—
House of Cards
Early March
It was bright bright bright in the Solar, like spending the morning sick in bed and then Elyan snatching open the drapes. Gwen had the same dizzy floating feeling as being sick too, and she didn't know why she was sitting here, alone. It was strange to be in this plush room with all her royal things but be wearing her old yellow dress. The threads were still coming out over her left knee; she'd have to patch those.
Downstairs, the door thudded. Then voices. Oh, Merlin must be delivering breakfast.
This was normal, she often sat here to get ready and listened to her husband and one of her oldest friends nip wolfishly at each other's throats. Does Arthur plan ahead for these morning banters? He'd be embarrassed if she asked. His face would flush red and he'd get busy with things. He was so lovable that way.
Though if he felt like his intelligence was called into question, he'd be insulted. She didn't want to hurt him. He sounded hurt now. His voice was loud and so charged with emotion that she felt the static prickling around her arms, raising fine hairs and goosebumps.
They were both loud. It sounded like arguing. Downstairs something big hit the floor and clattered, vibrating the room around her and making the stones buzz with tremors. It made her dizzy again and she put her hands out to hold her dresser in place, she didn't want it falling over and exacerbating the problem.
She should probably go down there, but she didn't want to. It was warm up here, and down there it was cold, and Merlin and Arthur were angry. But if she stayed up here they'd probably shake the whole castle down.
Getting to her feet was difficult. She was wearing thin purple slippers which blocked none of the numbing vibration, and it made descending the spiral stair even trickier. She had to brace both hands on the railing as she approached her bedroom. "Arthur!" she called. "Merlin!"
What had been static and vibration upstairs was a storm beneath. Wind whistled and thunder shook the room and Arthur and Merlin stood locked in a battle so ferocious they moved in staccato. Like flashes of lightning, there were snarled lips and accusing glares and curled postures cold and dark and terrifying.
Arthur - he had the same face as when he'd banished her. "You're a liar! You've lied to me, all this time!"
And Merlin, with the glare she'd barely caught as he'd shoved her clear of Morgana's sword. "You've used magic for your own benefit as often as you've condemned it. You, Arthur, are a hypocrite."
The crack that rent the air overrode the thunder, and it echoed across Merlin's pale features as raw red welts far too similar to the shape of Arthur's fist. Gwen leapt to hold Arthur's arm back, full of worry and shock and fear for their friendship and fear of the love of her life and fear of Merlin because even with his head still thrown to the side he was looking at Arthur under his eyelids with an expression full of— she choked.
Arthur snapped, "Have you ever had any real friends?"
Merlin drew himself up. "Will was my friend," he said quietly.
"And I? What was I?"
Merlin sneered. "Just the thing carrying around my sword."
Horror's weight on her chest suffocated her awake, and she bent in two gasping for air.
She felt damp and hot underneath her clothes, and in the dark of early morn she scratched for the ends of the sheets, ultimately kicking them down her frame. No, no, no— she thought, and from her right, Arthur stirred at the movement.
"Guinevere?" he mumbled, half-dreaming.
Her hand trembled, but she used it to smooth down his golden hair and calm him back to sleep. She didn't trust herself to speak. Nor could she risk him waking, and asking what had bothered her. How could she even start to explain?
Her father had forged Excalibur, and on the eve of the Black Knight's final battle she'd given it to Merlin. He's asked for her father's best sword… and she'd never seen it again. Lost in the aftermath, she'd thought. Though all this time it lay in a stone, somehow, impossibly. Waiting for Merlin to lead Arthur back to it, when Arthur had needed it most.
No, she thought, no no no. Calm down; you're jumping to conclusions. One night terror and you're Morgana with her drapes on fire.
That wasn't a good example.
Arthur's breaths were slow and deep, back in the oblivion of a peaceful rest. She tensed her legs, sliding her feet off from the high mattress and inching herself down onto the cold stone of the floor. At this hour, the smallest movements were a trumpet, and she flinched even at the rustle of her clothes.
The low embers of the hearth told her there wasn't long till dawn, so she'd certainly need a better outfit than her nightclothes if she followed through on her adrenaline-fueled endeavor. She needed to hurry, and she needed to be quiet.
One more glance over her shoulder, then the tips of her toes on the stair, and a simple dress covered in a thick cloak to bear against the morning chill. Voluminous and dark, because beneath its folds she planned to hide more than her identity. The cold steel of Arthur's sword, stolen from their bedside, would join her.
Once away from Arthur's potential notice, she sighed in relief. From here the cold castle and the empty streets would be easy to navigate. Truly, her suspicions caused her more trouble than the danger of her actions. She did not fear the guards - few patrolled the servant's small passageways.
This was a route she'd taken often, back in the days when she'd left Morgana's chambers much too late. She knew this small archway, and this dirt road tramped flat from traffic leading to the daily market, like she knew her own home. She knew how to dodge the crowd that would cluster around a new soul cloistered in these stocks, and who would fill these empty booths when day broke. Her family never had the money to purchase property so close to this street, but they were only one sharp turn away from the bustle, and everyone had known her father's skill.
Ironic, that. Because now all of Albion admired his work and did not know to credit him.
Stop it, she berated herself. Anyone can draw an artisan's mark. Though why copy her father's? It made more sense, however gut-swooping it was, that Merlin—
Stop it. Not right now. Not without proof. And not without asking Merlin first.
The curtains in her father's house were drawn aside. She could not make out the shapes of furniture or bodies, but the lack of fire proved Elyan had doused it when he'd left. He had patrol, thankfully. This was not a conversation she wanted to have with him either.
She entered, quickly placing Excalibur on the worktable and searching for the flint. She needed more light, and Elyan had moved things. That worried her, because she desperately needed him to have not thrown anything out. There - flint. With long-ingrained motions she set the fire alight, sending its flickering glow across the floors and throwing her shadow to the walls. Already her outline was not sharp. The sun would rise soon.
Elyan had filled the worktable with sharpening tools for his own weapons, and an array of knives small, large, and curved that he looked in the process of testing. Useless, all of it, for her purposes - but in a large trunk fit in the corner she found what most others would consider a form of junk. Thankfully, Elyan had a sentimental streak.
She'd always admired her father's handwriting. Never had there been letters, he hadn't known them, but his invented metrics were perfect and controlled and square. He had pages of scraps, some bound together with string, filled with cross-sections and handguards and a sickle shaped blade he'd been obsessed with for awhile. There were pages for farmers tools and knives and armor, pages and pages that she both loved and discarded in quick motions.
Because she was looking for what she hoped hadn't been repurposed, what had once been part of a set - what had been just as carefully planned and meticulously measured. Metal too, less intricate than the sword, but elegant and durable as he'd wanted it. When her fingers brushed its steel she felt its cold freeze through to her bones, then burn like she'd only just pulled it from the fire.
Paper scattered and lost itself in corners as she drew it loose. Her arm shook, trembled even, and she realized it was because her heart was racing. Then she drew Excalibur from Arthur's custom scabbard woven in golden filigree, and slot it home. Home into its true sheath - the one born alongside this sword - the wasted mate to a weapon she could never replicate.
Spirits, it fit perfectly.
What did you do, Merlin?
Voices. Sunlight creeping over the windowsill and marking the beginning of a day she did not yet feel prepared to face. Oh, she had to hurry. She had to get back before Arthur noticed she'd ran off with his sword.
But— Ouch. She'd fumbled replacing Excalibur into Arthur's scabbard, and the blade had sliced across the back of her hand. Luckily it was shallow enough not to bleed.
Ignoring the sting of it, she slid Excalibur back under her cloak then stuffed the mess she'd made back into the chest, with decorum quite unbefitting of the maid she'd once been. Though, the incoordination had less to do with haste and more to do with grey panic bubbling beneath her skin.
She should tell Arthur - but the Trial was tomorrow and he was stressed enough already. And how could these suspicions even be put into words?! Oh, Merlin what did you DO?
"Something stupid probably." He chuckled when she shrieked and stumbled. "Sorry, did I surprise you?"
"What are you… did I say that outloud?" Gwen hadn't risen from the floor yet, and her cheeks were flushed in a fluster.
"You were muttering to yourself."
Her hands fluttered at her sides. "But… what are you doing here?"
Well, the halfpenny in Excalibur's sheath had activated but he wasn't going to tell her that. He could still feel the cold pull in the coin's twin hiding in his boot, and it made his eyebrow quirk. Why was she hiding the scabbard? "You're hurt."
He moved forward and scanned the skin he could see, but he didn't catch the cut until he'd held his hand out to help her up. Concern for her shrunk, though, when she shied away from him. She rose to her feet with an uncharacteristic clumsiness, and he awkwardly put his once-extended hand into the safety of his pocket. "Sorry," she flushed again, "um."
Maybe this was a gift for Arthur, and she didn't want him to know?
"I don't know how to ask this."
"'What did I do', you mean?"
She paled, and he reached for her again, worried she was on the brink of a faint. This time he wasn't sure if she intentionally pulled away, or the knock at the door startled her.
"Pardon," the girl, who'd poked her head in, apologized. "Are you open?"
She had mousy brown hair pulled into a loose braid, and it hung over her shoulder to brush her collar bone. Looking at her reminded him of turnips, and after that connection the rest of how he knew her fell into place. This was Sefa, the Druid he'd met in Essetir just before Samhain's Riot. "Not a blacksmith, fortunately for Camelot," he grinned with self-deprecation. "Remember me?"
She worried her lip in confusion, but after a few seconds her expression opened with relief. "Merlin?"
"The one and only," he stepped back and revealed Gwen more fully. "And the Queen."
Sefa blanched and dropped into a curtsey. "Your majesty."
Gwen hardly acknowledged the bow, still focusing on him with an unnerving world of thought spinning behind her gaze. What was going on with her? Maybe he should get Sefa out of here so he could figure Gwen out. Before he could find an excuse, however, vexation swept Gwen in a wave strong enough to push her usually friendly features into an irritated scowl. She was furious with herself, but for what?
"I need to get back to the castle," she said hollowly. "Will you help her find what she's looking for?"
She had circled round him and slid past Sefa before she'd finished her sentence. Of course died on his lips, tied up in his emerging frown. While he had her in sight he stored the image of her bowed head staring at her feet, the jerky way she stepped, and the way her hands clenched her skirts in white-knuckled fists… then she was gone.
What was she going to ask me? He thought first, followed closely by, What does she think I did?
And then, because he could never not fear this outcome—
What does she know?
"It's uneven."
Forridel held a band of leather, stitched in strokes of dark thread, but shoved it aside to frown at Leon. "How can you say that? You've barely looked at it."
"You are many things, love, but you are not a seamstress."
Despite her frown she glowed, though that description came through the rose tint of his bias. But it was a bias earned from weeks worth of winter mornings spent like this - stretched out in her tiny cottage, his feet nearly brushing her skirts as she plodded away at something on her work table, the smell of boiling tea drifting from a crackling fire, and an ever growing curiosity at what she looked like without her tightly braided bun. She noticed him staring, and put down the belt she'd been inspecting. "You could spare a lie for my feelings."
The playful tilt of her hip drew him to standing, then pulled his hands to her waist. "I have no desire to face your wrath after you catch me lying."
She smirked, "Coward."
"I have a lot to lose," he leaned forward, hesitated as usual, then pressed a kiss to her temple. She laughed at him, also as usual, but he had learned to read her smiles, and this one was pleased.
"Look at you, Captain of the Guard, breaking the rules so early in the morn. Kissing a woman out of wedlock - it's scandalous."
"Well if that's how you feel," he teased, releasing her.
She winked coyly, "I feel like taking advantage of you in a rule breaking mood." She sashayed closer, then stole the knife from his belt loop.
He had an urge to cover his manhood. "And how does my knife fit into this?"
"It doesn't," she sighed. "I've just ripped so many stitches that I've dulled my own blade. I'll never finish Iseldir's gift."
"He's not expecting one," he soothed.
"I owe him for protecting me for so many years… What?" She had moved back to her work table and started popping threads, but she'd caught a strange pinch in his expression and now her eyes skidded across his face curiously. "What's wrong? Is Iseldir in trouble?"
"Not that I know of," Leon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The dark circles under his eyes were more apparent when he tilted his head back like this. "But there was a break-in last night. I've been chasing rumors. I'll have to tell the Sarrum and Arthur that Emrys had something to do with it."
"But the Sarrum will blame the Druids. He'll assume Emrys was acting through their information."
"I'm worried about that too."
Like it was obvious: "Then don't tell them."
"I won't lie to Arthur."
She huffed, ripped stitches more violently. "Then what? Do we have another witch hunt to look forward to?"
He stilled her with a hand on her wrist, then gently drew his knife out of her grip. She was glaring still at images he couldn't see, and he waited patiently for her anger to subside by reaching behind them and pulling her wood axe from the wall. "I used to see Gwen do this." He placed the sharp end so it lined with the needed row of stitches, the heavy weight easily keeping the leather in place.
"You're changing the subject."
He traced his finger along the edge of the axe, showing how it held the hide taut and provided a guideline to follow. "She'd mark her seams with weapons."
"What's the purpose in giving him a gift from Camelot if he's soon to be chased out of it?"
"No one will be chased out of Camelot. Not him, and not you." He placed a hand over her fist, and this time when he kissed her temple he did not hesitate. "I won't let it happen."
"Sorry for… interrupting…."
Sefa tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then drew her bottom lip between her teeth to pull at the chapped skin. Merlin had his own wealth of nervous tics as well, tics like word vomit and a feeling like he had eight arms and legs that he didn't know what to do with, and those nerves swarmed him now. They left him frozen with their warring desire to do anything.
"My father was just asking for a metal bowl…."
If he left now he may still be able to catch her. Though that might seem even more suspicious. And he was probably overreacting… right? He must be overreacting. Gwen had seemed a bit freaked, but he had surprised her. And she'd seemed pale but perhaps she was getting ill. She hadn't been eating well, according to the plates he often picked up from their rooms. Maybe Gaius knew something….
"You're probably busy, I'll just go."
"Ah no," it was iron willpower to draw his eyes from where Gwen had disappeared to where Sefa's shoulders had begun to curve. She was hunching in on herself, shielding her heart. He'd embarrassed her. "Wait, come in for a second."
He needed to stop freaking out, there was absolutely no way Gwen knew he had magic. She thought he'd done something, but whatever that something was, he could likely lie his way out of it. He took no pleasure in balancing his stack of lies even higher, but it was a necessary evil for the Purge Trial to go smoothly.
"I'm, uhm, glad you made it out from the riot." Sefa tried, in an attempt to break the suffocating silence. "I wasn't sure you had."
"Yes, you too," Merlin said stiffly. "Sorry, let me just put this fire out."
He bent, he was quite tall, and the fabric of his shirt caught on the muscles in his back. She'd thought him handsome the first time she'd met him, but he so obviously didn't want her around that she was too embarrassed to look. "Really, you don't need to help. I'll find my way." He probably preferred the interesting city girls, or the well-dressed women of court, and the thought made her pick at her fraying braid. She should have redone it this morning after waking up.
"No, it's—" he rose and instantly read her. It made him run a hand through his hair to stick up at even stranger angles, and he blinked a lot. Then he apologized again. Said he was just distracted and that he was well known for being scatterbrained. "I know Ruadan made it here. He ate with Arthur last night."
"He's my father," she said needlessly.
"Yes, I remembered," he replied, and embarrassed her all over again. Don't make stupid comments, she berated herself. "Let's go outside. If someone else came by I don't know how we'd explain standing around here in the dark."
If she'd had more skill she would have tossed out an enticing joke, but instead she trailed after him, mortified. Thank spirits the market was picking up, she could hear chatter and the bang of merchants arranging their wares, and it gave her something else to fake focus on.
"What was it you needed?"
"A large bowl," she mimed the shape, partially just to have something to do with the appendages she sometimes called arms. Recently, they were doing an astonishing impersonation of dead fish. "He said preferably shoulder-width, and it didn't have to be deep, but it did have to be shiny."
"That's very specific," Merlin said. "Is it a gift?"
"Hard to say," she answered honestly. "He asks for strange things sometimes, and he usually doesn't tell me why." Largely because he was their tribe's leader, and he had a wealth of magic that had not passed on to her. By his logic, why tell her things that didn't concern her?
"I get why you checked with the blacksmith, but you'll have better luck with the Potterer. He's over this way." She considered herself lucky to have a guide; Camelot wasn't large relative to the forests she'd lived in, but it was certainly the biggest city she'd ever seen. Here near the market the streets were tightly wound, and it wasn't until she saw the red and blue flag of the Cobbler that she realized they'd retraced steps she'd previously taken.
Everything in Camelot was beautiful and new and distracting, and it was hard to get her bearings. Merlin must have noticed her stumble while gawking at a puppetmaster, because he pulled them aside. "Enjoy it," he said, "I remember how it felt the first day I walked through the gates."
In their little island of stillness she ogled the unexpected influx of people who knew what they wanted, and knew it with vibrance. They were servants in multicolored skirts with wicker baskets at their hips and travelers from far off with packs buckled to their backs and weapons tap-tapping at their legs. It smelt like dust and fruit and sounded with the raucous calls of merchants enticing customers and teasing friends. She'd heard stories about the beauty of Camelot but she'd never expected… this.
"So you like it?"
"It's magnificent." All the roads led up to the white gleam of the old castle stone, an elegantly peaked design like a physical fantasy from a children's story.
He leaned down to point over her shoulder, and she followed the line of his arm to his short nails, then to what was a small wooden structure at the head of the market, hidden in the shadow of the castle. "Those are the stocks. I was in them my first week here, and many times since. I still flinch when I see tomatoes."
"So it's not all roses in paradise?"
He chuckled, and it felt good to have made him smile that way. "Paradise? Help me take care of Arthur for a few weeks and then tell me if you still feel that way."
That would be a dream, but it certainly wasn't a dream she'd ever have. "If only."
He noticed her wistfulness, and he tilted his head in added seriousness. "What's stopping you?"
My father. My culture. When she noticed him still studying her, she snapped her attention to her hands and picked infinitesimally small specks of dirt from the lines of her palms. "I couldn't leave my father. He lost my mother when I was a baby and I'm all he has left."
"What happened?" Merlin said. He read between the lines as he pushed them back into the crowd, wearing a faraway frown. He answered his own question, muttering with a subtle anger and surety she hadn't expected, "The Purge happened."
Her father had only ever told her the story once, but he'd told it as if he was teaching her a lesson. He said the raid had come at night, when he'd been across their small village handling a dispute over how to weigh grain. They'd come with fire as their main weapon, and in the haze he'd reached through the collapsing window of their hut and pulled her from her crib. Her mother had already been buried alive behind the walls. He'd snuck back for her, but after three days with no way round the remaining guards, there had been no point in returning.
She felt removed from the heartache of it, but it explained the hurt that her father carried with him. It explained why he could be so bitter, and the dark cloak he wouldn't let her touch from their time with the High Priestess. "My father saw some of the worst parts of the Purge, and it's made him more careful. Please… remember that when he's speaking tomorrow."
"I'll remember, but Sefa," the Potterer's door was open and wafting the damp and musty smell of clay, and Merlin's arm barred her entry. "If he's planning something I need to know."
The accusation jolted through her, making her heart race. "I don't—"
"Many of the people who once hunted him are in Camelot." He wasn't aggressive with her, but he was serious, and it was unnerving. "And he's trying to get a message to someone, Sefa."
A message? How did that… oh, the bowl? "How did you know that?" But he already had a scrying bowl, though it was much smaller. Why buy larger one? Unless he needed it for—
"I've picked a few things up over the years," he said. For Merlin, it was obvious Sefa was panicking, but she didn't know him well enough to trust him. Perhaps in her eyes, he could turn her and her father in tonight and start the Purge Trial off with the smell of burning flesh.
"I love my father," she said quietly. "And he loves me and our tribe. I don't think he'd do anything to risk us."
"I believe you," he moved his arm back, still suspicious but knowing he couldn't push her any further than this. "I'm sorry I had to scare you."
Her eyes flicked away quickly and concentrated on the interior of the Potterer's hut. She shrugged. It ended with another curl of her shoulders and her arms crossing protectively over her stomach.
Guilt prevented him from leaving the conversation like this, so he added: "And if you change your mind, I'm sure Gwen would find a place on the castle staff for you."
"Thank you," she said to the doorway. "And thank you for showing me around." Her fingers picked self-consciously at the ties that held the top of her dress closed, but she dropped most of the protective shell she'd built. "I should really get to bartering though. My father must be expecting me."
"Of course," her comment brought back the weight of all the chores and problems that warred for his time as well, and he tried to filter for what was the most time critical, telling himself that No, Gwen could wait. "It was nice seeing you, Sefa."
She looked up, and blushed. "You too, Merlin."
"You say such nice things, Leon, but you can't promise that."
"I can, Florridel, and I already have." She arched an eyebrow at him, a gesture he was normally enamoured with, but currently he did not let it sway him. "I wouldn't make you a false promise."
She rested a hand on his chest. "You are a good man, Leon." Then she used it to pat him fondly as she pushed him away. She pulled at edges of the leather from underneath the axe and muttered, "You couldn't have told me about this yesterday?"
He didn't answer. Talking to herself was a quirk of hers when she was working, and any response would fall on deaf ears. So he left her to it and went to face the day. Besides, Arthur and the Sarrum had likely eaten by now and would be waiting for him in the Council Chambers.
This was a room underneath the castle, less open to prying eyes and less prone to opulence. Lit scones provided the only light, which always gave the Council Chambers a distractedly ashy smell, and it's only entrance was a heavy wooden door whose thudding announced his presence better than any court crier. It startled Arthur from where he'd lost himself frowning at an empty corner.
"Leon," Arthur said, hinting where his thoughts had been moments before. "Any news on the merrow?"
He shook his head, sorry he had nothing better to provide. "No idea where they could be by now."
"Good."
Leon jolted. "Pardon?"
Arthur glanced at the door, crossed his arms, and turned his back on it. He gestured Leon closer, then spoke in a gruff whisper. "I let Merlin free it. Don't tell anyone."
Uh, what?
A guard knocked on the door and Arthur loudly called for him to open it.
"The Sarrum, sire."
"Let him in," Arthur replied.
They stood shoulder to shoulder as the Amatan king strode in. He wore battle armor polished to perfection, and a forebodingly pleasant smile on his face. In greeting he nodded carefully to both men, and Arthur got to business. "Last night the merrow escaped."
"Certainly not without help," the Sarrum grinned. "Though I am not so surprised. Your father conquered this kingdom twice, and did not trust many. You've lost the castle twice and trust all, am I right?"
Arthur prickled, but kept his mouth shut. Before he could think of an appropriately diplomatic response, the Sarrum cut in with a laugh.
"Oh, I'm kidding, King Arthur. Of course I've seen the respect your people have for you. Tell me," he moved forward and clapped an unwelcome hand to Leon's arm, "Do you have any leads?"
"As to where the merrow is now, we have no tracks to follow," Leon replied, and Arthur thought to praise, or perhaps interrogate, Merlin on his tremendous smuggling skills. "Caridoc described an old man with a long beard and a red robe." A costume? "He appeared from air in the merrow's cell, and after knocking Caridoc out must have left in the same manner. That describes precisely how I witnessed Dragoon traveling in the forest two seasons ago."
Arthur felt his mind go blank, roar like a wind through a cave, then stutter over the same useless thought. "Dragoon is Emrys," his mouth said with little direction from his brain.
"Indeed?" The Sarrum said. "It seems Emrys has got a bad habit of freeing dangerous prisoners."
This made no sense. How could letting Merlin free the creature have resulted in Emrys breaking into his dungeon?!
"So," the Sarrum said sprightly. "Any plans on recapture? I have brought a squad of my warriors. The best in Amata. Believe me, they aren't easily beat."
"What are you proposing?" Leon said. "We have no trail to follow. They are likely long gone."
"Certainly not. Tell me, how does Emrys know the schedule and layout of your castle so well?"
At the most, Arthur thought angrily, I have a spy, but, "I am not hiding Emrys in this castle, which I clearly explained last night. Don't insinuate as much again."
The Sarrum held his hands up in surrender. "Just a question, King Arthur. I only meant that he has likely already arrived for the Purge Trial, which tells me the creature is here somewhere, hidden with Emrys." He shrugged. "I only want my property back. I'm owed that much, aren't I?"
"We are absolutely not storming through the visiting Druids on the eve of this Trial," Leon stated firmly.
"Agreed," Arthur continued, unfortunately only now whirring on the idea that Emrys had appeared in the same cell as the merrow. How many people had known its whereabouts, precisely? Five… at most ten? "Emrys will show himself tomorrow. Better not to raise tensions." He needed time to get to the bottom of this.
That peaceful solution dropped the pleasantry from the Sarrum's expression, and without the consistent half smile his cheeks hollowed, gaunt in the firelight. "So, in this kingdom you allow thieves one full day to walk free?"
"This is a delicate situation," Arthur supplanted. "You should understand. You stood right alongside my father when he set this into motion."
"Only in a few odd battles," the Sarrum corrected tersely. He drew himself up in a show of strength, and Arthur had an urge to clench his own fists in retaliation. "In good will and in honor of your father I defer to your opinion, but I will not stand completely idle. The merrow is my property, and I will not allow Emrys to believe he has free reign to do what he wills to me."
The Sarrum nodded sharply in a farcical farewell, waited for Arthur's answering, and with their brittle relation now wrapped in false decorum, he and his shiny armor strode swiftly away.
The door closed loudly behind him, and Arthur turned to Leon with an embittered grimace.
"Don't let any of his men travel alone."
As hyperaware as Merlin's goodbye grin had left her, Sefa expected better from herself than a shriek when she was shocked into sensibility.
It was literal - the shock. A warm hand had touched at her lower back, and she and the hand had both leapt apart at the miniature lightning that zipped between them.
"Ugh," the owner said, "I hope that isn't proof that lovesickness is catching."
"Sorry," Sefa jumped to apologize, "I was just—"
"Blocking my daylight with your overly large forehead?" He gestured inside. "Well, hurry up. Unless you're planning on using that gargantuan brow to reflect light into my shop."
What a little monster.
That opinion didn't improve throughout her time finding the shiniest clay platter available, largely because he'd flustered her into parting with three farthings. She didn't plan to pass that fact to her father - she'd rather weave tales of street thieves or paid guides.
Some of that fear of disappointment pushed her to return quickly home, or well, what home was while in Camelot. The Mighty Quill's average amenities were far beyond what they could normally afford, and in the last stretch before its double doors she tried to beat the dust from her skirts and tuck her flyaway hair presentably behind her ears.
She held the plate tight to her chest, hoping her body curled about it would make it invisible, and walked in. She hugged the wall until she reached the back hallway. Her father's door was four from the rear, and she stepped carefully over warped wood, counting steps and willing no one to corner her.
At the end of the hallway was one small square of a window, and the main road that led up to the arena stretched beyond. It was busy with foot traffic that also did not care to look at her, but she still had an urge to tuck the plate half behind her back. The closer she took this bowl the more it felt like an illegal scrying artifact, and the more she quailed at aiding a crime planned by both her father and Morgana.
Muffled voices - and her hand paused at the doorknob.
Quietly, she breathed in. She shouldn't listen. But 'many of the people who once hunted him' are here in Camelot, and as much as she wanted to believe he'd never —
"Stop with the riddles, Iseldir. I've had to dodge too many questions about him."
That was her father. He sounded irritated.
"The answers are plain if you study the prophecies."
And that must be Iseldir - the Druid leader she'd only met from afar.
"This is why I'm asking you. I'd rather avoid a duplication of efforts."
"What do you gain by knowing?" Iseldir placated. "An audience before the trial?"
"That would only be fair. You've had a monopoly on his council for years." He was jealous, and he hated being talked down to. "Aithusa brings our people to your feet."
"Ah, so you know of Aithusa?"
A huff. "Belatedly."
He paused, but Iseldir remained steadfastly pleasant. "You'll be happy to hear she's much healed, then. She's made a full recovery."
Goosebumps rose on her skin and the fine hairs of her arms prickled before she registered the new sounds. Boots - lots of them - stomping confidently around the inn's foyer. She'd spent a lifetime half-alert and waiting for them, and they were coming for her now.
Her fingers went white round the edges of the bowl. "Oh spirits," she mewled hoarsely. "Father - Ahh!"
Long fingers curled around her bicep and yanked her backwards. Don't touch me, she cringed and pulled feebly to be freed. In retaliation moist breath wafted over her cheek, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the glee radiating through his beady little eyes.
"Hallo there, lass. Were you warning your father about me?"
Sefa tucked her lips into her mouth, wanting the least amount of his breath to touch her.
"Why, dearie? What have you got to hide?"
Despite agreeing to his orders, Leon remained with a thoughtful seriousness that had steadily morphed into a curious stare. "Sire," he started haltingly, "you said Merlin had a hand in this?"
He rushed to explain. "It must have been a coincidence."
Leon nodded firmly, easily shaking off the puzzlement in favor of trust. Arthur watched him transition into single-minded focus to protect the peace, and it put a sheen of nausea through his stomach.
So Arthur left, too. His feet were numb, and the sound of them on the stone was so far from the ringing in his ears that he felt removed from his body. He took a right down the hall.
He'd trusted many people. His father, his wife, his knights. But his best friend - he'd trusted him more. More than the way he'd trusted him with his fear, his pain, or his life. He trusted Merlin to carry him, and Camelot, in those times he'd lost all will. Merlin had already proved he would.
But plans had leaked somehow from Merlin to Emrys, and….
In the East Tower the main stairwell was empty, and slowly he began to climb.
Plans had leaked, and it only made sense when he thought more about it. It had been Merlin who'd said Gaius knew a hermit that could heal, Merlin who he'd told both times he'd needed Dragoon. Merlin had relayed information to Emrys, and that hurt.
His muscles were rigid, wired, and vibrating. His heartbeat pressed a heat to his skin and made him wonder if someone had reached within his ribcage and tried to wrench it wider. It made his chest tight, his breaths scorching, his vision narrow. It felt like dying.
Perhaps that's why they called it being stabbed in the back.
"I'm not hiding anything," she whispered.
The Sarrum released her, whistled. It was sharp, high-pitched, and it brought five men round the bend of the hallway. If she could have shrunk into a crack in the walls, she would have.
"Well," he said with a grin, "aren't you going to invite me in?"
She shook. Please let them not be doing anything illegal. "Father?"
She reached slowly for the knob, again listening intently for muffled voices, and unsure whether they had gone silent or if she had no chance of hearing anything over the terrorist king's roaring smugness. The Sarrum tore the door out of her hands.
Alone - her father was alone. He was in the process of standing up, glare well in place, but not surprised. She'd bought him enough time to hide what he'd needed, and she sighed with relief. Then her father reached out and jerked her behind him.
To Ruadan, the sight of his daughter a handspan away from a man who'd tortured both the High Priestess and her dragon was terrifying. He reacted without thinking, and he played his hand shamefully plain.
The Sarrum's eyes traced the path Sefa had swung through, and he smirked. "I'm looking for my prisoner. He's with Emrys. Have you seen either?" But the way his fingers ghosted his sword, the way his eyes traced Sefa's silhouette, it screamed that the Sarrum was here to make a completely different statement.
"No."
He was here to tell them that no matter what trial, or boy-king, or prophesied savior, he had power over them. He could have killed Sefa, if he'd wanted to.
"I'd like to check under the bed, for diligency's sake."
Ruadan settled into the well of his magic, preparing. He didn't care what banality the Sarrum was here for, he wasn't going to let him do it.
But the Sarrum's men looked down the hallway, distracted, and a bodiless voice said, "Well this is a party," before a red-cloaked knight swept into view. "What's the occasion?"
"You're not aware?" The Sarrum asked drily.
"Hide-and-go-seek, right?" The knight poked his head in. "Emrys isn't here. He's good at this game, isn't he?"
The Sarrum's eyes flicked up and down the knight, then back to them. "Indeed," he grinned. "Until next time, Ruadan."
The knight reached forward, grabbed the knob, and swung the door shut with a farewell salute.
In the void they left, Ruadan wasn't certain what triggered his fury - the veiled threats of a monster, or the pitying defense of a swordsman. They'd both had no fear at the might of his magic.
They'd underestimated a sorcerer - but, he reminded himself, they'd soon regret that conceit.
"Gaius?"
Gwen stepped quickly over a fallen broom and into the Physician's Chambers. The fire was low and a tousled cot was pushed against the wall under a window. He must have stepped out with the patient.
Good, because she'd seen Merlin come this way, laden with Arthur's nicer clothes, and she hadn't passed him on the servant's stair. He had to be here, somewhere, washing them in the tub. Though Merlin wasn't in any of the corners, nor were Arthur's clothes in sight. Maybe she'd guessed wrong.
But… and she noticed then when she'd stopped moving, there was a faint sound of a rhythmic whooshing. Was it coming from the window? No… she tilted her head. It had to be the sound of water sloshing. And when she followed the noises, knew it to be coming from Merlin's closed bedroom door.
She got a little shaky. This was it. She was going to ask him, and there would be no one to interrupt them.
Up the stairs she went, dodging candles and piles of books while holding carefully to the old wooden banister that slid roughly under hand. The higher she went the more dust motes filtered through the dwindling light, parting before her like an unseen crowd come to gawk. Her wake pulled them from pegs on the yellowed walls that held artifacts, satchels, and on the last hook Merlin's jacket which seemed to talk to her: You can walk away right now, and no one will ever know.
But no, she would not back out. She yanked her skirt higher, tighter in her fist, twisting. Then she walked the landing, called his name, opened his door. Forgot to breathe.
No. No — No, not possible —
She jerked away, slammed the door, stumbled back. Oh gods, when? For how long?
Always?
She trembled, her heart was a stab of ice, and her legs seized. She slipped, landed hard on her hip and caught herself on her palms. It wove a tingling through her like needles, jabbing her armpits and sending sweat prickling over her skin, and she scrambled for the railing.
It was her support as she failed to stand, she just wanted out—
How could he DO this to them?
Floor falling away - she was dizzy. Can't breathe. Breathe, you're forgetting to breathe; the panic squeezing her into a little ball, falling half onto the cot, and oh gods, Merlin, WHY.
The door to the East Tower opened, and in its entry stood her husband. He was upset, hurt, and her skirt was torn over her left knee. She was going to have to patch that. "Guinevere?"
Then, from his room, impossibly, implausibly, Merlin emerged. He peered over the railing and looked utterly shocked to see them both waiting for him. "Arthur?"
"I need to talk to you," Arthur said, throat bobbing. "Come down here."
Merlin obeyed, and at the bottom of the stair he glanced her way and she caught his wariness. "What's wrong, Arthur?"
Arthur sucked in a deep breath, eyebrows tilting in confusion, "Do you have something to tell me?"
"What?"
A half-smile, as if Arthur already didn't believe what he'd walked here to say. "Where have you been? You weren't here last evening, and I have to hear from Leon today that Emrys broke out the creature…" he paused, and his eyes shifted over Merlin's face, taking in Merlin's grimace, and the regret that grew there.
Gwen watched Arthur's body sag, his face slackening as his sparking hope faded. The sweat on her skin began to dry, and it left her cold and clammy.
"Do I have something to tell you?" Merlin sighed, mouth twisting. "Yes." He shuddered like he was physically in pain. "I am going to tell you everything," and while he spoke Arthur's face tightened, "but I am going to do it on my own terms."
It was horror Arthur was feeling; Gwen recognized it. How could what they'd guessed be even partially true? They'd never known him.
"Your terms?" Arthur said quietly. "What makes you think you're entitled to terms?"
Merlin closed his eyes, wounded. "You're my best friend. Your trust means so much to me, but I am not going to change my mind."
This was treason, and she felt ill.
"Tomorrow, during the trial," Arthur's voice shook, "are you going to stand with him? With Emrys?" He grew louder, "Am I going to have to watch you across the aisle, defending him?"
He was earnest, pleading. Willing them to understand but only worsening the betrayal. "I won't be there. Tomorrow, it can only be Emrys."
Her stomach heaved, nausea overtook her, and the hot burn of vomit surged up her throat.
Merlin turned to her in alarm. "Gwen, are you—"
No, she thought, no, Emrys, I'm not well.
And then she puked, all over the floor.
Kings and Queens and Vagabonds sung by Ellem
Footnotes:
(1) The Black Knight was the episode where Merlin had help from Kilgharrah to create Excalibur, but was forced to hide if after in the lake, so it wouldn't fall into anyone other than Arthur's hands. Thanks to Dmarie1184 for clarifying that for me.
Author's Note:
Thanks so much to all you awesome reviewers and the incredible Femme Fatale that is Jewelsmg, Dmarie1184, and Linorien. I am so grateful for all their last minute help, and in the case of Linorien, literally last minute. Usually this is where I say I'll be sending PMs shortly, but I'm posting this hours before my flight out of the country. I'm hiking to Everest Base Camp! No internet for a month! Really wanted to get this out before I left, and say that I will miss and be thinking of you all while I'm out there writing about Camelot in absolutely gorgeous scenery.
Next Time: The Purge Trial.