1x10 – The Fork in the Road (Part 3)
It had been two days since the Battle of Ealdor, and in Morgana's opinion she was more than healed enough to jump on a horse and head on back to Camelot. Merlin and Hunith disagreed, and therefore so did everyone else. This, however, put Morgana in a rather disagreeable mood.
Gwen sat by her side, keeping up a steady stream of cheery conversation, hoping to improve her mistress' spirits. She was careful to steer all conversation far from Emrys and Arthur, for woe betide the one foolish enough to mention either in Morgana's earshot when she was already snappish.
Unfortunately, the world was full of fools.
Gwen genuinely liked the villagers; they were a down-to-earth bunch, close knit and toughened by the harsh life they eked out of the land they fought so bravely for. But there existed in any crowd one person one just could not get on with, and for Gwen that was a certain old man who'd accosted her on her first full day in the village.
She'd been leaning down, reaching for another blade to sharpen, when suddenly there was a vise-like grip on her wrist. She'd glanced up, alarmed, to meet a sunken, aged face with wild eyes darting frantically around. The grip tightened, painfully so, and jerked her close – so close she could smell alcohol on his breath.
"I need to speak to the prince of Camelot," the man said urgently, still glancing in every direction as though expecting something to jump out at him.
Gwen disentangled her arm from his grip, a surprisingly hard task considering his age and frail frame. "Prince Arthur is busy training at the moment," she said warily. "If you'd but wait until evening then I'm sure he'd be happy to hear whatever grievance you have."
"No, you don't understand!" the man snapped. "If I wait they'll stop me, they'll stop me. They don't want me to talk, they're trying to keep me away, they say I'll ruin everything if I talk but I won't because everything's already ruined don't you see but if I talk I can fix it, I can finally fix it, but they won't let me talk, they'll stop me, they don't want me to talk so they'll stop me -"
It was clear he wasn't going to clarify anytime soon, so Gwen interrupted, "Who will stop you?"
"The others! They won't see – they're too content to be led blindfolded like pigs to the slaughter. And you!" he grabbed her again, pulling her uncomfortably close, his wild eyes locked onto her own. "You don't see either! But you're from Camelot, you will! You must, you must, you're from Camelot, you must! And the prince! Uther Pendragon's son, he'll see! He'll listen!"
"Um…" Unsure of how to respond to… that… Gwen glanced around for someone, anyone, to help her out.
She caught the eye of a redheaded girl hanging a dish cloth by her window. The girl froze, her eyes travelling from Gwen to the old man, widening with something unencouragingly like horror. The door to her house was flinging open a moment later, she and a woman that could only be her mother racing forwards and prying the man off Gwen.
The woman said soothingly, pointing him in the opposite direction and starting forwards, "C'mon, I think you've had too much to drink again, let's get you home –"
The old man struggled against her. "Goddamn it, Catrin, let go of me! Let go, I say!" The woman paid no attention, just continued dragging him down the street. "I speak only the truth! You all can just try and hide it, I'll tell them for sure! You may lie and pretend to see nothing, but someday it will all come out and then you'll be sorry! You can't silence me forever!"
His incoherent babbling was cut off as the woman dragged him into a little shack on the outskirts of the village, slamming the door behind them. Gwen glanced at the girl, who was wringing her hands as though unsure what to do, and raised her eyebrows.
The redhead flashed her a lopsided smile that looked more like a wince. "Sorry 'bout that," she picked up an unsharpened blade from the pile, holding it out to Gwen as though in peace offering. "He's… well. That's Old Man Simmons."
Gwen said the only thing she could say. "Oh."
She took the blade mechanically and brought it against the grinding wheel, but couldn't bring herself to turn the crank. She just stared down for a long moment, then abruptly turned back to the girl. "Is he always like that?"
The girl grimaced. "More or less. Just… just ignore him. And please, don't tell Merlin about this."
Gwen hadn't been planning to, but was now curious. "Why not?"
The girl shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Gwen's eyes. "I don't want to worry him. Promise me you won't, alright?"
Sceptical but not wanting to press a seemingly uncomfortable subject, Gwen found herself nodding. "Alright, I won't say anything."
She did, however, puzzle over it quietly – over the man and his strange words, over the girl and her strange request. Though Simmons tried to approach her again the next day, he kept being headed off by various women dashing out from their homes so quickly that if Gwen didn't know any better she'd say they'd been watching out their windows for him. She didn't see him the day after, and soon he was largely driven from her mind by matters more pressing than the village crazy guy. She hadn't even mentioned him to Morgana.
Which was why when Hunith's door opened and the two Camelot women glanced up to see Morgana's latest visitor, Gwen was alone in her cringing.
Simmons closed the door quickly behind himself, pressing himself against the wall and glancing at the nearby window. He scuttled over to pull the shutter nearest him closed and then ducked down, half-crawling under the sill, and pushed the other shutter closed from the far corner, contorting his hand so it didn't pass in view of the opening. Only then did he straighten, and step forwards.
Morgana by now was eying him strangely. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, in a way that questioned his sanity.
The old man knelt in front of her, holding his hands out beseechingly. "Your Ladyship," Simmons began, surprisingly calm and coherent. Perhaps his crazed demeanor had mostly been due to the alcohol? "Loath as I am to bother you, I come to you over a matter of the greatest delicacy and gravity."
Morgana waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be equally waiting for her permission to do so. "Yes," she said belatedly, "what is it?"
"It's about Merlin. It pains me to tell you, but he is not as he seems. There have been signs since his birth, but one only has to look at the most recent occurrences – this convenient appearance of this "Emrys" or "Dragoon" or whatever he's calling himself fellow – to say for certain that Merlin is –"
The door burst open. Three women strode across the threshold, slightly out of breath. "There you are!" the tallest of them cried, grabbing Simmons by the arm and pulling him to his feet.
"Now, Simmons," said a woman with rosy cheeks dusted by freckles. "Let's not bother the lady. She needs sleep; we mustn't disturb her recovery. Let's just get you home -"
"You're not caging me in again!" he spat, trying to yank his arm out of the woman's firm grip. He fell to his knees again and seized Morgana's wrist with his free hand. "Your Ladyship, don't listen to them! They – "
But Morgana wasn't listening. She was staring down at her wrist, offended by the man's sheer gall. "Let go of me."
The man only tightened his grip. "You don't understand –"
"This instant," Morgana hissed, pulling back her wrist.
"Simmons, please don't," pleaded the freckled woman, trying to wrestle his fingers off Morgana.
" – they'll do anything to keep me from showing your ladyship the light! They're blinded by complacency! No matter how the evidence piles, they refuse to see the truth! They –!"
"Just shut up!" snapped the redhead of the group, holding Morgana steady as the tallest woman pulled and the freckled one pried fingers. Their combined efforts managed to free the peeved and bewildered Morgana from the old man's white knuckled grip. "Nobody gives a damn what you think you've worked out!"
"Oh like you don't see it too, Catrin, you goddamn lying hypocrite!" the man made a break for freedom, lunging forwards suddenly. The tall woman yanked him back by his arms and he fell to his knees, being dragged backwards as he desperately pleaded, wild eyes fixed on Morgana. "My lady – your king! Your king would want to know!"
"Seriously," Catrin started untying her headscarf in a surprisingly threatening manner. "I will gag you if you don't -!"
"That windstorm… Emrys my foot! Sorcerers don't just conveniently pop up right out of the blue! Don't you see - ! The truth is staring you in the face! Merlin – mmmfffgh!"
Catrin's headscarf cut off whatever else he might have said, and she joined the tall woman in dragging him out the door, kicking it viciously shut behind them like it was the true culprit of this bizarre affair. The freckled woman halted awkwardly from where she'd been making to follow, staring at the closed door like she'd been betrayed.
Morgana glanced to Gwen incredulously, as though to say: did you see that too? What was that all about? Gwen grimaced back, trying to convey: yes, that just happened, and no, I don't get it either. Then, as one, they turned to the remaining village woman.
She grinned uncomfortably, obviously trying for light and casual but failing miserably. Mostly, she just looked embarrassed. "I, um… I'm sorry you had to see that."
Morgana was nonplussed. "What's all this about 'the truth' and Merlin?"
"Oh, umm… yes… that…" the woman said, nervously tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Simmons is usually pretty harmless, but sometimes he gets these… notions about things – you know, like that snow before Samhain means the village elder is having an affair – and, well, he's always been pretty weird about Merlin."
"How so?" Gwen asked frowning.
"Well, he sort of always tries to make out that anything that goes wrong is Merlin's fault, even when it clearly isn't. Like, there was this one time he tried to blame him for a tree that fell on his house… blame a little nine-year-old kid, can you believe it? A skinny little kid with arms like twigs; as if he could have chopped it down if he wanted to!"
"So, what? He thinks Merlin… bribed Kanen into attacking, or something?" Gwen demanded, outraged that anyone could think this of Merlin, no matter how crazy they were.
"Something like that," the woman said evasively, glancing away and edging towards the door. "He's not dangerous, so it's best to just ignore him. He'll find a new conspiracy to bore us all with within a week – lucky you, getting to miss it!" she laughed nervously.
"Well, thank you for taking care of it this time," Morgana said, her ruffled feathers resettling into her usual aristocratic poise. "I must admit, I didn't know quite what to say."
"It's no problem, your ladyship." The woman smiled shakily, closing her hand on the doorknob, backing outwards. "You just focus on getting better, we'll keep Old Simmons out of your hair."
The door shut behind her, and Morgana turned to Gwen, indignant. "Can you believe the nerve of that man, though? Just barging in here, grabbing me and trying to turn me against Merlin? Who does he think he is!"
"It was very rude of him," Gwen agreed wholeheartedly. "I can't believe he thinks such horrible things about Merlin, of all people."
"And Emrys, he said something about him, too." Morgana scowled. "As if Arthur's stupidity on the matter weren't enough…"
Gwen carefully contained a grimace; and here it was, the rant she'd spent so much time and energy trying to diffuse, firing up all thanks to some old crackpot.
"I still can't believe Arthur just drove him off without so much as a thank you," Morgana fumed. "He helped us with Mordred! He saved my life! He saved all our lives! And what does he get in return? Being told to clear off!"
Gwen nodded sympathetically. Best not to work Morgana up further.
"Just when you think Arthur's finally starting to grow up a little, he always manages to ruin it by doing something incredibly stupid. You know, I think he only has a certain amount of intelligence granted to him per day, and once he's used up his daily allowance he reverts back to his naturally imbecilic state! It is the only explanation for how he can go from finally seeing the sense about letting the women fight to being so closed-minded about Emrys! I mean, for heavens' sake, the man doesn't even live in Camelot! Who cares whether he used magic to save us?"
Gwen nodded again, more sincerely this time, though still uncomfortable with the subject. "It's not like when I almost burnt because somebody healed my father; nobody got hurt except the bandits. Sort of like Merlin said about the druid woman who rescued him." A thought struck her then. "Do you think Emrys knows her? I mean, if Merlin knows this druid woman and she knows Emrys, then maybe that whole thing about Will's father was just rubbish Merlin made up so he didn't have to admit to Arthur that he consorts with druids. I mean, Simmons was at least right in that it does all seem a bit coincidental otherwise."
Morgana furrowed her brow. "Yes, I have thought it a bit of strange that Emrys should just happen to live around here. I suppose Merlin must have sent for him while we were hiding Mordred, although how he could have come so quickly I don't know."
"Magic," Gwen dismissed with a shrug, before frowning as something that had been nagging at her reared to mind again. "More importantly, did Emrys look familiar to you?"
"Not really, why?"
"Well I didn't get a good look at him, but something about his face seemed familiar… just, you know, the shape of it… and his eyes, they were almost like…"
Like another pair of bright blue eyes, ones which she had spent far too many months mooning over and had featured rather heavily in several embarrassing poems penned during that time. And just as this realisation hit her, another following in its heels.
"Hey, you don't think …?" she glanced at the open window, and lowered her voice to the merest of whispers.
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Arthur was returning from his morning patrol of the woods to when Hunith came running up to him. He was just about to greet her when she cut him off with,
"Did anyone approach you?"
"No, it was all clear," Arthur replied, taken aback by her fearful intensity.
"Oh, good," Hunith mumbled, shoulders sagging in relief. She glanced away, to a couple of village women just outside one of the huts on the village outskirts. They were dragging something large inside, but before Arthur could make out what it was Hunith place her hand on the back of his arm and started walking, gently steering him forwards with her.
Arthur tried to squint over his shoulders as they passed, but Hunith started speaking again, and basic courtesy dictated he look at her. "I've been talking to Merlin," though she spoke lightly, there was an odd quality to it – fumbling, almost, like she wasn't quite sure of her words until they were actually voiced. "And we think Lady Morgana will be fine to ride by tomorrow."
That was quite a turnaround from Hunith's last diagnosis of you won't be getting on a horse any time soon, my lady, and that is that. "Are you sure?" Arthur asked doubtfully.
"We'll have to check her over one last time, but she's healing much better than we expected," Hunith said, walking past her own house. Arthur wasn't quite sure where they were going anymore. "Thankfully the land between here and Camelot is mostly flat, so she should be fine as long as you ride slow and rest often."
Hunith stopping in her tracks, glanced over her shoulder, and doubled back to her house. She must not have realised they'd overshot it until now, Arthur reasoned. Absentmindedness must be hereditary, and Arthur had to bite back a dig; this was not Merlin, but Merlin's mother and Arthur's hostess. It would be rude to say such things to her.
She took down a basket from her shed. "I'm going to gather some berries for the trip, if you could let Lady Morgana know I'd greatly appreciate it."
Arthur took the basket, "Of course."
Hunith gave him a beaming smile then started off down the street at a walk so brisk it was more like a jog in a shoddy, jerky disguise. Smiling and shaking his head at this apparent inherited oddness, Arthur opened Hunith's door to the sound of Morgana laughing,
"Of course not!"
Guinevere looked as though she was about to protest something, but the second her eyes drifted to Arthur she clammed up. Morgana's face hardened, and she lifted her chin defiantly.
"Yes?" she said as though in challenge. "Did you come here for something, or are you planning to just stand there all day?"
"Well I was going to pass on a message from Hunith, but if you'd rather I could just go." Morgana's expression didn't clear, but she stayed silent with visible effort, so Arthur relented. She was injured and bored - he could forgive her disagreeableness this once. "Hunith says to pack your things; we're clear to head out tomorrow."
Guinevere immediately pulled out her and Morgana's packs. She plucked their clothes hanging on the line, folding and stacking them with neat efficiency. Arthur glanced about, and frowned,
"Where's Merlin?"
"He's at Will's." Guinevere said absently as she packed. "Apparently Will got back late yesterday, and Merlin wanted to go check on how his leg's healing."
"I'm sure it's fine by now," Morgana sniffed. She was staring directly at Arthur, eyebrows half-raised and head cocked slightly to the side, as was her habit for verbal attacks. "Emrys managed to save my life, a mere broken leg must be nothing to a great druid like him."
Arthur twitched, but didn't rise to the bait. She's injured and not herself, he told himself as he grit his teeth against a retort.
"And I'm sure Will thanked him," Morgana continued, her own teeth gritting at Arthur's lack of response.
"I'm going to look for Merlin," Arthur snapped, turning on heel and marching back out the door. "Somebody's got to pack my bag for tomorrow."
Yet once outside he did no such thing. He headed back to the woods around Ealdor, "patrolling" again to make sure that Kanen's men and Emrys had indeed cleared off. Of course, that excu... justification, would work better if he hadn't just come back from a patrol. Perhaps he should catch some game to bring back, just to stave off uncomfortable questions?
After all, he couldn't have people thinking that he was wandering off into the woods to clear his head. That would imply that there was something clouding it, which would imply he was having doubts, which to anyone familiar with recent events would imply he was having doubts about an issue that the crown prince of Camelot really should not doubt. Especially a crown prince already in another kingdom without his father's leave on a mission the king had expressly forbidden. That was already skirting dangerously close to treason right there; he didn't need any more sins to add to his list.
Which was most expressly why he'd come here to hunt without consciously realising it. Evading talk of a certain druid he was committed to forgetting was most definitely not what he came here to do. He was here to hunt. They'd need meat for the journey, after all, and so what if he hadn't brought any hunting equipment with him? That was probably Merlin's fault anyways; even in a whole different country, he managed to be useless and missing whenever Arthur needed him! Merlin knew they were leaving, therefore he should know Arthur would have to hunt for provisions. If Merlin would just bother to anticipate things like this, then Arthur would have his hunting gear with him.
(There, problem solved.)
Arthur breathed in the woody scents of dewy grass and fallen leaves just beginning to turn to mulch. Well, since he was already here and most inconveniently didn't have any hunting gear through no fault of his own, he might as well take a walk through the woods. He might be able to take down a squirrel with his knife, which could count as hunting, and was the best they'd get due to Merlin's laziness.
Luckily, he managed to snag a hare plump for winter, and nobody said anything odd about Arthur's hunting trip as they ate its jerky on the journey home. Which was good news, because he was in deep enough trouble with his father as it was, and didn't need anyone doubting his stance on magic now of all times.
Luckily Morgana was smart enough to keep her mouth shut about Emrys in front of the king, so Arthur at least didn't have to listen to lectures on how he should never, under any circumstances, ever, let a sorcerer go. He really didn't need that on top of all the other lectures, on how he had responsibilities and duties and was sworn to obey his father and king and must never pull a stunt like this again… basically, every word he'd resigned himself to suffer through from the moment he'd saddled his horse and set off after his servant.
Finally, his father seemed to be winding down. "I'm tempted to confine you to your quarters like a child, since you're so set on acting like one, but I think you've neglected your duties enough. The autumn hunt begins next week; I trust you'll have caught up on everything – and I do mean everything – by then, and be ready to lead it for the first time as Crown Prince."
Arthur bowed. "Yes, Father."
He was secretly pleased; this was as much a chance for to get back in his father's good graces as it was a punishment. Maybe if he caught something good, he could win back his father's favour.
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Merlin's homecoming was quite a bit more cheery. Unlike Uther, Gaius was ecstatic at the sight of his ward – so much so, that Merlin felt a bit guilty about his behavior prior to his departure. Is hadn't been that bad, had it?
Gaius passed Merlin his nightly mug of tea, something he found he'd missed while away. Strange, how he'd been missing Ealdor when in Camelot and Camelot when in Ealdor.
"You didn't need to stay and help out with the harvest after all?" Gaius tried to inquire nonchalantly.
Merlin stared into his nearly empty mug for a long minute. It was true he'd considered staying back. Will had been all for it, giving a myriad of very good reasons why a sorcerer staying in Camelot was a Bad Idea and working for its bloody ungrateful spoiled little princeling a doubly bad one. Still, whenever he'd stared considering it, he'd be drawn back to a conversation he'd had with his mother.
"I won't tell you what to do, Merlin," she'd said after he'd all but begged her to do just that. "Only you know Ealdor and Camelot, so only you can decide where you need to be. I'll certainly be more than happy to welcome you home, if that's what you want, but I'm sure the same could be said of Gaius. I will ask you, though, to consider this: I may not know exactly what may lie in store for you in Camelot, but we both know what your life would be like here. So, would you really be worse off in Camelot than Ealdor?"
And that, more than anything, had been what prompted him to return. No matter how useless and helpless he might feel in Camelot, it would only be twice as bad in Ealdor. He worried he'd fail to change anything in Camelot; he knew he would in Ealdor.
Merlin placed down his mug. "Mother said they'd be fine. If you don't mind, I'm a bit tired – I think I'll turn in for the night."
The next few days passed in a whirlwind of activity, as Arthur struggled through his punishments while training particularly hard for the autumn hunt. Arthur didn't rest, so Merlin didn't rest, and before he knew it the eve of the autumn hunt was upon him.
Though he had to get up at first light to do the final preparations of Arthur's equipment, sleep evaded him. Merlin just stared at the ceiling, steadily becoming more and more obscured by darkness, his thoughts spinning too wildly to let him blink into sweet oblivion. It felt like he was resettling into an old routine, and he didn't want that, he couldn't stand it if he went back to months and months just like before he'd left.
"If anybody's listening," awkward and earnest, he addressed his ceiling and, beyond it, the vast night sky enveloping the whole world, "Send me a sign, please. Anything, just tell me if I'm doing the right thing here."
He waited a minute, in the silence and the dark. The silence dragged. The dark remained dark. All was quite normal; no indication of anything that could be considered a sign.
Please, just this once, he begged silently, unable to speak the words aloud again and hear their resounding emptiness. I'll never ask for this again, but please, just once, give me some kind of indication that I'm where I'm meant to be.
He stared up at the dark ceiling, waiting. He wouldn't give up hope. He could be patient… no matter how long it took…
no matter how long…
…
patient…
…
…
please…
…
…
…
…
…
anything…
…
…
…
…
…
…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Merlin, time to get up!"
Merlin groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes to block out the bright light streaming through his open window. He pulled himself upright, and looked out, blinking painfully into a bright, normal autumn day in Camelot – no, even worse. A bright normal autumn day with a giant hunting trip scheduled.
There is just no justice, Merlin internally grumbled, throwing on clothes at random.
Merlin never enjoyed hunting, even back when he'd done it in Ealdor for pure practicality. Now, when it wasn't starvation but rather pride – which was just knight's code for 'bragging rights' – on the line, he liked it even less. It wasn't even the hunting itself he detested, or the miserable conditions he had to endure to for it, but rather how insufferable all the knights, but especially Arthur, became.
To be fair, Arthur always became twice as insufferable when placed in a group of similarly hot-blooded and arrogant young knights. But something about hunting expeditions just seemed to wring every last drop of insufferableness out of all of them, as the entire thing became one long pissing contest with every knight trying to outdo every other knight's kills. And this hunt, with Arthur determined to get back in his father's good graces, brought him to the height of insufferability.
"You want me to go in there?" Merlin gestured in disbelief to the shaded glen where something large was moving. "You just said you don't know what it is. It could be dangerous!"
"Let's hope so," Arthur said, blue eyes gleaming with relish. "Now go."
Biting back grumbles, Merlin crept into the glen. Trying to keep as quiet as possible, he drew near to the large shape in the shadows. Whatever it was, it had a snow white coat that faintly gleamed even out of the sun. Then it lifted its head, and he was breathless. With a shape very like a horse and a single pearl horn adorning its brow, it could only be one thing:
A unicorn.
For a long moment they just stood there, taking each other in. The unicorn's soft brown eyes spoke of a tranquil, peaceful nature. There was intelligence there, too, far more so than could be found in ordinary beasts. Bathed almost blindingly in sunlight, it was the most beautiful creature he'd ever beheld.
Then there was the sound of a branch snapping behind him, and Merlin remembered where he was.
"Go on, run!" he urged the creature. The unicorn merely tilted its head, as though puzzled by his agitation. "Run, please, they're going to kill you!"
The unicorn's head tilted a little more… and then there was a great twang, and a terrible, inhuman cry.
Red seeped through pure white.
Merlin stared down at the symbol of innocence and purity, slain.
Surely the worst of signs.
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Arthur's glorious return from the autumn hunt did indeed clear his slate with the king. Having presented him with such a rare trophy, won from a creature of magic no less, it was as though Ealdor had never happened. Arthur was again his father's pride and joy.
If only his relationship with his servant were going as smoothly.
"Didn't you hear Gaius?" "He who slays a unicorn is cursed," "What harm did it ever do you?" "It just feels like a terrible omen."
Merlin was all about omens and curses these days. Everything had been 'ill omen' this and 'bad sign' that until he got it into his head that instead the famine and drought plaguing the kingdom were the due to the "curse of the unicorn" that Arthur had supposedly brought down on them all.
After patiently enduring several tense days of investigating the sorcery his people were suffering under while simultaneously tolerating his servant's paranoid superstitions, Arthur snapped.
"I'm not the one who's cursed this kingdom! If you have time to sigh and mope and mutter at me, then why don't you go find the sorcerer responsible!"
Merlin glared him, "Fine. Maybe then you'll accept that no such person exists."
Whatever vicious satisfaction he might have felt at Merlin stomping on heel out his chambers, it didn't really make up for the exhaustion he later faced when, after a long, hard day of organising searches for the sorcerer responsible and guarding the food supply, he came face-to-face with his own servant wandering the streets long past curfew.
"Just go home already, Merlin," Arthur sighed. It would be embarrassing to have to lock up his own servant.
Besides, he was partly responsible for baiting Merlin into searching for the sorcerer in the first place. Something he was starting to regret, because what if through a combination of pigheadedness and dumb luck Merlin actually succeeded? There was no way he could hold his own against a sorcerer.
Arthur opened his mouth to order Merlin to drop the search… but just then, a shadow flitted in the direction of the food supply. Looters, immediately flashed through his tired mind, and Arthur resisted the urge to groan. He was so sick of looters.
It wasn't until the man vanished into thin air, then reappeared across the room with no movement to be seen, that another possibility struck Arthur.
"Is it you who's responsible for killing our crops, turning our water into sand?"
The sorcerer gave him an almost pitying look. "You alone are responsible for the misfortune that has befallen Camelot."
"Me?!" Arthur demanded, outraged. "You think I'd bring drought and famine upon my own people?"
"When you killed the unicorn, you unleashed a curse. For this, Camelot will suffer greatly," the man seemed almost sad about this.
Arthur's skin crawled. His father had warned him of the deceptions of sorcerers, but he'd never before come face to face with someone who could look so convincingly regretful over the very people he'd cursed.
"You will lift your curse, or you will pay with your life!"
"The curse was not my doing." His tone was mild, but his eyes were very piercing. "Only he who unleashed it can lift it." Though the words were ambiguous enough, the look he was giving Arthur was not.
Blood boiling at the implication, Arthur reached for the sorcerer, "You're under arrest."
His fingers closed on nothing but air; the sorcerer had vanished. Stumbling, Arthur looked around; the sorcerer was now on the stairway.
"I am Anhora, Keeper of the Unicorns. I come to you in warning, for you will be tested. Until you have proven yourself, and made amends for killing the unicorn, the curse will not be lifted. If you fail any of these tests, Camelot will be damned for all eternity."
Arthur charged forward, but the sorcerer vanished before he'd taken three steps. And though he searched for the rest of the night, the man was not to be found.
After a sleepless night of chasing false leads and a hectic morning of reporting his failure to his father and organising search parties, Arthur was exhausted physically and emotionally. All he wanted was to curl into bed and take a power nap before his evening patrol shift. Unfortunately, though he looked just as wretched as Arthur felt, Merlin was running on strange nervous energy, eyes alight with purpose.
For not even coming face to face with the true perpetrator had convinced Merlin of Arthur's innocence. If anything, Merlin seemed vindicated.
"You heard Anhora," he pestered for the something-dozenth time in so many hours. Even he sounded a bit tired of this argument. "Only you can lift the curse. If you would just take the tests and prove yourself…"
"I have nothing to prove," Arthur spat. "And I'm not taking any test set by a sorcerer!"
"Then you're fine with leaving things like this?" Merlin's eyes were bloodshot and underlined by dark bags. Yet, despite this, their blue was still strangely piercing. "Weren't you listening to what Anhora said about Camelot being damned for all eternity?"
Arthur clenched his fists. It stung, that Merlin had so little faith in Arthur as to think he'd bring this down on his own people. How could Merlin take the word of a sorcerer over Arthur's? "My father's warned me of those like him! You cannot trust a word they say!"
Merlin's face went white. Only when he spoke did Arthur realise it was from anger. "Those like him? What do you mean, by those like him?"
"Sorcerers, of course." Arthur couldn't believe he had to actually spell this out. Just how sleep deprived was Merlin?
"I see," Merlin's voice was hard as glass, and just as brittle. "Excuse me; I have duties I must attend to."
Sensing something wrong – since when did Merlin care about what he was supposed to be doing? – but too tired to question the reprieve, Arthur just flopped back on his pillows and closed his eyes. Merlin would get over it. He probably just needed sleep too; the whole argument had been stupid. He'd see that once he got some sleep and was thinking properly again. There was no way Arthur had cursed his kingdom.
There was no way.
No. Way.
Arthur didn't end up seeing Merlin again until late that night, when they'd both individually returned to the food supply as though Anhora would be there waiting.
There, their unplanned reunion was interrupted by a looter.
Bloody looters. God, Arthur was so sick of dealing with them.
This one seemed the quieter, ashamed sort – the ones who were normally law-abiding citizens, only now driven to desperate actions by desperate circumstances. He held in a sigh. He hated dealing with these perhaps more than those who shamelessly pulled knives on him and had a gang of cohorts lying in wait. It hardly seemed right to execute the people only trying to surviving as best they could think of, however short-sighted and foolish that may be.
If he was with his men, his father, or really anyone other than Merlin and perhaps maybe Morgana, then Arthur would have had to arrest this man, foolish and desperate or not. But since he was only with Merlin… well, who was going to complain if Arthur was less strict than his father would like him to be? Merlin certainly wouldn't.
Arthur tossed the would-be looter a ration of grain as he turned to go. The man had starving children, after all. Whatever his follies, he seemed ultimately good at heart, and they, in any case, were innocent.
The man smiled as he caught it, meeting Arthur's eyes gratefully, "You have shown yourself to be merciful and kind, my lord. This will bring its own reward."
Beside him, Merlin went very still. As the looter's footsteps receded into the distance, he said, his first words to Arthur since their baffling fight, "Don't get your hopes up, but I think maybe, just maybe, you might have just passed the first test."
"What?"
But Merlin was already running out the royal storehouse. Arthur cursed, and followed for despite what certain scatterbrained servants might believe, there was a little thing called a curfew in effect.
Arthur caught up to him outside the city pump. "Merlin!" he didn't exactly pant – he was in better shape than that – but he couldn't deny that he was a little winded.
Merlin, leaning over the tap of the pump, ignored him. Suddenly, he snatched up a bucket that Arthur could have sworn hadn't been there just a minute ago, and grabbed the crank.
"What the devil do you think –"
Water gushed out.
As Arthur stared, mesmerised in disbelief, Merlin turned around, a huge grin on his face. "Well, it's official, then."
Explanations could wait. "Give me that."
Arthur lifted the bucket to his parched lips and drank deeply, careful not to spill a drop. As he did so, he heard the crank at work again. Lowering his bucket, he saw Merlin filling another (though where he'd found it remained a mystery) with sweet, precious water.
The rest of the night was taken up of logistics of confirming the water supply had miraculously replenished, reporting to his father, and organising a system of who would go to the pump when so that the entire city did not cue up at once. Only once the sun had crept over the horizon and Arthur was downing his fifth mug of water did he have time to question Merlin's words.
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Despite his good mood, Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Obviously, if he was asking, it wasn't. Merlin resisted no such urge, and said, with the insulting patience of one explaining one plus one to a three-year-old, "Anhora said you'll be tested, and if you prove yourself the curse will be reversed. The very next day you showed mercy and charity to a man with starving children, who then made a very cryptic remark about kindness having its own rewards."
"You think that was the test?"
"You've got a better explanation for why the water came back?"
Arthur let out a sigh. "Ok, so if, just if, that was a 'test'… then why haven't the crops regrown? If this Anhora's really true to his word, then I've passed his test, and thus he is morally obligated to end his curse."
Not that that would mean anything to a sorcerer, but for the sake of argument, Arthur let that slide.
Merlin again stared at Arthur like he was thicker than a rock. "Does the concept of plurality escape you? You will be given 'tests,' Arthur. Tests. With an s! And if you fail 'any,' Camelot will be damned for all eternity. What made you think you could get away with just one?"
Arthur, for his part, stared back, incredulous. He knew Merlin had taken Anhora's words too seriously, but to the extent of actually committing them to memory?
"So you think if I just pass one more test, then all our problems will be solved?" Arthur asked skeptically. It didn't sit well with him. Why would the sorcerer curse the kingdom and then give Arthur the means to break his curse? "Even if that were true, I cannot negotiate with sorcerers. My father wouldn't hear of it."
"Then it's probably best you don't tell him."
Arthur sighed, "You know, Merlin –" but he got no further, for there came a knock at the door. "Yes, it's open," he called. It wasn't strictly speaking the politest thing to do, but Arthur had gotten about four hours of sleep in the last two days combined. He wasn't in the mood for unasked for interruptions, and he definitely wasn't in the mood to be polite to those interruptions.
A common palace guardsman opened it rather hesitantly. "The gatekeepers are requesting your presence, my lord."
Arthur frowned. That was a bit unusual. "Did they say why?"
"They were wondering where they should direct the refugees, my lord."
Arthur sat bolt upright. "Refugees?" They were barely feeding the people as it was…
"Yes, Sire," the guardsman said, apparently blind to Arthur's growing horror. "From the outlying villages. They say all their crops have died, and they are in need of immediate assistance."
Arthur was already striding from the room, the slow drumbeat of sleep deprivation and panic buzzing in his skull.
From the storehouses trailed a line of stooped, ragged people ladened with large packs. The line wound up the street and spilled over into the main square, where harried merchants argued with angry would-be shoppers outside their bare stalls. A woman with the slump of defeat to her shoulders sat on the palace steps, squalling babe in arm and upside down hat at her side, calling out to strangers hurrying by without meeting her eyes. Finally, the butcher approached her, thrusting a dead crow at her. The woman burst into tears, clutching the carcass to her chest like it was a priceless treasure. Watching, Arthur's gut twisted.
All this, for one dead unicorn?
He'd been hunting! Was he supposed to mourn every rabbit he trapped, every buck he shot, every fox he cornered? If hunting was such a terrible crime, deserving of this level of retribution, then there wouldn't be an ear of wheat left in the world.
What was so great about unicorns, anyway? It had just been a horse with a horn sticking out its head! And true, it was a creature of magic, but that was nothing in its favor.
Alright, he supposed the unicorn hadn't exactly had a choice in regards to whether to it wanted to be a magical creature or not. Not like human sorcerers, who chose their path. The unicorn had simple been born magical. It was an animal, a simple dumb animal. It didn't know right from wrong, and it couldn't help that magic was entwined in its very nature. He couldn't condemn it for the way it had been born.
Of course, by that logic he couldn't condemn griffins and all the other magical monsters that had attacked Camelot in the past. They were born magical; they didn't know it was bad to kill people.
But the unicorn hadn't attacked him. It'd been in the glen with Merlin a good long while, and hadn't so much as bitten him.
What harm did it do you? Merlin's voice echoed accusingly through his head.
… maybe there were harmless magic creatures and dangerous ones? Sort of like how there were rabbits and wolves? Who knew, maybe unicorns were griffins' idea of lunch.
Arthur sighed. None of this helped him. The problem was not why killing the unicorn had brought about the curse, but that it had brought about a curse that supposedly only Arthur could break. Yet why, then, was he so helpless in the face of it?
Anhora was lying. He had to be.
Anhora could break the curse. Of course he could. How else would he know so much about it, unless it was him who'd cast it? And if he'd cast it, then he could uncast it. Arthur would make him…
How was Arthur going to make him, when he could disappear into thin air?
Perhaps if he took these tests… no, there was no way his father would approve.
Then it's probably best you don't tell him.
Arthur shut his eyes. This was madness. What was he thinking? How could he be considering this? His father aside, Anhora couldn't be trusted. There was no way to say he was really what he claimed to be, or what his 'tests' would entail. Arthur would not dance to the tune of so dubious a character.
But if not Anhora, if he had already lost his mind and was considering negotiating with sorcerers, then maybe… Emrys? Assuming he didn't carry a grudge against Arthur for sending him away. Assuming Arthur could find where he ran off to. Assuming Arthur could get to Essetir and back before the kingdom starved to death. Assuming Emrys was harmless…
You can't assume any of those things, Arthur told himself disgustedly. Why was he so weak? So what if Emrys had saved Morgana, Ealdor, Mordred… he was losing his point. The point was that Emrys was a sorcerer, and he may not be all he appeared. And even if he was, or Arthur wanted to gamble his kingdom that he was, there remained the gaping problem that Arthur had no clue where to find him.
Morgana would have some scathing words to say to that.
Which left him with just Anhora as an option, which… on the two-man list of living sorcerers he knew of, Anhora ranked far above Emrys in terms of sketchiness and questionable intentions. He didn't trust him to be telling the truth. He didn't trust any test the man threw at him, even if the supposed first had been mind-staggeringly easy.
And yet, did he really have a choice but to do things Anhora's way regardless?
What else could he do but take the tests and pray to all that was good in the world that his father had been wrong about sorcerers' intentions?
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Arthur didn't set out for the forest with much hope, but Anhora proved much easier to find than he'd anticipated. Scarcely two minutes in and already he'd spotted the man.
It was keeping track of him that was the hard part.
Arthur cursed, rounding another tree bend and again finding the exact spot where he'd glimpsed Anhora to be empty. This was the fifth time. Was the sorcerer merely toying with him? People's lives were at stake here – but then, a sorcerer wouldn't care about them, after all.
Cursing again, Arthur turned in place, looking for any broken tree branches or footprints to point him in the right direction… when he noticed he was no longer alone.
"You!"
Lounging on rich blankets like a lord sat the looter from yesterday, dressed in fine leather and surrounded by hordes of food.
"You're a thief!"
The man had the nerve to look amused. "Wasn't that obvious when you caught me stealing?"
"Fortunately for you I have more important things to deal with." Yet even as he continued his search for a trail, the man's insidious taunts seeped through his concentration, slowly drowning out all other thought.
You didn't really believe that story about my children, did you?
Your people starve because you let thieves steal their grain. That is why they doubt you.
Your father would never have allowed himself to be fooled like that.
Arthur didn't even notice he'd stopped looking for signs of Anhora.
Your father would have had me executed, but you didn't have the stomach for it, did you, Arthur? And that's why he doubts you'll make a good king.
Arthur clenched his fists, stuffing them determinedly down at his sides. This was just a lowly, common thief… he wasn't worth it…
I bet he wishes he had another son, one who was worthy of taking his place.
Ringing filled his ears.
You shame him.
His fingers were around the hilt of his sword. The sound of it being drawn was oddly piercing in the now silent forest.
"Pick up your sword," Arthur said coldly.
Yet even when faced with the consequence of insulting the honour of the kingdom's greatest knight, the thief had no remorse. "The King must fear the day you take the throne."
Arthur swung at him in blind rage, but the man skipped aside, laughing. "He fears you do not have enough strength to defeat his enemies," the man sneered, his scorn undiminished by the threat to his life. "He must wonder if you are even his son."
The man's hateful laugh was cut short as Arthur's sword sliced through… thin air?
"Why did you kill him?"
Arthur whirled around. Standing behind him, wearing a disappointed, sorrowful expression, was Anhora. And suddenly, everything clicked. "This was your doing?!"
"It was a test to see what is in your heart."
"Your tricks prove nothing! You will lift the curse, sorcerer!"
"It is not in my power," Anhora said, cold and inflexible as ice.
"Then you will die!" Arthur swung his blade straight at the sorcerer's heart… but again it passed through thin air.
Anhora reappeared to his left. "Killing me will not help you. Nothing can help you now that you have proved you would kill a man out of pride. Camelot will pay dearly."
A stab of terror penetrated his haze of anger. "My people have done nothing!"
"Your people's suffering is not my doing." Anhora slowly faded from view, his voice echoing as the merest breath of a whisper,
It is yours.
Helpless, Arthur stared about the deserted clearing. He dreaded returning to the castle. Would the water turn to sand again? Would a plague strike the city? What doom had he brought on them?
Never before had Arthur so cursed his pride.
Now, when it was too late, he knew he'd take whatever test the sorcerer set with no regret, no scorn. He'd go on any quest, would accept any insult and endure any indignity, would swear his allegiance to sorcery itself, if only he could strike the last ten minutes from existence and retake the test.
Feeling physically ill, he turned to where the great white walls of his city could be seen over the trees.
What had he done?
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Arthur groaned. His throat burned as though he'd drunk liquid fire and his innards writhed like a nest of snakes. He brought a hand to his head, fighting the urge to be sick.
What had happened, again?
There'd been… a famine… yes, he'd remembered a famine. He'd killed a unicorn… a sorcerer had appeared and claimed Arthur had cursed the kingdom… he'd failed a test and all their stores had rotted…
Then Merlin had come to him, saying he had one last chance. He'd journeyed to the Labyrinth of Gedref, found his way through the maze, and found Anhora waiting on the other side. He'd been given a final test that culminated in a terrible choice, drink poison himself, or let Merlin drink in his stead. Well, that was an obvious one. He'd killed the unicorn, he'd cursed the kingdom, so he must drink the poison, knowing full well it'd kill him. It was his only way to atone for his mistakes.
And he had; he'd poisoned himself, going to his grave thankful that Merlin would live…
So why was he waking up?
"Hello!"
The world was too bright to his bleary eyes. It took several seconds before he could focus on Merlin's far too cheerful face. He was sitting on the ground beside Arthur, stick in one hand and random scribbles in the sand in front of him.
"How are you feeling?"
Arthur managed some kind of grunt in response, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the sun overhead.
Merlin beamed. "So good news is, you passed the test. Camelot's safe again. Bad news is, you look like that time Morgana poured hair oils in your wine after you said her dress made her look like a squid."
"Wha…" The burning in his throat intensified. He couldn't speak through the pain. Something was rising in his chest, pushing its way up his throat…
Arthur leaned over and vomited.
Merlin pulled him upright, away from the puddle of sick, careful to keep his head turned away from his body. Arthur wretched several more times, upheaving everything he'd eaten that day and probably the previous. He panted, pushing himself up, and accepting a wet handkerchief from Merlin to wipe the sweat from his brow and the traces of sick from his lips. He traded the soiled handkerchief for a waterskin, washing the worst of the acrid burn from his mouth.
Still a bit clammy, but no longer feeling like his innards might eat him, he asked again, "What happened? Why didn't the poison work?"
"Turns out it wasn't really poison; just a sleep potion."
"One hell of a sleeping potion," Arthur grumbled. His throat was still burning. He took another sip of water.
"There's no completely safe substance that'll knock someone out in one second flat. Anyone who says otherwise knows nothing of biology."
That would explain why he felt so terrible, Arthur mused, taking another sip. Though, it didn't explain why the sorcerer had bothered with a sleeping potion at all.
Anhora had had Arthur right where he wanted him. Arthur had been desperate enough to give anything to save his kingdom. He'd drunk poison, willingly, hoping his death would sate the sorcerer's lust for vengeance.
Why, then, had Anhora not used poison?
Perhaps he'd doubted Arthur would be the one to drink, and hadn't truly wanted Merlin to die in his place. But that made no sense. What care could such a sorcerer, who'd stood by in self-righteous judgement as Arthur's people suffered, have for the life of a serving boy?
Although, seeing as he'd passed, he supposed that must have been the point of the test; whether Arthur would trade his life for that of a servant's. All the tests so far had had been ridiculous, true, but they'd ultimately been tests of moral character, as opposed to true quests or challenges. Perhaps Anhora suffered from delusions of moral superiority and felt he had the right to cast judgements on the characters of others?
Maybe Anhora had his own code, something like a sorcerer's version of the Knights' Code, and posing lethal threat to a willing challenger had been in violation of it?
Arthur felt uncomfortable at the thought. Sorcerers were wild, anarchic, dangerous people. They chose to study that which was forbidden out of deep lust for power, falling ever further as the corrupting force sank its claws in. They had no respect for laws or anyone but themselves. They were beholden to nothing, not love or honour or anything human beings should hold dear. They did what they wanted, when they wanted it, and damn what effect it had on others. Cross a sorcerer, and their vengeance would be swift and terrible.
And yet Anhora had not used poison.
Emrys he could almost understand. He'd been a druid. Though they practiced magic, druids were peaceful people. Arthur had wondered at that before, but only recently had he had cause to think of how they actually managed it. He supposed they must have some kind of safeguard in effect, something that purified the taint of magic from the body, which allowed them to retain their humanity. Or perhaps you could use a certain amount of magic per day without falling to evil, and with rest and wholesome behavior body and soul dissipated magic on its own.
In any case, the druids had some form of real society, with laws and everything. They were hardly comparable to the run-of-the-mill sorcerer.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Anhora was a druid. Some kind of unicorn obsessed, old druid hermit missing a few marbles. That would explain a lot, actually.
Satisfied now he'd found an answer, Arthur stood, swaying only a moment before finding his feet. "We should be heading back." Something troubling occurred to him. "How long was I out?"
He'd told his father he was confirming whether the storehouses along the sea road had also rotted – they had, he'd checked on the way here – and if he wasn't back by nightfall then Uther was liable to fear the sorcerer causing the plague had killed him.
Not that his paranoia would be entirely misplaced, considering what Arthur had volunteered for today.
"Eh, about… twenty minutes I'd say?"
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. If he'd gone and slept for three days or something equally ridiculous, there'd be hell to pay when he got back. Twenty minutes, though, was nothing. Well, combined with the massive detour and how long he'd taken to get through the labyrinth it was something, but still not a big deal. He'd make up some tale about stopping to deal with bandits and nobody would think anything of it.
"I guess everything's over, now." Merlin sounded almost wondering, and Arthur could relate. Though he was more inclined to believe Anhora would uphold his word now he'd worked out he was a druid, he knew he wouldn't feel in his bones that the kingdom was safe until he'd seen it with his own eyes.
Still, though, confirming Camelot's well-being was not the end of this mess either.
"Almost. There's one more thing I have to do."
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"I should never have ended your life. I'm sorry," Arthur said, lowering the unicorn horn into its forest grave. Merlin just watched, awed at how far Arthur had come.
Over the last few days he'd watched Arthur blame a sorcerer for the consequences of his own actions, reluctantly accept that maybe it was his fault after all, be consumed with guilt towards those suffering under the curse he'd set loose, and willingly give his own life to make amends. Now he was repenting of his original crime, committed against a creature of magic no less. It was a startling long way to go, in such a short space of time.
Arthur arranged stones on the unicorn's grave. Merlin felt a tingling, and caught a glimpse of white. He looked up, and all breath fled. At the very edge of the small clearing, half-hidden in the trees, stood a creature of pure white.
"Arthur," he breathed, rising to his feet. If this wasn't a sign, he didn't know what was.
Arthur looked up, and his jaw dropped.
The unicorn just stood there, its deep brown eyes meeting their own. Anhora's voice rang through crisp forest air, "When he who kills a unicorn proves himself to be pure of heart, the unicorn will live again."
The unicorn tossed its head, its pearl horn gleaming in the sun, and turned. Merlin and Arthur watched, wordless, as it vanished beyond the trees and into the depths of the woods. Then, mutually realising they no longer had a reason to be here, they turned to go.
"Well, that's that," Merlin said lamely, cringing at how completely inadequate those words were for what they'd just witnessed.
"Yeah," Arthur said dumbly, being of no more poetic inclination than Merlin. "I suppose it is." He was silent a moment, then said, "I'm glad, though, that I could restore it all. The crops, the water, the unicorn – everything. I've never heard of such a reversible mistake – if you think of it that way, the curse is the kindest I've ever heard of."
Merlin looked to Arthur curiously. "Does that mean you don't blame Anhora anymore?"
"Honestly? I'm still not convinced he didn't cast the thing himself. But he did give me every chance to make things right, and I suppose he just wanted to save the unicorn… I guess I can't really blame him. I think he meant well. Druids are peaceful people."
Merlin blinked, thrown. "Druids?" he questioned. "When did he say he was a druid?"
"He didn't, but why else would he let things go just like that? I killed his pet, or something, and he let me off with basically an apology and a strong warning. Any normal sorcerer would have zapped me to smithereens. He's clearly a druid."
Merlin opened his mouth… and closed it again. Arthur's logic was way off, but from the sound of it he had a growing sympathetic spot for druid magic. Conditional acceptance was better than outright rejection, and in any case Merlin couldn't come up with an unsuspicious way of saying, Good sorcerers aren't limited to just druids.
Biting back the correction, Merlin forced himself to focus on the truly important thing in Arthur's last words. "You think druid sorcerers are peaceful?"
Arthur looked uncomfortable. "I know it sounds crazy -"
"It's not crazy at all!" burst out before Merlin could stop himself. Arthur stared at him and he flushed, feeling all at once like blood was both rushing to his face and draining from it. If Arthur didn't break the silence soon, he felt like he might faint.
A light of comprehension entered Arthur's eyes. "That's right, I forgot," he said softly, and Merlin could barely breathe. "A druid saved you before, right?"
It was so unexpected, it took Merlin a minute to work out what Arthur was referring to: when he'd told Arthur about Oilell, just after they'd saved Mordred.
But Arthur was on a roll apparently, for the spark of another idea flittered through his eyes. "Hang on – she used magic to do it, didn't she!" he snapped his fingers in realisation. "That's why you were so jittery! That's why you never talk about it!"
His throat feeling inexplicably like it had been coated in sandpaper, Merlin could only nod. A strange, bubbling sensation was building in his chest. He felt both sick and like he might float right off the ground at any moment.
"That fits," Arthur mused. "Not just that, it confirms everything."
Merlin forced his throat to work, though the word felt very raw. "Everything?"
"Yes, everything. I've worked it all out."
He could barely breathe. "You have?"
"Yes. Magic is like poison."
The bubbles popped. "Like - like what?"
"Like poison." Arthur repeated, as though Merlin were being incredibly thick. "If you introduce magic very gradually, in small doses over a number of years and mixed in with large doses of teachings on peace and respect to all life, then the body builds immunity to it, like with poison. A safety measure that your average power-hungry madman can't be bothered with, but that every loving druid parent passing on the tradition of sorcery to their young druid children takes great care to do properly."
Merlin nearly smacked his hand to his head. That was the single most stupid thing he'd ever heard someone say about magic… and he'd grown up in a superstitious backwater village. He'd heard many stupid things about magic.
It was also incredibly insulting. Poison?! That was the analogy Arthur came up with, poison?! Oh, not all sorcerers are necessarily evil, Merlin, as long as they spend years building up their immunity to the poisonous corruptive influence that is magic, they can be alright blokes, I guess.
"They have to start as young children, I guess," Arthur said, almost musingly. "Otherwise only old druids would be immune enough to perform sorcery, which is obviously not the case. Maybe it's easier, if they start them young. Less evil already in the heart, or something."
Merlin's eye twitched. Dare he contradict Arthur's 'epiphany' and risk him reverting back to plain old 'all sorcerers are evil' again?
"I wonder if they started Mordred on it already…"
While there was commendable progress to be said on the fact that Arthur wasn't visibly disturbed by the thought of Mordred studying magic… his idea was just so stupid, so insulting, and so completely missing the very nature of magic that Merlin couldn't let it slide.
Arthur was still blathering nonsense. "… I suppose they'd have to… it must be a long process, or surely more sorcerers would go the safer route…"
"Maybe," Merlin broke in, "Magic isn't so much like poison, as water."
"Water?" Arthur echoed with a scoff. "You think water could have wiped out all the crops in the kingdom?"
"Water can be incredibly destructive," Merlin argued. "Maybe more so than fire, in that it's harder to stop. I mean, you can sandbag and dig dikes all you like before the snows melt or the rains comes, but once the actual flood hits if you're not ready you're screwed. In terms of sheer might, magic's like that flood. Because of the destruction it's capable of, people assign it characteristics like evil when it's no such thing. It's just a force of nature."
Arthur was outright staring at him now. Screw if he thought this was a strange or radical idea, screw if he was wondering when Merlin became such an authority on magic, screw if he got suspicious and Merlin had to flee Camelot. This was the first time since they'd met that Arthur was showing any kind of open-mindedness towards sorcerers and magic, and Merlin would not let him walk away with his ignorant cockamamie theory unchallenged.
"If magic is water, then think of sorcery as swimming. If you go about it right, you can have a great time. But you need to be careful, because if you're too arrogant and reckless you can be swept away. But it's not the water's fault if someone drowns. Likewise, it's not magic's fault if human beings can be swept away in their own lust for power. And at least like swept off swimmers, there's still hope for them to come back."
Arthur raised a disbelieving brow. "So these, "swept off" sorcerers," he drawled, "like the witch with the knife or the sorcerer with the beetles, or whoever caused that plague and framed Guinevere for it… you think they can be saved?"
"Anything's possible," Merlin was pretty sure he was in dangerous territory here. Maybe he should shut up now. "I mean, even if they're sorcerers, they're still people, right?" he defended. Surely a few more words couldn't hurt? "And people can always change, for better or worse."
"If you say so," Arthur snorted, shaking his head as though Merlin had just said something as bizarre as, oh, he didn't know, magic is like poison. "Water, though, Merlin? That's the best you could come up with?"
"They're both powerful forces of nature!" he protested. "Mighty in scope, frightening in potential, and yet benign in nature!"
"But you need water to live," Arthur said, as though this was a contradiction against its parallels to magic. "The human body is composed of water," as though this were not also true of magic, "And all kinds of plants and animals live in water," again, as though this was not even more true of magic. "And water can create great scenes of natural beauty."
By the gods, Arthur, you don't know anything about magic – stop talking as if you do!
Arthur shook his head again, a bemused smile on his lips. "Really, Merlin, it's just not that great an analogy."
Said the guy who came up with the build up immunity rubbish.
"We'll have to agree to disagree," Merlin said stiffly. He'd just have to let it go for today. Arthur had already come a long way, and asking him to go further now might be too much, too soon. It was incredible progress for him just to come to the conclusion that not all sorcerers were evil, even if he'd justified it with the stupidest, most convoluted and insulting rationale Merlin had ever not imagined, because where the hell did Arthur even come up with it anyways?
"For now," Arthur agreed, unknowingly echoing Merlin's thoughts.
/**
Oh Arthur… one deeply ingrained prejudice down, twenty-one years' worth more to go!
**/