Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a reason the crown is worn on the head.

The head carries the eyes, to see, the mouth, to taste and to speak. Without it, the rest cannot function, directionless and senseless. As such, the head carries a responsibility. It looks over the body for injury, searches for blood, smells for infection, then tells the physician where to bandage its wounds.

If a limb must be cut, that is the head's decision too.

Uther stands above the square, the sun glinting off his polished crown. The guards stand over the bowed form with its head down beneath its black cloak, bent forward with its hands bound in shackles. Hundreds of eyes watch from the gathered crowd, some approving, some fearful. Good. This is for them all to witness. Everyone must see the consequences, that there should be no secrets from the king, all brought before the light of day. In a body you cut off the infected parts before they rot the whole.

Arthur comes to stand beside him, panting as though he had run.

“Wait,” he says. "I told you to wait for me to–"

Uther turns and waves a hand, and the executioner swings. The sorcerer's head falls off with a heavy thud as it hits the dust, and there is a distant cry which cuts itself off at once, as though a mourner in the crowd had thought better of the feeling.

The body is limp. There are times that they twitch after death, or so Uther has heard, but he has never witnessed such a phenomenon himself. What he has seen dead is truly dead, in front of his own eyes and so many others that bear witness to the slow removal of criminals from Camelot.

He signals the guards and the body is dragged away, leaving shallow furrows in the dust, which the wind blows over right away. The bloodstain will stay and bake in the sun until it is gone. The head will be thrown to the pigs to eat at. Uther will have his own supper after this, and will hope that no more sorcerers will show themselves in his kingdom.

Arthur looks to the dispersing crowd and back at him, anger in his eyes. Uther had hoped to keep him from this execution. Arthur had told Uther his doubts, but he often voices such things. Arthur is not yet experienced enough to understand that putting it off would only give the impression that Uther was unsure, and he cannot show such weakness.

A king's head never bows.

“Go and attend to your duties,” he tells Arthur before he can argue.

A figure comes running behind through the doors, nearly slamming into Arthur's side in his haste. Arthur catches him with a hand, steadying the boy, and shoves him aside gently. Uther had wondered where his shadow had been. Arthur rarely goes anywhere without him.

“Come, Merlin,” Arthur says, casting one last glance at Uther. He turns to leave, and his servant follows.

_________

The tapping is incessant. Arthur's ring clacks on the table as they eat supper in tense silence. The polished jewels catch the side of his plate each time. Turquoise, for protection, the shape of a cross. Uther had it commissioned. One for Arthur, one for Morgana, as he had with much of their childhood clothing and jewelry.

The empty chair sits to Uther's left, and Arthur to his right. The meat is of the highest quality. Clement and Merlin, the servants, stand to the side with jugs of wine, waiting, and the rain beats down against the stone walls of the castle, echoing to fill the quiet of the room.

His nail meets the table's polished veneer again and again, as if he is attempting to break the table by a thousand tiny strikes.

“Stop that infernal noise,” says Uther.

He stabs at his own cut of meat, the tines glancing off the plate as he cuts the meat into measured pieces.

"He said he was enchanted."

"You know as well as I how often they say that."

"I told him I was going to speak with you before–"

"An attempt on the prince's life is not something a man can walk away from alive."

He suspects the sorcerer was affiliated with the recent attacks, a group of magic users claiming the goal of Uther's removal from the throne by any means necessary. He must stop it at the start, before it goes any further.

The tapping and the insistent rain echo Uther’s thoughts, beating at his head again and again, coming back to the empty chair. The things magic users have taken away, and the things that they might yet take.

Arthur picks at his fingers, the moon-shaped crack in his nail bed from training. Arthur is powerful physically and has a quick mind, trained into his role from birth. He could be feared if he would put effort into it, but he is far too expressive with his hands, and with his face. Some days, Uther looks at him and can see only the weakness there. Kind men do not survive war, he has told him many times; one must never assume he is out of the presence of his enemy.

Merlin steps forward to refill Arthur’s cup, and Arthur bats him away like a fly.

"I don't believe he was a sorcerer," says Arthur. "I believe his mind was attacked and he was as much a victim as I."

“One life is not worth the safety of the kingdom.”

"Still," Arthur sighs, and he finally takes a bite of his pork. "It is not right."

"It is necessary.” The difference is subtle, a distinction Arthur seems to struggle with.

"You couldn't even wait? What if you'd changed your mind after he had his chance to speak? I disagree with your haste. It is entirely without mercy," says Arthur.

"You need to harden up," he says, growing irate. "This behavior is unbecoming of your station."

"So I cannot even speak with you plainly when we are in private," says Arthur, eyes betraying his hurt. "It is not enough that your advisors distrust me, you must as well?"

"I am your king," he says. "Remember your place."

Uther motions subtly to Clement, who refills his wine neatly. Arthur gestures to Merlin, who trips, splashing wine across the table, everywhere but Arthur's cup, staining Arthur's sleeves. Uther looks down and his own clothing, too, has the slow spread of red.

Sometimes Uther cannot believe the boy's incompetence. If he didn't make it a point to reward loyalty, he would have sacked him long ago.

"Tripped, er, must've been a loose bit of floor," says Merlin. The coward that he is, he can't take responsibility for his mistakes, always finding the floor at fault, or the window, or the broom.

“Send him to the stocks,” he says tiredly, and to his credit, Merlin is already on his way out the door before he finishes the command. He knows this routine.

As two guards follow to ensure Merlin actually makes his way to the stocks instead of running off as he is wont to do, a messenger comes in, hands clasped behind her back, and nerves written across her face, though she hides it well.

"What is it?" asks Uther. If it's important enough for her to come in during supper, it must be bad news.

“I apologize for the interruption,” she says. “But I'm afraid it is urgent. There are reports of disturbance, and I was told to consult you before sending the knights away from their posts to investigate.”

“What is the nature of the disturbance?”

“A group of men on horseback have come to the lower town. They claim to be sorcerers, and they have demands. We believe they are of the same group that attacked before, sire.”

He knows the attack she refers to. Nearly a month ago, a group of sorcerers in dark hoods had nearly made it into the castle. They'd managed to capture only one, and the sorcerer had given only the barest information to the torturers before he succumbed to his wounds.

Perhaps they are reacting to his latest execution. It is likely that as the other times they have been seen, they will disappear as quickly as they came, and the knights will be unable to catch them in time unless they act now.

“The prince will lead up a group.” He waves to Arthur. “Go, and do not return until the problem is dealt with.”

Arthur stands without hesitation. He, too, knows the routine. Uther knows the moment he will go, for this has all happened before.

Arthur turns away and leaves, and his supper goes cold.

_________

When the table has been cleared and the lamps put out, Uther paces the floors. It has become habit, this circling, as he turns things over and over in his mind to no end. It has always been his way, and Ygraine would once come behind him to encircle his waist and she would coax him to bed, but no more.

He traces the walls faint scars, where he had the windows walled off. Too easy for a well-aimed arrow to pierce. Morgana had always disagreed with him on that front, saying it kept the light out of the rooms, and they would bicker over it.

Uther should sleep. He is meeting with his advisors in the morning, and Clement is likely ready to retire as well, from her place by the door. But he waits for Arthur's return. He must debrief, show him how he could have improved, look the boy over for proof he’s alright.

Besides that, Uther has had trouble sleeping. He has had strange dreams of late. The previous night he had dreamed of an old memory, an argument with Morgana, when she was little more than a girl. She had told him the horses ought to be let off to run free. She had tried to free them all herself, but had been stopped by the stable boys, and Uther had been far too amused to punish her.

When he awoke, it was to the memory of her absence. Thinking of her now brings only a bitter taste to his mouth. But that is what he is trying to do, to stop the evil. Those responsible will pay for their sins with their lives, Arthur will make sure of it tonight.

The door creaks open. Arthur has returned, then. Uther turns to greet him, and pauses.

One of the knights stumbles inside, soaking wet. His armor glints in the low light, and he takes an uncertain step forward.

“Hello, Highness,” his voice comes from beneath the helm, echoing off the stone walls, and Uther recognizes it as Sir Jameson.

“Sir Jameson. Where are the others?"

“I bear a message,” he says, as though he had not heard Uther speak at all.

Uther catches an odd note to his voice. Instinct leads him to dread. He lays a hand on the dagger he carries on his waist, readying.

Sir Jameson does not lunge. He only stands there, unspeaking, and then falls forward. The armor clatters on the floor, sharp in the silence.

Clement runs up to remove his helm.

“Clement, step away from–”

“Sire, he’s hurt,” she says in alarm.

Sir Jameson's throat gurgles, the corner of his mouth foaming pink.

He casts his eyes wildly about, and his hands shake. It is then that Uther notices something. A parcel, small and wrapped in cloth, gripped in his hand.

"What happened?" Uther demands. "Where are the rest?"

“We have– lost many lives to your hands, Uther Pendragon,” gasps Sir Jameson, eyes wide and darting, his mouth moving unnaturally as if puppeted by some force, lips straining against the words they speak. “I now ask for– something in return. A life… in exchange for a life.”

“Who sent you here?”

“M– my– help me–” he grunts, throat working harshly before blood bubbles up.

Uther lays him down and looks to the mysterious parcel, hoping it might hold answers. There is a small scroll that upon hurried unfolding turns out to be a map of Camelot, with an area at the edge marked with ink. Instructions, he reads, on how to reach an abandoned keep near the northern border.

Camelot's king should come alone, it reads, and the prince will return.

He unwraps the fabric and stares as he understands what he is seeing.

Laid neatly in the cloth is a finger, charred and bloody, wearing a ring of turquoise.

_________

Merlin waits until the moon has nearly traveled across the sky before he decides that no one is coming to let him out.

He used to fear the pillory, when he first came to Camelot. In the early days he could only think of just how vulnerable he was, how someone might look at him and somehow know his secrets. He would be like a trapped animal, helpless to stop them from surrounding him, killing him or worse.

Now, though, he’s used to the way his head rests against the wooden collar encircling his neck. A home built on fear, yes, but it is his home. The beautiful new moon that seems to blend with the sky, the heavy dark. All of it is for him. One day, Arthur will come to rule, and Merlin will have his reward for all of this. He must be patient.

Merlin looks out at the streets, counting the stones there, bored. It’s been a long time. He shivers. It’s probably nothing, they probably just forgot. It wouldn't be the first time he's spent the night out here, only for Arthur to come get him in the morning, scolding the guards for their negligence.

Still, the dread settles in his stomach and doesn’t let go.
Merlin glances to his sides as far as he can see, and he flexes his hand, warping the wood just so with his magic, enough that he can get his hands free.

He makes his way toward the castle, his hurried steps on the path matching the beat of his heart. Halfway there, he notices something on the road, a trail of wet footprints.

He reaches down to touch it. Blood. He looks back, tracing it, and it goes back as far as he can see, as if someone had been bleeding and just kept walking at a steady pace, no limping, no stopping. As if someone didn't even notice they were bleeding heavily.

Merlin begins to run.

When he reaches the stairs the guards nod to him absently, blinking as though waking up from a slumber. He steps through the door, and there is Clement, Uther's servant, sobbing over the source of the blood, Sir Jameson, lying on the floor with his head in her lap.

“Merlin,” she says, startled. “It was awful, he came in and he was just like this–”

She seems frantic, and Merlin reaches out to soothe her. A glance at Sir Jameson tells him he's still breathing, though there is none of the usual confidence and life to him, only a pale imitation of himself. He may not have long.

"Where is the king?" he asks.

"He went to get help, but he's been gone awhile, and–"

“You need to go find him. Attend to your duties, alright?” he says. “I’ll stay here.”

"You will?" she sniffles.

“'Course I will. I'm a healer, I can help him. Promise," he grins, though his heart is beating fast. He doesn't know who did this, or what. He only knows that Clement should run, lest whatever it was comes back.

She nods, and goes.

Certain he is alone, Merlin presses his hands into Sir Jameson's mouth, searching for the source of the blood. It sings to him as it moves through the body.

It seems to be deep in his throat, and he reaches out with his magic. There is something inside, worm-like and rooted deep in his organs. He draws it from his lungs, and twists, guiding the trailing strands of magic out piece by piece until it wrenches free.

It falls from his mouth, a writhing ball of darkness that dissipates as soon as it touches ground, and Sir Jameson gasps awake.

They look at each other, and Merlin prays he hadn't been conscious enough to understand what Merlin was doing. Sir Jameson heaves wet breaths, and reaches out a hand to pat Merlin's knee gratefully.

"Don't tell anyone I know how to get out of the stocks," says Merlin.

_________

Uther places his hands on the table, leashing the wild thoughts in his head. His closest advisors have all been assembled for this meeting. They have been apprised of the situation, but there is much to discuss about what to do about it.

"They have given me until the next full moon to pay the ransom," says Uther. A fortnight, that is all.

“We must take them by force, then," says Chancellor Roland. "The kingdom cannot pay with the king's life."

“These sorcerers are powerful," says Sir Jameson. Though he is not a commander, he has been allowed into the meeting given the circumstances. "They were able to move us against our own will, to make us attack each other."

“They killed everyone," says Lord Kent. “If they are truly controlling the minds of large groups of men, perhaps entire armies, we are dealing with greater power here than anyone who has previously attacked Camelot. We cannot go into this lightly.”

"You could offer a compromise," says Roland carefully. Gaius nods thoughtfully in agreement, though the others seem unconvinced.

Lord Godfrey scoffs. “You aren’t really considering that, are you? We must destroy the opponent, we cannot let them gain any ground."

"If it is a bluff, and it is truly only gold they want–"

"I believe their goals to be political," says Sir Jameson.

"Perhaps we could negotiate a treaty instead. Or another prisoner returned in exchange for the prince, since giving the king as they have asked is unacceptable."

"The one we captured before said their leader had another enemy as hated as the king. Emrys, he is called, if we could capture him and sell him in the Kings stead…"

"That is only a Druid's legend," says Gaius. “It would be a fool's errand to pursue it in a time like this.”

“You would know,” says Lord Godfrey, an edge to his voice. “With your history, how can we be sure you are not a part of this plot?”

Gaius’ face is unreadable. “It would be convenient to find an equally valuable ransom, but even if this Emrys were real, who is to say if we could find him? We risk the prince's life if we delay. We must find a more realistic avenue.”

He has a point. Though Uther has heard of this Emrys, a noted threat whose name has been drawn from several Druids they have captured in the past, no one has ever given up his location. It would suit only for a desperate last bid.

His advisor taps the table nervously. The room is tense, waiting to see what Uther will do.

The cloth weighs on his mind. Idly he recalls a time when Arthur was small. Uther had been in a meeting, and Arthur had come in through the doors, face swollen pink from crying.

He had splintered his finger, only the tiniest piece of wood, and it had sent him into an embarrassing fit in front of everyone. A servant came rushing in shortly after, apologizing for the boy who had run away from him before he could catch up, and Uther had sent him away.

That night at supper he inquired about the finger, and Arthur had seemed to have forgotten all about it. The finger was perfectly fine, not even bandaged.

Was it the same finger as the one that sits in his quarters now, proof of life?

"It is a difficult decision," says Roland.

This is his own fault, when a younger Arthur had pleaded to stop training with his gap-toothed mouth, he shouldn't have given in. He should have pushed him harder, made him stronger. Now he’s gotten his finger cut off and he’s going to be just another loss in this godforsaken war.

"Highness?"

All of their eyes are on him. He cannot think of these things now. His advisors await an answer.

"I do not negotiate with enemies nor sorcerers," he says. "It is likely that they are leading us into a trap, so several companies of knights will be needed to counter the attack. Gather the commanders here, we will need to discuss this with them directly.”

He lays out the map in front of him, and their curious eyes follow. He does not generally lead up these things himself, but this time the threat has changed.

"I will personally lead this quest."

They gape at him as though he had said he was growing a second head.

"But…” Roland sputters. “Sire, who will rule in your absence?"

"I will give temporary control to my advisors, but no one should know I am gone, though those of you with strategic experience on battle will join me. Gaius, you shall spread word that I am incapacitated by a temporary illness and am to see no one for the next several weeks. We must not let them know what the ransom is, lest someone attempt to take advantage."

The ruse will not be believable otherwise. Some would say his methods lack subtlety. However, he is quite capable of ambush. The strategy has been percolating in his mind since Sir Jameson fell through the doorway the previous night.

Gaius stands. "Sire, anyone would understand if you did not come along on this particular quest, based on its personal nature.”

“You think me emotionally compromised?” he asks curiously. It had not even crossed his mind to think of it, for it is such a ridiculous claim.

“It would not be unexpected.”

The only thing he had been given was the finger and a map. It is an area he is admittedly unfamiliar with, toward the border, but he is aware of the keep that the sorcerers have commandeered.

“You must think you speak to a lesser man.”

“I know who I speak to,” says Gaius kindly.

“It is my duty. This is no different from any other mission, I am a necessary component of this plan and must be present.”

If he is not present they will never believe the ruse. He will say that he has come alone, and in the woods behind him will be all the power of Camelot, ready to strike.

“You forget that I know you. A father does not like to see his son come to harm, and there is no need to risk your life."

They should bring dogs, those trained using the imprisoned sorcerers, and servants to carry the weaponry. He should have the men ambush from the east, so they have the advantage of the hills, and then he can go inside and find Arthur, who will likely be hurt badly enough that he cannot come out on his own. He could be missing all his fingers, the skin might be flayed off his back in the way Uther has seen on many of his own prisoners, the strips dangling from–

But Uther is a rational man. Uther is in control.

“Sire, if I may, this is the first time Arthur has been taken since the Lady Morg–”

Uther's hands meet the table and the noise echoes harshly throughout the space. “You forget your place,” he says.

They stand for a moment, and he can see the thoughts in Gaius' head as he decides whether to push the idea further.

He sighs, and bows slightly, indicating his defeat. "I trust you will take care of my apprentice. You will need someone trained in medicine out in the field.”

Ah, yes. Arthur's pet. Gaius is correct, though, and indeed Gaius would struggle with such a journey.

Uther inclines his head, graciously accepting the unspoken apology. "He is in safe hands."

Gaius gestures to the map, determination painted over his features, and Uther is reminded of the years and the many lives he has lived. All these men have loyally followed Uthers ideals, and have trusted him to rule. It brings him a sense of pride, in the good he has done for Camelot.

"Then let us begin strategizing."

_________

Merlin rubs his wrists, still bruised and sore from where they’d lain on the wooden pillory. The servants and knights prepare for the journey, meant to leave as soon as they finish packing the necessities. In the meantime he's listening to Clement tell him the story of what happened, in stops and starts, though it sounds like she didn't see much at all.

It’s not as though it’s the first time someone’s captured Arthur, but the whole thing is shrouded in a layer of mystery Merlin isn't entirely comfortable with. Normally he's the one in the middle of these kinds of things, but this time the king had him in the damned stocks at the exact wrong time, and he'd been useless to stop any of it.

Merlin doesn’t have any facts, they hadn't let him into the meeting. All he has is Clement’s ramblings about a ransom, Sir Jameson's half-remembered recounting of the nights events, and his own suspicions.

If this is Morgana’s doing he must act quickly, but it's unlikely. She has no reason to ask for a ransom, as far as he knows she should be able to get anything she needs, in terms of gold. It’s possible that it's only a small group of desperate sorcerers who don’t know what they’ve gotten into.

"They had his finger," Clement says quietly, finishing her story.

“I’m sorry, Clement,” he says, because the whole thing would have frightened him too, if he were less accustomed to these things. “That sounds like an awful sight.”

“The king has said I'm to go along with the group on this quest, but truth be told, I’m frightened. What if the sorcerers come back?”

“We’ll protect you lot,” says Sir Aldous, the commander, passing them with an armful of armor. “You have my word. The king is good, he will personally ensure we are well kept on the journey.”

Uther, protect them? He’s not certain he buys it. After all, when has he been one of Uther's protected? He's a servant, for one. He’s seen those who were used and thrown away like it was nothing. And he has seen Arthur, the man's own son, trained to be flawless, also granted no mercy.

He cannot put his trust in Uther when he knows how conditional it is. Merlin hardly trusts anyone, anymore, least of all Uther.

Something else about the delivery of the sentence doesn’t sit right.

“Personally?” he asks.

“We aren’t meant to tell anyone, but since you two will be out there with us, I suppose it’s alright,” he muses. “The king is joining us on the quest.”

Merlin gapes.

Uther rarely comes on a quest himself. Something strange is going on here, and he is more certain than ever that he will need to do this on his own. Uther likely has some larger plan here that will only end in bloodshed.

He only needs to find out what’s going on and he can find Arthur himself, and save him just as he always has.

_________

They ride hard the first day, from the moment the sun reaches up, as it drags itself across the sky and begins to fall into the bleeding mess it leaves behind.

Uther's horse huffs through the nose. His hands hold steady.

"Sire, many of the men are growing exhausted," says Sir Aldous, riding up beside him.

He nods. As much as he wants to continue, and to tear apart these woods, it is a fortnight's ride, it cannot be accomplished in a night.

They make camp quietly, a thickness to the air like coming rain. Uther stands at the middle of it, watching as they bring in several large dogs, speaking quietly to each other.

It lurches forward and snaps in the direction of the group of servants.

"Sorry," says Sir Liam, "They're normally better than this."

“That’s alright, it’s probably me. I might smell like the prince,” Merlin bends down to let the dog smell his hand, and it licks it. "See, now he recognizes me. Do we have a bit of meat for him or something?”

Uther's irritation spikes.

"The dogs are not pets, they receive food when they have performed well," Sir Liam chastises.

They bathe in a stream. The cold water trickles down Uther's bare back, and his hairs stand at end. His hand twitches beside his blade, sitting on the wet rock. He prefers the threat of rust to a potential loss of life.

The servants lean over the edge with rags, play-whipping each other. Fools they are, he thinks, not to carry weapons on hand when they are half naked in the forest, vulnerable to attack.

He always has an iron blade and iron shackles close at hand, and his sword, which is forged of cold iron and silver, and made to repel that which is unnatural. No sword exists like it, meant purely for cutting down evil. Even Uther himself grows dizzy from the power it exudes, at times.

Clement tackles Merlin into the water and they come up moments later, soaked and sputtering. It must be bliss, he thinks sardonically, to be able to carry such an empty head on one's shoulders.

_________

Merlin sits around the fires with the watchmen and the other servants, warming his hands and talking quietly, the knights indulgently answering the servants' questions about their heroic deeds.

"So, then, you get to slay lots of bandits?" asks Clement, starry eyed.

"Oh, yes, it's quite something. There are a good many toward the outer areas of Camelot, lots of ruffians. They make for an easy fight. The ride toward the border is rough though, I regret that we've got to go this way. You can get lost in these woods."

"I don't know, I like it. Sometimes there's wild pigs and we get to have a hunt on the way," says Sir Liam.

"...And you enjoy that," Merlin deadpans, disbelieving. "Fighting and hunting and all."

"Well, sometimes. Not the fighting itself, but fighting alongside your fellow warriors for a greater cause, sharing in the heat of battle when your blood is hot with it… ah, a servant wouldn't understand."

Merlin's not sure he understands that aspect, even if he is more of a warrior than any of them would believe.

He's generally fought alone, aside from a few instances with people who knew of his particular skills. He's certainly never enjoyed killing anyone, but Sir Jameson seems quite keen on it, all boisterous laughter. No, Merlin is a good man, or at least he tries to be. If not for his destiny, he might have loved peace. Might have never killed anyone at all, not even the smallest of creatures.

Merlin startles as Sir Jamesons arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him closer. "I'll explain it, though, since you did save my life."

"Alright," wheezes Merlin.

"You see, there's something about being one of Uther's men, the rush, it's unlike anything else, and the prince is the same. Seeing them in action is amazing," says Sir Jameson. His smile dims, and he goes still in a way Merlin has never seen from him. "Everyone fought hard. I think they'd be happy they died fighting for the kingdom."

"It is admirable," says Clement quietly. "They will be remembered as heroes."

Guilt twists in Merlin's gut. He could have saved them all. They were his friends, all of them. And Arthur…

"I wish I could have helped," says Merlin without thinking.

“What do you mean?”

He pauses. "Well, I'm a physician's assistant. A healer."

"You would have helped more, had you been there," says Clement passionately. "It's a miracle you came in time. We're all important to Camelot, in our own ways."

"Yes, Merlin, I'm not even sure I'd be alive now if not for you," says Sir Jameson, still looking shaken.

"What… happened, exactly?" asks Clement. "That night?"

"They came from the forest," says Jameson. "It was so fast, they started killing each other, and we tried to guard the prince, but…" Sir Jameson hesitates, seeming lost in his own memory.

"But?"

"He went willingly, the brave fellow. I believe he wanted to spare the few lives left, knowing we would have all been lost in the fight to get to him."

"A foolish act," says Uther.

Clement jolts in surprise, but the others do not move, apparently unsurprised by his approach in the dark.

"It was an act of bravery," Sir Jameson says.

"You believe your life is worth more than that of the prince?" asks the king archly, and Merlin can sense the edge of danger that always accompanies his words.

The two stare at each other, neither backing down, and then Sir Jameson looks away.

"No, sire."

"Where have they taken him?" asks Merlin. Clement elbows him.

Uther is silent, as though Merlin had not spoken at all, and he makes his way to his tent.

“Don’t take it personally,” says Clement. “I think he’s just worried about the prince.”

“Of course,” says Merlin hollowly. Uther isn’t capable of worrying about Arthur. He’s been close to death many times and Uther has hardly even lifted a finger.

_________

"We could siege immediately, we have the manpower," says Lord Godfrey, laying his hand over the map in emphasis.

Their discussion has been roundabout with no sign of resolution, his advisors bringing themselves into the same points of contention as they discuss what route to take, whether to pass through the Darkling woods, or to pass over the river to circle back and surround the location. Whether to rely on surprise, or on careful preparation.

Uther will show himself, and draw them out by pretending to agree to the trade. Then, the men will ambush from nearby. This is the plan.

"Best to let them believe we have fewer numbers than we truly do. Some could come later upon a signal," Chancellor Roland gestures nervously.

They speak of it as though it is any other battle. It is, he tells himself. The prince's life is just one life of many, significant because of his title, nothing more. Uther could even have another heir if he arranged for it. The thought makes him ill.

"I simply wish to do all we can to save the prince," Lord Godfrey says. "And to kill as many of them as we can manage."

He has always agreed with Uther on that point, that the evil must be vanquished by any means necessary.

"It is not that I disagree," says the Chancellor, "But we must not risk his Highness' life in the process. It is only reasonable that we are careful."

"Too much care and we risk the prince's life. We must slaughter them all," he says, and there is a flicker of something that Uther sees often in his eyes, something that tells him that although his advisor is of a like mind, he does not do it for the same reasons. Uther does not love bloodshed, he merely sees the necessity of it.

"We shall move forward, all of us, for now, and reevaluate as we approach."

_________

The late summer sits at the edge of fall, the leaves of the approaching treeline just beginning to brown and the harsh skyline striking against the green fields. The heat is scorching, and Uther wipes sweat from his brow. The shade of the forest will be a relief.

As they enter the forest, Uther's eye catches on a motion. A shadow lurches between the trees, and he draws his sword, going silent. He raises a hand in signal, and they all stop obediently. The birds do not sing.

“Show yourself,” says Uther to the silence. It is likely the bandits who roam the region, no matter how often Uther sends patrols after them.

The knights stand ahead, making a line to cover those behind, and stand wary.

One knight strides forward on his horse, coming from the line to stand in front. Uther is about to shout that he stay back until called.

He raises his visor. “You were told to arrive alone,” the knight says.

Another steps forward, and speaks.

"You will arrive alone, won’t you?” the second one says, and reaches for his own mouth frantically. They clearly do not speak of their own volition. It is as it had been previously with Sir Jameson, their mouths made to speak by an unseen sorcerer.

Uther takes the iron shackles from his side and hangs them from his belt. He readies his sword.

“Show yourself,” he demands again.

One of the knights tosses weapons to the servants. Arthur’s servant takes one glance at it and runs off. Such cowardice. Still, he does not want to see harm come to the boy. He will go after him once he has taken care of this.

A woman steps forward, eyes dark-rimmed and clothes flowing as though carried by some unseen wind. He recognizes her, she has caused problems in Camelot before. Morgause.

She looks him in the eye, a brow arched in displeasure. He does not drop his gaze.

"You have broken the agreement," she says.

"I have not yet arrived, there is at least a full day's ride. To travel these woods alone is a fool's task. An escort is required, if you expect to take my life yourself."

“It isn’t I who will take your life,” she says dismissively. “Though I have quarrel with you, as do we all.”

Morgause’s men stand behind, their hands poised, the thick, sharp scent of magic in the air. Some carry weapons, others only their hands. Uther will not waver, for his own men stand at his back, and he prays their training will prove them worthy of this trial. Uther's men outnumber these by many, and fate will favor them, just as it has in the past.

"How can I know the prince is alive now?"

"We can send you more pieces if it will help," she taunts.

Uther's hand twitches on his sword, but he does not step forward. Not yet, he must wait for the proper time. He is a rational man. He must strategize.

"He will not be killed so long as you do as we ask, I promise you that."

"If he is maimed again you will be struck down."

Anger swelters within Uther. Morgause's gentle smirk does nothing to hide the emptiness behind her eyes. Arthur may not die, but he will wish for death. Uther knows better than most, that magic users do not honor their trades.

She turns, distracted by something in the forest behind the line, and she begins quietly speaking. Someone moves, and then it’s as though a fever descends upon them as the lines move to attack.

_________

Merlin gasps as he runs through the woods, circling around to the other side of the line. He waits, crouched behind a tree.

He recognizes a few of these sorcerers. If Morgause is here, then Morgana must have a hand in this after all, though Merlin still cannot see the full picture.

A branch cracks beneath his feet.

He darts back behind a tree, but it is too late, he has been seen. A woman at the edge of the line, dressed in Druid garb, turns and her eyes widen.

Oh, damn it all.

“Emrys,” she says quietly.

He waves his hands, trying to get her to move away. "No, I’m not–”

Morgause has taken notice. She doesn't say it, but he knows that she has heard.

One of Uther's men fires an arrow, and all at once they are attacking, but her eyes are still trained on him.

“Merlin?” asks Morgause.

"No, it's Emrys," says the girl, smiling.

Morgause does not smile. She looks at him, calculating, and hums to herself. “I should have expected it, perhaps. You always seem to be in the right place at the right time. Kill him.”

"But the stories say–”

“The stories lied. He works for the king."

“This is a part of our destiny,” Merlin says. “I'm working in his ranks to free us, the golden age is coming."

"He is an enemy to magic."

Her eyes flicker between the two, conflicted, and Merlin pities her. She looks no more than a girl, she should not be out here.

"He's supposed to help free us."

"Emrys is loyal to the prince,” says Morgause gently. "This will please the Lady. Trust me, Sylvan."

Merlin feels sick. Morgana is turning former Druids to violence, then, christening them with loss of life? This girl looks upon her with trusting eyes, and would throw away all the Druid's teachings, throw away the destiny of Camelot?

The sorceress, Sylvan, nods, and raises her hand. The ground begins to tremble beneath Merlin's feet.

Sylvan shouts as a small figure grapples onto her back. It's Clement, with the blade she had been given, and she now stabs clumsily at Sylvan from where she has jumped on her in a sick mirror of their games in the river.

The blade pierces skin. But she is holding it all wrong, her hand positioned clumsily, and for some reason that is the thought that sticks in Merlin's mind, that she's not trained, not a warrior, and she's attacking but she's holding it wrong.

He uses his magic, closing his eyes to find the singing of their blood and muscle. He presses the two gently away from each other.

When he turns, the others have already begun fighting, and Morgause's eye catches on Merlin again. Merlin turns back to Sylvan and Clement.

"Run," he tells them. Sylvan does, but Clement stands there, still holding the blade.

"Merlin," says Clement, and Merlin can't look at her and see the realization and betrayal, "You're one of–"

Morgause, apparently done simply watching, goes to strike at him, hands writhing like snakes, and Merlin drops the two to block her attack. He sends her flying with a quick spell, and his heart drops. For there is Uther amidst the battle, slicing into a sorcerer, but his eyes are trained solely on Merlin.

_________

Uther stands in shock. The boy– but he had worked in the castle for years. He had never shown any sign of sorcery, and any accusations had been disproven by his obvious loyalty.

He moves to swing and kill him, but the sorcerer blocks him, too, with an effortless sway of his hand that makes Uther's body ripple uncomfortably. He turns to kill Morgause instead, as she holds several of his men with invisible force.

She holds Uther in her grip, his mind unable to tell his body to move, a loss of will. He is helpless to her, in this moment.

“Kill her,” he calls to Chancellor Roland, whose sword is in his hand.

Roland does not move forward.

"Chancellor, I ordered–"

"You shouldn't have come," he says quietly.

Morgause still holds all of Uthers men in stillness, staring forward eerily. She lifts a hand and her own men retreat into the dark forest, like shadows among the trees.

“Thank you for escorting him, Roland," says Morgause.

"Mistress."

He clenches his jaw, and does not let any emotion slip through onto his face. It will not help to show weakness, not when he is surrounded by snakes.

Merlin had seemed by all accounts an extremely dedicated servant, and Roland a loyal advisor. He supposes it only means the sorcerers are cleverer than he ever believed.

However, Roland had suggested Uther remain at the castle, on the throne while the party went to find Arthur, and had attempted to reroute them at each step. Perhaps this sabotage was not intended for him.

So it is not dethroning he wished for, but for the ransom to go unpaid.

"You wished my son dead." A statement, not a question.

"Yes, sire, but– The boy's values don't align with ours. I did it for Camelot, and her future. I never thought you would truly come."

"Then you are no subject of mine."

In a body you cut off the infected parts before they rot the whole. He should have cut them out, but he hadn't known, hadn't seen the signs.

“You meant for the agreement to fail," says Morgause, displeased, and Roland stutters. "No matter, I had run out of use for you regardless."

A blaze of heat hits his back, and a hush falls over the space, eerily still.

The men he had sent around the rear do not scream, for they have fallen to the ground.

The silence rings.

Uther looks at the clearing, the dead men all around, and runs a hand over his face. He does not look at their faces, nor does he think of their names. A worn shoe dangles from a tree. A body is tucked into a hollow between rocks, sword still clutched in hand, as though it would provide protection in death.

Once, twice he breathes, and then he straightens. There is no time to dwell on it, royal blood is at stake, as is the fate of the entire kingdom. These men need to have died for something, not nothing.

Morgause is in the center of it, hand raised, the weapon still standing. An arrow pierces her shoulder, and a swell of satisfaction curls through him, that at some point in the battle, one of his men had hit true.

“If there are more waiting, you–"

Uther swings his sword, and though she tries to block it, the sword cuts through the thickness of the spell's shield, and catches in it. Morganas eyes widen, not expecting the resistance. She strikes at his mind, attempting to gain hold there, and as she does Uther swings desperately forward at her shield of air.

The momentum makes her stumble into a tree, shifting the arrow in her back, and she falls backward, breaking off the arrow with a wet noise.

He takes advantage of her moment of weakness, and he binds her with iron shackles as she claws at him, trying to get away.

“You cannot keep me,” Morgause spits.

Uther attempts to step over a body and it breathes. Looking down, it is Merlin.

Uther drags him up, sure to grasp the sensitive nape of his neck and drag him out, the pathetic creature, just to hear his noise of pain. Perhaps he has cast some spell to survive. It seems to have affected his immediate surroundings, as Clement also seems to be alive, though nearly unrecognizable from all the blood across her face, and the hound which had been close by has sat up and begun barking frantically, as though warning of a danger that has already happened.

Uther does not think, and he does not feel. He only does what must be done, and moves. The first thing he does is take the second pair of shackles from his horse where she lays on her side.

Merlin's fingers twitch, and they have the audacity to look fragile. Regardless of the clumsy delicacy of the things, he’s seen what only a pair of hands can do.

Merlin winces as the sharp clank splits the air, the circles closing around his wrists.

He will try to get some information from the prisoners, and then dispose of them when they have served their purpose. Perhaps the boy is under a spell, like the others, as Arthur had suggested. Or perhaps none of them had been, and the root of the disease goes deeper into his kingdom's veins than he had known.

Merlin. Roland. Who else among them had been a traitor? He casts his eyes about, at the unmoving members of his party, as if it would be somehow visible on their faces, though he supposes it does not matter now.

Merlin sits up, and stiffens. Uther half expects him to panic, but he does not. He breathes sharply, once, twice, and then his face goes blank. The boy stands, and Uther tenses, ready to strike him down if he so much as moves in his direction. But he merely turns and walks to the closest body, twisted around a tree.

"All of them?” he asks, and there is no answer, for anyone who would respond is gone. It is only Uther and the two enemies, here at the edge of the forest, far from anyone who might assist him. Even the horses lie still on the ground.

"Did you arrange all of this?” Uther asks coldly.

"No, it– it wasn't me, you know I would never hurt Arthur, or any of them, I–"

"It seems I don't know the first thing about you.”

He should turn back and travel to get reinforcements. It is the strategic thing to do. He should slaughter them both, for the sorceress is likely lying about all of it, another one of their traps.

The woods are silent but for their breaths. The sky is turquoise, hard and rigid against the fields behind them.

"We must continue on," he says, more to himself than anything, for no one is left, save for his prisoners, and the hollow in his stomach.

Merlin's head snaps up. "But they're not all dead. We have to help them."

"You must think me a fool."

"I won't run. Please, let me out, I’m a healer–”

There is not time. They have ridden only half the way. On foot, the journey will take until close to the final day of the moons cycle.

"There are too many. I can't help them. I need to use," he swallows, as though realizing what he says, and how little chance his ruse has of working, "magic."

Uther will not release him. Not when they are still surrounded by the bodies, evidence of the sorcerer's weapons.

There's a whimper close by. Merlin leans back over and picks up Clement, gurgling as Sir Jameson had. Merlin reaches out with his hand and pauses, as if remembering the shackles. He adjusts her awkwardly in his arms, burdened by the new weight. She whimpers under her breath, over and over.

"You’re going to be fine," Merlin says gently, not even looking at Uther. He tears a piece of cloth from his shirt and passes it to her. "Hold this to your mouth, it will help."

“Get up,” says Uther.

Merlin ignores him, head down to look only at her face. "I'm going to get some water to clean it with."

"Up," says Uther viciously. "I will not repeat myself again."

Clement, perhaps delusional in her state, turns her head as if the statement were meant for her. "The king is calling for me," she rasps.

Merlin sighs. "I'll handle it. Be right back, I promise."

“Alright," Clement says, nodding.

Merlin grins, and lets go of her hand. She allows him to go. He passes her a cloth, and she takes it in shaky hands. The dog licks her neck and Merlin shoves it away gently. He sets her down in the leaves. He turns to Uther, and nods.

Uther takes the last of the remaining food from the pannier, the dagger of a dead man, and several flasks of water. They make their way through the forest, leaves crackling beneath the steady drag of their feet.

Morgause is chained to Merlin, and Uther pulls them along behind him on a chain lead. She allows it with that same dead eyed smirk. He calls the dog to heel, watching it trail behind, wagging its tail, unknowing who is friend and who is foe.

Walking through the bodies, he gives only cursory glances. Merlin keeps turning his head to look backwards, craning to see the clearing even as it grows more and more distant. Uther trains his gaze ahead, at the forest.

There is a far ways to go.

_________

The buzzards fly lazily overhead, stark black against the clouds only visible through a tiny pocket in the dense treeline. Around, and around, never leaving their mocking circle.

Uther stops, and gets the supplies out to make camp. He will need to dispose of the prisoners before he arrives, lest they slow him further, or escape. He does not know where the other sorcerers went, and they may be back to free the two.

Perhaps it was foolish to bring them rather than slaughter them where they stood, but they have all died. All of them. He needs to restrategize, to gauge the situation, and for that he needs information. Without it, he might let emotion overtake him, and do something foolish.

He could fall to his knees and mourn and never stand again, he could storm the keep himself and slaughter them all, everyone responsible–

No, Uther cannot have that, and so he pushes it aside.

It is deep into the afternoon and the late sun casts its long shadows through the leaves. He builds a small fire, and takes the last of the salted pork to warm over it. Once he has eaten, he holds his hand above the embers and is pleased to find that they are still quite hot.

He takes the first prisoner and drags her toward the fire.

She seems to understand what is happening, and begins to struggle, but her strength is no match and her fists beat uselessly on Uther's armor. Without magic she is nothing, she does not even have the strength to put up a fight.

"Are there any ways I can get into the keep?" he asks, holding her threateningly close to the embers.

"Give your life, as we have asked."

He brings her closer to the fire.

"Who do you mean by we?"

"Anyone who wants freedom to practice magic. Anyone who wants you dead."

He asks the question that has been on his mind since the start.

“Is this a trap?”

“No, it is a trade. The Lady will honor the terms.”

He presses her hand into the burning wood, and she makes a strangled noise. The smell is nearly unbearable.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she snarls.

"Why did you wait, then, if you are the leader of this organization?"

"I am not the only leader. My sister wishes to kill you herself."

"She might accept you in return for my son, would she not?"

"No," says Morgause. "The prince is far more valuable politically. She would not let her personal attachments get in the way of the greater good, it goes against everything we stand for."

Morgause proves to have little use, as he burns the skin from her hands. Morgause cries often, but she does not plead. She refuses to explain the trap, only insists that it is a genuine trade, as though he would believe that. She will not offer up information on her leader, tight lipped even as her hands are burned beyond recognition. He suspects she is lying, and that she is indeed the leader, but wants the group to appear powerful even if he kills her.

If she does truly have a sister, then by her own admission she would not accept Morgause as payment.

Uther has nothing. No men to attack with, no secondary plan to save both his own life and his son's. Being so far into the woods, alone with two sorcerers, it is more likely that he will be killed before even reaching Arthur, and they will both perish.

But there is, perhaps, another way he can honor the deal. The leader of this group of sorcerers has another enemy, he recalls. At this point, he is prepared to try anything.

Merlin sits beside Morgause, both chained to a tree.

Uther watches them, enjoying the sight; he may not have killed off magic but he has these, bound and miserable. Their suffering brings a cruel pleasure in him that has nothing to do with the good of the kingdom and everything to do with the finger his son is missing, and the loyal, trusting eyes of the knights that lie dead in the leaves, and the empty chair at his table.

If this desperate bid fails, it may be the last pleasure he gets.

_________

"What was the spell that made my men fall?” asks Uther, and Merlin nearly groans. He's been asking about magic, but Merlin is certain he would have no understanding of the answers even if Morgause was forthcoming with them.

"It is complex. Few can perform it, as it takes a great will and much training. Only I, my sister and a few others have tried."

She seems careful not to mention the name of said sister. Merlin hasn't mentioned it either, he suspects Uther would not believe it and would only bring more punishment upon them both.

"Your sister is the one I shall bring the ransom to, then."

"I thought you weren't going to pay the ransom,” she snarls. "If you are, then what's the point of all this?"

“I intend to. I had heard that another might be acceptable. Have you heard the name Emrys?” asks Uther.

Morgause laughs. "Well, you prove me wrong. My sister would consider him acceptable payment, if you can find him... But Emrys is never far from you. He is your ally, after all.”

Merlin's heart thumps. She wouldn’t– would she? But she has no reason to help Merlin get out of this alive.

“Don’t,” says Merlin.

“I do not ally with magic,” says Uther.

“Oh, but he’s in your castle walls,” she teases. "Merlin knows, don't you Merlin?"

“Please, don’t,” Merlin says, struggling.

She only laughs, and refuses to say more.

Well. Merlin supposes she has no reason to help Uther survive, either.

Uther chains them both to a tree and goes off to gather water from the nearby stream.

Merlin is numb, awaiting his turn, which will certainly come when Uther is finished with Morgause. Or perhaps it will wait until they make camp again, though he doubts Uther will keep them alive another day, as Morgause's injured shambling only slows his progress.

Progress toward what, Merlin does not know, for without his knights Uther has no chance at saving Arthur. Uther's power is all in those he commands, and he has no one now.

If Merlin had known what the ransom was from the start, he would have… he’s not sure what he would have done differently, but it would have certainly changed things. Maybe then everything wouldn't have gone this way.

He had never felt anything but hatred for Morgause, but now he does pity her, with the angry red burns on her hands, the way she had tried to control her breathing to continue taunting Uther even in her clear exhaustion.

Morgause's eyes droop, and she shifts uncomfortably.

"How are you?" Merlin asks awkwardly.

"Don't speak to me, traitor," she says, though it lacks bite.

He knows she hadn't done it to help him, but he is grateful that she didn't tell Uther his secret. He wants to repay the favor.

“Look, we're both captured, I'd say we're on the same side now. Is there another way to get Arthur back, besides–” asks Merlin.

“The king's life," she says. "That is the only price she will accept.”

“He won't honor it. He would never sacrifice himself."

"Then your prince will die," she says casually.

"Perhaps. Unless, of course, we don't give him a choice."

Merlin had considered assassinating Uther before, but never so seriously. It had never been Arthur’s life on the line before.

The more he considers it, the more sure he is. There would be no witnesses to the crime. He could simply say the king had perished with the others, and the ransomers had let the prince go. Arthur loves his father, and he’s not ready to rule, but… Merlin could help him, he would be enough, wouldn't he? And he wouldn't ever find out it was Merlin's fault, it would be only one more secret to add to thousands. It’s their only choice, really.

"We? I would never ally with–"

"You want him gone as much as me. That's why you didn't give me up, isn't it?" If Uther knew he was Emrys he would certainly use him as ransom instead of himself, and Morgana… might just accept. "C’mon, we’ll escape and you can have him."

One of his shackles didn't clasp properly. He had discovered it earlier, and kept his arm still to ensure that it didn't move the wrong way and click into place. He shows her how it opens a bit wider than the other.

"I can't reach it myself, but you could probably pry it open," he explains.

"You won't free me after."

"I will. I promise. We can kill each other the moment we're both free."

Morgause looks at him and nods, just once.

It's a temporary alliance, but it is an alliance.

He goes quiet as Uther approaches.

_________

The little brook beside the camp burbles joyfully, the sound irritating to Uther's already dark mood. He brings back the flasks and tosses them with the rest of his things, the dwindling food and his bedroll.

Morgause is too close to Merlin, thinks Uther. Conspiring, perhaps. The two lean apart quietly as he comes closer.

He will try one last time with her, and then move on to Merlin before he sleeps, so he will be ready to journey alone tomorrow.

Her hands can no longer feel anything, blackened beyond hope for healing. Still, she cries.

"You're good at this," she says bitterly. "I suppose you had better be, after so much practice. Or are you usually not the one getting your hands dirty?"

He ignores her. "Is Emrys truly your leader's enemy?"

"Yes, he hurt her, and he opposes her cause."

"Where is he?"

Merlin shuffles in the corner of his vision, and Uther looks up to see one of Merlin's hands unshackled.

So that's what he's been doing. Damn him, he's going to free her and escape, and there is nothing Uther can do. He cannot hold against two sorcerers alone.

Morgause pulls away from the fire, emboldened by the sight of Merlin's free hand, and sneers.

"Y'know, I've tried my hand at this sort of thing too." She flexes her hand, cracked and bleeding. "Little Arthur thought himself so strong, but it only took a few hours to make him cry."

Arthur is strong. He has never cried in front of Uther, not since he was a little boy.

"Pissing himself by the time I was done. Your torture is nothing to me."

Arthur is a knight, his men look up to him. Uther has seen the admiration in their eyes and voices. He has taken heavy blows without a single cry.

"The rest wanted to burn him all over. Myself, I don't like it. That way you only get to have fun for a while, and pretty soon he gets an infection and dies, and we couldn't have that. I favored a subtler approach. A little bit at a time, a finger and then another, and I get to watch him writhe around and scream over and ov–"

Uther blinks and her head is gone, the stub covered over with smooth skin as if it had been sanded down from her body.

Merlin's hand is raised, and the last of the sickly yellow fades from his eyes.

Merlin looks at him in shock, as if only just realizing what he's done, and he shuffles backward, trying to get away. He turns and runs, and Uther gives chase. He makes it as far as the brook, and Uther draws his blade.

Merlin reaches for him, and Uther moves.

Merlin falls backward, repelled by the blade. He raises his wrist to block it, and winces at the clash of iron on iron. Merlin has an advantage in power, but Uther is faster, better trained. He brings the grip down, not to kill but to incapacitate, the hilt digging into the sorcerer's stomach.

Uther places the cuff back, and it clasps readily. Merlin looks at it grimly, as though this were the first time his reality had settled in entirely.

"You killed her," says Uther. He had been certain the two planned to escape together.

He blinks. “I wasn't going to, but I... She shouldn't have said those things."

"You said you were a healer.”

He should have seen. The boy's wide, guileless eyes and almost theatrical clumsiness, it was all an act to hide a powerful predator underneath.

"You can be two things at once, can’t you?” Merlin snaps.

"I don’t understand. I granted you great kindness in Camelot. You were given a job, and a home, yet you turned to this."

“It’s my duty to protect the kingdom. This is how I do it.”

“You know nothing of duty."

"I promise you, I'm not– I only use it for good. I never asked for these powers, I had no choice.” He sighs. "I only wanted a choice."

A choice. Laughable. Uther had no choice but to sit on the throne, for he was the firstborn, and the lessons he learned were beaten into his back by his mentors. Who among them has the privilege of a choice?

Uther's legs are soaked, and Merlin is entirely. The water runs past, meandering around their edges.

"Let me live. I can save him. I'm probably the only one who can," says Merlin, tears in his eyes.

“There is nothing that you could say to make me spare your life.” Uther inhales sharply, the first time he has spoken the words aloud, though they have sat in his heart rotting. "You have cast away everything that made you human. Now, cease your accursed crying."

This man has been dressing Arthur, bringing his food, cozying up to him for years and Uther hadn't seen it. Right under his nose, a sorcerer has been beside his son, doing God knows what. He glances back at his camp, toward the still-smoldering embers beside the dead sorceress, and Merlin pales.

"There's no need to hurt me, I'm… I'm happy to answer your questions," he says. "If you want to fight against magic users, I know quite a bit."

At least Morgause had gone down with a fight, as a warrior, he can respect that. Merlin, the moment his power is removed, seems only to want to avoid pain. His surrender serves Uther well.

“What was the spell that made my men fall?” he asks. "Is there a way to shield against this kind of magic?"

“It's a complex spell, as she said, but it's possible to fight, if your will differs deeply enough from the suggestion. You need focus beyond what most can muster. I could feel it; she specializes in that sort of magic."

Uther had been largely unaware that there were different sorts of magic, though he is not certain it changes anything about his own situation.

"Explain."

"There is a variety of magic, so most focus on a certain field of study. Some can perform earth magic, or interpret visions, others are good with… people.”

“People."

“Benedict."

Uther only looks at him.

"The one you beheaded the day Arthur was taken. The prince spoke with him, he wasn't a sorcerer at all. I believe that… the one responsible for this," he says slowly, as if trying to decide what information to include, which puts Uther on edge, "may have been controlling the minds of others in the castle as well.”

“And what is your specialty?”

“To give you more power against me?” he snaps. "You already have me in chains, is it not enough?"

Uther is tired of the smell of cooking flesh, and they are stood in the brook. He shoves him beneath the muddy water, and drags him back up.

“Wait, I– I’m not sure that I have a particular specialty, but… I do use blood magic often."

“Blood," says Uther darkly.

“When people come with bleeding that’s within the organs, or that’s too deep to bandage, I just…” he waves his hands vaguely. “Magic is stored in the blood. Mine came naturally, I was born with it, so it makes sense that–"

“Impossible,” he scoffs. No one is born with magic. "If you insist on lying to me…”

He shoves his head under the water again until he stops struggling, and pulls him up.

"I was… born with it," he gasps.

Uther is not interested in this line of questioning. Merlin himself is no concern, it is his information that Uther needs. “How long have you been practicing sorcery in the castle? How long has this been planned?"

"Since I arrived in Camelot, but I– I wasn't a part of this, I never did anything–"

"But you knew Morgause."

"I… fought… her," he says. His hair lies flat against his forehead and he chokes on each breath. It is not enough for Uther. "Fought… many… sorcerers."

"And her enemy, Emrys. Did you fight him, too?"

He shrugs, closing his eyes. "No."

"Do you know the location of the sorcerer Emrys?”

“I–” he gasps wetly. "That, I cannot say."

Uther brings him back to the water, and lets him thrash until he goes still, then pulls him up.

"Arthur will… hate you.. for this."

It would not do to have him upset over it, he might be angry at Uther in a way he hasn’t been before, and he doesn’t cherish the idea. But Uther is a king first, a father second. His duty must come first.

Uther chances a glance at the sorcerer. He’s pale, a moist sheen over his skin, and in the silence Uther can hear the quiet sizzling of the cuffs against his skin.

He has a finger wrapped in cloth. Visions of what might be happening play across his mind day and night. Arthur is chained up and whipped, tongue cut out, sodomized, burned, all because Uther had allowed parasites into their walls.

He had thought he was finished making this mistake.

_________

It hurts. Every inhale is like fire, the ragged, wet flesh of his throat dragging the air through as Merlin attempts to catch his breath, an ever elusive feat. At first he had been glad to be spared of the fire, but now he thinks he may never be able to bathe again without thinking of the rush of water in his throat, choking him.

Not that he would be able to bathe again anyway. It is morning now and he is certain he will not make it to the day's end. Uther's sword lies beside him, the mere presence making him nauseous, the iron on his wrists stinging incessantly.

Is this how he dies?

“Where is Emrys? If you tell me, I may let you go free."

Merlin's heart thumps viciously against his chest. Uther is clearly growing impatient, if he is desperate enough for such an obvious lie. Even if he could give up Emrys' location for his own gain, he would likely be killed immediately after offering the information.

Merlin lies on the ground on his side, exhausted from perpetually trying to catch his breath.

He wishes Morgause were still alive.

"Arthur needs me," Merlin says. "If I'm gone there's no one protecting him."

"My son is not here to defend you now."

He wants Arthur. He wants his mother, and Gaius. He can imagine them, holding him close. Arthur's warm arms holding him and telling him off for being such a fool and getting himself captured. Telling him it’s fine, Arthur doesn’t mind if he’s got magic, and all that matters is that he’s alright.

God, when’s the last time he was held like that? He's never going to be held again, and he can't even remember. Would be have held on tighter, kept the memory close at hand, had he known it would be the last?

"This is the last time I will ask, before you outlive your use."

It is dark out now. The day's end. Uther will set out alone tomorrow morning, to try to save Arthur, an impossible task. Or to try to find a new ransom, Emrys, a man who will no longer exist. Either way, Arthur will die at the full moon. It's not a choice, really, only a facade of one.

If he tells the truth, he seals his fate. But if Uther will not give his own life, and Merlin is certain he would not– if Emrys truly is the only other person Morgana would accept–

if Merlin is going to die regardless of what he does–

Well, then that's not really a choice, either.

Uther raises the sword, and the shadow blocks out the moon. He brings it softly to rest on Merlin's neck, and Merlin closes his eyes to brace himself for what is to come next.

Perhaps his fate was sealed from the moment he set foot in this forest. Perhaps from when he set foot in Camelot for the first time. This was always how it was going to go. Merlin's destiny, to save Camelot, to save Arthur. Just as he always has.

"I know where he is," says Merlin quietly.

"What did you say?"

"I know where Emrys is, because…" Merlin breathes. "He is me."

Uther considers him, sword still biting his neck.

"Well, Emrys,” he says, and pulls the blade away, leaving only a prick of blood to trickle across Merlin's neck as though it had already been slit the moment he uttered those words. “You may be of some use yet."

Chapter Text

When Arthur was younger, he would come to Uther's room when he was ill, or had a nightmare. He would ask the guard to let him in to see the king, and would crawl into the bed.

Uther woke up to his tiny son at his side, trying not to wake him. Uther had held him close, and soothed his fears, telling him stories all night until he finally drifted off.

You're too small to hold a sword now, he had said to the boy. But you'll grow up and be a warrior.

Like you, Arthur had muttered sleepily.

Just like me.

Arthur had grown up and learned, just as his father had said, to be capable, calm in a crisis, brave and stoic and strong, like his father.

At least, he had thought he was. God, he had tried.

Arthur's back is raw and bloody. His eyes are wet, and he hasn't been able to control his reactions. He reeks of his own waste. There's not anything about him that speaks of royalty.

Arthur had attempted escape, but alone and weak as he is, he can do little.

There is a good chance he will be rescued, he reasons. The knights would make it their first priority, as he is valuable cargo. Even if no one knows where to find him, Merlin has come for him before, when he wasn't allowed to. He seems to always find some way even if it seems impossible. He would come even if Arthur wasn't anybody important.

But he's only a servant, and he could never make it against sorcerers such as these.

How long has it been? Weeks? It seems as though days do not pass, and it is always night here in his cell. Arthur listens to the dripping water.

The torturer has returned, a man with thin arms and a gruesome face. He does not reach for his tools, which is a relief.

"It looks as though your father will pay for you.”

Uther claims not to negotiate with sorcerer's but surely for Arthur's life he would consider giving them a reasonable sum. He is the only heir, after all, worth his weight in gold.

"How much?" he has not asked before. It did not matter until now.

"His life," says the man. "We’re going to collect him."

Arthur's heart sinks. There is a mistake. His father would never. He might send men after him, to try and save him, but they would be summarily slaughtered, based on what Arthur saw on the night of his capture.

The torturer doesn’t seem to want to look at him. A hooded figure enters.

"I'm going to send him a message, first," says a soft voice from under the hood.

He can be strong. His father would be proud, he hasn't broken yet. He's seen men in the aftermath of torture, he's endured battle. He can handle this easily.

He has to be strong. The figure presses her fingers to his temples and opens his memories.

Uther wakes with a scream on his tongue.

It is drizzling, a slow rain, and Merlin's form is huddled miserably upon the ground. The dog pants beside him, its fur muddy and wet.

“Might I have a blanket,” Merlin croaks.

“We shall see," says Uther. He has no intention of giving the sorcerer anything, but if he says no outright he will only take it as an invitation to argue, never mind that it means Uther will take it out on him in the morning.

“If I die out here, I won’t be any good as a ransom,” he says.

Uther stirs the last embers of the fire, nearly stifled by the damp night. The coals gleam like jewels, and he is struck by a wave of melancholy, thinking of the ring in his pocket, and the bracelet, which had disappeared when Morgana went missing.

Perhaps she had worn it that night. Kidnapped, in all likelihood, but there had never been any demands. Perhaps they had killed her. He hopes it was a quick death, but her fiery tongue has gotten ther in trouble before.

He may never know. Perhaps he will only ever wonder.

“Bad dreams?” Merlin taunts. Uther does not answer. “Arthur hadn’t been sleeping well either. I can’t help but wonder if that’s part of why they were able to capture him.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“What a father you are.”

Merlin is petting the dog, despite the mud. His hand comes away filthy, and he brings it back again to stroke through the fur.

“If your own father did not teach you the realities of this life, that is not my concern.”

“I grew up without a father," says Merlin, sitting up to finally push the dog aside. He does look ice cold, his face white in the moonlight like some undead creature.

“That explains many things," says Uther.

“Oh, come off it. I’m plenty capable.”

“Of secrecy, perhaps.”

"It's your fault that my father's dead, you know." Merlin sighs. "You might apologize, as it's your fault."

He has commanded more men to death than he has words for, and some would call him an evil man. He is not unaware of his reputation. But men like him exist to do what must be done, so that others can go on being good men, and so they can judge him from the safety of their homes, and they will never have to make these decisions.

"I am not going to apologize to a sorcerer."

"Warlock," says Merlin, as though the difference matters. "Y'know, I used to think destiny meant everyone would finally understand and thank me for all I’ve done, and I would get the recognition I deserve. I mean, I’ve saved Arthur, and you, and half the bloody Kingdom in my time here."

Uther goes to the horse and retrieves a bit of hard tack. There is little left. It is no matter, once he retrieves Arthur he can stop in a village to feed himself, but to veer from his course would cost him hours he does not have.

“Could I have some bread, at least?” Merlin shuffles towards the miserable looking bread. "It’s been days.”

“We shall see,” says Uther, but by now Merlin seems to have realized it means no. Merlin opens his mouth to argue and Uther shoots him a look.

The sorcerer does not need to eat, his body only needs to hold out a few more days and it will not matter any longer.

Merlin stumbles into him, and the biscuit falls to the ground.

“Oh, it’s muddy. Suppose I could have that one now,” he says faux-innocently.

Uther looks him in the eye and feeds it to the dog.

"Be that way then. You and Arthur really are just brats."

“A servant shouldnt discuss royalty in such a manner.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide from you now, I can say whatever I’d like," he huffs. “I’m hardly a servant out here. And you’re not much of a king either."

Merlin shoves the dog away. The dog barks, and does not cease barking.

Uther has had enough of Merlin’s nonsense. It seems as if Merlin is trying to draw him into argument, and somehow, it is working.

The dog continues to bark. It is trained to attack, and cannot even do that properly. He should kill the thing.

He reaches for his blade to do just that. It serves him no purpose now, its handlers gone–

"You ought to keep him," says Merlin. "In case they’ve stashed the Prince somewhere, the hound might find his– whereabouts.”

He notes the pause, where the word corpse might have sat. He raises his hand with the blade in it.

"And… that one is Arthur's favorite," he says quietly.

Uther looks to him, his miserable eyes, and to the dog's brown ones.

“Would you shut up?" says Uther.

He grins. "We shall see."

Uther kicks him in the chest just to hear the sound he makes, and in the irritation of the moment, forgets about the damned dog.

_________

Neither of them can sleep. Merlin sits up shivering the rest of the night, as Uther asks him inane questions. The man is nervous in his own way, running through his little interrogations until he finds a dead end, and then they'll lie in silence for awhile, and then Other will start up again.

“If you are Emrys, how have you managed to go undetected in the castle? What was your aim, to manipulate my son’s loyalty?”

“Not as such,” Merlin says carefully. It's odd to have someone to speak of this about candidly; someone who is already assured he is duplicitous, so he does not need to hide the less savory aspects of the truth. “Though I admit it swayed that way at times. Mostly, it’s easy to slip by as a servant. No one notices you, you sort of fall into the shadows naturally.”

Uther seems to turn that over awhile, and then he speaks again.

“Prove that you are the Emrys of myth.”

“How?” It’s not as if he can use his magic in the cuffs.

“Find a way, or I have no use for you.”

Uther keeps his face stony, though Merlin is fairly certain it is a bluff. He cannot afford to lose his leverage even if it turned out Merlin was only trying to preserve his life for a few more days.

“I could tell you the full prophecy,” he suggests. “I… I know things. I know about you, and Nimueh, and the dragon below the castle, is that proof enough?”

Uther stops, thinking. “No. You might have gotten he information from someone else, there are others who know."

It is impossible to prove. What is it that makes him Emrys, after all? He had never been known as such, had not been named it by his mother. He has no inherent quality that proves him Emrys, he simply is. Emrys is a wise and powerful warlock, and Merlin, a simple servant. He is Emrys, and he is Merlin. He is both things at once, and though the balance makes sense to him, he is not certain he could explain it to Uther in a way he would believe.

Who is Emrys, indeed, Merlin finds himself wondering.

“I cannot prove it. You’ll... simply have to trust me,” he says, a gamble, as every word from his mouth has been of late. "You have no choice."

Merlin tenses, waiting for Uthers anger. Asking for trust from King Uther is an oxymoron.

But Uther, who always seems to deal in absolutes, who kills before he thinks, only nods tersely.

And who is Uther Pendragon?

_________

Uther keeps his eyes on the sorcerer in the morning, though he had checked and rechecked the shackles to make sure they were secured properly.

Merlin is far too quiet as Uther packs up his things, ignoring the hunger in his belly.

“I haven’t heard such blissful silence since the start, what are you plotting?”

“Perhaps I’m just resting my voice from all the screaming,” he says venomously.

“You knew what you were getting into when you decided to learn magic.”

“I didn’t– you just–” he lets out a strangled noise and lapses into silence again. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m certain I would not.” Nothing could make the decision to practice magic make sense.

"I’m only here because I wanted to save him," says Merlin, voice rising. Uther had apparently struck a nerve. "Does it bother you, majesty? That a magic user has been protecting your son, and it will be me that saves him, even now, when it's supposed to be your life on the line?"

“You don’t know what you say.”

Ygraines fingers stroke through his hair, in his memory, and he stands.

He cannot allow the same mistakes to happen again.

“It’s always someone else paying the price," Merlin mutters.

Uther has tried everything to rid the land of this plague, why is this happening again? What force keeps bringing him to the same place again and again to relive the same misery?

“You don’t seem to give a damn about Arthur unless he’s dying, and if we arrive to find only bones you’d not even spare a glance before y–”

Uther slaps him across the face.

His kind has taken everything.

“You know nothing. You will not take him. I do not care if it takes your life, no one will take him away from me, he is the only–” Uther stops before he says too much. The sorcerer does not need to know his feelings, it only makes him vulnerable.

Merlin nods. “I understand.”

He could never understand.

The dog is still barking.

Uther swings his blade and it quiets to a whimper. He swings again, and blood spatters across the dead leaves, the heavy thwack of the blade burying itself, followed by silence. The skin splits easily, as if it were always meant to come apart. The thing hadn’t even bitten him. It feels good, to quiet the forest.

The faithful hound, teeth red with its own blood, lies still.

He turns to Merlin, who wears an expression of calm hatred, nothing like the fear and hunger moments ago.

“You will never come close to my son again.”

Merlin only shrugs.

He had liked the dog.

Beneath it's still form is movement, and Uther pushes it aside.

A rabbit hole. That must have been the reason for it's barking. So the thing really had been useful.

He reaches in and pulls out the rabbit, writhing, and kills it, too, with a swift motion of his hand.

"Cook," he demands. Merlin takes the small, offered blade, not a show of trust but of demand. He skins the rabbit slowly, in practiced steps, and places the strips of meat on a fashioned spit over the open fire from the previous night. The fire has been dimmed by rain, but still smolders, and it does not take long to crackle and heat, juices dripping off of the flesh.

When it is done, Uther bites into the meat and winces at the blackened toughness, foreign to a king's tongue.

Merlin watches him eat, a bruise blooming on his cheek. There’s a resignation in the slump of his posture.

"I wonder if you'll ever get what you deserve," he says, and his stomach growls hungrily.

_________

Merlin looks up at the waxing moon, near full, and then down at his hands.

It’s the same story as always, Merlin saving Arthur, except this might be the last time. If Merlin isn't there, there’s no one to stop Morgana from taking the throne.

He wonders if his magic will say his goodbyes, sending a little bloom of forget-me-not to Gwen, a rose to Arthur, or a little merlin bird to fly by their windows when they wonder where he’s gone.

More likely, there will be only circling buzzards, and then nothing at all to signal that he was here. A tool for destiny, and nothing more.

Merlin mourns for himself, for no one else will. He mourns for the boy he once was. He's not certain when he left that boy behind. It all started that day in the marketplace when Arthur was bullying Morris, and then he fell to his doom from there. Or perhaps before that, when his mother first came home to him floating above the floor, or when his father had left without giving him the answers he would one day seek.

Then, Camelot, and days spent with Gwen and Morgana, sneaking off to go to the market when they should have been working. Taking Arthur's pillows for washing and smelling him on them. Losing his father, and Freya. Letting Clement look into his eyes and telling her he would be back, the soft singing blood that he could hear in her veins as he walked away. Bringing water for the knights and sitting with them to drink it, talking and laughing. The moments he had chanced glances at Arthur but never reached out to touch, too afraid of the consequences.

He opens his eyes and looks out at the world that he will soon leave behind, for better or for worse. It has been a gift, all of it. And now he will give that gift to Arthur, by giving himself up.

The worst part is, given the chance to go back, he would do it all over again, and again, and again…

_________

They walk toward the keep, and Uther does not see any sign of life.

Merlin stops all of a sudden. Uther pulls at his chain, urging him forward, but he does not move.

“Would you leave him a message for me, when I’m gone? Tell him–”

“I will not.”

“Tell him that I wouldn’t have left if I had the choice. And tell his next manservant that as much as he says it, he doesn’t actually like his room cleaned, and that he ought to–”

“Stop it,” he hisses, yanking him forward again.

“Please. If I can’t say goodbye, let me do this.”

“Alright,” says Uther. “One message, make it a quick one.”

He waits. Merlin is silent for a moment, thinking, and then he smiles softly.

“Tell him that he’s a prat. That way he’ll know it's really from me.”

Uther nods. He won’t really tell Arthur any of this, of course. Better to make a clean cut. He may not even tell him the sorcerer is dead, he hasn't decided yet what is the best strategy.

Uther brings him to a suitable place to wait. The sorcerer remains chained outside, hidden in the woods, and Uther goes toward the keep on his own. If they see Merlin, they will likely kill him on sight as they did the others, but if Uther goes alone there is a chance to explain who he has, and what his cargo is worth.

When he reaches the doors, surprisingly well-kept, a young man comes to greet him, ushering him inside.

"The Lady will meet you," he says.

A figure stands there, looking at a drape that covers a large window, and wearing a black cloak that seems to swallow the light around it. Morgause’s sister.

"I assume you are the one I am meant to meet," says Uther.

"Indeed." She does not move, still facing the window, head moving slightly as if she is watching something in the woods.

“The window is covered over,” he says, irritated that she has not turned to face him, and instead faces the wall.

“Yes. With only glass, it would be too easy for an enemy to see me through it and strike,” she says, voice silken and calm. “I, however, do not need glass windows to see. I had a vision of our meeting. And your dreams have been from me, of course."

"Dreams?" She's the cause of his nightmares, then.

"Usually I can only send them to other magic users, but your mind was surprisingly open to receiving messages. I thought it might give you some incentive to come. Now, we both know what you are here for, and what you have to offer."

"Have mercy. I am a father," he says, "I do not wish to be parted from my child, and either of our deaths would–"

"Everyone is someone's child. What makes your own son different?"

"I've brought you another in my stead."

"I know,” she says. “I am not interested in another."

"He you will be interested in, for he is your enemy.”

“My enemy?" she scoffs. "Merlin has no value, though I hate him, he is only a servant.”

“He is Emrys." She stiffens, and Uther cannot help the smugness that overcomes him, for it is obvious that this, she did not know. "I can offer you this in exchange for my son's life and my own."

Finally, the figure turns. She pulls the hood back and tresses of black hair fall in waves as she turns, and Uther's smugness all falls away as he sees her face, a face he has not seen in many months.

She looks at him thoughtfully, and nods to the young man who had brought him in.

Morgana turns, and leads Uther down the hall.

_________

The table is set with trenchers and a meal. The servant brings wine for the sorceress and for Uther, the red liquid like a dark sea swirling in his chalice.

"Thank you, Ari," she says quietly, and places a hand on his shoulder before turning her attention back to the plate. As though he were the least priority, below even a servant.

"Uther," she says, and by God, she– it sounds just like her real voice. “Sit."

She gestures to a chair, and he sits, unsteady on his feet.

"How are you?" she asks from the far end of the table, taking a bite of her food. They must work on the girl's ill manners, some part of his mind says absurdly, and he pushes it aside. This is not a young girl. This is not Morgana.

“How do you expect?”

"Well, I suppose, given your recent victories over Caerleon. I do actually keep up with you," Morgana says.

"Stop with these games. Where is my son?”

“Receiving the same warm welcome as all the guests in your own dungeons.”

“I see.”

She rests her cheeks on her fists, elbows up on the table. “Not an ounce of emotion to spare. It’s as if all you can feel is rage or nothing at all,” she sighs. “I must say I am surprised you came.”

"I had no choice, your men killed the others."

"Not that. I mean that you came along at all. I'd expected that you'd send several groups ahead for me to destroy before you understood the message. After all, you've got much more important things to do, no time for your children."

He ignores the jab, and the discomfort the plural brings.

"You bring an interesting offering. You have Emrys with you?"

"I do."

She only nods, and continues eating. Even the way she chews is the same as Morgana, as if she had studied her mannerisms.

“Have you possessed her, or did you simply conjure this form?" he asks.

A feeling simmers in his stomach like a poison, and he holds himself steady, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him fear. If she's taken Morgana's skin to wear like some sort of costume–

“I had no need to conjure it.” She smirks, and her eyes flash. "It is my own body."

“Impossible. Morgana would not betray–”

“Betrayal?” She stands, tines clattering as she stalks around the table, closing in, “It is I, who was betrayed, and whose people you have forsaken. Look at my face.”

“You are not–”

“I’ll prove it. Ask about the suppers we ate together, or the arguments we would have, or how many nights I sat up with my nightmares and visions.” She tears his glove off, and forces her fingers around his wrists, clasped like vices. “I will prove myself to you, ask anything."

She meets his eyes and hers are not lit with magic, only the familiar ember of righteous anger that always simmered there.

“Morgana,” he breathes. “When did you take off your bracelet?”

Something flickers across her face in an instant, but is gone the next.

“It does not matter,” she says smoothly. "I have a new one now. From my sister.”

"Did she hurt you?"

"She didn't hurt me."

He can see it now. She was taken, and likely hurt the same as Arthur, and they had forced her to do these things. Yes, of course, perhaps they've told her he is the enemy and she believed it, consumed by her idealistic ideas of justice.

"If they are threatening you it’s alright, I can protect you,” he says in a low voice. “You are being manipulated. I killed the other one, Morgause, it's safe now."

Morgana is silent for a long moment, considering. She lifts a hand and shatters his chalice, spattering red across the table.

"Where are the calls for my burning?” she snarls.

“I would not– You could still come home, renounce this evil as Gaius did, and–”

She shatters the dishes along the table, in quick succession as though by natural force, like she couldn't help but lash out with whips of pure energy into the space around her.

“Where was this acceptance for every other manipulated soul you've murdered? For my own sister? Where was this the years I wished for you to love me?"

"I had no choice but to–"

"You did it because you wanted to. So fight me, truly, murder me, since you believe in it.” She gestures to his sword, which still sits by his side, as if she’d known he would not use it. “Or is your hate only as conditional as your love?"

She is stood now, breathing heavily, and Uther still sits in his seat, surrounded by the wreckage. This is Morgana herself, there is no question in his mind now. But no longer is she only a girl, and no longer is he amused at her antics. She is dangerous, now.

"I have done everything for the good of Camelot," he says, even tone undercut with his simmering betrayal. So this is what it has come to. "You are a monster. I did not raise you this way."

Something pierces him, like a tendril of pure hatred snaking through his organs, but when he looks down there is no blood, only a dark shape creeping into his mouth. It makes its way down his throat with spindly legs and grabs his throat from the inside.

"Apologize," she says.

He chokes.

"I ap–" he fights the words as she attempts to pull them from his throat. "I apolo–"

"Take some responsibility. My sister didn't hurt me. You hurt me, not magic. You denied me, and you killed your own wife, and so many others, not magic. You alone should pay the price for what you have done."

He does not speak, his throat clenched too tightly against the attack to say a word.

"Pathetic."

She drops him, gasping, to the floor, and comes to stand over him. She is different, her eyes smudged with the same kohl as Morgause's has been, the same unforgiving glint.

"The first time I planned to kill you, I stopped. Because I remembered how you cared for me."

Morgana tilts her head, considering.

"I had thought perhaps, when you came here, I could–" she stops, and her eyes shutter. "There is one thing you taught me. It is folly to be ruled by sentiment."

"What do you want?" he chokes out.

She kicks off his crown, and it clatters across the floor. Morgana turns away again, and steps across the shards and the chaos she has created.

"I want many things that are impossible," she says. "I should have known you could never change. And that is why I cannot accept Emrys in your stead."

“So I will die."

“Don’t sound so irritated. This isn't a punishment, it's a compromise. Arthur will live."

“I do not believe for a moment that you would let him go so easily.”

“He will be in no condition to rule, not for some time now, with those injuries inflicted by the torturers. Especially the wounds of the mind that he will soon have."

"You plan to put a new ruler on the throne," he says, realization creeping slowly.

"I'll crawl from the woods with a tale of kidnapping, and soon, evidence will come along showing that I'm of royal blood. Oh, I would hate to take the throne from Arthur, but for the sake of Camelot," she says darkly. She comes back to him, crouching to his level, "I would do anything."

"Arthur will know, and he will–"

She chuckles. "Arthur will hardly remember his own name, when I've finished with him. And he hasn't seen my face. I hardly ever visit his cell; he's a wonderful bargaining chip but I have no desire to watch my brother's suffering."

She takes him to the dungeon, and he resists at each step, but he is no match for her power. He glances surreptitiously about, looking for Arthur, but only sees haggard faces of guards. He recognizes a few of his own men who had gone missing, presumed dead for months. She has been planning this a long time, he realizes, perhaps even before her disappearance.

“Yours, however, I may come by to witness.”

"You've changed," says Uther quietly.

Morgana looks on, unaffected. "I never changed my mind, only my methods."

She was the only one he ever allowed to challenge him. Perhaps that was his mistake.

_________

Morgana is on her own path now.

When Uther had come in at first, the way he spoke, she had nearly thought he had changed, but…

But it doesn't matter. She's sent her people out to find Emrys, now, out in the woods. He cannot be far.

A knock sounds at the door of her chambers. In peeks Sylvan, the bright-eyed girl that Morgana has found to be diligent, if hesitant to do harm to their enemies. She will make a good warrior in time, her magic is strong and she is a deeply kind soul. They'll need more like her in the new age. Morgana only hopes her kindness doesn't harm her in the way Morgana's own had. She hopes the girl can grow strong.

"Found him," Sylvan says.

She brings him in. It's Merlin, in chains. She should be surprised at his identity, but finds that she isn't. The empty feeling she gets when she sees him does not grow with the new knowledge, it only confirms how little they ever knew each other. She had believed him a friend, and she would have been delighted back then to have him on her side. That is, until he had decided she wasn't worth saving. Perhaps he had always been against her.

"Excellent."

Merlin looks tired, at the end of his path. It is time for a new age.

Things will be better under her rule, once she destroys all the men like the two of them, Uther and Merlin, until the only ones left are the ones like Sylvan. Morgana needs to fight so that people like her can live freely. It's the right thing to do.

"You want me to kill him?" Sylvan asks quietly.

Morgana has a flash of a vision, a brief glow in her mind, of herself, controlling Emrys. With access to Emrys' magic, she could do anything.

She shakes her head. Sylvan will not have to kill today.

"You might have found a nicer place to hide out in," Merlin offers sarcastically, avoiding the issue as always. "What is this, anyway?"

"It was once a keep, then was used occasionally for keeping criminals for torture, until it fell into disuse. All hollowed out. Now, I bring it new life."

"It looks like it's still a place of torture," says Merlin. "So what have you changed, exactly?"

Morgana smiles. Merlin knows how to get under a person's skin, but it's no matter now. She has the power, and she's going to be the first person in this Kingdom to use it for good.

_________

Uther is in a cell, in a corner illuminated by the slit near the top where passing guards' feet are occasionally visible. Merlin sits in his own corner. Uther suspects this is punishment also. Let him look at the man he hates while he thinks of others who have betrayed him, his mind circling on the same thoughts with nowhere else to focus.

Morgana, too, has betrayed him.

He had begged, put himself at her mercy as so many had done before in his own court, when Morgana had looked at him with pleading eyes on the people's behalf. Had argued for the weak, and he had given her the gift of their lives, their freedom. But he supposes that mercy no longer exists to her, at least not for Uther.

Morgana is ruthless. Cunning. Everything Uther had hoped she would be, and a malignant swell of pride sits against the heaviness that has consumed him since the first day of this quest.

No one would know to stage a rescue, he had not informed others of his leave, and his most trusted advisors are gone.

Gaius is the only one who would know, and with his ties, and his past, Uther would not be surprised if even he were against him.

Perhaps his advisors had never believed in his ideals. Perhaps Morgana had never loved him as he thought she had. He is alone now, truly.

All he has is the enemy, rotting in a cell with him as though they were both common criminals, as though Uther had anything in common with a sorcerer.

_________

They have been there for only a day, and already Merlin has gotten some infection, coughing incessantly as if water were still in his throat. The constant noise drives Uther to distraction, though he supposes it is his own doing, having nearly drowned the boy. He hadn't though he would be the one sitting in the damned cell with him, though.

Merlin shakes in the throes of a feverish nightmare.

Uther cannot stand the coughing, beside the damp cold of the small cell. He sighs, remembering nights spent with his own young son, who had climbed into his bed when he was ill or afraid, and who has wanted stories to distract him from his misery.

Uther places a hand on the boy's forehead, and it is scorching Uther doesn't know why, perhaps it is latent sentimentality in the face of their upcoming death, or perhaps it is his own need of distraction.

“My son has always hated sorcerers," says Uther. "Even when he was young."

"You're," Merlin mutters, "lecturing me about this now?"

Uther ignores him. "Arthur went up against a sorcerer as a child, did he tell you that?"

Merlin shakes his head, and Uther begins his story.

"He had heard strange noises from the stables. He believed he had found one, hiding in the hay, and he took me to see him strike at the sorcerer with a stick. It was only a cat."

"You're having me on."

"I'm not. The thing scratched him quite thoroughly, but he insisted he had won the battle against the great sorcerer."

"I thought no one could be more reckless than Arthur, but here you are galavanting around with a real warlock," Merlin huffs a laugh.

Usually, he would have him put in the stocks for such a comment. But he thinks, given the circumstances, he can allay his anger at the insult. After all, he had said as much himself on many occasions, and Merlin would know as well as anyone, his sons habits.

"He is reckless, isn't he? He was lucky that time that the sorcerer wasn’t real, or truly dangerous.”

Merlin scoffs. “Most of them aren’t.”

“I nearly died only last month at the hands of the sorcerer's curse.” It had caused his skin to feel like it was all peeling off.

“That was an easy one, actually," Merlin falls into a coughing fit, and when he emerges, he continues, "You just mix hemlock and wolfsbane with a bit of herbal magic to make a salve, and it goes right away.”

“Impossible. Gaius treated me, and I never saw him perform magic during the application."

“His apprentice is skilled, I've heard," says Merlin, smiling in his irritating way.

“I would have noticed if you'd practiced magic right under my–”

“Most important things in Camelot happen in the dark. You never even hear of it."

"You speak as though it were your kingdom, not mine."

Merlin says nothing, but gives him a look as though to say, perhaps it is. Perhaps you have nothing at all.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry Morgana… y’know. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I'm certain it's a shock.”

"You knew, then."

"I did."

"I had thought you and she were friendly before," he says into the silence.

"Things went all wrong." Merlin sighs. "Do you know how it feels for everyone to turn against you, people who you thought were friends, and– Of course you do. God, I used to make a specter out of you,” laughs Merlin. “But you’re as afraid as I am, aren’t you?”

More coughing, in the dark. Uther feels as though he's going mad, waiting for death, and speaking casually with this pathetic creature who is now all he has.

He strips a piece from Merlin's shirt, wets it with a puddle, and places the cloth over the boy's head in a ridiculous reversal of roles. Merlin seems just as resistant to the change, moving to refuse the touch. He reaches up to take the cloth from his hand.

“Stop that,” Uther snaps. Merlin blinks innocently, as if Uther wasn't aware of his ways by now. It must run in sorcerer's blood somehow, to be slippery, conniving little snakes. Well, it takes an iron hand to quell this kind of behavior. "You will remain lying down."

"Yes, Sire, I obey your every whim," he mutters.

He goes back to his miserable shivering and coughing, and Uther begins another story.

"I suppose you haven't heard the story of the day a new knight challenged Sir Liam to a duel…"

_________

Overnight, Merlin’s fever breaks, but he seems no more roused toward movement. He simply lies in his corner, waiting to die. Uther has sat up, thinking. When the boy wakes, he is ready with a question.

"Do you truly care for my son?"

He is certain he will get an honest answer now, at least, given that they are both without hope of rescue. There is admittedly a certain relief in the ability to be entirely honest, as Merlin had told him in the days before.

"What?" Merlin asks groggily.

"Do you care for him, or is it only because of your destiny that you watch over him, as you claim?"

Uther had been betrothed to Ygraine, and had often wondered if his affection for her was only by obligation, at some level, though it was a duty he was happy to oblige. She had never voiced it publicly, but at times he suspected that she resented their arrangement, perhaps because of Uther himself.

He does not want to think of the reasons, except that he has always done what needed to be done.

"It doesn't matter anymore," says Merlin.

If it doesn't matter, then it was for nothing. If this is what it comes to, Uther has wasted his life, and his rule. Arthur unable to take the throne, his mind and body ruined, and Morgana giving over power to those who would destroy everything he had worked to build.

She would tear it all down, and Uther would truly have lived and died for nothing.

Uther has no one to help him now but the enemy of his enemy.

He turns the turquoise ring over in his fingers, and feels the long point of the cross upon it.

“We must escape," Uther decides.

"With you?" Merlin scoffs.

"Indeed."

"No lie can convince me that you would spare my life once I help you get out. Why would I bother?" he says dejectedly.

Uther swallows the urge to yell. He must try to convince him another way, if he is so intent on dying here.

“I am concerned,” says Uther, “that she has not freed Arthur after all."

“Why wouldn't he be? It’s a magical contract, she must abide.”

“She plans to destroy his mind and body first, so that he cannot take the throne."

It may be a mistake to tell him this. Uther does not truly know what he is capable of, this could all be playing into his plan, and he will use the opportunity to take the throne himself.

Merlin bolts upright. “No,” he says. "She couldn't."

“It’s too deep for me to climb out alone. So you and I,” he grits his teeth, because as loath as he is to admit it, he cannot do this alone, “must work together.”

Uther takes the turquoise ring from his finger, recalling his training from years before, when they’d taught him to escape capture. It is thin enough to wedge into the lock and break his hands free.

“Boost me up."

“You boost me, I’m not getting left behind,” says Merlin.

He hesitates, ready to bark orders, but there’s no time. Merlin wouldn’t get far with shackles on, and Uther has the key to his shackles, so it’s not as though he would leave Uther behind unless he was exceptionally stupid. Uther kneels and lets him up.

Merlin climbs over him clumsily, fiddles with this little window area to squeeze himself through, and is gone.

"Merlin?" Uther calls. "Emrys, come back now or I will–"

Uther curses himself. Merlin had been more fool than he expected, then. He's certain to be caught and put back in, and then Uther will try and find his own way out, leaving the damned sorcerer to rot.

Just as Uther is about to sit back down, up pops Merlin's face from the slit, and he reaches a hand down.

"What took you so long?" Uther snaps.

"A 'thank you' goes a long way," says Merlin dryly.

On the ground, Uther sees the reason for Merlin's delay. Two guards lie on the ground, throats slit. Merlin draws one of their daggers, and Uther takes the others sword and shield.

He waits for Merlin to make one of his irritating little quips, but after he has helped him up, he is silent. Merlin draws himself up, and carries himself forward like one of Uther’s own knights, cautious and ready.

“There’ll be more coming,” he says. “Come on.”

_________

They haven't gone far when they come up on a group of guards, seven of them. They are all sorcerers, Merlin can feel power radiating off of them. He knew it would be as easy as simply walking out. They tense, clearly recognizing the pair as prisoners, especially as Merlin's wrists are still shackled.

“I’m Emrys,” Merlin says, stepping forward, desperate for allies. If any of them had been Druids before, they do not indicate it.

“What’s that mean to me?” asks one of the sorcerers.

Merlin blinks. “Don’t you know the– the prophecies?”

“Certainly. But who knows if I’ll live to see that?”

“And look at who you turned out to be,” says another. “Sympathizer to the crown.”

Alright, so that’s how it’s going to be.

Merlin backs up, and runs into Uther. Uther speaks quietly, eyes never leaving the group.

“You take the ones to your right, I’ll focus on the armored ones."

"I think you forget I'm still in shackles," mutters Merlin.

He doesn’t bother to ask if Uther would remove them so he could fight with any level of effectiveness, he already knows the answer. Uther thinks the shackles are his only hold over Merlin, and without them he would kill Uther too. Well, he’s half right, because Merlin is honestly considering killing him just for the sake of it, after all this is over.

“You'll be fine. Watch your left,” says Uther, as the spells begin to fly. Merlin blocks a spell hurled his way, bouncing it off the magic-repelling iron of his cuff.

“You still won’t– but I can hardly even hold a weapon,” Merlin says. “Surely if there was a moment to let me free it’s now!”

"No," says Uther, unfazed. "Any warrior worth his salt can fight without magic."

"How's that useful to me?"

"You only need your body and your weapons. Target the gaps in their armor, that's what your blade is made for. Use what you have."

One of the men, a large, burly one, manages to grab Merlin, twisting his arm back so he can't use the blade.

Use what he has? He's got... heavy chains, weighing him down, that's what, and a blade he can hardly use, and his arm is screaming like it's about to break.

"You're thin, use it to your advantage," calls Uther from where he's fighting two men with surprising grace.

"I don't know how! I'm not trained!"

"You don't have to be, you only have to have instinct."

It's true, Merlin knows, they choose which knights will progress based on their instincts. Those who, by instinct, know when to dodge and when to lunge. Who can withstand blows and who can outsmart their opponent. Whatever it takes.

"Survive," says Uther, and it sounds like a command.

Merlin bites his opponent desperately and he wrenches away in the pocket moment of surprise. Merlin looks to his tools. A knife. Chains. Hands.

He ducks under and faces his back, then climbs on. Merlin brings his arms down over the man's shoulders and straddles his neck with his chains, choking him.

“Take care of this one?” he asks Uther, but Uther is not looking. Merlin follows his gaze to the rack of tools on the wall, and his blood goes cold.

Metal, meant to be heated and used to burn flesh.

He recalls Morgause's words, from before his anger got the best of him.

“Is this what you used?” Uther asks quietly.

Merlin wonders if they’ll even find Arthur alive, at this point, regardless of Morgana's intentions.

“Please, we were only doing our–"

Uther takes a tool from the rack and stabs it through the man's heart before he can finish speaking.

He ducks as two of them attempt to hit him with disarming spells, and looks to Uther.

Uther uses a sword on one side and a shield on the other. The best defense is a good offense, Merlin supposes, twirling his dagger in a clumsy attempt to copy Uther.

He corrects Merlin's posture. “Swing in a tighter circle," he says.

He does, and stabs the next man in the ribs. He looks over again, and Uther nods in approval, just once.

Sir Jameson was right, he thinks. There’s something about this, the synchronicity of fighting beside someone else. He’s hot, still in the last dredges of fever, and a new kind of fever descends upon him.

Uther kills the last man, and the two stand, panting.

“Well,” says Uther, breathing heavily. “I’ve not seen a fight like that in ages.”

“You were right about my left, if I hadn’t thrown out the foot I’d have been–”

“You were lucky,” he scolds. “Next time you ought to practice blocking or you’ll fall to the same thing.”

“I’m not just useless after all, am I?”

"Well. We shall see."

Uther turns away and begins walking, not answering the question, and Merlin follows after.

_________

They make their way down the halls, covered in damp and mildew, footsteps echoing as they go.

There. In a cell, in the coppery, animal stench of a wet enclosure, sits a body. He’s slumped against the wall, one arm cradled, and his hair plastered to his pallid forehead.

Uther can’t tell if he’s breathing.

Merlin opens the cell and Arthur's eyes snap open, shining in the lantern light. Merlin takes a cautious step forward, and crouches to his level.

“Arthur?”

"Merlin?"

Arthur throws himself forward with strength he shouldn't possess in his state, and embraces Merlin with shaking arms.

“You shouldn’t have come, you idiot,” Arthur says quietly. “They’ll be back any moment.”

“Oh, Arthur,” he sighs, stroking his back gently and trying not to jostle any unseen injuries, “Of course we came.”

“We?” he says, leaning back. “Who else–"

Uther clears his throat from the entrance and Arthur flinches. He looks up and goes stiff, moving away from Merlin and sitting up even as his breathing picks up, body clearly protesting the movement.

“Father,” he says.

“Are you alright?”

“My injuries will not keep me from riding or fighting. I know the layout, I can lead us out," says Arthur, composed as a trained knight should be.

He starts to stand, but crumples immediately with a grunt of pain. Merlin and Uther exchange a glance, and Merlin inclines his head at Arthur meaningfully, urging him to say something.

“We should go quickly. Reinforcements may arrive once they realize we're gone.”

Arthur nods tersely.

“We’ll need a moment, I’ve got to assess his wounds to make sure he can be moved,” says Merlin. Indeed, the gap would be difficult to get him up, and it will take both of them to move an injured man.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“I am medically trained, I will tell you if you are fine," says Merlin.

Uther clears his throat. “We do need to–”

“We’ll need a moment,” he snaps at Uther.

A moment is long enough for Merlin to break Arthur's neck. It is long enough for him to sand his head off his body the way he had done to the sorceress before, if he finds some way out of his chains.

Then again, with how closely Merlin has Arthur cradled, he could just as easily do it in front of him as not.

“I shall keep watch," says Uther.

The moment he’s gone, he can hear the two quietly whispering, and Arthur breathing harshly through the pain. There is a long silence, and then quiet sobbing, Merlin speaking softly and shushing him. Quiet rustling of fabric. Uther can hear it from outside.

He keeps his hand on the sword, and the other on his shield. It is all he can do.

_________

They carry Arthur carefully out a small back door which Morgause had described before her demise.

Arthur vomits the moment they make it outside.

"Bright," he chokes out.

There are several horses blessedly tethered outside, and Arthur is placed onto one's back. He lists to the side, but rights himself quickly.

At least Arthur is holding up well. Pride swells in his chest, he had trained the boy well. He can handle things others would crumble at in moments. Just like his father.

Arthur lists to the side again, and Uther is sat before him to hold him steady.

“Uther, you can’t leave,” says Merlin. Uther ignores him, because they need to get home, he does not have time to slay the sorcerer now, nor listen to his pleas for mercy, he– “He’s bleeding through his shirt.”

Uther turns, and sees the red soaking through. Loathe as he is to admit it, the sorcerer is correct. It must be worse than he had assumed. Arthur has been gone a long time, he reminds himself, long enough that anything could have happened out of his sight. He should not have assumed so hastily. Wishful thinking.

Merlin helps Arthur down from the horse. He slaps his face lightly and Arthur groans, half conscious.

Uther dismounts and stands, feeling useless, clumsy, as Merlin’s fingers run under the shirt, pulling it up to feel at his torso directly. The pool of dark red grows at an alarming rate; something must have torn when they'd hauled him out, or as they ran, but there had been no time to be careful. Uther stares stonily at the scene, watching as though through glass.

Merlin turns to him.

“It doesn’t look good,” Merlin says quietly, and it could be a trick, but Uther is no fool, he sees the blood. “He needs a physician. Someone with training must care for him.”

Uther has some basic medical abilities, but not years of apprenticeship. He has seen Merlin's work on the knights, he is capable. Without him Arthur will almost certainly die.

"If you allow me to live and care for him until we are certain he will survive, I will go quietly. You may execute me and I will not protest, and… I will tell him nothing that might endanger your relationship," says Merlin seriously. "I just want to help. Please, I'm a healer."

Uther's eyes fall on those hands, those weapons.

There is no time.

Uther nods. “If he dies...” he trails off in warning.

Merlin nods. “I understand.”

He kneels before Arthur and holds out his arms. Uther frees one hand with the key from his pouch that he had carried with him, the only way out of these particular confines.

Arthur's bare back is a mess of deep burns, some fiery red with infection, others black, where the burn is so deep it could not heal. There is a wound near his neck which seems to be the source of the blood.

Merlin's hands move quickly, and Arthur does not stir from unconsciousness as his back knits slowly together, the wounds growing smaller, into scabbed, thin flesh. After only a few minutes of this, Merlin stops, and begins covering the wounds over with strips of his own filthy shirt.

"That's it? What about the rest?" He hasn't even healed his back fully, and two of his fingers are still gone.

"A lot of the most threatening bits were on the inside, and I only have so much energy. If I could fix everything I would."

He gently slaps at Arthur's face again, and he stirs.

"Your hands, when were they injured?" he asks.

Arthur shrugs. "The beginning."

"What have they done to your back?” asks Uther. Arthur does not respond, his eyes still half-lidded.

“Arthur!” he barks, and Arthur jolts, eyes opening fully.

“That's all that needs to be tended immediately," he says, much more clearly.

“You must not hide injuries,” snaps Uther. “That is a quick path to death.”

“Yes, father.”

“Really, you should know this by now. Disclose everything that occurred to the physician immediately so you can be properly treated.”

Arthur begins to speak. “I– you know, they told me they were going to take my fingers, and then they…” He looks at Uther and then away, voice detached, "They started cutting, and they couldn't get it off'n one go, so they–”

“It’s alright,” says Merlin. “I know all I need for now. Just let me look, hm?”

Arthur looks to Uther, and Merlin follows the movement, fixing Uther with a glare as he finishes wrapping his hands, as if Uther were the one who put him in such pain. Uther forces his gaze away from the two gaps, ring and thumb, where fingers used to be, lest his temper overtake him.

“That’s the best I can do for now,” says Merlin. “Quickly, get him back on the horse, before they come for us.”

He holds out his hand and obediently allows Uther to shackle him again.

_________

Despite it all, they do manage to get away.

That night they make camp, a meager one, with only the supplies that were on the stolen horse. Two bedrolls, a flask of water, and several blankets are all they have.

They begin to build a fire and then decide against it, too likely to attract those they are running from. Uther holds Arthur's head in his gloved hands, an awkward attempt at comfort.

“M’rlin,” he whimpers.

“It’s alright, I’m here,” Uther says. "You can sleep."

Arthur is still restless, tossing and turning.

When he was very small, he would grow ill, and Uther would hold him. Now he doesn’t even ask for him.

"Merlin," says Arthur again.

“Didn’t you hear? He wants me to hold his head," says Merlin.

“He doesn’t know what he says.”

Merlin reaches out and caresses Arthur's cheek, and Arthur melts into the touch in a way Uther has never seen on him.

He relaxes, and Uther recalls nights spent circling, and a pair of arms that held his waist, bringing him back to himself.

Uther bats the damned sorcerer's hand away, but Arthur is already sleeping soundly, and he can't help but feel he has lost this battle.

_________

Arthur wakes again several hours later, more lucid.

“What happened?" he asks Merlin, eyes darting around the space. His gaze catches on Merlin. "What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re paler than usual, or something. You look awful."

“Just tired. I’m fine.”

“You always say that, dolt.”

“That sorceress managed to throw me against the wall fairly hard, is all.”

“What are these,” he says, shoving up his sleeves where the shackles still sit heavy. His wrists are red, as if burned.

Merlin and Uther share a look, waiting to see what the other will do. With a few words, either of them could destroy both their relationships with the Prince.

“I was captured,” he says quickly. "By sorcerers."

Arthur huffs frustratedly. “I don’t understand why– you haven’t even done anything. Me, I understand, but you’re only a servant! Sorcerers,” he spits. “And I suppose you don’t have a key to these.”

“No,” he lies. “We will have to wait until we can find a locksmith. But never mind that, I'm just happy we got to you, you prat."

“I know I am lucky just to be alive, but…” he pauses. “I do worry that you came too late."

"How do you mean?"

Arthur flexes his hands, the gauze wrapping covering the mess underneath.

“I thought of it in the cell, that even if I got out… I may find myself incapable of doing my necessary duties," he says. Merlin hears what he is saying beneath.

I might become unnecessary, he says.

“You've got me for that," says Merlin.

I want you no matter what.

Arthur smiles, tentative and shy.

“Indeed,” Uther cuts in. “You can continue training when we return, and you will be less likely to repeat the same mistakes.”

Arthur's face falls, and Merlin sighs.

Uther probably thought that was encouraging. He really is useless in every way imaginable.

“I don’t believe it was a mistake,” Arthur says. “I didn’t want to lose any of them, it was clear that if I hadn't given myself up they would have kept going until our men were all–”

“Better them than you," Uther interrupts. "You are the future of the Kingdom, who would be heir if you were to fall?”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees.

Merlin scoffs. “Go on, Uther, you prat. You wouldn’t understand a selfless act if it bit you in the face.”

Arthur glances nervously between them. “Father, he doesn’t mean–”

“How can you put up with this all the time?" asks Merlin. "I've had enough of it, he–”

"What has gotten into you?” says Arthur sharply.

"You've trained him to insolence," says Uther.

They're quiet for a moment, waiting to see if anyone will do something. Uther sits stone faced, as dealing with Merlin day in and day out has worn him down to the point he hardly reacts to insults anymore.

"You need to eat," says Merlin abruptly, never mind that there is no food.

Merlin holds out a handful of mushrooms and herbs, picking out the greens for Arthur and keeping the mushrooms by his own side.

“Am I the only one that will be dining, then?" asks Arthur, still sitting in his bewilderment.

“Your father's a demon, he doesn't eat food, he eats souls."

Arthur raises a skeptical brow. Merlin sighs.

"These are for him, don’t worry.” Merlin pats the mushrooms he picked out of the bunch.

"Those could well be poisonous.”

“They’re edible,” Merlin dismisses, "I’ve seen it in, er... one of Gaius’ books.”

“You eat it then,” says Uther, speaking at last. "Since you're certain."

“Father,” Arthur protests.

“Since the boy thinks he knows best about everything, he must know which mushrooms are alright.”

Merlin's eyes narrow, and he pops a mushroom into his mouth.

“Merlin!”

“I suppose we’ll soon know. Good thing I’m here to protect the royals from these things, and if I should perish, then so be it."

"Perhaps it is nature's punishment for your ineptitude," says Uther dryly.

“Well, you’ve already perfected your best punishment method, Sire,” says Merlin.

“Pray tell.”

“The grating sound of your horrible, horrible voice.”

Uther scoffs, and says nothing.

Arthur glances between them with an expression of pure bafflement, then moves to try and grab Merlin’s face like a dog's, attempting to get him to spit. He winces as the movement jostles the wounds on his hands, and Merlin softens.

Merlin takes the mushroom from where it was hidden on the roof of his mouth, and shows it to Arthur before throwing it off into the woods.

“I was kidding before,” Merlin says. “It is poisonous.”

_________

Merlin fusses with the bedroll, the sack he’s padded with dead leaves as a sort of pillow to keep Arthur's head propped up.

It is a bizarrely domestic scene, as though things were as they should be. Arthur could be simply going about his day and being waited on by his servant, rather than lying in the leaves being tended by a proven traitor. Merlin seems intent on undermining Uther at every turn, though he feels it necessary to put up with it, safe in the knowledge that the sorcerer will soon be dead by his hand. And he's gotten rather used to it, despite himself. He would sooner die than admit it, but he had missed Morgana's argumentative nature.

“Comfortable?” asks Merlin, fawning over Arthur again.

“As much as I can be, sleeping on leaves,” Arthur grumbles.

“Good. Now, you’ll need to get up at some point for some willow bark for the pain. I'd like to keep an eye on the swelling, so I may wake you a few times.”

“Alright," says Arthur.

“And if you have any strange pain, or anything, you wake me up.”

“Yes, you said.”

“I mean it, wake me immediately, I–”

“Alright, I said. You're such a mother hen. Anyway, you’ll be close at hand, I trust,” says Arthur, still not letting go of the damned sorcerer's hand.

“‘Course I will. Promise."

“There are only two bedrolls,” says Arthur quietly.

Merlin blinks. “Oh. Right. I’ll keep the first watch, then.”

“Ah. Yes, that’s… what I was going to suggest, as well,” says Arthur, cheeks going red. “Goodnight.”

Uther goes through his nightly ablutions, rinsing himself with a cloth and a few drops from his flask, relieving himself and checking over his bruises in the low light. His muscles ache deeply in a resonant call of pain, as though the hurt is only just catching up to him. He pushes through and checks over their things, waters the horse and loosens the saddle.

By the time he is finished it has grown dark. He goes to the treeline, where Merlin sits up keeping guard, a dark silhouette shrouded by moonlight.

He sits beside him.

Merlin sighs. “So, let’s not drag it out.”

“What are you on about now?”

“He’s doing a lot better than he was this morning. He probably won't need me again. Go on, get it over with.”

He bares his neck, nearly white in the moonlight, the knobs of his spine glinting like the bone had poked through and fused together with the skin. Uther hasn’t seen it bared in the time he has known him, always covered with that ridiculous neckerchief. Idly, he wonders where it has got off to.

“I can’t fight you,” Merlin says quietly. “Not with these on, you know that.”

“And what would you have me tell Arthur?”

“That I deserted. Or that I was taken by wolves, I don’t know, I’m sure you’ll find something adequate. You’ve had plenty of time to think of it by now. I told him I would be there through the night, but I really only meant it to comfort him."

Merlin turns the bandage over in his hands.

"You make many promises you cannot keep," Uther remarks.

Merlin says nothing.

Uther stands and paces. Arthur sleeps soundly, his hands covered in white, and a red cloth clutched to his chest. He is not yet out of danger. Infection could strike as easily as Morgana’s sorcerers, and he would be lost. He cannot rid himself of the nuisance just yet.

“There is time yet,” says Uther. “It does not need to be tonight. I promised that I would allow you to say your goodbyes."

He had saved his son's life today, after all. Uther is not ungrateful.

“Don’t suppose you’ve... reconsidered," says Merlin.

He could lie, but there would be no point. “Certainly not. You will receive a trial and execution immediately upon our return.”

“Even after all I’ve done,” Merlin says. "I know it would never happen, but you and I can be honest with each other, can't we? Enemy to enemy?"

They can, in a way no one else, perhaps, ever could. Uther inclines his head in acknowledgement, unsure if Merlin can even see the movement.

"So, tell me the truth. What would it take, to change your mind about magic? Or… me?"

Uther thinks about it, as if it needed any thought, deciding how to phrase it to perhaps put the topic to rest once and for all.

"Think of it as you might see a group of locusts. If you spare even one, it will lay eggs, and they will lay waste to the fields. It isn't because the one has done something, but it is the nature of a locust to destroy. To spare even one would cost everything."

"I'm not a locust, though," he says.

No, he is something far worse, with his eyes that flash and his unnatural hands that twist blood and shear heads from bodies.

“Anyways, I’m tired of waiting for it," says Merlin. "I think it’ll be a relief, in a way. Still, I hate to leave Arthur alone.”

“I will be there with him.”

"That is no comfort. You’re useless.”

“Am I,” he says flatly.

“Absolutely. You were awful back there. You might let him know you were concerned for him, at the very least.”

“I did,” he says indignantly.

“No, you– Arthur is not like you or I. He’s sensitive.”

Arthur had always been sensitive. Uther had seen all of himself in Morgana, and none of it in Arthur.

“And what would you have me do?”

“He needs a bit of kindness."

"A king cannot–"

"I know you've got to be the big strong man in public, but it's not as if anyone can see you here. It's dark, even I can't see you. There's always somewhere to go where no one can see. Besides, the worst thing that could happen to him has already happened."

"It nearly happened. And may yet still."

"As I said, I believe he will live,” says Merlin carefully, “But his injuries are severe. They need proper cleaning and care that cannot be provided out here. There is a town close by–"

“You are still trying to escape?” This is the most obvious bid for escape he’s seen from the boy in some time. He thought they were beyond this.

“You know I'm not." He is not entirely sure. He has offered to die tonight, but perhaps Uther's offer to wait has made him bold enough to think he could get away with escaping another day. He's an opportunist, and, as Uther must admit, quite intelligent. "Think, they will be scouring the woods for us now, we need to blend in. Besides, I can’t keep us fed on foraging alone.”

He asks the question that has plagued his mind since they sat in that cell, since they'd left and Merlin hadn't simply run the other direction, gone over the border to escape execution the moment he'd had the chance. “What do you have to gain from this?”

“I love your son,” he says, more candidly than Uther had expected from someone who often seems half shadow. “I want him to be alright even when I’m not there to look after him anymore.”

“You place too much importance on yourself. You are only his manservant.”

Merlin chuckles at that. “Much goes on in Camelot that you don’t know about, Sire. As I said, everything interesting happens in the dark."

Uther sees that now. But why not take credit for all his supposed heroics? He might manipulate the public into believing magic users were benign.

"And why not tell him these things, what you are, since you are so sure of destiny?"

"If I am to die on our return regardless, I will not die with him hating me. I'm not sure how he would react, he might not take it well. And why don't you tell him?"

Uther would not say it, but he is not certain either. Devoted as he is to his manservant, Arthur might take the information in stride and decide to help Merlin escape. Uther cannot trust even his own son. Not in this.

The stars move in slow arcs above them, and the woods creak.

“If we are both awake, we waste energy and a bedroll,” says Uther.

Merlin nods, but makes no move to go toward his bedroll.

“I will take first watch,” Uther says, because he has to spell it out every damned time.

Merlin's mouth twitches. “Worried a sorcerer might kill you in your sleep?”

Uther nods solemnly.

Merlin goes, leaving Uther alone.

Uther can hear Arthur's occasional pained groans, his half-starts as he wakes through the night, but they stop after some time. It is a particularly cold night.

Uther stands to check on his son, in case he must build a fire after all. Or in case the breath stopping means something more, that he's been taken again, or has died in his sleep.

Arthur is still there in the leaves. He sleeps soundly, dark circles below his eyes. Besides him Merlin is curled up protectively, shivering, the fool. Uther takes the blanket from his own bedroll and places it over him. He cannot have him ill again. Though he seems to heal quickly, perhaps from his unnatural abilities, it would slow their progress.

Uther goes back to keep watch, and looks out at the darkness that seems to wait just for him.

Chapter Text

They set out toward the little village on Camelot's outskirts. Though it is only a few miles from their location, given Arthur’s frequent need to stop, it is midday and they still haven’t arrived. Merlin can hardly be upset over it, but he is anxious to arrive, in hopes that he might find a way to get these damned shackles off.

“Sorry,” huffs Arthur, on their fourth stop in as many miles.

“Need me to check on–”

“No, I already feel far better than I have in days,” says Arthur hastily. “I don’t know what you put in that salve, Merlin, but it’s a wonder.”

It’s not the salve, of course, it’s the fact that Merlin’s magic had forced Arthur’s body to heal far beyond what it should be capable of. That effort, combined with the emotional toll, had left Arthur quite tired.

“Just an old healer’s trick for burns,” says Merlin. “Won’t stop the scarring, but it should help with the pain.”

“And you? Are your wrists alright?” asks Arthur with a surprising amount of genuine concern in his tone.

No don’t be a girl’s petticoat, Merlin, or any of it. He’s speaking to him the way he speaks to his men. Weeks ago, Merlin would have said he wished for such respect, but now that he’s got it, he’s not certain what to do with it.

“My wrists are fine."

Arthur reaches for them, inspecting them closely. They’re not fine, Merlin knows that, the redness and blistering as prominent as the first day he’d put them on. Arthur seems to know not to mention this fact, though it is obvious to them both.

"Did she do anything else?"

"The sorceress used water to choke me,” he says, as unaffected as he can manage. It’s not the worst he’s endured, not by far, though he’s sure this, too, will take its toll. “But that’s all, really.”

Arthur traces a hand over his wrist.

“I’d have killed her for this,” says Arthur. “I promise you that.”

Merlin’s insides squirm at the admission, but he has lived long enough to know such promises mean little. Because Morgause hadn’t done this. Arthur’s father had, the father he idolizes, who he had loved for his whole life before he had even met Merlin.

Merlin turns away, uncomfortable. He should really be discouraging such intimacy, beyond what is ordinary between servant and prince. He will be gone in a matter of days or weeks, whether by escape or by his death, and… he would prefer Arthur stop needing him. Merlin shrugs, and pulls his hand away, but from the look Arthur gives him, it’s far too late for that.

_________

The sorcerer must be laughing at them, Uther thinks as he laces the boots that will disguise him as a peasant. They’d sat in the bushes while Merlin had procured them some clothing from some peasant passing by, with a surprisingly detailed tale of how they had been robbed down to the shirts off their backs.

Arthur begins to struggle into the shirt, and Merlin goes to assist, and Uther blocks him.

“I will help,” says Uther.

“No need, I am his manservant, after all.”

“You are bound, surely it is too difficult."

“I couldn’t let the King wait on someone when a servant is available.”

“You do not let the King do anything, I am–”

“I can do it myself,” Arthur suggests.

“No,” they say in unison.

Uther wins this one, and finishes putting the thin shirt onto Arthur, careful to avoid his wounds.

“It smells awful,” Arthur remarks. “Good lord, are all your peasant clothes this ratty? Don’t answer that. These are far too big, by the way."

"Oh, let me ask if she's got some in your size," says Merlin sarcastically. "They belong to her husband, prat, so don't complain."

Uther finishes putting himself together, uncomfortable with the loss of the weapons. It would not do for them to come into a village looking like warriors, though, when Morgana is looking for them.

"I've found us a place to stay the night in exchange for our labor," says Merlin. “The woman who gave us these clothes was kind enough to offer, but she's got to ask her mother first, so she's coming back."

"Our labor?" says Uther skeptically. He is not incapable of hard work, but Arthur may be in his present state.

"Yours mostly, since I'm, y'know," he shakes his wrists. "Unless that's above you, your highness? I can let you find your own place, and Arthur and I can stay with her."

“You wouldn’t,” says Uther, but he knows Merlin would.

They are at a strange imbalance. Uther has no title or weapon, Merlin is shackled and a sorcerer in a land where no one would protest if Uther were to kill him.

Merlin could tell them Uther is the king, revealing their location to Morgana’s men or the criminals that lurk in these border villages to hide from Calemot’s military. Uther could reveal Merlin as a sorcerer, then, assuring their mutual doom to the parties after them.

It is a silent agreement that keeps them from disaster, but that agreement is fragile and temporary, and Merlin has shown himself willing to self-destruct to make a point.

“We will need false names,” says Uther.

“Your name is Nichol,” Merlin points to Uther, “and you are Elric.” He peers over his shoulder. “Oh, she’s back. Quickly, finish getting dressed, I’ll speak to her.”

Merlin leaves, and Uther can hear another voice, muffled from behind the leaves.

Arthur looks as though he wants to say something. Uther would frankly prefer that he didn’t.

“Why are you and he–” he stops. “You and Merlin seem…” tense, he knows. Merlin glares at him like he wants to choke him with his bare hands, sometimes, and Uther is certain he looks the same. “Close.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“He’s been insulting you all morning.”

“Arthur,” he sighs, “I sincerely hope you don’t consider that close.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, and Arthur sighs tiredly.

“How are you feeling?” asks Uther.

“I am well,” Arthur says, though it seems inherently untruthful.

Uther reaches out slowly, and Arthur's eyes track the movement. Uther's hand makes its way to the top of Arthur’s head, and from Arthurs expression one would think it had made the journey by total accident.

Uther ruffles his son's hair. Arthur looks at him like he’s gone mad.

Merlin comes back, and waves for them to come out.

“Has something happened?” asks Arthur.

“Besides me getting us clothing, you mean? No.”

“You must be truthful with me,” says Arthur slowly.

“Of course,” says Merlin. “Aren’t I always?”

Merlin looks to Uther, and raises a brow. Uther’s mouth twitches.

“You lot are the ones looking for a place to stay, then?” asks the peasant, a weathered woman in an off-white barbe and a tunic, rough and thinned in a way that speaks to years of wear.

“This is Agnes’ mother Edith,” says Merlin, and she nods at them in acknowledgement. “She’s graciously agreed to let us stay.”

“Yes, you lot look like you need it,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “And a bath, too. I’ve got a bucket you can use.”

Uther tries not to take offense at that, but fails. The horse snorts, and Uther helps Arthur back onto it, that he might not exhaust himself so much as they go.

They walk along the fields, finally out of the woods, and the blessed tops of homes are visible over the hills. There is a band of men roaming far off on horses, though they do not look like knights. Bandits, or Morgana’s men.

Uther reaches for his dagger, the only weapon he'd been able to bring with them into town without arousing suspicion, and Edith waves a dismissive hand.

"They’re looking for money, and there is none here.”

The men ride off, and they make their way into the village, a peasant, a sorcerer, a prince and a king.

_________

They sit down to supper with Agnes and Edith. They have a small table but no seats, so they all take their meal sitting on the floor. Agnes lays down a bread trencher for them each, with nothing on it but a bit of cabbage. Uther frowns.

“This is hardly enough,” Uther says. “He’s healing, he needs more.”

“Most of the wheat’s already been sold,” says Agnes. "Be grateful you get anything at all, you–"

"Well," coughs Arthur. "The least we can do is help you with the work, in exchange for your kindness."

"I work the Lord's land until mid afternoon, so you all might help my mother here until I return," she says through a mouthful of food.

Merlin reaches for his trencher and his shackles clank against the table sharply, drawing Agnes’ eye.

“Be truthful, you all,” says Agnes seriously. “Are you running from arrest? Because if you are wanted men–”

"No! No, I apologize, We were taken by bandits," Merlin says quickly.

“Bandits,” she says skeptically.

Arthur nods. "I was captured and beaten, and they put shackles on my friend. We will be on our way as soon as I've seen a physician."

"There are some that make their home nearby," says Edith. "In old barns and things, we don't ever bother them though…"

Agnes continues to look at them, distrust written in the weary lines of her face.

"Even if you send us away tonight, we will go without a word. But they don't know we've come here, and we pose no threat. I cannot even hold a sword if I want to,” Arthur admits.

“Agnes,” says Edith, “Let us fetch some water before the daylight is gone.”

“Of course, mother,” says Agnes, and helps the old woman up. She nods to them. “You may stay.”

“Thank you,” says Arthur, and she goes, leaving them to talk among themselves.

"You tried to hold a sword?" Merlin asks.

Arthur nods tersely.

“When we return, we– you can practice and relearn your grip.”

Arthur sighs. "Until then I'm an invalid."

"Hey, we'll protect you. Your father and I can fight alright," Merlin says. "I got to use a dagger when we got you, you should've seen it."

“Right," says Arthur skeptically.

“I’m not– Uther, tell him I’m not joking.”

“You, use a dagger? You do not even know how to fight,” says Uther.

"But–"

"Merlin, shut up and eat your bread."

Merlin, betrayed, eats his bread and sulks.

_________

They go out to work in the early morning dark, out to tend the livestock. Edith leads them out to where the sheep stand, only blurred outlines in the grey.

"The sunrise is especially lovely in this area," Edith says as they meander to a stop. "This life, you only get so many!"

They follow the sheep, and Edith makes her way up the hill to a point where they can see off over the trees.

It comes up in its reds and slow blooming golds, coloring the grey sky. Uther can admit that it is beautiful, as much as something that happens every day can be.

"My old hips can hardly stand this walk. But that's the gift life gives, hm? A sunrise, and pain to an old woman… and here you give us the gift of your labor. Tsk, I hope you can haul firewood."

There is no such thing as a gift, Uther thinks cynically. Everything is an exchange, and it all comes down to the price.

"But I'm sure you'll do a good job, you look like hard workers."

He breathes deep, the morning air a crisp tang against the back of his throat, stinging every inhale.

From here he can see the cottage, and the light from the hearth's fire that had been stoked to cook over for breakfast. There's an old barn illuminated by the sunrise, stark against the horizon like a castle, and the village, visible in its entirety.

In the light, they make their way back to begin the day's work.

Throughout the morning they tend the animals, feed themselves and clean the areas around the home. Edith laughs at Uther, for he has never had to do such tasks, and requires more guidance than Merlin, who despite Arthur's many complaints over the years, does seem capable of servant's tasks.

Mid afternoon, Agnes returns, and Uther is banished to help her outside and to stop getting in the way. He has to hold his tongue at what he thinks of the treatment of the land's king; if he wishes he could have them executed the moment he is back,.but for now he is at the mercy of the peasants.

Carrying the firewood is not so bad.

"So, I suppose you aren't used to little chores," says Agnes, amused.

"What do you mean?" he asks, hoping she hadn't somehow been alerted to his identity.

“Nothing, only that you seem unaccustomed. It is good to have the help," says Agnes.

Even for the exchange of a day’s work, Uther would not be able to trust that someone wouldn’t rob him, with the prominence of criminals and homeless in the area. If she needs the help that badly, there must be a reason to risk it.

“And you, do you not have help here? Where is your husband?” asks Uther pointedly.

“Dead," grunts Agnes.

“It must have been difficult on your own," he says

“I’ve got my mother,” she says. “How about yourself, are you married?"

“I was. She was murdered."

"I'm sorry," says Agnes. "My Bertram left us only six months ago, now. He was already weak from hunger, and then work, and he... Well. There is no finger to point, but to the sky, and some days I don't know what to do. If you don't mind, how did you manage it?" she asks.

She is so young. He couldn’t imagine what he would have done, had he not had proof of the one to blame for Ygraine’s death, if he hadn’t had the power to punish them all. He would have had to sit in his pain, helpless, and go about his day.

"I…" He had made it so that no one could repeat his mistakes. He had sat in his rooms all night waiting for a voice to call him to bed, one that would never come. He had raised her son into a man. "I missed her."

“Yes," she sighs. "For me, some days it's like he's been gone forever, some it's like he's never left."

Two things at once, thinks Uther.

"Thank you," he says. "For giving us board."

"It's what anyone would do."

They cover over the fields with hay, preparation for the coming winter. He hasn't worked like this in years, not since his own father had sent him to be a squire and he'd hauled mens armor until his arms shook and his hands bled. Merlin is helping Edith back in their cottage, feeding the chickens.

Uther continues his own work, falling into the rhythm of it. It does seem to go by slowly, though the indignity of it is what sinks him more than the toil. Standing in peasants' soil is below him, but this is his duty, only for today.

They work, side by side, and the day passes them by. They chop firewood, and carry it back to the home. The breeze brings little comfort against the heat, and then the night creeps closer until the time comes to lay the tools down and go back.

_________

Uther has seen Merlin, shifty eyed, all evening snatching things and stuffing them into a sack. He plans to run tonight. Uther can see it clearly. It makes sense– Arthur has seen the physician today while they worked and will again tomorrow, so Merlin does not have to worry about his well-being. They are among others, near the border, and he could likely find someone willing to help him leave. Uther will not allow it, as Merlin, despite his seeming compliance, still poses a significant threat to the future of Camelot. He does not want to escalate to violence, but he will should the boy try anything.

They all sleep on the floor on spare blankets, side by side, which is lucky on this occasion. Uther can hear anything that occurs in the night, so he is prepared for when it happens.

Uther hears a noise, and then footsteps, clearly attempting to be quiet.

Then he hears a second voice.

“Merlin? What are you doing?”

“Packing up for tomorrow,” whispers Merlin. “She only promised us one night and she's already given us two, I thought we should get out of their hair early.”

“I’ll join you."

"You should rest."

"My blanket is far less comfortable than I’m used to.”

“And you decided this at midnight?”

“I am the prince, I can do as I please.” He’s silent for a moment. “Alright, what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re an awful liar. You’ve been distant with me, and I didn’t want to say anything in front of my father, but he’s sleeping. You can tell me. I order you to, in fact.”

“Sire, I truly–”

“It’ll come out eventually, I’ll just keep bothering you even if it takes ‘til next year.”

“Really,” says Merlin, a smile in his voice that makes Uther sick. The two don't seem to realize just how close he is to them, that even if they were being near silent he might wake up and hear.

“I’ll make you wear the hat every day.”

“Anything but that.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“You’re a good man, Arthur. I’d be proud to be your servant forever.”

Uther is not supposed to be hearing this conversation. He stills his breathing, careful not to alert them that he is awake.

“Anyone would be–”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to say goodbye.”

“What are you going on about?”

If Merlin is going to tell Arthur something damning, Uther needs to know what he says, that he can be prepared for the fallout. If he means to explain that he is a sorcerer, to get Arthurs help in running…

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“Now, hold on. Is this you admitting you were worried? Got sappy, did you, started thinking they’d offed me?”

“Yes, well you should have seen yourself, you looked near death when I found you,” says Merlin. “Of course my mind went to the worst."

"I'm sorry."

“Would you– well, if I were to quit–"

“If you quit I’d come up with a new crime and accuse you of it, and lock you up in the dungeons for a bit ‘til you came to your senses.”

“Funny you jump to that before asking why I’m going, or perhaps giving me a raise in pay, or quitting throwing pillows at me in the morning when I wake you. No, it’s got to be the dungeons.”

“Come on, Merlin, don’t be an idiot. You wouldn’t ever leave," he says, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"Seeing Agnes and Edith got me thinking. My mother needs help around the house, she's getting older. When we return, I'll be leaving for some time. Maybe even before that. We're close to Ealdor, I– I could leave from here tonight–"

"You can't," he says immediately. "I'll come with you."

"You are needed in Camelot. They should know you’re alive."

"Alright. I'll come back to Camelot, then I’ll sneak out to join you."

"But,” he stutters. “You’re in no state to ride so far."

"I'll send someone else to help your mother, then. I'll send several men, food, supplies, anything she needs," he says, and his voice goes quieter, softer. "You mustn't go without me."

They’re quiet for a long moment, their breathing the only sounds in the dark.

"Alright," says Merlin. "I’ll stay with you as long as I live, how's that? Now go to sleep, Arthur."

Fabric rustles, and the two seem to retire to sleep.

Merlin is a fool not to run.

Duty. Love. He doesn't seem to grasp the difference between the two. It is as if to him, they are one and the same, two burdens he carries as one. Uther doesn’t understand him. The boy's looming death and his near-delirious hope. It's absurd.

They'll visit the physician again in the morning, having paid for their keep, and will go, and that will be that.

_________

Merlin wakes in the morning and feels more energy than he has in days. He brushes back Arthur's hair to kiss his forehead, and Arthur rolls his eyes, but Merlin knows he's not really annoyed.

"People will get ideas," Arthur mutters.

As if Merlin cares about people and their ideas. He's only on this earth for another day, he's going to spend it doing all the things he never got to do for all his fear. All that fear is gone, now.

"They may."

"I'll make sure it's alright once I'm king," he says.

As though it were that easy. As though there weren't advisors and lords to please, other kingdoms cultures to consider, lest they refuse trade in the future as Camelot does for kingdoms allowing magic and depravity now.

"How do you do that?" asks Merlin.

"What?"

"Decide things will turn out alright."

"It's not as if it's easy," Arthur says. "But if I don't, it'll never be. Obviously. If I as the prince can't make it so, who could?"

The pair lies there still for a moment, and Arthur speaks again.

"In that place I didn't know what to feel. And when my father came in, I thought perhaps I was already dead, because he would never come to such a place to find me."

"He cares for you," Merlin says softly.

"Of course he does, he's my father," says Arthur unconvincingly. "But his duty is at the castle, I didn't expect…"

"As is mine. Yet you expected me."

"Your duty? You don't work at all," gripes Arthur. Merlin brings a hand to his chest in mock offense. "You just wait around to be told what to do and then drag your feet until–"

Uther wakes up loudly, stretching his arms, and looks over, as if he had forgotten where they all were. Arthur quickly pushes Merlin away, and sits up with a wince.

Merlin leans back over immediately, daring Uther to say something.

Uther blinks, taking in the both of them, the very picture of impropriety as they lie across each other.

"I could have your head," Uther mutters.

"Couldn't you?" says Merlin.

"Father, he's only being friendly," says Arthur quickly. "Aren't you Merlin? It's different in the countryside."

Merlin taps a hand on his chin, considering. "No, not really," he says.

"Please, father, don't punish him, it was my fault." Arthurs expression is grave, his tone frantic.

Merlin takes pity on him. "I'm sorry, highness. I lost myself. Please have mercy," he drawls.

Uther schools his face. Merlin motions to Arthur, who is working himself into stress, which is not ideal for his condition.

"I suppose I can overlook it," Uther grates out.

They get up and go to the little hut of the physician, and Merlin is disheartened to see that this physician has nowhere near the materials that Gaius has at the castle. He only has a few bandages, some herb bundles, and some odd looking bottles upon a single shelf.

It will do for now, though.

"Ah! Elric," says the physician, a thin man with curly hair, who waves them in.

"Thank you for changing his bandages yesterday," says Merlin.

"If you can even call them that," says the physician, looking curiously at Merlin. "They were filthy."

Merlin resists the urge to snap at him that yes, treating someone in the middle of the woods without supplies would certainly do that.

"Anyway, there was no infection as of yesterday, which means your chances are good, you'll be back in the fields in no time at all," the physician says.

"Would a day's travel do me harm?" asks Arthur.

"It depends on the ride, and how well you've improved since before," says the physician, "Let me have another look at you…"

The physician explains how he might avoid jostling his injuries, particularly his hands when using the reins of the horse. Merlin, half listening, looks out the small window and freezes.

"I'll be right back," Merlin says calmly.

He walks out the door and breaks into a run.

_________

Uther keeps a close eye on Merlin. He had left the physician's on his own some time ago and had not returned. Uther hesitates to leave Arthur in a stranger's care, but the sorcerer might be plotting.

Uther goes down the path, looking for where the prisoner has got off to.

Merlin goes toward the treeline with a strange urgency. Uther does not know how the boy plans to get away, since he has no food nor coin, only the clothes on his back. He is learning that despite Merlin's secrets he really can be as stupid as Uther always believed.

There is someone waiting at the treeline. Ah. Perhaps not as stupid as he thought, then, if he has a partner waiting. But as she throws him backwards to the ground, Uther realizes his mistake.

Morgana stands there at the edge of the woods, hands crackling with magic.

_________

"Hello, Emrys," says Morgana. "You really believed I wouldn't find you?"

Merlin sits up, only to be struck down again, pinned to the dust by Morgana's power. He moves his hands, but to no avail, just as every other day he has beaten the chains against the rocks and they had been undamaged.

She's going to kill him, and then Arthur, and he can do nothing–

"You ally with them, but I know how it ends,” says Morgana. “Your head will roll like the rest."

"You're going to kill me instead, then?" he asks, feeling small from his position on the ground.

Morgana breaks one of the cuffs, and he feels it the moment the seal is broken on his magic, the way it rushes back through his veins.

She had freed him, at least somewhat, though the other cuff still hinders his magic. But why–?

"I've got other plans for you," says Morgana.

He feels it the moment she enters his mind, and goosebumps raise on his bare arm as the magic there is seized to her will.

"The prophecy says that Emrys will be advisor to Uther's child. Who's to say it couldn't be me?" asks Morgana softly. “But first, let’s see what you’re capable of, Emrys.”

She digs her fingers into his mind again, and raises his hand she had unbound, the magic flowing into it like a broken dam after being pent up for so many days.

"I’ll let you choose who to burn first. Will you direct your fire here, to your prince,” she raises her hand toward the little physicians hut where Merlin had come from, and oh, God, had she been watching them, she must know Arthur was–, “No, you don't want to? How about here, then?” She turns to the fields, the rest of the village. People are working, unaware of what is happening beside them.

Merlin's body moves with the motion of Morgana's hand. His heart thumps, and he jerks away, trying to escape the grip.

He feels it in his head, the presence. These are your options, it says. As if there were only two actions on the earth that he could take, everything fading down to nothing.

Why is she doing this? To show him that he’s no better than her, than Uther? Or is she simply trying to test her new weapon?

He's still fighting it, his fingers twitching, cramping as he breathes deep with the effort of holding himself back from the magic threatening to burst from his fingertips and scorch the ground.

Make a decision. Do you choose him, or them?

He had always tried to do both, to help Arthur, and the people of Camelot. That's who it's all been for, his duty, his destiny, all of it for Camelot.

When it comes down to it, it’s easy to decide.

His hands heat, and he can see it as clear as a vision, what is going to happen. There is no time to think.

His hand moves shakily toward the fields.

Merlin turns just in time to see Uther swing at her with a hay flail. Morgana blocks with a swing of her own magic, slicing Uther's ankle.

She jolts at the interruption, giving him just enough leeway to escape, and Uther motions for Merlin to follow him behind the hut to run between the buildings.

_________

“Thanks,” Merlin pants as they stand behind a row of cottages where no one can see.

They’re stalling for time, Morgana would be back in only moments. Merlin tenses all at once. “Is Arthur alright, did they–”

“He is safe.” Uther does not know that for certain, but he must calm Merlin, for he can feel the heat of magic rolling off of him in waves, and he might still destroy this place sheerly off his own panic. “Calm yourself.”

Merlin sits, hunched with his back to Uther, hair still standing on end. He seems to collect himself, though his shoulders still hold a weight as if his magic is collecting there and settling back into his body.

He reaches out to run a hand over Uther's leg, where blood runs lazily from the cut. The blood runs backward, and the skin knits itself together eerily, pain fading to nothing.

Merlin drops his hand.

“So you heard that."

"I did," they duck around the corner. The open space makes it difficult to hide, and Uther cannot be sure where Morgana has even gone.

"I would have killed them," says Merlin, voice hollow. "It was so damned easy. Is that what it’s like for you?”

“I do not make decisions lightly, if that’s what you are implying."

Uther motions for him to sit, and he does, dust coating his back from where he'd been thrown. Uther just be cautious, now that he has the power to kill once again.

“I just wanted a choice.”

There are no choices in Uther’s life.

Merlin must save Arthur. Uther must kill Merlin. Arthur must rule Camelot.

But what has happened cannot be undone, and the future rests on the past, in unbreakable circles. Both are bound by what must be.

“I never thought that would be my choice."

"They live still."

"But they would not had you not come. I'm as much a monster as if they had died. I thought I was doing all of this for a greater purpose, but it's always just been... I never wanted to be like you," Merlin says, and there is something hopeless to his voice that Uther has never heard there before.

For the first time, Uther understands the boy, and the burden the two of them share that neither of them can share with another living soul.

Uther reaches out for him, and Merlin startles, jumping backwards.

“Don’t touch me,” Merlin hisses under his breath. "You do not get to– Don’t come close to me.”

I am the king, Uther could say, but he already knows what Merlin would say to that.

He reaches out again, slowly, and pulls the boy in for an embrace that's more of a hold than a hug, but an embrace nonetheless.

Merlin struggles, trying to get away, but Uther holds firm, and he relaxes into it, slumping in exhaustion. Uther ignores the obvious shaking, the tears seeping into his clothes. Merlin is exactly the monster Uther had known he was, he witnessed that, the power that moved through his hands. He is also a boy, who cries into his hands with a splotchy red face, grieving for the choices he is forced to make.

Uther does what is necessary, things good men will not do. If it comes with the scorn of others then that is what it takes. Uther must be rational, must be in control, must do the things that need to be done.

Listening to the boy cry in his arms, though, it does make him wish things were different.

In a few days, if all goes well, Merlin's head will roll across the dirt. Uther will rule his kingdom, training his son until he is fit to do the same, until there is none of that crying boy left in him, for this is how it must be. They are both tools for destiny.

Merlin clutches the fabric of his shirt and he allows his hand to rest on the boy's head, cradling it gently.

For a moment, destiny is delayed.

The wall behind them crackles with magic. Morgana has found them.

"Go," says Uther. "You must fight her."

“What am I supposed to do? She's right, my destiny says–”

"You promised me you would bring my son home."

"I don't know if I can. You saw how powerful she is, and I’m… going to die anyway.”

If Merlin gives up, she will, as Uther understands it, have all the power of Emrys to use at her whim.

"Keep your promise, and I will keep mine," says Uther.

The boy wants to say his goodbyes to Arthur. Uther is relying on that desire. Merlin nods, and turns to go.

Uther turns away too, preparing to find Arthur and take him somewhere safe.

When he enters the physician's hut, Arthur is gone, as is the physician.

There is a harsh sound outside, like a storm coming through, and a crackling of energy.

A hand grabs him, and he turns, ready to strike at it.

"What are you doing?" Agnes hisses. She grabs his hand again and pulls him along with her. "Come, quickly. They are here for the prince.”

It takes Uther's mins a moment to understand the meaning of her words. They are found out.

“How did you–”

"I knew I had seen him somewhere. He was here last year when the storms came, to bring around rations and blankets.”

They approach the old barn, and remembers Edith's words. There are bandits that make their home in this village.

He steps inside, and several eyes fall upon him. Peasants in rags, Edith and Agnes with tools for farming, but that could be used to kill. All surrounding Arthur.

A trap. Perhaps they were working with Morgana, perhaps independently, but they knew who they were. Uther has been a fool, he allowed these people to come near Arthur thinking they could not take advantage of the situation. How long ago had she realized? Had she been the one to alert Morgana to their presence here? He cannot know the answers, only the situation as it is now, standing in the barn as Merlin and Morgana fight outside, with no knights to stand at his back. He has no leverage, no defense.

So it has come to this.

He weighs his options, and the only feasible one is to surrender. They do not fear him now. How could they, when Arthur is still so weak, when Uther wears no armor and has no men to carry out his rule?

These villagers could slaughter them both in an instant.

Arthur is too far for him to get to. He has not even seen Uther yet, back turned, speaking quietly with one of his captors.

Agnes has not spoken again since they entered the barn. Perhaps she expects him to speak first. Uther obliges.

"Whatever you want, I will give it. Gold, land, I will give it to you," says Uther.

"I want nothing," Agnes frowns, and Uther despairs. If she will take no payment then he has no options but to beg. His advisors would gape at him now, weak as he is. The kind of man he never thought he would be. A king never bows, a king keeps his head high. Against sorcerers, warriors of all abilities, this has held true, Arthur and himself could hold their own. But today Arthur is so weak, and Uther cannot fight them all. Is this how he goes, then, taken by mere villagers?

Agnes looks at him, impassive.

Uther kneels, shedding his dignity.

"Please," he says, voice breaking against his throat, "I beg of you."

“Really, I need no payment. A woman came asking after you all, and we thought she was probably the one who did that,” she tilts her head to where Arthur sits in the next room. "So we brought him here."

“Agnes?” Arthur leans over, having apparently sighted them. “I'm certain the sorcerers are gone by now, I really don’t need a guard."

"The sorceress is still outside," says Agnes. "Fighting, I saw the two of them having it out."

"Though you have all been quite effective," says Arthur, "I’m not sure it’s necessary for all of you to put yourselves at–"

“No, but it is the right thing to do, I am sure of it,” Agnes says firmly. "You are of Camelot, we protect our own."

It is then that Uther understands what is happening here. Arthur had not been captured for ransom, but had been guarded for his safety.

Uther looks at the villagers, determined, wielding scythes and hay flails as though common farm tools would last against a sorceress. If Morgana were to come here, they would die before they even knew what was happening.

They have not broken his trust, though he had never given it to begin with. A wave of relief hits him like a blow. He remembers that he is on his knees, and she is looking at him like he is a fool, and he shakily makes his way to standing, though it feels as though he could topple again from his sheer gratitude.

"Father," says Arthur, finally noticing him. "Thank God you're here. Where is Merlin?"

"He is on his way," says Uther.

Merlin will fight her, and Uther prays he will win.

"Are you alright?" asks Uther.

Arthur nods. "It took me ages to make it here. They practically had to carry me." Arthur seems as if he wants to say something more. "When we return, it may be more of the same."

"Naturally you will need time to heal, and then you will go back to training as usual."

Arthur shifts, the stoic expression giving way to uncertainty.

"And what if no time can heal me?" asks Arthur suddenly. "What if I remain crippled, and I never learn to hold a sword again, or walk properly," he asks. "If I become unnecessary, then what?"

"I doubt that you would become–"

"Ideally, I will recover. But we must plan for the event that I do not. After all, if I were not your sole heir, then you would not have sent a single man to search for me, and I understand that decision entirely. However, it means that we must discuss the possibility that I-- that I do not ever meet your standard again," Arthur stops, and finally meets his eye. "and that you have gone to all this trouble for nothing."

Uther's breath catches in his throat.

It has never mattered if Uther was a good man, only a good King. He has always done what was needed, and has not wondered if it made him good. But looking into Arthur's eyes, their righteous anger like Morganas and their blue longing just like Ygraine's, Uther knows that he is not a good man.

"Come with me," says Uther, and leads Arthur gently to a corner, away from the others in a semblance of privacy. “I had meant to speak with you as soon as we left that vile cell, but…"

He is lying. He has never meant Arthur to hear what he is about to say at all.

“What was it you wanted to speak about?”

“I…"

Normally for things so monumental he has a speech prepared for him, and he speaks the words to the public, grand proclamations of justice and sovereignty.

He has prepared no words, no speech, in this dark, dusty barn.

"There was a price," his mouth says, unthinking. "To get you back from the sorcerers who took you."

"Your life," says Arthur. "They told me."

"Then you understand the decision I needed to make. You are still young, and do not have the wisdom needed to carry a kingdom. If I fell, others would try to take our land, take advantage of the situation and insert themselves into Camelot's politics, and the kingdom could easily fall to war."

“Of course, I understand," says Arthur.

“A good King must put the Kingdom's needs before his own. A good man must work for the betterment of all." Uther breathes in, and out. “I am not a good King, nor a good man.”

He had known from the start that it might come to it, given the power of Arthur's captors. He had given Gaius instructions of his false illness, so that whether he returned or not, no one would know how he had truly passed. He had prepared instructions that he had left in his chambers, that if Arthur came back without him he could use them to ease the transition of rulers.

“Father–"

“Yes, that’s it. I am your father, Arthur, and you understand that I went into those woods prepared to honor the agreement if it came to it. Tonight, I thought you had been captured, and I was prepared to beg for your life on my knees. I would have done whatever it took, damn the consequences. Not for any political purposes, but because..."

It is a truth he had avoided thinking about, that seems so obvious now in its dangerous power. He would have burned the kingdom down. If Arthur had been dead already he would have brought him back. It is unacceptable that his son might die, he would not have allowed it to happen, no matter the cost.

In a body you cut off the infected parts before they rot the whole. Arthur's shirt falls off his shoulder, his wounds, scabbed over, pink and healing.

"Despite myself, I must worry about you. It is not something I can help."

There it is. Uther's weakness, out in the open. The truth that might shatter his kingdom if it falls into the wrong hands. It sits in the air, untouched.

Unsure what to do now, Uther reaches forward, and gives Arthur back the ring he had held through the journey. Turquoise, for protection. Arthur allows it, a small, bitten back smile at the edge of his mouth as he places it on his other hand, for he could not wear it on the one bandaged, the place where things have been lost. But he has the ring. Uther trusts that he will not lose it again.

_________

Merlin’s mind is fading from him. They had fought, a whirlwind of moving rock and wind, but with only one hand free he cannot use the full range of his magic.

Morgana forces the dark, wispy tendrils into his eyes and throat, and Merlin chokes as they make their way inside his head.

Morgana speaks to him in his mind, half-concept, half-words, of what he will do for her. The destruction his body will wreak when he gives over. Images of what is to come, and the way Camelot will burn so she can create it anew.

He won’t have to make any choices, anymore. He hasn’t in a long time, he’s only followed his destiny, and this isn’t all that different.

This could be destiny too.

Destiny. Destiny. This thing that gave him a purpose has shackled him and thrown him to the ground, and now it will destroy him utterly. His hand had moved so easily toward those people who had no part in this war.

He’s not who he thought he was.

"Why are you doing this?" he chokes.

"I'm doing it for Camelot," says Morgana. "As I always have."

She will take Merlin, and she will capture Arthur again, and kill Uther…

For Camelot, says the Chancellor, eyes pleading as he betrays Uther.

How could Merlin ever have thought he could fight what destiny has in store for him?

For Camelot, says Uther as he slaughters innocents.

He’s bringing magic back to the land, isn’t he, but it will be on Morgana's terms. Always on someone else's terms.

For Camelot, says Clement as she dies believing in him.

He could just rest, close his eyes and let it happen. The tendrils close around his mind like a warm embrace, gently asking him to follow their lead. It hurts to fight. It would be so easy.

“My destiny says–”

Merlin closes his eyes. He might be just as selfish and unsuited to save Camelot as the rest of them.

"You promised you would bring my son home."

But he still has a purpose here.

"You mustn't go without me."

It's the same story as always, Merlin saving Arthur, saving the ones he loves, saving Camelot. But maybe it's never been that, maybe it's always been the other way round.

Merlin is not doing this for Camelot.

They are both monsters now. But they weren’t always. Her magic worms into his flesh, but it is only suggestion, caressing his lungs, his mind, his eyes. Gently moving him toward someone else's goals, showing him how to move and feel, pressing him toward rage and vengeance.

“Morgana,” he says weakly, and he looks into her eyes, framed with thick lashes, the crows feet that have formed deeper since the last time he saw her up so close, and the little freckles that are near-invisible unless she’s been in the sun.

It’s Morgana. All the anger fades away to the background, because that's not right. Merlin already knows how he feels, what he wants.

He opens up his mind and lets her see all the love he holds there still.

For her, and Arthur and Gwen and summer afternoons, the adventures they'd had and the future they'll never have, and for Camelot.

She falters, only for a moment, and he pulls against the threads until they snap. Merlin moves his magic all to his still-clasped wrist, pulsating against the metal, and it shatters. His magic roars, free at last in its wild entirety, and gathers to him in a thick storm of movement, all of nature’s power at his fingertips.

He twists her blood, and moves it all from her hands so she cannot cast. Then in an uncontrolled flurry, his hair flying in the wind, Merlin snaps her healing bracelet from her wrist. His magic comes down to weigh her to the ground, struggling against its power.

"You'll die on this path,” she says.

He will. But when he dies, it will be on his own terms, with the knowledge that he had gotten all he wanted from this life.

"I'll think of all of you," he says. “Up on the pyre, or the chopping block, whichever one his highness puts me on."

"Even me?" she sneers.

"Yes," he says seriously.

She considers him from her place on the ground, forced into a sitting position though she clearly wishes to stand. They both know that with both hands freed, he is the more powerful of the two. He could destroy her now if he liked. It is only courtesy that he is allowing her to be alive right now.

"I should have been a better friend to you," he says.

She clears her throat. “I suppose I won’t be seeing you again.”

“You’ll think of me, though. As we were before,” he says, and sits beside her. It's a poor imitation of peace, but it's the closest they're likely to get.

She nods, and they sit together at the edge of the woods, the ghosts of two friends that once were.

_________

She is dead, says Merlin on his return, whispered in his ear where Arthur cannot hear. Uther does not believe him, though his face is impassive.

If he had killed her, something in the air would have changed. He would feel it, if Morgana was no longer in the world, and he would see Merlin as different, his eyes going wide and unnatural, his hands turning to claws, and Uther would feel the same horror he had felt when he had seen Ygraine dead and Nimueh allowed to live, monster that she was.

But he only sees Merlin, a young man, body slumped in exhaustion as if he were the one who had been defeated.

Arthur stumbles toward them with an exclamation of Merlin's name, shameless, though Uther supposes he has not expressed his disapproval at their closeness of late. His mind has been on other things.

Merlin's hands, now weapons unsheathed, without their shackles, reach out and hold Arthurs shoulders steady.

"What the hell happened to you?" asks Arthur, and Merlin launches into the next lie.

_________

As they leave there is a certain peace to it. The villagers, now that they know their identities, allow them to borrow horses and medical supplies with the king's promise of repayment.

The next day will be spent sporadically riding, Arthur likely needing frequent stops, and then they will be home.

Even now, miles from Camelot, Uther sees the castle in the distance. He sees the lower town, and the wild beyond.

Morgana would love this view, he thinks. She would love the people here, who had given them the horses. He wonders if she would have freed them, or if she would have realized that was a childish fantasy by now. If she is dead by Merlin’s hand, he cannot fault the boy for it. He was only doing what anyone would do, protecting the prince. And if he didn’t kill her… then Merlin is more like Uther than he would ever have believed.

The castle stands still, regal, the light reflecting off as if it had been blessed by the sun herself. It is as it has always been, and yet Uther feels an acute sense of loss, of the past that was and the future that might have been.

_________

They arrive back at the castle's gates at night, the guards allowing them in with quiet words of concern. The new moon is dark in the sky, and seems to blend into it. The guards are warned to keep their silence on the arrival of the battered, tired group.

They help Arthur to his chambers. Arthur keeps casting glances at the two of them, though whether it’s a desire not to be separated, or merely the unseeing gaze of exhaustion, he is unsure.

Merlin squeezes Arthur's hand. Uther thinks of the meat of the rabbit, the cleft skin of the bloodhound, the way the skin peeled back from the body as though it were always meant to fall apart.

“Here,” says Merlin, reaching back to undo his neckerchief once again. “Take this.”

Arthur clutches the thing like it’s precious, and Merlin strokes a hand over his head.

“I’ll fetch Gaius,” says Merlin. “He’ll want to give you something to help you sleep.”

The two wait quietly for their return. Uther has nothing to say. Arthur has been helped into his sleeping clothes already, and now lies beneath the clean covers, waiting to be tended. He looks so young, lying here, and Uther feels ancient.

Merlin comes back through the door, Gaius following behind in a rush.

"–and I changed the bandages this afternoon," Merlin is saying, "So tomorrow he will need them checked up on again."

Gaius pours a cup full of clear liquid, then tips it down Arthurs throat. Arthur makes a face, and immediately blinks as if fighting sleep.

"How does he seem?" asks Uther, as Gaius looks over Arthur.

"He will be alright," says Gaius. “For tonight, anyway. It is a gift, that you made it back to us, sire. And that there is no infection."

A gift, indeed. Nearly everyone has betrayed him. Yet, somehow they have made it home, though at great cost. Is it, then, a gift? Has he paid enough, for his son's life?

"Despite the servant's poor care," mutters Uther.

"I trust Merlin did what he could; I'll check him again tomorrow morning to ensure no infection has arisen."

"It's alright, Merlin can check me over, I'm sure," says Arthur.

There is a pause, where sits all the things Arthur does not know about the coming morning, and who will be there to see it.

"No, it may be Gaius tending you for a while,” says Merlin.

“Why?” Arthur demands. “We settled that whole business with your mother, did we not?”

They are quiet for a moment, Merlin watching Arthur thoughtfully.

"You'll bring my breakfast, at least," says Arthur, in a tone that brooks no argument.

"I," says Merlin, hesitant. "Yes, of course, sire. I promise."

"Good."

"Well, I suppose we had all better get to sleep. You, highness, should rest before the execution tomorrow.”

“Execution?” asks Arthur, eyes half shut. “Who?”

“Your father found another sorcerer within the castle. I suppose he forgot to tell you, with all that’s been going on."

"In the castle," says Gaius, eyes flickering between them.

Arthur frowns. "I should have been made aware. I suppose we should ask him if he's," Arthur yawns, "truly a sorcerer, like we did with the other one. Could be another that was only mind controlled."

“No, this one... surrendered," says Merlin.

"Curious," says Arthur. "They rarely admit to it just like that."

"I suppose he knew we would hunt him down anyway," says Merlin, a resigned look in his eyes that Uther has come to know well. "I think he just didn't want to run anymore."

Merlin goes to move his hand away, and Arthur grabs it back. Merlin has been a useful tool for Camelot, just as he set out to be. Faithful, useful to the end, and Uther admires that.

Arthur shifts in bed. "I still don't understand why--"

"We'll talk about it in the morning. I'll explain everything then, after the execution," says Merlin.

He's lying, just as he had to Clement. Merlin knows well that he will not have to explain. It will be someone elses burden to tell Arthur what has happened, and why his usual servant is not bringing his breakfast.

It is the quietest part of night, the darkest part, and they are alone here. No one knows that they've returned but the guards. This night is strange. It is as though everything is sleeping, even the rules which separate wrong from right.

Arthur lies in the bed, his chest rising and falling, alive. He holds Merlin's red neckerchief in his hand, more relaxed than he has been in days now that he is home. Arthur's ring of turquoise sits on his other hand now, bent from all it had endured, the circle straining as if ready to be broken.

“What are you on about?" says Uther. "Any known sorcerer in the castle would certainly have been executed by now. If one were found in my absence, my advisors would not wait for my return, they know to execute sorcerers immediately."

“Sire–” says Merlin.

“And,” he interrupts, “for that matter it is insulting that you would make such a fool joke at a time like this. Gaius, was there an execution in my absence?"

"No, sire," says Gaius.

"There you have it. Now, boy, if you're expecting some sort of reward for your role in my son's rescue, know that you will not be getting one this time. It's best if no one knows what has transpired here." Lest dissidents decide to try ransoming the prince again.

“Of course,” Merlin says quickly, blinking rapidly. "I must stay in my current position. We both have our duties to our people."

"Yes. Well.” Uther clears his throat. “You must remember that you are included in that group, as well."

Uther does not enjoy the way Merlin is looking at him, his unreadable eyes their usual blue, not yellow-gold. As if he were only ever a servant in the castle, as if they'd never left this place at all.

Merlin bows. "My king. I hope we all might one day be included."

"We shall see," Uther dismisses. “Watch over him."

“Rest well, sire," Merlin murmurs behind him, as Uther begins the walk toward his own chambers by the light of a candle. When he reaches his rooms he is relieved to find that there are no guards waiting, no servants, as no one has anticipated his arrival back just yet.

Uther looks in the mirror, his crown long lost, his face sallow and drawn in the candlelight. His hands brush the smooth wood of the bed frame. He will likely dream tonight of fears that may yet come to pass.

The room seems stifling now in its circularity. Though he is home, the walls seem to close in. He wonders if he was ever safe within the scars of old windows, or if they only closed out what he could not see. Perhaps he has paid enough for his gifts.

Something has shifted in the dark, and he is sure he will see it when the sun rises loyally in the morning, its path unchanged from every day previous. Uther feels as though he has been peeled apart. But he is still a rational man; he is still in control.

Uther sits at the edge of his bed, still in the clothing of a peasant, dirty and torn, looking nothing like a king. The bed will stain, he thinks distantly. It does not matter now.

In the morning he will be greeted by his servants and will need a story to tell to his remaining advisors. He will go about his day like any other, sitting on his throne.

He pulls the sheets over his hands, feeling the soft silk, the quiet of the edges. He is a king. He is a father.

Uther bows his head, and he is many things at once.