Deeply unconscious, the young knight didn't taste the cool water as it trickled down his throat, nor could he feel the comfort of the damp cloth as it bathed the sweat from his feverish brow. He never saw Merlin hovering over his prone body with a dripping canteen gripped tightly in one hand, remaining blissfully unaware of his own relieved sigh as he gradually relaxed into a deeper, more restful sleep.
But it was Merlin's face that appeared in his mind almost instantly when he surrendered to the world of dreams, and Mordred's heart filled with joy as he witnessed the pair of them standing side by side as equals... steadfast allies, just like he'd always hoped they'd be when the time came to acknowledge the truth of who they were.
"Arthur, I... we have magic."
Twin pairs of blue eyes carefully watched the man who sat upon the throne, a lifetime of fear battling with the quiet faith that had convinced them both that this was their moment; the fates had finally provided their long awaited chance to step out of the shadows and emerge into the light.
Had Mordred stood alone, he wasn't sure he'd have ever found the courage to open his mouth and say, "Sire, I am a sorcerer." But with Merlin beside him, his voice hadn't even faltered when he'd uttered the truth aloud.
After those first few months of cautious suspicion, Merlin had gradually let his guard down, eventually becoming the true and loyal friend Mordred had always wanted him to be. Secrecy had been an unfortunate necessity, but in their own subtle ways, they'd worked tirelessly to prove to the world that sorcery was not inherently evil... but it could just as easily be a force for good.
It had been a slow, often disheartening process; it seemed that for every positive example of magic they managed to bring to the king's attention, some heinous crime had come along to cancel out all of their careful progress. The mysterious illness Merlin had used to enchant the grain stores had been particularly clever, for it had appeared to have been caused by a natural parasite which couldn't possibly be traced back to magic.
The bright red spots it had caused weren't harmful; nonetheless, the entire city had been overcome with gratitude toward the old woman who'd provided the cure... a rather saucy crone with uncannily familiar blue eyes.
Indeed, Merlin had an innate understanding of the man he served, for he'd known Arthur's antipathy toward magic wouldn't hold up for long against any serious threat to his vanity. It had only taken a few days of living with the ugly results of the pox himself for the king to agree to Gaius's timid suggestion that they seek the solution beyond the realm of traditional medicine.
There were similar examples – a feigned water shortage which had been resolved by Mordred masquerading as an unknown Druid, weaponry that had been salvaged from corrosion during an unusually wet season by a poultice left behind by a heavily cloaked figure who'd slipped away into the night before anyone could get a glimpse of his face. They were small incidents, but taken together, they'd been enough for the king to begin to believe that perhaps magic really was on his side... sometimes, at least.
Meanwhile, however, Morgana seemed hellbent on proving the opposite. She was a constant thorn in their sides, leading Mordred to wonder how anyone could struggle so hard to prevent the very thing they claimed to desire above all else. He'd been downright baffled the first time Arthur had offered a helpful Druid a place to stay right there in the palace, a landmark occurrence, only for Morgana to frame the man for a poisoning he'd never committed.
"Why?" he'd questioned Merlin, after they'd helped the poor Druid make a narrow escape from the gallows. "When I knew her as a boy, all she seemed to want was freedom for our kind. Why would she make a point of trying to thwart any chance of that actually happening?"
Merlin had given him a sad, almost pitying look in response. "Morgana cares nothing for justice anymore. All she wants is power. Don't you see? Arthur becoming more accepting of magic users works against her purposes now. Her one advantage is in being able to promise that freedom where Arthur will not. If he does... when he does, what will she have left?"
Despite all her tireless efforts to stand in their way of their goal, however, it had been Morgana who'd unwittingly provided the means to achieve it. She'd made a grave error in judgment when she'd chosen to lash out at the queen, for Arthur had been willing to swear to anything in order to save the life of the woman he loved. And flawed and human as he might be, Arthur Pendragon was a man of his word.
Mordred had held his breath as Merlin, this time under the guise of a middle-aged sorcerer with a pot belly and a receding hairline, had looked up from the Guinevere's badly injured body and spoken the fateful words:
"Yes, sire, I can heal her. I only ask for your promise in return."
"What is it you want? Tell me, and it is yours."
"I want you to swear that my kind will no longer have to live in fear of persecution. I only wish for magic users to be granted the same rights and freedoms as ordinary citizens who never have to fear imprisonment or execution if they have not committed a crime. Promise me now – magic will never again be a cause for punishment, unless it is used to harm others."
Arthur had hesitated, clearly battling the internal conflict between his father's deeply ingrained prejudice and his own gradually changing views. "I... I admit magic isn't quite as bad as I once believed, but it is still a threat to the kingdom more often than not. I..."
"Whatever your answer is, sire, you must give it to me quickly. Your queen is fading fast."
There couldn't have been a more perfect time for Guinevere to begin writhing in pain, never a more fortuitous opportunity for an anguished wail to escape her fever blistered lips. It wasn't that Mordred wished the least amount of misfortune upon the poor woman, but her temporary misery not only led to her own salvation, but a far more hopeful future for countless others as well. For it was her helpless expression of suffering that forced Arthur to make a final decision, bringing them all to a moment which had been decades in the making.
"I promise. Please, just help her, and you can have anything."
No more than an hour later, the queen had lain in peaceful slumber, free from the deep wounds that would've surely resulted in her death without the intervention of magic. After disappearing for a few minutes to restore himself to his usual appearance, Merlin had returned faithfully to his king's side with a nervous, yet hopeful expression on his face. For once, however, Arthur hadn't even wanted the company of his trusted servant; he'd dismissed Merlin rather curtly, remaining at Guinevere's side throughout the night in solitary vigil.
There'd been no way to determine Arthur's thoughts in the immediate aftermath, nor did he ever speak of the incident after the queen had fully recovered. But change was in the air nonetheless, beginning with the harsh chastisement of a bewildered Percival when the knight had arrested a woman he'd spotted conjuring a cook fire by magic.
Several months later, Druids had begun traveling openly to Camelot to replenish their supplies, meeting no resistance, not even glances of suspicion along the way. And just a few days before, a sorcerer had dared to perform a rather impressive series of incantations right on the steps of the palace, amazing the passersby with a glittering show of tiny dragons that fluttered around their heads, then soared up to reach the open windows of the chambers above.
Arthur had stared at the first one with a great deal of mistrust as it had alighted on his shoulder... but then the shimmering creature had lowered its head submissively, peering up at him from beneath one wing with a shyly twinkling eye.
And Arthur had laughed.
The most surprising part of all had been the lack of surprise from the court when he'd requested the sorcerer's presence at last night's banquet, offering him a generous sum of gold in exchange for an hour or two of entertainment. It had been when the king's gaze was transfixed on a conjured vision of dancing bears that Merlin had leaned over and whispered in Mordred's ear:
"I think it's time. We'll tell him tomorrow morning... although if he thinks I'm going to be performing like a court jester every night, he's seriously mistaken."
Mordred felt curiously light as they stood before the king; at first, he couldn't quite identify the cause. But then it came to him in a flash – the heavy mantle of fear which had lain upon his shoulders for a lifetime was finally gone, replaced by the featherlight cloak of absolute trust. Because he knew... Merlin might have been willing to make a gamble if it had only been his own fate hanging in the balance, but he would never subject a friend to unnecessary danger.
No, acceptance was the only possible outcome. Mordred understood that, even before Arthur let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly nodded his head.
It wasn't easy at first; years of subterfuge and lies naturally created a great deal of hurt feelings where Arthur was concerned. But ever so slowly, he began to acknowledge the necessity of having remained quiet for so long... and even more gradually, Merlin and Mordred were given the freedom to settle into new and much more appropriate positions within the court. Following that, if Merlin's juggling acts became a monthly, and then a weekly occurrence, did it really matter? Both men were by far the happiest they had ever been.
But the greatest moment of triumph was yet to come...
The ability to use magic freely and openly in defense of the kingdom ultimately spelled Morgana's defeat, for she simply didn't possess the strength to meet the powerful alliance of Druids and sorcerers who gathered together at Arthur's behest to face her tyranny. With Merlin and Arthur commanding each of their forces, they'd met her on a mighty plain called Camlann, knight and sorcerer standing shoulder to shoulder in the cause of justice, freedom, and love.
There came a moment when only two opponents stood on the field, scores of others held at bay as they waited with breathless anticipation for the final outcome. Merlin lifted the sword, not his own, but Arthur's legendary blade Excalibur, seeming just on the brink of delivering the death blow.
But then he changed his mind, slowly shaking his head as he lowered the sword to his side. He lifted his hand, that hand which possessed far more power than any weapon, whether forged in the Dragon's breath or not, and a softly uttered incantation escaped his parted lips, growing stronger with every word even as the crumpled figure on the ground seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the spell.
Morgana cried out in anguish, a helpless, gut wrenching denial, but it was too late. Her life was spared, but the gift of magic she'd possessed and chosen to abuse was gone forever.
Perhaps in time she might find her own sort of peace? Mordred hoped so, if for no other reason than to honor a faint memory of a kind young woman who had once saved his life. Could there be a chance she might find that part of herself again in some small way, now that the means to devote herself to a lifetime of fury and revenge were no longer within her reach?
His fleeting wish briefly grew more solid as Merlin extended his hand once more, not in a defensive gesture, but with the simple human courtesy of offering to help Morgana to her feet.
The former priestess snarled, spitting in his general direction as she cringed away from his touch. Well, perhaps with time, the wounds would begin to heal. Maybe it was just too soon.
Mordred turned his face to Arthur then, tears springing to his eyes as he realized the man he served had never looked more like a king than he did in that moment. For he didn't wear the triumphant expression of a warrior who had beaten his enemies into submission. No, not Arthur... his features were soft and full of compassion as he stepped forward to speak to his sister in a voice that was far more gentle than she deserved:
"Morgana, I forgive you. I hope one day you can do the same."
Sunlight was pouring through the window when Mordred awoke, warm and soothing as he sat up on the narrow bed and gingerly pressed his fingers to the wound in his shoulder. To his surprise, it was very nearly healed; only a patch of rough skin could be found in place of what had previously been a deep, angry gash that had caused him an unbelievable amount of pain in the brief moments he'd been conscious enough to feel it.
Nothing hurt now; in fact, Mordred couldn't recall a time when he'd felt so good... strong, energetic... alive.
Memories came back to him as he reached for his clothes, and he briefly felt a little disheartened when he recalled the scene in the cave... much in the way he usually did when Arthur showed how deeply he distrusted magic. But stronger than that disappointment was Mordred's faith, for one day... one day, he knew Arthur would be ready to accept his kind. It simply wasn't fathomable to the young knight that anyone who was capable of so much love, such a strong sense of justice, wouldn't ultimately triumph over the prejudices that had been drilled into him since birth.
Mordred had seen the beginning of that many years ago, when a kind prince had defied his father in order to return an orphaned Druid boy to his people. And someday, he knew, the king that man had grown to become would defy his father again, returning the kingdom to the way it was always meant to be.
With that thought in mind, he hurried down the palace steps and into Arthur's waiting embrace.