Chapter 3: Trial and Error

Arthur leaned on the back of his great chair, behind and beside his father, as each of the knights of the patrol were questioned.

That went well, he thought, Leon's calm offset Arrok's fanaticism, and no one had seen Merlin do more than the single spell to disarm the last bandit.

Gaius was politely obtuse. Repeating, Arthur assumed, what he had no doubt told Uther when Arrok had first reported. No, your highness, I really couldn't say. I am often unaware of how or where he spends his free time. He did not inform me of any intention to protect this patrol using magic. He neither championed nor denounced Merlin, and it left Arthur wondering. It wasn't like Gaius to be satisfied with his opinion or testimony overlooked.

None of the servants had come forward. Arthur wasn't surprised. Merlin was universally liked among the staff, and of course he wouldn't be practicing disarming people in the citadel corridors to be observed, after all.

Morgana said, I am as shocked as you, my lord. Which was the truth. Morgana also said, It grieves me that someone so close to us would turn to the evil of sorcery, for any reason. Which was a lie, though Uther accepted his ward's words with diffidence.

But Arthur had no time to think about that before his father was questioning him.

No, I have never seen Merlin do magic. Up until yesterday, I would have thought him incapable of it, morally and actually.

Stark truth. No speculation, no thinking, no attention paid to any memories that nudged each other in his subconscious. Why would he want to know anything incriminating, anyway? Why allow suspicions, which he then would be honor-bound to mention, to the court and in a trial? Merlin was strange; he'd always been satisfied to leave it at that.

"Bring the prisoner in," Uther called, and the guard at the door moved to open it.

Arthur leaned on the high back of his chair, using it for the comfort of stability, as well as a prop to perpetuate the image of calm nonchalance. It had happened before, his servant hauled before the king for questioning – Merlin was bait for trouble – shoved roughly, shirt and jacket disarranged, his expression a mix of apprehension and defiant innocence.

The one spell, used with idiotic innocent reason, to protect his prince. Pardoned, maybe reluctantly, but the vow to renounce magic would seal the deal – and perhaps Arthur would be allowed to set the punishment, even, rather than Uther. Stocks and stables, then, rather than –

A stranger strode through the doors, dressed in a long hooded white robe over the lightest shirt-vest-trousers Arthur had ever seen. Even his gloves and boot-leather was bleached. But there was a veil, that covered the stranger's face from nose to neck, betraying only dark eyes and a few wisps of plain-brown hair on his brow.

"My lord," the stranger said, bowing.

"Aerldan," Uther said, nodding.

Arthur's attention was caught by two things – his father's evident familiarity with this man, and Gaius' reaction of barely-smothered outrage – before he focused on the guards and their prisoner.

His thin form hung awkwardly between them, feet dragging and head down. Jacket and neckerchief and belt all missing, his shirt and trousers already filthy.

He looked a guilty criminal, and Arthur bridled, pressing forward against the solid block of his chair, biting his lip. Carefully, carefully. If he was going to be allowed to keep Merlin…

The guards deposited Merlin on his knees in the center of the room, beside the white-robed stranger and before the king. Spectators all whispered and craned and for a single black instant Arthur hated them all. Except for Gwen, wringing her hands surreptitiously, and Morgana, kicking one foot as she affected to lounge in her own chair, as she did when she was impatient.

"Merlin of Ealdor," Uther said, "you have been found guilty of using magic by these several witnesses standing here now, and by your own admission. You will pay for your crime with your life, but you have opportunity now to speak for yourself." His voice dripped disdain like acid all over Arthur's hopes, eating holes into his plans like rust.

Merlin lifted his head, his expression perfectly blank. Arthur rapped his knee on the chair in an instinctive step forward; the sting reminded him. Above all else, he must be free and unsuspected, if he was going to accomplish Merlin's freedom at the best opportunity. One way or another.

Tell them, he pleaded silently with the boy. Tell them, I didn't do anything wrong.

Merlin said nothing. Uther exchanged a glance with the white-robed stranger, who said in a thin, high voice, "You see, my lord, as I said." Then he took a step, and slapped Merlin so hard he tumbled sideways to the ground.

Arthur gripped the back of the chair. "Father, corporal punishment is usually reserved for after the sentence has been passed, and is carried out by the offender's master," he reminded his father. "Not during the trial, and…" By whoever that is.

"When sorcery is involved, Arthur, extra measures must be taken," Uther said over his shoulder.

Gaius brushed past the stranger with a glare, to kneel over Merlin, trying to help him up. Arthur wished he was free to do the same; but his hands were tied just as surely as Merlin's were. "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."

As the physician tried to help an awkwardly-cooperative Merlin, the boy hissed and twisted back as though the old man's touch hurt, almost unbalancing himself again. Gaius' bulk blocked Arthur's view, but whatever he'd discovered, it made him angry, and he stood to confront the king.

"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 –"

Arthur looked immediately at Merlin – there were spots on the front of his red shirt, now, like water droplets or – possibly the stranger had hit Merlin hard enough to make his nose bleed? But there wasn't any blood on his face… Then Arthur's brain caught up with Gaius' words. Barbaric measures.

"Father," he said. "What does he –"

"Now," the king snapped, "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."

Gaius straightened fractionally, his expression very nearly a glower, if it had been aimed at anyone but the king. But instead of answering, he simply opened and reached into his case, bringing out a tiny vial attached to a long handle, and pinched off the wax seal. He reached to support Merlin's head while he administered the smelling salts.

Merlin flinched back, eyes wide in shock, one cheek reddened from the earlier blow. He looked for the first time beyond the three men nearest him, but his gaze didn't seem to light on anyone in particular.

"Now," the king spoke into the silence with assured authority. "One of the most important questions we need answered today is, how long have you been using magic?"

Merlin could not even walk properly, and they expected him to be able to speak properly? Arthur was convinced that his clumsy, irreverent servant had never done either yet in his life. He bit his tongue as the stranger in white – obscenely casual, and bold enough to strike Merlin without explicit order – slapped his servant three more times.

Not hard. But unsettlingly eager. And the third time Arthur couldn't help but protest. "Father."

Uther swung around to look at him, his expression closed and impatient; Arthur's heart beat hard, his mouth dry. They had an audience, he had to remember that. Nothing to undermine the king's authority, or anything he proposed would be summarily rejected, without regard to its objective merits.

He added more coolly, "Is that really necessary? It can't be helping."

Uther didn't respond, turned back to confront not the white-robed stranger who had instigated the mild bit of violence in his court chamber, but Merlin, who was still looked around himself dazedly.

For what? Arthur wondered. A friendly face? A bit of sympathy? He wanted to give it, to step forward, but. Would that encourage Merlin's stubborn decision to stay, to see this through? Perhaps if he felt a bit more despair at the trial's outcome, he would be ready and willing to escape when the time came.

Uther fired off a handful of questions, and Arthur gritted his teeth. As idiotic and evasive as Merlin's answers and excuses could be, it should have been obvious to everyone in the room that the boy's confusion was genuine.

The stranger made a snide remark about the veracity of magic-users, and Arthur bristled. Again, one rash use of a single – defensive – spell, and Merlin was painted with the same brush as the likes of Morgause, who'd probably been wallowing daily in serious sorcery since childhood.

He was speaking again before he knew it. "Merlin couldn't lie to save his life."

Again he found himself the center of attention. His father – patience wearing thin. Morgana – white with fury and only just managing to bite her tongue, herself. Gwen troubled, Gaius stern.

No. Don't encourage him.

"Clearly," Arthur drawled sarcastically, waving a hand at the boy crouched on the floor. Filthy, disoriented, confused, in no condition to formulate a false story. Okay, time for the idea of pardoning an isolated mistake. "Give him another chance, Father. He did that spell to protect me from attack. I don't believe Merlin is to blame for this."

"You could be right, Arthur," Uther said. "If the boy is afflicted mentally, perhaps others have encouraged him in the use of sorcery."

From the side of the room Gaius scowled, and Arthur thought, not a chance. The old man would have discouraged Merlin from law-breaking, had he known Merlin's curiosity and idiotic daring had turned in that direction. He probably understood that process of corruption better than most.

"So who sent you?" Uther said, again addressing Merlin. "Why did you agree to come to Camelot?"

"Needed a job," Merlin mumbled.

As one, the members of the court attending the trial took a step back, looking at each other uneasily. Was this a greater, darker confession? Arthur desperately wanted to take the role of questioner – Merlin's habitual lack of coherency was going to – no, that wouldn't help. If Uther wouldn't agree to letting Merlin stay, pardoned, then Arthur needed Merlin to agree to leave.

"Who are you working for, then?" Uther demanded.

Merlin stared, uncomprehending, which earned him another slap from the stranger. Then he began to babble. Arthur's name, and Gaius' name, repeating them even after Uther tried to narrow the question to the use of magic.

Oh, for the love of Camelot. Arthur kept his expression dispassionate by squeezing his mother's ring on the first finger of his hand almost hard enough to make it an oval.

And then Uther had heard enough – it can be good shut his ears with a finality that Arthur could see in the set of his father's shoulders, and it made him sick. The king shouted for the guards; Arthur came around his chair but the two soldiers were not unduly rough, and Merlin didn't exactly struggle. He seemed resigned, even to the point of relaxing in their grip, as they dragged him from the room.

For a moment, everyone hesitated nervously. Then Uther, in lieu of a mass-dismissal, merely turned to the white-cloaked stranger to exchange a few words in confidence. After a moment, Gaius joined them – and his father showed neither protest nor surprise.

Morgana slipped from her chair and rounded it – heading for the doorway behind Arthur, he thought, with Gwen a quiet few steps behind. But then she stopped only inches from him, as the other spectators continued to drift from the room.

"How long?" she said, her voice low but steely. "How long has he been doing magic? How long has he known he was capable of using magic? He said he didn't know, but that's ridiculous, he has to know, he chose it."

"Morgana," he said. "This is Merlin we're talking about. What are you afraid of? Like I said, one spell, one time. He can't have been using it for long, he hasn't changed a bit."

She shuddered. "Yes, but why?" she persisted. "What made him decide this? Why would he try to use magic?"

"Probably because he's useless with a sword, and goes on patrol as often as I do," Arthur said.

"Then it's your fault, isn't it?" she said, with such venom that he was startled, as was Gwen. Immediately she shifted expression to a consoling smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just – in shock, I expect."

"Yes, we all are… Look, Morgana, I must speak to Father, will you excuse me?"

She huffed and twitched her shoulders, but didn't stop him from moving past her toward his father. Gaius had already taken his leave – he glimpsed the old man's rounded shoulders and physician's case disappearing through the doors – and it looked like the stranger was on the verge of the same.

"Father," Arthur said, striding forward so that it would be rude for the stranger to turn away without introduction. "Who is this our guest? We've not met."

"Aerldan," Uther said. "My son, Prince Arthur. The prisoner was his servant."

"Ah," the stranger breathed, behind his white veil. He was about Arthur's height, but bowed a few inches lower, by habit or necessity.

"Arthur, this is Aerldan; I don't think you've had occasion to meet him, it is many years since we required his services. He is a skilled questioner."

"Questioner." Arthur didn't offer to touch the man's hand. The hand that had struck Merlin four times. "I was curious what Gaius meant about employing barbaric measures?"

"It is merely a mark drawn to ensure that the user is separated from the magic," the stranger assured him. "For his own safety as well as ours – he is neither tempted nor able to strike out at those around him."

"Indeed," Uther agreed complacently.

That didn't sound… barbaric. Something to ask Gaius about later, he thought. "Well, I hope your task will not prove too strenuous –" questioner? – "I'm sure Merlin has nothing to hide."

"You may be right," Aerldan returned softly. "If not… well, a sorcerer does sometimes require a little gentle persuasion."

Arthur's skin crawled. He couldn't quite take the man's words at face value. "Perhaps I may attend you? In my experience, it can be more difficult to get him to shut up than to talk."

The hood shifted toward the king. Who said, "Not this time, Arthur. Let Aerldan do the job I'm paying him for, you have more pressing duties claiming your time. Don't you."

"Father, my concern is –" He was silenced by his father's upraised hand.

"Aerldan, I won't keep you. I expect your initial report by sundown tonight."

"My lord." The questioner nodded, bowed still further, and turned to glide out the open doorway where the guards had dragged Merlin.

"Father –" Arthur began again.

"Leprosy," Uther said. Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending, and he explained, "Aerldan. The disease does not appear to be contagious, only slowly degenerative. It does not hinder his work and –" the king appeared to consider, as if a new idea had occurred to him. "Quite possibly, he is no longer suited for or capable of performing other work, anyway."

"Father," Arthur said firmly, determinedly. "I am concerned that Merlin remain unharmed. It was a single transgression, and of a defensive nature, you might even say heroic." Uther snorted, and Arthur thought, okay, that's stretching it a bit far. "I wanted to offer a suggestion. That he be granted a pardon for his mistake, serve some lesser punishment, and take an oath renouncing the use of magic. That way he can–"

"I have remarked upon," his father said slowly, thoughtfully, "that boy's unusual concern for you. Now I suspect the feeling is reciprocated, and I must say I'm not happy with the situation. What is it about him that makes you so eager to champion him?"

Oh, what thin ice.

"Merlin is a good servant –" he began.

"And yet I've heard you complain about him on many occasions," Uther pointed out.

"True, father, but if I were seriously displeased, I would have been rid of him long ago," Arthur said. "It's just that – we understand each other. Often he anticipates my needs and he knows the way I like things and –" spoiled, selfish prince – "it would be a dreadful bore to have to start all over again with someone new, after all this time."

"The odds are high it would be someone better," Uther pointed out with amusement. "Someone respectful, who knows their place."

Someone like that would not be better, Arthur thought.

"I grant you he's not a perfect servant. But he is mine, now. I feel quite like…" Something the king would understand, appreciate, agree with… "If he was my horse, or one of the dogs, that required extra handling to be a decently useful animal, I would feel proud of the effort and would not be happy to have it wasted."

"I see…" Uther mused. "You're fond of him."

A safe admission? "Yes," Arthur said.

"Well. As long as your servant cooperates with Aerldan, and reveals no further treachery, I see no reason why your suggestion cannot be given serious consideration."

Arthur couldn't help – though he tried to hide – a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Father. If you will excuse me, I'd like to see that the damage done by this morning's searches –" both in his chambers and the physician's quarters, that would give him an excuse to talk to Gaius – "has been properly cleaned."

"By all means. See you dinner," his father answered.

Something made him look back, just as he reached the door. And something about his father's expression – still watching Arthur – unsettled him.

But it was a long game he was playing, and for Merlin's life. Safe a while longer, he thought. Good enough for now.

He hoped Merlin was not being too difficult.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*…..

Merlin felt no fear, as the guards shackled him to a chair in the middle of the room. Deep in the dungeons, the walls thick stone rather than iron bars. Bright with torchlight. No imminent threat.

Which was good, because he was finding it difficult to focus on anything but the unnerving itch of his chest. A rash, maybe? And how did it relate to the block he felt on his magic, as if a shield had been erected between him and it, or… something. His chin down, he could see that his shirt had small, irregular stains darkening the red fabric – perhaps something noxious had dripped on him in his previous cell?

"Can I have my hands for just one moment," he said pleadingly – again – to one of the guards, who tightened the buckle of the strap binding his left wrist to the arm of the chair. "Just one hand, just to see? Only it itches!"

They were probably paid to pretend they were deaf. Maybe they were.

Maybe they wished they were.

For a disconcerted moment he examined the chair he was sat in. Thick and sturdy, bolted to the stone floor, the arms were curiously long – past his fingertips as his elbows brushed the back of the chair, which rose to neck-height. His ankles had been shackled to the legs of the chair, also.

And there was a drain in the floor. A hole to who-knows-where, covered by an iron grate. Built into the room.

He shivered – then leaned forward to try to rub his chest on his knees again.

"You were fortunate," someone said, in a voice that was high-pitched, but still masculine. Merlin lifted his head to look blankly at the white-cloaked stranger. Who added, pointing a gloved forefinger at Merlin's chest, "You were sedated when I did that."

"What is it?" Merlin couldn't help asking.

"A rune of containment." The stranger turned to a small table at the side of the room, coupled with a chair padded by a plump cushion, set on a sort of platform a few inches higher than the floor. "Can you still feel your magic?"

"Yes, but –"

"But you can't use it." The hooded head nodded, as the stranger proceeded to set out parchment, inkwell, and two quills, next to a lumpy roll of dark-dyed cotton, from some container beside him Merlin couldn't see. "Interesting."

"What is? And who are you?" The trial hadn't gone well; was he to be given a second chance? If he could just talk to Arthur – or Gaius, he was certain his old mentor had a plan, and a good one, he didn't want to foul that up. Or incriminate him, at all.

"If you can still feel your magic through the block, it means you're quite strong," the stranger said, dipping his quill into ink and making a scratchy note at the top of the page. "It means you've likely studied more and done more than the single spell you're on trial for, hm?" The hood turned a bit, ducked a bit in a fondly scolding motion.

Merlin didn't answer. It was Arthur he was meant to be confessing to. He had no illusions about Uther pardoning him, not after the way the trail had gone – escape would probably be necessary at some point, but… Arthur. Then, where would Merlin go, what would he do? Arthur still needed him, still needed to understand.

"So. Merlin of Ealdor. That's outside Uther's borders, isn't it? And you've been in Camelot, three and a half years, approximately? Were you aware of your ability to do magic when you came here?"

He still didn't answer.

The white-robed figure shifted sideways on the chair to face him, and sighed. "This doesn't have to be difficult, you know," he said. "The truth is easy enough, isn't it? If you're innocent."

For a moment they stared at each other, Merlin into the shaded recess under the hood and above the veil, and the other back at him.

Then the stranger put down his quill and stood again, casually picking up what Merlin took to be a slender rod from the far side of the table. But as he strolled to circumnavigate the room, he bent it without breaking it – a length of stiffly braided leather, then, not wood or metal, and not pliable like a whip, just over two feet long, with a thicker piece like a handle on one end.

"You must pretend that I am the king," the stranger said, in an unsettlingly earnest way. "The king has certain questions, and the king will receive answers, sooner or later."

Merlin's heart was in his throat. "I want to talk to Arthur," he said, keeping his voice calm with an effort.

Slam. The leather rod came down on his right forearm, near his elbow on the meat of his muscle. Merlin jerked, squeezing his eyes shut against the initial burst of pain; it faded quickly to the dull throb of bruising. Hells, that was unpleasant.

"You should use a title or term of respect," the stranger informed him, pointing the leather rod at him. "Regardless, his presence is irrelevant. Two's company, and three's a crowd, no?"

Merlin twisted to see that the two guards still stood on the inside of the door. He wondered who, exactly, they were guarding, and what from.

"You and I, we can be down here for weeks and weeks, or just a few hours. I promise I will not lie to you, and I ask only that you return the courtesy. That's not hard, is it?"

Merlin dared, "Are you going to kill me?"

"Tsk. Of course not. What kind of brute do you take me for. I am a questioner, not an executioner." The stranger ambled behind him, where he could not see him.

Merlin's mouth was dry; licking his lips did no good. "Are you going to hurt me?"

Swoop. And the stranger's hood and glittering eyes were right over his left shoulder. His high-pitched voice was breathless. "Only if you lie."

The threat hung in the air between them. Merlin couldn't help squirming. He really wasn't that good of a liar – and sometimes no one believed him when he told the truth. Gingerly he felt for the shield over his magic, which seemed to quiver, a bit, though it didn't give, and it itched.

The stranger retreated a step or two. "Perhaps we should start with your confession," he offered genially. "You admitted to disarming an attacker with magic. I want to know, which spell did you use? Where did you learn it, and how long did it take you to master it effectively?"

"I didn't use one," Merlin said. "I just, moved the sword."

"No incantation," the stranger said evenly. "Not spoken, not silently repeated in your head."

"No, I –"

The white cloak furled as the questioner rounded on him, bringing the leather rod down on Merlin's arm with lightning speed and precision. Again, not hard, but enough to catch Merlin's breath in his throat and cause his nerves and muscles to contract in one great helpless cringe. Enough to leave a bruise.

And it occurred to him, the man had struck exactly where and how hard he meant to. Just next to the other blow. Merlin couldn't help an instinctive calculation of how many times he could be struck before the questioner ran out of unmarked flesh. And began to hit the bruises.

"That was a lie," the man breathed pleasantly. "Such a thing is impossible."

"Improbable, but not impossible," Merlin argued, and –

Slap. The glove back-handed him across the mouth, and this time he tasted blood. "Have you forgotten so soon?" the stranger mourned. "I said, you must pretend I am the king. That means respect, young man, at all times. Is that understood?"

Merlin bit his tongue. Half a dozen sarcastic retorts jumped into his mind. Foolish, though, to provoke the man unnecessarily. Pride was all well and good, but he had to keep his eyes on his goal. Arthur – and magic.

"If I could just talk to the prince," he pleaded, licking the blood away from the stinging split in his lower lip.

"I could carry the request to His Majesty," the stranger suggested, "along with a full confession."

"Fine. I used fleogan which I found in an old book in the library and I practiced it three days last week alone in the armory when I was supposed to be polishing the prince's armor. Other than that, no other magic, and no one else knows."

Silence. For a moment, as the stranger stood with his back to Merlin, obscured head to heels by the cloak. Then his shoulders heaved in a sigh. "Merlin… Merlin, Merlin. You're a handsome boy. And, possibly, an intelligent one. Such a shame."

Merlin shivered.

The stranger moved back to the little platform, the table and chair, hands raised to loose the clasp of his cloak. Removing it, he folded it meticulously, then untied the veil, which went the whole way round his head, covering even his neck. And for good reason – Merlin saw that his brown hair was wispy and patchy, showing unhealthy scalp and raised sores, white on top with a crimson ring around the base. The man turned, and Merlin flinched back – more such sores deformed his face, particularly nose and lips.

"They said you had some training with the court physician," the stranger said, giving attention to his gloves. Merlin, horrified, wanted to look away – and couldn't. "You'll recognize this particular strain of leprosy, then, perhaps." The gloves came off, showing fingers discolored, bandaged – even amputated. "I have lost most of the feeling in both of my hands, except for right here, and right here." He touched the heel of one hand, and the tip of the other pinkie finger. "Oddly enough. What it means for me and my work, is that I often have to forego force, in favor of finesse."

He turned his back on Merlin again, to bring out a black leather bag Merlin hadn't noticed before. A pair of black gloves replaced the white ones, and a larger garment – also in black – was slipped over his head as a smock, covering his other clothes. Not unlike the aprons Gaius had worn before when handling multiple cases at once in a makeshift infirmary, during times of plague or battle.

"What it means for you," he added, beginning to unroll the lumpy black cloth on the tabletop, revealing delicate silver instruments that Merlin couldn't see clearly, and which sent a wash of cold sweat down his body. "Is that your lies are going to become much more painful. And I counted – half a dozen, was it? lies in your previous statement."

He picked up one of the instruments, a square frame which seemed to include a series of clamps, and advanced on Merlin, who bucked and squirmed and scratched at both the arms of the chair and the shield over his magic – what was he going to do? he couldn't use it anyway except in an all-or-nothing attempt to escape. When the stranger bent over him, Merlin smelled the sickening odor of decay.

But his eyes were bright. "And, you simply do not lie to your king."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The afternoon was interminable. Arthur avoided his chambers, the mess and the memories – and it seemed Gaius was doing the same.

He hadn't thought the old man to possess such a strong talent for making himself scarce. Out on his rounds, he said, one door-guard informed Arthur. And the guard at the courtyard portcullis said, Needed herbs from the forest, he told me.

Guinevere and Morgana kept to her quarters.

Arthur ended up by himself on the training field with a dummy, while other knights and soldiers kept their distance. Nothing wrong with that. Arthur often came here if he found himself with time on his hands or a problem on his mind. He wasn't expected to participate with the others unless scheduled to do so, and no one expected to participate with him unless specifically requested.

And, as he knocked the last of the straw stuffing from the dummy, he finally persuaded himself that Merlin must surely have cleared himself – convinced anyone and everyone of his innocence in the hours that had passed after the trial –

He'd done it many times with Arthur after all, hadn't he?

And he hadn't come to find Arthur on the field because first he'd gone to the prince's quarters – or Gaius', or his own – and had gotten sidetracked in cleaning and organizing. Yes of course that was what had happened, he'd open the door and Merlin would be in an amusingly awkward position and Arthur would tease him and embarrass him. And he'd retort with some unusual insult or hypothesis about Arthur's level of concern, before helping Arthur from his armor and into a hot bath. And they'd talk a bit and come up with some excuse for Arthur to avoid dining with his father and Arthur would look sternly at him and say something about the punishment Merlin's stupidity had earned him once again, and Merlin would whine and complain and Arthur would double it before dismissing him early which was really a backwards way of giving him the night off, after everything he'd been through.

But.

When Arthur slammed through his door, sword-belt in one hand and gloves in the other, the M of his servant's name already formed on his lips, it was a short, compact man with rather fuzzy brown hair who turned from lighting the last candle on the side-board stand. He bowed perfunctorily as Arthur stared.

"My lord. Your bath is ready, and I've taken the liberty of laying out a suitable outfit of clothing for dinner with your father the king and –"

"Out." Arthur moved away from the door he fully intended to slam again, behind the man.

"I beg your pardon, sire?" Fuzzy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"You heard me. I don't require your services tonight. At all. Out."

It helped the slam the door, probably startling the servant and the guard at the end of the hall, but he didn't care. It helped also to chuck the various pieces of his armor haphazardly around the room – because probably Merlin wouldn't have to clear it up, or hammer out the dents – growling with frustration at the bits that did need an extra pair of hands before he simply picked up the knife he'd intended to give Morgana as a birthday present next week and sliced through the leather straps.

But not enough.

He washed the sweat and dust of the training field from his body, but he didn't relax in the tub or enjoy the heat or the scent or the friction of scrubbing one bit. He put on the clothes laid out for him by the replacement servant and prepared himself for an evening of biting his tongue more often than the food on his plate.

For the first time in a long time, he arrived for dinner before his father. He loitered around the table, getting in the way of the kitchen attendants with their platters of food. Wondering if this impatience was going to work against him with his father.

As it had before. He keenly remembered his father crushing a delicate, wilting plant in his gloved fist, dropping it to the floor outside Arthur's cell, condemning an innocent man – this same man, though not entirely innocent anymore – to a horrible death, merely to teach Arthur a lesson.

Don't cross the king. Or his law, written or spoken.

"Arthur," his father greeted, striding into the room. "You're here early."

What of Merlin? What lengths is this questioner of yours allowed to go to? What is taking so damn long?

"I was hungry." He managed an even tone, and a shrug, before he took his place at Uther's right.

Guinevere was serving – her eyes reddened and downcast and refusing to meet his glance – along with another girl he vaguely recognized from the kitchen.

Uther was unperturbed, questioning Arthur about the rest of the patrol and attack, either deliberately ignoring or honestly oblivious to Arthur's black mood.

Morgana was on edge too, though trying her hardest not to show it.

It felt, incongruously enough, something like a hunt. Rush in carelessly and spook the prey and go home empty-handed. Too cautious and slow, and the same result. He had to move, figuratively speaking, as fast as silence and effective stealth would allow.

Although – he found an appropriate grin at something Morgana said – he could imagine his father's reaction to being compared to prey.

Arthur had been done for a quarter of an hour, when Sir Brenner, his long black hair combed back from his face and tied with a bit of string behind his head, appeared at the door. The knight advanced a respectful but unobtrusive three steps into the room, holding a folded scrap of parchment for the king's attention and his own excuse.

"Ah," Uther said, motioning him forward. "Yes, you may interrupt."

Arthur sat back, Morgana leaned forward, and Uther read the note without any indication of sharing the information. It could have been about anything. Except, none of the knights made a habit of disrupting the king's meal-time. And the only abnormal situation was Merlin's.

"Tell him until midnight," Uther said to Brenner, leaning forward to light the rolled message in one of the table-candles, letting it burn and smolder on a discarded dish between himself and Arthur. "And make sure a guest chamber is prepared for him."

Not for Merlin. For Aerldan the questioner, then. Guest chamber – until midnight. A time limit, Arthur guessed, on the day's task.

What the hell was taking so long?

Arthur could not look away from the rippling flame, the page charring white to black and then crumbling ash.

"Is this about Merlin?" he said.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur," his father said dismissively. "Let Aerldan handle it, he knows what he's doing."

"He's my servant," Arthur said. Part of him said, Stop talking, now. Most of him watched the parchment twist and shrivel.

"Perhaps not for much longer." The king was bored with the topic already.

Arthur glanced up at Morgana, who was watching the paper also, with fascinated revulsion. She met his eyes, and there was a spark there of a feeling that he didn't recognize, so out of place it was.

"Perhaps I should pay Aerldan a visit," Arthur said, turning back to his father. "If he is finding Merlin difficult, I could –"

"No, Arthur, you're not to interrupt them." Uther turned back to sawing hunks off his leg of lamb.

"But I could –"

"No." The king's voice was sharp and regal. "Do I have to make it an order? You have no business in the dungeon-level, and I will so inform the guards. It's out of your hands, Arthur." His tone softened infinitesimally. "Let it go."

Arthur gritted his teeth. Once upon a time, the witchfinder had tortured Gaius until he claimed planted evidence for his own, responsibility for drug-induced hallucinations – making his victim suffer until the old man admitted the lie for truth, simply to bring relief from the pain. Merlin, Arthur thought, would not do the same. He would hold to the truth, whether Aerldan merely disbelieved him or tried to force a false confession.

Midnight. Three and a half more hours.

"Yes, father," Arthur said stonily.