Part II: Arthur
The past two weeks had been torture. There was no other way to describe it. Arthur felt like he was slowly arriving at a breaking point.
Guinevere wasn't sleeping, or eating, or bathing. The council was breathing down his neck. His knights were wary of him. Gaius was hiding in the physican's tower.
And Amhar – Amhar was still sick.
But he was alive. In spite of what Gaius had said, Amhar wasn't dead.
He kept breathing. And despite the fact that he was neither eating nor moving, he wasn't wasting away, either. Underneath the pale skin, there was chubby fat and warm blood rushing through his veins. It almost seemed like he was being held in suspense, caught between the forces of life and death, neither side willing to give up just yet.
Guinevere spent her whole day at the cradle. Sometimes, she would stroke Amhar's hair and sing to him. Other times, she would listlessly spin the little tokens and charms fastened to the bed's canopy. Occasionally, she would take Amhar out of the cradle and rock him herself, only to put him back down again and tuck him in.
Arthur was avoiding their chambers these days. There was no way he could look at his son, or his wife all day, and continue reigning Camelot adequately.
And reigning Camelot was what he had to do, no matter his own pain, no matter that his whole world had fallen apart around him.
"Sire."
Arthur tensed at the sound of Leon's voice, but didn't even look up from the letter he was writing. He had had the table brought into the small throne room, where he was spending most of his time these days. He really didn't want to talk to Leon. He already knew what he was going to say, and he couldn't bear it anymore.
"Leon," he acknowledged him nonetheless, then asked the redundant question, "Any change?"
"Yes, sire."
Arthur's head snapped up. For a second, a flicker of hope managed to work its way through the pain and numbness and stress of the past fortnight, but it was short-lived. Leon's face was as grim as ever. Arthur knew he was asking a lot of Leon, putting him in charge of the prisoner. The sorcerer had pretended to be his friend, too.
"What is it?" he prompted, his voice flat as hope dissipated.
Leon visibly braced himself. "He's not responding anymore."
A forbidden feeling, some traitorous emotion tried to worm its way up at those words, but Arthur crushed it at once. He would not feel anything. Not for him.
"Explain."
"He doesn't reply. All he says is those words. The spell words. Over and over and over. He's not eating, either. He drinks a bit, if coaxed."
Arthur nodded, to show that he had heard. He didn't know what to say to that revelation. He feared his voice might fail him if he tried.
"Sire," Leon said, after a full minute of silence had passed between them. "He has been nothing but consistent in pleading his innocence. His tears seemed genuine to me. Continuing now, under these circumstances…" His voice faltered.
He was right, of course. There was no point in interrogating a man who had gone mad. But Arthur had hoped, if only they pushed him long enough, Merlin would— No. Not Merlin. Sorcerer. The wicked sorcerer that had cursed Amhar.
"Keep trying," Arthur told Leon, shocked at the sudden venom in his own voice. It reminded him of his father's.
"My lord," Leon replied, his eyebrows drawn. Arthur realised for the first time how haggard the knight looked, how deep the lines on his forehead ran. They had all aged in the past two weeks, hadn't they? "I don't think anything will come of it. He's completely out of it."
"Amhar is still alive," Arthur told him. "There is still a chance. And if the sorcerer is still speaking and drinking, he might yet tell you he's ready to give in."
"Sire, I really don't think—"
"Sir Leon," Arthur interrupted him harshly. He had had enough of this. "Do as I say! Try again tomorrow! Use some force, if you must! Make him talk!"
Leon swallowed, but bowed his head, loyal knight he was. "Yes, my lord."
He turned to leave the throne room. Arthur thought he could see his hands trembling at his sides as he walked off, and frowned.
"Leon?" he called out.
Leon stopped, then turned. "Yes, sire?" He sounded weary.
Arthur studied Leon's face again, took in the bags under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and added, "If you want somebody else to take over, I'd understand. You've been trying for ten days. Gwaine and Elyan aren't an option, but I could ask Percival…"
Leon's mouth set into a determined line. "No, my lord." The weariness had vanished and his voice was ringing out strong. "No. I'll do it."
Arthur nodded at him and the knight left. He was a good First Knight, one who cared for his men. It was why Arthur had chosen him as his right hand, and he had never regretted it.
He looked back down at the letter, another plea for assistance to allied kingdoms. He was asking for physicians, midwives, nurses, anyone with knowledge that might help save Amhar. Medicines, too, potions or elixirs that were known to lift a curse.
A few people had come already, offering their help. They had turned out to be either useless, incompetent, or plain charlatans hoping for quick gold. Of course, Arthur had been suspicious of them all. He still remembered the debacle that had been Edwin Muirden after all these years. But he understood now why his father had been so easily blinded by an impostor. Gaius had been of little help, and Amhar was suffering. The things a father would do to save a child… Arthur knew he was willing to pay any price, if only it meant he could have his son's illness reversed.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face. This was a nightmare. If he were one to succumb to self-pity, he might have asked himself how he deserved this. He just kept suffering one betrayal after another. Morgana. His uncle. His… servant…
A wave of hot anger, laced with sharp pain, rose in his chest and he allowed himself to let off some steam. He picked up the empty goblet on the desk and hurled it across the room with a roar. It collided with the wall with a resounding clank and rolled into a corner.
He took a couple of deep breaths, calmed himself, and worked away at some more letters and reports. Finally, he stood and stretched. Just as he was about to call for some lunch, the door to the throne room was opened.
A guard appeared. He approached Arthur, bowed, then said, "Your Majesty, another healer has arrived."
Arthur nodded and waved at him impatiently. "So? Send him in. You know I want to at least speak to them all."
"I have her waiting in the courtyard," the guard replied in a strange voice.
Arthur frowned. "Why?"
The guard hesitated. "I think," he finally said, "she might be a druid."
Arthur stared at him. A druid? Camelot had had no qualms with them for quite some time, as Arthur considered them peaceful, but they did not usually come to offer their services, sorcerous as they likely were. Still, druids knew something of medicine, didn't they? Perhaps the woman could offer an insight the other physicians had missed so far.
"Send her up," Arthur told the guard.
"You are quite certain, sire?" the guard replied. "Because I'm sure she is—"
"I said: Send her up, man!" Arthur barked. He knew he was short-tempered these days, but really, the guard deserved it for questioning him. "Now!"
"Yes, my lord," the guard squeaked and disappeared.
With a tired sigh, Arthur turned on the spot and approached the throne. Wearily, he sat and waited for the doors to open. When they did, a woman entered, flanked by four guards in total. She walked hesitantly, cautiously. There was no arrogance in her stride, nor pride, as Arthur had seen with other healers. She knew she did not belong in these halls and that she had taken a risk by coming here.
Arthur studied her intently. She was at least sixty summers or so. Her greying hair was braided, her body wrapped in the simple, hand-woven garb of the druids. She had with her a leather satchel and a gnarly hiking stick. Could it be a magic weapon? No, it looked harmless, just a sturdy piece of wood to ease the journey.
"Welcome to Camelot," Arthur said and the woman bowed an awkward, hesitant little bow, her hands twisted in front of her. She was scared, Arthur realised, and that somehow put his mind at ease.
"King Arthur," she replied in a low voice, and nothing else.
"What is your name?"
"I'm called Aldis."
"And what brings you here, Aldis of the Druids?"
"I heard of your son's plight." Her voice had turned sad, as if somehow Amhar was dear to her.
"You want to help?" Arthur deduced.
She nodded. Her eyes, which had been focused somewhere around Arthur's chest until then, flickered up for the first time until she was looking him straight in the face. They were bright green and kind. Her voice was earnest when she said, "I'd like to try, if you would grant me the chance, my king."
My king, Arthur thought. It was true, of course, that Arthur was her liege as much as anyone else's in his realm, but it still sounded odd, coming from a druid.
"I'm grateful for any assistance. I would only ask that you tell me what skills you have to offer." He hesitated, then added, "And I would like assurances that those skills aren't based in sorcery."
Surprisingly enough, Aldis smiled kindly. "My skills are those of an herbwife, my king," she said. "I will not deny I have a little magic, but I can provide assistance without using it."
"Herbwife," Arthur repeated. Knowledge in herbs… Abruptly, he stood. Aldis retreated a step and lowered her eyes, but Arthur wasn't about to attack her.
He strode over to the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a small, white package. He approached Aldis and unwrapped the handkerchief to reveal the half-burnt herbs that had been left behind in Arthur's chambers.
"You know something of herblore," Arthur said. "Do you recognise this?"
Aldis chanced a look at his face, then studied what Arthur had presented to her. She bent over and sniffed, then gently touched one of the leaves and rubbed her fingers against it.
"Mhm." Her hum sounded thoughtful. "Was this found with your son, my king?"
"A sorcerer used it on him," Arthur confirmed. "Can you tell me what it is? The herbs, are they magic?"
She tilted her head. "In a way, yes. Used to invoke magic. An interesting combination. Teasel and meadowsweet, cowslip and tansy. Valerian, too. Well-balanced, I must say."
Arthur frowned at her cryptic words. "What do you mean?"
She looked up again, more confident than before. It was clear she was in her element. "Teasel, for strength. Meadowsweet, for heart-felt love. Cowslip, for health, tansy for luck in battle. Valerian, to enhance the other effects."
Arthur stared at her. "Other effects?"
"This bundle of herbs, it's called a witching sheaf. It's used in powerful rituals, to channel magic and enhance the spell. Each plant used has a meaning, which is connected to the words that are spoken."
"It was set on fire," Arthur pointed out unnecessarily.
"Yes, that's part of the ritual, too. The herbs are prepared specifically so they might smoulder, not burn."
Arthur nodded. He wrapped the herbs back up and gingerly placed the bundle on his desk. He hadn't really understood everything Aldis had told him, but she was the first to seem at least somewhat familiar with the kind of curse that had been placed on Amhar. Druid or not, Arthur would not let a chance like this slip through his fingers.
"I would have you take a look at my child, Aldis, if you are amenable. Perhaps you can shed some more light on my son's illness."
Aldis bowed again. "Of course, my king, as you wish."
"I will take you to see him now," Arthur said. He wouldn't waste any more time. "Please don't be offended that I will have the guards follow us. These are trying times, and one can never be cautious enough, especially where sorcery is concerned."
As before, Aldis didn't seem offended by Arthur's words about magic. "Yes, my king. I understand."
They made their way up to the royal chambers. The guards kept throwing Aldis suspicious looks, and Arthur couldn't blame them. Sorcery was at the heart of this mess, and yet here they were, leading a known magic user up the stairs. But Arthur found the woman to be non-threatening and as Leon wasn't making any progress downstairs…
Arthur made the group wait outside and quietly slipped inside his rooms to see after Guinevere. She tended to get more and more upset at people visiting, especially if somebody wanted to touch Amhar.
"Guinevere?"
She was sitting by the cradle, of course. Her hair was wild, her clothes wrinkled and stained. There were impossibly dark shadows under her eyes. She looked well and truly terrible. Yet, she was humming sweetly, gazing lovingly into the cradle. She didn't respond to his call. Arthur approached her and settled a careful hand on her shoulder. The humming stopped.
"He's so beautiful, isn't he?" she said.
"Yes." Arthur didn't look at the cradle. "Guinevere, there's somebody here to see Amhar."
Guinevere tensed. "No."
Arthur grimaced. "It's a druid healer. She might have an idea, something the others didn't know about."
"No."
"Guinevere, please," Arthur urged her. "We want Amhar to get better, don't we?"
At this she nodded.
"Can she come in, then? Only to have a look."
Another, more reluctant nod, and Arthur exhaled. He went to fetch the group, telling the guards to wait by the opened door. The druid woman entered hesitantly, as she had done in the throne room. She approached the cradle, but her eyes were on Guinevere first.
"My lady," she said.
Guinevere ignored her. Arthur came to stand next to his wife, once again clasping her shoulder in support as much as in preventing her from attacking. She had jumped Elyan two days ago, and he hadn't shown up since.
Aldis threw Arthur a sad look, then her eyes turned towards the cradle, towards Amhar.
Arthur tensed when she raised her hands, but they only hovered in the air. Her kind face became harder, more focused.
"No sorcery!" Arthur hissed in warning, before he could help himself. He really sounded like his father, then.
She nodded, hunching her shoulders. "Yes, my king."
Then she stood still, hands over the cradle, and did – well, nothing, really. Arthur watched her eyes carefully, but as she had promised, there was no magic in them, though when she finally spoke, her words unsettled Arthur all the same.
"I sense strong magic on him."
It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Arthur already knew Amhar had been cursed. Still, having it confirmed out loud and with such confidence by an outsider, a druid especially, set his teeth on edge.
"Is there anything you can do?" he asked immediately.
She looked up. "Against this kind of magic? No."
Although Arthur had tried not to get his hopes up, the disappointment still stung. "I understand."
"Do you really, my king?"
Her words pulled him up short. The druid had been nothing but courteous so far, and the pronouncement seemed uncharacteristically harsh. "What do you mean?"
"There is very strong magic on him, but it isn't what made him sick, my king. It is powerful, though. Very powerful."
Arthur stared at her. "What are you saying?"
"The magic of old has been invoked on this child. This is the Old Religion, a blessing from the Triple Goddess herself."
"Blessing." Arthur's heart skipped a beat. He had heard that word before, hadn't he? It had been spoken as a laughable excuse, as a putrid, hateful lie. He narrowed his eyes at Aldis, suddenly suspicious. Was she working with the sorcerer? Had he sent her here, to lie, to finish his job?
"Yes, my king," she continued, unaware of Arthur's thoughts. "It is the old way. When a child is born, the High Priestesses will call upon the Goddess to bless the new life. Usually, to protect the child from harm, like grave sickness."
Arthur shook his head. Her words made no sense. "But he is sick! He is close to death!"
"Yes, very much so," she agreed. "But he has been strengthened and fortified against this type of evil, and is valiantly fighting the curse."
A curse! His suspicions against Aldis vanished as she admitted to the evil of the spell, though Arthur found himself grow frustrated. "So, it is a curse!" he exclaimed.
Guinevere let out a pained noise.
"One most dark," Aldis confirmed, and seemed to shudder on the spot. "You should find the source quickly. It drains your boy's life even as we speak, though he is fighting so very bravely. The source must be destroyed for the child to be well again."
A cold shower ran down Arthur's back. The source must be destroyed. It only made sense. It is what his father would have done. His father wouldn't have hesitated to destroy the source, to kill the sorcerer. But Arthur had hoped, if he only tried hard enough, that Merlin—
No. Aldis was right. He had been a fool! He should have had the pyre readied weeks ago.
"Thank you for your help," he found himself saying, voice more brittle than he would have liked. "You have been most helpful. We will destroy the source, as you say."
Aldis studied him, her brow furrowed. "If you know the source, my king, why have you not destroyed it at once?" She sounded puzzled.
"I had hoped he would see reason," Arthur retorted harshly. He didn't know why he needed to explain himself to her, but here he was.
"He?" Aldis hesitated. "My king, I speak not of a person."
"But you said to destroy the source—"
"A focaliser of dark magic," Aldis interrupted to explain. "An object, close to the boy. Something he would be in proximity of for lengthy amounts of time, something that could slowly drain his life force."
Another wave of confusion overtook Arthur, quickly replaced by frustration and anger. What object? What focaliser? Had the sorcerer snuck in something else, apart from the herbs? Oh, how he hated all of this! All of this talk of sorcery, and curses, and herbs, and magic! To the nine hells, with all of it! To the hells!
But he couldn't afford to give into his rage now, not when they were close to freeing Amhar from his curse.
"How can we find this object?" he asked, voice clipped, heat barely contained.
Aldis averted her eyes, and Arthur knew the answer. "More sorcery," he growled. "Of course."
"Only the barest hint of it, my king," she all but whispered. "A spell to locate it, nothing more."
Arthur couldn't help it. He roared, in anger and frustration. To the bloody hells! His hand was still on Guinevere's shoulder and he could feel her flinch. He let go of her and walked over to the bed. With full force, he punched one of the posts.
It hurt, a sharp, throbbing sting running up his arm, but it felt good all the same. The pain grounded him and he finally felt like he could think clearly again. As he clenched and unclenched his hand to chase away the worst of it, he started pacing.
What should he do? On the one hand, sorcery had brought this upon them. Magic most evil, as Aldis herself had put it. And now, to use it again… He should have Aldis thrown into the dungeons simply for suggesting such a thing to him!
But Aldis had been more helpful than any other healer before her, and if she was right, if it was only the matter of sussing out this cursed object… Could he risk forgoing this chance, simply because it involved magic? Perhaps magic needed to be fought with magic.
"All right," he said and walked back to the cradle. "Can you do the spell?"
Aldis straightened on the spot. "Yes, my king."
"You're to step away from Amhar, all the way back," he commanded her.
She nodded and promptly retreated to the wall.
"You will tell me in advance what you are going to do. And if I have even the slightest inkling you are trying something else…" He reached for Excalibur and unsheathed the sword. Aldis's eyes widened, but still, she nodded.
"I will speak the spell and it should light up the object in question," she explained, her back pressed to the wall. "Nothing more, my king."
"Go ahead, then," he growled and raised his sword in clear warning.
Aldis stared at him. Then she inhaled, as if she was about to shout. But it was only a whisper, a word or two Arthur did not understand, and her eyes flashed golden.
The sight of her brought it all back, all the memories Arthur had so successfully suppressed for almost two weeks.
Arthur, realising Merlin had disappeared from the feast and looking for an excuse to leave himself, had told Guinevere he would go hunting for his wayward servant. And he had found him – cursing Amhar.
It had been the most horrible sight Arthur had ever laid his eyes on. Merlin, standing over Amhar's cradle, a bundle of smoking herbs in hand. His eyes, as golden as Aldis's eyes were now, flashing and sparkling in the darkened room. His mouth, speaking foreign syllables that sounded so like the words Aldis had just spoken. Eerie drops of glowing magic, falling onto Amhar's brow. What was worse, Arthur had watched, for several seconds, before finally making a move. Perhaps if he had reacted faster—
And then, Merlin had denied it! Making up that incredulous, stupid excuse about a blessing! And the worst thing was, Arthur had believed him, too! Merlin had knelt on the floor, pale, shaking, pleading with Arthur to believe him that it had all been done with the best of intentions. And it was Merlin! Of course, Arthur had believed him! It was exactly the kind of stupid, reckless, impossible thing Merlin would do — the Merlin Arthur knew, and trusted, and loved like a brother, not the sorcerer chained in the dungeons. Merlin would be the type to learn magic to protect Arthur's son from harm, like a total idiot.
So, Arthur hadn't killed him. He had sent him to the dungeons. To teach him a lesson, to have time to think and make sure Amhar was all right, to ask Gaius if they should do something about Merlin's reckless magic.
But then Amhar had got sick. And Gaius had let slip that Merlin might have been to blame. He had used the word himself, too – he had called it a curse! Merlin had cursed Amhar!
A soft, wrinkled hand settled on Arthur's arm and he was suddenly thrown out of his thoughts. Aldis was standing in front of him.
"My king?" she said, in a tone that suggested she had called him before.
"Yes?"
"The object," she said and pointed at the cradle.
Uncomprehending, he turned his head. There, hanging from the little canopy above the cradle amongst so many other charms, was a tiny metal token, and it was brightly aglow.
Arthur lowered his sword and approached the bed. Without thinking, he ripped the object from the canopy and stared down at it. It was a round silver disk with strange markings etched into the metal. It was innocent-looking enough, a good-luck charm if ever Arthur had seen one. It was tradition, accepting these little tokens from friends and well-wishers and tying them to the baby's bed. They had received so many of them at the feast. Arthur himself had rested underneath such charms for the first year of his life, as had Guinevere and perhaps even Aldis.
But this charm – it glowed, and now that Arthur knew it was cursed, it felt dark and evil. This little thing was what was making Amhar so very ill?
"How do I destroy it?" he said with determination.
"Let me have a look," Aldis said and stepped up to him.
Arthur offered the token to her. Aldis threw one look at it, drew in a sharp breath, let out an impressive swear and momentarily placed a hand over her eyes as if to shield herself.
"The witch!" she hissed.
Arthur's blood froze. Somehow, he had understood her exactly. "Morgana." So, she wasn't dead.
Aldis nodded. She had lowered her hand from her eyes and was glaring at the token in Arthur's hand. "Most wicked, most evil, as I said. You are ever so lucky that Emrys has protected your little boy, my king. Little Amhar would surely be dead by now if it weren't for his blessing." She studied the token, then shuddered again. "Those symbols etched into that disk… pain... suffering… death. The witch's soul is twisted beyond salvation, to use this curse on a child so small, to pervert a tradition of good luck…" She swore again, for good measure.
But Arthur's mind was on something else, something she had said before that.
"Who is Emrys?" he interrupted her swearing.
She paused, and a guilty look crept onto her face. "It is not for me to say," she murmured, eyes hooded.
"Tell me!" Arthur growled.
"A powerful warlock. Very powerful. You know him under a different name," she said vaguely.
"Tell. Me." He was still holding Excalibur and he raised it threateningly. He would have his answers now!
Aldis let out a choked sigh. "It is the man who has blessed this child. The man who used the witching sheaf on your little Amhar. He is Emrys."
She confirmed what Arthur had already feared. "You mean Merlin."
Aldis nodded, only once, and paled as she did, as if she knew she was making a grave mistake by revealing all this.
"You say he protected Amhar," Arthur pushed her. Merlin had told him the same thing, but he had thought it a lie. Merlin had used magic, and then Amhar had taken ill! That couldn't be a coincidence!
She nodded again. "He invoked a blessing of the Old Religion, as I explained before. To protect the child, to shield him from evil magic such as the witch's curse. It countered the curse, just enough to keep him alive."
Arthur stared at her, trying to gauge whether she might be lying to protect Merlin. "He isn't working for Morgana?"
Aldis made a derisive noise, her whole face, her whole stance radiating incredulity. "Emrys, working with the witch? Unthinkable! He would never betray you like that. He is devoted to his king. He is loyal to you."
For some reason, it was those words that hit him like a slap. He would never betray you like that. He is loyal to you. That was exactly what he had thought during that first night, before Amhar had got sick. Back when he had thought Merlin had been a foolish little man trying to do good. Before Gaius had mentioned the possibility of a curse, before Amhar had gone pale and limp. Arthur swallowed as more of Aldis's words started swirling in his mind, words he had chosen to ignore. Invoked a blessing. To protect the child, to shield him. It countered the curse. Enough to keep him alive.
Gods, could it be true?
Arthur glanced at the token, still brightly aglow in his hand. Morgana's curse, not Merlin's? If Aldis was actually speaking the truth, destroying it would save Amhar, and prove that Merlin was…
"How do I destroy this?" he said hoarsely.
"Your sword," Aldis replied. "It is most powerful. A stab or cut will suffice."
It should have felt silly, or strange, but it didn't. Carefully, Arthur placed Excalibur on his palm and cut across the metal disk. The disk went bright red and incredibly hot. Arthur hissed and dropped it to the floor, shaking his hand where an angry blister was already forming. The disk melted and shrivelled on the floor, letting out a sharp hiss, until it was nothing more but a scorch mark on the stone.
Not a moment later, Amhar mewled.
"Amhar! Thank the gods!" That was Guinevere. Arthur had paid her no attention for the past minutes but now, there were tears streaming down her face as she immediately reached for Amhar. Arthur watched her pull their son from the cradle. Their rosy, squirming, fussing son! "Oh, bless the lords!" Guinevere started sobbing, pressing the child to her chest. "Thank you! Thank you!"
Arthur should have felt joy at the sight. He should have felt elation. He should have run over and embraced his wife, and kissed his son, and cried along with Guinevere.
Instead, a strange feeling settled over him, like a thick, heavy blanket. He couldn't name it, but it seemed to numb him, down to the very core. His thoughts were somehow muted, his senses were growing indistinct and when he spoke, his own voice sounded strangely distant and tinny.
"You have my eternal gratitude, Aldis."
Arthur sheathed Excalibur. Then he turned on the spot and walked. He walked past the four relieved guards staring at Guinevere and Amhar, past the worried-looking servants in the hallway, past a grim-faced Gwaine crossing his path, until he reached the stairs to the dungeons. There, without a word, he passed all of the ten guards he had personally ordered there, and walked to the door to the last cell.
Blindly, he reached for the keys at his belt, fumbled until he found the right one and opened the door. Somebody was speaking to him, but their voice was so muffled, he had no idea who it was or what they were saying. And he didn't care, either.
He entered the cell, his eyes fixed on a huddled mass chained awkwardly against the wall. Merlin was filthy from two weeks spent in the dungeons, and he appeared frighteningly pale and thin. He seemed to be asleep, slumped in the chains.
He looked so much worse than the last time Arthur had come to see him. In truth, he looked little better than Amhar had.
Arthur approached him carefully, crouched down in front of him.
"Merlin," he said and reached out a shaky hand to touch his shoulder. "Merlin?"
Merlin stirred. He was murmuring something. Arthur frowned, then leaned close until his ear was aligned with Merlin's mouth, trying to catch what he was saying.
"… āsċieppe hæl, cbeft, ferhþlufu, wígbléd, cystignes, orescieldnes fram aclæccræfte…"
Arthur abruptly drew back when he realised: the spell. The spell that had doomed Merlin. The spell that had saved Amhar. The spell that Arthur had become so entirely and thoroughly convinced was a curse.
"Merlin," Arthur said, now more urgently. "Merlin, can you hear me? Amhar, he's no longer sick. Your blessing, it saved him."
"… Ic, Emrys, behāte ye bewarian fram bealwum." Merlin paused.
Arthur squeezed Merlin's shoulders, shaking him a little bit. "Merlin? Merlin. Merlin!"
Merlin's head lolled to the side. He was smiling. "Bletsung bēo uppan Amhar Pendragon…"
He had gone mad. Arthur had Merlin interrogated to a point where it had broken Merlin's mind.
Merlin had gone insane and it was all Arthur's fault!
Because he hadn't believed him. He had refused to believe his best friend, a man who had never been anything other than completely and utterly devoted to Camelot and her King, even when Arthur had not been worthy of it. A man who deserved so much better than being chained to a wall, reduced to this.
Suddenly, Arthur felt like he couldn't breathe. He needed to fix this. He needed to fix Merlin.
"Guards," he gasped, then cleared his throat and managed to raise his voice, "Guards!"
"Your Majesty?" came a voice, eager to serve but confused.
"Fetch Gaius!"
Arthur had felt guilty before. He had made many mistakes in his life and guilt was the natural response. But it had never crashed down on him like a wave and suffocated him like this. It had never made him feel like he was drowning.
When he looked back now, he knew he had acted a complete and utter fool. The signs had always been there, that Merlin was innocent. Gaius had never said Merlin had cursed Amhar on purpose. Merlin had never given Arthur any reason to believe that he wished to see Arthur or his family harmed, quite on the contrary. And Leon had told him repeatedly, his eyes growing more and more haunted, how adamantly and desperately Merlin had insisted that he was innocent.
Yet, Arthur had been blind. So, so blind. What exactly had it been that had made him so wilfully ignorant of the truth? The fear for his son's life? The simple fact that Merlin had magic?
Really, there was so much to unpack here. Merlin had been lying to him for years. Merlin was a sorcerer. Those two facts alone were probably enough to keep Arthur occupied for a year.
But somehow, those facts faded in the background, too, because in the end, Merlin had been nothing if not loyal to Arthur and, in extent, his son. Protecting Amhar with magic, keeping him from harm by countering Morgana's curse – and Arthur had thanked him by throwing him into the dungeons, forcing Leon to interrogate him until he finally broke down.
Gods, would Merlin ever fully recover from that? Could Arthur forgive himself if not?
He ventured towards the infirmary three times in three days before he finally scrunched up the courage to knock. He did not dare walk in, though, and waited for Gaius to open up. The physician took one look at him and made to shut the door.
"Gaius," Arthur said, catching the door with his hand pressed against the wood. "Just… how is he?"
"Recovering," said Gaius, voice clipped.
"Is he…?" Arthur trailed off.
"What, Your Majesty?" The derisive tone Gaius used on that honorific rivalled Merlin's, and it hurt.
"Lucid?" Arthur forced out. "Is he sane?"
Gaius studied him. "He's stopped murmuring the spell, and he's up and eating. But he's not talking otherwise." Gaius hesitated, his eyes softening for the first time. "He doesn't seem insane to me. I think he's exhausted and scared."
"Scared… of me?" Arthur replied, his stomach squeezing at the thought.
"Of what will happen to him," clarified Gaius. "His magic has been revealed to all of Camelot. Everyone thought he was responsible for Amhar's curse…" Gaius's face fell and his voice was now laced with sorrow. "I'm also to blame for that. I never should have told you about my suspicions. I almost doomed Merlin by jumping to the wrong conclusions and leading you to believe he had turned on you..."
They looked at each other for a long moment, two pairs of eyes filled with nothing but regret.
"Just… tell him he's got nothing to fear from me," said Arthur eventually. "I'm handling the council, best as I can. They want his head, of course, as he's still a sorcerer, but I'll manage. I'm the King. I won't let that happen."
Gaius nodded once, curtly. "See that you do." He paused, then added more sincerely than before, "Sire," before closing the door.
Arthur spent the next week fighting the council. A third was dead set on having Merlin burnt on principle. Another third wanted to see him banished with the threat of beheading if he returned, sensing that straight up killing the man who had saved Prince Amhar wasn't exactly right. The rest was open to other solutions, like a pardon for Merlin's act of sorcery, offering blanket protection for an act of benevolent magic practiced with the Crown's explicit approval.
Nobody wanted to go anywhere near touching King Uther's laws, though.
The sessions were a nightmare and, in the evenings, Arthur returned to his chambers and Guinevere's embrace with a pounding headache. It was all Arthur could do some nights to seek refuge with his family, burying his face in Amhar's head and calming himself with that sweet, lovely smell.
All the while, Merlin was up in his little room, still not talking, according to Gaius. For appearance's sake, Arthur had positioned a couple of guards outside the tower's entrance and barred all visitors to pretend he was still incarcerating Merlin.
Finally, after ten days of arguments, backdoor deals and a fair amount of blunt, kingly intimidation, Arthur had silenced the worst of the councillors and struck a deal he could live with.
All that was left to do was to speak with Merlin.
Arthur should have probably gone straight to bed after his hard-earned victory and saved their conversation for the morning. At least, he should have summoned Merlin to the throne room or the council chambers, because Arthur was still King and Merlin his subject, a lowly one at that, and a criminal, too.
But he didn't. Instead, he promptly got rid of his cape and crown and knocked at Gaius's door again, as if he were the petitioner to the physician's court, hoping that the man would not find him lacking.
Gaius seemed to see something in Arthur's face because without another word being spoken between them, he willingly stepped aside and gestured towards Merlin's door. Arthur nodded mutely and approached it, though he seemed to be dragging his feet by the time he had ascended the little staircase and was only a hand's width away from the handle.
Should he knock? If he knocked, should he wait for an answer? He was still King, come to inform a criminal of the consequences of his actions. He settled on rapping at the wood once, to give Merlin a chance to brace himself, then entered without waiting for a response.
Merlin was lying on his bed, curled in, facing away from the door. He appeared mostly still, with only his chest moving evenly.
Asleep?
"Merlin."
Definitely not asleep. As soon as the name had left Arthur's mouth, Merlin flinched, sat up straight in bed and snapped his head towards him.
The first thing that struck Arthur was Merlin's pallor. He had always been on the pale side, but it made him look sickly now. Was it the shock of seeing Arthur again after all this time, entering his room, or a sign of lingering weakness?
He was thin, too. He had always had that peasant appearance of being just an end-of-winter food shortage away from fading from this world, but he looked worse now, like he hadn't been eating properly for weeks.
Worst of all, though, he was frightened. Rather, he looked terrified, eyes somehow still widening with every moment he kept staring at Arthur, lip quivering with trepidation.
Gods. Merlin hadn't looked anything near this scared chained to a dungeon wall facing Arthur's questions, let alone with Excalibur right at his throat, but now, in his little room, washed, warm and wrapped in fresh clothes…
"Merlin," Arthur said again, because any other words were lost on him in the face of Merlin's fear.
It seemed to give Merlin some sort of jolt, though. He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, curled his fingers into the thin mattress and pushed himself up on clearly shaky feet. A servant didn't sit or lie down in the presence of his King, of course. It was only proper.
And proper was what Merlin seemed to be concerned with. He laced his fingers in front of him and bowed his head meekly, then stood, entirely still were it not for the faint trembling sending his whole body astir.
Arthur had half a mind of backing out of the door. Merlin and he didn't do proper. It unsettled him more than anything else.
"Merlin," he said, acutely aware it was the third time in a minute, then finally pushed on, "you may sit down."
Merlin didn't move.
"I said: sit."
Merlin all but collapsed onto the bed. Well, he was quietly following Arthur's orders for a change, at least. That might actually appease the more sceptical members of the court, if he could keep it up.
Arthur looked around the room, spotting a chair and a stool nearby. He chose the latter option, reckoning it would put him at around the same height as Merlin sitting on the bed, and he really didn't want to intimidate him more – though a part of him thought that he should probably aim for exactly that: intimidation. Here was a sorcerer, after all, and from what the herbwife Aldis had said, a powerful one, too. Emrys. Somebody who had the means of stopping Morgana's curse by invoking the Old Religion.
Arthur hooked his foot around the legs of the stool to drag it closer and sat, about a pace away from the bed.
Merlin wasn't looking at him, his fingers now laced in his lap, his body still trembling away.
Gods, but this was all sorts of wrong.
"So," Arthur finally said, immediately realising that was not the most elegant way to start this conversation, "I have been talking to the council about you."
Merlin showed no reaction whatsoever.
"I've come to a decision that was… not exactly popular, but at least tolerated by all."
This had Merlin tense.
"I should have probably led with this but you're not going to get executed or banished."
Merlin's head snapped up. His eyes were intense, immediately roaming over Arthur's face as if checking for any signs he was lying or joking. He came to the right conclusion as he seemed to melt into the mattress a moment later, unlacing his fingers to prop himself up on the bed as he leaned backwards, his head falling back. He let out a long, long exhale.
When he spoke, it was to the ceiling, as if addressing the gods and not Arthur, his voice hoarse and rough from disuse, "Thank you."
Arthur's heart skipped a beat. So, he could still talk. Arthur hadn't broken him. That was a relief.
"Want to hear the rest?" Arthur asked.
Merlin tipped his head to look at him. There were tears in his eyes.
"I probably should," he said, "but I'd much rather hear about Amhar."
Arthur stared at him. "What?"
"I know he's well," said Merlin. He was leaning forward now, quickly rubbing a hand over his eyes, removing most of the sheen in the process before meeting Arthur's gaze, face eager. "I know you broke Morgana's curse. And Gaius said he's thriving, but still – I haven't seen him in nearly a month. He must be so much bigger now. Is he smiling properly yet? I was wondering if it would make him look more like you, he's been favouring Gwen so heavily—"
"Merlin," Arthur interrupted and Merlin snapped his mouth shut.
"Sorry, sire," he said after a pause, his eyes now glued to his knees again.
"Don't apologise," replied Arthur, too taken aback to care much for the fact that there were probably a lot of things Merlin should be apologising for, "it's just – don't you want to talk about the verdict? The magic?"
"I do," Merlin told his knees, "believe me, there is so much I want to say to you. And maybe shout at you. And there is a lot I have to beg forgiveness for, too, if you let me, but Arthur, I—" He paused, shaking his head. Then he looked up, and the unshed tears were back. "At the end there, you almost had me convinced. I was almost ready to allow that thought in my head that it was my blessing that was killing Amhar." His voice broke on those last words, sending goosebumps up and down Arthur's arms. "Arthur," Merlin repeated, "I couldn't have lived with myself had I harmed your son in any way. Because I would never. I could never." His eyes were large and pleading now, desperate in a way Arthur had never seen before.
Arthur swallowed. "I know. I know that."
Merlin gifted him with a watery smile, eyebrows drooping. "You don't understand how much it means to me to hear you say that." A couple of tears made it past Merlin's lashes, though he rubbed them right off his cheeks and seemed to bravely will away the rest. "Gods, Arthur…" He sniffed. "I'm so exhausted."
"Yes," Arthur replied and actually chuckled. He rubbed two fingers over the bridge of his nose, trying to smooth away the seemingly ever-present tension. "Me, too."
"So?" Merlin prompted tentatively. "Amhar?"
"Thriving, just as Gaius said," replied Arthur, then allowed his mouth to take over, telling Merlin all about Amhar slowly losing that startling reflex and sleepy look, his chubby arms and legs growing just a bit more coordinated, and yes, his first tentative, toothless, gorgeous smiles. All the while, he was watching Merlin. He was drinking this information up, literally on the edge of his seat, glued to Arthur's lips, which made him realise—
"You really care about him, don't you?" Arthur interrupted his own monologue. "You love my son."
"Like my own," Merlin replied immediately, conviction and truth in every syllable. "How couldn't I? He's yours, and Gwen's, and he's the future of Camelot." He smiled. "When you put him into my arms that night, the night he was born, I knew I needed to do everything in my power to keep him safe."
Arthur was of half a mind to draw Merlin into a hug just then, suddenly feeling a fierce sort of affection and gratitude for this man who loved Amhar as much as Arthur himself.
But Merlin was still speaking, his voice now lower and more intense, his smile turning into a grim, determined twist of the mouth. "Everything, Arthur."
And finally, they were back to magic again, to the whole mess that had brought them to this moment.
"Everything," repeated Arthur, "including sorcery."
Merlin nodded. "I will not apologise for that," he said firmly. "You could have tied me to the pyre tonight and I would have defended that decision to my last dying breath."
The image of Merlin, staring Arthur down as flames were lapping at his feet, made Arthur's skin crawl.
"I never could have burnt you," he admitted, voice thick. "Even when I thought you guilty, I think… I hoped…"
Merlin nodded, though his eyes slipped to the side to avoid Arthur's gaze. "I figured as much when you kept me chained up down there with only Leon for company."
Arthur swallowed. Right. Leon, interrogating Merlin until he had cried, then gone half-mad. Gods, but Arthur was ashamed of that. "I was hoping to make you see reason," he tried to explain, the words completely inadequate.
"Because you thought I cursed Amhar," Merlin replied, with a hint of bitterness now.
"I should have known better," Arthur admitted weakly.
Merlin shook his head, as if refusing to accept that. "How?" he asked. "I thought about this. How could you have known any better? I never let you know anything. I never told you about my magic." He paused. "I wanted to, you know? So many times. I almost did, that night you found out Gwen was pregnant with Amhar."
Arthur thought back to the day, but all he could remember was feeling happy and excited and just a tad terrified. "Why didn't you?"
Merlin tilted his head in that painfully familiar way of telling Arthur he was being a clotpole. "You think I would have ruined that day for you by revealing your manservant of seven years was an evil sorcerer all along?"
"Not so evil," Arthur pointed out.
"No," Merlin agreed. "Not so evil. Not so good, either though." He paused again, before continuing in a sorrowful voice, "I did things, Arthur. Things I regret." His eyes were distant and haunted for a second and Arthur couldn't bring himself to ask what kinds of things he was thinking about. Looking back at their time together, Arthur already had an inkling there would be a lot of explaining and shouting and hurling accusations down the road.
But that was for another day.
"Here's the deal I struck," Arthur said, wanting to get this part out of the way. "You've been pardoned for any magic performed since your arrival in Camelot. You're to be commended for you part in saving Amhar. As for the future…" Merlin was looking at him now, relieved, surprised and apprehensive all at once. "Well, Morgana is still a threat, and you already managed to counter one of her attacks on Amhar. It would be downright irresponsible to get rid of such an asset, even the worst of the council saw the logic in that. Eventually." Merlin was still watching him, eyes anxious. "You're to be allowed the use of your magic, but only in defence of Camelot and with my explicit approval. You can't use it for—for your amusement, or chores, or whatever else you might have used it for in the past."
"Amusement," Merlin said quietly. "Believe me, I haven't used my magic to amuse myself ever since that witchfinder nearly had Gaius killed over a horse made of smoke." He exhaled, straightening where he sat. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he added very formally, inclining his head as he accepted his judgment. "That's very generous of you, all things considered."
"It's the best I could do," Arthur replied.
Merlin studied him, eyes thoughtful. "It's a great deal. I won't be killed or sent away, and I'm still allowed to protect you." And wasn't that a weird thought, Merlin protecting Arthur? "It's better than what I hoped for. What else would you have liked?"
Arthur met his eyes with more than a little difficulty. "My son nearly died because of magic, another victim of sorcery. Believe me, I am… wary. But in the end, it was magic that saved him, too." He stopped, cleared his throat. Merlin kept watching him so steadily, it unnerved him. "I would like to take a look at my father's laws. Revise them, perhaps, to allow… certain kinds of sorcery. Benevolent spells. Blessings, like you performed."
Merlin stilled. "You would bring magic back to Camelot. After what I've done."
Arthur couldn't help it: he snorted. "Merlin, what you've done is save my son's life. And I thanked you poorly for it." He swallowed, then added more seriously, "I am sorry. I should have believed you. I shouldn't have sent Leon after you like that. When you stopped saying anything other than that spell, I almost thought you were…" He trailed off, unable to say the word: broken.
"I understand," said Merlin quietly. "You were frightened and confused, it's—it's not an issue. My magic kept me safe. I just… went away for a while, to protect myself." He shook his head. "And I'm sorry, too. So sorry. For lying to you, and… and so many other things, believe me. You considering allowing magic, allowing me to use magic now, that's…" He rubbed a hand over his eyes as he choked out, "Arthur, I don't have words."
For a moment, the silence in the room felt heavy, filled with hope as much as guilt and secrets unrevealed.
They should probably talk more. A lot more. But days and days of arguing with the lords of the realm, fighting bouts of shame and remorse, and dreading this very conversation, had Arthur reach his limit just then.
"You're free to leave this room," Arthur said abruptly, and stood from the stool.
Merlin nodded. "Am I…" He hesitated. "Am I still your manservant?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "Aren't you a little overqualified for that, Emrys?"
Merlin smiled, seemingly unfazed by Arthur's use of that name. "Probably. But I wasn't lying when I said I'd happily be your servant until the day I die. It's not a hardship, you know? It's an honour." Before Arthur could come to terms with how humbled he was by those words, Merlin's smile had turned brighter, more excited. He almost looked like his usual self. "Besides, I'd love to see Amhar again, if I may. He's still sleeping in your chambers, right?"
Arthur couldn't help but smile back. Merlin's excitement had always been contagious, even if Arthur didn't usually let it show. "You can see him now, if you'd like."
Merlin stood up so quickly from the bed he almost tripped over his own feet. "Yes," he exclaimed. "Yes, I'd like that very much. Please!"
His clumsy eagerness almost had Arthur apologise again, for everything. But he didn't. They were just settling into something like normality. He couldn't risk that. He couldn't risk losing Merlin. Not after almost breaking him.
"Come along then," he said gruffly.
And if he wrapped an arm around Merlin's shoulder before letting him out of the room and pulled him close for a long moment, allowing Merlin to wrap his arms around his side in return, that was his prerogative as King, wasn't it?
Merlin cradled Amhar close that night, his smile so blissful it made Arthur's heart ache, whispering by now familiar words into dark, curly hair: Ic, Emrys, behāte ye bewarian fram bealwum.
Author's Note: Here's the full translation of the blessing. I actually did take a Uni class on Old English, but… you know… wouldn't bet Amhar's health on it: Blessed be Amhar Pendragon. I give you health, strength, heart-felt love, luck in battle, an abundance of goodness, and protection from evil powers and wicked magic wherever you go. I, Emrys, vow to protect you from harm.