Chapter Text
OVER THE GLOWING HILLS
PART I
Camelot is one of the most fascinating citadels that Merlin has ever seen.
It is beautiful, although Merlin prefers an alcove of trees, and there’s no kingdom more gorgeous than Dracaneard, even if he might be biased. Still, it was built without magic, and despite that the towers loom high into the sky and the houses are scattered wide and far beyond the castle.
He’s seen several other kingdoms on his trip. Camelot is by far the most impressive, though.
He stands on the hill, for a moment, just content to watch the sprawling citadel between the trees. There is a lake nearby too, glittering in the sunlight.
“It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” Merlin says, and pats his horse absentmindedly. Despite his parents’ wishes, he has no other companions. All he needs is Deore and the sack on his back to see the world, and he has his magic if there is any trouble stirring. It’s probably only for his powers that Balinor allowed him to leave the safety of Dracaneard at all, truth be told.
He steers Deore towards the city, and can’t help but beam at his destination.
~*~
Magic has been illegal within Camelot for many years now, and the sheer lack of it sets Merlin on edge. There are no fire breathers in the marketplace, and there are no fortune tellers and truth seers to lure in new customers. There are no druids with new potions for various ailments, and there are no children practising simple spells.
There is beauty in other ways though, Merlin notices. There aren’t fire breathers, but they have sellers of various trinkets, and there is a singer performing in one of the streets. Children run around after poorly-shaped balls and Merlin smiles as they run by him, uncaring of the stranger on the steed.
There might be no magic, but he can still grow used to this.
It’s a bit of a risk to sneak into the castle, but Merlin’s entire existence is a risk in Camelot. He might not be executed, by virtue of his name, but King Uther would be livid if he knew that the Prince of Dracaneard is visiting. They are not on friendly terms, Balinor and Uther—they haven’t been since long before Merlin’s birth.
He leaves Deore with a stable boy, and asks a kind-looking knight for the location of Gaius. Twice he steps into the wrong corridor, but a maid points him in the right direction, and he finds the right room at what might be called the right time.
There’s an elderly man sorting through several books on a ladder, and when Merlin comes in, the man turns. Merlin can pinpoint the exact moment he loses his balance, and it’s no more than natural to send the uncomfortable-looking cot to the right place.
“That’s magic!” the man exclaims, and gets up from the bed with far more of a hurry than Merlin really expected from an elderly physician. “You’re using magic!”
“Erm, yeah,” Merlin says, and winces as remembers the ban on magic. “Sorry?”
“You saved my life,” the physician points out, and looks back to the cot and then towards Merlin again. “How did you do that?”
“Well, I think you just said,” Merlin says sheepishly. Then he remembers his manners, and holds out his hand. “Sorry if I startled you—I just arrived in Camelot, and I really wanted to pay you a visit, actually.”
“Who are you?” Gaius asks, even as he gingerly takes Merlin’s hand. He squints at him, as if Merlin is familiar, even though Merlin hasn’t seen Gaius since he was an infant. And he doesn’t particularly take after either of his parents, although he has his mother’s complexion.
“Merlin,” he offers, and smiles broadly. “Hunith’s son?”
“Hunith’s boy!” Gaius repeats, and then Merlin is engulfed into a hug.
“Hello,” Merlin says brightly, when Gaius lets go of him.
Immediately, Gaius frowns at him. “But what are you doing here? Dracaneard’s relations with Camelot are tense, at best. It is not a good place for you to be, my young Prince Emrys, especially not alone!”
“Don’t call me that,” Merlin says quickly, and looks towards the door. “It’s—no one knows I’m here, actually. It’s just—I’m travelling Albion, you see? And I sort of promised Father that I wouldn’t visit the citadel of Camelot, but I know that Mother’s missed you a lot, and I’d like to get to know you, and Camelot’s a bit of a legend, these days, with the druids’ prophecies—”
Gaius looks at him sternly, and Merlin trails off. He can’t help but grin, though, because he’s made it as far as Camelot, and he’s finally meeting the Uncle he’s been told so much about. And it’s in Camelot, their enemy and the source of their hope—according to the prophecies, the Once and Future King will rise up here, once, and bring back magic. Merlin’s just curious about the kingdom he shares a destiny with.
“Now, Merlin,” Gaius says, and taps the side of his bed. “I’m just an old man, and you’re a young and strong lad, so I expect you to put this back. Then I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me everything about your parents, and about yourself.”
Merlin nods in quiet acceptance, and rolls up his sleeves. Gaius scolds him when he uses a bit of magic, but he’s also smiling fondly, so it can’t have been too bad.
~*~
There’s a knock on the door.
Merlin sits still, his hands stilling over the magic book Gaius had given him to keep busy. He’s sure that no one can see that he has it, so he mutters a quick, “Gesawen,” and watches as the book disappears under his hands. When he carefully pats it, the invisible pages rustle, and he smiles.
The door creaks open, and a young man appears. He is well-clothed and his hair shines golden in the flickering candlelight. Merlin’s magic unexpectedly tingles at the sight of him, and it’s only Merlin’s tight control that stops it from reaching out. He blinks at the visitor, uncertain what to say. This might be the most radiant man he has seen, with his chiselled jaw and his broad shoulders, and he opens his mouth—
“Who are you?” the man demands, prickly. “Where is Gaius?”
“Erm,” Merlin says.
“Well?” Merlin furrows his brow as the golden man strides over. “If you’re here to steal from him—”
“You’re a nice one, aren’t you?” Merlin says. “Hello, nice to meet you too. Yes, certainly, I’m finding my time in Camelot quite enjoyable, the weather’s been really good lately.”
It’s not the first time that Merlin has been stared at like he’s lost his mind, but usually the looks come from his friends or his mother after he might have accidentally set the Tower on fire. Actually, Kilgharrah usually gives him the same stare, but Merlin likes to think that Kilgharrah is the odd one out given all his cryptic talk.
“What?” the man says.
“Just trying to pretend you actually made some pleasant conversation,” Merlin tells him. “You know, like someone with manners would.”
“I don’t know you. We’re not friends.”
“I know. I’d never be friends with such an arse.”
The man laughs loudly. “You can’t talk to me like that. Do you know who I am?”
Merlin shrugs. “No idea. If you’d bothered to ask, you’d know I actually just came to Camelot this afternoon. Although you’re arrogant enough you’d think you were the King himself—”
“I am the King’s son,” the haughty man says. The Prince, apparently. “Arthur.”
Well. Just the person Merlin had decided he wanted to avoid.
“Great,” Merlin mutters.
It’s a good thing that Balinor isn’t here—he might kill Merlin personally for getting in the same room as their mortal enemies, the Pendragons. By all accounts, Arthur Pendragon follows the footsteps of Uther Pendragon. The body count of sorcerers rises each day, and Arthur is at the head of his father’s armed forces.
“Who are you?” Arthur Pendragon demands.
“Merlin,” he says quickly. “I’m, erm. Distant family from Gaius. Well, not so distant, really, but I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
Arthur frowns at him, and for a moment, Merlin’s heart beats loudly in his chest. The Dragonlords have kept away from the Pendragon family since they started the Purge, and Merlin’s given name isn’t used by most royalty. Even if Arthur Pendragon is aware that Balinor of Dracaneard has a son, they will only know him as Prince Emrys.
Not that they will expect him here.
“I wasn’t aware he had family,” Arthur says, oddly distant.
“Anyway,” Merlin says, and rises from his chair. It puts him and Arthur at a height, he’s pleased to find. Arthur might be broader, but he doesn’t tower over him, and Merlin feels a little more on even ground at that fact. “Gaius is out. There was a sick woman in the Lower Town, and they asked for his help, so he went. It’s two hours ago, I think, but I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Arthur groans, and runs a hand over his face. “Wonderful,” he mutters, and eyes Merlin darkly. “So we’re left with you. Do you happen to know which one is the sleeping potion? The one that stops the nightmares, whichever one that might be.”
“How should I know?” Merlin exclaims.
“So you’ve got no manners and you’re an idiot,” Prince Arthur says in mock amusement. It really robs him of all his beauty, Merlin decides, even if his hair still looks like it’s spun from gold. No face can make up for that level of tactlessness.
“If you have trouble sleeping, I could bludgeon you with a rock,” Merlin says sharply. “I’m sure that’ll put you to sleep really quickly.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for the Lady Morgana, you dolt.”
“Has she spent too much time with you?” Merlin asks. “I’m sure that’d give me nightmares too.”
Arthur snorts at that. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem too put out, and the anger leaves Merlin. Certainly Prince Arthur is an absolute bully, but he hasn’t outright attacked Merlin yet. Being the Prince, he could have put a stop to their heated argument any time he wanted.
“Tell Gaius to bring it to her first thing in the morning,” Arthur says. “And please tell him that if you’re going to stay in Camelot, he ought to teach you how to behave around royalty.”
“Right,” Merlin says. “I’ll get right on that, my lord.”
Arthur stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Merlin just crosses his arm and smirks, unmoving.
“There’s something about you, Merlin,” he mutters, and then he turns around and he’s gone. The door rattles shut behind him, and Merlin lets out a breath.
It takes him five minutes to make the magic book visible again.
~*~
“He is,” Merlin tells Gaius in the morning, “the most prattish person I’ve ever met. He just stormed in here, and he insulted me, and then he just left.”
“You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you,” Gaius sighs, sipping from a cup of tea. He looks tired, and Merlin immediately sits down opposite him, frowning. Gaius didn’t come in until the middle of the night—Merlin heard him, still reading through the intricacies of the animation spell in Gaius’ grimoire.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, a little surly. He watches as Gaius grinds some herbs and mixes them together. On the other table, a vial of water boils softly. Merlin leans forward, taking in Gaius’ practised movements. “So. What are you doing?”
Gaius sees him watching, and raises his eyebrows before he nods towards the herbs. “The sleeping potion for Lady Morgana that Prince Arthur was asking about. He cares much about her, you know, even if neither of them would admit to it. There weren’t a great many children in the castle growing up, and they know each other better than most. He must have been concerned about her, to ask for the potion so late in the evening.”
That makes Merlin feel a little worse. Despite how horribly haughty Arthur had been, his friend deserved better. Nightmares can truly crumble the soul if they go on long enough, Merlin knows. He had visions when he was eleven years old, and they lasted for weeks.
He isn’t about to speak in Arthur Pendragon’s defence, though. There might actually be a law against it, in his own kingdom.
“So what does the potion do?” Merlin asks eagerly.
Their own physician in Dracaneard is a druid, and one Merlin never got along with. Alfric is mothering and overly concerned, and as a child who liked to scrape his knees, Merlin has spent far too many hours in his care. It means he’s never cared to stay there for longer than he needed to be, especially once Alfric started muttering on about Merlin’s prophesied future.
“Well,” Gaius says, his eyes suddenly glittering with the love for his subject. “The poppy extract is to put the Lady to sleep, you see, but she needs something stronger. There are certain herbs that will calm your soul, and others that will strengthen the effect of the potion. The trick is to use the right ratio for each part, so that they do not undo each other.”
Merlin hangs over the herbs now. They smell strong, and he thinks he recognises yarrow. “And do you add magic? There is a spell, you know. That might help.”
Gaius grows solemn. “No, child. We do not use magic, even if it can help. The king has banned its use, for both good and evil. But the herbs do help, even if the effect of magic might make it more potent—it is not only magic, you see, that can solve problems.”
Merlin looks at his Uncle’s hands, steady as they continue grinding the herbs. He adds a thick paste, and it doesn’t smell quite so good after that, so he leans back.
“But you know magic. My mother told me so.”
“Yes, I practised magic. In this very court, even, before King Uther banned it. Since the Purge, I have acted as the royal physician, and I have not used my magic.”
“I don’t understand,” Merlin presses. “You’re a sorcerer. You know magic, and if that book you gave me belonged to you, you’re a knowledgeable sorcerer. My mother loves you, and my father speaks highly of you. Why would you stay in Camelot?”
Gaius’ smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s not insincere. He stands up, and lays a hand on Merlin’s head. It should be odd, for the casual touch from a man Merlin barely knows, but he feels oddly fond, instead.
“One day, Merlin,” Gaius murmurs, “you might understand that there are reasons for staying even where your existence is in danger. I know Uther isn’t loved in Dracaneard, Merlin, and I cannot blame them. He has done horrible things to a great many innocent people, and I have been expected, over and over, to forgive him. It must seem like madness to you.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says. “It does, a little.”
Gaius musses Merlin’s hair, and then removes it. “And that is why you must accept the words of your elders, when I tell you that sometimes, you can do most good in the places you least expect to. You must remember that, Merlin.”
He doesn’t quite understand. Still, he smiles, and stares at the unfinished potion. “I will.”
“Now go write to your mother,” Gaius says, and Merlin flees.
~*~
If there is one thing that Merlin likes about being on the road, it’s being unknown.
There is no place in the world he loves more than Dracaneard, truly. It is his home, and it is where he grew up, running in the forests and learning the names of plants and trees and all creatures, and it is where he learnt the speech of the dragons, his kin, and everyone he has ever known and loved waits for him there.
But he is a known entity, not only in Dracaneard. Merlin was born with his eyes shining gold, he has been told—there had been magic in the air, and it had stormed for two weeks after his birth, and it had rained every time he cried.
He is the Prince of Dracaneard, and the son of the last of the Dragonlords, and one day, he is expected to lead his people. But then, the druids call him Emrys, and Kilgharrah talks about a greater destiny than to be a King to his people—he talks about an unavoidable fate, and his role as a protector, and another half to meet. Merlin is known to every magical creature, not as a Prince but as a child whose existence the world has been waiting for, and he has always felt the weight of the expectations weighing him down.
So he likes it. Being unknown. And he likes Gaius, for treating him like a nephew rather than the Prince of Dracaneard. Camelot is grand and imposing and utterly non-magical, and yet something draws Merlin here. The druids that so eagerly talk about Merlin’s destiny often mention Camelot’s as well, and they speak of the Once and Future King. Maybe that is why he feels so intertwined with the kingdom, with its fate.
When he is in Camelot, his magic pulls at him, despite the lack of it in the streets. Its absence upsets him, even though Merlin knows it will be returned, one day, after the Once and Future king has come. The King who was prophesied, the same way Merlin was, and who will first rule over Camelot, and then over Albion.
And Merlin is supposed to pave the way, or so he has been told. The magic feels so close, and yet so far. Camelot feels as if he can’t breathe, sometimes, after spending his life surrounded by magic. At other times, it feels freeing, even though it always feels odd.
Gaius has Merlin running errands for him, although he’d been very uncertain about asking Merlin to do anything for him at first. Merlin doesn’t mind helping out, actually. His mother was a commoner before she married Balinor, and she has always insisted upon the importance of helping others.
Besides, he didn’t have many friends as a child. He spent most of his time with the kitchen boy, Will, and so he’d learnt to scrub pans and wash dishes and sweep the floor along with the youngest servants. His father had despaired of him, but Hunith always smiled, and Merlin liked that Balinor’s manservant Rhonan gave him a small sip of wine after helping.
He hadn’t liked the taste. It felt like being grown-up, though.
So Merlin helps Gaius. He has spent his day bringing his potions to people and he’d even briefly seen the Lady Morgana, although he’d given the potion to her handmaid, Gwen, who’d seemed particularly nice. He hadn’t had much time to talk, but Merlin thinks he might like to befriend her. She might know more about the Pendragons, too, being so close to Uther’s ward.
Merlin is curious to know what they’re like in person. His father has always painted the Pendragons in the harshest light he could, but surely not everyone in Camelot will hate them. Gaius doesn’t indulge much in gossip about their persons, and Merlin isn’t expecting much, considering how well his meeting with Prince Arthur went.
It’s still light out when he’s done, fortunately. Merlin finds himself wandering the marketplace again, taking in the people. Apart from the unsettling lack of magic, it’s really very similar to the one in Dracaneard. People are just people, after all, and the noises of merchants shouting and children laughing is the same everywhere.
“How are your manners coming along? ”
The voice is frighteningly amused, and oddly familiar since Merlin only really knows one person in Camelot, and he turns to find himself face-to-face with the Crown Prince of Camelot. There are three men by his side, evidently knights, and Arthur Pendragon is laughing at him, clad in his own shining armour.
Right. Merlin raises his eyebrows at him. Arthur is clearly a delusional prat if he thinks Merlin is going to bend over and let himself be bullied. They may not know it, but Merlin is the strongest sorcerer in the world. He can tear them apart with the blink of an eye if he wants to.
“I don’t see why telling an arse that he is one isn’t considered common decency,” he says and lifts his chin. Arthur steps closer, almost like a threat, but Merlin doesn’t budge. “Nevermind if he’s a royal arse.”
Arthur laughs, throwing back his head. Merlin is treated to the sight of his pale neck, as strong and broad as the rest of him.
“Is that so?” Arthur says, and takes one more step. It brings them oddly close together. “I should have you thrown in the stocks for your insolence, but I rather think it’s amusing. Perhaps I should commend you to my father as a jester, Merlin.”
“I only live to serve, my lord,” Merlin mocks.
“Now, see,” Arthur says, a delighted smile on his face. “That’s already better. Perhaps you’re not the biggest idiot in the world after all!”
“No, I would never dare to strip you of that title,” Merlin agrees.
His arm is suddenly on his back, twisted painfully. Arthur moves faster than he’d have presumed, Merlin thinks vaguely, but then Arthur pushes forward and that hurts. Magic hums under his skin, and Merlin shoves it back forcefully. No use in wasting ten years of being taught how to control the magic that bursts out of him at times—especially in a situation where the Prince of Camelot will have his head for it before Merlin can bother to explain.
He is fully expecting to be forced to his knees, but Arthur Pendragon lets go as quickly as he took hold of him, and Merlin stumbles back. Arthur is still smiling, and Merlin hates that he thinks he can get away with this.
“See, Merlin,” Arthur says calmly. “You’re really quite a moron, to insult someone so far above your own station. Now, I’ve been very merciful—”
“You may be a prince,” Merlin spits out, and his shoulder aches from the rough treatment but he doesn’t want to rub it in front of Arthur, “but you know nothing of being noble.”
He stalks off. Arthur calls after him, but there are better things in Camelot than the prattish brutes that rule it.
~*~
Lady Morgana is indeed quite beautiful, although in a very different way than Prince Arthur. She is dark to his gold, and she is smooth and kind to Arthur’s roughness. It’s odd to see them sitting together at the feast. Gaius said they get along quite well, but they don’t seem too fond of one another.
Although it’s hard to imagine anyone being fond of Arthur.
Gaius told Merlin to come to the feast, if only because there would be so many others that Merlin would hardly be noticed. It’s a good way of watching the royal family, and although Gaius has many fine qualities, cooking certainly isn’t one of them.
He is still in a bad mood, though. Arthur hasn’t seen Merlin, but Merlin barely can stop watching him. The Prince mostly talks to his father as far as he’s seen, and the smile he wears dutifully cannot seem convincing to anyone else. Uther does not smile at all, and Merlin is uneasy at the sight of Camelot’s king.
“Are they happy?” Merlin asks suddenly, playing with his pork.
Gaius looks up and follows the trace of his gaze. He turns back with a shake of his head, pointing his fork towards Merlin. “Those are not concerns of yours, Merlin.”
“Sorry,” he says, but leans forward. “It’s just—they don’t seem happy. And my magic, I can’t—it’s sort of twisted, when I look at them. Like it’s trying to tell me something.”
“Maybe it’s telling you to stay far away from the Pendragon family,” Gaius says sharply. “Don’t mention your talents in public, my boy. There are too many ears who might hear."
Merlin stabs the pork, but he’s not hungry anymore. His magic feels erratic in Camelot, in a way it hasn’t in years. There’s supposed to be a singer, he’s heard, one of the best in the kingdom, but he isn’t in the mood for music any longer. In fact, he feels like packing his meagre belongings for the continuation of his journey. He’s seen Camelot, the great land of prophecy, and he’s met one out of two Pendragons—that’s more than enough, and certainly it’s more than Balinor ever wanted him to do.
“I think I’ll retire,” he says sourly, and stands. Gaius pulls at his sleeve, though, and Merlin wants to comment just as he sees the singer—Lady Helen, he recalls—appear through the main entrance.
Merlin imperceptibly nods at Gaius and tugs himself free. There is another door behind the royals, and he can sneak away through there. He forces himself to walk quietly as Lady Helen begins her song, and almost regrets leaving, because her voice is really beautiful.
Too beautiful.
The sense of magic is almost a shock after going several days without it. It is woven into her song, and Merlin’s magic protects him as naturally as breathing. What it can’t do is protect the others from falling to the same fate.
He turns, and the banquet hall is filled with spider webs and dust. In the middle of it stands Lady Helen, her hands spread towards Arthur, a knife held in one. She smiles as everyone else’s heads bob slowly with the music. They are falling asleep—or maybe dying.
It is not wise to interfere, maybe, but Gaius’ skin is pale and waxy. And Merlin already loves him, this wise old physician who has taken in Merlin with all the fondness in his heart, and he can’t let all these people die.
Merlin glances around the room, desperation settling into his bones. She’s magic, like him, but this isn’t right. His eye catches the chandelier above Helen’s head, and his eyes flash gold.
The chandelier falls, and the spell breaks.
The people sit up in shock, but Merlin has his eyes on Lady Helen. She transforms, her glamour breaking, but the venom in her expression remains the same. Her knife has fallen to the ground, but it is within her reach.
She must come to the same conclusion that Merlin does. With a cry, she grabs it, and then it flies towards Arthur—Arthur, who has stood up in the confusion, spider webs clinging to his golden hair and his eyes wide. Arthur, who will not be able to move away in time.
Merlin slows time. He is already standing near the royals, so it takes only three steps to get to Arthur’s side and pull him away. Time resumes, and Arthur lands beside Merlin on the cold floor.
When Merlin looks up, the knife is embedded in the chair, and the sorceress dies.
“You saved his life,” says Uther Pendragon, as Merlin gets to his feet. Arthur stands already, watching Merlin with clear shock on his face. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s because of what just occurred or if it’s because Merlin saved him. He isn’t really certain himself.
“I suppose I did, yeah,” Merlin says, and scratches the back of his neck. A woman is dead—a sorceress is dead, because he chose to save Arthur Pendragon. Granted, it wasn’t a fair use of her power to enchant a room full of people, or to use it to kill, but—well, he’s not quite sure how to feel.
“You must be rewarded,” Uther says, eyeing Merlin up and down. If there ever was a way to avoid the attention of a king, Merlin thinks bitterly, he should refrain from saving his heir the next time.
“It’s really nothing, sire,” he says, trying not to look at Arthur. “I don’t need anything, but thank you.”
Uther is insistent. “No, no, I must. Who are you, boy? What is your name?”
“Erm,” Merlin says, and winces. “I’m Merlin, my lord. I’m—well, I’m a distant relation from Gaius? I haven’t—”
“Wonderful,” Uther says, as if it is. “Loyalty must run in the family, then. You have done us a great service tonight, boy, and this debt must be repaid.”
“Honestly, you don’t have to, your Highness.”
“No, absolutely,” Uther says. “You will be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”
“Father!” Arthur says.
Merlin tamps back a frustrated groan.
~*~
Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. Merlin’s bed is small and uncomfortable, and the thin blanket is a touch rough against his skin. He wishes he were home and with his friends—Freya, who would discuss the druid language with him, and Will, who would make Merlin push the boundaries of his magic.
He will leave tomorrow. He’ll find Arthur, and he’ll explain to him that—what? He’s the Prince of Dracaneard, so it would be highly improper for him to serve as Arthur’s manservant?
Great. He’ll just tell them that he is only a visitor, and he cannot take a job. He would have liked to stay in Camelot a little longer, albeit not anywhere near the royal family, but it’ll be enough of a reason to turn down Uther’s generous offer.
He’ll just pack his bags and say farewell to Gaius, and maybe he can ask him to write to Merlin—
“Young warlock.”
Merlin sits up in his bed. That is not a dream, and there is no one in his room. He can hear Gaius’ gentle snoring in the other room, and nothing else. Still, he knows this voice, this cadence, this gentle insistence in his mind.
“Kilgharrah?” he whispers to himself, and throws off the blanket.
“I am waiting for you outside the city. Come to the lake, and we shall speak.”
Merlin hurries in putting on his trousers and his boots. He doesn’t bother to change shirts, although he does take the brown jacket and slings it over his shoulders. Gaius still sleeps when Merlin creeps out of the doors.
The guards are easy enough to evade with a smidge of magic. For a moment, Merlin thinks of taking Deore from the stables and taking her to see Kilgharrah, but he isn’t sure if the stableboys will be sleeping there, so he decides to walk.
It takes an hour, but the lake is beautiful, calmly reflecting the light of the stars. And beside it, intently staring at Merlin, sits Kilgharrah.
“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks, incredulous.
Kilgharrah bows his head. “I am here for you, young warlock. I would not venture so near Camelot if it were for any other reason.”
“Great,” Merlin mutters, and scratches his neck. “Look, I’ll be leaving Camelot tomorrow. It’s really not safe for you here—or for me, for that matter—”
“You must remain,” Kilgharrah says.
“What?”
“You heard what I said, Merlin. Under no circumstances must you leave Camelot. This is a place of destiny, and it is here that your fate will unravel. This is where you will find yourself, and this is where the Once and Future King will once rule. You must stay, and learn to be who you are.”
“Right,” Merlin says slowly. “Say that again, but this time leave out all the cryptic advice.”
Kilgharrah huffs, smoke coming out of his nose. “Arthur Pendragon is the Once and Future King who will unite all of Albion. The prophecy, as you well know, speaks of Camelot bringing forth the King who will unite Albion and return magic. You are to guide him in this. That is the true meaning of the prophecy.”
Merlin can’t help it. He laughs—loudly. “Arthur, the Once and Future King? You can’t be serious. Him? He’s a bully. The Once and Future King is supposed to—I don’t know exactly, but something with my reign, right? Something later, when I’m older, and I can—I don’t know, start making peace. That’s what the prophecy means—it doesn’t mean Arthur and me. You’ve got this wrong.”
“There is no right or wrong,” says Kilgharrah, annoyance bleeding into his voice. “There is simply what is. None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. Arthur is the Once and Future King, and you are to be by his side. You are two sides of the same coin, and what is yours shall be his.”
“But he’s an idiot,” Merlin bites.
“Then maybe you should change that,” Kilgharrah murmurs. “Without you, Albion shall not succeed, young warlock. Your powers are extraordinary, I have told you this before. Your own fate is tied into Arthur Pendragon’s. He needs you, as you need him.”
“I can’t do this, Kilgharrah,” Merlin says. “I don’t belong in Camelot! Magic isn’t even legal here! I didn’t know—I wasn’t supposed to be fulfilling my destiny now! I need to return to Dracaneard within half a year, or frankly, my mother might actually kill me. If all of that weren’t bad enough, Arthur hates me, and I don’t like him!”
“I suppose that you’ll have to do something about that too, then,” Kilgharrah tells him sagely, and flies off. Merlin roars at him, but even the Dragon language isn’t enough to get the dragon to come down. Instead, Merlin has to watch as Kilgharrah disappears in the night.
The prophecy. All of it is coming together, and Merlin falls onto the ground, uncaring of the grass stains. The union of Albion is a golden prophecy, and one that Merlin wants to see come true more than anything else. The return of magic to all kingdoms, and not just in Dracaneard—it would be glorious and beautiful, and it will mean the end of the deaths of so many magical creatures.
And if Arthur is the Once and Future King, that changes things. Merlin, somehow, is destined to walk this path with him. It is them that unites Albion and ends the feud between Camelot and Dracaneard. Merlin has no idea how it will come to happen, but Kilgharrah has never lied.
He returns to Camelot in the deep of the night, and feels more unsettled than he ever has before.
~*~
Gaius turns pale as a sheet when Merlin tells him, but then the physician pats Merlin’s hand with a pained smile.
“I suppose,” he says, “that means you’ll be staying for a while longer?”
“I suppose,” Merlin echoes morosely, and then tries for a smile. “At least I’ll be able to spend some more time with you. And who knows, perhaps Arthur might not be so bad. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to get to know him, if I’m truly going to be his manservant.”
Gaius blinks. “You are still going to take up the position? Are you sure that’s wise, Merlin? Do you know the first thing about being a manservant?”
Merlin has never had a manservant of his own, but Balinor does. “Well, no. But it can’t be too hard, and I don’t mind doing some menial work. It’ll allow me to get to know Arthur better, and that’s really all that I need to be doing, if I’m staying.”
Arthur is the Once and Future King that the magical world has staked all their hopes on. The prophecy has always been vague, but Merlin had really thought things were going to play out differently. The concern weighs heavily on him, but so does the burden of his people—and for them, he will make sure Arthur is worthy of his title.
“Please tell your mother it isn’t my fault,” Gaius says, rubbing his forehead.
Merlin grins.