Arthur sneezes and waves a hand to clear the dust, batting the gauzy cobwebs away from his face. "Well, at least there aren't any bats this time," he remarks, holding his torch out high in front of him to better illuminate the chamber in front of him. It looks like a lesser hall or perhaps a small ballroom given the lack of furnishing. "We should be able to stay here for a few days at least. This place has been abandoned for centuries." Moving forward, he lights one of the torches left behind, then sets his own in the empty bracket beside it, dropping down to sit on a piece of a crumbled pillar.

The rest of their ragged little band moves into the hall, weary and travelworn from four days of trying to stay a step ahead of the search parties on their trail. None of them would have been able to keep up this pace for much longer, and he hopes that the invaders, lacking lifelong familiarity with Camelot's terrain, won't find them for a time yet.

As Lancelot attempts to start a larger fire in one of the ancient braziers, Ione sets to cleaning the rabbits that Bellegere had shot with her bow on their way in, trying to work one-handed. Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan, armed with torches and swords alike, go to explore the rest of the hall, checking the other entrances. Hunith orders Ione off her feet and checks the splint on the girl's wrist, scolding her for overexerting herself with the well-honed practice of a mother. Arthur draws his sword and lays it flat across his knees, taking a whetstone from his pocket and running it carefully along the edge. It's more habit than need, as the red-tinted steel holds an edge like nothing else, and he offers up another prayer of thanks that he'd taken to keeping the sword with him after Merlin's abduction. He can't imagine the destruction it could bring about in the hands of a man like Cenred or Helios. Or, gods forbid, Morgause herself. A tightness closes about his chest at thought of his consort, and he has to grip the whetstone a little tighter to keep his hand from shaking.

"Does it have a name?"

"No," he says without looking up.

Mordred shuffles nearer and lowers himself to sit on the grime-layered floor beside Arthur's legs, taking care to keep a healthy space between himself and the sword blade. "Are you still cross with me?" he asks, tilting his head back. Still visible around his throat is a band of unsightly bruises and raw flesh where Sayer's steel thread had cut into him.

"No," Arthur repeats in a softer voice. He had been. He'd been furious when he'd woken in a dank cavern, on the run and hiding, his own city taken right out from beneath him. If it hadn't been for Lancelot stepping between them, he might have finished what Sayer began and strangled Mordred with his own hands. And yet, he wasn't ever truly angry with the Druid. He'd been more hurt than anything, wounded down to his core knowing that he'd been betrayed not simply by some noble but by his own uncle. Thinking on it now pains him.

Mordred nods once, then turns his gaze down to the sword; it reflects a band of reddish light across his face when Arthur turns it over to start sharpening the other edge. "I didn't think such weapons truly existed," he remarks. "I've only ever heard stories. Children's tales. Have you ever heard the story of Galeren of the Dalriada?"

"No, I haven't." The corners of his mouth curve up despite himself. "And I believe I'm a bit old for children's tales, whelp."

"I think you'll want to hear it."

He turns to look at the boy—ah, he's not a boy anymore, though. Mordred's become a young man. He's grown into himself, no longer unbalanced and gawky, shoulders filling out; the strain of their trials has scraped away all his soft lines down to the sharper edges underneath, the strong line of his jaw and cheekbones more noticeable. Arthur pockets the whetstone, slides the blade home in its scabbard, and eases himself down to sit on the floor so he is now shoulder-to-shoulder with Mordred. "Very well. I'm listening."

"Galeren was a champion of the Dalriada, a warrior of such renown he was known to all four kindreds. He was known more for his gallantry, as it was so true and lasting that the Maiden herself loved him. However, no mortal can endure the embrace of a goddess, not even a man like Galeren, so the Maiden gave him a token of her love instead. A sword." Arthur turns his head sharply; Mordred raises his brows and tilts his head in a familiar expression of 'I told you so'. "It was called the Claíomh Solais, the sword of light, as Galeren only ever drew it when the darkest hour was upon him, when all other hope was gone. It was said to be made from the heart of a fallen star, forged in a dragon's breath, and quenched in the blood of the earth. No mortal blade could check it. It had the power to turn the tides of war, but it also had the capacity to unleash great evil on the world, should it ever be used wrongly. When Galeren grew old and grey, rather than let its power be abused, he hid it away."

"Where did he hide it?" Arthur asks, leaning forward slightly in curiosity, no matter that he looks an eager boy.

Mordred shrugs. "It's a story, Arthur. It changes depending on who's telling it. I've heard it half a dozen ways. Some say he entrusted it to the giants, others say he hid it in the hollow hills, or threw it into the sea," he replies, spreading his hands. "I was told that it went with him to his pyre, so his spirit could go to the Maiden with the token she'd given him."

"You said he only used it a handful of times. When?" he prompts instead.

"Well, those are all told differently, too, but it's said he drew the Claíomh Solais against a wicked dragon that had turned its back on the Old Religion. A giant who rode a great aurochs and devoured innocents. A corrupt High Priestess who tore the veil between the living and the dead, unleashing Dorocha on the world."

Leaning back, Arthur turns his gaze back down to the sword resting across his lap, the hilt glittering subtly in the firelight. He thinks of the words etched up the runnel of the blade: take me up, cast me away. Quenched in the blood of the earth. The skin between his shoulder blades prickles.

"Arthur!" Gwaine waves a hand sharply for their attention. "Someone's coming," he hisses, pressed closely up against the wall, staring out one of the narrow windows.

Everyone goes still, a perfect silence falling as they even hold their breaths. Arthur shoves to his feet and goes to the window, peering out. Sure enough, there's a small party moving towards the ruins. He frowns a little, eyeing them. They don't move like trained soldiers, straggling along in uneven groups, making no attempt to go silently; it's hard to tell with certainty in the dark, but some of the figures seem quite small to him.

Quickly, he turns to face the others, gesturing towards the doorway they had entered through. The door and the passageway are both narrow enough to make a bottleneck; if they don't have the numbers, they'll need the advantage of space and position. Lancelot smothers the fire, leaving only the torches for light, and moves to flank the doorway with Elyan and Mordred. Arthur, Gwaine, and Percival stand at the other side. Ione and Hunith move out of the way, behind one of the pillars, and Bellegere kneels behind a toppled column, bow ready in hand.

They all stand in silence, straining to listen in the darkness. Arthur flexes his hand around the hilt of his sword, blood echoing in his ears, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching up the passageway, hushed murmuring. Definitely not ones for stealth.

Another moment of perfect quiet, and then—

"Forbærnan!"

With a muffled roar of flame and a stink of burning dust, the braziers and torches burst into flame, illuminating the whole of the hall with sudden, dazzling light. There are a few short, abrupt curses of surprise. Arthur doesn't hear it over the rapid tattoo of his own heart. He knows that voice. "Merlin?"

"Arthur!"

Footsteps sprint towards him. He drops his sword without thinking about it, opening his arms, and when Merlin crashes into him in a ferocious embrace, he wraps both arms around his consort and clutches him close and tight. He buries his face in the crook of Merlin's neck and breathes in the wild smell of him, loam and fermented berries. Dimly, he's aware of Merlin's warm, callused hands running over his shoulders, his back, his hair, and that deep voice murmuring in his ear, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur."

When he remembers how to relax his arms again, drawing back to look at Merlin's face, Arthur lets out a soft laugh, reaching up to touch his cheek. Alive.

"Have no fear, brother, I am perfectly well," Morgana remarks dryly, and he turns in surprise, releasing Merlin to embrace his sister, laughing giddily with relief. Over her shoulder, he sees Leon as well as Guinevere, who lets out a sobbing cry and runs to Lancelot and Elyan.

For a time, there are only embraces and reassurances, relieved and grateful; eventually, they end up moving further into the great hall. For lack of furnishing, they all sit on the floor between the braziers and exchange their respective tales. Arthur sits beside Merlin, their sides pressed together.

After escaping Cenred's castle, Merlin's party had gone in search of Arthur and the others, not daring to even approach the city of Camelot. Most of the prisoners had left, returning to their own camps along the way. The ones who were with him now were sorcerers who'd been captured alone or Druids who no longer had a camp to return to—eight-and-ten in total, not counting the four from Camelot.

Much the same had become of Arthur's party. Once they'd gotten well away from the city, he'd sent the rest of the nobles back to their own estates. He couldn't very well go into battle with a handful of courtiers, and if nothing else, they would be able to rally their own arms and perhaps keep the invaders from gaining too strong a foothold in the outlying provinces. When a band of Southrons caught their trail, it certainly would've been their end had they not been caught up by Gwaine and Elyan, who'd had the ingenuity to set off a rockslide to cut off the Southrons' pursuit. After that, they had made their way to the ruined castle.

"Agravaine betrayed us," Merlin says softly once Arthur finishes his recounting. The rest of the sorcerers and Druids are moving about the hall, helping to clear the space and making it a more suitable camp; they're well-adapted to this type of living, used to having to scrape survival out of nothing. They had given Arthur and the other knights a few uneasy looks at first, but Merlin's ease and familiarity with everyone helps to settle the tension. They have faith in Emrys's judgment.

It isn't posed as a question, but he still nods, throat tightening. "I don't understand it," he murmurs. "I…I thought…." Arthur shakes his head again, unable to find the words. He just wants to know why. What has he done to earn such enmity? Agravaine is family, his own kin, the last connection he has to his mother. He swallows hard, fighting down the thick lump of wool in his throat, and looks across the hall to where Bellegere sits quietly, apart from the others. Agravaine's betrayal had cut him deep, but it had run Bellegere through entirely. Her own father.

Merlin follows his gaze. "How is she?" he asks, low enough she cannot hear.

"Hurt. Angry. She blames herself, though it's not her doing."

The younger man gives a small, solemn nod. "Have you spoken to her?"

"I tried. She asked to be left alone."

That earns him a sideways glance. "When has that ever done anyone good? When was the last time I left you alone to brood?" Merlin prompts, which is fair point; whenever Arthur had fallen into his bouts of bad temper, his consort had refused to let him be, unwilling to let him sulk. It had seemed an endless infuriation then, but now he recognises it having been done a-purpose. Merlin rests a hand on his arm. "Go talk to her."

Gazing across at his despondent cousin, the king nods once and pushes to his feet, making his way over to her. Merlin remains where he sits. Arthur is better suited to have a conversation with her on the matter of ignominious fathers and shedding the darkness of their sin. As the cousins fall into hushed conversation of their own, a warm body slides into the space Arthur had vacated, and Merlin drapes an arm around Mordred's shoulders. "What happened to you?" he demands, placing two fingers beneath the Druid's chin and gently tilting his head back to better see the half-healed abraded flesh of his throat. "Sayer?" he asks, eyes flickering dangerous gold.

"He's dead," Mordred replies. "I killed him." The other manservant had attempted to strangle him whilst Agravaine ran to let the invaders into the castle before the alarm could be raised. Mordred had stabbed the mute with the throwing knife he had up his sleeve, then used his magic to fling the man into the wall. He isn't certain what killed Sayer—the shattering of his spine or the cracking of his skull. Either way, he certainly isn't rising again in this life.

Merlin gives a solemn nod. He moves his hand down to touch the young man's throat, magic seeping warmly into his skin; when he takes his hand away, swallowing no longer hurts. [Did he go quietly?] Merlin's thoughts brush across his, quietly amused, and he tilts his head subtly in Arthur's direction.

[Yes, but largely because I did not give him the chance to argue in the first place,] Mordred answers, fighting a smile of his own.

[Wise choice.] Merlin ruffles his hair, then leans forward and lays a kiss on his temple. [I heard about what happened at the Druid camp. Morgause was furious when Agravaine sent word that you and Lancelot had survived. I'm surprised your hair didn't fall out, the way she was cursing you both. Were your ears burning?]

He chortles and shakes his head; perhaps later, he'll tell Merlin about what he had seen, the stone doorway and the Triple Goddess. If there's anyone who could comprehend it, it would be Merlin.

"May I have my consort back, whelp?" Arthur drawls as he walks back over to them, Bellegere at his heels. She doesn't quite have her usual forceful affect, but there's something of her old spark back in her eyes now. Mordred grins and pushes to his feet, giving an exaggerated bow to the other man before he nudges Bellegere, coaxing her over to the dinner fire. Arthur calls Gwaine and Elyan over to him and Merlin. "They escaped the city after the invasion," he tells Merlin. "They've seen the immortal army."

The two men nod slowly, haunted expressions flickering across both their faces. "It was unlike anything I'd seen," Gwaine remarks, unwontedly solemn. "To see a man take a sword through his chest and stay on his feet…." He represses a shudder.

"They look and act as men do, but I'm not sure they are truly men anymore," Elyan adds, ashen and uneasy. "They'll flinch from a blow, I've seen, but it won't fell them."

Merlin makes a thoughtful sound in his throat. "If they are newly immortal, it would make sense that they still react as mortals. You hesitate to grasp a weapon by its blade even if it is dull. If you feel heat on your skin, you recoil before you are burned without even knowing what it is that's hot," he muses. "Like as not, we can use that to our advantage. If we cannot kill them, we must find a way to distract them."

"We can set them on fire."

A beat of silence. All four men turn to look at the source of the voice; Bellegere, having discreetly made her way closer to eavesdrop, flicks her gaze from face to face guilelessly. "What? Elyan said they still react to things even if they can't die, and I don't know about the rest of you, but immortal or not, if I'm set on fire, be assured I'm not going to give much attention to anything else."

"That's…" Arthur cocks his head. "…not actually a terrible idea, cousin, though I cannot say the idea of putting the city to torch is appealing." It certainly wouldn't be the first time he had employed fire in military tactics, but that had always been done when they had proper equipment and supplies. Not to mention plentiful access to a well.

Gwaine rubs his hands together with a little smirk. "It sounds a dangerous gamble. My favourite sort. But still, how would we do it? Even arming ourselves with torches, we will be overwhelmed, and the most we'd be able to do is set a few small fires, something they'd be able to put out."

Sitting at Bellegere's side on the toppled pillar, Mordred interjects thoughtfully, "What about pyromancy?"

"Pyromancy?" Merlin twists around to give the young man a stern glare. "Mordred, what have I told you about reading those books?"

"Yes, yes, I know, never without permission," the lad replies, flapping one hand as he shuffles forward on his perch. "But I can make it. I remember the formula for it."

"Make what, exactly?" Arthur demands. He knows they must be discussing some kind of incendiary, but he has the creeping suspicion it isn't pitch or oil.

"Sorcerer's fire," Mordred says with enthusiasm, grinning. "Spell-wrought vitriol. There's a recipe for it in Sigan's books. He'd discovered a form of it being used when he was travelling across the Strait, and he made his own formula for it in his books, one that's made more efficient with magic. Most of what's needed to make it, we might well find here, depending on whether or not there's still any stores to be found. If not, there's a camp not far from here. Two days' walk at best, less if we make good pace."

There's another beat of silence, and then Gwaine chuckles. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, whelp," he remarks. He turns his gaze back to Arthur, that familiar hint of challenge in his eyes. "Well, then, Queen Arthur?"

Arthur casts a glance at Merlin, brows raised in silent inquiry. He doesn't know enough of this pyromancy or sorcerer's fire to truthfully say whether or not it would be feasible to attempt. It does indeed sound a dangerous gamble, though in the past sennight, he's not come up with any better ideas to retake the city. Returning his gaze levelly, Merlin contemplates it a moment, then dips his chin. Arthur exhales slowly and turns back to Mordred. "Very well. See what you can do."

Three days, there's little else to do but wait.

Normally, Arthur would chafe at the inactivity. He is not patient by nature, but the lesson of patience is one that's been well-hammered into him by circumstance. Instead of sulking and feeding his own frustration, he tries to make use of the time instead. Eight of the sorcerers in Merlin's party are proficient in combat magic, and as sorcerer's fire naturally works best in the hands of true sorcerers, he tells them how best to get past the city walls without detection, the most efficient places to strike. The distrust in their faces morphs rapidly into surprise and disbelief when he speaks of their magic so calmly, and daresay they even offer him a measure of respect.

Morgana uses one of Mordred's birdbone whistles to call messenger ravens to the keep, sending messages to other Druid camps. She's sent word for Iseldir to meet them with all swiftness. His camp had been given charge of the Cup of Life before its theft—he would know best its power and perhaps even how to break the backbone of the immortal army.

Recovered from his treatment at the hands of Cenred's interrogators—Arthur has never seen nor heard of a Nathair serpent before, nor does he ever wish to see one after seeing its effect—Leon takes command of their ragged band of swordsmen, a total of six, as Bellegere refuses to be set aside on account of her age and sex. Arthur doesn't argue it. Her stake in this is personal, and he cannot begrudge her the chance to set it aright.

Mordred finds a small chamber that he makes into an impromptu chemist's workshop, working to make sorcerer's fire, this so-called liquid flame, allowing only Merlin to assist him with it. Whatever it is composed of, apparently, it can be dangerously fickle, especially in the mixing of various components. Still, Arthur risks the young man's scolding and darkens the doorway of the small room, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe; the door itself is long gone. "How goes your alchemy?" he poses.

"Pyromancy," Mordred and Merlin correct him in unison, voices slightly muffled as they both have their mouths and noses covered, Merlin with his neckerchief, Mordred with a long scarf. There's a sharp, bitter scent lingering in the air that burns in the back of his throat, making him cough a little, backing up into the corridor proper. "Ready?" Mordred asks; Merlin nods. Arthur watches with fascination as they pour the contents of three different containers into a single large bottle, and immediately after they do, the young man stoppers the bottle, holding it still with both hands as Merlin pours hot wax over the top of it, forming a seal. For a moment, they are both perfectly still, staring at the bottle as if half-expecting it to burst into flame that very moment. When it doesn't, and the wax seal holds, both sorcerers let out faint sighs of relief.

"If I've measured this out right, that's the end of it." Mordred says, tugging his scarf away from his mouth. "That needs to sit undisturbed until at least moonrise, and then we can open it and see if it doesn't burn."

Merlin pulls his neckerchief down and resettles it about his neck, then tilts his head back to look at Arthur. "What are you doing here?" he poses curiously.

Stepping back into the room—the acrid smell isn't quite so strong now that the bottle is sealed—he rests both hands on the back of Merlin's chair, gazing down at the other man. "I came to ask if you are intending to sleep at all before Iseldir arrives. Morgana's received a raven from him. He should be here by evening."

"You should rest," Mordred insists. "This won't need tending for hours now, and you'll need your strength."

"You see, even the whelp agrees," Arthur hums, leaning down slightly to brush his lips against Merlin's hair, breathing in the scent of him, still clean and wild underneath the stink of whatever concoction they've brewed.

The young man gives a heavy sigh, affecting defeat even as he smiles. "I suppose I should before you send Mother in here after me as well," he remarks, and Arthur scoffs, tweaking his ear before he turns and leaves the room, wordlessly expecting Merlin to follow. [What have you done?] Merlin asks as he rises, eyeing Mordred. The lad's suggestion might have sounded reasonable, but he'd caught the spark of mischievous glee in his gaze.

Mordred offers him a perfectly innocent smile. [Nothing, of course. Just collected some plants I found that I think will help you recover. I left them in your chamber.]

Curious now, he hastens his step, heading back through the lesser hall and over into the small chamber off the hall where Arthur had moved their bedroll with his usual utter lack of tact, only to find his king standing still just inside the doorway. Closing the door behind him, he peers over Arthur's shoulder. Laughter bubbles up in him, unexpectedly bright and gleeful. Their bedroll and the floor are strewn with small, late-blooming wood roses, fragrant and colourful.

"I'll kill him," Arthur deadpans, understanding.

Still smiling, Merlin steps around to stand in front of him, close enough to feel the heat of his body through their clothes. "Why?" he asks softly, feeling the blood beat faster through his veins with the sudden flush of desire, the need to feel himself and Arthur alive. He places both hands on Arthur's arms, bringing the other man's hands up to rest on his waist, warm and solid. "I like roses." He leans in and kisses him.

Arthur groans into the kiss, and without preamble, he draws Merlin firmly to him, arms clutched about his waist. The younger man sighs against his mouth, hands sliding up Arthur's arms, over his shoulders, and into his hair. The gentle guiding tug against his scalp makes Arthur groan again. Without pulling away, he starts taking small steps forward, forcing Merlin to walk backwards, matching him step for step; when the backs of Merlin's knees meet the edge of the bed, he sits down with a surprised huff, breaking the kiss. Arthur ends up leaning over him, made to bend by the firm grip Merlin still has on his hair. "Do you want…?"

"Come here," Merlin rasps, tugging him closer. Arthur sweeps the roses aside with one arm, clearing the bedroll.

It's the first time they've been together since being reunited, and somehow, it's almost like their first time all over again, fumbling at each other's fastenings, laughing as they get tangled in their own clothes, swearing quietly when sharp elbows meet soft flesh. Finally, however, Arthur is settled over Merlin, propped up on his elbows, their legs entwined beneath the blankets. "Your wounds, are they…?" he murmurs in belated alarm.

"Fine, I'm fine." Merlin winds his arms around Arthur, tugging him down into another kiss, clutching him close and tight. "I've missed you," he whispers.

"I missed you," Arthur echoes back. They've not even been apart a month, and yet it seems a terrifying length of time, knowing that it could've very well been far longer, that he might have lost Merlin, that he might've died in the dungeons of Cenred's castle. The thought alone makes the skin of his back prickle with chill. So, he tucks an arm under Merlin's back and lifts him closer, determined to be warm again. Every bit of it, he imprints on his memory—the warm salt taste of skin in his mouth, the soft sounds gasped in his ear, the eager rake of nails down his back, the hot sting of teeth in his shoulder.

"You and the damned biting," Arthur murmurs once he falls over onto his back, husky from exertion, and gingerly touches his shoulder. He can't tilt his head at an angle to see it clearly, but he can certainly feel it, a dull throbbing ache, an imprint of Merlin's teeth impressed in his skin. "I hope you've not scarred me this time."

That earns him a low chuckle, nuzzling against his neck as he sprawls over Arthur's chest. "I didn't bite you that hard, prat."

"So you say. Maybe I should have you fitted for a muzzle."

"Try and see what I bite next." Teeth snap playfully beside his ear. After a moment, Merlin pushes himself up on his elbows, sweeping his sweat-damp hair out of his face with one hand. "Arthur," he says in a solemn voice, blinking the glaze of pleasure out of his eyes. "When we retake Camelot, I would to be the one to kill Morgause."

He can't help it; he laughs.

"I'm not jesting." A touch of indignance colours Merlin's tone.

"I know," Arthur chuckles. He reaches up and tucks a stray curl behind one of those absurd ears. "I was worried about you, you know. Morgause, Cenred, Helios…none of them are the sort to treat their prisoners gently, especially if they wanted information from you. I was afraid of what they would do to you, of the measures they would go to. I didn't know if they would be able to…to break you. Ah, lionheart," he murmurs, earning raised eyebrows at the unexpected endearment, "I was not expecting you to emerge from this with a band of sorcerers in tow, ready to bed me, retake the kingdom, and kill Morgause."

Merlin gives him a rueful smile. "I may well fall to pieces later. If I do, I pray you'll help me gather them again. For now…"

"Marry me when this is over with," Arthur says, then closes his eyes and sighs inwardly as Merlin goes wholly still against him, eyes widening. Damn. So much for being eloquent and proper. Deciding there's no point in trying to unring this bell, he takes advantage of Merlin's stunned silence and goes on with the speech he had practiced. "You helped me build this kingdom, Merlin. I wouldn't be who I am without you. Twice now, I've done without you, and if it is in my power, I'd never have there be a third time. I love you. Sorcerer, scholar, advisor, the absolute worst servant in all five kingdoms, champion of the Old Religion. You, Merlin, you in all you are. I love you, and if you would allow it, I would have you help me rule this kingdom we've built."

It's a rare thing, to put Merlin on the back foot so firmly that he's rendered speechless; daresay Arthur's managed it now, the younger man's mouth agape as he sits upright, dragging the blankets up with him. "Oh…oh, Arthur…Arthur, I—we can't—that's—" He stops and shakes his head as if to physically dispel the shock. "I will be at your side as long as I live, Arthur, but you'll have to take a queen one day, you have to have an heir."

"I already have one," Arthur replies with a candidness he doesn't quite feel, propping himself upon his elbows. "Morgana. My heir need not be my own child, you know that." Truthfully speaking, he could name anyone he wished as his heir, but it is best if they are blood-kin to him. Merlin is right in that to force growth is to kill it. Accepting magic and taking a sorcerer as his consort will be change enough. He shan't force it further by naming anyone other than a Pendragon heir to Camelot.

Merlin blinks a few times, lips parting soundlessly. He must not have expected Arthur to have a countermove prepared; granted, he isn't aware that Arthur's been planning this for half the year, which might be why. "But…still, I'm not a noble, I'm—"

"The greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, hailed by the Druids as champion of the Old Religion," Arthur interjects before he can even finish that sentence, not wanting to hear Merlin degrade himself. It's one of those rare instances of situations aligning themselves just so. According to Iseldir, Emrys is meant to be a bridge between the Old Religion and the new world. What better way to represent that union and heal the rift between their people than to wed a Pendragon? Marriage has always been a satisfactory method of forming alliances between previously hostile kingdoms.

"I…I'm a man," Merlin says lamely.

"Now you are stating the obvious as well as grasping at straws," he retorts. "You know nobody cares about that. Father never cared, and I've heard stories about my grandfather as well." In other kingdoms, it isn't quite so accepted, and he's fairly certain that there are places in the north and across the Strait where it is still a punishable offence. In Camelot, however, there's an old jest that it doesn't matter what goes on in anyone's bed, just so long as there's not a sorcerer hiding underneath. "Well? What do you think?" he asks.

"What do I think?" Merlin grasps at his hair, twisting around to better stare down at him with utter incredulity. "I think you're mad for even thinking of this. I think you're an idiot for doing this now, of all damn times. I think you're asking for nothing but trouble."

Arthur chews his lip, then tentatively prompts, "So…is that a yes?"

"Oh, you clotpole…of course, it is." He leans down, pushing Arthur back against the bedroll and seizing his mouth in a kiss, hands gripping his shoulders, and there's a salty taste to him, wet and warm. Merlin breaks away only to press a shower of kisses over Arthur's face, mumbling something incoherent but affectionate, though he does catch a 'dollophead' somewhere in there. When he draws back, he's grinning that sweet, bright, crooked smile. "Yes and yes, from this day to the end of my days," he murmurs. Sniffling a little, Merlin gives a soft chuckle in his throat and traces his fingers over Arthur's cheek, shaking his head. "Now, though? Of all times?" he asks, amusement threading his voice.

"I had planned to ask you after the ban was lifted. Properly, too. Out in the gardens, maybe, or after supper in our chambers." Certainly not after taking a tumble on the floor of a castle ruin on the run from an invading army, refugees in their own kingdom. "I was going to have a ring made and everything," he admits, and the young man raises his brows in surprise. "Yes, I actually did plan this, Merlin. But as we've seen, the rest of the thrice-damned world seems to have taken up a very specific and zealous crusade against things in my life going according to plan, and it seemed wise to ask you now before we pit ourselves against an immortal army with swords that are as good as sticks and a boy's alchemy experiment."

"Pyromancy."

He rolls his eyes skyward. "Whatever you call it." Tracing idle patterns on one lean flank, he says, "It may be some time before we can do it properly. An official handfasting, I mean. We have reparations to think about, and I have to have the ban officially removed first, give the people time to adjust to the change it'll bring. If you'd allow it, though, I'd declare you my consort and have it be private knowledge for now, leave all the pageantry for another day." A thought strikes, and he closes his eyes. "Oh, seven hells on it."

Merlin blinks in surprise as the abrupt note of despair in his tone. "What?"

Arthur opens his eyes. "I'll have to tell Leon now." He'd planned for that, too. He hadn't intended to ask permission—Merlin belonged to himself alone—but he would at least give Leon the courtesy of hearing it beforehand. He meant to get his First Knight at least halfway drunk and ensure there were no sharp or heavy objects in the room before telling him, too.

Merlin laughs, the traitor, and kisses him again. "I'll protect you, don't worry."

That actually makes him feel somewhat better. Not that he'd ever say so, but it does.

"Forbærnan."

There's a great rush of air as the vitriol ignites, and suddenly, the inner courtyard of the ruined castle is awash in light. Only the slightest bit of it had been carefully poured onto the ancient pavers, and yet it burns as high as a bonfire. The flames, however, are a blue that sapphires would envy, a painfully bright white where it burns hottest, casting up silver sparks.

"Name of the Mother," Iseldir remarks, then turns to look at Mordred, the lad almost vibrating with glee. "I have underestimated you, young one. I shan't ever do so again," he says; the lad bows respectfully.

Arthur manages to take his gaze away from the sorcerer's fire to look at the Druid elder; the blue-white glow casts strange patterns of shadow-light on their faces, ever-shifting. "Will it harm them?" he asks in a low voice. The brief glow of joy he had felt when he named Merlin his consort to the others has been replaced by the cold, solemn knowledge that they have a kingdom to retake, an entire army of men who cannot die between them and peace, and he knows that their breath of grace has ended. Still, a small, deep part of him curls up warm to know that if nothing else, Merlin is his well and truly consort, always and always, and he has the bright, shining memory of Merlin reciting vows to hold onto.

The elder's brow creases in a small frown, shaking his head. "No, my lord. As impressive as this magic is, it cannot do harm to one made immortal by the Cup of Life, but I have no doubt it will serve as ample distraction." He turns his gaze to Merlin, quietly solemn. "Have you given thought to how you will empty the Cup? This will not end otherwise."

"How do you mean?" Morgana asks, looking between the two.

Sighing softly, Iseldir folds his hands in the sleeves of his robes. "The Cup of Life is not meant to be used in this manner, thus the magics wrought of its corruption are likewise tainted. These men have sacrificed their own lives, though they may not know it. They exist suspended between life and death. They are not dead, but they do not truly live, and if the Cup is spilled, that suspension will end."

"You mean to say, if we spill the Cup, their entire army will simply…" Gwaine brandishes a hand, sounding utterly disbelieving. "…die?"

"Just so, but it is not quite so simple as that. The forces of life and death are the greatest magics of all. You won't unweave them simply by emptying the Cup. You must also break its hold."

Lancelot opens his mouth, no doubt to ask what exactly that entails, but Arthur clears his throat softly. Exchanging a darting glance with Merlin, he curls his hand around the hilt of his sword and draws the blade with a hiss of steel over oiled leather, presenting it. In the strange blue glow of the sorcerer's fire, the red-tinted hue of the steel is deepened to near violet, its eternal ripples seeming to dance with the flames. "Would this suit?"

For the first time in their knowing one another, Iseldir is truly caught off-guard. His eyes stretch wide as his mouth falls open noiselessly. "Indeed it would," the Druid elder rasps out, throat working. "It would. If I may ask, sire, how did you ever come across such a weapon? The magics needed to forge such a thing…"

"Are still known to the Old Ones," Merlin interjects lowly. One hand touches his left sleeve.

Iseldir stares at him, then nods, still shaken. "Of course, Emrys."

"That's a fine blade, but the question remains. How do we get to the Cup? We don't even know where it's being kept."

"Yes, we do," Arthur and Morgana say in unison. The siblings exchange an amused glance, and then Arthur crouches on his heels, using one hand to brush a section of sandy ground smooth. Picking up a twig, he starts to draw out a rough map of the castle, the others peering down curiously. "Morgause will see that the Cup is never left unguarded, but it'll also need to be in a place that can be well-defended. Even if Cenred underestimates us, I doubt she will, and Agravaine knows we shan't give up so quickly," Arthur explains, his voice turning bitter at mention of his traitorous uncle. "It'll be here, in the throne room."

"Well and good," Gwaine remarks dryly. "Now how do we get there without dying?"

Merlin gives a fierce little smile, a flash of teeth in the shadowed courtyard. "Leave that to me."

"The watchtower will have to be taken first." Lancelot sits forward and plants another small twig in the sand so it stands upright at a corner of the map. "If they ring the warning bell, it'll bring the entire damn army down on us. Of course, we don't even have to hold the tower itself, just make it so that they cannot ring the bells. There's a pulley system of ropes that can be cut, or we can just set it to flame with this." He nods towards the sorcerer's fire. "And with them distracted, we should be able to reach the throne room."

Gazing down at the sketched lines in the sand, Arthur feels his convictions settle in place within him, anchoring solid in his heart.

This can be done. It will be dangerous, and there is more than fair chance that they shan't all survive, if any of them live at all, but there is hope. Only a spark of it, small and frail, but it burns bright as sorcerer's fire and is just as impossible to smother.