"Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart."

- Of Monsters and Men

Resisting the urge to pace, Merlin couldn't shake his awareness of the thousands of eyes upon him. As a servant his presence remained near invisible, and he'd never appreciated that cloak of anonymity more than now. The attention made his skin crawl as he commanded every bit of self-control he had to stand calmly beside Gwen. A span of conspicuously empty field had been left between the two armies, and Merlin supposed he and Morgana were meant to battle there.

Beneath the illusion of stuffy red robes, he wore a much less cumbersome outfit. In his favorite blue tunic belted around the waist, red neckerchief, and dark brown trousers, Merlin enjoyed a freedom of movement he hadn't experienced before as Dragoon. It was an odd sensation; to feel something that he could not see and see something which he could not feel. He'd have preferred armor, but with no way to conceal the rattle of mail, it may have raised questions. As long as nobody touched his illusory robes, they would have no cause to question. Even his bespelled beard fluttered in the breeze.

Casting his eyes over the intended arena, Merlin noted with satisfaction the relatively flat and clear ground. Whether naturally or artificially so, either way, he wouldn't need to keep his eyes glued to his feet just to avoid tripping over something. See, Arthur? He thought, smugly, remembering Arthur's many passing comments over the years. I checked my environment— I was listening.

Palm straying to the hilt of Excalibur, Merlin felt a reassuring hum from the sword. He took an odd comfort in the feel of the metal and leather.

Even at this distance he could clearly see Arthur smoldering with anger, for reasons which weren't very difficult to guess. Glancing sideways, Merlin's eyes lingered on Gwen. By all appearances she remained calm and confident, standing boldly before her army. Few people had known her long enough to understand what it meant when the edge of her mouth dimpled that way—she was a nervous wreck.

He wanted to reach out to her in some way, to reassure her, but in his current form he had to be cautious not to seem too familiar. After a moment's thought he said, "I will not fail you, my Lady."

Eyes widening as if startled, Gwen nodded, flashing him a strained smile of gratitude. "Return Arthur and our knights to us safely, please."

Conflicted by all the things he wanted to say and couldn't, Merlin settled for a deep bow. Turning, uncertain what else to do, he squared his shoulders and ventured alone into the open ground that separated the two armies. Morgana came to meet him in the middle, hostility bristling as they each took the other's measure.

The rules of a magical duel between champions were obscure. The exact terms were to be reiterated by a rather scrawny orator, who had followed at what he must have considered a safe distance behind Morgana. The man sported a fitted emerald doublet buttoned over a cream jerkin. Around his thighs to his knees ballooned yellow and green striped pants so bulbous as to nearly double his width. Yellow stockings beneath gave long legs the appearance of a water bird's, a yellow and brown plume of feathers atop his hat only reinforcing the imagery. As he walked, the pants wobbled so dangerously it effectively distracted Merlin. Staring in morbid fascination, a new gratitude for the traditional attire of Camelot's court swelled in his chest.

The man cleared his throat nervously, tittering for a moment as his gaze shifted between the two combatants. When he spoke, it became apparent why this nervous man had been chosen; a stark contrast to his mousy appearance, his voice boomed across the field.

"As dictated by ancient law and tradition, each Champion will duel for the length of the sand dial without utilizing their magic." The orator gestured to where several servants emerged, carrying a short table, a hunting horn, and a sand timer. The items were carried far to one side so as to be out of the way of the battle but placed at an equal distance between the opposing armies to allow each a clear view.

"This fight will be to the death. It will begin at the first sound of the horn. When the last of the sand falls, should both representatives remain alive, the horn will sound for a second time. On this sounding, the magical portion of the trial will begin. Should- should either of the Champions use their magic before the sounding of the second horn, they will immediately forfeit the match and… face a summary execution…"

Simple enough, Merlin supposed, and just as Gaius had described to him. The timer was even the same sort he'd seen countless times during tournaments. It didn't look like it would be too long, surely.

The orator's voice dropped to a normal volume, and he looked from Merlin to Morgana. "Do either of you have any, uh… any questions?"

The poor man's tongue flicked nervously over his lips; pupils dilated to pinpricks. The way his upper body leaned away from each of them gave the appearance of being poised on the verge of flight. Merlin offered a reassuring smile. It seemed to have the opposite effect as the man's legs began to tremble violently.

Not that there is any danger of his knees knocking together, what with those pants. Wait, am I… frightening?

An absurd idea, surely.

"You are dismissed," snapped Morgana, giving the man as little heed as if he were an insect. Needing no further permission, the orator fled, rushing to where the sand dial had been set upon the table.

Everything rested on this- this fight would determine the future of Albion. Never before had Merlin felt the weight of his destiny as much as in this moment. Each step he'd ever taken, seemed to have been in pursuit of this exact point in time. He had been able to hold Morgana off with swordplay once before, he only hoped he could do it again. Hemustto do it again. Just until the horn. Then, he'd have the upper hand.

They took up positions roughly ten paces apart. Merlin resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his damp palms onto his shirt before drawing Excalibur. His heart jumped against his ribs, speeding with some odd combination of terror and eagerness.

Their eyes locked and his vision narrowed to those two, hard, green points boring into his.

The horn sounded– and Morgana came for him.

Charging forward, she raised her sword high, sweeping it down at him with the full strength of her upper body. Merlin was ready. Planting one foot behind him, bringing up his sword, and tilting it to turn aside her blow. As it glanced away he flowed the other direction, forcing her to turn to follow as she swung her weapon for him again. Bracing the flat of his blade in his palm he caught that attack, too, pushing in with his own body to break her stance, forcing her to adjust. She adapted quickly and returned with a stab, sword darting for his stomach. Excalibur blurred into motion batting her weapon aside, making her stumble. Morgana snarled at him before throwing herself into a dizzying array of attacks and jabs that would have felled a lesser man. Gaining in confidence Merlin evaded each one, driving her rage higher and higher until her attacks shifted to be more open and broad, leaving him his first opening to strike.

He ducked beneath her next swing and swept his sword at her exposed side. She quickly reversed her attack and, surprised, he was forced to defend. He managed to catch the blow, awkwardly, the edge of her blade slamming into his pommel. He grimaced as the impact jarred up his arms, rattling his teeth.

Pushing off their point of contact Morgana withdrew, dancing away from him with quick light steps.

He came to a stop, sword relaxed at his side, watching her every step as she stalked like a caged animal. Sweat dripped down his face as his chest heaved. This needed to end soon. They began to circle, assessing each other with new eyes.

"You promised me a threat!" she snarled.

Setting his mouth firmly, Merlin ignored the taunt. His body ached, burning fatigue already setting into his arms. One never truly appreciated the weight of a sword until you swung it around a few times. But he had gained an idea of how she moved. In the eagerness of her attacks, he could sense her thirst for blood, her hunger for victory. Every tendon in her body thrummed with violence. If he offered her an opening, could she be goaded into attacking recklessly?

By her hesitation now, she had likely been counting on the opening melee to overpower and finish him quickly. Grimacing with satisfaction, Merlin adjusted his grip on Excalibur's hilt, the strength of the sword flowing into him. Its magic heightened his senses, honed his reflexes, and provided new reserves of energy. Tracking the trajectory of her attacks without the sharpness it lent his eyes would have been near impossible. At times it had nearly felt as though the sword were pulling his arms into position before he'd made a conscious decision to move. The strange awareness the dragonfire blade possessed pressed in, reassuring, like an old friend. Instead of the awkward feeling he normally got when holding a weapon, its weight felt comfortable. It seemed more an extension of his own arm than a tool. Was this how Arthur always felt whenever he fought? It was glorious!

Engaging her once more with a thrust, his attack found only air as Morgana skipped aside before spinning in close, slashing for his chest. He knocked away her strike, and, feeling more confident, feinted high before twisting his sword and coming up from beneath instead. Parrying easily, she moved as fast as a striking serpent, the steel of her blade glinting in the shrouded sun as it darted for his throat. Heartbeat deafening in his ears Merlin watched his oncoming death, arm moving to block, knowing he couldn't make it in time. He didn't have the skill, the speed, needed to survive this. The icy touch of death slid fingertips up his spine. Knees slamming into the turned dirt, the whistle of the blade next to his head served a sobering reminder for caution.

He'd managed to dodge, but it wasn't clean. A line of fire across his ear and the side of his face marked where she'd sliced him. Not for the first time he offered a silent thanks to Gaius; If he had truly been as old as he appeared he never would be able to move so nimbly. Unquestionably, the amulet, still tucked beneath his tunic, had spared him countless times.

Giving him no time to recover, Morgana delivered a series of fast, aggressive attacks aiming to break through his guard. By some miracle of borrowed skill and luck, he managed to meet all but one, earning another shallow wound across the forearm.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and he had to fight the urge to wipe it exchanged blow after blow until his arms were screaming and perspiration slicked his whole body, beading between his shoulder blades. The cold air dragged claws down his throat as he gasped for breath. He gave up the notion of trying to bait her into an attack– it took everything he had left to merely keep her at bay.

If he gave her an opening, she'd kill him.

With each second his strength waned. His reactions grew progressively slower, arms and shoulders screaming for rest. How much time had passed? Surely, the horn must sound soon!

Something wet and warm dampened his shoulder and Merlin realized his wound from the ambush must have torn open, again. He cursed himself for not thinking to heal it. As the lead weight of exhaustion crept in, Camelot's champion misjudged another strike. Morgana's sword slipped past his guard, sinking into his hip and rebounding off bone. The pain was exquisite, eliciting a scream even through his clenched teeth.

Merlin brought his sword up hard as she came around for her next blow, trying to finish him off, slamming his blade hilt-to-hilt with hers. A ring of clashing metal, and the downward sweep of her attack abruptly stopped.

Arms trembling at the effort, he gritted his teeth and held. Bearing down on their locked blades Morgana lunged back, then forward again; her left foot connecting solidly with his thigh. The blow caught him off guard and he wheeled back, wounded hip giving out and sending him crashing to the ground where he lay, gasping, stunned and winded. A flash of steel above him and instinct took over, sending him rolling aside just in time as the point of her sword struck, driving deep into the earth where his head had been.

In the fall, he'd lost his weapon. His heart hammered a deathbed confession in his ears—I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die!

All seemed lost when, abruptly, the horn sounded his salvation. Morgana opened her mouth, but Merlin was faster. From his hands and knees, he threw out a hand in the direction he last remembered her being, "Forb fleoge!"

The Witch blasted back, landing hard on the ground. It had been a hasty spell; he hadn't had time to properly gather in his power or will and she recovered swiftly.

Rising up, hair whipping loose around her head like a tempest, she snarled, "Forbaerne Ácwele!" A ball of fire coalesced in her palm, and, flinging her arm out, she hurled it towards him.

On his feet again, rather than shielding, he merely dodged to one side, leaning heavily to compensate for his wounded hip. The screams behind him alerted him to his mistake: the ball of fire now hurtling straight towards Camelot's front line. Cursing his own foolishness he half turned, raising a hand, and on pure instinct managed to snag the ball of fire with a tendril of magic. With a minor effort of will he unraveled the spell, dispelling it only feet away from the panicking soldiers. It was only afterwards he noticed Percival had lunged, appearing from nowhere, throwing himself in the path of where the spell would have struck. Their eyes met for a heartbeat.

The momentary distraction cost him, a blunt force smashing between his shoulder blades. Feet leaving solid ground the world whipped around him as he spun forward, through the air, crashing back in a heap. Even as Merlin gasped for breath he pushed himself up on one elbow, slamming his other palm down. He'd rid her of the illusion she had the upper hand.

Drawing deeply on the well which flowed inside him, he drove his awareness into soil and stone, pushing out power in a tidal wave. "Ic be bebiede bat bu abifest nu."

The entire valley began to tremble as if the world were tearing itself apart. With a bone shaking groan, a great fissure yawned beneath Morgana. He had to give her credit– She moved quickly. By casting a shield beneath her own feet the sorceress found enough purchase to throw herself to one side, narrowly avoiding being swallowed whole.

Merlin fought to contain the destruction as much as possible, directing the growing chasm down the center of the field. Straightening up he noted, grimly, that she had gotten much better since the last time they fought. It wouldn't be enough. In the clear imbalance behind the power of their spells, the desperation in her movements and the frantic nature of her attacks grew. Despite her improvements it remained clear, even to Morgana, that Emrys remained the more powerful wielder.

"Fleoge!" Sweeping her arm towards him, Morgana's discarded sword rose off the ground, flying like an arrow at his face. At the same time she threw herself forward, brandishing a dagger.

"Culter, ic be healte!" the sword stopped a foot away from him. With another flash in his eyes he spun it around and sent it right back at her with a thrust of an open palm.

Morgana ducked and it skimmed over her head, falling to the ground before it could strike a Dyfed soldier. But she'd gotten into melee range. Surprised by a physical attack, the blade aimed at his gut nearly found its target before he managed to catch her wrist. Undeterred, the weight of her body collided with his. She howled like a wildcat, clawing at him with one hand as, magic momentarily forgotten, they wrestled for control of the dagger. Her nails found flesh and a trail of fire blazed down his cheek and the side of his neck as he reflexively twisted his face away. "Hleap on bæc!"

The dagger went flying from her hand, and while he meant for Morgana to do the same her eyes also blazed gold. In the instant his magic lashed out something seemed to blunt the impact of his attack. She should have been flung head over heels. Instead, she ripped from him, staggering back a few steps.

With his next breath Merlin hurled a fireball at the ground between them, a second spell following on the heels of the first. "Cume poden!" The burst of flame which had blazed high on striking the ground was caught up, spiraling into a vortex of fire which he directed towards the witch.

Throwing up both arms Morgana visibly panicked, cringing back, eyes wide and voice tight. "Miere torr sweolobhat!"

Her magic ripped the column of fire apart, but the force of the subsequent explosion blasted Morgana away as well. It would have done the same to Merlin, had he not thrown a shield up just in time, having already learned the hard way what happened when those two castings met.

Slowly the dust cleared to reveal Dyfed's champion on the ground, dazed. Breathing hard, Merlin tasted salt, dirt, and iron on his parched tongue.

The inexorable tide crashed down.

Limping towards her he raised one hand slowly between them, fingers rigid and palm up. His lips murmured a half-remembered spell from an enchanted labyrinth, and a wise old man. "Gehæftan."

Roots twisted up from the ground, winding around her arms and ankles, binding her in place. Morgana stared up at him, something new in her wide dark eyes. A look of confusion and, could it be, betrayal? Her mouth opened soundlessly.

It was no matter. He clenched his hand into a fist, commanding his magic to coalesce in his palm, preparing a final decisive strike. "I'm sorry, Morgana. Ast-"

"Merlin?" Her voice when it interrupted him sounded small, smaller than he could ever remember hearing it. But the single word cracked over him like a blow, instantly disrupting his concentration and dissipating the spell he'd been gathering.

There followed a moment of perfect quiet, perfect stillness, as his mind struggled to process what she'd said. How she could know. Was it a bluff? A gentle breeze lifted the hair that wasn't matted with sweat from his forehead. And slowly, very slowly, Merlin's eyes drifted to the sunlight glinting off an amulet which hung from a broken chain clutched in Morgana's hand.

Hand flying to his chest he looked down and saw only the front of his own, simple, blue cotton tunic, dark brown pants, and worn brown leather boots. A flood of horrified understanding rushed through his body- but how!?

At the edge of his awareness Morgana hissed a spell "Onbind tha tease." The roots fell away, cut to pieces. She rolled, scrambling gracelessly to her feet and backing away, gaping in open shock.

Fingers moving in an almost dreamlike state to his burning cheek Merlin traced down to his neck, feeling the bloody furrows in his flesh from when she'd gouged him. His touch made the wound sting anew. His mind teetered on the edge of hysterics as his stomach churned with the sudden urge to vomit. This had to be a joke, a nightmare, anything but real.

Merlin may as well have been standing there utterly naked. If he had been, he wouldn't have felt nearly so exposed. Gutted, raw, his deepest and most fearful secret had suddenly born its throat before thousands. And there was no way to snatch it back.

No more hiding.

Everyone knew.

Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had magic. Merlin was Emrys.

Hand dropping from his neck all else fell away as his vision narrowed. Heartbeat in his throat, turning, searching with desperate eyes to find…Arthur. Uncertain whether it was a blessing or a curse that he could discern Arthur's expression, he searched the familiar face. What he found was blank, desolate, as empty of recognition as if his King were looking at a stranger. Tremors wracked the length of Merlin's body as his and Arthur's eyes locked, the moment heavy with expectation. And, despite Merlin's terror, a fragile hope.

His entire soul reached out towards the man he would lay down his life for without hesitation, pleading, begging, Arthur, this is who I am. Can you possibly accept me?

Before Merlin could see any hint of an answer Arthur's eyes broke from his, lips forming words. Screaming… something. No sound reached him. He heard only the roar of his own heartbeat, broken by the sickening, sucking sound of a blade sliding neatly into flesh.

It felt like he'd been punched. Merlin staggered; brows furrowed in confusion. A dull throbbing ache radiated out from his left side. Had he been injured? Looking down, he raised his arm. Morgana's hand was wrapped around the handle of her dagger. Its blade had been driven into his side, angled upward, buried to the ornate hilt.

For more than five years he had stood at the court physician's side at the autopsy table whenever needed; human anatomy was as familiar to him as the lines on Gaius's face. Strangely detached, Merlin now heard Gaius's voice in his head, as though the physician were there beside him; giving a lecture, as he so often had, over the bodies that came across his exam table.

"Now look here, Merlin. The blade is angled perfectly to penetrate behind the third and fourth ribs. Straight into the heart."