Part I: Merlin
Merlin topped up the jug with Camelot's finest wine, his fingers trembling.
The wine would put Arthur in a good mood. A really good mood, hopefully. Merlin had snuck the bottle from the very back of the royal wine cellars. It was usually reserved for visits from other kings, the most expensive wine Camelot served.
Merlin was pulling out all the stops tonight.
He finished emptying the bottle into the jug, then took a step back to observe the tray resting on the table in front of him. He had retreated into a seldomly used storeroom as to not get caught with the way-too-pricey wine by Cook or the steward. Before him lay a feast truly fit for a king. Crispy pork roast, honey-glazed carrots, butter-soaked beans, three kinds of dumplings, mushroom pasties… all of it kept hot and fresh by a handy enchantment. Merlin would have preferred to take Arthur his favourite – herb-crusted capon – but he hadn't been able to convince the staff to cook that. Not without giving the reason for such a special delivery, and he certainly couldn't explain that.
Because tonight, Merlin was going to tell Arthur about his magic.
Merlin closed his eyes and exhaled in an attempt to expel at least some of his trepidation.
This was it. This was the day he would finally do it. He was done hiding. He was done pretending. He was done lying.
If the months and months of trying and failing to convince Arthur that Agravaine was a traitor had taught Merlin anything, it was that revealing the truth about himself was long overdue. Arthur needed to see clearly. He needed to know. Otherwise, Merlin might not be able to protect him from the next threat, the next catastrophe, and he had no doubt another attack was coming. There always was. Merlin was under no illusion. Morgana wasn't dead. She was hiding away somewhere to plan another scheme, as were dozens of other sorcerers feeling wronged and threatened by Camelot.
There was no way around it. He simply had to tell Arthur. He would do it today. He would do it now.
But by the gods, just thinking about it made Merlin's blood run cold, his knees go weak and his eyes grow wet. He would stand in Arthur's chambers, look his King in the eye and tell him he was a sorcerer. Merlin could picture the scene so well, it almost felt real. Not for the first time since he had made his decision, Merlin suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe properly. A ringing noise in his left ear was growing louder steadily and his hands had started to go clammy.
Merlin abruptly opened his eyes and forced a gust of air into his constricted ribcage. The sight of the storeroom and its musky smell grounded him. He wasn't in Arthur's chambers yet. He was still downstairs, near the kitchens, far away from the King.
The ringing subsided and another two or three deep breaths chased away most of the tight feeling in his chest.
Merlin looked over the tray again to make sure everything was in order. Were there enough dumplings? Should he give that knife a polish?
He knew he was stalling. With every minute he stayed in this storeroom, he was increasing the chances that he would pull out after all. But there was no way he could back out now. He had promised himself that this would be the day, once and for all.
So, Merlin picked up the tray, left the storeroom and made his way upstairs to Arthur's chambers.
He had walked this route a thousand times and more at this point. Merlin was fairly sure he could find his way there even if he was robbed of all his senses. It was a good thing that his feet were carrying him forward seemingly on their own accord. If Merlin had to think too hard about where to go, he might have steered his legs into a different direction until he was back in Gaius's tower, like a complete coward.
Up the stairs, past the guards, left and down the corridor, right and past some guards again…
All too soon, Merlin had made it into the hallway leading to the royal chambers. Although Arthur could have taken Uther's larger rooms, he preferred staying in his old ones. They were further away from Gwen's rooms than the late King's quarters, but Gwen was spending most of her time in Arthur's anyway. She only ever went to her own to entertain ladies of the court in the parlour, or to get dressed.
Merlin wondered if she was with Arthur now, and if Arthur would have her stay once he realised Merlin was going to tell him something delicate and important. Probably. It was only fair, too. She was Queen now, and deserved to know as much as the King.
Telling them both at once might be worse than telling Arthur alone, but it might also be better. Gwen had a way of tempering Arthur. Of course, if she was angry enough herself…
Merlin shook his head, interrupting that line of thought. He couldn't afford more doubts and more fears to creep into his mind. It was already whirling with too many of them.
When the all too familiar door came into view, he felt himself slow down, and by the time he had reached the entrance, he was dragging his feet. He came to stand two paces away to stare at it.
How often had he walked through that door? Barged in there like he belonged, knocking a formality he seldomly bothered with? How often had he followed Arthur out of it, bickering or yelling or laughing? The King slammed it shut on occasions. Merlin knew how to noiselessly pull it closed when Arthur was sleeping. Would this be the last time he was welcome here? Would he leave Arthur's rooms dragged away by guards?
A sound distracted him from his rambling thoughts. It took Merlin a moment to realise that the strange clinking noise was coming from him. He glanced down at the tray. It was shaking and he was close to spilling the expensive wine.
Get a grip, he thought, but it was easier said than done. Deep breaths, he told himself.
He could do this. He had to do this.
Why focus on the bad? Merlin needed to remind himself of all that was good about Arthur and why he believed in him. Because yes, there was their shared destiny, but that wasn't the only reason Merlin knew Arthur Pendragon was somebody worth following.
He was a just and fair ruler.
He was brave and bold in the face of the enemy.
He genuinely loved his people.
He had knighted commoners.
He had married a commoner and made her Queen, against all odds.
On top of all this, despite their difference in rank, he was also Merlin's friend.
The last thought was what finally set his body into motion again. Merlin stepped up to the door, used his elbow to open it and walked inside.
At first, he thought nobody was there. It was a possibility he somehow hadn't considered and it made him falter. But then he spotted Arthur, tucked away into the nook of the window by his desk. He had his back turned towards the room. Perhaps something in the main square had drawn his attention.
Merlin glanced around. No sight of Gwen.
He approached the table in the main room and set down the tray. He was very proud in that moment that he did not spill any of the food or wine. His hands had gone from shaky to deceptively steady.
"Dinner," he called. Croaked, rather. Unlike his hands, his voice definitely hadn't got the message about getting a grip.
Neither had his eyes, Merlin realised with sudden horror. Hearing the sound of his own voice, small and scared, had instantly drawn up tears. Hurriedly, he curled in on himself and scrubbed a hand over the prickling edges of his eyes before any of them could spill past his lashes. He couldn't start this conversation crying, could he? He was completely convinced it would end in tears, though.
From the angle he stood now, he could no longer see Arthur, but footfalls told him that the King had heard his pitiful call and was coming over.
"It smells absolutely delicious!"
Merlin's head snapped up at the sound of Arthur's voice. It was bright, elated, giddy almost. Merlin looked at the King's face and found him beaming. Merlin was so dazzled by Arthur's smile, he momentarily forgot why he was here and what he was about to do. He didn't think he had ever seen Arthur this happy, and that said something, because the man had been over the moon after marrying Gwen.
What in the name of all the gods was going on?
Before he could say anything, Arthur's eyes had fallen on the tray. Although Merlin wouldn't have thought it possible, the King's smile widened even further and then, Arthur's hands were on Merlin's shoulders.
"You heard?" he exclaimed. "She told you already? Ah, but of course she did!"
Merlin only stared at him, wide-eyed.
"And you brought a feast to celebrate – perfect!" Arthur squeezed Merlin's shoulders. "You're a great servant, have I ever told you that?"
Oh, lords! He was enchanted, wasn't he?
Arthur let go of Merlin, reached for the wine jug, took one of the goblets always resting on the table and filled it. That was Merlin's job, but he was glued to the spot. A moment later, Arthur shoved the goblet right into Merlin's hand. Merlin only just managed to wrap his fingers around it instead of letting it spill all over his freshly-washed clothes. They were his best clothes. He hadn't wanted to look frumpy when telling Arthur his biggest secret.
Which he wouldn't be telling him now, because apparently, Arthur was enchanted, or cursed, or something!
"A toast!" Arthur said and raised the second goblet he had filled. "To the future of Camelot!"
Automatically, Merlin raised his own goblet in response and it seemed to be enough for Arthur, because he was already taking a large sip of his wine, then grinned again.
"Oh! This is the good stuff," he exclaimed happily. "Merlin, you're a genius!"
Yes, definitely enchanted. That was just Merlin's luck, wasn't it? He had finally found the courage to tell Arthur about his magic, and the King promptly got himself cursed!
On the positive side, Merlin's apprehension and fear was almost instantly shoved aside. On the negative, it was quickly replaced by worry and a different kind of dread. Who was behind it this time? Morgana already? A random sorcerer? Some magical creature?
"Why are you making that face?" For the first time since Merlin had entered the royal chambers, the smallest of frowns had appeared between Arthur's eyebrows. The sight of it was a relief – perhaps the enchantment hadn't taken fully hold of him yet.
"What face?" Merlin asked as he studied Arthur's for any signs or clues connected to magic. No red eyes, no sickly-looking skin…
"Well. At first, you looked like you were about to cry. Which, granted, I knew you would if you found out about this, big girl's blouse that you are. But now you're more… concerned?"
Merlin frowned. Unusually perceptive as well as unusually happy? A strange enchantment. What might be its goal?
"I'm fine," he said and let his eyes wander down Arthur's frame to look for cursed objects. Bracelets, amulets…
"You're clearly not," Arthur said, then let out a little sigh. "You're worrying about them already, aren't you?"
"Worry about who?" Merlin asked. Did Arthur's belt look strange? Was the buckle gleaming because Merlin had polished it so well, or because it had been doused in some potion?
"About Guinevere," Arthur replied, "and the baby."
Merlin's eyes stilled, now fixed somewhere on Arthur's knees as he processed what Arthur had just said.
"About Guinevere," he repeated dumbly, "and the baby." He finally looked up and stared right into Arthur's eyes. The eyes that still held a sparkle of the bright happiness Arthur had so openly displayed. It all made sense now.
Merlin smiled. No, he grinned! "The baby?" he exclaimed, excitement bubbling up in his chest. Gods, Gwen was pregnant!
"Yes," Arthur replied and apparently, Merlin's grin had triggered another bout of his own happiness, because the harsh line between his eyes disappeared instantly. He beamed back at Merlin full force. "The baby!"
"Oh, Arthur!" Merlin said, his voice now cracking for an entirely different reason. "That's wonderful, just wonderful!"
Arthur nodded, his whole face lit up. "I know!" he said. "Isn't that why you brought this?" He gestured at the table.
Merlin followed the wave of his hand and found himself looking at the tray. The tray of food he had brought to appease Arthur. Because he had wanted to tell him about his magic.
A sharp pang of pain cut through the joy that had sprung up at Arthur's news. At this moment, Merlin realised he wouldn't tell Arthur. Not today, not with what he had just heard. He looked back up at Arthur, hiding a sudden wave of regret behind another wide smile.
"Yes, that's exactly why. A feast to celebrate. Congratulations!"
He couldn't tell him. Not now.
Arthur was in a good mood, which is what he had wanted, but his happiness would certainly get dampened by him learning Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin couldn't do that to him. Arthur had just found out he was going to be a father! Merlin wouldn't ruin that for him with tales of magic, and all the hurt and lies that included.
He felt his smile grow wistful, but Arthur had settled down at the table now and was enthusiastically piling some food on a plate. To Merlin's surprise, he then pushed the loaded plate away from him.
"Sit, Merlin, sit! I can't possibly eat this alone, and Guinevere has gone to tell Elyan. She'll be a while, I'm sure."
So, Merlin sat and ate. All the while, he listened to Arthur's happy ramblings about the future of Camelot and chewed and swallowed. But he wasn't tasting the food, or the wine, and he was only half-listening, too. Because his thoughts were occupied with that one thought, that one regret:
He was not going to tell Arthur about his magic tonight.
Merlin knew Arthur had never been good at sitting around waiting patiently. The King was a man of action. If he perceived a threat or some danger, he would pick up his sword and get rid of it.
A sword wouldn't help him tonight, though.
Gwen was having her baby.
Another pained, drawn-out shout made its way past the wooden door to Gwen's chambers and Merlin watched Arthur cringe and flinch in response. For what had to be the hundredth time tonight, he jumped off the chair and started pacing. They were in the antechamber adjacent to the Queen's bedroom. Arthur had been kicked out of there hours ago by Gaius because he had been scaring the midwives.
"This is taking forever," Arthur said, voice laced with an anger Merlin knew was masking his anxiety.
"It's her first," Merlin told him calmly. "The first one usually takes extra time."
"She has been in there for hours!" Arthur was glaring at Merlin now, as if a manservant dictated the rules of nature.
"And she might be another hour or so," Merlin replied matter-of-factly.
"Another hour!" Arthur exclaimed, sounding outraged.
"She is having a baby, Arthur," Merlin told him. "It's not a—"
Another wail of pain interrupted Merlin's words, this one louder than the one before and ending on a sob. Arthur was almost at the door to the bedroom by the time Merlin had got up from his chair and pulled him back.
"You're not to go in there!" he reminded him.
"Unhand me," Arthur snapped and pushed his elbow painfully into Merlin's side. Merlin let out a sharp hiss, but didn't let go. "I need to see her!"
"You will see her when this is all done," Merlin replied. "You're of no use in there. You'll scare and worry everybody. Gwen needs to focus, and she can't do that with you hovering, or shouting at the midwives. You made one of them cry!"
At that, Arthur deflated and Merlin led him back to his chair. He gently pushed Arthur down before settling next to him. Merlin knew, before long, Arthur would be up and pacing again, and they would repeat this little dance until Gwen had finally had her baby.
"Sorry," Arthur said, perhaps for the small bruise forming on Merlin's ribcage.
Merlin was usually overcome with a wave of warm, tingling surprise whenever Arthur deigned to apologise to him, but Arthur had said sorry about two dozen times at this point – for shouting at Merlin, for shaking him, for calling him some unflattering names – and it was kind of losing its charm.
"You're worried," Merlin replied patiently. "It's fine. It's normal. You think you're the first father-to-be to have a bit of a break-down?"
"I'm not having a break-down," Arthur said with some indignation. But the way he was now bent over in the chair, elbows propped up on his thighs and head bowed, was belying his words.
Another wail of pain, even more drawn out and harsh than the one before, cut through the following silence, and Arthur buried his face into his hands.
"I hate this," he uttered, seemingly pouring all of his frustration into those three words.
"I know." Merlin placed a comforting hand on his friend's back.
Arthur glanced up at him through splayed fingers. Merlin thought he might not welcome the touch and was just about to lift his hand when Arthur said, "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin stilled. This was new. "For what?"
"For staying. I know I'm a mess, and I'm being an ass and a prat and all that, but I want you to know I… well, I appreciate your patience."
And there it was, the warm tingling running up and down Merlin's spine. "It's fine," Merlin told Arthur, feeling all kinds of happy and rather a tad touched. "That's what friends are for."
Arthur didn't reply, but he finally dropped his hands and sent Merlin such a sincere look of gratitude, it made Merlin's heart squeeze. By the gods, but Arthur was a good man. What other king would be this open and vulnerable with a servant?
If only there weren't so many lies and secrets between us, Merlin thought. He suddenly had to look away from Arthur's earnest face to keep a hold of his own expression. He still hadn't told him about the magic. After that night in Arthur's chambers, his courage had just – evaporated. Vanished into thin air, never to be seen again.
There had always been an excuse. Gwen was feeling sick, and Arthur was too worried about her to listen. Some lord was getting on Arthur's nerves, and he was too agitated to have a calm conversation. A sorcerer had attacked, and Arthur's prejudices were too fresh in his mind.
Now here they were, nearly eight months later, and Arthur was none the wiser.
Another wail, this one different – considerably louder and rougher than before – and sharp, sudden anticipation cut through Merlin's gloomy thoughts. He tensed on the chair and his fingers curled against Arthur's back.
"What?" Arthur asked immediately.
"I might be wrong—" Merlin started.
But then, there were shouts and voices behind the door, something that sounded like relieved laughter, and Merlin knew it was done. Gwen had had the baby.
It took a moment, but then Arthur seemed to have come to the same conclusion as Merlin. He jumped off his chair again and all but ran at the door. He was intercepted there by Gaius, who was already poking his head into the antechamber. Excited female voices were ringing out behind him, though it was hard to make out any words.
"Just a moment, sire," Gaius said as he came face-to-face with Arthur. "Let them clean him up a bit, at least."
"Him?" Arthur exclaimed breathlessly.
Gaius smiled. "A healthy boy!"
Merlin stood and grinned widely at Arthur's completely unguarded whoop of joy.
"And Guinevere?" Arthur added.
"Perfectly fine," Gaius replied. "But please, sire, just a few more moments of patience. Let the midwives finish with her and get her into bed."
Arthur nodded shakily and turned when Gaius closed the door again. His face was filled with a whole myriad of emotions, joy and wonder chief among them.
"A son," he breathed, one hand on his hip, another pressed against his forehead. "I've got a son."
He sounded wonderfully lost in that moment and Merlin was of half a mind to pull his friend into that hug they somehow kept holding off. He settled on placing a gentle hand on Arthur's upper arm instead.
"Congratulations," Merlin said. "I'm so happy for you!"
Arthur nodded at him, perhaps too overwhelmed now to speak. They stood like this for a few more minutes, waiting in silence, listening to the voices and movement coming from the adjacent bedchamber. Merlin knew the midwives were likely getting the afterbirth out of the way first and Gwen away from the birthing chair, cleaned up and into her bed.
Then finally, Gaius returned and when he opened the door, the soft mewls of a new-born baby floated past him. Arthur unceremoniously pushed the physician to the side and strode into the bedroom beyond. Merlin followed at a slower pace, coming to stand by the door next to Gaius. Arthur had made a beeline for Gwen to grasp her hand and kiss her hair.
She looked exhausted, sweaty and pale and unkempt, as fresh mothers tended to look, but utterly beautiful all the same.
Merlin watched one of the midwives present the bundled-up baby to Arthur. He stared down at his son, too hesitant to take him, but Gwen was already holding out her arms and pulled her child close. Arthur stroked Gwen's hair, all the while staring down at the baby in astonishment.
The tenderness and intimacy of it all made Merlin teary-eyed.
"We should give them a moment," Gaius murmured and Merlin agreed.
The midwives had already retreated into the corridor, offering the couple some privacy as they went to wash up and dispose of soiled linens and water. Gaius and Merlin retreated into the antechamber and closed the door.
Merlin asked about the birth, but only half-listened to Gaius's report.
A son. Arthur had a son. A new Prince of Camelot! Merlin was suddenly thrown back to the day he had met Arthur, back when he was the Prince, and an arrogant one at that. So much time had passed since then, so many things had changed. Now, Arthur was a father! Where had the years gone?
Eventually, Gaius went back inside to check on Gwen and the baby. Merlin followed him on quiet feet and made to quickly slip out of the bedchamber. It had to be close to midnight now and he should really get some sleep while he could. He had no doubt he would spend the next weeks up at all hours of the night, in spite of the fact the King and Queen had hired nurses and other caretakers for the royal baby.
"Merlin!" He was almost at the door, but turned at the sound of Arthur's voice. "Where do you think you are going? Come here!"
Arthur was smiling, motioning at Merlin to come over to the bed. Hesitantly, Merlin made his way there and his eyes fell on Gwen. She was beaming up at him, her dark curls a beautiful mess.
"Congratulations," Merlin told her.
"Thank you, Merlin." She sounded equally proud and exhausted. Merlin knew contractions had kept her up for the past three days and she had got little sleep.
Merlin glanced at Arthur. "Sorry. Did you need something?"
Arthur shook his head at him, as if he was being particularly daft. "For you to take a look at my son!" he said, like it was obvious.
He was holding the baby in his arms now. The little prince was quiet, probably fallen asleep, overwhelmed by his first exciting minutes in this world.
Merlin walked around the bed and, after another encouraging nod from Arthur, bend over and brushed the soft, white cloth aside to take a better look.
The baby took after Gwen, with a dark mop of hair and a broad little nose, but Merlin thought he could see the beginnings of Arthur's regal jawline underneath those soft cheeks if he squinted hard enough.
He was still a little dirty and scrunched up, but perfectly gorgeous, and Merlin told them so.
"Come on, then," Arthur said and gently motioned with the bundle. Merlin looked at him incomprehensively. Arthur rolled his eyes, and then he pushed the baby, carefully but firmly, right into Merlin's arms.
Before Merlin could properly comprehend what was happening, he was holding Arthur's son. It wasn't the first new-born he had ever held. He had assisted with a birth or two, when things had turned difficult and the midwives had need of a physician and his assistant. But this was Arthur's son, his heir, the Prince of Camelot, but half an hour old, and he had been put trustingly into Merlin's arms!
Of course, he started to cry, just a little bit, and of course Arthur teased him about it.
As Merlin stared down at the sleeping baby, vision blurred, he was suddenly overcome by a fierce protectiveness, in an intensity he had only ever felt with regards to Arthur. At this moment he knew, without a doubt, that he would do anything, everything in his power, to keep this child from harm.
"Have you decided on a name?" he asked, voice tight with emotion.
"Amhar," Guinevere replied, "after Arthur's grandfather."
Prince Amhar, Merlin thought and bowed his head. I swear I will keep you safe.
Unfortunately, Merlin's protectiveness soon morphed into full-fledged paranoia. Because Merlin knew, without a doubt, that Arthur's son was not safe.
How could he be? Arthur was never safe, either, always attracting some sort of trouble, especially of the magical kind. Whoever wanted to harm Arthur would certainly want to harm his son as well.
So, Merlin kept hovering at Amhar's cradle whenever he could, annoying the nursemaids. They couldn't send him away, because he was Arthur's manservant and Gwen preferred having the baby with them in Arthur's chambers while she was recuperating. Still, at least some of the nurses made no secret that they wanted Merlin to stop playing watchdog, dropping little comments and hints whenever they could.
Luckily, neither Gwen nor Arthur seemed to find Merlin's hovering to be particularly strange. They were both distracted by the joys and fears of parenthood. The arrival of a royal baby also came with all kinds of official nonsense, that kept Arthur rather busy with writing letters and signing and sealing documents. That was on top of being dragged to the tavern by Gwaine to celebrate and dealing with an uncharacteristically open and cheerful Elyan, who had taken to being an uncle like a fish to water and kept showing up uninvited to see his sister and nephew.
Still, Merlin knew he couldn't sit by the cradle forever. He needed to come up with a more permanent form of protection.
Which was why Gaius found him one night, three weeks after Amhar's birth, pouring over the physician's collection of forbidden books.
"Has something happened?" Gaius asked him, locking the door to the infirmary behind him when he saw what Merlin was up to. He had got more careful ever since Agravaine.
"Not yet," Merlin replied and looked up from the thick tome he was currently studying.
Gaius came to sit across from him at the table. He glanced at the book Merlin was reading, then at the notes Merlin had scribbled on a piece of parchment. He must have recognised some of the words, because he immediately frowned.
"Merlin, no," he said firmly.
Merlin suppressed a groan. "You don't even know what I'm trying to do!"
"This is highly complex magic," Gaius continued, his voice urgent and insistent. "Much can go wrong when using this sort of spell. The High Priestesses would spend half a year preparing for this sort of ritual, and for good reason."
So perhaps he did have an inkling.
"I need to protect Amhar," Merlin told him. "This is a way to ensure he is safe. Resistance to most illnesses. Protection from wicked curses." He pointed at the page opened before him and traced a line. "It says here if the spell is worked before the child has turned three months old, it will take hold until he or she has come of age!"
"A birth blessing can be powerful protection," Gaius agreed cautiously, "but one wrong word, and you might doom the Prince to twenty-one years of bad luck and suffering instead!"
Merlin scowled. "That's not going to happen, Gaius! I'm doing my research to prevent just that."
Gaius shook his head at him. "You're foolish to even think about attempting this. Could you live with yourself if you mispronounced a word, used a wrong verb, and made little Amhar sick?"
The idea made Merlin sick. Of course, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he harmed Arthur's son. But he also couldn't live with the idea of that small, vulnerable bundle of joy and happiness hurt or dying because of some evil sorcerer's wicked curse.
"I'll be careful," he promised, aiming for a tone of finality.
Gaius sighed, disappointment evident in every line of his aged face, but he didn't say anything more on the matter. He had got used to Merlin's stubbornness in the past years.
Gaius's doubts had only strengthened Merlin's resolve. He was nothing but determined to get this right. He would protect Prince Amhar at all cost.
Merlin spent two weeks researching. By the time he felt like he had read all there was to be found on the matter and made his preparations, Gwen was up to leaving the bed again. Promptly, a feast was organised to officially mark and celebrate the birth of Camelot's heir.
The banquet made Merlin even more nervous. Of course, he knew that the news of Amhar's birth had been spread all over the Five Kingdoms by now. Still, the feast made it official, and might draw the attention of an evil sorcerer or two.
But it was also an opportunity. Amhar was too young to attend the feast, but everyone else, most especially Gwen and Arthur, would be busy. Merlin would need a few minutes to invoke the blessing and the feast might offer him a big enough window of time which he could spend with Amhar, completely unobserved.
That night, Merlin anxiously served Arthur and Gwen at the feast, waiting for a chance to present itself. He stood by as the royal couple ate, then started accepting gifts. Clothes, toys and good-luck charms for Amhar, jewellery for the mother, bottles of good wine for the father. Merlin suppressed a chuckle when he saw some lord had gifted the baby with a small sword, as if Pendragons really were trained to kill from birth. With Gwen and Arthur distracted by the parade of presents, Merlin finally found a moment to slip out the Great Hall without drawing attention to himself.
He quickly made his way up the stairs and to Arthur's chambers. He stopped by the antechamber first, where he had stashed away his bag with the bundle of herbs he had prepared for the enchantment. When he entered the main chambers, he saw that Hilde was the nursemaid on duty. Lucky – she actually liked Merlin, and didn't mind his hovering quite so much as the others.
"Hello, Merlin," she whispered. She was sitting on a chair next to the cradle and was rocking the little prince in one arm, who looked to be asleep. Amhar had been rather fussy with colic in the past days. She was probably glad he had finally stopped crying. "Shouldn't you be at the feast?"
"Fetching something for the King," Merlin murmured and held up his bag as if it was proof. "Though to be honest, I was rather glad for an excuse to take a break." He looked her over. "You look like you could need a break, too."
Hilde let out a small sigh. "He cried for a full hour," she admitted under her breath and brushed a frustrated hand through her red hair.
"Why don't you go get some fresh air?" Merlin offered. "Or you could fetch yourself a treat from the kitchens. The Queen made sure there was plenty for the servants. I can watch the Prince for a few minutes."
Hilde agreed readily enough and Merlin only felt half-bad about his deception. She really did look tired. Gently, she lowered the baby into the cradle. Merlin held his breath, knowing this might trigger another bout of wailing, but Amhar didn't make a fuss. Hilde left the room with a grateful little smile and then, Merlin was alone with the child.
He made sure the door was closed properly, then lifted the bundle of herbs from the bag and stepped up to the cradle. For a moment, he simply watched Amhar sleep. He had a sweet face, still heavily favouring Gwen with his dark curls, though behind those closed eyelids, Merlin knew he was hiding Arthur's blue eyes. Merlin smiled to himself, then lifted the herbs.
"Forbærne!"
A small flame lapped at the herbs and then, they were smouldering. The smoke wasn't unpleasant. The dried leaves had been spelled and treated with a special potion. A rich, earthy smell filled the room. In the cradle, Amhar shifted and smacked his lips.
Merlin closed his eyes for a moment to recall the words of the blessing he had put together himself. He needed to get this exactly right, he knew. He had practised for hours last night, sounding out every last syllable precisely until it was perfect.
He looked down at Amhar, then started waving the herbs in a circular motion over the cradle and began reciting the blessing.
"Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon," he chanted. Merlin's magic was a warm, prickling sensation all over his skin, flowing strongly towards his hand. A fine rain of light seemed to pearl right off the smouldering herbs, falling onto Amhar and engulfing him in a pleasant golden sheen. "Ic ye āsċieppe hæl, cbeft, ferhþlufu, wígbléd, cystignes, orescieldnes fram aclæccræfte ond balocræfte gehwider þu gǣs. Ic, Emrys, behāte ye bewarian fram bealwum."
The lights kept raining down a moment longer, then the golden glow vanished. Merlin smiled, feeling oddly at peace. It had worked. He could feel it in the air. No harm would come to Amhar now. He was protected by Merlin's magic.
Then he felt something sharp and unyielding press against the back of his neck.
"Give me one good reason," Arthur growled dangerously, "why I shouldn't kill you right now."
Dread, cold and hard as ice, settled into Merlin's stomach, instantly expelling the comforting warmth of magic he had felt only seconds before. This— this couldn't be happening. Arthur was supposed to be at the feast!
Merlin's throat locked up with fear. Not a single sound escaped him as he stood, petrified.
"I said," Arthur repeated in a low voice, "give me one good reason." He paused. "Speak!"
Merlin flinched at the harsh tone and the movement involuntarily drove him back into Arthur's blade. Excalibur – for that was most certainly what he was feeling – cut sharply into the skin of his neck and he quickly stilled. A dragon-forged blade, a formidable weapon against a powerful warlock. Warm blood trickled down Merlin's nape and towards his neckerchief.
Speak, Arthur had said. Merlin needed to say something, or he would surely die at his King's hand. Desperately, he grasped for words.
"Arthur," he choked out, his voice no more than a whisper, "it's not what it looks like."
A pause as his words were considered by the King.
"That is what you're going with? It's not what it looks like?"
The weight of the blade disappeared. Then Merlin was violently spun around. He lost hold of the bundle of smoking herbs, which fluttered to the ground. Not a second later, Arthur had grabbed Merlin by the throat with his free hand, pushed him away from the cradle and into the nearest available wall. Any remaining air was driven from Merlin's lungs as he was slammed, full-force, into the cold stone. His eyes rolled upwards for a second and he saw stars.
Faintly, he was aware that Amhar had started to fuss, but when Merlin could finally focus his eyes again, he fixed them not on the cradle beyond, but on Arthur.
He was livid. Arthur's eyes were nothing but slits, ablaze with anger, and his mouth was twisted into a silent, ugly snarl. The sheer fury in his face alone would have been enough to drive tears into Merlin's eyes, but Arthur's brutal choke-hold had already made them water. Just then, Arthur tightened his fingers, until his grip fully cut off Merlin's windpipe.
Merlin didn't struggle, though his hands came up automatically to grab at Arthur's fingers. He stared at him, wide-eyed, until a curtain of darkness slowly crept into his vision, obscuring him from view. Just as he was sure he was about to pass out, Arthur's grip eased, only just enough to allow some airflow. Merlin drew in a desperate gust of air, then Excalibur was back at his neck, now pressing against his throat right above Arthur's fingers.
"Sorcerer," Arthur hissed. From the tone of it, he might as well have said scum. "You're one of them."
Merlin didn't know whether he was allowed to speak or move. A lone tear, driven from his eyes by being choked so cruelly, made its way down his cheek. For a moment, Arthur tracked its path with his eyes. The sight of it seemed to stoke Arthur's anger and sent him into a loud fit of rage.
"What have you done to my son?" he shouted, fingers still curled dangerously around Merlin's throat. A bit more, and Merlin would be choking again.
In the background, Amhar started wailing in earnest.
"Nothing," Merlin croaked. "Nothing bad."
"You used sorcery on him!" Arthur shouted. "Did you harm him? Did you harm Amhar?"
"No," Merlin choked out. "No, I'd never. Please, believe me, I'd never do that, Arthur, please—"
Abruptly, he was fully released. Merlin sagged and slipped onto the floor, instinctively clutching at his freed throat. But the reprieve was short-lived, as Excalibur was shoved right underneath his chin not a second later, forcing him to straighten his back and lift his face upwards. He didn't dare raise his eyes just then, lest he provoked Arthur further.
He realised he could no longer hear Amhar crying, that silence rang through Arthur's chambers, though Merlin had not the mental capacity to wonder how or why that might be. Arthur was speaking again, and Merlin focused all of his attention on him.
"You will tell me this instant what kind of sorcery you have used on my son," Arthur said. He was no longer shouting. His voice had gone dangerously calm and hard as steel.
A nudge of the sword against his chin, and Merlin dared to look up after all.
Before him stood King Arthur. His face was tense but controlled, no longer twisted into anger. Not two hours ago, Merlin had dressed him in a fine, fur-lined red cape and placed a golden circlet, in lieu of the heavy crown Arthur so hated, on his head. It had been only proper to dress up, to mark the special occasion.
Merlin suddenly became acutely aware that he was kneeling on the floor. He was a criminal before the Crown, awaiting judgment. Merlin would have to argue his case if he wanted to live.
"It wasn't evil, my lord," Merlin said, surprised at how even his voice was coming out.
"But you used magic," replied Arthur.
"Yes, my lord." There was no denying that. "A spell offering protection. A blessing."
Arthur let out a small, angry noise. "Sorcery can never be a blessing," he argued.
Merlin swallowed carefully against Excalibur still pressed dangerously underneath his chin. "It can be used for good. I use it for good, whenever I can." He paused. "I use it for Camelot. For you, sire."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."
"No, my lord."
"Why would a sorcerer use his magic for the good of Camelot?"
Merlin heard his own voice turn pleading. "Because I'm loyal to you. Please, you have to believe me. I would never harm you. I would never harm Amhar. I only wished to protect him. Please!"
Arthur didn't reply. His eyes were roaming over Merlin's face, searching for clues, seeking proof that Merlin was lying – or speaking the truth. Whatever he found in Merlin's expression didn't seem to satisfy him.
He suddenly scowled, then shouted, "Guards!"
From the way the men instantly appeared at Arthur's side, they must have already been near and watching. Arthur's shouting had most likely attracted them.
"Sire?" said the one on the left.
Arthur was looking at Merlin as he gave his orders, "Take this sorcerer to the dungeons! I want four guards watching his cell at every given moment. Have another four men guard the entrance to the cells, and two more stationed at the top of the staircase into the citadel."
"Yes, sire."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Use sorcery again, and die," he threatened. "Understood?"
Merlin breathed a yes.
Arthur withdrew Excalibur only when the guards had grabbed Merlin by the arms. He was hauled up from the floor and instantly dragged from the room. Merlin tried to get a last look at Arthur's face, but his back was turned towards Merlin.
In the corridor, they passed Hilde, clutching a fussy Amhar to her chest as she stared at Merlin. She had gone pale and her freckles stood out harshly against her skin. It took Merlin a moment to realise that she was scared. Scared of Merlin.
He closed his eyes and let himself be led to the dungeons.
A day passed before Merlin received a visitor.
He had been able to track the passage of time only because he had got two meals of bread, cheese and water, which he knew to be a full day's rations for a prisoner of Camelot. They had given him the cell furthest into the dungeons, the one without any windows and no straw to soften the floor.
He was shackled to the wall, only just barely able to feed himself with the little slack the chains had been given. Twice, they had freed him so he could use the bucket in the corner. Other than that, Merlin had done nothing but sit around and feel regret.
Mainly, regret that he hadn't told Arthur about his magic while he had had the chance. He should have done it a long time ago. He had never wanted Arthur to catch him in the act, certainly not in a way that made it look like he was doing harm. Because he hadn't been caught doing laundry, or heating bathwater, or even fighting a bandit, had he? He had been caught working magic on Amhar. Of course, Arthur would react badly to that.
Really, it was a miracle he hadn't slain Merlin on the spot.
But Arthur hadn't killed him. He had let him plead his case, had let him explain. It was a sign of his good character, of how far he had come as King, listening before passing judgement. Perhaps he would come to see Merlin, to ask more questions, or summon him to the throne room for a proper trial.
If he did, Merlin had to be ready for him.
If only he could get some sleep! The chains didn't allow for him to lie down and the shackles dug into his flesh whenever he started to nod off, startling him awake.
Merlin had already been tired when he had left the feast. By now, after two days of little sleep, he was properly exhausted. He hung loosely in the chains, like a sack of turnips. He would likely fall asleep in spite of the discomfort soon.
This was how Gaius found him. The guards opened the door for the physician, but immediately closed and locked it again once he had gone inside. As per Arthur's orders, they didn't move away. Merlin had had four pairs of eyes watching him every second. No doubt, they were just waiting for him to use magic and give them an excuse to kill. He would have loved to use some magic to make himself more comfortable, but he couldn't risk that.
Gaius looked him over and his face fell. He came to kneel by Merlin's side. He inspected the reddened skin underneath the shackles, then placed a soft, wrinkled hand against Merlin's cheek. Merlin instantly leaned into the touch, starved for a bit of affection after all that had transpired.
It was the first time he felt something other than numbness, regret or desperate determination. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes when he saw the worry and fear in Gaius's face. Merlin blinked, rather desperately, until the feeling finally subsided. He wouldn't add to Gaius's trepidation by breaking down now.
"Are you in pain?" Gaius asked quietly.
"Not really," Merlin replied. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. "Mostly uncomfortable. And very tired."
Gaius nodded gravely. "I'll ask them to readjust the chains. This is no way to treat you."
Merlin gave him a wry smile. "It's the way to treat a sorcerer."
Gaius pursed his lips. With a last pat for Merlin's cheek, he retrieved his hand to rummage through the bag he had brought with him. He held up a potion to Merlin's lips. From the colour of it, it looked like a pain draught. Prevention, rather than treatment. Merlin downed the bitter liquid without argument, grateful when Gaius produced a waterskin so he could rinse his mouth and drink his fill.
When Merlin was finished, Gaius remained on his knees and watched Merlin with sad eyes.
"You can say it, you know? I don't mind," Merlin told him, aiming for a lighter tone. "You can say I told you so. You told me not to attempt the blessing."
Gaius frowned at him.
"Well, at least it worked," Merlin continued. In spite of everything, the thought that Amhar was protected still brought a small smile to his face. Even if Arthur decided to execute him and Merlin was forced to use his magic to flee, the spell would linger and protect the future of Camelot.
Gaius tensed and a flicker of something passed across his face, an emotion that darkened his eyes and added a slight twist to his mouth.
"What?" Merlin asked, suddenly alarmed. "What happened?"
Gaius averted his eyes and Merlin's stomach clenched at his next words, "Amhar is sick."
For a moment, Merlin was entirely convinced he had misheard him. "I—what?"
"A fever," Gaius elaborated. He still wasn't looking at Merlin. "Very high temperature. I told the King and Queen that it was not entirely unusual at this age, but the timing…" He trailed off.
Merlin experienced a sudden bout of nausea. It had to be a coincidence. He had practised the spell countless times, had compared the word forms with several sources. He had felt the blessing take hold, and it had felt right and good. He knew, without a doubt, that the spell had been a complete success.
"It wasn't the spell," Merlin told him fervently, willing down the nausea. "Gaius, I know it wasn't."
Finally, Gaius looked at him again, but his eyes were guarded, and just a tad guilty. A sharp pain pierced Merlin's chest when he realised the truth: Gaius didn't believe him.
"Amhar is very sick, Merlin," Gaius replied, his voice strained. "He worsened unusually quickly, too. He was perfectly healthy yesterday. And now, but a day after your blessing…" Again, he trailed off, perhaps too afraid to actually say the words. But then, he added, "The King asked me what I thought it could be, other than a regular illness. I couldn't lie to him, Merlin. I said you weren't to blame, but that Amhar's illness has all the characteristics of a curse."
The heavy weight lodged into Merlin's stomach twisted cruelly. For one moment, Merlin was sure he was going to throw up the potion and his last meagre meal.
"You really think I did this?" he whispered. "You think I cursed Amhar."
"Not on purpose," Gaius responded quietly, hurriedly, but his face was pained. "Perhaps you mispronounced a word—"
"I didn't make a mistake," Merlin told him. Gods, but somebody was stabbing daggers into his stomach now. "I didn't curse Amhar. I blessed him. I blessed him, Gaius!"
Gaius shook his head, just a little. "Merlin, I'm sure that's what you wanted—"
"Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon," Merlin started, his voice rising above a careful murmur, wanting to prove to Gaius that he had known what he was doing. Gaius knew enough of the language to hear that Merlin's pronunciation was impeccable. "Ic ye āsċieppe hæl, cbeft—"
"Stop!" The angry shout of a guard made Merlin flinch and snap his mouth shut. The man was glaring through the bars. "What are you doing? Is he using magic?" He was watching Gaius now, a hand on his sword.
"No!" Gaius replied hurriedly. "No! He's just—confused. He hasn't slept, and he's in pain!"
"Tell him to stop speaking in tongues, or he'll be killed!" the guard barked.
"He won't be doing it again," Gaius assured him, and the guard backed off. Gaius turned back towards Merlin. "Don't provoke them like that," he murmured.
Merlin grimaced. Like it made a difference now.
"Listen, my boy," Gaius continued, his voice low and laced with uncertainty. "I'm doing everything I can to help Amhar. Perhaps you're right, and it's just an infection and it will all pass. But if he doesn't improve…"
Merlin swallowed heavily, already tasting bile at the back of his tongue. "If he doesn't improve," he repeated harshly, "Arthur will think I killed Amhar."
He did throw up then, rather violently, soiling his clothes in the process. At least Gaius was there to make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit.
Merlin awoke with a start. For a moment, he didn't know what might have startled him awake.
Pain, perhaps? The shackles were digging mercilessly into his wrists, pushing right into the bones and tendons. He blinked at the floor before him and saw a pair of familiar boots. He had run a brush over that soft, brown leather a hundred times and would recognise the sturdy soles anywhere.
His head snapped up.
Arthur was looking down at him. He was dressed casually this time – no crown, no cape. Still, his face was that of King Arthur. Serious, sober, statesman-like. The King, come to interrogate his prisoner. He had Excalibur strapped to his hip. One hand was resting loosely on the hilt – a quiet reminder of his power over Merlin. Not that he had needed it. He knew this man held Merlin's life in his hands.
Hurriedly, with his heart beating wildly in his chest, Merlin drew himself up. He tried to straighten his back as much as he could, given his restraints. He ended up in a kneeling position again, his arms spread awkwardly on either side, but that was only fitting, wasn't it?
"My lord," he acknowledged his King. He respectfully bowed his head, then looked up at him again. That wasn't proper. His gaze should remain on the floor, or at least hover somewhere around Arthur's chin, but when had he ever been afraid to meet the King's eyes? He shouldn't have spoken first, either, come to think of it.
Arthur studied him. When he spoke, the impassive tone in his voice stood in complete contrast to the words he said, "Prince Amhar is very sick."
Merlin suppressed an urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Two more days had passed since Gaius's visit. He had hoped…
"I'm sorry, sire," Merlin said, wincing when it came out as a croak.
Arthur tensed, but his voice remained even. "You're sorry," he repeated. "For making him sick?"
Merlin's eyes widened when he recognised the implication behind his own words. "No, not for making him sick." And those words were wrong, too, he realised with a rush of panic, and he hurriedly added, "I meant, it wasn't me who made Amhar sick. I didn't make him ill with my magic, I swear it, my lord!"
Arthur's mouth pressed into an angry line. He shifted and his fingers curled so tightly around the hilt of his sword that even in the dim torchlight of the dungeons, Merlin could see the knuckles turn white. But then, as quickly as he had started to lose it, Arthur regained control. He relaxed his hand and smoothed his face. It struck Merlin then, how well Arthur had taken to being King, how different he was from the arrogant, self-centred, hot-headed man Merlin had once met in the streets of Camelot.
"So, you deny it," Arthur said. "You deny cursing the Prince?"
There was that word again, the one Gaius had used, too: curse. Arthur thought Merlin had cursed his baby!
"I didn't curse him, sire!"
"I witnessed it myself," Arthur stressed. "The King himself saw you use magic. Yet you deny it?"
Merlin shook his head. "I don't deny using magic on him, my lord. I'm a sorcerer, that much is true. But I did not curse Amhar. I invoked a blessing, for protection, for strength, and luck, and good health—"
"Enough," Arthur interrupted him. "Enough with the lies." He was getting angry again and this time, regaining control seemed to be more difficult for him. His voice remained harsh even as he managed to take a hold of his expression, "You will speak the truth, sorcerer!"
Merlin tried to throw as much conviction into his next words as he could. "I am not lying, my lord." When Arthur didn't react, he dared to add, "Arthur, please, you know me. I'd never harm your son. I'd rather die!"
Arthur's mouth twisted. He exhaled sharply, then said, "I need you to undo the magic."
Merlin grimaced. "I can't."
"Undo the magic," Arthur repeated. Commanded, really, as if he was ordering about a wayward knight. "Lift the enchantment! Revoke your spell! Free Amhar from your curse!"
"There's nothing I can do about the magic," Merlin told him firmly. "It can't be taken back."
Again, Arthur's mask slipped. No anger this time, Merlin realised with a start, but pain, and sorrow, and grief, and betrayal. All the things Merlin had feared, had prepared himself to see on that day when he had wanted to tell Arthur about his magic.
"Merlin," Arthur said and the way he said Merlin's name – like it was wrenched from somewhere deep inside of him – sent goosebumps up and down Merlin's arms. "Don't you understand? Gaius says Amhar is dying."
The words hit Merlin like a punch to the gut.
"He is so pale," Arthur continued and his voice was completely unlike him now, filled with raw, naked terror. Merlin had never heard that tone from him before. "He doesn't cry or move. He just… He is lying in his cradle. He is breathing, but barely. Guinevere is beside herself…"
Merlin didn't know what to say. Arthur seemed to grasp for more words, then shook his head. He started pacing for a moment, his head bowed, his trembling hands curling and uncurling at his side. Then he stopped, abruptly, and sank to one knee in front of Merlin. Merlin stared at him, his mind going blank. What in the name of the gods—
"Merlin," Arthur choked out, his eyes on the floor now, as if he were the criminal and Merlin the King, "I know I haven't treated you as well as I should have, but I always thought… I was convinced that we were friends."
"We are," Merlin breathed, feeling scared and uncomfortable and lost at the sight of Arthur, cowering on the floor in defeat.
Arthur's voice was thick with desperation. "Whatever it was that made you this angry, whatever it was that I said to hurt you, whatever I did to make you hate me, I'm sorry."
Merlin blinked at him, uncomprehending. This was all sorts of wrong. Arthur didn't apologise on bended knee. Arthur didn't grovel.
"I'm begging you, Merlin," Arthur continued, and the distress in his voice was heart-wrenching, "whatever it was, please don't make Amhar suffer for my mistakes."
"What?" Merlin croaked.
"Please, just, lift the curse," Arthur pleaded, "please, Merlin. You don't have to lie anymore, I promise, I won't kill you. I won't harm you. Lift the curse, and I will free you at once. You can leave Camelot. I can give you money, I'll give you a horse and food and whatever else you need. I won't send anyone after you—"
"Arthur," Merlin interrupted, "Arthur, stop!"
"You can ask anything of me, and I'll grant it," Arthur pushed on, "I mean it. Ask for anything that is in my power, a title, a piece of land, and you shall have it."
"Arthur, I can't!"
Finally, Arthur looked up. His face was contorted with desperation and pain. "Why?"
"Because it wasn't a curse," Merlin told him, wishing with every fibre in his body that Arthur would actually listen, would actually understand the words. "I didn't curse him. I didn't. It was a blessing!"
"Why?" Arthur repeated, eyes wide and fearful and pained. "Why would you be so cruel?"
Merlin realised at that moment that Arthur was not going to see reason. He might have looked the part of controlled King before, but this was what was actually happening underneath the façade.
Arthur was desperate and he was terrified. His son was dying and he had himself convinced Merlin was to blame. He had come up with a story, too: Merlin had done it as a warped form of revenge, or punishment, or whatever else Arthur's distressed mind had come up with in way of explanation.
What was worst, Arthur wasn't listening to a word Merlin was saying. He probably thought Merlin was playing a part.
For just a moment, he was eerily reminded of Uther, always so irrational in the face of magic.
Still, Merlin had to try. It was all that was left to do.
"The blessing can't be lifted," Merlin said, trying to speak as simply and clearly as he could, "it can't be reversed. But it's not what made Amhar sick. It has to be something else. A sickness that can override the blessing."
Finally, Arthur rose from the floor. Anger was returning to his face and Merlin knew he had already failed at his task.
"So, you won't do it," Arthur stated, almost bitterly. "You really won't lift the curse. I begged you, on my knees. I pleaded for your forgiveness, and still, you want to punish my child for my own mistakes."
"It wasn't a curse," Merlin replied desperately.
Arthur nodded once, as if accepting the truth, but of course he didn't. He abruptly turned away from Merlin and called out, "Leon!"
With that, he left the cell.
From now on, the days were always the same. Merlin woke up, exhausted from another night restrained in the chains. They released him, just briefly, to use the bucket, then he would get his breakfast.
Then he waited, and waited, and waited. He waited for Leon. Sometimes, he came early. Sometimes, he came late. But he always came, a stool in his hand, which he settled on the floor before Merlin. He sat down, face impassive, and started asking his questions.
"Why won't you lift the curse, Merlin?" Leon asked.
"There is no curse," Merlin replied tiredly.
"Then why is the Prince sick?"
"I don't know. But it wasn't me."
Leon nodded, as if he believed him, but he never did.
"What was your spell?"
"It was a blessing."
"Gaius said it was a curse."
"Gaius is mistaken. He thought I got it wrong, but I didn't."
Eventually, the conversation always ran in circles.
"Can I ask you something?" Merlin interrupted finally, on day four or five.
"I'm asking the questions," replied Leon. He looked about as tired as Merlin, though he did a pretty good job keeping his face carefully neutral.
"Do you actually believe I will change my answers? Does Arthur actually think I'll say something else, if you ask long enough?"
Leon didn't take the bait. "The curse, Merlin. Why won't you lift it?"
"At least I know Amhar is still alive," Merlin told him and found it in him to smile. "As long as you're asking, he's alive and that's the most important part."
"Tell me about the curse, Merlin."
"You know," Merlin continued, not paying Leon's prompt any mind. "I'm very sorry he's making you do this. I can tell you're not enjoying this, either. But of course, you're loyal to Arthur, so you keep trying. That's fine. I forgive you. I would do a lot of things to keep Arthur and his family safe, too."
"Just tell me about the curse, Merlin," Leon repeated.
"I'd much rather tell you about the blessing," Merlin said. "I put a lot of thought into it, you know? Here, let me translate it for you. Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon, that's the first part. It simply means that I am going to bless Amhar."
"Merlin—"
"Then the next part, that's the actual blessing part. Ic ye āsċieppe hæl, cbeft and so on. I tried to give him a lot of things: health, strength, love, protection from evil magic—"
"Merlin, focus. The curse."
"And the last part, that's me making a vow," Merlin told him. "A vow to protect him from all harm. You see? It wasn't a curse."
Leon sighed.
Around day seven, Merlin had a break-down.
"Please, Leon," he said, tears trickling past his tired eyes and down his grimy cheeks. "Won't you believe me?"
Leon stared at him, appearing unmoved, "Lift the curse, that's all we're asking."
"But—it's not a curse," Merlin sniffed. "It's really, really not a curse."
"Then why is Prince Amhar so sick?"
"I don't know," Merlin said pleadingly. "But it's not a curse. Please, Leon, I can't do this anymore, just… believe me when I say it's a blessing…"
Leon blinked. "Why won't you lift the curse, Merlin?
Eventually, Merlin stopped talking to him. Leon was asking the same questions, over and over and over again, but he wasn't listening to Merlin's answers. There was no point.
If anything, if he kept on listening, he might start believing him.
He might start believing that he had mispronounced a word.
He might start believing he had got the blessing wrong.
He might start believing it was a curse.
And it wasn't.
So, Merlin focused on the blessing instead. Because he knew, without a single doubt, that it wasn't what was harming Amhar. It was a blessing to protect Amhar from harm, a string of words that was full of goodness.
Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon. Ic ye āsċieppe hæl, cbeft, ferhþlufu, wígbléd, cystignes, orescieldnes fram aclæccræfte ond balocræfte gehwider þu gǣs. Ic, Emrys, behāte ye bewarian fram bealwum.
Round after round after round after round.
Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon. Ic ye āsċieppe hæl, cbeft, ferhþlufu, wígbléd…
And it almost felt like the blessing was taking a hold of Merlin, too, wrapping him in warm, soft magic like a soothing blanket, drowning out Leon's endless, everlasting questions.
Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon…