A/N:

As Mark Twain famously (hadn't quite) said: "Rumors of [this fic's] death have been greatly exaggerated." Or something like that. ;)

I know it's been a very long time since the last update, so please accept Ch. 103 as proof that this WIP is definitely still happening. Better late than never, right? Also, this fic hit a milestone recently: June 18th was the 9th anniversary of when I started writing and posting this fic! So I'm feeling pretty meta right now…but you're probably not here to listen to me wax philosophical about how this means I've been working on this project for roughly a quarter of my lifetime.

Anyway, if you're reading this and have been on this journey with me since sometime before the last update, welcome back! I'm thrilled you're still interested after this hiatus. And if you're reading this after having found this fic between March 2021 (when I posted Ch. 102) and June 2023, welcome!

This chapter is dedicated to three people:
1. MagicLia16 - a wonderful beta reader from 6/2021-11/2022 who, after graciously beta-ing ~75k words for revisions, needed to redirect her time and attention toward some very exciting career-related creative pursuits. I'm sad to miss out on her insights going forward, but I'm thrilled for her and her new opportunities!
-and-
2. Madlady2 - a sweet and encouraging friend who volunteered to beta this chapter when I was flailing in the quagmire of editing anxieties. I am not exaggerating when I say that I had this whole chapter drafted more than a year ago. The problem was that the chapter is a transition point, and I was very afraid of failing to deliver the set-up that I wanted the chapter to accomplish. Consequently, this chapter spent over a year trapped in editing purgatory. It ultimately took a fic anniversary plus Madlady2's gentle intervention over the weekend to liberate the chapter from all the doubts that had ensnared it. (All remaining issues are my own.) Also, I promise—on my honor as a fic writer—that Merlin will not spend anywhere near as long languishing in Camelot's dungeons. ;)
-and-
3. SherlockHolmes4884 - Thank you for reminding me that there are others who want to see this story completed almost as much as I do. :)

A quick refresher of where the major players were when we last saw them:
Merlin is in Camelot's dungeons. Morgana is regent in Uther's absence. Gwen is her servant and co-conspirator in Camelot as they clandestinely help Arthur, who was disinherited and is on the run. They are also trying to plan an escape for Merlin. Arthur and Gwen are communicating via coded messages disguised as love letters. After Balinor's death and the fall of the Fortress of Níþdraca in the Perilous Lands, Arthur and his Round Table knights have found sanctuary with the Druids, who are treating Arthur's broken leg. Merlin was separated from Arthur at the skirmish at Pontefract, where Merlin was seriously wounded (shot in the back by a crossbow, paralyzing his legs) and captured by Aredian. Aredian overheard Merlin confess to Arthur about being Emrys, but no one else back in Camelot's citadel knows that important detail except for Kilgharrah (who's still imprisoned in the cavern and not currently on speaking terms with Morgana). Uther was gravely wounded in the battle at Níþdraca; he's too ill to travel, so Gaius was summoned from Camelot to travel north to treat him at the Camelot army's encampment. During Gaius' absence, Sir Marrock has been tasked with treating Merlin's injuries. Aredian has tortured Merlin for info, and Morgana has just completed a grueling week of politicking to outlaw that torture. Sir Marrock the Ethically Stressed(TM) finds himself in a steadily worsening moral and political quandary after Merlin—in post-torture delirium—inadvertently tells him that Morgana has magic. Right after Morgana became regent but before Níþdraca fell, Morgause had visited Camelot and delivered a treaty proposal from Cenred. Morgana had sent her back to Essetir to invite Cenred to Camelot to negotiate in person. At the end of Ch. 102, Morgana receives a message that Cenred has accepted her invitation.

Art Credit: The entrancing cover art is by the extraordinarily talented AlexandarCho and is used here with the artist's gracious permission. Check out the original, entitled So You Wanna Play With Magic?, on deviantART (along with AlexandarCho's other work).

A Housekeeping Note: Direct thoughts are italicized, telepathy is italicized with tildes (~) as bookends, traditional scene breaks (change of location or time skip, with or without POV change) are separated with a standard FFN scene separator line, and spots where a POV switch occurs within a single scene (but no time skip or location change) are indicated by a trio of lowercase o's ("ooo") because FFN apparently won't let me have asterisks on a line by themselves, sigh.

TW, just to be safe: This chapter contains mentions of blood and injuries (not particularly graphic), references to past torture (also not graphic), and a nauseatingly cheesy 'love letter.'

Without further ado:
On with the fic! :D

Chapter 103: Courtly Love

Merlin woke slowly, like drifting up to the surface of a pond in hazy sunlight. His thoughts felt disconnected, like scattered leaves on the water's surface: as he reached for them, they rippled farther away. He floated just below the surface, relishing the calm. Safe now. The thought gave him pause. Safe from what? he wondered idly as his thoughts slipped through his fingers like running water.

Time drifted. A different sort of wave washed over him, like swimming in a cool green lake in the heavy heat of summer. Safe now, he thought again. Safe from what?

~Merlin?~ a voice called softly in his mind.

The sensations were familiar—cool and green and kind and safe.

The voice called again, clearer this time. ~Merlin, are you...can you hear me?~

A deluge of vivid colors crashed over him, pulling him into an undertow of muddled memories. Red-tinged currents—knives, fire, blood—intermingled with eddies of soft, shadowed green—refuge, solace, healing. A gilded voice swirled through the torrent, whispering kind words to him in the midst of his agony.

That voice… It had a name; he was sure it did. But what? He swam through the memories, searching for a gleaming answer. …Morgana? He grasped the word like a drowning man clinging to a thrown lifeline. The flood drained from his mind as fear sharpened his thoughts to full wakefulness. ~Morgana! Are you alright?~

Morgana's reply shimmered a joyful, spring-leaf green. ~Yes, yes, I'm alright! How are you feeling?~

Merlin paused to take stock properly before answering her. He blinked haltingly, and the low cell ceiling swam into view. Wiggling his fingers, he determined he still had all his digits, which was good. He shifted gingerly and propped himself up on an elbow. His arms seemed to be in working order, which was more than he could say for his legs. As for them…well, nothing new there.

He glanced down. Bandages twined around his torso and arms, so he couldn't see the damage for himself. It hurt quite a bit less than the aftermath of Pontefract—though that was admittedly a very low bar. He chewed his lip. At this point, I'll take what I can get. He dragged himself into a sitting position, wincing as the bandages shifted. His throat ached, and he reached gratefully for the waterskin someone had left within arm's reach.

As he drank his fill, he ran through the questions Gaius asked Arthur each time the prince had been knocked unconscious; Merlin had heard the litany often enough to memorize it. It included thrilling questions like What is your name and title? and What is seven plus five minus three? and What day is it? and Repeat the days of the week backwards. He was pleasantly surprised that he could answer all of them easily. Well, all but one. Thirst quenched and questionnaire completed, he set aside the waterskin and lowered his aching body to rest on his back again on the loose straw.

~I've been better,~ he answered Morgana at last, ~but I've also been a lot worse, so there's that, at least?~

~Thank heavens for that.~

~I...I think I have you to thank for that, actually,~ he replied as a blurred memory drifted past. ~You stopped Aredian. How?~

~Just some politicking,~ she said quickly. ~Eventually, the council passed the resolution. He can never hurt anyone in Camelot like that ever again.~

Safe, now. The strange mantra floated to the surface again, and this time he realized it had been a promise; fragments of worried words murmured over and over to his troubled mind like delicate layers of gold leaf: 'You're safe now. Now, finally, you're safe.'

~Thank you,~ he said and meant it with every fiber of his being.

They sat in silence for a long moment while Merlin tried to put more of his scattered thoughts in order. He soon decided it was not unlike the Lute Calamity last spring when he'd tripped on the rickety stairs to the upper shelves in Gaius' chambers. As he'd scrambled to break his fall—without breaking Gaius' lute—he'd managed to knock all the books off the upper shelves, over the railing, and into a jumbled heap on the floor below. Merlin scrunched up his nose at the memory. It had taken hours to put all the loose pages and bookmarks back into the correct books, not to mention putting all the books back onto the correct shelves. He stifled a sigh and hoped it wouldn't be nearly so difficult to pick up the pieces of his memories now.

He had to start somewhere, though, so he began by addressing the one item he couldn't answer with certainty from Gaius' questionnaire. He knew he'd been losing time beneath Aredian's knife, but it could have been minutes or hours. ~How long was I...out?~ he asked, bracing himself for the answer.

~Well…~ Morgana hesitated. ~It's just past noon on Sunday, so— ~

~Sunday!~ he sputtered. ~But it...it was Wednesday!~

~I'm so sorry,~ she said quietly. ~I tried everything, but the council— ~

~No, it's not your fault. I just— ~ He swallowed hard as he held the memories at arm's length. ~Four days?~ That was much, much worse than he'd expected.

~It took three days for a resolution, and then another day for you to wake up.~

~That's, uh…~ Merlin trailed off. A full day spent unconscious? He'd absorbed enough of Gaius' medical lectures to know that it was remarkable that he'd woken up at all after so many hours. Having one How-am-I-not-dead? experience in any given month he could sort of wrap his mind around; that had happened often enough since he'd left Ealdor for Camelot. But twice in a fortnight? That's pushing it. He shook his head and tossed the thought on top of the mental heap he referred to as 'Things to Deal With Later.' At the rate it was growing, it might soon qualify as a mountain...or maybe a full mountain range. He cleared his throat. ~So, what'd I miss?~

~Not much,~ Morgana replied a little too quickly. Her discomfort was palpable; the edges of her magic twisted up like gnarled branches in a forest at dusk.

ooo

Morgana absolutely did not want to relive her memories of the dinner in the dungeons that had broken stubborn Lord Chaucer's resolve. She also couldn't bring herself to tell Merlin about Cenred's reply, even though the king's letter lay open before her as she sat at the table in her chambers. Talking to Merlin about Cenred...well, the idea just felt wrong somehow. Instead of examining why, she pushed the letter aside and sank the topic deep in a moat called 'I Don't Want To Think About It' and swam into safer waters before Merlin could reply. ~Not much,~ she repeated, ~but we did receive a reply from Arthur, so Gwen's been working on some ideas for an escape plan.~

His magic brightened considerably. ~What sort of ideas?~

~Just a moment...~ Morgana glanced over to where Gwen was busy sweeping with efficient, diligent strokes. "Merlin's awake."

"Oh, thank heavens," Gwen breathed. Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned on the broom for support. "Um, is he…?"

"Alive? Lucid? Coping? All of the above, it seems," she said lightly, taking a free breath as the weight of waiting lifted from her shoulders. "I'd like to read the other letter to him."

"Yes, of course." Gwen set aside the broom and pulled out the letter. She handed it to Morgana as she joined her at the table.

Letter from Arthur in hand, Morgana refocused on Merlin. ~Merlin, are you...?~

~Waiting with bated breath?~

~So impatient!~ she teased. ~I'll read you what he wrote, although I must warn you: it's distressingly sappy.~

Gold threads of amusement rippled across his magic as she began to read:

Fairest Guinevere, a flower among thorns,

It brings me much joy that you have accepted my overtures, and I am all the more eager to return to Camelot to see you again at the next possible opportunity. Indeed, I hope that it may be sooner than I'd expected, as—unlike the redwings—my squires and I will be making a pilgrimage south to visit my cousin, Sir Gesweorc the Younger. We intend to depart tomorrow and expect to remain with him at his forested estate at least until Yule.

While we are there, I intend to act upon your suggestion: I will send you a squire and an artisan to mend my favourite shield before bringing it back to me. I am indebted to you for your aid and advice in this matter. It seems prudent to me to have them consult with you prior to attempting the repairs, as you and your mistress are familiar with the particulars of the adverse conditions in the armoury. Likewise, given your knowledge of smithing, I trust you may be able to advise them about what tools they may require to complete the repairs.

Although it remains unlikely that I'll be able to visit you in Camelot before Yule, I look forward to being closer to the citadel so that my letters may reach you more quickly. I am eager to know you better, dear lady, and every letter from your hand is like a flagon of cool water in a parched desert, sustaining me until such time as I may again drink your wise words straight from your lovely lips.

How go the Yuletide preparations? I am sure you are being kept busy between your expanded duties to your mistress during her regency and the extensive preparations for Yuletide. Know this, O most excellent of women: I shall toast your good health with each glass of spiced wine that shall pass my lips this blesséd season, even as I shall mourn with each drop that you are not here beside me to share my cup.

With ardent devotion,
Sir William of Deira

By the time Morgana finished reading the ridiculous prose, Merlin's magic was boiling with helpless laughter.

~Arthur did not write all of that himself,~ he gasped.

~Are you sure?~ she replied, a smile tugging at her lips. ~Perhaps Arthur's been harboring a secret love of poetry.~

She felt his incredulous huff. ~The part about Gwen's lips? No way. Gwaine must've helped.~

~Good point. Arthur's too illiterate to appreciate poetry,~ Morgana concluded, mesmerized by how the blue and gold danced in Merlin's magic as he snickered.

~Ow, stop making me laugh,~ he whinged, but there was no heat behind his words; Morgana could feel through their connection that laughing hadn't added to his pain.

She tried—and failed—to stifle her laughter, glancing up to see poor Gwen blushing like a holly berry.

"He's laughing, isn't he?" Gwen asked, hiding her face in her hands. "I mean, of course he is. How could he not? It's just...it's a fake love letter. Arthur has to say those sorts of things to make it all sound convincing." She peeked out from between her fingers. "...Right?"

Morgana took pity on her. For the moment, at least. "I'm sure that's exactly it," she said, patting Gwen's shoulder before turning her attention back to Merlin.

~The thing we're trying to work out is who—or what—Sir Gesweorc the Younger represents. I've never heard of anyone by that name, and Gwen didn't find anything in the seals of nobility in the library.~

~It sounds familiar…~ Merlin trailed off. Golden fractals sizzled across his magic like lightning against a twilight sky, and Morgana could almost feel the pinch between his brows. ~I don't know anyone with that name,~ he said after a moment, ~but I recognize the word. In the language of the Old Religion, 'gesweorc' means 'darkness, clouds, or mist.'~

When Morgana repeated that aloud, Gwen replied, "Maybe it means they're headed to the Darkling Woods?"

"How—?"

"Well, if 'gesweorc' means 'dark' and if 'younger' might be a diminutive," Gwen explained, "then Sir Gesweorc the Younger would be 'darkling.' And he mentioned the 'forested estate.'"

"Gwen, you are brilliant!" Morgana informed her as she relayed the theory to Merlin, adding, "And Merlin says he agrees with me about that."

Gwen shrugged off the compliment, but she was beaming as she continued, "Forridel has hinted that there are Druid camps scattered across Camelot. Perhaps the Druids that Arthur's staying with are heading south to winter with another camp in the Darkling Woods?"

Morgana nodded and shared that information with Merlin.

He replied, ~If Gwen's right—and it's Gwen, so she probably is—then that means they'll be less than a day's ride from Camelot.~ His magic flickered an unexpected turquoise, and Morgana could picture his impish smile. ~I bet Gwen's just thrilled about that. She might get a new love letter every single day!~

Morgana knew she ought to be embarrassed by just how long it took her to relay Merlin's teasing to Gwen, but she was laughing so hard that she couldn't quite bring herself to care. The mirth in Merlin's magic was intoxicating as it blended with her relief that he was still Merlin, even after everything he'd been through.

Gwen sighed. "Can we talk about the plan now?"

"Yes, the plan," Morgana agreed as she grappled to regain her composure.

"I have some ideas," Gwen mused, pointedly ignoring how Morgana couldn't quite keep a straight face yet, "but I wasn't sure how soon Merlin thought he'd be able to travel, assuming a healer can help with his...um"—Gwen gestured vaguely at her back—"with the worst of it."

When Morgana relayed a question about that, Merlin's reply was noncommittal at best and resigned at worst. ~I've never seen magic heal something like this,~ he admitted, ~but that doesn't mean much. There's so much about magic I don't know.~

Morgana repeated that to Gwen, adding, "The sooner we can arrange for you to meet with the squire and the artisan, the better."

Gwen nodded emphatically. "I'll send a reply this afternoon to offer a meeting on"—she paused, and Morgana could tell she was calculating the distances in her head—"Friday evening. That should give them time to receive the letter and send a reply, plus time for them to travel for the meeting, no matter where they are headed in the Darkling Woods."

Morgana conveyed Gwen's proposed plan to Merlin. He agreed, but Morgana thought there was something off about his magic when he replied—something not quite the color of worry—but it was gone before she could be sure.

As Marrock trudged down the winding flights of stairs to the dungeons after supper, questions continued to spiral through his mind. Will Merlin even remember what he said last night about Princess Morgana? he wondered, shifting the bundle of bandaging supplies he carried. Do I dare bring it up if he doesn't?

After a brief exchange as he passed the guards' station at the base of the stairs, Marrock approached Merlin's cell with trepidation, grudgingly admitting to himself that there was another possibility he liked even less: What if he never wakes again? That would leave Marrock with a tumult of questions and no chance of getting answers. The guards claimed Merlin hadn't stirred since Marrock had left the previous evening; they couldn't even say for sure whether their prisoner was still alive.

They didn't even bother to go into the cell and check if he was still breathing! No, because that would have been too much work, wouldn't it? They just tossed a waterskin between the bars at midday and returned to their posts! What an incompetent—

Marrock's inner rant ground to a halt as he rounded the final turn in the corridor to Merlin's cell. Relief and angst intertwined as he took in the sight of the sorcerer sitting up, almost like he'd been waiting for Marrock to arrive. Despite the linen bandages encasing Merlin's upper body, he greeted Marrock with a smile.

"You're awake," Marrock heard himself say.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Merlin asked, raising an eyebrow in a disconcerting impression of Gaius.

The guards thought you were as good as dead, he nearly replied. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "You're just, um, doing better than I'd expected."

Marrock wondered if he'd imagined the shadow that passed over Merlin's eyes.

"Well," Merlin said with a shrug, "I'm not going to look a gift dragon in the mouth."

Marrock snorted. Against his better judgment, he asked, "Don't you mean 'gift horse'?"

"Nope!" Merlin said, popping the P. "Have you ever seen a dragon? Their teeth are huge."

Marrock had thought the wyverns at Níþdraca were more than a little terrifying, even at a distance; he didn't even want to imagine how much worse the great dragons would have been. Also, he'd been led to believe that the great dragons were extinct, so the implication to the contrary was...rather distressing. So distressing, in fact, that he almost missed Merlin's muttered aside.

"...And in my experience, dragons' gifts tend to come with strings attached."

Marrock decided he really ought to change the subject, preferably before he went and did something idiotic like asking the son of the last Dragonlord how he could possibly have first-hand knowledge of the extinct great dragons. Marrock was certain he wouldn't like the answer, and he had quite enough on his mind already, thank you very much.

"So," Marrock said, gesturing to Merlin's bandages, "how are you feeling?"

Merlin glanced down at the linen strips. "Eh, could be better; could be worse," he said quickly, not quite meeting Marrock's eyes. "The, uh, the guards—they said it's Sunday, but I don't..." Merlin trailed off and cleared his throat.

Pity flared in Marrock's chest, even as the duty-bound part of his conscience launched into yet another tirade about aiding and abetting. A passing thought interjected, pointing out that the guards hadn't mentioned speaking to Merlin during their half-hearted check-in. Merlin unwittingly silenced the clamor with a single question.

"So, did I miss anything interesting?" the sorcerer asked, an inscrutable expression flickered through his eyes.

The question caught Marrock off guard; it was the only plausible explanation for why he blurted the first honest answer that wouldn't reveal his treasonous waffling. "The Princess invited King Cenred to Camelot."

Merlin's brows shot up. "What?"

So much for being subtle, Marrock lamented. It wasn't a direct segue to confronting Merlin about last night's delirious ramblings, but it wasn't far off. A related question had been nagging at Marrock's overtaxed conscience since Cenred's messenger had arrived that morning. If Princess Morgana did have magic, then her decision to negotiate with Cenred—who was known to have more flexible views on magic when it suited him—was particularly concerning.

As Merlin gaped at him, another concerning thought occurred to him: If Princess Morgana did have magic, and if she was the ally that Gaius and Merlin had alluded to, then Marrock would have expected Merlin to know about—and support—any plans for such a significant alliance. Marrock's conflicted conscience pointed out that he still needed more information. Perhaps he's only feigning surprise; perhaps this is my chance to kill two birds with one stone.

"Cenred has proposed a new alliance with Camelot," Marrock elaborated, watching Merlin's expression closely.

The sorcerer's brows furrowed. "...What sort of alliance?"

"The usual sort, I presume," Marrock said, aiming for casual disinterest. He laid out the bandaging supplies as he continued, "Signing treaties, agreeing to be peaceful allies, hashing out trade partnerships; that sort of thing."

"Uh huh," Merlin said, one eyebrow rising a fraction.

He sounded as skeptical as Marrock felt, and Marrock's conscience applauded. Maybe this will yield some useful information after all.

"Here," Marrock said, organizing his thoughts as he gestured to the neatly organized bandages, "let's get started."

Merlin nodded, and Marrock carefully unwound the linen strips, noting with interest that the wounds had improved substantially in just one day. Marrock suspected that Merlin's magic had something to do with the impressive outward improvement.

It also surely helped that, unlike the through-and-through wound from the crossbow at Pontefract, the multitude of cuts that littered Merlin's chest and arms were relatively shallow. But superficial wasn't the same as insignificant; each cut had still bled a great deal. Marrock was well-aware that the combined blood loss would have been almost—but not quite—life-threatening. Aredian, the scum, knew exactly what he was doing. It made Marrock want to take his trusty battle ax and give the witchfinder a few cuts of his own.

But he couldn't do that, not least because the king had fully endorsed Aredian. But what sort of king would—? He shook his head, cutting off the latest accusation from the rebellious part of his conscience. No, I still need more information.

Marrock returned to the previous thread of conversation, watching Merlin out of the corner of his eye as he added, "Oh, and Cenred wants to seal the treaty with a marriage."

"What." The word was dark and clipped.

Marrock could tell it hadn't been a question, not really, but he forged ahead anyway. "King Cenred has proposed to seal the treaty through his own marriage to Princess Morgana."

Merlin's jaw twitched.

That's…interesting, Marrock thought. Merlin's initial surprise could have been feigned, but this visceral reaction didn't seem contrived. If Merlin's her ally, yet he truly hadn't known, what does that say about her loyalties and Cenred's motives? Again, his conscience demanded more information.

"Thought you'd be a fan of Cenred," Marrock said, holding out a clean rag and a container of wine-based antiseptic to Merlin.

"Not really," Merlin muttered through clenched teeth as he dipped the rag in the jar and dabbed the acidic solution on the cuts on his chest.

"But he condones the use of magic," Marrock observed.

Merlin's eyes flicked up to meet Marrock's. "It's not as much of a binary as your king likes to think." His eyes flicked away again as he concentrated on trying to reach the cuts on his shoulders and upper back.

Marrock held out his hand. "Here, let me."

Merlin relinquished the blood-tinged rag without protest. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Marrock concentrated on cleaning the cuts well. It wouldn't do to have them get infected, not after everything he's already endured.

As Marrock worked, Merlin picked up where he'd left off in his answer. "I, uh, I grew up in Essetir, just across the border from Camelot. Cenred wasn't…" Merlin shrugged beneath Marrock's ministrations. "Arthur'll be a much better king than Cenred ever could be."

Marrock didn't know what to say to that. Not two months ago, he would've agreed without hesitation. But to do so now? He was sure that any support for the disowned prince would be tantamount to treason in his king's eyes. Marrock hated that he still wanted to agree with Merlin nonetheless. Instead, he hummed noncommittally and set aside the antiseptic before applying a thin layer of protective honey to each set of cuts.

Merlin cleared his throat. "So…what do you think about Cenred? I mean about the negotiations, about him coming here?"

Marrock considered both the question and the man who'd posed it. His conscience conveniently chose that moment to point out that it wasn't as though Merlin had the power to get him in trouble if he spoke his mind. The other guards and knights were well out of earshot and—given their record of incompetence and apathy—unlikely to wander down this lonely corridor any time soon.

It was a…rather freeing epiphany.

"I think…" Marrock tested out that freedom, tasting it slowly on his tongue. "I think…that I'm not sure I trust his motives. The timing's just too—"

"Exactly!" Merlin agreed, nodding emphatically.

Marrock hummed, crafting his next question with care. "Do you know if Cenred and Emrys ever…?"

"What? No. Absolutely not."

The conviction in Merlin's words caught Marrock by surprise.

"Emrys," Merlin continued with a hiss, "wouldn't work with someone like Cenred even if he were the only magic-condoning ally left in all of Albion."

That wasn't just the tone of a vaguely disgruntled peasant or a reluctant magical ally, Marrock realized. That had sounded personal. He also noted that Merlin hadn't referred to Emrys in the past tense. But I was sure he knew his father had died. Another confusing thread to tug on. Later. One problem at a time. "What did he do? Cenred, I mean?"

Merlin looked away, wincing as Marrock started layering on the blood moss and fresh linen bandages. Marrock was beginning to think he wouldn't get an answer by the time Merlin broke the silence.

"My village…it was attacked by bandits. Repeatedly. And I wasn't there to stop them—I'd already come to Camelot. They… they hurt my mother." Merlin's fists clenched white-knuckled as he recounted the tale. "And their king? Cenred refused to help them. His own people went to him for help, and he didn't care." He paused, drawing a steadying breath. "So she came to me for help instead, and Arthur—" Merlin cleared his throat. "He didn't have his father's blessing or any knights to take with him, but he went anyway."

Marrock remembered a frantic search followed by the blistering chastisement Uther had bestowed on his son in front of the council when the prince reappeared after going missing—along with then-Lady Morgana—for a few days last year. Arthur had stood uncowed, shoulders straight and head high, bearing the harsh lecture with no sign of regret or shame. Marrock had wondered at the time why Arthur had been uncharacteristically careless when his actions could have easily triggered an international incident. Now, listening to the sorcerer's anger slipping away word by word, Marrock finally understood.

"They weren't even his people, but he went anyway because it was the right thing to do, because he is a good man. And that," Merlin declared quietly, "is why he is the one king I will be happy to serve 'til the day I die."

Marrock wanted to agree once more. It was becoming a pattern; he didn't like it one bit. Ylva's question from that morning echoed in his thoughts: Do you believe that Arthur is a threat to Camelot?

Every one of his instincts shouted No, and every one of his knightly oaths screamed Yes. The cacophony was giving him the worst sort of headache—the kind that even a vat of Ylva's soothing herbal tea wouldn't help.

Merlin barely waited until Sir Marrock was out of earshot before he reached out for Morgana's magic. He closed his eyes and saw the gold staccato of Morgana's late-night pacing. It matched the itch in his chest that shouted that it wasn't right, that she couldn't marry that callous, corrupt, supercilious—

He didn't stop to think through what he would say; he just flung his thoughts across their connection. ~I need to talk to you.~

The pacing stopped abruptly. ~Merlin? What is it? What's wrong?~

~Sir Marrock was just here. He said that Cenred's on his way to Camelot.~

~Um…~ The restless pacing resumed. ~A messenger from Cenred arrived this morning to say he's accepted my invitation.~ Gold specks flickered in the green mist to match the hesitation in her tone. ~He's, uh…he's to arrive at Camelot in a week, and—if all goes well—he'll remain until Yule.~

Merlin rubbed his forehead as he gathered his thoughts from before everything had gone completely pear-shaped. Sifting through scattered scraps of memories, he found the one about reading Morgana's last message to him before Níþdraca fell.

The letter about Morgause's visit...and Cenred's proposal.

That part—now that part he definitely remembered. It was everything that had happened after receiving her message that was a blur, entirely overshadowed by his father's parting words and his own confession to Arthur soon after.

What did I write in reply?

Morgana evidently mistook his lengthy silence. ~Did Emrys not tell you about, um, about—?~

~About Cenred's proposal?~

Merlin hadn't meant for it to come out as sharp as it did. The tendrils of her magic pulled back abruptly.

~Um, proposal's a strong word. More like, um, negotiation?~

~But you'd said— ~ He caught himself again and fumbled to cover the slip. ~I mean, Emrys said that you'd said that Morgause said that Cenred said that he— ~

~Merlin!~

He curtailed his babbling with not a little embarrassment. He felt her take a deep breath as her magic pushed back against his, tall and solid like battlements.

~He wants to negotiate with Camelot. A treaty. Which may or may not involve a marriage.~

Your marriage, you mean.~

~Fine, yes! …Maybe.~

~Maybe?~

~I…I don't know. I don't know exactly what Emrys told you, but, um…~ Threads of gold rippled through her magic as she sighed. ~I wrote to Emrys for advice, but he didn't really have a chance to…~

He felt her throat tighten as she swallowed down a flash of what felt like—

…Grief?

The realization shocked him. She's grieving me. Or Emrys, technically, but me, because she still doesn't know that I—

~I'm sorry,~ he said, and meant it in more ways than she could possibly know.

ooo

Morgana choked up again at the reminder that Emrys was gone, and Gaius had left, and she still didn't trust Kilgharrah, and—

~I'm sorry,~ Merlin said, grief in his own words, as his magic darkened like midnight and curled tightly in on itself.

And Emrys was his father, her conscience chided her as she finally stopped pacing and sank down on the side of the bed. How do you think he feels, with you just bringing it up like that?

~I'm sorry, too,~ she said, ~I shouldn't have—I mean, I know what it's like to, um, to lose a father.~

His magic darkened even further, and her heart sank.

~I'm so sorry for your loss, Merlin.~

Her own eyes burned as he blinked back tears before replying.

~It's alright, I mean, it's not—I'm not—but you didn't— ~

~But I should have thought before I said…~

~No, I…I think I just haven't really…~ He trailed off.

~Haven't…?~

~Talked about it—about him, about what happened.~

He paused. She picked at the embroidery on the bed linens, waiting in silence as his magic uncoiled a bit.

After a long moment, he asked softly, ~Does it get better, eventually?~

She didn't need to ask what he meant; she knew all too well the grief radiating from his magic.

~Yes,~ she replied, ~with time.~

There was another pause as Merlin's magic slowly lightened—not to its natural, radiant blue, but to the color of dusk rather than midnight—before he spoke again.

~I think maybe I'd like to, um…would you mind if I talked about it sometime? Not right now, but…but maybe later?~

Oh, Merlin, she thought, as her magic and her heart went out to him.

~Whatever you need, you need only ask.~

There was another pause before Merlin changed the subject as his magic stretched and sharpened.

~So,~ he said, dragging out the word, ~Cenred's proposal?~

~It's not— ~ She rolled her eyes even though she was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to tell. ~Look, what do you want me to say? It's just a negotiation. I've never met the man; it's not like I'd agree to anything, like a treaty or…or…~

~A marriage?~ he pressed, his tone enigmatic and disconcerting.

~Or anything,~ she continued archly as she felt her magic prickling and pushing back, ~Not without negotiating in person.~

His tone softened as his magic diffused to blue fog. ~You'd asked—uh, you'd written to Emrys for advice, right? What had you wanted to ask him?~

Morgana hesitated. It felt strange talking about Cenred with Merlin, of all people, but she remembered Gaius' parting exhortation once again: 'You'll still have Gwen and Merlin, with a great deal of wisdom and insight between them.'

Gwen had already gone home for the night, Emrys was dead, and Gaius wasn't here, but Merlin was. Maybe he could— The words tumbled out before she let herself second-guess them.

~I…I asked him for advice because I don't know enough about the Prophecy or how the unification of Albion is supposed to happen. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, if maybe this treaty is the best way I can help.~

She flopped back on her bed to stare up at the canopy as she continued.

~And normally I'd be grateful about not having many visions lately—I've had enough of a constant headache from the council as it is—but…but now I just wish I knew…~

His reply wasn't what she'd expected. Every word dripped with incredulity.

~You'd be willing to do that—marry someone—for the sake of the Prophecy?~

~Why shouldn't I?~ she asked, pulling her magic in closer. ~At least this way, I'll have some say in the matter.~

~What?~

~Surely you've been at court long enough to know that most marriages are just political alliances.~

~Yes, but you're the Princess now; doesn't that give you more choices than before?~

Morgana groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.

~No, the stakes are even higher now. If I were still just Uther's ward and Arthur weren't disinherited, my future children wouldn't be in the line of succession. Uther might've been willing to bend, up to a point, if I'd fought him over it—might have let me choose from a short list of nobles he considered suitable.~ She threw the pillow aside angrily. ~But now that I'm officially in the line of succession, he'll almost certainly use me as a bargaining chip if given half a chance, just like I used the tax levy policies to negotiate last week.~

~But you're not a policy; you're a person!~ Merlin spluttered indignantly.

~Yes, thank you, Merlin,~ Morgana retorted dryly, ~I hadn't noticed.~

~I mean,~ he insisted, ~that you shouldn't be treated like one.~

~Well, that's not how the nobility works, so there's no use pretending,~ Morgana snapped, if only to keep from agreeing with him.

She could picture the defiant angle of his jaw and the fire in his eyes as he declared, ~I think you're mad; I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience.~

~But Uther— ~ she said, but Merlin didn't falter.

~And if Uther thinks an unhappy king or queen makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong. 'Cause you and Arthur may be destined to do great things—to rule, to fulfill prophecies—but the way I see it, you have a choice as to how you do it.~

Morgana wanted him to be right about having choices about things that mattered—like prophecies and love—really, she did. But she had been denied choices more times than she cared to remember, and over time she'd built stone ring forts out of biting wit and bitter anger to guard her vulnerable soul.

She thought back to her ten-year-old self: the grieving, frightened child who'd been taken from her home at Tintagel against her wishes after Gorlois' death and brought to Camelot to live in a citadel full of strangers. That was the innermost wall: hastily constructed, full of cracks in the mortar for enemies to exploit.

She thought of her twelve-year-old self: the angry, defiant girl who'd been caught sneaking out to practice sword drills the night after Arthur had first beaten her in a sparring match, who'd been confined to her chambers and told in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to be allowed to train any longer because she was a going to be a Lady, not a knight. That wall was taller than the first, crowned with parapets of detachment and disdain.

She thought of her fourteen-year-old self: the young Lady who'd finally won back a limited version of her training privileges only after she'd carefully reframed the issue to Uther as an investment in her personal safety. That next wall had a gatehouse and portcullis as she finally discovered how to mount a defense.

She thought of the council members—like Lord Tennyson—who still thought she had no business trying to lead Camelot at all, let alone in such turbulent times. As she'd navigated council meetings and politicking, she'd added arrow slits from which to sling barbed words and launch strategic volleys against those who foolishly thought she'd be easy to conquer.

She wasn't a frightened, displaced little girl anymore; she was regent of a powerful kingdom. She wasn't a defiant girl who had to sneak and beg to practice her riposte drills; she was a leader who was cultivating her knights' respect. She wasn't a damsel in a tower. Not anymore. Never again. Like Arthur, she had a role to play in a great prophecy, and she would do her best to fulfill it. If that meant choosing to marry someone to advance the prophecy, well, it was still much more of a choice than she'd ever really thought she'd have.

But what of love? her heart wondered, peeking over the parapets. She'd dared to dream, however briefly, that maybe one day she and Merlin might—No, that was before. Before she knew that Merlin had his own, separate role to play in the prophecy all along. Before she learned that he was Emrys' son and Arthur's powerful protector.

As for Morgana's role, she'd invited a powerful king to Camelot to negotiate a treaty—a treaty that might determine not just her own fate but also the fate of a key component of the unification of Albion. Like she'd seen Arthur do time and time again, she would set aside her own wishes, weigh the choices before her, and do what she thought was best for the good of the kingdom and for the people whose lives had been entrusted to her. I will not fail them, no matter the cost. Not even if it meant choosing to marry someone she might not love, because simply having choices didn't mean she'd get everything she wanted in the end.

~You're right that it's my choice,~ Morgana replied to Merlin at last, ~while I'm still regent, that is.~ Her resolve hardened, adding yet another crenelated ring of masonry. ~And I'm choosing to consider the possibility of a marriage alliance with Cenred.~

At the biting edge in her words, Merlin's magic recoiled from hers. The sliver of a gap it created between them might as well have been a gaping moat for all the sense of loss that flooded into it. She reminded her heart that she'd never really believed that she'd be so lucky as to have both love and choice. I'll be perfectly content with just one or the other.

From the confines of the isolated keep in the middle of the fortress, her heart asked, Are you sure about that?

A/N:

Thank you again for reading, even after all this time! :) I'm truly grateful.

Just FYI, I have some text-formatting stuff I still need to go back and standardize in past chapters, but I'm not sure if FFN will send updates for every revision or only for brand new chapters. I apologize in advance if my edits over the next few days trigger a flurry of notifications. The next new chapter won't be posted for at least a couple of weeks—and I solemnly swear that, insofar as it's within my power, it will be a much, much shorter wait for Ch. 104 than it was for Ch. 103!