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“Dance! Dance! Make her dance!”
The witch lifted her hands, and as her fingers spun in the air, there was movement on the floor.
What was something dead the servants had carted inside was now mobile, infused with a false life only magic could create. The figure’s limbs jerked as the witch moved her hands in tandem, it’s shoulders and arms flailing around in an imitation of natural movement.
The courtiers laughed as the body made a mimicry of pulling itself to its feet. Only it wasn’t; something was dragging it up, using its dead limbs like a puppet master would a doll. Except this girl was not a doll. Her skin was real, and her arms lined with real bone and sinew. If she could move like a person, she could almost seem alive.
But she wasn’t. Even if anyone could ignore the jerky spasming of her limbs, ignore how she moved with one wrist higher in the air than the other, how she stood without her feet completely flat on the floor, it was obvious from her face.
She was expressionless. Her skin was cold, her hair was limp, and there were claw marks around her eye sockets where crows had pecked them out the day before.
The girl was a corpse.
The courtiers laughed.
The body pirouetted in the air, floating about from table to table, heavy and dead, but looking briefly light as air. Up she flew until she was standing on a table. Her spine uneven, the witch unable to hold her body completely straight. Her head lolled on her shoulders; arms forced out so she stood like a scarecrow.
All the druids were capable of doing was farming. And now, not even that; their bodies could only be used to guard the fields.
Morgana cackled from her seat on the throne.
The man kneeling at her feet kept his eyes averted from the spectacle, sitting straight-backed and glaring at her the same as he had all those months ago when she first captured him. Now, even starved, abused, and perpetually under the control of her magic, he fought her at every step.
“How is it to see your treasured whore waltzing around like the filth she is?”
He remained silent.
She directed her attention to the courtier at her right. “I’m surprised, Wood, you were able to preserve her body so well.”
“Now that magic is legal again, my Queen, is there nothing we can’t do?”
“Yes, indeed.” She jerked on the chain in her hands. The man at her feet leaned closer, almost to the point of falling over. And yet, he refused to move.
Morgana’s smirk turned hard, sharp, as she looked down at a pair of hateful blue eyes. Eyes filled with such loathing, such despair, she reveled in every glance. “You haven’t even looked at our latest project, have you? Pity, that. For once, Freya’s actually a bit attractive. Perhaps someone can put her body to better use later tonight.”
She grabbed his chin, twisting his neck around so hard he had no choice but to look.
He jerked against her hands, tried to close his eyes, but in the end, he was helpless to look away.
Freya – or rather, Freya’s corpse – flittered about on stumbling legs, arms waving in the air like they were hung from strings. Three weeks dead, and her flesh was long since rotting, despite how her appearance had been preserved with magic. Morgana could smell it from her throne, but over the fresh roast and breads, it was nothing more than a nuisance easily dismissed. She was glad, briefly, that instead of burning every druid, she had hung some of them from the parapets of the castle, leaving them until the consumption destroyed them.
The last of the druids had been killed three months ago. She remembered that day well – another family of nomads, practicing magic and preaching the end of dark magic and the return of their Once and Future King.
By dawn the next day, the family of five was roasting on her courtyard pyre.
“You’ve killed so many,” he said, voice strong, hard and full of hate. Morgana felt warmed from the inside just hearing it. “Is it not enough that we are all dead, all gone, that you must desecrate us like this?”
Morgana pretended to think. “Well…” she leaned closer, close enough that her lips caught on the flesh of his earlobe. Again, he tried to jerk away, but Morgana dug her fingers in, deep enough to draw blood. “Why would I, when the results are so immensely entertaining, my dear Emrys?”
She pressed her tongue against his skin, tasting the blood from her nails, before licking him sloppy and messy up to his hairline. The taste of grit and grime was worth it for the shiver that wracked his frame.
Morgana fell back in her chair, laughing.
Oh, he couldn’t even look at his dear Freya, could he? How trite.
“You’re the filthy whore, Morgana. Not her.”
Rage, powerful and all consuming, turned her vision red. Without thinking, Morgana lifted her arm and backhanded him clear across the jaw.
His head whipped back, and unable to get his shackled hands up in time, he collided hard with the stone floor.
Her smirk was sharp, brittle, and she resisted the urge to step on his face.
Oh, wait, she didn’t have to resist, did she? He was her slave, now, and she was High Queen. There was nothing beyond her reach.
Morgana relished the spurt of blood as her heel connected with his nose, enjoyed the cry of pain he couldn’t hold in. “Be glad I don’t kill you now. For when I do, I will leave your body on the castle walls for the crows, and let them peck out your insides, while I watch with a drink in hand.”
Someone let out another piercing laugh as the marionette tried to grab a goblet of wine, only to spill it down her shirt. The fabric, stained the red and syrup color of blood, plastered against Freya’s dead skin. Her slave glared up at her from around her boot heel, and she smiled.
Before she could make another cutting remark, the throne room suddenly burst open.
The music stopped.
“My Queen! My Queen, you must come immediately!”
The voices in the room quieted. If he hadn’t been one of her favorite pages, she would have killed him instantly. “Speak, or I’ll have you sitting on a pyre by morning.”
He shifted on his feet, obviously rethinking his abrupt entry. “It’s- it’s the city, y-your Highness. We’re under attack!”
Whispering broke out. Any other time, she would have taken him to task for being so idiotic as to announce news like that in the middle of court, but that would involve removing her foot, and she quite liked it where it was. “Spit it out, then! Who’s attacking us?”
“It’s- it’s well, it’s your, y-your brother, your Majesty.” He gulped. “Arthur Pendragon.”
The whispers grew louder.
Morgana rose from her throne. “SILENCE!” She boomed. “Paxton and Harriette, to the quarters. James, assemble the council. Move, all of you, to your posts! The rest of you worthless creatures can remain here. And as for you…” She looked down at Emrys, picked up his lead, and yanked. “I knew keeping you alive could be worth something.”
She handed his leash to Wood. He smiled.
It seemed, despite her attempts and pronouncements to the public, Morgana hadn’t completely forgotten her training as a ward of the king. Something Arthur realized when he discovered the knights guarding the lower entrances to the castle.
“I told you we should have gone through the front.”
Arthur drew his sword. “Gwen is covering that. I’ve no mind to argue with her when she’s set on something, have you?”
Gwaine smirked, peering down at the sewer gates below them. Gates that were guarded with at least ten men he could see, and likely more inside. “You’d be alright with that, then? Her killing Morgana?”
Arthur clenched his teeth, feeling shame at the very thought. Shame that his sister – his own flesh and blood – was the reason they were even here. And worse, that someone else would be responsible for ending her.
He’d despaired of killing her, years ago, when the rebellion was in its infancy. Even now, the thought brought him no anger, no satisfaction. Merely regret, and pity, for his sister, who had managed to kill so many, both his own people, and those once part of Camelot, in her quest for power. A power that had driven her mad as much as it had driven them apart.
But for his people, for his kingdom, she would die. At his hand, for it was his burden to bear.
“Enough chatter. I’d like a bath I didn’t have to take in the river, for once. Leon?”
Leon nodded from his right. Together, they charged down the hill.
Despite the men, and the numbers, Arthur was able to overcome Morgana’s forces with only the loss of five lives. Possibly more, with Leon’s shoulder thrown over Gwaine’s, wounded in the side and unable to stand on his own.
They cleared the way into the inner castle. Even from here, he could hear the sounds of battle in the courtyard.
Her men were everywhere.
Arthur kept going.
If he could get to the inner chambers, if they could just-
The blast came out of nowhere. Arthur dodged it on instinct, parried, and had a sword rammed through someone’s gullet before he realized who he’d killed. A moment later, he’d killed two more, and was left with three dead bodies, and empty hallway, and a barricaded door to Morgana’s throne room.
Arthur’s throne room, soon. Breath heaving, sword bloodied, and a leg he couldn’t put all of his weight on, but he was there.
Soon, Camelot would be his.
He’d thought as much when he saw a dark figure shifting on the floor.
Dread filled him, anticipating a necromancer. In battles before, Morgana had never hesitated to raise the dead, forcing his men to fight the bodies of their friends just to gain ground.
Which was why the stranger – for it was a stranger, not one of the men he’d just killed – didn’t even get to his feet before Arthur’s sword was at his throat.
He was just about to plunge blade through flesh when Arthur caught sight of the collar around the stranger's neck. Glancing down on a hunch, he spotted a pair of shackles around his wrists. When they caught the light, Arthur could see wards etched into the metal, and while he couldn't read them, he had become familiar with them enough over the years to guess their purpose.
The slave didn’t flinch when Arthur raised his sword, or look away when it swung down towards his head.
Only to divert at the last moment and cleave straight through the chains.
They separated like paper, falling to the stone floor with a heavy clatter. The slave looked down at his wrists, expression was hidden by dark hair.
“You’re free, now. Be on your way.”
The slave was just as skinny as Arthur had been in the worst summer of his life, on the run, starving, and exiled, and just as dirty. When he finally looked up, however, his eyes were startlingly clear. They were a piercing blue, a deeper color than the finest sapphires Arthur had seen, even hidden as they were in a face that had seen better days.
They dared Arthur to look away.
“Give me a sword.”
Any other day, Arthur would have laughed in his face. As it was, he was too tired and uncaring to bother with a response. “Be on your way, before I change my mind.”
“You can’t get past those doors. The best magicians in the kingdom warded them. And unless you’ve a magic user stuffed somewhere down your trousers, which I doubt,” he said, eyes flicking down to Arthur’s pants – who despite his exhaustion, bristled – “I don’t ‘spect you’ll be having much luck with that.”
Arthur didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know all of his magic users were either dead or still engaged with the enemy. But how this complete stranger even knew as much, Arthur could only guess.
There were magicians fighting for his rebellion, but with the druids Morgana had managed to practically exterminate, and the remaining ones contributing to her cause, the rebellion’s strength was minimal, and already concentrated on defeating those magicians supplying Morgana’s army. He could hear the clash of swords coming from the courtyard below, feel the occasional explosion of errant spell-casting collide with the castle walls. To find one now would be suicide, and a waste of time he could scarcely afford.
On the other hand, would he waste as much time - if not as many lives - by arming a complete stranger?
By arming a sorcerer?
For that was what this slave had to be. Who else would be shackled in warded chains and have knowledge about Morgana's spells?
They stared at each other. One heartbeat. Two.
“Gwaine.” Arthur didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “Give him your sword.”
“Come on, Princess, you can’t be-“
“That’s an order.”
There was a pause, perhaps while Gwaine considered the validity of such an order, before ultimately deciding to agree to it.
Arthur held the stranger’s eyes as the blade was held out, handle first. “Turn on my knights, and you’ll be the next one I kill after Morgana. Is that clear?”
The stranger, on wrists that scarcely looked strong enough to hold a bowl of fruit, never mind a blade, hefted it into his hands without hesitation. He twisted it once, twice, in the air, and barely gave Arthur a glance before striding towards the doors.
Gwaine and Percival walked forwards to follow him, but Arthur held up a hand.
“Sire-“
“It’s magic they’ll be fighting with,” Arthur murmured, watching as the slave knelt at the throne room. He pressed his hands against the wood, and the very frame seemed to shine – with magic, no doubt. “We’d do better staying out of their way.”
Arthur would not subject his men to errant spellcasting. Let him wear Morgana out, and then, they could strike. Then he would kill his sister, once and for all.
“Do you know the passage to the second room?” he asked his knights.
“The second room?” Percival objected, but Gwaine was already nodding. “Aye. The servant’s entrance overlooking the throne.” Percival gave him a look, and Gwaine grinned. “I know all the secrets, don’t I?”
Arthur cut in before they could start bickering. “Take three men up there. Cover us, send back a signal, and we’ll move when she’s distracted.”
They both nodded. Gwaine paused long enough to set Leon down against the floor. He was pale, too pale for a battle that was not yet won.
The door opened.
The slave walked in alone.
There was so much rage. Too much, pouring over from his insides. Like a gaping wound that he couldn’t staunch, blood flowing endlessly to coat him and everyone around him.
So much death.
Months at her mercy, treated worse than a dog. Watching, helpless, as his friends and family were slaughtered, mocked, and desecrated.
His people were gone.
Merlin removed the wards on the throne room. Everything ached. His limbs. His head.
His heart.
The doors opened, and the entire court turned to find him standing in the doorway. No one was concerned. They were used to Merlin arriving with a summons from Morgana. There was nothing to fear from a slave.
She had yet to notice him, busy evaluating strategy with her councilors. Despite what Arthur Pendragon believed, Morgana was well aware of the rebels standing outside her courtroom and roaming her castle. In a matter of moments, either through magic or weapon, she would see their bodies cooling on the floor with a smile on her face. Would see, once she’d decided on the easiest way to kill them.
The doors banged shut behind him.
Two knights guarded the doors. Neither of them stood a chance.
The first fell before he’d even drawn a blade. The second shortly after, barely getting his sword in hand before Merlin’s sliced clean through his exposed throat.
A woman screamed.
While some of Morgana’s followers were skilled with a blade, most relied on magic. But after months of living with shackles, his own magic locked beneath his skin, Merlin’s leapt to his defense without a thought. Like a shield around him, it deflected what few spells people managed to cast right before Merlin’s blade speared them through the chest.
It helped that practically everyone in the room was unarmed. Too reliant on magic to consider there could be someone who could kill them without it.
Merlin speared his sword through the belly of a man prone to overeating and throwing his forks at passing maids. He spun, deflected a magical flame, and threw a dagger straight for the screaming woman in the corner – passingly, he recognized her as an heir to lands in the north. Around the tables he moved, lighter and faster than someone who hadn’t eaten in four days should be able to.
Amazing what rage and a little magic could do.
Man, woman, young or old, all fell beneath his sword. Whether they took arms against him or cowered in corners, they soon fell, life blood flowing from their gaping wounds.
The emptiness inside him only grew.
Eventually Merlin found himself standing in a room filled with bodies where the nobles once stood. His chest was heaving, red splattered across his face. Merlin took a step and felt blood squelch beneath his toes, tacky and cold against his bare feet.
Morgana was waiting.
She didn’t let the smile slip from her lips.
“At last, we see the warrior for what he is,” she said, standing less than two meters away. She had no blade in hand; they both knew she didn’t need it. “This will make it all the sweeter when I have you back on my leash.”
“Your death will be painless, Morgana.” Merlin readjusted the grip on his weapon, holding her eyes as they slowly circled each other. “I cannot say the same for all the thousands you murdered.”
His friends. His mother. His godchildren. Will.
Freya.
She cackled, and as abruptly as it started, she stopped.
Their magic erupted.
Arthur heard the screams even through the throne room doors. None of it mattered to him, or his men; once he’d taken power, everyone in that room would have been dead, anyway. At least this way, he didn’t have to expend any additional energy to kill them.
Then the magic began.
For the first time, he was grateful for the warded throne room. Otherwise, he suspected he, his men, and everyone in the castle would have imploded with the amount of energy unleashed inside.
As it was, by the time things quieted down, he could already hear the fighting in the courtyard subsiding. With or without Morgana, his men were slowly making their way into the castle, purging it of Morgana’s men and clearing the way for his reign.
None of which would help if she managed to escape. Only an idiot would deny that Morgana was the most powerful witch – the most powerful person – in the entire kingdom. Perhaps even all of Albion. Not simply in magic, but will, deception, and allies. How else would a woman, practically exiled by his father, manage to crawl her way up to High Queen?
Arthur was not an idiot.
Which was why he waited out the silence.
He hadn't been standing there long when Gwaine returned with Percival from the servant's passage. Arthur expected some charge, or information about a plan, but Gwaine merely looked at him, wide-eyed. “It’s done.”
Arthur opened his mouth. Glanced at the door. Closed it. He gave a silent command to his men to fall in behind.
Sword held high, they stepped inside.
Despite Gwaine’s pronouncement, he expected to find the slave dead on the floor with Morgana waiting to slaughter them all. The courtiers the slave could manage, maybe, but the High Queen of Albion?
He was proven wrong when he saw the bodies inside.
Colored fabrics covered the floor practically from the doorway all the way to the foot of the throne. It took Arthur a beat to recognize those as the bodies of every courtier and knight that had been in the throne room. The tang of copper was thick in the air, the air warm and walls scorched from the recent magic battle that had occurred within.
Despite what his senses were telling him, he couldn't quite believe a slave had slaughtered a room full of nobles – magic users, no less, who could not be shy on ability if they were to serve at Morgana’s feet.
He looked around, expecting Morgana to appear from the shadows, smirk in place, but there was only one figure still standing. And that figure was easy to recognize.
Once Arthur was sure there was no immediate threat, he motioned his men inside. He ignored Gwaine’s comment about this being an absolute slaughter, continuing to watch the slave’s back as he stepped closer.
The slave had killed them all.
And lying at his feet was a familiar slump of purple fabric, dark curls, and porcelain skin. There was only one person it could be.
Morgana had been dealt a fatal wound in her side, dark blood flowing out of her like a leaking bucket. It was expanding, staining the stone and pooling over the slave’s feet; he either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
Her eyes were sightless, slack, and fixed on the ceiling above.
Morgana was dead.
A part of him was disappointed he hadn’t been the one to kill her himself (and another part, to his shame, was relieved). All of that planning, all of that staging, and within a matter of heartbeats, she’d been murdered by one of her own slaves. And Arthur hadn’t even been around to see it.
Should he feel grateful? He knew the kingdom would be.
Yet somehow, despite the years at odds, the years spent killing his people, the conflicts that made Arthur a fugitive in his own kingdom, he couldn't be grateful for her death.
Arthur blinked and looked away.
He took a breath, just about to order Gwaine down to the courtyard to see if Gwen needed any help, when a hint of movement caught his eye.
The slave had turned, ratty clothes shifting in the slanted sunlight. He was now facing Arthur, weapon raised.
This man – this slave – had managed to kill the most powerful witch in the land, and every follower under her flag. All while malnourished, beaten, and likely having suffered worse fates besides.
How powerful was he?
Arthur raised his sword, already trying to figure out how he could defeat a man with enough magic and weaponry to kill over thirty people in a matter of minutes when the slave moved.
He took a step, and fell at Arthur’s feet.
It took him a moment to realize the slave hadn't fallen from some injury, but because he was actually kneeling. Less than a body's length from Arthur, head bowed, he slowly lifted the sword up, braced between his two open palms.
Almost like he was… offering it. To Arthur.
The slave looked up at him, and again, Arthur was hit with his sharp, piercing eyes. This time, there was no determination in them, no anger, no strength.
Only nothing.
“I throw myself at your mercy,” he said. His voice was empty and hollow, devoid of the steel it had once possessed. “Your enemy is gone. My family- my people, are dead.” Arthur saw him swallow. “I only ask that you kill me and return our bodies to the earth, where they are meant to be.”
The slave bowed his head, sword still held aloft in his hands.
At his words, Arthur could feel every one of his knights turn to stare at them. It was only through years of practice that he was able to keep the shock from showing on his face.
What kind of a man escaped slavery, killed the most powerful woman in Albion, and then immediately begged for death?
A man with nothing left to live for.
He'd seen this sort of hopelessness before. In the families that had been destroyed by Morgana's ravages for power. In a warrior returning home from battle only to discover his entire family slain. In a mother after losing every child to disease and famine. Some tragedies someone could move on from, but the death of all they held dear? Every one he'd seen had ended up dead or mad as a result.
He didn't want a sorcerer this powerful running loose in the kingdom if their fate would be the same.
When seconds ticked by, and nothing happened, Gwaine snorted. “Princess. You can’t tell me you’re actually going to-”
“What is your name,” he demanded, cutting Gwaine off, voice booming in the silent throne room. The man didn’t move. “Speak. Now. If you wish for me to listen to your pleas.”
Slowly, as if attached to a large, weighted stone, the man lifted his head. His eyes remained down. “My name.”
“Yes, your name. Or did your magic duel somehow impair your hearing?”
Even beneath dark hair, he could see that face scrunch up in a frown. “…Merlin.”
Arthur bit his lower lip, kneading it absently with his tongue. He nodded, once, and with a strong hand, reached forward and wrapped it around the handle of the offered blade.
“Wait, Arthur-“
“Sire-“
Arthur hefted the sword, and without care, tossed it at the man’s feet.
The clatter was deafening in the large room. The stranger, hesitant and weary, lifted his eyes to Arthur.
“If you have nothing left to live for, then live for me. Live for the future I’m going to build. And if you still want to die, do it your own bloody self.”
There was silence in the room. No one dared move, the very tension between them crackling in the air. Even the battle outside had gone quiet, as if the entire castle was holding its breath while the slave made his choice.
The slave looked down. His hand reached towards the sword.
Arthur felt a brief pang of disappointment. More disappointment than he'd expected. It would have been nice to have someone as powerful as this slave help him rebuild Camelot. Crazy or not, if there was even a chance this man could be managed, Arthur would have been a fool not to take it.
Only, the slave didn't grab the sword. his hand stopped mid-reach, before falling to the ground at his side.
His shoulders started shaking.
Arthur frowned, wondering if the insanity had set in already. Perhaps he would have to kill him after all if this man had finally reached his breaking point.
And without a doubt, he had. For there were no tears. No screams. No pleas.
The slave threw his head back.
And laughed.
This was not a laugh of humor, or one brought by joys of a battle recently fought and ended. This laugh was hard, cruel, and empty. It was sour, bordering on hysteria, one Arthur had heard before and each time swore he never wanted to hear again. Mostly because it was the same laugh Morgana made, right before-
Arthur's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
Before he could use it, Merlin stopped. The sudden absence of sound was almost as jarring as the laughter had been, its only reminder in the sad, weak smile lingering on his lips.
He looked up at Arthur, tears lining his eyes. “Alright. We’ll try it your way, Pendragon.”
It took a few moments before Arthur could recover himself, and with the same air of disinterest, said, “It’s sire, actually. Or Your Majesty. Either will do.”
Merlin slowly pushed himself to standing, this time, with sword in hand. “I’ve heard ‘Princess’ does quite nicely. Don’t suppose you have a favorite?”
Arthur blinked at him. Once, twice.
He was too busy trying to decide if the snark was something he should actually engage with when Merlin muttered, “Still wishing you’d killed me?”
They stared at each other. Merlin didn't look away.
Arthur sheathed his sword.
Turning on the spot, he said, “Come along, Merlin. There’s still a castle to besiege. And Gwaine? When you’re done laughing, do join us in the courtyard. We have work to do.”
“Of course, Princess! Of course.”
It would take even more sweat, tears, and planning before he could establish himself as the High King of Albion. Arthur could only hope he’d chosen the right people to stand at his side.
Time would tell.