A brisk knocking brings Merlin awake with a start, jerking halfway upright and looking around in confusion until his gaze lands on a familiar face watching him with amusement. "What's…?"
"It's just breakfast," Arthur says gently, then raises his voice a touch. "Enter."
The door of the chamber eases open, a maid entering to set a covered tray on the table and curtseying before leaving again.
Merlin sits himself more upright, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, brow furrowing. "Wasn't Morgana here?" he asks, baffled.
"Yes, she was. Last night." Grinning, Arthur rises from his desk and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. One hand reaches over to smooth down Merlin's hair, fingers lingering warmly against the side of his face. "You fell asleep at the table. Nearly tipped right out of your chair. Gaius said it was best to let you sleep. I doubt you've been getting enough of that."
He snorts wryly. None of them have gotten a great deal of sleep. Conquering a kingdom is easy. Setting one to rights after a conquest is an entirely different matter. So is rescinding a ban that has stood for nearly a quarter century.
Arthur and Morgana hadn't simply made a proclamation to the gathered citizens of Camelot, noble and common-born alike. They had laid out the entire tale for everyone, stretching all the way back to when Morgause had first appeared in Camelot to challenge Arthur—the Knights of Medhir, the sleeping enchantment, the attempt on Morgana's life, Cenred's march on Camelot, the near-war between Caerleon and Camelot provoked by a botched assassination, the foiled attempt at peace with the Druids, the alliance between Helios and Cenred orchestrated by Morgause, the theft of the Cup of Life and the immortal army it'd wrought, Morgana's capture and escape as well as Merlin's, their reunion with Arthur and his men, the planning of a desperate gamble to free Camelot, their infiltration of the city, the burning of the street of silk, the deaths of Helios and Morgause, the spilling of the Cup of Life. They told every bit of it and left none of it out.
Not even the magic.
It had been a tremendous thing to see. An entire city had listened in silence to their king and princess speak, too awestruck to raise any kind of protest or outcry, if they had any at all. When the balance of the story had been told out, Arthur had called for an end of the ban of magic in Camelot. They had lived beneath the shadow of Uther Pendragon's war for too long and brought nothing but suffering back upon themselves. The cycle of vengeance would go on forever, blood for blood, unless they chose to put a stop to it. Choose they did. No more. Uther had begun a war no one could win, trying to shape the very nature of the world to his will, and now his children will end it. No more.
Merlin had nearly fainted on the steps of the citadel that day, and only Leon's iron-firm grip on his elbow had kept him upright.
This past sennight has been a confusing whirlwind of activity. People are still uncertain, wary and suspicious, but so far there has been no outright rebellion, no rioting or calls for revolt, which he takes to be an encouraging sign. Arthur had already begun steering them away from the prejudices of the past without much resistance, and now that they have finally flung themselves over the last great wall, they've all been dazed by their landing on the other side. It will pass.
Merlin pushes back the bedcovers and goes to the table despite Arthur's insistence that he sleep just a little while longer. The smell of fresh bread calls to him even with the tray covered, and his stomach won't let him sleep any longer until he addresses its demands. "What are we doing today?" he asks between bites.
Arthur laces his fingers together beneath his chin, elbows propped on the tabletop. "Uncle Agravaine's trial," he says softly. "I cannot delay it any longer."
The honey in his mouth takes on the flavour of gall. Sliding back the plate, Merlin leans back slightly in the chair. "Does Bellegere still insist on being there?" he asks after a moment of quiet.
A short nod. "I cannot rightfully order her not to. I stripped Agravaine of his title, which means she is now Lady of Snowgate. As scion of one of the Great Houses, she has a seat in the Hall of Audience, and it is her right to preside over trials." He sighs and presses both hands over his face, scrubbing back through his hair and lacing his fingers together over the nape of his neck, head bowed forward. "She's adamant about it." His voice is weary and heartsick.
"He murdered her mother," Merlin points out, not that Arthur much needed the reminder.
They had found the proof of it in Agravaine's belongings when they searched his chambers. A journey book—a kind of magic journal that was crafted in pairs. Whatever was written in one would likewise appear in the other. It was how he had communicated with Morgause without ever leaving Camelot or needing a messenger raven. In it, they had discovered all the proof needed, including an old message from years before in the early pages. Lady Thea, Bellegere's mother, had suspected something was amiss with her lord husband and discovered the journey book whilst searching his study. Agravaine had drugged her with a powerful sleeping draught, then ordered Sayer to drown her in the river and make it appear a suicide. No one would question it, knowing her history of melancholy.
"I know. I know." Arthur raises his head after a moment, blowing out a deep breath as he settles back in his chair. The ring on his finger taps against the carved arm of the chair. "She'll attend the trial if she wants. Not the execution. I'll lock her in her chambers first," he decides at last; Merlin nods, though there had been no question in it. He takes a deep breath and gets to his feet, running his hands through his hair again, then turns back around to face the sorcerer, face set in grim lines. "I'll see you in the Hall of Audience."
The order of no contact has stood for the duration of Agravaine's imprisonment, only two people having seen him—Gaius, to examine his injuries, and the servant who brought him meals, one of Dara's watchers. Arthur walks down into the cool darkness of the dungeons, holding himself collected, every inch the king; the guards straighten at attention as he passes, going to the only cell that is left occupied in the dungeons.
Agravaine had been accorded a bath and fresh attire, and he stands in his cell with carriage upright, chin lifted. When Arthur comes to stand in front of his cell, he holds gaze with him, eyes dark and cold as river stones. The resemblance between father and daughter is writ plain in their features, and yet it is nigh inconceivable that they can share blood.
Arthur turns to look at the guards. "A moment." They nod, departing; once they've gone, he faces Agravaine, clasping his hands behind his back. For a moment, both men are silent, stretched taut in the air between them, but finally, Arthur takes in a deep breath and lets it out slow. "Your trial is but a formality, Uncle. We have proof written in your own hand, an entire city of witnesses. There is no question of your guilt. But I ask you now, only ourselves. Why?" he asks softly.
"Why?" Agravaine echoes, narrowing his eyes, fists clenching at his side. "You would ask me why? I have lost everything to accursed Pendragons. Uther was so desperate to have his precious heir that he willingly made a sacrificial lamb of my sister, his wife, even as he bedded a woman already wed, breeding that bastard whore you call a princess. You murdered Ygraine, and then Uther murdered Tristan when he sought to avenge her. And even that could not assuage his guilt. He slaughtered thousands in the name of his grief, and for what? For you?" He shakes his head. "No. I was glad to hear it when Uther died, and I would have been glad to see every trace of his bloodline scoured from this kingdom, to spare Camelot from all of you."
Arthur listens to it all in silence, hands clasped behind his back; after taking a deep breath to steady himself, he raises his head to stare at the man he had called his uncle for so many years. "My father is dead. Tristan's death has been avenged. You say you lost your sister, but tell me, am I not your sister's son?" he asks. "Your actions against me, do they not dishonour her memory?"
Agravaine's jaw tightens, throat working.
"I may not have been your family, but you were mine. I loved you, Uncle," he continues, forcing the words up past the unexpected tightness closing in his throat and finds he has no more to say. Turning away, he walks back up the corridor and out of the dungeons, making his way to the Hall of Audience.
Everyone is standing, waiting for him before taking their seats. The front half of the hall is given over to seats for the scions of the Great Houses, including a high table where the royal family sits, the middle of the floor left open, the fringes and back corners standing room for lesser nobles and knights. Morgana stands in front of her chair, placed directly to right of his; Bellegere is accorded the seat to Arthur's left as his second-closest blood kin. It should've been held by Agravaine. Soon, he hopes, there will be another chair set at the table for his consort. Until then, it is only the three of them. Heads bow to him as he walks in, making his way up onto the dais. "Be seated, my lords and ladies," he says as he takes his seat.
There's a soft rustling of fabric as they do so, like the gentle ruffling of birds' wings in a mews. Arthur doesn't go so far as to search the Hall of Audience, but in the edges of his vision, he can see Merlin standing with his brother, mother, and great-uncle to the rear of the hall, along with the other round table knights. Merlin's gaze rests on him, solely on him.
It is grounding, helping him keep himself steady. "Bring forward the accused," Arthur says; the chamber is so hushed that his voice echoes faintly in the rafters.
The side door of the hall opens, and Agravaine is led out, escorted by two knights. A ripple of faint hisses rolls through the audience as he walks past them, coming forward to stand in the open space in the middle of the hall before court and crown.
"Agravaine du Bois, Lord of Snowgate, you stand accused of conspiracy, murder, and high treason. Do you deny these crimes?"
The man raises his chin defiantly, staring up at Arthur. "I do not, but I say that I have committed no crime, only acted in the best interest of this kingdom."
He tightens his hands over the arms of the chair, digging his nails into the wood hard enough to make his fingers ache, then leans forward and picks up the small, plainly-bound journey book sitting on the table before him. "We have proof of these crimes here, recorded in your own hand. You confess to the murders of Thea du Bois, Lady of Snowgate, and Talorcan of Camelot. You confess to conspiring with enemies of Camelot, bringing about the events which led to the invasion by King Cenred, Helios of the Southrons, and the High Priestess Morgause. Do you deny this?"
Agravaine's mouth thins, eyes flickering, but then he clenches his fists at his sides and speaks in a steady tone, "I do not."
"The punishment for these crimes is death. However, you have acted not only against me, but against every man, woman, and child of the realm. Therefore, I put it to the realm as well." Arthur turns his head to face the assembled members of his court and council, scions of the Great Houses. One by one, they each shake their head; some make the old Tiberian gesture, thumbs extended and turned downwards—death. So it goes, all the way around the Hall of Audience, until they come at last full circle to Bellegere.
In the great ornate chair, she appears smaller and younger than five-and-ten, yet she holds herself firm and upright, chin raised as she gazes down at her father with the deep, dark eyes she had inherited from him. When she speaks, her voice is a spill of cool water. "Tell me, Father, would you have sold me to some distant lordling, or would you have killed me outright?"
Agravaine has no answer for that, unable to meet his daughter's gaze. It is answer enough. Still, Merlin notices that when Bellegere gives her vote, "Death," a shudder plays through him, his shoulders dropping slightly, and knows something has broken in him, likely something he did not even realise was there to be broken.
Arthur sighs once. "So be it," he says. "The sentence is passed. For your treachery, you will die. For the blood we share, I will grant you the choosing of it. You have until dawn." He gestures with one hand, and two knights move to escort Agravaine from the hall, his feet stumbling.
Thus is the fate of Agravaine du Bois, the last orchestrator of the Great Battle for Camelot.
In the end, the execution is held privately.
It's a matter of some speculation amidst the city, for some had imagined Agravaine would grieve his nephew unto his last moment, but his pride wins out, choosing to die with his dignity rather than on display for the masses. Or perhaps it is that there is something in him that harbours some kindling of love for his family, discovered too late, wishing to spare them the sight of it. When the bell gives its single toll to ring in the dawn, he calls for poison. Swift-acting and painless, he drinks it straight off and lays down to wake no more.
"How is Bellegere?" Merlin asks that night, curving himself around Arthur's back as they lay abed; one hand traces slow circles on his side, the warm skin soft as a child's. After the execution and declaration of death, she had returned to her chambers and spoken only to her cousin.
"She wants to go back to Snowgate." He presses back against his consort with a sigh; he'd never admit to it in so many words, but he likes being held this way, to know that he has someone at his back who will truly have his back. "I cannot say I fault her for it. It is her home, and she is the Lady of Snowgate now; the estate is hers."
"Did anyone speak against that?"
Arthur huffs softly. "Oh, yes. A girl has no place running an estate, a child cannot manage such responsibility," he echoes the words of the councilman who had spoken, scorn colouring his tone. No doubt those same voices had spoken in protest when Morgana had been his named heir, but Arthur had been firm in his resolution then, and he's firm in it now. He scoffs. "I was younger than she was when I was given charge of my estates. Two of them. It wasn't too great a responsibility then. Either way, it doesn't matter. Uncle had no other children, and Snowgate has always been held by a du Bois."
He ducks his head down to rest his cheek against the back of Arthur's shoulder, murmuring against his skin, "What will you?"
"I'll send her off proper, make sure that people know she isn't being cast away for having the misfortune of having the wrong man for a father. She'll come back." Arthur stretches against him, then rolls over so they're face-to-face with one another. The shadow of pain lays over him just as it had when Uther had died, and yet, there's still a brightness to him. "Merlin," he says in a soft voice. "The entire kingdom has been turnt on its ear. I lost my throne and regained it in the course of a month. I overturned a ban that's stood as long as I've lived. I executed my own uncle." A small, humourless smile comes and goes. "I am weary unto death of being caught up in the bloody coils of things that began before I ever opened my eyes. Will we ever be done with it?"
"We will," he reassures. Merlin reaches up to stroke soft golden hair, smoothing it back from his brow, and Arthur tilts his head into the touch, eyes drifting shut. "We will, Arthur. It will take time, and it shan't be easy. The ache is part of the healing. But we will heal, all of us, and we'll be better for it."
The other man smiles faintly, eyes still closed as he leans into Merlin's hand like some great cat; he even sounds like one when he hums softly in his throat. "And then I'll name you my consort and wed you in front of all the peers of the realm and I'll bring you back to this chamber every night without ever having to lie about it again?" he poses, a faint thread of genuine amusement winding its way into his voice.
"Yes, that as well," he chortles.
Dark gold lashes part, pain-bruised eyes searching his. "Do you promise it?"
Merlin leans in to kiss him, soft and lingering. "I promise."
True to his word, when Bellegere takes Ione, Roland, Mhera, and the remainder of her honour guard to return to Snowgate, Arthur accords her a send-off fitting of a highborn lady, silencing any rumours that she was being sent away in disgrace for her father's sin. Mordred offers to accompany her as well, but she insists he's more needed in the city, Camelot's first Druid knight. She promises to return in a few months for their handfasting, swearing bodily harm upon all of them if they dare go through with it without her being there.
It's a strange time.
Whilst Arthur was the one to repeal the law against magic, it is Morgana and Merlin who truly lift the ban of it. Morgana has been a well-loved presence in Camelot since she was one-and-ten, Uther's beloved ward, Camelot's darling. She plays the games of court well. Daresay there are none who play it better. Except perhaps Merlin. None can match him in the art of playing the long game, and he'd mastered dissembling before he ever reached his Colts' Years. Whilst he is still new to the finer skillset of statecraft, he has an acute memory, able to recall at a moment's prompting the most obscure detail of anything he'd ever read—and he reads extensively. Upon Arthur's order, Geoffrey had turned out easily twoscore books from the era before the Purge, hidden away in the library; a true librarian could never stand to see a book burned, no matter how treasonous its contents. Several of them contain details of magical law and restrictions which, when coupled with Morgana's knowledge of governance and Merlin's fearful intellect, pave the kingdom's path to normalcy at a rapid clip.
The first true test of their new world is the Cup of Life. There are factions who demand it be locked in the vaults of Camelot, away from their enemies. There are factions who call for it to be returned to the keeping of the Druids. There are factions who demand that it be destroyed entirely. Arthur learns soon that the third option isn't viable. The Cup of Life is a manifestation of the power of life and death. It exists beyond time and cannot be destroyed.
Unsurprisingly, Merlin is the main voice calling for the Cup's return to the Druids. "It was safe in their keeping before, and it will be safe there again. What Morgause did was blasphemy. It went against the very nature of the world and twisted the balance. It is not something any tenpenny magician with a mind for vengeance can weave," he insists at one such debate in the council hall, sitting opposite from those who would have the Cup sent to the vaults. "It does not belong to Camelot, and it does not belong in Camelot's vault."
"Before it was with Iseldir's camp, where was the Cup hidden?" Arthur asks.
"It was not hidden at all. It was kept on the Isle of the Blessed, under the protection of the High Priests and Priestesses who lived there. It was moved after the last one… suddenly died," Merlin replies, casting him brief, purposeful glance and straightening his neckerchief.
It seems an idle motion, but Arthur knows the old, shiny burn that lies beneath the red cloth, a mirroring wound to the deep scar upon his own shoulder. Now we match. "The Isle of the Blessed is within Camelot's borders. Can it not be returned there?" he asks, looking towards Iseldir, sitting at Merlin's side along with several other Druid elders and sorcerers, including a strangely accented and tattooed man hailing from something called the Catha.
"The Isle would be the safest place for it, sire," Iseldir replies. "It is a holy place."
"It will be protected," says the tattooed man, Alator.
He sits back in his chair a moment, ring clicking against the carved wood as he drums his fingers against the arm of the chair. "The Cup will remain in Camelot," he begins, then holds up a hand when he sees Merlin straighten in his seat, already getting his back up. "As I understand it, the Isle is being rebuilt, and there are acolytes already being trained there, yes?" he asks; the sorcerers nod. "Then the Cup remains in Camelot's vaults until such time as there are sufficient numbers to ensure its safekeeping on the Isle. Does that suit?"
There's an exchange of glances, not a single word spoken aloud, and then Merlin nods decisively. "It will suit," he agrees.
Such is the cycle of their days.
Forging new laws, overturning the old, finding compromise where the two conflict. Merlin's prediction proves true, as they all knew it would—it isn't always easy, and there is indeed an ache to it.
Some cling to the past, purporting rumours that Arthur is under control of magic, a mummer's king. The person controlling him, Merlin or Morgana, varies depending on which version is more popular that day. Still, not much stock is placed in such murmurings. Morgana is Arthur's heir; if she truly desires the throne, an assassination is not so difficult a thing to orchestrate, especially for someone of her capacity. As for Merlin…they have known each other in passing since Arthur was two-and-ten, and Merlin has been his manservant for years. He's had more than ample opportunity to bring ill upon Arthur.
There are a few who whisper that perhaps Uther was assisted into the next life by his sorceress daughter in order to make way for his ambitious son; those rumours are stamped out quickly and harshly.
The occasional knot of protest springs up in varying provinces, nervous tensions spilling over into violence, though only twice does it grow so severe that Arthur sends a regiment of the Royal Army to bring order.
Even a stunted tree will reach for sunlight.
The street of silk is rebuilt, trade picks up to its usual lively pace, bolstered by the presence of more magically-inclined merchants. A new crop of recruits enlists, hoping for replenish the ranks of the knights—there's a handful of young sorcerers amongst them, watching Mordred with adoration. Arthur conscripts the finest carpenters to build a second Round Table, large enough to seat far more than just nine people. The original table is brought from the castle ruins and set up in one of the smaller, private halls. His personal small council, sat by those who love him most, where he is only Arthur and not the King. No official proclamation is made, no banns are posted, and yet, the household begins to treat Merlin less like a fellow servant and more like his consort. It is one of the constants of the universe: servants miss nothing.
Summer tilts towards autumn, and harvesttime comes to the countryside. For the first time in nearly three-and-ten years, Merlin doesn't sit vigil beneath the quickbeam in the townhouse garden. A path is cleared to the standing stones in the Darkling Wood, and he leads the ritual procession from the city, giving tribute to the Old Ones and celebrating the Feast of the Dead. He doesn't ask if anyone has seen the shades of the dead during the celebration, not even Arthur. He had hoped to see Father, but none of his dead appear to him, though surely he has many. A part of him is grateful not to see Nimueh again.
The celebration winds on. In the small hours of the morning before the dawn comes proper, Merlin manages to make his way back up to the royal chambers, towing Arthur along with him, both of them giddily drunk on perry brandy and joy.
"Maiden have mercy, get off!" Arthur groans as they tumble onto the bed in a tangled heap, Merlin landing square atop him. "No more honey cakes for you."
"Oh, that's passing rich coming from you, you overfed bullock," Merlin retorts, giggling as he manages to wriggle his way further up onto the bed and off his consort, instead tucking himself in the space beneath Arthur's arm. Warm from the brandy and drowsy with it, he's half-asleep without ever getting beneath the blankets or taking off his boots. Still, he rouses when he feels a sword-callused hand grasp his, something cool fumbling over his fingers. "What's that?" he mumbles, squinting to keep his vision from doubling any further. Still, he has to blink several times before he can make sense of what it is he's seeing—a band of finely engraved silver on his finger. His breath catches in his throat.
"I told you I would have one made, did I not?" Arthur murmurs against his cheek, breath sweet with perry. "I say summer, this coming summer. I know it's your favourite time of year. We'll post the banns when the last of the harvest comes in, and then the court will have the winter to fret and moan and get over themselves. We'll let Morgana plan the whole thing. She'll love that."
Merlin blinks back the sudden heat of tears even as he laughs, sitting up to rain kisses over Arthur's face, babbling incoherently. He's not even certain what all he's saying, only that he's agreeing, or at least, he hopes that is what comes across. As Arthur pulls him in for another kiss, he reaches up and gently captures the king's face between his hands. "Twice," he says, earning a small, puzzled frown in return. "We have a handfasting done here in Camelot, the way you nobles do it, but then I want it done again by way of the Old Religion. It's a different ceremony, different vows."
Arthur turns his head to kiss Merlin's callused fingertips, then each of his knuckles, lips lingering against the engraved band. "If that's what you want. And anything else," he adds, murmuring the words against Merlin's palm. The corner of his mouth curves up in that sweet, crooked smile so rarely seen, and he echoes the words they've said so many times in their compromises. "Does it suit?"
Laughing, Merlin leans forward and kisses him once more. "Oh, yes. It will suit."