A/N: I've already done druid-Merlin-in-Camelot episode rewrites, so I'm not going to try that again. Just a couple of key episodes…
The Druids Prince, pt. 3
The Dragon's Call
Usually you find that training – the repetitive and wearying physical exertion, the violence of the movements – exercises your frustrations. Whatever they may be. And once you're exhausted, you're calmer and you see things more clearly.
Today, all you're seeing is that your current manservant is dimwitted and sullen. Nothing specific you can punish, nothing you can correct… and no hope that another might be better.
And you're trying, you're trying your hardest, to forget the failure and humiliation of yesterday, locked in your room because you dared protest the execution to the king. Conspiring to use enchantments and magic – such practices are banned on pain of death.
Yes, but the sorceress was his mother and they lived in the same home. What did you expect him to do, betray her to her death?
I expected him to follow the law. Now, I have a law to follow.
You're snapping your body forward before you even realize, before Morris has a chance to correct the placement of the target, as if the vehemence with which you fling your dagger into the painted circle will somehow reach the king's realization.
Another son who hadn't hurt anyone; another mother vowing revenge as if that will change anything. As if hurt can be lessened by spreading it around.
When, when will he start listening to you? Ever?
Morris trips, and you catch the next knife back before it leaves your fingers, watching the target roll away over the grass – and he's disagreeable enough to have tripped on purpose - to be stopped by a stranger's worn boot.
"Hey, come on, that's enough. You've had your fun, my friend."
The newcomer is a young peasant, tall and thin. Smiling disarmingly at you and the few young knights you've been allowing to egg you on. And you know that smile, and you recognize his hair, his eyes.
The kerchief tied around his neck, to hide the scar he wears for you.
To hide your reaction, and to be sure he knows you, you flip the knife in your hand and saunter closer. "Do I know you? You called me friend…"
He tilts his head; he wears confidence and a shabby brown jacket instead of a cloak now – that garment would give away his identity, rather than hiding it. You wonder if the druids have begun listening to him. Probably, if they've let him come to Camelot.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," he offers. "I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass."
You can't help grinning at his careless insolence – which he has earned the right to express, you remember all too well. And you're close enough now that no one will overhear you.
"I have been working on that," you tell him.
He gives you a mocking look of disbelief, gesturing to Morris, who's leaning to pick up the target.
You roll your eyes and huff. "This is Morris, my manservant who hates me but can't afford to quit or irritate me enough to fire him. He was never in any danger and he knew it, right, Morris?"
"Beg pardon, sire?" Morris says, deliberately stupid like when he mixes up orders or forgets to wake you in time for early-morning responsibilities.
"Never mind, you're dismissed." You sigh, and watch him lumber off slowly under the weight of the scarred wooden circle-target. The knights have departed, also, and no one seems to be paying the two of you much attention.
"So you do remember," Merlin says.
"I promised I would." You meet his eyes, and give him a shallow but significant bow – one prince to another. He fires red all the way to his ears, shuffling his boots, and you add, "But I can't have a friend who could be so stupid as to insult the crown prince in front of witnesses."
His mouth quirks, and you can tell he's not sorry. You can tell he's already arranging himself mentally to insult you in private as much as possible, for as long as his visit might last. Which is perfect, honestly; he's your equal and he might as well feel free to speak his mind.
"All right," he says. "In public we'll play our roles, prince and peasant, and any other time…"
"I'll have to put up with your disrespect," you finish.
"Earn my respect, and then you won't have to," he retorts, his eyes glinting with humor – but sincerity, also.
But that reminds you of yesterday. "I… haven't been doing a very good job of making a difference," you admit. "No one will listen to me, and until I'm king, one man alone can't do much to change anything."
"I didn't see you in the courtyard yesterday," he says.
You grimace, realizing that he must have witnessed the death of an essentially innocent man. "I was prevented from attending because I was expected to protest."
"Ah." He nods, studying you, then juts his chin determinedly. "Well, you're not alone anymore." There's a finality to his statement that makes you think, this is more than just a druid's foray into the citadel of Camelot, strike and retreat.
"You've come to stay?" you ask carefully, feeling a mix of hope and satisfaction surge upwards through your chest. You contain your expression though, knowing you're both going to have a job of it, keeping his identity and abilities secret.
"My mother knew Gaius – and he knows about me," Merlin tells you.
Oh, good – Gaius is well-practiced at giving plausible excuses to the king; he'll definitely help. "Your mother is well?" you ask, because you've missed her too, at times.
He nods. "She and Gaius both said it would be a good idea if I got a job. An obvious reason to be staying here – and if I'm to help you learn about… things I've learned, then it should be something where we can be together regularly without raising suspicion?"
You squint into the sun – which isn't that bright, really – thinking. "Well, you can't train for a knight, or a soldier, you haven't the muscle for it."
"Hey," he says, but grins.
"You're not old enough to be a tutor – and I've progressed past classroom lessons, anyway." You frown. "I can't think of any other job that wouldn't be… menial service."
"I wouldn't mind that," he says, a bit puzzled as if he's not sure why you wouldn't consider it.
"But you're –" You stop, and glance about to make sure no one's drifted into your hearing range without your notice. "Royalty."
He makes a dismissive noise. "Everyone shares chores equally in my… village," he says. "Honestly. Wouldn't mind."
You still don't want him on his hands and knees scrubbing your floor. Morris does a decent job of keeping your quarters clean, actually, because he can do that while you're not around. And surely even Merlin could do a better job running errands, keeping information – or laundry, or equipment - correct and on time? And there's the blacksmith and armoror; there are washer-women and stable-boys and kennel-boys to do the dirtier work.
"Morris absolutely hates attending me," you say slowly.
"Attending you?" Merlin says.
"It's… kind of a mix of things," you say, hesitant because it's odd to suggest another prince for the position of manservant; but he's not proud at all anyway, and doesn't want anyone to recognize him. "Some paperwork, some meetings – just going with me on foot or mounted patrols… Morris isn't very good at reading or writing, and he's scared of horses and bandit attacks…"
Merlin actually snickers, his eyes lighting with his smile and something in your chest relaxes. "I can do that. And it shouldn't be too hard to give you lessons in my art, in and around those duties."
"Art lessons?" a sharp female voice demands.
Your heart plummets, to thud somewhere near your heels. You turn to see your nemesis toss her black curls and narrow her green eyes at Merlin as she closes with you.
"Art lessons for Arthur?" she prompts mockingly.
"Calligraphy," Merlin says, absolutely guileless. "The artistry of ancient writings and texts. Language, and history."
"You're kidding me," Morgana says to him, then turns to you. "Gwen said she saw you from the window – you bowed to him. So who is he?"
There is indeed another girl present – the pretty, plump-cheeked dark-eyed shy blacksmith's daughter lingering uncertainly in Morgana's shadow. She gives you a quick, apologetic glance. It's all right, though; you know Morgana's nosy, and it isn't Gwen's fault.
"I saw you in the window yesterday, too," Merlin says to her. "You turned away from the execution."
Morgana tosses her head and lifts her chin like royalty, herself. "He practiced some magic, he didn't hurt anyone. And I don't think chopping someone's head off is cause for celebration."
Merlin looks at you, and you know what he's thinking. No, don't trust her, you think back at him, scowling and giving your head a surreptitious shake. She doesn't know how to hold her tongue; she'll get mad and say the wrong thing to the wrong person-
"So tell me," Morgana demands, keen as a bloodhound on a scent.
"It was a joke," you say lamely. "I was showing him how he should have greeted me."
"I'm to be his new manservant," Merlin adds helpfully. "I've never done it before, so I have lots to learn…"
You roll your eyes; Morgana will never believe that you just hired such an absolute novice, for any reason whatsoever.
"Maybe I'll ask your father what he thinks," she threatens in challenge. "Perhaps he'll recognize your friend – someone's son, maybe? a royal or a noble? here in disguise…"
"Please don't," Merlin says, quiet but firm, and his eyes flash – blue fire, not gold. You're taken a bit aback – but so is Morgana, which doesn't happen often. He looks at you. "Your father knew my father," he explains. "If he starts wondering and guessing… I've been told I look like mine, a bit, just as you look like yours. A bit."
You decide to ask him later, to tell you about who his father was – not just a druid, then, to have been familiar with the king.
"If you breathe so much as a single word that puts him in danger," you say, pointing at Morgana's nose. Her eyebrows lift, but her taunting demeanor drops; you think the maid Gwen might be holding her breath.
"I'm a druid," Merlin says. "I met Arthur a few years ago. I've come to teach him what a king should know about magic."
Gwen gasps. Morgana's eyes widen, and she looks at you uncertainly.
"No, I don't agree with all of my father's policies," you say. "But no, I don't disagree with him in public, either."
"But… you bowed?" Morgana says, still off-balance.
"He's not just a druid, he's their prince," you say, swiftly and quietly. "Now are you satisfied? And if you can't manage to keep your tongue behind your teeth where he's concerned, I'll never forgive you."
Morgana looks at Merlin, who gives her a smile – and his hand. "Merlin, my lady."
"Nice to meet you," she says faintly – and there's color in her cheeks as she watches him incline his head over her hand.
And you've loitered long enough. You nudge Morgana into moving, steering her back toward the citadel.
"Who knew you could be such a rebel," she says to you.
"Not a word, please, Morgana," you say. "And, this is not a rebellion. This is conscientious preparation for my own reign, whenever that day comes."
She looks at you, dress rustling and shoes clicking along at your side.
Behind you, you hear the maid say, "I'm Guinevere, my lord, but most people call me Gwen. I'm the Lady Morgana's maid."
"Right. And I'm just Merlin. Prince Arthur's manservant, apparently."
"I swear on my father's grave," Morgana says to you suddenly, quietly serious. "If he is discovered, it will not be through my carelessness."
"Thank you," you say. About half relieved.
"I'm surprised," she adds. "But also… proud of you, Arthur." You stop at the intersection of a pair of corridors, expecting that your way and hers will diverge here, and she begins to angle away before adding with more customary sarcasm, "Finally."
"And a lovely day to you too, Morgana," you grit through your teeth.
She tosses her head and flounces away, Gwen following more sedately in her wake. Merlin drifts up beside you to watch them depart.
"Do you trust her?" he says, sounding more contemplative than uneasy.
Probably as the prince of magic-users, he'd have no trouble magicking himself out of trouble, anyway… but then you'd have to deal with the repercussions with your king. And they'd probably be massive – welcoming a sorcerer into the citadel, allowing him access and intelligence and license to use his magic judiciously… You reassure yourself, even Uther can't execute his heir. If he tries, though, you're pretty sure Merlin will protect you.
"I guess we'll see," you say, somewhat fatalistically.
"She's very pretty," he adds.
You almost say, Which one? But instead you grunt and turn away yourself. "I'll show you around a little. Where my quarters are, and where the feast tonight will be…"
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The Beginning of the End
(y'know. or not.)
You stand in the king's council chamber – empty now but for you and he, just like you planned – leaning over the back of the chair to his left. Keeping your gaze on the tabletop so you – and therefore the king – can continue the conversation even-tempered. Because you still hope, one of these days he'll listen to you, without suspecting the reason you don't share his beliefs.
"The druid," you say, "was only in Camelot to collect supplies, he meant no harm. Is it really necessary to execute him?"
"Absolutely necessary," the king says, without thought. He's leaned over the table like you are, but signing a parchment; you're afraid it's the execution order. "Those who use magic cannot be tolerated."
You grip the top of the chairback a little bit tighter. "The druids are a peaceful people."
"Given the chance, they would return magic to the kingdom," the king states, replacing his quill and lifting a goblet of watered wine. He's still giving less than half his attention to the conversation you consider of life or death importance.
Well, it's true enough, the druids would return magic to the kingdom if they had the chance. But, having seen what Merlin is capable of, as their prince – and more importantly, what he's not capable of – you're rather for than against that goal, as well. Someday. Slowly and carefully.
"They preach peace, but they conspire against me," the king continues, betraying impatience with your refusal to agree. He replaces his goblet on the table and begins to stride toward the door.
"If you won't hold a trial, how can you know there's a conspiracy?" you argue. Expecting now he'll take notice – but it'll be negative attention. He's simply not listening, and he ignores your question. Trial, what trial. There's never a trial.
"We cannot appear weak." He doesn't even slow his steps, and you can't help straightening, trying one more time.
"Showing mercy can be a sign of strength," you suggest. Mercy for those who understand mercy – but the king can't judge that if he won't even meet and converse with the prisoner he's condemning unheard.
The king finally turns to face you. "Our enemies will not see it that way," he points out. "We have a responsibility to protect this kingdom. Executing the druid will send out a clear message." He turns again, stalking out of the room without hesitation, throwing a repetition of his earlier orders over his shoulder. "Find the boy. Search every inch of the city."
You clench your jaw, but don't answer back. That's something you've learned from Morgana, actually – what not to do.
All the men have their orders already, searching by patrols their prearranged locations, according to a not uncommon procedure. The best thing that can be said for it, is that you're free to join any one of them – or not – though if the searches aren't successful, you'll be held accountable.
You head for your chambers, already guessing why the druid's young companion hasn't yet been found, even though he was reported injured by witnesses.
The thing is, the king is partly right. The enemies Camelot has beyond her borders probably would consider it weakness for a condemned criminal to be allowed freedom, or for a young boy to evade capture. There are a few you can think of that might even press their luck and the borders, and lives might be lost in defense, if there is any hint that the discipline of Camelot is slipping. It's also true that executing the man sends out a clear message, of exactly what the king wants his rule to be – absolute.
But you can't help the awareness that the law which makes the druid a criminal, is deeply flawed. Which means his execution is morally wrong… So if you'd prevent that wrong, you have to break the law…
It's giving you a headache, and you almost forget what you expect to find, when you push inside your chambers.
Not just Merlin. Not, just two druid boys.
Closer to you, pouring water from his pitcher into a cup, Guinevere in smooth cream and bright yellow, most of her curls pinned up off her neck, a look of concern twisting her features slightly. She looks up – and beyond her, so does Morgana, pale and distraught in green silk, each hand squeezing the other as if they want to help and don't know.
"That's Arthur, isn't it?" Merlin's voice comes from farther away – and down by the floor, actually.
"Is he here?" you ask – all three of them, whoever is going to answer first. You know there isn't much time; you're going to be required to stand on the balcony with the king and show support – but if Merlin is present also, there's a chance. If he'll take it. You're sure he'll take it. "The boy, I mean? He's here, isn't he – and safe for the moment?"
"He was hurt," Merlin says, still hidden from your view. "He's sleeping now, but he's very pale – I think he's lost a lot of blood. And there's always the danger of infection."
"Merlin," you say, trying to impress upon him the urgency of the situation – greater than he knows, and then he appears in the arch-way between the two chambers, eyebrows up expectantly.
For once, without the neckerchief that covers his hanging scar from when you were boys. You're startled, because he never takes that thing off, maybe not even to sleep - til you think maybe he's used that as a temporary bandage for the boy. Yep, definitely danger of infection.
"Here's the thing," you say. "The execution of the boy's companion is imminent. And then my father will demand results of my search for the boy and suspicion will mount and nowhere will be safe."
"But he's not in any condition to leave," Merlin protests, gesturing down and to the side – it looks like maybe, behind your bed, on the bearskin rug. Comfortable and easy to move – you approve; it's doubtful anyone but your father would dare demand to search here. But… it might come to that.
"I'll take your word," you say, and look at the girls. "Morgana, you can refuse to attend the execution–"
"Definitely," she says, with a jerk of her chin, putting her hands on her hips.
"Then, during, get Gaius up here to see to the boy. No one will be paying attention to you, then."
You realize, suddenly, they're all looking at you – and they're the ones taking the risks, here. As the king's heir, you're not really in danger. Hells, you hope someday you deserve this sort of loyalty and willingness to obey.
"All right," you said, a bit more harshly impatient than you intend, because of the knowledge of your own inadequacy. "Merlin, you're with me."
He doesn't say anything, following you out of the room, keeping up as you march toward the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the executioner's platform is set up, the heads-man waiting. He doesn't say anything as you step out into the open air, the king giving you a cursory glance before facing his gathered people below.
"People of Camelot," the king begins, loudly enough for his voice to carry to every corner. "The man before you is guilty of using enchantments and magic."
He'd come for supplies, and only used magic in attempted escape, you've gathered from speaking to the guards involved. Though they don't realize, you make the differentiation as the king does not.
But then Merlin does speak. Murmuring in your ear so close he brushes the material of your jacket over your right shoulder-blade.
"What am I supposed to do?" Inquiry, not insolence.
You shrug that shoulder so he can feel it. "Whatever you can, to save his life. Only don't get caught."
He passes you, so that you stand between him and the king; he can probably see the platform with the druid and the executioner better from the corner of the balcony. And the king won't be able to see him at all, if he even thinks to look at your manservant when all hell breaks-
The heads-man lifts his ax, then puts his strength behind the weight of the sharpened metal in a downswing that's sufficient to slice a man's neck and spine clean through; you've seen it happen.
This time, the ax rebounds like it's hit a concave shield; the executioner staggers, and the druid is on his feet, face upturned again and mouth open in surprise. Hands loosed, also.
"What is going on?" the king bellows, leaning on his grip on the edge of the balcony. The people gasp and cry out, shying away from the platform and pulling together in groups more than before.
You hear Merlin murmur again, a plea and a command. "Go. Go!..."
The druid takes a running leap, darting through the crowd and making for the open gates.
"Close the gates!" the king commands, anyone and everyone. "Don't let him escape! Kill him on sight!"
All six of the red-clad guards at the courtyard gates lean their strength into shutting those doors before the druid can reach them. Behind you, Merlin leans his strength into keeping them open, you can tell by another low murmur that again escapes the king's hearing in the chaos.
As the druid slips right between the doors, pursued by another half-dozen of the closest soldiers of Camelot, the invisible interference with the hinges disappears, suddenly and completely – and they slam shut between the escaping fugitive and the soldiers, with such force that it seems it will take several more moments to wrench them open again.
"Open the gate!" the king is hollering. "After him!"
You have to bite back your smile, realizing that the patrols of the lower town have been recalled to witness the execution. There might be another squad or two of knights further out on the forest tracks, but your common people won't so much as risk touching an accused sorcerer. His way is free to the woods – and past that perimeter, you're confident no one can catch him.
Now, all you have to worry about is the child.
The king turns on you so suddenly you're glad you stopped the smile of shared triumph. "Go hunt him down! Do not return until you can bring me his head!"
"Father, really," you protest. Which might give the druid a few more minutes before you'll have to pursue also. "He could have done more than just escape – he didn't hurt any of us-"
"You deliberately delay!" he accuses you, and you straighten in reaction.
"Not at all." Yes, though, actually. "I was merely thinking that if we discover his companion, the wounded boy, we can lure him back to us, without wasting time and energy chasing him into the forest, where we've never had much luck finding a single one of his kind."
Camps were easier. Merlin touches you briefly on the back of your shoulder, and it's a reassuring reminder of forgiveness and change.
The king's eyes narrow. "Yes. I can see the sense in that idea. Fine, then – it is your campaign to carry out."
You sigh inwardly. And when the searches and the patrols – please heaven – turn up nothing day after day until you're forced to concede defeat, it'll be your fault. Your humiliation, but also your victory.
The king passes you, and you leave the balcony behind him, saying over your shoulder to Merlin, "I'm going to need my sword in the search for the boy."
"It's in your chamber, sire," he says respectfully.
Your chamber has gained another visitor during the execution. Gaius stands beside Morgana on the opposite side of your table giving directions for the patient to the king's ward; she glances at you but Gaius doesn't, until he finishes.
"Well?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.
Merlin slips in behind you, closing the door behind him. "His guardian escaped the execution."
"Incredible," the old physician says dryly, and you grin cocky-like at Morgana, who rolls her eyes. "The boy is very sick, but with the proper care, I would say he'd be ready to move tonight."
"I'll take him," Morgana says immediately – and lifts her chin as you, Merlin, and Gaius all look at her. "I'll smuggle him out of the castle. There's no way that Uther will execute me for assisting the druid boy's escape, even if he does learn about it."
You grimace, shaking your head. "No good, Morgana – we don't want you avoiding execution, we want to avoid the king knowing we were involved at all. You go to dinner with him; Merlin and I will get the boy to the armory, then he will take him out to the lower town where Gwen will be waiting in her house for them."
Gwen moves into view at the arch to the other room, brightly attentive and willingly cooperative, and you smile to acknowledge her.
"I'll replace the shield covering the escape tunnel, and continue on with the search," you finish. "Any questions?"
"What about objections?" Morgana says, like she just can't help being defiant.
"Not allowed." You smirk at her, but she doesn't actually have any point to quarrel with, so she only tosses her head and looks away.
"Please be careful, all of you," Gaius says, coming around the table and you, toward the door that Merlin opens for him. "Woe betide anyone caught helping him."
"Yes, thank you," you say, and he grumbles under his breath, but leaves.
Your sword is on the side table by the arch; Gwen watches as you cross the room and pass the belt around your waist beneath the long jacket you're wearing. "Are you sure about this, my lord?" she says, and you wish she wouldn't use your title. "I thought the idea was for you to be able to honestly claim you hadn't set eyes on the boy at all?"
Very sharp of her to realize you'd intended that. "His life is more important than my honesty," you say, focusing on the buckle.
Behind you, Morgana has gone to Merlin at the door, and from the corner of your eye you see her give him a folded cloth. He opens it and refolds it, to tie around the back of his neck, and because there aren't any bloodstains, you realize that she must have thought of retrieving it for him when she and Gwen fetched Gaius from their shared chambers. She's not paying any attention to you or Gwen, because she says to Merlin,
"Not all the druids choose magic, do they?"
"No," Merlin answers, his chin down as his hands are busy behind his neck – so maybe he's not aware of how close Morgana is standing, in that fine green silk dress. "But occasionally there are those that magic chooses…"
"How do you know if you are one of those?" she asks, absently flipping the pointed ends of his concealing neckerchief over his heart.
He drops his hands and smiles at her. "Magic is a gift," he says. "Once you learn how to control yours… it's hard to think of it as anything else."
"Mine?" Morgana says confusedly, and your heart stops.
"This is not something we need to be chatting about right now," you say, striding toward Merlin and the door, and Morgana steps back. "We need to look like we're searching for the boy – and you need to get ready for dinner."
Morgana nods. "Gwen, you stay here," she orders. "Take care of the boy – I can manage to prepare for dinner on my own for once."
You jerk the door open and the two of them follow you out, closing one of the only doors that won't be opened willy-nilly on this search. Deliberately you choose the route that will take you in the opposite direction of Morgana's chambers, and she and Merlin part without further conversation.
"What was that about?" Merlin asks you once you've turned a corner.
"Her dreams," you say. "She doesn't actually know. Gaius thinks it would scare her too much to have to keep the secret you keep, from the king."
He hums. "I think she'd be able to handle it. And anyway, it might be scarier to wonder and not know for sure, than to confirm and control."
You take a deep breath and realize, it's probably his prerogative to decide the matter, as the prince of the druids, rather than you.
Merlin adds, far too calmly, "Are you aware that a captive dragon beneath your dungeon doesn't want us helping the boy? Something to do with destiny."
You stop dead in the hall and glance around instinctively – but of course he hasn't said that where anyone could hear. His face and eyes betray nothing but objective curiosity, though. "You've seen it?" you demand.
He shrugs like it's no different than seeing horses in the stable. "I can hear his voice," he says, and tilts his head so that you understand what he means.
You roll your eyes. "Does what he said make you want to change your mind?"
Merlin leans a little closer, studying you. "Does it make you want to change your mind?"
You shrug. Honestly, it might make you that much more determined to help the nameless boy escape.
Then Merlin's most brilliant smile breaks out – the one that makes you feel like the sun is shining and all is right with the world and nothing bad will ever happen again. "Then, no. I'm in."
…
Later that night, in hanging the last shield on the back wall of the armory, you have a moment to wonder whether your druid is going to come back after delivering the boy to his people in the forest.
…
And in the morning, when he wakes you with an obnoxiously cheerful, "Morning! Time to rise and shine!" you wonder why you wondered that at all.
Merlin isn't going to let you struggle through figuring out right and wrong and magic on your own. He's always going to come back. And you can face anything – your mistakes, his mistakes, Morgana's magic, the dragon and druid boys – together.
A/N: Sorry if the ending seems a bit abrupt, I just decided not to drag on rewriting episodes, and also b/c the next story does a good bit of that also… But let's move on to something completely different. *winks*