Chapter Text
The night was pure and clear, the day's veil of cloud banished to reveal the glimmer of stars and the bounty of the full moon. The air that swept in through the open window tasted of the season's turn: summer ripening into autumn. Ygraine felt like the earth itself, rich and fertile, and she smiled down at the swell of her belly.
She wished that she could be here to see him grown. She wanted to know the colour of his eyes and the line of his smile, to watch the boy that flourished within her become the man who would one day rule this kingdom.
It was an impossible dream. She had felt that certainty settle in her the moment the High Priestess Nimueh had woven her spell, her power allowing a seed to quicken in otherwise barren ground. She had sensed the magic take hold and had heard, amidst the power's whispers, its apologies for what it would cost.
Perhaps another queen would have railed against it, but Ygraine knew magic. Her gift was small. Spells did not answer her call, but sometimes she was able to turn events in her favour: just a touch. Her mother had always called it "Ygraine's little way". It had served her well. Traces of power ran through her like mountain streams, bright and joyful.
It would not pass to her son. She knew that in the same way she knew he would be a boy. It was a certainty that sat next to her bones, as strong as any foundation stone. Worse, there were hints at the edges of her dreams: shadows that promised he would never know the joy of magic. She sensed he would look on it with deep distrust and no small measure of fear, and her heart trembled to think of why that might be.
Had Nimueh seen it too, when she wove her enchantment? Had she spun that spell and witnessed the tapestry of their fate? Was that why she looked so pale, the light in her eyes growing dim as her features turned hard and cold?
It was too late now for regrets. There was no going back. The die had been cast, and all they could do was face whatever destiny had in store. Perhaps another woman would have faith in her husband: she would hope he would be kind to their motherless child, and yet she was no fool. She had an inkling of how Uther would be, and her heart ached for what her boy might live with.
It was not that Uther was deliberately cruel. There were worse men than him all through the five kingdoms, but he had views and expectations, and if their son did not meet them...
A kick at her belly made her laugh, and she smoothed her hand over the taut bulge, the velvet of her gown soft against her skin.
'Hush, Arthur,' she whispered. Unshed tears pricked at her lashes, but she sniffed them back, giving strength to her smile. 'Hush, my love. I cannot speak for your father, but you are my son. I will be with you in a hundred small ways, and while I cannot give you any real gift, I can promise you one thing.'
She thought of how magic glowed in the hands of the mages, bright and warm, a beautiful beacon. She recalled how it made her feel to be near it, brimming with child-like awe, all her worries stripped away. Her next words, when she spoke them, hummed with traces of her gift. She could not do more than put it out in the world, but something told her it would be enough.
The gods were listening, and one way or the other, maybe years from now, they would grant her this boon.
'Magic will love you,' she whispered, pressing both palms to where Arthur lay curled inside her, almost ready, but not quite. 'With all its heart and of its own free mind, magic will love you, and you will love it in turn.'
Gods, Merlin hated him. He hated Arthur's smug smile, his arrogant orders and the way he acted as if he knew better than everyone just because he was a prince. He loathed that golden blond hair and the perfect fit of his coat over his broad shoulders, but most of all he detested how he had dragged Merlin out here on the first cold day where autumn bled into winter to hunt animals for sport.
His breath steamed in front of his face as he tried to curl tighter into his too thin jacket. The temptation to stamp his feet to get some warmth back into his toes bit at his legs, but he valiantly resisted. If nothing else, Arthur would snap at him for scaring off all the game. Prat.
'Merlin,' Arthur hissed, casting a narrow look over his shoulder. 'Be quiet!'
'I didn't say anything!'
'You don't have to. Your teeth are chattering loud enough that they can probably hear you in Mercia.' There was a sigh, like Arthur thought such human frailties as freezing to death were a true inconvenience. Strong, capable hands moved over the crossbow, removing the bolt and easing its draw before he set it aside and shrugged out of his coat.
'Here.'
'What?' Merlin blinked at the offered garment in confusion.
'Put it on.'
When Merlin hesitated a fraction too long, Arthur threw it at him, the fine hide smacking him in the face as he spluttered his protests.
'You're underdressed, and I'm too hot anyway. You might as well wear it instead of carrying it.'
Merlin closed his mouth with a snap and set down the bag of supplies to shrug on the coat. It was a bit tight on top of his existing clothes, but he didn't care. The fur-lined garment smelled of horses and Arthur, and he ignored the way his heart flipped and his stomach swooped. Some of his irritable anger eased, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he turned up the collar.
Maybe Arthur wasn't so bad after all.
'What, no "thank you"?'
'Thank you, Sire,' Merlin sing-songed, putting just enough sarcasm into his voice to make Arthur roll his eyes and puff up his chest: all false authority to try and hide the smile that tugged at his lips.
'Come on, then. And keep up. You've been lagging behind all morning.'
Watching your back, Merlin didn't say, because Arthur would only laugh. It was true though. There was more than deer and pheasant in the Darkling Woods. Bandits, for a start, not to mention the occasional sorcerer skulking around looking for a chance to end the Pendragon dynasty before it began.
Merlin took that sort of thing personally, these days. He'd been using his magic to protect Arthur for a little over two years, now. At first, he did it because the dragon talked about prophecy, and Merlin had never been so glad to have a sense of purpose in his life. Within a month, though, he realised it didn't matter. Destiny or not, he wasn't about to leave Arthur's side.
Even when he was being a clotpole.
'You've been very quiet,' Arthur murmured after a while, casting a suspicious look in Merlin's direction. 'Normally all you do is complain. You've barely said a word.'
'I'm hoping you will hurry up and murder some poor, innocent animal, Sire, and then we can go home.' He ignored Arthur's scoff. 'Don't we have enough food for the feast?'
The noise Arthur made was vague at best, and Merlin shook his head. He suspected this little trip was more about getting away from the King's judgemental presence than anything else. Most of the knights were on patrol, but Uther had bid Arthur remain in Camelot. The result was that he had been a twitchy, anxious mess for the past few days, concerned about the well-being of his men and aggravated at being so confined.
Merlin had been sure he was in for a week of having things thrown at his head, but Arthur had been surprisingly restrained. Still, this jaunt had very little to do with getting meat for the table. Now he looked closer, it was obvious that Arthur's heart wasn't in the hunt. He appeared to relish the frigid air and the snaggletooth wind that whistled through the trees. He moved at a steady pace, not sneaking around and stalking a quarry, but picking occasional berries and rustling the fallen leaves beneath his feet.
'They'll be all right, you know. The knights, I mean.' Merlin shifted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, noticing how Arthur turned away a fraction, as if embarrassed at having someone read him with such ease.
Not that he was being obvious. Merlin simply knew what Arthur was like by now. He thought it did him credit that he gave a rat's arse about what happened to Lancelot, Gwaine and the others, but it was not an opinion shared by Uther. He found Arthur's friendships with his closest knights almost as distasteful as the one Arthur had with Merlin.
'You don't know that,' Arthur pointed out.
Yes, he did, because their armour was enchanted until it practically hummed, not that he could tell Arthur as much.
'They'll be back soon. Tomorrow, maybe, if the weather holds.' He squinted up at the sky, where the clouds drifted, thick and pregnant. There was a storm on the way. He could feel it in the breathless anticipation around him: the scurrying industry of the insects beneath his feet and the suck and draw of sap in the trees. It wasn't here yet, but he would bet anything the night of the feast would be windy and bitter.
At Arthur's curious look, Merlin shrugged, a lie already prepared. 'Gaius was complaining about his knee again.'
'A gale blowing in?' Arthur asked, his expression serious. The knights liked to tease each other about the twinge of old injuries, but there was truth in it. Merlin knew for a fact that the scar from the Questing Beast ached whenever it was due to be foggy. It was not magic, or so Gaius said, at least not the kind Uther could burn anyone for, since the King was just as bad with his war wounds.
'Probably, but not for a few nights. The patrol will beat it home.'
Arthur stopped, turning to look at him. There was nothing smug or condescending in his gaze. In truth, despite Merlin's grumbling thoughts to the contrary, there had been less of that, these past few months. Now, when Arthur glanced his way, there was a warmth in his eyes that Merlin didn't know how to place. It looked fond, amused and something more: something Arthur pushed to one side, hiding behind teasing jibes and the occasional shove.
'I don't like not being with them,' he confessed at last. 'Not because I do not trust in their skill. Rather, it's the dangers that lie throughout the land that concern me. Bandits are the least of our worries on patrol. They are mere men. There are so many other things that are not: monsters and sorcerers and curses... I fear one day they won't come back, and we will be left to wonder what became of them.'
'As if you wouldn't ride out the moment they were late coming home.' Merlin bit his lip. 'Besides, not all magic is bad. Maybe they'll stumble across a unicorn and have the good sense not to kill it?'
Arthur grimaced, a touch of embarrassed colour rushing to his cheeks. He did not like to be reminded of the time his careless hunting had almost cost everyone in Camelot their lives. 'Technically, that was still a curse.'
'Which you deserved for shooting something defenceless for nothing more than your own satisfaction.' Merlin shrugged, picking his way over some deadfall. A half-rotten branch caught on his foot, and he would have fallen head-first into the leaf litter if Arthur hadn't grabbed his arm and held him steady.
'You're a curse,' he said mildly, smirking when Merlin pulled a face. 'You know what I mean. Not all magic is bad, but you cannot say it's a friend to Camelot.'
'Magic's a tool, Arthur. A sword's neither your enemy or your ally. It depends who's holding it.'
'And who among those that wield magic would use it to help the kingdom of a man who has done so much to remove all trace of it from within our borders?' Arthur folded his arms as if that were the end of the argument. 'No, Merlin. I worry for my knights more because they wear Camelot's colours than anything else. I'll be relieved when they return, but if you utter a word of it to any of them, I'll deny all knowledge and throw you in the stocks.'
'Yes, Sire.'
They continued on their way, the unloaded crossbow swinging at Arthur's side as they chatted about the upcoming feast and the various lords and ladies who had descended upon Camelot from nearby estates.
'At least he's not trying to give away your hand in marriage this time?' Merlin pointed out when Arthur complained about having to entertain a number of the younger courtiers. They were a troublesome lot, who all either toadied up to him courting favour or barely concealed their resentment over his power and influence.
'No, thank the gods. I think he gave up after that business with Princess Melisande.'
Merlin grimaced. In his defence, it was clear to anyone with eyes that Princess Melisande did not suit. She was selfish, vain, and had a cruel streak a mile wide. Arthur might be a prat, but even he had seemed quietly disturbed by some of her behaviour. The fact that she then stumbled into a Faerie ring and caused vast offence to the Mitrali – Forest Fey – was the last straw. Of course, no one else knew that. Just Merlin, who'd had to get her out of it, and her nose would return to the way it should be.
Eventually.
He was so busy considering Melisande's unfortunate experience that he didn't hear the faint snap of a twig off to their right. Neither, surprisingly, did Arthur. Instead, they only became aware of the problem when the biggest boar Merlin had ever seen sauntered across their path.
The first thing he noticed was the smell: musky and overwhelming, but its huge tusks came a close second. One had snapped off, leaving a jagged point. Scars littered its hide: evidence of its victories, and Merlin swallowed, barely daring to breathe as it continued to snuffle through the fallen leaves on the forest floor.
Arthur had frozen at his side, his left hand flung out as if to try and shove Merlin behind him. His face was pale and his eyes shockingly blue. A boar could outrun them with ease, and neither the crossbow in Arthur's grasp nor the sword at his hip would do a blind bit of good.
No one hunted boar without planning ahead: using hounds and spears and poleaxes. Even then, things could go wrong. Merlin had watched men die from the wounds received on a hunt, and most of the time, that was because of a situation exactly like this.
'Back away,' Arthur breathed, almost too quiet for Merlin to make out. 'Slowly.'
It worked for a few, unsteady strides, right up until Merlin felt the breath of the wind on the nape of his neck, whispering against his skin as it changed direction and wafted their scent towards the boar. For a brief, glorious moment, he thought its snout was too deeply buried in the mud to notice, but its head shot up, beady, mad eyes gleaming as it stared straight at them. A rough noise caught in the barrel of its chest: more growl than squeal, and Arthur swore.
If it was smaller, a youngling, they might be able to scare it off, but this thing was huge, almost the size of a small horse with stumpy legs. It would be a centrepiece of any feast, but neither he nor Arthur were thinking of that. Mostly, he suspected, they were far more keen to escape it than kill it.
He turned away so Arthur wouldn't catch sight of the gold in his eyes. No spell was needed, he simply stretched out his mind towards the creature. Most animals had very simple "thoughts", more about the impulse to mate, feed and sleep than anything else.
This boar was no different, except that it had faint, foggy memories of two-legs with swords and pain. It had come across their kind before, and every victory had only diminished its fear. Now, it saw them as just another creature in its territory: an intruder to be ousted or split upon its tusks, and no nudging from Merlin could make it turn its back.
The boar took one step forward, and Arthur's command ricocheted through the air.
'Run!'
He dropped the bag and spun around, leaves slithering beneath his feet as he broke into a sprint with Arthur at his side. Behind them, the beast gave a bellow, followed by the rumble of its pursuit.
It sounded like an approaching storm, and Merlin concentrated on the ground ahead. If he tripped, it could spell disaster. As it was there was a good chance it would catch up and gore them out of sheer annoyance. He didn't look back. He and Arthur both kept their eyes forward, less concerned about where they were going and more focused on simply getting away.
Which worked great, right up until it didn't.
They ploughed through a dense clump of undergrowth and stumbled to a halt, blinking and panting at the rise of granite cleaving up from the earth. Three times Merlin's height, it ran in both directions, too long to go around with any haste. Its mossy face was too slick to climb, and in the brief, staggering moment it took for them to contemplate the obstacle in their path, the boar burst out of the forest.
Sweat steamed on its bristled hide as it tossed its head, drool splattering on the leaves beneath its trotters. Pigs ate anything, Merlin remembered, and then really wished he hadn't. There'd been that time back in Ealdor when Mathis got drunk on home brew and fell in the pig pen one night. All they'd found of him the next morning was the buckle of his belt.
'Split up,' Arthur ordered, keeping his voice low and steady, devoid of any inflection. It was at odds with the sweat glistening on his brow and the nervous flicker of his pulse in the hollow beneath his jaw. He'd dropped the crossbow, the better to run, and now his sword hissed its warning as he unsheathed it. 'We can't let it get both of us.'
'But –'
'Merlin!'
It was a command and a plea all in one, and Merlin bit his tongue, his thoughts racing like a storm-swollen river as his feet shifted of their own accord, doing as he was told.
He knew what Arthur was about to do. He could see it written in the way his muscles tensed beneath the sleeves of his tunic and his knuckles tightened around the hilt of his sword, which might as well have been a toothpick for all the good it would do. Of the two of them, Arthur was the only one armed, and in his head that meant Merlin had to be protected. He'd goad it, make it go for him and expect Merlin to... what?
Run away?
No.
It all happened so quickly. There was no time for anything except the bright surge of Merlin's determination pressing beneath his skin. He saw the moment the boar decided on Arthur, its beady eyes following the dance of the sword. He watched its muscles bunch and knew that, even if Arthur did manage to bury his blade up to the hilt in its chest, it would do no good. Nothing would stop its charge, not until it had Arthur impaled like a doll upon its tusks.
The boar lunged.
Merlin's magic leapt.
'Bār faru weald feorlen!'
The world shivered, and the boar vanished. All that remained was him, Arthur, and the sword still gripped in Arthur's fist.
Merlin watched the weapon, his heart beating so hard he was amazed it didn't smash out of his ribs and fall onto the floor at his feet. He couldn't look Arthur in the eye, not now. He was too busy starting at the blade, the clamour of fear growing louder and louder as it shifted in Arthur's hand, no longer angled to attack the charging beast, but pointed, inevitably, at Merlin.
'You have magic?'
He sounded wrecked, his voice a crack of sound as he stared across the space between them. It could be no more than half-a-dozen paces, but it yawned like a chasm that may as well be miles wide.
Merlin longed to deny it, but there was no point. Even if Arthur hadn't been opposite him, more than able to see his eyes, he had heard the spell, and there was no other way to explain a boar vanishing in front of them. Arthur wasn't stupid.
A thousand words clogged his throat, thick like cold porridge: reasons and excuses and explanations, but in the end, they were not what Arthur wanted to hear. He had asked a question, and Merlin had no choice but to answer.
'Yes.'
No. It was not possible. There was no way, in all the Five Kingdoms and beyond, that his idiot manservant had magic. Even he could not be so stupid as to learn a forbidden art in a kingdom where the smallest hint of sorcery was punishable by death.
And yet, here they were.
Fear tied its noose around Arthur's throat. Not the solid, thudding drum that dogged his steps in battle, but something high and sharp: a knife in the dark. Above their heads, the branches of the trees creaked, the last stubborn leaves fluttering like pennants. If Merlin chose to kill him now, they would be his only witnesses. Would he ever be found, Arthur wondered? Would someone stumble upon his bones one day and realise who he must be, or would he fade into obscurity: forever lost in the forest?
Common-sense was a whisper in the back of his head. A year ago, he would have ignored it. He would have raised his sword and lashed out, ending the threat before it could end him, but now he forced himself to stop and think.
If Merlin wanted to kill him, he could have allowed the boar to mow him down. He could have let Arthur die a dozen times over the course of their acquaintance. Instead, he'd stepped in to save him from daggers and poison and curses alike. Had he used magic then, too, unknown and unseen? Had he been watching Arthur's back all this time?
Had he been orchestrating it? Endearing himself to Arthur day-by-day for – what? Had he even stopped there, or had he enchanted Arthur himself? Had he woven spells around his heart and mind, ensnaring his will to make it his own?
Except if that were so, surely he would force Arthur to forget what he had seen?
Arthur's next breath stuttered, and he swallowed hard. 'How long?' It sounded like the words were something visceral ripped from him, turning sharp. 'How long have you been a traitor?'
'I'm not!' For the first time since the boar vanished, Merlin's eyes flashed up to meet his: blue, not gold. Except Arthur couldn't forget what he'd seen: how they had glowed with power, rich and vivid, beautiful and terrible.
'You have magic!'
A flock of birds took off from the trees in fright, their wings clattering as Arthur's fury echoed around them. Merlin flinched back, his gaze lowered and his hands raised palm-out. They were tucked in close to his torso, empty: no weapon in sight. Except he did not need a blade to cause harm. A word would do it. It was his mouth Arthur needed to watch.
He'd spent time watching Merlin's lips before, wondering, in the silence of his own head, what that soft smile might taste like. Now, he waited for that strange language to erupt forth and instead bring his annihilation.
'I was born with it. Please, Arthur. I've only ever used it to help people – to help you!'
Merlin's voice shook, his body tense and flinching. Arthur couldn't understand his fear. Merlin had no right to it! Here, alone, what could Arthur do against him? He had no knights, no chains, nothing. And in the blink of an eye, Merlin could do the same thing to him as he'd done to the boar – whatever that was! He was not the hunter here. He was the prey!
Except...
The word joined the cacophony of ifs and buts and maybes that clattered around his skull. None of this made sense. Everything his father taught him – all Arthur's suspicions and doubts – collided with his well-honed instincts. Fear and uncertainty gibbered in his ear, making his legs burn and his chest heave, but deep in his gut and his heart, there was only a steady kind of certainty. An awful knowledge that if he chose to step forward and cleave Merlin's head from his shoulders, he would do nothing to stop him.
Despite the power in his veins, he would not raise a hand to Arthur.
Gods, but he didn't understand any of this!
'Magic is forbidden. My father's laws are absolute.' Arthur's position was clear: his duty apparent. He should not even have hesitated. Merlin should already be dead at his feet, and still he stood there, poised, waiting for things to start making sense. 'It corrupts people. From the first spell, it twists them.'
'You don't believe that.' Merlin's lashes fluttered as he blinked, but his eyes didn't glow. There was no power in his words. 'Besides, if it were true, what would I be? I've been doing magic since before I could walk.'
Arthur scowled, shifting his grip around the hilt of his sword. Sweat slicked his palm, and his arm ached from the strain of holding it between them like the world's cruellest chaperone, but he could not lower it. He did not dare.
'That's impossible. No one is born with it, Merlin, it's learned. It's chosen.'
'No.' Merlin tore his stare away from the point of the sword to look into Arthur's face, and if he was lying, then he was the best actor Arthur had ever seen. There was no guile in his gaze, nor false emotion to pluck at the heartstrings. Only brazen honesty coloured his features and, with it, a touch of apology, as if he knew he was saying something Arthur did not want to hear. 'Not always. I chose to come to Camelot. I chose to remain your manservant. I chose to become your friend, but I did not choose my magic.'
'Friend?' Arthur scoffed, hardening his heart to the crack of pain that splintered across Merlin's face and smothering the echo of it in his own chest. It hurt, more than it had any right to, and the only emotion Arthur felt able to show was his anger. 'You're mistaken. You are a servant, a sorcerer, a traitor. You have lied to me from the day we met. What kind of friend does that make you?'
He watched Merlin swallow back whatever response he might have, shutting his eyes like a man giving up his final, frail hope. He kept his hands before him as he took one step forward, then another, closing the space between them until, at last, the tip of Arthur's sword rested against the hollow of his throat. Those full lips pursed, bleached into a white line. Blue eyes gleamed with the threat of tears, yet none spilled over his lashes. When Merlin spoke again, it was nothing but a plea curled up within a statement of fact.
'I'd rather not burn.'
He should do it. He was the Crown Prince. It was his duty to uphold Camelot's laws, however much he might privately question them. There was a time when he would not have hesitated. If even his most loyal knight was discovered to be a sorcerer, he would have meted out his father's justice.
Yet here, now, all he could think of was a life without Merlin and how very empty it would be. He was furious, shocked, hurt – as much about the magic as the fact that Merlin had lied about it – but he could not bring himself to picture it. His mind flinched from the notion of Merlin's body at his feet, his blood upon the iron of his blade. His muscles lost their strength and the air in his lungs turned dead and useless.
'Gods curse it, Merlin!' He yanked the sword away, cleaving its point deep into the forest floor before running both his hands through his hair. He wanted to curl up and bury his face in his palms, or turn and stride off: to walk back in time to yesterday where Merlin had just been Merlin and nothing else. He did not want to be here, facing this challenge to everything his father had ever taught him. He did not wish to stand there and choose.
Except he already had, hadn't he? Merlin's head was still on his shoulders. Even he looked surprised by that simple fact.
'Arthur?'
'Don't.' He jabbed a finger in his direction, breathing hard. He could not take that level of familiarity, not when it scoured at his insides like sand. 'I am a prince and you will address me as such.'
Merlin's throat clicked as he swallowed. Arthur noticed he hadn't lowered his hands. 'Your Highness? What are you going to do with me?'
He feared the flames still, Arthur realised. Who wouldn't? It was a living thing in his gaze. A petty, awful part of him was tempted to let Merlin suffer his doubts. Let that be his punishment for the disarray that his life had become in less than a candle-mark. Yet even he could not be that cruel. 'No pyre,' he rasped at last, feeling as if he were saying something momentous: a traitor himself. 'No axe. I won't execute you.'
He swallowed hard, thinking fast. 'We'll find the horses. You'll take one, and you'll leave.' He looked up as he realised Merlin was already shaking his head, the shocked expression on his face folding into something stubborn and mulish. 'You will not come back, Merlin. If you do, you will die. I'll see to it myself.'
'I'm not doing that, you absolute cabbage-head!'
So much for "Your Highness", Arthur thought, a little hysterical.
'Do you have any idea how many times I've saved your life? If you make me leave, you'll be dead within a fortnight!'
'Is that a threat?'
'No!' Merlin's fingers twitched as if he longed to grab Arthur's shoulders and shake some sense into him. 'Arthur, for every time you know you were in danger, there are two more where you never figured it out because I got there first. I stopped it.'
'You?' The sneer was unbecoming of him, but that was what he had been reduced to: the lowest, pettiest parts of his character.
He did not expect the tightening of Merlin's jaw or the sparks of power that blazed across the blue of his eyes. He was used to Merlin being clumsy and harmless, not this. Not fierce and forthright and crackling with magic.
'Me.'
Arthur swallowed, shaking his head. He didn't know what to think or feel or say. He, a knight who had never turned his back on a fight, longed to run from the reality of this. 'I never asked for that.'
'No, but you need it. Arthur, if you exile me, I can't keep you safe.' Merlin sagged as if all his strength had left him in one go. He cuffed the knuckles of his right hand across his brow, and Arthur noticed that he was still shaking: a constant tremor of desperation taking root in his body.
'And how can I trust you? How do I know that you're not planning something?' He shook his head, reaching out to uproot his sword before shoving it in its scabbard. He did not dare push it all the way home, and he knew Merlin noticed that small fact. 'You could have told me at any time, and you did not. You kept it to yourself.'
'When should I have mentioned it?' Merlin shifted his weight back, swaying a moment before seeming to find his balance. His skin was the colour of chalk, his expression twisted and wretched. Arthur hated to see Merlin in such obvious distress, and yet he loathed himself for caring one whit about a treacherous sorcerer who had lied to him from the start. 'In the marketplace, when you tried to take my head off with a mace? When I came in to your service? I admitted it when Gwen was accused! You didn't believe me!'
Gods, he had as well. Merlin had stood there and shouted it out in front of the King. It had only been Arthur's quick thinking that had saved him from the consequences. The thought made his stomach give a threatening roll, not because he had helped Merlin escape from the fate he deserved, but because of what would have happened if he had said nothing in Merlin's defence.
Forget keeping Arthur safe; he was amazed Merlin had kept his secret and survived as long as he did in Uther's Camelot.
'Who else knows?' He did not understand why it mattered, but the question chafed at Arthur, leaving him raw and bloody. 'Who else has been hiding this from me?'
He watched the flicker of emotion stutter across Merlin's face: wretched misery and stubborn refusal. At last, he spoke, his words like stones spat from his lips. 'I'll not condemn anyone alongside me, My Lord.'
'By the gods, Merlin, I intend them no harm! I just –' He needed to know, and he could not quite put a finger on why. Some illogical piece of him wanted to understand who had been laughing at him behind his back – who Merlin had trusted with this when he could not trust Arthur himself. Another, more sensible portion desired some reassurance that Merlin had not been carrying this burden alone for more than two years.
Merlin pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. 'I didn't tell anyone.' He sighed, his shoulders slumping. 'But my magic isn't always under the best control, or as subtle as it could be. Gaius has known since the day I arrived.'
'And who else?' Arthur suspected he knew the answer already, a name forming in his mind.
'Lancelot.'
He wished he could be surprised, yet he could not. There was a reason Lancelot was his most trusted knight, and it was not because he bothered with rigid adherence to Uther's laws. He had a knack for seeing through all the aspects that might cloud an issue and reading the truth at its heart. If Lancelot had thought Merlin was a threat to anyone's safety, he would have done the right thing. Instead, he had chosen to protect Merlin's secret at what could have been great personal cost.
'When?'
'The Griffin. It's very hard to enchant a lance without the person who's holding it noticing. Especially since it caught fire.'
'So, Lancelot didn't slay the Griffin?'
'Yes, he did. I just made sure that the strike killed it rather than only pissing it off.' Merlin shrugged, a small, helpless sort of gesture. 'He's yours, Arthur. Your knight. He did not keep it from you to cause you harm.'
'No, he did it to protect you, because he knew what would happen if you were discovered. It wouldn't matter that you'd saved Camelot. Not in my father's eyes. Maybe not even in mine.'
The realisation was a cruel one, but he could not deny it. The Griffin was long in their past, at a time when Arthur had only just begun to question his father's views. Now, with something akin to horror, Arthur realised he was starting to think along the same lines as Lancelot, his mind as much focused on protecting Merlin as punishing him.
Exile would not work. He knew Merlin well enough to understand that. For whatever reason, he honestly believed he could protect Arthur and would not be discharged of that duty. Not even if the threat for his return was death on the pyre.
Never, in all Arthur's life, had he felt so conflicted.
A sudden movement among the trees made him look up, alert for danger, magical or mundane. Instead, he caught sight of a deer: a delicate doe observing him with large eyes, her pelt as white as freshly-fallen snow.
Another time, he would have hunted her, intrigued by so unusual a prize. Now, he merely watched her watching them, as if bearing gentle witness to their conflict.
A moment later she leapt away, vanishing between the trees. Arthur let out a shuddering breath, the fraction of peace he had found in her presence losing its grip as the tide of his anger rolled back in.
'Get the bag and crossbow, if you can find it. We'll return to the horses. As soon as we dismount at the stables, you are released from my service.' Something fierce coiled in his chest at Merlin's weak sound of protest, something wounded that longed to wound in turn. 'I do not want to see you, Merlin. I have no wish to speak to you again. You will no longer attend me in any aspect. Do I make myself clear?'
'But –'
Arthur moved: a sudden, vicious stride forward, his hands bunching into fists at his side. He did not know what he intended to do. All he could think was that there was too much locked up in his chest – shock and hurt and betrayal – and he would be all too happy to let that out in a solid punch if it got the message across.
Only Merlin's cringing flinch brought him to a halt: that lithe body frozen in place as if part of him believed he deserved whatever physical punishment Arthur felt tempted to deliver.
'For once in your life,' Arthur hissed, 'obey me!'
Merlin bowed his head, but not before Arthur saw the flare of yellow beneath the dark fan of his lashes. Dizzily, he thought that this was it: this was where Merlin's true motives came to light. He braced himself for the blow of a spell, but instead there was only a faint rustle of leaves. The bag and crossbow appeared by Arthur's boot between one blink and the next. He did not see them materialise, but the gold tracing the leather's seams and gleaming on the tip of the bolt told its own story.
It had not been loaded when he dropped it, and Arthur refused to question why Merlin had seen fit to return it to him primed and ready. Was he trying to make Arthur feel better? As if he had any sort of upper-hand over a man who could use magic with such ease and, it seemed, without uttering a single word.
A moment later, the gentle whinny of a horse reached his ears, and he looked to his right to see Llamrei and Lilac approaching as if they had not been picketed more than a candle-mark's walk away. The mares seemed unbothered by any magic that had brought them here, and Llamrei snuffled a greeting in Arthur's ear before butting her head against his shoulder.
He reached out to pat her neck, wishing he could be so easily soothed. Picking up the crossbow, he left Merlin to gather the bag before gesturing him into his saddle.
'You in front.'
Normally, they would have ridden side-by-side. It had been their way ever since Merlin had barged into Arthur's life and claimed the spot for his own. Now, Arthur could not tolerate the notion.
Perhaps he was a fool to have let Merlin get so close to him in the first place. His father had warned him against it – had said it would become a weakness – and now look at him, returning to Camelot with a sorcerer. If he were loyal to Uther's laws, he would bury the crossbow bolt between Merlin's shoulders and be done with it, yet here he was.
His only consolation was that he kept the weapon loaded, its string drawn and ready to fire, though whether that would be at Merlin or any dangers they met on the road, he could not be sure. He sorely hoped that he would not be put to the test.
The ride was made in silence. Only the beat of the horses' hooves disturbed the tranquillity. Nothing came at them. However, more than once Arthur thought he saw a glimmer of gold out of the corner of his eye. Was Merlin's magic at work, even now, and if so, for what purpose? Some part of him felt that if he simply opened one last door within his mind, he could reach out and feel it for himself. Perhaps then he would understand the truth that this man had kept hidden from him for so long.
Yet something in him quailed at the thought, reminded by his father's whispering voice that magic corrupted from its very first touch. Maybe Merlin was right; perhaps he did not believe that anymore, but it lingered like a threatening storm on his mental horizon.
And so it was that they rode into Camelot, stiff and silent, with far too much remaining unsaid between them.
He slipped down from Llamrei's saddle, fussing with her bridle before steeling his resolve. He expected to find Merlin waiting to speak to him once more: excuses lined up on his lips or pleas at the ready. Yet Merlin did not even meet his eye, and the ache in Arthur's chest intensified. Perversely, he hated him for his obedience, but there was nothing to be done.
Without a word, Arthur turned his back and walked away.
Merlin did not follow him.