Episode 3.13 "The Coming of Arthur" (part 2)

The sun was just setting as Arthur led the other four over the last hill and Camelot came into view, dying golden light still illuminating the highest of the white towers. But slipping, and fading.

No sign of movement in the deathly-quiet streets of the lower town. No sign of the army either – which meant the citadel had already fallen. Arthur swallowed and adjusted his grip on the sword at his hip, the cold of despair held at bay by its subtly confident hum – reminding him oddly of the handful of moments in years past, when Merlin had shed his servant's idiocy to sound subtly confident also - and the sound of his companions abandoning their mounts to settle behind him.

Merlin he almost expected in that position, at this point. Though his willingness to risk opposing the sorceress for a kingdom that currently forbade his existence was still hard for Arthur to understand, completely. His magic did give him an edge – but then again, Merlin facing Morgause was probably a fairly close comparison to Gwaine or Lancelot facing an immortal soldier.

Percival was an unknown. Skills, motivation, personality. But Lancelot trusted him, and he'd agreed to accompany them even after hearing the stark truth of their situation. A strong sense of loyalty, then, or justice.

Gwaine slid up beside him. "Morgause doesn't really have Camelot, until she has you," the outlaw observed. Arthur still wanted to shake his head over how this man treated an anticipated battle like he was discussing a short walk to a lively tavern on a balmy night. "And she knows you have Merlin. She'll be waiting for you."

Arthur made a noise of agreement. Like their assault on the castle of Fyrien, getting in wasn't going to be the problem, he was afraid. And maybe Gwaine was thinking along the same lines.

"There isn't a labyrinth, I don't suppose –" his grin flashed white in the gathering twilight – "but Merlin has showed me the tunnel that leads to the dungeon-level."

Arthur turned his head to look at his roguish friend, and behind him, Merlin murmured, "Long story."

He couldn't help snorting. "All right," he decided. Those tunnels were narrow; it wouldn't be hard to hold off even several dozen immortals, if it was necessary. Much safer for the three of them who had no magical defense. "You know you can't kill them, but you can trap them in the cells. If Morgause has taken any captives, they're your allies as well if you release them."

Both Gwaine and Lancelot – he glanced from one to the other – should be able to recognize some of the knights, anyway, and he didn't think any of his men would object to being freed by an illegal fugitive, under the circumstances.

"Take and hold as much of the lower levels of the citadel as you can, but retreat if necessary," he concluded.

"And you and Merlin?" Gwaine said.

"We'll go first to Elyan's," Arthur said. "If he's there, he ought to be able to give us some information."

He heard Merlin muttering an explanation to Lancelot, Elyan's occupation and relationship to Guinevere – and for a moment was nearly overwhelmed. Remembering the closeness between Lancelot and Guinevere, imagining the horror of the assault for her as the physician's assistant, wondering about her safety – his father – Gaius –

"We'll see you soon, sire." Lancelot's voice broke him from the discouraging reverie.

Arthur held his friend's gaze of quiet nobility for a moment, then nodded. And exchanged another such look with Percival the newcomer. No words, just an understanding unique to a fighting man. You do your job, I'll do mine.

Gwaine laughed, shifting in his crouch as he prepared to lead the other two toward the northwest. "If they start dying when we run 'em through, we'll know you two were successful," he said.

Arthur slapped his shoulder, throat too tight to speak, and watched the three disappear into the gloom. He wasn't sure if he was ready to mount an assault of his own, right this very minute, even with this sword and the young sorcerer breathing and waiting silently, patiently, watchfully at his side, but –

No reason to delay. Or retreat.

"For the love of Camelot," he whispered, and Merlin smiled.

It was a good thing Arthur had worn no distinguishing insignia. And that Merlin still had his cloak. Even though Morgause's men weren't exactly vigilant, they did have to conceal themselves more than once from a troop of enemies marching the streets in the lower town, nearly all obscured to knuckles and noses.

The battle felt very recent to Arthur. Bodies littered the streets – all dead, though, the injured either already aided or expired – fires burned unchecked. Houses dark as the survivors hid, and the stench of blood and fear thick. It made him sick to the bottom of his soul, and more than once he pressed against a wall to keep from falling to his knees. Rubbing his eyes clear of tears he would blame on the smoke if Merlin said–

A glance back showed that Merlin's pale face was tear-stained also; the younger man hadn't bothered checking the emotion he wasn't ashamed to show. Not this time.

When they reached the street where the forge stood dark, Arthur paused in a doorway to steady his breathing and attempt to slow his heart-rate. He feared to discover the worst; it felt like the morning he'd gone to look for Leon and stepped into the circle of Merlin's pyre instead. He was suddenly, terribly, desperately grateful for the one hand his young friend rested gently on his shoulder. It gave his courage heart.

I could not do this alone.

Merlin's touch, light and almost casual, said, You don't have to.

Arthur strode across the street and through the door of the little house, Merlin just behind.

Dark. And quiet. And for a moment that despair reached for him again, black and cold… Then Merlin spoke, and a flame jumped into existence just above his palm, lighting the main room – in absolute chaos – a shift of rubble, and they both spun as Elyan began his charge, brandishing the fire-iron.

"No!" Arthur hissed, holding up his hand.

Elyan jerked to an unnatural halt in the temporary hold of Merlin's magic, a moment before his dark eyes cleared to recognition. "Oh."

All three of them, Arthur thought, breathed a sigh of relief. He said, dreadfully expectant, "Guinevere?"

Her brother shook his head, lowering the poker. "I don't know. She was in the citadel already when the army attacked this morning. The knights fought – and some of us, but…" He kept shaking his head.

Arthur understood, and blamed no one; he remembered the feeling of suddenly realizing that his opponent was an undying skeleton. "What about my father? Do you know?"

"I heard rumors," Elyan said. "The witch holds the king imprisoned. People say…" he hesitated, glancing at Merlin, then went on, "they say she'll execute him publically, tomorrow. With fire."

That possibility did not have a chance to take hold of Arthur; Merlin said, with quiet confidence, "She won't." Arthur glanced back at him, and he added, "She'll hold your father to lure you."

Exactly as she'd lured him with Guinevere's brother at Fyrien; Arthur would not have guessed that the witch would turn out to be predictable. Arthur guessed his father would be in the cells then, and hoped that Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival would affect his rescue, too. It made him hope that, if Guinevere had been spared during the fighting, and discovered – her life would be safe then, too. At least until he was caught.

He gritted his teeth together and drew himself up. And that, would not happen.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin would have guessed, out of the two of them, that he better knew his way about the citadel and had more experience sneaking, than Arthur did.

But the prince surprised him.

Merlin's magic muffled the two enemies at the gate to prevent an alarm being raised, while Arthur's sword surprised them. And in turn, the three of them – Elyan had elected to follow in hopes of finding his sister – were surprised at the effect of the dragon-burnished sword.

It didn't even require a mortal blow, Merlin thought, blinking the after-image of a dual golden explosion from his eyes in the darkness. Only the touch of the blade – on skin only? Or maybe when blood was drawn? Or perhaps any wound in the area of the torso –

"Come on," Arthur hissed, yanking Merlin into movement once again with a handful of cloak. Merlin was struck – and gave a breathless laugh as he followed – by the conviction that the prince had almost added the term, idiot.

The three of them made it all the way to the physician's chambers without the use of Arthur's unique sword again. Ducking down behind the curve of this stairway, squeezing together for a heart-stopping moment in the shelter of this column. Three times Merlin's magic deflected the attention of the veiled intruders – a torch blown out, a tapestry billowing in a gust of wind, a barrel tipping over.

Merlin could feel Arthur's gaze on him, knowing his eyes had betrayed the surreptitious magic to the prince, and almost heard him say again, You've done this before. A bit disapproving.

He was quite sure, under Arthur's reign, the guards would be alert to such use of magic, and trained to recognize it.

The room was just the same as Elyan's forge, and Merlin felt his heart constrict to find it cold, dark, and cluttered by careless violence.

"Gaius?" he whispered, stalking to the middle of the room, heedless of broken shards and spills underfoot, daring to light the candle still in place on the work-table with a spark of magic.

Behind him, Arthur hissed a warning, and he spun to see the prince and the blacksmith step to either side of the closet where Gaius stored blankets, rags, bandages, extra crockery, the panels of its door indistinguishable from the wall around. They lifted their weapons – and Arthur yanked the door open.

To reveal the shelves removed, and both the physician and his young assistant sheltering startled in the small space.

All five of them muffled cries of relief and gladness. Merlin left Gwen to greet her brother and her prince with quiet sobs and tight embraces to throw his own arms around his oldest friend.

"I am so glad to see you," he said.

"Oh, Merlin," Gaius breathed, patting his back. "When Morgause attacked – and it became plain her men could not die – we feared the worse. I knew Arthur would take you with him, so I hoped – but Uther believes his son failed to secure the Cup because he'd been killed."

"No, just delayed," Merlin said, almost cheerfully. The death and destruction all around was terrible – another confrontation with the witch possible at any moment and probably eventually inevitable, but to know that his closest friends were alive and well and fighting back the way each of them was able – it gave him purpose and determination. "Lancelot is here. He and Gwaine and another friend have gone to the dungeons to rescue any captured knights – and I guess the king. We have come for the Cup."

"It needs to be emptied of the blood inside," Gaius said.

Merlin was nodding before he was finished speaking. "The druids told us," he said. "The Fisher King's trinket led us to… a very powerful blade that can slay the dead." He couldn't help smiling as he remembered the day he'd almost confessed to this particular deed to the old physician.

Gaius' eyebrow rose as it had done, that day, and he turned to look at Arthur's hip. "The one you didn't enchant?" he said.

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur's voice rose above the murmur of exchanged relief and comfort. "Elyan, stay here with Guinevere and Gaius. Merlin -" he turned - "if you're ready, we'll try our destiny once more."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine had not been surprised at the sudden appearance of another stranger who'd been close friends with Merlin – the young sorcerer was just that sort of person. He wasn't even that surprised that the newcomer had been banished – Camelot was just that sort of place, under Uther – or that he'd returned at Merlin's request.

He was, however, surprised by the answer to his question, So how'd you meet our Merlin, then.

"A griffon, by damn," he said, pausing before the hidden grate that protected the secret tunnel. He supposed he recognized the spell Merlin must have used on Lancelot's weapon, too. "Huh. That's a helluva lot more heroic than a pixie."

"I'm sorry," Lancelot said quietly, and Gwaine heard a puzzled frown in his voice. "Are we comparing –"

"Nah," Gwaine interrupted. "Never mind. Merlin and Arthur have got us both beat on campfire stories, I expect. This, this is my problem." He put his hand on the grate, just visible in the falling darkness, and tried to shake it, with little success. "Last time I used Merlin to pick the lock, know what I mean?"
"Percival?" Lancelot said, and shifted to make way for his big silent friend. Gwaine shifted too, uncomprehending but willing for any idea to work. The large shadow-shape obscured the grate almost completely, but Percival was focusing on the hinge-side, rather than the lock. Lancelot continued to Gwaine by way of explanation, "He's got some experience with stone-"

The big man made some violent movement of sustained strength, grunting his effort – the rasp-clang of metal on stone preceded the gasp-thud of the metal piece surrendering, dropping to the forest floor. Percival moved back to catch his breath, and Gwaine tested the opening.

"You sure you can fit through here?" he teased Percival, scraping his chest and back as he maneuvered into the tunnel and dropped to its floor.

"I've removed my sleeves for just such an occasion," Percival returned, and Gwaine bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. In his experience, such men didn't often have the brain to balance their brawn; he was pleased in this case to be wrong.

"Come on," he said, once the other two had joined him.

It was pitch black, and no Merlin to call the light of fire out of midair. Gwaine led the way slowly, carefully by feel – one hand on a wall, the other on the low curved ceiling to keep from hitting his head – shuffling as he heard the other two doing behind him. Soon enough, however, eyes straining in the dark caught the glimmer of faint light around the edges of the shield that covered the tunnel entrance, at the back of the prison-guards' arms-room.

Gwaine knelt cautiously at the opening, only a short pace in diameter, and shifted the shield enough to see that the light was diffused rather than direct, coming from the corridor beyond the arms-room, not the chamber itself. He sighed in relief, eased down from the tunnel, and held the shield for the other two to do the same without making any betraying noise. Percival was surprisingly agile for such a big man; Gwaine's respect for the ability of his friend's friend to choose his friends – no, no time for that now.

"Guards and keys probably at the far end," he said, as he stole a quick glance into the corridor. "At the foot of the stair."

"They can't die," Lancelot returned, "but they can be disarmed, bound, and gagged?"

"And locked into their own cell," Percival added with an incongruously little-boy kind of grin, flexing his big fingers.

"But without alerting any of their fellows up-stairs," Gwaine added. "Shall we check on the prisoners first?"

Taking their agreement as a given, he backed into the corridor, and signaled an all-clear, before continuing on to check the second hallway. Glancing back, he caught Lancelot's mouthed wish for good luck, and nodded, before stepping forward.

No guards in sight, though the cells were packed with men in chainmail and red. It looked and smelled and sounded, more like an infirmary; Gwaine thought they were safer where they were, for the moment. Only a few took notice of him as he moved past, and of those, only one seemed to realize, he wasn't one of their enemy guards.

A man with battle-stained armor and a smearing of blood shading his curly hair even redder. He turned toward the bars and came alert in the same moment that Gwaine halted and retreated a step closer, recognizing him in return.

"Leon, isn't it," he said.

"Gwaine?" Leon said. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Saving Camelot," Gwaine told him with a grin. "Want to help?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The room Arthur and Morgana had been taken to in Fyrien, the room Cenred and Morgause had chosen to occupy while waiting for them, had been a receiving chamber or public hall, he remembered.

And if she was still being predictable, Arthur figured the witch would not keep her magic goblet – a trophy more important and impressive than anything Arthur had managed to procure for his father over the years – hidden away in her private chamber. Nor would she risk so ostentatious a display as the courtyard or banquet hall – the busier the room, the more opportunities for accidents – which left only a few possibilities.

He hadn't figured on Merlin sensing the object, as he had the bracelet – with the sort of complete and helpless focus that jerked his whole body to a sudden stop and pointed him in a new direction entirely at a juncture of corridors.

"I can sense the Cup's power," the sorcerer gasped. "This way!"

As Arthur turned to follow him, he caught a dark flash of motion from the corner of his eye – one of the invaders, crossing the corridor further down. And whether that man was alerted by Merlin's voice or Arthur's movement, he reacted so swiftly Arthur's heart sank, even as the extraordinary blade in his hand leaped of it's own accord to meet his enemy's weapon.

Arthur was dressed plainly. Acting fairly normal – walking down a corridor, even with a weapon in his hand – not so unusual for someone who belonged. Which meant, Morgause's men, or at least the ones kept to guard the citadel corridors, were indeed expecting him.

And probably, Morgause was also expecting Merlin, this time.

Grimly he caught two attacks of his opponent on his blade before spinning past him to slash effectively across his back, and the enemy exploded soundlessly in a tatter of flame-edged scraps.

At least they weren't going to leave a trail of bodies.

Merlin was already at the next corner when Arthur caught him up, and waited for Arthur to sneak a peek to assess the situation.

Four men crowded into the doorway of the room his father used for private meetings and dinners. Not a single one of them alert, but rather rubbing shoulders with stolid boredom. He wondered briefly if their immortality took something of their soul out of them – feelings or the capacity for intelligent or original thought – or if maybe Cenred's men were just that sort of dumb brute to begin with.

Either way, that room was clearly his and Merlin's destination. Aside from the symbolic disdain of Morgause choosing Uther's sanctum to house the focus of her victory, there was no way four men guarded each and every room in the citadel.

Although, four.

"What do we do now?" Merlin whispered.

Arthur gave his head a single shake – they didn't really have time for strategy or circumvention – before striding out to attack.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine stepped out of the short passage between the two main prison-corridors, just into sight of the veiled guards packed into the space at the foot of the stairs like pickled eggs in a jar.

And whistled for their attention, before darting back the way he had come.

Indistinct shadows followed him, the muffled sound of running footfalls – half a dozen men, he guessed without looking - swords out, with a call of warning. But not realization. Gwaine slipped through the barred door at the end of the further hall, moments before Percival slammed it and held it shut against the efforts of their enemy – a well-placed spear from the arms-room kept him out of reach of their weapons.

"Stay there and don't move, eh?" he quipped.

They shouted, they cursed, as Gwaine panted and grinned, lending his strength to Percival's to keep the door closed. They turned in surprise as Lancelot slammed the opposite door – turning the abandoned key in the lock and essentially making the hall itself into a cell.

"Well done!" Gwaine called to him through the space, and between the agitated bodies of the trapped immortals. "Come around here and lock this one, then."

At his words the enemy soldiers redoubled their assault on the closed-but-unlocked door, but they got uncooperatively in each other's way. Percival's muscles bulged and Gwaine sweated and swore, and Lancelot hurried.

Gwaine drew his sword to menace their fingers, wondering aloud, "I wonder, if they're immortal, if you can still hack bits of them off," and cleared the way for Lancelot to lock the second door.

"There were three others," Lancelot informed them in a quiet, even voice between panting breaths.

"What did you do with –"

They rounded the corner to the main corridor between cells, and Gwaine had his answer. The last three immortal invaders were held – disarmed and gagged with their own veils – against the bars of the first cell by the inhabitants on the inside. Leon, among others.

"Ah, very good," Gwaine complimented him on his part of the plan.

"Keys?" Leon said, leaving the enforcement of the enemies' immobility to his companion-knights. Lancelot held them up and hurried forward. "Thank you."

"The friend of a friend," Gwaine told Leon with a wink, as the key rasped and the door screeched open. "Lancelot, have you met Arthur's finest – Sir Leon?"

"Glad to make your acquaintance," Lancelot said, a bit breathless still, as the knights still capable of fighting came out. At a signal from Sir Leon, they began binding their captives more securely.

"I'm not Arthur's finest," Sir Leon objected. "I think that title belongs to –" He cut off suddenly, and Lancelot looked up – and Gwaine grinned.

"He knows," he informed them both. "Isn't much of a secret anymore, our skinny-yet-powerful friend."

"Where's Arthur?" Leon asked.

Gwaine pointed upwards. "Going after Morgause and the cup. He wants us to secure these levels and –"

Leon took the key ring from Lancelot, headed for the open area at the bottom of the stairs where the guards would habitually spend most of their shift. There was another door, small and solid wood-plank, just off the bottom of the stair. Gwaine exchanged a look with Lancelot before they both followed; Percival remained behind to see that the last immortal was properly restrained – and perhaps to begin helping the injured.

"His Majesty," Leon explained, trying for a key that would fit that door.

"He won't be pleased to recognize us, mate," Gwaine warned the knight, who paused with another look at Lancelot, who shrugged.

"I'm not sure he will," Leon said carefully. "Recognize you, that is. But you can make yourselves scarce, if you prefer."

Gwaine grunted and headed for the steps. A moment later Lancelot followed. Too bad it wasn't so easily guarded as a trap door; the head of the stair seemed to open into a larger vaulted passage without even a door to close. He slowed his footsteps to prowling – no use alerting anyone by showing himself, but if more of those men came, he'd like as much warning as possible. Lancelot at his side did the same and silently, catching on quickly to what he was doing, and why.

Below them, they heard Leon's voice again. "No, my lord, a rescue. Not knights, but friends."

A lower murmur. Gwaine risked a glance over the handrail to see Uther, disheveled and gaunt but seemingly uninjured, make his way from the more isolated cell, focused on his step and Leon's supporting arm.

"Arthur lives, my lord," Leon said, evidently in response. "So I'm told, and I believe it. Your son will fight the witch – and he'll win."

Gwaine met Lancelot's eyes and grinned at the confidence apparent in the knight's tone. It seemed the noble men in Camelot were beginning to add up.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Three out of four wasn't bad, Arthur told himself as he shoved Merlin through the doors with his shoulder, lunging once more to keep the last immortal guard back. And as they slammed it shut and leaned against the inside to bar it together, he was suddenly reminded of the two of them holding the barricaded door against Morgause's undying Knights of Medhir.

She really was predictable. He was glad, this time, that he would not have to leave the room to attempt a single-handed defense or distraction – that he had a sword in hand that could kill these unnatural enemies.

Whether he remembered that situation too or not, Merlin grinned at him as they panted and pushed themselves upright.

To see that they were not alone in the room.

The table and chairs were gone, removed to make room for a stone plinth that supported an elaborate silver chalice – it seemed to radiate a red-gold light – and half a dozen defenders.

There was no time even to swear. Arthur leaped to attack – offensive speed being one of the few advantages he could use in this open space – Merlin's hand rose in the corner of his vision, and two of the six tumbled backwards a few paces. Not enough to jostle plinth or cup to falling, but it reassured Arthur that Merlin's magic would be an effective defense for him.

He had one moment to think, it felt oddly strange and yet familiar, facing enemies with Merlin's magic at his back, that he'd done it before, unknowing – The echo of the warning bell through corridors and closed doors was a distant concern.

Then thought submerged into instinct, act and react and fight for his life, his friends, his kingdom.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When the warning bell began its clanging, Gwaine and Lancelot both flinched, and glanced upward, as if they could see it.

"What the hell are they doing," Gwaine hissed between his teeth, before their attention was snatched by the sound of running footsteps – booted feet, and lots of them.

"Give them a chance," Lancelot returned calmly. "They'll manage."

A wave of black-clad veiled invaders swarmed from the open vaulted doorway, and Gwaine and Lancelot instinctively rearranged themselves on the stairway, both to block it and to give each other space to fight.

"Before or after the rest of us are dead?" Gwaine shot back, then lifted his voice to warn the knight organizing their retreat on the level below them, while he could still spare breath for shouting. "Leon!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They'd been fighting moments, only, but already Merlin was desperate.

"Get to the cup!" Arthur shouted, ducking a strike at his neck and pivoting to parry another.

"I can't!" he hollered back.

His magic wasn't working properly against the immortals. Attacks that ought to have blasted them all back into the wall only unbalanced a couple; only twice he'd managed to snatch a weapon away from its wielder's control for a moment. Enough to keep himself alive, not enough to significantly aid his prince.

And, the Cup was protected by enchantments. He could see the glow of latent magic, daring him to stretch out his hand and see what would happen. Because of course she expected them to get this far, expected Merlin and Arthur to appear in the center of her occupied stronghold. The only thing that would take her by surprise was the sword.

Merlin thought, he needed that, to cut through the enchantments and reach the Cup. But, Arthur needed it to stay alive. And the lost seconds measured by his quickened heartbeat brought more fighters – and probably Morgause – closer.

"I need the sword!"

One second of attention divided between Cup and prince – and Arthur cried out in pain, stumbling to one knee and reaching his left hand around to his back.

Merlin twisted to face him, and leaned into furious attack, forcing the one veiled enemy who rushed him with sword upraised backwards into another who braced himself to deliver a killing blow. Arthur didn't hesitate, lunging up to his feet again to destroy both with a single slash and a whirlwind of fiery scraps of clothing and flesh that burned themselves out midair.

Two left. And Arthur injured…

An idea occurred, and Merlin shifted the focus of his magic, catching at the clothes of the last two as they attacked Arthur in tandem, pulling and slowing and distracting, enough for the wounded prince to take first one… then the other.

The silence, after a thunder of clashing weaponry, was deafening. Arthur collapsed against the column, half-turning to meet Merlin's rush to his side – but determination was clear in his face. Their task wasn't complete, enemies would keep coming –

But for the Cup.

Arthur lifted his arm, his sword – and let go. The dragon-burnished blade floated through the air between their hands; Merlin caught it and spun to dash for the blood-filled, spell-covered goblet.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

A line of pain burned across his lower back, as Arthur allowed the supporting column to support him as well. The room was clear of enemies – for the moment – and whether emptying the cup meant the battle was over or just beginning on more even footing, that was their priority.

Merlin's head turned toward the cup even before his fingers closed completely around the hilt of the unique sword Arthur had tossed to him. For one heartbeat, as Arthur watched his friend sprint to this one first victory, he forgot.

The cup itself was not their enemy. Was not a threat.

At one end of the room, the double door was barred – but it was not the only entrance. Morgause appeared between the columns opposite Arthur, her attention solely on Merlin. Whose attention was solely on reaching and spilling that cup.

Arthur opened his mouth to scream a warning, but not quickly enough.

Morgause grasped thin air – lifting Merlin bodily several feet above the floor – and pulled her hand back.

"Merlin!" Arthur cried, as her magic yanked the sorcerer the full length of the chamber, his body rising to smash into the wall above and beside the door. He felt the crack of bone against stone, heard Merlin's breath forced from his lungs in one terrible grunt of pain, before the witch allowed him to drop the distance to the floor.

Arthur's greatest fear was almost relieved when Merlin immediately squirmed and gasped – not broken, not unconscious – pushing the sword skittering across the stone floor as he writhed. Trying to right himself, trying to recover. Arthur hit his knees and reached out, as if he could help him from several paces' distance, but Morgause stepped closer, drawing Merlin's attention instantly.

"I have a feeling," she hissed, eyes alight with vindictive triumph, and hand outstretched. "I won't be seeing you again."

Merlin struggled as if trying to extend his own hand, his own magic – and another voice startled all three of them.

"No, you won't." A simple statement, dry and angry, followed by a bellowed spell.

The moment Morgause had turned her head, Arthur dove forward to reclaim the sword that had been made for him. Lifting tip, edge, hilt – it felt so heavy and so slow – as the old physician's magic knocked the witch backward.

Toward Arthur. And toward the immortal blade, which passed through her body with chilling ease. She whimpered in surprise, her head dropping, perhaps to see the blade emerging bloodied, then choked as he twisted it to make certain of her death.

Then dropped.

Beyond her, Merlin was on his feet, grim and pale but ready. Arthur made use of the way the corpse fell, pulling back on the hilt to free the sword, as Gaius called out a reminder and a warning. "Merlin! The cup!"

This time, Arthur couldn't summon the strength to toss the sword lightly to his friend. Merlin's fingers brushed his as he offered the hilt, the exchange swift and sure. The sorcerer's steps steadied as he approached the displayed goblet, as if physical pain was forgotten or erased – the sword was swung – the cup was cleaved as the blade struck it, blood splattering, two halves ringing out as they landed on the stone floor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's vision was a bit fuzzy around the edges.

He put his hand flat on the empty plinth – the hold of the protective enchantments weakened by the death of their caster, then cut by the dragon-blade – and let himself sink down. For a moment he simply breathed, and watched the pieces of the Cup – dull, plain silver now, those enchantments cut also – rock, and drip.

"That'll need to be washed," he observed of the splash of obscene red across the stone of the wall and floor.

Arthur grunted under Gaius' examination, from across the room. "Are you all right?"

Merlin's neck seemed to creak as he turned his head, but he smiled across at his prince, tired and sore but satisfied. "I have had better days," he told his friend. "And far worse ones, too. You?"

Arthur's breath hitched and he cast a glance that was nearly a glare over his shoulder at the physician, who pulled back his hand, fingertips reddened with blood. "He'll live," Gaius stated, pushing himself to his feet again, and going to the door to unbar it and check the corridor. "They're gone," he reported over his shoulder. "I would venture to guess, all of them."

Which meant the citizens of Camelot – servants, nobles, knights – would begin to venture out, begin to put their citadel and town and world into some semblance of order again. Part of him regretted that he wouldn't be staying to help. That he couldn't. Not with his own two hands, or with cheerful words of encouragement, or with magic.

Part of him only wanted to crawl into his thin bedroll on the dusty floor of the ruined castle and sleep until spring.

He stirred, bringing his feet beneath him, feeling the dull ache of bruises, and some sharper pains that warned him of the need to take it easy for a few days. Gaius was helping Arthur to do the same; the prince grimaced as he straightened, pale but also – Merlin thought – satisfied.

"I thought no one was supposed to use that but me," Arthur said of the sword in Merlin's grasp. And answered himself in the next breath. "I suppose you're an exception to that as well."

"I think I've got to take it with me, for now," Merlin told him, glancing down at the unique weapon. "I'm afraid if your father sees it…"

He'd been half afraid Arthur would argue to keep it. And if that had been the case… Merlin shook his head to clear it a bit. That would not have been right, he thought.

"I can't deny it's a fabulous weapon," Arthur admitted. "But that feeling of invincibility…" He shook his head also, golden hair sweat-streaked. "That's not something anyone should get used to, I think."

Merlin smiled, relieved that his prince seemed to understand. "I'll keep it safe, til you need it again."

Arthur let out a short, hard laugh. "I hope you're not offended if I say, I hope that's a very long time."

"I can wait," Merlin said. He was close enough now that Arthur could reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, as Gaius stood waiting with the cloak he'd shed just inside the doors.

"You're just going to leave me with all this mess to clear up," Arthur said, with that odd twist of expression that told Merlin, forced levity covered deeper feeling.

He put his hand on top of Arthur's. "This time, yeah. I'm sorry…"

"Well… I suppose you've finally earned a day off."

Merlin snorted, and it sent a twinge through his spine that warned him not to do that again. "You've got Elyan – and Percival, maybe, he looks strong –"

Arthur's grin was more natural. "And you've got Lancelot as well as Gwaine to hide out with, now."

"Come for dinner sometime," Merlin invited. "Bring Gaius and Gwen. Bring Leon."

"What makes you think I'd care to sit a saddle for two hours, only to eat your cooking, Merlin?" Gaius questioned him, tucking his chin to give him a mock-stern look. But a twinkle in his eyes met Merlin's grin.

"One of these days," Arthur agreed. He dropped his hand and Merlin turned away to his cloak and hood, and an extra pat of the old physician's hand on his back – that might have been a surreptitious examination, though neither of them said anything.

At the doorway, Merlin paused. He would go one direction, the shortest and easiest route out, before he was recognized. And Arthur would go the other – his father the king an immediate priority.

"Merlin." He turned back to meet his prince's eyes. Arthur gave him a nod, a show of respect and acknowledgment Merlin had only seen him make to knights and opponents on-field, after some significant or impressive show of skill. He'd never thought to receive it, himself, one fighter to another. One equal to another. Arthur added, "Well done."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur met Leon in the hall outside his father's bedchamber, and wordlessly clasped his knight's forearm. Again, so pleased to see that he'd survived, and reading the same relief on Leon's blood-smeared face.

"You're all right, sire?"

"Only a shallow cut. I told Gaius he could stitch it later – there are others worse wounded that need his attention first."

"Hm. Perhaps his assistant might spare the time." Arthur arched an eyebrow, but Leon's expression remained serenely innocent.

"Gwaine and Lancelot?"

"Both uninjured. Probably they were recognized, but I can't see anyone complaining of their help. I think they took off half an hour ago or thereabouts, back down the tunnel. Gwaine said the grate at the forest end needs attention."

Arthur snorted, feeling the pull of the cut across his two lower ribs on the left side of his back. And the burn of his eyes, as he closed them. What didn't need attention?

"That new man Percival volunteered to repair the stone – I suppose he's how they got in? – and probably Elyan as blacksmith can help him."

"Percival's still here?"

"He's helping carry injured up from the dungeon-level. We have really appreciated his strength. Good fighter, too."

Arthur made a noise of agreement; Leon seemed to read more into it, and understand.

"Excuse me then, sire. There are things that need my attention, and if you don't mind my saying so, it would be a good idea for you to get some rest before too long. Camelot won't be put back together in a single night – or the next day."

Arthur nodded. It would be a process, long and hard for all of them. But worth it in the end. As Leon began to move away down the hall, Arthur pushed open the door to his father's bedchamber.

He found the king in a chair by the window, huddled in a blanket whose rich velvet contrasted with the startling simplicity of the white shirt and dark trousers beneath. Clean and fine, but his father was always dressed as if for a public audience. It caught Arthur by surprise and he hesitated, until Uther looked up – and a moment later, nodded for the hovering servant to leave them alone.

There was a worrying vacancy of expression on his face as Arthur joined him on a companion chair, where they were nearly knee-to-knee, but his eyes were aware, if pain-shadowed, and his voice steady when he spoke.

"Arthur." The one word was greeting, reprimand, and apology.

"Yes, father." He hurried to add, "I am sorry I wasn't able to get to the cup before Morgause did, I'm sorry I wasn't here to help defend Camelot when the army attacked-"

"Arthur." Also a very effective request to silence; he obeyed. "I thought you might be dead. And instead, they tell me you single-handedly defeated the witch and destroyed her army."

"I had help," he corrected softly. And wondered if now would be a good time to mention his idea, of rewarding those who deserved it – lifting banishments, at least, if not bestowing knighthoods. Lancelot himself was the prime example of why common-born fighters ought to be allowed the highest honor and responsibility, also. Especially considering their losses after this attack.

"You were injured?" his father continued.

He decided to delay the discussion until another time. Because a disagreement was likely, before he convinced his father of the merits of the idea – if he ever did. "Only slightly," he said.

"The witch is dead."

"Yes."

"And the Cup of Life?"

"Destroyed." And Arthur would never forget the sight of his former servant, his friend, his sorcerer – wielding that ethereal blade with the grace and deadliness of a born swordsman.

"Ah." The king nodded. Arthur guessed he would have preferred another treasure locked into the vaults, but this was good enough.

He ventured, "Are you all right, Father?" He'd already been reassured that Uther was uninjured, suffering no more than deprivation of food and water and comfort and freedom for the day – and no less than the belief that he was a childless failure doomed to a horrific death.

Uther settled back into the blanket, into the embrace of the padded chair, and shifted his gaze to the window. Unseeing, as it was a moonless midnight; a pang of regret took Arthur by surprise at the thought of Merlin having to make his way to a home more distant, more lonely, and less comfortable than the little room off the physician's quarters.

"She said –" Uther inhaled with a hiss and a shiver – "things to me. She told me lies, about you, and… others." Morgana, probably. And Merlin. Though what Morgause might have told him was probably fairly close to truth, Arthur was happy enough for his father not to believe it, after all. "Magic is untrustworthy, Arthur. It will betray you every time."

People are untrustworthy, he thought but didn't say. Now was not the time, any more than it had been on the night of Morgana's death. And maybe it never would be, for his father.

Briefly he wondered, how he would have reacted in his father's place, with Merlin as the wielder of the magic, instead of Nimueh. But he couldn't imagine it. Couldn't think of Merlin agreeing to perform something dangerous or unknown on someone he loved. Couldn't see himself not listening to Merlin's warnings.

"She's gone, now," he said aloud. "And Cenred our enemy."

That caught his father's attention. "Dead as well?" he said, for clarification. "Ah… The land is one step closer to peace." He put his hand on Arthur's, patted it twice in a rare show of affection and approval. "Well done."