There had been whispers around the outer cities. Strange storms had come and gone in the blink of an eye, as if the Earth herself was swinging through clear skies into anger and back. The villagers were terrified. Their livestock, their crops could be damaged and then their livelihood would be gone. They would be destitute, starving, dying, and only if the storms didn't take them first. A few of them made the journey to Camelot, to seek shelter from the King and to alert them to the strange happenings. To Uther, the only explanation was sorcery. He sent them back with a wagon of goods but Arthur knew that would do nothing to protect their people from the storms. They were to send word at once if sight of the sorcerer was revealed and then the might of Camelot would be sent to their aid. At least Arthur wasn't to be chasing after foul weather, as he seemed to be followed by the thunder and rain of his own personal cloud. He went through his days mindlessly, and splitting headaches tore through him spontaneously. Giaus had given him a vial of murky liquid that tasted like dying things, but to no avail. It had been almost a fortnight since the pain had started, and neither Arthur nor Giaus could rule on a cause. All Arthur knew was the abrupt strike of pain that was nearly enough to knock him off his feet, sending him staggering into walls, legs like jelly and eyes blurred. Uther was concerned his son was showing weakness, and told him he needed to act like the Crowned Prince he was supposed to be. A headache was a little thing, nothing like the pain of a sword, Uther said. Arthur agreed. It was more like a war hammer swinging inside his skull, piercing through bone and flesh, fighting its way out. What worried Arthur the most was the suddenness of the onslaught. There was no warning, no time to prepare, only searing agony that seemed to last hours - in truth it was short of a few minutes - before dissipating. Sometimes, there were accompaniments. His vision would blacken, his ears would ring. He would feel despair, anger, longing, guilt. Arthur wondered about those the most. The feelings were like foreigners inside him, as though he were a conduit for someone else's turbulence. He wished they'd get a grip on themselves. He wished he could do the same.

The only time he felt anything other than empty, hurt, was when he dreamed. Merlin made him laugh, he made him happy. Arthur had shared more of himself with his raven than he had with anyone, even Morgana. In return, Merlin told him things about himself; where he grew up ("Ealdor? Really?""Yes, you prat."), how he'd met his father only once before the man died. How he'd ignored the pleas from his mother and traveled to Camelot for work when they were struggling to feed themselves, so he could send his pay back to her. How he'd witness the execution of a sorcerer almost immediately upon entering the inner city's walls. How the anger had filled him as he listened to Uther's speech, as Arthur stood stoic and silent behind him. There were too many executions for Arthur to remember if he'd seen Merlin in the crowd at any of them. After the first dozen, Arthur lost track of their names, their faces, their stories. Merlin forgave him for this, told him he understood. He knew Arthur was different now, and that made Arthur's heart ache in a lovely way, so he kissed him. Arthur loved kissing him. He loved feeling the other man's breath on his face, watching his eyes fall heavy before closing so that he could feel Arthur's lips better, hearing the small noises Merlin made when Arthur nibbled his lips or sucked on his tongue. It made Arthur ache in a different sort of lovely way, but they never went further than kisses and cuddles. In truth, Arthur wasn't willing to do more. The thought of giving himself to Merlin in that way and then waking to a cold and empty bed disillusioned him to the entire idea. Well… perhaps not the entire idea. He thought of it, often, in his waking hours. He wondered what Merlin looked like beneath his worn clothes. He wondered what it would feel like, sound like, taste like. Arthur wanted, but he was used to remaining hungry for his passions, so he refrained. He was willing to wait.

As he wandered the halls of the citadel, lost in his own musings, the wind gusted through the openings in the stone walls, carrying dust and leaves. That wasn't unusual, but what was unusual was the small piece of parchment that laid itself at Arthur's feet, almost as though delivering itself to him. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. With only a glance, he quickly folded it back up, shoved it into his tunic, and raced back to his room. Once the door to his chambers was barred, he sat on the window sill and opened the paper again. Mordred's handwriting had been a welcome surprise.

A,

He is allowing me to write this to thank you for sending her to us. She is safe and spoke highly of you. I think that surprised Him. He never would have sent you word, but I think He knows how much the rest of us miss you. Especially me, my friend. He has had a temper since your departure. I think He misses you too, but He'd never admit as much. I apologize for writing so oddly, but in case someone else were to stumble upon this, we'll both be safe this way. I hope all is well with you.

With respect,

M

So Lamia had found Emrys. For that, Arthur was grateful; he knew she'd be taken care of there. It had been weeks since he'd returned to Camelot the second time, and he had been worried he'd never learn Lamia's fate. He missed them all terribly, and knowing the sentiment was returned my most of them soothed the missing piece inside of him. The other children were still residing in the city, word having been sent to their parents or relatives. Many of the families were on their way to reclaim their children, and Arthur would be there to greet them, to celebrate with them when they reunited. He visited them as often as his duties would allow, and he often found either Leon or Elyan there with them. Morgana spent the majority of her time with them, and Celeste had taken a shine to her. Arthur had also heard that Uther had visited them once and had regaled them with stories about the old battles, little ones upon his knee and hanging off his every word. Arthur was thankful the tales of sorcery never came up.

He made his way to the spare serving quarters where the children were housed so he could share the news of their friend's safe arrival. Leon and Morgana were there when he arrived. Leon was brushing Celeste's hair while she babbled on about something, Morgana gazing at them both fondly. Arthur smiled a little at them. It was obvious to anyone who looked at them how they felt about each other. Leon worshiped the ground she walked on, and Morgana's eyes always found him in the crowd. They had known each other since childhood, and Arthur had witnessed their friendship blossom into something more, something undefined but which sparked the air between them for all to see. Morgana knew that Uther would never allow her to marry a knight, hoping instead to auction her off to whichever noble would provide the greatest assets to Camelot, and she had frequently vented her frustrations to her brother. Leon never mentioned it, but Arthur would lay a hand on his shoulder in solace when Morgana was forced to dance with whichever highest noble was present at any feast. Watching them with Celeste, Arthur could clearly imagine them as a family, and it made his heart heavy to know that may never become a reality. Once they noticed Arthur's arrival, the children greeted him loudly, the younger ones clambering over each other to get to him first.

He scooped one of them up into his arms as he proclaimed, "I bring word from Lamia! She has made it to a band of performers who will guarantee she arrives home safely. She misses you all, and wishes you well." Cheers went up from the children and Leon grinned in relief. Arthur knew his knights had been worried for her too. "I have told the kitchens to prepare a feast in celebration of our friend's safety!"

Another cheer went up, even though they all knew the feats would be little more than their normal dinner. Arthur had asked the kitchen to provide a large tarte so that the children could enjoy it, and the staff had readily agreed. The castle, it seemed, all had a soft spot for their guests.

Morgana beckoned him over. "Arthur, we've heard from most of the families. The majority of them should be here by tomorrow."

"That's good new," Arthur said as he sat next to her. "I think they're ready to go home after all of this excitement."

She nodded in agreement, but a frown marred her beautiful features. Before Arthur could ask, she continued. "Celeste claimed that her parents were killed by the traders. Not in so many words, but with no one having reached them, I can't help but assume the worst." She sighed heavily and leaned her face to Arthur's shoulder. Her hair cascaded in perfumed waves against his face, and he allowed her sweet scent to ease the sadness he felt at the news. "Arthur… what are we going to do? What are we going to tell her when the others leave and no one comes for her?"

Arthur couldn't answer her. Was it kinder to lie to a child about death when the need arose, or to explain the truth and let them grieve at such a tender age? Arthur had never been shielded from the harsh reality of life, but he wondered if he'd be less cynical if the world had remained a happy place until he was ready to experience it. His heart ached for Celeste, and he knew Morgana's did too. It wasn't easy to lose a parent, or both. There were no words of comfort that would lessen the blow, no consolation in the memory of them, now soiled with sadness. It was more than a child should ever have to bear, and yet the decision weighed heavily upon those old enough to understand. In truth, Arthur didn't know what they would say to her. He did know however, that they would all be there to support her. She would remain in Camelot until she was old enough to decide for herself what she wanted to do with her life.

"Whatever we say, she stays here. She stays with the people who love her," he said. He held Morgana gently and kissed her head. "She will know she is loved, and she'll be safe here. We'll be here to protect her."

They both watched in silence as Leon placed ribbons and bows haphazardly in Celeste's hair. He had braided a lopsided and messy crown into her long blond tresses, and as he held the mirror for her to see, she squealed in delight and hugged him tightly around the neck. He smiled widely as he scooped her up to show Morgana his work. It looked atrocious to Arthur, but Morgana smiled as she took her head from his shoulder and told Celeste how beautiful she looked. Leon blushed, but his smile never wavered. Several of the other small girls asked to be next, and Arthur knew that by the end of the line of them, Leon might perfect his braiding skills. He laughed, feeling jovial for the first time in weeks. He stood up to offer his services to aid his friend, when the room began to spin. The strength left his body, and the sound of waves crashed in his ears. He heard Morgana yell out as his body pitched forward, towards the unforgiving stone floor. Blackness invaded his vision as his head split with pain. As the darkness became infinite, the waves turned into garbled voices, and as he sank further into the black, the voices became clear.

"You're out of control!"

"I'm fine, mother."

"Oh, absolutely. That's why you're causing storms every other day, lashing out and then leaving for Circe knows where. You're hurting. What I want to know is why."

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with. I'm dealing with it." Arthur realized it was himself speaking.

"I do need concern myself with it! You're my son, and whatever this is, you're letting it tear you apart instead of asking for help. I won't sit by and let you ruin yourself for the sake of your pride."

Arthur felt the anger and the rush of guilt flow like molten iron through his veins, heard the static crackling in the air in response to his emotions. A deep breath. Another. Calm the storm within, don't let the water boil over. A touch on his shoulder bled the excess energy from him, and he felt nothing but tired shame and resignation.

"I miss him."

"I know you do, sweetie. We all do. He wasn't what we expected and that made you nervous. But missing him isn't causing the storms, is it? There's something else."

He let his shoulders quake in her hands. "He's my destiny. I didn't want him to be. I wanted him to be the awful, magic-fearing maggot he was supposed to be. I wanted it to be easy to hate him. Instead, I… I think I love him, mum. And I miss him so much."

"Oh, sweetie!" she kissed his forehead. He knew she had to lift herself onto her toes to do so. "Is that why you treated him so badly? You were frightened of your own feelings?"

"I hurt him, mother," he whispered, his voice sounding familiar and foreign to him at the same time. "I hurt him in a way in which he'll never forgive me, and I cannot forgive myself."

A pause as the words sunk in. "What happened?"

The words sound like accusation, hollow and guarded. He doesn't know how to respond. He might be powerful, but his mother was a force of her own when she was angry. What scared him more was the silence of her disappointment, the absence of the anger choking him in abashment. How could she forgive him if he could never forgive himself? He let the guilt swallow him whole, let the anger at himself manifest to feel the release, to be rid of it for only a moment of relief.

"What happened?" she asked again, this time there was a sharpness to her voice. She said his name but the rushing in his ears drowned out the sound.

A deep breath. Another. Calm.

"I wanted him, mum. I used him, and then I realized he wanted me and it made me want him more, so I used him again."

Silence. Bile rose in his throat. A deep breath. Calm. A crack of thunder above them.

"My son…"

"I did it for information!" he blurted in defense. It was the lie he had told, had fed it to himself until he was gorged and sick on it.

The warmth left him as she removed her hands, took a step away from him. "Is that what you've told yourself to excuse your behavior? You cannot ignore the consequences of your actions, especially when they are this severe! There is no information valuable enough to disregard your morals for. If this is the leader you've become, I worry for the land of Albion."

The words were like daggers to his heart, but the truth in them hurt further still. Tears welled in his eyes, unbidden. Outside, it began to rain. "I'm sorry, mother. I'm sorry."

"I am not the one who needs to hear those words, darling. I am not the one you have wronged."

A deep breath. Another. Will the tears not to fall, will the storm to stop before it's had the chance to begin. But it's already begun, his mind said. It's no longer a bit of rain, it's a hurricane. It's going to destroy you, leave you broken in its wake and you only have yourself to blame. He thought of golden hair, tanned skin, rough palms. As she walked away, she took the anger with her. All that remained was the remorse, the pain. She reached the door and sighed.

"What have you become, Merlin?"

With that, she left. He wept.

Arthur woke with a start, Merlin's name on his lips. His head throbbed with a dull ache, the lingering effects of his fall, he presumed, but the confusion was unrelated. He was in his bed, the covers strewn about him in a mess. He knew he'd heard the name correctly, but it didn't make any sense. He'd thought for a moment, it had been Emrys. The conversation, the relevance to himself… but it couldn't be Merlin. Merlin was gentle when he kissed him, held him with nothing but soft caresses when Emrys had gripped him hard enough to bruise his bones. Merlin's voice wasn't as deep or commanding. He didn't fill Arthur with dread. And yet it was Merlin's name he had heard attached to Arthur's story, it was Merlin's guilt he'd felt in his chest.

A knock on the door was his only warning before it opened and Giaus stepped in, his satchel of traveling remedies slung on his shoulder. "You're awake, my lord. How are you feeling?"

"Like I took a tumble down a flight of stairs," Arthur grumbled. He relented himself to Giaus' study.

"Perhaps not a flight of stairs, but a stone floor can create the same effects. You knocked your head hard enough to lose consciousness."

"It was another headache," Arthur explained before the physician could ask. He quieted his voice. "But it was different this time. There were voices, Giaus. A conversation I don't think I was supposed to hear. Is it possible these incidents are connected to dream walking?"

Giaus stilled in his examination of Arthur's head. "I've never heard of the ability being used when once is conscious, my lord. There is a reason it is called 'dream' walking. But I suppose if the user was very powerful…"

"It didn't feel like a dream. It felt like I was him, like I was seeing through his eyes, feeling his emotions. What does that mean?" Arthur couldn't stop the fear from creeping into his hushed voice.

Giaus was quiet for a time, and he looked troubled. "It would mean, my lord, that it wasn't a dream at all."