The conference with his father is long and grim, and the image of troops marching under a red sky will not leave Arthur's mind. He plays with the leather of his sword belt and grips the pommel of his blade while nobles present their strategies like merchants flashing silks.
When Gaius suggests someone calm the hysterical populace, tell them the sky is only a scare tactic, Arthur stands and strides halfway to the door before he remembers to say, "I'll do it."
Citizens are flooding into the courtyard, demanding safety within the castle, the two guards helpless against the tides of women clutching children. Arthur tips his head back and sees blue, his view of the horizon blocked by the stone walls; he cannot tell if the red ring has grown in the past hour or not.
Once he steps off the stairs the swarm of brown encircles him, drawn to his vivid shirt and glinting sword, and for a moment he fears they will trample him. He flings up his arms and silence radiates out until he can hear a raven caw. The quiet is worse than the panic; everyone stares at him, and in their eyes is not reflected his face, but the face of a dragon slayer, a savior that can banish this curse with his infallible words.
Uther ends the meeting after nightfall, and Arthur says he wishes to dine alone. Among the nobility, it is not a lie, but when Merlin is the serving man it leaves a false taste in Arthur's mouth.
Arthur can do little in his search for Emrys tonight, but before he returns to his room, he orders the scribes to write the announcement: As of tomorrow, anyone caught after sundown is immediately suspect for treason. No one is to leave the city walls without inspection by the guards. Soldiers will search homes and question citizens on the whereabouts of sorcerers, since they are surely on the side of Palengard. Arthur cannot say he wants the help of a sorcerer; his father obviously does not know, and many of Camelot's own citizens have come to share Uther's fear.
When he opens his door, the first thing he notices is his servant jumping up from a chair, startled. He tucks his hands behind his back as if in respect, but Arthur catches sight of parchment in one fist.
Before Arthur can think of the best way to make Merlin squirm, his servant snaps, "Where have you been? Your dinner is cold, and now I'm going to have to return it to Meredith and she's going to hit me with her ladle again because it's my fault you never make eating a priority." He glares at his master, and in his gaze there is only Arthur, moral prat who's late for meals.
Arthur can't help it, a corner of his mouth twitches up, and he decides cold food will suit him fine in the coming days.
The problem is, next morning Merlin doesn't shake his shoulder to rouse him, an improper gesture Arthur has always been too sleep-muddled to chastise him for. Instead the prince blinks in the glare of curtains flung open, and instead of chips of sapphire there are wide eyes like moss in mud, and instead of "Look, I'm not late today," the little boy squawks, "Good morning, milord."
"My lord?"
Arthur spins around, shoving the nightstand drawer shut behind him. "Gwen," he begins, but cannot think of a suitable continuation.
She stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and into the room, a basket propped against her hip. Her face is blank with surprise, not yet suspicious.
His mind swims through shreds of thoughts and nothing coalesces into a story because her cheeks glow like caramel and he is snooping in his vanished manservant's room…
"Have you seen Merlin?" he asks, voice lamed as he scrabbles for lies.
She blinks, gaze sharpening into confusion. She shifts her grip on the basket, and Arthur sees it is filled with scraps of linen. "No, I thought he was with you."
His hands curl and uncurl, frustration unfurling in his chest.
Gwen's brows crinkle. "He never showed up for work? At all?"
"No." He can't bite back the words, not when she looks at him so expectantly. "Some little runt—kid, woke me up this morning, but all he knows is that the cook told him to serve me until further notice."
"Is he Philip?" she asks, voice heavy with potential sympathy.
Arthur flicks the thought away with his hand. "Don't know." He lets out a long breath through his teeth, glaring at Merlin's cupboard. He'd stormed into the room just minutes ago, mind filled with visions of reprisal, only to find the first streams of sunlight spilling across the floorboards and the faint smell of mint in the air. Searching the room was a spontaneous decision, a distraction arising from his refusal to consider the implications of Merlin's absence.
Gwen pads up the stairs. She has to carry the basket in front to fit through the doorway. Scanning the room, her mouth opens in shock. "It's…" She trails off, staring at the made bed.
"I know," Arthur says. The whole room is the neatest he's ever seen it; the sock peeking out from under the nightstand is the only thing object out of place. Implication weights his next words: "Most of his clothes are gone."
Her eyes snap back to him, wide and rich with unhidden emotions. "Gaius hasn't said anything about Merlin leaving." Softly, she wonders, "Why would he leave without telling anyone?"
The answer worms under the barrier of incomprehension in Arthur's mind, dark and ugly. When he speaks, the words taste as bitter as his voice sounds. "He ran away." His gaze drifts to the window and he can see the red has reached a third of the way up the dome of sky. It is like ink on wet paper, bleeding unevenly and purple at the edges. "He decided it was hopeless." Even as he tells himself the action is understandable for a rural peasant, the betrayal burns in his chest, thrums hot in his muscles as his hands clench into fists.
Gwen's sharp gasp draws him back. "Merlin's not a coward. He would never abandon you." After a flustered breath, she adds, "Or Gaius, of course."
Arthur knows, had known even as he spoke, but now he's left cold without an explanation. "Then where has the idiot gone?"
She shakes her head, frowning with worry. A loose curl bounces. "It's not safe to travel alone, especially now."
A breeze trails across his cheek, and Arthur glances at the window. It is crissed-crossed with metal frames, the glass clear to show the city stretching out beyond. He waits, and air skims his skin again. Stepping closer, he finally notices that the image is not dulled with dust and grime in the bottom right pane. The colors are too bright. When he reaches out, his hand passes through the square.
At this closeness, he notices the cracks in the remaining panes. The top left is nearly divided in half with a ragged line, with smaller cracks branching out.
Arthur frowns. "Do you know why it's broken?" he asks. He studies the lines like a map, eyes tracing the tributaries to the main jagged break. If it were damaged from the dragon attack, it would have been repaired two weeks ago when the workers completed this wing of the castle.
There is the slightest pause. "No."
Arthur looks at Gwen, and her eyes meet his for just a moment before lowering to the basket. "Guinevere, you really are the most terrible liar."
She blushes, and it only deepens when he takes a step forward. She will not meet his gaze, staring into the waves of fabric.
"I really don't know," she says.
"Are you sure?" he asks, just a bit cheekily, and takes another step.
She's burning red, but she says, a bit firmer, "Yes."
They are only two feet apart. "Come now, you're Gaius' assistant. He hasn't complained to you about a shattered window?"
She shakes her head. Then she makes the mistake up glancing up, and she crumbles. "He hasn't; that what's odd. Merlin hasn't even mentioned it."
Her gold-flecked eyes fill with worry, with fear, and Arthur says anything he can to bring back the brightness. "I'll find him; don't worry." As an afterthought, he adds, "Though I may kill him after."
Gwen laughs, that beautiful little laugh with the smile that shows all her teeth and bunches her cheeks, and Arthur feels he can face the day of strategizing with a light heart.
Before he loses the strength to leave, he says, "Duty calls, my lady." He bends in a slight bow and, emboldened by her smile, swoops down and kisses her cheek before walking past, his nose now filled with lavender.
Like many mornings since his father died, Merlin wakes yelling.
This time his shoulders ache from sleeping on flagstone, and Gaius doesn't stagger to him and grab his shoulders, doesn't tell him empty things, things like Calm down and It was a dream. Gaius doesn't jar him from the nightmare and he stares into the empty eyes of his father as Arthur liltingly mocks, You failed, traitor; your sins will find you, find you, find you, and grief rips another shriek from his throat as magic threatens to lash out—
He snaps into reality when the baker kicks him in the gut.
The force slams him against the wall and the air rushes from his lungs. The pain and inability to breathe knock the confusion from his mind, just in time for him to process the conclusion to Ged's elaborate string of insults.
"Crazy bastards, always lurking about behind my bakery as if it's alms day at the church. Do you see a steeple, madman? There's nothin' for ye here! Get!" Another kick, this time at his ribs. "I don't deal with the possessed! Damned bastard cursed by God and Satan…"
Merlin scrambles onto all fours—his chest is still frozen—and he's in a crouch when Ged kicks his rear. His chin cracks on the stone as his limbs sprawl and he just can't breathe and black circles his vision—
Then he heaves in air, and he's choking and spluttering on it, and the dark recedes. Overhead, he hears, "Wait, I know ye."
Merlin tries to deny it, but all that comes out is a wheeze, so he grabs his pack and scrambles up. Ged calls, "Wait," but Merlin disappears around the corner, and the man does not give chase.
Merlin stumbles into the alleyway between the inn and the seamstress, just across the street from the bakery, and plops down behind empty mead barrels. Breaths still hitching, he rubs his tender stomach and shakes his head as if its contents will settle into place. His tongue stings and he swipes at the corner of his mouth; his hand glistens with drool and blood.
When Merlin had returned to Gaius' chambers late yesterday, he found the man at his workbench with three leather-bound tomes, each thicker than a brick, open in front of him. His hands rested on the table, supporting his stooped frame, but his eyes were sharp when they met Merlin's.
"Arthur expects me to help," Gaius said. Merlin shut the door behind him and crossed to the light of the fire. "What would you have me do?"
"Tell him Emrys is far away," Merlin said. "Send Arthur on a quest."
"He will take you with him."
Merlin's jaw clenched as he began to pace. "Tell him you need me here to help."
"I have Gwen for that now."
He ground his teeth. "I won't be able to do anything if Arthur and his soldiers are scouring Camelot."
There was a moment where the fire crackled. The corners of the room were black, but firelight made closer shadows dance. When Gaius spoke, his voice was weighted with resignation. "You have a plan."
Merlin told it to him. He never stopped pacing, and at some point his fingers started to twist around each other, tangling and untangling.
Just after he finished, a log collapsed in the fireplace; Merlin shifted his attention to the shower of sparks and they formed the shape of fiery bird, rising into the chimney. His stride didn't break.
Gaius didn't criticize the trick; he had larger causes of alarm. "Even for you, this is dangerous. You are gambling all of Camelot on your speed."
Merlin tensed, the fire warming one side of his face, then the other each lap. "I've beaten worse odds."
"Even Sigan could not turn the sky to blood."
Merlin's pacing stuttered and his shoulders shivered, a sliver of cold piercing his chest. Voice too casual, he asked, "Is that what it is?"
"I'm guessing. There are tales of such a curse."
"Seems a bit theatrical."
"Perhaps, but it's working. People are terrified."
Merlin swallowed, forcing himself to go back-and-forth, back-and-forth.
Gaius tried a new tactic, voice shifting to near-pleading. "You are leaving Arthur unprotected."
His breath caught at the notion—They will have died for nothing—and blame ignited him; he twisted to face his mentor, one arm out-flung. "What choice do I have? You know it will be hopeless if I stay!"
Shadows flickered over Gaius' face and settled in the creases. The physician's eyes narrowed, studying Merlin. "You have always been exceedingly self-assured. Why do you doubt yourself now?"
Merlin's gaze fell to the floor, shoulders curling under an unseen weight.
"Merlin…"
His voice was laden with suspicions Merlin would rather not discuss, so he said, "I do not trust the Druid." He studied his boots as if answers lay in the stains. "I'm afraid Arthur's being led into a trap."
"That, I can understand. But that does not answer my question."
Merlin looked up. Guilty under the scrutiny, his gaze slid to some glass bottles, and while watching the warped reflections of the flames, he said, "It doesn't matter. I have to leave tonight, before the search gets underway."
"You don't even know where to go!"
Merlin shook his head. "I can find my way." He tapped his temple meaningfully, mouth curling in a grin that crumpled when Gaius' scowl didn't soften.
Once packed, he snuck out of the castle and began to lay a protection spell around its walls. He hoped to finish in two nights, then begin his journey. But the night was halfway over before he even started, and exhaustion made him curl up behind the nearest building two hours ago.
Now the sun is pale with the early dawn and fog curls in the corners of the alley. Merlin's watches the wisps of his breaths twist and dissipate in the chill. Rubbing his upper arms, he reconsiders his plan. He can work during daylight, but someone will certainly notice him carving runes into Camelot's stone. It doesn't help that the majority of the city can recognize him on sight now; rumors of his involvement with the dragon slaying have made him the target of much finger-pointing.
He tilts his head back against the timber frame of the inn and studies the line of bruising between red and blue. With a grimace, Merlin grips the top of a barrel and pulls up, promising himself a dreamless nap once the sun has burned the fog away.
On Wednesday night, Arthur's jaw is so tight it aches. Philip is tugging on the guardbrace straps, and it takes twice as long as it should to tie them. When he does finish, Arthur lifts his shoulder, and the metal plate flops against his chest. "It's loose," Arthur grits, biting back more words than his mind can hold.
The kid can't be more than seven, and that is the only reason Arthur hasn't throttled him yet. His incompetency challenges even Merlin's; if it were not for Philip's unveiled adoration for the prince, the runt would already have the title of Worst Servant Ever.
Pressure burns his jaw and teeth, and Arthur almost turns right there and stalks to Gaius' chambers, demanding answers. But he already did that twice today and three the day before; the quarters were always abandoned, and Arthur didn't linger in the unnatural silence. Swept up in the tide of action, he is lucky to find a moment to eat, much less investigate a missing servant.
While Philip adjusts the straps—he has to stand on a stepstool to reach Arthur's shoulders—bells ring lazy, slow dongs to mark the curfew's arrival. Ding. Ding. The torches flicker in Arthur's room, and he looks into the black of his window. Somewhere out there, a sorcerer roams. Ding. Ding. Potential leads, however, are tangled in superstitious rumors of miraculously repaired carts and stories about the screaming lunatic behind the bakery. No such testimonies have helped him find Emrys.
"All done!" Philip scurries to the table and grabs the grip of the sword with both hands. He hoists the sword off the table. Ding. Ding. Nearly as long as the boy is tall, Philip holds it point-down; the sheath slides off and falls in a tangle of leather and clicking metal, leaving the boy with a bare blade in his quivering arms.
Ding. Arthur takes the sword; Philip snatches up the sheath, blabbering, "Sorry, so sorry, milord, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Arthur snaps, seizing the sheath, and the boy jumps back as if bitten. His eyes are round, and for a moment Arthur fears they are bright with tears.
The bells are calling, calling.
Strapping the sheath on, Arthur repeats, "It's fine. Go to sleep; I'm going to be out late."
Philip bobs his head, too cowed to speak. Calling, calling. Six nights until Palengard's troops reach the city. Six nights to save Camelot. Calling, calling. Arthur steps out of his room just as the bells fall silent.
Merlin has always envisioned magic as gold in his veins, but his earliest memory is of tripping over Cassie's mongrel and watching red well up from his palm. Once his mother had patched him up, he asked if everyone was red inside, and she assured him there was nothing different about him, so long as he didn't do any more silly tricks. She caught him freezing puddles that afternoon.
Now his palms are raw from chipping at the walls of Camelot. He found the chisel his first night on the streets amongst the scaffolding for repairing the castle, and though the irony of Merlin's actions do not escape him, he figures his chaffed skin is due recompense for the crude carvings.
Pausing to flex his seizing hand, Merlin studies the thirteenth and final rune in the light of a conjured candle flame. This symbol is particularly complex and looks something like a table with three parallel lines above it and a bowed slash through it all. He glances down at the parchment scrap pinned beneath his knee and is relieved to see he has made no mistakes. Last night, he'd confused the third rune with the fourth, carving a tangled hybrid of lines before realizing his error.
He sets the chisel down on the alley dirt. Despite the night chill, he pushes up the frayed and soiled hems of his sleeves and jacket, then points his index finger into the carved groove.
Using magic is like playing an instrument, Merlin imagines. It takes a lot of focus, and some are more talented than others, but regardless, live magic is a thrumming like powerful songs, like the ones farmer Sampson sang only for holidays and lingered in Merlin's chest for hours.
Merlin speaks the words, and they catch magic like a harmonic, and it tugs from his heart and vibrates down to his fingertips. He traces the rune, finger trailing a line of shimmering blue.
When the entire carving glows, he pulls his hand back and the color fades. The lines, however, are dark, as if the stone is singed. He presses his palms flat on bare stone and prepares to chant the final part of the spell that will connect the protective runes, but a distant crash startles his attention to the alley entrance. It is gaping dark.
Just as the echoes fade, jangling chainmail and plated footsteps ring in his ears, growing into a discordant cacophony. He clambers to his feet and turns to the left; crates and barrels tower above him. The floating candle flame sputters by his ear, a spark stinging his neck, then dies entirely in his distraction.
The noise is filling him, metallic and grating against the traces of magic in his veins. There is are yells over it—"Stop, thieves! Halt!"—and his heart stutters to find a rhythm in the chaos, and he rushes for the tower of boxes, hands scrabbling in the black for some sort of tier, a way to climb.
He hears the breaths, gasping and close; he spins and catches the shifts in shadows, the glints of eyes. They skid to a halt just feet from him, and after a moment his sight focuses enough to see two men staring in slack-jawed horror at the dead end. A knife shines in the moonlight.
"Damn," one breathes, but the words are faint under the tide of metal and the other meets Merlin's stare, but there is so much noise Merlin cannot think, his mind is filled with sound—
There is a line of cold along his throat and hot breaths against his face. "If you don' want yer throat cut, you'll say nothin'." He clamps a hand on Merlin's shoulder and pulls him forward, the knife nicking skin, but Merlin is out of thought; there is only song in his blood, steady and pulsing over the din.
The man presses the knife against flesh, tilting along the curve of neck towards a vein, and rivulets of warm blood trail down Merlin's throat, and though he knows his blood is red, his mind fills with gold and humming—
Energy bursts, raw and wild, and Merlin feels the blade sear hot and hears the yell and the creak of wood as the crates sway above... The alley floods with torchlight as the soldiers round the corner, but the crates are tipping—The lead soldier is blond—and the tower comes crashing down in a rain of splinters and wood and grain.