If it weren't for the sweet balm. . . ' The thought trailed round and round in Merlin's mind as the guards marched him to the great hall. Gaius had sent him out for sweet balm among other herbs, and the best place to find it without going to the forest was the Queen's garden. As Camelot had had no queen for so long, the patch was largely unused and overgrown, but herbs and flowers still grew, and today was not the first time he had slipped in to save himself a long day's hike through the forest.
He had not noticed the uproar when he let himself back in through a side door. His thoughts had been too full of lists that needed fulfilling and the best routes through the castle to make the best time in order to finish his chores for him to notice the whispers and the people rushing about. When the hands closed about his arms, Merlin had thought nothing of that, either. Gwaine and the others were too fond of trying to startle him by grabbing him as he walked by. He normally had enough self-possession to be alert to their presence and dodge away before they could lay a hand on him. 'Try to Startle Merlin' seemed to be a long-standing contest between them. A word of congratulations had been on his lips when he started to turn and saw that the men behind him were not knights, but palace guards with stern expressions that told Merlin there was no game going on. They had the shackles on his wrists before he could blink. A growled "You're to be taken to the king," was the only explanation they gave as they hauled him down the stairs, the carefully gathered plants left scattered and crushed into the stone steps behind them.
The shackles were a curiosity. He felt the magic of them; the spells crafted into them at their forging were meant to separate the wearer from the magic of the world- the source of most sorcerers' power. But Merlin- as Gaius had pointed out so many times- was not a common sorcerer, did not summon the magic of the world with his will and a word. He was magic, and the spelled shackles were weak with age and disuse and besides- they had not been meant to hold back a power such as his.
'That was arrogant,' the thought buzzed into Merlin's mind, nearly sending him into a fit of hysteric giggling at the doors to the great hall opened before him. Ridiculous things went through a man's mind when he was about to be sentenced to die.
Merlin bit his lip to keep any outbursts at bay. His eyes flicked about, taking in the gathered nobility, their expressions ranging from disgust to pity as they looked at him. Gaius stood near the edge of the press, his aged face nearly as white as his hair. In the center of the long room stood Arthur, his head held high, and the heavy cloth of his coat still swirling with the violence of his movement. There was no fear on the prince's face, but Merlin saw it in his eyes and knew it was mirrored in his own.
His knees cracked against the marble floor as the guards shoved him down. Their fingers dug into his shoulders and he felt the others' blades dig into his back again. The clank of his chains sounded entirely too loud against the hush in the vast room.
Beyond Arthur, the king sat back in his throne as though the weight of his own body was a burden too great to bear. Under their hooded lids, Uther's eyes were flat, like a viper's eyes before it struck; reptilian, and yet nothing like a dragon's.
Dragons. . . He remembered Kilgharrah's eyes as they had been in that forest clearing when a skinny, frightened boy still grieving his father's death had stepped forward and claimed mastery over the great dragon, how terrified he had been in those moments. Then he had reached deep within himself, found his father's magic waiting for him there, and tamed the beast. There had been no fear then, and no reason to fear, for he and Kilgharrah were kin. 'I have faced a dragon. Why do I fear this man?'
Stillness washed over him. He felt his fear fade away, replaced by an eerie calm that came from within and without that glowed warm as the summer sun. Merlin's back straightened. His chin came up and a faint smile pulled at his lips. Despite the blades at his back and the magic-blunting shackles on his wrists, there was a core of strength within the warlock that could never be conquered by a man as small as Uther Pendragon.
The king's eyes narrowed at the change he saw. "When did you first bewitch my son?"
"I never have," Merlin replied, his voice loud against the hush. He felt the weight of Arthur's gaze- and Gaius's- boring into him.
"You lie," Uther said flatly. "What did you hope to accomplish by coming here and insinuating yourself in my household? Did you think to enthrall Arthur in your web of spells, to kill me and place a puppet on the throne? Did you imagine you could return Camelot to the dark days, when sorcerers sowed discord among my people?"
Merlin took a breath to speak and felt a shift in the flow of time. He had moved strangely through time before- the first time he had saved Arthur after that witch had thrown her dagger to kill him, the moments he had looked upon the Sidhe in Avalon. In those instances he had stepped between moments of time, forbidden its flow to work upon him until he chose to rejoin it. Playing with time. It all had felt so natural, even when his rational self recoiled from the idea of it. Men should not be able to walk in and out of time, after all.
This. . . This shifting, this change, the same but different, felt like a re-ordering of events, as though he was reading the story in reverse and had learned the ending before the beginning, and strange as it was, there was nothing unnatural about it. And without knowing why or what caused it, Merlin knew that this moment was a keystone, and without his next words, everything would come tumbling down.
So when a strange wind of fate played chords against Merlin's soul, he let it ring through him and speak with his voice. "This now is the truth. Though her blackest hour is yet to come, Camelot's darkest days lie behind her. When the dawn comes and Arthur takes his rightful place upon the throne, he will reign over a golden age the like of which has never been seen before and will not come again for an hundred lives of men. And still, the golden world of Camelot and the Once and Future King will live on through all the ages of men, until the very end of days. And when they speak of you, O King, it will be as the passing cloud that hides the brilliant sun, a fleeting shadow that startles for a moment and then is gone." He felt the truth of his strange words shiver through blood and bone and out into the room around him. 'Is this how prophecy feels?' he wondered as he looked up to Arthur. The fear had fled from the prince's eyes, leaving behind something unfathomable, though the warlock sensed calm and- almost strangely to his own mind- belief.
"Enough." Uther's hand slashed through the air before him. Still awash in the wake of whatever strange power had spoken through him, Merlin said nothing. He watched the king with curiosity, waiting for the words he already knew would be said. "Do you deny that you are a sorcerer?"
Every eye turned toward him, waiting for his answer. Merlin felt a weight slowly slide away, the weight of his long held secret dissolving into the air as these odd few moments of time re-ordered themselves into their natural flow. "No," he said, "I freely admit it. I am a sorcerer. I have magic, and it is my destiny to serve the Once and Future King." The air seemed to crystallize around him Merlin, and the strange power fled, leaving him hollow as a drum as its last echoes faded. His calm remained unbroken.
"Then by your own admission, you have broken the laws of Camelot. Laws that were put into place to protect the very soul of this kingdom, without which, we would be living in an age of chaos. Despite your. . . pretty words," Uther waved a hand dismissively, his voice low and grating, "You have no justification for your many crimes, and I have no choice but to sentence you to death." There was a collective intake of breath from the court as Uther turned his attention to the guards holding Merlin. "Take him to the courtyard and behead him. Creatures such as this deserve to be burned, but I'll not have him alive within these walls one moment longer than necessary."
Strange, how just minutes ago such a proclamation would have sent him reeling with terror. Now that it had passed, he was so terribly calm. If, in that very moment, the guards had doused him in oil and set him ablaze, Merlin was not sure even that could have frightened him. He met Arthur's gaze and found no fear there, either. A look of understanding passed between them, and the prince mouthed a single word. "Go."
Merlin nodded once and bowed his head, breathed a word of Draconic- a tongue so strange to the enchanted shackles- and let it burn the aging containment spell to dust. He let himself slip between moments of time, let everyone and everything stop, and rose to his feet before the chains hit the floor, his magic flooding anew within him, as strong and flowing as ever as he raised his hands toward the guards around him. Merlin stepped back into time long enough to cast at them, watch them stumble backwards in surprise. "Astrice." He looked to the doors then, flung the row of them open with another word. The violence of it drew the eyes of most of the crowed, and Merlin took the opportunity to shove their attention away from him, turn himself invisible for all intents and purposes, though the effort of turning away so many eyes nearly staggered him.
Then he did the only sensible thing he could do. He ran.
Through corridors and down stairways, past servants and between guards- none of whom saw him or took notice of his passing unless they looked for the source of an odd, faint breeze. Down and down and down until he reached the passages of the deep catacombs where the oldest, most secret of Camelot's siege tunnels lay. He threaded through them by sound alone, pausing only occasionally when the way split in front of him, his Mind's Eye directing him truly, until he reached a narrow, overgrown gate beyond the city walls. Outside, he smelled the free air, but the warning bells were already ringing.
Merlin gave himself a moment to catch his breath before popping the locks on the grate, sealing them behind him to cover the signs of his passage before running headlong into the forest. That he did not catch an arrow in the back from the guards on the wall was a small miracle. "Maybe they didn't see me?" he hoped as he glanced back. A pang of regret stung at his eyes. Uther was awake again, Morgana and Morgause lurked beyond Camelot's borders, and he was about to leave Arthur to face it all alone. He raked a hand through his hair, searching for the calm that had settled on him in the throne room.
'You can't serve Arthur at all without a head on your shoulders. Alive, you can find a way through. You don't have another choice.' Well, he had protected Arthur while exiled in the forest. He could do the same again. But first, he needed to escape. Eyeing the faint tracks behind him, he sent half a dozen identical trails into the trees as far as his Mind's Eye would allow. It would fool the men, but if they had dogs- and they likely would- he would need better cover.
Going back was not an option. Within Camelot's walls, he would be killed on sight, and there was only so long he could remain free and only so many places he could hide. Going to the Druids was not an option, either. He refused to bring a hunt down on them again; even he could learn from his mistakes. The borderlands were too far away and he could not leave Camelot- and Arthur- unprotected. That left one real option. "Broceliande," Merlin breathed. Broceliande, the haunted wood and its winter lady, the Queen of Air and Darkness. The choice brought its own perils, but it was that, or the hunt. The faerie queen, at least, would give him a chance to live. With his time to decide quickly running out, Merlin took a deep breath and plunged into the Darkling Wood.