreement, seeming quite amused.

"Games?" Arthur repeats dubiously. He seems to have missed the jest.

Guinevere smiles in a decidedly sly way, nudging his boot with her foot. "Yes, Arthur. You know. Games."

He doesn't know.

"Oh, here." She reaches over and plucks a few long stalks of grass, braiding them together into a makeshift sort of quirt. "If you keep still and quiet, you earn a kiss. If you don't, you get a lash," she says with mock severity, brandishing it at him, though the braided grass would do little more than give a slight sting. Drawing her legs up under her, she leans forward and trails the loose ends of the grass along the nape of Lancelot's neck, under his ear. His shoulders tense as he tries not to squirm, biting his lips together on a smile. She draws it lower, over the edges of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. His mouth twitches, but he gives no sound. "There, see? He's earnt a kiss." Guinevere leans forward and plants a swift kiss on the tip of Lancelot's nose; the way he smiles, however, tells Arthur that he's received far more than that from her. He wonders how he ever could have missed it. Sitting back, she tosses the plaited grass on Arthur's lap, as he sits to her left. "Your turn."

He picks up the quirt and rolls it between his fingers, casting a glance around the loosely-arrayed circle they had formed. He hesitates only a heartbeat on Merlin. The breeze changes, bringing the scent of churned earth from the pitch, and the memory of the sharp bones in Merlin's wrist rises unbidden in his mind. Fever heat flushes his limbs. Summoning his voice, he tosses the braided grass at Morgana. "I'm not a child," he says dismissively.

The others chorus disappointed noises at him, naming him a spoilsport.

Arthur ignores them, his pulse beating in his ears. He is in full agreement with Guinevere: he is indeed a fool.