Your Land, Powder and Dust, a merlin fanfic

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

"You're absolutely certain about this?" Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur could not remember his servant ever sounding this serious, nor tense. He turned his head to take him in.

Merlin was clutching the reins of his horse so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. In spite of the merciless burn of the sun, his face appeared pale. His eyes were narrowed against the glare, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat, his chapped lips pressed into a thin, firm line. The ever-present dust that had worked its way past Arthur's armour, irking his skin, was speckled brightly across Merlin's dark hair.

The King grimaced. In all honesty, he was not certain. Not certain at all. But he was desperate. Desperate enough to consider any solution presented to him.

"Look around you," he replied and gestured at the land that once had been beautiful, prosperous Camelot.

Merlin – for once – immediately obeyed, turning his head towards the fields to their right. The soil had been bleached by one hundred days of direct sunlight, cracked into a thousand chunks of sickly beige. Colourless stalks were all that was left of what should have been a plentiful harvest. The road they were riding on was lined by brittle, yellow fibres, once upon a time lush vegetation, and dry twigs of dead bushes were reaching towards the hooves of their horses like bony claws.

Camelot had become a desert.

Merlin turned back towards Arthur and nodded once, grimly. He understood.

"Dust cloud ahead," warned Leon behind them.

Arthur watched Merlin pluck at his neckerchief. With practiced movements, he dragged it over his chin, settling the tattered red cloth over mouth and nose, hiding his grave expression in the process.

The sight unnerved Arthur, even as he made to pull at his own scarf. He had wrapped it around his head like a peasant woman might, now dragging the tail end of it across his face to serve as a veil. All around him, his knights were copying the movement, protecting their faces with cloth. The sight of it, armoured men thus covered, dearly reminded Arthur of the turbans of Cenred's men. Were Essetir's king still alive, he undoubtedly would have found the sight of Camelot's knights adopting the fashions of his land disgustingly amusing.

It felt like hiding. A knight of Camelot didn't hide; he faced danger head-on. There might very well be a taste of defeat in covering up, perhaps a hint of cowardice, but these were desperate times, just as Arthur was a desperate man. Besides, nobody liked eating dust.

His pride did not matter in the slightest. He would need to swallow more of it for the ritual. He was expected to humble himself.

But Camelot was dying and Arthur would do anything, anything at all, to protect her.

dies ariditatis XXIX
(day 29 of the drought)

"It's been one complete lunar cycle, Your Majesty," said Geoffrey of Monmouth gravely, "which, therefore, officially makes this a drought."

Arthur straightened on his armchair. He had known, of course, that it had not rained in Camelot for some days. Still, he had thought the time span closer to a fortnight than a full month. A glance around the Round Table showed surprise only in a couple of the councillor's faces. Most lords and knights were nodding grimly, clearly aware of the issue.

Even Merlin, Arthur realised after a quick check for his servant, did not look taken aback where he was standing quietly against the wall, head slightly bowed and hands clasped at the front, as was proper.

Guinevere, equally unfazed, spoke up, "Four weeks without rain, on top of the unusually hot temperatures… Are there any reports from the villages? How are the farmers faring?"

"Doing the best they can, my Queen. Pulling water from the rivers and wells to pour it onto their fields at night, driving their cattle into the forests to have them rest in the shade," said Lord Auden, shuffling around some parchments as he spoke. "But there's only so much they can do. There hasn't been a cloud in the sky for weeks and the summer sun is burning everything to a cinder."

"It's already quite clear this will severely impact this year's harvest," added Lord Edric.

"And it's affecting the health of the people as we speak," Gaius stated, face lined with worry. "I have been treating heat strokes, day in, day out. The elderly, of course, have it worst, but small children aren't faring much better, even in the shade."

"This is all of Camelot, Lord Geoffrey?" Arthur asked, frowning at the reports he was hearing. Ever since he had become King, he was juggling a dozen different issues at once at every given moment. Still: How could he have missed the severity of this?

"Yes, sire," Lord Geoffrey informed him. "Not a single drop of rain across the land."

Arthur placed a hand against his chin as he thought this over. "Is there any way to tell how much longer this will last? Records, perhaps, of past dry summers?"

"There are some records of extreme droughts, of course," replied Lord Geoffrey. "Almost two centuries ago, Camelot went through a year that saw no rain for almost three months."

"Three months!" Arthur exclaimed, only barely suppressing his rising alarm.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Lord Geoffrey confirmed. "Though from what I understand, that particular drought was not coupled with the perpetually hot temperatures we've been seeing."

Arthur's frown deepened. "So this is worse."

"It could be, if we don't see any rainfall soon."

Arthur nodded grimly. "We need to watch the wells, keep an eye on the water levels," he announced and the councillors murmured in agreement.

"I will draw up a plan so we can start rationing water as soon as it becomes necessary," offered Gaius. "If worse comes to worst, it should be clear how much each person is allowed to take."

"Guards should be posted at the wells if we do implement restrictions," Leon suggested. "I will approach the captain and draft a schedule now so we are prepared."

"Let's hope it won't come to that," Arthur replied. "Is there any way of telling if rain might be imminent?"

"Predicting the weather is an unreliable art…" Lord Geoffrey trailed off, but at Arthur's impatient beckoning motion he admitted, "The winds aren't promising, Your Majesty."

When Arthur finally dismissed the council, he accepted a kiss from Guinevere, then stayed behind, reading over the reports from the villages. Just as Lord Auden had said, the news was worrying. Many a farmer had started to slaughter sheep and pigs early before they could succumb to heat or a lack of food and drink.

Arthur was startled by the sound of flowing water and flinched. Merlin had stayed behind as well and was topping up his goblet with a jug. "Stop creeping up on me," Arthur snapped.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," Merlin said drily and gave a mocking bow. "I will make sure to trample about the castle in the future."

Arthur rubbed a hand over his brow, calming himself. He knew Merlin had done nothing to deserve his ill temper. In a more conciliatory tone he added, "Thank you for the water." He took a sip, suddenly keenly aware of how much of it was needed every day and glad the castle was cool, even mid-summer.

"You look worried," Merlin commented. With the councillors gone, he had abandoned his subservient pose and was now leaning against the table, arms loosely crossed in front of him.

"I am worried," Arthur sighed. "To be honest, I wasn't aware there was a severe drought until Geoffrey brought it up. I wasn't exactly paying attention to the weather…"

Merlin, as usual, found words of support, "You're a busy man these days. That's why you have councillors, Arthur. They are there to make you aware of issues. No reason to beat yourself up."

Arthur gave him a weak smile, hoping it conveyed his gratitude. Merlin returned it, but soon frowned. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

"What?" Arthur asked at once.

"Nothing," Merlin said, too quickly. Before Arthur could prod, though, he himself added, "It's just… it reminds me of something, this drought."

Arthur tilted his head. "Oh?"

Merlin threw him a cautious look. "Remember the unicorn?"

Arthur grimaced. Yes, of course he did. Sand pouring from the wells and hundreds of starving people flocking to the gates of the citadel was not something easily forgotten, especially if the suffering was of one's own making. Killing that unicorn and cursing the land was just one of the many regrets Arthur would harbour for the rest of his life. People had died because of his own foolishness.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked, voice going gruff over the sudden bout of lingering guilt.

Merlin seemed to think the tone was directed at him. He ducked his head a little, averting his eyes. "Sorry, sire. I'm not suggesting anything. Just worried, same as you are."

Arthur nodded, then picked up his goblet to take another sip. He ended up staring at the remaining water, watching it ripple against the edges of the cup, a sinking feeling slowly settling into his stomach.

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

"How are you holding up, Guinevere?" asked Arthur.

He had abandoned his position at the front, letting Merlin and most of his knights ride ahead as he fell behind on his horse. His wife had dressed for the weather, wearing a simple linen dress, none of the fancy silks fit for a queen. Arthur found he preferred this look on her. They had passed the dust cloud, but Guinevere kept her headscarf tied around her curly hair, protecting her face from the sun.

"I'm fine," she said, voice just a little hoarse from dust. "It's Geoffrey and Gaius you need to keep an eye on. The heat is getting to them."

Arthur glanced at the two men riding at the end of the group, flanked by Elyan and Percival. Both councillors were red-faced and covered in sweat. Geoffrey had donned a straw hat, which made him look like a farmer, and Gaius had pushed the sleeves of his robes all the way back in a futile attempt to cool off.

"Nissa said we won't be long now," Arthur informed his wife. "We're quickly approaching the Forest of Brechfa."

Guinevere smiled sadly. "Or what's left of it, you mean."

Arthur grimaced. She was right, of course. Wildfires had destroyed the majority of Camelot's woods and Brechfa had been hit particularly hard, if reports were to be believed. "Nissa said the sacred tree remains unaffected."

Guinevere looked up ahead where the druid woman was riding with Lancelot, and Arthur followed her gaze. Nissa somehow looked the least affected of them all, as if her druid garb was made to resist the heat. Arthur wondered if she had worked some magic into the cloth to keep herself cool and found he couldn't find it in him to get angry if she had.

He was sweating like a pig, despite wearing only the bare necessities of plate armour over his chainmail. If he knew a spell to keep the metal from heating up like a hearth, he might have been tempted to use it, too, his own laws be damned.

Besides, what did it matter? They were turning to magic to end this drought, after all.

"Do you think I'm making a mistake?" Arthur asked Guinevere quietly, doubt once more nibbling away.

She smiled reassuringly. "I think you faced a difficult choice and made a decision you believe is best for the kingdom. We can't know the consequences. But no matter what happens, everyone knows you did it out of love for Camelot and her people."

Arthur's heart swelled and he reached out a hand, which Guinevere readily clasped.

She really made a formidable queen.

dies ariditatis XLII
(day 42 of the drought)

"This is the fourth fight we had to break up this week alone, sire," reported Captain Kendall before the throne. "This latest one over the size of a bucket."

"Size of a bucket?" Arthur repeated tiredly.

The leader of the guards nodded. "The attacker was accusing the victim of having brought an overly large one, in an attempt to get around the rationing. He screamed at her, then tried to beat her up. My men immediately intervened."

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. "I see. How is she?"

"Bruises only, Your Majesty. We had Gaius look her over."

"Where is the attacker now?"

"In the dungeons, sire. What would you have us do with him?"

Arthur realised the stocks would be the usual choice for a scuffle like this, but in the sweltering heat of the continuing drought, even an hour in there could mean a death sentence. "Hold him for three nights. It's cold down there. He can literally take the time to cool off. If he causes trouble again after that, I'll consider a flogging." It wouldn't be the first one Arthur would have to order this week. Tensions were rising with each hot, dry day passing.

"As you wish, sire."

"Anything else?"

Captain Kendall nodded. "There's the matter of the fires, Your Majesty. Everything's become so dry and brittle, the roofs might as well be made of tinder. We only just managed to prevent another catastrophe in the lower town two days ago."

"What are your suggestions, Captain?"

The guard shuffled on the spot. "Forbid fires, my lord. In wooden houses, that would include all open flames, like candles, torches and such."

Arthur frowned. The days were long, one could do without candles for a few hours, but… "How are people supposed to cook? We can't expect them to eat raw meat and flour."

"I'd suggest setting up communal cooking areas just outside the city walls, sire. Free the area of the dried grass, line it with rocks, guard it closely to prevent ashes from spreading and embers from setting anything ablaze."

It was clear the man had thought this idea through, and it was not a half-bad one. "I'll have the council draft a decree to temporarily forbid lighting open flames, then," Arthur told him. "You have my blessing to set up the cooking area and enforce the new rules right away, Captain."

Captain Kendall thanked him, bowed and left the throne room.

Arthur would have dearly liked to take a break, then. He was getting a headache again – nothing new these days – but many more petitioners were waiting to be heard by the King, most of them village headmen in desperate need of help. The audiences were full of depressing news and Arthur dearly wished he could do more for his subjects than listen and send them off with some rations and a knight or two to settle disputes at home.

When he returned to his chambers that night, Merlin was busy setting up a private dinner for the King and Queen. A small potion bottle was waiting next to Arthur's plate.

"For your headache," Merlin told him at Arthur's raised eyebrow.

Sometimes, Arthur wondered just when Merlin had turned into a half-decent manservant. He sat down at the table across from Guinevere and downed the potion. By the time he was done, Merlin had already filled his chalice with wine and offered it up to Arthur so he could wash away the foul taste before he went to uncover their trays.

Arthur frowned at the spread. Meat and gravy, flour dumplings, pickled cabbage, sugar biscuits for dessert, but… "No fresh vegetables? Fruit?"

Merlin spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "The kitchen has run out. With the drought… Preserved foods only, I'm afraid."

"With the harvest about to fail, it's only a matter of time until people will be starving," Guinevere said from across. "Most farmers can hardly feed and water their cattle as it is. And once everyone runs out of flour…" She smiled weakly. "I think the royal family can do without fresh peas for dinner."

"Of course." Arthur tightened his grip on his cutlery, his appetite quickly vanishing. "We'll be buying food from other kingdoms shortly. I've already sent word to our allies. Nemeth has signalled they are willing to part with a considerable amount of wheat and barley come autumn."

"No drought in Nemeth, then?" asked Guinevere thoughtfully as she cut into her roast mutton.

"No, a perfectly normal summer," Arthur confirmed. He set down his fork and knife and leaned back in the chair. "Rain must find its way to Camelot soon. We can't be this unlucky for much longer, surely."

"I'm certain clouds must be on their way," replied Guinevere. "Or at least some cooler temperatures."

"Either way, it won't save this year's harvest," Arthur pointed out grimly and Guinevere nodded, conceding the point. Arthur looked down at his plate, still not feeling much like eating. "Forty days of heat," he added, "and not a single drop of rain. Such bad luck…"

Arthur got distracted by Merlin knocking over a laundry basket, and glanced over to where the servant was already bending down, picking up the clothes. When he straightened again and looked up, he caught Arthur's gaze. Merlin stared at him, biting his lip, then turned his eyes away.

Arthur sighed. He knew his manservant well enough. "What is it, Merlin?"

Merlin let go off the tunic he was folding and walked over. "I don't think it's bad luck," he said.

Arthur frowned. "But?"

Merlin seemed to brace himself before he spoke, "I think it might be a curse."

"Magic?" Arthur replied, stunned. For some reason, he hadn't even considered the possibility.

"A curse," Merlin repeated, like that made a difference. "This is too much like the unicorn incident."

The King suddenly remembered Merlin bringing this up before. Did Merlin have a point? "After I killed the unicorn, the crops failed overnight," Arthur argued. "The wells ran dry in the matter of a day; the food spoiled in an instant. If it was a curse, surely it wouldn't slowly bleed us dry like this."

"The unicorn's curse was ancient magic," Merlin returned. "Cast by a creature of old. Besides, remember what Anhora said? It was set up as a trial, for you to prove yourself. It was never meant to last beyond what was necessary to teach you a lesson. This might be different."

Arthur exchanged a glance with Guinevere, who was listening intently to Merlin's theory. "Different how?" she asked.

Merlin threw a grim look out of the window. "Something is purposely keeping the clouds away from Camelot. You said it yourself, the other kingdoms are doing fine. What are the odds of unusually hot and dry weather only affecting one specific part of Albion? Of winds running in circles right along the borders? Doesn't sound natural to me."

Arthur stared at him. "Is such a thing possible? Controlling the weather?"

Merlin shrugged, averting his eyes. "I don't know. Perhaps someone very powerful could."

Arthur drummed his fingers against his armrest. "And they're doing this because…?"

"Because they have a grudge against this kingdom specifically. Because they want to weaken the King's hold on it."

Arthur scowled, finally catching on. "You mean Morgana."

"And Morgause," Merlin confirmed and when he looked up again, he appeared almost angry. "You saw what they were capable of, working together. Necromancy. Raising an army of the dead."

Arthur brought a hand to his chin. "If you're right…" He glanced over at Guinevere again, who was frowning at him, her own food forgotten.

"We need to ask Gaius about this," she advised. "Geoffrey, too, perhaps."

Arthur nodded. "I think you're right."

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

The Forest of Brechfa was hardly a forest now, merely an assembly of scorched trunks on a field of ashes. Arthur had known it was bad, of course, had read the reports and seen the damage to the Darkling Woods near the citadel.

Still, Brechfa hadn't just been hit by wildfires, it had been virtually obliterated.

"Nissa," Arthur spoke up, leading Hengroen to ride alongside Lancelot's gelding. "You're sure your tree has survived this?" He gestured around.

Nissa nodded, face calm. "Quite sure, my King," she replied confidently. "The Ancient Hawthorn is protected by magic. A mere fire cannot harm it."

The druid woman turned out to have spoken the truth. After leading the horses off the trail, careful to avoid pockets of lingering embers on the ground, they soon spotted the tree in the distance, its green leaves easily distinguished from the burnt surroundings. It was huge, much bigger than any hawthorn Arthur had ever seen.

Gwaine whistled. "Aye, that's what I call a tree."

"Can't wait to get into the shade," said Percival, wiping his brow with a large hand, and the other knights murmured in agreement. Though they had started their ride at first light, noon was quickly approaching now and the heat was sweltering.

As they neared the clearing surrounding the tree, Arthur squinted, only to find his eyes widen at what he saw. Not only was the hawthorn miraculously untouched by fire, but it was in full bloom, small white blossoms covering many a branch. Other parts of it were sporting fruit, red berries seemingly bursting with juice.

Hundreds of druid charms were hanging off the twigs, crudely etched metal disks and wooden carvings hung up on strings. Though the air was still, they were gently turning and twisting as if touched and prodded by invisible forces.

"Offerings of my people," explained Nissa, but when Arthur followed her gaze, she was not looking at the tree, but Merlin.

The servant had remained ahead of the group and was now the first at the tree, eyes roaming over the branches, looking fascinated. For somebody who had vehemently disagreed with Arthur's decision to come here, he seemed to find the Ancient Hawthorn quite mesmerising now. Already, he had dismounted from Llamrei and stepped into the shade the tree provided, quickly approaching one of the lower branches, hand raised to touch one of the charms.

"Merlin!" Arthur called out sharply. "Get away from there! I won't have you touch the holy tree and anger the god!"

Merlin threw him an annoyed look over the shoulder. "Anger the god? I—" He cut himself off at Arthur's glare, sagged a little as he seemed to realise who he was arguing with. "Yes, sire," he said sullenly and backed off.

Nissa had watched the exchange carefully. It was not the first time Merlin had drawn her attention. In fact, he had spotted the druid woman take Merlin aside several times over the past days, though when Arthur had confronted him about it, Merlin had insisted she had told him nothing much of interest.

She did not comment on the matter when she spoke, "We should start the ritual right away, my King. It will take a while to get you fully prepared."

Arthur gave orders to dismount. Geoffrey and Gaius immediately made for the tree, settling down at the edge of the shade, gratefully accepting the waterskins Merlin brought them a few moments later.

Meanwhile, the others were wiping down the horses and letting them drink from the very water the animals had hauled here in the first place. Most smaller streams had run dry a month ago and they had passed the empty bed of the forest creek on their way here. With foresight, they had packed little else but waterskins and rations for one day. Before long, the knights had settled down with Guinevere and the councillors underneath the tree, talking quietly amongst themselves, as the horses went to rest in the shade on the other side of the hawthorn.

"Merlin," Arthur called out impatiently when he saw the servant stand around uselessly and stare at the tree again. "Stop lazing about! Come and help Nissa!"

Merlin didn't argue this time, quickly making his way over to where the druid woman was kneeling in the dirt. She was rummaging through her bag and pulling out strange objects, neatly placing them on a little, handwoven blanket. It looked like she was building an impromptu shrine.

Merlin crouched next to her, looking over what she had unpacked with a small smile. He reached out to adjust a wooden figurine – and Arthur almost chastised him again for not keeping his hands to himself – then asked gently, "What would you like me to do, Nissa?"

The druid returned his smile, almost appearing shy in the face of it as she ducked her head a little. "I am quite capable, you mustn't bother yourself," she replied, sounding much more respectful than the situation merited.

"Nonsense," Arthur intercepted at once. "Merlin can help. He's not here as a witness, but as my servant."

Nissa glanced up at Arthur, then at Merlin, as if to confirm Arthur's words with him. Arthur almost felt a little affronted at that. Meanwhile, Merlin nodded. "Quite right," he said with a strange, almost humorous lilt to his voice. "I am my King's humble servant, first and foremost."

It was an odd thing to say, but Nissa inclined her head thoughtfully, as if Merlin had just let her partake in some great wisdom. She gestured at the waterskins piled up next to her.

"You could take over the washing, if you so please," she suggested politely. "The King's body is to be thoroughly cleaned, as you know."

Merlin murmured his agreement, then straightened up and stepped forward to relieve Arthur of his armour.

"You're sure about this?" he asked again, half-heartedly. It was clear he knew the answer, so Arthur didn't respond.

He would see this through, though he admittedly didn't feel much like stripping in front of his knights, even less so in front of Gaius and Geoffrey. But he knew he had no choice. He had agreed to this ritual, strange as it might seem, and this was part of it – humbling himself in the ways the Old Religion demanded.

With a sigh, he lifted his arms and let Merlin pull at the vambraces.

dies ariditatis LVII
(day 57 of the drought)

Arthur knew what Leon would say as soon as he saw him step into the council chamber.

"No sight of them, Your Majesty," the First Knight reported with a respectful bow. All around the Round Table, murmurs of disappointment and agitation rose, though they quieted quickly when Arthur raised a hand.

"No word of them, either?" he asked.

Leon shook his head. "Regretfully, no, sire. We followed some leads about supposed witch sightings in the East, but it turned out to be nothing but the usual gossip and fear-mongering. Nobody has actually seen Morgana or Morgause since their defeat."

Though he had expected bad news, Arthur still found himself suppressing a groan. "Gaius says this is the work of a witch coven," he said with a nod for the physician sitting a few seats to his left. "This means at least a dozen sorceresses in the sisters' employ, keeping up the magic all along the borders. How come nobody has noticed anything?"

"We've got patrols scouring every patch of borderland, sire," Leon said apologetically. "If the witches are indeed performing their magic there, they either hide well or are constantly on the move. Not a single sighting, not a bit of evidence of anything remotely suspicious."

Arthur did let out a mighty groan then, uncaring that he was the King and should look to be in control. Leon, at least, did not seem fazed by Arthur's little lapse. After two months of drought, Arthur supposed, everybody was on edge.

"Keep up the search," he ordered. "Unless you got a better plan, Sir Leon?"

Leon's grimace was answer enough. "There is more," he added.

Arthur almost snorted. "Of course," he said wearily and waved at Leon to continue.

"The roads are full of bandits," the knight reported. "Not just your general ruffians and vagabonds. New bands, made up of citizens of Camelot. People who have lost everything in the wildfires. They are desperate, sire. Hungry, thirsty…" He hesitated, then added. "Some of them are little more than children. Skinny youths with a rusty blade, nothing more." Another pause. "A couple are resorting to magic."

Arthur scowled, then bid Leon to sit at the Round Table before looking around. "Are we not distributing rations all over the country to prevent exactly this?"

"We are doing the best we can, sire, providing housing for the displaced and food for the hungry," reported Lord Auden dutifully. "But we must retain some rations for the winter. The grain from Nemeth is yet to arrive and we'd rather not plan with it until it is safely stored away at Camelot."

"Have we had word from Mercia?" Arthur asked. "Essetir?"

"Lot insists on prices that border on extortion, my lord," reported Lord Edric. "The royal coffers will be depleted quickly if we give in on that front. As for Bayard, he has made no promises, citing troubles with last year's harvest in Mercia."

Arthur rubbed a hand over his mouth as he thought this over. "We should write to Tir Mor," he suggested.

"Relations have been strained ever since we supported Anglia on the border dispute," cautioned Lord Graeme.

"I know," said Arthur. "Still, we cannot rely on Nemeth alone. Caerleon has problems enough sustaining his own people, Gawant sent us a polite but firm no, Anglia is at war with the Saxons. And if Lot insists on taking advantage of our plight and doesn't stop overcharging, we must seek assistance elsewhere."

"Let me write to Tir Mor's queen," Guinevere spoke up. "She is rumoured to be more compassionate than her husband."

Arthur threw his wife a grateful smile.

"There are some family ties to Camelot one might make mention of in such a letter," Lord Geoffrey spoke up, ever the court genealogist. "Her grandmother, I believe, was a cousin to the De Bois family."

"I'll try and be subtle about it," Guinevere said and the council readily approved her suggestion of reaching out.

"Gaius," Arthur spoke up. "Anything new on how to break the curse, apart from hunting down those responsible?"

The physician grimaced. "Unfortunately not, sire. This is powerful magic indeed. Most wicked, too. It cannot be done away with so easily. Geoffrey and I have been searching every book and requested some more from the great libraries across Albion, but to no avail."

Arthur thanked him, in spite of the bitter taste spreading in his mouth. He balled his right hand to a fist, only just keeping himself from slamming it down onto the table. Gods, he hated this. There was nothing worse than seeing your land and people suffer and being unable to do anything about it. Helplessness was not something Arthur Pendragon was well-equipped to deal with. "Is there anything else we could do?" he asked, voice tight.

Into the strained pause, Gaius said very hesitantly, "Sire, we have yet to put out word about, ah… magical assistance—"

"No," Arthur cut him off immediately. "Magic is what brought this upon us. Sir Leon just told us bandits are using it to kill and plunder. We can't trust sorcerers."

Most of the council agreed at once, nodding enthusiastically, though a couple of lords, Arthur noticed, seemed to be on Gaius's side.

"Sometimes, magic must be fought with magic," the physician tried one more time.

Arthur could admire his bravery, knowing his insistence stemmed from genuine care for Camelot, not a wish to commit treason. Still, he narrowed his eyes and aimed for a firm voice that bore no argument when he replied, "I said no, Gaius. This is my final say on the matter."

The physician inclined his head and obediently fell silent.

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

Merlin had undressed and bathed Arthur for the last six years. Yet, there was something different about it now, something that unnerved Arthur and set his teeth on edge.

Perhaps it was simply the fact the servant was doing so in front of witnesses and out in nature; perhaps it was the presence of Nissa, who kept murmuring a string of ritualistic words in the background as they proceeded with the preparations. Whatever it was, in spite of the sweltering heat, being washed by Merlin sent goosebumps down Arthur's back.

Any trace of apprehension had vanished from Merlin's face once he had laid Arthur's body bare in the shade of the Ancient Hawthorn. The King's armour and clothes lay abandoned in a pile.

Merlin had started with Arthur's hair, pouring half a waterskin's worth of water on it after Arthur had bent forward, and carding out the dust and grime with a white horn comb Nissa had provided. Afterwards, Merlin had picked up a thick cloth the druid had brought with her. With great care, Merlin had soaked the soft fabric with more water, then begun to clean Arthur's face and neck. Now, Merlin was running the cloth over the tanned skin of Arthur's shoulders in even, circular movements, his touch uncharacteristically gentle, nothing like the rigorous scrubbing he gave Arthur's back in the tub at home.

As Merlin methodically worked away at his body, Arthur watched pearls of water run down his arms and onto the dry ground, evaporating into the hot, dry air before the drops could even start and soak the barren soil below. What a waste, he thought faintly, though perhaps this, too, would be seen as an offering to the deity.

Merlin moved the cloth down Arthur's arms next, cleaning even the soft spaces between Arthur's fingers. It tickled and Arthur almost made a joke to relieve the tension that had been steadily building when he took in Merlin's face again.

His expression had moved past serious. He looked infinitely calm now, serene almost, as he once more soaked the cloth and got started on Arthur's chest. Soon, he was on his knees before his King. Arthur tried not to blush and hurriedly looked away when Merlin cleaned the more intimate parts – this was not something Merlin usually did for him, but Nissa had insisted Arthur not do any of the cleaning himself. His wife might have been a less disconcerting choice, but Arthur couldn't imagine doing anything else but spare Guinevere the public embarrassment.

Arthur only looked back down when Merlin had made his way down to this feet. "Up, please," he said, gently tapping Arthur's heel, then his own thigh, offering it up as a stool.

For a man who had repeatedly complained about having to wash Arthur's socks in the past, Merlin seemed unbothered by kneeling in the dirt before his King while scrubbing grime and dust off his soles. The water was soaking through Merlin's breeches, but he didn't seem to care about that, either. Quite on the contrary, when he had finished, he looked up with an expression that struck Arthur somewhere deep within, making his heart lurch.

Merlin looked reverent. His face was adoring in a way Arthur had never seen on him before, his cheeks flushed from more than the heat, his eyes glossy and his lips curled into the faintest of content smiles.

"It is done, Your Majesty," he murmured and his voice, gods! Arthur had never heard him speak like this, hushed and awe-struck. He sounded more of a lowly servant than he had ever done in all the time they had known each other.

Not even on the day of Arthur's coronation had Merlin shown quite this level of veneration, and the man had wept that day more than once. Arthur remembered it well, the strange mix of discomfort and rapture he had felt over Merlin's teary-eyed devotion, Merlin's insistence on calling him by his title for the better part of two days before slowly easing back into normality.

Seeing Merlin like this now, on his knees, staring up at Arthur as if he could not imagine a better fate than resting at his King's feet, humbled and unsettled Arthur in equal measures.

This was all sorts of wrong.

"The oil next," said Nissa before returning to her strange words. If they were magical incantations, they did not seem to have any tangible effect on Arthur, neither were they setting Nissa's eyes ablaze like Arthur had seen with so many a sorcerer. Might it be affecting Merlin, though? Was magic what had brought on Merlin's strange display of worship?

Before Arthur could dwell on the thought, Merlin stood, his head now ducked in a way that made him look smaller and infinitely more timid than Arthur knew the man to be.

Merlin accepted the little bottle from Nissa without comment or question. He didn't receive any instructions, either, but he seemed to know what to do all the same. Arthur wondered if this is what Nissa had been talking to Merlin about back in Camelot, the specifics of the ritual. It would be just like Merlin to want to learn all about it, to understand what would happen to Arthur, to keep his King from harm best as he could without sword or title to give him any power. The servant had cleaned his own hands with the rest of the water and was now dipping his right thumb into the oil Nissa had given him, soaking the tip.

Then, he lifted it to Arthur's face and started speaking, his voice ringing out in a way that had everyone in the clearing quiet down at once. "I anoint thee, Arthur Pendragon, with this oil, brought forth from the earth of Albion, purified by the Maiden, blessed by the Mother, ripened by the Crone."

When, Arthur thought with a start, did Merlin become a priest of the Old Religion? He was too stunned to speak, though, merely watching as Merlin's thumb came closer.

"Through this balm, may thy body and spirit be free of taint, every impurity be expulsed, every infirmity be cleansed." Gently, Merlin brushed his thumb over Arthur's lower lip, eyes respectfully lowered. "Taste," he said, then soaked his thumb again, running more oil over the skin just underneath Arthur's nose, its earthy fragrance filling Arthur's lungs on his next breath. "Smell." Merlin dipped his finger into the bottle again, traced both of Arthur's ears. "Sound." Arthur, anticipating what was next, closed his eyes, trying not to startle when Merlin touched his eyelids. "Sight." He blinked his eyes back open, saw Merlin once more raising his hand to smear the oil across Arthur's forehead. "Touch."

He stepped back and finally, he looked up. Arthur rather he had not. Merlin's eyes were shining as if he were close to tears, a level of reverence in his face that almost had Arthur scared. This was not normal. This was not like Merlin.

What was going on? Was Nissa bewitching his servant? Was Merlin becoming part of the ritual, part of the magic?

"The robe," the druid murmured in that moment. Merlin bent low to pick up the garment from her blanket and in spite of his growing unease, Arthur's arms came up automatically as Merlin gathered the fabric at the collar and offered it up.

By the time Arthur was dressed in the robe – a simple druid garb dyed in a rich, almost Pendragon shade of red – Guinevere, the knights as well as the two councillors had stepped closer, forming a half circle on either side of them, perhaps sensing that this was where their part as witnesses truly began.

"It is time," announced Nissa and got up from where she had been kneeling before her strange objects. "Now, we will call upon Emrys."

dies ariditatis LXXXIII
(day 83 of the drought)

"Tomorrow will mark three months since the beginning of the drought," said Gaius. He was standing in front of the desk in Arthur's chambers, hands folded in front of him.

Arthur knew why he had come, and he did not like it one bit.

"Setting a new record," he replied and moodily pushed away the latest stack of depressing reports. Rampant wildfires, riots, rising mortality among the young and elderly, the beginnings of wide-spread famine, more reports of sorcery… Arthur could not remember his own father ever having to deal with the kingdom in this much disarray.

Gaius inclined his head. "Indeed, sire." His eyes grew intense, his voice more urgent and firmer. "We have yet to see a glimpse of Morgause, Morgana or any of their coven of witches. The curse has this country in a chokehold. There is no other way: You simply must consider the use of magic, Your Majesty."

"Magic is what corrupted Morgana! What brought this curse upon us! I can't in good conscience risk even more suffering for my people by turning to sorcerers for help," Arthur argued.

"Your people are suffering, sire," Gaius replied fervently. "They are dying as we speak."

"My father—" Arthur started.

Gaius, who had never been anything but respectful since Arthur had ascended to the throne, unceremoniously cut him off, "In desperate times, even your father was willing to turn to magic for help."

Arthur stared at him, momentarily struck speechless. Somewhere in his chambers, something clattered noisily to the ground. It sounded like something might have broken and Merlin cursed quietly.

"My father?" Arthur managed eventually. "Used magic?"

Gaius nodded grimly. "When Morgana was injured from her fall, Uther turned to sorcery to save her. Not even your father was beyond calling for magic's aid if circumstances were dire enough."

Arthur swallowed, needing a moment to digest the news. Gaius's words settled heavily in his stomach, though, and he leaned back in his chair, burying his face in his hands in a distinctly un-kingly manner.

"Lords," he muttered, voice muffled.

"I'm sorry to have to be this blunt with you," Gaius pushed, "but Camelot is on the brink of destruction. You must act, sire."

Arthur lowered his hands to face Gaius's stern expression, eyebrows drawn, mouth a firm line. He might as well have crossed his arms for all the defiance he was radiating in that moment.

Arthur considered himself a strong man and a fairly capable ruler despite his youth and inexperience. He wanted nothing more than to keep his people safe and his kingdom from falling apart. Was Gaius right? Was he dooming Camelot because he was desperately clinging to the principles his father had taught him? Principles Uther himself had apparently betrayed in times of need?

He glanced at the reports before him, caught a glimpse of a recent body count, and felt himself cave before he had time to think it all through. "What would you have me do, then?" he said warily.

Gaius gave him a short, approving nod. "Let me contact the druids, as well as any other magic users I know, to see who is willing to help."

"Other magic users you know?" Arthur asked incredulously.

Gaius met his eyes unflinchingly, but didn't reply.

"Very well," Arthur sighed. "Do what you must."

"Do the people offering help have Your Majesty's assurances they will not be prosecuted?" Gaius asked bluntly.

"Gods above, Gaius!" Arthur groaned, running a hand through his hair. "You expect me to give pre-emptive pardons to magic users?"

"You can't honestly expect them to assist Camelot when they must fear losing their head over it, sire."

Arthur knew Gaius had a point. Still, it did not sit right with him, offering what felt like card blanche to sorcerers across Albion to come to Camelot and do even more harm.

"Fine," he said nonetheless. "They have my word. Nobody who comes here to offer genuine help shall be prosecuted for their use of sorcery."

"Thank you, sire." Gaius bowed, then his face softened. "You're doing the right thing here, Arthur."

With that, he left Arthur's chambers. As soon as the door had snapped shut, Arthur groaned and bent over double until his forehead was almost touching the top of his desk, both hands rubbing harshly over the skin of his neck. His head only came up again when a tentative hand settled on his shoulder.

"You all right?" Merlin asked, eyes full of genuine concern.

"I've just invited even more sorcerers into Camelot after my land has been continuously suffering by their hands for months," Arthur growled and shook off Merlin's touch. "What do you think?"

"I think," Merlin replied, seemingly unfazed by Arthur's harsh tone, "you've made the right call."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Really? You think I should be using magic? You usually start trembling at the mere mention of it."

Merlin's mouth became a grim line. "People are dying," was all he said.

Arthur nodded at the stark truth. He stood to pace about a bit until finally coming to stand by the window, where he looked out into the sweltering courtyard. The fountain had long run out of water. Only the deep wells were still providing drinking water. "I hope this isn't a mistake," he said in a low voice, allowing himself some vulnerability, something he only ever did in front of Guinevere and Merlin. "What if I have just doomed Camelot for good?"

Merlin came to hover by his side, though he didn't touch Arthur again. "Camelot is doomed now," he said. "You want to protect your people. There is nothing wrong with doing everything in your power to achieve that."

Arthur nodded and quietly allowed himself to soak up Merlin's support.

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

Nissa had Arthur stand facing the stem of the Ancient Hawthorn, then chanted more ritualistic words. Arthur did not understand anything but his own name and the name of the god, Emrys, whose shrine was the mighty tree before him.

Suddenly more nervous than he would have liked to admit, Arthur glanced around a little to distract himself from what was to come, only to find himself looking at the apprehensive faces of his companions. Three times three witnesses were necessary to call upon the god, according to Nissa. The number three was significant to the Old Religion, she had explained. So, he had brought the knights of the original Round Table, Guinevere, and Gaius. Nissa included, that had been eight people. Geoffrey had been chosen as number nine.

A sudden spark of guilt lit up in Arthur's chest as he looked over the witnesses out of the corner of his eye, remembering that night in the Castle of the Ancient Kings. Another man had sat with him then at the Round Table and sworn his loyalty to Arthur – it had not been Geoffrey. Arthur should have asked Merlin to bear witness. He had stood by Arthur's side through so many trials, yet Arthur had once more made him come along solely as a servant.

But then, Merlin might not have agreed to become a witness, as vehemently as he had argued against Arthur throwing himself on Emrys's mercy. He had, however, readily helped with the ritual, had been pulled into it, really. Arthur shuddered at Merlin's sudden and inexplicable devotion.

Where was Merlin anyway? Arthur frowned when he couldn't see him anywhere, but didn't dare move his head further to get a better look and ruin the ritual. Likely, Merlin had retreated to a spot at the far edge of the shade to stand at the side lines, as he was always asked to do. Merlin, a quiet observer, his service to Arthur so often unseen and unthanked.

When all of this was over, Arthur vowed with a sudden sense of clarity, he would treat him better. He should elevate Merlin's station, promote him to royal scribe or some such thing, a job that would allow him to sit at the Round Table. Geoffrey would find a suitable position they could revive in the archives.

"It is time, my King!" Nissa jolted him from his thoughts.

She had stepped into his field of vision and Arthur looked at her questioningly. She gestured at the base of the tree, where two large roots formed a sort of natural alcove. Arthur nodded at her. He knew what to do from here.

He walked forward, feeling everyone's eyes on him. They were not allowed to speak until the ritual was over and they were doing as Nissa had instructed. He was suddenly grateful his companions would stay a few steps behind where he did not have to see their reactions. Who knew what the god expected from him? Who knew what Arthur was willing to do to secure Emrys's help?

Arthur came to a halt before the tree, curled his bare toes into the dirt and took a moment to ground himself. He closed his eyes. He could still taste the balm on his lip, smell its earthy fragrance, feel its weight against his skin. His back was sweaty underneath the light robe, but the shade provided much-needed protection, making the heat bearable.

Arthur exhaled, opened his eyes and knelt before the tree. There. The first step, done. This was not so bad. Little by little, he would humble himself.

From behind, Nissa started calling out Emrys's name, three times.

Emrys!

Arthur pressed his lips together tightly as he brought both hands to the ground. He could do this. There was no shame in pleading for help where the well-being of Camelot was concerned. They were running out of time. The drought needed to end, at any and all cost.

Emrys!

Even if his father was cursing him as he watched from the shores of Avalon. Even if many lords would judge him for asking magic itself for help. Even if that meant lowering himself in front of witnesses.

Emrys!

The third call. This was his cue. With his cheeks reddening, with witnessing eyes burning at his neck, with his father's acid voice ringing through his mind and calling him a disgrace, Arthur leaned all the way forward until his forehead touched the dirt on which the Ancient Hawthorn grew.

Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, prostrating himself before the god of magic.

dies ariditatis XCV
(day 95 of the drought)

"The god of magic?"

Nissa nodded where she remained kneeling before the throne, an unusually submissive pose for a druid to take on before the King of Camelot. While Arthur had promised not to hunt them since his ascension to the throne – the haunting failure of a fifteen-year-old prince unforgotten – he had done nothing to earn the druids' loyalty. Perhaps it was not a sign of respect for her. Perhaps she was simply scared.

"Emrys has the power to lift any curse, my King," Nissa explained. "He's magic himself."

Arthur looked the druid over. "Why would this god Emrys help us? Sorcery is outlawed here. Magic has no place in Camelot."

Nissa inclined her head. "Your father might have tried to purge magic from this land, my King, but it remains all the same," she replied cryptically.

Her words unsettled Arthur. He shifted on the throne as he asked, "Remains how?"

"Magic might be closer than you think," was the vague reply. Her eyes flickered to the side of the throne room, but when Arthur followed her gaze, all he saw was Merlin standing in his usual spot, sporting a vaguely respectful pose in the presence of his King as he observed the proceedings.

"How would we even ask Emrys's help?" Arthur asked when his eyes were back on Nissa. "My father destroyed the temples of the Old Religion decades ago."

"Emrys needs no temples. He's one with the land. The ancient groves have not been uprooted, the ley lines remain unsevered. Magic has never left Camelot and thus Emrys holds his protective hand over it and waits until you, my King, one day soon see fit to—"

She abruptly cut herself off. Again, her eyes flickered to the side where Merlin stood. Arthur was starting to believe it might be a nervous tick of hers.

"What exactly would I need to do?" he pushed, sharpening his voice in the hopes of finally extracting a straight answer from the druid.

As Nissa explained about a tree and a ritual, Arthur tried to listen patiently, though he couldn't help but grow indignant at her last words.

"Humble myself?" he repeated.

"As all mortals must do before the gods, my King," Nissa confirmed with an almost apologetic dip of the head.

And as Nissa was doing now before Arthur, he thought, taking in her still kneeling form on the hard floor of the throne room.

Arthur was no stranger to it, of course. He had humbled himself before his father, as any knight loyal to the Crown was expected to do, as a Crown Prince or King was expected to do when he swore a vow to his land. He had humbled himself before the new gods, too, kneeling for a whole night, asking for a vision to be bestowed before his quest to the Perilous Lands.

Still. Bow to the Old Religion? Beg the help of a god of magic? It was not a decision Arthur was willing to make lightly, let alone make on the spot.

"I thank you, Nissa," said Arthur. "I will consider your proposal carefully. Will you stay at Camelot for a few days? We will offer you every comfort."

"I would be honoured, my King," Nissa replied and finally got to her feet.

Arthur had expected vehement objection from his lords and knights after Arthur had called an end to today's audiences and stood from the throne. He had not been prepared for Merlin, elbowing his way through the crowd and marching right up to the dais like he had any real standing in this court.

"Arthur, this is a terrible idea," he hissed, unceremoniously grabbing Arthur's arm.

Merlin did not usually manhandle Arthur this publicly, especially not since he had become King. It was disrespectful and way past the bounds of propriety. Merlin looked and sounded so honestly upset, though, that Arthur decided to let it pass. He removed his sleeve from Merlin's grip and wordlessly pointed to the door. For a moment, it looked like the servant was about to argue, then he pressed his lips together, gave a quick bow and walked off.

When the King finally returned to his chambers – once he had escaped the courtiers' many questions and concerns – he wished for a cooling wash, a hearty meal and a night spent in Guinevere's loving arms.

What he got was a furiously pacing Merlin.

"Arthur!" he called out at once when he spotted the King walking in. "Finally! What took you so long?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "I wasn't aware of any claim the royal manservant might have on the King's precious time."

Merlin ignored his pointed remark completely, a testament to his state of mind. There was something wild in his face and his hair was in disarray, too, as if he had repeatedly run his hands through it. "You can't actually be considering Nissa's proposal?" he demanded, like he had any right to question his liege. "Throwing yourself at Emrys's feet?"

Arthur crossed his arms, but decided to humour him. "I haven't decided yet," he admitted.

This seemed to mollify Merlin a bit, though he still looked agitated and hadn't stopped pacing. "The druid has overstepped," he said. "She had no right to come here and propose this ritual."

Arthur frowned. "I had Gaius ask for any help. She was only answering her King's call."

Merlin made a dismissive motion with one hand, eerily reminding Arthur of himself cutting off a wayward lord at council. "She had no right," he repeated, sounding angry. "Iseldir needs to keep his people in check!"

"Iseldir?" Arthur ventured.

"The leader of her clan," Merlin said, as if it was obvious, feet all but stomping on the ground as he kept on pacing. "He's an impatient man, and so his people grow impatient as well, reaching for what must yet remain out of reach."

Bewildered by the servant's cryptic words, Arthur asked, "Why are you so upset about this? You told me I was doing the right thing, turning to magic for help."

Merlin finally came to a halt. He stared at Arthur, then let out a derisive noise that had the King take an affronted step back. "I didn't mean debasing yourself," he said accusingly. "You're a warrior! There are other ways to take the sisters down, better ways than resorting to begging!" Arthur almost grew angry then, but Merlin kept talking and at his next words, Arthur suddenly got the distinct feeling Merlin might have gone a little crazy from the ever-lasting heat, "Call on the ruthless skills of the Catha and gather intelligence by force! Seek out the Lake of Avalon and claim a sword forged in dragon's breath by right of your birth! Chase the witches across the plains on Hengroen and soak the parched ground with their blood when you chop their head off!"

Arthur let out a disturbed guffaw at the visions painted by his servant. "Merlin, what on Earth are you talking about?"

The sound of Arthur's shrill laugh seemed to jolt Merlin out of whatever state of madness he had found himself in. His face seemed to close off before Arthur's eyes. He let out a long, shaky breath and then, he was standing before his King once more a servant, hands laced behind his back, head bowed. "Forgive me, sire."

Arthur, tired and unwilling to argue, stepped forward and gently touched Merlin's shoulders. "There's nothing to forgive. I realise you're worried, though it's not like you to get quite so… intense…" He smiled crookedly when Merlin looked up at that and added, "I appreciate your concern, old friend."

Merlin returned his smile, though his eyebrows remained drawn. "Just… promise me you will think carefully before you decide?"

"Of course."

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

Arthur did not know how long he had been cowering at the base of the tree, forehead pressed against the dirt, lips but a hand's width away from touching soil, waiting for something to happen. It probably had been mere minutes, though it felt like eternity to Arthur.

A king, he reflected, should not prostrate himself like this.

Was he humbling or humiliating himself here? There was a certain elegance in a knight genuflecting to his liege, a simple grace in a subject falling to their knees before the King, but this?

Arthur could count the amount of people who had quite literally thrown themselves at his feet on one hand. Two criminals tearfully pleading for their lives, a disgraced lord begging for mercy, a mother and a father desperate to protect their magical child.

Had he thought less of them when they had cowered on the floor before him? Were his knights, the councillors, his wife thinking less of him now?

Was Merlin?

Even he, a peasant of the lowest kind, a farm boy from a tiny village, had purposefully knelt to Arthur only once before, in the privacy of Arthur's chambers. It had been on the night after his coronation. Out of nowhere, Merlin had grasped Arthur's hand and sunk to his knees, had pressed his forehead to Arthur's signet ring in a show of fealty unbefitting Merlin's station which Arthur had nonetheless accepted as the clumsy yet touching gesture of respect it was, and that neither of them had ever mentioned again since.

Merlin had made his thoughts on the matter of the ritual quite clear. He thought Arthur was debasing himself, as he had so aptly put it.

But then, did Merlin not debase himself every day, emptying Arthur's chamber pot and scratching the mud off the soles of his boots? No, actually. Arthur saw no shame in doing the work one's job entailed. In fact, some would even say it was an honour, attending to the King, no matter how distasteful the chore itself. Merlin certainly seemed to draw a sense of pride from his work with Arthur, loath though he usually was to admit it.

Maybe he should approach this like a servant might: without shame, as a necessary part of his duties as King, the act in itself debasing, perhaps, but not so in the grand scheme of things.

Arthur was thrown from his strange spiral of thoughts by a sudden gust of cool wind that had him immediately suppress a shudder. The druid charms moved, clashing and clinking together, and for a moment, it sounded like an eerie melody, an unearthly music.

Arthur had an urge to look up, but Nissa had given instructions that Arthur was not to raise his head until he was given a sign. What that sign was, he did not know, but he assumed that wind did not count.

Somewhere above, a branch cracked.

Suddenly, there was a presence in the air, a sense of something, no, someone having arrived. Arthur felt it as a tingling against the base of his neck, a pressure building in his ears, a creeping feeling dancing up and down his spine. A wave of power swept over him, lapping at his skin as if to sound him out, exploring his very essence, and Arthur suddenly felt known and seen in a way he could not adequately put into words.

It made him want to scream and gouge his eyes out. It made him want to cry and curl up into a tight ball. He did neither, though he could not help press his forehead harshly into the ground and squeeze his eyes shut. Arthur knew, without a doubt, that the god of magic was with them, and though he had sworn to himself he would not be afraid, that he would face Emrys with as much dignity as he could muster as he was forced onto hands and knees before him, he found himself scared.

In fact, he was terrified.

"Arthur Pendragon."

Arthur flinched, startled by his own name. The voice that had spoken was low, solemn, and undoubtedly human. Arthur did not know what he had expected a god to sound like. He had assumed that his voice would perhaps shake the ground, burst his eardrums or at the very least, echo through his mind.

I can speak in your mind if you'd prefer.

Arthur flinched again, harder this time. His fingers instinctively curled into the dirt as another rush of fear spread through his limbs, sending his whole body atremble. He tried his very best to rein himself in, to not show such weakness, but it was a hopeless struggle: A god had spoken in his mind. A god was reading his thoughts.

There was a long moment of silence in which Arthur heard nothing but the wild thumps of his heartbeat, racing in his chest.

Emrys? he ventured eventually. He had wanted to actually speak the name, but found his throat had gone too tight.

Yes, I'm still here. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.

Arthur felt a genuine sense of regret from the words and frowned against the dirt. I'm not scared, he thought, and wondered why he bothered lying to a god who could so very clearly look inside his head.

There is no shame in fear. I've been living in fear myself for many years.

A god, living in fear?

Has Camelot not hunted magic? I am magic itself. Of course I know fear.

Arthur desperately wanted to look up then, to see this strange god who admitted to being afraid of a mortal king's persecution, but he did not want to risk breaking the rules of the ritual, especially now, with Emrys having heeded his call.

"You bow so beautifully before me. It is not often a king will lower himself like this, even to the gods," said Emrys out loud. He sounded sad. Sad and eerily familiar. Had Arthur heard Emrys's voice before without realising it?

"A king will do as a king must, for the sake of his people," Arthur said into the dirt, perhaps more petulantly as he should, given the fact he was addressing a god.

"Yes," said Emrys, "a good king will."

Arthur did not know what to make of that statement and so he stayed quiet.

"In a moment, I will allow you to raise your head," continued Emrys. "I must warn you, though. The sight of me… it might give you a bit of a shock." The god almost sounded amused at the notion.

Arthur tried to wrap his mind around the idea of a god's corporal form. A human voice might not necessarily come from a human shell, but Arthur had no real concept of a godly body. How many eyes and heads and limbs did a god have? Arthur had faced a variety of creatures and beasts in his life. This would be another such moment.

"I can handle it," said Arthur firmly.

Emrys made a strange sound that almost sounded like a snort. "Ah, yes. Always so arrogant in the face of a challenge, aren't you, Arthur?"

Arthur grimaced. He should be more careful. He was a Pendragon king, speaking to the god of magic. He had felt his touch and it had shaken him to the core. He should be glad Emrys had not tried to attack him on the spot, that the wave of power had pushed and prodded, but not punished. "I apologise," he murmured against the ground. "I did not mean to be rude. I'm here to seek a favour from you."

"I know." Emrys paused, then sighed. "I suppose it can't be helped. Raise your head, Arthur Pendragon, and face the god of magic."

Slowly, Arthur lifted his forehead off the ground, straightened his back and sat back on his heels. He tilted his head back to look up into the branches, eyes searching until he caught sight of something.

Emrys was barefoot. Pale legs were dangling off a thick branch. Arthur's eyes slowly wandered upwards. A dark blue robe, not unlike the one Arthur had donned, hung down to Emrys's knees, though the god's garb was stitched with intricate silver patterns where Arthur's was plain. Long fingers were curled around the branch, seeking hold like any human might. Emrys was slim and tall, his shoulders a little hunched. Arthur's eyes lingered there for a second.

He swallowed, bracing himself, before he dared to lift his eyes to look a god into the face.

A familiar face.

Warm and friendly features topped by a mop of unruly dark hair, adorned with a crown made of blossoming hawthorn twigs.

Arthur could not help it – he gaped. "Merlin?"

Merlin – Emrys? – smiled sadly. "Hello, Arthur."

dies ariditatis XCIX
(day 99 of the drought)

Merlin did not talk to Arthur for a whole day when he told him of his decision to follow Nissa's advice.

But he dutifully packed Arthur's and Guinevere's saddlebags, and he nodded when he was asked to come as well and serve his King, and Arthur felt relieved knowing that, even if he wholly disagreed with Arthur's decision, Merlin would always stand by his side.

"I'm sorry I've disappointed you," Arthur found himself saying the night before they were set to leave. He was sitting at his desk, slowly drinking a precious cup of water. They were hauling it up from deep within the water caverns now, where Arthur had once slain the afanc.

"I'm not disappointed," Merlin replied, staring down at where he was turning down the bed for Arthur and Guinevere. The Queen was still in her own chambers, getting readied by her maidservant.

"You are," Arthur insisted. "You think I'm making a grave mistake bowing to this god of magic."

Merlin grimaced, but did not immediately reply. Instead, he finished his task, then walked over to Arthur's desk. He hovered until Arthur gestured at the chair across and Merlin's eyes crinkled a little as he accepted his King's invitation and sat.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you don't truly understand what you've agreed to."

"I have agreed to kneel at Emrys's feet and beg for his assistance to end this drought," Arthur told him, trying to keep the deep-lodged discomfort he felt at the idea from bleeding into his voice.

"You should not be kneeling at anyone's feet, especially not Emrys's," Merlin replied firmly, eyes unwavering and incredibly serious where they were meeting Arthur's.

"Because he is the god of magic?" Arthur asked.

Merlin tilted his head in a way that was neither a nod nor a shake. "Because you are the King."

Arthur smirked a little. "What is a mere mortal before a god?"

"You are not just any mortal. It is not Emrys's place to command you, god or no. If anything, it is you who should command Emrys."

Arthur felt himself grow uneasy under Merlin's intense stare, but managed to tease him with a light voice all the same, "Why, I didn't know you felt this way, Merlin. If you believe me to be above even the gods themselves, why not show a little respect for a change instead of calling me a prat and constantly running late?"

Merlin, strangely, lowered his eyes at that, as if he had been sharply rebuked. "Of course I respect you, my lord," he said solemnly. "You are my King."

Arthur winced at this sudden and uncharacteristic deference. "I know that," he hurried to say, aiming to soothe. "I didn't mean to imply any different. You rarely overstep and if you do, I usually encouraged it."

Merlin glanced up again and, to Arthur's relief, smiled. "You do need to be taken down a notch, every now and then."

"Exactly," Arthur said. "So perhaps this ritual will do me good. Remind me that I, too, am not as important as I'd like to believe."

Merlin's smile vanished. He vehemently shook his head. "You are even more important than you think."

Arthur did not know what to do with these strange words. "Merlin," he sighed, growing weary of this conversation.

A wistful sort of smile played about Merlin's lips. "You should get some sleep," he said and got up from the chair. "You'll need your strength tomorrow."

He bid Arthur good-night and was almost at the door when he turned and said, "Arthur?"

Arthur looked at him expectantly. "Forgot something?"

"No. But you might, tomorrow." He inclined his head, glossy eyes shimmering gold in the candlelight. "Whatever you may face at the tree, please remember this: I am happy and honoured to serve you. I believe you are a great man, the greatest King Albion has ever seen, and I will stand by your side no matter what."

With the lowest of bows, he left, leaving Arthur to stare dumbly at the wooden door.

dies ariditatis C
(day 100 of the drought)

Arthur did not know what to think, did not know what to say as he faced the man sitting in the Ancient Hawthorn. It was undoubtedly Merlin's face he was seeing, his blue eyes cautious, lips still twisted into a regretful sort of smile.

"Merlin?" he repeated stupidly.

"I'm not Merlin now, no."

So it was Emrys. A god wearing a mortal's face, inhabiting the body of the man Emrys had to know was Arthur's friend. What kind of scheme, what kind of fae trickery was this?

A sudden flash of bright, hot anger flared up in Arthur's chest, almost making him forget himself and rise to his feet in the presence of a deity. How dare he? How dare this god of magic hurt his friend, who was innocent in all of this!

"Did you take possession of him?" he demanded sharply. "Did you rob his body? Did you steal Merlin?"

A firm shake of the head. "No."

"He was acting strange before," Arthur insisted. "When I was prepared for the ritual, Merlin was acting odd. That was you, wasn't it? You were controlling him even then."

"You're wrong," the god said – in Merlin's friendly, soothing tones, like he was out to mock Arthur!

"How am I wrong?" snapped Arthur. "You're sitting in this tree, wearing my servant's face, speaking with my servant's voice!" He narrowed his eyes. "Release him! Release him at once! I demand it!"

Merlin's kind eyes narrowed. "It's not your place to demand anything here, Arthur Pendragon," warned Emrys. It was strange and unsettling, getting rebuked like a child by a creature that looked like Merlin, which only served to stoke Arthur's anger further.

"I will protect my friend from a god if I must," he retorted hotly.

For some reason, that had the god's stolen face soften. "Of course you would," said he. "But still, you're wrong. I haven't taken Merlin from you nor have I borrowed his form. Emrys is Merlin and Merlin is Emrys. One wanders amongst mortals, the other amongst the gods."

Arthur stared up at him, uncomprehending. "What are you saying?"

Emrys tilted his head and smiled. "Come now, Arthur. I like to call you knights thick, but we both know you aren't."

Arthur's hands turned clammy at the familiar hint of banter, so misplaced in this situation. "You… you're saying Merlin and you are one and the same."

"Not quite, but for the sake of simplicity, yes."

"You're saying Merlin is a god."

Emrys chuckled. "I prefer warlock, but you're not wrong."

Arthur shook his head. He brought up a hand to rub at his face, belatedly realising he might be removing the remnants of the oil and faintly wondering if that might ruin the ritual. Not that it mattered now. The god was toying with Arthur, clear as day. This was not a meeting in good faith, but Emrys trying to make the King of Camelot look a fool.

He should have never come here. He should have known a god of magic would not offer assistance to a man who hated magic, whose father had sworn to destroy magic. He should have known he would face lies and deceit. Those were the ways of magic.

"I don't believe you," Arthur spat.

Emrys tilted his head. "Why would I lie to you?"

"Why would a god pretend to be a mortal man's servant?" Arthur shot back. "Why scrub a mortal man's floors and wash a mortal man's feet?"

Emrys smiled. "Because the mortal man is worthy of such attentions."

Arthur let out a huff. "This is ridiculous!"

"No need to be disrespectful, Arthur," chastised Emrys and finally jumped off the branch.

Despite the height, he seemed unfazed by the landing and there was no noise on impact, either, as if he had gently floated to the ground like a feather. Up close, the god looked every bit like Merlin, in spite of the rich robe and strange hawthorn crown.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur asked. "Why are you mocking me? I've come here for help. I was prepared to humble myself."

"Oh, Arthur," sighed Emrys, eyebrows drawn. "I'm not mocking you."

"You are," Arthur insisted. "You're telling me the man that has served me faithfully for years, whom I trust like none other, was a god all along."

"A sorcerer, first and foremost," said Emrys. "When I walk amongst you mortals, I'm little more than that. Powerful, no doubt, but not as powerful as a god."

Arthur suppressed an urge to tear at his own hair, trying to wrap his mind around all of this. "So Merlin is… you are a sorcerer? Not a god?"

"I am both," said Emrys and shrugged a little helplessly. "I am magic itself."

Arthur let out a frustrated noise. "I don't understand."

Emrys chose that moment to crouch down until his face was on one level with Arthur's. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry. I wanted to spare you all of this. I never wanted you to find out this way. I told you not to come here. You should have sought help elsewhere."

Arthur thought back to the day Nissa had arrived at his court to propose asking Emrys for help. Realisation dawned on him, a realisation that made his stomach twist painfully because it implied Emrys might be speaking the truth about Merlin.

"You were serious that afternoon," he voiced his epiphany. "When you told me to pick up a magic sword and chase Morgana and Morgause down myself to spill their blood on the plains."

Emrys nodded. "I can't lift the curse in my human form, and the witches have hidden well as they bleed your land dry. But with the right help, you could have tracked them down. You could have killed them for good and saved Camelot yourself." He smiled sadly. "Another mighty deed befitting the King of Camelot. No need to throw yourself at my feet and beg for help. It's too late now, though."

Arthur frowned. "You'd have preferred that?"

"I told you before, you should not be kneeling to me, Arthur. I meant it, too. I was made to serve you." He gestured at Arthur. "What master kneels to his servant?"

"How can a mortal man be master to a god?"

Emrys grimaced. "It's complicated. Trying to untangle it has driven many a dragon insane, I'll have you know."

"Dragon?" Arthur asked, voice strained, but Emrys waved him off.

"All you must know is that I'm destined to serve you, sire." He dipped his head, like Merlin had done so many times before. "You are the Once and Future King, prophesied to unite all of Albion."

Arthur stared at the face of his friend, worn by a god. The god of magic. The god destined to serve Arthur, by his own account. Why was Emrys telling these fantastical tales? He balled his hands to fists on his thighs. This made no sense. None of this.

Yet when he thought back to the past days, how Merlin had acted, how he had wanted Arthur to use magic for help but had recoiled at the mere mention of Emrys, how Nissa had behaved around Merlin, how Merlin had behaved as he had prepared Arthur…

Emrys smiled faintly and nodded, undoubtedly aware of Arthur's thoughts.

"If all this is true…" Arthur trailed off as a strange hurt settled in his chest. If all this was true, his friendship with Merlin had been nothing but a lie, hadn't it? It had never been a guileless but brave country boy challenging Arthur in the streets. It had been a god, walking amongst mortals. Merlin could have taken him apart with less than one blow, hells, with a snip of his godly fingers.

Arthur exhaled sharply, then asked, "If I truly am your master, can I command you now?"

Abruptly, Emrys straightened from where he had still been crouching, face closing off. "No," he said firmly. "With the ritual, you have called upon my godly presence. Not even you, my King, hold any authority over me here."

He gestured at the world around them and for the first time since Emrys's appearance, Arthur let his eyes wander. With a start, he realised the witnesses were gone, the area around them strangely devoid of colour and contrast. They were all alone underneath the tree and Arthur suddenly understood that this was no longer Camelot, but a god's realm.

Acutely, he remembered: He had come here for a reason. The drought, the future of his kingdom. That is what he should be focusing on.

What did it matter whether or not Emrys was Merlin? He needed his help.

Emrys looked at him expectantly and Arthur thought he could see it then, in the way Merlin's shoulders were taut, his head held high, his stance strong. This was not his servant now, but a god. A god he had come to petition.

"Emrys, god of magic," Arthur spoke up as he lowered his eyes, aiming for a respectful bow of his head, a tone of voice that was as subservient as a king could manage. These were the words he had prepared for the ritual and he would speak them now. "I've come here to ask your help. My people are suffering and my land is dying. I would beg you to hear my plea for assistance and lift the witches' wicked curse."

Head bowed, Arthur watched Emrys's bare feet noiselessly move out of sight. "A Pendragon asking magic itself for help." The voice had shifted. Still Merlin's, undoubtedly, but with an edge to it now that had goosebumps rise on Arthur's body.

This was different. This was the ritual. He was pleading to a god and the god was not pleased with the man he saw before him.

"A king asking for help for his people," Arthur replied. Faintly, he wondered if there was a title he should be using, like my lord, but Nissa had made no mention of it.

"A king who would throw me on a pyre for what I am," Emrys retorted sharply.

Arthur felt the god's anger prickling against his skin. Fear crept back in, prompting him to lower his head further despite his strong resolve not to show it, to retain his dignity. Still, he pushed on, "Magic has hurt my family and my kingdom many times over."

Emrys made a derisive noise that made Arthur want to cringe and beg forgiveness. He did neither. "Magic has helped you more than you could possibly know."

"You cannot fault me for being wary of it after all that we have suffered."

"It is not your place to tell me whether or not I find fault with you, Arthur Pendragon!" Emrys snapped and a bright burst of burning power rushed at Arthur, momentarily blinding him.

Arthur couldn't help himself. He tipped over and cowered, his body once more sent atremble. A god. He was speaking to a god and he had angered him. He could hear Emrys breathing harshly somewhere above, somewhere beyond, and in his fear, hysterically, Arthur found himself wondering why a god needed to breathe at all if he was immortal.

"I'm sorry," he choked out.

"Arrogant," spat Emrys, each word stinging like a whiplash. "Ignorant. Selfish. Those are just some of your many faults."

Arthur did not deny it. One would think hearing the words from a god was what shook him the most, but it was hearing them from Merlin's mouth which made it especially cruel.

"I know," he told the ground. "But please don't make my people suffer for my mistakes."

"Your people have been suffering for many years before this. They have lived in fear, have been hated, have been chased from their homes and banished, have died in fires or by the axe."

Arthur swallowed. "You mean sorcerers."

"I mean your people." Emrys's voice was hard and unrelenting. "Do you not consider those with magic your people, King Arthur?"

Arthur blinked, the ground below a blur of brown, as he thought this over. "They are my subjects, same as everyone else," he decided.

"And do you care for your subjects?"

"Of course," Arthur replied at once. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"I believe you," said Emrys, and perhaps it was just Arthur's imagination, but his voice gentled a bit then. "But if so, you must protect those with magic as well as those without. This is the price I ask of you, if I am to lift the curse from your lands and punish the witches for what they have done."

Arthur tensed. "You want me to stop persecuting sorcerers. To lift my father's ban on magic."

"Your ban now," Emrys pointed out mercilessly.

"You're right," Arthur conceded.

He should have known Emrys would ask for this. How could Arthur expect the god of magic to help him when magic remained outlawed in Camelot?

But how could he unleash magic on the land? Impossible to know what havoc it would wreak, what suffering it would bring.

"Ask something else of me," Arthur pleaded.

"There is nothing else. Embrace magic or suffer the consequences."

Arthur could not make that decision. Not here, not now, not cowering in the dirt before a deity. He needed time. He needed advisors.

Yet if he did not make this promise now, where would that leave Camelot? Burnt and dried out until it was no more, or until Morgana and Morgause swept in to claim the remains for themselves. Even now, people were barely clinging to hope. It was only a matter of time until they would realise how well and truly Arthur had failed them. They would rise up and fight, or swear allegiance to Morgana, who could and would offer relief through magic.

If he wanted Camelot to prosper once more, he needed to do as Emrys asked. And the god of magic had named his price: allow magic to return.

Arthur shook his head against the ground, dirt smearing across his forehead and mingling with the balm he had been anointed with. "I know nothing of magic. How could I embrace it?"

"Magic has been by your side for many years. You were merely blind to it."

Merlin. He meant Merlin. Who was a sorcerer, a god of magic who had sworn fealty to the mortal King that would see all of his kind dead. Who had served Arthur so faithfully, no matter what Arthur had thrown at him, no matter what Arthur had done. Suddenly, he remembered Merlin's words from last night: I am happy and honoured to serve you. I believe you are a great man, the greatest King Albion has ever seen, and I will stand by your side no matter what.

"Merlin," he spoke up, then stopped.

"Yes?" asked Emrys, and Arthur was not sure if he was answering to the name or asking him to continue. Perhaps it was both.

"Will he… will you still be there? After this?"

Arthur could hear the smile in Emrys's words, "I would never leave your side, sire."

"You would see this through with me? The changing of the laws?"

"Of course."

Arthur nodded against the ground. It should not matter after what he had learned today, but it did: He had always faced the biggest of challenges with Merlin by his side.

There was only one choice he could make here.

"I'll do it," he said, resolve settling in firmly. "I give you my word, Emrys. I vow to end the ban and allow magic into Camelot if you lift this curse."

A cool gust of wind rushed over Arthur's skin as soon as he had spoken the words. A shift in pressure rattled him as the whole world seemed to tilt sideways. Momentarily disoriented, Arthur clawed his fingers into the ground, seeking hold.

When the strange sensation ceased, the world sounded different. There was something like a steady murmur, a swooshing sound.

"Emrys?" Arthur uttered and finally dared to lift his head and look around.

Emrys was gone.

Arthur was back with the others and water was falling from the skies.

It was raining.

The drought had ended.

aetas aurea I
(day 1 of the golden age)

It was Leon who pulled Arthur to his feet underneath the tree. He respectfully bowed his head, then grasped Arthur's shoulder. "You succeeded, sire."

The rest of the witnesses had already stepped out into the drizzle, celebrating. Gwaine was howling good-naturedly, trying to catch the rain with his tongue. Elyan was twirling a grinning Guinevere on the spot, her linen dress too soaked to be sent spinning. Lancelot and Percival were standing with their eyes closed, heads tipped backwards, water pearling off their armour. Even Gaius and Geoffrey were holding up their hands, looking delighted, while Nissa was kneeling in the rain, eyes closed, rocking back and forth, praying.

Leon joined them a moment later, for once indulging Gwaine and his antics and letting himself be chased through the quickly forming puddles.

This left Arthur to stand underneath the tree alone, watching his people celebrate the end of the drought.

There was only one person missing.

Footfalls announced his arrival a moment later. Arthur didn't look back, but glanced to the side when Merlin came to stand next to him, brown jacket and linen breeches, neckerchief wrapped around his throat, not a trace of godliness about him. But a few minutes earlier, Arthur had trembled before this god, had felt his power burning his skin. Now here he stood, as human as them all, watching Gwaine splash Leon, eyes crinkling with mirth at the sight.

For a moment they observed together in silence, their shoulders bumping into each other.

"Thank you," Arthur said.

"Don't," Merlin replied, voice soft. "This was your doing."

They both turned at the same time, looking at each other. Arthur searched Merlin's face for a spark of Emrys and, strangely, found none, though they wore the same face. Perhaps Emrys had been right when he had said they were not quite one and the same, Merlin and he.

Arthur smiled. "I realise now that you always let me take the credit," he said. "Though it's very clearly you who does most of the work."

Merlin shrugged, returning smile just a bit sheepish. "I am but a humble man serving a great king, Your Majesty."

Arthur nodded, face growing serious. "Yes. Serving me faithfully."

Merlin mirrored his serious expression. "Always," he stated, both voice and stance unwavering. "Just as I promised."

"Were you truly afraid?" Arthur asked. "All this time? Even being what you are?"

Merlin nodded, eyes growing just a bit distant, just a little haunted. "I can still burn like any of you," he said quietly. "And I can still lose a friend, like any other man."

"You could crush me with a single gesture," Arthur pointed out, frowning helplessly.

"Arthur," Merlin whispered. "You could crush me with nothing but a word."

Arthur wanted to ask so many more questions then. About their past, their future. About destiny and gods and mortals. He could feel an argument building, too. Undoubtedly, there would be shouting down the road, and tears – on Merlin's side, at least, girl's blouse that he was, god or no. And yet…

Arthur reached out, placed his hands on Merlin's shoulders. "I made a promise, too, you know?"

"Oh?" said Merlin, as if he did not know what had occurred beneath the tree, what vow Arthur had sworn to a god.

"A promise to embrace magic," Arthur said.

He pulled Merlin close and did just that.