Chapter 2: Motives and Goals
Merlin had been biting his tongue all morning.
Well, his dirty, sodden neckerchief, anyway.
The reason he had stayed past his first week in Camelot. Twofold, and yet the same. Arthur, and magic. To protect the prince who represented the hope of freedom for himself and his kin, until he was ready to see magic clearly for what it was and for what it wasn't, and make his own decisions unbiased by the pain and fear of his father. To learn and develop his gift as a responsibility to himself, to the magical community, and to Arthur. To be the best sorcerer he could be, in his prince's service.
I'm happy to be your servant, until the day I die.
So he stayed, even today. Bound and unable to see or speak, though, how in all hells was he supposed to use this for good? How was he supposed to correct the prince's misconceptions if he couldn't speak, and if Arthur couldn't be seen to listen to him, anymore?
More than once that morning, his stomach grumbling and his head aching, his equilibrium whirling without his vision to correct up and down – dehydration, said Gaius' voice in his mind, possible concussion, a stern sort of disapproval in the imaginary words as though lack of water or the blow to the head were somehow his own fault – he considered the use of his magic.
Everything from a surreptitious 'slip' of his bonds, providing momentary relief, to calling a lightning-storm, complete with torrential downpour, scattering the knights and drenching Merlin in lovely cool water that he could guzzle by the buckets-ful – he dry-swallowed painfully, and swayed a bit in the saddle.
No. Can't. His situation was precarious, and not only physically. Anything that could be protested to Arthur as evil or corrupting, anything self-serving. Even anything surprisingly powerful, to startle Arthur from his misconception or make him fear Merlin's capabilities, start to doubt Merlin's motivations.
Okay, so here was the plan. Use his magic only as a very last resort, to keep himself alive, and hope and wait for an opportunity to speak to his prince.
The resolution held, through the shocked mutters rising above the sound of the mounts' hooves that told him – along with his sense of smell, a myriad mix of everything from fresh bread to pig manure – that they were passing through the lower town. Then the cobblestones under the horses' hooves.
And the king's voice. Merlin actually flinched when Uther called his son's name, wildly expecting something to follow like, Archers, fire!
But instead, there came the even murmur of Arthur's voice. He was concentrating so fully on trying to hear what the prince said, he startled like a maid at the touch of a hand on his knee.
"Easy, now."
Leon's voice. Instinctively he relaxed. Ever honorable, Leon would treat him with the consideration that he was still a human being who hadn't fought or hurt anyone, though he was arrested as a lawbreaker.
"Don't panic. Just – dismount. Off the horse, and – careful…"
Merlin leaned forward, swinging his right leg over the back of the saddle – awkwardly as his hands were still tied behind him - kicking his left foot free of the stirrup, then allowing his body to slide down. Further than he thought, and his feet and legs jarred at the impact; he staggered, spooking the horse a bit, but Leon steadied him.
He instinctively muttered, "Thanks," but all that came out was a meaningless grunt through his neckerchief gagging him.
Uther called out, "Take him to the cells immediately, Leon – and Brenner. Gaius, as we discussed?"
"Come along, then," Leon said, wrapping one big hand around Merlin's upper right arm. "Quietly is best."
Brenner was considerably less gentle, but the suggestion of his mentor accompanying them reassured Merlin. He stumbled, disoriented, across the cobblestones, something about the blindfold making him sure he was about to stub his toes or smash face-first into something solid, in spite of the fact that his rational mind knew the courtyard to be clear of such obstacles.
But when he tripped over a low horizontal impediment in the path, and the echoes of their footsteps and the knights' armor told him they'd entered a passage, he found himself resisting the dual tug on his arms, if slightly, slowing to be nearer the heavier shuffling footfalls behind them.
"Gaius?" he tried to ask, and flattered himself that the combination of vowels was distinguishable even around the material clogging his mouth.
"Let's go, sorcerer," Brenner demanded, yanking on him.
Gaius spoke firmly from behind them, "I would appreciate a pitcher of fresh water, when we reach the cell, Sir Brenner, if you please."
Brenner growled in his throat. On Merlin's left, Sir Leon cleared his, and answered politely, "Of course, Gaius. Anything else?"
"I will let you know," Gaius answered.
Merlin hoped the water was for him, but he suspected that the old physician had spoken merely to provide him the reassurance he'd sought. It occurred to him that the old man was in the same difficult position as Arthur, to some extent, maybe even in danger. An icy finger touched Merlin's heart, and he resolved, no matter what else, to convince everyone of Gaius' innocence. No matter what happened to Merlin, Uther could not suspect the truth about Gaius' knowledge and assistance; the old man would be sentenced right alongside Merlin, with less hope of a final escape.
He was taken down. Careful on the stairs, if only because they didn't want him accidentally knocking one of them into a fall. The light behind his eyelids faded. Further down. His brain tried to keep up with where they were – he hadn't thought they could go this far down, without ending up in someone else's much larger cave-prison.
It was cool, this low, and dank, smelling of mold and more faintly, of sweat and urine, and the smell scared him. He slowed again, wondering if he really was as stupid as Arthur no doubt believed, and maybe he should free himself now with magic, turn and run, and just keep running… Gaius laid a hand on his back between his shoulder-blades, and he kept putting one foot in front of the other.
He'd been too relieved at his mentor's presence to question it. But… he had no need of a physician's care… Merlin thought he might be shaking now, not from fear exactly, but from the tension of the unknown.
Metal shrieked unexpectedly, and he cringed as the nerves in his chest reacted.
"In you go," Leon said mildly. "Gaius, I'll be just here if you need me. Sir Brenner, if you would be so good as to fetch the water?"
Merlin stopped; his mind said middle of the cell, though he might have been inches from a wall, for all he knew. He heard a liquid sound of water inside leather and turned toward it eagerly.
"First things first," Gaius' voice said, and Merlin felt the old man's hands – like Arthur's – gently loosening the bands around his head. He blinked dizzily in dim torchlight as his neckerchief fell to its customary place on his breastbone, twisted and damp.
"Sorry," he managed, meeting the gaze of the old man with his best, and well-used, forgive-me look.
"What happened, Merlin?" the old man demanded.
"Saved Arthur – with magic," he answered, shrugging in an attempt to be cheerful. Not even Gaius knew how many times he might have honestly made that claim. "The knights saw."
"Why did you let them bring you back here?" Gaius said, wearily sorrowful.
"Arthur," he said shortly, his attention fixed on the water-skin in the physician's hands, more than the conversation. He'd just as soon not wait for fresh water and Sir Brenner, anyway. "Can't leave him. You know that."
"They'll make you leave him," the old man reminded him severely. "You know that."
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, more insistently, not looking away from the plump leather that promised moisture. He twitched; his hands were still tied behind his back, or he might have snatched the skin away from his mentor.
"You make it hard for anyone to help you, if you won't help yourself." Gaius waited for a moment, then sighed and lifted the water-skin. "Just a swallow, then."
Merlin gulped eagerly, ignoring the slightly stale taste of the water, but Gaius withdrew it too soon. He couldn't help a rather childish whine of protest, though he knew the wisdom of taking liquids slowly, after a period of deprivation. To distract himself for a few minutes until he could be allowed more, he glanced around.
This wasn't the dry, straw-strewn cell with the high narrow ventilation slit that looked to the side courtyard, but someplace – lower. Darker. Filthy. A single torch, in Leon's hand. And nowhere that Merlin would have been tempted to sit down, on the bare stone floor – no straw, no pallet. Not even a bucket, he noted, with an apprehensive sort of disgust.
"Arthur told me to run," he confided to Gaius in a low voice, stretching toward the mouthpiece of the water-skin again, as his empty stomach protested only a single swallow of water.
Gaius was watching him with apologetic scrutiny. "You should have, Merlin," he nearly whispered. "You should have."
He allowed Merlin access to the water again, and he drank slowly, so the physician would not have cause to deny him again.
"Arthur doesn't understand, about my magic. And he needs me to keep him safe – can't do that outside Camelot. And there's Mor-" He swayed, lightheaded; the words seemed to stick to his tongue and pile up together, instead of flowing smoothly. "Can't leave yet."
"If you stay, they'll kill you," Gaius told him speaking very slowly and softly.
From far away, he heard a noise of metal, the call of voices approaching that didn't seem to connect with him at all.
"I'm sorry, my boy, for this to happen. But remember, you're not alone. You must trust your friends… to do what's best… to let us help you…"
He swayed again, tipping against Gaius' hands, blinking in surprise at Leon's face just above his, as the light swirled in his vision and the whole cell revolved around him.
Oh. The water. The odd taste. Gaius, as we discussed.
There was no fear, but a sense of curiosity and the idea that this was ironic, somehow, but he couldn't remember…
"Wha' d'ja put in –"
He was on the floor, and the torchlight winked out.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"What the hell is going on here?" Arthur was too startled to be properly angry.
His chambers looked like they'd spent the better part of the morning being – there was no other word for it – ransacked.
Two guards – an older man with gray scruff on his chin and a blocky younger one with a shock of wheat-brown hair – straightened, startled themselves by their prince's abrupt and displeased appearance.
Sir Arrok sauntered around the corner from Arthur's bedchamber, hand casual on the hilt of his sword. "King's orders."
And Arthur had no second thoughts about directing his anger at the other knight. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped. "What is this?" He gestured at the mess around him. Things had been broken, and spilled. His training armor scattered, and he was sure there would be more dents for Mer- for someone to hammer out.
"You have had a sorcerer in your employ for over three years, my lord," Arrok said, just short of insolent. "His Majesty ordered that a search be made for items of magic, to be sure that you weren't enchanted."
"Sorcerer!" Arthur scoffed. "One performance of a single spell and we're calling him a sorcerer!"
Arrok only lifted his eyebrows. Arthur rolled his eyes; yes, of course, that was enough to condemn anyone. Had been for years, hadn't it. He ground his teeth.
"To be sure," he gritted out. It was standard procedure, after all, when a person was accused of using magic, to search for evidence, to destroy the corruptive influence. "Carry on, then. Make yourselves at home. Pretend I'm not here."
Arrok gave him a half-bow, and turned negligently back to his lazy supervision of the other two. Arthur threw his gloves onto the table with rather more vehemence than necessary, and they slid off the other side into a piled jumble of clothing. He stalked to the window-well, where he rested sideways, putting one boot up and drawing his belt-knife to chip at the mortar.
Because it made his throat hurt, to look at the mess. To watch them upending drawers and shifting furniture, dismantling the bedding.
Because everywhere he looked, he could picture Merlin as he'd seen him a hundred times - busy cleaning or organizing, dusting scrubbing polishing straightening, looking oddly pleased with himself when he thought he'd done a good job and Arthur wasn't noticing. Because he didn't hesitate to scold his prince for carelessly ruining whatever task he'd spent the last few hours completing.
I've just done the floors. I'm spring-cleaning. What happened? I'm gone for a few days and…
And now someone else would have to sort the mess. And surely whoever that was would put everything away wrong and Arthur would have to shout with irritation for every item to be found and brought to him and handed to him. And he would have the deep and petty annoyance – all the deeper for the realization of pettiness – of dealing with a servant who didn't know how he liked his bed and his meals and his bath and his armor and who no doubt would stammer and apologize while trying to learn all the details of Arthur's comfort. And because something about Merlin heightened Arthur's awareness of how he treated those around him, even menials, he'd feel guilty for being impatient and cross for feeling guilty and no doubt would unintentionally take his vexation out on that person and start the whole cycle over again.
And instead of having a companion who cared enough about him to learn an illegal magic spell – the idiot! – he'd have a servant, again. A servant who would just do his job, complete the tasks required and will that be all, sire. A servant who would stand and watch in horror as Arthur was assassinated – sooner or later, at the going rate of threats to the heir - shed a tear, and find a new employer.
To Merlin, Arthur thought, this wasn't just a job, it was more of a calling. In caring for his prince, he actually cared for his prince. And Arthur had no hope that any other would do the same. And, dammit, he valued that. He needed it, he'd miss it.
"You won't find anything," he told the room at large.
Arrok shrugged, and the other two, after exchanging glances with each other, went back to their tasks.
Well. He hoped. Because if Merlin was willing to learn a spell to disarm an enemy and risk using it where the knights of the patrol could see, who was to say he wouldn't buy a charm to give Arthur a good night's sleep or an amulet of protection or… why didn't the idiot, if he was going to poke his nose into the hornet's nest of magic, learn a spell to help himself? To make his job a little easier?
The door, which Arthur had left ajar upon his entrance, was pushed open, and Arthur had the gratification of seeing Gaius taken aback by the deliberate destruction of the prince's chambers. Drawing himself – and one eyebrow – upward, he found Arthur in the window and began making his way across the room, his round physician's case still over one shoulder.
"Gaius," Arthur said, as soon as the old man was close enough to hear him over the racket of the others, without him having to raise his voice. "They are looking for magical objects, presumably because my servant would be idiot enough to hide them here."
"Indeed." Gaius glanced around, laying his case on the newly-cleared surface of Arthur's writing-desk. "There are others doing the same in my chambers, and Merlin's room."
Arthur almost asked, would they find anything. But he decided, he didn't want to know. If they did, he'd hear about it soon enough. The trial.
The old man paused and gave Arthur a shrewd look. "You said, idiot."
"I – did." That was nothing new. Merlin was an idiot, no two ways about it.
"Not sorcerer. Not traitor."
Arthur held the keen gaze, uncertain what the physician was getting at.
Then a drawer of the wardrobe, tugged too hard, crashed from the guard's hand to the floor, interrupted them. Arthur almost laughed. Merlin had done the same thing with the same drawer, every day for almost a month before he learned that it stuck, and the trick to pulling it out quietly. Before he remembered – Merlin would never pull that drawer open again.
Unless… An idea sparked, but before it could catch, the door swung again – this time it was Arthur's father, dressed in black with his largest silver medallion pendant on his chest from a thick chain. Gloved hands on his hips as he surveyed the chaos with approval.
"Gaius!" Uther called. "I'm glad to see you're already here. What of the prisoner?" He began to pick his way toward them through the clutter on the floor.
"He has been sedated as you requested," Gaius stated, in his best dispassionate physician's voice.
Arthur stopped himself from gaping at the old man. As stern and gruff as Gaius could be, he never doubted the old man's affection for the young man whose time they shared between them. It was what had betrayed the truth of the goblin's possession to Arthur, a month and more ago.
But Gaius had also said, My loyalty to your father and to Camelot comes first…
Was he so angry with Merlin for breaking the law and dabbling with forbidden magic, then? Or was sedation a kindness, under the circumstances?
"And my son?" Uther said, gesturing to Arthur. "What is your conclusion?"
"I beg your pardon?" Arthur said, at the same time as Gaius spoke; both older men ignored him.
"I have only just arrived, sire – perhaps you would be reassured to observe my examination."
"Carry on, then," Uther replied, turned to Arrok and the guards. "Have you found anything, anything at all?"
"No, sire, nothing," Arrok answered.
Gaius interjected, addressing Arthur, "Has Merlin ever given you anything, any object as a gift, has he ever left anything of his for you to keep in your chamber?"
Arthur swallowed. And said, evenly, "Merlin has never given me anything." Which was a lie, itself. Merlin gave so much of himself, every day. Some days, he'd given Arthur everything, and more.
"Very well." The king gave the three soldiers an imperious wave to leave the room, as Gaius glanced at Arthur.
"If you would be so kind, my lord, as to remove your clothing."
"What?" Arthur said, incredulous. Perhaps this was all some bizarrely realistic dream.
"Do as he says, Arthur," the king said over his shoulder, glancing around the obscured floor, toeing some of the mess incuriously.
"What on earth for?" Arthur said, pushing upright from the window-well as the guards and Arrok left the room, closing the door behind them.
"Arthur, do not make this difficult," Uther said. "That boy has been unsettlingly close to you for – what is it, three years now? We must be sure you are free of enchantments."
"You have got to be kidding me," Arthur said.
"Just do it, Arthur," Uther said, scowling.
Fine. Arthur began to strip his clothing off, rough and impatient – not for the humiliation, but for the frustration he often felt in dealing with his father. That he had to cajole and negotiate and choose his words and attitudes and moods if he wanted to be heard. Forget about believed and trusted. By his own father.
At least Uther had the decency to look away, while Gaius peered into his eyes and ears and down his throat, had searched his scalp and examined every inch of skin, almost.
"Are you satisfied now?" Arthur demanded, going to his wardrobe. At least he'd get a change of clothes out of the whole ridiculous procedure.
"Well, Gaius?" Uther said, facing them again.
"There is no sign the prince has ingested or inhaled any substance of a magical nature; there are no marks on his skin to indicate the same," the physician pronounced. "He is completely free of enchantments."
"I told you so," Arthur muttered, feeling rebellious as a young boy, yanking his shirt over his head.
"I must say, sire," Gaius added, "the sort of enchantments that you might fear are very complex and require great power, and are also short-lived. It is extremely difficult to maintain such magic even over the course of a few days. Three years – impossible. And, if Merlin had enchanted the prince, there's no way he would have allowed Arthur to set him mucking out the stable last week."
The one word allowed, caught Arthur's attention, before he was distracted by a nuance in the old man's tone, that his father seemed to have missed. Disapproval.
"Well, it did need doing," he said defensively, "and he was late three days in a row and he knows by now that if he doesn't want to get sent to the stables he has to be on time and – wait, why are we even discussing it? It's not like Merlin is able to enchant anyone, right?"
Gaius didn't meet his eyes, busying himself with repacking his case. "No, sire, you're absolutely correct. Merlin couldn't enchant anyone."
"Well good, then." Uther sighed and nodded, relieved. "Arthur. I will see you in an hour for the trial."
"Yes, father." And the king was out the door.
Arthur retrieved his fine earth-colored soft-leather vest from the arm of one of the chairs standing crooked beside the table, watching Gaius latch his case very carefully. "Will you be at the trial."
"Sire?" Gaius adjusted the strap of the case over his shoulder.
"Merlin," Arthur said. The old man's eyebrow rose fractionally, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion. "Performed one spell, in defense of my life. Will you be at the trial, and what will you say, in testimony?"
Gaius folded his hands together, and they disappeared into the wide sleeves of his dark red robe. "My presence is required by the king. And I will of course speak the truth."
"Of course." Arthur held his gaze. Wondering what the truth was, to this old man. Because, five or six weeks ago, Gaius had stood and sworn, on consecutive days, that Merlin was a sorcerer twisted by magic – and that he was entirely innocent of those same charges.
Did Gaius play to Uther the way Arthur sometimes had to? And for what purpose? Who was he protecting, Merlin – or himself? And did Uther suspect him – or why else had he come to Arthur's room, stayed for that uncomfortably personal examination?
"Gaius," he said conversationally, focusing on the buttons of his vest. "You were with my father throughout the Purge – and before. You yourself were not unfamiliar with magical studies, were you."
"I have foresworn the practice," Gaius stated.
And – there the spark ignited. Arthur lifted his head, as the physician bowed and left the chamber.
Pardons had been given before, as reward for saving Arthur's life. The last one, a little over a fortnight ago, to a commoner who was uncommonly good with a sword, and uncommonly bad at holding his tongue before nobility.
And if Gaius could be trusted to remain in Camelot on the strength of his friendship and loyal service and the oath of repudiation of magic… why not Merlin.
Perhaps this could be put behind them, as certain incidents in the past, misunderstandings that had resulted in Merlin's arrest, but had cleared to leave things essentially unchanged.
He looked around the room, whirlwind-tossed. Perhaps… he dared to smile, dared to hope. Picturing his servant's heated exasperation, to see such a monumental task before him.
Maybe this time, things could go back to normal, too.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
His mother, Merlin reflected vaguely, was going to be furious.
Pick up your feet when you walk, she'd told him since he'd grown from a stumbling toddler to a tripping child. Boot leather doesn't grow on trees.
He smiled at the nonsensical bit of motherly advice and tried to obey, his head hanging low enough that he could watch the tips of his boots dragging over the stone floor, anticipate the funny little double-bump when they passed over an uneven joining.
Almost he laughed. Except, that hurt his chest. And then his head, throbbing dizzily as his mind tried so hard and so unsuccessfully to keep up with his body. And then his arms, which were currently supporting most of his weight – since the toes of his boots were dragging – his wrists still bound behind his back.
Again he made the effort to move his feet as though walking. Even though his mother wasn't here to know the difference. And if she was, she would be furious for another reason.
He hadn't kept his secret. Hadn't kept his promises to keep his secret.
And so they had done something with his magic. No, to his magic. He could still sense it, but instinct said the use of it would take some effort, and probably more concentration than he was capable of, at the moment. Something that had to do with the way the skin on his chest stung and itched.
Merlin lifted his head a bit as his ears caught the sound of doors opening, heavy wooden doors, two at once to allow the three of them through. A dungeon-guard on each side, hoisting him by the arms, sweating – but no longer swearing, as they'd reached their destination, and their audience.
He saw the lowest two feet – and the two feet, chuckle-snigger-ow – of a light crowd in the room to which he had been dragged. Skirts and boots. And when he was released, he dropped onto his knees before two other feet, in highly-intimidating and highly-polished black boots.
There was a voice that matched the boots. Intimidating and polished and black. He squinted up, saw a scar and a crown, and the vagueness cleared a bit. The king. He was on his knees before the king and the king was angry. The king was always angry, in his experience, but –
Oh, yeah. Magic.
This time, he'd confessed, he remembered and realized. And this time Arthur wouldn't blame it on an infatuation with Gwen and manhandle him–
Where was Arthur? He blinked and tried to make sense of the shifting gray shadows behind the angry king.
Someone else spoke, someone with a high thin voice he didn't recognize, so didn't bother trying to pay attention to.
Something slammed against the side of his face too fast and unexpected for him to retain balance, but he managed to twist and hit the floor on his shoulder, instead of his head.
Another voice – and that was Arthur's.
Merlin squirmed to right himself – to see – and instead Gaius' face with its halo of somewhat disheveled white hair and the lines etched somewhat more deeply than he was used to seeing. The side of his face was throbbing, but he discovered he could hear Gaius quite clearly.
"My lord, I must protest. Clearly the sedative has not left the prisoner's system; it may be that he is incapable of comprehending or responding coherently."
The king spoke again, but Gaius was trying to lift Merlin, and Merlin was trying to cooperate because he feared the old man wasn't strong enough, and both of them would be embarrassed if someone else had to help and –
The physician's hand touched his chest roughly, pulling at his body to adjust it, and pain blossomed hotly. He bit back a yelp but couldn't help flinching away, even as he got his knees under him again.
Gaius sucked in a breath. Merlin felt the old man's fingers fumble at the laces of his shirt – felt cool air soothe the burning sensation on his skin – and then the old man was gone in a whirl of red robes. Merlin leaned forward, trying to rub or press his chest on his knees, whatever would ease that burning itch.
"Sire! You never said anything about resurrecting the more barbaric measures of the Purge to use against the boy! I agreed to sedate him so that –"
"You agreed to sedate him because you are loyal to your king and to the laws of Camelot," Uther drawled. "For the proximity of a trial, we required somewhat more – certain, assurances of the safety not only of myself, but of every citizen in the court room."
"Father, what does he –"
"Now, I've agreed to a trial - though the criminal has already made a confession, according to the testimonies of these several knights and the crown prince - if he is incapable of participating, I see no reason to delay the sentencing and its implementation."
Silence.
Then a hand touched Merlin's jaw, a gentle wrinkled hand, which encouraged him to straighten again. He saw a tiny vial held to his face with a small pair of tongs and smelled –
The sharp bitter odor – mustard? – punched him right in the nose and he recoiled sharply, eyes watering.
"I'm sorry my boy so sorry," Gaius breathed. "I never dreamed – do you know where you are?"
"Court… room?" Merlin repeated, blinking tears down his face and wishing he could rub all trace of that smell away from his nose.
"And do you know why you're here?"
"Trial." He looked at Gaius, who retreated – past Gaius at a stranger, who wore an odd white hood and veil, and gloves. After a moment of staring curiosity, he swung back around to try to find Arthur. Tell Arthur the truth, make him see, see magic. See Merlin.
But – how could he, with all these people? With Uther standing hands-on-hips between them. His vision swerved a bit to take in Morgana, perched on the great stone chair beside and a little behind the king's throne. Her expression a clear and cruel mix of fear and self-righteous satisfaction.
Gaius is a goblin.
Morgana is a traitor.
They'd never believe him. He searched for Arthur, didn't find him – where was the prince? Hadn't Merlin just heard him speak?
Slap. He caught a swish of white material this time, the blow not so hard as to knock him over – or maybe he was more balanced because he was more alert.
"Answer the king, boy," the stranger said, in that high-pitched voice he couldn't place, before.
"Sorry?" he tried, looking up at the king, who bridled in the fury of offended majesty.
Slap. The material caught his eye – it watered madly again, and he couldn't even rub it. Though he did wonder, who was this stranger, who was allowed to wallop the prisoner on trial? "Ah – sorry, your majesty?"
"I said," Uther gritted out, lowering himself to the throne and leaning one elbow sideways on the arm, "how long have you been using magic?"
"I dunno," Merlin said, truthfully enough. He tried to think, how old was he this year? What month was it, and the calculation would be –
Slap.
"Father." Arthur's voice again, protesting. "Is that really necessary? It can't be helping."
Where was his prince?
"When did you start using magic? Who taught you, or where did you learn it?"
"I… don't know… nobody… I didn't?" He thought about asking for a drink. A pillow and a nap. This wasn't going well, he knew, and he resolved to do better. Be honest, without implicating Gaius.
The king growled in dissatisfaction. The stranger adjusted the fit of his gloves and commented lightly, "All sorcerers are liars, sire – we won't get the truth voluntarily."
"Merlin couldn't lie to save his life." Arthur's voice rang out again. Was there a shadow stood behind the prince's chair, mirror-twin of Morgana's, but empty? Why wouldn't Arthur come nearer? "Clearly. Give him another chance, Father. He did that spell to protect me from attack."
Merlin smiled at his knees. That, he was proud of. Every time. Even prouder of Arthur again demonstrating his nobility before king and court.
But the king was speaking again. "Why did you come here?"
"Needed a job," he mumbled the easiest reason, the one that least involved his mentor in magic.
"Who are you working for?"
Merlin stared at the king, uncomprehending. Til his ear twisted viciously – he fought the grip, then froze to minimize the pain.
The stranger said, very kindly, "Answer his majesty."
"I work for Arthur," he managed. "For Gaius. For… you, sire."
"I meant with your sorcery," Uther hissed, shifting impatiently. "Stupid boy. Who is your master? Who gives you orders? Who do you pass information to?"
His whole head was throbbing now, mimicking the blow from the sword-hilt only yesterday, over and over. The pain in his ear was exquisite, and he couldn't move. "Please – only Arthur." And Gaius, but… "Only… only Arthur!"
The king made a noise and gesture of dissatisfaction, and the stranger released Merlin's ear with a final pinch and twist that had him cringing and trying to nurse the side of his head with a raised shoulder.
"Please, what do you want?" he said, a bit desperately. "What do you want to know what do you want me to say? Yes I used magic to save Arthur, it can be good it can be used for –"
"Treason! Silence!" the king spat. "Guards – take him back to his cell."
Frantically he tried to find Arthur in the shadows that ringed his vision, and couldn't, and the guards took his arms to drag him backward.
"No, wait!" he shouted, dread pounding lethargically through his skull. It wasn't enough, he wasn't finished, he had to explain to Arthur –
Everyone watched him, but no one looked at him. Except Gaius, who made a single, small gesture that was almost lost in the folds of his robe. A shushing, quieting, calming gesture. Wait.
Okay. He trusted Gaius.
Merlin let the guards take him away.
A/N: Next time, Arthur's pov of the trial…
Also, I feel like I should point out, I mentioned that this story began five minutes prior to the opening of ep. 3.5 "The Crystal Cave". And because Merlin didn't run, but stayed and fought, the events of that episode did not happen. Or, will not happen, whatever. This, instead. Cheers!