The glass makes an almost musical tinkling sound as it's dropped to the floor, a piece at a time; Arthur bites the knuckle of his forefinger to hold in a swear.

"Stop tensing," Mordred scolds. "You'll make it worse."

"We'll see how relaxed you are when you've been rolled in broken glass," he grouses. Even so, he tries not to tense the muscles of his back so much, letting the young man coax out the splintered pieces of glass with his magic, dropping them to the floor amidst the rest of the broken glass that layers the floor of throne room. With the force of Morgause's magic behind it, the jagged shards had gone through the spaces in his mail, through his gambeson and tunic. It stings like seven hells to have them removed, almost more painful than the initial injury. "Ow!"

Mordred leans around with an entirely too-amused grin, holding up a sliver of glass almost the length of his little finger. "That's quite a good one, no?"

Arthur glares at him, and the young man only laughs, returning to his task. The sound of crunching glass underfoot makes him turn his head. "Why is it that whatever I tell you to do, you manage to do quite the opposite? Shall I have a lead put on you, tether you to a post?" he asks dryly, arching an eyebrow at his cousin. "How did you get here?"

Bellegere offers a small, sheepish smile, a flash of white teeth in a soot-blackened face. The ends of her braided hair are singed, her sleeve and jerkin similarly scorched, but it doesn't seem as though she's been properly burnt anywhere, the balcony railing having taken the brunt of the flames. "I told Ione to say that I wasn't well and wished to be alone. I took one of the sorcerer's cloaks, followed you. I went in with Edern and the other sorcerers through the grate and came up to the castle on my own," she replies, but when her gaze slides around the throne room, the flicker of levity evaporates from her, throat working as she swallows hard. Morgause and Helios still lay where they've fallen; the High Priestess lies in the congealing slick of blood that'd spilled from the Cup, sticking in her fair hair. Wrapping her arms close about her, she asks in a smaller voice, "Has…has anyone found my fa…Lord Agravaine?"

Arthur founders a moment, mouth opening soundlessly, but then Merlin interjects as he approaches, "Not yet, dear heart." He reaches up and tucks one small braid behind her ear, brow furrowing as he touches the singed end. "Why don't you go down to the dungeons, and see if you cannot find Roland or Mhera? We will need a few more steady hands about."

She hesitates for a moment, glancing between them, but Arthur gives her a nod. Reaching over to give Mordred's shoulder a light cuff, she shoulders her bow and leaves the throne room.

Biting back another hiss, Arthur shakes his head, the enormity of what lies ahead of them almost as daunting as what they've just overcome. "Gods' mercy, there's so much to be done. I should go down to the dungeons, see who they've imprisoned. No doubt the guard is in utter shambles. Is the lower town still burning? I know the court's probably on its ear, and we'll need to send word to Morgana—"

"Hush." Merlin reaches out and puts his hand over Arthur's mouth, a look of exasperated fondness writ clear across his face. "Leon and Lancelot are taking command of the guard, Gwaine has gone to speak to Dara, Elyan and Percival have gone down to the dungeons, and I've already sent a raven to Morgana. Now hush and sit still, let Mordred work." He tilts his head to look at Arthur's shoulders and upper back, chainmail studded with splinters of thick glass. The corner of his mouth quirks. "You look like a glazier's pincushion."

Arthur snorts, then winces. "Oh, don't make me laugh, it hurts."

That earns him a proper smile, the corners of his eyes creasing, and he moves his hand up to gently ruffle through Arthur's hair, smoothing it back from his brow. "It needn't all be done at once," he points out in a soft voice. "The court can wait until Morgana returns. She's the better courtier of the two of you, you know that. You'll not get anything done in such a state."

"Yes, yes, alright. Just…is the town burning?" he repeats. That question, he feels, deserves to be answered first. He cannot see from the throne room windows, but the scent of smoke drifts in whenever the breeze changes, blowing through the gaping holes where the windows had been, jagged splinters still clinging to the edges, yawning stone mouths full of glass teeth.

"No. Edern and the others would have felt it when the Cup of Life was spilled, and they're already working to stop the fire from spreading any further."

Moving his gaze downward, he sees the silvery goblet tucked in the crook of Merlin's other arm. There isn't a mark on it where he'd struck it, nor where it had fallen on the floor, and there's not a drop of blood to be seen on it. He can still feel the magic of it, though now it isn't like being dunked in a winter river. The old bite scar on his shoulder tingles. "What are you going to do with that?" he asks in an undertone.

Merlin stares down at the Cup of Life, rubbing his thumb over the side of it. "Once it's safe, I'll return it to where it belongs," he replies at last. "For now, it stays with me." He looks at Arthur's back again. "I'll go find Gaius for you."

"Thank you. And tell someone to get those damn banners down!" Arthur calls after him, glaring upward at the pennants adorning the walls of the throne room. It isn't the coiled serpent of Essetir, but rather a blood-red tree on a field of black. Morgause's standard. He wants every damned one down. They'll have a splendid fire in the courtyard later.

Merlin's laughter echoes through the throne room as he leaves, swinging the door closed behind him.

There's a gentle span of quiet, broken only by the plinking of glass and Arthur's stifled winces as Mordred works up to the king's shoulders, removing the last of the glass pieces. As the young man continues his work, Arthur gingerly turns his head to look at him. "Caledfwlch."

Mordred raises his gaze, brow furrowing in silent question.

Smiling faintly, Arthur taps his ring against the pommel of the sword, once more resting in its scabbard at his hip. "You asked if it had a name. Caledfwlch," he repeats; he'd been thinking about it ever since he'd been told the story of Galeren and the Claíomh Solais.

"A good name, sire," Mordred replies, smiling.

"Thank you—ow!"

Dawn comes to Camelot.

When it does, there's a sense of dazed trepidation in the city, a confused air of nervous fear as whispers spread of dire magic being worked, the invaders bursting into fire and rags, demon fire burning the street of silk. But when sunlight falls onto the citadel, it shines on the crimson banners of the Pendragons, the golden dragon flying proud from every spire and gatehouse, emblazoned on the shoulder of every knight working to restore order, calling for peace and patience, announcing there would be an audience soon. King Arthur has reclaimed his throne.

Nearly all of the city guard had been disbanded upon the arrival of the invaders, replaced by immortal soldiers. Now they are called back to duty, headed by Leon and Lancelot, rallying what remained of the knights. The last of the fires are extinguished on the street of silk and in the belltower. Edern and the sorcerers had done well in their task; no one had died in their fires. Three men and one woman had been killed, but at the hands of the immortal soldiers who had tried to control the spread of flame and find the culpable party, only to find a great number of the lower town risen against them.

In the castle, Merlin works to restore order in his own way. As the king's manservant, he's the highest-ranking member of the royal household, and daresay there's not a single servant who doesn't know him in one way or another. None had seen him since his capture. It seems longer than two months ago. So much has happened in so short a time.

"You need to speak to them, Arthur. I know you mean to make a proclamation to the city, but these people are scared," Merlin says as he returns to his king, closing the door of the throne room behind him. "I've gathered the household in the courtyard. The prisoners that were freed from the dungeons are there too. Has Mordred finished?"

Arthur makes an affirmative noise, sitting on the edge of the dais with a bucket of cold water between his knees, washing the blood and soot out of his hair and off his face. "Yes, he has. I sent him to help the others, Gaius as well. I'll live, and they'll be of greater use elsewhere, I imagine." He makes a face as he sets aside the bucket and rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "Still stings like hell, though. The courtyard, you said? Let's go, then."

"Hold, hold." Merlin catches Arthur by the arm as the king makes to pass him. Weary though he is, a smile tugs at his lips. "Whilst I agree that the blood-soaked marauder look doesn't suit you, appearing a half-drowned kitten isn't much better." He reaches up and slides his hands gently through Arthur's wet hair, fingers tingling with magic, then shakes the excess water from his hands. He does it twice more, then smooths the other man's now-dry hair down, patting it into a semblance of order. "There, now we may go."

When they reach the inner courtyard of the castle, the entire household is gathered, some hundred strong, from the elderly royal chamberlain to the youngest scullery maid. They have that same dazed look about them, lost and confused; one might think that some great disaster had struck, an earthquake had leveled the city of Camelot, leaving them to question the workings of the world. Merlin can hear the gasps and cries as he and Arthur emerge, mingled relief and joy.

"Hear me!" Arthur holds up one hand, calling them to quiet again. "My people, you will be given answers, that I promise. A dire shadow had fallen over us, averted only by the grace of the gods and the bravery of some. There is a tale to be told, and it will be in due time. For now, I ask this of you—mourn for what happened, give thanks that it has not. Those who wish to go home to your loved ones may do so. The rest of you, take heart and spread the word. King Arthur Pendragon has returned. The throne of Camelot is his. The kingdom is secure."

Merlin can see them do just that, a stirring of hope in them, like the first glimmer of sunlight breaking through the cloud bank after a terrible storm. A few are even smiling as they begin to disperse. His heart feels as though it may lift through his ribs, full of pride as it is, and he's quite certain that if he flung himself from a high cliff, he'd surely take flight.

As the rest of the servants dispel from the courtyard, a few make their way forth towards Arthur—the prisoners that Elyan and Percival had freed from the dungeons. The knights who had been imprisoned have already returned to their duties under Leon's command. This is the rest of them—people too valuable to execute out of hand, yet too influential to be left unchecked. Members of the court, Arthur's council. Merlin recognises them all by sight if not by name.

"Sire…" Joscelin of Powys begins, approaching slowly, his coppery hair lank and disheveled. It doesn't seem as though he's been terribly mistreated, but by the way he squints in the sunlight, Merlin knows he's been kept in darkness during imprisonment. "May I…?" He hesitates, giving a weak laugh and running both hands over his face. "Forgive me, your majesty, but may I please touch you? I've feared I've lost my wits with all that I have seen, so please, may I know that I am not seeing some awful fever dream born of some dire magic and confinement?"

Arthur offers a small smile and nods, holding his arms slightly out to his sides in silent invitation.

With slow, tentative steps, Joscelin comes forward, the others slowly approaching after him. Merlin can hear him exhale heavily when he reaches out to grasp Arthur's wrist, sees his shoulders slump in relief. Joscelin lowers his head for a moment, and when he raises it again, there's hope and awe in his eyes, a smile coming to his face. After all the stricken faces Merlin's seen, it's heartening. The young lord laughs, moving his hands up to grasp Arthur's shoulders, and gives him a little shake. "Ah, sire…gods' mercy, it is good to see you," he says softly.

"You as well, my friend," Arthur replies, and there's genuine warmth to his voice.

Joscelin smiles and straightens up, clasping his hands before him. "We'll begin setting things right, sire. What would you have us do?"

Arthur pauses for a moment, looking them over. "I would not overburden any of you…."

"No burden, sire," he insists, and several heads nod in agreement behind him.

"My sister will be returning soon. I would have our city in some form of order when she arrives. Sir Leon and the knights are bringing peace to the city and the lower town. I ask you to do the same here amidst the peerage." His gaze moves between their faces, direct and earnest. "There were some who escaped the city with me. I told them to secure their holdings and raise their own defenses in preparation for the invaders. Have riders sent to their estates and your own under white pennants of peace with the same message I've given here. Camelot is at peace, and there will be no war in my kingdom."

The gathered men nod and bow, leaving the courtyard with a sense of purpose to them.

Once they've gone, Arthur exhales a breath so deep his shoulders move with it, his lashes fluttering.

Merlin edges closer to him. "You're doing well," he reassures in a low voice. He gently nudges Arthur's arm with his own, but to his surprise, Arthur takes hold of his hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tightly. He nearly withdraws on reflex, but then he relaxes, brushing his thumb over his scraped knuckles. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Arthur sighs. "And no."

"You've done well," he repeats, squeezing his hand again. "There's time. People are in shock. It'll pass. Morgana will be here soon, midday at latest. You know she'll be riding hell-for-leather for the city. It'll do everyone good to see a public reunion, and whatever proclamation you make, you can make together."

Arthur nods slowly. "Yes, I know," he says in a low sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Leaning closer, he gently nudges his shoulder against the other man's, mindful of the armour he still wears. "You should sleep. Or at least eat something," Merlin murmurs gently. None of them have slept much at all the past three days as they worked to make the sorcerer's fire and form their plans, and Arthur usually went into battle fasting. Surely there's at least one of Cook's many helpers down in the kitchens; if not, he can make an admirable meal on his own, having done so on journeys.

Arthur only grunts, eyes still closed.

Gently sliding his hand free, Merlin wraps an arm around Arthur's back and tugs at him, guiding him out of the courtyard and back into the castle. There is a surprising number of servants still at work despite leave to go home, and he can see they've taken heart from Arthur's address. And a number of them are working to take down every single one of Morgause's banners, a grim satisfaction in their faces. He catches one of the maids and asks her to have a light meal brought to the king's chamber.

"Has there been any news of my uncle?" Arthur asks in a drowsy voice. He'd been leaning more and more into Merlin's side, exhaustion at last catching up to him.

Merlin scowls when he elbows open the door of the king's chamber, finding the entire room in utter disarray. It doesn't seem as though everyone's been sleeping in here, which lightens him in part, but someone has certainly turned the room upside down and inside out, all of Arthur's papers and belongings hurled everywhere about the chamber. "No," he replies, drawing Arthur over to lean against the table, staring on the buckles of his armour. "Perhaps he added his blood to the Cup, died when it spilled."

Arthur grunts. "No. I doubt he would. Helios didn't. Cenred?"

"Dead. Gaius told me." Merlin leans down to grasp the bottom of his chainmail, easing it up over his head.

"The Cup?"

He studies the half-shredded fabric of Arthur's gambeson, scowling. "No, Morgause. You were right. She killed him to control Essetir's forces two days after the invasion," he replies, draping the gambeson over a chair and lifting Arthur's tunic with another frown. Cleaning rags. He gives the other man's back a cursory glance to ensure none of the wounds have started bleeding again. Most are superficial, and Mordred had at least made an attempt at a healing charm. Still, he slides his hand down the length of Arthur's spine. "Þurhhæle dolgbenn."

"Mm." Arthur swats his hip. "Stop that. Tickles."

Merlin kisses the crown of his head, then grasps his arm and draws him over to the bed, yanking back the bedcovers one-handed.

Making a face, the other man resists, pulling against his grip. "I need to—"

"Sleep. You need to sleep," he cuts Arthur off, pushing against his shoulders to get him down on the bed. "If anything happens, I'll wake you. I promise."

Arthur grumbles something else argumentative even as his eyes drift closed, slumping down against the pillow. He's asleep before Merlin even draws the covers up over him, snuffling into the bedding.

There's a light knock on the door, and he hastily moves to answer it, praying that something's not happened already. But no, it's only the girl he'd spoken to in the hall, bearing a plate of bread, cheese, and chicken. He thanks the girl as he takes the plate, then asks if she has seen his brother.

"No, my lord. I think he's looking for Lord Agravaine," she replies, her lip curling at the man's name.

"Thank you." He casts a glance back at Arthur's sleeping form beneath the blankets. He takes a step back into the chamber and sets the plate on the table before stepping out into the corridor, closing the door. "The king is resting before Princess Morgana's return, he isn't to be disturbed," he instructs, and she bobs her head quickly. Once she hastens away, he lays a hand on the door and winds a protective charm around it, ensuring no one could enter without him knowing it.

Thus warded, he departs for the main square, knowing he'll be sure to find some of the knights there, and sure enough, as he's descending the stairs, he sees Leon and Lancelot making their way up to the castle. And dragging a familiar figure between them. He unslings his quarterstaff, anger welling up hot and sharp in his chest. "Where was he?" Merlin asks through clenched teeth, working his grip on the quarterstaff. Every muscle in his arm aches with the desire to crack open Agravaine's skull and see what spilled out.

"One of Dara's watchers caught him trying to escape the city through an old service gate," Lancelot replies, giving Agravaine a shove forward. The man staggers, falling to his knees on the cobblestones.

Merlin rakes his gaze up and down the kneeling man. "What did you do to him?" It brings him no sorrow to see that Agravaine appears as though he's been dragged through a thicket backwards by a galloping horse. His clothes are torn, his hair disheveled, and there's a set of bleeding scratches down the side of his face, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth.

"We didn't, though I cannot say I wasn't tempted," Leon answers, gripping the scruff of Agravaine's neck and hauling him upright. "Dara's watcher raised the alarm when he saw him. The citizens reached him before we did." From the tone of his voice, it's clear he would have been more than satisfied to simply allow the people tear him apart like hungry curs fighting over a chicken carcass. No doubt he would have if it weren't for the fact that Arthur and Bellegere had first right to vengeance. "What does Arthur want done with him?"

Merlin shifts grip on the quarterstaff once more, temptation nipping sharply at him. A part of him wishes to bid Leon draw his sword now, save the headsman the effort, or to find a sturdy rafter and a length of rope. Swallowing hard a few times, he pushes away the thunderous clamour of bronze wings in his ears, and when he speaks, his voice comes out deep and powerful. "Lord Agravaine du Bois of Snowgate, you are charged with conspiracy, murder, and high treason. In the name of King Arthur Pendragon, I order you placed under arrest and imprisoned until such time as your fate can be decided."

Battered though he is, Agravaine still hisses and glares at Merlin with disgust, lip curling. "You have no right!"

He bares his teeth in a smile, knowing it too sharp-edged to be anything like amicable. "I have more right than you can imagine, my lord," he replies and takes a certain pleasure in seeing the briefest flicker of confusion pass through Agravaine's dark eyes. Merlin looks to Leon and Lancelot. "Take him to the dungeons. No one speaks to him, and no one touches him."

The knights both accord him small bows and seize hold of the man, hauling him away. A number of people had followed them into the square, jeering and hissing at the disgraced traitor. Merlin watches them go; only once they have vanished back inside the castle does he shoulder his quarterstaff once more, feeling the bracing presence of it across his back.

"Well done," a familiar voice says, and Merlin finds a smile as he turns. Dara folds him in an embrace, the earthy scent of orchids surrounding him. "Sir Gwaine has told me of your quest to return here." Amusement sparkles in his deep blue eyes. "Prince Consort. Daresay you're handling your new role well," he says in a murmur, lowering his voice to ensure no one heard them.

"I've not been crowned yet, so don't repeat that," Merlin replies, flushing slightly.

Dara chuckles warmly. "Never would have imagined it. Will I be invited?"

"Of course. Are you well?" Some people hadn't fared well when Morgause's forces had overtaken the city, especially those who were known to be loyal to Arthur. Only a few people know of Dara's patronage, but after having experienced their brand of questioning for himself, Merlin knows it could've been found out.

The courtesan chuckles with genuine amusement. "When a city is invaded, there are two people who are always spared—healers and whores. Don't fret on me. Where is our good king?"

"Taking a nap before Morgana returns. He's not slept for near two days. Stubborn to the last. Arse," Merlin mutters; Dara chortles again, taking delight at Merlin's impropriety as he always did. He glances upwards, gauging the measure of the sun. It's only been mere hours since they retook their kingdom; it feels as though it's been at least an entire day.

"What will be done with the High Priestess and the Southron?" Dara queries.

Merlin exhales a deep breath. "I imagine Arthur will have the bodies displayed before they're burned, let people know they're well and truly dead." It's the wisest thing to do; if he'd seen an army of immortals, he would certainly want to know that the ones leading it were dead.

"And Lord Agravaine?"

"That I cannot say." He wishes he could. Knowing how much suffering the man has wrought, he wishes he could go down to the dungeons now, perhaps with a silver needle and a bottle of Serket venom, have him speak the truth of his crimes. However, that decision lies with Arthur and the court. His chest tightens at thought of Bellegere, sending a prayer for the Maiden's mercy on the girl.

Dara nods solemnly, no doubt thinking the same.

An eager call of Merlin's name makes him turn just as Mordred comes sprinting up to him at a rapid clip, eyes bright. "One of the watchmen has just seen a party riding towards the city. It's Morgana!" he exclaims joyously, then pulls up short. "Ah, hello, Dara."

"Hello, whelp," the other man replies. He arches one brow, amusement layering his tone. "Or should I address you as Sir Whelp now?"

Mordred flushes up to his hairline, stammering nonsense. He knows precisely who Dara is and what he does, both in his capacity as a spy for Arthur and as the proprietor of the most lucrative bordello in the city of Camelot. Easy enough to imagine which flusters him more.

Chortling, Merlin claps the lad on the shoulder, giving him a little shake to draw his attention. "Fetch Leon and the rest of the knights," he instructs. "Tell them to clear a path from the gates to the citadel for Morgana. I'll go and wake Arthur."

The young man nods and runs off.

Dara watches him go and casts a glance towards Merlin. "You've done well."

Now it's Merlin's turn to flush slightly, reaching up to scratch the nape of his neck as he ascends the steps of the citadel. "I like to believe so."

Arthur is still deeply asleep when Merlin returns to the king's chamber, burrowed beneath the covers and making those quiet snuffling sounds he makes in lieu of actually snoring, something Merlin is grateful for. A part of him is loathe to wake the man already, but he knows the siblings should be seen reuniting in public, reassure the people that Camelot is truly united and whole. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reaches over to shake Arthur's hip, murmuring his name.

Good thing he doesn't sit too close, for Arthur jerks awake with a grunt, fists already clenched, still wound tight. Once he recognises Merlin, however, he opens his fist and scrubs his palm over his face. "What is it?" he asks in a gravelly voice.

"Morgana's been sighted. She's riding for the city now. The knights are clearing a path for her. Come on, you need to be up and dressed to meet her in the citadel." Merlin draws back the blankets, then gets up and goes to the wardrobe, pulling it open.

Arthur goes to the washbasin and splashes water on his face. "Any news about my uncle?" he asks.

"He was captured trying to escape the city. Dara had his watchers on the old service gates, one of them spotted him." Merlin finds a deep red tunic and one of Arthur's dress jackets, bringing them both over to the other man. "I had him sent to the dungeons under no contact."

Arthur gives a small, stiff nod as Merlin pulls the tunic over his head, straightening it out. "Good. Thank you." He turns and holds out his arms for the jacket; when he turns back, he catches hold of Merlin's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Come on. I want you standing with me."

Merlin squeezes his hand. "I will. Here." Pulling a length of red cloth from the back of a chair, he drapes the cloak around Arthur's shoulders, reaching around to fasten the clasp of it. Once he gives the fabric a few light pulls to straighten out the fall of it, he takes a step back to cast a critical eye over him, then chortles.

"What?" Arthur glances down at himself, wondering if there was some obvious hole in an embarrassing place or some unfortunate stain.

"Nothing, just…that's near exactly what you were wearing the night I saved you from Mary Collins," Merlin answers.

Arthur raises his brows. "You remember that?" he asks softly, and the younger man nods, smiling. He reaches up to ruffle his dark curls, earning himself an exasperated swat in retaliation. "How mawkishly sentimental of you, lionheart."

"Oh, shut up, let's go."

By the time they make their way out to the citadel's front steps, Leon has done his job well. There's a clear path from the square down to the city and all the way to the gates, guards staggered down the length of the path to help keep the crowds back. What remains of the knights are posted in the square, a markedly smaller number than before the invasion.

Merlin knows when Morgana has entered the city; with the hush lying over the square, he can hear the faint sound of cheering, gradually growing louder and clearer. Murmurs of anticipation ripple through the square, excitement humming in the air. Merlin hears Arthur inhale a sharp breath when his sister rides into the square to a rising cry of joyous welcome. Like Arthur, she's made an effort to gather herself into something presentable, bathed and brushed; perhaps she isn't in a silken gown, but her carriage is upright and proud in the saddle, offering smiles to the townsfolk. The rest of her party follows after—Guinevere, Ione, Hunith, but also Iseldir and the handful of sorcerers that had chosen not to take part of the attack, much to Merlin's shock.

Morgana draws rein in the middle of the square, one of the knights taking the reins from her as she dismounts. She's smiling as she ascends the steps towards Arthur stopping two stairs below him. "Brother."

"Sister," he replies, a smile in his voice.

She lifts something from around her neck, holding it out. Gold winks brightly in the sun—the royal Pendragon crest. She has it strung on a length of cord, the signet ring too large for her smaller fingers. "You entrusted this to my care until our kingdom was ours once again. I return it to you now."

Arthur holds out one hand, and she drops it into his palm. "And I accept it," he says, closing his hand around the ring, then steps down and wraps his arms around her, embracing her fiercely.

The cheer that goes up is loud enough to rattle the windows.