A/N: Time frame: just after ep.5.5 "The Disir."

To Kill the King

Mordred used to be naïve. About magic, and about Emrys. But that was a long time ago, when he was a child, and saw the world through a child's eyes.

It's all about me. What I want, what I need, what I expect. Emrys will save me, he's supposed to, he has to.

And he did… and he didn't.

It took Mordred a long time to realize, the destiny of Emrys and the responsibility to all magic, meant Emrys could not, would not, did not concentrate on one lonely lost druid boy. Especially one who made choices that challenged Emrys to prioritize two responsibilities that were not yet compatible – Magic and King.

Since he'd returned to the daily domain of his two lifelong idols, Mordred believed he'd been careful to make better choices. Do as Emrys did – protect the king, and hide the magic. Even with his life.

So he had done in the cave below Ismere when Morgana threatened Arthur. So he had done in the cave in Breneved when the threat was the Disir.

He'd protected Arthur so that Emrys did not have to risk magic, in so doing. And he wasn't naïve; when the staff of judgment struck him and the darkness enveloped him like a shroud, he knew that magic would be his only salvation.

So Emrys would save him, again… or not. Again.

And when he opened his eyes to Gaius' chamber and astonishment – no pain, complete healing - he had to struggle with a feeling of euphoric disbelief.

He'd been given a second chance.

It was incomprehensible; he itched to know why. He waited with impatience at the head of the courtyard stair, fully dressed as a knight of Camelot – chainmail and crimson cloak – to demonstrate once again, his commitment to the king and his willingness to serve the servant.

One day we will live in freedom again…

Arthur embraced Mordred like a little brother – finally part of the family, no more riding backwards in the saddle – with a full grin. Emrys shied away, not meeting Mordred's eyes, and he understood that much, at least; the magic was still secret.

So Mordred's gratitude would have to be tendered in secret.

Following the afternoon training session, Mordred headed for a particular intersection of corridors not regularly frequented. He'd seen Emrys and Gaius observing them from an upper gallery, and if he hurried, he could catch the younger man without alerting the elder.

It worked. Gaius passed, and Mordred snatched a handful of worn brown jacket, arresting Emrys' stride.

"Merlin," he said, because that was one of Emrys' unspoken rules, the use of his common name.

Emrys' glare – though he had made no sound in his startlement, ready as always for anything – reminded Mordred of the second unspoken rule. No touching. He released his grip on Emrys' jacket.

"I just wanted to say," Mordred paused, apologetic for alarming the man with the abrupt manner of his approach, "thank you. For whatever you did, that saved my life."

"That wasn't me," Emrys said immediately, not really relaxing. "That was Arthur."

Mordred shook his head. "It was magic, I know it was. And I… I know I make you feel uneasy –"

"No you don't it's fine," Emrys said, far too swiftly for it to be the truth.

Mordred carried on, "Maybe you think I'm going to make a- a mistake." Another mistake. "And betray you to Arthur, or be caught using magic while it's still against the law, but. I want you to know. Whatever your plan is for bringing magic back to Camelot, I will support you in whatever way I can. You need only tell me what I can do – in part, or in full… I believe in Arthur, too."

Emrys had folded his arms over his chest, hunched his shoulders to stare at the ground, as if he could concentrate better when he wasn't looking at Mordred's face, remembering the child he'd been. And those mistakes.

"You really thought," he said in a low voice, trailed off, then started again. "In that cave, you really thought you were sacrificing your own life. You were willing to die so that Arthur would live. Even though he is not… a friend to magic."

"Yet," Mordred stressed. Thrilled that Emrys was not being evasive, today. At long last. Daring to drop his stiff defensiveness, himself. "But he will be. That's his destiny."

"Destiny," Emrys said gloomily. "Is destiny ever wrong, Mordred?"

"No," he said firmly. "Although… it can be misdirected…"

If it had been him, he'd have told Arthur the whole truth, the morning after the king's coronation. But it had been almost four years since that day, and Emrys was still tying his own hands with his secrecy. Or so it seemed to Mordred; perhaps really it was part of some grand elaborate scheme he couldn't see in its entirety.

"Misdirected," Emrys echoed, lifting his head to look away down the corridor, seeing something Mordred didn't. "And you believe in Arthur's rightful reign. And you'd see magic returned to Camelot without violence."

"Without spilling a single drop of blood on either side," Mordred vowed intently. "If it can be done. And long live the king."

"I have some," Emrys said vaguely, "research, to do? But I would speak with you again, about this."

"Any time," Mordred promised, relieved. Was he finally to be trusted. "Whenever you like."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Evidently Emrys took his offer literally. Mordred woke in a cold terror in the middle of three nights later, with a man's hand over his mouth to stifle any outcry, and the terrifying gleam of gold magic in eyes bending far too close over him.

For a moment, he wasn't sure if he should be relieved to recognize Emrys.

Then the hand was moved. "If you hold to your oath, your life for the king's and magic returned peacefully… follow me."

Emrys' boots made no sound, crossing the floor to the door of the chamber, and Mordred scrambled to find his own without waking the other knights who shared his quarters. Emrys didn't wait, and Mordred was glad – darting after him and finally catching up when they reached the last open-air gallery and stair – that he didn't sleep bare-chested like some of the other knights.

Hide the magic and all signs of it, after all.

It was cool, but light – a full moon. Emrys ghosted like a shadow, far more graceful than he ever was at Arthur's heels in daylight. He never glanced back, but twice he froze, holding Mordred in place so they weren't discovered by an unexpected guard. Either his hearing was much better than Mordred's, or he knew the guards' routes and timing much better than by heart.

Or maybe he could see around corners. Mordred had heard of magic that could-

And then Emrys was pulling him forward again. Hurrying him right out of the citadel – a gestured noise distracted the last guard at the gate, and they were through.

Mordred didn't think he'd ever be able to travel the lower town on his own, unnoticed – there were more people, and of the sort more likely to be out of bed at odd hours, in addition to the patrols whose job it was to be alert to skulkers. But Emrys ducked and darted and hid – noiseless but his body moving with panting even when they held still – and they were at the edge of the forest before he realized, in addition to his worn brown jacket that Mordred coveted against the chill in the air, he'd also brought the supply bag he often carried on his trips with Arthur or his errands for Gaius.

Because there was no one to overhear and because the way the warlock headed for the trees with grim determination made Mordred wonder and worry, he dared to break one of the unspoken rules.

"Emrys!" he hissed at his companion's back. "What are we doing? Where are we going?"

He wasn't entirely prepared for Emrys to turn and face him, mottled moonlight-and-shadow under the forest leaves.

"You haven't been happy with me," he said. "You've been impatient, dissatisfied… You've thought about how you'd do things differently, if they were yours to do. How you'd do things better."

Mordred was suddenly unsure Emrys' you applied solely to him. "But Emrys, you-"

"Don't call me that." Two gulped breaths, then a moment of silence before Emrys spoke again, eyes glittering. "I can't do this, Mordred. I've lied to him so many times, I'm lying to myself, now. I can't keep protecting him by letting others die because I have to hide my magic because I haven't told him yet because if I do he'll banish me at least and then I can't keep protecting him."

Mordred started to protest – on principle, because that one sentence held such a tangle of probabilities he didn't really know if it was possible to refute it all, or even some.

"No, don't. It's true. There's been so much deception between Arthur and me, I don't… I don't think I can… ever tell him. That I have magic. And how… how can I help magic return to Camelot, like that."

It made Mordred feel colder, and a little bit scared, to have Emrys be so brutally honest, to sound so vulnerable and young and unsure. He opened his mouth and asked again, "Why are we out here?"

"Why did you call me Emrys, the first time we met?" he returned, shifting his weight and starting forward again, though slower than before and in company with Mordred, rather than leading him.

"Because I recognized that you –"

"Was I born with this destiny, truly? Or did I become Emrys when I chose to stay with Arthur and save him and serve him? And…" Emrys paused for the space of four steps, over the uneven forest floor, twig and brush and grass. "Can such a thing as destiny be passed to another."

Mordred stopped. Emrys didn't quite face him, looking back over his shoulder, almost entirely in shadow.

"Why are we out here?" Mordred repeated. Sounding and feeling unsteady.

"Would you do it? Would you take it? The responsibility, the destiny? Protect Arthur with your utmost, your life's blood, your very soul – and have the courage to tell him and show him the truth about magic?"

Mordred's chest felt tight with both fear and anticipation. It was familiar; he'd felt the sensation many times over the years. His life was always uncertain, and often dangerous. "Are you saying that you're not –"

"He is a good man. A good king," Emrys spoke fervently. "Fair and just, better than his father, he's made peace with the druids and he wouldn't execute anyone simply for having magic. But I… what I've done, what I've said… I can't fulfill my destiny, Mordred, not when it comes to magic in Camelot. Not anymore. But it still needs to be done – so someone else has to do it."

"You trust me with that?" Mordred breathed, doubtful himself. It was an enormous, overwhelming realization.

"Not… yet. But unlike Morgana, or others… as a knight you've sworn to serve and protect the people of Camelot. And that's an important difference."

Emrys started forward again, and Mordred followed, stumbling more often in his distraction. Contemplating such a thing, to take up the mantle of Emrys, to actually be the one choosing and deciding – and what of his past mistakes? Who was to say he wouldn't make mistakes with this charge?

"I found a… ritual," his companion went on. "Originally meant to trade one life for another. I've adjusted the definition of life, though, so that I will be able to transfer my destiny to you."

"You – what?" Mordred had often wished, he could have grown up like the most fortunate druids, in one camp with one small, trusted set of elders and instructors, learning all there was to know. Because this, he'd never heard of. "Trade one life for another? That's said to be… incredibly powerful magic. How do you know you can…" Oh, wait. This was Emrys, after all.

"I've done it before," Emrys mentioned, almost casually. "Not intentionally, but… I've got the incantation for it, now, that's better than instinct. The very worst that will happen is… it won't work. And we'll have to go back to being… exactly who we are, now."

Mordred glimpsed the weight of the invisible burden his companion bore. Uncomplaining, day and night, for close to a decade, now. He supposed he couldn't blame Emrys for being a little eager to be free of it. He himself still felt that dreadful anticipation of voluntarily heading into danger, in the hopes that he might change the course of events. Save someone good, stop someone bad… But that was the purpose he'd chosen, when he'd taken the oath of a knight of Camelot.

"But wait," Mordred panted after Emrys, the chill night air prickling his lungs when he breathed. "Your destiny was prophesied hundreds of years ago, before you were born. To change something that old, you'll need old magic, and yours is powerful, but not –"

"I know," Emrys said.

At that moment they broke out of the dappled shadows of the forest into the silvery glow of an open clearing.

And they were not alone. Mordred gaped, as a solid shadow that would have filled Arthur's council chamber shifted – and growled.

"Young warlock, I warned you! You must not meddle – cut the ivy from the oak-"

Emrys hissed a word that Mordred didn't understand – that made his hair rise on his scalp – and made a slashing motion with one arm.

Mordred was glad that the fury contained in his tall slender idol was not directed at him this time, but – a dragon? He knew enough to be wary of the creature; stories of the Great Dragon's death were obviously false, but he was old. Which also meant, canny and manipulative. The druids had warned against blind belief in the words of such creatures. Truth could be twisted to their own ends, even when it seemed straightforward.

"I'm done, Kilgarrah," Emrys said, with familiarity and contempt that were both astonishing to Mordred, for different reasons. "I won't blame you for the mistakes I've made, with Arthur, with… anyone. But I'm done making them. You have used me in the past – let neither of us deny that – but now I will use you, and you will not make me feel guilty. This is my solution to the ivy on the oak."

The dragon's bulk shuddered again, as if he was trying to fight against whatever Emrys had done to capture and compel him, and Emrys spoke another incomprehensible command or insistent warning.

Mordred dared step closer to his side. He really didn't like the baleful glare smoldering on him from the creature's illuminated eyes. "If I were you, I wouldn't treat him so," he murmured. "Neither would I trust him…"

Emrys snorted, rummaging in his pack. "I'm doing this because I don't trust him, not anymore. But a dragon's magic, like anyone's, is free at its core from motive, either good or bad. That's what I will command, that is what we will use for this ritual."

"Are you sure –" Mordred began uncertainly. And flinched as Emrys withdrew his hand, having found –

A knife, moonlight glinting along its edge.

"Do you trust me," Emrys asked in a low voice. The blade balanced across his other hand; there was nothing threatening in voice or manner, but Mordred felt that the dragon – the night stars, the earth and wind, all of history – watched them now with bated breath.

With regard to Arthur and Camelot and Magic, he trusted Emrys completely. With himself… no. But that was also the point, wasn't it. To test his resolved sacrifice, giving himself for the greater good. And he'd never before been in such a poignant position to prove it.

"Yes," he said.

Emrys' long fingers closed over the blade, with a twist and a pull. Mordred winced – and took the bloodied knife when Emrys handed it to him.

"Left or right, does it matter," he said.

"It doesn't."

Mordred laid the blade to his left palm, choosing to leave his sword-hand uninjured. Squeezed and pulled at once, without reconsidering. Pain and nerves sparked, mixing his blood with the sweat on his skin and Emrys' blood on the knife.

Emrys took the knife and bent the tip to the ground, carving the earth with their mixed blood in a circle around him, closing the circle before joining it to another around Mordred's feet in a symbol of timelessness. Then he let the dagger fall, and stood, holding out his opened hand.

Mordred took it; Emrys' grip was firm and tight, and the cut twinged with pain. Mordred's heart pounded and head spun as the warlock spoke – Am I really doing this? I'm really doing this –

"Thurh minum gewealde, ond usserum dreorum, ond maegen thaes fyrdraca…"

His eyes burned gold in the night, as the dragon shifted and lashed his tail. Mordred gasped, feeling first the pull of his own magic, from his heart, down his arm, through his palm.

It felt a little like bleeding to death. Weakness, emptiness, cold…

"Hie gewrixledon thaes gast-wyrd…" More words, of the sort Emrys had already spoken, and which Mordred did not understand. The dragon's magic, somehow, answering to Emrys' use.

Then the flow of magic reversed. A burst of heat, building and building, melting his hand and exploding through the bonds of bone and muscle and skin. His arm was numb, his heart throbbing, his brain igniting –

Mordred found himself on his back, the stars quivering in his vision, the moonlight swirling all around. For a moment he tried no more than to lay still and continue to exist.

Surprised to be breathing, but each exhalation returned more normalcy, til at last he felt very little different than any day or night. A bit light-headed. A bit heavy-hearted. He knew the spell had worked, and the knowledge of new responsibility – not just to follow and offer Emrys aid and support, but to step into the lead, himself – was sobering. Staggering.

He struggled up to sitting in the grass, feeling the damp of dew and the chill breeze as welcome, after the heat generated by the ritual.

The dragon was quiet, his jaw resting on the ground, head curled away from them to the other side of his great body. Emrys – no, Merlin – knelt a pace or so away, hands clasped between his knees, and head and shoulders bowed.

"It worked," Mordred managed. "Didn't it."

"It did." Emrys – Merlin – gave a shuddering sigh. "You'll forgive me, though, if I don't call you Emrys."

"No," Mordred said immediately. "I mean, no don't… call me that." And only now did he fully understand why Em- Merlin, had always resisted the title. He didn't feel worthy – it was incomprehensible that Mordred would be worthy of this honor and this charge.

"Kilgarrah, you are free," Merlin said. He didn't move, not even to lift his head; he sounded sad. "You may go."

The dragon shook itself, and snapped out its wings so suddenly that Mordred ducked, though Merlin didn't react. "In all my life," the beast growled, "I have never witnessed so great an abuse of power –"

"Be assured, it will be my last," Merlin interrupted evenly.

"May that be true." The dragon gathered himself. "Kin or not, I hope it is a very long time til I am forced to suffer your voice again, young traitor."

Merlin flinched at that word.

Mordred scrambled up, instinctively defensive. "Now wait a minute –"

The dragon ignored him, turning away as he launched himself into the night. The air itself thumped heavily against Mordred's skin and ears, hair and clothes blowing coldly. Stars winked in and out of existence, til the creature had flown too far to be easily seen or heard in the night sky.

Mordred ripped a piece of his nightshirt-tail, and wrapped it around the sore, sticky fingers of his left hand. Then eyed Merlin, who still sagged over his knees with bowed head.

"Are you all right?" he said. "Are you going to –"

"I'm not going back," Merlin said, sniffling into his sleeve. Dropping his hand, he lifted his head, looking away from Mordred. "I've left a note with Gaius, explaining everything, but…"

"But what about the king?" Mordred said.

Another deep sigh leaked from his kneeling companion. All his determined energy and furious magic seemed to have drained away, now that the night's work was finished, and their decision rendered irrevocable. "I don't know what to say to him. Or Gwen. Or the knights. You'll tell them I'm sorry?"

"I'll tell them whatever you like," Mordred promised. "But why don't you come yourself and –"

"I can't." Merlin pushed himself to his feet by slow degrees, one leg under him, then the other. Staggering slightly, arms out for aid in balance. "I'm leaving Camelot. I think Arthur will understand, when you explain to him…"

Mordred wasn't sure he understood. "You want me to tell him about your magic?"

"You can. Or Gaius can. Tell him I'm sorry, and… try to keep him from coming after me? Tell him I won't return to Camelot. That he can't find me. That I never meant to hurt him, but… I can't see how I can prevent that, at this point. One way or another."

"Are you sure?" Mordred said, feeling an extra measure of dismay, that Em- Merlin would not be there to advise him. That he'd be fully on his own, with this. "Where are you going? What if I –"

"I won't tell you," Merlin said, adjusting the lay of the strap over his shoulder. "For your sake, and Arthur's."

"Yes, but – now?" Mordred was no stranger to the need for unexpected and immediate and involuntary changes, but this was evidently by Merlin's choice – self-exile that was swift and final.

"I've had three days to think about it, and decide," Merlin said.

"You'll be alone, and it's night… have you someplace to go to? Other friends, in other places?"

"Not anymore." Merlin shook his head. "Doesn't it strike you as ironic, for you to show concern for where I'm to go, and what I'm to do, in leaving Camelot?"

Mordred huffed, recognizing that. Mistakes of the past, though, and his rather than Emrys'… It occurred to him for the first time that Merlin might not see it that way, might see what he considered his own mistakes, when he looked back.

"I deserve this," Merlin said, squaring his shoulders and turning his face away again. "You know it as well as I. I've done as much as I can. More or less than I should've. Now all I can do for him is to leave." He looked at Mordred with an air of finality, even in the dark. "Goodbye, Mordred."

"I swear your trust is not misplaced," Mordred told him. "I will do my best, for Arthur and for magic, goddess as my witness."

Merlin's hand squeezed his shoulder, as he took a shaky breath. Then Mordred stood alone, listening to his retreating footsteps. And it wasn't long before he was gone.

Mordred was back in his shared chamber in the knights' quarters, shivering with cold and reaction, wondering if it would be worth it to crawl between his sheets and try to sleep again, when he noticed the blood on his nightshirt. Merlin's blood, his wounded hand left unbound.

Be careful what you wish for, he realized.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The citadel was in a mild uproar for two days. Mordred didn't know whether to be jealous of or proud for the missing manservant. Perhaps Merlin had been so focused on his dual and disparate goals that he hadn't noticed the impact he made on nearly everyone.

For two days, Mordred avoided the suspicion of the court physician – how much had he known of Merlin's thoughts and destiny? how much had Merlin told him in that letter? For two days he endured the puzzled irritability of his king, trickling down into the puzzled irritability of the knights who'd been closest to both Arthur and his secret warlock.

Then, once again after a training session, Mordred positioned himself to express gratitude and loyalty. Following Arthur discreetly but determinedly, and the king either didn't notice him, or didn't choose to acknowledge him, til he'd almost reached his chamber door.

"Sir Mordred," the king said, pausing and not quite facing him. "Was there something else?"

Was two days enough time for Em- for Merlin to affect his chosen disappearance. "I have news of Merlin, sire."

Weariness splintered off the king's frame – his head came up, his shoulders straightened, his eyes lit. He turned and actually took hold of Mordred's arm – a habit of touch Mordred was still unused to, the physical camaraderie of knights.

"You know where he is? Where he went when he left?"

"No, my lord." It surprised Mordred, the ache in his chest when the fire died in Arthur's eyes, extinguished in disappointment. He wasn't sure if it was comfort he was intending to offer when he opened his mouth and added, "But I can perhaps tell you why he left…"

The king looked at him oddly. Looked him over – and Mordred realized, from his perspective it would sound strange, after the stiff, awkward, reluctant way he and Merlin had interacted. Many of the knights were closer to and more comfortable with Merlin; how and why should Mordred have insight in a matter that confused them.

But Arthur only said, "You mean it wasn't just washing one too many dirty socks?... Come inside."

He left the door open; Mordred followed and shut it – tentatively, in the absence of orders either way. No servant waited to assist the king; the queen was absent also; Arthur stripped his gloves and crossed to pour himself a cup of water at the side table himself.

"So Merlin spoke to you when he left?" the king said. "Even Gaius only had a note."

Mordred hummed. His pulse heightened and his palms grew damp. Now that it had come to it… he was sure this was the way, but… what if he mishandled it. The temptation to make an excuse, to escape and put off telling the necessary and intimidating truth, gave him a new appreciation for the tangled worries of being Emrys. "What did Gaius tell you? If you don't mind me asking, my lord."

"It was a load of nonsense." Arthur drank deeply. "He believes I'll be a good king, and a better one without him here. Gone to seek his fortunes elsewhere, never see him again, don't look for him. Drivel."

"And why…" Mordred's throat was dry; he wished for a cup of water, himself. "Why do you not accept that as truth? And let him go…"

Uther Pendragon, as he understood it, had considered himself betrayed by a sorceress, and declared all magic evil and a corrupting influence, as a reaction. What if Arthur Pendragon did the same? And maybe Merlin as Emrys had foreseen this, and abandoned Camelot like a rat from a sinking… no. No, he couldn't think like that. He had to have hope, in Merlin, in himself, in destiny.

"Because Merlin only said foolish, noble things like that when he was getting ready to do something stupid and dangerous and mysterious, without explaining why," Arthur said. "He left like this, in the middle of the night, without talking to anyone –" He checked himself, and raised his goblet to Mordred. "Without talking to anyone who would stop him, because… if it was truly as simple as he made it sound, we wouldn't have stopped him. And Gaius would be happy for him, instead of…"

Mordred understood. The court physician, when he wasn't watching Mordred with close suspicion, looked ten years older than last week. Anxious, and weary of being anxious.

"So." The king set his cup down with an emphatic clatter, crossed his arms over his chest and his boots at the ankle, leaning back against the side table. "Why did Merlin leave Camelot? Why did he tell you?"

Mordred shrugged in his chainmail, pulling at the collar of his gambeson underneath, pulling at his skin to expose the secret long hidden.

"When you brought me back to the druids, when you saved my life as a child," he said. "You asked my name, and I told you. Since Ismere, I have wondered if you remembered… who I was. Where I came from."

He watched Arthur's eyes study the black-green triskelion swirl inked onto his skin. The king's expression didn't change; he didn't so much as shift in his relaxed position. When Arthur met his eyes again, Mordred deliberately readjusted his clothing and armor – the mark and reminder of his chosen loyalty, his decided destiny.

"I remembered," Arthur said steadily. "I'm also aware that not all druids have or regularly use magic."

The hint of a question. The possibility of excuse, the offer of trust. Mordred recognized that he could deny his magic, and Arthur would accept his word on the matter. He appreciated that – but had Merlin ever seen the same? or had Arthur truly never seen more than the young servant who'd washed his socks?

"I do," he said. "I have magic."

Arthur let the stillness calm the confession hanging between them, and that fact alone settled Mordred's nerves and heart, firmed his conviction. Then the king said, "And have you used it for anything since you returned to Camelot with us from Ismere?"

Mordred shook his head. Glad that Arthur did not ask, what he might have used it for in the past, against Camelot. And it also wasn't, did Merlin use Mordred's magic for anything…

"If you as a druid can let my bygones be bygones," Arthur said, with a sincere gravity that struck at Mordred's soul. "How can I do less? I believe you, and I'm glad you told me. But since you haven't broken your oath as a knight or the laws of the kingdom, there need nothing be done, and we continue as before."

Mordred took a breath. "I beg your pardon, my lord…" Literally. "But, not so. Something does need to be done. The laws that restrict the spirits and skills of my kind are unjust. I come before you as representative, to beg that you give us freedom, not death. Equality, not prejudice."

Arthur sighed. Closed his eyes and dropped his head to squeeze the bridge of his nose. Tipped his head back and adjusted the burden of kingship and judgment on his shoulders as if the weight was palpable and uncomfortable.

"I have to admit," he said. "There is hypocrisy in allowing druids in Camelot, but not their magic. If we admit that magic is not in and of itself evil, or corruptive – then it must needs follow that not all magic should be banned. But this… is a question to be examined at another time. I'm not ready to start overturning my father's laws."

Mordred seized his courage, that it might not flee, and him with it. "Forgive me, sire, but when will you be? Many of your people have suffered and died, waiting for your reign and hoping for change. Hoping for hope."

Wrath was kindling a different sort of fire in the king's blue eyes, now. He pushed himself upright, uncrossing his arms and beginning to stride across the room. "You overstep your bounds, Sir Knight," Arthur warned him. "It is not your place to –"

It is exactly my place. As Emrys, it was no one else's place to challenge the Once and Future King on magic. And, Arthur had made no move toward any weapon, as if he felt that Mordred having magic and arguing about it, was still no threat to him. Had Merlin not seen how close Arthur was?

Mordred answered, "Whose place is it, then? Merlin's?"

"Merlin would –" Arthur paused, halfway across the room, just behind the chair at the foot of his table. "We began this conversation speaking of Merlin. What does my manservant have to do with your magic?"

"He has magic, too."

Arthur stared at him blankly. "Merlin? Has magic? That's… impossible. He said…"

Mordred shook his head. "He does. I've seen it."

He wanted to say more, to rush on persuasively, but wasn't sure which words to use. Or if silence and patience might be more effective? He wondered how many times Merlin had thought the very same thing.

"This was a recent realization, I take it," Arthur said, sounding a bit grim. "Which is why he talked to you about it? And the idiot decided to banish himself rather than tell me. There can be no place for magic in Camelot, indeed. Didn't he trust that I would deal fairly with him, that I would –"

"No," Mordred said – then realized that Arthur would not understand. "I mean, yes, he believes you to be a fair king, and he trusts you. But his magic - I saw it when I was here as a child."

Arthur put out his hand to grip the top of the chair. His eyes shifted away from Mordred and unfocused. His mouth dropped slightly open as he inhaled, deeply and slowly. Mordred could read part of his reaction – That long? – but could not readily guess at other thoughts occurring to the king.

"It was powerful and controlled, even then," he continued. "Merlin is a warlock – his magic was born with him. His destiny also, many of my people believed…"

That word caught Arthur's attention. "Destiny?" he said, with a frown and expression of resisting acceptance.

"He was known as Emrys, to my people," Mordred said. "The most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth. Destined guide and protector of the Once and Future King."

Arthur's knuckles whitened. "He called me that."

Mordred gave him a bow of respect, gratitude, and admiration. "And so you are, my lord. Which is why you must reconsider your father's laws. Free my people and accept the good there is in magic – that is your destiny."

Arthur huffed cynically. "That is my destiny," he repeated. Then shook his head. "Mordred, my friend, you are very young, and perhaps –"

"Ask Gaius," Mordred blurted. There was no offense in being reminded of his youth, but it would be rude to remind Arthur, he had experience in parts of the world where the king of Camelot had never been, and never could go. "Gaius knows."

The king studied him narrowly for a moment, then strode to his chamber door and yanked it open to issue an order to one of his guards. "Fetch the court physician to my chamber. Immediately."

Mordred subtly shifted into the resting-attentive stance of the guards. The king left the door ajar and began to pace about the room, eyes on the floor and scowl on his face. Half a dozen times he stopped dead for no reason that Mordred could see, shook his head or muttered to himself or both, then continued. Sometimes crossing his arms in a hunched self-protective attitude, sometimes carding his fingers through his hair in frustration, til he looked in desperate need of a manservant's tending.

At least, Mordred thought, he hadn't lost his temper, or questioned Mordred's loyalty or motivation. And he also had to admit, if he'd been Merlin, revealing these secrets, making this claim, bringing this plea, Arthur might well have reacted more emotionally than logically. Hadn't Mordred himself done the same, years ago?

Finally the court physician pushed the door open, raising his head to take in Mordred, standing silently attendant, and Arthur, bracing himself at the window casement. Gaius nodded to himself, and closed the door again, unasked.

Arthur turned at the sound of the latch. "Gaius," he said, without preamble. "Was Merlin a sorcerer? Did he have magic?"

Gaius lifted a stern eyebrow at Mordred.

Who explained in quiet self-defense, "Merlin told me I might tell His Majesty about his magic."

The old man humphed. "What else did he tell you to say?"

"That he was sorry." Mordred darted a glance at Arthur, who watched Gaius' shoulders slump, as if that was the ultimate proof.

"It's true, then," the king stated. "The whole time he was here."

"From the moment he arrived," Gaius said. "And saved my life. He startled me coming in, and my balcony rail broke. I fell, and his magic caught me, without even a bruise to show for it. And before we'd made our introductions, when I might have been anyone who'd report him to your father. And then, you know what would have happened."

Arthur swallowed and turned away to pace another series of moments. "Why'd he come here, all those years ago?"

"His mother sent him. I was to train him to control and hide his magic, so it wouldn't get him killed."

"Well done," the king muttered sardonically, his back to them. "Eight years and more… Why'd he stay?"

"He believed he'd found his destiny, the purpose for having magic like he had," Gaius said, folding his hands together with dignity. "To protect you."

Arthur huffed and rubbed a hand distractedly over his eyes. "And the druids, they had a name for him? A name for me? A job for us?"

"According to prophecy," the old man said, with another glance at Mordred. "He is Emrys, and you are called the once and future king. Together you will unite Albion and bring about the golden age of peace and magic."

"Peace and magic," Arthur said sarcastically. "And unite Albion. Is that all. Do I have a choice in the matter? Must I do this whether I believe it's right or wrong?"

"You always have a choice," Gaius said, sounding tired, and Mordred thought of his own wrong choices. Of Merlin's, right or wrong. "But sire… would you choose differently?"

"Peace between the kingdoms, yes," Arthur said. "Magic… maybe. But why does that mean that Merlin had to leave? I'm furious with him, and I'm sure I don't know the half of what he's done."

"He's saved you, and the kingdom, time and again," Gaius argued.

"And run away before I could demand explanation," Arthur countered. "Is he a brave man, or a coward?"

"Don't," Gaius said, so fiercely Mordred held his breath. "Do not ever question his courage, not in my presence. You will never know what that boy suffered for you –"

"Every day, and twice on Sundays?" Arthur interrupted sardonically, as if he couldn't quite believe, even yet. "Tell me, did he ever use his magic about the citadel? For his chores, for his excuses, to stop me guessing why his stories were so incredibly stupid, or stupidly incredible?"

Gaius remained silent, rocking slightly in place and glaring, and it was as good as a yes. Mordred wasn't sure whether to chuckle or sigh.

Arthur cursed in exasperation, swinging away to stalk around the table. "If it wasn't a lack of courage, what was it? He had so little faith in me, he thought I could never forgive him? Never learn to trust him again? I'm a fair king and he trusts me – except when it comes to magic, or him?"

He pinned Mordred with his gaze unexpectedly, and Mordred faltered. Because Arthur really was taking this surprisingly well. Maybe due to Merlin's absence? In that case Merlin could easily have gone somewhere temporarily – could have told them where he was going, and waited for word, whether Arthur wanted him to stay away, or come back. But he didn't…

"Merlin wouldn't leave on a whim," Gaius said, "or because his feelings were hurt, because he had a bad day and entertained doubts about your reaction to him, or your acceptance of his service. I've seen those days, and he stayed in spite of them. He left like this because he had a good reason for doing so, and if he didn't tell anyone where to find him, he doesn't want to be found. I believe we should respect his wishes –"

"How can I know that he had a good reason, or what that reason was," the king said, dangerously calm, "unless I can ask him myself? How is he supposed to be Emrys and protect and guide me if he isn't even here?"

"Ah," Mordred said, "sire?" Almost he quailed before Arthur's golden wrath. "We performed a ritual, before he left, and he passed his destiny to me."

Silence. Gaius pressed his lips together, but didn't look surprised. Maybe Merlin had stated his intentions for the magic in his note, which detail Gaius did not reveal to the king.

"So you're Emrys now?" Arthur demanded. Mordred nodded. The king flung out his arms, turning to stride away. "Wonderful. I've got a boy-knight who isn't a druid and doesn't use it anymore, to protect and guide me through the damn maze of magic."

Mordred looked at his boots. He supposed, if he had the permission and freedom to practice… Once again he felt the weight of the responsibility Merlin had left him, and it was nigh unbearable. How could he possibly… and how often had Merlin felt like this?

"I'm sorry." The proximity of Arthur's voice startled him; even more so the hand on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have said that - I'm sure you'll do you best. I've come to expect nothing less from you. Honesty and hard work. I daresay Geoffrey kept some records from my father's early reign, and the rulers before him. That'll be a start."

"My lord?" Gaius said questioningly.

Arthur acknowledged him with a look, but didn't answer. "I'm not going to let Merlin just walk away. I think I have the right to shout at him a bit, first. So I'll look into the Ban laws, and Mordred – tomorrow you take Gwaine and show him where you last saw Merlin, tell him anything that might indicate a direction. Leon's already had patrols looking, which means he's deliberately avoided the regular routes. I'll have someone ride to Ealdor again –" he looked at Gaius, who shook his head.

"It won't be that easy, sire."

"Regardless. He can hide for eight and a half years if no one's looking for him to have magic – let's see how long he can hide when all of us are looking."

Mordred couldn't help smiling at the king's determination. Even if he was angry, and wanted to express that, Mordred didn't think for a minute that Arthur would physically harm Merlin. It would be good if he could be persuaded to return; Mordred would greatly appreciate his support in this destiny. Maybe they could share it.

Gaius, conversely, looked more grim. "You should lift the Ban if you come to believe it is the right thing to do," he said, "not because you mean to lure Merlin back. If he doesn't come of his own accord, leave him alone. No good can come of hunting him."

"What's the matter, Gaius," Arthur goaded the old man faintly. "You don't want him to come back?"

"That's not… I trust that he's chosen to do what's best for you, for all of us."

"And has he never made the wrong choice before?" Arthur challenged. "Why does he get to decide what's best for me? Evidently he isn't even Emrys, anymore. And I'm still the king."

Watching Arthur, Mordred couldn't help but believe he would succeed in finding Merlin. Eventually.

A/N: The spell, as clumsy as it is and as wrong as I probably am, is aimed to mean something like, "Through my might/strength/power, and our blood, and the magic of this (fire-breathing) dragon… We change/barter/reciprocate/lend this breath/soul/spirit/mind (good or bad, angel or demon) fate/chance/fortune/destiny/phenomenon/transaction. And yes, I think each of these word-nuances are important…

Also, this isn't the end; To Kill the King is split into two chapters. Next one up fairly soon…