Warnings: Pairing is Merlin/Arthur/Gwen, language, violence. This is a sequel (The Diary is the first one. If this story looks interesting, please go check that one out first, or you will be very confused)
Prologue:
As soon as they had their arms around him, he fainted. Lancelot barely suppressed a yelp of alarm, Merlin going limp in his grip; he held fast, preventing the man from bashing his head on the stones. Leon had no such qualms, and he immediately stepped back, like he suspected some kind of trick.
Lancelot wanted to snap at him: this was Merlin, not some stranger. And he'd just saved all of Camelot—didn't that merit some kind of respect? But Lancelot could only see fear and disdain in Leon's eyes, mirrored in the faces surrounding them. These knights didn't even know Merlin as well as Leon did; they knew only the hapless servant, in contrast to the powerful, fearsome warlock.
Arthur approached, face impassive save for a slight wrinkle between his brows. "What's wrong with him?" he said, leaning down. Was that worry in his expression? No, Lancelot must be imagining it. Mostly, the prince's tone seemed indifferent.
Lancelot could feel Merlin's breath, see his chest rise and fall, which soothed the panic tight in his throat. "Exhaustion, sire, if I had to guess—or perhaps blood loss," he replied. "Sir Leon, if you would be so kind as to help me; I cannot carry him all the way down to the dungeons myself."
The dungeons. A fine place to put their savior, not that Lancelot had been expecting anything different. In fact, he'd been expecting far worse, so he supposed this was the best-case scenario. Still, the cells wouldn't be good for Merlin: the man was pale, bleeding from a wound on his head and shoulder, and other bits of pale skin were already bruising. Worry churned in Lancelot's gut like the storm Merlin had conjured.
"Yes, of course," Leon said belatedly, coming forward to take some of Merlin's weight.
"You will see to his wounds, Lancelot," Arthur ordered brusquely, turning away. There was something off in his voice, in his manner—suppressed anger, perhaps? That didn't bode well, except maybe he would wait to cool down before he decided to pass judgment on Merlin. "Ensure he is as comfortable as can be expected."
That was far more than Lancelot had been anticipating. He would've thought he might have had to smuggle down supplies to patch Merlin up, or get Gaius to plead the case that they couldn't have prisoners dying in the cells without trial.
"O-Of course, sire," Lancelot said, as Arthur began to stride away. The prince was bloodied himself, and moved sluggishly. He began to call out orders for clearing the dead and such things that were necessary. The rain had all but stopped, more of a drizzle than anything, and the sun was showing through for the first time in days.
"How shall we carry him?" Leon asked. They each had a shoulder and arm, but this arrangement was getting blood all over Leon's armor, and it was inefficient besides.
"I can take his arms if you will take his legs," Lancelot decided. It was a decidedly odd circumstance: generally, prisoners were marched with little fanfare down to the dungeons, not carried.
Leon nodded, and together they maneuvered the limp Merlin between them until they were satisfied with their grips. Lancelot did his best not to jostle his friend's injuries, but when he did accidentally, the man didn't even stir. The worry in the knight's stomach swirled faster. What if something were seriously wrong with him? What if staying in the dungeons made it worse? Gaius wouldn't be taken from wounded knights and soldiers to care for a prisoner—and a sorcerer to boot.
Leon noticed the look on his face. "Are you not angry?" he asked.
Lancelot struggled for a good answer; Arthur might throw him in the dungeons, too, if he discovered that the knight had already known. "How can I be?" he said instead. "He saved us all, and now he is injured, or—or worse." He couldn't bear to think of Merlin dying alone in Camelot's cells, not after all he had done for the kingdom.
"But it's magic," Leon said. "If he saved us, it was only to save himself."
Lancelot couldn't help but scoff. "That's nonsense, Leon, and you know it—if he'd wanted to save himself, he could've easily fled the citadel. No, the shield was for our benefit, and ours alone."
"Then why did it fall?" Leon demanded. "You can't trust a sorcerer. Who knows how long he's been hiding this from us? Perhaps this was all an act, to get us to trust him—perhaps he works for Morgana."
"You cannot be serious," Lancelot said. But the look on Leon's face—almost desperate—said he was only grasping at straws, trying to puzzle out why a sorcerer might save Camelot.
"No—no, you're right." Leon shook his head. "Only, I can't see why…" They went awkwardly down the stairs, Leon first with the legs. Lancelot was careful to keep Merlin's weight on his good shoulder.
"Why do you defend Camelot? Why do any of us?" Lancelot asked. Leon had to see—if he could see, then Arthur could be made to see, too. Maybe then, Merlin could stay and be happy. The knight had the sudden wild idea of smuggling the unconscious man out of the citadel; in the chaos, it wouldn't be so hard. They could make a living, the two of them, somewhere outside Camelot.
But, no. Merlin would never agree to such a plan when there was hope that Arthur might accept him, and the prince had not been so harsh. He'd seemed… downright accommodating.
"Knights fighting for their kingdom is different from a sorcerer fighting," Leon said, breaking through Lancelot's thoughts. "We have honor, and those with magic do not. They're evil, the lot of them." He almost seemed like he was trying to convince himself, and Lancelot was puzzled until he thought about it.
"That's not what you were saying when the druids healed you," he pointed out.
"But that was healing," Leon insisted. "What Merlin did…" He shivered. "That was nightmarish—the flashes of lightning, the fire… How can any man have such power and not abuse it? No, it is wholly corrupting, Lancelot. There can't be anything left of our Merlin; whatever innocence and goodness he had is certainly gone, hollowed out by the evils of magic. It would be a—a mercy to, to end him." He didn't meet Lancelot's eyes, but still the knight startled violently.
"You can't mean that!" he cried desperately. They had reached the bottom of the stairs, but they were almost stopped now. Lancelot resisted the urge to draw Merlin close to him. Leon, the man who had known Merlin the longest of the two of them, the noble who had accepted a bunch of peasants into the ranks and had helped train them up—that Leon was ready to kill Merlin, the best and bravest man Lancelot knew?
"No," Leon whispered. His gaze landed on Merlin. "Perhaps I don't. But you cannot deny it; Merlin didn't even deny it. He is guilty, and it's plain as that. Besides, he can't be congratulated for what he did. Magic is no way to fight—it's not fair or honorable. He killed more brutally than anyone I have ever seen, soldier, mercenary, or knight. It is unnatural, evil. It goes against the laws of the world."
"I'm sure that's what you were thinking when he saved us from being carried off by Sluagh," Lancelot said bitterly. "Their method of killing was far more agonizing than lightning or fire; you are plainly blind—"
"You speak treason, Lancelot," Leon said, but there was no heat behind the words, only weariness. Like a fire that was dying, only coals and glowing embers left. "The law is the law, no matter our feelings," he said. "If we were able to change it with every whim we had…"
Lancelot pressed his lips tight and ground his teeth. He wouldn't argue, not here and not now. They were both tired from battle, weary as anything. It was no use trying to change the first knight's mind when nothing could come of it. So they made the rest of the way in a loaded, sullen silence, the air heavy with unspoken words.
There were only a handful of guards manning the dungeons, all sitting 'round a table instead of standing, which seemed disrespectful in light of what had been going on above.
"Is that Merlin?" one asked as they rose from where they'd been playing cards. Lancelot tried not to glare in disapproval. Men chosen to be guards weren't vetted as well as the knights were, and too many were lazy and unmotivated in his opinion. "What happened to him?"
"He's a sorcerer," Leon snapped. "To be put in the cells. So do your job and open one for us." Usually he was politer, and the guards stared at him in surprise.
"But how could he possibly be a sorcerer—" another began, only to be hushed when the first laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Right away, sirs," the first said, remembering his manners and giving them a little bow. He led them down the hallway, lined with cells. Most were empty, but a few hollow-eyed men and women stared out at them as they passed. The second guard, behind them, carried a torch. Except for that, the place was dark, and the group stopped at a closed door at the end of the hallway.
"Generally speaking, we keep sorcerers through here, unless the execution is to be immediate," the one leading them said.
"He will not have an immediate execution," Lancelot said coolly.
"Er, right," the guard said. Fumbling with his keys, he opened the door. They entered into a rather large torture chamber: thumbscrews, knives, pokers, whips, and various other instruments lined the walls. Lancelot saw a rack in one corner and a wheel in the other, and he wanted to be sick. The image of Merlin being subjected to any of these, his good and kind-hearted and wonderful friend… The knight swallowed painfully, just barely keeping from vomiting.
"The cells for the sorcerers are through here," the guard said. The one behind them shut the door, and they were led through the room and into another hallway, again lined with cells. Many of these had no hay, chamber pots, benches, or any semblance of comfort, which Lancelot knew he would have to change.
The guard in front sorted through his ring of keys again to open a cell that didn't look too bad: at least, Lancelot couldn't see any rats, bones, or blood stains anywhere, which was better than some of the others.
The cell door creaked open ominously, and Lancelot and Leon carried Merlin inside, setting him down gently. It was freezing in the dungeons, which was no surprise. The sorcerer trembled on the hard, stone floor, shaking so badly Lancelot was afraid he would jar something. The knight removed his cloak—which was soiled but warm—not caring that Leon or the guards would see him. He would fetch some blankets and other amenities; he didn't care unless it was Arthur himself who told him to stop (and then, he would only take Merlin away because the man deserved better than this—so much better).
And throughout the entire process of lowering him, and the cold, Merlin didn't stir. This was still more worrying, and Lancelot resisted the urge to bite his lip.
"Funny way to treat a sorcerer," the second guard muttered, but Leon didn't say a word. The first knight stood from where he'd been stooping.
"Gentlemen," he said to the guards. "Sir Lancelot," he nodded stiffly, "I must leave; there is business—"
But he was interrupted as one of the other guards rushed into the hallway. "Sir Leon!" he called. "Sir Lancelot—urgent news, the Prince Regent needs you right away, there is no time to waste—the king is dead!"
Lancelot's eyes widened, and Leon visibly paled, even in the dim torchlight. "What?" he cried. "King Uther—he has passed?"
"Assassinated!" the guard said, recovering his breath. "We have not caught the bastard, but he was found in his chambers, his throat slit."
Lancelot's blood ran cold. An assassin in the castle? But how… No—he knew there was already a traitor, a traitor who… Who he had been tasked with watching. But in the midst of a battle, and… Oh, God. Lancelot wanted to be sick again. What if it had been Agravaine who had stopped the shield? What if he had killed the king?
Merlin had trusted him—for once, he had trusted someone to help—and what if Lancelot had failed him? Perhaps the warlock had been right, Lancelot thought wildly, mind racing, perhaps it was better he do it all alone, when he had people who could not be relied upon. People like Lancelot, who had been so sure and so confident, but—
If Agravaine had stopped the shield and killed the king—and Lancelot was supposed to be guarding him—then the deaths of the men, of the civilians, of the king—well, Lancelot was at least partially to blame for neglecting his duty, the one task Merlin had given him.
One single task, and he had failed.
Chapter One: Long Live the King
Arthur kept his head bowed—in grief, if not in reverence. The torches were dim; they might burn out before the sun rose, but he had no intention of replacing them. The room was large and empty. He wished someone else were here, though he knew it was his duty to hold vigil alone, and he felt guilty for the thought.
Only, it was lonely, and the night was cold. Arthur wouldn't light the hearth; he wouldn't even sit. He only stood over the corpse of his father, unsure of how to feel. Uther's eyes were closed, and his face was more relaxed than Arthur could ever recall seeing it: usually there were lines of anger or irritation or—sometimes, if they were dining together, just the two of them—happiness.
The face didn't seem like his father's. It belonged to a stranger, a look-alike with only a passing resemblance. Arthur hadn't cried over him, not in the least because his father would've found it shameful to cry. But Arthur's eyes were mostly dry because he couldn't feel any proper sadness—just numb grief and an overwhelming weight and guilt. He had neglected his duty as crown prince—as regent—to see to the safety of the king, and his father had paid the price. Assassinated in bed, left for hours before anyone thought to check on him.
Arthur had dismissed the guards who had left their post, but he couldn't truly be angry with them—anything he directed on them he was only deflecting from himself. And still, a part of him could not help but think this would be easier; he was the legitimate king, and his father's death was paving the way for his more ambitious schemes…
This part of him made him feel sick, to know that he could be so clinical, so cold. His own father, a means to an end… Merely an obstacle, the man who had raised him, taught him, even if he had taught wrongly…
Arthur wanted to sink to floor and hold his head in despair. Camelot was not quite in ruins, but it was a near thing. He was to be crowned on the morrow, as quickly as decency and practicality would allow. There would be no feast, no merry-making. His kingdom was in no fit state for either: many of the fields and forest and rivers ruined all along one side, where the Sluagh had passed over, practically guaranteeing a harsh winter. Much of the lower town, set ablaze or ruined by the fighting, had to be rebuilt, and mass graves had been dug outside the citadel, for the dead.
Arthur had sent too many missives with the words "I'm sorry for your loss" and empty platitudes about "excellent service to the Crown" and his name signed at the end, elegant and almost a mockery. Still… Still… They hadn't lost the day; his kingdom was still his, his citizens relatively safe.
All thanks to the sorcerer in the dungeons. The sorcerer who—despite it being a week since the fight—had yet to wake up. But Arthur couldn't think on the problem, because he would despair if he did. What if Merlin was going to waste away, dying slowly in the cells because he wouldn't wake to be tried? What if it was all Arthur's fault, for not telling him that he'd known sooner, for not confronting him the minute he'd found the damn diary—but no.
He would've banished Merlin, and Morgana would've won. But still, seven days and no sign of waking—something lodged its way into Arthur's throat, like he'd swallowed a polished stone that sat there and made his breathing labored. He looked down at his father, donned in his finest clothes: rich velvet and silky linen and polished leather.
"What would you have me do?" Arthur whispered, pained. "You've left me with—with—" A mess. He couldn't properly do anything, it felt like. He was in limbo, floating in indecision, trapped by machinations he'd had no part in creating, like a fly stuck in a spider's web. His father had been assassinated, his sister had fled, the army of monsters was gone, but the man responsible for saving his kingdom was in some kind of coma, stuck in the dungeons, and Arthur felt like he couldn't reconcile his love for his father with the knowledge of what he'd done—
"I understand why she hates you," he choked. "I don't want to understand, but I do. You are a hypocrite, to have spent all those years hunting and killing when really—when I was there, all along, having been born through magic. You didn't care about who used it, really; you were only looking to sooth your own guilt, and you took it out on the world." Uther's eyes were closed for this, and that made it all the worse. A yearning for a proper confrontation was rising in Arthur's blood, the way a hound would pull at its leash when it smelled rabbit.
Normally he might go onto the training fields, but it was night, and he was going to be king, and it felt like everything had fallen apart.
"You were the one who told me a king who couldn't control his emotions would end up harming his people," Arthur said bitterly. His father liked the quote, using it often when Arthur was younger as chastisement for laughing or crying. "That was a lie, though. You're the worst liar I know—you lied about my birth, Morgana's birth, magic. Your whole life might as well have been a lie."
And still Arthur loved him, loved him dearly, this man who had murdered thousands. How could he reconcile that love with his father's evil? The kind of willful hatred to slaughter so many he must've known, deep down, were innocent—that kind of deliberate blindness, striking out his own eyes so he wouldn't have to see his sins, the corpses of children—
How could that be the same man who had seemed so cold and warm at the same time? A man who had seemed so strong and sure, but had laughed when Morgana or Arthur told a particularly witty story at the table. A man who had let the gleam of pride shine in his eyes when he'd made Arthur crown prince. A man who had taught his son how to ride and fight because Uther had been one of the best—
How could it be the same man? And now that man, who had been so full of hatred and spite and, and, and—
He was cold and dead in front of Arthur, lying on an even colder table. Arthur felt like he had never been able to properly think about any of it, not when the problems of Morgana and Merlin had been so pressing. But now it was too late to deal with any of it; Uther was dead. Killed by one of Morgana's men, most like, who had snuck into the castle when they'd been fighting her army.
"I hate you," Arthur nearly sobbed. He took a shuddering breath and hunched over his father's body, resting his elbows on the edge of the stone table. His head fell into his hands. "But I love you, too." And that made the hatred all the more painful.
He stayed like that, back bent like it was holding up much more than Arthur's weight. His muscles ached and his mouth became dry—he took no food or drink, not for this. The room darkened and darkened until it eventually became light, the sun rising in the east like it did every day, as though nothing had happened.
The prince's legs shook as he straightened, and he resisted the urge to massage his neck. His heart was heavy, but his eyes were dry. There was no time to dwell on what couldn't be changed. His father was in the past, now, and no strength of emotion would bring him back. He had to focus on the work to be done, on what could be changed: the future—of Camelot, of his people. A better life than the one they'd had under his father.
The winter sun was watery in the overcast sky, but it lit the room well enough. Arthur pressed his lips together and looked down at his father. "Good bye," he said. "I hope I made you proud in life, though I know I will do anything but with your death."
He swept from the room with final steps. The guards on the outside saluted him; it was almost like they had kept vigil with him, this long night. They followed after him as he walked to his chambers; with the assassin not having been found, Leon had asked him to take a guard with him everywhere. Personally, Arthur thought the killer had likely fled in the chaos, but he would be remiss if he wasn't going to humor the man.
George was waiting for him in his chambers—the guards fortunately staying on the outside of the door. As the most senior servant, it was his privilege—and Arthur's curse—for him to serve the soon-to-be King.
"Sire," the man greeted, bowing low. There was a low pang in Arthur's gut at having him here, and not the man currently asleep (or worse, he feared) in the dungeons. "I have taken the liberty of preparing a bath and food, as well as your clothing for the coronation."
"Yes," Arthur said shortly, trying not to let aggravation leak into his tone. It wasn't George's fault he wasn't Merlin. The spread on his table was fit for ten men, not one, but Arthur didn't complain. "Thank you."
"The steward is seeing to the preparations as we speak," George continued. "Perhaps you would like to bathe first, my lord?"
Arthur nodded. A bath. Then food, then a quick nap.
Then, he would be king.
There were so many things to do, but not enough people to do them. A week wasn't much time for any large project, and this wasn't different for repairing Camelot. Parts of the lower town had to be rebuilt, people staying in ramshackle tents outside the citadel or with family or charitable citizens until their homes were habitable again. The graves were done, fortunately, but there were a great many funerals.
And people could not realistically be expected to heal in a week, and here was the first part of Gwen's conundrum: three-limbed soldiers were still three-limbed soldiers seven days later, and those with severe head trauma or deep gashes still had those as well. Gaius couldn't very well manage it all on his own, though he did his best. He was only one man, and an old one at that.
But Gwen wasn't skilled enough for many of the things Gaius needed her to do, and the one who could do them—Merlin—was locked in the dungeons. And this was the second part of the conundrum: Merlin needed someone to care for him, but Gwen couldn't be in two places at once. And while she might have asked someone, the other servants were less skilled than her (and so would be no use to Gaius), and they wouldn't go near a sorcerer.
Thus, Gwen was torn desperately from a desire to help Gaius or Merlin.
At the moment, she was kneeling in her friend's dank cell. She, with Lancelot's help, had managed to smuggle some candles down, so the smell of mold and damp stone had been replaced by smoke, which was only better by the slightest margin.
The guards nearly hadn't let her in with them—or with the blankets, or bucket, or soup. They had stopped her each and every time, even when they had to know what she was doing. Gwen had had to stare down respectfully, curtsey, and explain sweetly why she was bringing each item to the "prisoner." And when they had objected, she had told them to ask the king—and wasn't that a strange thought, Arthur king, thought it shouldn't be.
At this, they always let her through: partially, she thought, because of her confidence that Arthur wouldn't reject any of the requests, and partially because word of their "affair" had spread. Gwen was thought of as Arthur's favorite, and if that let her take small comforts down to Merlin, who was she to complain?
Her knees ached from kneeling on the uncomfortable stone, so she could only imagine how poorly Merlin's back must feel, to be lying down all the time. She had done her best to make him a bed, but it was barely sufficient. Gwen leaned forward, wiping the sweat from Merlin's brow with a damp cloth. In the beginning, he had been cold, like he too was stone, and all the life and warmth had been leeched from him.
But now he was warm, too warm, as though he had thawed too quickly and had gone to rot. His injuries still bled, the scabs pulled at by his twisting and turning—nightmares, Gwen thought—but even in the grips of his terrors, Merlin didn't wake. His skin was either a milky, sickly white or mottled with bruises.
Gwen left the cool cloth on his neck and turned to get the soup she had brought with her; it was thin and only lukewarm, but it was all her friend could get down. He never truly roused, though somehow he seemed to know when he needed to swallow. It was never hard to get him to drink or eat, though he wouldn't chew.
A little of the broth dribbled down from his mouth, and Gwen wiped it carefully, sighing fretfully.
"I just wish I knew what was wrong," she whispered to him. "I think it must have something to do with how much magic you used, but sicknesses like this aren't mentioned in the book I'm reading." She had taken to talking to him, even though he couldn't respond.
"You might have already woken up, except this chill can't be good for you," Gwen said, spooning another bit of soup into his mouth. "I think it's all Arthur's fault."
This was perhaps uncharitable to say, with everything going on that required the new ruler's attention, but Gwen felt that Arthur was doing Merlin a grave disservice. Surely he could simply order Merlin to be taken to his chambers, where he might be more comfortable? He was king, now; there was no reason to hide his knowledge of Merlin from anyone, and the implicit lying irritated Gwen. Was he going to keep it hidden forever, forcing Merlin to leave Camelot?
She thought he had forgiven his friend; she thought they were past this. And with how thoroughly Merlin had run himself into the ground…
"Please," she told him, "you have to get better. I can't get Arthur alone for even a minute to speak with him. You're the only one who can talk sense to him when he's like this—even if we have to break you out of the dungeons. It's not like Arthur can object; he's known for weeks and didn't toss you into the cells. Then you save all of Camelot, and suddenly you have to be locked up." If her voice turned traitorously bitter at the end, all the better. She would get it out now before talking to Arthur—there, she would be the epitome of calm and collected.
To her knowledge, Arthur had been down to the cells only once, the second day, to check on Merlin. He'd looked at her and Lancelot's arrangements and had nodded. She'd meant to speak with him, but he'd left before she could. She was left feeling lost and bewildered, like he'd abandoned her deep in the forest all alone, instead of the castle dungeons, which she'd known all her life.
"It's not right, leaving you here. It's like he's forgotten you," she said. He was nearly done with the whole bowl, and she fed him the last bit. "Just because you're sleeping—it's as though you don't exist. Well, once I can get a moment with him, he'll remember you rather quickly, I think."
Still, Merlin said nothing. It almost broke Gwen's heart to see him so still—usually he was so lively, so talkative. He gestured when he spoke, punctuating funny stories with wild flailing or nearly falling because he wasn't paying attention. She ached, missing him. The only person she'd spoken to with any consistency the past few days was Gaius, and that was always more along the lines of "grind this" or "bottle that" or "Sir Randy's bandages need changing."
She'd seen Lancelot, too, but he was always whisked off a moment later to attend to his knightly duties before they could speak more than two words to each other. She was just relieved that she didn't have to wonder whether he was on Merlin's side.
Gwen set the empty bowl aside, sitting back onto her haunches. Down the hall, she heard the door open, and footsteps. Turning, she could make out Gaius in the dim light; a guard followed closely behind.
"Guinevere," he greeted, coming to a stop behind the bars. Without needing to be told, the guard opened the cell door with a creak. "How is he?"
"Not much improved," Gwen confessed. The same might be said for Merlin's mentor: the man looked thin and ragged, something that couldn't be good for him. "I managed to get him to swallow some soup, though."
Gaius nodded. He glanced to the guard, who moved a respectful distance away. The physician's opinion held sway—he was technically a noble, if a very low one. Gwen stood from the floor and dusted off her skirts; she'd brought down a stool for Gaius, and now she moved it for him.
"That's good," the physician said, easing down onto it. "I have to say—" Here he paused, as though trying to find the exact words. "You are taking this better than I would have anticipated, my dear." It was a pointed comment, if not an accusing one. And Gwen hated lying to him—and she didn't see any point to it now, since all of Camelot knew that Arthur's manservant—the physician's apprentice—was a sorcerer.
"I—Gaius, I must confess: I knew," she said. Gaius's lips pressed together as his eyebrow inched higher—the whole effect seemed to stretch his face. Still, he didn't seem too surprised.
"How?" he asked, finally. "However did you find out? And why didn't you say anything? I assume you—" Here he broke off. "I knew as well, if you haven't yet worked that out for yourself."
"I, well—" Gwen suddenly recalled the beginning words of the diary, where Merlin had confessed that Gaius knew nothing of the whole affair. "I wouldn't say I worked it out."
"Then how?" the physician pressed. "My dear, you have to know this could implicate you, too—my station shields me, as does my relationship with Merlin; I can be forgiven for showing him sympathy. But if Arthur were to get it into his head that you were somehow aiding and abetting a sorcerer—"
Gwen couldn't hold the secret any longer, and it burst from her lips like water over-boiling: "Arthur knows, too!" she cried, then clapped her hand over her mouth, looking at the guard. He didn't seem troubled, so she continued, in a quieter voice, "That is the only reason I know, and it's why I can't fathom his reasoning for leaving Merlin here; he needs proper conditions, not this rank place. And he said he forgave Merlin weeks ago, and now he will not even visit him. I know he's king now, so I'm trying to forgive him, Gaius, but, oh, all I can feel is anger when I look at how ill Merlin has gotten, and Arthur has only visited him once. And really, since he's king now he should just be able to pardon him—"
"What?" Gaius exclaimed. "You mean—you can't…" His eyes were wide, and he was incoherent. He seemed to grasp for something to hold on to, but as he was sitting on a stool, he settled for holding his own face. "You mean—" he repeated uselessly. "How long—how on earth—"
"I'm very sorry, Gaius, for having lied to you," Gwen said guiltily. "And for not putting this better; it must be such a shock, after keeping the secret for so many years." And here the words came so quickly she could hardly stop them, like they always did—straight from her head to her mouth, with nary a thought or breath in between. "You see, a month or so back, when Merlin was beginning to look rather haggard? In hindsight, I think that was when he must've begun the shield; he had his regular duties on top of all the magical things he was doing. Anyway, Arthur was worried—he wouldn't admit to it, but he went looking in Merlin's room for clues.
"And he found a rather substantial clue. Merlin's written a diary, Gaius, a candid account of everything he's done in Camelot, including the magic. Arthur thought he would only take a peek to see what was bothering Merlin, and you can imagine his shock when he discovered it all. He was angry, but he decided not to tell Merlin—I don't think he was ready for a confrontation. But he was so angry he simply couldn't do nothing, so he ended up throwing Merlin in the stocks.
"And when I found out about that, I went to give him a piece of my mind. Only, he was so overwhelmed by it all he told me what he'd found. He said—he said he wanted to read the diary before he made a decision about Merlin. So I visited his chambers, nearly every night, and we spent hours reading about—about, well, everything. Arthur was furious, as you can imagine, but he eventually calmed.
"Only, if he's forgiven Merlin, why hasn't he pardoned him? Or at least visited? I can't understand it, Gaius—maybe you can talk to him. You can tell him I told you; I don't care anymore for secrets. I should've just told Merlin in the first place that I knew, and I forgave him, and now—now I may not get to tell him at all, and I can't even bear the thought—"
Her vision was blurry and her breaths came quickly—ever so quickly, like she had run up ten flights of stairs, and her chest ached—but then Gaius was there, in front of her, bending down. She realized she was crying—that was why it was all blurry—and the physician was holding out his arms.
Gwen went into them before she knew what she was doing, and she sobbed. What if Merlin never woke up? What if he died thinking they all hated him? He had to wake up, so she could tell him that she was grateful, and that Arthur forgave him. That there was nothing to forgive.
"Breathe, Gwen," Gaius reminded her gently. She took in a great shuddering breath—almost a sob. His robes smelled like herbs, but the scent veiled the underlying misery of blood and sweat. She cried into his shoulder, and it comforted her because the last time she had cried like this into someone's shoulder had been when her father was still alive.
Don't be ashamed of tears, Gwen, he'd told her. It just means you care. And caring is good—you and I, we feel things deeply. It's not good to keep it inside. He'd ended up crying with her, more often than not, because he said it made him sad to see her sad. And even though it started with tears, it often ended with laughter, for neither could stand to see the other so depressed for too long.
Eventually her tears subsided, and she pulled back, wiping them away. She hoped she hadn't made too large a damp spot on Gaius's robe.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I got carried away."
"It's quite alright. You've been under a lot of stress," Gaius said. He still looked vaguely alarmed, however, and his eyebrows were no closer to his eyes. "Now, please, answer my questions. Arthur—he knows everything?"
Gwen nodded. "Everything that was in Merlin's diary," she confirmed.
Gaius's head swiveled—not unlike an owl's, Gwen thought—and he fixed his intense stare on Merlin's sleeping form. "That stupid, idiot boy," he said, though the hint of fondness and worry in his voice betrayed him. "I cannot believe—of all the foolish things to do—how did Arthur find it?" He turned back to Gwen.
"Er—" She didn't want to out Merlin, but... "He said it was under a blanket."
"A blanket," Gaius repeated blankly. "A blanket. I am going to beat some sense into that boy's head when he wakes, to not even have the sense to hide it, when he knows very well anyone might walk in—even the prince!"
"It turned out alright in the end," she defended. "Though," she added, for Gaius's sake, "he could stand to be a bit less reckless."
"Leaving diaries about, throwing lightning like it's nothing," Gaius muttered, like he hadn't even heard her. "He'll clean out the leech tank every day for the rest of his life if I have my way. No—twice a day, I don't even care if it doesn't need it—" He trailed off, staring into nothing.
"When do you think he'll wake up?" Gwen asked, desperation leaking into her voice. "It's been a week already, and he shows no signs. Is it the cell? If we could only talk to Arthur—"
Gaius shook his head. "He will wake when his body is ready. He pushed himself too hard for too long; it's not meant to run on magic alone, but that is what he did. And now he's paying the price. As for Arthur, his position is a delicate one."
"Delicate?" Gwen said. "He's King of Camelot!"
"He is crowned only today," Gaius said. "If he changes everything too quickly, the councilors will suspect something. They might choose to withdraw their support, which could end badly. And it is no small feat to undo two decades' worth of vicious prejudice and slaughter. I imagine Arthur knows this well; that is why he hasn't come. He doesn't want to be seen as anything except impartial." But instead of being upset at this thought, Gaius seemed delighted.
Gwen tried to digest his words. Then it was all some play, then? If Arthur was avoiding Merlin deliberately, so that he could better convince his councilors of magic's goodness… She supposed he might be forgiven. After she had spoken to him. Sternly.
Gaius moved to Merlin to feel his forehead and pull the blankets up higher. "Oh, my boy," he said softly, "you've done it, do you see? You've convinced him, and you haven't even said a word. We're going to be free." There was a quiet joy in those words, the joy of a prisoner seeing the sun for the first time in years, the joy of a babe taking its first steps—all kinds of joy, wrapped up into the old man's almost tearful voice.
The physician straightened, brushing a hand over his eyes. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Gwen. "Thank you for explaining everything. You have no idea… I have waited for over twenty years for this moment. Thank you."
Gwen didn't feel like she'd done anything, but his happiness was infectious, despite Merlin still unconscious on the ground. She smiled. "Of course. I—you know I'd be pleased to help. I would've helped even before I knew about him saving us all."
"You have a good heart, Guinevere," Gaius said. A look of realization crossed his face. "I have completely forgot—the coronation! It must be beginning soon. I came to relieve you: Arthur should see you there, and I will look after Merlin."
"But you're the Court Physician," Gwen began, only to be cut off.
"No, no, I will not hear of it. You must go. I will contrive to speak with the king about all this later; it cannot hurt to have a grasp of his plans. My influence is meager, but it isn't nothing." He made a shooing motion. "They won't let you into the throne room if you're late," he said.
He was right that Gwen should be there for Arthur, at least. Whatever he had done (or not done), he was still a good man who deserved her support. His father had just died, after all, and although she had no love for the man, it had to be hard on Arthur.
So Gwen rushed to the physician's chambers, escorted out of the dungeons by the guards. She didn't have time to go home, but she'd left her shawl in Merlin's bedroom, which miraculously no one had searched yet. She supposed everyone had been too busy to kick up a fuss.
She re-did her hair, pulling into a loose tail at the base of her neck, curls framing her face. Using the shawl to cover the dirt on her dress, she splashed water on her face and nearly sprinted to the throne room. Some of the other servants were just coming in; she wasn't too late, then. Through the windows, she could see townspeople gathering in the courtyard outside; Arthur would move to address them after he had been crowned.
Gwen took her place near the back—she wasn't technically employed by any of the nobles anymore, though one might argue she was Gaius's assistant, after seeing how she'd helped him during the attack.
A hush came over them as Geoffrey entered, taking his place near the throne. The nobles were lined up there—they would be swearing fealty to the new king. She could see members of the council, the captain of the guards, and Leon. Each wore their best clothing and stood up straight (or as straight as they could; many of them were old).
A few minutes later, it was Arthur who entered. He gave no outward sign of nervousness, though Gwen knew he had to be so: his head was high, his shoulders relaxed. He didn't glance toward the assembly, focusing only on Geoffrey.
Gwen didn't pay attention to the oaths exchanged or the fealty sworn; Arthur was a good man and a great king—he would uphold these oaths and more. Afternoon sunlight came in through the great windows, illuminating his hair and crown and finery—he looked splendid. And they were chanting, chanting and Gwen smiled because even though she was still upset she wanted Arthur to succeed and be happy.
"Long live the king! Long live the king!"
Arthur had not even a moment to breathe before it was time for the evening council meeting. He had hoped to have assembled his closest knights prior, to give them all the situation. But it seemed it was not to be: instead of speaking with them, he was sat here in the council chambers, his new crown heavy on his head. He wanted to make it brief, as he was in the mood to eat and sleep, but he knew it wasn't to be.
"The repairs go smoothly," he said, after they had all formally greeted each other. "The builders estimate six months before the Citadel is back to normal; they are willing to work through the winter at a reasonable rate."
"That is well, sire," Lord Aldwin said. "And I will pray that the townspeople make it through these cold months without their usual shelter."
Prayer has nothing to do with it, Arthur though sourly. He had asked Gaius to monitor the situation very closely; anyone in danger of exposure was to have extra blankets and might be moved into the castle itself to work. Some of their staff had been killed in the attack, so it was not as though it would be an undue burden.
"But there is something I must bring to your attention, my lord," Aldwin continued. "Many of our lands to the west have been ruined: there are reports of foul water and stored food spoilt and rotted. The peasants worry for the crops."
Arthur frowned. "We will have to send them some of our supply, and perhaps make some deal with one of our neighbors," he said. "It is Morgana's work—the books say the Sluagh have a corrupting influence even on the land." Many of the council members shuddered and shook their heads, remembering the attack. It had been a vicious thing, and Arthur could still not wrap his head around it all. The Sluagh's shifting forms were difficult to recall, though the horror they had inspired was still there.
"That brings us to another matter, sire," Muriel said, interjecting delicately. "That is—the sorcerer."
In their previous meetings, Arthur could tell they had been avoiding the subject; his friendship with Merlin was no great secret. Everyone knew how fond Arthur was of his manservant, even if they thought Merlin was more like his favorite horse than a person with whom he shared his thoughts and ideas. In fact, the king—and wasn't that a strange thought—doubted they could understand the breadth of their relationship.
(You kissed him, after all, and that is more than fondness, isn't it? And you promised him—promised him freedom, promised an end to the secrecy and fear that has bound him all his life. You promised him what he has most wanted, all these years—you don't do that for just anyone, Arthur.)
Well, Arthur had only promised to do the right thing, after all. His father had been unjust—more than unjust, even: lustful for blood and death and torture and madness.
"Yes, Merlin—" Arthur placed a subtle emphasis on the name—"does need to be dealt with." Dealt with was enough of a euphemism, but he knew he would have to declare his intentions openly soon enough. He usually didn't enjoy dancing around the topic, but his temples were beginning to throb; the council members would kick up enough fuss to give him a full-blown headache once he proceeded.
Sterling nodded. "I am pleased that you realize what must be done, sire," he said. "If we construct the pyre tonight, the execution might begin immediately on the morrow." The others nodded, too, seemingly happy with the idea. Problem solved, wiping their hands of yet another innocent sorcerer, to die, screaming, as his flesh melted and voice gave out because of the smoke—
"It will be an auspicious beginning, my lord," Aldwin added. "You will show you are just as strong as Uther—that will surely reassure the townspeople, after everything—"
"There will be no execution," Arthur interjected coldly. "Not until we determine the exact nature of Merlin's crimes." He barely refrained from adding a sarcastic lilt to the last word—impartial, Arthur, you must seem impartial. Still, his tone seemed to lower the temperature of the room, and Aldwin's eyes widened.
"But, sire—"
"Surely there is no benefit to keeping the sorcerer alive?" Muriel asked. Her voice was mollifying, not outraged like Aldwin's, as though she hoped to appeal to the logic in him. But the king would not be swayed, not in this. "His usefulness has passed, and we must uphold the law. Magic is punishable only by death."
The other councilors didn't speak after this pronouncement; they only looked in askance at the king.
"Tell me, Lady Muriel," Arthur began, "what do you recall of the times before the Purge?"
"A lawlessness," she answered. "Camelot was in a state of chaos—your father saw that and put a stop to it." When Arthur didn't say anything, she continued uncomfortably, "I know that you are fond of the boy, sire, but favor cannot be born—"
"And you, Lord Geoffrey?" Arthur said, not acknowledging her. Color rose high on her cheeks. "Or you, Lady Eleanor? Are your recollections the same?"
The bookish librarian swallowed, and Eleanor refused to look at Arthur, or any of the other council members. "N-no, my lord," Geoffrey said, breaking the silence. "That is not my recollection."
"Tell me, then, what it was like," Arthur challenged. "For you see, I cannot remember it. My first memory of a sorcerer, in fact, was the execution of one Madeline—a girl of eleven, and I a boy of ten. I cried after the execution because I couldn't understand what she had done wrong. I looked back in the records, only yesterday, and let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, she was killed for a just and honorable cause: she healed her sick father, who was her only remaining parent."
The paler of his council members had blanched white, and Lord Sterling and Lady Eleanor shifted in their seats. Muriel's mouth hung open, and Aldwin looked fit to pass out. His uncle's eyes were very wide.
"Perhaps Madeline and I were not so different, after all. Because I assure you, if I had been given the power to heal my sick father, I would not have hesitated, not for an instant. I suppose luck would have it that she burned instead of I."
And with that punishing blow, the silence lingered. It was the silence produced by shock and no small amount of uncertainty. Good, the king thought with a vindictive pleasure. His sleep, this past week, had been filled with unholy nightmares. Raids on druid camps, Merlin murdered at his own hands or his father's—the screams of innocents, incoherent with terror.
It was only right that they be punished with these emotions, as well.
Besides, he had to sow the doubts from early on, from examples that weren't Merlin—not yet. He had to give the appearance of having been thinking about this for years. It would be better to seen as having been scheming for years as a prince than to think it had all changed on the experience of one man.
Though he planned to use that one man to convince them, too.
"I would not say it was a better time, sire," Geoffrey finally said in response to his question. The older man had a note of nervous query in his voice, as though he weren't sure if it were a trick. "But it was by no means worse, and people seemed a great deal happier. I mean no disrespect to the late king, my lord."
"Magic is a disease, Arthur!" Agravaine cried a moment later. His face contorted in disbelief. "You cannot mean this—it's sheer madness! Your subjects will riot, after all magic has done to them and their homes. You saw Merlin's power, Morgana's—it isn't right for any single person to wield such, and they would not be controlled. It would be chaos."
"That is enough, Uncle," Arthur said. A tightly coiled snake had wrapped around his head, and it squeezed, tighter and tighter. His predicted headache had come at full force. "You will keep your tone respectful—you speak to your king." The warning was a low one, but Arthur meant it.
"Do you mean to legalize magic then, sire?" Eleanor asked. "I must council against this course of action. Your father was right to execute those with magic, and it was a mercy to do so to those so young. They, at least, were able to die as themselves, and not some hollowed out creature of evil—the girl chose her path."
Arthur restrained himself—but it took all his will. Something like rage and despair surged in him as he looked around the council table: only Geoffrey seemed willing to give magic a chance. Would his citizens be as obstinate? Even if he legalized magic, it would do no good if those in the outer villages still persecuted sorcerers. It would do no good if those in the citadel only swallowed their prejudice, a resentment they still kept close—sorcerers would never be accepted, that way. They would be undermined at every corner.
No, he told himself firmly. You have barely begun this fight. He wouldn't have been so disheartened except that his head ached fiercely.
"You would have me believe a ten year old child was responsible for her own murder? That it was her fault—that it was a mercy?" Arthur demanded, avoiding the question. He turned to the librarian. "Geoffrey, is it possible for magic to come naturally to someone? Without them having learned it?"
The bespectacled man hesitated. "Yes, my lord. There are—or were, anyway—reports of such things, documented in the High Priestess's books." Then, encouraged by Arthur's expression, he continued, "They took in sorcerers, you know. Well, sorceresses. Their isles were considered among the best places to learn magic, and they certified those who they deemed worthy. A High Priestess's sigil of approval went a long way." His tone was livelier; he seemed to believe now that Arthur's asking was no trick, that he meant to hear the truth. "That all changed after the Purge, of course—anyone with the sigil was hunted and killed, and only a lucky few managed to flee. Not to impose any judgment on the late King Uther, God rest his soul."
"You truly mean to legalize it?" Sterling asked, leaning forward. "Sire, I cannot help but agree with Lady Eleanor and Lord Aldwin—there is no way for you to control individuals with magic, and their power is corrupting. Many scholars—" He glanced to Geoffrey—"have proven such a thing. King Uther said it was only a matter of time, before—society would have collapsed if he had not started the Purge. Geoffrey likely has the notes, my lord. The effects of magic were studied and catalogued; that it is evil is indisputable."
Geoffrey seemed to be on the verge of scoffing, which Arthur thought would've been a warranted action; he had no doubt these findings were forged or manipulated in some way. The Purge had been nothing but his father's reaction to grief and pain—given the power and privilege of Kingship, he had destroyed thousands of lives. And he had ensured that Arthur—and all these councilors—were complicit. Uther had ruled through lies and deceit and—and—he had been little more than a tyrant.
It was not to be born.
"Would you be in support, then, of lifting the ban should these notions prove false?" Arthur asked coolly. A verbal promise—this opportunity could not be missed. Lord Sterling's influence, especially in the southern part of Camelot, could not be underestimated. His lands had been unaffected by the passage of the Sluagh, and they would rely on his fields come spring.
"I cannot see how such a thing would be possible, but yes," Sterling said.
"And the rest of you." Arthur gave them each a look in turn—he hoped it chilled their heart, these men and women who had watched children die and done nothing about it. "What do you say?"
"There is nothing that could convince me," Eleanor said. "I am sorry, sire. You are King, and it is your privilege, of course, to change such laws—I would not presume in any way to infringe on any of your divine rights. But King Uther was right to outlaw it and stamp it out. It is the most unnatural thing in the world."
"I…" Lady Muriel faltered. "Perhaps we have not been justified in executing children. My lord, I would like to support you in this, if you could find evidence of magic's good."
"Evidence of its good?" Aldwin demanded. "I daresay there is no such 'evidence'—Morgana, Sigan, and a dozen others have proven that, without a doubt, there is no good in magic. Sorcerers have attacked our towns and cities, raped our women, and killed indiscriminately!"
"Perhaps, then, you would like to explain Merlin's involvement," Arthur said. His trump card. "In the attack, that is. For, as I see it, he's the only reason my kingdom still stands. Even disregarding the shield—which I don't think for a moment shouldn't be taken into account—do any of you doubt the Sluagh would have fled without him there, threatening them?"
"Even if you should legalize magic, he has still committed a crime," Agravaine pointed out. "He has shown a blatant disrespect for Camelot's laws that cannot be tolerated."
"A valid point," Arthur acknowledged. If Merlin has ever shown me an ounce of respect, I will eat my crown. It seemed insincere to be thinking such thoughts, however, when his friend still lay, insensate, in the dungeons. The king worried for him, though Gwen and Gaius seemed to have his health well in hand. The physician had even told him it was nothing more than exhaustion, though the old man had seemed suspicious and distrustful when Arthur had inquired into Merlin's health. He supposed the physician thought he was waiting for Merlin to wake up so he could punish him.
"And yet, there is precedent," Arthur said before Agravaine could capitalize on his concession. "Lady Isabell, daughter of Lord Pemburton. Five decades ago, she was found guilty of murder and adultery—she killed her own husband and her lover in a bloody affair. But she was given full pardon—and an award for services rendered to the crown—when it became apparent that both had been conspiring to murder the queen and king at the time." They had enacted a magic ritual, which couldn't have been stopped with anything save their deaths—Arthur prudently didn't mention this. Lady Isabell had killed her husband and seduced another man before killing him, too, all within the span of a week, on an estate outside the citadel.
"Should Merlin's actions prove to be of a similar vein, I cannot see why he should not also receive a full pardon." This was met, again, with silence. Perhaps if Arthur said enough shocking statements, he might silence them forever. That would be a blessing, if ever there was one. It might alleviate the pressure in his damn head.
"How are we to know he did what he did out of loyalty, instead of some grander scheme or self-preservation?" Sterling asked.
"A public trial," Arthur said promptly. "To determine Merlin's—and magic's—innocence."
"You are so certain it will prove both?" Muriel said. The old woman looked frail, but there was always to her questions.
"A public trial?" Aldwin added. "Surely you can't mean to open it to the masses."
"Lady Muriel, I am not certain of anything, but I think that, given the evidence, there is no reason we should not question our assumptions on both magic and sorcerers," Arthur said, trying to maintain his neutrality. "And anyone who wants to watch the proceedings will be welcome, Lord Aldwin. A public trial is also not without precedent. There are a number of them in our records—there is no reason this cannot be one."
Aldwin muttered something like "I'm sure," but Arthur pretended not to hear.
"If that is all," Arthur said when no one spoke again, "then I believe it is time to retire for the night. A letter to Nemeth—and perhaps Gawant?—will be drafted immediately to determine the viability of obtaining crops so late after the harvest, though I don't think it wise to divulge the true state of our stores. We may also have to consider allocating different lands to villagers affecting by the Sluagh's passing—I look forward to hearing your proposals tomorrow."
He left the council chambers feeling at once exhausted and pleased. The first part of his plan had gone off with hardly a hitch. All he needed now was for Merlin to wake up.
AN: Welcome to the next installment of my story :) Please let me know if there are any typos or you're confused about the timeline (I tried to make it clear). Other than that, what do you think so far?