14. Part 1: Branding

("Life and Liberty" from Payment in Gold)

Percival began to suspect that their new master had forgotten them, while they were still in the clerk's chamber of the Citizen's Building. The skinny boy didn't turn around once during the slave-branding, for either his or Gwaine's – though of course neither of them made a noise about it.

This time yesterday they'd been prisoners, criminals condemned for murder because of that mess-hall riot Gwaine had started. Today they'd determined to win their freedom by killing the youth trying to earn citizenship by killing them… and yet here they were, all alive because of their new boy-master's calm control of better-than-decent magic – and his mercy.

"Where are the others?" Gwaine asked the slave with the tongs, a middle-aged man with extra pounds and no hair. The slave didn't answer, dispassionately raising the piece of glowing-hot metal as Gwaine tilted his head and held his hair out of the way. "Other citizens?"

Percival looked away from his friend's involuntary wince. The sensitive flesh on his own neck was throbbing hotly, still, telling a story of a larger and more serious burn than it was, than he saw from the same one on Gwaine's skin before the long dark hair covered it.

"No one else accepted a surrender," the low-level female officer supervising their procedure said. She was young, younger than Percival – grimacing openly as the slave finished Gwaine's permanent slave-brand. "That's what this room is for. Everyone else is next door."

"They don't have food over there, do they?" Gwaine joked.

The officer, facing the other end of the room, choked on her giggle.

Burned skin pulled painfully on Percival's neck as he turned – and recognized the female who'd entered the room. As one, he and Gwaine hit their knees; the brand clattered on the brazier behind them as the older slave followed.

The position bothered Percival. Always had. Not because he didn't think someone like Princess Guinevere deserved the show of respect; she did. But one could leap up and be ready for action, kneeling on one knee. With both down, it was harder. He felt hampered in his ability to respond to unexpected danger – and so he kept his eyes up, though his head remained properly bowed.

Not close enough to hear the conversation. The princess corrected their boy's instinct to kneel, also – they had to get his name, at some point, he reminded himself. Other than that, the new citizen betrayed no reaction, from behind. The princess seemed kind, almost sweet; she touched the boy-citizen twice, and smiled.

Then she and her two bodyguard-suitors left through the inner door again.

And their young master was accepting his fat scroll-prize of citizenship – and turning to the door.

"Impatient, isn't he?" the female officer observed as Gwaine and Percival rose to their feet. "Better hurry and catch up."

"What about clothes?" Gwaine asked.

Her cheeks pinked as she glanced them over – still clad only in the arena loincloth. "You're his property – clothing you in his business."

"He probably forgot." Gwaine left her with a friendly grin.

Percival followed him out, through the corridor that led right to the street, outside the arena and just down from the Citizen's Center. They emerged to see their master getting his bearings, then plunging down the nearest cross-street, scroll tucked tight under one of the arms hugging his chest. Percival spared a single glance for the Watch building, thinking of all the other boys who'd come of age, held in its bowels – tomorrow those who wished to risk themselves, life and limb, would be tested for the military's quota. The rest of them marked for slaves and sold.

"Well, come on then," Gwaine said.

Percival fell into a marching step beside him; it probably made for a better sight than two men sauntering along trying to be inconspicuous in next to nothing but their skin. Anyone who wasn't in the arena to recognize them maybe had heard the news by now – something like first male citizen in a century was bound to be gossip for a while.

As they marched, Percival suspected that the boy had forgotten about more than their clothes.

He had the loose, awkward stride of an adolescent barely out of clumsy growth stages. Shoulders hunched, head down to avoid any eye contact with other passers-by, female citizen or male slave or children of either gender on errands or playtime.

Percival wondered if Gwaine had the same suspicion. He was watching all around them, head swiveling in a way that surely hurt the tender new brand on his neck, if it felt the way Percival's did. For a moment he thought, Gwaine might be contemplating escape.

For a single instant, so did he.

But, where and to what? They couldn't return to the corps. They had no coin, and no way of earning any without permission from their master. It was scrounge or steal til they got caught – or make their way to the border to join the sort of riffraff banditry they'd spent years fighting against - and though he didn't think their master was the sort to enforce the death penalty on a re-captured runaway slave, in such a well-known and highly-visible case, the crown might enforce it anyway.

If he was being honest with himself, he wanted to see what kind of man this boy turned out to be. And possibly more – he might want to do whatever bit he could, to help him succeed. In either case, he also wanted to see that the boy made it home safely; he was not watching other pedestrians or street traffic, once or twice he even knocked a shoulder into the corner of a wall.

Down through the lower town they followed the boy, half of an hour at least, and they weren't exactly wasting time. Down past the layered apartments built into the hills – where the boy with his ragged cuffs and bare ankles fit right in among the rest – and Percival was both surprised and not, to find that he lived at the street level. No yard, not even the use of the roof of the place below him, and the gutter running – or stagnating, rather – a pace from the doorstep. No lock on the door, and he left it swinging open, to stumble inside.

Gwaine hesitated, which startled Percival enough to linger at the opposite side of the door instead of stepping right in. They watched the boy – oblivious with his back to them – stare down at a patch of weathered floor-boards slightly darker than the rest, as if a fixture or a piece of furniture had recently been moved.

Their ragged master slumped, and staggered blindly three steps, fetching up against the bricked hearth-corner. He caught himself with one hand on the wall, before sliding down to a crumpled heap on the floor, letting the leather-bound citizen-papers roll unheeded from his fingers.

"I did it, Gaius," he murmured brokenly. "I did it."

Then he burst into tears – great heaving sobs that bent his upper body over onto his knees. Percival felt guilty and embarrassed for observing. He didn't think he'd ever wept so. And he never wanted to.

Evidently Gwaine felt the same way; he stepped over the threshold, saying, "Hey, kid – er, Master…"

Percival followed him automatically, but as his bulk shadowed the doorway and Gwaine's voice cut through the boy's sobs, he startled violently, twisting in place on the floor to raise both hands defensively. Percival – and Gwaine, half in front of him – froze in a slight crouch, but nothing happened.

"Easy," Gwaine said softly, showing that his hands were empty, continuing to speak slowly. "We're not going to hurt you. Know why? Because drawing and quartering looks a mercy to what they do to slaves who hurt their masters. You forgot about us, didn't you? You accepted our surrender in the arena. Means you're stuck with us for slaves, for life."

"Oh," the boy said blankly.

He stared at Gwaine, then Percival, then Gwaine again, before scrubbing tears from his face self-consciously, and trying to scramble up. Weakly, and on his second try, Percival brushed past Gwaine to take a knee by the hearth and keep the boy in place with a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy," Percival repeated. "Magic like you did today, takes a good bit out of you, doesn't it? Just rest a minute."

"I'm sorry," the boy fumbled. "I forgot… I don't really have…" He gestured, and Gwaine turned as Percival did.

To see that the boy's entire home was a single room, less than half the size of the chamber where he'd become a citizen. Absolutely bare. No furniture, no fabrics – towels, curtains, rugs, bedding – the grated hole in the floor in the far corner for waste, and the wicker door of a small built-into-the-wall cabinet on the opposite wall of the hearth. No hopper for firewood, no poker no kettle no broom.

Percival heard what the boy hadn't said. I don't have work for you. That was problematic; he and Gwaine weren't really domestically trained to begin with, but the bodyguard function they might have filled best wasn't really necessary for him after all.

I don't have space for you. I don't have… anything?

"Food?" Gwaine suggested, with a grin so eager, it was entirely inoffensive.

The boy huffed and shook his head, swiping one cuff at the outer corners of his eyes, one then the other. Money? Pervival thought, and was glad Gwaine didn't ask the naturally following question. It occurred to him, maybe the boy didn't need them, but… maybe he needed them.

"I've got an idea," Gwaine said, spinning for the door – and just as quickly, spinning back, an odd look on his face. "That is, if I have your permission?" The boy's thin face showed confusion, and Gwaine prompted, "Master?"

Percival could tell, the boy resisted that as much as he had sir. "What shall we call you?"

"Merlin," the boy said. Blinked at Gwaine, then Percival, and said more decisively, "Just Merlin."

It was a good start. With a cocky or domineering master, Gwaine would have gotten himself killed within a week from sheer I-can't-take-it-anymore. With a talented but spiritless one, it would feel awkwardly like they were his caretakers. But even though he was understandably overwhelmed, Percival was reassured to see some spark there. Backbone, humor, personality, something. And that was everything.

"I'm Percival," he said, shuffling back to rest his rump on the single layer of bricks forming the hearth. "He's Gwaine." The boy – Merlin – ducked his head, which was enough greeting for their odd situation.

"Food?" Gwaine said again. "And, I don't mean to sound picky, but folks will take me more seriously if I'm actually wearing clothes?"

"That's only til they get to know you better," Percival added. "Then no one takes you seriously."

"Hey!" Gwaine grinned.

"Oh," Merlin said again, blankly, and scrambled to his feet, using the wall for support. He held out his hands in readiness to conjure, then hesitated for half a second. Percival glimpsed his uncertainty, and Gwaine spoke up.

"Just what you've got on is fine, and don't bother about footwear," he said breezily. Held out his arms and turned slowly as if to show off his body for the fit.

"Make the arms and legs too short," Percival advised Merlin, who gave him a startled look. Gwaine mimed kicking Percival.

Cloth fluttered from Merlin's fingertips, tan cotton, formed into simple trousers that would tie at the waist – but the far more interesting phenomena glowed in the boy's eyes. From blue to gleaming gold in the time it took for his conjuration to complete, then he gave them a quick flap and handed them to Gwaine.

"Your eyes," Percival said, before he could think about tact.

Merlin flushed. "The change in color? Yeah…"

"Doesn't do that for everyone," Gwaine observed, stepping into the trousers without hesitation.

"It's kind of a…" The shirt took shape, of the same material – again simple, the front of the collar slit so it would go on over Gwaine's head. "Rare side effect."

Percival wondered, how rare. He'd never seen that before; then again, the conjurors among the female officers he was used to, were probably among the weakest of all magic-users.

"I'll be back," Gwaine told them, ducking back out the door, but leaving it open. Percival preferred that, and guessed that Merlin would as well, at least until they got a little more comfortable with each other.

"He will, you know," he assured the boy easily. "Be back, I mean."

Merlin hummed like he was concentrating on making a similar set of clothes for Percival, but he caught a flash of a glance – more than just the glimmer of conjuration side-effect – surprisingly intelligent.

"You've been friends a long time?" he said, handing over the new trousers.

It was a first for Percival, wearing something that wasn't actually anything, and that someone else could vanish at any moment on a whim. An act of trust, he supposed, and got up from the hearth to put them on. "You noticed that," he said, and it wasn't a question. So he went on. "A couple of years. We were in the same unit at the southwest garrison."

"Caerleon," Merlin said.

Percival made a noise of pleased acknowledgment, tying the trouser-strings at his waist. Boy knew that bit of his geography, at least. "You live here alone, then?"

Merlin glanced at the patch of slightly-darker floorboards. "No. Well… not anymore, huh?"

Percival considered allowing himself to be dissuaded by the boy's light tone. He fingered the material of the shirt Merlin handed him. A recent loss, he thought, coupled with not really expecting to live past today. He wondered if it was a last family member, maybe. Trying to decide what to say, he pushed his arms into the sleeveless tunic Merlin had conjured for him, and yanked it roughly over his head – surprising himself when it rubbed unexpectedly over the tender spot on his neck, just below his military-mark, by the feel of it.

Merlin noticed too. "What's that?"

Almost, Percival batted his hand away, turned so it wouldn't be visible to the boy; he wanted no pity… from… his master. He forced himself to hold still.

"They… oh, lords." Merlin's fingers trembled, touching him, and then Percival moved back.

"Permanent slavery is indicated with a brand," he said neutrally.

Merlin made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Then took a deep, deliberate breath. "Gwaine, too?"

"His hair hides it." Percival settled into a comfortable attention-rest stance, just as if he were back at the border barracks, waiting for orders.

"It hurts?" Merlin ventured. "I can do something for that."

"It's fine." A moment later, Percival took pity on both of them and the awkwardness of the situation, and relented. "But if you'd like…"

"Okay."

The boy's eyes lit with something like eager relief, and Percival realized for the first time, he was going to like his master. He had the makings of a good man, which meant Percival would find it fairly easy not to resent his servitude. That settled something in his chest, in the region of his heart.

Merlin reached for him, but Percival was too tall for whatever he had in mind. "Um. Would you like a seat?"

For answer, Percival dropped to his knees, and inclined his head sideways. After a brief uncertain pause, the boy conjured a low three-legged stool, and folded his long limbs to perch comfortably. Blue eyes gleamed gold, and hands circled almost without thought, creating a tin bucket which caught a gush from one of Merlin's palms, even as a white cloth appeared in his other. He dipped it in the bucket's water and began to clear the area around the new brand.

That caught Percival's eyebrows, trying to rise at the casual and quick display of magic. He held still once again, focusing his gaze on a spider-web in the far corner of the ceiling. And in spite of acute discomfort, he could tell that Merlin's touch was both gentle and sure, the water a decent warm temperature. The cloth was dismissed in the blink of an eye and the next thing Percival felt was cool. The boy's fingertips, very careful, but the cool sensation remained, perceptibly soothing the throb of the burn.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

One of Merlin's hands moved into his field of vision, fingertips smeared with a thick white paste. "It's a mixture of, um. Calendula, honey, aloe, and… beeswax. It's good for… burns."

"You just conjured that?" Percival incredulously, remembering at the last second not to turn and stare at his master.

"Yeah. It's not that much different than conjuring complicated dishes of food, or any other object really, as long as you know what's in it and how it's put together…" Merlin dismissed the cream on his fingers with a careless little shake.

Handy, Percival marveled scoffingly to himself. And a strip of white bandaging cloth fluttered from the boy's fingers as he wound it about Percival's neck – again gentle but sure.

"Who taught you this?" he asked.

Merlin made a neutral noise. "Friend of mine."

Percival breathed, and shifted to watch Merlin finish the bandage from the corner of his eye. Merlin noticed, his gaze jumping from his work to Percival's face and back again, obviously unsettled by the scrutiny. Percival tried to understand; if the boy had been used to a simple, quiet, solitary life, the unexpected inclusion of two strangers such as he and Gwaine – fighters, criminals – would unnerve anyone. And so far, he'd given them everything – their lives, clothes, this tiny one-room apartment as home, and now medical care. What had they given him back? What reason did he have to trust them?

"I grew up in the capital," Percival said. "Nowhere near here, though – the north end."

Merlin tucked the last end of the bandage under. Percival reached to touch and test it, and Merlin pushed his hand away – conjuring in another instant, a small disc of polished silver which he offered wordlessly. Percival took and tilted it, examining the bandage – then handed it back with a nod of approval and appreciation. Merlin cupped it between his hands and huddled over his elbows in his lap.

"I was the oldest," Percival went on. "My ma had two daughters after me. They were–" memories of innocent, private laughter – "sweet, and funny, and pretty. Growing up, I was their bodyguard – when they played, when they went somewhere… My ma made sure I had plenty to eat, exercise, and even some training with our neighbor's old slave, retired from the Watch." Merlin's eyes were glued to his face; usually Percival left the talking to Gwaine, but this, he felt, was important. "I never conjured anything, as many times as I tried. So – my ma did her best to see I'd pass the test for soldier." He bit his tongue on the rest of it, instead of bowing my head for the slave-mark. A reminder that he'd ended up enslaved for life anyway would not be helpful right now.

"Have you seen your family since then?" Merlin asked, a bit wistfully.

"No. My ma came with me to the Watch building for the soldier-test, but once I passed, she said she'd done her duty by me, and we were even. She didn't look back, walking away."

Merlin made a thoughtful noise, and Percival was distracted from the memory; he raised his eyebrows in question. "Well, I mean," the boy said. "It's the mothers that get the slave-price, when a boy's first sold, compensation for raising him. Your ma spent extra to see that you weren't sold."

It was another way of looking at it, Percival conceded. Then again, he'd worked hard to repay his mother for everything she gave him, too.

"Maybe it was hard for her to say goodbye," Merlin suggested. Percival wondered why that sounded personal to the boy, and maybe he caught some of that, blurting out, "What about Gwaine?"

"Gwaine grew up in the garrison town, Caerleon," Percival said, giving away no more than Gwaine would want him to. "His mother worked there, his father was one of the soldiers. Gwaine earned his own way starting early, running errands and messages." Among other things. Fighting and stealing, mostly.

A shadow fell across the open doorway, and Merlin jumped up from the stool.

"Well, isn't this cosy!" Gwaine said cheerfully. "Were you talking about me?"

"Yes," Percival said without hesitation. Merlin's head snapped about to look at him in surprise, but Gwaine laughed, before noticing something else.

"What happened to you?" Gwaine said, stepping over the threshold and gesturing to Percival's neck.

"Our master conjured some ointment and bandaged it for me," Percival said evenly, and Gwaine's glance at the boy was far more evaluating than carefree.

"Do you want – me to–" Merlin's tension was back, a bit.

Gwaine looked back at Percival – do it – and the devil-may-care fighter acquiesced to the skinny, awkward boy with a shrug. Percival stood back against the wall where they could both see him as Gwaine squatted on the stool, shaking his hair back and tipping his head to allow their boy-master access to the burn. Cleaning cloths were conjured and applied; the white paste smeared right from the Merlin's fingertips.

"About dinner?" Percival prompted, because probably Merlin wasn't used to taking charge. Of strangers, of other men – older than himself, and trained warriors.

"I found a place that'll feed the three of us for free tonight," Gwaine said. Merlin stopped to stare at him in surprised disbelief, but Percival knew Gwaine better, and cocked his eyebrows in invitation to continue with an explanation. "A public house, but it was clean and quiet. The owner said give her an hour to announce it – but that's perfect because we've got to get you cleaned and dressed, too."

Merlin's attention was on the bandage, as Gwaine lifted his hair out of the way, and it took him a moment to realize the last was addressed to him. "What?"

"She gives us as much as we can eat and drink," Gwaine repeated, more slowly, "and in return, the first male citizen in Camelot in a century–" he gestured to Merlin – "sits in her dining room for the evening. She'll do five times as much business as usual, people coming in to take a gawk at you – so we've got to give them something to gawk at, right?"

The look Merlin gave Percival was simultaneously imploring and panicked.

Percival grinned.

14. Part 2: Heat Exhaustion/Fire

("Fire and Escape" from Refined by Fire)

They brought Merlin a clean shirt to wear to his execution, which surprised him – until he realized of course the evidence of the reality of Uther's justice would of course be covered up as much as possible. A cheap shirt of thin white cotton, which the two guards watched him drop twice while he bloodied the bottom hem, trying to get into it, before they intervened.

His hands shook and his breath hissed and the cold sweat made him shiver, as the nearer guard bunched and positioned the shirt awkwardly.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Hurry up," the guard returned. "We'll get in trouble if we take too long."

He squirmed so the shirt would fall properly down his body, so he wouldn't have to touch it. The sleeves were long; he held his hands up near his face, elbows tucked tight to his body, an illusion of easing the pain in fingers damaged by the questioner.

The other guard had a pair of chained cuffs. He knelt to fasten the first around Merlin's ankles upwards of his socks and boots; he felt the pain of roughly-knocked bruises on his shins, but it was distant and comparatively dim.

"Hands behind your back," the guard said then, standing.

"Wait," Merlin said. "You've got to unlock them again anyway, when you chain me to the post–" the first guard shifted uncomfortably – "can't I have them in front, like this, on the way?"

The second guard hesitated, eyes – as far as Merlin could tell, in the shadow of the cell and his helmet – on his hands. Swollen, torn, trembling uncontrollably. The bleeding has stopped and the blood had dried, but not before making several runnels down hands and wrists after his release from the questioner's chair, as he held his fingers upright in the least painful position.

"The king won't like it," he said dubiously.

The first made a tsk-ing sound. "Wouldn't you want the mercy, if you were in his place," he chided, and took the cuffs from his companion.

Merlin's forearms were bruised as well, and the weight of the iron uncomfortable, but the guard drew up his sleeves before snapping them locked. It protected his skin, a bit, and that helped. A bit.

At the base of the stair two more guards were waiting; one took up a position behind the two attached to his arms, while the other led them upward. Merlin walked but stiffly, through the bruises on his shins, and navigated the steps awkwardly, one at a time like a small child. Up, even. Up, even. Feet together. And by the time he reached ground-level, he was breathing hard and lightheaded. He needed water, probably.

Daylight blinded him, making his eyes cringe and water. The guards didn't hesitate, forcing him forward firmly, but not cruelly.

He could hear the murmur of a crowd over the sounds of their boots – four marching, and his shuffling – and he blinked dizziness from his eyes to run wetly down his cheeks. To meet the gazes of those closest in the crowd, unexpectedly. Faces he was familiar with, after so long serving the prince, it seemed most of the lower town was there, if not all. Shock and sympathy, a handful with a gruesome sort of eagerness.

They were parted to allow him and his guards passage to the middle of the citadel courtyard. Beyond the guard in front he could see the post of the pyre, the bundles of kindling bristling around its base like a very large and short-handled broom propped upright on the cobblestones. And the angle of their approach meant he wouldn't see up to the balcony where Uther had presided over executions before, until he was at the pyre.

He concentrated on breathing through his nose, controlling the panic that threatened. This was cutting it very close. Alone in his cell, he could allow for a few unsuccessful attempts at this spell of escape. Here and now – no, probably not. He'd have to get it right, the first time.

"Brace your elbows," the guard on his left told him, as the leader of their procession mounted the platform with two long steps and the aid of a stool.

Confused, he obeyed – and the men on either side of him bent to heave him up by his stiffened arms. Reflexively cooperative, he lifted his feet over the brush and felt the platform wobble a bit under his boots. Well, it need only support his weight a short while. It was built to be burned.

The guard already on the platform steadied Merlin with one hand fisted in the front of his shirt – he hissed as the man's fingers raked carelessly across the cuts on his chest – and the chain joining the cuffs on his wrists. Spinning him casually – oh, there was Gaius – he proceeded to unlock one cuff.

"Hands behind your back."

He nodded to Gaius – who was alone, which probably meant Gwen wasn't present; that was good – trying to reassure the old man without alerting the suspicions of anyone else. His mentor looked five years older than when he'd breezed out the door – how many days ago was that fateful patrol? What could go wrong, he'd said to Gaius' usual admonition, Be careful, Merlin.

Merlin mouthed, I'm sorry.

And jerked, gritting his teeth as the guard refastened the cuffs behind him, around the upright beam. His vision whited out as gravity pulled blood down into his hands, his fingertips, and fresh agony throbbed through him.

He desperately wanted to sit down. Or curl up on himself. Anything to ease this hellish pain.

A voice boomed over the courtyard, drawing his attention up. Uther Pendragon, predictably spouting anti-magic spite. Morgana at his right. Openly smirking at Merlin on the pyre.

He sent a quick glance around the ring of torch-bearing guards – no one moving toward him yet – and lifted his gaze to the balcony again. Arthur stood a pace back from the railing Uther clasped with dramatic solemnity, Sir Leon just beside him. The knight was looking at Merlin as well – his expression set and too far for Merlin to make out anything else – but he gave a single nod. Encouragement, support, gratitude? But – Arthur.

"Arthur!" Merlin tried to call. The word hurt his throat; it came out raspy and not loud enough.

Uther lifted his own voice. "In accordance with the laws of Camelot you are sentenced to death by fire – which judgment shall be carried out without further delay."

The king nodded. The guards moved forward as one with their torches.

Merlin tried again. "Arthur!"

The prince turned his head slightly away, gaze distant, refusing even to look down to the courtyard.

Oh, he was angry, then.

"I'm sorry!" he hollered hoarsely, up to the balcony. "I tried only to use magic for good! I used it for you!"

The torches dropped among the bundles of kindling, which sparked and caught – the tongues of flame rising and spreading. He could feel the heat, not much smoke yet, dry as the wood was. That was a problem, he could definitely use more smoke.

He could feel Morgana's glare – triumphant, she thought. Her way and Morgause's way clear to again attack the man who had given her everything after her father's death – except confidence in his mercy.

Not quite yet.

He opened his mouth to draw a deeper breath, call once again to his prince – see Merlin, see magic, understand, forgive, don't hate – and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Too much, now, too much - it eddied around him now as the flames licked the edge of the platform.

Doubling over to cough, the cuffs and post banged his hands which sent pain spiking through arms shoulders whole damn body, and he gasped more smoke. He could see flickers of orange and yellow through the gaps in the planks of the platform below him. The air was hot as an opened oven; he could feel sweat dripping down him.

Summoning the last of his strength, he straightened and screamed, "Arthur!"

Heat and smoke and tears in his eyes made the distant figures waver. But Arthur's chin was clearly lifted, his gaze nearly upward, avoiding Merlin.

Are you really this stupid.

Magic corrupts your soul.

Don't touch me.

Merlin sobbed, his chest tight with more than a lack of breathable air.

Arthur must live. Merlin must protect Arthur. That was truth.

It hadn't been easy to do, hiding his magic as the prince's manservant. It would be harder now, but… if no one was looking for him – Morgana or Uther – it was astonishing what he could get away with.

If no one was looking for him.

Letting his head drop, he whispered a spell – one different to that offered by Gaius as his escape – adding to the fire. Forbearnan.

A simple, special variation, one that allowed him to carry fire itself in his open palm, if there was no material to light, anywhere about. Therefore, harmless – though it looked no different – but also, no barrier to the real thing. His fire blazed, mingling with the real thing, engulfing him in a visually explosive inferno.

Hiding him from view.

Another quick spell – Onlucan me! - and the chains and cuffs would be left behind.

The heat was unbearable, blistering.

He gasped out Gaius' spell to escape. Bedyrne me – Astyre me thanonweard!