1x08 – The Fork in the Road (Part 1)
Late into the night, when his candle was burning down to a stump and his head was drooping to barely an inch above a dusty tome, Merlin realised he was looking at matters entirely from the wrong angle.
He couldn't say what made him think it. He'd been trying to focus on the sleep-blurred letters with a nagging suspicion that it had been a while since he'd last turned a page, but was unable to keep his mind from wandering to the black clad knight standing out in the courtyard, motionless as the dead. For the last three nights he'd stood there without food or sleep, a vigil impossible for even the most determined man alive. And yet still this knight stood there, awaiting the morrow for his match against Uther Pendragon's son. Awaiting the match against his third competitor – his third victim.
Geoffrey of Marmouth had been most reluctant to relinquish one of his leather-bound treasures, but after several hours of pouring over old texts together in the archive room the old man looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. The uncharacteristic loan of one of his precious books to an unruly youngster, then, seemed the result of a combination of exhaustion and a common desire to give the prince a fighting chance against his invulnerable opponent. And so it was that Merlin found himself flipping through musty old tomes, trying to find ideas for how to kill someone who was already dead.
Because, of course, Arthur wouldn't be Arthur if he didn't feel the need to set himself up for the slaughter come morning. Hence, Merlin's frantic midnight search for how to interfere with the inevitable outcome of a match between a man and a wraith.
The first book Geoffrey had pulled out had excited Merlin, with its mention of how swords forged in a dragon's breath could kill anything, living or dead. The sight of a simple map, however, had merciless cut down his frenzied if vague schemes of finding Aithusa: the inky depiction of the citadel in relation to Snowdonia had been most disheartening.
His next thought, to locate one of the legendary swords, was similarly infeasible, as he had no idea where to even begin looking. Since then he'd been searching for a secondary way of enchanting weapons to be invincible, and coming to the slow conclusion that there wasn't one.
In the end it wasn't a book at all that gave him his solution; it was a growing dread for the coming dawn and hopeless reflections of the day before that made Merlin suddenly sit up, leap to his feet, and shake Gaius awake from where he'd succumbed to exhaustion atop an old book.
"What?" Gaius groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He pushed himself off the hard table, wincing at the creak of his old bones. "Have you found something?"
"I think so," Merlin said, distracted. He unearthed his spellbook from a stack of loaned books, flipping through until he found the chapter titled Glamours, skimming to the page he wanted. He turned the book over, showing it to Gaius. "Here, this one. I've never done it before, so I'll need you to help me test it out."
Gaius took the book from Merlin, hovering his glass over the page to better read it. "Glamours? That's very advanced magic, but how will it help?"
"Don't you see? It's so simple I can't believe it didn't occur to me before! You said nothing can stop this wraith until it's achieved what it came for. It was revived by its thirst for vengeance – once it exacts its revenge, it'll have no motivation to linger."
Gaius peered up at him in mild disbelief. "Are you suggesting we disguise Arthur as Uther?"
"Of course." Merlin bookmarked the page, flipping back to an earlier chapter on defensive magic, settling on a page titled Curse of Paralysis, "If the wraith thinks it's killed Uther, it'll let go of its worldly regrets and move on. I can freeze 'Uther' at the right moment, make it look like he's a couple of feet off of where he really is, and let the wraith thinks it's killed him."
Gaius gave him a long, hard look, the crease in his brow speaking of some internal conflict. After a long moment, the crease smoothed out and Gaius nodded, his decision made. "All right. What do you want me to do?"
Merlin gestured towards a nearby broom, not bothering with an incantation to make it sail towards Gaius. "I need you to swing that around like a sword while I practice."
Gaius quirked an eyebrow dubiously – he was hardly fighting fit, but it wasn't like Merlin had anyone else. His tired old bones creaking, Gaius stood and brandished the broom in random slashing motions.
"Ætíe mé þá þé ic wysce."
The air around Gaius shimmered like there were rolls of heat from a scorching sun, stretching the old man's figure. The faint distortion lasted no longer than three half-hearted swings before fading.
Merlin sighed, "This is going to be a long night."
The sun was bathing the city in its first rays by the time Merlin was confident he'd gotten it down. Gaius, drenched in sweat, threw down the broom like it had mortally offended him, and stiffly trudged over to his workbench. He began rummaging through his potion bottles while rubbing bloodshot eyes.
There was just enough time for Merlin to grab a slice of bread and cheese before hurrying off. Biding a bread-muffled farewell to Gaius, who'd forgone breakfast and was heading up to the castle with an unfamiliar tonic, Merlin raced down to the tournament area.
He had only just finished preparing Arthur's equipment when there was a swoosh of fabric, and a deep, familiar voice said,
"I trust everything is ready."
Merlin nearly dropped Arthur's sword. Spinning around, he saw he hadn't been mistaken: it was the king.
Just what was Uther doing here?
"Er… Arthur's not here yet," Merlin said. Remembering who he was speaking to, he hastily tacked on, "Your Majesty."
"He won't be coming. I will be taking his place today."
Like a blow from behind, Merlin hadn't seen that coming at all.
Even as he mechanically went through the motions of suiting the king up in Arthur's gear, he couldn't quite believe this was happening.
It didn't make any sense. Arthur wouldn't have said oh, I see and quietly stepped aside to let anyone, much less his sire and liege, take on his challenge for him. Surely at any moment he would be bursting into the tent, yelling at his father for trying to sneak one past him and threatening Merlin with the stocks for going along with it.
But Uther exited the tent clad in Arthur's mail, and Arthur was still nowhere to be seen. Somehow, Uther had detained him; it was the only thing that made sense. Perhaps he'd ordered the guards to stop Arthur from setting so much as a toe out his door? Or perhaps…
Just what had Gaius taken up to the castle in such a hurry? Surely not, surely he would said something if…
But it hardly mattered now. Merlin didn't need to lift a single finger to save Arthur; instead, his father would face the certain death in his stead.
Uther was going to sacrifice himself to save his son…
Merlin looked around again, but there was still no Arthur racing forwards, shouting orders and purple with rage at someone else once again accepting his challenge in his place. At his father, his only family facing death in his place… Merlin froze, a horrible thought surfacing.
This will destroy Arthur.
He'd carry the blame all his life, forever weighing heavily on his shoulders, pulling him down. It'd tear him up inside; he'd never be the same.
And yet… and yet how much freer Merlin's life would be, without Uther in it. And not just him but the druids, and Aithusa…! Without the threat of Uther Pendragon, the invisible noose around their necks would hang that much looser. They'd breathe that much easier, if the wraith killed him… If Merlin let him die…
But what about the people of Camelot? The pinched faces passing Merlin by silent as ghosts, pale with the fear of losing the only heir to the throne... what would become of them without their king? They'd look to Arthur to make everything right, to rule at least as well as Uther did – Arthur, who'd be devastated; could anyone truly survive so much pressure while so consumed by guilt and grief?
Somehow, Merlin found himself in the stands, Gaius standing beside him. There, waiting down in the arena, was the black clad knight, inhuman in his stillness. In walked the king, clad in his son's armour. A gasp went through the crowd.
Uther's steeled voice carried all through the stands, though the one he addressed was barely five feet away. "You can have what you came for – the father, not the son."
There was a clang of metal on metal – the fight had begun. Through the deadly dance of man and wraith, Merlin's mind flittered frantically between two warring thoughts. Every detail was burned into his retinas – no doubt he'd dream of it that night, and many more to come.
The man knocked away the black helmet, exposing the rotted flesh within. A gasp went through the crowd, and cold dread pooled in Merlin. The man didn't flinch in his swings, but his parries were slower and his blows non-existent, like his body had realised that no matter how he fought there could be only one end to this fight. His sword was knocked from his hand, flying a good ten feet away. He fell to the ground, defenceless.
Merlin's heartbeat hammered in his throat, a drumming underlying two thoughts screaming at him from opposing sides of his conscience:
Save him. Do nothing. Save him. Do nothing. Save him. Do nothing…
Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump…
The dead man's sword was descending upon the living and, in that single instant, Merlin's choice was made.
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In a servant's entrance stood Merlin, waiting for Gaius. Two echoes reverberated in from the council chamber, the carried voices clashing against their stony amplifiers. They felt separated from him by more than mere walls; as if the distorted sounds existed on a separate plane from him entirely. For one of them, Merlin's treacherous mind whispered that it should be so, a thought he'd tried to snuff out rearing its ugly head yet again,
Uther Pendragon should have died today.
"I thought you said the wraith wouldn't vanish until it had had its revenge?"
"Yes, it was remarkable, Sire," Gaius answered with deliberate blandness.
"Strange is more like it. I was about to block its attack, when suddenly my shield became much heavier and I couldn't lift it. I was wide open, yet it struck me in the shoulder, not the heart. I couldn't move – as though a great force were pinning me to the ground. Then, right out of the blue, the wraith vanished and I could move again. How do you explain that?"
How indeed, thought the instigator of Uther's momentary affliction. A just question, my Lord.
Even if Merlin took a leave of his senses and burst into the room, on bended knee confessing the hows of Uther's paralysis, he would have been completely unable to give a satisfactory answer to the next question, the doubtlessly last question before losing his head became more than metaphorical: why?
Just what had possessed him to save the life of Uther Pendragon?
The spells had been the easy part. True, they were some of the most hideously complex spells in his book, but to save Arthur's life they'd been child's play to learn. But then into the tent where Merlin was readying Arthur's sword, Arthur's shield, Arthur's armour walked Uther.
And Merlin had been forced to make a choice. Now, he had to live with the consequences.
Uther Pendragon should have died today, whispered scathing logic, livid at having been ignored when it mattered. You played God, when you have no idea what you're doing and no plan. What are you going to do the next time the king condemns an innocent? Don't you remember Mordred? Or the very first time you laid eyes on Uther? Gwen almost burning, on his orders? The fate of Mordred's master? Your own father, for God's sake – have you forgotten even that?
There was a loud slamming of thick oaken doors and the sound of heavy footsteps which spoke their owner's displeasure.
Glass chinked against glass; Gaius was hurrying to pack up his medicine bag, suddenly eager to be off. "Well, it's not fatal, but it will take a long time to heal. I'll redress it tomorrow."
"Thank you, Gaius."
Gaius exited rather quickly, grabbing Merlin by the arm and ushering him from the council chamber. Even half way down the servant's passage, Arthur's outrage echoed out, "You had Gaius drug me! I was meant to fight him!"
Those words resounded in Merlin's ears; he couldn't have dislodged them had he tried. As it was, he made no attempt to, letting them buzz through his head all down the cold stone corridors.
Back in Gaius' quarters, away from unwanted ears, the bitten-down words burst forth. "Why didn't you tell me Uther was planning to take Arthur's place?"
Gaius was restocking his bag, answering without even looking up. "The king had me swear not to tell anyone of his plan – besides, it didn't matter. The problem remained, whether it was Uther or Arthur the wraith faced, that it could not be killed."
"Didn't matter?" Merlin echoed in disbelief. "What was the point in staying up all night, if I didn't need to disguise Arthur as Uther!"
If he'd known it was Uther needing to be saved, would he have still researched wraiths? Perhaps, but Merlin doubted the ingenuity of desperation would've struck him had he known whose life was really hanging in the balance. By sheer lack of inspiration, he could have been spared making the choice of whether to save or doom Uther. If Gaius had told him.
Like an ill-timed spark, that idea blew in a sudden fury.
If only Gaius had just told him…
"Knowledge is a reward of its own, Merlin. With a handful of hours and a deadline you've virtually mastered the art of illusions – that's sure to be useful in the future." Gaius had finished restocking his bag now and looked up, face dour with exhaustion. "Besides, you still needed to alter everyone's perception of exactly where Uther was."
"Not really." Merlin bit out, bitterness clawing up from deep within. "The wraith would've disappeared either way."
"Merlin!"
But Gaius' shock only made the bitterness boil; why was Gaius looking at him like he'd never seen him before? Why was he so sure that saving Uther was the right thing? Uther, of all people; after all the heartache Uther had caused, how could Gaius look at Merlin like he was a monster for even suggesting the possibility of just letting Uther die!
"I didn't have to save him, you know! This wraith – Tristan de somewhere-or-other, was it? You said he was consumed by a grudge against Uther? And he died twenty years ago, yes? Well, if you ask me, the people from twenty years ago had damn good reason for taking grudges to their graves!"
"I know what you're thinking, but Tristan's death occurred before the Great Purge."
"And Uther was a perfectly lovely person back then who just woke up one morning with a sudden urge to massacre people?"
"I'm not saying that." Gaius said sharply, a haunted look in his eyes. "But bringing what happened twenty years ago up now does no one any good; not even your magic can raise the Purge victims from their graves. What we should be striving towards is preventing others from joining them there, and part of that is keeping the kingdom safe. Uther is a good king, and –"
"You think Uther's a good king?" Merlin interrupted, unable to believe his ears. An effective king, yes, a man necessary for the safety of the kingdom, possibly, but good?
"Yes." Gaius said it so simply, so confidently, that Merlin could only stare. After a moment Gaius began slowly, as if thinking how to explain a view so basic he hadn't had to justify it in years, if ever. "I know it's probably hard for you in particular to see…"
Hard? No. Impossible? Definitely.
"… but a good man and a good king are not necessarily the same thing. It's a king's job to protect the kingdom, to keep his people safe from threats and insure their prosperity, and Uther is very good at this. Most of his methods are right. Sometimes he may go too far…"
"You mean like sentencing Gwen to the pyre because her father was healed by magic, or setting a citywide manhunt for a child whose only crime was being a druid? Or do you mean just in general how he'll execute anyone who so much as passes a sorcerer in the street?"
Gaius gave him a look and ploughed on, ignoring the interjection. "But despite Uther's failings, he has brought peace and prosperity to this kingdom."
"Really?" The bitterness in his voice would now surely curdle milk. "I can't even magic that jug over here without glancing over my shoulders, half-expecting to be dragged off and burnt alive – you call that peace?"
"I said peace, not utopia. You weren't here during Vortigern's reign; count yourself lucky to have escaped that madness. You can live here without fear of being invaded, dragged off by slavers, attacked in a street full of witnesses, or having your life ended on nothing but a royal whim. Anyone who abides by Uther's laws – including the unjust ones – can live under their protection, confident the king will uphold them. That kind of peace is rare in the world we live in – rarer than you seem to think."
Memories of tax collection day in Ealdor reared their unwanted, ugly head. He pushed them down; what did the general brutality of Cenred's men have to do Uther's targeted ruthlessness? As though to drown out the memory of a lecherous voice demanding his mother pay, one way or another, twice what he'd demanded of their neighbours, Merlin said a bit too forcefully, "So Uther doesn't terrorize the people! Even Arthur could do that!"
"Because that's what Uther's raised him to do since birth."
"Then why not let Arthur be king?" Why had that seemed like such a bad thing earlier? Whenever Uther was ruthlessly practical, Arthur was the one who'd follow through on the just thing, acting as Uther saw himself rather than how he actually was.
"Because Arthur's not ready. He only came of age three days ago – the responsibility would be too great. Brave though he may be, he lacks experience, and the judgement to make the kinds of choices a king must."
Merlin opened his mouth to argue – if Uther could make these choices, then surely Arthur could – and then closed it, swallowing back the words. There was no point; Gaius was not swaying him, and he wasn't swaying Gaius. There was nothing more he could say to Gaius, no more advice for Gaius to give him. Not on this, when his strange friendship with the king biased him so.
Merlin's fears he'd chosen wrongly were not ones he could voice - not to a friend of Uther's. And if he couldn't voice them to Gaius, then there was no one he could voice them to.
Without a further word, Merlin turned and headed to his room, throwing himself on his bed, intent on getting the sleep he'd been denied the night before.
All those hours of slowly edging Gaius' likeness to be Uthur's, of working out how to best momentarily paralyse the living combatant without breaking his concentration on the glamour… in the end, it'd all been wholly irrelevant to helping Arthur.
As Gaius had known the whole time.
Merlin dug his fingers into his pillow, his eyes squished shut already, and tried to will the oblivion of sleep upon himself. It would be a mercy beyond compare to be able to just not think, if only to silence the war taking place within his conscience for a few hours.
It was like the time with Edwin, yet not. The decision to save Uther had been all his own this time. There had been no Gaius hovering over his shoulders, guilting him onwards when he faltered, for Gaius now took it for granted that Merlin would rise to Uther's defence as easily as Arthur's.
And just where had he gotten that idea from? In one way or another, everything wrong with Merlin's life could be traced back to Uther. And Merlin was far from the only person Uther made suffer day-by-day.
Except it wasn't that simple anymore.
There was Arthur to consider, and the people of Camelot. What if Gaius was right, and saving Uther had averted national disaster? What if Gaius was wrong, and Merlin had turned his back on freedom for nothing?
Did Merlin actually have any right to decide the worth of Uther's life, and whether he should be allowed to continue it or not?
And hadn't he already done so, whether he had a right to or not?
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The next day there was still some lingering excitement around the king's mysterious victory, but as the days went on Camelot almost seemed to forget the undead knight who'd killed two knights and nearly killed the king. Merlin kept expecting someone to cry witchcraft over the king's miraculous survival – Uther would have, had it been anybody else whom an entire city saw get stabbed in the heart yet came out with a non-fatal wound to the shoulder – but to his amazement the entire city seemed content to believe they'd mistaken where the king had been stabbed.
Unable to fathom how not a single person was suspicious, Merlin risked venturing a 'theory' to Gwen.
She just laughed. "Merlin, be serious! What would a sorcerer be doing, helping Uther?"
And there it was, again: that question he couldn't answer. She walked away with a smile at his fumbling attempts to come up with one, unaware of the blow her words had wrought.
What was he doing?
The thought was a disease, always there but manageable. But then there would be sudden pangs - brought on by the littlest of things - which dug in and twisted, chafing a little more each time.
The grey February passed into a misty March, and from there to a drizzling April. The days were lengthening, and there was talk of spring in the air, but time seemed to have fallen into some strange contradictory trap where it sped forward while Merlin lagged behind. He felt divorced from its passage, trapped in a world parallel to the one he walked through, one where nights spent staring at the ceiling second-guessing and days of questioning whys blended together without answers.
Some days, he'd lie in bed in the mornings and wonder if there was even any point to forcing himself to get up. It felt like colour was slowly leaching away, dulling the world around him.
He couldn't stand feeling like this. He was itching for a distraction.
If Mary Collins' evil twin waltzed through the city gates, he'd hug her. Then he'd beg her to make her evil plans a public spectacle that he could storm in to face in full-out glory as Emrys the powerful old druid, smiting the evildoer and saving the populace in a wonderful display of pure magic, basking in the astonished faces of the crowd and the furtive, but irrepressible whispers of it was a sorcerer who saved us… or even better maybe not all magic is bad…
But Mary Collins' evil twin did not come.
April became May, a bright sunny May full of flowers in vases all through the castle and the woods fairly bursting with new growth. People in the citadel seemed buzzing with new life as well, Arthur more so than most. Yet Merlin could scarcely muster the energy to grouse about the number of hunting trips he was dragged on.
Summer came, and a year passed since the day Merlin had arrived in Camelot. With that anniversary brought the disheartening realisation of how little he'd accomplished in all that time.
True, he had learned a good deal about magic, his original reason for agreeing to his mother's plans, and his three good friends – Arthur, Morgana, and Gwen – had had their views on magic challenged when he'd dragged Mordred into their lives. But nothing substantial had changed; the laws against magic were still in place, and the general population feared it as much as ever. In one year, he'd made depressingly little progress.
Opportunities like the one Mordred had presented, it turned out, were few and far between.
Since Uther, the only way he'd saved anyone was to drop branches onto common bandits' heads, out in the woods where only twenty or so people were usually present. And he did so not as Emrys the Druid, but as just Merlin the Idiot, crouched behind a tree while everyone else was fighting. And all he ever got for it was mockery. The moral quandaries around indiscriminate executions of sorcerers remained as far from anyone's thoughts as ever.
Late at night, after all his daily chores were complete, Merlin tried to think of a way to be more proactive in his goals. Mordred had been a good start; Morgana, Gwen, and Arthur had all seen the sense in saving one innocent boy hailing from a magic-practicing community (though only Morgana knew the boy himself had magic). But leaving it there did little good long term.
Yet he just couldn't think of a way to challenge people's worldviews that neither cast suspicion upon himself nor put them in substantial danger.
The days went by, following the pattern of castle life with little deviation. He did grunge work as a servant, helped Gaius in his spare time, snuck in a few hours of studying a day, chatted with Gwen, bickered with Arthur, snitched food behind Cook's back, and continued teaching Tyr how to read in exchange for stable duty. The only change was in the seasons; the weather warmed, fresh foods replaced preserves on the dinner table, and the seasonal merchants returned with their summer goods.
The summer air was bustling in the city, but as he ghosted through his day-to-day city life, more and more Merlin found his heart wandering back to a village leagues away, where summer meant something entirely different than busy markets and increased patrols for bandits.
Same as when he'd left, the fields of Ealdor would be golden with wheat. Soon it would be time for the village to come together to bring the harvest in, unrestrained laughter and exasperated yells of get back to work mingling in the crisp early autumn air. How strange that already a year had passed; one harvest had gone by without him, as had a sowing, and now another was on its way. In the city where the seasons weren't the center of existence, it was startling how what he'd always considered the hallmarks of a year passed by without his notice.
And always, without fail, whenever his mind drifted too far from Camelot he'd remember why he was now fetching sausages and eggs and thick, buttered slabs of toast for a prince who gulped them down without tasting them instead of rising at dawn to eat tasteless pottage and spending his whole day fighting the never-ending battle against weeds so that his village wouldn't starve. It was impossible to think of his mother sending him off without thinking of Cenred's Court Sorcerer who'd caused his exile, and of his apprentice who'd set him free in exchange for a promise.
What had happened to her after he'd left?
What would she say if she could see him now, trudging around after Uther's son day after day after day, with no plan and just a fervent hope that another incident would fall from the sky and hand him an opportunity to challenge beliefs on a silver platter?
What would she say if she knew he'd chosen to save Uther Pendragon, the instigator of the Purge that had killed her family?
And Mordred, likewise bereaved by the king - what would he say?
And – a thought too unbearable for Merlin to dare ponder yet would slip through all the same before he could quash it – if his father could see him now…
The more these thoughts occupied him, the further he drifted. He felt like a distracted puppet-master, yanking the marionette to and fro according to a basic script he'd once memorized. But, unable to muster any energy or attention for the role, he was slowly falling out of synch with the greater play.
Gaius was the first to notice. He gave Merlin long, searching looks, and asked if there was something on his mind. Merlin would smile and deny it, Gaius would raise his eyebrow but pretend to believe him, and then repeat the question later. But Merlin had decided months before; Gaius could not help him this time. Gaius' unobtrusive persistence fell on intentionally deaf ears, though Merlin's conscious twinged whenever something slumped in the old man's shoulders and dimmed in his eyes.
Gwen was the next to notice, and several more casual acquaintances followed. Most were fairly easy to hold off with a combined excuse of 'summer lethargy' and 'homesickness', but Gwen wasn't sold. In mid-August she invited him to the pub, and there Merlin spent an incredibly awkward evening trying to convince Gwen that there was no need to drown his broken heart in liquor as he didn't have a broken heart in the first place, and no he wasn't just saying that out of embarrassment or because it hurt too much to talk about it, and it didn't matter that there were plenty of fish in the sea because he hadn't been dumped by anyone, and he didn't know where she got the idea that he was in an unrequited love from anyways.
"I know the symptoms," Gwen said knowingly, pushing another pint at him in a doomed attempt to loosen his tongue. "You can't fool someone who just went through the same thing."
Which made Merlin curious about who Gwen's crush had been and why he hadn't noticed she'd had one. She didn't elaborate though, just went on with her earnest if misguided brand of encouragement. "Trust me; a heart-to-heart is just what you need. It was only after venting to Morgana that I was able to stop moping around like a love-sick puppy and get on with my life."
In the end, to get her off his back, Merlin "spilled" a rather vague sob-story of one-sided love towards a girl he "didn't want to name". Since then Gwen had essentially backed off. She'd ask him how he was "holding up" in the hall, smile and assure him he'd get better with time, but that was about it.
At first, Merlin took it for granted that Arthur hadn't cottoned on to Merlin's growing distraction. Certainly Arthur didn't prod him like Gaius and Gwen. His reaction to Merlin behaving like a pigeon-brained simpleton with the memory capacity of a flea was to gleefully call him a pigeon-brained simpleton with the memory capacity of a flea, and then either throw something at him or smack him across the back of his head.
But then there were strange side glances that Merlin would catch Arthur giving him, and an increase in fervency in name calling; almost as though Arthur thought if he were insulting enough, he could irritate Merlin back to earth and ground him there.
And, despite Arthur's great reluctance to discuss anything remotely related to feelings, even he had a tipping point. When things with Arthur came to a head, Merlin was setting out Arthur's breakfast while stewing over whether Aithusa was doomed to stay dormant in Snowdonia for all eternity. Suddenly, something soft crashed into the back of his head, startling him into knocking over the water pitcher.
"Tell me, Merlin, do you know what that is?"
Turning away from the puddle spreading across the table and threatening to spread to the floor, Merlin leaned down to see whatever it was that Arthur had thrown at him this time. Dimly recalling the fabric laying at his feet as the one he'd grabbed from the top of the Arthur's wardrobe and tossed up on his changing screen not ten minutes ago, Merlin was about to reply your shirt when he actually took a good look at it.
"One of Morgana's dresses."
How the heck had he managed to mix Morgana's clothing into Arthur's?
"How in God's name did you mistake a dress for my shirt?" Arthur strode forwards, "Do you still have some semblance of a brain left in here –" he rapped on Merlin's skull as though checking to see if it was hollow, "– or did you forget it wherever you forgot my actual shirt?"
Merlin batted away Arthur's hand, moving to the wardrobe and hoping fervently that the next item of clothing he pulled out would be one of Arthur's shirts. Luck was with him; it was.
"Here," Merlin said, handing the shirt over to Arthur. He turned aside, expecting Arthur to go change, and glanced around the room, trying to remember what he'd been doing.
For some reason, Arthur didn't move. He just stood there, half-dressed, boring holes into the back of Merlin's head. Merlin stubbornly ignored him, trying to remember if he'd been scrubbing the floor or filling the bath before Arthur interrupted him – it'd been something to do with water, hadn't it? Wandering around the room looking for a bucket full of water with his mind already beginning to drift back to his hopeless musings on Aithusa's chances of ever flying free, Merlin stepped in a puddle and spared it half a glance, briefly wondering when it got there, before continuing on his search.
What was it he was looking for again?
Arthur was giving Merlin one of those strange looks again, this time not even bothering to try and hide it. "Do you need a few days off?"
That certainly grabbed Merlin's attention.
"What?" he said, because he must have misheard or else hallucinated that. Arthur's policy was that if he didn't get to just stop being a prince for a few days (never mind that was pretty much exactly what he did on his hunting trips) then Merlin didn't need days off, either. If he actually had offered Merlin not only a day off, but multiple days off, then Merlin would have no choice but to knock him out and tie him up until he figured out how to reverse the mind-altering enchantment Arthur was clearly under.
If this was another Sophia Incident, then there were going to be words.
Arthur seemed to be fighting raising his hands to massage his temples, like he knew he had a headache incoming and was just waiting for it to set in. "Look, I won't pretend that I know the specifics of what exactly you do with my clothes between when you take them out of my chambers and when you bring them back, washed and folded. So I'll concede maybe there's some explanation for how you mixed up my and Morgana's laundry that's perfectly reasonable. But I do know that even you aren't normally out of it enough to wash what is clearly a woman's garment, dry what is clearly a woman's garment, iron what is clearly a woman's garment, fold what is clearly a woman's garment, put away what is clearly a woman's garment, set out what is clearly a woman's garment, and – during all these steps – never once notice that what you are dealing with is, in fact, a woman's garment."
Well, when he put it like that, then of course it sounded bad.
"Ahahaha…" Merlin laughed, wondering what excuse could explain this ridiculous amount of oversight. "I think the heat's getting to me… You know how these… types of things… just… happen?"
Arthur looked supremely unimpressed. "Oh sod it all..." he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "Just tell me what's wrong already, Merlin!"
"I just did," Merlin rebutted instantly.
"It's almost October now; it's not that hot anymore!"
"I'm very sensitive to heat."
"You weren't last year."
"It's a recent thing. Gaius says people sometimes develop extreme sensitivities to the elements – it's called… er… Elementus Sensitus Syndrome."
"There is no way that's an actual thing."
"Are you saying I just made it up?" Merlin asked in his best wounded voice, trying to channel the wide-eyed innocence of a kicked puppy.
Arthur was apparently immune to kicked puppies. "Are you saying that if I were to go to Gaius, right now, and ask him what Elementus Sensitus Syndrome is he'd have any idea what I was talking about?"
There was no good reply for that.
And after a moment, Arthur sighed. "Is it really that difficult to tell me?"
Merlin hesitated; unlike Gaius or Gwen, Arthur wouldn't risk opening the can of worms on feelings unless he felt backed up into a corner with no other recourse. On the other hand, there was no way he could discuss any of what was troubling him with Arthur unless he wanted to be so vague they weren't even speaking on the same subject.
Not having the energy to construct a clever conversation with a double-meaning, Merlin opted for a puzzled look. "There's nothing really to tell. I just wasn't paying attention and made a mistake. Otherwise, I'm completely fine."
Arthur didn't say anything for a long moment, as if waiting for Merlin to retract his words. Merlin stood his ground, ignoring the lacy silk gown lying still crumpled on the ground in his peripheral vision. Arthur could surely still see it too, that damn dress that had sparked this whole mess.
At length, Arthur seemed to realise Merlin was just as, if not more so, stubborn as him. The thought time for plan B was written all over Arthur's face. "All right, then. Since you're clearly completely fine," Arthur gave a none-too-subtle glance at the crumpled up mess of bodice and flaring skirt, "it seems a shame to keep you cooped up in here when you could be frolicking outside, enjoying being so completely fine. You know what?You can have the day off."
"What?" Merlin said, blindsided.
"You heard me, you've got the day off, starting right now. You can leave. Go on, shoo."
"But… what about the things I need to do for tomor-"
"I don't know if you need to come in tomorrow." Arthur cut him off. "I guess it'll all depend on how completely fine you are."
"You can't do that!"
"Good luck trying to find a law that forbids the crown prince from giving his personal servant time off." Arthur raised his brows, daring Merlin to waste his time looking for some long forgotten decree proclaiming thou shalt not give thy manservant time off. "Now go… pick herbs, or whatever it is you do in your spare time."
… Was Arthur seriously not going to let Merlin return to work until he admitted to being something other than fine?
Arthur stared smugly back at him, a cockeyed grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
… Yes, Arthur fully intended to just keep giving Merlin the day off until he spilled his guts. Well, two could play at that game.
Merlin forced his lips into a wide, toothy grin. "Great! I've always wanted a day off! Since, as you so nicely already said, my day off starts right now, I guess you'll have to be the one to go and explain to Lady Morgana that you need her to find you a servant for an undisclosed amount of time who can start immediately."
Merlin turned on his heel and marched to the door, calling over his shoulder, "But first things first – good luck getting dressed!"
Merlin's tide of smugness and irritation carried him to Gaius' quarters, where he vented the morning's events to the bemused physician, who seemed oddly pleased to have Merlin there, pacing and fuming, not even admonishing Merlin for some of the less-than-saintly verbal portraits of Arthur he was giving.
" – more brains to be found in senile snails' rotting entrails half-picked by blind buzzards," Merlin finally finished, having exhausted every other demeaning comparison he could possibly think of.
Gaius waited a few minutes for Merlin to catch his breath before remarking, all expression wiped from his face save for a faint twitching of the lips. "So am I to take it that you don't want a day off?"
"Of course I want a day off! I just don't want him to be the one to – to force one on me! Just… argh! I'll get him back for this!"
"Yes, well, while you're considering how to do that," Gaius said, his eyebrow now also doing a funny spasm, as though it dearly wished to climb to incredulous heights, "you can put some of this new-found energy to use and do some chores while I'm out making calls."
Bucket swinging in hand, Merlin fantasized all the way down to the well how he could both get out of having a heart-to-heart with Arthur and get back at him. The easiest way would be to give him the sob-story he'd given Gwen, fleshing out the details to gag-worthy levels of mushiness. If he played his cards right, Arthur would be begging him to change the topic to something else, anything else, just anything other than Merlin's sappier-than-a-weepy-pine one-sided love-story…
Smirking a little, Merlin straightened up from the well, setting the now-filled bucket front of him. Then his eyes widened at a wholly unexpected face in the crowd. He forgot the bucket as he rushed forwards with an incredulous, delighted cry of,
"Mother?"
At this, Hunith turned to him, and he stiffened. There was dark, ugly bruising across her face, splaying outwards from her eye.
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Gwen was humming as she walked back from the market, one arm swinging by her side, the other clutching a bundle of flowers meant to brighten her lady's chambers. Through the crowd she spotted Merlin. He was with someone she didn't recognise, an older woman in peasant clothing. Gwen raised her hand, about to call out to him, but faltered when the woman drew Merlin into a long embrace.
Gwen lowered her arm in silence and wove through the crowd to be on Merlin's blind side, reluctant to interrupt an obviously private moment. Yet she couldn't help but prick her ears as she neared them.
" – did this to you?" Merlin was saying. The fierceness in his voice made Gwen look over.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her gasp at the evidence of brutality splayed across the middle-aged woman's face. The woman glanced over and Gwen quickly looked away, walking a bit faster.
"Mother?" Merlin started ushering the woman up the street, a hand placed protectively on her shoulder. "What happened?"
"Just after harvest, bandits rode into the village. They demanded we hand everything over – we tried to hide enough to – " A group of gossiping town girls passed by, drowning out the woman until they passed. " – didn't believe it was everything. I tried to stop them, but…" She gestured to her face. Merlin's grip on her shoulder tightened.
They turned a corner, to the stairwell leading to Gaius' chambers. Gwen carried on her way, troubled. Gwen was a city girl at heart, but she'd spent enough of her childhood serving alongside her mother at Lady Clarys' home fief to have seen villages raided by bandits. A half-forgotten memory rose up; she was accompanying her mother and Lady, feeling important scurrying around helping hand out grain to mothers and fathers half-dead from hunger, shocked at the sight of grown men burst into tears to receive a bag, and at the dearth of children her age or younger in the cue. That Merlin's hometown should face such things… Merlin, who'd once tried to take her place on the pyre, who'd stood up to the prince and thrice saved his life, whose sympathy for that poor druid child had been nothing short of astounding... Merlin was the sweetest, most selfless boy she knew; he, of all people, didn't deserve this.
The sound of raised voices coming from within Morgana's chambers brought Gwen's focus back to her surroundings. Her knock went unanswered, so she let herself in, steeling herself against the angry tirade that erupted out when she opened the heavy oaken door.
" – seem to think we employ servants to do nothing but loaf around waiting for the day you decide to call for them on a whim – "
"I'm telling you, I only need someone for the day… probably…"
"Other people manage to get by without a servant for a day, Arthur Pendragon, and I see no reason why you -" The door gave a loud creak despite Gwen's best efforts to slip in silently. Morgana's eyes snapped over, and her face brightened. "Gwen!"
Embarrassed at suddenly being the focus of the two worked up nobles, Gwen held out the bouquet to her mistress, dipping in a half-curtsy to acknowledge the prince's presence. Morgana strode away from Arthur (who looked oddly dishevelled – was his shirt on backwards?), taking the flowers with a smile. "How sweet, you shouldn't have!"
"Morgana," Arthur began, clearly annoyed at being dismissed in favour of flowers.
"These'll look very nice by the window, in that old vase Uther gave me," Morgana said a trifle louder than necessary, walking there with her back to Arthur.
"Morgana – " Arthur tried again, annoyance edging into anger.
"There!" Morgana exclaimed, pointedly deaf. "Don't you think they're lovely here, Gwen?"
"Hm? Oh, yes… very nice, my lady."
She must not have seemed sufficiently enthused, however, for Morgana tilted her head, her smile vanished. "Is something wrong?"
"Not with me… it's just, on my way back from the market…" By the end of her story, Arthur looked disturbed and Morgana horrified.
"That's awful! Poor Merlin, there must be something we can do."
"Well," said Arthur slowly. "There is one thing…"
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As Hunith gave her son her ill tidings, he listened without interruption. His face tightened at her descriptions of the failed attempts to trick Kanen and appeal to King Cenred. It wasn't until they were in Gaius' quarters and she was seated with a hot drink in her hands that Merlin spoke.
"So then you came get my help?"
"I know it's a lot to ask, but…" Their king wouldn't save them and they couldn't defeat Kanen on their own; Merlin's gifts were Ealdor's last hope.
"I will, of course I will!"
"It'll be dangerous. Kanen has forty men at his command and if the villagers were to see you using magic..."
But the rest of her warning died on her lips. Merlin was making a curious, almost sardonic face, his lips outright twitching at the word dangerous. "I'll just disguise myself – it'll be fine, Mother. Trust me."
The easy confidence in his words gave her pause. He seemed older than last she'd seen him. Before he'd been just a boy, awkward and uncertain, but now he had the air of a man who'd tested his abilities and had complete confidence in them. He'd grown up in his year away and now…
Now he reminded her of Balinor. Hunith smiled. "Alright. Shall we head out early tomorrow, then?"
"Fine with me." Merlin stood, reaching into a cupboard and emerging with a large pot. "I should get lunch going. I'll double the stew, that way we can just reheat some in the morning before heading out."
Hunith pushed back her chair, ready to help, but Merlin said hurriedly, "No, you don't have to – just rest, Mother. You must be exhausted."
Her tired feet were grateful for the reprieve, but she couldn't shake the decidedly odd feeling of sitting idle while her child was working. Merlin chatted as he piled vegetables onto a cutting board, introducing strange misshapen roots called potatoes to her and launching into a tale of some people in the lower town, a plague, a friend named Gwen, and learning to think before he acted.
She smiled with lonely pride as she listened. He'd grown up so much without her…
There was a knock at the door of Gaius' chambers. Merlin went to answer, calling over his shoulder for her to keep an eye on the broth. Hunith rose and took up the ladle, but got no further before Merlin called,
"Mother? Someone here to see you."
Confused, Hunith walked over, wondering who in Camelot could possibly want anything with her.
A red cloaked guard stood on the other side of the doorway. Her heart jumped to her throat. Thankfully, the guard didn't leave her long in suspense, promptly beginning with stately disinterest, "Prince Arthur sends word that your audience will be tomorrow morning, at the eleventh bell."
She glanced at Merlin. He looked surprised, but not utterly bewildered as Hunith was. Perhaps she'd misheard. "I'm sorry, did you say my… audience?"
"Yes, with the king - he's agreed to hear your case. I understand you wish to present a plea requesting help with bandits."
"I… well, um..." She stalled, quickly thinking it over. If she could convince Uther to send men, it would save the village from starvation without having to risk Merlin being discovered. "Yes, right. Well, then, if you'd be so kind as to convey my thanks to the prince, and, um, that tomorrow I'll be… sorry, where is this audience taking place?"
"In the throne room."
Making a mental note to have Merlin show her where that was, Hunith continued, "If you could please let the prince know I'll be there tomorrow, at eleven, I'd be very grateful."
The guard nodded and left. Hunith shut the door, turning to Merlin. "... did you ask the prince to get me an audience?"
"And I could have done that, when?" Merlin wandered back over to the kitchen, before returning to the cutting board.
Hunith followed, taking up the ladle and giving the stew a good stir before returning to the chair at a very pointed look from her son. "Then how did he know about the bandits?"
"Well, we were discussing it in the outer courtyard, so probably half the servants know by now…" The knife was turning the potatoes into consistently sized cubes with practiced ease. "Anyways, surely it doesn't matter so much who got you the audience, as the fact that you have less than twenty-four hours to prepare for it."
Her stomach flipped. "Oh God, I should have packed my good dress!" She glanced down at her travel-stained clothing. She'd been planning to wash it after arriving at Gaius' and hadn't brought anything else. "Will the king be upset if I show up like this? What do people normally wear for these kinds of things?"
"Everyday clothes, mostly. You'll be fine – wash and you'll be better presented than about half of who shows up for appeals."
"But still…" She picked at a mud stain, hoping it would come out before eleven the next day.
When Gaius returned he stopped in surprise – possibly at her presence, or possibly at the sight of her hunched over his sink in nothing but her shift, frantically scrubbing a soppy linen lump. He quirked an eyebrow, and – feeling reduced to the nine-year-old with scrapped knees and twigs in her hair she'd been when first they met – Hunith hastened to explain everything from Kanen's arrival in Ealdor to the messenger at Gaius' door. By the time she finished, she was hanging her dress to dry and trying to dig the dirt from her fingernails.
All in all, when the bell rang eleven times the following morning Hunith was so stiff she feared she'd blow over in wind. Standing there in the throne room, staring up at the shallow sympathy of a foreign king to a peasant woman's plight, she thought numbly to herself, So, this is Uther Pendragon.
He looked so normal. With grey in his receding hair and a depressingly familiar glint of regretful but complacent pity in his eyes, there was no sign for her to recognize him by had they met in different circumstances. His many ringed hands were cleaner than any she'd ever seen, as though they did not bear the blood of hundreds.
The audience went as she'd expected rather than hoped, and she walked out the massive double doors with nothing but the disquiet of a human face to fit to a name. Merlin followed her out, promising to meet her at Gaius' after saying goodbye to his friends. She returned there and gathered her bags – already packed – and, with nothing else to do, went up to Merlin's room to bring down his.
She was perplexed by how many there were. Moreover, his room was stripped bare, as if he'd packed everything he owned.
"You've noticed, then." Hunith gave a small jump. Gaius must have come up the stairs behind her.
"I don't understand – surely he means to come back?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Gaius said wearily, a troubled frown on his face. "Lately he's been strangely listless, as though preoccupied by something. Well, truthfully, he's been getting that way for a while now… almost like infection in a wound left to fester, it came on slowly and just keeps getting worse." Gaius paused, and suggested in an unconvinced manner, "Perhaps he's simply burnt out by the city and needs to go home for a while."
Hunith said nothing, wondering if Merlin would truly call Ealdor home. It was familiar, certainly, and she and Will lived there, and it did have many memories attached to it… But not all of those memories were good, and aside from his mother and best friend, the best Merlin could hope for from the people there was ambivalence. More than all that, though, was her gut conviction – her perhaps biased mother's instinct – insisting that Merlin was meant for more than farming.
A door opened downstairs, drawing her from these thoughts. "Mother, we've got a problem."
Hurried footsteps padded up the steps and Merlin appeared in the doorway panting, leaning against the frame. "Gwen and Morgana are coming – I tried to talk them out of it, but they won't budge, they just keep insisting they're coming along."
Hunith could suddenly feel every line on her face. "That'll make disguising you a problem."
Merlin nodded. "Maybe… maybe the king'll stop them, or something'll come up to detain them here, or happen to make them turn back en route – I think I'll bring the potion, just in case."
Merlin bent down by his bed, prying a floorboard loose with a flash of his eyes and a whispered word. He retrieved yet another pack from within, maneuvering it carefully out the narrow gap. Staring at the nondescript bag intently, he ventured, clearly not at all keen on his own idea, "… Or I could cause an incident to make them turn back."
"I don't think we need to go that far," Hunith hurried to reassure him. "If you can't disguise yourself, we'll work out what to do then."
Merlin looked up at her, puzzled. "But aren't you worried about what'll happen if I'm seen in Ealdor? I know Oilell said Ingild wouldn't be a problem anymore, but before sending me off you seemed… Mother? What is it? What's wrong?"
Merlin stood, peering at her doubtlessly white face in concern. Hunith felt sick to her stomach; he didn't know. The news must not have traveled this far. "No, Merlin, I was wrong, the Court Sorcerer isn't a problem now, for anyone." Merlin still looked confused and Hunith hesitated, but there was no good way to say it. "He's dead."
Confusion was transforming to horrified enlightenment now – Merlin had always been a bright boy. "And Oillel?"
"King Cenred named her the killer. She'd run off long before they found him, you see."
"But she got away?" Desperation strangled Merlin's voice; this was something he needed to believe. "She ran off, you said, so -"
Hunith shook her head, and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Merlin," she tried to be gentle, for whatever measure of comfort that might bring, "but I'm afraid she didn't make it."
He was silent a long moment, and she waited for him to speak. Finally, he said, "When?"
And that was the one question above all else that she'd hoped he wouldn't ask. For a moment, Hunith considered lying – did Merlin really need to know, and now of all times? But no; his life was filled with so many lies already, to add another, to lie to him, was not something she could bring herself to do. Not even to spare him from a horrible truth.
"I heard the rumours around last harvest…" So it had likely happened at least a few weeks before – right around when Merlin had been kidnapped and then set free.
Merlin sat down hard on the bed, his bag falling forgotten to the floor, and his face too numb to say what was going through his head.
/**
To be continued...
When writing my Season 1 outline I really wanted to either make Excalibur or kill Uther here. Neither of these ended up being practical, so I just cut this episode short and went more with the moral dilemma around Merlin's more active role in saving Uther.
I couldn't make Excalibur yet because Merlin can't get to Dinas Emrys in time to free Aithusa and get her to make him an awesome dragon sword. And since she screwed up on Mordred's blade so it chipped like it was made out of glass or something I don't think she's Excalibur-worthy anyways. Seriously, in its very first battle a piece breaks off? I'd demand my money back. (On that note, Excalibur will not be made by Aithusa. And that's all I'll say on that until Season 2.)
And Uther can't die yet because Arthur hasn't had enough character development to become king. So yeah, Uther's sticking around... for now.
**/