Chapter Two: Beltane
The morning after the feast, Mordred was drawn out of his restless trance by a brisk knock on the door to his chamber. He'd been staring sightlessly through his open window at the sunrise. Now he frowned at it, wondering who would have need of him this early in the day. Whoever it was knocked again. This really was happening.
"It's unlocked," he called, turning to look over his shoulder at the opening door.
"Good morning, Mordred. Oh! You're up already," Elyan observed on his way into the room. He looked the boy over, reevaluating that assessment. Mordred had shadows under his eyes and was still wearing the knight's uniform that he'd donned for the feast, sans cape. "You're still awake," Elyan amended, eying the wolf snoozing on the otherwise untouched bed.
"What was it that you needed?" Mordred asked pleasantly, ignoring the other knight's disapproval.
"The others are waiting in the courtyard," Elyan informed him, prompting him to look out the window and see for himself. "We have a little surprise planned for your birthday."
"Not Sir Gwaine, I see. That is probably for the best. It is far too early for-" Mordred transitioned into a welcoming tone as the man in question barged right in. "Sir Gwaine! Good morning."
"Morning, Birthday Boy!" Gwaine replied, sounding unfairly chipper.
Bran lifted his head to look at him.
"Wolf," Gwaine acknowledged, and the animal returned to his previous position. "Bloody hell, it's cold in here! Why've you left the window open? You'll catch your death, living like that with the weather as it is."
"The shutters are broken. The rain isn't terrible," Mordred dismissed. He was used to worse.
"I can see your breath when you speak," Elyan contradicted, pushing past him. Even in spring, the thick, stone walls on this side of the palace seemed to trap the cold in better than the palace cellars. "Here, let's have a look."
"It really isn't worth your trouble; besides, I've got Bran."
"Nonsense," Gwaine said, giving the nervous youth a friendly slap on the back. "Elyan used to be a blacksmith before he moved here. He'll sort it out in no time. In the meantime, you should get dressed." He sauntered over and started looking through Mordred's armoire.
"I am dressed." Mordred followed after him, peering over Gwaine's shoulder to monitor his actions.
"I know that you're a shy one, Mordred. No one cares what you look like. I've seen it all, believe me. These will do." Gwaine passed Mordred the sturdier of his remaining leggings. The thick, leather ones that he'd bought with his recent earnings.
"I would rather you didn't-" Mordred began only to be interrupted by Elyan's incredulous exclamation.
"How did this even happen?"
They both turned toward the ex-blacksmith, then Gwaine lost interest and resumed plundering the armoire.
"That bad?"
"It isn't just the latch. Have you looked at this at all? The hinges are stretched in the wrong direction, the shutters are sticking outwards now, and the latch has been torn clean off! I haven't ever seen anything like this before."
They both stared at Mordred, who shrugged.
"I did think that it looked odd."
"You mean the window was like this all this time and you never thought to mention it?" Elyan verified.
"Do we have time for this?" Mordred deflected. "The others are waiting. I'll just grab a shirt."
"They can wait a little longer." Gwaine turned to him, no longer looking cheerful, with a familiar off-white shirt in his hands. "Are you hiding something, Mordred?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The window's forced open the wrong way, and I've just seen the two shirts you aren't already wearing," Gwaine elaborated. It was obvious that he expected to get a straight answer one way or the other. Mordred was both surprised and concerned by his strong reaction.
"I fell."
"Both times? Is that the tears or the bloodstains that you're addressing?"
"I tore my shirt during training. Really, Gwaine. You can't think that I am strong enough to force the window frame outwards like that. I'm smaller built than you."
Gwaine eyed him for a second, then his lips quirked upward in a self-deprecating smile. "Hey, we may be short but that just makes us tougher targets."
"He's got a point though. It would take someone of Percival's size and strength to bend the housings like this without tools and heat," Elyan surmised. "This will all have to be replaced."
Mordred grabbed a shirt while the others talked, and went to the far corner to change, keeping his back turned to them all the while on the off chance that they might look up and see his tattoo. When he turned back around, Bran had sat up, realizing that something interesting was going on. Elyan, Gwaine, and the wolf all turned to look at him in accidental synchrony and Mordred couldn't help but smile. "Ready to go?" he asked Elyan.
"Yes, but I'd like to come back later to inspect the damage more closely."
"Of course," Mordred agreed. To Mordred's welcome surprise Elyan paused in the doorway and whistled for Bran to follow them out before he shut Mordred's door behind the equally-pleased animal.
Merlin paused on his way to fetch Arthur's breakfast. Mordred was perched atop the head of one of the stone dog statues while Percival reclined on the palace steps beside him with Bran draped over his lap. The Druid held a faintly steaming pasty in his hands while they watched Leon and Elyan chase a cackling Gwaine around. He was holding a covered basket that they clearly wanted back. Merlin supposed that was where the pasty had come from. Merlin gave in to curiosity and sidled over to the two less active knights.
"What are they doing?" he asked.
"Gwaine went and stole all of the treats that Glenda baked for us," Mordred supplied happily, taking a bite of his pasty.
"For Beltane?" Merlin inquired uncertainly.
"For him," Percival amended, nudging the younger man with his leg. "She baked them specially this morning after we told her about Mordred's birthday."
Mordred blushed. He honestly wasn't sure why the old woman was so taken with him. It was sort of embarrassing. "Do you want some?" he queried in hopes of shifting the attention off of himself. "She made plenty of food."
"Well..." Merlin eyed the three running around the mostly empty courtyard.
"Gwaine!" Mordred called. "Let Merlin have some." He paused for a beat upon seeing Gwaine's mischievous grin. "Don't throw pudding again! It wasn't that funny."
Merlin repositioned himself on Mordred's other side, figuring that Gwaine probably wouldn't throw food at the birthday boy.
"It's your birthday today..." Merlin thought aloud, mentally weighing the odds of that great a coincidence.
Mordred nodded, distracted by Bran shoving his head up onto his lap.
"Er... How old are you now?"
"Eighteen," Mordred, Percy and Gwaine all answered at the same time.
"Here, Merlin. Quick, pick one before they try to take it back from me," Gwaine suggested.
"You are ridiculous," Percival remarked, snagging a tart out of the basket.
Merlin grabbed one of the pasties. "Thank you. I should go, I have to fetch Arthur's breakfast."
"Of course. You're both welcome to join us," Mordred offered, knowing that it was a longshot. Emrys may have been acting civilly toward him of late, but he hadn't accepted him yet, for whatever reason.
"We're riding out to the stream for a while before training starts," Gwaine supplied.
"I'll let him know," Merlin replied, jogging away into the castle. Mordred's shoulders slumped slightly, in response to the implied rejection. Gwaine was already locked in another playful scuffle over the basket by then, failing to notice, but Percival's brow crinkled as he quietly watched the boy's back. Merlin's unconscious effect on him had not gone unobserved, even if the blond knight didn't know what to make of it yet.
As soon as the door had slipped shut behind him, Merlin allowed himself a little panic moment. Beltane! Mordred is eighteen, today, on Beltane! Just exactly the same as Morgana's son! He is Morgana's son. Merlin focused on his breathing for a moment, attempting to calm himself while he fetched the King and Queen some breakfast. Kilgarrah did say that they shared a bond, he thought wryly. If that's their bond, does that mean that we might have a chance to save him? Or will that make him more certain to follow in her footsteps? Should I even tell Arthur? He paused outside Arthur's door, annoyed by his own foolishness. That's stupid. I have to tell Arthur, the others are bound to mention it if I don't. After his usual token knock, Merlin made his way into the royal chambers and set the tray on the table. Gwen was already up, standing by the window to watch the knights below. Yep. Definitely have to tell them.
"Good morning," Merlin greeted on his way over to wake the slumbering King.
"Good morning, Merlin," Gwen said, smiling at the familiar battle of wills going on behind her. Merlin threw the curtains to the large windows on either side of the bed open wide. Arthur let out a grunt of protest and covered his face with his pillow.
"Rise and shine, Arthur!" Merlin pushed, just to be extra irritating.
"Not again," Arthur groaned. They had already had two separate talks and a heated, one-sided argument about 'rise and shine,' yet here it was again.
"Do you know what the knights are doing down there in the courtyard?" Gwen inquired, much more civil than her sleepy husband.
"It's Mordred's birthday. They're going to celebrate this morning by going on a short ride in the woods," Merlin explained offhandedly, hoping to downplay the relevance of his words. Arthur snapped fully awake.
"Mordred's birthday. Today?" He verified.
"Yes Arthur, today. Percival told me when I passed them."
"He was born on Beltane," Arthur said impatiently, suddenly eager to be up and dressed.
"What's wrong?" Gwen asked, watching with mild concern while he hurried to get ready.
"Don't worry, you're welcome to join them," Merlin assured his King sarcastically in response to Arthur's presumption.
Arthur paused on his way out to give his wife a quick kiss, not bothering to explain his haste - nor even to touch the perfectly good breakfast that Merlin had brought them.
"I should go after him," Merlin decided, following the King out. Somehow, Arthur managed to get down to the courtyard far ahead of him. Merlin suspected that he might have run, not that Arthur would ever admit such a thing. He was already chatting with the young Druid when Merlin caught up with him, idly looking through the basket.
"She's definitely fond of you."
"Yes, Sire," Mordred admitted bashfully.
"How old are you anyway? I mean, you were very little when we first met but..."
"Eighteen," Mordred answered. "I'm not sure why everyone is so shocked to hear that," he added more quietly.
"You behave maturely for someone your age. It makes you seem older." Arthur was covering his excitement very well, Merlin noted, especially considering who he was talking to. Arthur looked up, his brows scrunching together in annoyance. "More importantly: how are there ten pasties but only three tarts left?"
Arthur's question was answered by a chorus of "Gwaine," from the surrounding knights.
"Where's Percival?" Merlin asked, watching with a sidelong look of exasperation as Arthur used the dagger he'd only just polished to perfection last night to cut a sticky-looking strawberry tart in half.
"He went ahead to the stables," Mordred supplied a bit sharply, which was saying something, coming from the soft spoken teen. It was enough to startle a perplexed interest from the no-longer-preoccupied servant.
"Readying the horses, what a splendid idea," Arthur hinted.
"I guess I'll be joining him then," Merlin acknowledged with a tight smile.
Mordred accepted the other half of Arthur's tart and passed it to Merlin without missing a beat.
"Thank you, Mordred," Merlin accepted, walking away towards the stables. Enemy or not, at least the boy's considerate. He quickly stifled the unwise train of thought. Mordred was dangerous. He needed to remember that.
Arthur watched him go, waiting until the other knights were otherwise occupied to pick up his conversation with the Druid boy. "What can you tell me about Beltane?"
"Sire?"
"You were raised among the Druids. I don't know much about your people's customs."
"We used to burn sacred fires, and use them to relight our hearths for the next year. It was also a festival of fertility. Druid children are more likely to be conceived on fire night, rather than born. I am not certain what you would like to know..." Mordred floundered, scrutinizing Arthur's face.
"Gaius told me about a ritual that he witnessed before the Great Purge. He said that the High Priestesses used to raise the dead."
"That ritual hasn't been practiced since before my birth, Sire. It is my understanding that most of their artifacts were destroyed or stolen during the Purge," Mordred answered carefully. "Even if they did survive. They are imbued with such potent magic, I doubt that any surviving sorcerer would think to use them now."
"Why is that?"
"The veils that separate different worlds will be at their weakest tonight. It is not only human spirits that come to peer through the shrinking divide," Mordred cautioned, catching the curious ruler's eye. "Why do you think we used to burn so many fires?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly in question.
"To keep what lurks in darkness at bay."
Arthur considered the boy's words in thoughtful silence until Merlin and Percival came into view, leading their horses into the courtyard. "But if you could, if you had the chance to see the people you've lost again, for one last time and say goodbye, wouldn't you take it?"
"Is this about your father?"
"Excuse me?"
"I meant no offense, Sire. I know that you must miss him." Mordred retreated behind his practiced mask, leaving the King no clue as to what his true feelings on the matter might be. Arthur was fairly certain by now that it was a defense mechanism. It's probably best not to push him, hedetermined.
"No, Sir Mordred. No offense taken. I merely wanted to know your perspective on the matter."
"Honestly, Sire?" Mordred verified, his tone perfectly neutral.
"Yes, honestly. I'm not trying to trick you. Hypothetically speaking, if such a thing were possible -without threat of punishment," he clarified in response to Mordred's piercing stare. "Would you think that it was worth it?"
Mordred regarded him for a long, drawn out moment. There was something unfathomable in his sapphire eyes. He looked too haunted for a boy his age, as though his eyes were far too old for the youthful face that housed them. "Not for me."
"Mordred?"
"I live with too many ghosts." The Druid abandoned his perch, bowing respectfully before he wandered over to help with the horses, Bran trailing behind him.
Arthur watched him go, pondering the strange remark. He's a Druid. How many of his kin have been killed in my father's name? How many of them have Ikilled? The excitement that he'd felt when Merlin informed him of Mordred's coinciding birthday was overtaken by dread. If he is my nephew and this isn't some mad coincidence... How do I tell him the truth?
Arthur remained quiet throughout their morning ride, content to watch the others' interactions while he thought over what to do with the Horn of Cathbad. It belonged in Camelot's vault for certain. Nevertheless... Arthur got off his horse and preoccupied himself with helping unpack. Then, after Merlin started shooting him worried looks, he finally wandered over to watch Gwaine and Mordred roughhousing with Percival at the water's edge. Bran padded over and curled up against the King's side, and Arthur quickly became lost in his own musings, absently running his fingers through the wolf's fur.
He missed his father. There was still this perfect image in his head of the strong and noble King. The man he looked up to: his father, Uther. Then there was the Uther who had lied to him his entire life. The Uther who had abandoned Mordred, or a boy just like him, at birth and left him to live or die never knowing his true family. The King who showed no mercy to the Druids. Who had hunted Mordred down, killed his guardian, and nearly executed him at the tender age of ten. That Uther was the Father of the Purge, the man of whom Arthur's enemies spoke when they accused the Pendragons of tyranny. He still couldn't quite reconcile the two in his head. He knew that he himself was no tyrant, and wasn't he the man his father had raised him to be? He thought that he was. He even hoped that he was. He didn't know.
Merlin was hovering cautiously around the periphery of the trio as they began to disperse. Mordred-the one weathering the brunt of the manservant's stare- was climbing up onto the upturned roots of a great toppled tree that stretched over the water's surface. Percival was sitting in a sunny patch a few paces away, also observing Mordred's efforts while Gwaine skipped rocks and teased him. The Druid was making quick progress over the formidable gnarl of dead and rotting wood. The log shook with each step that he took across it. His balance remained steady despite the tenuous moving perch, making it almost seem effortless.
"You climb like a squirrel! How do you do that?" Sir Gwaine inquired, throwing the last rock in his hand away into the water without looking. It plunked into the water with a skimming splash.
"Watch it!" Elyan protested from his perch on a couple of handy stepping stones.
"It's only water," Gwaine called back.
"I've learned through practice," Mordred answered mildly, leaning over the far edge to watch a loose flower floating under him.
"Practice. What did you do, grow up living in a tree?" Gwaine joked, kicking the log so that Mordred had to spread out his arms to re-center himself. Gwaine chuckled at Mordred's fleeting owlish look while he battled with gravity.
"I grew up in the forest," Mordred corrected.
"So I guess you really were raised by wolves," Gwaine teased.
Arthur noticed a subtle falter in Mordred's expression, too fleeting to identify the specific emotion.
"Just as you were clearly raised in a tavern," Mordred returned, his carefree guise fooling everyone but Arthur and Merlin.
Gwaine grinned broadly up at him and gave the dried roots a full bodied shove, causing the log to shake violently. Despite an impressive effort, Mordred fell into the water with a shout. Gwaine laughed and jumped back out of the way of the young man's vengeful attempt to splash him. "Your face!"
Mordred swept his wet curls out of his eyes, poised to strike. He looked over at Percival, smirked and darted away towards Sir Elyan.
"Wha-" Gwaine was too slow to follow his gaze as Percival marched purposefully up behind him, picked him up and dumped him in the water. "Ah that's cold!"
Mordred let out his best attempt at an evil cackle. It fell woefully short of his goal, even prompting his pseudo-nemesis Merlin to roll his eyes, but Gwaine got the gist. The true splash war had only just begun. Arthur smiled and shook his head, walking over to speak with Merlin.
"Come on; we're leaving."
"What? Now? We've only just stopped to rest."
"We have farther to ride today."
"We do? Where are we going?" Merlin inquired, skeptical.
"The Stones of Nemeton," Arthur replied, heading back towards their horses.
"The... You plan to use the horn," Merlin realized. "Are you sure that that's a good idea?"
"No, but this may be the last chance I'll ever get to see my father again. I have to take it."
It took them most of the day to reach the great circle of stone arches. When the Stones of Nemeton came into view Merlin could already feel the cold, foreign magic that flowed from the center of the massive circle pushing against his core. It was colder than any ice, darker and more silent than any night that the living Earth would ever know. The strange and restless magic clashed jarringly with his bright, burning heat. Its unrelenting silence canceled out the lively song that his magic sang in harmony with all the life around him.
"I have a very bad feeling about this place," Merlin cautioned.
"That's because you are a coward," Arthur replied. He was naturally oblivious to the nullification of his secret guardian's magic by an opposing force.
"No. I value my life and I don't want to die horribly."
"Fair point," Arthur admitted.
"So, are we going to turn back?" Merlin inquired hopefully.
"No."
They left the horses a few paces away from hallowed ground and Arthur continued forward on foot, after pulling the Horn of Cathbad out of his saddlebag. Merlin darted after him and caught his arm.
"You're really going to use that?"
"Yes, Merlin. That's why we came here."
"It's powerful magic," Merlin persisted, keeping a stern focus on the King's face. Arthur fidgeted and looked away.
"My father was taken from me, before his time. This may be my last chance to have a proper goodbye," Arthur confided. "If it was your father, wouldn't you want the same?"
Merlin struggled with himself for a moment, his duty to protect Arthur once again at odds with his caring nature. He let go of Arthur's arm with the slightest nod. Arthur silently thanked him, walking to the center of the stone circle. Merlin followed to watch from the outer boundary. He strongly suspected that he wouldn't be able to make it more than a couple of steps closer, even if he had to.
Arthur blew the horn.
For a few seconds there was nothing but an unnatural stillness around them. Then a tear rent the air in front of Arthur, leaking a bright, otherworldly light. Without even a glance back over his shoulder, Arthur stepped through the gap.
He was in a strange, empty place. There was no discernible limit to the space around him, but it was so flat and featureless that this was hardly to its merit. Arthur was standing on a flat, black floor-he hoped. He couldn't actually see anything under his feet, but felt like he was standing on a solid surface. Arthur decided to believe in that feeling; at the same time he determined not to look down again until he was back with his manservant. The 'ground' felt hard enough to be stone, but too impossibly even and smooth. A wall of light lit a space ahead giving the illusion that a walkway had opened out of nothing at all-something else that Arthur wasn't thinking about. It was too bright for him to make out anything beyond it. Out of that expanse of light stepped Uther Pendragon. He was pale now and his flesh had turned bluish. His eyes looked dark and sunken, a shadow of the man whom Arthur had known in life.
"Arthur..."
"Father," Arthur greeted. "I have missed you. I think of you every day."
"And I you," Uther breathed, stepping closer.
"There are times that I wish you were there at my side, so that I could talk to you about my reign."
"If I were," Uther responded, his expression going from a muted-melancholy to dull-anger. "I fear that you might not like what I would have to say."
"What?" Arthur felt his heart drop into his stomach. When he was thinking of their last goodbye, this was not what had come to mind.
"You have made commoners into knights."
"They are good men, loyal and honest, perhaps even the best knights that Camelot has ever known. I know that any one of them would gladly die for their kingdom," Arthur defended.
"Your marriage should have served to form a union with another kingdom, instead you wasted it on a serving girl," Uther continued on scathingly, as if Arthur hadn't spoken.
"I love Guinevere and she loves me. She is a strong and fair Queen, regardless of her bloodline. We married for love, and I will never regret that!" Okay, so Arthur was beginning to get a little angry now. This seriously couldn't be the way this ended, with yet another pointless argument.
"Love," Uther scoffed, waving the notion away with one gloved hand. "There are more important things than love. You allow your inferiors to question you, to treat you as if you are equals. You show them far too much weakness to sustain your rule."
"Listening to others' council shows strength, Father, not weakness."
"How is anyone going to fear you when you allow them to question your judgment?"
"I don't want our people to fear me!"
"Then you will never gain their respect."
"Is that what you told yourself?" Arthur asked before he'd even realized what he was saying. "It wasn't important to you to care? It was only important, in your mind, to have everyone else afraid of you. In all honesty, there were many times in my life when I feared you, but they were never moments that inspired me to respect you."
"You are my son," Uther dismissed.
"And Morgana is your daughter," Arthur countered, ignoring the way that Uther cringed in response to the mention of his sister. "The longer that I am King, the more I fear that she knew you far better than I ever did."
Uther turned away from him. "You must go now."
"No! Wait. It can't end like this. I need more time!" Arthur reached out to stop him but his hand passed straight through Uther's shoulder. A tear rolled down his cheek. This was all wrong.
Uther turned back to look at him. "You must go now, Arthur, or you will be forever trapped in the land of the dead."
Arthur hesitated, trying to think of the right thing to say. They would be his last words to his father, and his King.
"Think about what I have said to you. There is still time," Uther reassured him.
"But this..."
"Now go," Uther ordered in an eerie hiss. Arthur found himself turning around and walking numbly back towards the tear in the veil. Just before he stepped through he heard Uther call after him "I will always love you, Arthur," and looked back to see Uther fading into nothing against that strange light.
Back in Camelot, Mordred climbed the spiraling, stone staircase, two steps at a time. His shift patrolling the wall had just ended, and although it wasn't technically allowed, he did love to watch the sunset from the abandoned southernmost tower. The gracefully crumbling spire overlooked a section of the palace gardens that had grown a bit wild after Queen Igraine's death all those years ago, and was now even wilder after Lady Morgana's rebellion. Mordred still found the wild, maze-like greenery and questing rose vines to be beautiful.
He sat down on the very edge of the crumbling wall, leaning his back against the undamaged side of the window. A burgundy-black rose was creeping into the opening where his legs rested, and he used his dagger to cut off a blossom while he watched the bright, sunny yellows and pinks of the sky fade into deeper shades of red and violet. He smelled the rose, and remembered the home that he had lost.
A younger Mordred looked up at the echoing sound of heels clicking over the cold stone floor of the court. He was lounging on the altar again, watching his puppy playing with the ball that Mordred had sewn for him. He quickly sat up to try and abandon his less than respectful placement before Morgana saw him, but she strolled in just as he had risen into a seated position.
"Mordred," Morgana pushed out her lower lip in a playful pout when she saw him. "You know better."
Mordred hopped down from his perch on the edge of the carved stone slab to sit on the floor, "I'm sorry, My Lady." He leaned to the right, trying to peek behind her back and see what Morgana was hiding, but her eyes flashed with magic and the object vanished before he could identify it.
Morgana let out an affectionate little huff. "You're bound to do it again once no one is looking. It matters little. Come here, Lamb," she leaned down to his level and held out two closed fists. "Choose a hand."
Mordred tried to catch her eye and spy the best answer in her mind, but she closed her eyes and shook her head. Her laughter was like music. "No cheating! Trust me."
Mordred tapped Morgana's right hand and she opened it, prompting a brilliant red rose to blossom and grow from the center of her palm accompanied by a cloud of glowing indigo butterflies. Mordred giggled in delight while she pulled him into a hug, watching with him as the butterflies faded into the darkening red and pink sunset. "I bought you this too," she whispered, giving him a peck on the cheek while she revealed a bag of sweets from her left sleeve. "Don't eat it too fast. I'm sorry that I wasn't here for half your birthday."
Mordred had pressed the red rose to his nose and breathed in its aroma, feeling safe in his guardian's arms. He smiled up at Morgana. "That's alright. I knew you'd come, just as you always do. I am glad that we're together now."
Mordred held his dark rose up to the light, blinking the memory away. They had thought that it would last forever. Morgana could still smile back in those days. It was already a rare sight, but she smiled for him. Morgana's madness had seemed so mild and far removed. Mordred knew now that she had only been hiding her rage and hatred for the sake of his childhood. Looking back, the venom had already been there, but he had been too intent on thinking of her as she was in those good moments. He hoped that someday, somehow, he could get them back. The Druid still feared that another loss like hers might happen again. The way that Emrys looked at him, the way that Percival had stared at him when his triskele had been exposed... He knew that the King's gratitude might wane in time. Mordred was cursed after all. That didn't mean he would stop fighting for a chance at peace. There is always another way out, he reminded himself of the mantra he had learned in his years on the run.
Mordred looked down to see Queen Guinevere strolling into the garden with a book tucked under her arm, and he retreated into the shadows just before she looked up. The Queen frowned slightly, curious. For a moment she could have sworn that she saw a scarlet cloak swishing over the edge of the tower opening. She blinked and it was gone.
Arthur didn't talk for a long time after his return from the other side of the veil. Merlin set up a fire for them as the sun set, watching his King, his best friend worriedly while the blond sat very still across from him lost in thought. Finally, after Arthur's untouched stew had gone completely cold in the wooden bowl Merlin had placed beside him, the servant broke their heavy silence.
"Do you want to talk about what happened?" He hazarded.
Arthur glared at him, which was something, at least.
"Sometimes it helps," Merlin clarified.
After another long, silence that probably only lasted a minute or two, the King deigned to speak. "My father disapproves of me. It seems he doesn't like the way that I have chosen to rule his kingdom."
"You mean your kingdom," Merlin amended, his tone was gentle, matter-of fact, but there was a spark of something fierce in his eyes that Arthur didn't particularly want to consider at the moment.
"The things he said about my knights, about Guinevere... He thinks that I've weakened Camelot," Arthur continued. He immediately saw the spark begin to burn brighter in his friend's eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face, adding. "I don't regret my choice to marry Gwen, or to knight any of my men. I just can't help wondering... What if I have weakened Camelot? What if he's right?"
"You don't really believe that," Merlin disagreed, once again speaking as if stating immutable facts. "You have always done what you've known to be right. As long as you continue to do that your people will respect you for it."
Arthur ran a discerning gaze over his manservant. It was moments like this that made him wonder about the younger man, moments where his clumsy oaf of a servant's presence felt powerful. His blue eyes glinted with inexplicable wisdom. Arthur shrugged the feeling off, uncertain of what to do with it. "Thank you, Merlin."
"Some people still think that you're an arrogant ass."
Arthur's eyes snapped back to Merlin's face. "Who?"
Merlin bit his lip and shrugged, clearly hiding a smile.
"Very funny."
Merlin flashed him a grin.
Arthur shuffled into a more comfortable position on the rain-moistened grass. "We should get some sleep.
A/N: Yay, another chapter posted! I am so glad that I had the forethought to finish this episode way ahead of time. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this one. We're finally nearing some action in the next chapter, so there's that. Thanks for reading guys, and special thanks to Agana of the Night and The Hope Lions for their reviews and overall support. As always, feedback is enthusiastically encouraged. :-)