In the course of only a few hours, the entire council has relocated to Father's war room, a large map of Camelot covering most of the table surface, with small carved pieces of wood set up like chess pieces on a very real board. "How many men?" Father demands.
"Twenty thousand, easy," Gwaine replies, "marching along this way." One finger traces through the Ridge of Ascetir and through the forest, directly towards Camelot.
"And you are certain it is Cenred?"
"Aye. That's the standard they're marching under."
Father scowls down at the map, absently dismissing Gwaine with a wave of the hand. Arthur casts him a pointed glance as he goes, silently shaping Merlin's name with his lips; Gwaine nods and lets himself be escorted from the chamber.
"The border patrol hasn't returned?" Father asks.
Leon shakes his head. "No, sire, and I fear they shan't."
As they begin to discuss strategies and formations, Leon listing off the number of soldiers they have already in the city, councilmen adding which of them have forces close enough to be in the city within two days, Arthur stares at the map, frowning. He knows already that Father shan't attempt a treaty, refusing to give ground in his own kingdom, but his stomach grows heavier the longer he gazes at the path between the oncoming army and the city. "Sire," he says at last, interrupting the conversation. All eyes turn to him. "Two days isn't enough time to muster the full army and move out to meet Cenred in open field, especially if he is moving them at a forced march. If we try, like as not we'll be caught out either in the forest here or in the lowland below the ridge here," he says, drawing a fingertip along the map. "We're outmanned, we cannot risk being outmaneouvered as well."
"Then what do you suggest we do?" Father demands of him, his gaze firm and unyielding as iron.
Arthur swallows hard and forces down the quiver of nervousness in the pit of his belly. A part of him feels like a boy of ten winters all over again, sitting at his first council meeting and terrified to speak out of turn. "Ready the city for siege." His voice comes out steady, full of conviction he doesn't quite feel. "The castle is our strongest weapon. No army has ever taken Camelot."
Father's eyes narrow slightly. "The outlying villages?"
"Give them refuge within city walls. Homes can be rebuilt and crops replanted, but a life cannot be restored once taken. We take in as many as we can, wait to close the gates until the last moment. Archers on every walltop, formations at every gate," Arthur goes on, ideas settling in place. "We build a barricade between the city proper and the lower town in case of retreat. We hold the city and drive them back from here."
There's a long stretch of silence, broken only by the soft sound of Father's fingers drumming against the tabletop, staring at the map. Arthur silently implores any gods listening that Father will heed him. If he shall only ever hear my words once, let it be now. Finally, Father takes a deep breath, his shoulders straightening.
"Prepare the city for siege."
Released from the war room, Arthur immediately falls in step with Leon, issuing direction. Haste is of the utmost importance. If they're to have any chance of holding the city, they will have to work quickly. "Have torches and pitch at the ready at every gatehouse. If they breach, we ignite their ranks. Go," he orders; nodding, Leon strides off. Blue flashes in the corner of his vision. "Merlin!"
Almost immediately, the young man is at his side, out of breath as though he's sprinted up every flight of stairs and down again. "Yes, sire?" he gasps.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Catching his breath, Merlin sketches a vague gesture in the air with one hand, though what it is he means to communicate, Arthur hasn't the slightest idea. "Mother and Gaius, infirmary," he says at last, straightening up. "I went to the council hall, but you weren't there, so I went to assist them."
"Father had us shift to the war room," he explains, understanding why he's not seen hide or hair of the young man. "Come along, then, with me." He needs to go down to the training ground, address the squires. He doesn't need any of them getting underfoot and getting themselves killed for some misguided idea of glory. Perhaps he'll set them to 'guard' the infirmary.
Merlin's gaze is steady and solemn, glancing at him as they continue down the corridor. "It's true, then? A siege?" he asks, and Arthur nods, his stomach tightening uneasily. He blows out a breath, shaking his head. "Then it was all a ruse, then? The delegate Cenred sent to settle the issue of the Feorrans, the banner of peace he offered coming here?"
"Quite the ruse," Arthur muses darkly. As soon as Gwaine had given them warning, Father had ordered the delegate from Essetir seized and questioned. Except when they entered the man's chamber, they had found him dead at his table with a goblet of wine and an empty vial before him, which Gaius identified as hemlock. "Gods' mercy, if we had another two days…" he says softly, then stops dead in his tracks. Arthur seizes hold of Merlin's arm, yanking him to a stop as well. "Would a High Priestess know about Morgana?" he demands; when Merlin frowns, confused, he jerks the young man's arm roughly, shaking him. "You said you can recognise others like you. Would a priestess be able to do the same?"
"I—yes, of course, but—" His eyes widen in understanding. "Morgause. You believe Morgause…?"
"A terrific coincidence, isn't it? The one person who might have foreseen Cenred's assault on Camelot is nearly killed the day before his army crosses our borders, and yet none know of her gifts except for those who would never betray her. Unless there's someone who could know, if they could sense it." Even if Cenred is a vicious man, Arthur has to admire the man's tactics, sending a delegate to perpetuate the idea of peace between their kingdoms whilst planning to murder the king's ward. He's not just spun a ruse, he's planned a damned coup.
Merlin's eyes widen, and he swears a lengthy colourful streak, using several words even Arthur didn't know. "Of course. That's why they cracked her skull. They had to wound her in a way that would stop her visions." He pales, lowering his voice to a intense murmur, "Arthur, if Cenred is working with Morgause, and Morgause has allied with Alvarr, then there will be sorcerers in his ranks. They will be using magic."
Arthur says a few colourful words of his own, then turns back to Merlin. "Go and tell your mother and Gaius, let them know, and I'll tell Lancelot and Leon," he instructs. There's little point in trying to argue with Father now, and at the moment, he's not sure he trusts himself to hold any kind of private conversation with the man without losing his temper. His skill at dissembling only goes so far. "Go. Now, quickly, go."
As the prince strides off, Merlin makes for the physicians' chamber with full haste, knowing he's likely to find at least one of them there, tending to Morgana. If not there, he'd find them in the infirmary hall. The nape of his neck prickles just as he round the corner and runs full-front into another person, sending them sprawling the floor. "Forgive me, I didn't see you," he says, reaching down to help the boy up.
Once on his feet, the boy doesn't release his hand, gripping tight and grinning. "I've been looking for you, Emrys."
He stares at the boy, the curling dark hair and keen blue eyes, the smile so familiar to him. "Mordred?" he hisses in shock, recognition dawning. The young Druid is in the midst of his Colts' Years, halfway between a boy and a young man, and he hardly looks the same person. "By the goddess, what are you doing here? How did you even get into the city?" There's little chance anyone would remember him now, nor would they recognise him if they did, but still, he's a Druid in Camelot. Has he taken leave of his wits?
Mordred eyes him as though he's said something very odd. "The gates are open," he replies, as though it is quite obvious. "Necthana sent me, the elders have something that I'm supposed to give you."
"What? What are you even—?" This is not a conversation to have in the middle of a busy corridor. Even in the midst of a siege, there are always ears listening for gossip. Taking Mordred by the arm, he pulls him aside and into an empty chamber, shutting the door. "Explain, now, and as neatly as can be done. We've precious little time."
Mordred takes a deep breath, then says in precise tone, "A sennight ago, the ollamh Necthana gathered the elders and summoned me. She told them that she had been sent a vision of warning by Taliesin, the keeper of the Crystal Cave. She wouldn't say what he had shown her, only said that it was essential that I go to Camelot with all haste and bring you this." He reaches into his cloak and holds up a small, lumpy bundle of wrapped cloth, tied with cord. When he sets it in Merlin's hands, he can feel the tingle of magic from it. "It's an enchantment of great healing, magics we had thought lost. Is it important?"
Merlin lets out a soft sigh, tightening his grip on the bundle. "Mordred…you've no idea. Come with me." Slipping back out into the corridor, he makes directly for the physicians' chambers, Mordred keeping close on his heels. Nobody stops them or gives Mordred a second look, not with the flush of urgency on them all.
In the chamber, Morgana is still pale and motionless in her bed, and Guinevere sits beside her, holding one of her hands. Mother and Gaius are both absent, no doubt readying the infirmary hall and gathering their own supplies. "Merlin? What is it? Who's—?" She pauses, staring at Mordred with dawning recognition. "Mordred? Is that you? What's—?"
"I'll explain everything to you later," Merlin promises, finding a clear section of tabletop and untying the bundle, rolling out the cloth: a cord made of different herbs braided together, a string of dead-nettle leaves, a smooth chip of oxhorn, a small vial of oil, and a piece of tough, leathery hide. There's words burnt onto the leather as though someone had written them there with a red-hot iron rather than a quill. Reading over it, he recognises the workings of a powerful spell, far beyond the simple healing spells he's performed before.
"Can you do it?" Mordred asks, peering over his shoulder at the spell.
Healing magic isn't easily done. Gaius has spent a lifetime studying it yet he can only do so much for certain injuries. Merlin thinks of certain spells akin to a waterwheel, his magic the stream. It's the stream that turns the wheel, but in the end, the water ends up back in the stream, nothing lost. This, however, is different, because the water is not being returned to the stream, it's being dammed, redirected into her, feeding her body the energy it needs to heal. If he's not careful in how he does it, eventually, the streambed will run dry.
Merlin runs his fingers over the scorched words and nods. There's little he actually needs to do, as it's more of an enchantment of transference than proper healing, but the caster must be strong enough to endure the strain of the spell, which will draw on his strength and magic in order to heal Morgana. "I believe so. Go stand at the door, make sure we aren't interrupted," he instructs, and the lad bobs his head quickly, hastening over to stand watch at the chamber door. Gwen glances between them, uncertain, then moves to stand beside Mordred. She'd be able to tell a more convincing lie if needed.
Taking a steadying breath, Merlin ignites the candles around Morgana's bed and uses the nearest to light the braided cord of herbs. Once it burns a moment, he blows out the flame, leaving a smoldering end sending up sweet smoke around them. Carefully, he parts her lips and places the oxhorn beneath her tongue, then ties the dead-nettle leaves around her neck. Daubing the fragrant oil on his fingertips, he murmurs a soft blessing, anointing Morgana's brow, lids, and breast with it. Thus readied, he places one hand against Morgana's head, cupping his hand around the wound, closes his eyes, and reaches.
"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ."
Immediately, he can feel the spell drawing at his strength, and he relaxes into it rather than fighting the flow, taking from him and giving to her. Around her neck, the dead-nettle leaves shrivel into dust. The candle flames leap high, and the smoke around them seems to curl in patterns, spirals within spirals, writing out words in a language long-lost to man. When the connection breaks, Merlin sways in his seat, lightheaded and chilled all over, and he bows forward, head between his knees as he tries to catch his breath.
Drawing in a deep breath, Morgana wrinkles her nose in distaste, turns her head to the side, and spits out the oxhorn. "What in the hell was that?" she exclaims, squinting up at him balefully. "I'd sooner lick one of the pavers in the courtyard."
Guinevere lets out a joyful, relieved sob and runs across the chamber to fling both arms around her mistress. Smiling, Morgana embraces her in return, but then her expression turns serious. "Cenred is marching on Camelot?" she asks, looking between their faces.
"That's right," Guinevere confirms, sounding amazed. "How did you know that?"
"I was not truly awake, but I could hear what went on around me." She turns her head to meet Merlin's eye unblinking, silvery-green and full of steel. "I've heard everything." She reaches over to take one of his hands in hers, the other still holding Gwen's. "You were right, Merlin. I didn't fall. It was that man, the delegate from Essetir. He stopped me by the stairs, struck me with a piece of stone. Where is he?"
"He's dead. Poisoned himself the moment we realised Cenred's ruse," Merlin replies, understanding her pointed questions. Like Arthur, she is dissembling, setting the issues at hand apart. There will be time to deal with the revelation of her parentage later on, when they are safe. Now, however, Camelot is their foremost concern.
Morgana nods, then casts aside the blanket, swinging her feet to the floor. "Gwen, go to my chambers, ready my armour and sword," she instructs, then holds up a hand to forestall Guinevere's protest before she can even voice it. "I know I've only just woken, but believe me, I've the strength of ten men right now," she says with a sly glance at Merlin, who chuckles; obediently, Gwen departs. "Mordred, I wish we could've reunited under more amiable circumstances, but I'm glad to see you again all the same."
"And I you, my lady," the lad chirps back.
"I doubt you'll be recognised now, but I'll thank you to stay near us all the same. Merlin. We have an army to prepare for. Take me to Arthur."
By the time Arthur retires to his chambers, he feels as though he might burst apart at the seams. Whilst it brings him utmost joy to know that Morgana is whole and hale, knowing that she is his sister and his father, their father, has lied to both of them for so many years…. Propriety be damned, he wants to take Father by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him, demand to know why. Camelot must come first, though. Morgana is right in that. Their kingdom is under assault, and they cannot afford to be distracted now. There will be time enough to settle it later.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he massages his temples with the heels of both hands, trying to ease away the headache that's threatening to crack his skull. He ought to get some sleep, knows he'll need to be rested for what tomorrow will bring, yet he cannot quite bring himself to move from his desk just yet. He's never been able to rest well the night before a battle. Siege. He's never been in a siege, not a lasting one, not with an entire city full of innocent people and refugees depending on them. What has he done?
The door opens and closes quietly. Soft footsteps cross the chamber towards him, and the desk creaks as Merlin sits on it, settling his weight. A gentle hand smooths down the back of his hair to the nape of his neck, resting there. Arthur lifts his head to look at the younger man, his manservant, friend, protector, lover, and the knowledge of what he's done sinks its claws a little deeper into him. "I've committed them to a siege, Merlin," he rasps out. "It was Father's choice, but I was the one who spoke of it first. Siege engines, battering rams, catapults…. There's going to be casualties—"
"Shh. Arthur, stop. Worry is not a wise counsel." Merlin moves his hand and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers over Arthur's cheek. Perhaps he's just flushed for nervousness, but the young man's hands feel cool against his skin, and he tilts his head into the touch gratefully. "I trust you. More than any man," he reassures. "Uther agreed to what you told him because he knows you are right, and I? I have faith."
"Faith," Arthur repeats softly.
Merlin nods, his gaze never straying. In the low light, the blue of his eyes is almost violet, and there are sparks of gold in his gaze, stars in an evening sky. "In you. In us. In our destiny. It is your fate to be the greatest king Camelot has ever known. Your victory here will be remembered…by every age…'til the end of time."
He says it with the utmost confidence, sure as the sun will rise in the east. Arthur wishes that he could have such faith, wishes he knew how to believe the way Merlin does. He can't put that much stock in himself. But if Merlin can believe in him that deeply, then he can have faith in Merlin. Arthur grasps the young man's wrist lightly, holding the rough-callused hand to his cheek and turning his head to brush his lips against the palm. "Stay with me tonight," he murmurs.
"Where else could I be?"
The second day passes in a tense haze. Provisions are gathered, barricades are erected, weapons are distributed, and soldiers are set their positions. The gates are left open as long as possible, largely due to Arthur and Morgana's insistence. Refugees fill the city. As the sun sinks towards the west, Cenred's army is finally seen from the walltops, a vast dark wave seeping out from the forest like infected blood from a wound. Uther orders the gates closed and barred, and Camelot prepares itself for siege.
In his chamber, Arthur finds himself gazing towards the window. He can't quite see Cenred's army from here, but he knows they are there. He doesn't pace. For all the anxiety that's plagued him the past two days, all that's left in him now is stone-steady calm and determination. "Was that Mordred I saw with you?" he wonders, having caught glimpse of a half-familiar face shadowing his manservant.
Giving the prince's armour one last perfunctory examination—and strengthening the protective magics in it—Merlin chuckles wryly. "Oh, yes. He brought me what I needed to heal Morgana, and despite both of us insisting he leave, he's quite determined to stay." He throws Arthur an amused glance through his lashes. "He says he'll serve as my squire. The fact that a squire is attendant to a knight and that I am not a knight nor have any aspiration to be one makes very little difference to him." He straightens and picks up Arthur's gambeson, holding it out. "Come here."
Despite everything, the idea of the gangly youth serving attendant to his equally gangly manservant makes Arthur smile. "Do you truly believe there will be sorcerers in Cenred's army?" he asks as Merlin brings him the chainmail next, easing the mail over his head. "Would Morgause allow it?"
"Yes," he replies frankly. "It is what I would do." When Arthur gives him a surprised glance, he shrugs one shoulder, fixing the fastenings of one vambrace. "Camelot's army is not trained to fight against magic. If I wanted to overcome you, I would send in sorcerers who know how to wield offensive magic. They'd be behind the foot soldiers, paired up with units of heavy cavalry and spread along the line to support the advance."
"Shock combat," Arthur muses. "How would we recognise them?"
Merlin pauses a moment, contemplating it. "Like as not, they shan't wear armour. Leather, perhaps, but not mail or plate. Iron and steel don't…hold magic well," he ventures, searching for appropriate words. "It's why I've never cared to fight armoured. Doubtful they'd carry weaponry of their own. Perhaps staves."
"I should look for you." Arthur chuckles at the look of surprise on Merlin's face, having clearly missed the parallel. He had fretted on it a great deal in the past, the young man standing out in a team of knights as the only one without armour or blade, though he'd come to understand it more after knowing Merlin's magic. Vulnerable yet not, protected from within and not without.
Seeing the likeness now, Merlin begins to smile a little. "Yes, I suppose you should." He touches Arthur's chest, fingertips just brushing the cool mail, smile fading away. "Will you not let me accompany you?"
"No. I want you here in the citadel."
Arthur had turned the thought over and over again. A part of him doesn't want to let Merlin out of his sight, wishes to keep him close at his side, yet he knows he cannot. It isn't a matter of ability; he knows full well that Merlin is capable of holding his own. But Merlin's skill lies in open combat, where his quarterstaff gives him greater reach and his knives offer range. He's never fought in a shield line, shoulder-to-shoulder in formation. Merlin would be more hindrance than assistance, and there's too great a risk would see him performing magic. Especially when one considers the fact that Father is going to be fighting in the vanguard with him.
Seeing Merlin's quiet displeasure, Arthur places two fingers beneath his chin and lifts the young man's gaze to his own. "I want you here, with Morgana and Mordred, safeguarding the citadel. You did it once before, when the Knights of Medhir rode on Camelot. If we cannot hold the lower town, we are going to have to retreat back to here. Will you do that for me?"
Merlin exhales slowly, nodding. "I will. Just…be careful." Managing another small smile, he jabs a finger at Arthur's chest, though it's barely felt through his layers. "I've spent a hell of a lot of time cleaning this damned armour, so I expect you to bring it back in one piece, clotpole. No holes."
"Yes, sire!" Arthur drawls in return. "And I expect you to have a hot bath waiting for me when I return, understand?"
"Of course." Solemn once more, Merlin turns and picks up the sword resting on the tabletop, proffering it to him hilt-first. It isn't their sword, merely unadorned, mortal steel; the other, he only uses when it is needful. It feels wrong to wield it otherwise. "For the love of Camelot," he murmurs in a low voice.
Arthur takes the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of it. "For the love of Camelot."
"Will it hold?" Morgana asks, using a rag to wipe fatty salve from her fingertips.
Stepping back to survey the symbols, Mordred nods. "Once the doors shut, yes. Not forever, but it'll hold."
Drawn on either side of the citadel's main doors are mirrored warding sigils, made not with ink or paint but a mix of soot and animal fat from the kitchens—one for protection, one for strength, one for holding and affixing, each leading into the next like links in a chain. Once the doors close, they'll form a tether between the sigils and create an invisible shield wall that'll hold out any invaders. As Mordred says, it will eventually be worn down and broken, but it's all they can do without making it burningly obvious that magic is at work. Should the invaders reach the citadel, the shield will earn them enough time for at least some of the people to reach the siege tunnels.
"Well done," Merlin says with a nod, eyeing their work. The symbols seem to glitter around the edges, and when he looks at them from the corner of his eye, they glow with soft golden light. "This is the last of them. All the other entrances have already been sealed up." They've repeated the symbols on several interior doors as well.
Removing the last damning evidence of sorcery, they make their way back inside towards the infirmary. Merlin can hear the sounds of battle from elsewhere in the city, the low thud of catapults being launched, the shouting of men, the ringing of steel on steel. A part of him wants so desperately to damn Arthur's request, take his staff, and make his way down to the frontline, ensure that his recklessly brave and noble prince emerges whole and unharmed from the battle, lay waste to anyone who dared come near him, sorcerer or soldier. A warm presence leans against his side, and he glances down to see Mordred edging nearer to him whilst attempting to be subtle in it, face pale, a smudge of greasy black on one cheek. Not a boy, not a man, a coltish in-between creature, confronted with true war for the first time. "Come, little one," he says gently, putting a hand on one sharp-boned shoulder. "I'm sure Gaius will appreciate a set of steady hands."
As they're passing the squires and youngest guardsmen assigned to protect the infirmary, the entire citadel seems to shudder around them all at once. Merlin gasps aloud, the shock running up his back like a flick through a rope. Mordred abruptly clutches his hand, nails digging into his palm hard, and a few paces ahead, Morgana drops the bandages she'd been unwinding. They've felt it as well, yet nobody else seems to notice.
[What was that?] Mordred's voice drifts across his mind, strung high with fear.
[Magic. Powerful magic,] Morgana replies.
[It came from below the earth. Is that possible?]
Merlin drops his gaze to the floor, realising the boy is right. The magic had come from below. They aren't above the siege tunnels, not here, but there are caverns beneath the castle. As well as… [The burial vaults,] he and Morgana think in unison.
At the entrance, a guard screams.
[Stay with Morgana!] Merlin orders Mordred, giving the boy a push towards her with one hand as he unslings his quarterstaff with the other, running towards the sound.
In the square, the guards are backing away slowly, uncertain and fearful as skeletons advance on them. Merlin wonders for a moment if he's finally gone mad, but no. Skeletons. Bones held together by magic rather than flesh and sinew, some old and greyed with time, others with ragged scraps of skin dangling from them; they carry the stink of the grave with them, musty air and slow decay. "Hold!" he commands sharply. "Hold your ground! Protect the citadel! Stay to your posts!" As he shouts aloud, he throws a mental command to Morgana as well. [Anyone who can hold a weapon had best do so now. Someone has summoned the dead from the crypts. We're under attack from within. Hold the citadel, I'm going to the vaults.]
Places of the dead always make his skin prickle. Tonight, it feels as though every inch of his skin wants to crawl from his body. The power he'd felt grows stronger as he sprints down the stairs towards the burial vaults, filling the air with a high, crystalline sound, throbbing in opposite rhythm to his own pulse.
When he bursts into the vaults, there is a man standing in the middle of the chamber, and planted into the stone floor is an engraved wooden staff, twisting and spiraling up into a branched crown, glowing light nestled within the interlocking tines. The butt of the staff is embedded into the floor as though it is no more than soft sand, stone cracked and split around it. That is the source of the magic he can feel and hear all around him. Like the blood-forged sword, it holds its own power, separate and singular, magic pulsing through it like a heartbeat pumping life into the risen dead. For a second, the crypts swim in his vision, and he stands on the Isle of the Blessed, gazing up into the boughs of a great tree, limbs bearing fruit like blood, the centre around which the isle is built. And then he blinks and stands in the burial vaults once more.
["Traitor!"] the man bellows in voice and mind, echoing in the vaults. He must be Alvarr, leader of the renegade Druids; Morgause would trust no one else with an instrument of such power. "Deserter! Filth! You betray our kind!"
"I seek to save our kind," Merlin replies, descending the last of the steps, taking his own quarterstaff in hand. "This is not the way! Magic is not meant to be used this way, and when you do so, you only serve to harden people's hearts to it. Answering violence with violence will lead only to ruin, you have to know that!" He starts towards the rowan staff, but Alvarr advances to meet him, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. Merlin stops, staring. "Don't do this, Alvarr. This isn't the way."
Alvarr shakes his head, mouth curling in an empty, bladed smile. "This is the only way."
Tightening his grip on the smooth, strong yew wood in hand, Merlin shifts stance and raises the quarterstaff, though he doesn't point it towards the other man just yet. "Don't. So many of us have already died here. No more," he says one last time.
With a hiss of steel over leather, Alvarr draws his sword. "I think not. I choose violence."
Merlin points his staff towards the vault roof. "Feoll bu brand!" he shouts, and in a terrible cracking of stone and earth, the ceiling caves in.
Merlin has seen battle before. A great many times, actually. It never could've prepared him for the aftermath of a kingdom invaded. The presence in the city is one of stubborn endurance and tenuous hope and lingering unease, all wound up around one another like the tangled yarn of a skein, shifting with each change of the wind. And yet, they've survived and intend to continue doing so.
Mother commands the infirmary, having made impromptu apprentices out of several maids and even some of the squires. Gaius tends solely to the King, wounded by a final javelin when the last of Cenred's forces were pushed from the city. Arthur splits his time between his father's bedside and reassuring members of the council and the gentry, some of whom call for revenge against Cenred, others wanting another cleansing of magic from the kingdom. With Uther bedridden and Arthur playing peacemaker with court, Morgana takes charge of reparations, and many gaze after her with a mixture of relief and adoration and gratitude.
Merlin's own time is well-occupied, helping wherever and however he can, mostly in distributing rations to their refugees and helping Mother in the infirmary. When the dead had risen in the citadel, many of the citizens and refugees had been injured. He tries to stay near to Gwen; Tom had been counted amongst the fallen, struck down defending the citadel when the dead rose. The strength of women is different from men, deep and abiding, and she's endured with it so far. Still, sorrow clings to her edges, shadows her step.
They are in the square dealing out rations when Gaius comes outside, looking as though he's aged another ten winters in the course of two days. The old man crosses the courtyard to where Morgana is issuing direction to the new guard shift. Merlin is too far away to hear what Gaius says to her, and outwardly, Morgana shows no sign of distress at his words. However, he is familiar enough with her to see the stiffening of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine, mouth thinning just the slightest bit. She says something to Leon, then turns and follows Gaius back into the citadel, moving with that precisely restrained stride which says she would've sprinted.
Merlin glances at Guinevere, observing the scene just as closely, and when she looks to him, her eyes are full of quiet understanding. "Go. We can finish here," she insists gently, then turns and calls for Mordred. The boy's made a fixture of himself with them, insisting that if his camp needed him then the elders would send a raven for him.
Murmuring thanks, he hands the basket over to the lad and goes inside. The castle is hushed, a sense of quiet despondence lingering. Merlin has half a mind to go directly to the King's chambers; he'd find Arthur there. Still, he finds himself walking to the prince's chamber instead, steps so familiar he could follow them blind. One hand lifts to knock, but then he decides against it, opening the door. The chamber is still and quiet, the bed made and the desk undisturbed.
Merlin nearly turns to leave, then stops—Arthur's sitting on the floor in the space between the wardrobe and the other wall, knees drawn up towards his chest, arms around his legs. The breath leaves him in a soft sigh. He walks over and kneels down in front of the prince, knees nearly touching the toes of his boots. Arthur's face is drawn and pale, a study in conflicting emotion, faint tremors running through his frame. Silently, Merlin reaches out, fingertips just brushing against his knee.
All at once, Arthur lurches forward into him, burying his face in the crook of Merlin's neck, arms clutching tight around his waist. Merlin strokes his hair with one hand, the other rubbing up and down his back, feeling Arthur shudder with muffled sobs, tears damp on his neck.
Outside, the bells begin to toll.
The king is dead.