Chapter 17: Flame and Judgment
"I shall have to make do with watching the master of the servant burn."
The corridor was quiet enough – Merlin was creeping silently enough, alert for any noise preceding approaching enemies – to hear the witch's statement as an insidious whisper.
And then the magic. He felt it, recognized what it would do – fire, and lots of it.
Merlin's heart thudded once in his chest, then shot up to his throat. His nightmare – Arthur burning on the pyre – he froze, expecting an agonized shriek of death.
The torch beside Merlin flickered uneasily in the silence.
Or was this the nightmare?
He heard her speak again, that arrogance intended to provoke could only be for Arthur – she was toying with him, then, not burning him to death immediately. Merlin sprinted forward, silent wings on his heels – braced himself in the only open doorway to take in the scene in an instant glance.
On the left, Cenred in a great chair like a throne, slouched lazily, negligently lifting a full cup of wine, grinning as though he watched a jester perform. Next to him, Morgause – leaning forward, hand outstretched as if to grasp impossibly a two-foot wide column of orange-white fire and swirling smoke like a warrior grasps a javelin. Morgana, obscured by the flame and ripple of hot air, but motionless; further behind her at the wall, two muffled fighters.
And on his right, almost close enough to touch, Arthur Pendragon, unarmed and backing in a wary crouch from the flame.
Not shackled to a post… as unobservant knights lit the bristling tinder at his feet… and he screamed. And Merlin watched in helpless horror.
Barely the blink of an eye – and only Morgause had noticed him yet – his hand flew up of its own accord and he cried out a counter-spell. "Merrtorr sweoolhat!"
His palm tingled strangely. Half a second – less – he remembered the yellow residue from the ring-beacon Morgause had enchanted for Morgana to place. Too late to recall the magic, too late to wonder –
It reacted to his magic – added to his magic changed his magic – exploded out of his grasp.
The fire imploded, swallowing itself, shrinking harmlessly. But the hot air and smoke rushed out in a swift and massive and uncontrollable wave, like the intended beacon magnified and made a weapon. It slammed into him as well, knocking him back on the floor of the corridor.
His ears rang. The world swung, blurred, cleared. He resisted an urge to vomit and found hands and knees to scramble into the room – vaguely he noticed the arch was wider, and the wooden door missing, canted across a crate further into the room.
Hard to the right, his prince on the floor, draped over the rubble resulting from the mixed magic. Pebbles and dust littering his clothing also. And blood.
A sob wrenched itself upward through Merlin's throat. He caught Arthur's dusty golden head up in one hand, felt tremblingly at his neck-pulse.
Steady. Strong. Eyelids fluttered – blue shone.
"Arthur. Arthur? Come on…"
Frantically he checked the rest of his prince's body – no obvious injury except the bloodied tear in his shirt. But that appeared only shallow, a glancing blow from flying debris, not a deeper puncture wound. Arthur shifted, struggling back to conscious control – awareness sharpened in his eyes, but not pain, and Merlin sobbed again in relief.
Movement and noise caught his attention; as he turned his head he saw in quick succession – first Morgana, still motionless among more rocks and rubble, blood dark on the white skin of her face – Morgause, recovering slowly and almost drunkenly – Cenred slumped backward over the ruin of his chair, in a pool or wine or blood. The muffled fighters were both down, also.
His eyes connected with Morgause's manically-intense gaze – and they both rushed to facing each other on their feet, more or less steadily upright.
"You!" she spat. "I have had it with your – survival!"
Another fireball formed, quick as thought, and flew through the air hungry to devour his flesh – and his prince just behind –
He threw up his hands, and his shield.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur was disoriented even before he opened his eyes.
He heard Merlin's voice calling his name in broken desperation, felt Merlin's fingers feeling frantically for signs of life or injury.
Thought, don't use your hands, Merlin you idiot, your hands - broken damaged bleeding by that damn Aerldan – broken himself against the stone wall of the interrogation cell because he hadn't understood Merlin. Had underestimated Merlin.
No. Not quite right. Arthur was the one being interrogated. Threatened with torture, to reveal his secrets. But he had no magic to loose in self-defense, even accidentally.
He blinked, and focus came agonizingly slowly. Oh, Merlin. There you are.
Agony moved toward relief in his friend's eyes – and then Merlin lifted his head to look away from Arthur. Relief sharpened to wariness.
Arthur's chest hurt. Skin and muscle burned and pulled with every dusty breath he dragged in, but he wouldn't give up the struggle to sit until he was upright. His shirt was torn, he noticed as his head dipped heavily on his chest, flesh and material bloodied.
The sound of Morgause's voice served to focus his attention. "I have had it with your – survival! Magic or not, I will take great pleasure in seeing you dead at last!"
He managed to drag his head up in time to see her make a throwing motion. And instead of ducking – Arthur knew he was capable of it, he'd seen him a dozen times avoid numerous objects he'd made into projectiles – Merlin spread his arms as if to present a greater target. Arthur flinched involuntarily.
Flame splashed against the air two feet from Merlin's body, crackling hungry and disappointed, licking for the edges of whatever invisible force held it at bay. Arthur dragged in a single breath, and the fire disappeared, leaving a faint scent like heated metal. Morgause stared at Merlin, who didn't move. Except, he was smiling.
"I've withstood dragonfire," the young sorcerer said into the violent stillness. "But you can try again, if you like."
Dragonfire. That sparked a memory, flash-fast into the haziness of Arthur's perception. Merlin's voice bellowing furious commands, whispering soothing magic, strange and sweet and sure. In a moment he'd turn that foolish grin on Arthur and tell him, you dealt a mortal blow, and they'd both laugh at the glorious absurdity of life glowing in the darkness all around and the earth warm and damp beneath his body, head to heels. And wasn't it typical, that the first magic he'd seen Merlin actually perform, was something he couldn't see.
Morgause glared bitter hate, and tried quantity over quality – fire like arrows from the fastest longbowman – faster faster – hissed toward oblivion, so close Merlin must have felt the heat, at least. She stepped forward – Merlin stepped forward.
Arthur rolled to get up off his backside, preparing to run or fight or whatever Merlin needed – and there was Morgana, just beside him. He crawled to her; she breathed, her heart beat, but she responded not at all to his attempts to revive her.
"Don't touch her!" Suddenly Morgause's wrath was directed at him.
He glanced over his shoulder. The air shimmered between Merlin and the witch – helluva magical shield, that, well done – she looked at Arthur, and Merlin watched her.
"Let me take her and go," Morgause said suddenly, her gaze darting back to the sorcerer who opposed her. "Is she alive? Let me take her and go!"
Merlin shifted half a step back toward Arthur and Morgana. "No," he said. His voice was deeper in its defiance, the assurance of authority that would have even knights obeying instinctively, and something Arthur had never heard from him before. "No. Not this time."
"I can save her," Morgause hissed, sliding forward a step. "Like last time, Merlin – I can save her. Do you want her death on your hands after all?"
"You might have saved her body," Merlin returned grimly, "but you destroyed her soul."
"You helped!" she snapped.
Arthur saw Merlin's cringe shrink the set of his shoulders slightly – he glanced back at Arthur. Just briefly, as if to check Arthur's reaction or mood, but he must have forgotten that he held a magic shield – his eyes glowed molten gold.
So very alien. And something Arthur had been taught to hate and fear. Yet in that moment, it was as much a part of Merlin as his black hair or prominent cheekbones, lanky frame and bony joints and cheeky grin. It fit. And it calmed Arthur.
"No," he said, to Morgause. Working one arm under Morgana's shoulders, tucking the other behind her knees, he ignored the ripping sensation in his chest to plant one foot – hold her tight and fast – and push to his feet. "No, you can't have her."
Aside from the unanswerable questions the king would have, if they returned without her. Aside from Arthur's doubts about Morgana's place if they returned with her, considering what she had and what she'd done. Aside from Merlin's guilt and Guinevere's hope. This woman clearly intended no good for Morgana – no assured safety, no contented happiness. Already Morgana had shown herself changed – more spiteful, more ruthless, and it would only get worse, if she was left to the blonde witch's dubious care.
Morgause's expression was thunderous. Her body hunched in a way that chilled Arthur's blood, head bowed – but eyes still on them, reflecting hostile magic. The walls trembled, dust sifted, the rubble shifted.
"Go," Merlin said to Arthur.
He eased behind the sorcerer toward the door, gave an instinctively defensive glance back toward their enemy – and froze. Merlin's hands were outstretched, in an attitude of maintaining his shield. But his left hand looked wrong.
The smallest finger ended at the last joint. Arthur felt faint and sick, seeing again in memory the younger man's hands twisted and bleeding in Aerldan's torture as he spoke a truth that wasn't believed, and hoped not to be hated for it.
When Merlin could have said, the hell with it. With it all, secrecy lies risk mockery servitude pain loss –
Friendship. Hope. For Arthur, he'd stayed.
"Go!" Merlin repeated, more insistently, without glancing back to see why Arthur hesitated.
Smaller stones rose in the air, obeying Morgause's magic. Larger blocks slithered along the ground toward them; the soles of Merlin's boots slid backward also, as he leaned into his hold on his defensive magic. Arthur passed through the damaged archway, checking the corridor for any of Cenred's men – so far it remained empty.
Merlin took a step back, then another – then suddenly scrambled and ducked as the doorway filled with broken stone like the collapse of a wall in reverse. The very dust quivered and sparkled, holding the wall of rubble blocking the doorway.
Arthur coughed and closed his mouth – and hefted his burden to cover his absolute astonishment. Merlin risked a glance, then straightened with the same pleased expression he often gave Arthur's freshly-scrubbed floor.
"That ought to hold her awhile," he said with satisfaction. A rumble sounded from inside the blockaded room, and he added, "But we should hurry."
Arthur stuffed all emotion – surprise consternation gratitude exultation – deep down, in favor of immediate and necessary action. "Lead the way."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
From his place guarding the trapdoor, Gwaine heard – felt – the uneasy rumble in the belly of the castle. Almost certainly magic – but whose? And how long should he wait before –
Every sense alerted in an instant, and he swung his bow to the left. Around the corner at the far end of the corridor, Arthur staggered, his arms full of Lady Morgana's lifeless body. And behind him, but facing backward as they retreated – slowly, awkwardly, but together – Merlin.
Gwaine stepped on the back edge of the trapdoor to lift the front, lowered his bow to get his fingers in the gap, knowing Merlin would cover for them better than he could, anyway.
"Is she dead?" he called to Arthur, grim under the strain of her weight. Because even if she was, he could see the prince adamant about returning to Camelot to lay her body to rest.
"Not yet."
He didn't know whether to cheer that, or mourn. Merlin half-turned at the sound of Gwaine's voice – he was pale and his hair disheveled with sweat and dust, and he was holding his hands protectively by his chest in an instinctive attitude Gwaine recognized.
"Elyan!" he called down the trapdoor, and saw the dark-skinned man move expectantly into view.
Arthur knelt awkwardly by the hole, and Gwaine helped him stuff the unconscious lady's legs down. They lowered her, while Elyan guided and received from below.
"You've got her?" Arthur said shortly.
"Yes," came the answer.
"Go," Gwaine told him, and Arthur didn't argue, sitting on the edge a moment before descending. There was a rip in the front of his shirt, and blood, but it looked to be smeared and drying, not soaking through the material from a serious wound. Gwaine glanced up again. "Merlin?"
"I'll go last," the sorcerer said, facing defensively down the hall, which remained empty.
"If you're sure…" Gwaine secured the bow over his head and one shoulder, checked that the barrel-top was clear, and hopped down.
Elyan had the unconscious lady securely in his arms, and his sister had the prince securely in hers. "Arthur," they heard her breathe. "Are you hurt?"
"Not really." Arthur looked over her head. "So you're Elyan?" Polite introductions cut short in the situation. "You're all right?"
"Yes, my lord." To both questions. Elyan ducked his head respectfully but with shy reservation as Gwaine jumped to the floor of the cave.
"What happened?" Gwen said, releasing Arthur.
"Morgause," Arthur said grimly, as Merlin's lanky body filled the square overhead and dangled momentarily. The sorcerer dropped to a crouch on the barrel-top – glanced up with a flash of gold to send the trapdoor slamming down into place. Gwaine reached to steady him as he clambered down the rest of the way, then turned for one of the torches they'd left, reclaiming Merlin's cloak as well.
Gwen turned from Arthur to the younger man. "Oh, Merlin," was all she said, flinging her arms around his ribs.
He and Arthur and Elyan watched for a moment of awkward silence as Merlin hesitated, glancing at Arthur, then wrapped his arms carefully around her, murmuring something they couldn't hear. She chuckled, raising her head to give it a quick negative shake, beaming at Merlin.
"We need to move," Arthur said, swinging about as if searching the debris on the floor – down the passage – for something. "Cenred and the witch were trapped – don't know how long it'll hold them, or how badly either might have been injured."
"They won't come this way," Merlin said, jerking his head to indicate the trapdoor as Gwen stepped back again, to give her attention to her mistress in Elyan's grasp. "I've sealed it."
"Cenred will probably have at least one patrol still scouting the shoreline," Arthur continued, straightening with one of the abandoned swords in his hand, brushing cobwebs from the blade with his sleeve. "He won't have had time to recall them - or give notice that we've escaped. We'll have to take turns carrying her."
Merlin retrieved the second torch; Gwen looked up from brushing hair back from Morgana's bloodied forehead to examine the wound.
Gwaine said to her, "Don't I get a hug? Aren't you glad I'm not dead?"
She huffed in exasperation, twitching away from him. "Yes, Gwaine. I'm glad no one has killed you yet. Means I haven't lost my chance to do it."
Elyan narrowed a questioning glance at him, but Gwaine shrugged, unperturbed even at the memory of Gwen's distraction of the guard, at his urging. "That's a common reaction, actually."
"Especially from ladies," Merlin murmured.
"Let's go," Arthur said. He tested the balance of his sword briefly before turning to lead the way through the labyrinth.
Somehow Merlin ended up just behind and beside Arthur with the first torch, followed by Gwen and her brother carrying Morgana, then Gwaine with the second torch. They went as swiftly as they could, stopping twice to switch the burden of the injured Morgana, who didn't rouse at all through the process. The first, Gwaine and Elyan traded – light for lady – and the blacksmith claimed an abandoned sword from the side of the tunnel floor, also.
The second time, Arthur took his turn, in spite of the shallow wound on his chest, and Merlin's protest.
"You really think you could carry her, any great distance, any great speed?" Gwaine said to Merlin, moving up beside Gwen and behind the young sorcerer.
"We need you free to use your magic," Arthur said shortly – because of the weight he was carrying, trying to move smoothly and quickly. Gwaine found he was proud of the young prince also, that phrase your magic coming so naturally and without hesitation; he'd told Merlin it didn't take much getting used to.
Maybe Merlin felt the same; he tossed a brief twinkly grin back at Guinevere and Gwaine. "What makes you think I need to use my hands?" he quipped.
Gwaine laughed; Arthur grunted.
But when they reached the shale-shore and discarded the torches, the prince didn't stop or even slow. "The horses aren't far, let's just keep going."
Gwaine moved into the lead, since neither Elyan nor Merlin – or maybe he did – knew where they'd left mounts and baggage, in a tiny hidden hollow in the forest. If there were patrols – like Arthur had suggested, and Gwaine agreed with the probability – and they had either seen them or found the hollow, in their place he would –
A bellowed enemy order to attack was scant warning for his friends. But enough.
Gwaine acted without thinking, dancing into defense forward and to the right flank to protect the prince – Merlin was to the left, Elyan in the rear. And maybe it was just him, but he didn't think much of Cenred's training regimen. The first attacker fell to Gwaine's second strike; the second to a feint.
Then Arthur was fighting also, arms unburdened to arm himself with the borrowed blade of the last battle fought at this castle. Gwaine cringed in a cheerful way for the horrible wounds a rusty dulled blade could make – but the prince wasn't taking prisoners. Two more fell.
As no other enemies immediately offered him a fight, Gwaine took a breather to watch Elyan acquitting himself well with his own appropriated weapon – his technique was clumsy, his follow-through blunted, but he appeared to have the basics of block and attack mastered, all resolve and no hesitation. Good raw material there, Gwaine thought, but then again, he didn't suppose smith-work was for the timid.
Merlin crouched protectively over Gwen, who was with Morgana – who was still unconscious. One would-be attacker leaped at Elyan's back – only to scream and drop a sword glowing red at the hilt, before Gwaine could open his mouth to shout the warning. An instant and a turn of his head later, Merlin was glaring magic at a dead tree limb – which crashed down on Arthur's last opponent, scant inches from the prince's sword-arm.
And then the rest of the patrol was retreating – scattered and thoroughly thrashed. Arthur spun the old blade at his side, checking – as Gwaine did – all points of the compass around them to be sure they were victorious, before relaxing his stance.
"No one's hurt?" he said, a rather rhetorical question. He gave Gwaine and Elyan a quick glance, before turning to the other three. "You've done this before," he said significantly to Merlin, indicating the enemy crumpled under the dead-wood. Merlin answered with a self-conscious smile and shrug.
Gwaine slid his own sword back into his belt, turning to compliment Elyan, "Not bad."
"Practice makes perfect. I guess." Elyan appeared a bit shaky, now that it was over. Gwaine wondered if that was his first real fight with edged weapons and a determined enemy, and did the other man the courtesy of not asking.
"Practice makes better," he corrected. "And we all need it – even his highness. I'll show you a thing or two, sometime."
Elyan nodded quiet gratitude and acceptance, still looking at bit lost. Gwaine grinned and slapped his shoulder, turning to jog the dozen paces to the horses and gear. The dark-skinned blacksmith would soon realize that he'd been found.
Just as Gwaine himself had been, actually.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
That night, Arthur didn't call for a halt until half an hour after sundown.
Three horses meant Guinevere was mounted, and he and the other three men had taken turns, moving as fast as the party as a whole was able. Elyan had been imprisoned for the better part of a week, chained and kept on little better than bread and water – probably, he hadn't actually asked - and not enough of either. Merlin had wrapped a hasty bandage around Arthur's chest, not meeting his eyes. He carried these things, evidently; Arthur thought it might be a habit instilled by Gaius.
"Your head?" Merlin had said only, as he finished the bandage. Still not looking him in the eye.
"Mild headache." Arthur put his arms back in the sleeves of his shirt, retrieved his vest from Merlin's shoulder. "What about her?"
Morgana remained motionless and silent. Which wasn't good, Arthur knew and no one said; haste and the safety of the rest remained a priority.
With two long slender beech-trunks – felled and trimmed by Merlin's magic, a prosaic task that only Gwaine was unsurprised by – and one of their blankets, they built a pallet for Morgana to be carried in. It was attached to the saddle, and she was attached to it, and Merlin brought up the rear to erase the telltale tracks of the dragging frame that might lead an enemy to them.
Again, with magic. Arthur had to remind himself more than once to focus on the path ahead, not gawk to the rear like a spell-struck child.
He stood now just at the edge of the circle of campfire, leaning against a tree, arms crossed carefully over his chest. Watching. To both directions.
Arthur's position was between the camp and the now-distant castle of Fyrien, in case either enemy tracked them. Cenred had been injured, he supposed - mentally calling up the picture of the king sprawled unconscious across the tipped chair - his men further decimated. Whether he would make another attempt – whether he was capable of ordering it – Arthur's best guess was probably not. The witch, though, he'd have to ask Merlin's opinion on that.
He huffed a laugh to himself, and it was a little bitter. What he would give to be able to go back to certain times in the past, certain enemies faced, and be able to ask an opinion on enemy magic from someone he trusted, and who knew.
In a certain sense, he mused, they had all gone through that fire. Merlin's loyalty and purity of spirit had remained unchanged, shining all the brighter, that gold gleam of great magic and indomitable optimism glinting in his eyes.
Arthur himself. Belatedly and blindly struggling through the flames of grief and uncertainty and doubt – through the choking smoke to the truth beyond. Finding an honest balance of the scales of justice, the worth of friendship and commitment, beyond how any given man showed it. Leon, a knight ready to risk his current king's ire for the sake of his future king. Gwaine, breaking the law and risking his life to show rare trustworthiness and noble character for the sake of a friend. And Merlin, putting the safety of his friend and the good of the kingdom above his own needs and desires, time after time. Entirely unique, and exquisitely priceless.
Morgana. What had she to show for her trial by fire? She could have been forgiven her abandonment of Camelot had she chosen to live peacefully elsewhere. Her compassion and championship of justice had been traded for premeditated brutality, murder and treason. Ugly and worthless and shameful.
He watched Gwen carefully spoon-feed her unconscious mistress – resting in the frame where they'd laid it down flat - broth from the stew they'd eaten, thinned with more water. Merlin crouched at the fire, mixing and stirring something that had nothing to do with dinner, but reminded Arthur a bit of Gaius. His hands drew Arthur's eye again and again, but the young sorcerer betrayed no pain or hesitation in the use of either one. Which was something, Arthur supposed gloomily.
Off to one side, Gwaine and Elyan were stepping through a few easy parry-strike maneuvers. The blacksmith made a comment that had Gwaine throwing his head back to laugh out loud. Merlin looked up with a grin, and Arthur felt an involuntary smile tug at his own mouth.
How odd to think, these men – and Gwen – all common-born. Once he would have thought them beneath his interest, unworthy of his notice. And how much he would have missed, in his arrogance, short-sighted and closed-minded.
As different as the three of them were – blacksmith outlaw sorcerer – there was something there that he recognized was the same. To some extent, each of them was unconnected. Had cut the ties with the past to form new ones – had chosen a destiny, maybe? The way he himself never was free to… He glimpsed the flash of a new thought he dared not examine more closely - the convergence of these three disparate paths in the future, near or far.
His perception of the little scene turned. If there was chainmail and red cloaks, these could easily have been warriors, his knights – except, he couldn't see Merlin's slight build supporting an armor he didn't, after all, have any need of. But, just as much of a fighter as the others. Being able to protect, they'd accepted the responsibility of protection…
Elyan bent to lay the sword he'd collected from one of Cenred's men – like the one which now hung from Arthur's hip, a better replacement for his own than the rusty relic from the tunnel – by his bedroll, and stepped around Merlin to approach Arthur.
Disrupting his maybe fanciful thoughts; Arthur felt – almost – nervous, for this conversation.
"I want to thank you, sire," Elyan began, in a low even voice that reminded Arthur of one he hadn't heard in years - of Tom, Elyan's father. "And to apologize for the danger you and your friends faced, on my account."
His friends. Arthur glanced away from Elyan's dark eyes to the other two men. Fighters, made him feel bold. Friends, made him feel… was there a word for not alone?
"I have to admit," Arthur said, spurred to bare more of the truth than was comfortable for him, by the awkwardness of meeting someone for the first time, who was loved by someone he cared about, "I didn't do it for you."
"Of course not," Elyan said quickly. "You don't know me – and a prince shouldn't risk his life for a commoner – I just meant, I was the reason…"
Now he reminded Arthur of Guinevere, a little more. So the next admission slipped out. Premature, maybe, but less awkward. "It's what you do when you love someone."
Elyan's dark eyes were steady, but unreadable. "My sister?"
"I…" He set his jaw, wanting to be honest – about his feelings, but also about the situation. This hope might be ever disappointment, this desire go unfulfilled forever. "I do not have the freedom to make a declaration. Though Guinevere is a lady in every way that counts, she is not of noble birth, so I cannot…"
"Cannot tell her," Elyan said, shifting his eyes to his sister, kneeling beside Morgana with her back to them. "But you have shown her, I think." Almost it was a question.
Arthur glanced at the shorter man, and understood. This whole trip – yes, it betrayed his level of concern for Guinevere's happiness. And not just a temporary happiness, but something lasting that he might also share in. One day, to a greater extent. Somehow.
"My deepest apologies for offending you, my lord, but I have to ask." Elyan cringed a bit. "You and my sister, have you – you haven't, ah –"
"No," Arthur said immediately, feeling an entire-body flush, himself. "I wouldn't dishonor her that way, I care –" About her too much. Her reputation. Her chances at future happiness with another, if she chose. Because he could not speak, even to ask her to wait.
"Thank you for that also," Elyan said. "I – noticed that you seem to have lost your weapon, my lord?" He pointed at Arthur's belt.
"Yes, it was… unavoidable." Arthur sighed. "This is inferior, of course, but –" he shrugged – "adequate."
"Gwen said – my father was not replaced, as the royal blacksmith," Elyan said hesitantly. Arthur winced, remembering Tom's arrest for consorting with a renegade sorcerer – wasn't that what they all were doing now, at least in the eyes of the king and his law? "Perhaps, if I may request the use of the forge, I could form a replacement weapon for you? I am not yet as skillful as my father was, but – for this, I would do better than my best."
Arthur could not help smiling at him, and even went so far as to clap his shoulder. "I think that could be arranged," he said, even as his mind ran a length further – a cold forge, a trained blacksmith needing a home and work – yes, this could definitely be arranged. "Thank you very much for the offer."
Elyan made a little bow, and returned to a seat by the fire, between Gwaine and Merlin. Arthur caught him giving Merlin an odd look as if trying to figure him out – a man with magic, in company with the prince of Camelot – but Merlin made some response to a comment of Gwaine's that made them both chuckle, and his own wide grin seemed to relax the new addition.
To the side, his attention was caught when Guinevere rose from Morgana's side. She looked down at her mistress a moment longer, and when she turned, she lifted a hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. But instead of joining the three at the fire, she skirted their campsite to come to him. And as much as he ached, in that moment, to put his arms around her, he couldn't.
"How is she?" he said instead.
Guinevere shook her head. "The same. Her pulse is steady, if weak and slow, and she's breathing, but… What are you going to tell your father, when we get back to Camelot?"
Arthur sighed, and raised a hand to rub his forehead. There was no further proof of Morgana's treachery, or the magic that was her reason for it, more than what Merlin and Gaius already had, which wasn't enough. Except for Arthur's testimony, which would only introduce awkward and dangerous questions about where he'd gone and why, and who he'd been with and how he'd escaped. Admitting the lie about seeking silk for Morgana's dresses in payment for a lost bet, then asking his father to believe this story, in the same breath. Acute awareness of various situations Merlin must have found himself in, over the years, shot through him.
What good would it do, to persuade Uther that his lovely and loving and long-lost-and-restored ward, had become the sort of untrustworthy vengeful sorceress he'd executed before? If Morgana recovered, Arthur might address what to do more privately with her – maybe with input from Gaius and Merlin. If she did not…
"I think we should tell him it was an accident," he said. "She fell from her horse – perhaps we say it was startled by a snake or something. We cut our trip short, naturally–" because they'd have no silk dresses to show in proof of that tale, anyway – "to bring her back to Gaius."
She bit her lip. "Do you think he can do anything for her?"
Arthur shook his head to indicate uncertainty of an answer, not the answer itself, watching Merlin rise and make his way to them, carrying the dish he'd been mixing his concoction in, his bag and his waterskin. Guinevere didn't notice his proximity, however, or she wouldn't have voiced her next question, artless and despairing.
"Arthur, what happened? How did she hit her head?"
"That was my fault."
Guinevere startled, and turned to watch Merlin place his bag on the ground at his feet before straightening. He transferred the dish to his left hand, to scrub the palm of his right on his trousers, absently, repetitively, gazing beyond Arthur.
"I panicked, a bit." He gave Arthur a sheepish grin, as if anticipating the taunt that might have been forthcoming if the situation were less serious. Or Arthur a bit shorter of temper. "Morgause called up fire to attack Arthur, and in… dissipating it, I maybe… caused an explosion. Of sorts."
Guinevere's eyebrows were up – Arthur reflected that she didn't have the benefit of Gaius' stories, or his own experiences, in the dungeon and in the forest. He supposed he did not blame Merlin at all for a slip of control when fire was involved – but it reminded him of something he wanted to ask the younger man.
"Merlin, about Morgause – do we need to fear her, tonight?"
He gazed down into the slurry in his bowl, stirred it by moving the dish in a gentle circular motion. "Tonight, I'd have to say, probably not. She likes to feel in control." A pensive, intelligent look quite alien to Arthur's experience passed over his friend's face, and he was struck by the trust the younger man was showing him, now. To show himself, once again. "She likes to feel that she knows everything about a situation, more than the enemies she's chosen to face. I think she will come after me again – and definitely you…" an incorrigible grin, more familiar, and one that Arthur responded to with a roll of his eyes. "But probably not without a plan. And, an elaborate one…"
"Can you tell when someone who uses magic is close?" Guinevere asked curiously.
He turned his smile on her, his head ducked shyly, just a little. "No… but I can tell when magic is or has been used nearby… You're safe tonight. I promise you."
And, because Gwen didn't have the benefit of Gaius' stories, Arthur didn't blame her one bit for her next hesitant question. "Can – can magic do anything for Morgana? Can you –"
Merlin's face twisted, just slightly. It might have been a trick of the uncertain firelight. "No, I – I did try. Once, this afternoon." He met Arthur's eyes – an apology, a plea – "I can't." With the barest hint of emphasis that caught Arthur's attention. I can't.
But not Guinevere's. She nodded sadly. "I do miss her, you know," she said, before leaving them to take a seat beside her brother, some six or seven paces from them.
For a moment - as Arthur watched to be sure Gwaine was not paying her inappropriate attention - he considered whether to ask the question, or not. And Merlin stayed quiet.
Which was new also, and Arthur allowed a moment's diversion to think, maybe a good bit of Merlin's babbling was the underlying tension of his secret. To distract himself, as well as whoever he was with. And that made him wonder about the moments of quiet they'd shared, whether Merlin had achieved some measure of relaxation in his presence, illegal secret or no.
But each second that passed weighted the question further. He said, carefully, "Do you know of anything that might be done to heal Morgana. Even magically."
"I can't." Merlin's eyes were clear and honest blue. "But I might know someone who can."
"Who?" Arthur said.
"He's – something of an enemy, and really wouldn't be pleased to be asked, especially for Morgana, I'd have to order him –" He caught Arthur's surprise at that word coming out of his mouth – Merlin had people he could order? "So to speak," he hurried on, a bit lamely. "And I'd really hate to do that but for you I would. And Gwen, I guess. If you asked."
For the love of Camelot. Arthur looked at Morgana. No change.
If he said yes, and Morgana was restored. She might regret her wrongs and take better care to choose the right, in the future. She might say she did, then work to undermine them as she had since her return. She might regret nothing, and taunt them with the inability to accuse her to the king, or to keep a perpetual guard on her, until the next catastrophe.
It was, a bit, like he'd considered when thinking of the question of those with magic. Did you make sure a future misdeed hurt no one else by executing the one in question? You think as he does, then, that all magic-users should die? No.
But. Did she deserve death, the traitor's fate, for things she'd already done, choices she'd already made?
Yes. His hesitation, then, was over disinclination to be her judge and pronounce final sentence. To see the grief of other friends and bear responsibility for that. Objectively, he knew he wasn't guiltless, either, though he felt it a deep and sticky mire - to try to determine who was more righteous based on what principles and using what arguments.
He'd felt this same revulsion when Arrok had suggested carrying out an immediate judgment on Merlin. Not me. I won't do it. I have no right…
But. He'd been raised to be king, one day. Which meant shouldering this responsibility as well. No matter how flawed his own experience or perception, still he had to make the judgment, execute or release. Death or life. To administer justice to the best of his ability, according to his knowledge of circumstances, and motivation.
"No," he said. "No, I won't ask you to force your friend to help, against his will. And if she dies, Merlin…" He waited til his friend met his eyes. "I take responsibility for it. Understood?"
Merlin nodded. "Can I do something for you, at least?" he said, gesturing at Arthur's chest. "I don't think that cut needs to be sewn, but it should be cleaned and dressed properly."
Arthur wanted to tease him about his level of concern. Wanted to shrug it off with a typical knight's tough exterior. Couldn't help thinking about the macabre cuts he'd seen on Merlin's skin, in much the same place. He unbuttoned his vest and let it drop, loosened his shirt laces and tugged it off over his head.
"Kneel down here," Merlin added. "It'll be easier."
Arthur obeyed, one knee down, as the younger man crouched and unbound the hasty bloodied bandage still in place. Merlin wet a cloth from his waterskin to soak off the last few layers, then began to clean the area around the wound. Arthur tucked his chin to examine the slash – more of a scrape, really, only three parts of the mark were still welling new blood onto the cloth in Merlin's hand.
"Did it scar?" he said absently. His skin stung, but distantly. Merlin, focused on his work, hummed his need for clarification. "Yours, I mean."
Merlin retreated, taking his time laying that cloth aside and getting whatever medicinal paste he'd concocted in the little dish ready for application. When he spoke, it was with the same sort of physician's professional detachment that Gaius used. "Too early to say," he said. "Gaius thinks it's still fading."
Arthur wanted to demand a look at it himself. And at the same time, he was afraid to see it. But… "Your hands?"
Merlin might have been a painter at the masterpiece of a lifetime, daubing the paste – that did indeed soothe the sting – on the open cut. Very gentle, very slow, utterly absorbed in perfection of application. Arthur, for his part, shivered at a feeling both strangely tickly and utterly familiar. Being cared for by his servant's hands.
Because that rune might have been by the king's order, but Arthur was afraid the continued torture was partly his fault. "Your hands, Merlin," he said, softly but insistently. "Let me see your fingers."
Merlin sat back, bowl in hand. "Why?" he said. Not defensively or self-consciously, but with a surprising depth of compassion. For Arthur.
"Just – left hand." He couldn't beg; he couldn't order. He couldn't look away from where Merlin had that one finger curled out of sight under the base of the bowl.
Merlin sighed. Then transferred the dish to his right hand, and held out the left. Palm down, for a moment, then he flipped it over, and Arthur stared helplessly at the shortened finger.
So wrong. Merlin's fingers should all be long.
"Gaius did a good job," Merlin said conversationally. Arthur remembered waiting in the physician's chambers of a morning, six weeks ago. An old man's empty basket and bowed head and rare temper, and understood.
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling tears stab the backs of his eyes.
"Don't." Merlin drew his hand back, frowning slightly.
"I swear I thought… I didn't know he would…"
"Arthur…" Merlin's voice was little more than a sigh. He shook his head and reached into his pack for another roll of bandages; Arthur grasped his wrist to stop him.
"It was because I told you to tell him the truth, wasn't it?" he said. "Hells, I just wanted you to cooperate so he wouldn't hurt you, but he didn't believe you, did he? and then –"
"What I told him," Merlin said, pulling gently from Arthur's grasp. "Do raise your arms a bit, it's not easy putting a bandage here. Gaius said, it bothered you enough to question it, and you wouldn't stop until you had explanations, so in a strange sort of way, I guess, it was partly due to him that you believed Gaius. And me. And… changed your mind." The lilt of a question lifted his last sentence – he glanced quickly to Arthur's face as he leaned forward to pass the bandage-roll behind Arthur's back.
"I'm just sorry it came to that," Arthur said.
"So am I. I wouldn't have chosen it. But that doesn't make it your fault."
Arthur studied the younger man as he completed the bandage, and saw only open truth and honesty. Damn – still couldn't put his finger on it. Merlin turned aside for a handful of leaves to clean the residue from his little dish and Arthur stood, beginning to put his shirt back on.
"Oh don't," Merlin said, pulling a handful of white material from his bag and shaking it out into a spare shirt. "Wear this instead til we can clean and mend yours."
It would, Arthur supposed, prevent any more awkward questions from his father, when they arrived in Camelot.
Merlin's movements were practiced and easy; to Arthur at once familiar and strange, as his former manservant helped him into the shirt – bent retrieved positioned the vest while Arthur was still adjusting cuffs and collar. The younger man met Arthur's half-amused, half-chagrined expression with one of subtle satisfaction – perhaps he had found a moment's comfort in their routine, too.
"Orryn's a good man," Merlin remarked.
Arthur snorted, remembering how the sorcerer would have occasion to know such a thing. "Do not make a habit of wandering the citadel corridors, Merlin," he ordered, "any time of day or night –"
"If anyone saw me," Merlin's protest interrupted, "they would just think –"
"And do not spy on me, especially when I'm in my –"
"That wasn't what I was doing, no one wants to see –" Merlin's expression shifted from aversion to contemplation – "except maybe Gwen, but that's something I –"
"Don't even think about that." Arthur turned from shrugging into his vest to stick his forefinger in the younger man's face. Which lit up with a uniquely impish grin-and-twinkle. Arthur sighed, and there was more than a bit of relief in it.
Don't ever change, Merlin, he thought. Don't ever change.
"Let's get some sleep," Arthur said aloud. "Morning will be here soon enough."
A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien."
A longer one (word count, and update wait). But uncut Arthur&Merlin scenes!... And, there should be one more chapter before the epilogue…