The Druids' Prince, pt. 2

When you finally manage to open your eyes again, there is enough light to see the white canvas of a tent above you. It's a small tent and you're alone – but outside you can hear the sounds of the camp.

Not sleeping. Not anymore.

It's morning?

You bolt up from a dark, scratchy blanket someone has lain over you, and scramble out the open door-flap. Hunith is knelt by the fire again, cooking flat cakes on a scrubbed stone, and it's not dawn yet, but it's close.

"Morning," she says to you – not cheerfully, but like her thoughts trouble her. "Here, have these two that are ready, you need to eat before-"

Still staring around, you notice your brown-haired, flat-nosed guard at a short distance, watching you.

You stalk over to him, wanting very much to throw the first punch. "What did you do to me?" you demand, even as the answer presents itself, logically. "You put me in an enchanted sleep? All night?"

The man frowns at you – and too late, you realize you're still meant to be masked as Emrys by the crystal. "Calm yourself," he says. "If you'd been obedient yesterday, there wouldn't be consequences today. Hunith, there's no time for that – dawn is upon us. Let's go."

Dawn. The time of your scheduled execution.

For a second you freeze, as his hand descends on your shoulder, and Hunith pushes upright. They've caught you.

No, they haven't caught you. Not yet. But they will soon, if they bring Merlin-as-the-Pendragon out, and he sees that you haven't taken the chance to escape that he gave you.

"Do I have to go," you say, and your mouth is dry and your lips are stiff and your stomach rolls uncomfortably.

Hunith looks at the druid man unhappily.

He shrugs at her. "Orders."

"Are you supposed to follow orders if they're wrong," you say savagely. "Are you supposed to disobey, if what you're told is wrong."

"It's your duty, Emrys," the man says. "You can't disobey your duty."

You think about turning and running. But you know he could stop you with magic. You could fight and struggle, but you can't escape, and… you don't want to die, but you don't want to embarrass yourself and discredit your upbringing, as flawed as these people consider it.

Don't forget, Merlin told you. It's a fair bet that none of these people will forget your death. You want to show them a prince's courage. You also feel like warning them again, what your father will do, afterward.

Hunith walks a little behind you, and it should feel supportive, but it only makes you feel trapped. A few more moments, and they'll all know what Merlin tried – and that you failed. Hunith will know you tricked her.

Your eyes are on the ground as you drag your feet into the clearing at the center of the druid's camp, so you don't see him right away, you see the trouser legs and skirts of the gathered community. You see them parting to let you pass, and there are sympathetic murmurs that make your steps even more reluctant.

And then there's a break in the crowd – you think once again, Emrys has been brought in last to the gathering, though you're him, and they don't know – and you look up.

Your mouth drops open.

Merlin is balanced on the end of a narrow half-log, split for someone's cookfire, maybe. His hands are bound behind his back, and the fair-haired leader is fitting a noose over his head, down around his neck. Merlin looks up at the tree branch above him, where the rope is looped once before passing into the bracing hands of a muscular black-haired druid near the trunk of the tree.

When he drops his chin, he looks around at all the eyes watching him – his friends, his people – and then meets yours.

He's white as a sheet, and you can see his thin chest moving with controlled but quickened breathing. His cloak has been left behind, and you can see the glittering line of his crystal-necklace just under the loosened collar of his shirt, because you know it's there to see.

Merlin looks at you, and out of everyone, he can see who you are – and he says nothing.

Your heart is pounding. What's going on.

He doesn't look surprised to see you, like he knew all along that they weren't going to let their prince have a chance to run away.

What are you supposed to do now? It's his secret to tell, his confession to make, how he tried to trick them and it failed, and there is the condemned, hiding among them – but he says nothing.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," the fair-haired druid says, his words pulling the attention of the circle of people. He glances around – meets your eyes-

He's talking to you. He knows.

No, he doesn't. His eyes shift over your shoulder, and someone – Hunith – steps next to you for you to lean on her, with her arm around your shoulders.

Merlin watches her do it, and his eyes are desolate and his mouth turns down.

And he says nothing.

"You have been judged by a druid tribunal and found guilty in the matter of eighteen murders of our brethren," the leader says, looking up at Merlin. "You have been sentenced to death, and it is by hanging that the judgment will be rendered upon your body. Do you have anything to say to unburden your soul, before it is weighed by the gods?"

"Yes," Merlin says clearly. And pauses to look around the crowd, breathing in that fast-controlled way.

His eyes stop on you, and your heart is thundering like a charge of war-horses, fate and death bearing down on you and you can't move, you can't run to get away.

"I had all night to think of what I wanted to say… to all of you. My…" Merlin swallows, and it's emphasized by the movement of the rope at his neck – "last words."

The clearing is absolutely silent. You can't breathe.

"I want to say, I'm sorry for the losses you've endured. I'm sorry that life is hard, and that men hurt each other in misunderstanding. But… I hope that can end here, today. The mistakes of my people, the mistakes of the king – the murders, the hatred, the bitterness – let me bear them all. And let it end. Let tomorrow be different."

He takes a breath as if to steady his voice – then closes his mouth abruptly and nods, as if he's come to the end of his words before he's ready. He lifts his chin.

You hear sniffling sounds from various places around the circle.

Your eyes are stinging. This can't be happening. He can't honestly expect to go through with this, to give his life for an enemy – and then expect them to let you go, afterward.

Maybe they will, though. Maybe if the deal is a life for a life, and they realize that an innocent person willingly took the place of the guilty…

You know you can't match that speech. But maybe if you repeat the truth of it – you don't feel like the same person who stood here yesterday and called them evil – maybe, like Hunith had told her friend… they could forgive.

It still stuns you a little, that your mind has been changed enough to admit, you need to be forgiven.

"That was well spoken, young prince," the fair-haired druid says. Merlin looks down at him; even standing on the log, he's not much taller than the man. "Your death pays for your crimes, and may your spirit travel to paradise guiltless and at peace."

A murmur of agreement passes through the crowd. Hunith's hand grips your shoulder; you're aware that she's weeping soundlessly and without embarrassment. Would she still feel so, if she knew?

Merlin's eyes meet yours. You're sick to your stomach and he's clearly terrified, but he gives you a firm nod of commitment.

All ye gods and angels…

The black-bearded druid puts his weight on the rope, and it rubs on the tree-limb. Merlin has to rise on his toes – eyes wide and focused above the crowd, nostrils flared – and the fair-haired leader gives the log a firm and merciful kick.

Merlin's body jerks, and twitches. No air passes through his throat; he can't make a sound. Maybe he's trying not to kick and twist, but behind his back, his fingers writhe at the binding cords.

Maybe he'll go to paradise guiltless and at peace, but you surely won't. No one will forgive you this, not ever, and that includes yourself.

"No," you say aloud. People look at you like they're glad for an excuse not to watch the prisoner dying in front of their eyes.

Dying.

"No!" you repeat. It's suddenly urgent that you stop this, stop them making such a horrific mistake, killing an innocent person, their beloved prince that they don't recognize.

But you only get one step, before you've got a pair of arms around your chest. Not Hunith's, some strong adult male – maybe your flat-nosed guard. The fair-haired leader is hurrying toward you, as if to calm or reassure before you can – before you can – what?

Hunith moves up beside you, watching you and not the hanging prisoner, and the love and pity is so clear in her face that you can't bear any more of it. You can't take it, you can't steal any more of that.

"Stop!" you gasp. "Stop – someone stop it! That's Merlin, not me!"

There's confusion, but no one moves forward. Merlin's body swings, and the sharp little movements of foot and shoulder seem involuntary now – his eyes sink half-closed.

"That's your prince!" you scream, bending double and trying to pull away from the man holding you back. "Someone save him – someone stop him! I'm Arthur! I'm Arthur Pendragon!"

Still, everyone remains frozen in place. It's a nightmare, and it's real.

You claw at the arms holding you – all attempts to break free only have the strong druid lifting you helplessly off the ground. Kicking doesn't seem to be helping, but the grip on you loosens enough for your fingertips to reach the chain around your neck. You tear at it, pulling the crystal out of your shirt and ducking to scrape the chain over your neck and ears - catching and ripping out hairs from the back of your head - and flinging it down.

The man holding you releases you with an oath, and you stagger the few steps to Merlin, hugging him around the knees and trying to lift his weight up, off the choking noose.

"Merlin!" You think that's Hunith's voice, and wonder if someone is holding her back as well.

"Let him down!" you scream. "Cut him down!"

Bodies cluster more closely around you, and suddenly Merlin's weight drops. Away from you, as it chances, and because you don't let go, you both flop to the ground.

Someone's fingers are scrabbling at the piece of rope around his neck. His eyes are still closed, his chest far too still, the rest of him absolutely limp.

You crawl your way up his body. "Merlin! Merlin!"

There's no response.

The rope pulls free, leaving a raw-looking red-purple weal where it tightened against the pale skin of his slender neck, but he's insensible to it. You snatch for his crystal-chain, as if its removal can help – maybe it can, why not? You toss it away; it lands near the other by chance.

The gasp and murmur of the crowd increases. Someone exclaims, "Where the hell did he get those?"

"Merlin!" you say again, shaking him by his thin shoulders.

You can hear Hunith's voice above everyone else's, but not her words. Then the fair-haired druid is kneeling on Merlin's other side, stretching his hand over Merlin's chest.

"Hands off, please," he says to you, shortly and dispassionately.

You jerk back immediately, and his eyes flare with an intense gold that tightens the tendons of his hand.

Merlin's body inhales, deeply and roughly, like a boulder dragged across cobblestones. His eyes fly open, confused and unseeing and bloodshot, and as the druid leader retreats slightly, you throw yourself forward again. You realize distantly that you're so damn grateful for magic – and no one stops you.

"I'm sorry," you babble. "I'm sorry. It was my fault, not yours, you shouldn't-"

He coughs, dry and short, and hauls in another rock-over-stone breath. Blinking, he rolls toward you – off his bound hands at the small of his back – and recognizes you.

"Arthur," he rasps, and coughs again. "What did you do?"

The druid leader releases Merlin's hands, and he brings one up to brace against the ground by his face. You withdraw, crouching over your knees to keep closer to him, still scared at the harsh proximity of death. Almost a repetition of what happened in another druid camp to another druid boy.

Men will die for you, Father has told you before. You honor their sacrifice, but you don't mourn them personally. You can't, not when it's your orders they die to fulfill, your self they die to protect.

But this isn't battle, and Merlin isn't your men, and he wasn't ordered, he volunteered.

And, he didn't die.

"Emrys," says the fair-haired druid, in a way that stills the crowd and catches his attention and yours.

In looking at him, you see that Hunith has knelt in the crook of Merlin's knees, one hand on the side of his thigh and one on his ribs for comfort – his, hers, or both – and silent tears are trickling down her face. But when she looks from her son to you, her expression of deep sympathetic sorrow doesn't change.

"What is the meaning of this?" the druid leader continues, firmly but gently. He holds up Merlin's dangling crystal, and a piece of the noose.

Merlin grabs at you, twisting on the ground, and you give him your hand and some support behind his elbow, to get him upward toward sitting.

"I told you," he rasps.

Hunith turns immediately to someone in the encircling crowd. "Get him some water!" she commands.

Merlin's attention doesn't falter. "I told you," he repeats, and the sound of his voice is as raw as the rope-mark on his neck; it makes you cringe, and not only you. "He is the once and future king. You've told me, over and over, it's my destiny to protect my king, at all costs, and advise him the very best I know how. So I tried… but you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't listen. I didn't know what else to do."

"You were going to let them kill you," you blurt. "Even yesterday, you knew what they'd do – why didn't you tell me?"

He looks at you, tears shining in dark eyes, and face pale; he can't have gotten much sleep, and the panicked energy of the almost-hanging is draining away. "Would it have made a difference?" he says tiredly.

You struggle with that – with being honest in front of strangers and enemies that don't think much of you anyway. But you owe him.

"It should have," you admit in a low voice.

His eyes close and as the tears drop, his fingers tighten around yours.

"I'm very sorry," you add.

For his neck, his wrists, his sleepless night, the weight of the judgment of his people. Facing his death so young, and not even sure that it will mean anything to you. Not sure if you will remember… or change.

And then you realize, how easy that was to say. It makes you feel a little bit lighter, a little bit more free, a little less guilty – and you look at the druid leader. "I'm sorry," you say again, and it's true.

It's not just, for how you almost got their prince killed. It's for the raid you led, and the ones before it that you didn't. For what Father did every time he wouldn't change his mind when he was wrong – he rarely changes his mind and for the first time you think, nobody is right all the time, and that includes the king.

You look up at all the people, still shocked and watching. The black-bearded man and the flat-nosed man and the woman who doesn't have a son anymore – she's crying because Hunith was her friend; she must know how another mother feels, to have come so close to the same loss.

"I'm sorry," you say again. "That raid – I told my men to spare the women and children, but… some of them ignored the order, and I… froze. I wanted to stop it, but didn't know what to do if they wouldn't listen. I…" you falter, and have to swallow, and try to firm your voice. "Dream about it, and… I hear the screams."

For a minute, everything goes blurry, until you blink.

"I can't change that day," you tell them. "But from now on, I will do whatever I can, to prevent it happening again. And when I'm king… when I'm king…" You can't breathe properly, and you have no idea how Merlin could give a coherent speech when he was about to die. No one's even threatening you, right now. "I am truly sorry, for what happened."

Silence. You don't dare look at anyone, only Merlin. And he holds your eyes, and that gives you some confidence back. You don't feel weak at all, for admitting your terrible mistake; you feel stronger.

"I… I don't understand magic, I guess. What it is, and how it works…"

Someone arrives at the back of the crowd, and a wooden cup of water is passed up to Merlin, who sips tentatively – then swallows more eagerly.

"I…" you pause, because after all, you are too proud to beg. "I would like to learn." So when arrests are made and orders given, you don't just agree and follow, you think and decide, like Hunith said, and try to listen to your conscience. But that does require… "I know I don't deserve it, but if you can forgive me…"

You look at the fair-haired druid, whose face betrays nothing. At Merlin, whose tired eyes have lit with something that looks like hope.

"My father doesn't listen, and I don't always have the freedom to oppose him, but… if I am king…" You find yourself toying with your cuffs, examining your own rope-burns from struggling with your bonds. "When I am king," you say softly.

And then what? At least you won't execute children. Women who haven't hurt anyone – druids who don't have magic, people who help those sort of people. Tavern-keepers and market-vendors who don't ask a druid's identity when serving or selling.

"Maybe things can change," you finish lamely.

No one says anything, and you feel painfully awkward – it doesn't work to lift your chin and act royal; these people aren't impressed by that.

But the fair-haired druid speaks. "By the gods," he says, and there's awe in his voice. "It is him. You were right, Emrys – I see it now."

Merlin is smiling wearily – at you, at him, at everyone. Hunith takes his hand.

The black-bearded man says bemusedly, "I do, also – why didn't we see it, before? Why didn't we see it yesterday?"

Hunith says, "You saw a Pendragon."

Merlin adds, in explanation, "He hadn't accepted it himself, then."

"Now his intentions align with his destiny, it is much clearer to see," the druid leader says. And then, ducking his head a little but meeting your gaze, "My lord, we beg your forgiveness, also. Perhaps we too were blinded by hatred and prejudice."

You sigh, thinking of the knights' conversation, before and after such raids, arrests and execution. Mockery makes a doubtful duty easier to perform.

"That happens," you say.

For a moment everyone is silent – thoughtful, expectant. The leader glances around the circle, then looks at you. "Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, you are hereby pardoned fully and freely. You have our whole-hearted allegiance as the promised king of a united Albion, and we will aid you to our utmost in your quest to restore magic to Camelot. Say what amends we need to make, and we will make them."

"What?" you say, alarmed. What's this prophesied destiny – bring magic back? But… fairness within the law…

"Someday," Merlin says to reassure you.

"Until then," Hunith says dryly, "maybe we should think of healing, for the boys – and breakfast."

The next few hours are almost as surreal as the day before. The children run past laughing and calling to Emrys; the women smile in greeting, the men are pleased to catch their prince's eye to exchange a nod of shared wellbeing.

And that's only slightly diminished when they see you sitting next to him.

Hunith feeds you flat-cakes, and you eat twice as many as Merlin and he calls you fat. You can't believe your ears – and then he grins. And when you shove his shoulder, so that he almost falls off the log, he comes up laughing instead of swinging.

An old healer with round cheeks and a long braid smears salve on your wrists and his neck. The bandage-cloth lies flat under your cuffs, but Merlin gets quickly impatient with her trying to wind a covering for the rope-wound about his neck – and flatly refuses to allow her to anchor it by passing strips of cloth under his arms.

Hunith smiles and fetches a square of old blue cloth, folding it to tie gently in a loose knot behind his neck, and letting the points fall down his chest. He smiles in relief and she kisses his forehead.

Then she turns and kisses yours – and you almost fall off the log.

He falls asleep, leaning half against the tree trunk behind you, and half on your shoulder; his weight is warm through your chainmail. Feeling him breathe, after he'd almost stopped forever, is soothing, so you let him. And when he wakes and pretends he never drifted off, you pretend right along with him.

But before long, everyone is restively remembering your patrol and your father. Black-beard and Flat-nose bring you to the edge of the forest, where the citadel is in plain view, and Merlin goes with you.

"You didn't have to come, if you were too tired," you say, when he stumbles like he's nearing the end of his endurance.

"Shut up," he retorts.

You open your mouth to remind him that nobody can address a prince that way – and then reckon, he's probably earned the right to address you any way he likes, for the rest of his life. So you only say, "You shut up."

And it's stupid, and he grins like he's won. Which, you guess, he has.

But so have you.

Once you hide from a search party of your men, and it feels odd – like you're a naughty little child – but also right. A lot of trouble will be avoided if you simply walk up to the gates. You've already decided to say you fell from your horse and hurt your leg, and that is how you were separated from the patrol, no matter what ridicule you might draw – or suspicion from Gaius, who always knows.

"I've never seen Camelot this close before," Merlin says thoughtfully. "Who is going to teach you about magic there?"

"I don't know," you say honestly.

Of course you can't simply slip away from everyone to visit Merlin's camp, though the elders have given you a few basic teachings to consider already. Gaius and Geoffrey will tell you the truth – but not much else, probably, for fear of your father's accusations, if they are discovered.

"I'll come someday to teach you," he says suddenly. Both druid men look at each other, alarmed, behind his back where he can't see. "In a few years, when I've learned a lot more, and I'm old enough to leave the camp on my own."

The thought makes you nervous – and excited. "Okay," you say. "I can't… pledge your safety. But I will promise, every effort to protect you, and your identity."

"Can you keep a secret to save your life," he says impishly.

You snort – and wish you could get to know him better, sooner. You have a feeling you've only scratched his surface.

Offering him your hand in farewell and friendship, you shove yours past his extended response to clasp his forearm. It feels like a stick of kindling with skin on, but his grip is surprisingly strong.

"Til then," you say. And, more awkwardly, "Thanks for… everything."

"Don't forget," he says, without being specific. But he doesn't really have to be; every moment of this odd adventure is memorable.

"Never," you say. And turn toward the citadel of Camelot.

The first time you turn to look back, Merlin waves.

The next time, there's no one there.

It occurs to you that you have fallen from your horse, and hit your head, and had the most incredible dream.

But in your heart, you know the truth.

Tbc…