Mordred has never been beneath the castle before, and he's amazed at how the entire city of Camelot seems to be built on what amounts to an enormous hole in the ground. There's enough space in the caverns beneath the citadel to fit the entirety of the city and a few townships as well, perhaps a dragon or two. He can tell that even though the chambers below have been shaped and smoothed out over the years, nearly all of them were once natural tunnels and caverns. He's still banned from the rooftops, but perhaps now he has new territory to explore. Right now, however, he's trying not to trip on the stairs because they're not all quite uniform in size and spacing. "Where are we going? Uh, my lord?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder.
"You can call me Arthur, I've told you before," Arthur replies, amused, "and I am taking you to the vaults." Mordred misses a step in surprise, stumbling on the narrow staircase. The man chuckles a little, resting one big hand on his shoulder to hold him steady. "You needn't look quite so nervous. I said the vaults, not the dungeons," he chortles, looking in turn amused and baffled by his reaction; Mordred huffs out an attempt at a laugh that comes out more like a kind of cough. The king tilts his head inquisitively, arching one eyebrow. "What do you believe is down here?"
Mordred darts a sideways glance at him, shrugging his other shoulder noncommittally. He's heard a number of nightmare tales in Druid camps and sorcerers' enclaves about those who weren't sent to the pyre but dragged beneath the castle, kept captive and tormented for information about others of their kind, never to see the light of day again. He just doesn't think it wise to tell Arthur that.
When they reach the thick, heavy doors, Arthur takes a key from the ring on his belt and unlocks them. He has to lean his weight into opening them, proving just how solid they are. Taking a torch from a nearby bracket, he leads Mordred into the vaults. Rationally, he knows it very likely that the tales he's heard are nothing more than tales, and yet a part of him is half-expecting to see cold irons and a whipping cross, maybe the rack or a breaking wheel. Instead, it is almost like entering the library.
The vaults are large yet give the impression of being smaller, the ceiling low but the space itself wide, the far wall so distant it's lost to a murky grey darkness, full of shelves and cupboards, chests and crates, many of them locked. Arthur gestures towards the nearest of the shelves. "These are some of the most important documents of the kingdom. Treaties, maps, things that cannot be left in the library alone. And here, artefacts of Camelot's history." He nods towards the various crates and chests further back into the vaults. "Back here, however, is what I truly want to show you." With his hand on Mordred's shoulder, he steers the young man deeper into the vaults, towards a door that is, startlingly, made of rowan wood and banded with cold iron.
When he opens it, Mordred inhales a sharp breath. Magic. Even down here in the lonely dark, the magic coming from this small room is enough to take his breath away. The power washes over his skin in a roiling bath, just this side of uncomfortably hot, calling out to his own power. For a moment, he's not aware of anything other than all that power, pushing up against him, winding around his limbs, through his hair, into his lungs as he tries to breathe in air that is both too much and not enough, as though it is more solid than it should be.
After a moment, the power begins to recede, and he becomes aware of a hand on his arm, gently shaking him, and Arthur's voice. "Mordred? Can you hear me, whelp? Are you alright?"
"I'm well, sire," he replies, finding his voice. "It was just…unexpected."
"I suppose I should've warned you that this is where we keep the objects of magic claimed in the Purge," Arthur remarks wryly. "Do you need another moment?"
He shakes his head, reaching up to grasp at his birdbone whistle on reflex, quiet reassurance to himself, then steps forward into the small chamber, following the other man. The shelves in here aren't as full, but there are still dozens of artefacts. Some he can recognise as tools of the High Priests and Priestesses, blessed objects, but there are also weapons, too, the magics woven in them not quite as benevolent. Over the sound of his own heart, he hears a thin, high sound like a tiny crystalline bell being rung. Turning towards the sound, he follows it in to a large piece of white crystal on a cushion. When he realises what it is, he can do no more than stare.
The king follows him over. "You know it?" he asks, nodding towards the stone.
"It's the Crystal of Neahtid," Mordred says in a small voice.
Arthur's brow furrows a little, gazing at the crystal. To him, it's no more than a particularly beautiful piece of stone, though the longer he stares at it, a dull ache begins to form up behind his eyes, flames reflecting in strange patterns on its facets. "What is it used for?" he asks.
"It's hewn from the Crystal Cave," Mordred explains in the same soft, reverent voice. "It's said to be the birthplace of magic. The womb of the earth, where the Triple Goddess gave birth to the first sorcerer. It has the power to present visions to those of great magic. What is, what was, what will be. In the days before the Purge, seers like Morgana and waking dreamers like the ollamh Necthana, they would gaze into the crystal as a test of their ability. If they were truly gifted by the Goddess, then they would be given a true vision, a sign, after which they would begin more serious studies of their art."
"And now?"
"With it lost, those who hope to achieve the gifts of old must now go into the Crystal Cave itself."
Arthur tilts his head, gazing down at the lad. "And is that different?"
A weak laugh escapes his throat. "If you are learning to swim, would you rather be in the shallow end of a calm lake or in the midst of the open sea at storm? Looking through the veils in any direction can be very dangerous. The visions can drive you mad. Most have stopped sending their acolytes into the Cave entirely." He stops there. To explain to Arthur that there are almost no great seers left, that the gift of dreams is all but gone now, would be unnecessarily cruel.
The other man nods slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well, then I suppose the only answer is to send it along with Morgana to the Druid camp," he decides at last, folding his arms across his chest and smiling.
Mordred makes a sound in his throat akin to a chicken that's had its neck improperly wrung. "You'd return it to us?" Surely he's misheard something. Perhaps all the fermenting magic down here has impaired his hearing.
"I would. Soon the ban of magic will be rescinded entirely, and I intend to make peace with your people, Mordred. What better way of making peace is there than to give back that which was wrongfully taken from them?" Arthur reaches out to take the crystal from its cushion. It's been there so long, there's an outline of it in dust, a patch of brighter fabric where it'd sat. "Perhaps Morgana failing to dream is a sign that this needs to be done, and I am not one to try and strong-arm the Old Religion." He turns the crystal over in his hand a few times, the facets glittering, light swimming in strange patterns over the smooth faces, and blinks a few times, turning his gaze from it and down to Mordred. "Can I trust you to take care of this?"
"Yes, your majesty," he whispers.
"Good lad." He draws out a silken kerchief and wraps the crystal in it before handing it to Mordred. "Now, keep this out of sight and tell no one. I've informed those who need to know, and other than them, it is best kept secret. Now let's get out of here. Dust makes me sneeze."
"Yes, sire." As they leave the close darkness of the vaults once more, Mordred hugs the crystal to his chest, feeling his magic hum along with its ambient power, warm and comforting. A thought occurs to him as Arthur shoulders the heavy doors shut. "Is this why you brought me down here, sire? For this?"
"Quite." Once he's replaced the torch in its bracket, Arthur locks the vaults and returns the key to his belt. "Merlin had suggested that I send one of the artefacts to the Druids as a gesture of peace and goodwill. You're a Druid, so it seemed fitting to ask you which would be appropriate."
"But…why would you not send him with Morgana instead of me?" Mordred is powerful, but he is not Emrys. The crystal will certainly earn Arthur and Camelot a great deal of goodwill amidst the camps, as will Morgana's presence as his ambassador, but for Emrys himself to appear with terms of peace, that'd be something else entirely.
"Why would I send my manservant on a diplomatic mission and not a princess of the blood who is trained in such things?" Arthur prompts in return; Mordred opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Precisely. I would send Merlin, but how would I explain that? Trust me, I'd prefer nothing more than to rescind the ban of magic now and let Merlin be seen for what he is in front of court and kingdom alike, but these things have to be handled delicately."
Mordred makes a face. "Politics."
"Politics," Arthur agrees, sounding a man who fully knows all the intricacies involved in it, and who is also thoroughly exasperated with it. "Twenty years is a long time, and people learn to love their chains. The last thing I want to do is incite an open revolt, which is why I've spent this past year working towards it, to see how it will be received. Insofar, there's been little resistance amongst the commoners. The court seems split, but I believe there are more in favour of magic than those who oppose it." He smiles a little, a tender expression crossing his face for a brief second; no doubt he's thinking of Merlin. As they regain the main corridor, Arthur stops and claps a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "Don't fret on it, hm? Now scurry and make sure you've everything ready for the journey. Keep firm hold of that," he adds in an undertone, casting a pointed glance down at the silk-wrapped crystal clutched in Mordred's hands.
"I give my word, sire. I'll deliver it to Necthana and the elders myself," he vows fervently.
"Good lad," Arthur repeats, ruffling his hair.
"My lady? My lady?"
Morgana startles from her thoughts when a gentle hand touches her arm, and she turns from the window to see Guinevere standing beside her with a small smile playing at her lips. Chagrined, she realises that her maidservant must have been trying to gain her attention for some time. "Forgive me, Gwen, what is it?" she asks, smoothing her skirts.
"I was going to ask you if there's anything else you wished to bring," Gwen repeats patiently. "I've nearly finished packing your things."
"No, that's everything I need, thank you." She touches two fingers to her temples, gently rubbing circles against the headache she can feel there. It has nothing to do with her visions, though for once she profoundly wishes it was. No, this headache is born entirely of the mortal stress of packing and arranging for travel, not to mention dealing with the damn council again.
She has to give Arthur due credit. Proposing she visit the Druids as his ambassador to arrange terms of peace so that she can consult the elders and the ollamh Necthana about her dreams, or lack thereof, without suspicion…it's quite an impressive move. There are still voices of opposition on the council, of course, going on and on with the same spiel about the dread corruption of magic and how they must remain ever vigilant against the evils it works against them, but those voices are much fewer in number now that Arthur's installed his own council rather than Uther's. The general mood amongst the court is one of cautious interest, willing to have faith in their king. She knows this is the last barricade to cross before Arthur rescinds the ban of magic. They've already laid out a plan of action to be taken after, new laws to be written, restrictions to be placed, measures to be taken to ensure that magic shan't be used recklessly or harmfully.
And Arthur has taken a great deal of joy planning a feast to announce both Morgana and Merlin's magic. He knows full well that Merlin hates the pageantry involved almost as much as he hates being the centre of attention.
A knock on the door draws her from her thoughts once again. Morgana takes a deep breath to resettle herself. As uneasy as her absent visions are making her, she cannot keep wallowing like this. She is a princess of Camelot about to embark on a diplomatic mission for the king, not some heartsick girl. "Enter," she calls, straightening her shoulders.
Lancelot enters the chamber and bows, a perfect courtier's bow that Guinevere had certainly taught him. "Princess."
"Good knight," she intones just as solemnly, dipping her chin.
They manage to keep solemn faces for only a heartbeat before they both laugh at the private jest they shared, addressing each other by title and acting with perfect decorum until one of them broke façade. "I've found the rest of the men for your guard. Leon agreed with your suggestion," Lancelot informs her, one hand at rest on the hilt of his sword.
Morgana smiles, though she knows it's not an entirely pleasant expression. "Good. How many?"
"Six. I'll keep watch on them, make sure they don't start trouble."
"And make sure they stay away from Mordred," she adds on firmly. Of the twenty men escorting her to the Druids—five knights and fifteen soldiers—most were Arthur's soldiers to the bone, willing to follow him no matter where he led, even to Druid camps. However, she'd asked Lancelot to find a few who weren't quite so keen. She wants to see just how firm they are in their convictions as much as she wants them to see things are indeed changing.
He nods agreement. They're all quite fond of the young man, and as he is also charged with the keeping of the Crystal of Neahtid, he doesn't need to be given any trouble. "I would've liked the giantess to accompany us. Her and Percival, they could've kept everyone in order," the knight remarks with a chortle.
"Careful when you say that, Bellegere might hear you," Morgana laughs, though she doesn't disagree in the least.
Leon had apparently written to Silverpine after their return to Camelot, and a woman had arrived in response, assigned to young Bellegere's honour guard to ensure she doesn't end up in another situation as she had at Castle Fyrien. Mhera is the tallest woman Morgana has ever seen, and she can throw a spear farther than most knights. She and Percival have become fast friends since her arrival, a force to be reckoned with, and from what Morgana hears, the Rising Sun is never as crowded as the nights when Mhera and Percival have drinking contests there.
"Everything is in readiness. Shall I escort you to your party, princess?" Lancelot offers primly.
"You certainly may, good sir." Morgana tucks her hand around his arm, walking with him from her chambers and down to the main square where her escort awaits. As they aren't journeying outside of Camelot's borders, it's a rather small party as far as such things go. Arthur is standing on the front steps to send her off, the rest of the court arrayed about the square to bear witness as well. Amongst the observers, she spies Bellegere and Ione, both quietly sulking and casting envious glances towards Mordred, who is standing with the camp porters and almost vibrating with eagerness to be off. Behind them, Mhera looms like a great red-haired shadow.
She listens with only half an ear as Arthur makes the prerequisite speech about working towards peace and such; a familiar sense of feathery warmth brushes across the edge of her thoughts, which she opens willingly.
[Leon knows where the camp is, he has it marked on the map for you,] Merlin's voice eddies across her mind, almost but not quite the same as his speaking voice. [Iseldir sent me a raven this morning. The elders have convened and are waiting for you, including Necthana.]
[Thank you, Merlin. Does the whelp have our offering?] she asks in return. She offers a low curtsey to Arthur and takes his arm to have him escort her to her palfrey.
Mordred's voice breaks between theirs, faintly annoyed but more effervescent than anything else. [Yes, the whelp does.] He's taken a dislike to the nickname he's been given now that he's at last grown out of his Colts' Years, but it is, of course, a burden all younger siblings learn to bear.
Morgana doesn't bother masking her smile as she places her boot in the stirrup and swings herself astride, settling neatly into her saddle. [Then let us be off.]
[Onward to peace,] Merlin agrees, his joy almost singing across their mental conversation. [Goddess be good to you.]
Taking up the reins, she puts heels to her palfrey and rides for the gates.
Goddess, help me. Maiden, Mother, Crone, I beg of you, help me, Mordred thinks as he sprints away from what had been a Druid camp, lungs burning from smoke, heart pounding in his ears so loud he almost can't hear the sounds of dying men and women behind him. Get me to the river. Please, just to the river.
How had everything gone so wrong?
Their arrival in the camp had been received with surprising warmth, all things considered. Iseldir, Necthana, and Aglain had been the ones to greet them, the rest of the council of elders alongside. After Morgana had delivered her speech of welcome, Mordred had delivered the Crystal of Neahtid to the ollamh. The old woman had surprised everyone present by embracing him openly. The rest of their party had been brought into the camp as well, soldiers and knights mingling amongst the Druids with some hesitation but mostly goodwill.
Achieving terms of peace had been set aside in favour of understanding Morgana's lack of dreams, a terrible thing for any seer, and Mordred had been horrified to learn that there was nothing wrong with Morgana. Something or someone else was doing it to her. Her fire was burning, but the chimney was stoppered, leaving her with nothing but smoke. Which means Arthur is right—there is a traitor in Camelot, someone working against them to halt her visions and keep her blind to the trap they had all just willingly walked into. No sooner had they come to the realisation that they were indeed betrayed than the slaughter had begun, a force nearly twice their number ambushing them in the dark, slaying soldier and Druid alike.
A scream, high and terrified, is cut short behind him, and Mordred draws in another ragged breath, tears scalding down his face. A part of him screams to go back, to help, but the inside of his skull is still ringing from Morgana's command to run. He has to get back to Camelot, to warn Emrys and Arthur and oh, Goddess, he can smell smoke, the thick, gagging reek of burning bodies.
Mordred can hear the river just ahead, the gurgling rush of water audible even over the screaming. If he can reach the river, he can make it. He knows this river, he can hide there, it'll cover his track and bring him all the way back to Camelot. He just needs to make the river.
Just when he sees the silver glitter of moonlight gleaming off the water ahead of him, someone punches him in the back.
That's what it feels like, at any rate—a hard fist slamming directly into his back between his shoulder blades, driving the air out of him in a surprised huff. He can't seem to get air back in, however, his body unwilling to respond. Seeping wetness spreads across his back, warm and tacky. He staggers, his legs feeling strangely heavy. The edge of the steep bank is there. He hadn't realised he was so close. He'd nearly made it.
The world tilts.
The river is warm as blood, his blood, filling his mouth, current dragging him down, down, into a deep darkness.
"Nicely done," Morgause remarks, honestly impressed. A clean shot from this distance in the dark is quite a skill. Shame the lad had to die; he'd certainly been powerful. More's the pity.
Helios lowers the crossbow with a smirk. "Let the river have him. He'll bleed out soon enough." He pulls one of the bolts from the quiver on his hip and holds it up—the quarrel is wickedly wrought, glittering like a deadly star, barbed and edged to tear deep into flesh. "My own special creation." Replacing the bolt, he turns to look at their captives. "What do you want done with them?"
Picking her way across the abattoir the Druid camp had become, she comes to stand in front of their captives, put on their knees in the churned earth with every crossbow aimed at them. Morgana's face is pallid, and her scraped hands clutch at the spell-forged collar around her neck, chains connected to the matching shackles on her wrists, another set about her ankles. It'd taken three men to hold her in order to shackle her. The serving girl is in tears, clutching at her mistress and staring at one of the fallen knights; when she looks up at Morgause, however, her tear-filled eyes are full of incandescent hatred. The curly-haired man is still gazing towards the river where the other traitor had been shot down.
"What a stroke of fortune this is," Helios remarks. "The Bloody Tyrant's chief murderer and his traitor princess with her wench."
"Arthur is no tyrant," Morgana hisses back, her fingers white-knuckle around the chains. "And if you wish to see blood, undo these chains and face me yourself!"
"Be silent, the both of you," Morgause orders sharply. And to think she had once believed they could rule together, bound by the ties of magic and sisterhood. With Morgana at her side, they could dangle Cenred and Helios like poppets on strings, wield the old magics with ease. Perhaps she could still be turned to their cause. The taint of those accursed Pendragons might run deep, but surely they could still be scoured away.
Helios grunts and shoulders his crossbow. "Shall we kill the knight, then?" he asks.
"No. I did not have you spare him just to end him now." She admires Helios, in a way. He is a strong commander, an excellent strategist. However, he does have this unfortunate tendency to be impulsive, not a desirable trait to be coupled with battle-lust. "He is a prize in and of himself. The First Knight of Camelot, commander of the knights. He will be most useful," she points out.
After a second's consideration, he nods agreement. "Very well. We take him with us. And we'll see how well Camelot's birds can sing," he adds on with a darkly eager glare towards the kneeling knight. He casts a second glance towards the serving girl, an entirely different sort of eager. "Our friend said the boy would have something with him. Some enchanted stone. Shall we look for it?"
"No." Morgause has already turned away from them, walking further back into the recesses of the caverns, stepping past the simple hearths and woven sleeping mats even as a part of her is quietly disgusted at what their once-noble breed has been reduced to. Following the deep thrum of power in the air, she finds a narrow gap in the wall of the cavern, a well-hidden breach which opens into a deep crevasse. Reaching her arm into the darkness, she slides her hand along the smooth stone, feeling her way blind, until her fingertips touch metal that is warm despite the coolness of the cavern. Power thrills up her arm, bright and burning.
Curling her hand around the blood-warm metal, she eases it free and holds it aloft. Torchlight dances over the Cup of Life, the air around it glimmering faintly with magic. She smiles, slow and pleased. "We have our prize."
"Do you think it will take her very long? Morgana, I mean?" Arthur uses the heel of his bread to soak up the last bit of soup at the bottom of his bowl, licking his fingertips. Cook's stewed chicken could make a strong man cry, and he'd swear to that. It's almost strange how quiet the castle seems without them. Not that it's exactly any emptier, only a handful of people absent, but perhaps he's not realised until now how much time they spent around one another. He isn't used to not holding council without Morgana's subtle wit at his elbow, Leon and Lancelot not jesting with him during training, Mordred not constantly stirring trouble with Bellegere and Ione, Guinevere not chattering with Merlin as they go about their duties, and all of them not having their regular drink together in the Cockerel.
Merlin's voice makes a strange little echo as he leans into the wardrobe, hanging up the rest of Arthur's clothes. "I doubt it. Iseldir and Necthana are both on the council of the elders, they know what you're about. Mordred being there will help, as will returning the crystal." He turns to look at Arthur with a warm smile. "Thank you for asking him and letting him go with Morgana. He's missed the camp," he says as he crosses the chamber to the table. Instead of clearing away the dishes, however, he pulls out another chair and sits down instead, stretching his long legs out until his feet rest against Arthur's, playfully nudging the other man's ankles with his toes. "If the Druids make demands, will you agree to them?"
"Depends on what they demand. What do you imagine they'd ask for?" The Druids have never appeared to him a particularly demanding people, but of course, there's also a good chance that they've only done well to bury their desires under the far more demanding task of surviving in a hostile world. He knows well from days in court that one can harbour a spark of ambition unknowing until it is kindled by an offering of power.
"Háligweorc."
Arthur raises his brows. "Bless you."
A foot jostles his calf. "It means sanctuary. It's a very, very old law that would give them the right to control certain territories within the kingdom," Merlin informs him, taking on that educational tone he usually only voices when instructing Bellegere or Mordred. "Imagine it like having one kingdom broken up into many smaller pieces, and those pieces are scattered throughout the other kingdoms, and even if those pieces lay in different lands with different laws, they are considered a whole and follow the same laws within their borders."
Raising his cup to his mouth, Arthur grunts softly. He's not certain how much he likes the sound of that. "How much land? What kind of territories?" he asks, tapping his ring against the side of his goblet.
"Our land," Merlin replies softly. "Sacred places of the earth. The Isle of the Blessed. The Crystal Cave. The standing stones. And it isn't what you think. No violence can be committed on háligweorc ground. It takes no part, not even if every single kingdom was at war with one another."
"If I granted this, then I would have no authority on this…háligweorc land, would I?" he prompts, stumbling somewhat over the ancient word.
"No." He says it bluntly, not bothering to dress it up in prettier terms. "But neither would anyone, except for the council of elders. And me." When Arthur doesn't reply, Merlin smiles and nudges at the other man's leg with one foot. "It's something to think on, that's all. I'm sure that with as much as things have changed, they'll be more than willing to negotiate different terms with you." He rises from the chair and starts to gather up the dishes, stacking them on the tray, but then he slides it aside and goes to start turning down the bed instead. He'd rather not make two trips if he doesn't have to. "How was the council today? Still causing a fuss over this?"
With an exaggerated groan most unfit for a king, Arthur drops his head against the chairback and presses both hands over his eyes. "I swear, I want to just…knock their damn heads together, rattle what little brain they have in their skulls. Maybe then they'd have an original thought. Sometimes it's like they're channeling Father's spirit right into the damn council hall, as though I haven't heard enough from him in my lifetime," he whinges, though he receives no sympathy from his consort, only a bout of hearty laughter. Raising his head, he tries to glare at Merlin but the corners of his mouth still twitch upwards, betraying him; he drains the last of his wine and leans forward to set the cup on the tray with the rest of the dishes, grinning. "Uncle has done well to ease the tension, though, so it is marginally better today. He's even come around to the idea of returning the crystal to the Druids."
The line of the other man's back stiffens, hesitating the slightest bit before he finishes turning down the bedcovers. "Agravaine. You told Agravaine."
"I know you aren't fond of him, Merlin," Arthur says, the guilty little moue his consort makes confirming what he'd already known, "but he has been more than helpful these past months."
"Yes, I know, I know," Merlin acknowledges, flapping one hand. "I'm trying, alright? I'm being…polite."
Arthur chuckles. Polite. That's about the extent of what Merlin is towards Uncle. Polite, nothing more and nothing less, but Merlin has mastered the finely tuned art of turning civility into a subtle blade, which he quite often uses in sparring matches with Agravaine. "Well, I appreciate that, at least. I know how difficult it is for you to act like a well-raised human being instead of the feral barn cat you are in your natural form." One of the bed pillows thumps the side of his head. "Hey!"
"Better a barn cat than a pampered pet like you!" he retorts. "At least I'm useful."
As the sorcerer marches over to retrieve the pillow, Arthur leans forward in the chair to snag him by the loose end of his belt, using it like a lead to pull him in, grinning. They've not had a night to themselves for over a sennight now. He can't even smell that unique wild forest scent in his sheets anymore.
Chucking in amusement, Merlin slides a leg over to seat himself neatly on Arthur's lap, smiling luxuriously as sword-callused hands curl around his hips, pillow forgotten. He leans in as though for a kiss but turns his head aside at the last moment, earning a sound of protest from the other man; instead, he presses his lips to the strong line of Arthur's throat, feeling the steady pulse under his lips. "Leon is gone," Merlin murmurs in a low voice, punctuating his words with kisses. "Mordred is gone. I am going to go home to the townhouse tonight—" He presses his fingertips to Arthur's mouth, halting the protest he knows is coming. "I am going home tonight, so I can tell Clory and the others they may retire early tomorrow, take a day of leisure. You and I can have the townhouse to ourselves for a night."
Arthur's hands tighten on his thighs, an exasperated groan drawn out of his throat. A part of him would very much like to simply bar the door and tumble Merlin into bed right then and there, but the idea of them having the entire townhouse to themselves, alone and without curious eyes about, makes it easier to resist the temptation. But only just. "Fine. Tomorrow. Go on, then. Off with you." He swats Merlin's thigh in mock reproof, half-groaning as the younger man slides off his lap with an entirely unnecessary amount of wriggling and squirming. "Tease," he grumbles.
Merlin winks at him, then gathers up the tray and leaves the chambers. Arthur admires the view as he goes, then drops his head back against the chair with a sigh for a moment before he pushes himself up and shuffles to his woefully empty bed.
The castle is quiet, asleep save for the few servants finishing their nightly tasks and the guards who are on the overnight shift; Merlin finds it to be one of the most pleasant hours, equal only to the early mornings before everyone rises for the day. The soft rattling of the dishes on the tray almost covers the sound of his humming as he descends the servants' staircase into the kitchens. Cook and the rest of her army have already departed for the night, leaving it quiet and almost peculiarly still without the constant noise and bustle. "I see you drew the short lot," he remarks as he brings the tray to the scullery maid scrubbing at the last of the dishes. It's how Cook decides which of the lower servants is left to finish every night. Tonight it is Asha, the girl who risks Cook's wrath on feast days to steal sweetmeats for her and some of the other maids.
The girl startles at his voice, head jerking up to gaze at him with surprised eyes. "Oh, I—yes, I am. I mean, I did," she mumbles out hastily, ducking her head back to her task.
"Is something wrong, Asha?" Merlin wonders as he walks over, setting the tray down beside; her hands are trembling in the water. When she doesn't say anything, he reaches over to touch her shoulder, surprised to feel that she's trembling all over, shivers running through her. "Are you well?" Still no reply. Beginning to worry now, he moves closer, resting his hand more firmly on her shoulder, trying to offer her some kind of comfort or reassurance. "What's wrong?" he repeats gently. "If it's something I can help you with, I will."
Asha drops the scouring brush into the water, staring into the empty air in front of her. "I know." Tears well in her eyes as she nods, her voice small and brittle. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for wh—?"
Pain, thin and sharp, pierces his side. He tries to cry out, but his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. Frigid heat blooms in the small of his back from the source of the pain, leaching up his spine, down his legs. He cannot move. It feels as though his skull is afire. The flames from the candles leap and twist, casting tangled shadows upon the wall, like a nest of serpents.
The pain withdraws. He staggers into the counter, turning, and sees Sayer there, holding a great silver needle in hand. Shadows. Serpents. Silver.
"I'm sorry," Asha whispers softly, the words faraway.
A hand tugs sharply at his neckerchief, jerking it up over his head. Merlin hears himself whimper, a pained, animal noise, collapsing onto the floor. And then he knows nothing for the longest time.