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I Am the Embers of You Fire - You Are the Breaking of My Dawn
Part 17
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"… Do not alert them yet. The people would only panic."
"But, sire…" The Knight's voice thickens then goes quiet, as the wide doors at the end of the chambers open hesitantly with a creaking noise. Then sir Leon nods sharply. "Yes, sire. We'll see to it right away."
As the Prince dismisses the two loyal men, Merlin walks into the room on surprisingly silent feet. At the sight of the servant, Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"Merlin, what are you doing here? You shouldn't be up and about!"
"I'm fine," Merlin retorts, "sire. I just wanted –"
Wanted what? He halts suddenly, unsure of what to say. To check on you? To see if you're all right? He doesn't know what he wants to do. He'd not planned on saying anything in particular, just…be there and let Arthur rant and listen to him and, maybe, Arthur would've been less tense and worried if there was someone with him.
Instead he says, "Gaius is curing your father."
"He's found a way?"
"Yes."
The Prince shudders and for a moment Merlin is scared that he's hiding some wound or is getting ill himself, but then he realizes that Arthur is releasing a deep breath and shivering with relief. His father will live. The King will live.
(Merlin will live, a tiny voice reminds the Prince at the back of his mind; Edwin is gone. He won't hurt anyone again. He won't take any more lives.)
"I'm glad."
Merlin still stands there, on the threshold, looking at the Prince steadily.
"You should go and rest, Merlin."
"What about you? You need to sleep too. You look exhausted."
"There are some things I need to do first. The court won't run itself, and I fear rumours will already be spreading about my father's illness. Someone must manage the chaos."
"But you don't have to do it alone."
Arthur looks at him with sharp blue eyes and something inside Merlin is set aflame under the scrutiny.
"I'm a Prince, Merlin," Arthur says then, slowly, as if explaining a foreign concept to a child; "Princes –"
"- not all of them are alone," Merlin cuts across then bites his tongue. Where did that come from? He hadn't meant the words to sound like that. But now they've been uttered and cannot be retreated. So he squares his shoulders and readies himself for some sharp comeback, a barked order to get out, or for the Prince to roll his eyes and call him and idiot again.
Instead, Arthur merely looks oddly thoughtful.
"Maybe," he admits at length. Nothing more is mentioned on the matter, but the Prince cannot forget, the image burned to his eyelids: his father, cold and unmoving, and Merlin, frozen in place, Edwin standing above him chanting, Arthur's guts churning, wrong wrong wrong magic dangerous evil.
"It's late, Merlin. Go home and rest."
He'll sleep later, once he's seen his father. Made sure that he'll live, as Merlin will live, and everything will be all right again.
()()()
For the next following weeks, the King is on the mend, healing quickly. Gaius' cures (and Merlin's magic, slipped into the potions in the night, nobody looking) are doing wonders for him. As the King rarely shows his face outside the castle anyway, many citizens are being kept in the dark; Arthur covers for him well, but Merlin doesn't miss the newly acquired dark rings beneath his eyes. Silently he weights the risks of magically sending the Prince to sleep for a while – just a full night, so that he can forget himself in dreams and stop worrying.
As the King recovers so does Arthur, albeit those who don't know it never knew he too fell ill. Seeing his father still and pale has shaken Arthur to the core, but he wears the façade dangerously well.
(A bit like himself, Merlin thinks. All smoke and mirrors and ghosts.)
()()()
"You're late. Again."
"Sorry, sire," Merlin says cheerfully and begins setting out the dishes on the table.
"Honestly," the Prince sighs and rises from the bed. He wears no shirt, and his feet are bare despite the stone floor. "You never seem to learn, Merlin." As the man takes seat and digs into breakfast, Merlin walks over to the wardrobe to pick out the Prince's clothes for the day.
"So what are you planning to do today, sire?" The servant gestures at the open wardrobe, even if the Prince can't see; he still marvels at the amount of shoes and boots the Prince owns. Seemingly one pair for each day and every weather: while Merlin has owned his single pair for three years now. "Any council meetings?"
"I was thinking about hunting."
Of all the horrors!
Even if he's not followed the Prince on any hunts yet, he remembers trekking in the forests with Will for days and barely finding any deer. And once they eventually found any them Merlin would (accidentally!) scare them off by tripping on a root or something. Will had been … rather angry then, so Merlin had, as a peace offer, killed two wild rabbits with magic even if he didn't like doing it, so that they wouldn't have to return empty-handed. Despite that, Will had deemed him a useless hunter and not let him come with him again after that. Perhaps it was also for the best.
But there's a sharp difference between Will hunting and Arthur hunting: in Ealdor it's not usual for the men and older sons to go hunting, especially during more meager seasons when the harvest wasn't enough to feed everyone. It's simply necessary to keep everyone's stomachs full.
Arthur and the rest of the noblemen, on the other hand, are guaranteed to be served the best food to be found in Camelot, in large quantities, may it be so the lower town starves: they have no need to hunt. They do it for sport, and that's simply something Merlin cannot approve of. And it'll probably take days and he'll have to sleep on a mossy damp forest floor, and stalk through the woods for hours and hours maybe not to even sight a deer...
"You sure, sire?" Merlin asks hopefully wishing for the Prince to change his mind, but he's sent a look, as if the Prince's saying Yes, I am sure: are you sure you aren't an idiot?
"Right," he mutters. "So, hunting. Will any of the knights come with you?"
"Not today actually, I'm not in the mood for it. You'll come with me of course."
"Must I? Seriously, I've hunted before and I'm not good at it, you'd be much better off with one of your men. Or one of the other servants! Look, I'll just scare away all the prey …"
"It's a risk I've got to take then."
Merlin barely suppresses a sigh. There'll be no talking out of this apparently.
()()()
Somewhat to Merlin's surprise, before they leave, he's ordered to fetched Beowulf (the dog which in reality is not a true canine or a living creature to start with; not that Merlin's going to mention that to Arthur), who now apparently is to be properly trained as a royal hunting dog by none other than the Prince himself. Whereas the dog's appearance is a couple of years old, Beowulf barks eagerly and keeps stroking himself against the warlock's legs like a playful newborn pup, tangling himself in them causing Merlin to fall over ever so often. He's not that much of a tracker. He simply does not seem to know how to.
This frustrates Arthur some, but Merlin can't explain the truth, of course, not even a fraction of it for that would lead to questions he cannot answer.
Four odd hours and one single meager rabbit later Merlin happens to ram into the Prince's back, purely on accident, as Arthur appears to have an annoying habit of stopping all of a sudden every ten meters without any warning.
"Merlin!" Arthur cries exasperatedly, glaring at him. Just in the clearing ahead there's a rustle and a flicker of motion and the warlock glances at the now empty spot; he thinks that might be a rabbit that just ran away, disappearing in the dark undergrowth. A wise choice, in Merlin's opinion.
"See, I told you," the servant says grumpily. "It was a bad idea. Seriously, can we turn back now? My feet are all sore and we're not going to catch anything anyway." He stares up at the sky trying to determine the time, calculating how many miserable hours they've been out here walking in circles and following ghosts.
"Not with you bumbling about like that, no! Hunting requires speed, stealth and an agile mind and clearly you possess none of those qualities. For once you are right about something – even if the very idea is outright laughable, given you are such an idiot. I should've taken sir Leon and left you in Camelot to scrub the floors—"
Merlin wrinkles his nose displeasedly; there's something … something off. Like from far-away he can hear a sound, almost like steel being brandished, and shuffling. The leaves around them rustle faintly in the wind but that's not it.
There are voices.
"What's that noise?"
"Merlin," Arthur says, irritably, "don't interrupt me. You'd better not-"
A woman's scream cuts through the woods. Abruptly the Prince freezes up. Then, after he's quickly located the direction of the sound, he sprints off; Merlin abandons the dead rabbit and sprints after him, the dog on his heels. What's that? Are bandits attacking? Or some wild creature?
The forest blurs about him, browns and greens a mess and he stumbles over a dry root sticking out from the soft earth. He manages to catch his fall with both hands, groaning at the impact – that's going to leave bruises. But, he heaves himself up, glancing around desperately to catch sight of the quickly disappearing Prince. There's a flash of red jacket in-between the branches, and Merlin hurries after, tracing Arthur's steps with Beowulf close on his heels.
When entering the clearing, Merlin stops short.
There's a woman, and an elderly man, dressed in foreign fineries. The woman – or girl, rather – has long dark hair with pearls woven into the thin braids. The old man bears a blue robe and both of them carry some kind of wooden walking staff. One of the bandits must've taken their packs, for they carry none, but some scattered items – spare clothes (now ripped and dirty), a simple knife, a few coins glittering in the sun, a gnarled wooden staff with an ornate blue stone buried in the handle – lay spread around the clearing haphazardly.
A shadow is fleeing fast between the trees: a bandit that just barely managed to escape. The unknown man's footsteps echo dry and loud in the woods, but the Prince does not hinder him from running away: he's already too far off and Arthur has run out of bolts. Beowulf barks loud and clear after him, before the figure is completely out of sight with a terrified shout.
There's blood too, and two bodies lie unmoving on the bed of dry leaves. One of the bandits is slumped forward, the body heavy, a crossbow bolt protruding from his back. The other's throat is open and Merlin sharply looks away, toward an untouched patch of the ground, breathing a bit sharper.
Ahead of him, Arthur stands tall, slightly winded but otherwise remaining impassive. His unsheathed sword rests in his hand, ready and open, and a crossbow lies at his feet, but that is the only evidence of any battle occuring. It's almost like he's not just been in a fight. Almost like he's not just killed those men.
Killed.
A tight knot wrenching in his belly, Merlin swallows hard. Carefully he steps forward, trying so hard not to look at the bodies and instead focus on Arthur and the two strangers he's apparently rescued.
For a brief second, unable not to, he still sees the bodies, the image burned to his eyelids. Unmoving and cold and covered with blood. And he remembers Edwin, leaning over him, and the screams and Arthur's sword clashing down and Arthur's burning gaze, "What have you done to him?!" - and for that second, he can't breathe.
Then, the moment passes, and the knot, while not untying itself completely, relaxes some. Merlin's shoulder slump a little. He approaches the Prince, who still hasn't spoken.
The girl is weeping, frantically leaning against Prince Arthur as he helps her to her feet; he's sheathed his sword without cleaning it. Stains of red darken his jacket and his face is shadowed, his eyes gleaming from the recent battle.
The elderly man shakily gets to his feet; for the first time Merlin gets to look at him properly, and he barely hides a gasp. The man practically reeks of magic. An aura stronger than anything he's ever seen before is wrapped around him, almost as if he's wearing the magic like a piece of cloth. It's not like in the case of Nimueh who, disguised as a servant girl, managed to hide her magic in plain sight; this man seems to have difficulty suppressing his own magic from showing.
How…What's he doing here?! flashes through Merlin's mind. What's a man with magic doing so close to Camelot?
The Prince, wholly unaware, steps up to the pair and helps the woman to her feet. "Are you all right, my Lady?" he asks gently; a sharp contrast to the cold aggressiveness just a moment ago.
"I – I will be," she answers shakily. Her voice is very soft, smooth, a bit like honey even while it's trembling. "Thanks to you, my Lord."
There's a slight stiffness to Arthur's shoulders. Merlin frowns. Is he reacting to being called a lord? But that is nothing strange. While not wearing armour or crown, his clothing is far too fine for that of a peasant and he has the bearing of a knight – and he fights like one. It's a bit odd, for Arthur to react like that. The girl may not yet know that he's actually the Prince but he can't possibly hide the fact that he's a knight.
"Yes. Thank you, thank you, my Lord," says the old man. "My daughter and I shall forever be in your debt."
"This is a dangerous road for unarmed travelers," Arthur remarks. "May I inquire as to where you are headed?"
"We are headed for Camelot, sire."
Camelot. It can't be…But it must be some coincidence. Are they druids, maybe? But why are they headed for Camelot when the old man so clearly possesses magic? That's suicidal! Merlin can't get his head around all these questions.
There's something – he can't pinpoint what exactly, but something about all this is unsettling.
He wants to warn them, suddenly. Tell them to go back wherever they came from. Going to Camelot when you possess magic is madness. The thought, however brief, of seeing them burned, lashes to the forefront of Merlin's mind and wrenches his insides.
Go back, please, say that you're just lost and need to go –
They don't.
"Camelot? Then we shall escort you there, for that is also our heading," Arthur says.
Merlin's words slip out before he can stop them – a reflex, perhaps, as he hopes to buy the two strangers some time to escape before they actually come with them to Camelot, toward the one place they should most avoid, if they are sorcerers.
"But you haven't finished hunting," he blurts, and the Prince gives him a sharp, slightly irritated look. "Sire." An afterthought.
The man and the girl seem to see him for the first time, and the latter barely gives him a fleeting glance; overlooking him as he clearly is a servant. The old man however lingers, looking thoughtful. Merlin returns the silent stare strongly, but his pulse staggers a little. Is the man able to sense his magic in the same way that Merlin can sense his? Please don't notice, please don't notice…!
Arthur, oblivious to all of this, makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. "Never mind that, Merlin," he says. "Gather my things. We're going back to the city now. We must alert the guard of this incident. There may be more bandits out there."
"Right away, sire."
Arthur is already walking away, supporting the still-trembling girl gentlemanly – he has taken off his gloves - with the old man following closely, leaning on the staff which he's retrieved from the ground. Something stings in Merlin's chest as he watches the Prince walk away without glancing back, and he sighs then; it doesn't matter, not now. He needs to find the equipment which he so carelessly had tossed aside. He starts walking back, retracing their earlier steps, taking care in avoiding the bodies - but Beowulf halts momentarily to sniff at them. Merlin calls the dog back with an unusually strained tone.
Are they just going to be left here? fleets through his mind, the thought sharp. Will they just lie here to rot in the rain? – but he tries not thinking about it. The dog dances back to his side, barking happily.
He wonders if the Prince will care whether he leaves the dead rabbit half-hidden in the moss.
()()()
The King sits on his throne draped in heavy fabrics of black and red, arms still on the armrests in an image of calm. His tone is difficult to determine. "Bandits? This close to the border?"
"They were not many, sire," Arthur says nodding his head slightly. "But I would suggest the guard to be extra alert. There may be stragglers, and we cannot let them terrorize our people."
"Very well."
()()()
He stops at the sight of Lady Morgana, now alone and not followed by the ever-loyal Gwen; the Lady stands beneath one of the wide white arches, half-hidden by shadows. She doesn't appear to breathe, shock written on her face.
"My Lady?" Merlin asks carefully, glancing back briefly but Arthur doesn't call for him to follow, thankfully, so he walks up to the Lady. He has an urge to lay a hand on her shoulder, for comfort, but they're strangers and Lady and servant, so he knows he can't. "Are you feeling all right?"
Merlin wonders if he should drop all things and run for Gaius. If the Lady is ill he has no idea what to do, he's not a physician. "Milady?" he tries again, when she remains frozen on the step, staring at something over his shoulder.
The Lady is pale and wide-eyed, and her small fists so tight that Merlin fears she'll hurt herself and draw blood.
"That girl," she whispers. She's staring at the large stairs, up which the guests have disappeared led by the Prince toward the west wing where they will be housed during their stay, like nobles. "Who is she?"
"She's, umm… Sophia Tír-Mòr. Ar—the Prince rescued her and her father from some raiders in the woods." Bloods on the forest floor; an arrow in the back; the woman screaming. He staggers at the memory, but his concern is caught by Lady Morgana's gaze flickering from the spot on the stairs onto him. It's not quite steady. "My Lady? Are you feeling unwell? I can fetch Gaius -"
"She's dangerous. I know it. She shouldn't be here," Morgana says suddenly and Merlin silences.
Why is she saying this…?
Then, he wonders, a dangerous thought – can she somehow sense magic? She's not a magic user; that is for sure. But maybe…No, that's impossible. She's the King's ward. He would never have allowed it.
No. She simply must have had some premonitions, a bad feeling. (A dream, a voice whispers at the back of Merlin's mind, she's had a nightmare.)
Uncertain of what to do or say, Merlin shifts from one foot to the other. The Lady is upset, but what can he do? How can he reassure her when he doesn't know the danger himself, when he cannot spill his secrets and he's just a servant?
He despises this feeling of uselessness.
"You're awfully pale, my Lady. Maybe I'd better fetch Gaius…"
"No. No, I'm all right," she says then, abruptly stepping back even if there's this slight tremble to her voice. "Do not concern yourself, Merlin." Then she turns, gathering up her swiveling skirts and quickly walks back the way she came, disappearing into the shadows of the castle.
()()()
"There's something…something about them," Merlin murmurs to his mentor, who gives him a concerned glance.
"How do you mean?"
"I can't explain. But," he lowers his voice then. The door is locked and shutters closed, but every time they speak of things like this they whisper and murmur like thieves in the dark. "When in the woods, when I saw that old man...I felt something. I think he has magic." Well, in truth he does not even think. He knows. But Gaius always speaks of caution, of approaching slowly, and one cannot accuse anyone of being a magic-user lightly.
"Magic? You're certain?"
"Pretty certain."
Edwin had masked his magic with so many layers of presence and sly skill that Merlin hadn't noticed until it was too late, too late (he pushes away the memory forcefully) – just as Nimueh had when disguised as the serving girl - but this man, albeit apparently old and thus having had much time to learn, gleams of magic like a beacon. Light or dark, Merlin can't tell yet, but he could sense it a mile away. It's strange, it's almost like the man is more magic than man, like he's not really meant to be here, in Camelot, walking the streets among both peasants and nobles. He and his daughter are something entirely different.
"Hmm." Gaius stirs the pot over the fire with slow, deliberate movements. The smell of its contents is questionable, but Merlin is hungry and cares little. "If that's the case, I wonder what his purpose is in Camelot. Do you think he's a druid?"
"I…I'm not sure. He could be."
"If so, he is taking a lot of risks, coming here, especially when taking along his daughter. If the King finds out –"
"He won't," Merlin says quickly. They may be strangers, those people, but they're magic, and he can't let the King burn them just because of who they are.
His mentor looks suddenly very old and weary. "You must realize, Merlin, few sorcerers ever come to Camelot anymore without ulterior motives."
Merlin bites his lip. He doesn't want to think that yet. It's too early to tell. Their story could simply be the truth: they may just be travelers from afar, seeking shelter, and the bandits attacking had been nothing but coincidence. A foul one. Still. If the old man possesses magic, why hadn't he just defeated those bandits himself?
Maybe, he reasons, if he's a druid, he's peaceful and doesn't want to fight. Maybe I could convince him and his daughter to leave.
"Now," Gaius says then interrupting his thoughts. He sets down the pot on the table, the heady warmth soothing. "It's time for you to eat and they you must be off to bed. It's already late and you must be up early tomorrow."
"Yeah," Merlin sighs and digs into the stew with a grumble, adding in a quite miserable tone, "I'm sure Arthur's annoyed the hunt got cut off and wants to go hunting again first thing in the morning."
()()()
"It's a beautiful day."
The Prince's tone is unusually jolly. Especially for this early in the morning. Merlin hums as he gathers his master's clothes for the day, pausing – how formal does he need to look today?
"Yeah, very beautiful."
He's not sure how much enthusiasm actually went into the words. It seems not to matter, for Arthur doesn't react, continuing to lean against the window frame, staring out wide-eyed. Merlin clears his throat to catch his attention. "Do you have any council meetings today, sire?"
"None that I am to attend, no," says the prince, finally turning from the window where he's stood gazing down at the plaza for the last ten minutes, seemingly without goal.
"All right. Wait," Merlin halts, realizing, "'none that you're going to attend'?"
That sounds awfully much like he's going to skip them. Deliberately. Again. He's been doing that a lot recently, and it doesn't reflect well on the Prince. Anyway, Merlin can't really understand why he doesn't like those meetings that much. Sure, it's probably quite boring, but it's a lot more strenuous to scrub floors or train the Knights. "Sire, I don't think that's a very good idea—"
"Of course it's a good idea! I have much more important things to attend to. I need you to run down to our guests' quarters. Tell Lady Sophia I would like to meet with her."
Merlin looks at him a bit confused. There's something up with the Prince's voice. Something that shouldn't be there. "Sire?"
"Don't just stand there!" the Prince barks impatiently, the glazed look in his eyes fading into their usual sharpness, and he forcefully grabs the shirt that rests lax in the servant's hands. "Find me my boots."
Swallowing back a sigh, Merlin does as bid, scrambling to find the items in question.
Something's wrong. He's certain. Maybe Arthur's ill …
()()()
Then Lady Morgana runs into the room, look haunted, just like that day when standing near the stairs and Merlin sharply recalls her words, quiet but frantic; She shouldn't be here. She's dangerous. I know it.
"My Lady?" Gaius asks, but she cuts him off, gasping.
"It's Arthur!" she cries. "He's in danger." Her sharp dark eyes flicker over to Merlin and catch his gaze, and for a second, he understands, he understands it all even if his mentor refuses to. "I had a dream. Sophia will kill Arthur –"
Merlin's blood turns cold with fear.
"Milady, are you certain you are not overreacting?" Gaius says, softly, diplomatically. But it's no use. Merlin is certain that she's not lying, and the realization is like a spear to the gut. "It was only a dream—"
Arthur's in danger.
"No, it's not just a dream. You must believe me!"
"I believe you," Merlin says at once.
The old physician looks at him despairingly. There's fear, too; fear for his nephew, for his foolhardiness, and for the Lady and her dreams (or are they just dreams?) and their conviction. Accusations like these are never light and always dangerous. They cannot just come yelling at the King that his son is in danger from a nobleman's daughter, may their nobility be true or not, even if the Lady herself does so. She may be his ward, but she would base her accusations on dreams, on fidgets of the mind, illusions – it's far too close to magic.
"Please," the Lady says. "We must stop her."
"I'll help. Just tell me how."
"Merlin—" Gaius says then, stepping in between the two. "No. It's too dangerous."
"I can't let Arthur die!"
His voice strangles, lungs squeezing together even as he utters the words. Can't. Can't. Arthur.
"I saw a forest, and a lake. Arthur was pushed into the water – sinking…and that woman was standing over him," Lady Morgana retells shakily. "That's what I saw."
A lake.
Merlin jerks into action, heading for the door. He doesn't let himself glance over his shoulder, to meet his mentor's cries for him to stop – there is no time. He must find Arthur before it's too late.
A servant rushing through the corridors is not unusual and he isn't stopped; he takes every shortcut he can, crisscrossing through the crowds all until he reaches the right wing of the castle. He dashes past the guards and other servants without word, heart pounding with each step. Within minutes, he stands before the Prince's chambers and without hesitation he slams open the doors, rushing inside.
The Prince is standing near the fire-place, dressed in full armour, fiddling with an armguard. At the sudden noise, the blonde man flinches and he frowns at the servant, gaze oddly dark.
"What's this about, Merlin?" he demands. "I've dismissed you."
His voice isn't…there's something about it. Something Merlin doesn't like. And his cold eyes. Arthur has glared at him before, but not like this, with this indifference as if he was just any other servant and they've never met before. He's not entirely sure he's seen Arthur glare at anyone like this and to be the subject of his gaze is disconcerting.
And why is he wearing full armour, as if he is to leave the castle?
"I –" The warlock is breathless. "I heard – Sophia –"
She's going to kill you. She's enchanted you. She's got magic and she's going to sacrifice you.
"I've dismissed you," Arthur says, again, as if he's not heard a word and he turns his back on the servant. "Now, get out."
No. I won't let her kill you. "Listen to me! Sophia isn't –"
"Don't you dare speak ill of my love!"
In a way it's like taking an arrow to the chest. Even if it's unreal, even if the Prince is under an enchantment and anyway, Merlin is a servant and shouldn't be bothered – to hear those words breaks something inside of him. This tiny, tiny hope he'd borne that one day, one day Arthur would look at him not as a nobody, not as a servant, but as a dear friend, as ... But it shall never happen, and now Arthur has just confessed his love for Sophia.
"Arthur…"
The Prince's voice is harsh and unforgiving.
"Get out."
Merlin doesn't.
"Arthur …" He's not sure of what to say, all of a sudden. He could bring up the King's words, repeat them, run in a loop. But Arthur's so stubborn and hearing his father's commands through his servant's mouth would only anger him more. He could whisper about magic, about the woman's spell on him; he could mention Lady Morgana's dream.
The lake – he was sinking …
When he doesn't move, Arthur growls like he would at a knight when failing to parry a blow and Merlin winces at the harshness. "I ordered you to get out."
"Arthur! Listen to me-"
The Prince turns back toward him, finally. Merlin wants to shake him like some misbehaving child and yell, yell at him for being so stupid and blind – can't he see that Sophia and her father are taking control? - but he's rooted to the ground.
Arthur's eyes are red.
Gods, Arthur, what have they done to you?
"Look, Arthur, I …" he can't keep his voice quite steady when Arthur looks at him with those horrible red eyes. "You may think you're in love with Sophia, but –"
The reaction is immediate. The Prince turns, dropping the pack and he stalks close, in a matter of seconds hovering above the servant. Merlin holds his breath, but refuses to back down. He can't back down, not ever. "You," Arthur spits, in a voice that is not his own, "have no right to speak of her. You're just a servant. Now. Get. Out."
It hurts more than it should.
"Arthur," he says, quieter, and raises a hand slowly. "She's enchanted you. Blinded you. This isn't the Arthur I know. Please, trust me."
I'm your friend, he wants to say, but the roughness of Arthur's hands on his shoulders startles him, and for a moment, he stares at the Prince's blank face with fear. This isn't Arthur, this is some soulless shell and Sophia has trapped away the soul. Let me find the key, please, Merlin prays to whatever deity that might be listening.
"How dare you!"
"I told you that they would try to part us," says an eerily soft voice behind them and Merlin shivers. No. There's the rustle of satin and silk, and the woman continues. "Come now, my dear Arthur. Let us leave this place. Just you and I."
No – no, don't listen to her you idiot!
Arthur drops him and pushes him away, a gloved hand forceful against his chest and Merlin panics; he can't let him walk away now, side-by-side with Sophia, he can't –
"Arthur! Don't listen to her! She's going to kill you!"
The woman turns to him sharply. "You are far too troublesome for a servant," she says, and the earlier smile on her face is entirely gone, the sweetness replaces by cold resentment. She is so cold and her magic now visible, tendrils of blue close to her skin, dark and dangerous. He can't let her have Arthur.
The Prince stands there, watching but blind, his face entirely expressionless. Letting her take his hand and walk away.
Merlin lunges forward, but she reacts, raising the staff in her hand, crying an ancient spell. It's too strong and swift for him to move away from it. Pale light shoots from the staff and hits him in the chest, causing him to tumble back.
He lands harshly, the stone floor hard and unforgiving, and his vision swims. His body aches. The magic from the staff, raw in its simplicity, struggles with his own – he lifts his head a little, struggling to open his mouth to scream a warning. But it's too late. Arthur's back is turned. Holding Sophia's hand. Walking away. Away.
Right before the world darkens Merlin manages to lash out with his magic, a single thought, startling in its clarity but he doesn't know if Arthur can hear it.
… Don't go with her, Arthur! Arthur! ARTHUR!
()()()