Truths Emerge

by s0mmerspr0ssen

Gen fic, no slash: When Caerleon attacks Camelot, more than one secret is uncovered. In the face of a hopeless battle, will Arthur make the right choice? (AU after S3)

Truths Emerge

Perched upon a weathered rock, surrounded by howling winds, Arthur surveyed the plain that lay beyond the Ridge of Landshire.

The soil was barren, nothing but ochre dust and slate-grey stone. Summer had been unusually dry this year, Arthur knew, especially this far up north. The harvest had been poor around these parts and even worse beyond the border, in Caerleon. Already, letters were stacking up on his desk at Camelot, concerned reports from his vassals and pleas for assistance from village headmen.

This field, however, looked to have seen neither plough nor harrow in a century. Save for the occasional gnarled shrub or yellow tuft of grass, the plain lay desolate, the ground as hard as a knight's armour. It would allow for easy movement for their troops, though digging trenches could prove impossible – not that Arthur expected the battle to last long enough to make use of defensive strategies.

"We've got the high ground," Leon observed, his voice dampened by the gale. "That's certainly an advantage."

Not with these winds, Arthur thought grimly.

"How many archers?" he asked anyway.

"Three-hundred longbows, sire," Leon reported dutifully, straightening where he stood just below the rock.

"Thatʼs all?"

"We can equip another hundred or so men with crossbows," Leon proposed.

Arthur frowned. "We're not hunting stags, Leon. We want to stop their first advance before they ever touch our frontline."

"So we place the crossbows at the front," Leon returned. "Have them shoot down what's left of the advance from up close."

"With their first bolts perhaps," Arthur retorted. "And then what? By the time they've reloaded, their heads will get chopped off by Caerleon's second line, which means the rest of our troops will have to wade through their brothers' blood." He let out a derisive noise. "Really, we'd be better off using those crossbows as clubs."

The wind whistled loudly in the following pause. When Leon spoke again, he sounded stiff. "I'm afraid three-hundred bowmen is all we've got, then, my lord," he said. "Most levies aren't trained as archers, and we haven't got the supplies at any rate."

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold air flow into his lungs in a deep, measured breath. Then, he slipped off the rock, landing right next to Leon. The knight stood with his hands crossed behind his back and his head slightly bowed, startling when Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't mind me," Arthur told him. "I appreciate your input. I'm on edge, that's all."

Leon's shoulders relaxed under Arthur's grip. "I think we all are, sire."

"We shouldn't be talking strategy out here, anyway," Arthur continued. "Not without the others, especially." He looked past Leon's shoulder and towards their camp, where the first red-and-gold banners had been raised, proudly fluttering in the wind. "Looks like most tents are up. Round up all senior knights for a meeting, would you? At my tent in half an hour."

"Yes, sire." Leon bowed and headed directly for the camp, his cape and armour soon indistinguishable within the sea of chainmail and red livery before Arthur's eyes.

Thousands of soldiers had gathered here, just shy of the northern border, ready to fight and die for their kingdom.

Arthur's stomach gave a sharp lurch at the thought and it took him a moment to find the strength to follow Leon into the camp. It wasn't Arthur's first campaign by any means – Father had sent him into battle as soon as he had proven himself competent enough with a sword – but he had been the Prince then, one knight amongst many.

Now, he was the King.

The looks he drew as he walked past the tents and supply carts weighed infinitely heavier these days. Arthur made sure to walk confidently, a mask of reassurance slipping onto his face to hide his apprehension. He was dressed in the same plate armour and chainmail as any of his commanders, but of course he was recognised, soldiers and squires scrambling to make way for him as he strode towards the centre of the camp.

Father used to ignore the stares and bows of those conscripted, but Arthur made sure to meet their gazes as he walked, trying to convey that he appreciated their service, even if it was involuntarily given.

A peasant had no place on the battlefield amongst trained knights, this Arthur believed whole-heartedly. But an army needed men and most men in the kingdom were farmers and tradesmen by profession, not warriors. Unfortunately, it was the way of war to put armour on a peasant, replace his hay fork with a sword or battle axe, and tell him to hack at the men wearing the other colours with all his might. Arthur tried not to count how many of those peasants were yet beardless, or had long gone grey, but knew there were plenty of both.

Suppressing a grimace, he looked ahead, spotting more crimson cloth. The King's tent stood out, taller and larger than the others, and decorated with flags and banners. Speeding up his steps, Arthur nodded at the two guards flanking the entrance, then brushed aside the flap, sighing when warm air prickled against his ice-cold cheeks.

Merlin, for all that Arthur liked to tease him about being a good-for-nothing layabout, looked to have outdone himself. The tent couldn't have been up for more than a few minutes and already, there were hot coals glowing in the brazier at the centre, thick furs spread on the readied camp bed and a wineskin waiting on the table to the left.

It took Arthur a moment to spot the man himself, the servant currently half-buried in an enormous wooden travelling trunk in search of some item or other.

On any other day, Arthur might have come up with a witty remark – about Merlinʼs futile attempt to find his wits perhaps – but as it was, he was too grateful to have found such comfort here. He sank down into the armchair some poor sod had hauled over the Ridge for their King, and reached for the wine.

He hadn't sat for a moment ever since they had arrived, too busy coordinating the set-up of the camp and delegating tasks to his senior knights, and he could feel the three-day journey from the capital in his bones. Autumn was descending upon them quickly now and the further north they had headed, the colder it had become, especially at night.

Arthur lifted the wineskin and unceremoniously uncorked it with his teeth. Before he could take a swig, however, Merlin materialised by his side, snatching both the stopper and the skin from him with a disapproving frown.

"Honestly," he tutted, "as soon as Gwen isn't keeping an eye on you, you turn into a mannerless brute."

Arthur tried to grab it back. "Hey! I was drinking that!"

"Goblets," Merlin stressed. "Ever heard of them?" Keeping the wineskin just out of reach, he stepped up to another trunk and opened it with his foot, then bowed down to fish a silver chalice from inside. He filled it to the brim as he turned back, miraculously not spilling any of it in the process. "Your drink, sire, as it befits your royal station." He offered the wine with an exaggerated flourish.

"Since when have you become a stickler for protocol and propriety?" Arthur sniffed, but accepted the chalice.

"Why, I apologise for trying to make you comfortable, my lord," Merlin drawled with a less-than-subtle eyeroll, gesturing around. "If Your Majesty prefers to adopt a peasant lifestyle from now on, I can have the guards remove the furniture or set up your bedroll at the campfire."

Arthur made a very unkingly face at him, then took a sip of wine, only to end up draining half the cup.

Merlin observed this, growing serious. "That bad?" he asked, when Arthur set down the chalice with too much force.

It was clear what he was asking and Arthur looked away, thumbing the edge of the cup. "In case you've forgotten, we've come here to wage war," he retorted, his tone harsher than he intended. "Of course it's bad, you idiot."

Merlin appeared unbothered by Arthur's attitude, unfazed by his King's moods as only he could be. "Any sight of Caerleon's troops?"

Arthur traced the rim of the cup, pursing his lips. "Not yet," he replied, toning down on the bite. "Though I expect our scouts will have returned by now. We arrived here before Caerleon, which is good, but…"

"But there will be more of them than us," Merlin finished quietly.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before conceding, "Most likely, yes."

He emptied the rest of the wine, though he waved Merlin away when he stepped forward to refill it. "Get more cups out," he ordered. "Food, too, if you can. The knights will be here soon for a meeting." He stood and looked around the tent. "Where did you put the maps?"

"By your bed," Merlin said, already gone hunting in the trunk for more goblets.

Arthur walked over to the camp bed, spotting the waxed leather bag at the foot of it. He pulled it up onto the furs, untying the cords to retrieve the rolls of parchment within, spreading them on the bed to find the ones he needed.

By the time he had set them up on the table, marking a few areas with stones and figurines, the first couple of knights had arrived at the tent, bowing briefly before approaching the table to take in the maps as well.

Soon, the space was filled with the smell of horses and metal polish as well as the sound of hushed voices, discussing the battle ahead. As Arthur started counting heads, Merlin flitted between the knights, handing out wine, bread and hard cheese, earning himself friendly claps from the men.

Gwaine was late to arrive, which wasn't exactly unexpected. He entered the tent without his usual swagger and smart quips, however, and the frown on his forehead spoke volumes of his mood. The tent, of course, was hardly a place of cheer and good humour, but Gwaine seemed especially grim-faced, offering nothing but a faint smile when Merlin handed him his wine.

It was not the first time in recent weeks that Arthur had noticed something was off about Gwaine. Ever since Caerleon had started testing Camelot's borders, Gwaine had become irritable, his usual laidback attitude replaced by a latent sense of aggression. He had been first to volunteer to investigate claims that Caerleon was raiding their villages and one of the most outspoken when it came to the question of retaliation.

Arthur watched him find his place between the other knights gathered around the table, then looked about, seeing they were now complete. Leon had taken his post to Arthur's left. Merlin, usually hovering at Arthurʼs right at any given moment, had readily made space for Sir Cador, the eldest of the commanders, though he was leaning against the tentpost across, making no secret of the fact that he would be listening in. His posture – arms crossed, chin raised – promised vehement objection should someone try and remove him.

Of course, a servant could contribute nothing of value to this meeting, nor the battle. Still, as was so often the case, his presence grounded Arthur, more so than the dozen knights surrounding him.

Merlin was a constant in his life. Wherever Arthur went, he followed.

A different king might have sent him away, but Arthur sought out his eyes instead, holding Merlinʼs gaze for long moments. Merlin gave him a smile and a reassuring nod.

"Men," Arthur spoke up at last, tearing his eyes away, and the tent instantly fell quiet. "Any words from the scouts?"

"Yes, sire. Caerleon and his troops decamped from Stonedown at dawn," Sir Lucan reported. "They should arrive at the other side of the plain long before dusk."

"Numbers?" Arthur prodded.

Lucan hesitated. "Difficult to say, sire. The scouts must act quickly, lest they be caught—"

"Numbers," Arthur repeated impatiently. "Estimate, if you must."

"Perhaps as many as seven thousand," Lucan admitted.

Agitated murmurs rose in the tent, though a single raised hand was enough to rein the knights in. Not that Arthur blamed them. He only held onto his own calm mask by sheer force of will. "Seven thousand?" he demanded. "You're sure?"

"No less than six thousand for certain, my lord," Lucan confirmed grimly.

"Where is he taking these troops from?" asked Sir Cador, his lined face wrinkling even further. "Is he conscripting women? Children?"

"Wouldn't put it past the bastard," Gwaine growled from across.

Arthur threw him a sharp look of rebuke, then glanced at the map below, reaching out to place yet more blue stones on the parchment. Already, they were outnumbering the red.

They had left Camelot on short notice, picking up more levies on the way, and had managed to gather just shy of four thousand men by the time they crossed the Ridge. Arthur had expected Caerleon to have brought five thousand, already a sizable advantage. Six thousand and more? Unbelievable, even if they had stooped to conscripting boys below sixteen.

"He must have hired mercenaries," Arthur said as he placed the last of the stones, marking seven thousand troops.

"But with what money, my lord?" Leon wondered. "Caerleon has suffered two bad harvests in a row and a severe drought on top. I'm surprised they have enough grain to feed a thousand men, let alone seven thousand."

"I doubt he's feeding them," Gwaine interjected.

"Gwaine," Arthur admonished him, without looking up. His mind was whirring, trying to come up with a defence against an army nearly twice the size of their troops.

"What?" Gwaine snapped, undeterred. "I'm only speaking the truth. The only thing Caerleon has ever cared for is himself. He will starve a million men if it gets him what he wants."

"How come you hold such a grudge against him?" Eylan enquired. "You've spoken plenty of your travels, but it always sounded to me like you've avoided Caerleon's realm."

Gwaine scoffed, "No need to travel to his lands to know that man isn't a king but a cu–"

"Enough!" Arthur cut him off and looked up from the map to glower at him. "We're about to go to war. We will discuss strategy, not Caerleon's character, however rotten you believe it to be. Is that understood, Sir Gwaine?"

Only after Gwaine had given him a reluctant nod did Arthur gesture at the map.

"Seven thousand enemy troops." Arthur let the reality of that number settle in for a moment before he addressed Sir Lucan again. "Anything else? Horses? Weaponry? Supplies?"

Lucan shifted, averting his eyes, and Arthur's heart sank.

"What is it?" he demanded more sharply.

Lucan jerked on the spot, still avoiding Arthur's gaze as he stammered, "One of the men, one of the scouts, he said that Caerleon—well, that there's talk that Caerleon—"

"Spit it out, man!" Arthur barked.

"He might be employing the help of sorcery, sire," Lucan blurted and promptly went white around the nose.

Arthur knew he had his father to thank for the knight's reluctance to tell the plain truth. For all that one should never speak ill of the dead, most especially one's father, he understood it had been Uther's biggest failing to react irrationally in the face of sorcery, prone to throwing fits if he so much as heard the word.

It wasn't like the news filled Arthur with joy, either – in fact, his stomach was twisting itself into knots upon hearing it – but he only tightened his fingers into a fist, taking several deep breaths through the nose before he managed the most important question, "Morgana?"

Lucan's nod was hardly noticeable, but it was there.

Arthur closed his eyes and let that sink in. Morgana, siding with the enemy. Again, barely two years after overtaking the citadel with Morgause and killing their father in the process.

He should have expected it.

When he opened his eyes again, the men had shifted around the table and he ended up looking directly at Merlin. Merlin's mouth, so seldom without a warm smile, was pressed into a pale line. When he noticed Arthur's stare, he grimaced, but didn't look away, meeting his eyes head-on.

Somehow, it was this unwavering look that gave Arthur the strength to speak without showing any of the burning pain clawing its way up his throat. "Seven thousand men and sorcery," he summarised perfunctorily, then looked about. "Ideas?"

"We must use the advantage of the high ground, sire," said Sir Cador, leaning over the map to point at the surrounding foothills. "Place archers here, here and here, and we might be able to fight off a sizable advance, be they on foot or horseback."

"We have but three hundred bowmen," Sir Bedivere objected from the left, pointing at the figurines Arthur had diligently counted out.

"And the winds are terrible," Lancelot cautioned. "If the gale keeps lashing us like this, I doubt a single arrow will find its target."

Arthur nodded grimly. It wasn't remotely satisfying to see his own concerns mirrored by his men.

"In order to defeat an army bigger than yours, you must trap them," Sir Bors offered. "A pincer manoeuvre has served us well in the past. Attack them from all sides, limit their movement."

"The plain's too vast for that," Sir Cador said, shaking his head. "No cover to hide part of our troops and catch them off guard. They will see the manoeuvre coming and counter it accordingly."

"Besides," said Sir Lucan, with another careful look at Arthur, "if they're using sorcery…"

Everyone fell quiet.

Arthur could feel his men's eyes settle on him, but kept his own on the map, leaning on one hand as he started pushing a few pieces here and there, trying to spark an idea. But the longer he looked at the stones and figurines, the more his jaw clenched up.

Four thousand Camelot men against seven thousand of Caerleon's, and whatever wicked sorcery Morgana might have thought up.

It would be a slaughter.

"We can't fight this battle," Arthur said at last and straightened on the spot.

The knights exchanged alarmed looks across the table.

"You want to surrender, my lord?" Leon asked carefully.

"No," Arthur replied. "There will be a fight. But I don't want it to be between two armies." He looked around. "I will try to invoke the right of single combat. Two champions, one from each side, to settle this matter with honour and minimal bloodshed."

More than one face turned sceptical.

"What makes you think he would agree to such a deal, sire?" asked Sir Cador. "If his army really consists of seven thousand men, he must know the scales are heavily tipped in his favour. Why risk his champion losing in single combat if he can simply defeat us in battle?"

"A battle that would still see thousands of his men dead," Arthur retorted. "Deaths that could thus be prevented."

"That would require him caring for his men in the first place," Gwaine muttered, with considerable bitterness.

"He won't agree to this," Sir Cador repeated, talking right over Gwaine. "He'd be a fool to, sire."

"If I choose a random champion, perhaps not," Arthur agreed. "But I will offer to face this fight myself."

Sharp breaths were drawn all around the table.

"Sire, you cannot!" Leon said at once. "A duel to the death? You have no heir, no—"

"If I die," Arthur cut him off, "the land will go to Caerleon and Morgana. As it will if we fight this hopeless battle and lose. Defeating an army of this size is impossible enough, but with sorcery involved?" Arthur shook his head. "This is the only chance I've got to protect Camelot, to protect my men. Caerleon won't be able to resist the temptation to end this war before it begins. Kill me in single combat, and the way to Camelot's throne is clear, with no more bloodshed than that." He paused, then added firmly, "Of course, I have no intention of losing."

"Who's to say he will honour the agreement if you win, sire?" Sir Cador cautioned. "He might still attack if you defeat his champion."

Arthur shook his head. "I cannot believe a King of Albion would act so dishonourably."

Gwaine let out a harsh laugh. "No? You're naïve, then."

"That is enough from you, Sir Gwaine!" Arthur snapped and slammed his hand on the table.

Gwaine glowered at him, appearing not the least bit contrite, but before Arthur could threaten to throw him out, another man stumbled into the tent. He was wearing the light riding clothes of a scout and was visibly out of breath, slumping onto his knees by the table in lieu of a bow as he spotted Arthur.

"Sire," he gasped. "Caerleon—he's here!"

"Breathe, man!" Arthur nodded at Sir Bors, who helped the poor scout up again.

He ended up standing doubled over, his hands pressed against his thighs and sucking in air, until out of nowhere, Merlin appeared, pressing some wine into the man's hand. The scout gulped it down gratefully before running a sleeve over his mouth.

"What did you see?" Arthur asked.

Hurriedly, the scout handed off the chalice and came to stand at attention. "They're setting up camp at the edge of the plain, my lord," he reported.

"How many?"

The scout grimaced. "Six thousand, sire. No less."

Arthur gave a jerky nod, forestalling more murmurs with a stern look around the table. "What else?"

"Hardly any horses," the scout reported. "And scarce supplies overall. They've brought perhaps a third the number of our wagons and many are camping on the plain ground, without a tent or even a bedroll."

Arthur glanced back at the map to remove some stones. With their own troops warm and fed, they might have more of an advantage than he had thought. A well-rested soldier was worth two tired ones any day.

"What more?" asked Leon.

The scout hesitated, his eyes flickering away as his shoulders drew upwards.

"You have nothing to fear," Arthur reassured him, though he dreaded that look.

"Their campfires," said the scout, still avoiding Arthur's eyes, "they burn without wood, sire. They were passing around little bottles, too, from what I could see. Potions, from the looks of it." He paused, swallowing visibly, then added, "I believe it must be sorcery, my lord."

Arthur tightened his fingers around the stone in his hand. So much for their advantage, then. "Did you see anyone use magic?" he demanded. "How many sorcerers are there?"

"I don't know, sire," the scout admitted. He bit his lower lip, then seemed to gather all the courage he had left to look Arthur in the eye. "But I overheard two sentries talk, my lord, and they mentioned the Lady Morgana."

His words only confirmed what Sir Lucan had already speculated and still, they slammed into him like a flood wave. With difficulty, he kept his voice even to thank the scout for his dangerous work, then sent him off with an order to eat and rest.

"That would explain how he's feeding them," said Sir Cador, his voice strained.

"And who knows what other effects those potions might have," Elyan added grimly.

"I want a messenger sent to their camp as soon as possible," Arthur said. "An honourable duel is our only chance."

"Sire, you cannot—"

Arthur stopped Leon's interjection with a single look. "I've made my decision. I'm not sending my people to be butchered."

"I will find you a messenger, sire," said Lancelot, then bowed and left the tent, soon followed by the rest of the knights, who sensed their strategy meeting was over.

Leon and Cador hovered for a moment longer, trying to offer more objections, but they, too, left when Arthur waved them off with an impatient look.

Once they had departed, he sank down into the armchair, running both hands over his face for good measure, believing himself to be alone with Merlin. When he looked up, however, Gwaine was standing on the other side of the table, his arms crossed, scowling.

"Go and get some rest," Arthur said tersely and jerked his head towards the flap.

Gwaine ignored him. "Caerleon will double-cross you."

Arthur gave him a dark look. "Your objections have been duly noted, Sir Gwaine. Now get out!"

Gwaine didn't waver. "He's not like you, Caerleon," he went on, bitterness creeping back into his voice. "He doesn't care for his men, for his people. He wants to keep his throne and expand his lands, no matter the cost. He would doom his whole army if it got him what he wanted."

Arthur was of half a mind to get up and shove the knight from his tent, but something in Gwaine's face made him reconsider. Beneath the rebellion and anger, there seemed to be something else there.

"How do you know?" Arthur asked suspiciously. "How come you're so sure of Caerleon's character?"

Gwaine's scowl deepened before his eyes dropped to the ground. "It doesn't matter how I know."

"You want me to throw away the only chance I might have at protecting my men and saving my kingdom on a whim, then," Arthur pushed.

"It's not a whim," Gwaine protested.

"Then what is it?" Arthur asked, his voice growing harsher with impatience.

Gwaine didn't respond.

"Gwaine," Arthur pressed.

Gwaine remained stubbornly silent.

"You should tell him," another voice cut through their stalemate.

Arthur looked to his right, where Merlin was setting down a plate of food for him. "Tell me what?" he demanded at once.

Merlin raised his eyebrows at Gwaine. "Do you believe he'll think less of you?"

Gwaine glared at Merlin, which was an unusual enough sight to unsettle Arthur greatly. When had Gwaine and Merlin ever been at odds?

However, Gwaine's eyes softened a moment later. He sighed, losing the scowl as he rubbed a hand over his face. When he looked at Arthur again, his expression had grown weary. "I know Caerleon's character," he said slowly, "because my family has suffered for it."

Arthur sat up straighter on the armchair. "Your family?" He had never heard Gwaine mention so much as a distant cousin.

"My father," Gwaine went on, though it was clear it cost him some effort, "was a knight in Caerleon's army."

"A knight?" Arthur repeated, dumbstruck.

"Gawyn of Orkney. He died at the Battle of Denaria. My mother was left with three children, my two elder sisters and I, and a war-torn estate that soon went to ruins. When she begged Caerleon for help, he denied her. Told her it was a knight's duty to die for his kingdom, and my father's failure to provide for his family in case of his death."

Arthur stared at him, still coming to terms with what he had just learned. "So you're a nobleman. By birth."

Gwaine let out an incredulous huff. "That's what you're taking from this?"

Arthur shook his head, raising a placating hand. "Where's your family now?" he asked. "Why did you not resettle them in Camelot? They would have been welcome at my court."

"My mother's long dead. And my sisters are married. Beneath their station, but they're content." Gwaine shrugged, reclaiming some of his usual devil-may-care attitude as he added, "As for me, I left as soon as I was old enough to ride and fight. I preferred to travel and see where life would take me." He offered Arthur a crooked smirk. "Didn't know it would lead me back right where I started."

"I see," Arthur replied slowly.

Gwaine, a knight's son. It made a surprising amount of sense. Of all the commoners Arthur had elevated, Gwaine had been the one to move about his court most confidently.

"Please, Arthur," Gwaine urged. "You must hear me on this. You cannot trust that man. Caerleon is honourless."

Arthur grimaced, but he remained firm. "I appreciate your trust in sharing this with me, truly," he replied. "But I have to do what I can."

Gwaine let out a frustrated noise. "He's allied himself with Morgana to get what he wants," he argued. "What other proof of his greed and corruption do you need? You can't be so blind!"

Abruptly, Arthur got up from the chair. "I will not send my men into certain death!" he shot back.

Gwaine sneered. "I see. You'd rather leave them leaderless and at Caerleon's mercy, then."

"What else would you have me do?" Arthur retorted. "Youʼve heard the numbers. Do you want to die on that plain tomorrow?"

"For the right king, I would," Gwaine pledged fiercely.

The vehemence in his words took Arthur aback, but still, he replied, "I'm honoured by your loyalty. But I must at least try to prevent the worst. My decision is final."

Abruptly, Gwaineʼs face closed off. Without another word, he turned on the spot and stalked off, whipping aside the flap as he exited the tent.

Arthur sank back down on the chair with a soft groan, once more burying his face in hands, only looking up when Merlin's arm brushed against his own.

"Eat," he said, pushing the plate towards Arthur. "I've carried that salted pork across half the kingdom just for you, so you had better appreciate it."

Arthur reluctantly pulled at the knife protruding from the meat. "You knew," he said as he started slicing the pork. "About Gwaine."

"Yes," Merlin replied, coming to lean against the table, his arms crossed loosely.

"You never thought to tell me?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't my secret to tell."

Arthur inclined his head, though he couldn't help but jab, "Who would've thought you could keep one in the first place, big blabbermouth that you are."

A strange look crossed over Merlin's face, though it was gone before Arthur had time to contemplate it. "Eat," he repeated. "The bread, too. I'll go find you some parchment for that message to Caerleon."

Arthur had to admit, the salted pork was just what he needed. Along with the bread and more wine, it filled him up and fueled his strength, though it did nothing to make him forget that there was an army of six thousand men setting up camp on the other side of the plain, aided by Morgana.

When Merlin returned with parchment, quill and sealing wax, Arthur was done with his meal, and the messenger Lancelot had sent was waiting outside the tent with his horse, ready to deliver the missive.

Arthur kept the message short and to the point, then rolled it up and pressed his ring into the wax, leaving Merlin to hand it off.

"I'm surprised you haven't tried to talk me out of this yet," Arthur told him when Merlin returned from the opening and started busying himself with chores.

Merlin glanced at him from where he was poking at the coals in the brazier. "Would it change your mind if I tried?"

"Certainly not."

"There you go then."

Arthur watched Merlin pick up his sword and perch on the camp bed to start sharpening it. "I should like to hear your opinion anyway," he admitted after another sip of wine.

Merlin smiled down at the blade, slowing his movements. "I see." He looked up. "Well, I think your heart is in the right place."

"But?" Arthur prodded.

Merlin's smile slimmed. "A duel won't solve this."

"You think Gwaine is right, and Caerleon dishonourable."

Merlin shook his head. "I donʼt know Caerleon. But I know Morgana. I think she would do anything to get her revenge and claim Camelot for herself. That includes sabotaging a fair duel with magic."

The thought, Arthur had to admit, had not even occurred to him. He took another sip of wine to cover his shock. "You would have me fight this battle, then," he concluded. "Send my troops to an almost certain death."

Merlin let out a quiet sigh and put down the whetstone. "I think there are no good choices here," he admitted, then fixed Arthur with a look. "But whatever you choose to do, and whatever the outcome may be, I will be by your side. I promise you that."

That vow from a servant should not mean as much as it did. And yet, Merlinʼs quiet pledge seemed to carry the same weight as any knightʼs oath, the same fierceness as Gwaineʼs earlier declarations.

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur deflected. "I won't send you on that battlefield to die."

"As if I'd let you leave me behind," Merlin shot back, his eyes narrowing. "It wouldn't be my first time wielding a sword by your side, either."

His stubborn insistence triggered a strange surge of fondness in Arthur. "I forget sometimes," he admitted, "that you went to fight a dragon with me."

Merlin averted his eyes at that. "Yes, well… it was you who defeated it."

Somehow, the words boosted Arthur, reminding him how he had overcome impossible odds before. "As I will defeat Caerleon's champion," he declared.

Merlin nodded, finishing up with the sword before storing it away in its sheath. "I should go and see Gaius," he said, already on his way out. "He might need help setting up the infirmary." He hesitated at the flap. "Unless you need anything else, sire?"

Arthur waved him off. Nobody could reasonably accuse Merlin of slacking today.

He spent the next hour half-heartedly fiddling with the stones and figurines on the map, all the while perking up his ears for the sound of the messenger returning.

But it was Merlin who returned first, looking harried and smelling distinctly of dried herbs, and then the knights, reporting on the state of the camp, the morale of their men and the numbers of their supplies.

When the messenger finally rode back into the camp, it had nearly gone dusk. Caerleon had kept them waiting, a bad sign. Sure enough, Arthur only had to take one look at the man's grim face to know what the scroll in his hands would say. Still, Arthur accepted the message as calmly as he could, breaking the wax seal with steady hands.

Pendragon, it read. Your tricks will not work on me. You and your men will perish on the plain tomorrow while the sons of Caerleon claim their rightful place in Albion. Wolves' valour!

It was signed with a sloppy crescent moon, the ink bleeding downwards on the parchment.

Arthur stared at the words for long moments, trying to keep his breath even. "We're going to war," he said at last, and approached the maps.

---

By the time the sun had dipped fully beyond the horizon, plunging the camp into darkness, the winds had picked up considerably, tearing violently at Arthur's tent.

The soldiers outside were huddling closely around the fires, struggling to keep the flames going in the storm and clutching at cups of steaming mead to get some warmth into their chilled bones.

Inside, the knights were poring over parchment.

"What if we created a diversion in the west?" Sir Bors proposed, gesturing at the edge of the map. "Lure some of their forces away from the main front, then attack swiftly from the rear?"

"Caerleon isn't that naive," Sir Cador objected, shaking his head. "He's fought his share of battles. He'd suspect such a ploy. We'd only end up leaving ourselves more vulnerable."

Something jagged and heavy had settled into Arthur's stomach, growing ever more grievous the longer the discussion continued. Already, he was only half-listening, his eyes roaming over the map. Each red stone, five hundred men who would die tomorrow. Each wooden figure, a unit which he would condemn.

"We're already vulnerable," Elyan argued. "Spreading our forces might be the only way to keep our men alive long enough to make a dent in Caerleon's army."

"If we do that, they will pick our units off, one by one," Leon argued. "Our only chance is mustering all our strength in one attack and charging with full force. Bravery might just be enough to scatter their troops."

"Bravery?" Gwaine interjected sceptically. "The men's morale will be crushed as soon as they see six thousand troops marching on them. We'll be lucky if those farm boys don't run screaming, and I wouldn't blame them for it."

Arthur's fingers dug into the edge of the parchment, creasing it. His temples were starting to throb.

"Camelot's men are not cowards!" Sir Bors exclaimed, affronted.

"Those men out there aren't knights, Bors!" Gwaine shot back, gesturing towards the flap. "They're not even guards. Many of them will be holding a sword for the first time."

"And for the last time, too, most likely," Sir Lucan muttered.

Just like that, Arthur's last thread of patience snapped. "Stop bickering like fishwives!" he barked, loud enough to make more than one knight flinch.

He instantly regretted his outburst, closing his eyes to take a deep, measured breath.

"Sire?" Leon ventured.

Arthur took a step away from the table. "None of this will save us," he said, his eyes roving over his men. "A good strategy might give us an edge. In any other battle, it might even give us a slim chance of winning. But you all forget that Caerleon has Morgana. This will be no ordinary fight. Who knows what advantage her sorcery will give them?"

"What would you have us do, then, sire?" Sir Cador asked. Arthur's chest tightened as he saw the barely concealed worry in the knight's expression. A true veteran, and even he was losing faith.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "I don't know how to win this battle. I don't know how to defeat six thousand men and a vengeful witch." He should have liked to avert his eyes, but forced himself to look around the table instead, never a coward. He owed them this, at least. "What I do know is that I've failed you all," he went on, his voice growing thick. "Terribly. You and my kingdom. Tomorrow, I must send good men into a near hopeless battle and there is nothing I can do to stop it." He swallowed heavily, fighting against a lump in his throat as he bowed his head. "I cannot protect my people as is my duty as your King and for that, I can do nothing but beg your forgiveness."

The tent fell quiet again, the howling of the wind outside unnaturally loud.

"Arthur."

Arthur glanced to the side to see Merlin had stepped up to the table, where Lancelot had readily made space for him.

"Not now, Merlin," Arthur told him, grimacing. Couldn't he see this was not the moment for a servant to speak up?

But Merlin was undeterred. "Please," he pushed. "Hear me out."

Arthur gave in. "What is it?"

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the look on Merlin's face. He had gone strangely white, his pallor striking even in the flickering light of the lamps and candles.

Was he so afraid of what was to come?

Merlin's voice, however, rang out strongly when he claimed, "There's still hope for this battle. Not everything is lost."

Arthur scowled, his annoyance surging. "We don't have time for platitudes," he said and turned away.

But Merlin did not budge. "You can win this battle," he insisted, "with the right help."

"And whose help would that be?"

Merlin's voice didn't waver. "The help of magic."

Sharp hisses and incredulous noises from the knights mirrored Arthur's reaction precisely. "The help of magic," he repeated scathingly, wishing he had told Merlin to shut up when he had first had the chance. "Of course. Why didn't I think of this?"

Merlin was undeterred by the backlash. "Your foes are using it. It only makes sense that you should use it, too. Sometimes, magic must be fought with magic."

"Sorcery is forbidden in Camelot, you fool," Sir Lucan scoffed.

"And yet, it remains," Merlin retorted, though his eyes were still on Arthur. "Magic has never left Camelot, neither has it forsaken these lands, and if you let it, Arthur, it will come to your aid."

Goosebumps rose on Arthur's arms, though for the life of it he couldn't understand why. Part of him wanted to dole out a slap or shove, rebuke Merlin for speaking out of turn, and such idiotic nonsense on top of it.

But there was something about Merlin's demeanour, in the steadfast way he spoke, the way he held himself, that gave Arthur pause.

"How do you know?" he demanded, and his tone had the knights fall quiet.

Merlin offered him a crooked smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "How do you think?"

Arthur stared at him, a strange shiver creeping up his spine. "Merlin…"

His gaze unwavering, Merlin slowly raised his hand – palm up, like a beggar might – and uttered a foreign word. An eerie flash of gold travelled across his eyes, so fleeting that Arthur nearly missed it.

Then, a small flame lit up in his palm.

Arthur went cold all over. The tent blurred around him, his eyes transfixed by the unnatural flame. It hovered just a finger's width above Merlin's hand, his skin miraculously unscorched as the fire danced and flickered, shining bright as day without any wood or oil to sustain it.

Arthur knew better than to believe this was a cheap illusion or a trick of the light, yet it took effort to overcome his instinctual denial, his vehement rejection of what he was seeing with his own eyes and accept the truth.

Merlin, he had—he was a—

"Sorcerer!" Sir Bors hissed and drew his sword.

Lancelot had his own sword out a moment later, pushing Merlin away from the table and behind his back. "Don't!"

Before Arthur could find his voice, several others had drawn their weapons too, with Merlin and Lancelot swiftly crowded against the wall of the tent. Lancelot parried a sloppy blow from Sir Lucan, then swung his sword to defend against a furious slash by Sir Kay.

The sound of metal clashing finally shook Arthur from his stupor. "Stand down!" he ordered. "Put away your swords!"

"He's a sorcerer!" Kay protested, his sword ready for another swing.

"Stand down!" Arthur barked.

The knights reluctantly moved back, revealing that Lancelot was not the only one who had jumped to Merlin's aid. Gwaine had been shielding his other side, a dagger in his hand, his face a little wild. By contrast, Leon, Elyan and Percival had kept to the sidelines, the hands around their sword hilts as slack as their mouths.

Arthur became acutely aware that his heart was racing like a spooked horse, every thump reverberating in his chest. His hands were clammy; his ears had gone numb. Grappling for a sense of control, he sucked in a shuddering breath, then another, pressing his fingernails tightly into his palms to anchor himself.

At last, when he no longer felt like he was drowning, he managed to look past Lancelot, where Merlin stood, half-hidden, his face a pale oval against the crimson cloth of the tent. When their eyes met, Merlin's expression crumpled, his eyes and mouth wrinkling in all the wrong places.

But he didn't shy away from Arthur's gaze, offering Arthur the same unwavering look as he had before.

Gold.

Those eyes, so familiar, so trusted – they had flashed gold just moments ago.

The thought awakened something sharp and vicious deep within Arthur, twisting cruelly in his guts like a traitorous blade. He was overcome by the acute urge to pick up his own sword, to lash out and place it at Merlinʼs throat to demand an explanation.

But Arthur was not the hot-tempered Prince he had once been. He was King now, and a king needed to keep a level head. Even in the face of treason and betrayal.

Still, it was only with great difficulty that he pried his teeth apart and ordered, "Kay, Bors. Seize him." He looked at Lancelot and Gwaine, commanding, "Step aside!"

At first, it looked like the latter two would disobey, their eyes flickering around the tent. But Merlin murmured something, inaudible to the rest of them, and they moved aside after all, leaving Bors and Kay to grab Merlin by the shoulders and pull him forward, manhandling him with brutal force.

Merlin was slammed onto his knees next to the table, on the ground before Arthur. The knights formed a half-circle right behind him, with more than one hand still curled around a sword hilt, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Merlin, by contrast, didn't put up even a hint of a fight. He let out a small noise of pain as he hit the ground, but remained willingly on his knees, his neckerchief hanging messily from his neck, his lower lip trembling as he dared to look up at Arthur.

The sight of him, uncharacteristically submissive, pitiful under any other circumstances, only fanned Arthur's anger even further. It rose in his throat, thick and scorching hot, forcing him to swallow several times before he could speak. "So youʼre a sorcerer," he spat, the words bitter on his tongue.

"I have magic, yes," Merlin replied. There was a quiver in his voice.

Arthur hated that tone. It didn't suit Merlin. "Why are you here?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

Merlin stared at him. "What do I—?" He cut himself off, blinking several times before he went on with, "I want to help you win this battle."

"With spells and enchantments?" Arthur sneered. A tremor travelled up his taut arms, but he managed to squash it, knowing this was not the moment to show even an ounce of weakness.

Merlin gave a cautious nod. "Yes, my lord."

Again, his deference made Arthur bristle. He could count the times Merlin had spoken to him with genuine subservience on one hand. Was he trying to manipulate Arthur?

"How long have you been practising sorcery?"

Merlin's mouth twisted into a tight, grim line.

"How long?" Arthur pushed.

"My whole life," Merlin said. "Since I was born."

A disbelieving noise bubbled up Arthur's throat, escaping his lips before he could help it. It came out harsh and grating, loud enough to make Merlin cringe. "You're lying," Arthur accused.

Merlin shook his head, vehemently. "No, my lord," he insisted. "I was born like this. I was born with magic. Iʼve never known anything else. Magic is a part of me, and I use it for good. For Camelot." His lips twitched upwards, forming a helpless sort of smile, entirely out of place at this moment. "I use it for you, Arthur."

Arthur's heart gave a painful lurch. There was such sincerity in Merlin's tone, such earnestness in his expression, his eyes shining in that way they always did when he thought Arthur was about to do something brave or noble or good.

Arthur had never been immune to that look. Too many times had Merlin's unwavering belief in him reassured him, built him up, bolstered and emboldened him in even the most dire of circumstances.

Now, it tempted him into considering Merlin's words.

Could it be true? A born sorcerer, using his powers for Camelot? It would be just like Merlin to take something foul and wicked, and find a spark of goodness in it.

But perhaps his goal was to trick Arthur. Perhaps the familiarity of that smile, that expression, was blinding him, obscuring the truth.

"You use it for me," he repeated slowly, sceptically.

"Always," Merlin insisted. "And I can do it here, if you let me." His eyes turned pleading. "I can help you win this battle. I know it, Arthur. Please."

Arthur made a conscious effort to control his expression, unwilling to let on that Merlin was getting to him. A small part of him was still itching to take up his sword, anger sizzling right underneath his skin, though he knew deep down that the moment in which he might have been willing to hurt Merlin had already passed.

Merlin, who kept looking at him without deceit, without so much as a hint of malice or guile in his face.

Was Arthur a fool to consider his words? His father wouldn't have hesitated to end a sorcererʼs life, there and then, no matter what. He realised, too, that Merlin had lied to him, had perhaps done nothing but lie to him, for years and years, for all the time they had known each other.

And yet, Arthur sensed no falseness in him now, no duplicity in the offer of help he had made.

It struck Arthur then, how utterly foolish Merlin's actions had been. Why reveal himself now? Why show his true colours here, in a tent full of armed knights he must have expected to attack, and mere hours before a battle Camelot was almost certain to lose? There had been nothing to gain for him if he meant them harm. Had it not been for Lancelot and Gwaine – and no, Arthur could not think of the implications of their actions just now – Merlin might have very well been killed.

Was it all a ruse? An elaborate plan?

If so, Arthur could not conceive of it. It made no sense, no sense at all, that Merlin's intent had been to attack him or his men. He could have easily gotten at Arthur when they had been alone, poisoned the knights' wine or cursed them as they pored over the maps. At the very least, he could have left, switched sides and joined forces with Caerleon and Morgana before Camelot's imminent defeat.

Instead, he remained on his knees even now, begging Arthur to let him lend aid, to win him the battle which they were almost certain to lose.

As Arthur warred with himself, the silence in the tent stretched, disturbed only by the violent gusts of wind pushing against the tent. Behind Merlin, the knights were starting to shift, impatient for Arthurʼs decision.

At last, Arthur's eyes flickered towards the map, still resting on the table to his right, covered in markers, the figures and stones scattered all over.

Six thousand men and sorcery against four thousand of their own.

Impossible odds.

Unless…

With a slow, measured breath, Arthur turned his eyes back on Merlin. "Get up!"

Merlin scrambled to his feet. A few of the knights moved, but a single look from Arthur was enough to hold them back.

Merlin's face was wary as he came to stand. "Sire?"

"What exactly can you do?" Several of the knights immediately started protesting, but Arthur quenched their voices with a sharp cutting motion, his gaze remaining on Merlin. "What can you do with your magic?" he repeated. "Show us."

Merlin hesitated only for a moment, then raised his hand, a movement that had several knights go for their swords again. But another foreign word had already left Merlinʼs lips, the strange syllables rolling off his tongue with unnerving ease. Arthur was prepared for the flash of gold this time, and yet he could not help but flinch at the sight, so out of place on Merlinʼs kind face. As the gold vanished, he checked the tent for the effect of Merlin's sorcery. But nothing seemed to have happened.

Frowning, Arthur opened his mouth to ask what Merlin had done, when he noticed that all was still. The storm, strong enough to make the tent posts quiver, had suddenly quieted. Arthur strained his ears, but heard not a single gust of wind.

Stunned, he looked back at Merlin. "Did you—" He shook his head in disbelief. "Did you vanish the storm?"

Merlin, strangely enough, ducked his head at the question. "No, sire. I sent it a little further east, thatʼs all."

"Sent it east," Arthur repeated slowly.

"I thought it might help with the archers," Merlin added quietly.

Agitated murmurs were rising from the knights, a couple of them warding off evil with hand signs and quick prayers, while others simply stared, scared or stunned.

Arthur was just as spooked as they were, his skin crawling at the powers Merlin had just so casually displayed.

But there was something else there, too. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.

"What else?" he demanded.

---

The knights were vehemently opposed.

No sooner had Merlin left the tent, escorted by five guards as well as Percival, under Arthur's orders, than they started voicing their objections.

"You cannot honestly consider using sorcery, sire!" Sir Lucan exclaimed, visibly appalled.

Arthur sent him a level look while stifling his own sense of unease. He would lie if he said Merlin's tales and demonstrations had not unnerved him, but this was not the time to show it. "Merlin might be the only effective weapon we have against Morgana's interference," he said.

"Who knows if even half of what he said was true?" Sir Cador argued. "Slowing time? Summoning lightning?" He shook his head. "Sire, even before your father's laws took effect, such sorcery was practically unheard of!"

"You saw him banish the storm," Arthur pointed out. "I don't see why he would lie about the extent of his skills."

"My lord," Leon said gravely. "He lied to you for years."

Arthur did not allow himself to pay attention to any of the ugly feelings those words awakened in him. "I know," was all he said.

"He lied to you," Leon repeated. "And yet you want to risk the outcome of this battle on his word?"

Arthur met his eyes unflinchingly. "If we fight this battle without him, we will lose it. With Merlin's help, we have a chance."

"If he doesn't betray us," Sir Cador interjected.

"We cannot trust him," Sir Lucan added. "I know he's been your servant for a long time, sire, but please, just think about—"

But Arthur had heard enough. "Quiet," he ordered.

He hadn't shouted, but Lucan's mouth still snapped shut at his tone.

Arthur glanced around, taking in the faces of his other men. Doubt was edged deeply into their faces. There was anger there, too, though nobody looked ready to openly revolt. Still, Arthur could not allow resentment to fester. It would risk a rebellion hours before a deciding battle.

His father had been a hard man, a king who had ruled his people with fear, and Arthur knew that his own authority was partly based on dread. If he wanted to, he could force these men to fall in line. All it would take were threats, perhaps an example made of one of them, and the rest would duck their heads and knuckle under.

But Arthur had never set out to be that sort of leader.

"I understand my decision is difficult to accept," he said. "You know as well as I do that I have no love for sorcerers. But the enemy we face cares not for our laws. Morgana will wield her powers to aid Caerleon. Faced with that reality, how could I not use every means at my disposal to ensure the safety of my people?" He made sure to lock eyes with each knight as he spoke. "I ask for your trust. And I ask for your loyalty, not only to me as your King, but to our realm. Camelot is in grave danger. I understand the reservations you harbour, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

He paused, letting his words sink in, then gestured towards the tent flap as he added, "However. If there are those amongst you who feel that they can no longer fight by my side, I shall release them from their knight's oath now. They may leave this camp unscathed and with their honour intact, as long as they pledge not to fight for Caerleon instead."

Long moments passed in which loaded looks were exchanged, but nobody made a move to leave.

Arthur's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "Your support is appreciated."

Sir Cador took a step forward. "If we do this, we must inform the troops now," he advised. "They will get frightened otherwise."

Arthur nodded. "I trust all of you to spread the word tonight. Explain the circumstances to those under your command. Make them understand, but try not to scare them. I will address all of them tomorrow."

"There might be deserters," Leon cautioned.

"Then let them leave," Arthur replied.

The knights exited the tent then, murmuring amongst themselves. Arthur held two of them back, though: Gwaine and Lancelot.

"You knew?" Arthur asked them, without further preamble.

"I suspected," Gwaine replied, entirely unabashed, and crossed his arms.

Lancelot did not exude nearly as much bravado, but met Arthur's eyes when he admitted, "Yes, sire. I knew."

Arthur tried not to let the surge of bitterness overwhelm him. "Since when?"

"Almost as soon as I met him," Lancelot replied. "The griffin I defeated? I could not have done it without Merlin. He enchanted my lance so I could slay the beast."

Arthur gave a curt nod. Lancelot had known, and Gwaine guessed, while Arthur had been blind. Years and years of having Merlin by his side and yet he had not even for a moment considered that he might be hiding something so monumental.

"I should strip both of you of your commands," he said at last. "Your knighthoods, even."

Lancelot meekly bowed his head. "If you so wish, my lord."

Gwaine, by contrast, only raised his chin, the be my guest ringing out loud and clear.

"Perhaps there is little point to it, though," Arthur added. "Seeing as I have just made the decision to let Merlin use his sorcery in the name of Camelot."

"He wanted to tell you, sire," Lancelot said quietly. "So many times."

"Yet he did not." Arthur could not quite keep the bitterness out of his voice this time.

"Can you blame him?" Gwaine said grimly. "Of course he kept it a secret. He must have been terrified to end up on the pyre!"

Arthur's chest tightened at the image. The idea of burning Merlin at the stake – impossible.

"You know I'm right," Gwaine pushed.

"I will not discuss this matter now," Arthur retorted. "We have a battle to win. Everything else is secondary."

But when he had dismissed them both and finally sank down on the armchair, he could no longer contain the dark, swirling mess of emotions churning deep inside of him. They clawed upwards, spilling past his throat and into his mouth as a harsh, ugly sound. It was only with considerable effort that he didn't let it turn into a wild, drawn-out scream, or a sob, his whole body suddenly seized by violent trembles.

For a moment, he was tempted again to take up his sword, march to the tent he had banished Merlin to, and demand retribution, in pain and in blood. But as quickly as the violent urge came, it faded.

Retribution for what? he wondered.

For lying, certainly. But what would be a fair punishment for years of deceit? Could it be outweighed, perhaps, by whatever help Merlin would offer tomorrow? Was there redemption to be found in defeating Caerleon? Was that what Merlin was hoping for?

Arthur could not even dare to think of what lay beyond the battle, could not think of the consequences of allowing a sorcerer to aid them, but it occurred to him now that Merlin had offered his help while asking for nothing in return, not even a pardon for himself.

Was it selflessness? Arthur would have readily called Merlin selfless only a few hours ago, but could a sorcerer's actions be that? Was not the use of sorcery inherently irredeemable, inherently evil?

But then, what did Arthur truly know of magic? Nothing but his father's warnings, hushedly spoken tales, and whatever curses and spells he had seen from the foes they had faced in the past.

Can you blame him? Gwaine's words echoed through his mind. He must have been terrified to end up on the pyre!

The idea of Merlin strapped to a pole and screaming in agony was so abhorrent it made Arthur feel sick. And yet, he knew he might have given such punishment to any other sorcerer discovered to hide in his court, and found it fair and just.

Perhaps Gwaine's empathy simply stemmed from the fact that he, too, had deceived Arthur, hiding his noble blood and pretending to be a peasant. But what repercussions did he have to fear? None. On the contrary, had Gwaine told Uther he was of noble blood, he would have never been banished from Camelot, would perhaps have been knighted then, had he sought such a position.

No, Gwaine's deceit had been based solely in the wish to hide his past from Arthur, who supposed he had no right to such knowledge. He felt no resentment, either, that Gwaine had kept it from him.

Why then did he blame Merlin for deceiving him, who had had so much more to fear, were Arthur to discover his secret?

But heʼs a sorcerer. You don't know what he has done, whispered a doubtful voice. Who knows what other lies he has told you, what other secrets he holds?

Arthur shuddered at the thought, though he couldn't help but consider: if he was so convinced of Merlin's wickedness, why accept his help at all? Why trust him to use his magic for Camelot?

Abruptly, Arthur got up from the chair and went for the wine. He did not bother with a chalice this time, drinking straight from the skin and feeling a petty, entirely mad satisfaction from the idea that Merlin would have scolded him for it.

He drained the wineskin in four large swallows, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth before throwing the empty pouch aside, then started to pull off his chainmail until he was left with only the gambeson. Thus undressed, he approached the bed and sank down on it. But he stilled when his eyes fell on the bedroll spread out next to it on the ground.

Merlin's bedroll.

Of course he had set it up right next to Arthurʼs bed, expecting to spend the night by his side. At his King's feet, really, like the humble servant that he was.

Merlin had placed his knapsack on top of the bedroll. It was open, tipped to the side, some of its contents spilling onto the mattress, every object painfully familiar: a patched purple tunic that had once belonged to Arthur, a fading red neckerchief, a sachet of herbs to make a quick poultice, bruise balm for Arthur's battle aches…

Arthur had to close his eyes at the sight.

Had he ever even known Merlin at all? Arthur had always thought him strange, in an endearing sort of way. Princes had no friends, this Father had instilled in Arthur from a very young age, but Merlin had been the closest thing he had had to one, teasing Arthur in a way nobody else would ever dare to and remaining by Arthur's side even in the most dire of circumstances.

Foolish, but brave. Perhaps the bravest man he had ever met.

But then, Arthur supposed it was easy to be brave when you had secret sorcerous powers at your disposal.

Scowling, he lay down on the camp bed and turned his back towards the bedroll, burying himself between the furs, his eyes on the wall of the tent. With the wind gone, he could hear the sounds of the camp through the cloth, the crackling of the fires and the faint murmurs of the men.

An acute sense of loneliness engulfed him as he squeezed his eyes shut. Being King was a burdensome privilege, he had always known that, and yet he felt it so strongly at this moment that it seemed to suffocate him.

He suddenly wished, fiercely, that Guinevere were here. He had always found comfort in her embrace, in her calm demeanour and compassionate gaze. She always knew what to say, what advice to give, what consolation to offer. There was a quiet strength about her person that could hold up a whole kingdom.

But the yearning waned as quickly as it had come, leaving a creeping cold in its wake.

Did Guinevere know about Merlin, too? Had she seen, like Lancelot, or suspected, like Gwaine? Arthur could not imagine her keeping such secrets from him, but then he would have said the same about Merlin only hours ago. Had she not been Merlin's friend first? Perhaps she had lied to Arthur, too, to protect Merlin.

And Gaius! He had to know. Of course he must. He had once practised sorcery many years ago, had he not? Was that perhaps why he had taken Merlin on as an apprentice in the first place – because of his magic?

Shivering, Arthur curled into himself, a ragged breath escaping him, one that caught uncomfortably in his throat.

Oh, what a fool he was! Too blind to see what was happening right underneath his nose, too ignorant to realise people he had trusted had been lying to him all along. What a weak king, too, to have to turn to magic for help because he could not keep his realm safe any other way.

Had he even made the right decision? Perhaps he had doomed Camelot anyway, corrupted her by allowing Merlin to work his sorcery tomorrow.

Was that what Merlin was, corrupted? Would he pull the rest of them down with him? Already, Arthur was feeling like he was drowning.

It was tempting to give in to that despair, to let darkness claim him until he was nothing but a speck in a wild sea of misery. But this was not the time for self-pity. There was a battle to win. Whatever he felt could wait until his people were safe.

And so, Arthur pulled tightly at the seams threatening to come apart, wrenching himself shut and hiding everything that made him soft and weak, like his father had once taught him.

Sleep did not come easily, but it came.

---

In the morning, a squire strapped on Arthur's armour with trembling fingers. He was awfully young, Leon's latest protégé, barely old enough to start training and certainly too inexperienced to be on the battlefield.

Odd how Arthur had never considered himself too young when Father had sent him on raids and patrols with not a single hair on his chin. But then, he had been the Prince, heir apparent, and not some minor lord's third-born son.

"Thank you, Gareth," he told the boy, when he was done.

"Of course, my lord."

Arthur dismissed him with a clap on the shoulder, but Gareth lingered, fidgeting. "Sire?" he ventured.

Arthur gave him a careful once-over. Gareth's hands hadn't stopped trembling. "Yes?"

Gareth hunched his shoulders, his eyes cautious, though he wasn't a coward. "Is it true?" he dared to ask. "About—about the sorcery?"

Yesterday, perhaps, such a question might have reawakened Arthur's doubts. But last night's turmoil had been banished to somewhere deep within him, and so he answered Gareth calmly and without wavering. "A sorcerer has agreed to help us, yes."

Gareth's eyes widened, but he only gave a hurried bow and rushed from the tent.

Arthur looked after him, wondering if Leon had been right and they had indeed lost men to defection. If so, the deed was done. No sense in lingering on it.

He reached for the gauntlets still resting on the table and pulled them on, then left the tent.

Outside, the sun had just risen over the foggy ridge, dousing the camp in orange light. Everywhere Arthur looked, men were busy preparing weapons and armour. He made sure to keep his face neutral as he headed for the eastern edge of the camp, finding that their numbers did not seem to have noticeably dwindled. If anyone had left, it couldn't have been more than a handful of men.

He nodded at every soldier seeking out his gaze, trying to exude a sense of confidence, as if certain of the outcome of the battle. Most men looked determined, others tense and apprehensive, though only few appeared outright scared.

Morale, then, seemed not to have suffered too badly. Perhaps Arthur would turn the struggling ones around with his speech.

At last, he had made it to the tent he had been looking for, the entrance flanked by four guards.

"He's still in there?" Arthur asked as he approached.

"Yes, sire," the captain replied. "There was no trouble."

Arthur nodded and entered the tent without further delay.

Merlin was sitting on the bare floor, hugging his knees. He looked not to have slept a wink, judging from the dark circles underneath his eyes. When he saw Arthur enter, he quickly scrambled to his feet, bowing awkwardly – though perhaps Arthur only found it awkward because it was so unlike Merlin to pay him any sort of obeisance.

Something inside of him cracked at the sight, a mess of complicated feelings swelling in him, but Arthur willed them silent again within mere moments. "The sun is rising fast," he said, surprised how detached his own voice sounded. "The battle will commence within the hour."

Merlin gave a nod. "Yes, sire."

"We never discussed your position," Arthur went on. "If you need a vantage point to work from, choosing one of the foothills might be best."

Merlin gave another nod, fidgeting with his sleeve.

It came as a surprise to Arthur that he could still read Merlin, at least in this. "What is it?" he demanded.

Merlin's face was wary when he replied, "I have a different, um, vantage point in mind. I can—that is, I could, well…"

Arthur made an impatient motion with his hand.

"I should like to summon a dragon," Merlin blurted. "Two dragons, actually."

Arthur almost laughed at his words, but after last night, he knew better than to think them a joke. "Dragons," he repeated. "Do they not answer to dragonlords only?"

"Yes," Merlin admitted.

Arthur made a conscious effort to keep his breath under control. "I see."

"I could fly on one, to fight from above," Merlin added, as if proposing a mere horse ride. "It would give me an overview of the battle. Their fire, too, could come in handy."

Arthur remembered well the destruction a dragon's breath could wreak, but did not dare to think further, pushing down the memories of Balinor, and Merlin's report on the dragon's defeat. "Keep them out of sight until the battle commences, or you will scare the troops," he said, brushing aside the feeling of absurdity he felt at giving such an order.

"Yes, sire," Merlin murmured. He was still playing with his sleeve.

"What else?" Arthur pushed, his voice sharp.

Merlin startled at his tone, but immediately went for a bundle lying at his feet, which Arthur had so far overlooked. The long, slim shape was familiar and Arthur wondered how on earth Merlin had got it past the guards and into the tent. Sure enough, when Merlin unwrapped the cloth, he produced a sword. A fine one, too, this Arthur could see with one look.

"What sword is this?" he asked, inspecting the blade. It looked well taken care of and freshly sharpened, but there were strange runes etched into it that made Arthur suspicious.

"It's yours," Merlin said and offered up the sword with two hands.

"I have a sword," Arthur retorted, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of it.

Merlin did not lower his arms. "This one's special," he insisted. "The only weapon that can kill a creature of magic."

"A creature of magic," Arthur repeated slowly. "Like a dragon?"

"Yes." Merlin looked at him unflinchingly. "Or me."

Arthur took a step backwards before he could think better of it, Merlin's words catching him completely off guard, like a slap to the face. "What do you mean?"

Merlin's lips twisted upwards into a small smile. "I have found," he said, "that there are not a lot of things that can be relied on to kill me, thanks to my magic. This most definitely can." He lifted the sword a little higher. "It's yours."

Arthur's eyes traced Merlin's strange smile, searching for deceit. "You—" He swallowed. "Why would you give this to me, then?"

"It was made for you," Merlin said, as if it were self-evident, like he wasn't claiming to hand Arthur a sword that could be his own downfall.

It had to be a lie. It had to. "For all I know, it's cursed," Arthur spat, lashing out.

Merlin's smile vanished, though his denial was firm. "It's not."

Arthur's eyes fell back on the sword. The pommel was gold, glinting brightly even in the dimly-lit tent, the handle fine leatherwork. A sword fit for a king, no doubt.

"Please," Merlin said into the following silence, "take it. Who knows what Morgana has planned for the battle? I would hate to see you unprotected against whatever creatures she might summon."

The earnestness in his voice was unbearable.

"Fine," Arthur said, and took the sword.

His fingers curled around the hilt like they belonged, the perfect length and width for his hand. A knight at heart, he could not resist the urge to swing the sword, just once, finding it was perfectly balanced, perhaps the finest blade he had ever held.

When he looked at Merlin, he was smiling faintly again, a strange glint in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, as if it had been Arthur giving him a gift.

Unnerved, Arthur slipped the sword into his belt, opposite the other, then asked, "You're prepared to fight?"

"Yes, sire," Merlin said, with the sort of conviction that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine. "I won't let you down."

---

There is a moment before every great battle when everything turns eerily quiet. The air grows thick with tension and nature itself seems to hold its breath.

Perhaps that was why Arthur felt the absence of the banished wind so clearly. Riding Hengroen, he had placed himself at the very front of his troops, scanning the horizon. The sky was no longer painted in hues of orange, and grey clouds had gathered high above. At the very edge of the plain, he could just make out Caerleon's blue banners, wolves' heads snarling. Not too long, and the enemy would be upon them.

Arthur took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he steadied his nerves. The fate of the kingdom rested on the outcome of this battle, but it would not do to let the gravity of the moment weigh him down.

Bracing himself, he turned his horse around and let his eyes range over the men behind him. A succinct speech, that was all he could give them now. He knew from experience that words didn't carry well on a vast battlefield, certainly not to the very edge of a large army. It was the way he held himself, the attitude he conveyed as well as the reaction of the soldiers in the front that would boost morale, if it was boosted at all.

"Men of Camelot," he began, his voice dispelling the haunting quiet. "We stand on the precipice of battle, facing foes that seek to claim our kingdom for themselves. I will make no secret that they have the advantage in numbers, but we carry a strength that surpasses that. Our might is not measured in the sheer size of our army, but in the spirit that courses through each and every one of you. You fight to protect your families, your friends and your kingdom, and that alone will lend us a strength that invaders motivated by greed and envy could never hope to muster."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the assembly before he continued, "There is one other issue I must address. Last night, I had my commanders spread the word that we have sought the aid of magic. What you have heard from them is true: a sorcerer will be fighting on our side."

A ripple of murmurs travelled through the rows then, but Arthur did not allow himself to get distracted or feel unease at his own words. "My father outlawed sorcery in these lands, and I have upheld those laws. But the enemy is using magic to their advantage, and it will tip the scales in their favour if we do not employ the same methods. It is not a decision made lightly, but one made for the greater good."

He watched the faces of the soldiers, gauging their reactions, and found he had been right to prepare them the night before. There was apprehension there, undoubtedly so, but neither shock or surprise. Those who had stepped onto the battlefield knew they would be dealing with sorcery, and they had followed their King anyway.

"I implore you," Arthur went on. "Do not dwell on the magic that shall unfold. Your focus must remain steadfast on the battle. Let no uncertainty or distraction into your minds. Our victory lies in the strength of our hearts and in our unwavering courage."

He rode along the front silently, catching as many eyes as he could, then glanced upwards towards the steep rocks lining the edge of the foothills, where their archers were ready to take down the enemy's first line with a volley of arrows.

Merlin was nowhere to be seen, though Arthur supposed that had to be expected. Still, he wondered if he had heard.

When he turned his horse around again, Caerleon's army had advanced fully onto the plain. They were too far away to make out any faces, but he thought he recognised Caerleon himself, on a horse at the front. Arthur tried not to think about whether the person by his side was a knight, or Morgana.

Determined, he rode back to his original position, then unsheathed his sword and raised it, the light catching on steel and gold. On the other side of the plain, a horn sounded, followed by howls.

"For the love of Camelot!" Arthur shouted.

The response was not immediate. It began as a low rumble, a collective murmur that grew with intensity, until soldiers from all corners picked up the rallying cry, their voices joining the rising wave, nearly strong enough to drown out the roar that echoed across the plain a moment later.

Startled, Arthur looked up into the sky.

A white dragon had emerged from the clouds, flying over their heads and heading straight for Caerleon's men. A moment later, a much larger one followed in its wake.

Agitated voices and shouts of Dragons! rose behind him, but Arthur did not give his men time to be spooked. "They're with us!" he cried, the call immediately echoed by the voices of his commanders nearby, passing on the message. "Cavalry, on me!"

Across the field, Caerleon sent his first advance.

Arthur dug his heels into Hengroen's flanks and they moved, a lurch mirrored by the riders near him as well as the bannerman guiding their counterattack. Their horses kicked up dust and dirt as they pressed forward, an ochre veil rising beneath their hooves.

Arthur spurred on Hengroen, then glanced at the sky again, though his view of the dragons was soon obscured by a dark cloud – arrows, soaring through the air, sailing overhead and raining down on the enemy beyond. They struck down their marks with brutal precision, taking down horses and foot soldiers alike to violent screaming and braying.

Then, there was fire; a relentless cascade of orange and red, descending in an unforgiving inferno from the skies and licking at the ground with burning tongues, searching for fodder. The flames were followed by another ear-piercing roar from above and a great gust of wind, fanning the fire. More screams erupted from the enemy and an acrid scent reached Arthur's nose just as they collided with the last few survivors of Caerleon's advance.

The archers had made a dent. Merlin's dragons had annihilated the rest. A few stragglers were all that were left, scattered and disorganised, their eyes wide with horror.

But this was not a time for mercy. Arthur drove his sword into the nearest pale-faced knight, just at the edge of his breastplate, and pushed him off his horse, all the while blotting out the sounds of agony around him, the continued roaring of the dragons, and the sulphur hiss of their flames.

He could not afford to falter now, could not let memories arise of a time when dragonfire had wrenched those very screams from his own men, when that same smell had permeated every corner of the citadel as it was turned to ashes.

Certainly, he could not think of the man he had seen riding on the white dragon.

All there was left to do was fight for his kingdom.

And fight he did.

---

When Caerleon finally sent out the white banners and Camelot's soldiers broke out in shouts of triumph, the plain was in a state of devastation.

The scent of burnt flesh and singed earth hung heavy in the air, with smouldering patches still feeding the already smoke-choked sky. Bodies were strewn across the scarred ground like discarded puppets, their lifeless forms wrapped in red and blue, though the latter far, far outweighed the former.

Merlin, this Arthur had been able to tell even in the heat of battle, had tried his best to protect their troops, raising shields of glittering gold and deflecting Caerleon's advances with rippling waves of wind and precise bursts of dragonfire.

He had caught glimpses, too, of what must have been Morgana's interference: invisible barriers hindering their advance; the ground exploding right underneath his men's feet; Caerleon's knights fighting like wild beasts, even with an arm or leg hacked off – until Arthur himself had slayed them with Merlin's sword and sent them crumbling to dust.

Now, the fighting had died down and horns were blaring loudly across the plain, announcing Caerleon's surrender.

Arthur, who had long lost Hengroen to the chaos, swung himself onto the nearest loose horse, reined it in with grim determination, then grabbed a blood-smeared banner from a dead man's hand.

"Retrieve the wounded!" he shouted as the horse fell into a trot. "Return to the camp!"

Hundreds of faces turned towards him as he rode past, the men's joy over their victory mingling with grief as they started surveying the ground, finding friends dead or injured.

Far up above, the dragons still circled the plain, their roars now silenced. The sun was just breaking through the clouds, painting their scales gold, an echo of Camelot's banner against the sky.

Arthur had to tear his eyes away. He could not linger on Merlin's contribution to the battle, could not ponder on the destruction he had wreaked, nor the protection he had so diligently provided. Already, Arthur could tell that they had lost far fewer men than expected, though more death could undoubtedly have been avoided had Caerleon surrendered earlier.

Arthur flagged down one of Caerleon's bannerman, instructing him to pass on a message to his king: a meeting before sundown, in Camelot's encampment, to discuss their surrender. The man dipped his head in defeat, then turned his horse around.

Arthur mirrored his movement, riding towards their side of the plain. He nodded at anyone calling out for him, echoing their relief and expressing his gratitude for their bravery, ultimately leaving the horse to those retrieving the wounded and walking onwards.

By the time he had reached the edge of the camp, Leon had found him, reporting as they walked, "We lost Lucan, Kay and Galahad."

Arthur nodded grimly, pushing down on his grief. He could not give in to it now.

"Bedivere is unconscious," Leon continued. "A blow to the head. Bors is wounded, a nasty cut to the thigh. Gwaine, too. Swordarm. It doesn't look too good." He shook his head, then added grimly, "He was reckless. I think he was trying to reach Caerleon, no matter the cost."

"He told you, then?" Arthur asked. "About his past?"

Leon nodded. "Last night, at the campfire. Never saw him so full of wrath."

Arthur grimaced, wondering if he should have anticipated Gwaine's thirst for retribution and kept an eye on him. But it would not do to let himself spiral into guilt now, not with so many tasks to be tackled. His fingers, though, kept clenching and unclenching, until Leon and he stopped to help pull a stuck cart from a hole and Arthur could redirect his energy.

He wrenched at the wood with all the aggression still coursing through him from the battle, feeling it leak from his pores with every heave and shove. When they were done and the cart was freed, he felt decidedly more settled.

He clapped an encouraging hand on the soldiers' backs as they made for the battlefield, then told Leon, "I want an estimate count on all casualties, not just the knights, as soon as possible. Names, too, if you have them. We'll build the funeral pyres tomorrow."

Leon opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden gust of wind carried his words away. Arthur jumped, looking upwards, only to see the white drake fly low across the camp. The soldiers around them yelped and ducked, though none of them scarpered off. On the contrary, when the dragon landed at the edge of the camp, anyone nearby immediately gathered around, craning their necks to see who it was sitting on the beast's back.

Arthur, too, made for the dragon and arrived just in time to see Merlin slip off it. The soldiers broke into murmurs, and Arthur wondered how many of them recognised the dragonrider as their King's manservant.

"Thank you, Aithusa," Merlin was saying, resting a hand on the dragon's head. The dragon – a younger one, Arthur imagined, about twice the size of a large wyvern – readily leaned into the touch, nuzzling Merlin's hand like a horse might. "You've done your share," Merlin went on. "Go and find Kilgharrah. He's in the woods to the south."

The dragon let out a chirping sound, then retreated, unfolding its wings and taking off, sending the nearby banners aflutter as it did.

Merlin watched it disappear, then turned towards the camp. He stopped abruptly when he spotted Arthur waiting for him. His eyes widened and Arthur, somehow, was startled to see them blue, not gold.

Merlin looked—as he always did. Tall and lean, dressed in simple clothing. His cheeks were flushed pink, his hair tousled from the flight, the only signs on him of what had transpired. Had he walked into Arthur's chambers looking like this, Arthur wouldn't have noticed a thing. A mighty sorcerer, disguised as a servant.

I use it for good. For Camelot. I use it for you, Merlin had said.

How many times? How often had Merlin wielded magic in secret, summoned dragons and wind and lightning bolts, only to return to Arthur's chambers with a grin on his face and a breakfast platter in hand?

How could appearances be so deceptive? How could Arthur not have seen?

His turmoil must have shown on his face. Merlin's expression turned wary. A moment later, he was bowing again; that stilted, awkward bow that looked so terribly wrong on his frame.

"Sire," he murmured, with sickening deference.

Arthur was suddenly acutely aware of the soldiers staring at them, of Leon shifting uncomfortably at his side. "Merlin," he forced out, his throat constricting.

He should say something more – that Merlin had fought well; that there was much to discuss; that he would be expected to submit to his King's judgement come a new day; that sorcery was still outlawed in Camelot.

None of it felt right.

Merlin straightened from his bow, though he kept his eyes lowered. "Sire," he repeated, "With your permission, I should like to help Gaius with the wounded."

It was a reasonable enough request, and Arthur managed to speak past his tight throat to reply, "Permission granted." They would need every hand in the infirmary, and Merlin had been acting as Gaius's assistant for years.

Merlin glanced up at him through his fringe, his eyes searching. "May I…?"

Arthur frowned. "Yes?"

"I could—if you allowed me, that is…" Here, Merlin shook his head at himself, then pulled back his shoulders, standing taller. "I would also ask your permission to heal the wounded with magic, my lord."

He said the word magic so boldly, then, that it took Arthur aback. "You can do that?" he asked.

"I'm not terribly good at it," Merlin admitted. "But I can staunch bleeding well enough."

"I see." Arthur glanced towards the plain, where the wounded were being dragged towards the camp by the dozens, many of them unconscious.

Part of him instinctively recoiled at the idea of using sorcery on someone so vulnerable. He was not sure, either, how accepted such help would be among his men. But then, if one had the choice between magic or death, the decision might be a simple one.

"Could it harm them?" Arthur asked. "Affect them ill, in some way?"

Merlin's face tensed, but he vowed, "No, sire. I might merely fail to heal them."

"Do what you must, then" Arthur said, but fixed Merlin with a stern look. "You are not to use your sorcery on anyone who does not wish it."

"Yes, sire," Merlin conceded at once. "Of course not."

Nodding, Arthur ordered, "Leon, accompany Merlin. Make sure it is understood he has my blessing to—well, to heal."

Leon threw Arthur a cautious look, but did not argue as he stepped forward to accompany Merlin to the infirmary, set up at the back of the encampment. Arthur looked after them as they walked off, then spurred on the still gawking soldiers, sending them off to scour the battlefield, or find treatment for their cuts and bruises, before heading for his own tent.

When he entered, there were no coals gleaming in the brazier, no warm water prepared to wash off the grime of battle, or wine to quench his thirst, but of course there weren't.

Those were Merlin's duties.

And so, Arthur flagged down a soldier to fill the brazier, then stripped off his stained armour by himself, awkwardly and slowly, before peeling himself out of the sweat-soaked gambeson underneath. He left it all on a pile in the corner, then tended to his hair and face, washing it in the bucket of cold water left from last night. He had not come through the battle unscathed, but any cuts he saw had stopped bleeding and didn't require immediate attention. He wrapped some scraps around a particularly nasty slice at his forearm, then pulled some fresh clothes from his trunk, wondering if he should dress to impress, or if that would send the wrong message to Caerleon.

All of a sudden, it occurred to Arthur that Caerleon might bring Morgana to the meeting, and he nearly crushed his fingertips when he closed the trunk too abruptly, and with too much force. Once dressed, he looked about for a drink, only to find the wineskin empty.

Just as well, he thought.

He would need a clear head for the negotiations, though he wouldn't have minded the alcohol numbing some of the pain that was starting to creep up on him. At last, battle weariness was seeping into his bones, unveiling all the other spots where he was battered and bruised.

No sooner had he sunk into his armchair for a rest, however, than did the first knight arrive, giving an account of the wounded and equipment, and then it was a flurry of reports, of giving orders and instructions, and working out what concessions they might demand from Caerleon.

Outside, the soldiers were starting to celebrate, settling down around their campfires and passing around ale and mead. Arthur dearly wished he could join them, but diplomacy demanded his attention and it was all he could do to ask a squire for some food in between the discussions.

It was due to all that that Arthur nearly missed Gwaine's entrance, and it took him several moments, too, to remember what Leon had said about Gwaine being maimed. When the memory caught up with him, Arthur's head snapped up from where he had been hunched over some parchments with Sir Cador. His eyes automatically sought out Gwaine's right arm, only to find there hung a perfectly healthy limb.

"Gwaine!" he exclaimed. "I had been told you were injured!"

Gwaine flashed him a wide grin, the sort Arthur hadn't seen on him ever since the start of Caerleon's aggressions. "Aye, I was. Would still be bleeding all over, were it not for Merlin." He uttered the name with such enthusiastic affection that it drove a strange thrill through Arthur, though he did not miss the wary murmurs from some of the knights. "You would not believe what he can do!" Gwaine continued and raised his arm, showing it off wondrously, like a child might present a new toy. "Put his hand on me, murmured some words and ta-da – as good as new."

Arthur blinked at him, watching as Leon and Percival stepped up to Gwaine to check over the arm and draw Gwaine into a half-hug. At last, Arthur leaned back over the parchments, trying to hide his stunned expression.

Sir Cador, however, saw. "He's an unusually powerful sorcerer, your servant," he commented.

"I wouldn't know," Arthur replied, glancing at him. "I know too little of sorcery to make a comparison."

"There were quite a few sorcerers at court, sire, before," Sir Cador elaborated quietly, his expression guarded. "Believe me when I say that healing fatal wounds and commanding dragons were not skills often found amongst them."

Arthur curled his hand against the table. "What is your point, Sir Cador?" he asked, tetchy now. "That he's dangerous? That I am wrong to let him heal my men if they wish it?"

Sir Cador immediately raised a placating hand. "Apologies, sire. I did not mean to insinuate anything, nor to question your good judgement." He paused. "Although…"

Arthur huffed and made a beckoning motion.

"How sure are you of his loyalty to you?"

Arthur should perhaps have expected the question, but it took him by surprise nonetheless. Even more surprised was he to find that his first instinct was to say, Completely sure.

Before he could examine the thought, however, Elyan entered the tent, announcing, "He's coming. Caerleon, he's riding across the plain."

Arthur stepped away from the table. "Alone?" he asked.

"Two knights are riding with him," Elyan reported, then added, with an almost apologetic look, "No sight of Morgana, sire."

Arthur's heart clenched at that, but all he said was, "Thank you, Elyan. Make sure he is led here directly." He dismissed all but a couple of knights for the upcoming negotiations, hesitating when he looked at Gwaine, who immediately crossed his arms.

"I'm staying," he said.

Arthur frowned. "Leon said you got yourself injured because you were trying to take Caerleon down on your own," he replied doubtfully. "I won't have you disrupt the negotiations."

Gwaine shot Leon a dirty look, but said, "I can behave."

Arthur pinned him with a hard look. "Can you?"

To Arthur's surprise, Gwaine lowered his eyes abruptly, defiance bleeding from his mien. "Yes, sire. I swear it," he said, then glanced up again. "Please," he added. "I should like to be here to see him surrender. It's the only satisfaction I might ever get."

Arthur stared him down, watching him fidget, then gave a curt nod. "Don't make me regret it," he added.

Gwaine took up position with the others at the wall on Arthur's side. A second armchair had been procured for Caerleon, who entered the tent but a few moments later, flanked by his knights.

They had been stripped of any weapons, or brought none, which left them with leather armour and chainmail. Caerleon had donned a blue cloak, fur-lined around the shoulders, as was the fashion in his kingdom, his crescent moon pendant glinting at his neck. There was a nasty cut on his cheek, already crusted over, and some bruising on his jaw and neck. Arthur could respect a king who joined his soldiers in battle. Age had mottled Caerleon's beard grey and white, but clearly, his years had not kept him from wielding his sword.

"Your Majesty," Arthur greeted him, dipping his head the slightest bit.

Caerleon looked him over with beady eyes, then offered a grim nod in return. "King Arthur," he acknowledged.

Arthur gestured towards the armchair. Caerleon scanned the tent, then settled down, his knights taking up position behind him. He declined an offer of wine, watching Arthur sit down across. "Well, then," he said gruffly, "let's hear your terms."

"First, I should like to offer you our assistance," Arthur returned. "Our infirmary is well-stocked and we have men to spare to assist you with your wounded."

Caerleon stared at him, then let out a dry, barking laugh. "Don't insult me with your pity, Pendragon."

Arthur frowned. "The offer was made in good faith, I assure you."

Caerleon huffed and made an impatient waving motion. "I would hear your terms," he demanded again, gesturing at the parchments on the table.

Arthur handed one of them over wordlessly, sensing that Caerleon might take offence if he insisted further. As Caerleon read over the parchment, Arthur chanced a glance at Gwaine. He was glaring at Caerleon, but looked to be keeping his promise to lie low.

"Surrender Everwick?" Caerleon said at last, lowering the parchment. "That land has been ours for well over a century."

Arthur met his eyes head-on, hardening his face. "You invaded my kingdom unprovoked," he returned. "Recompense must be made."

"Some recompense," Caerleon scoffed, but did not argue the point, nor demand Everwick be struck from the treaty.

"You will find we have taken into consideration the recent droughts in your kingdom," Arthur added. "We know of your people's struggles and demand neither grain nor coin, only land."

In fact, Arthur had settled on far less that his senior knights had advised. He wanted peace, first and foremost. It would not do to humiliate Caerleon with their demands or strip his people bare, which would only lead to festering animosity. Already, Caerleon was poor, while Camelot was rich – a dangerous imbalance.

"You accept the terms?" Arthur pushed after a lengthy silence.

Caerleon handed off the parchment to one of the knights for further perusal. Instead of giving an answer, he stated, "Didn't think you had it in you, Pendragon. Using magic? What would your father have said?"

"I am not my father," Arthur returned evenly, not about to be provoked. "I understand that sometimes, you must fight fire with fire."

"Dragonfire, in this case," Caerleon pointed out. "It has been decades since Camelot employed a dragonlord. I was told Uther had killed them all, along with their beasts."

So was I, Arthur thought. Out loud, he said, "I fear you were ill-informed."

Caerleon let out a grim laugh. "Yes," he conceded. "And ill-advised. Your sister told me you would be an easy target for her sorcery, which she offered free of charge. I should have known better than to take her word for it." He chuckled, another humourless sound. "If I didn't know better, I could well believe you orchestrated this whole thing with her."

Arthur's hand tightened where it was curled around his armrest. "And how is Morgana?" he asked, but could not help the sharp edge creeping in his voice as he braced himself for the answer.

Caerleon made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Gone. Made a run for it, as soon as she realised your dragonlord was too powerful." He let out another dry laugh. "It's my fault for trusting that witch. I was greedy, and I paid the price for it."

"You paid the price for it?"

Arthur jumped, his head swivelling towards the voice. Gwaine had taken a step forward, though Leon's arm was on his shoulder, holding him back.

Caerleon narrowed his eyes at him. "And who are you?" he demanded.

"You're right about your own greed, but it is not you who is paying the price for it," Gwaine went on, ignoring Arthur's order to be quiet. "It is not you lying out on that field, burnt to a cinder, is it? It's your men, you bastard, your people, your—"

"Gwaine! Stop it!" Arthur barked once more, then jerked his head at Leon, signalling him to remove Gwaine from the tent. "I apologise," he added towards Caerleon.

But Caerleon had sat up in the chair, his face intrigued. "Gwaine?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Ah, of course. I see it now. Gawyn's son. I must say, you look exactly like your father."

Gwaine sneered, still trying to shake off Leon's hold. "Do not speak to me of my father," he growled. "He died for you, like those men out there died for you, and you showed him the same contempt in his death that you show for their sacrifice now!"

"A knight's duty is to his king, a man's duty to his kingdom," Caerleon replied, unimpressed. "Sometimes, that duty includes dying."

Gwaine cursed and spat on the ground.

Arthur ordered him from the tent again, sensing a diplomatic nightmare unfolding, but Caerleon only laughed, watching as Leon finally managed to drag Gwaine out, with the help of Percival.

"I apologise," Arthur repeated. "He's hot-tempered. I shouldn't have let him watch."

Caerleon waved him off. "I admire his passion," he said. "I did not know he was one of yours now. Good stock, that one. A cousin holds Gawyn's fiefdom now, but he's not nearly the knight his uncle ever was." He reached out to take the parchment from the knight behind him, who leaned forward to whisper something into Caerleon's ear. The king, however, discounted it with a dismissive shake of the head. "We accept your terms," he said simply and held out his hand for a quill.

Arthur watched him sign two copies of the treaty with a crescent moon, then they sealed the agreement with an arm shake.

"My offer for assistance still stands," Arthur couldn't help but add as they parted.

"Keep your herbs and potions, Pendragon," Caerleon replied. "My wolves are tough. Those who survive the night will come out all the stronger for it. The weak are better off dead." He looked Arthur over, then added, "You're different from what I expected. Your sister – the way she talked of you, you might as well be a spawn straight from the seven hells."

Arthur grimaced. "My sister is bitter," he replied tersely. "She's lost much."

Caerleon let out a thoughtful hum, but all he said was, "We will be crossing the border tomorrow at nightfall, and hand over Everwick by the end of the month. Expect a missive from my queen with the details." With that, he left, blue cloak billowing.

Arthur briefly reconvened with the knights, then dismissed the lot, though he followed them out a few moments later, wrapped in a warm cape. The camp had long been embraced by dusk and fires were burning everywhere, surrounded by drinking and singing soldiers.

To his surprise, he found Gwaine waiting just outside his tent, flanked by Percival and Lancelot. He looked uncharacteristically contrite.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, before Arthur could say a single word. "Truly. I made an oath to you to hold my tongue, sire, and I broke it." He bowed low. "I'll accept any punishment, my lord."

Taken aback, Arthur let the knight squirm as he gathered his thoughts, contemplating lashes and latrine duty, before dismissing all such ideas.

Instead, he stepped forward and clapped a hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "You're forgiven," he said, smiling when Gwaine's head came up in surprise. "It was my fault, really. I should have known you couldn't hold your tongue, and sent you out. I've got only myself to blame."

The look Gwaine gave him then drove heat into Arthur's cheeks and he hurried to add, "Besides, Caerleon is a hard man, and I cannot deny the way he talked of his people's sacrifice was upsetting." He grimaced as he pulled his hand from Gwaine's shoulder. "And the way he refused our help…"

"His own pride is more important to him than the well-being of his men," Gwaine replied. "The people of Everwick will soon learn what it is to be ruled by a good king. A king I am proud to serve." He said those words with such conviction that it drove a shiver up Arthur's spine.

"Thank you," he replied.

Gwaine nodded. "And I know that you'll make the right decision about Merlin, too."

Arthur struggled not to let his face slip. He had almost forgotten about Merlin for a moment. "You should all rest," he said. "Celebrate with the men. We'll break camp tomorrow."

Gwaine left with Percival, proclaiming he knew where a barrel of special ale had been stashed away, but Lancelot lingered, seeking out Arthur's gaze. "Sire," he said. "Have you been to the infirmary today?"

Arthur shook his head. "I was just about to visit," he replied. He should have liked to go earlier, but had been too busy. The least the injured deserved were a word of gratitude or comfort from their liege, the man who had brought them here and forced them to fight. "Why? Is something the matter?"

Lancelot shifted. "It's just—Merlin, he—" Lancelot shook his head. "Perhaps it's better that you see for yourself, sire."

Arthur frowned, unease creeping up his back. "What do you mean? What happened?"

Again, Lancelot shook his head. "I'll walk you there, sire."

---

The infirmary was a large patch of short, dry grass, covered by an open-walled tent. It had been raised right at the base of a large rock, where it was protected from winds and weather by the foothills. Neat rows of bedrolls were laid out on the ground, with braziers smouldering in between to chase away the worst of the autumn cold.

Arthur knew from experience the atmosphere prevalent in a field infirmary. He was familiar with the sickening cacophony of moans and whimpers, the foul stench of sickness, the blood-curdling screams when a wound needed to be cauterised.

But as Lancelot and he approached the tent, neither the smell nor the sound were nearly as overwhelming as Arthur had expected. The infirmary was full, almost every bedroll occupied, but many soldiers were sitting up and talking quietly, hands curled around some warm mead or ale, while others were sleeping, their faces smooth as they rested. Only a handful of soldiers seemed to be in significant pain, trembling on their bedrolls and clutching at an arm, leg or shoulder while a comrade sat guard and offered comfort.

As soon as Arthur stepped underneath the roof of the tent, the nearby men quieted, their eyes on him, with a few soldiers attempting to get to their feet to pay their respects.

Arthur bid them all to stay put, citing their injuries. "You've been taken well care of?" he asked a group of younger men to his right.

"Yes, m'lord," they mumbled, clearly intimidated to be talking to their King. They had to be tradesmen or farmers, hailing from the east of Camelot, judging by their accents.

"I can only thank you for fighting so valiantly for your kingdom," Arthur went on. "I know you're needed at home. Rest assured that assistance will be provided, should any of you find yourself unable to tend to your fields or other work due to your injuries."

The soldiers bobbed their heads, exchanging loaded glances. Something hung in the air, unsaid.

"You may speak freely," Arthur offered with an encouraging gesture. "If anything is amiss, I'll attempt to find a solution."

More looks were exchanged, until one of the men suddenly spoke up, "Beg yer pardon, m'lord, but—um, we was wondrin'—"

"Galen! Shut yer gob!" one of the men hissed, while another tugged at Galen's arm, jostling him in a clear attempt to silence him.

Galen, however, seemed to have some bravery left from the battle, "I was only wondrin', m'lord," he continued quickly, though his voice had turned shaky, "about the sorcerer."

"What about him?" Arthur demanded. The words came out more harshly than he had wanted.

Galen promptly ducked his head, though he still dared to reply, "We won't be gettin' in some sort o'trouble, will we, m'lord? For lettin' him heal us?"

His voice had grown steadily quieter and when Arthur glanced at the others, some of them had gone white in the face, noticeable even in the dim glow of the lamps and braziers. "Of course not," Arthur hurried to say. "I gave specific orders that anyone who wishes to be healed with sorcery may do so."

Galen relaxed and when he spoke next, he started outright babbling, relief loosening his tongue, "We wasn't going ta do it at first, truly, m'lord! But then we saw him fix up that knight's arm. All mangled up, wasn't it? Like a hound had got in and chewed on it! But the sorcerer—he spoke only a word and then, 'twas right as rain again. And my leg? 'twas all wrong, m'lord. Twisted at the knee and slashed. Couldn't have done nuffin' no more on the field, I reckon—"

"Galen," one of the others hushed him again and this time, Galen closed his mouth.

"He fixed your leg?" Arthur asked. "With sorcery?"

Galen nodded shyly and pulled aside the cover of his bedroll to present Arthur with the sight of badly torn breeches around a grimy but perfectly straight leg.

Arthur stared at it, then glanced at the others. "And you? He healed you, too?"

The men nodded, one of them lifting a lightly bandaged arm, another pointing at his stomach, where the rusted chainmail he was still wearing had been ripped apart, though the wound he revealed looked like it had healed for a fortnight, or more.

Feeling a little dazed, Arthur thanked them and stepped away, only to find Lancelot had stayed nearby and listened.

"Merlin healed them all?" Arthur asked him, glancing around the infirmary.

"Healed them when it was dire, eased their pain in lesser cases, I think," Lancelot replied. "Some refused his help, but not many."

Arthur nodded, still looking around the tent until at last, he spotted two familiar figures at the far end of it. Without another word, Arthur headed there, nodding at the soldiers he passed, making a few more stops for those whose injuries looked particularly bad.

At last, he reached the far back of the tent. Gaius was standing at the head of a bedroll, a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin, in turn, was kneeling on the ground, his hands pressed onto the chest of a man lying before him.

"... can do it, Gaius," Merlin was saying. "I can heal him." His voice, hoarse and low, unsettled Arthur, and when he stepped closer, he could see Merlin was trembling where he knelt.

"You can't save everyone," Gaius replied, his tone firm. Arthur saw he was tugging at Merlin's shoulder, trying to pull him away.

"There's still life in him. I can sense it," Merlin shot back, his voice turning harsher, before he started mumbling a string of words, incomprehensible magical syllables that spilled from his lips without pause.

"What is going on?" Arthur demanded.

Gaius startled badly, quickly inclining his head when he recognised Arthur, though his face closed off in an instant, caution written all over it. "Your Majesty," he said, his tone exceedingly respectful, though Arthur did not miss the way Gaius had started inching closer to Merlin until he was half-hidden behind Gaius's robes.

Arthur's stomach did a flip at the idea that Gaius would think it necessary to protect Merlin from him. But then, he was standing between a sorcerer and the King of Camelot, was he not?

"Is he healing him?" Arthur asked, jerking his head at Merlin.

If Merlin had noticed him, he did not look up, still hunched over the soldier on the bedroll, murmuring his strange words.

Gaius pursed his lips, then said quietly, "That man is beyond salvation, sire. Bleeding on the inside. We caught it much too late."

Arthur grimaced, then looked back at Merlin. "Then why is he—"

"I can save him," Merlin cut him off, stopping his spell, and finally lifted his head.

A bright shock ran through Arthur's body at the sight of Merlin's face. It looked gaunt, as if he hadn't eaten in days, his eyes sunk-in and framed by dark circles, his mouth snow-white. He looked positively ill, much more so than the soldiers resting on the bedrolls behind them. "Merlin—" Arthur started.

"I can save him," Merlin repeated, talking right over him in a frantic voice. "I can do it. I know I can. I've got the hang of it now, just let me…" Without a pause, he launched into the spell again, his eyes flickering gold as he leaned back over the soldier.

At this point, Gaius's lips were pressed into a thin, worried line. He caught Arthur's gaze, slowly shaking his head, his eyes speaking volumes.

And just like that, things fell into place for Arthur. Something hard and heavy, something he had not even known had lodged itself deep inside of him, gave way, leaving him with a sense of absolute clarity.

Without hesitation, he sank down on one knee next to Merlin. From this angle, he could see the soldier's face. His eyes were wide open, empty and distant, his face grey. If he wasn't dead already, he would be making his journey to Avalon at any moment.

Arthur might not know much about sorcery, but even he understood that nobody could bring back the dead. With a steady hand, he reached out and clasped Merlin's shoulder.

"Merlin," he said. "You need to stop. He's gone."

Merlin only shook his head, pressing his hands all the more tightly against the man's chest as he kept speaking the spell words.

Arthur mirrored the movement, firming his own hold on Merlin's shoulder. "You need to stop," he repeated. "That's an order from your king."

Merlin shuddered underneath his grip, but shook his head again and kept right on going, stubbornly reciting his spell. Arthur could see his eyelids flutter with exhaustion, his cheekbone bathed in the dim golden light of his sorcery. The sight, Arthur found, no longer made his skin creep.

Coming to a decision, he moved forward, slipping his hands under Merlin's armpits, and started dragging him upwards.

"No," Merlin protested at once, though his struggles were barely enough to jostle Arthur. "No, no, no, what are you doing? I'm not done! Please, I must—"

"You can't help him," Arthur cut him off, turning Merlin towards him.

Merlin was swaying on the spot. His eyes were still flickering gold, painting harsh shadows on his thin face. "I can save him," he insisted.

"My dear boy," sighed Gaius, who had crouched down by the man's head, two fingers pressed against the neck. "This man is dead." He ran a gentle hand over the soldier's eyes to close them, then looked up, offering Merlin a sad smile. "You did all you could."

Merlin closed his eyes and let out a pained noise, a mewl like a wounded animal. Shaking all over, he sagged, Arthur's firm grip all that kept him upright at that moment.

Then, as quickly as he had flagged, he seemed to draw new strength. He locked his knees, standing straight again, and pulled back his shoulders.

"Right. Fine," he croaked, trying to shrug off Arthur's hands. "I'll go and spell those poultices, then. The ones that can draw out an infection. And then—"

Arthur couldn't help himself – he shook Merlin, the way he did when he had to break a knight's stupor after battle. "Have you gone mad?" he snapped. "You look like death warmed over. You need to rest!"

Merlin cringed back at his tone, his eyes widening. The gold, Arthur saw, had finally faded to blue. "I can't," Merlin argued. "I must—"

"You can, and you will," Arthur cut him off. "You've done enough here. You will lie down and rest. Again, that's an order from your king and you will obey me this time, or the gods help me. Is that clear?"

Merlin blinked at him.

"Is that clear?" Arthur pushed.

Merlin gave a hesitant nod.

Satisfied, Arthur looked at Gaius. "Does he need treatment?" he asked. "A draught? A potion?"

"Food and sleep," Gaius replied. He had straightened from his crouch and was brushing a hand over his crinkled robes. "He's drained. All these healing spells, on top of what he did during battle…" He sent Merlin a look, as stern as it was fond. "That boy doesn't know when to stop. He's exhausted."

"To my tent, then," Arthur decided and pushed Merlin forwards.

Merlin stumbled in the direction of the exit, then looked over his shoulder with wide eyes. "I can rest here," he objected, gesturing at one of the empty bedrolls on the ground. "That way, if Gaius needs me, I can—"

"Keep moving," Arthur growled.

Merlin ducked his head at his tone and kept walking, though really, he was half-falling over with every other step. They moved past staring soldiers and towards the other end of the infirmary, where a smiling Lancelot assured Merlin he would be happy to assist Gaius in his stead.

The promise seemed to ease Merlin's worries considerably, and by the time Arthur was shoving Merlin past the guards and into the royal tent, he was flagging in earnest.

"Sit," Arthur ordered and sent him stumbling towards one of the armchairs by the table.

Someone, most likely Leon's squire, had put a pot of stew on the brazier, and a new wineskin was resting on the table. Arthur pointed at it, ordering Merlin to take a swig, then started hunting for dishes, cursing and muttering under his breath when he realised Merlin's packing followed no logical order whatsoever. When at last, he had unearthed some wooden bowls and spoons from a trunk and scooped out some soup, Merlin was huddled in the armchair, the wineskin sitting uselessly in his lap.

"Why aren't you drinking that?" Arthur demanded, putting down the bowls on the table with too much force, some stew sloshing over the edge and onto the crinkled battle maps below. "I hope you're not expecting me to fetch you a goblet."

"Too weak. Can't open it," Merlin said and let out a strange noise.

It took Arthur a moment to realise it was a giggle and found he had to fight a smile of his own, a prickling warmth spreading in his chest. With an exaggerated sigh, he took up the wineskin and uncorked it for Merlin, who accepted it from his hands, managing to lift it to his lips and take a swallow, though half of it spilled onto his tunic.

"Idiot," Arthur said, and couldn't help but reach out and lightly flick Merlin's ear before he sat down on the other armchair, drawing one of the bowls close.

He stilled when he found Merlin staring at him.

"What?" Arthur asked, then pointed his spoon at the soup. "Eat. It's not often a king will serve a peasant, so you had better appreciate it."

Merlin kept right on staring.

"Eat," Arthur repeated more firmly. He dug in, throwing Merlin another stern look as he did.

Slowly, Merlin put down the wineskin and picked up his own spoon, his fingers shaking. Fortunately, the food ended up in his mouth.

They ate quietly, with Arthur finishing long before Merlin, which was just as well. Leaving Merlin to his stew, he approached the camp bed, dumping half of the furs on the bedroll still resting on the ground before going through Merlin's knapsack for a fresh tunic and some breeches.

When he returned to the table, Merlin was about to fall asleep in his bowl, his nose inches away from the stew.

"Idiot," Arthur repeated and pulled Merlin out of the chair.

Merlin stumbled right into him and when Arthur wrapped an arm around his shoulder to steady him, a rush of heat greeted him.

"Look what you've done," Arthur tutted, pulling Merlin towards the bed. "I think you're getting a fever."

"Sorry," Merlin murmured. He tried to sink down on the bedroll as they passed it, but Arthur only let out an impatient noise and shoved him towards the camp bed instead.

"You're sleeping here," he grunted and pushed Merlin down onto the furs.

Merlin was staring again. "What?" he croaked stupidly.

"You heard me. Now arms up!"

"What?" Merlin repeated, even more dumbly.

Arthur let out an impatient huff and unceremoniously started pulling at Merlin's tunic. "Arms up, I said."

Merlin fell quiet, struggling to help Arthur along. They managed between them to pull off the grimy clothes and put on some new ones after a half-hearted effort to clean off the worst of the blood and filth with a wet cloth.

"This isn't your job," Merlin muttered at last. His cheeks had gone pink while Arthur kept fumbling with his laces, and it wasn't only from the fever.

Arthur let out another huff, glancing up at Merlin from where he was kneeling on the ground. "I am well aware of that." At last, he gave up on the laces, deciding Merlin didn't need to look presentable in bed. "Lie down now. You look about ready to faint."

He made to get up from his undignified position, but Merlin curled a gentle hand around his wrist, his fingers burning hot against Arthur's skin.

"Arthur," he said. "Can we talk?"

"Are you asking permission now before chewing my ear off?" Arthur deflected. "We both need to rest. My arms are like lead from all the fighting."

But Merlin wasn't so easily deterred. "Please," he said. "There are things you have to know. About me, about my magic, about the dragons…"

Arthur pulled his hand from Merlin's grasp and got up. "We can talk about this tomorrow," he brushed him off. "Sleep now. You need it."

"Arthur, please," Merlin begged again. His eyes looked glossy. "I can't—Don't you—I mean, aren't you angry?"

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course I am angry," he said at last, though all he really felt at that moment was tiredness.

Predictably enough, Merlin flinched at his admission. "I'm sorry," he said. "So, so sorry. I never wanted—that is, I always wanted to tell you, Arthur, but I never—"

Arthur silenced him by placing a hand on his head. "Hush," he said. "We're not having this conversation tonight. For once, listen to your betters and have a rest."

Merlin let out something that sounded an awful lot like a wet sniff, but nodded.

Arthur couldn't resist ruffling his hair.

He collapsed onto the bedroll on the ground, the day catching up with him at last. He just managed to drag the furs over him, watching Merlin do the same on the bed and then, like a snuffed candle, he was out.

He awoke abruptly, to someone whimpering.

Arthur sat up straight on the bedroll, his heart thumping, and it took him a moment to remember where he was and locate the source of the noise – Merlin, on Arthur's camp bed.

He was turned toward Arthur, the furs tangled around his legs, his face flushed dark pink and his brow covered with sweat. His mouth was trembling and another whimper made it past his lips moments later, jostling Arthur from his sleep-hazed stupor and getting him to move.

He crawled forward, pressing a hand against Merlin's nape, which was on fire. Cursing, Arthur scrambled to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and fighting to overcome the awful ache in his legs to make his way towards the tent flap.

Outside, the night guards were sitting on the ground, drinking ale in the light of the moon. When they saw Arthur emerge, they jumped to their feet, apologies tumbling from their lips, but Arthur waved them off. They deserved a break, like the rest of them.

"Fetch Gaius," he told one of them. "Wake him, if you must. Tell him Merlin's caught a fever and needs treatment." He looked at the other. "You. I need fresh water. A bucket of it, if you can."

Before either guard could reply, Arthur had dipped back into the tent, making straight for the bed, only to pause there and gaze down at Merlin.

He looked much too thin and too frail, his dark hair plastered to his forehead and his faded tunic clinging to his back. In the past two years, he had shaken off most of the gangliness of his teens, but on this bed, ill and exhausted, he seemed young again, like the peasant boy who had once brazenly challenged Arthur in the streets of Camelot.

He must have used magic that day, Arthur realised, and waited for another wave of jumbled feelings to emerge. He was expecting anger, or perhaps a sense of betrayal.

But all he could muster was worry, and a strange surge of affection. He settled down on the edge of the bed, careful not to squash Merlin as he did.

Merlin was shivering and breathing unevenly, though he had fallen quiet again. Arthur rearranged the furs a little, then squeezed Merlin's shoulder. To his surprise, Merlin blinked his eyes open. He didn't seem properly awake and glanced about, appearing confused and slurring Arthur's name.

Arthur leaned closer. "Save your strength," he murmured. "You're ill."

Gaius entered the tent a few minutes later, his hair wild and his robes a mess, a satchel slung haphazardly around his shoulder. He came to stand a few steps away, taking in the scene with his eyebrows drawn, though his whole face softened when he zeroed in on Merlin.

"That foolish boy," he sighed and approached the bed.

Arthur watched Gaius prod and mutter at Merlin as he examined him, then got up to accept the water from the returning guard, fetching a cloth on his way back to the bed before offering both to Gaius.

"I don't think it's an infection," Gaius told him as he accepted the cloth, wetted it, and placed it tenderly on Merlin's brow.

Merlin was blinking tiredly at the ceiling, mumbling something incomprehensible.

"He's overexerted himself yesterday, and now he's paying the price for it," Gaius went on. "I'll give him something to get the fever down. Hopefully, he will be fine in the morning."

Arthur nodded. "Does this happen a lot?" he asked. "Him, overusing his… his sorcery?"

Gaius threw him a wary look, but whatever he saw on Arthur's face let him relax. "Not like this," he said. "Merlin has done much for Camelot, but he's never fought a battle of this size, or healed dozens of men in one day. It was bound to take its toll, even on him."

Arthur thought that over as he watched Gaius mix up the feverfew. "He's… quite powerful, isn't he? For a sorcerer?"

Gaius stayed silent, lifting Merlin's head with one hand and placing the cup of medicine at his lips. Merlin scrunched up his face, but obediently drank the potion. When he was done, Gaius carefully lowered his head again, his fingers lingering in Merlin's hair. Merlin closed his eyes, drifting off.

At last, Gaius answered, "Merlin is exceedingly powerful, yes. Some even say he's the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth."

There was something fundamentally incredible about that statement, and, despite everything he had seen the day before, Arthur couldn't help but snort, "Merlin? Really?"

Gaius got to his feet. "It's really not my place to say more, sire."

"But you knew all along," Arthur replied, a little more sharply than before.

Gaius met his eyes unflinchingly. "Yes, sire. I knew," he admitted freely. "And I protected him, from your father, and from you." He lifted his chin. "I would do it again, if I had to." There was a threat there, Arthur thought, something he had never heard from Gaius in all the time he had known him.

Perhaps it should have worried him, the keeper of poisons so ready to admit to treason, but instead, he vowed, "Don't worry, Gaius. I'm not going to hurt him."

Gaius looked him over carefully, then smiled; that kind, gentle smile Arthur had often been the recipient of as a sick child. "You're a good man, Arthur," he said. "Your mother would be very proud of you." He looked back at Merlin. "Call for me if he gets worse."

With that, he departed from the tent, leaving Arthur with a tight throat and prickling eyes, though he shook it off when Merlin started mumbling again. He sat down on the bed, turning the wet cloth over on its cooler side. Merlin's hair was a sweaty mess and without conscious thought, Arthur reached out to smooth down some of the strands.

He startled when Merlin's hand suddenly shot out, grabbing a hold of his. "Gaius," he hissed, his eyes unfocused.

"No," Arthur told him. "It's Arthur." He tried to shake off Merlin's grip, but it was strong.

"Gaius," Merlin repeated. "Arthur. He knows. He knows about the magic."

Arthur stilled.

"He knows," Merlin said again, his fingers tightening painfully as his voice turned shriller. "What do I do?"

Very carefully, Arthur extracted his hand from Merlin's punishing grip. "It'll be all right, Merlin," he said.

But Merlin wasn't listening. His eyes remained unfocused, his hands now curling into the furs. "What if he hates me?" he whispered. "He'll hate me, Gaius, won't he?"

Arthur had to close his eyes at that. "No," he said thickly. "No, he won't."

"The sword," Merlin went on. "I need to fetch his sword from Freya. He'll need it."

"He's got it, Merlin. Don't worry."

Merlin sighed. "I just want to protect him," he said, his voice growing ever weaker. "I just—I just want to serve my King…"

Arthur took a shuddering breath, then reached out to pat Merlin's hand. "You've done all you could, old friend," he said quietly. "Sleep now."

Merlin closed his eyes with another sigh, falling asleep to Arthur circling his thumb over his clammy hand.

Arthur wetted Merlin's cloth a few more times, brushing away more damp hair as he placed it on his forehead, until he felt the fever might be waning. At last, he got up, considering the bedroll on the ground before thinking better of it. Instead, he walked over to the armchair and sank down there.

Outside, the camp had settled down, with even the most elated of his troops finally succumbing to sleep. The wind Merlin had sent away had yet to return. All was quiet.

For a while, all Arthur did was sit, watching Merlin from afar. He was breathing evenly now, his face peaceful.

Finally, Arthur reached for the quill and ink still resting on the table, turning over a map to scribble on its back. He was too tired to think of the proper words, too exhausted to remember how exactly to write what he wanted to, but he had an inkling he was not going to get more sleep tonight, so he might as well try and do something useful.

By the time the sun had risen over the camp and Merlin stirred on the bed, Arthur had drafted a new law.