Chapter XIII: Departure

"I think, Merlin, that your friend Guinevere might have a point."

That was not what Merlin had been expecting to hear when he told Blaise his predicament. He'd expected that the druid—recently returned from a sojourn with his people at the Isle of the Blessed only to discover that Camelot had gone collectively insane—would protest immediately, would list a dozen good reasons to keep silent that his pupil hadn't thought of. He'd… sort of been hoping for that, honestly, because even though his head said one thing, years of conditioning demanded that he find another reason—a good reason, one strong enough to overpower Gwen's words—to keep the magic secret.

"Why do you say that?" he asked quietly, fiddling with his kerchief.

Blaise was silent for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. Merlin waited in tense silence. Finally the druid spoke. "I think that since you no longer need to worry about him betraying you to his father, you have a brief period of time where your friendship will not be too badly damaged by his perceived mistrust. The longer you wait, the worse he will react when you reveal yourself to him, especially since you know him as both Merlin and Emrys."

"But…." Merlin's fists clenched, dropped to his side. "Are you sure?"

A warm hand grasped his shoulder. "Yes. But you're afraid."

Merlin flinched. "I've spent my entire life…."

The hand squeezed down gently. "I remember when the Slaughter began," Blaise said quietly. "One day, the world made sense, though we grieved for the poor young queen's death. The next, word reached my clan of the Day of Pyres." His eyes were distant, sad. "I didn't believe it at first. Neither, I think, did many of my kin. But then other rumors reached us, and our chieftainess asked for volunteers to venture into Camelot and seek the truth. They were to travel openly, with triskelions on their cloaks."

Merlin's head snapped up, his eyes widening in alarm.

"A young man of our tribe spoke against it. If there was even a slight chance that magic had been outlawed, then surely our scouts ought to hide. Many argued against it, thinking the rumors completely ridiculous, but in the end, Iseldir's words of caution prevailed. His suggestion saved my life, and his skill at evading Uther's bloodcloaks played a great role in his election as Elowen's successor. Listening to his fear kept Iseldir, and me, and our entire tribe alive… but when the time came, he was the first to stand behind you and become a living reminder that magic was not purely evil. He told me that while there is no shame in fear, a leader must know when to heed his fears and when to overcome them."

Merlin was not a leader, but he thought he understood what Blaise was telling him. The warlock forced a weak smile. "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much." The joke fell flat. Flinching, Merlin returned to the relevant topic. "If… if I was going to tell him, when do you think I should?"

"I would wait until you reach Tintagel," Blaise advised. "It will be easier to get him alone if you're not on the road, and this way he'll have some time away from his father so that he can adjust."

So… three or four days, then, assuming he took Blaise's advice. They were to leave tomorrow, which was why he'd been able to take such a long "herb-gathering journey" in the forest—he had to stock up Gaius's supplies before leaving, after all—and it took about three and a half days to get to Tintagel. If he gave them a half-day or so to get settled, then he'd have four or five days before he couldn't really put it off anymore, not if he wanted to give Arthur maximum time to adjust before they had to return.

Five days. By all the gods, that was less than a week.

Merlin was starting to feel sick again.

"Are you all right?"

"Just… listening to my fears when I probably shouldn't, that's all." He forced a weak little chuckle. "How do I shut them up?"

"In my experience, sometimes you need to reason with them. Other times you simply need to ignore them. Still other times, you need to shout more loudly than they can. In this case, though, I think you'll need all three."

"All three," the younger man repeated. "Okay. I can do that, maybe."

"Are you certain you're all right, Merlin?" the druid asked quietly. "This is one of the most important decisions of your life. You don't need to make it right this moment."

They would be in Tintagel in five days, Merlin could have said, but instead, he forced brightness into his smile. "Of course."

Did he even need to talk to Morgana? Merlin weighed the question as he made his way back to Camelot, the city of death that had somehow become almost a home to him. Blaise had given good advice, and he doubted that the witch could silence the druid and the maid. But he probably should anyways, just to let her know that oh, by the way, he might be telling Arthur he was a warlock. He wouldn't mention that Morgana was a witch, of course—that was her secret to tell or keep as she saw fit—but he figured that she would appreciate the warning.

"Is something wrong, Merlin?"

The warlock started. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed his return to the physician's chambers. He was halfway up the short flight of stairs that led to his own room, his arms and packs still heavy with herbs. Merlin's cheek's flushed as red as his neckerchief. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Just, you know, distracted."

"Considering what happened last time you left Camelot, I can't really blame you."

Merlin pulled up short. He'd been so worried about catching Cornelius Sigan and then about potentially telling Arthur his secret that he'd pretty much forgotten that he was leaving Camelot. That, he recalled, was what had resulted in this entire Sigan fiasco in the first place.

Well, sort of. The excavations had been going on long before he'd left for the summit on the Isle of the Blessed and he hadn't paid any attention to them then, but perhaps he'd have been able to stop Sigan right away if he'd been in Camelot when the man escaped. It felt almost like he was tempting fate, now, leaving his city alone again.

Granted, this time he wasn't leaving Camelot undefended. Alator and a half-dozen of his initiates were to infiltrate the city while he was gone, keeping an eye out for threats born of and aligned against magic. If Sigan tried anything, they would be there; if Uther tried anything, they would be there.

Still, the reminder frightened him, filled him with a superstitious dread. What if he hadn't done enough to protect the city? Hells, what if Sigan found another immortal army and Alator's Catha didn't have the weapons to fight the undead soldier? He didn't think that there were many more immortal armies lying around Camelot, but then, he hadn't known about the Knights of Medhir either until they showed up.

…And now he was worrying about whether or not Catha training covered what to do when the dead reared up and attacked.

"Merlin?"

Gaius's alarm drew the warlock out of his reverie. "Sorry," the younger man muttered, reddening slightly. "I'm just… kind of nervous about leaving, you know."

The physician's face softened. "We will be fine," Gaius assured him.

But they weren't fine, not in Merlin's dreams. He saw the white walls of Camelot blacken and burn and crumble, saw ravens pecking out Gaius's eyes. He woke with his sleeping clothes plastered to his clammy white skin, to a racing heart and a sick dread and an almost uncontrollable urge to go check on his uncle. Gaius was sleeping, of course, his face unperturbed by nightmares. Lucky man.

Merlin nodded at the sight of his sleeping mentor, then went to summon Kilgharrah.

He and the dragon hadn't been meeting quite so often now that they no longer needed to smuggle sheep together, but he still had the scale that he could use to summon him. Merlin called his friend's name three times, then settled down against a tree to wait.

It wasn't long before wingbeats announced Kilgharrah's arrival. The dragon landed surprisingly lightly for such a huge creature, bronze-gold scales shining in the meager light of the moon and stars. His eyes, though, were as bright as ever.

"Young warlock."

"Kilgharrah." Merlin stood, approached. "I'm sorry to call you so close to the citadel with Uther's men so paranoid, but I think I need a favor."

"Of course."

"Uther is sending Arthur to Tintagel to get him away from Sigan. He and I are leaving tomorrow. I asked Alator of the Catha and some of his men to look after the citadel while I'm gone, but they can't be everywhere at once, and I'm just…. Can you bring me the Raven's Key, Kilgharrah?"

Kilgharrah's great golden head tilted to the side. "If you are certain," he replied after a long moment of silence.

"I am." Merlin met his friend's gaze. "I've given Alator a copy of Sigan's grimoire so he has a better idea what he's up against, but I very much doubt that he put a copy of every spell he knows into his book. Plus he possessed Geoffrey for awhile, long enough to learn about the Knights of Medhir, who didn't exist until long after Sigan was buried. I would just really rather be safe than sorry."

"So you intend to give the Key to Alator."

"To Gaius, actually," Merlin corrected. "The Catha can't spend too much time in the castle, but Gaius lives there. I figure that if the worst happens, Gaius can use the Key as a last line of defense. He's got a copy of the grimoire too."

Almost immediately after finding Cornelius Sigan's grimoire down in his tomb, Merlin had purchased four blank journals and magically copied the book's contents into them. That much parchment had cost him a pretty penny, and the copying itself had been long and boring, but this way, Merlin wasn't the only one dredging through a complicated old tome for obscure information that might possibly help. He'd kept the original copy for himself, of course—there were enchantments on it that he wanted to unravel—but he'd given the four replicas to Blaise, Gaius, Alator, and his parents on the Isle of the Blessed, who would hopefully be able to find someone with experience in magical research.

"And the grimoire contains directions about how to use the Raven's Key?"

"I think so," Merlin mumbled, embarrassed. "I haven't really had a chance to look through it yet." He'd been too busy with replication, meetings, preparations, quietly panicking about how he might be telling Arthur his secret in just a few days, and of course his sojourn in the stocks to do any research. Hopefully the other people with copies had had more time to actually accomplish something.

"Even if the grimoire does not contain instructions, I doubt that the Raven's Key is very difficult to use," Kilgharrah assured him. "It was meant for people without magical training to use in times of crisis. Anything too esoteric would be beyond their capabilities."

"You're right," Merlin agreed, relieved. Even if it were more difficult to use than Kilgharrah thought, Gaius was smart and had a copy of the grimoire. He could easily figure it out. "Can you bring it to me?"

Kilgharrah's wings unfurled. "I shall."

The dragon was off in a flurry of wings and wind. Merlin watched him go with a smile that quickly faded as his friend flew out of sight. If he'd been smart, he'd have brought something to do while he waited for Kilgharrah to get the Key. The grimoire, probably, which he had yet to read and wouldn't be able to read on the road surrounded by knights. Did he have enough time to run back, grab the grimoire, and bring it here to read? He would, except he had no idea how long it would take Kilgharrah to get the Raven's Key. So, with nothing better to do, he went back to thinking about Arthur and his secret and what he was considering doing about them.

Needless to say, the warlock was very relieved when his friend returned.

In the morning, he would give the Raven's Key to Gaius before packing up Arthur's things and getting on the road. For now, though, he would go back to his bed and curl up and hope he could fall asleep.

He couldn't.

This was Arthur's last chance. After today—in just an hour or so, in fact—he would leave Camelot for at least a week and a half, probably a bit more than a fortnight. If he wanted answers (which he did), he needed them now.

The prince was almost proud of himself for his plan. He'd asked his father if they could break their fasts together, a way of saying goodbye. There was nobody with them except his father's manservant, who was flitting in and out of the room with a truly prodigious quantity of food (Merlin had to finish packing). If he sent the servant off to the kitchens for pears—one of the few food items that he hadn't already brought them—then he'd have time for a much-needed conversation.

"Before I leave Camelot," he said carefully, "there is a security concern that I would like to address, something about the threat of Emrys."

Uther looked up at that, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Cold suspicion hardened his eyes. He said nothing, waiting instead for his son to continue.

Arthur decided that this was a good sign. "Cornelius Sigan mentioned that he thought this Emrys might be the real one. A few weeks ago, you mentioned that Emrys was only calling himself that." He leaned forward, breakfast forgotten. "If this imposter is laying claim to some sort of magical title, Father, I need to know what exactly it is."

"No, you do not."

The prince pulled up short. He hadn't expected such a point-blank denial.

"Why not?"

"Because you have proven yourself incapable of remembering that he is our enemy."

Arthur scrambled about mentally for an excuse. "Because he's using me," he improvised. "I—I came to understand that in the dungeons. That's why I need to know what he's pretending to be. If I knew that, I might better understand what he's trying to use me for. I could better protect myself." Internally, he patted himself on the back for improvising such a good excuse.

Uther was significantly less impressed. "You can protect yourself by killing him immediately the next time he appears. Then you are to burn his corpse and bring me his blackened skull."

"…Right," Arthur said, a bit faintly. Didn't his father understand that—oh, who the hell was he kidding? He'd nearly executed Leon and Geoffrey (mostly Leon), who had served him loyally for years and decades respectively, because they had reacted to magic with something less than automatic viciousness. He'd locked his only son and heir in a cell for not immediately slaughtering the only person who could protect Camelot from Cornelius Sigan. And hadn't he once hinted that he would execute Gaius once because he blamed the physician's magical theory lessons for inspiring Arthur to stand up for the druids?

Perhaps he should ask Emrys directly next time they met.

…He probably shouldn't be so blasé about treasonous communications with a known lawbreaker, but Arthur found that it was getting much harder for him to care about that sort of thing.

Between the failure of his grand master plan, the forced departure to Tintagel, the ongoing threat of Cornelius Sigan, and the knowledge that there wasn't a whole lot he could do to stop Sigan even if he hadn't been unceremoniously sent away from the danger zone, Arthur found himself in a foul mood as he stalked towards the stables. He and his father had said their (stiff, uncomfortable) goodbyes after finishing breakfast, and now he had to mill about the stinky stables as the king spoke with his ward.

"Something wrong, sire?"

Merlin punctuated his question with a yawn. The boy was wan and drawn, with huge dark bags hanging beneath his eyes. His insomnia had obviously been acting up again.

"Yes," Arthur told him curtly, making it very clear to any normal person that he was in no mood to discuss this further.

Merlin nodded. "Okay. You want to talk about it?"

There was nothing to throw, so Arthur settled for smacking his manservant on the back of the head.

"Come on," the boy whined defensively. "I just wanted to see if I could help!"

Arthur snorted. "Unless you can tell me about these ancient secret prophecies that apparently feature my magical shadow, there's nothing you can do."

Merlin pulled up short, his bleary eyes going wide.

"You're joking," Arthur said, incredulous. "How would you of all people know about this?"

Merlin's gaze darted about, ascertaining that nobody was listening. Still, his voice was low as he murmured, "In Camelot, it's illegal to talk about this, pain of death. It's different in Essetir, but since we're in your father's kingdom now, could you maybe not let on that I know about it?"

Arthur glanced over to the stable doors. Morgana was entering, Guinevere at her heels. Arthur smiled at them, waved in greeting, before returning his attention to his manservant. "We'll talk in the woods," he muttered.

"What, surrounded by—"

"Ready to go, Morgana?" Arthur called, striding towards them.

His foster sister nodded. "It will be good to see Tintagel again," she said, the faintest of smiles curving her lips.

"What about you, Guinevere? Have you been to Tintagel before?"

She smiled at him, lovely even in her drab gray riding dress. "No, but Lady Morgana has told me so much about it that I feel like I have."

"She did the same with me," Arthur told her.

The four of them made light conversation as they rode through the city and into the forest. Arthur was glad of the distraction. Not only was he painfully curious about Emrys, but his people were looking at him with fear and something like betrayal as he and his party passed them by. He was their prince, their protector, and he was abandoning them to Cornelius Sigan.

As he led his group through the city gates, Arthur offered up a silent prayer that Emrys would keep Camelot safe in his absence.

"Is something wrong?" Guinevere asked him, her brown eyes concerned. She stiffened suddenly, hands flying to her mouth. "Did you and Merlin have a fight?"

"Not at all," Arthur assured her quickly. "I just dislike leaving my people when there's a centuries-old lunatic on the loose."

She nodded. "The people of Camelot are strong," she reminded him, "and Sigan is likely planning through his next scheme. You have time, Arthur." Her hand brushed his arm before pulling away quickly.

Like him, Guinevere knew that a prince and a maidservant could never be.

Arthur swallowed hard. "You're right, of course," he murmured. "Thank you." In a louder, sharper voice, he called, "Merlin!"

"We're scouting ahead already?" the servant whined.

Arthur almost asked what his servant was talking about before he realized that the man was covering for him. By all the gods, when had Merlin gotten that cunning? First the lie about Excalibur, now making it look like they really weren't just sneaking off to talk about something illegal. He even had the right body language.

Except, the prince realized with a start, he'd always been that way. He'd stuck a neckerchief on Mordred and paraded him about in broad daylight, convincing everyone in the citadel and Arthur himself that the druid boy was his little brother. And those were just the lies that Arthur had caught him in.

Merlin surreptitiously elbowed him. Realizing he hadn't yet answered, Arthur blurted out, "Yes."

It was not his best comeback, but he dragged his manservant ahead before anybody could comment.

"What do you know about Emrys?" he asked once they were far enough ahead to not be overheard.

Merlin's eyes widened in alarm as he flinched, which was a silly reaction from someone who knew that this would be a topic of conversation. He hesitated, uncharacteristically nervous.

"Well?"

Merlin closed his eyes, swallowed hard. His shoulders straightened, though, and when he reopened his eyes, they were firm and resolute.

"It is said that there are prophecies written on the bones of the land, prophecies about a warlock mage and the king he serves. They say that there will come a time of smoke and darkness, when the greatest of gifts is warped into a curse and the eternal flame is reduced to s stuttering ember. But then they will come: the Once and Future King. The People's Queen. The Royal Witch. The Knights of the Round Table. Emrys. Together, they will lift the old king's shadow from the land and unite all the warring kingdoms of the Isle of the Mighty to form the great nation of Albion." Merlin tilted his head at Arthur. He wasn't blinking. "It's said that the Once and Future King will be the greatest king to ever live."

To be honest, Arthur had sort of half-suspected that it would be something like that. It made sense that if Emrys was fighting the Purge, he'd lay claim to the title of someone destined to fight against—and overthrow—Purge-like conditions. The rest of it, though? That, he hadn't expected.

"A… Once and Future King, you say?"

No, he had not expected that.

Arthur's voice was tiny and almost afraid, because the title felt as right and natural as his own name.

"That would be you."

Arthur cringed.

"If it helps, Arthur, I think that you're going to do a good job of it. And I think that the People's Queen is supposed to be of commoner blood, so it sounds like you might have a chance of marrying Gwen. And I'm pretty sure that Leon's one of your Knights of the Round Table, so at least you'll have—"

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Quit thinking. You'll hurt yourself. And shut up."

Arthur spurred his horse into a canter. Merlin followed, of course—it was impossible to get rid of the boy even when he would really rather be left alone—but he had the decency to stay at a reasonable distance until noon, when he brought his master back to the main party for lunch.

The prince stayed with the rest of the party after that, speaking to no one unless spoken to first, and then only in monosyllables. He was quiet all day, caught up in the turmoil of his own thoughts.

He was also a figure of prophecy.

He was supposedly destined to undo everything his father stood for.

…At least he might possibly be able to marry Guinevere, but that thought caused its own turmoil and confusion as he imagined the potential political ramifications and tried to figure out how that was even possible.

So it was no wonder that he was distant and quiet all day, ignoring his companions and barely noticing when they arrived at an inn for supper and shelter. Merlin, thankfully, respected his wishes, even convincing everyone else to back off for a bit (at least, that's what Arthur thought he'd been doing in his hushed conversation with Guinevere and Morgana). Even Sir Leon gave up trying to talk with him after being rebuffed for the third time.

Then Merlin poked him in the face, startling him out of his contemplations.

Arthur glared. The manservant was unrepentant. "Your supper got here a couple minutes ago. If you wait much longer, it'll get cold."

The prince sighed but admitted to himself that Merlin was right. He really didn't want a cold supper.

Still, his reverie had been broken, so he noticed when Guinevere let out a shocked gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Arthur was instantly on the alert, following her gaze to the entrance of the inn to see a dark-haired man in a white tunic staring at the maid with an expression of stunned recognition. "Gwen?" he asked.

Guinevere rose to her feet, her meal forgotten. She nodded.

The man's face brightened as a familiar smile spread across it. "It's really you!"

Then they were hugging, identical smiles gracing their faces. "Gods, I've missed you," the man said.

"I've missed you too, Elyan."

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Arthur Starts Becoming Suspicious of Merlin's Surprisingly Good Lying Skills, Which Means It's Probably a Good Thing that Merlin is Considering Coming Clean"

Next chapter: February 3. Gwen catches up with her brother, Merlin and Morgana have a chat,we maybe get some Alator POV back in Camelot, and Arthur... learns a secret that has been kept from him for a very long time.

-Antares