For the first time in years, Arthur has a nightmare such as he had as a child, sitting upright in bed with a strangled gasp, the sound of a whetstone scraping over steel echoing in his ears. His heart's beating too fast, and there's a slick of cold sweat between his shoulder blades. The taste of blood tinges his mouth.

"Arth'r?" Merlin murmurs drowsily, raising his head. "What's wrong?"

The sight of Merlin—sleep-flushed and soft-eyed, the crease of the pillowcase imprinted on his cheek—makes it simultaneously better and worse. All Arthur had felt last night seems to burn away like thin mist under strong sun, a cold weight sinking down into the pit of his stomach. He shivers all over. "Nothing," he replies. Pushing back the blankets, he climbs out of the bed and starts tugging on his clothes.

Merlin sits up, his gaze sharpening as he rouses. "It isn't nothing. What is it?" he asks gently, moving to the edge of the bed and reaching out to touch Arthur's back with his fingertips.

He pauses a moment, working a tunic between his hands, then takes a step back to sit down on the edge of the bed. "Merlin…I'm not certain we should do this," he says at last, the words bitter and ashen in his mouth.

"What?" He hears the rustle of sheets as Merlin shifts closer to him, but he can't stand to turn and face him. "All you said last night…and now you want to take three steps back? Why? What's wrong, Arthur?" Merlin asks, smoothing a hand down Arthur's back. He shudders at the touch, and the hand withdraws.

Arthur stares down at the floor for a long moment. "Have you ever witnessed an execution, Merlin?" he asks in a low voice.

"I have."

"When was the first?"

"The first day I came to Camelot, when we moved our household to the city for Leon's squiring," is the quiet reply.

He swallows hard a few times, attempting to force down the knot in his throat. "I used to play with the servants' children when I was a boy. Father never approved, but the other nobles didn't bring their children to Camelot often. After I finished my lessons, I used to run away from my governess to play with them. There was one girl…Senna. Her name was Senna. She was just a little older than I was. She used to make me crowns from plants from the palace garden, braided them out of bindweed."

He closes his eyes for a moment, still able to remember her as she had been the last time he'd seen her all those years ago: curly brown hair and freckles on her nose, proudly boasting of the pretty blue kirtle her mother had made for her.

"One day, I went out to the gardens, and Senna wasn't there. And my father came to fetch me. He said one of the maids had seen her using magic, making charms, and she was going to be executed. He told me I was going to watch. Your mother spoke against it, I remember. So did Gaius. But Father said I had to learn that sorcery was ever-present, that it came in the most innocent of forms to try and trick me. He brought me out to the balcony, bade me watch as they took her to the block." He rubs a hand over the nape of his neck, remembering Father's iron-hard grip, holding him in place even as he struggled and begged; there'd been bruises later. His throat tightens painfully, words coming out raw and choked. "Senna…she was such a small girl. She was so small. You'd never imagine that so much blood could come out of someone so small."

Once Father had let him go, he'd run back to his chambers and locked himself in for hours. He'd thrown the crown Senna made him into the hearth then burnt his fingers trying to save it, not that it made much difference. The dried, brittle bindweed had gone up in a flash. He could scarce eat for days afterwards, couldn't sleep without waking screaming, and the sound of a whetstone on a blade made him tremble and go cold all over for months. And he never went to play with the servants' children again.

"I still dream of her sometimes," he murmurs, swiping dampness off his face with the back of one hand. "I can still see her being walked up to the block. She looked up at me, and she was so sad. And I didn't do anything. I didn't help her."

He can't bring himself to turn and look at Merlin, but he feels the bed shift slightly, and then Merlin's arms come around him, chest pressed against his back. Merlin doesn't speak, doesn't move, only holds onto him tightly, so still he might've been keeping a vigil. Perhaps he is. For himself, for Senna, for Arthur, for all they'd been and all they'd lost. The sun creeps across the floor of his chambers, and a deep-buried knot of guilt and shame begins to uncoil.

At length, Merlin's breath stirs his hair. "You were a child, Arthur. You couldn't have done anything. You can't blame yourself for what your father did," he whispers, his voice raw with tears.

Arthur curls his hand around one sharp-boned wrist, feeling the scar where Merlin had let his blood to make a sword that could kill the dead. "I've dreamt of you, Merlin. Dreams where it isn't Senna at the block, it's you. And I can't…I don't know if I'd…" He shakes his head, unable to bring himself to say that he's not certain he'd be able to survive Merlin's death, that it would break something in him that would never be healed again.

Merlin's arms tighten around him, and he rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "I have lived in Camelot for over half my life now. I was playing this game long before I became your lover, and I can still play it now. Look at me. Look at me, Arthur," he urges, and Arthur turns his head, meeting his eye. "I'm not so afraid of losing something that I won't try to have it."

Gazing into the young man's familiar face, stubborn and earnest, Arthur sighs and tilts his head forward, resting his brow against Merlin's, breath warm and shared between them. "Promise me," he murmurs softly. "If something happens, if you're ever discovered, promise me you'll get out of Camelot. I don't care how you do it, just…promise me you'll live."

"I swear by stone and sea and sky."

"Thank you," he breathes.

They sit there in silence for a time, holding and being held, and then Merlin presses a kiss to his temple. "Breakfast?" he offers.

It's a blatant and deliberate change in subject, yet it works. Reminded of its existence, his empty stomach rumbles. "Mm. Honey and oatcakes?"

Merlin chuckles as he untangles his legs from the sheets. "Yes, yes, I know."

Leaning back against the bed, Arthur watches him dress. There's something absurdly tantalising in it, watching red scratches and teeth-marks vanish beneath clothing, knowing they're still there. After Merlin leaves, he draws on his tunic and sits at the table to wait. For once, Merlin is actually prompt in returning, and without being told, he sits down at the table as well, helping himself to some of the fruit.

"So," Arthur muses as he bites into a sausage, "if I'm not permitted to court you, then what do you suggest?"

"I'm certain you can imagine something," Merlin replies with a smile. "And it's not that you can't court me. Just don't treat me like I'm something I'm not."

Arthur leans back in his chair, staring at the younger man. He's not certain how he's supposed to court Merlin…without courting him. "You do enjoy making things difficult, don't you?"

"Can't let you get bored, can I?"

"If there's one thing you have never been, Merlin, it is boring." He traces a finger along the edge of the plate, glancing downwards. "Will you stay?" he asks quietly.

"I can't. Leon would wonder, and I don't think it wholly wise to let him know about this."

Arthur doesn't have to fake a shudder. He doesn't even want to imagine how his First Knight would react to knowing that Arthur's bedded his younger brother. He's quite certain that weaponry and bodily harm will be involved. "Absolutely not," he agrees, then sighs, disappointed though he knows it's reasonable.

Merlin reaches over to lay a hand on his wrist, squeezing gently. "I can move some of my things to the antechamber, stay a few nights, and spend the balance of them at home. I did it when you were ill, and by rights, I should be staying there anyways. I can say you've finally worn me down." He withdraws his hand and eyes up the near-empty breakfast plate, a slow grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "So, might I actually have one of those this morning?" he asks, nodding towards the still-warm oatcakes on the tray, soaking in honey; smirking, Arthur turns the plate towards him. Merlin leans forward and plucks one of the sweets, licking honey off his fingertips between bites. "And all it took was bedding you."

"Shut up, Merlin."

Spring passes, ripening towards summer, and it is…strange. An entirely good kind of strange, Arthur's happy to say. He's never had a lover before—oh, how Morgana would crow to know he's been a 'maiden' near as long as she—and he relishes in it, soothing some deep ache of loneliness he hadn't even realised he carried and berating himself from ever having run from it in the first place.

There's an awkwardness to it at first. After so many blissful hours abed together, they lose the trick of being cordial in public and are overly cool and polite with one another to make up for it, trying to hide how well they know each other now. Arthur catches Leon glancing between them with small frowns, no doubt thinking they are quarreling; he wonders how much more distraught the man would be if he knew Arthur was truly thinking on how many hours or days it'd be before he could lock his chamber doors and tumble Merlin into bed again. A part of him is quietly ashamed of how much he enjoys Leon's ignorance, the private elation of a secret unshared.

Still, they find their balance in it. Arthur finds it best to make a sort of game of it, one of patience and restraint, so when he attends court with Father, he's able to actually listen to what's being said rather than get lost in his own imaginings.

"You look tired, Arthur. Have you not been sleeping?" Morgana asks in that playfully malicious way of hers as they fall into step on their way into the council chamber. She tilts her head slightly, eyeing him with the intensity of a kitten waiting for an insect to make the first move. "Something keeping you up?"

"Dreams of you, naturally," Arthur replies, mimicking her tone exactly. "Though one could call them nightmares, if one were so inclined."

Lips curling, she makes a rude gesture with one hand when Father's back is turned, then straightens up and folds her hands in her lap, every inch the highborn lady. Arthur smirks as he takes his place beside Father's chair. He doesn't need to look across the gathered court to know Merlin is there, standing between Hunith and Leon, drawing his attention like a lodestone pulls iron shavings.

Strangely enough, the first man to come before the court isn't a noble or an emissary, but a commoner. Arthur shifts his weight, wary. The court rarely ever takes audiences with peasants first, which can only mean the man has something important to tell them. As it is, the man looks like a skittish deer as he stands before the King, twisting his hands together. "My, ah, my name is Joseph. I'm a herder from the northern plains, sire. Three nights back, we were camped beneath the walls of Idirsholas—"

"I'm not sure I would've chosen such a place," Father remarks with a chuckle, seeming more amused than anything.

"Good pasture is scarce at this time of year, sire…" the man fumbles out.

Boredom is seeping into the King's tone. "And what is it you have to tell me?"

Joseph swallows hard, twisting his hands harder, knuckles white. "While we were there we…we saw smoke rising from the citadel."

"And did you see anything else?" Gaius asks, breaking protocol by speaking out of turn, but Father doesn't rebuke him, which doesn't bode well.

"No."

All the humour has evaporated from Father's disposition, straightening up in his chair; Arthur's sense of foreboding deepens. "Did you go inside?" he demands.

"No!" Joseph blurts out, then remembers himself and ducks his head, going on in a more subdued tone, "No, sire. Nobody has stepped over that threshold for 300 years! You must know the legend, sire."

"When the fires of Idirsholas burn, the Knights of Medhir will ride again," Gaius intones.

There's a ripple of murmuring through the court, and Arthur at last realises why that damn name seems so familiar to him. Idirsholas is a ruined citadel in the northern plains; he'd seen it years ago as a squire when he went to visit his uncle, as the road to Snowgate goes directly past it. One of the older boys he'd been with had teased him, warning him not to venture away from the camp at night or old Medhir and her knights would snatch him up for supper. Sir Kay, his father's First Knight, hadn't laughed, however, and the rest of their escort had eyed the ruined citadel with deep wariness.

"See to it this man is fed and has a bed for the night," Father orders, and a standing guardsman moves to escort Joseph from the hall, leaving a stir of murmuring in his wake. Once the doors of the council chamber shut, he turns to Arthur. "Take a ride out there."

Arthur's stomach sinks. "Why?"

"So we can put people's minds at rest."

"Surely this is superstitious nonsense?" he prompts, testing just how seriously Father is taking it. He hadn't been nearly so cautious of Cornelius Sigan's tomb, so for him to treat this with such suspicion isn't a good sign.

"Gather the guard and do as I say."

Quite seriously, then.

Thus dismissed from court, Arthur leaves the council chamber; a few steps ahead of him, he sees Merlin and Gaius side-by-side, speaking in low tones. Merlin's words grow clearer as he approaches. "…Uther so worried?"

"Because the Knights of Medhir are a force to be reckoned with," Gaius answers in warning.

"So you believe the story as well?" Arthur asks as he joins them.

The question earns him the damn eyebrow, a look which always makes him feel all of ten years old again. "It's more than a story," he replies firmly. "Some 300 years ago, seven of Camelot's knights were seduced by a sorceress's call. One by one, they succumbed to her power. At her command, they became a terrifying and brutal force that rode through the lands leaving death and destruction in their wake."

The older boys had never told him that part of the story. "What happened?"

"It was only after the sorceress herself was killed that the Knights of Medhir finally grew still. If what Joseph says is true, then something has awoken them, and I fear for each and every one of us."

Arthur exchanges a glance with Merlin and sighs heavily. "How wonderful."

"So, what do you think of these…Knights of Medhir?"

Merlin winds the Hellion's reins around his hand, contemplating Arthur's question. As if sensing his unease, the Hellion prances underneath him, tossing her head and champing at the bit. He gives her a nudge with his heels, letting her prance forward a few steps, and Arthur draws up beside him, putting a little distance between themselves and the other knights. "I think it's a very real danger if they are awake," he replies at last. "I don't know if our weapons will do much of anything against them. Except perhaps your sword, which I trust you have?"

Arthur nods, reaching down to put a hand against the hilt of his sword. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful. "So…are they living or dead?" he wonders.

Despite the solemnity of their task, he smiles a little; two years ago, Arthur wouldn't have ever thought to ask him such a thing, wouldn't have asked Merlin anything other than to keep up and keep his mouth shut. "Both. Neither. They exist between the two," Merlin replies with a shrug.

"Like the wraith?"

"It sounds similar to me, though I couldn't say for certain without knowing the original spellwork." He's not had the chance to do much experimenting on his own, but Sigan had recorded a method of his own invention used to weave different kinds of magics together, meshing different spells and enchantments into one another like mixing dyes to make new colours. He wonders if this Medhir had done something similar to create her knights. Longevity, inanimation, perhaps some kind of preservation.

Arthur's mouth curves up. "Shall I see if I can find her manuscripts for your library as well?"

Rolling his eyes skyward, Merlin swats his arm with the end of the reins.

The prince's humour evaporates, and he nods forward. "There it is. Idirsholas."

It had probably once been a glorious castle, Merlin thinks, but 300 years of neglect has set it largely to ruins. There's towers and walls half-crumbled, whole sections of rooftop caved in, windows shattered and gaping. Any roads that had come in or out of it have long since overgrown, so it seems entirely isolated, a dark stone island in a rolling sea of greening grass. "Have you ever been here?" he asks quietly, swallowing hard.

"I've seen it when I've visited my uncle Agravaine. This road here goes directly to Snowgate," Arthur replies, gesturing towards the road they're currently on; in a corner of his mind he knows that his cousin is going to be furious that he came all the way to Idirsholas and didn't vist her. "Do you…sense anything?" he asks, looking towards the castle.

"No, but we might not be near enough to it." Merlin sounds as though he thoroughly wishes he doesn't have to come any closer.

"Let's get nearer, then."

"Ah, I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

The gates have long since fallen in, and they leave their horses tethered outside the walls, having to climb over it on foot instead. The interior of the castle is similarly decrepit. Merlin hears the scrape of steel and leather as the knights draw their swords, Arthur included, and he unslings his quarterstaff, holding it in both hands. If the knights are truly awake, it will hardly do him any good, but he feels better with it in hand. "Do you hear that?" he murmurs.

"Hm?" Arthur grunts, eyes flicking around the crumbling courtyard.

"A sort of…trembling sound." It's almost as though the very earth around them is vibrating, reverberating in the soles of his feet, shivering in his bones. The nape of his neck prickles, scalp tingling. "Something's happened here."

"There's nothing growing," Arthur says in realisation.

Merlin glances around the courtyard and swallows hard when he realises that Arthur's right. Three centuries, nature should've begun taking the castle back, but there's nothing. There's no grass sprouting up between the cracked pavers, no vines growing over the crumbling walls. The trees that'd probably once been part of a decorative garden are long-dead instead of overgrowing their partitions. And there are no animals, no scurrying movement from the shadowed corners or fluttering wings from high points.

"Let's go in. If Joseph saw smoke from the citadel, it'd be coming through here," Arthur says, pointing towards what had probably been the main hall.

The interior is dark and musty, a thick layer of dust and grime accumulated on every surface to be found. He doesn't see any disturbances in the filth to suggest that anyone has ever been there, but that doesn't mean much of anything.

In the middle of the hall is a large brazier, full of ashes; pulling off his glove with his teeth, Arthur reaches down to touch the ashes, running them through his fingers. "Well, it seems this part of Joseph's story is indeed true," he remarks, though Merlin can't tell the difference. "But I don't see aught else. Perhaps it was just…travellers passing through in need of a roof for the night."

A near-painful thrill of cold runs up his back, and Merlin feels everything shudder around him like a reverberating bell. He turns in place. "Perhaps not."

Seven figures, masked and cloaked, stand in perfect formation between them and the doors. The air around them seems colder than the rest of the hall. As one, they draw their swords. Merlin hesitates only a bare second before slinging his quarterstaff over one shoulder and drawing his daggers instead. He hears Arthur swear aloud, and Medhir's knights launch their assault.

The hall isn't that spacious, making combat a challenge in not accidentally injuring one another. Merlin does his best to stay at Arthur's back. He might not be able to handle a sword for himself all that well, but he still knows how to acquit himself in a battle. If nothing else, he can parry a strike, which is precisely what he does. At the next tremendous swing—it'd have cleaved him in two if it'd landed—Merlin crosses his daggers to catch the blade and twists, dragging it out of the knight's hands. Seeing his chance, he lunges forward and plunges his left dagger into the bend of the knight's neck, the vulnerable join between the helmeted mask and the rest of the armour, where the thick veins lie.

There should've been blood. There should've been some kind of reaction. There isn't. He might have well been stabbing a straw tick. There's hardly any resistance, no tearing flesh and grinding bone, and he smells something hideously old and musty, desiccated flesh. The knight lets out a guttural roar and backhands him across the face with one gauntleted hand.

Merlin staggers backwards, the world narrowing down to pinpricks of light, the inside of his skull pummeled by bronze wings. By the goddess, what a blow, he thinks distantly as he falters, tasting blood. A hand yanks the back of his jacket, dragging him away from the knight. He realises foggily that it's Arthur hauling him towards the doors, and glancing back, he sees splashes of red on the floors in two shades, blood and cloth, and seven black figures advancing. "Ahríes þæc!" he slurs out, swinging out one arm and clapping his hand against the doorway.

With a great cracking and grinding of stone, the entryway collapses, an enormous cloud of dust filling the air. He knows it won't keep them there for long, but it'll at least give them the chance to get away. The abrupt sunlight is dazzling, making his still-ringing head spin, but he manages to keep his feet under him, stumbling alongside Arthur. By the time they cross the courtyards, he's able to stand upright on his own, scrabbling over the ruins of the front gates and towards the horses. He fumbles the Hellion's reins free and hauling himself astride, and he follows the bright red of Arthur's cape as they ride from Idirsholas at a gallop, making directly for the treeline on the opposite side of the main road.

Once safely inside the trees, Arthur dismounts and promptly takes his frustration out on the surrounding shrubbery, drawing his sword and attacking a thicket with it, swearing an impressive streak. Merlin slides off the Hellion and leans against her, grateful for her solid bulk, and waits. The outburst might not be productive for anyone, but he knows well that Arthur gets over his fits of temper faster if he's allowed histrionics over it.

With said temper properly vented, Arthur sheathes his blade and rakes a hand back through his hair. "We need to get back to Camelot. We'll have to leave the rest of the horses, the men…ah, seven hells on it!" he snaps, then draws a deep breath, visibly settling himself again. "We return to Camelot, assemble reinforcements. Not that it's going to do much, but at least we'll be able to prepare somewhat, perhaps find a way to trap them, shut them out or—what happened to your face?" Properly looking at Merlin for the first time, Arthur steps closer and reaches out to cup Merlin's chin, tilting his head towards the light.

One thumb brushes the corner of his lips, and it sends a hot pulse of pain through his mouth and up his cheek, throbbing dully in time with his heartbeat. "Ah." Merlin tilts his head away from the touch. "One of the knights struck me."

"Break any teeth?"

Carefully, he runs his tongue around the inside of his teeth. "Loosened a few."

"Don't fuss with them." Arthur smiles a little, giving a wry chuckle. "Your first battle-wound, eh? Give it a few hours, you'll turn some interesting colours. Here, wash your face. You've blood all…here," he says, gesturing in the vicinity of his own mouth and tearing off a strip of his tunic.

Merlin dribbles a bit of water on the cloth and wipes at his chin and mouth with it, wincing as he touches his split lip. "Did your sword not fell any of the knights?" he asks as they mount up once more and carefully ride out of the trees back onto the road. He doesn't see anyone else leaving Idirsholas yet, which means they have the lead, at least for now.

"No. I ran one through, and it slowed, but it didn't fall. I think I only wounded it."

He frowns, confounded. He wishes he could find out how this Medhir had created the knights in the first place. They exist between life and death, but perhaps if they are driven by the power of life, then the blade won't do as much damage, as it is forged from life as well. It might not kill them, but it will certainly still wound them. It's better than nothing, at any rate.

As if sensing his thoughts, Arthur leans over to lightly swat his arm. "Don't tie yourself in knots over there. You can't be expected to know everything," he reassures. "For now, we have to return to Camelot before the knights catch us up."

The sound of the horses' hooves clattering on the pavers is entirely too loud. The castle square is always a bustle of activity, and even at night, there are guards on rotation and servants tending the last of their duties. Now, however, it's entirely silent, the still forms of people lying all about—knights, servants, guards, courtiers, everyone.

"What…on earth…?"

"Are they dead?" Merlin asks, his voice echoing slightly in the courtyard as he dismounts the Hellion.

Arthur loops Llamrei's reins over a railing and walks over to the nearest prone form, reaching down. Beneath his fingers, there's a steady pulse in the servant's neck, and her breathing is deep, even. "No, they're alive. They're…sleeping. They are, all of them, sleeping," he exclaims in realisation, turning slowly in place. "What the hell is going on? Come on, Merlin. I need to find my father."

Merlin catches his arm before he makes the stairs. "You go look for your father, I'm going to find Mother and Gaius. This must be a sickness," he says.

"Go," Arthur agrees. If this is some kind of illness, then the physicians would certainly know something of it, or would at least have an idea of it. Merlin darts away, and he makes directly for the council chamber, knowing where his father is most likely to be found.

There's more people asleep inside the castle, on the staircase and in the corridors, leaning against the walls. It's disconcerting to see, as if they've all decided to simply stop in the midst of their day and lay down where they stood. His father isn't in the council hall, but he finds Leon there along with several other members of court. Just to reassure himself for Merlin's sake, he pauses to make sure Leon is indeed breathing before moving on, deciding to next look in Father's study, then his chambers if he isn't there.

"Arthur!" Merlin's voice echoes up the stairwell.

"Here!" he calls back, and the younger man comes darting up the stairs, springing over a sleeping courtier. "Well?"

He shakes his head. "Mother and Gaius are both asleep as well," he pants out, leaning over to brace his hands on his knees. "Have you seen anyone awake? Your father?"

"No. He isn't in the council hall. I'm going to his study now. Come with me."

As they head in the direction of the King's chambers, they find Lancelot in the corridor, and around the corner, lying in the half-open door of Morgana's chamber, is Guinevere, her head pillowed on a stack of folded clothes. Arthur stops at the sound of movement from inside, holding an arm out to halt Merlin as well. A soft laugh escapes him, however, as Celeste comes loping out of her mistress's chambers, tail wagging and tongue lolling in greeting. "I suppose this sickness doesn't affect animals, then," he remarks, ruffling her ears. When he peers inside, he sees Morgana asleep in her chair at her desk, chin to her chest. "Get Gwen up onto the bed, I'll move Morgana." It's the least they can do, he supposes.

Once both women are comfortably laid on the bed, Merlin whistles towards Celeste and makes a sharp gesture with one hand. "Stay. Watch."

Obediently, the hound springs up onto the foot of the bed and lays down between the ladies like a furred sentinel.

Arthur chuckles. "Remind me to let you have a word with the kennel master. Come on."

Much like Morgana, they find the King asleep at his desk in his study, slumped over in his chair. Grasping his shoulders, Arthur sets him upright, giving him a gentle shake. "Father? Father?" he says to no response. The man's still breathing, however, and it seems he's no more harmed than any of the others they've come across.

"It must be an enchantment," Merlin says, leaning against the desk. "Everyone in Camelot falling asleep where they stand like this? It must be. No sickness can spread through an entire city and affect every single person in the course of a day."

"That doesn't reassure me." Arthur eyes his father, uneasy with speaking of magic directly in front of him, asleep or not. Taking Merlin's arm, he draws the other man out of Father's study and closes the door between them.

"It should. If I can identify the spell used, I can break it. It shan't be that hard to do, there's few magics of this magnitude. I just need to get to the townhouse, my library. It'll be in my books."

Ah, right. He should've known better than to doubt Merlin and that damn library of his. The young man is nothing if not stubborn and well-read, which makes for a surprisingly efficient combination. "Excellent. To the townhouse, then. I know I've warned you against using magic in Camelot, but trust me, this is the definition of extenuating circumstances," Arthur remarks with a weak chuckle. "Whatever you need me to do, I will."

"As much as I enjoy hearing those words from you, Arthur, I believe we now have a larger issue at hand," Merlin says, and his voice sounds strange, strung tight and sharp.

"What are you…?" Arthur notices that Merlin's staring out the windows, and he moves forward, nudging Merlin aside to see what it is he's staring at so intently. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. Riders, bearing for Camelot. Eight of them. Even at this distance, however, he recognises the ragged forms, all in black, and the horses they ride upon, the same horses they'd been forced to abandon at Idirsholas. "Oh, gods' mercy," he rasps.

"There's only meant to be seven," Merlin points out. "Gaius said there were seven knights, and there were seven knights in Idirsholas. The eighth…must be the one who conjured them. That's the only person they would obey."

Arthur shakes his head slowly, a sense of despair welling in him. "Camelot is undefended. My father…. This will be the one of the first places they'll come to search for him. We have to get him somewhere safe."

"Listen. Listen to me." Turning from the window, Merlin takes him by the shoulders and pulls him away as well, giving him a small shake for his attention. "We'll have to split up. You stay with your father. At the end of this corridor, there's a servants' stairwell which will lead directly down into either the kitchens or the laundry, I don't know which. Take him down there and hide him. I'm going to the townhouse to find the counterspell."

"What about the knights?" Arthur demands, hating this idea already.

Merlin bites his lip, wincing as he bites the scabs on his mouth. "I can construct barriers as I go. They shan't last long, and if this sorcerer is powerful enough to rouse the knights, they'll be powerful enough to break through, but it will give us both time," he answers at last.

It's a plan, at any rate. It's better than nothing. It doesn't mean he has to like it, however, and half of it sounds hideously uncertain. Arthur feels near ill with unease, wanting to keep Merlin close to his side. Still, he grasps Merlin's shoulder tightly, digging his fingers in hard, attempting to convey all he means to say through it. "Go, then. And…damn it, Merlin, for once in your life, be careful," he insists.

"I will," Merlin promises, curling one strong hand around Arthur's arm. "Now listen, if the knights reach you, kill the sorcerer first. Their power is what drives the knights. Kill the sorcerer, and it should fell them all."

"I will. Now go. Go!"

Swift as a deer, Merlin turns and sprints away. Arthur stands in place for a long moment, holding his breath so he can listen to the young man's footsteps fade. Once out of earshot, he goes back into the King's study. He can't hope to carry Father on his own, but Merlin isn't the only one with intelligent ideas. Walking over to the wall, he yanks a tapestry from its hangings on the wall, pulls it over to Father's desk, and heaves the man's sleeping weight out of the chair and onto the tapestry. Twisting the corners around his hands, he drags his father out of the study and into the corridor. "Oh, gods' mercy, Father, no more second helpings," he grunts.

True enough, there is a servant's stairwell at the end of the corridor, surreptitiously positioned in a slight recess in the wall; he's likely walked past it a thousand times and never once seen it, which is exactly how it's meant to be. Descending is slow going, as he has to be careful not to lose grip on the tapestry. Hiding the King in the servant's quarters is one thing, dropping him down a flight of stairs is another.

The stairs do indeed lead directly into the laundry, and there are laundresses asleep amidst the washing. After a moment's debate, he pulls Father over to a heap of linens which he devoutly prays are clean, throwing the slightly-damp cloth over him. Once he has his father hidden entirely beneath the sheets—they smell of soap, so they are indeed clean—Arthur bundles up the tapestry and shoves it into a cupboard, putting it well out of sight. He might end up mucking out the stables for a month, but if anyone ever thinks to look for the King of Camelot in the laundry room under the washing, Arthur will do it with his bare hands.

"Oh, seven hells," he exhales forcefully. Drawing his sword, he sprints back up the stairs into the corridor, setting himself to wait in a position that's well away from the staircases and the window. He isn't going to fight the Knights of Medhir in the damn laundry room, and at least this way, he might have the chance to kill the sorcerer responsible before they all ambush him.

He tenses warily when he hears footsteps coming up the corridor towards him at a rapid clip. Only one set, however, and far too light and quick to be a knight in full armour. Grinning with relief, he lowers his sword again. Merlin's found the counterspell already, then. Hopefully it shan't be something too impossible to execute.

Except it isn't Merlin that comes around the corner. It's a young girl, surely not any older than four-and-ten, barefoot and in a short, ragged kirtle that's soaked with disconcerting dark stains, though she doesn't seem to be wounded. And in one hand, she carries a knife such as hunters use, the blade dripping, red splashed over her hands and up her arms.

A dozen different questions flicker through his mind at once—who's blood is she covered in, why does she have a knife, what is she doing here, why is she awake—but only one manages to find its way out of his mouth. "Who are you?" Surely this cannot be the sorcerer who summoned the knights. The eighth rider he'd seen had been an adult, certainly.

The girl turns to look at him, and he's seen less hatred his enemies' eyes on the battlefield. Her lip curls in a snarl, and with a neat flip of her wrist, she reverses her grip on the knife. She charges for him at a dead run.

He doesn't think to raise his sword at all—she's a girl, and she's small—but she has no such qualms about attacking him, despite him being head and shoulders taller than her and surely twice her weight as well. Without missing a step, she leaps up, seizes hold of his sword arm, and yanks with her entire weight, forcing him off balance, staggering. Arthur clutches at the back of her kirtle, trying to pull her away, but drops his grip with a shout when she plunges her knife into his arm. She doesn't have strength enough to fully puncture the mail, but the blade point still makes it through, jabbing deep into his bicep. For such a small thing, she's terrifyingly strong and has the determination of a bulldog. However, he is a knight of Camelot and will not be bested by a child. Looping an arm fully around her waist, he wrenches her from him and slings her roughly to the floor.

She rolls to her feet, neat as a cat, and wastes no time in running for him again, knife in hand. She climbs up him like a tree, and writhingly agile, she manages to get herself onto his back, one arm reaching around. He knows that she means to slit his throat and seizes the wrist holding the knife, squeezing hard enough to hear the small bones grind together and break, forcing her to drop the knife. Giving up on any pretense of mercy, Arthur takes a broad pace backwards and slams his back—and the girl—into the wall as hard as he can stand. The girl cries out at the impact, loosing her grip, and he pulls himself free, backing away. Tenacious as anything, the girl picks up the knife in her unbroken hand and scrambles to her feet.

He finally gets his sword up between them just as the girl charges for him once more, dazed and staggering…and impales herself directly on the blade, running herself through. Her eyes go wide enough to show whites all around, the knife falling from her grasp once more. Both hands curl limply around the sword, confusion written across her face, and she makes a choked sound that might've been an attempt to speak before her eyes roll back, limbs going slack.

He lowers his arm with her dead weight, pulling the blade free. "Gods' mercy," he says quietly, staring down at the girl. Now that she's still, he notices something he hadn't before: a Druid mark, tattooed on one bare ankle.

This day cannot possibly get any more absurd.

"I can't believe Morgause was responsible. I didn't get the slightest sense of magic from her before. I wonder if that's a gift High Priestesses are taught, masking their magic."

"I can scarce believe I was stabbed by a child," Arthur remarks, shaking his head as he sinks down into the bath. The heat of the water makes his myriad bruises throb, but it also takes the ache out of his muscles as well. "And a Druid no less. I thought they were peaceful folk." He scrubs at himself gingerly, avoiding the wound on his arm so the softening scabs don't break.

Merlin hums, thoughtful. "Most are, but some have abandoned that. Close your eyes." He pours an ewer of warm water over Arthur's head, then takes a ball of soap and works a lather into his hair. "I received a letter from Iseldir last week. He warned me that there was a magic-user, Alvarr, hoping to mount an attack on Camelot, trying to recruit Druids from different camps, particularly the young ones."

Arthur turns and stares at him. "You never told me about that."

"I was going to," Merlin protests. "I was just…distracted, with all that's gone on. Besides, if the spell broke after you killed her, then Morgause must have used her as the source for the sleeping spell, which might well mean she's working in league with this Alvarr. Or at least, she's swaying followers of her own. Dunk your head."

He does and comes up streaming water. "If she is as powerful as you say, though, she's certainly a coward. Conjuring herself out of Camelot the way she did?"

Merlin tugs at a clump of his hair in reproof. "It isn't cowardice to know when you are outnumbered. Once the sleeping enchantment was broken, she had no hope of achieving anything other than her own death, even with the knights," he points out.

"It's a dangerous thing to admire your enemy, Merlin. Just remember that." Exhaling sharply, he shakes his head, flinging water, and hears Merlin curse softly behind him. "Seven hells on her, anyways. Leave it for another day. I'm quite thoroughly exhausted with talk of this. Have we not earned at least a brief spell of grace, or will we be forever uncoiling others' plots?" Leaning back against the edge of the tub, he tilts his head back to look at the young man. "How's your lip?" he asks, reaching up to touch the corner of Merlin's mouth. His split lip has scabbed over in unsightly blackish-red, and there's a hideous line of mottled bruising running up his swollen cheek where the knight's gauntlet had struck him.

Holding the edge of the tub for balance, Merlin leans over him and kisses him, slow and leisurely. "Does that answer suffice?" he asks in a low voice.

"Mm, I believe I'll need further convincing."

Merlin is more than happy to oblige.