Chapter Text
On the night of Arthur’s eighteenth birthday, he woke up to a woman crouching on his bed. His first reaction was to freeze, staring at her shadowed form as she peered at him. She made no grab for any weapon, nor did she even reach out to touch him. For a single, horrified moment, Arthur thought that one of the castle maidservants had succumbed to whatever romantic feelings they all — according to Morgana — harbored for him and had had the mad idea to come to him in the night.
In a brief, blinding moment of recollection, he remembered eleven year old Morgana, in hushed tones, relating what Gwen had told her about the mystery that occurred between men and women and produced babies. All of twelve years old, he had listened with disgust, before declaring that he would never do that, not even on pain of death. Affecting a superior tone, Morgana said that Gwen said her father, as he uncomfortably related the facts of life to her, also told her that she would want it when she was ready and married, so Arthur would probably be the same way. Her eyes flashed with victory as she said it, which put Arthur’s hackles up. He fiercely told her she was wrong, and then they didn’t speak for three days, until ten year old Gwen forced them to make peace.
As he stared at the woman, horribly aware that his mouth was hanging open, he decided that he was right all those years ago. The prospect was still disgusting.
Of course, this woman might be here to kill him. There was hope.
Perhaps Father really wasn’t crazy for keeping a dagger under his pillow. Arthur should probably start doing that.
Assuming he survived the night, of course.
Clearing his throat and trying to make his voice as princely as possible, he said, “You dare trespass on the prince of Camelot’s bedchamber?”
The woman leaned closer. Her face moved into the faint light of the candle beside his bed, revealing milky white skin and dark curls that fell wetly over her shoulders. There seemed to be a feather lurking within them. Unearthly blue eyes stared out at him, and Arthur was suddenly and unwillingly reminded of the bright eyes of the wolves that hunted around Camelot.
This woman was no maidservant he knew of.
She also wasn’t answering him.
“I said,” he snapped, glad that indignance is keeping the uncertain tremor from his words, “you dare trespass in my chambers, witch?”
“Priestess,” the woman corrected, like she either didn’t notice the insult or was unbothered by it. Ice shot through Arthur. Priestess? As in —
“You will not leave here alive —”
“And,” interrupted the woman, still unconcerned, “I was there when you slid from your mother Ygraine, so I hardly find this inappropriate.”
For a second, Arthur struggled with the verb slid , but then the pertinent part of her sentence filtered into his mind. “My… my mother? You — you were there? When she —”
“My name is Nimueh.”
The ice inside Arthur hardened. “You were Father’s court sorceress. You betrayed —”
“I did not.” Insult made Nimueh’s words hot. “You’ve been lied to, Arthur Pendragon.”
“You dare accuse my father of lying?”
“I will accuse him of far worse before this night gives way to dawn,” she said. “Do you wish to hear the truth, Arthur?”
Arthur gritted his teeth. “A witch isn’t capable.” He wasn’t even certain she was Nimueh, whatever she said. She seemed hardly older than he was, yet if she were telling the truth, she would have to be at least forty years old, based on the things Father had said.
“If you really believed that, you would have called for your guards long ago. You are a better man than Uther. His tyranny chafes against your soul, does it not? Something within you — some instinct — tells you that magic is not the devil your father believes it to be.”
Arthur’s mouth felt dry. “You know nothing of what I think. I am loyal to my father.”
“To him, yes,” Nimueh conceded. “But to his choices? You have attended enough executions now, Arthur. Are you beginning to see?”
Arthur had seen bitter hatred from sorcerers as they laid their heads on the chopping block or stepped up onto the platform where they would be burned, but he had also seen desperation — pleas for mercy from people who had done nothing but speak a harmless spell in view of the wrong eyes. He did not like the knot it created behind his ribs, and he did not like to see the divide it was cutting between Father and Morgana. And soon, he thought, Morgana and himself.
It was true. He hadn’t called for his guards, even though Nimueh had produced no weapon. Though, if Father were to be believed, she herself was weapon enough.
Seeming to take his silence as admission, Nimueh reached into her long blue cloak, which fell over a ragged red dress, and produced a vial filled with a translucent liquid that shed soft light in the dimness. “Do you know what this is?”
Of course Arthur did. Under Father’s tense supervision, he had watched Gaius brew that very potion and hold it out to him, allowing him to memorize its scent and appearance so that no sorcerer might use it against him. As Nimueh unstoppered it, that same scent filled his nose. “It’s a potion that compels the drinker to speak only the truth.”
“It is.” Then, without any warning, Nimueh put the vial to her lips and drained it in a second. After she swallowed, mouth twisting around the potion’s bitterness, she said, “Do you trust me now, Arthur?”
“I…” Arthur managed to sit up, shifting away from her. “I don’t know.” His head spun.
“Then listen to what I have to say, and then decide. If you choose to call for your guards then, I won’t stop you.” Nimueh sat back on her heels, still crouched, catlike, on the other side of his bed. She moved like a creature of the forest. Around her hung the odor of earth, growing things, and rain. She didn’t even seem to think it a strange thing to infringe on a prince’s bed. “It’s time you heard the truth of your father, of your birth, and of the Purge.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “I already know I killed my mother.”
With a sudden tenderness, Nimueh reached out and cupped a hand to his cheek, too quickly for him to flinch away. Her palm was warm and work-roughened. “You,” she said, “were not responsible. It was a terrible accident — a mistake perpetuated by your father and I.”
“What?”
“Listen to me, Arthur. I have had dreams — dreams of what will happen if you follow for too long in your father’s footsteps, if you believe his lies. It is not with your birth that this story begins but with your mother’s barrenness and your father’s desperation. You were not born of nature. You were born of magic, love, and foolishness. And it changed everything.”
Arthur found he couldn’t breathe. “Tell me.”
# # #
All in all, Merlin’s first few days in Camelot could have gone better. Mother had told him to make as many friends as possible and as few enemies, and to — above all — keep his head down.
He thought he had managed to obey one of those commands, but it wasn’t really his fault. It wasn’t as if he could have let that prat — never mind that he was a prince — continue to torment his servant. If he didn’t stand up, who would? Ending up in the stocks hadn’t been ideal, but at least he had managed to befriend Gwen, adding her to his growing roster of friends.
He supposed Gaius counted as a friend, though he certainly nagged a good deal for a friend.
He didn’t think Kilgharrah counted as a friend. The dragon himself would probably agree. Mother would probably put her head in her hands if she found out Merlin had followed a strange, surely magical voice out into the night, but she didn’t know what it was like. If Merlin hadn’t found the voice’s source, he never would have gotten any sleep at all.
Unfortunately, Kilgharrah hadn’t been very helpful. At first, his words excited Merlin. A grand destiny? The greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth? That thrilled him, deep in the well of his stomach.
But then Kilgharrah had continued, and everything went swiftly downhill from there.
Arthur? That prat of a prince? Of all people, Merlin’s destiny had to be tied to him? Of all people, it was Arthur who had to survive to bring magic back to Camelot? And of all people, it had to be Merlin tasked with protecting him? Merlin couldn’t imagine Arthur looking outside himself long enough to help anyone, if he was being honest.
And yet.
Destiny , Merlin thought, as he held a silver pitcher full of mead and watched Arthur laugh with his knights as they all sat at the high table together, has to be wrong .
If Arthur was really going to restore magic and right all of Uther’s wrongs, then how could he enjoy himself at a banquet thrown to celebrate twenty years of magic being dead? Of Uther executing anyone who displayed the slightest hint of talent?
Hidden in the shadows at the edges of the room, waiting to be called upon to refill goblets — and he was the physician’s apprentice, this wasn’t even his job — Merlin glowered at Arthur. This whole affair made his stomach turn, but it didn’t seem to bother Arthur at all.
Clotpole.
Someone bumping into him knocked him out of his resentful contemplations. Jerking his pitcher the other way to stop all the mead from sloshing out, Merlin stumbled sideways and twisted to see who had collided with him. It was a maidservant, dressed in red and blue, with a worn scarf wrapped around her disheveled brown hair. She was only a little older than him, with ruby lips and eyes so blue that he almost wanted to take a step back.
She also seemed like she had been running. Panting, she grabbed his arm and towed him to a sheltered alcove. “I’m sorry — I’m sorry, but something terrible is going to happen. The prince — Lady Helen, she —” The woman drew a long breath. “She’s not who she says. I saw her — just a flash — in a mirror. She’s an old hag. A witch . The one who threatened the king after the execution yesterday.” The woman’s eyes were wide, and she cast a desperate look in Arthur’s direction. “I believe she means to kill the prince. You must come with me and help me alert the guards and the king. They shan’t listen to me. I’m — the king won’t hear me. I came with one of the visiting ladies, but you — you, he might listen to.”
Merlin opened his mouth to object to her supposition — as far as he knew, neither Uther nor Arthur were at all disposed to listen to him, if either remembered he existed — but before he could, Lady Helen herself stepped up onto the dais at the head of the chamber. She wore a gown of deep gold, and her smile seemed to shed a gentle light as it shone out from her face. Her dark hair formed a crown about her head. She lifted her arms and began to sing, a haunting sound that filled the room and slipped into every crevice of Merlin’s mind in an instant. The very notes had weight. The candles dimmed. Cobwebs misted materialized out of thin air and draped the tables and candelabras, as though decades passed between each measure of music. One by one, the occupants of the room fell asleep, tumbling off their benches or slumping to pillow their heads in their arms. Even Arthur, a golden beacon at the head table, fell silent and lolled back against his carved wooden chair.
Beside Merlin, the maidservant — the only one besides him and Lady Helen who seemed unaffected by the singing — cursed. She jerked forward, but there was the flash of metal in the last remnants of the candlelight.
A blade floated in front of Lady Helen. It was pointed directly at Arthur.
If there was one thing Mother had drilled into Merlin, it was that you didn’t let women throw themselves into danger if you were there to do it for them. Shoving the maidservant back and ignoring her indignant squawk, he dashed out into the open and threw himself at the dais, knocking into Lady Helen and sending them both slamming into the floor. Her voice cut off mid song.
# # #
Gaius, who had pled age and exhaustion in order to get Uther to allow him to skip the celebratory feast, did not expect to be woken up by Merlin storming into their shared quarters, shedding ethereal cobwebs. As Gaius jerked upright, nearly throwing out his stiff back in the process, and regretted ever agreeing to shelter Merlin, the boy in question tore off his neck kerchief, threw it on the workbench, and tossed himself onto one of the benches pushed up against their small table, assuming the posture of great despair.
After a moment, Gaius reached over and lit the lamp beside his cot. As the warm light reached toward the edges of the room, he ventured, “Did something… happen, my boy?”
Merlin’s voice, muffled by the way his hands were clamped over his face, emerged from the depths of his throat in a bad-tempered croak. “Uther made me Arthur’s manservant.”
Gaius gave himself a moment to digest this, picturing Merlin — earnest, forthright, and above all, not experienced in hiding his magic — spending his days all but glued to Arthur’s side. Then, he said, “Why?”
“Because I’m an idiot .”
# # #
Nimueh waited for Arthur in her secret hideout in the catacombs far beneath Camelot. They were long forgotten, left to rot after more ornate tombs were fashioned closer to the surface of the earth. These ancient tombs were from a time before even the Pendragon dynasty. Uther was many things, but a man who looked to the past for wisdom was not one of them, and because of that, Nimueh found no small amount of satisfaction hiding from him among the graves of his forefathers, who would surely have knocked him upside the head if they ever got a chance to see the utter dog’s breakfast he had made of things following Ygraine’s death.
Slightly later than she expected him to, Arthur slipped through the false wall that hid the entrance to her hideout. To any potential passersby — not that there were any, usually — it appeared to be nothing more than unfinished stone, creating another alcove among many scattered throughout the tunnels. But to her and Arthur, who knew the path to it and could find the hidden mark at its base — a dragon, long and sinuous — it was a door, hiding them from all prying eyes and ears.
Nimueh eyed Arthur, whose face was like a breaking storm, as she combed out her hair and tried to come down from the adrenaline rush that had taken hold of her when she realized that Lady Helen was a witch intent on murdering Arthur. Without time for a proper disguise spell, she couldn’t think of a way to notify the guards without being brought before Uther, who would recognize her. She could have dispatched the false Lady Helen right then and there, but it would have raised questions neither Uther nor Arthur could answer, and if Lady Helen, hailing from a neighboring kingdom and beloved by its king and queen, died by magic within the walls of Camelot, it would lead to either retaliation against magic from Uther that rivaled the Purge or a war with Lady Helen’s kingdom.
Or both.
So Nimueh had run, hoping to beat Lady Helen to the banquet hall, and prayed a plan would present itself before time ran out. A plan had appeared, in the form of a serving boy.
Of course, Nimueh hadn’t expected him to throw himself first at Lady Helen, breaking her spell, and then at Arthur, knocking him out of the way of a magically thrown dagger as Lady Helen made a last ditch attempt to fulfill her plan before the occupants of the banquet hall fully awoke. The witch was set upon by dozens of guards the second the knife lodged itself in the chair behind Arthur, and as Uther yelled about sorcery and deception, Nimueh made herself scarce, certain Arthur was safe.
However, judging by his expression now, something had transpired after she left.
“Arthur? What’s wrong?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Close association with him for the past three years had filled her with an affection for him that still felt strange, almost like she was betraying her slaughtered brethren. Even so, she could not and did not try to kill the blossoming love at its root. The moment Arthur was born — falling into Uther’s arms with hardly a cry — was branded in her mind. In a way, Arthur was hers too. He was Uther and Ygraine’s child, but he wouldn’t exist without her influence. Whether she had meant to or not, she had given him a piece of herself. She saw it sometimes, in the sky-bright blueness of his eyes. His first moments, before Ygraine breathed her last and everything went wrong, were some of the best of Nimueh’s life. To her, Arthur was a dawn after a very long, dark night.
He was also very young and very annoying. He needed so much management. So much reassurance. So much comfort. At times, Nimueh felt too old and tired to bother, but she always did.
Arthur scowled. “My father.”
This was the beginning of many complaints he leveled at her, so Nimueh wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and sat down on her nest of blankets, waiting for him to continue.
After a moment, he did, pacing up and down the round main room of her hideout with sharp, fierce steps. “That — that peasant boy from the other day. The one who I thrashed in a fight. He — well, he… He was there, at the banquet.”
Nimueh, who had not survived as long as she had by being slow on the uptake, put two and two together and found that whatever Arthur was upset about, it was likely at least partially her fault. She had thought the servant boy looked familiar. Now, his face neatly matched her recollection of Arthur’s furious description from the previous day.
Nimueh had also not survived as long as she had by admitting fault. “What happened?”
“He must have realized Lady Helen was really Mary Collins just in time to cover his ears and protect himself from the sleeping spell,” said Arthur, with exceeding bitterness. “And then he took it in his head to stop her. And save my life.” The last part was spat out from between clenched teeth.
“That was very brave of him.”
Arthur paused in his pacing long enough to glare at her. “Don’t be stupid .”
Nimueh, who had long felt burdened to step into the space in Arthur’s life that Ygraine should have occupied, gave him a look coated with motherly warning. Looking sheepish, he subsided then and resumed pacing.
“I’m sure your father must have rewarded him.” Nimueh was loath to ascribe anything positive to Uther, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let a subject’s heroism pass unnoticed — not when it had benefited Arthur. Uther knew as well as she did that a large portion of the kingdom regarded him — and thus Arthur — with hatred and fear. Every little spark of loyalty toward Arthur had to be acknowledged and encouraged.
Unlike Nimueh herself, Uther was not immortal. He knew he would not always be alive to protect Arthur from those in Camelot seeking revenge against the Pendragon line.
Arthur snorted. “You might say that.”
“What did he do?”
He threw his hands up in the air. “He made him my manservant!” He sighed, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. “So I have to spend all my days with that — that. That .”
Nimueh felt it wouldn’t be motherly or kind to laugh at Arthur, and since she was trying to be both those things — though they fit her badly — she said, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that.” The platitude fell from her tongue with an awkward sort of verbal clang.
Arthur let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, certainly. Anyway, I haven’t time to resent my father right now. I need another sleeping draft for the guards and a fire spell powerful enough to incinerate a human body.”
Nimueh digested this. “Why?”
“I’ve got to fake Mary Collins’ death and get her out of the dungeons,” he answered. “As if I didn’t have enough to do.”
“Arthur…” Nimueh paused, trying to figure out the best way to tell him that it wasn’t the best idea to free a woman who had just tried to kill him. Since she had told him the truth about his birth and about the Purge, Arthur had, with her help, smuggled countless magic users to safety right under Uther’s nose. She was proud of him. She wanted him to know that. But she also wanted him to know that some witches — like Mary Collins — were cowardly would-be murderers who deserved to die, especially since she had dared touch Arthur. And Arthur — well, Arthur was Nimueh’s .
Rather than any of that, however, what tumbled out of Nimueh’s mouth, was, “Arthur, don’t be stupid.”
Which was, of course, the exact wrong thing to say if she wanted Arthur to listen to her and be sensible.
Arthur bristled. “I’m not . She lost her son. She was angry. And my father did far worse when Mother died.”
He had that particular expression that Nimueh had come to dread. It was the one he wore when he intended to do the honorable thing — or what he believed was the honorable thing — or die trying. There was no arguing with him when he had that expression. All Nimueh could do was knock him out and use a transport spell to dump him back in his room, and doing that would only make him less likely to listen to her the next time.
Instead she played her trump card. “What about the real Lady Helen? She was murdered.”
“Well, I’m not going to let Mistress Collins go free ,” scoffed Arthur. “I’ll give her to our druid friends. They can deal with her. That’s our agreement, isn’t it?”
It was, and a hard won one too. It would do good for relations between Arthur and the druids if he again allowed them to deal with magical wrongdoers, rather than Uther.
The druids would be just. And, unlike Uther, they would not mete out punishment out of vengeful hate.
Nimueh gritted her teeth. “Fine. But you’re not doing it alone.”
# # #
Mary Collins stayed thankfully unconscious after Nimueh hit her with a sleeping spell and unleashed the fire spell in such a way that it looked like Mary, overcome with rage and grief, had burned herself to ash within her cell. After that, Arthur tied the sleeping Mary up, threw her over his shoulder, sidestepped the sleeping guards, and followed Nimueh through the tunnels beneath the palace until they reached the secret underground exit within the forest that bordered the citadel. Nimueh said it was an ancient escape route, meant to be used during sieges, but it had been forgotten over the generations. How she knew of it, Arthur never asked.
From there, it was a brisk, chilly hike to the druid encampment within a nearby cave system. Mary bounced against Arthur’s back the whole way, but for once, the druids didn’t look at him like he was the spawn of a demon as they let him and Nimueh inside.
That, Arthur felt, was progress.
Mary began to stir — slowly and softly at first — as they followed their escorts to the elders’ council chamber. She woke fully when they stepped inside, screaming through her gag and pounding on Arthur’s back with surprising strength and ferocity for a woman her age. Tired and unamused, Arthur slung her off his shoulder and dumped her on the ground in the center of the equally unamused circle of elders. Leaving her hands bound, he pulled off her gag first and then her blindfold, turning her to face the other occupant of the circle.
Mary Collins, gray hair standing out around her head, stared at her son Thomas. For once, she had nothing to say. Her mouth hung open.
“Hello, Mother,” said Thomas with a cautious smile. He looked no worse for wear since the combined illusion and transport spell that Nimueh had given Arthur prior to Thomas’ execution had caught him up and dumped him inside the druid encampment, leaving the beheaded corpse of a highwayman that Arthur and his knights had dispatched earlier that day in his place, magicked to look like him. The illusion of Thomas’ death and the swap of bodies had been so smooth and perfect that Arthur himself had almost believed Thomas was dead. It was no wonder Mary had.
Perhaps he should have prepared for that eventuality, but Thomas hadn’t even mentioned a mother when Father interrogated him. This was entirely not Arthur’s fault
Arthur stepped back, rubbing at the bruises Mary had probably left on his shoulders. Gesturing sharply to Thomas, he turned to Mary and snapped, “You’re welcome .”
# # #
After an exhausting first day as Arthur’s manservant, filled with more traded barbs than he could count, Merlin staggered, blurry-eyed, through the secret passages that led to Kilgharrah’s prison. He almost thought he lost his way, but a slight alcove with a dragon shaped symbol carved near the foot of its back wall, told him he was on the right track.
“Destiny, my foot ,” he muttered to himself as he passed the alcove. “How am I supposed to protect him if all I want to do is kill him?”
# # #
Arthur paused in his tirade to Nimueh, outlining all the ways Merlin had tempted him to draw his sword and run him through during their first day together. “Did you hear something outside?”
Nimueh glanced toward the false wall. “No. Did you?”
Arthur shook himself. “I must just be imagining things. That sod of a manservant must be driving me mad.”