Chapter 1: Summoning
Chapter Text
It was almost midnight when a cluster of Dark cloaks gathered in a circle beneath the ancient canopy of the forest, where even the moonlight dared not disturb the nights happenings. The trees loomed like silent witnesses, their gnarled branches bowing inward, enclosing the clearing like a cathedral of twisting shadows. At the centre, runes had been etched into the frozen earth with bloodroot and silver dust. Wax candles guttered on stumps and stones, flickering with a flame that shifted in hue between violet and gold.
A chorus of voices rose in unison, low and lilting, chanting in twisting tongues that made the very air shudder.
"Ic clypige eow, eald Cyningas magan, geweorðod by mægen and blod.
Cume forth of eorðan, of lyfte, of isen and treow,
And gehyr min stefne.
Bringe dom ofer unriht. Bringe dom ofer cyningas mid wælhreownysse in heortan.”
The earth trembled faintly. The flames shot higher, dancing like spirits in the wind. Shadows twisted into strange forms at the edge of the light: outstretched wings, horned silhouettes, glowing eyes peering from the gloom.
Morgana’s voice rose, clear and commanding, now in the language of the present.
“I call upon the Old Council. By the blood of the land, by the breath of the sky, by the bones of the first magic, I summon thee! Witness the crimes of Uther Pendragon! Come forth and sit in judgement!”
The flames surged, then abruptly died out, plunging the woods into silent darkness.
---
Merlin should have known from the moment he woke up that today would be a terrible day.
For one thing, he had overslept. Not just a few minutes late, but completely missed the sunrise. Gaius had specifically asked him to fetch fresh snowdrops before the morning frost melted. So Merlin had burst out of bed in a panic, grabbed his coat, and sprinted out into the woods to find the flowers, nearly falling on his face several times in the process.
By the time he returned, mud-spattered and breathless, Gaius was standing in the workshop doorway, arms folded and lips pursed. The glare he shot Merlin could have melted steel.
"I'm sorry!" Merlin wheezed, dumping the slightly crushed snowdrops onto the table.
Gaius merely raised an eyebrow. "You’d better get to Prince Arthur before he decides to throw a tantrum."
Merlin didn’t have the heart to explain he was already well past the tantrum window.
He raced through the castle corridors, nearly knocking over two serving girls and what might have been a very disgruntled Leon. If looks could kill, Merlin would have been dead before he made it to Arthur's chambers.
He burst through the door without knocking and came face to face with a shirtless, irate Arthur Pendragon. The Prince sat upright in bed, arms crossed, and wearing an expression that on a child would be called a rather adorable pout, but on a grown man made Merlin want to…
…do something.
"You're late," Arthur said sharply.
Merlin opened his mouth. "Yes, sire, I had to—"
"Whatever excuse you're about to give can't possibly be as important as ensuring your future king doesn’t starve to death waiting for the most incompetent servant in history!"
Merlin bit back a retort about real starvation and nobles with overinflated egos. Instead, he settled on the safest option.
"...Yes, sire."
As he moved to prepare Arthur's breakfast, he very deliberately didn’t think about wrapping the bedsheets around the prince’s smug face. Not even a little.
Yes. Today was going to be dreadful.
---
Prince Arthur was eager to get out of Camelot. He hadn't left the grounds in nearly a week, stuck in council chambers arguing over grain stores. Grain. He could feel his brain slowly dying with each passing minute of the Lord of the Treasury's nasal complaints. Merlin, bizarrely, had taken a strange interest in the debate, to the point where Arthur had to discreetly kick him under the table to stop him from glaring.
Merlin's inability to behave in public was honestly astonishing. Still, Arthur supposed he preferred Merlin's outbursts to George's fawning. Something about that man’s whispery voice made Arthur want to leap from the castle walls. At least Merlin was...entertaining. For now.
So when a scouting knight reported signs of magic in a nearby forest clearing, Arthur seized the opportunity to investigate.
The clearing had clearly been used for a ritual. The ground was scorched in a wide circle, and faint embers still smouldered at the centre. Symbols had been scratched into the earth with strange precision, many of them unfamiliar. Arthur crouched to study the marks, frowning.
He didn’t like this. Magic this close to Camelot meant either someone foolish or someone bold. Neither option sat well with him.
Pulling out a small leather notebook, Arthur began to sketch the markings. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but Merlin had given him the book last Yule, and for some reason, Arthur had started carrying it around. It had been handed over with such a hopeful—no, idiotic smile, Arthur had taken it out of pity. Or something.
Arthur knew he was lingering longer than necessary at the edge of the ritual site. His eyes were fixed on the scorched ground and the strange, curling symbols that seemed to writhe if you looked at them too long, but his mind was elsewhere. There was something about the place that prickled under his skin. Not fear exactly, but unease, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. He would never say it aloud, but his first thought had been Morgana.
It always was these days. Even now, months after her betrayal, her absence haunted Camelot like a ghost. Uther had grown more erratic with every passing week, his fury sharpened by grief. More executions, more accusations, more fear. Servants whispered of disappearances in the night, and Arthur had stopped counting the number of burned pyres. He wanted to believe that Morgana could still be found, reasoned with, redeemed. But if she was behind this ritual, whatever it was, then perhaps she was already lost. He couldn’t imagine his sister here; or rather he didn’t want to.
He rubbed a hand over his face, glancing once more at the markings before putting away the notebook Merlin had given him. If anyone could help make sense of this, it would be Gaius.
---
Returning to Camelot was always faster than leaving it. Before long, Arthur stood in the throne room, delivering his report to King Uther, who was pacing furiously.
Gaius stood at the side, brows furrowed in concern. Merlin loitered near him, looking deliberately casual, which only made him look guiltier.
"And there was no sign of Morgana?" Uther demanded.
"None," Arthur replied, handing his sketch to Gaius. "No footprints. Just the symbols."
Gaius adjusted his spectacles and peered down. "Curious... This appears to be a fusion of several magical dialects. I see Draconic here...and Fae script...even traces of Dwarvish runes. Almost every magical tongue I know of."
"Is that unusual?"
"Unheard of," Gaius said grimly. "Such languages aren’t meant to be combined. Even writing them side by side can have...volatile consequences."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Explosive consequences?"
"Indeed. I’m frankly amazed you copied them down without setting yourself alight."
Arthur felt his father's eyes on him, sharp and appraising. A cold shiver ran up his spine.
"Likely because he lacks the gift to wield them," Gaius said quickly, glancing at the king.
"Who could create such a thing?" Arthur asked.
"More to the point," Uther said, striding forward, "why?"
He took the parchment from Gaius’s hand. The moment his fingers touched it, everything changed.
The paper burst into purple fire, vanishing in a flash. Uther cursed and dropped the ashes.
Arthur drew his sword, as did the knights in the corners of the room. A loud ringing sound vibrated through his very bones. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw both Gaius and Merlin grab their heads in pain, though his father seemed unaffected.
Then came the rumbling. A deep, seismic groan echoed through the hall as five stone pillars rose from the floor behind the throne.
Before their eyes, the pillars reshaped themselves into five elaborate thrones, each more uncanny than the last. One was forged from twisted black stone, its surface carved with sharp, claw-like ridges and symbols that seemed to pulse in the dim light. Another was draped in moss and tangled vines, tiny blossoms sprouting and wilting in seconds as if the seat itself breathed. A third glittered with jagged spires of ice, so clear it looked almost invisible in places, yet cold mist curled from its edges into the warm air. Beside it stood a chair of solid oak, its grain rich and dark, worn smooth at the arms and seat by countless invisible hands. The last throne shimmered unsettlingly. It was seemingly wrought from a shifting metal that warped its shape ever so slightly with each glance, paired with deep velvet that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Together, the five seats stood silent and waiting, heavy with impossible expectation.
As the final chair settled into place, a blinding light filled the room. The very air hummed with ancient energy.
Then, a voice. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Deep, echoing, terrifying.
"Hæl wes thu, cyning Uther Pendragon. Thu bist befroren to dom."
A beat passed before the voice spoke again in modern tongue, thunderous and final.
"Greetings. This is the trial of King Uther Pendragon, charged with the crime of murder against the people of the magical planes. The Council has been summoned."
There was a long, stunned silence.
"Fuck," Merlin muttered under his breath.
Arthur didn’t disagree.
Chapter 2: Three Days
Summary:
The Council Arrive
Chapter Text
Gaius was the first to react. He stumbled forward as if to kneel, only to catch himself halfway through the movement, nearly falling in the process. Merlin darted forward and grabbed the back of his robe to steady him, a silent exchange of panic passing between them. They could both feel the raw power eminating from the thrones. Merlin felt helpless. He couldn't do risk using any magic so close to the King. He was couldn’t do anything but watch and wait for whatever horror was about to come down. The air around him was dense, like rain clouds before a mighty storm.
Merlin felt as though something was tugging at his core, insistent, trying to draw him away from where he stood to some other place. His breath was coming in rasps and his fingers twitched unconsciously. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, an ache beneath his skin, in his bones. Waves of magic were lapping at him as if trying to pull him away from shore. He dug in his metaphorical heels, forcing himself to remain where he stood. No one else seemed to feel it. The sensation was terrifying. It wasn’t pain, but inevitability, like a thread winding tighter around his ribs. Merlin's eyes were fixed upon the seats. The pressure was building. His knees nearly buckled before he had to snap his head away and forced his breathing to slow.
In between breaths, the feeling vanished.
It seemed whatever had tried to call to him had arrived in the throne room instead.
--
The figures who had appeared were unlike anything Arthur had seen. Their presence warped the very air around them as if reality itself couldn’t support their existence.
Upon the moss-covered chair lounged a creature of feathers and fur, its leonine face sharp with intelligence. Wings folded impossibly behind it, its mane of feathers shifted with iridescent colour, more owl than lion.
On the throne of ice, light refracted like shattered crystal, forming what seemed to be a humanoid shape one moment and a flurry of snowflakes the next. The oak throne was occupied by a young child, barefoot and freckled, their legs dangling far above the ground. Their gaze, solemn and wide.
Arthur’s eyes, however, were locked on the chair of shifting iron.
Morgana.
She sat tall and regal in a gown of deep violet, her hair coiled in a precise braid, her crownless head held high. There was no warmth in her expression, no love or recognition, only cold satisfaction. Arthur felt his heart twist. She was alive. That should have brought joy. Instead, it brought confusion, guilt, and grief in equal measure. His sister was in arms reach for the first time in months and he couldn't make his feet move closer.
Then came the voice of his father, shattering the uneasy silence.
"Guards!" Uther bellowed, fury and disbelief writ across his face.
The royal guards, caught between fear and duty, began to move. But before they could draw their swords, the creature on the moss throne unfurled its wings and with a single beat sent them flying across the marble floor. They crashed against stone columns and tapestries with dull thuds.
Arthur felt the breath leave his lungs. He recognised Eryk and Stephan among them. They were still moving, thank the gods. Jules and Colin, both barely seventeen, should have been in the throne room too. Luckily, they'd been sent away a few minutes ago to join the other knights searching the forest.
The knights!
Gwaine was working in the palace today, and Leon. Lancelot was visiting friends but would likely return to the Palace at word there was a disturbance. Arthur had to think quickly before they ran straight into a massacre.
He was desperately trying not to think about Merlin standing supporting Gauis on his right.
He took a step forward, instinct urging him to draw his sword, but his hand met the hilt only for a rush of violet light to pulse from the dais. The spirit shimmered like frozen wind raised a limb, and with that gesture, a wave of power spread across the hall.
Arthur’s sword grew impossibly heavy. It clattered from his grasp. Outside, similar sounds echoed: the telltale ring of weapons hitting stone. The entire garrison had been disarmed in a single stroke.
Panic clawed at the edges of his control. Was this a coup? A magical invasion?
Was there anything he could do to save his people?
Then Morgana raised her hand. Her eyes gleamed with gold. Arthur tensed, stepping instinctively between her and Merlin despite having no armour or weapons to protect himself. But instead of striking, golden chains burst from the floor and wrapped themselves around Uther, slamming him to his knees. He cried out in rage, but the bonds held firm.
In less than a minute, the throne room had become a courtroom. Camelot's king was a prisoner.
"We are the Council of Magik," intoned the spirit, its voice ancient and resonant. "We speak for all magical beings of this realm and the others. We bring justice to those who would see magic destroyed. Uther Pendragon, you have been called to account."
Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach. This wasn’t just an attack. It was a reckoning.
"You stand accused of crimes against Magik," the spirit continued, its formless body flickering like a reflection in broken water. "How do you plead?"
Uther roared, words lost to fury. He thrashed in the chains, eyes blazing.
"Very well," the spirit said calmly. "We shall pass our verdict."
"Wait!" The word left Arthur before he could think.
Every eye in the room turned to him, including Morgana’s. He swallowed, but stood firm.
"You can’t just pass judgement without a trial," he said. "He must be allowed to speak in his defence."
Morgana laughed, bitter and sharp. "Defend the indefensible, dear brother?"
Gaius stepped beside Arthur. "Surely even your council has laws. A trial, at the very least, would honour the justice you claim to uphold."
The lion-beast rumbled, eyes narrowing. But before it could speak, the child leaned forward.
"He's right," she said, voice clear and soft. "A fair trial. That’s what justice means. We must show them we are better than they are."
Morgana stood, her expression thunderous. "The crimes of Uther Pendragon are not in doubt. He has butchered our kind without remorse. He flaunts his hatred proudly. You all know it."
The child looked away, biting her lip.
"What's wrong with a little butchering now and then?" rumbled the Not-Lion.
The spirit chuckled, a sound like wind through bone. "Provoking the young one, Cadmeus? She is not yet dulled by time and will strike true if you continue to bait her."
The creature called Cadmeus grinned, part amusement, part threat, its teeth serrated like a predator’s. It said nothing, but the challenge in its eyes remained.
The central spirit turned back to the circle, robes shifting like smoke. It raised its arms and spoke with finality. “Very well. For the sake of balance, a defence shall be permitted. You have three days. Use them well.”
It turned its head toward Uther, then to the others gathered in the room.
“Know this: the accused cannot flee. He is marked by our judgment. Should he cross the bounds of this chamber’s ward, his soul shall be seized for immediate trial.”
A shimmering brand blazed suddenly into being over Uther’s heart burning through his tunic. He gasped, eyes wide, but could not cry out before the light faded into his skin.
“Three days,” the spirit repeated. “We shall return. And the judgment will be final.”
There was a sound like shattering glass and then the Council vanished, leaving the air ringing in their absence.
The room seemed to exhale. The oppressive pressure of magic lifted like a storm dispersing. Uther's chains, now severed from the enchantment that bound them, fell heavily to the floor with a clatter. The man followed shortly after.
Gaius rushed forward to check him, fingers already searching for a pulse and breath.
Merlin didn’t move. He stood frozen, face ashen, hands clenched at his sides.
Arthur stood beside him in silence, his thoughts careening too fast to catch hold of. Fear gripped him. The beings that had filled the room wielded magic with the ease of breathing. Magic that could destroy Camelot, bend kings to dust.
And among them... Morgana.
Alive. Standing proud. Power rippling around her like flame.
Beautiful. Terrifying. Unforgiving.
Arthur’s heart twisted. Was she truly gone? Was there any part of her that could still be reached, or had she chosen her side, once and for all?
Notes:
This is all written on vibes, which is how Merlin itself was written so I think I'm in the clear.
Chapter 3: A Knock At The Door
Summary:
Merlin receives a late night visitor
Notes:
This chapter did not want to happen so if there are any glaring issues let me know as there's been about six versions of it and I can't see it clearly anymore 😂
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was late when Merlin finally returned to his room.
After the Council’s dramatic departure, the throne room had erupted into chaos. Knights were dispatched across the castle grounds with orders that felt more symbolic than practical. Merlin wasn’t even sure what they were meant to be looking for: rogue spirits, rogue sorcerers, or perhaps a sense of control. Gaius, ever the scholar, had vanished into the archives in pursuit of anything bearing the name “Cadmeus.” But unsurprisingly, the Camelot Royal Archives were depressingly barren when it came to ancient magical councils.
“What few texts we’ve got were edited under Uther’s regime,” Gaius had said in a voice of frustration tinged with bitterness. “Sanitised. Scrubbed clean. Half-truths, if even that.”
No species. No location. No way to stop them.
Merlin had helped at first, combing the library’s dusty corners with a dimming sense of hope. But he’d been pulled away to assist with moving furniture and supplies into the throne room. Since the wording of the council was unclear, no one wanted to risk Uther leaving the throne room and setting off the trial early. Instead the King's rooms would be brought to him. The man himself barked orders from his chair like a cornered lion, but everyone in the room could see his hands were trembling. Uther screamed at guards and servants alike, furious that magic dared defy him in his own court, as if volume alone might silence the truth. As if his word still had divine weight. As if he hadn't been in chains only hours before.
Merlin had tried, discreetly, to examine the lingering traces of the magic. The glowing diagrams were fascinating. Some were geometric others were written in runes he’d never even seen before and were beyond his reckoning. Merlin recognised some of the script as Brythonic, others perhaps Pictish or something older. Magic before the Romans, before even the Saxons. A language long lost under conquerors tongues.
Arthur too had paced the room like a caged hound, muttering oaths and clearly desperate to fight something. Anyone. It had taken a while before Merlin had convinced him to rest. He led him away while nodding agreeably with whatever tired nonsense the Prince muttered.
By the time Merlin himself trudged up the stairs to his bed, his bones ached and his head pounded. He longed for sleep. He fell upon his bed with his shoes still on, eyes closing shut.
Then, a knock on the door startled him out of his daze.
Merlin's heart nearly burst out of his chest.
He lay there, frozen in place. No one knocked on his door this late.
Not unless something was wrong.
Another knock.
Then, without waiting, the door creaked open.
A small head poked in. Red curls, bright eyes, and a confused frown.
She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, barefoot, her cloak too long and dragging behind her on the floor. A smudge of ash was on her cheek, and her clothes looked like they’d been sewn from moss and bark and starlight.
Merlin blinked. "Um. Hello?"
She grinned, all teeth. “"Dia dhuit! An bhfuil tusa an Dragonlord?"
He blinked at her uncomprehendingly.
Her smile faded into an almost comical pout. “Oh. Just English, then? That’s disappointing.” She stepped fully into the room, looking around with open curiosity. “Is this where you live? It’s tiny.”
“You—what—what are you doing here?” Merlin sat up and slowly climbed off the bed. “You can’t be in here. Someone might see—”
“Oh, I cloaked myself,” she said brightly, already making herself at home and picking up a small carved wooden horse from his shelf. “Not very well, but enough that the guards didn't see me. I’m good with tracking, you see. I followed the feeling of your magic.”
“My—my what?”
“Your magic,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve got loads. It’s not very tidy, though. Sort of leaks out everywhere. Like soup.”
Merlin blinked. “Soup?”
“Yes! Like wild garlic soup with too much cream," she said wrinkling her nose.
Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Well I'm sorry, you must have the wrong room. I'm not magi-" Merlin was cut off by a large bolt of fire heading straight towards him. Acting purely by instinct his eyes lit with golden light as he caught the flames and redirected them to the hearth.
The little girl smiled playfully, "would you like to try that again?"
Merlin grimaced. His shoulders pulled back and his eyes became steel.
You were in the hall earlier,” he said eventually. “With the Council.”
“Of course I was. I’m on the Council,” she said, sitting on his bed without asking. “Which is why I came to ask why you weren’t. It’s very rude, you know. You’re meant to be there.”
“I’m not—” Merlin’s voice cracked. “ I’m just a servant. I don’t know what you mean.”
She tilted her head. “But you’re the Dragonlord, Emrys.”
“I’m—” He stopped. “How do you even know that?”
She shrugged. “It’s obvious. Your magic smells like dragonfire. It tastes like sky and stone. Same as your father.”
Merlin’s breath caught.
His knees gave way, and he sat beside her, trying to make sense of the way the room had suddenly tilted. He gave up on all pretense.
“You… you knew my father?”
“Well, I met him once. Years ago. He came to the council when I was still little. I mean, I am still little, but I was even smaller then.”
Merlin looked at her with wide eyes. “What was he like?”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “Big. Loud. Sad. He didn’t stay long. The rest of the Council didn’t like him much, but I thought he was funny. He never came back after that. The Dragonlord's seat has been empty ever since." She squinted at him, "why do you not know what your father was like?"
Merlin looked away, "My father left before I was born. I only met him recently and he...we didn't get much time to talk"
“Oh,” she said softly, her earlier brightness dimming. “That’s really sad.”
A long silence fell between them, broken only by the gentle pop of the fire.
Finally, Merlin asked, “Why did he leave the council?”
The girl swung her legs idly. “He didn’t agree with them. About the wars. About hiding. He thought Dragonlords had a duty to protect people, not just magical folk. He said the old ways had grown cruel.”
Merlin swallowed. “He sounds…brave.”
“He was stubborn,” she said. “But kind. You’re like him.”
“You don’t even know me.”
She shrugged. “I know enough. You’re quite famous, among the druids. They say you're kind. That you try to help.”
That hit too close to home. Images of burning pyres filled his mind like the smoke had filled his lungs.
The girl suddenly smacked herself dramatically on the forehead, breaking the silence that had settled between them “Oh! I’m Posey. Sorry. Forgot people care about that. The council usually just calls me The Young One or Green-Speaker. But Posey’s my real name.”
“Posey.” Merlin tested the name aloud. It suited her. Soft but wild. "I'm called Merlin."
"Like the fish!" She exclaimed, in a way that meant Merlin couldn’t do anything but smile back at her.
“Anyway, like I said before, I came to find you because you weren’t at the meeting,” she continued. “Everyone else was there, even Cadmeus and he rarely leaves his Pride. We needed all the seats filled. The Dragonlord chair stayed empty and sad.”
“I didn’t know I was meant to be there, I didn't even know the council existed until today,” Merlin admitted.
Posey sat cross-legged with her head on her knees, looking impossibly young.“No wonder your magic feels all tangled, like a bird stuck in brambles. You dont know anything at all do you?”
Merlin felt he should be offended, but looking at this girl he couldn't help but agree. Every time he thought he'd gotten a grip of all this magic stuff, something new happened. Like he was trying build a catapult from scratch with no instructions or understanding of physics.
“I’m sorry,” Posey said simply. “You must feel so… wrong. Like your bones don’t fit.”
He swallowed, hard. “Yes.” Somehow this strange child had sued up his entire existence in one sentence. Merlin, son of Hunith, whose bones don't fit anywhere.
She nodded and leaned back on her hands. “You should talk to your dragon.”
Merlin frowned. “My what?”
“Your dragon,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “All Dragonlords have one. Or can call one. It’s in your blood.”
“I’ve…I’ve met a dragon. But I didn’t call him. He found me.”
“Well maybe your dragon is waiting,” she said. “Waiting for you to stop pretending to be someone you're not.”
Merlin didn't really know how to answer that, so decided to go back to the topic at hand.
"I'm sorry, I can’t sit on a magical council anyway. I already have a job. Two in fact." Said Merlin, to which Posey frowned.
"You can't avoid it. You would suffer for it, the more you ignore the call the worse it would be. We cannot ignore our duties. You must take your seat in three days time or the consequences will...not be pleasant"
"Why can't someone else take my place?" Merlin asked almost desperately.
Posey rolled her eyes "because unless you have a sibling, you are the only Dragonlord of your line left. It's a heritage seat. The others may be won by conquest or chosen by concensus, but your belongs to only you. It is a powerful thing that should not be taken lightly"
"Well then how did Morgana get her seat?" Merlin asked.
Posey looked almost surprised "You know the Lady Morgana? She didn't mention that when we were discussing who would look for the Dragonlord."
"She...doesn't know. That I have magic, I mean. Or who I am." said Merlin quietly.
Posey raised her eyebrows "Well she will soon then. But to answer your question, she was chosen to stand in as proxy for the Sorceress who usually takes that seat, since Morgana knows more of the crimes committed in Camelot."
At that Merlin winced. Morgana indeed knew more about what happened within Camalot's walls than most. She had witnessed the burnings, the farcical trials, the destroyed lives... Uther was as good as guilty the moment she joined the council.
Lost in thought Merlin didn’t reply to Posey for a moment, the silence in the room heavy.
“I brought you this.” Posey pulled out a small, leather-bound book from her satchel she held out to him. The cover was embossed with a sigil he didn’t recognise, and the pages were thick with strange ink and annotations. “Rialacha an Dlí agus an Rialachais, the Rules of Law and Governance. It explains the Council. How the trials work. The old magic laws. Every new council member gets their own copy. Be careful, it's lively.”
He took it slowly. “Thank you.”
Posey tilted her head again. “You’re scared.”
“Of course I am. This whole thing—it’s too big. Uther’s being judged by ancient creatures and magic I barely understand. I’m supposed to cast a vote that could get him killed. Or let him live and damn myself.” He said the last line almost to himself, for it was true. If he sat on the council everyone in Camalot would know who he was...what he was. Arthur would know.
Another pause. Then Merlin whispered, “Is there any way to stop the trial?”
Posey looked down. “No.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s not a human court,” she said. “Once summoned, it must finish. Otherwise the imbalance would fracture the veil. The dead would rise. Time would turn inwards. Magic would tear itself apart.”
“…Right.”
“You can speak. And vote. But you can’t stop it.”
Merlin looked down at the book in his lap. “Then it’s happening. In three days I will be outed to the entire Court.”
"Yes," she said, not unkindly, "Uther and his bloodline must face justice for what they have done. Including forcing you to hide for so many years."
Merlin's head snapped up, "his bloodline?"
Posey looked confused again "yes? The entire Pendragon line will be held to account, and all those who enabled them."
Merlin's blood ran cold.
Arthur.
Notes:
Comments are life x
Chapter 4: Day One: A Few Hard Truths
Summary:
Merlin starts reading the book of law
Notes:
Trigger Warning: This work is going to have themes of Colonisation, genocide, and discrimination. While it's not intended to represent any one issue there is no way that it won't be influenced by world events even subconsciously. If you're not in the space for that, I'd avoid reading the rest of this fic.
I will edit the beginning of this fic to include this trigger, as when I originally started writing it I didn't realise that there was no real way of me writing around these issues without being disingenuous to the story I'm trying to tell.
Chapter Text
Merlin felt sick.
It was one thing to be responsible for the sentencing of Uther but Arthur too?
The girl didn’t seem concerned with how her words had shaken him. She bounced up from the bed and wandered around the room, inspecting it with the idle curiosity of someone far too comfortable in spaces that weren’t hers.
“How would that even work?” Merlin asked, voice low and hoarse. “Condemning a bloodline, I mean. Surely you can’t hold someone guilty for the crimes of another?”
She tilted her head, and when she spoke, her voice carried something older than she looked. “Isn’t that what Uther’s been doing for decades?”
He flinched at that.
“Tales of his crimes against the druids, the hedgewitches, the alchemists and seers, and many more magical creatures have spread far beyond Camelot. Refugees whisper them across borders, to places where even the air itself burns at the name Pendragon. These lands haven’t felt safe for magical people in a generation, Merlin. That has a price.”
“But you can’t just—”
“We, Merlin,” she interrupted sharply, turning to look at him with sudden force. “You are magical. You are on this council. Or have you forgotten that too?”
He opened his mouth to speak but had nothing.
“You’ve spent so long hiding you’ve started to believe the lie. But you’re not one of them.” Then, as quickly as the sharpness came, it softened into a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you remember.”
She turned, skipped toward the door, and with a theatrical bow, added, “Be ready tomorrow night!”
“Wait! What do you mean ‘tomorrow night’?!” Merlin called, rushing after her, but she was gone. Not just down the corridor. Gone. Vanished like mist at sunrise.
“Merlin?” came a voice behind him.
He turned to find Gaius halfway up the stairs, looking more exhausted than usual. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his physician’s robes, and in that moment, he looked every year of his age.
“Why were you yelling?” he asked, peering over his spectacles with the exasperation of a man who had raised too many reckless boys and not enough sensible ones.
Merlin held up the leather-bound book he’d been given. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
-------
“Ugh,” Merlin groaned, letting his forehead fall with a thunk onto the table beside the book. “Why can’t I just stab something and be done with it?”
“You’re starting to sound more and more like Arthur every day,” said Gaius, not looking up from his own notes.
Merlin wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment.
They had been working through the book of law since early morning. Merlin had wanted to start reading it the night before, but one glance at the first page had convinced him that fresh eyes and a rested mind might help.
It hadn’t.
The problem was the book seemed to have a mind of its own. Instead of presenting information in an orderly manner the writing seemed to shift and jostle, trying to answer the question it thought he wanted to know. It was like arguing with a mindreading cat that had once read a legal dictionary.
So far, the sentient tome had shown him: a detailed account of trade negotiations with the Lower Courts of the Fae Realms, three oddly melancholic poems about seasonal migration, and a scrawled stew recipe that had something to do with rabbits and thyme-infused mushrooms.
It had abjectly refused to show anything if Gaius was in the room and looking over Merlin’s shoulder. Whenever the older man tried, the ink bled away into nothingness, leaving only blank parchment.
As a result they had adopted a bizarre system. Merlin sat reading aloud anything useful he found and Gaius scribbled down notes while offering unhelpful advice like “Try focusing your intent more clearly.”
At one point, Merlin scowled and muttered a few choice curses under his breath, which made the book happily provide a list of all legally sanctioned magical duelling techniques.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “I can incinerate someone under section seven of the Legitimate Dispute Ammendment of 1201, but I can’t figure out how to keep Arthur from being condemned for his father’s war crimes.”
Despite the chaos, they had managed to glean a few fragments of truth. The council had changed form many times. It began with three thrones but over centuries it expanded and contracted. Thirteen seats at its height, five in the current era. Magical creatures and non-humans were currently represented by Cadmeus the Majestic, who had won the seat after defeating five other contenders in some sort of gladiator match of which the book helpfully provided colourful illustrations. The druids, midwives, and hedgewitches were represented by Proserpine the Greenwalker, and had been longer than should have been possible for such a small child. The Fae were represented by Eley'am, who was a member of the Seelie Royal Court and would retain the seat for 1000 years before it would pass to a member of the Unseelie Court through a treaty signed generations ago. The Sorcerers and students of magic represented by Lady Morgana*. An asterisk by Lady Morgana led to the helpful note that she was not a full member of the council but was given full voting rights through sitting as a proxy. They couldn’t discover who Morgana was standing in for. No matter what obscenities Merlin directed at the book, it simply re-inked the asterisk and refused to elaborate.
The final seat was noted to belong to the Dragonlord Emrys Ambrose who represented the Dragons, their Riders, and Warlocks. Merlin was quite grateful that his legal name wasn't recorded since if Posey was to be believed each council member had a copy of this book and Morgana would certainly not hesitate to use his identity to cause chaos before the trial even started. The short biography after his name listed him as the sole surviving Dragonlord and as a Friend of the Druids.
More worrying than what the book was saying was what it refused to say at all - how to stop the trial. How to protect the innocent from the guilt of their kin. What counted as “bloodline.”
When Merlin explained Posey’s warning, that the judgement could extend to Arthur and the broader Pendragon line, Gaius had gone pale.
“There are…rumours,” Gaius had murmured, rubbing his temples. “Not every king in the Pendragon line was faithful to his wife. Some had illegitimate children, even beyond Camelot. If this judgment encompasses bloodlines and enablers…”
Merlin felt sick all over again. The council might not just destroy Arthur. It might destroy families who had never even stepped foot inside Camelot.
And he…would have to vote on it.
Later that day, Merlin was summoned to attend Arthur. He had been excused that morning after Gaius insisted he would need help to comb through the Royal Archive. The Prince had taken to the training yard with a handful of knights. At least Arthur was directing his aggression at straw dummies now instead of unfortunate servants. That had to be progress.
Small mercies.
Arthur noticed him at once. “What did you find?” he asked, trying to sound commanding and not as desperately worried as his eyes betrayed.
“Not much," Merlin replied which was technically true and a complete lie. Luckily he was quite good at bending the truth when it came to his Prince. "Gaius has a lead, but it’s looking like there’s no way to stop the trial short of ripping a hole in the universe and killing everyone.”
Arthur blinked. “Oh. Well…can’t do that, then.”
“No, sire,” Merlin replied with a faint, forced smile.
A nearby knight snorted. “I still don’t see why we’re treating this like a real threat. What’s next, we put the king on trial every time a magical half-breed throws a tantrum?”
Merlin’s stomach turned.
The knight continued, blustering, “I mean honestly, the king defended Camelot. We let these beasts roam our lands, and now they want revenge? Should’ve been executed on sight.”
Merlin’s hands clenched. His heart thundered with fury. It tasted metallic.
But he did what he’d learnt to do from the first moment he saw the smoke curling over the courtyard. When he first saw a woman dragged to her death for daring to be born magical.
He buried it.
He took the anger, the shame, the grief, and shoved it into that hollow place inside him. The pit he didn’t let anyone see. Where magic meant death, and silence was survival.
He said nothing.
Arthur, to his credit, turned to the knight with a frown. “So you’re saying that the most senior knights in the castle and myself just allowed dangerous magical beings to waltz into the throne room and take over with no resistance?”
The knight faltered. “No, my lord. I only meant—”
“That your king is a fool?” Arthur asked, voice cold.
The knight paled. “Of course not, sire.”
Merlin didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t care.
He had work to do. That’s what Merlin was for. He was the servant. The protector. The shield.
He couldn’t afford to feel anymore.
Because if he did, he might remember that Uther deserved everything coming to him.
That there were people in Camalot who had stood by this entire time while innocent people, their friends and neighbours, died.
And he might have to accept that Arthur, the boy he’d bled for, might not be innocent either.
But Merlin couldn’t afford to admit that. Not now.
The Once and Future King would not die for the sins of his father.
Merlin would protect him.
No matter the cost.
Chapter 5: Day One: Through the Looking Glass
Summary:
Merlin gets to go out to a party
Notes:
Two chapters in a day? What am I, an insomniac hyperfocusing? ...maybe
The chapter after this will probably be uploaded tomorrow or Friday as I've mostly finished that one too. Don't judge me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin spent the rest of the day in a sort of fugue state. Arthur had given up on hitting things in the courtyard and retired to his chambers to allegedly deal with the mountain of paperwork that came with being Crown Prince. Usually he would have asked for Merlin’s help. For a servant he was surprisingly good at decoding the legal jargon. However even Arthur, with all the emotional range of a turnip, seemed to notice that Merlin's mind was elsewhere.
Instead, Arthur insisted he stay and "learn what proper work looks like", though he kept sneaking increasingly concerned glances at the silent man across the room. When dinner arrived, oddly without Merlin fetching it, Arthur took two bites then loudly complained it tasted awful and declared Merlin should finish it. Had Merlin been paying any attention he’d have realised it was actually delicious. It was also one of Arthur’s favourite meals.
He didn’t notice.
He chewed mechanically, forced down each mouthful like a penance, and left the room as soon as he could. Arthur watched him go with a deep frown etched across his features.
Later that night, Merlin sat on the edge of his bed, chewing the inside of his cheek and failing to keep his breathing even. Posey had said she’d come tonight, but "tonight" could mean anything, and every second that passed set his nerves more on edge.
It wasn’t just her arrival that had him tense. It was everything. The way the knight had spoken of magic users earlier. The sneering tone in his voice. The cold finality in his suggestions. Merlin had risked his life over and over for these people, and still, they would let him die in a heartbeat if they knew. Even Arthur. Especially Arthur.
And that—well, that stung in a place Merlin didn’t have a name for. Not yet.
When the knock finally came, sometime around eleven, Merlin was already halfway to the door. He swung it open before the visitor could barge in—and just in time.
Posey stood beaming at him like a comet in human form. She looked different tonight. Painted blue swirls decorated her face and bare feet, and her wild curls were woven with braids and charms. A tartan cloak hung from her small shoulders like a banner, and her eyes gleamed with a delighted light as she launched herself into his arms.
“Fish! It’s good to see you. I was worried you’d run away.”
Despite everything, Merlin returned the hug. Some of the ice in his chest cracked a little. It had been a long time since someone was happy just to see him. Even Arthur, with all his soft gestures and awkward fondness, was distracted these days, tangled in Morgana’s betrayal.
“Hello, Posey. Or should I call you Proserpine?” he asked with a teasing smile.
She gasped dramatically. “Only if you want to be cursed for a month! Come on, Fish, we’re going to be late!”
“Late for what?” he started, but Posey was already eyeing him with the grave expression of a child about to say something tactful.
“Is that what you’re going to wear?”
Merlin looked down at his usual blue shirt and red neckerchief. “What’s wrong with it?”
Posey hesitated. “It’s not very...Dragonlord-y.”
“Well, it’s all I’ve got,” he muttered. “Where exactly are you taking me?”
“To the celebrations, of course!” she chirped, as though it was obvious. “The first night the Council is called, we hold a big party for all the magical folk nearby. It’s like...a fair mixed with a court, really. People can bring us problems that aren’t big enough for a full Council summon. Usually, we’re only around for a day, so we have just one party. But since this session isn't for three days...we are going to have three parties!”
Merlin’s stomach dropped. “Posey, I can’t go to that. Morgana will recognise me.”
Posey pulled a face. “She’s going to find out soon anyway. Besides, isn’t your name in the book?”
“No. It just says Emrys, not Merlin.”
A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Interesting. Do you see Emrys as different from Merlin?”
“Well...yes. Emrys isn’t my name.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked. “Would you look if someone called it?”
Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know how to answer.
Posey clapped her hands. “I’ve got an idea that solves both problems. Hold still!”
“Wait, what do you mean—”
A chill washed over him, head to toe, like icy water flooding through his skin. He gasped. When he opened his eyes again, the world looked...smaller.
No, not smaller. Lower.
He staggered to the mirror Arthur had given him. The reflection staring back wasn’t quite a stranger but it wasn’t him either. His clothes had changed to rich robes patterned like dragon scales. Leather boots made him look half a foot taller. His hair was longer, curling at his neck, and a full beard framed his face.
It was him. But older. Wiser. Terrifyingly familiar.
He looked like his father.
“What the... What the bloody hell, Posey?”
She suddenly looked shy. “Do you like it? If not, I can change it. It’s just—I thought this way you could come, and no one would know it was you. Not even Morgana.”
Merlin swallowed hard. He touched his face, the beard, the hair, the cloak. His voice, when it came, was deeper. “It’s...it’s fine. It’s just...weird.”
Posey beamed. “You’re welcome! Now come on before we miss the fun!”
She reached out with one hand, as though feeling for something. With a slight tug, the air shimmered and parted like curtains, revealing a forest aglow with floating lanterns and laughter and music pouring from hidden corners.
Merlin stared. “Is that in my room?”
Posey grinned. “Well, technically it’s a doorway. Come on!” She grabbed his hand, and together, they stepped through.
--------
The scene that greeted them was…unbelievable.
Sparkling fires lit the Grove they had found themselves in, casting flickering shadows through the trees like dancing spirits. Tents and stalls stood scattered across the clearing like pieces of a travelling village, nestled beneath the canopy of stars and ancient boughs. But it was more than that. This wasn’t just a camp. It was a celebration. A living, breathing tapestry of magic and memory.
Lights hung like falling stars from every tree. Music drifted through the air. Not the raucous noise of a tavern, but something older, something that hummed deep in the marrow of his bones. The melody tugged at something lost inside him.
Centaurs moved among the crowd with ease. Market vendors sold wares so fantastical Merlin couldn’t name half of them. A group of druids who he vaguely recognised, were throwing bones and laughing over a game of cards. A winged fae hovered above the ground, holding a child upside down by the ankle to the delight of a gaggle of giggling children. Their laughter was clear and unguarded.
And that’s when he saw them.
Children.
Magical children.
His heart stopped.
They were running through the crowd, their little hands conjuring snowballs from thin air, giggling as they lobbed them at each other with delight. One girl with green moss curling in her hair darted behind her father’s cloak, hiding from a boy with skin like bronze and eyes like foxfire. Nearby, a child with tiny antlers peeked over a table piled high with candied nuts, and another, grinning wide, blinked with three shimmering eyes and vanished, only to reappear in a puff of violet smoke.
Merlin froze.
Panic rose in his chest like a flood. His body moved before thought. His mouth opened, half-ready to shout. To warn them, to hide them, to scream run. His instincts, carved from a childhood of fear and concealment, screamed at him to protect them.
But there was no danger.
No guards.
No gallows.
No screaming mothers dragged away.
They were safe.
And he… wasn’t.
It hit him with such force it nearly dropped him to his knees.
They had never been afraid.
He had.
He had grown up under the shadow of execution. Hiding his power like it was something filthy. He remembered stories of children tried by Uther for little more than strange dreams or glowing fingertips. A boy his age, once, dragged from the next village over. His mother never saw him again.
He had thought it normal.
But this?
This was the world that should have been his.
He was surrounded by people like him, for the first time in his life...and all he could feel was fear.
The knife buried in his back twisted with every joyous shout. Every shimmer of magic in the air was a reminder of what he had lost, what had been taken from him. Centuries of culture, of tradition, of stories passed down through families…all stolen, erased, hunted. It was colonisation, plain and brutal. An erasure so complete that he didn’t even know what he’d missed until now.
He didn’t know how to be here.
And no one seemed to notice. Not even Posey.
The girl tugged him through the crowd like a child dragging a favourite doll. She introduced him without hesitation. “This is Emrys!” she chirped, and every head that turned smiled, nodded, greeted him with warmth and reverence he hadn’t earned.
He met a creature with eyes like molten silver who offered him honeyed tea that made his tongue tingle and the edges of the world blur. He watched a woman carved from stone carve birds from the air itself, letting them flap off into the trees. A group of children chased a fire sprite who darted between stalls, trailing flickers of flame and laughter like a trail of stardust.
It was…too much.
Too much and not enough.
Everything was too bright. Too fast. Too open. It was like walking into someone else’s dream. He was surrounded by people who shared his blood, his gifts, his fate. He had never felt more out of place.
No one hated him here. No one feared him.
But he didn’t belong. Not really.
And the worst part was he should have.
He should have grown up like this. Running with the other children, daring each other to create sparks or summon snow, giggling until dusk and then curling beside a fire with his father’s stories in his ears.
Merlin turned slightly, catching sight of a father with his children crouching to show his little ones how to coax leaves to dance in their palms, and laughing when children showed off their new skill. And something broke in him.
He imagined his father bringing him here.
The last Dragonlord.
He imagined being led through the stalls, introduced to old friends, held proudly on his father’s shoulders as he pointed out the jugglers performing and laughing faces.
But instead, he had hidden. Had been hidden. Raised in fear, forced to keep his light buried for fear of it drawing death.
He could have just been a child.
Instead, he was Emrys. Responsible. Revered. Welcomed.
And he didn’t even understand why.
He hated that he was scared. Hated that his first instinct had been to run, to hide, to protect children who didn’t need it. He should feel safe here. These were his people. This was his home. At least, it should have been.
But Uther had taken even that from him.
“Fish!”
Posey’s voice jolted him from his thoughts. She was perched on a low fence, kicking her heels and beaming at him like this was the best day of her life. Her hair was wild, adorned with feathers and twigs, and her smile was pure mischief.
“Come on!” she urged, waving. “There’s a fire sculptor showing off next to the berry wines!”
He hesitated.
She tilted her head. “Are you scared?”
He opened his mouth to deny it.
Closed it again.
“…Yes,” he admitted. Quietly.
Posey slid off the fence, her expression softening. “I forget,” she said gently, “you didn’t grow up with this.”
Merlin looked away.
She stepped closer and touched his sleeve, not pulling, just anchoring him. “That’s not your fault. It’s his.”
Her voice dropped into something bitter. Something far older than a ten-year-old should carry.
“Uther wanted you to grow up scared. To forget who you are. That’s what they always do, isn’t it? Make you forget your stories. Your name. And then they call it peace.”
He stared at her.
Posey gave him a faint smile. “But you didn’t forget. You found your way back.”
He didn’t feel like he had.
And yet, when she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the crowd again, he let her. He let the warmth of the fires soak into his skin, let the music tangle with his heartbeat. Someone handed him roasted chestnuts and he burned his fingers trying to peel one open. A child with hair like gold and thorns gifted him a tiny flower made of flame and then scampered away laughing.
Slowly, the ice in his spine began to melt.
He wasn’t safe. Not truly. Not yet.
But he wasn’t alone either.
And that, maybe, was enough for now.
Notes:
Merlin, my beloved, please grow your hair out and get facial hair you're so much prettier like that (looking at you Colin Morgan).
Chapter 6: Day One: An Idea Forms
Summary:
Merlin meets the council
Notes:
More updates you say? Well how can I resist?
Sorry to the person who tagged this in their bookmarks as less than 10k, we are gonna be here a lot longer than that
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They were finishing up the sweets that Posey had acquired from one of the stalls when she jumped up again.
"Come on!" Said Posey, holding out her hand. "It's time that I introduce you to everyone"
Everyone turned out to be the entire Council, who had gathered in a grand tent near the edge of the field. Posey darted in ahead leaving Merlin to slowly enter alone.
Cadmeus was the first one he saw. His head tilted back in a mighty laugh that shook the surroundings. His claws were wrapped around a tankard as large as Merlin's own head. Eley'am, who in Merlin's mind still resembled a snowflake brought to life, seemed in the middle of telling a rather raunchy story about two Giantesses who both fell in love with a Leprechaun. And Morgana.
God, Morgana.
She was smiling as if she was still sat in the gardens of Camelot listening to Gwen regale her with the latest gossip from the servants quarters.
Then all eyes turned toward him, and the illusion shattered.
He almost wished he hadn’t come in, just so he could hold on to that moment a little longer. Her eyes stayed locked on him as she rose from her seat, but no recognition filled them.
"Lord Ambrose, I presume?" She said in a strong voice that spoke of her upbringing as a Noble woman of the High Court.
Merlin straightened, bowing slightly as Arthur might. “My Lady,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. "I must apologise for my tardiness, I was unavoidably detained and missed the council summoning."
Posey pulled a face but did not contradict him, as technically he had told no lie.
“What held you, Dragonlord?” boomed Cadmeus, striding over and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. Merlin staggered a little from the impact.
“Work,” he replied shortly, hoping the vagueness passed as mystique. From what he’d read, the Council was made of ancient, fractured alliances. His being reserved might be interpreted as strategic rather than awkward.
The others seemed to accept the answer. A seat was made for him at the table, and a wine goblet appeared before him, poured by unseen hands. He barely kept himself from flinching. The casual magic was still jarring.
"Are you caught up with the details of the trial?" Asked Morgana, clearly eager to begin arguing her point.
“Lady Morgana,” Eley’am interjected gently, “you know we cannot discuss this outside court. The accused have requested time, and it has been granted. If your evidence is as conclusive as you say, Uther Pendragon will face justice.”
“And what of your brother?” Merlin asked before he could stop himself.
The tent fell quiet.
Too late, he realised he had made a mistake.
"What do you mean My Lord?" Asked Morgana, ice in her throat.
'Well, in for a penny...' thought Merlin darkly.
"Your brother, Lady Morgana. Were you not raised in Camelot's walls? Were you not raised alongside the Prince of the realm? Would that not make him your brother?" Merlin pressed.
"He did not consider me so, My Lord" Morgana demured.
Merlin inclined his head, backing down. There was nothing he could say without giving away too much. The web of his lies was already strained.
“It is good to have a Dragonlord back at the table,” Cadmeus said, rescuing the moment with a thump of his clawed fist on the table. “We’ve been without one since your father.” He grinned, sharp-toothed. “And he was a right bastard.”
Merlin almost choked but heard the fondness in the insult. It warmed something in him unexpectedly to hear someone talk about his father. No one ever did, not even his mother growing up.
Posey jumped in "Emrys is looking forward to being on the council, he told he so" when Merlin gave her a look she stuck her tongue out at him behind the others backs. So much for an ally.
“I must admit,” Merlin said carefully, slipping into the practiced tone he’d heard Arthur use in court, “I’m not as familiar with Council procedure as I would like. I’ve much to learn.”
He turned to Morgana, forcing an even smile. “I see you are newly seated as well, my lady. Perhaps we’ll learn together.”
How he wished he’d said those words to her back when she first started displaying magic, before everything fractured. Perhaps this could have been avoided.
“Well, you’ll have time,” said Eley’am. “We’re to remain here longer than expected. The humans have requested time to gather evidence for a defense.”
Morgana scoffed audibly.
“They’re allowed to,” Posey snapped, as if they'd already had this argument too many times.
“Nothing they do will save them,” Morgana said firmly. “The entire Pendragon line will be wiped out.”
Merlin’s hand clenched around the stem of his goblet. He said nothing.
Eley’am narrowed their eyes at Morgana, clearly displeased, but turned instead to Merlin. “We’ve opened minor disputes to the public until then. Only some of us need to attend each session. Beings may request their specific representative. I’ve resolved a few already, and I believe Proserpine—”
"–Posey" interrupted the child mulishly.
"–has been working with many of the local Druids" finished the fae.
Posey beamed, quite forgetting her earlier annoyance at the use of her full name. “Yes! They’re wonderful. They don’t have a chief right now, so I’ve been officiating marriages and Welcome ceremonies!”
"Welcome ceremonies?" Asked Merlin.
"Yes! Each clan have a different name for it, but it's when you welcome someone new into your family. Sometimes it's a baby being born, or after a marriage the person or people joining a new gathering have a ceremony to say...'hello!'" Posey waved her hands enthusiastically. "There will be one before the end of the night if you would like to watch?"
"That would be...yeah sure" said Merlin, feeling a lump forming in his throat.
"Do your Warlocks not have something similar?" Asked Morgana, "the Sorcerers have an initiation between students and teachers, is there no equivalent in your culture?"
Merlin felt his heart cletch, but he was saved from answering by Posey "Warlocks are a bit weird, no offence Emrys, so they tend to stick to themselves. Even their marriage traditions are super secret."
Merlin nodded as if this wasn't completely new information to him. He wasn't even sure he knew the difference between a sorcerer and a warlock, let alone the cultural taboo that Morgana had clearly crossed. He didn't even know enough to be offended. It did make the witch blush slightly so he was likely safe from more questioning for now.
He focused on his drink and tried to avoid eye contact with his former friend without making it obvious that's what he was doing. She was close enough to reach and still felt miles away.
Shortly afterwards Posey led them all outside to a quieter part of the clearing. A small collection of druids had gatherered, all wearing flower crowns and were all clearly very excited. Posey skipped over to join in, whilst the rest of the Council hung back to observe.
Eventually the hum of conversation died down and they all formed in a circle around a young woman who looked a little nervous.
"Welcome children!" Called out Posey, her voice echoing further than it should have. Her eyes had a faint glow that was visible in the dark of the night.
"We are here to greet this stranger. Who brings her here?"
"I do!" Said an older woman with a clear look of pride on her face.
"And what do you name this stranger?" Asked Posey.
"I name her daughter" said the woman, which lead to the girl in the centre tearing up with a large smile on her face. She stepped forward and drew a mark on both of the girls hands with a bowl of paint.
"Who else claims this stranger?" Asked Posey again.
"I do!" Said a young child, clearly having rehearsed his part and almost interrupting in his eagerness.
"And what do you name this Daughter?"
"Sister!" Cried out the boy proudly leading to chuckles from the group. He took the paint from the older woman carefully and drew a mark on her foot.
"Who else claims this stranger?" Asked Posey for the third time.
"I do," said a young woman with dark curls that matched the young boy's.
"And what do you name this Sister?" Asked Posey.
"Wife," she said, taking the paint from the little boy and drawing a mark over the woman's heart. She then leant in to give her a quick peck on the lips which caused whooping from the crowd.
Posey took the paint pot herself. The woman in the centre knelt down in front of her.
"What do you name yourself, Wife?" Asked Posey.
"I am Oswin of the Yarrow Clan, from now to hereafter, and release any name I had before or any I could have claim to since. My blood is their blood. My hands are theirs to serve. My feet are theirs to stand, My heart is theirs forevermore."
Posey gave a big smile and the glow in her eyes dimmed till she once more looked like just a happy child.
"Hello Yarrow Oswin, it is lovely to meet you" she said, and marked her forehead with the paint. "Now go say hello to your family."
A chorus of cheers erupted from the group and soon Oswin was buried under a sea of hugs and kisses. The other members of the tribe also had pots of paint they had covered their hands with, and soon every member of the Yarrow clan was covered in blue, yellow, purple, and green streaks of paint. No one more than Oswin, though she seemed intent on clinging to her wife and sharing as much paint between the two of them as possible.
Merlin watched, struck silent.
It was beautiful. Infectious. He could feel the joy radiating off them in waves. He was honoured to witness it.
But it also hurt.
Some part of him, A small part of him, green-eyed and grasping, wanted it for himself. For someone to reach out and want him so much that he is covered in their love for him. Longed for someone reach out and claim him. To smear him in paint and love and say, you belong to me, and I belong to you.
To be chosen.
To not be Emrys, or a Prince’s servant, or a hidden weapon but just... a child in the crowd, called forward to be part of something.
To have a father who brought him here. A community that painted his face with joy.
To have physical proof that this person was his and he was there's.
To have someone give up everything to be his family. To give up their family na–
Wait a minute.
Notes:
Comments remind me this fic exists and I should probably update it ❤️
Chapter 7: Day Two: An Overdue Conversation
Summary:
Merlin gets back from the party and runs into someone unexpected
Notes:
Right as this is the forth update in less than 24 hours I will attempt to put my phone down now...probably.
Also this marks me writing over 100,000 words on AO3 🥳
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rest of the night passed in a whirl of colour and sound. Merlin had been pulled into a cèilidh by a Satyr wearing a tartan kilt, and before long he was dancing, spinning in circles, laughing despite himself. The weight of everything melted away for a moment, lost in the music and lights.
It wasn’t until they were walking back toward the edge of the Grove that the thought returned with full force.
“So…” Merlin started hesitantly, “that welcome ceremony you did… is it legally binding? All that stuff about bloodlines and names?”
Posey, who was dragging her feet sleepily beside him, blinked up with heavy-lidded eyes. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Completely. The ceremony ties the new person to their clan magically, legally, and emotionally. It’s as binding as anything can be. People don’t usually do it just for marriage, but Oswin asked to. Her family’s all gone, so now she’s a Yarrow. Always has been, magically speaking.”
“Right.” Merlin tried to keep his tone neutral. “And the Warlocks? Do they have something similar? With names, or blood ties?”
Posey’s face softened. “I honestly don’t know. I wasn’t lying before. Your people are really secretive. Even before the purges, they stayed apart. Most knowledge was passed down through family lines.” She gently patted his hand. “I’m sorry, Fish. I wish I could help.”
“It’s okay,” Merlin said. And strangely, he meant it. The ache was there, constant, but Posey wasn’t to blame for how alone he’d been made to feel his whole life.
They reached the veil where they'd come through. Posey parted the shimmering air again with a small flick of her fingers, revealing the familiar interior of Merlin’s bedroom.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Posey asked through a yawn.
Merlin glanced at her. She was half-asleep, hair tangled from the wind, and a smear of blue paint still marred her cheek. “No. You should rest. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow, Dragonlord,” she murmured, waving as he stepped through the portal.
Right into someone's chest.
Merlin yelped and stumbled back, his heart freezing.
Before he could react, he was shoved roughly against the wall. Cold metal pressed against his throat.
“What the fuck—who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Merlin?” snarled a voice he knew far too well.
Gwaine.
Oh, gods.
It took Merlin a beat to realise he was still wearing the illusion of Posey’s spell. He still looked like Emrys: the long beard, the altered robes, everything. His pulse exploded.
“Gwaine! It’s me—wait! It’s me, look!” he babbled, his voice high with panic.
He reached for the illusion, but Posey’s magic was subtle and unfamiliar, like feeling around in the dark. His fingers trembled. Finally, he caught the thread of it and yanked.
The illusion shimmered, then collapsed. Merlin stood in his own clothes, his own face, breathing hard.
Gwaine still looked unconvinced.
“Right,” he said slowly, not lowering the blade. “If you’re really Merlin, tell me something only he would know.”
“Uhhh…” Merlin wracked his brain. “Okay! When you first got to Camelot, you stayed in my bed after you broke your rib!”
“Half the servants know that,” Gwaine said flatly.
“They do??” Merlin blushed, his ears turning scarlet.
For a moment, the blade stayed steady but then, inexplicably, Gwaine’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Only you would get embarrassed about a rumour we slept together while I’m holding a knife to your throat.”
“…People think we slept together?”
Gwaine snorted. “Is that the biggest issue on your mind right now?”
“No! I mean—wait. Does Arthur think we slept together?!”
Gwaine rolled his eyes. “If the Princess thought I’d deflowered you, I’d be in the dungeon, not your bedroom.”
He finally stepped back and sheathed the blade. “Now,” he said, arms folded, “care to explain why you’re stepping out of thin air dressed like a forest wizard, in fucking Camelot mind you, while the entire castle is being searched for magic?”
Merlin winced. “It’s… a long story.”
“I’ve got time.” Gwaine sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Start talking.”
---
Telling the story took hours.
Gwaine didn’t interrupt. He didn’t laugh or gasp at the absurdities. He sat silently as Merlin described his childhood, the fear, the hiding, his mother sending him to Gaius out of desperation. He told him about Arthur, about the dragon (at which point Gwaine silently rose and fetched wine from Gaius's "medicinal" stash) and about every near-death experience that had somehow become part of Merlin’s normal life. He concluded with what had happened in the last few days: the council being summoned, Posey coming to his room, and where we had gone that night.
By the time Merlin finished, the sun had started to rise, golden light leaking over the windowsill.
“You’re telling me,” Gwaine said slowly, “that all this time, there’s been a powerful sorcerer—”
“Warlock.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I… genuinely have no idea.”
Gwaine exhaled, then ran a hand through his hair. “You’re mad, Merlin. Completely mad. Why the hell are you even in Camelot? Your mum thought this was safer?”
“She didn’t know how bad it had gotten. She just thought Gaius could help.”
“He should have helped by sending you the hell back to your people.”
“He tried.” Merlin’s voice was soft. “But things got complicated.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Gwaine stood and paced. “Do you know what they’d do if they found out Arthur’s manservant is magic?”
“Yes,” Merlin said. Quiet. Steady. “I know.”
Gwaine turned back to him, fists clenched. “And still you stay.”
“I can’t leave him.”
The words hung in the air.
After a moment, Gwaine sighed. "At least promise me you'll be more careful"
"I am careful!" Protested Merlin.
"Yeah, says the man who stepped though a magical portal in front of me after going out to party with satyrs. By the way, the beard is a nice touch. You should think about growing one without cheating" Gwaine said appraisingly, causing his friend to blush more.
"So what's the plan?" Asked Gwaine. "You said we can't stop the council, so we need to find a way to protect Arthur and any of the poor bastards who may be wandering around"
Well I told you about the ceremony Posey officiated. I asked afterwards, it changes your entire lineage. At least when it comes to magical matters. It would sever Arthur from Uther’s line. If the council accepts it, it could save him."
"Great, let's do it. I'll even adopt the Princess if I have to" said Gwaine.
"It's not that simple. Warlocks don't share their traditions so unless I can find one who will tell me how I can't do the ceremony. The druids aren't likely to take in Arthur, and I doubt he would be willing to consider being tied to them anyway."
“But he’d trust you,” Gwaine said. Quiet.
Merlin blinked.
“It’s a moot point anyway,” he muttered. “I don’t know the ceremony. My father is gone.”
There it was again. That pain he had been living with for most of his life. That void where knowledge should have been. Where a father’s love, a legacy, should have stood.
“What about your mother?” Gwaine asked.
Merlin looked at him confused. “She’s not magical.”
“No, but she was with your father and from how you described it they loved each other. Is it possible he taught her how to do one of the ceremonies? Especially if he knew there was a chance she would need to do the ceremony for you alone."
Merlin thought for a moment "I suppose it's possible" he allowed "but Ealdor–"
"– is a half a day's ride from here. If we go now we could be there by mid-day." Said Gwaine, already getting up from the bed.
"We can't just...go to my mother" said Merlin.
"Why not? You got something better to do? I've been assigned to 'check the borders' for magic users. Ealdor is a border town. I was coming here this morning to invite you out for the ride anyway."
"You were?" Said Merlin confused.
"Yes," said Gwaine, "Arthur brought it up at practice. Thought you could do with a day away from studying. Come to think of it, he also assigned me to check the borders which is usually Sir Yan's position..."
"Wait you think Arthur assigned you to the borders just so I could go visit my mum?" Asked Merlin incredulously.
Gwaine winked, grabbing Merlin’s bag from the end of the bed. "Well we shouldn't disappoint his majesty."
Notes:
I am a Gwaine wants to kiss Merlin truther and will die on this hill
Chapter 8: Day Two: A Mother Knows
Summary:
Sometimes all you need is to hug your mum
Notes:
Hey guys, just a not so gentle reminder that I am writing this for fun.
I don't owe anyone 100% show accuracy especially when the entire point of fan fiction is to rewrite things. I've had to delete more than one mean comment about me 'messing up' the timeline. I haven't, this fic isn't intended to follow every point of the show because a. I've not rewatched it in a while and b. that's not what I wanted to write.
I've got no problem with questions but actively calling me stupid is a step too far.
It's fan fiction I'm writing in a notes app whilst on a lot of painkillers, you get what you get.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The ride out of Camelot was, surprisingly, peaceful.
They'd only taken one horse, but Merlin wasn't about to complain. It gave him an excuse to lean forward and doze on Gwaine’s back. Partying all night had a way of catching up with you. He couldn't quite believe he'd ever managed to convince Arthur he spent most evenings in the tavern, if one night of actual revelry had left him this exhausted. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d hallucinated at least part of it.
Getting out of the city hadn’t been easy. The checkpoints were stricter than ever, each gate boasting twice the usual number of guards. Their bags were searched repeatedly. Gwaine had muttered a not-so-subtle joke about Camelot being overly concerned someone might smuggle magic out of the castle. The guards took offence and subjected them to another inspection, likely out of pettiness.
Merlin had felt his heart in his throat the entire time they handled the Council’s book, but it had stayed stubbornly blank. Whatever enchantments were woven into its binding held firm. At least for now.
A nudge to his thigh brought Merlin back to the present. Gwaine had slipped off the horse and was standing at the edge of a familiar treeline.
For a moment, Merlin’s sleep-muddled brain imagined Will waving from his favourite perch atop the tall oak. But no—Will wasn’t here. Will had been another casualty, if indirectly, of Uther Pendragon's rule.
Merlin's jaw tensed. He forced himself to relax, to suppress it deep into the pits of his heart. He had become quite good at locking his feelings away since he'd arrived at Camelot. But lately, it had grown harder.
"Lead the way, sleepyhead," Gwaine called, now holding the horse by the reins. Merlin absently noticed that the knight had changed his clothes from his usual scarlet cloak to a more muted blue.
As if sensing his friends appraisal Gwaine gave a half twirl. "You like? I thought it would be easier to go unnoticed."
"...is that my shirt?"
It was. In fact, everything Gwaine was wearing looked suspiciously like it had come from Merlin’s wardrobe.
"When did you get that?"
"While you were packing," Gwaine said with a smug smile. "You fell asleep about three times just putting your boots on. I figured we would get further into our mission with a bit of subtlety."
Merlin rolled his eyes and waved him on, though the effect was slightly undercut by the fact that the wave turned into a huge yawn.
Gwaine laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.“C’mon. You’re going to fall asleep in a hedge.”
They weren’t far from the cottage. Merlin could have walked the route blindfolded. It felt as though something had snagged a thread through his ribs and was now reeling him in. Each step pulled him faster until he was nearly stumbling. And then there it was. The thatch roof he’d nearly set on fire at fourteen, trying to light the stove with magic so he wouldn’t have to chop kindling.
And just outside, a figure he would know in any lifetime.
“Mum!”
He was already running. Hunith dropped her basket of washing in shock before leaping over it, meeting him halfway and catching him in her arms.
"Merlin! Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing here? Are you in trouble?" Her hands cupped his face and inspected it like she would see a written log of all his injuries and mishaps written on his forehead. Perhaps there was such a thing, and only mother's could access the magic to see it.
Clearly it was telling her something now if the way her eyes widened and her grip became tighter was any indication. "Merlin what's wrong?"
“I—” he began, but a loud, impatient whinny from the horse interrupted. Both turned to see Gwaine holding the reins and looking sheepish. He gave a stilted little wave that might have been charming if he hadn’t looked so awkward doing it.
Hunith raised an eyebrow. “Merlin… who is this?”
Hunith couldn’t believe it.
She had thought the biggest scandal of the day was already behind her—what with Tom the blacksmith getting caught in the hay with the shepherd’s wife. Paul the baker had walked in on them, and had the shock of his life when the innkeeper rolled out of the hay after them both. It was all anyone had been talking about.
Now here was her son, looking like he'd stolen the last apple in the orchard, with a handsome young man at his heels. One who definitely wasn’t the Prince of Camelot. Who would tumble out of the hay next? The Earl of Grantham?
At least the lad had a nice smile. “Gwaine,” he introduced himself, “Merlin’s friend.”
Of course he was.
“Hm,” she said, allowing him a small, polite smile. “Hunith.”
She didn’t blame the boy for lying to her. It wasn’t his fault her son thought she was too daft to notice the way the lad looked at him. “Have you boys eaten?”
At their sheepish nos, she ushered them inside and started on lunch. Merlin tried to object but she shushed him firmly. She would not let her son come all this way and not feed him. That would be a crime. Besides, she had enough stores for now… assuming the new grain taxes Rupert had mentioned didn’t pass.
When there was food on the table and her guests seated, Hunith finally turned her attention to her son.
“Merlin. Not that I’m not delighted to see you, love, but what made you travel all this way? And without sending word?”
Merlin looked like a guilty schoolboy. His eyes darted to Gwaine.
The man stood with exaggerated nonchalance. “I’ll just go… check the horse again,” he said, already halfway to the door.
Hunith arched a brow. “Well?”
Merlin swallowed and sat straighter. “How… how did Dad propose to you?”
Hunith blinked. That had not been the question she expected.
“I mean—you never said he did,” Merlin rushed on, words tumbling over each other, “but I just figured… he really loved you, and I wondered if maybe there was some sort of… cultural thing he did? Or said? Or gave you?”
Oh.
Oh, baby.
So that was what this was about. Hunith’s heart clenched. Her son had always had a sense of destiny about him, but lately, it had hardened into something else. He was asking because he wanted to propose. Maybe to Arthur, or to Gwaine, or perhaps both. But he couldn’t do it in the traditions of Camelot, or their village. He needed something of his own.
She thought back to when she’d met Arthur. The way Merlin had looked at him. It was like he’d been struck by lightning and hadn't yet recovered. She’d hated it. Hated the Pendragons for how much her son had changed since Camelot. Once, even when hiding his magic, he’d still been bright. Joyful. Innocent.
Now… he was hollowed out.
Still hers, but not in the way he used to be.
“Well,” she said carefully, “we didn’t exactly get engaged, not formally. There wasn’t time. But… he did share something with me. A kind of tradition from his family.”
Merlin leaned in, eyes wide.
“Like what?”
She let her memory drift. “He told me that, since his own kin were gone, he wanted to be tied to me in the way his people had done for generations. He asked if I would be his family. I said yes, of course. Then he gave me this.”
She rose, crossed the room, and returned with a cloth-wrapped bundle. Unwrapping it carefully, she revealed a shining crest of an elegantly worked metal badge depicting a dragon mid-flight.
“He said his past was his gift to me, so that in the present, we could forge a future. It sounded poetic at the time. In return, I gave him my name...and my heart.”
Merlin’s brow furrowed. “He took your name?”
“Balinor asked for it,” Hunith corrected gently. "He asked if I’d let him be my kin. He said in his traditions, the one who receives a name must ask for it. It can’t be offered. It shows they’re willing to set aside their bloodline and claim a new one. It’s a kind of vow, I think.”
She saw the hope falter in Merlin’s eyes.
“But you don’t have to do things that way,” she added quickly. “You don’t have to follow in your father’s footsteps.”
That earned her a strange, twisted grimace somewhere between a laugh and a wince. Her heart ached. Her boy had changed. She had sent him to Camelot for safety, and somewhere along the way, she feared she had broken something in him.
He looked too tired for his age.
“Here,” she said gently, wrapping his hand around the crest. “Take it. Maybe one day you’ll give your name away, too.”
She gave a pointed glance out the window. Merlin missed it entirely.
He could never marry a prince, not by Camelot’s laws. The best he could hope for was to be kept. A companion only in the shadows. That would destroy her boy. He didn’t have it in him to love someone halfway.
Maybe Gwaine was safer. Simpler.
But Merlin never chose the easy road.
Almost as if summoned by that very thought, a flash of violet light burst above the table, leaving behind a single sheet of parchment. Merlin snatched it up.
His eyes scanned it. Then widened.
“I—I have to go, Mum. Thank you!”
He was already halfway out the door before she could speak.
“Merlin, wait!”
But when she stepped outside, he was gone. Gwaine, too.
Only the horse remained, chewing thoughtfully on her garden rosemary.
Hunith let out a breath and looked up at the sky. “You always did leave too fast,” she murmured. Then, quietly, to no one at all: “Please don’t let him be broken beyond mending.”
Notes:
Hunith thinks her son is just pulling left and right...and she's correct.
Chapter 9: Day Two: The Arbitration
Summary:
Merlin gets summoned to do his job. No not that one....no not that one either...
Notes:
The more I update this the bigger the story gets. I swear I only planned to have like six chapters to get the idea out of my head. Oh well.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gwaine was a bit fucked.
That wasn't unusual state for him, in any sense of the word. He was well known across the land as a fantastic...person to know. Whether you wanted to fight or get into some friendly wrestling, Gwaine was your man.
He wasn't so used to this bit.
The bit where he sat outside the house of someone he very much admired while they asked their mother how to propose to someone else. Because that's what Merlin was doing, even if he hadn't seemed to put it in that way in his own mind yet.
So Gwaine stared at the flowers and wondered how the fuck he'd come to be here.
The reason then ran straight into him after bolting from the cottage he was standing by knocking them both to the ground.
Before he could even ask, a haze of purple washed over them. When the lilac clouds parted, they were somewhere else entirely with Merlin still lying on top of him and Gwaine holding him at the waist.
"Oops" came a childish voice from somewhere above him, "didn't mean to interrupt, Fish."
The two men scrambled up to come face to face with a young child who came up to Gwaine’s waist. She had red hair tied up in a fancy design the knight could have sworn he'd seen Morgana wear. Her clothes seemed to be stitched out of flower petals and leaves.
"Posey what the hell, you can't just send a summoning note with a five second delay. What if I'd been with the King?" Grouched Merlin.
The girl gasped "are you kissing him too? I think he might be a bit old for you"
"We weren't kissing" "Who else is he kissing?" Said both men at once.
The girl giggled delightedly. "You're fun. Anyway the letter was timed so it would only arrive when you were around safe people. I wasn't expecting you to bring a guest though. Does he need a disguise too?"
"No, because we aren't staying" said Merlin.
The girl frowned, "yes you are. I told you that you had duties. A dispute has been raised and they want their representatives. Lady Morgana is already there. Unless you want her making a ruling on her own..?"
Merlin sighed, "fine, yes he'll also need a disguise"
Gwaine couldn't help the grin forming on his face. This was going to be fun.
After Posey had cast her illusions on the two of them she had led them to the Council’s tent where apparently the disgruntled parties would present their case. Gwaine used the walk to take a proper look at Merlin in this disguise. He hadn't had a chance earlier, too busy threatening him. Merlin looked...beautiful. Regal. Untouchable. Like something out of a fairytale. Which, Gwaine supposed, he was. He looked like something you could only dream about...and he barely glanced Gwaine’s way.
Gwaine wasnt sure why that was that was the case until they were almost at their destination. The clearing was exactly like Merlin described, though during the day it appeared more like a bustling market than a festival. They passed a stall selling all sorts of furniture, including a full sized mirror. Since he didn't know what Posey had made him look like and he'd never been one to miss a chance to adjust his hair Gwaine automatically took himself in. And nearly did a double take.
He was blonde.
A clean shaven, blue eyed blonde with a strong jaw and pink lips.
He looked like he was Arthur's bloody twin.
No wonder Merlin had barely looked at him. Gwaine shot an incredulous look at the child that had brought them here, only to find her looking at him smugly behind Merlin's back. What was she up to?
He didn't have a chance to question her before they had arrived at a large tent. Inside raised voices could be heard.
"Presenting Lord Emrys Ambrose, Last of the Dragonlords" called out a disembodied voice when Merlin entered the tent. Gwaine’s hand twitched on his swords pommel but did not draw it.
Inside there were two parties of people. A woman with a group of people who were clearly her family, all wearing silver medallions Gwaine vaguely recognised from an evidence hearing for witchcraft he had been forced to attend. The other group were a collection of people of different races and genders but who all bore the same look in their eyes as Gwaine had seen in hardened mercenaries.
"It is good of you to join us, Lord Ambrose" came a voice that nearly did have Gwaine drawing his blade.
The Lady Morgana.
The last time he'd seen her she had been launching the attack on Camelot where she had revealed her true alegencies. It had been a great shock, to find out the ward of the King had been practicing magic. Rumours went around about whether he knew and let his ward get away with it whilst other people's children's burnt. Other stories say the real Morgana was replaced whilst the original was secreted away. Looking now, Gwaine had no doubt of who the woman was. He had only met her briefly, but this woman matched Gwen's stories to the letter. Beautiful, charming, and deadly.
"Lady Morgana," said Merlin in a voice Gwaine did not recognise. Except he did, it usually came out of the blonde prat's mouth. "How lovely to see you again. I do not have much time to spare so if we can get the matter settled quickly...?" He said turning to the other people present which invited them to all start speaking over each other.
"Enough!" Merl– no, Emrys called in a commanding voice that sent a warm shiver down Gwaine’s spine. "You will speak one at a time or not at all."
At a rumble of agreement Merlin turned towards Gwaine. "Stay close." he said under his breath as if Gwaine could do anything but that. He then turned on his heel and joined Morgana on the dramatic thrones situated in the tent. Gwaine watched as he paused for a moment before sitting, clearly uncomfortable. He looked incredible though, sat there in those robes.
Arthur was a lucky man.
Gwaine found a spot just behind the throne and stood there looking appropriately menacing. Not that he was much of a threat compared to the two magical beings seated beside him.
"So, what's this all about then?" Asked Emrys.
The groups both looked up at each other cautiously before a man from the second party spoke up. "Milord Ambrose, I am called Tyber Whyre. I humbly greet you and offer our loyalty to you. I come to beseech thee as Master of Warlocks to force the Sorcerers to give me my child back."
Both Morgana and Merlin leant forward slightly.
"They have taken your child?" Asked Emrys.
"No!" Denied the woman leading her group, who Gwaine assumed were all Sorcerers. "She is my baby! You cannot take her!"
Morgana frowned, "Explain your claim on the child, Whyre"
"I am the child's father, Mistress, therefore under the law I have the right to her at her seventh birthday" replied the man.
"And I am her mother!" Said the woman. She bowed towards Morgana "Sweet Lady, I am Thessaly Harridigan. My family and I have dedicated ourselves to the study of magic for many generations now."
Whyre scoffed.
"I ask you not take my daughter from us. Her father has not been part of her life all of this time and there's no reason for him to take her." Thessaly continued.
"The reason is the law!" Declared Whyre, "Warlocks must be raised by their own kind or disaster will befall us all."
Gwaine saw Merlin's hand clench and wished he could hold it.
"Why have you not been in the child's life up until now, Master Whyre?" Merlin asked in a voice of forced calm. The Warlocks blinked at him, as if he'd asked why tall people didn't bump their heads on the sky.
"Well...because her mother was not one of us." Said another one of the group. "It wouldn't have been right. What if she wasn't a Warlock?"
"So you only want the child if she is a Warlock?" Asked Morgana in a voice that dripped posion.
"And she won't be!" Called another one of the Sorcerers. This led to more raised voices from both parties.
Gwaine blinked and before he could help himself he said "Wait, you dont even know what she is yet?"
Everyone in the room looked at him.
"Well...no. Her birthday is just after the next full moon. We will know then." Said someone from the back of the tent.
"And if she is a Warlock, you want her?" Said Merlin, trying and failing not to sound judgemental.
"Yes!" Said the Warlocks.
"And if she isn't, would you still?"
Silence.
Whyre looked like he wanted to say something but at a glance at the faces of his group silenced him.
"And what of you, would you keep your daughter if she turns out to be a Warlock?" Asked Merlin to the mother. The group shift uneasily.
"Well it's not that simple. Warlocks are...Well...you know. Unpredictable" said an older woman. "We couldn't have that in our coven."
Thessaly looked stricken but did not speak up.
"It sounds like you have your answer then," said Morgana. She looked as angry as she had been when raiding the gates of the castle. "None of you deserve that little girl,"
With that she stormed off out of the tent. Merlin rose to follow her.
"We will deliberate, but I highly suggest that you pull your heads out of your arses before we return" and he went after Morgana.
The room was silent for a beat and then erupted into yelling again. Threats were leveyed, literal sparks were starting to fly. They seemed to have quite forgotten Gwaine was still here.
"Hey hey hey!" He called to the group. "Let's all settle down." Once the eyes all fell on him he started to question if this was a good decision or not. Oh well, too late now.
"Whyre? Was it? And Thessaly. Why don't you come and sit here," he said gesturing to the long dining table at the back of the tent. "The rest of you, go spend some time and coin at the magnificent stalls outside."
They looked at him for a moment as if trying to work out if he had the authority to tell them what to do. They decided not to risk it and filed out, leaving only the three of them behind.
Gwaine grabbed a jug of something dark he hoped was wine and poured three cups. “Now,” he said, offering the drink, “let’s talk like people. Because you’ve all forgotten the only person in this mess who doesn’t have a say.”
He raised his cup.
“To your daughter. May she grow up better than we did.”
Notes:
Gwaine taking mental pictures of Merlin on a throne...for totally innocent reasons
I swear we will get to the Merthur of it all soon, he just needs to get back to the Palace without getting summoned or distracted.
Chapter 10: Day Two: Solutions and More Problems
Summary:
Morgana sets a couple of trees on fire
Notes:
Thank you for all your lovely comments, they remind me to write x
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It wasn't until he had followed the rapidly retreating figure away from the main gathering place and into the trees that Merlin realised perhaps following a witch on a warpath was a bad idea.
It was too late to change his mind and turn around though, so he opted to stay at a safe distance while the dark haired woman started throwing fireballs left and right whilst screaming in frustration. He only moved when a bolt went directly at him; quickly raising his hands to catch the flames before redirecting them at an already flaming tree.
"Shit!–I mean, I'm sorry Lord Ambrose, I didn't see you there" said Morgana, trying to regain her composure whilst still breathing heavily.
"That's alright." Merlin said, and before he could help himself continued "Are you okay?"
She looked at him for a moment before her shoulders slumped. "Not really"
Oh.
Merlin wasn't quite sure what to do with that. He was used to Royals breaking a few things and then saying they didn't have any feelings, not admitting that they were not well. He wasn't quite sure how to follow up from there. Luckily Morgana seemed to have opened the floodgates.
"That little girl. No one wants her, not really. Her mother only wants her I'd she fits the image she's created of the perfect child, and the father only wants her if she is powerful. Who cares for the child herself? Gods we are deciding her fate and we don't even know her name!"
Morgana sat down on the jagged remains of a tree she’d blasted apart earlier in frustration. For a while, neither of them said anything. The forest around them was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves.
Then she spoke, quietly at first.
“I summoned the council, you know. I found the spell scrawled in the margins of a book that’s been passed down six generations. The last in their line died a few months ago, fighting alongside me trying to free the magical prisoners held in Camelot.” She glanced at Merlin. “He gave me the book the night before, said he had a feeling I'd need it more than him.”
Her hands curled around the edge of the stump, knuckles white. “Do you know what his family was known for? What got them hunted down like dogs?” She let the question hang for a second. “They were midwives. Healers. They used magic to ease childbirth, to stop bleeding, to save lives. That’s all. That’s what they were killed for.”
Merlin looked up sharply. Her voice didn’t crack, but her eyes glistened with tears.
“I’ve watched Uther destroy lives for years,” she went on. “I thought...if I could bring the old council back, I could finally make things right. Justice. That’s what I wanted. But now? Now we’re tearing each other apart before Uther even lifts a finger. Turning on each other. Hating each other. Trying to prove that we are not the lowest, that someone else is below us despite the fact we are all lying in the filth together. It’s like we’ve forgotten who we were.”
She looked away, towards the shadows cast by the ruined stump.
“Every text I have found of our lives before say that we were once united. Different, yes, but together. A people with purpose. Now, we’re refusing to care for each other just because our magic looks different. It's like we have taken the worlds hatred of us and started carving it into our own skin. Is this worth it?” Her voice grew bitter. “Am I meant to give everything for people who will destroy the very thing I’m trying to protect?”
Merlin shifted slightly, his voice low. “What do you mean, ‘give everything’?”
Morgana didn’t answer. Just stared at the dirt near her feet. The silence stretched.
“Morgana,” Merlin said gently.
She gave a wet, half-laugh. “Gods. The way you say my name. Just like...just like they used to. My friends used to say it just like that.”
Merlin moved closer, cautious but sincere. “Where are they now?”
“In Camelot,” she said softly. “Though I doubt they’d still call me a friend. I sometimes wonder if I’ll see them again before...”
She trailed off.
Merlin frowned. “Lady Morgana, secrets don’t end well. Not for anyone.” His voice carried the weight of someone who’d spent his whole life living in shadow.
She turned to look at him. “Have you ever met him? Uther.”
He blinked. The change in topic caught him off-guard. “Briefly,” he said. “Not exactly the type to entertain people like me.”
“He’s my father.”
The words hit him like a slap.
Merlin just stared. “…What?”
Morgana studied his face and gave a sad smile. “Oh. You didn’t know. I thought you might’ve guessed. You called Arthur my brother once.”
“I meant that you were raised together. I didn’t realise…” He trailed off. “How?”
“Do you mean how did it happen, or how did I find out?” she asked, voice hollow. “Neither is a pleasant tale. I confirmed it right before I left Camelot. Bit of hair. Bit of blood. Next thing you know… ta-da. Pendragon.”
She smiled again, but it was the kind of smile that looked like it hurt to wear.
Merlin felt a chill. “Wait… blood?”
“Yes.” She looked at him, eyes dry but distant. “Which means, by council law, I’ll be bound by their verdict. Just like him.”
“But you—”
“Oh, don’t get confused, Lord Ambrose.” Her voice turned sharp, eyes flashing. “I’ll do everything I can to see Uther found guilty. If that costs me my life, so be it. I will not keep breathing knowing I had the power to stop him and chose not to.”
There it was again. That fire. That same presence he remembered when she stood on the edge of battle, sword in hand, defending villages that weren’t even hers. She looked like a queen. A soldier. A storm in human form.
“You’d die for your people,” Merlin said quietly. Not a question. A statement.
Morgana nodded. “Yes.” Then she looked at him. “Wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t even have to think about it.
“Yes,” he answered.
And she saw it on his face. The honesty of it. The way he meant it down to the marrow. Something passed between them then. Something silent and terrible. Recognition. Shared devastation. She had lived in a gilded cage and been complicit by ignorance. He’d hidden in shadows, hating himself to survive. Both of them with guilt so heavy it was choking them and destiny snapping at their heels.
Merlin looked at Morgana and saw perhaps one of the only people on earth who could understand him. He wondered for a moment what she saw.
“Then you understand,” she said. “Do not spare me. Do not soften your judgement for my sake. Vote the truth. Uther is a rabid dog, and he needs to be put down.”
"And your brother?" Merlin asked.
Morgana’s face hardened and she stood from her perch on the tree stump.
"Arthur would die for Camelot. Allow him the dignity of choice."
With that, she swept back to the tent. Merlin followed a few steps behind, watching her retreating figure as if he was seeing walk towards the gallows.
The tent had quieted since they’d last passed by. As Merlin and Morgana approached, the buzzing hum of tension seemed to have dissipated. Outside, the market vendors chatted with members of the two warring parties, smiling and handing over goods, as though some great fog had lifted.
Merlin felt a twinge of confusion. Had they given up on the arbitration? Lost faith in him and Morgana already?
But as he pushed aside the tent flap, it all made sense.
Three figures sat inside. Whyre and Thessaly were seated opposite one another at the low wooden table, their postures no longer rigid with mistrust. They were leaning in, voices soft, hesitant. Whyre’s eyes were red, either from emotion or exhaustion and he was gripping something tightly in one hand, knuckles white. Between them, a fragile kind of peace was blooming.
Next to them sat Arth– Gwaine. Gwaine, his blonde hair shining in the light and blue eyes sparkling.
Gods, it was unsettling.
Even though Merlin could clearly tell them apart, seeing Gwaine’s face shaped so like Arthur’s was enough to make his stomach twist. The way the light caught the line of his jaw, the faint scruff, the familiar brow—it was uncanny. Why Posey had thought that was a helpful disguise, he didn’t know. Maybe she thought it was funny.
But Gwaine caught his eye, and a warm grin tugged at the corners of that strange face. He stood and came to meet them at the tent entrance, stepping outside with Merlin and closing the flap behind him.
“So,” Gwaine said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “you’re not going to believe it. Turns out this whole mess goes a lot deeper than we thought. Thessaly and Whyre were lovers. Properly in love. Planning to elope back when they were younger.”
Merlin blinked. “They what?”
“Right? And just when they were making plans, Thessaly got pregnant. They were going to run away together, raise the baby. But then Thessaly’s grandmother Hortencia found out and threw a spanner in the works. She told Whyre that Thessaly was engaged to another sorcerer, didn’t want to see him again. Used some illusion magic to fake letters or maybe it was memories?...something, anyway. I couldn’t quite follow that bit. Whyre thought Thessaly had abandoned him. Thessaly thought Whyre had done the same.”
Gwaine tilted his head back toward the tent. “Apparently, Hortencia promised Whyre he could take the child when she turned seven, if she was a Warlock. That’s why he showed up now. He thought it was finally time for him to see his kid. Didn’t realise Thessaly had been in the dark this whole time.”
Merlin glanced back at the tent, his expression softening. “And now?”
“Now they’re catching up,” said Gwaine with a small smile. “Talking about Oliviana, that's their daughter. I think they're planning to introduce her to her dad properly. Regardless of what happens on her birthday.”
There was a pause. Then Merlin grinned. The tension in his shoulders broke like melting frost, and he gave Gwaine a solid thump on the back.
“You clever bastard,” he said fondly.
Gwaine chuckled, cheeks tinged with pink.
“Well, it does sound like a reasonable resolution,” Merlin said, turning to where Morgana had remained slightly apart from the two men, watching them both carefully. “What do you think?”
Morgana's face was unreadable. “What of the grandmother? Hortencia?”
Gwaine’s smile faltered. “Gone,” he said quietly. “Caught in a sorcerer round-up three years ago.”
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Merlin felt his stomach turn. Hortencia’s actions were cruel, but the thought of another life lost to Uther’s brutal policies made him feel hollow. Gwaine gave a faint sigh.
“I’ll speak to them,” Morgana said finally, rising. “Ensure everyone understands the matter is resolved, and that they’ll be checked in on. Well done…?”
“Ewan,” Merlin said quickly, cutting in before Gwaine could speak.
Morgana gave a nod. “Well then, good day to you, Ewan. Lord Ambrose.” She swept past them with her usual regal grace.
As soon as she was gone, Merlin let out a deep breath and turned to Gwaine.
“Ewan?” Gwaine half-whispered, trying and failing to suppress a laugh.
Merlin rolled his eyes, grabbing Gwaine’s hand and dragging him out into the marketplace. “It means strength, alright? It’s the first thing I thought of.”
That shut Gwaine up. His mouth opened, then closed again like he was trying to come up with something witty but couldn’t. For once.
Merlin became acutely aware he hadn’t let go of Gwaine’s hand.
He looked down at their fingers, still wrapped together. Gwaine didn’t seem to mind.
The warmth of Gwaine’s palm in his was comforting. Something about him was...solid. Like he was somehow more real than anything else that had happened that day. Merlin’s pulse thudded in his ears.
He hadn’t noticed, not really. Not until now.
Noticed the way Gwaine always had his back. The way he tried to make him laugh even when things were grim. The way Merlin felt lighter, braver, when Gwaine was near.
And now he’d solved the dispute. Alone.
Merlin tugged him along faster, trying not to let the strange fluttering in his chest take root. “Come on. We need to find Posey.”
They found her by the blacksmith’s forge, skipping rope with a group of dwarven children. How there was a fully functional forge in a transient market, Merlin had no idea. But if magic could make it happen, it would.
“Posey!” he called.
The ginger girl tripped, falling flat on her face to the shrieks of giggling children.
Merlin smirked. “Payback.”
Posey scrambled up with a huff and marched over, brushing soot from her dress. “You know it’s really rude to shout at people while they’re playing.”
Merlin crossed his arms. “We need a portal to the outskirts of Camelot. If you drop us at my mother’s we won’t get back to the city until well past midnight. Can you also fetch Gwaine’s horse? Otherwise it might look a bit strange.”
“Ah,” said Gwaine, behind him.
Merlin turned.
Gwaine looked sheepish. “About that…”
Notes:
Anyone who holds Gwaine's hand has a moment.
Next chapter - what has Arthur been up to?
Chapter 11: Day One: Arthur's Plan
Summary:
Arthur makes a plan
Notes:
Shorter chapter today as I've been very busy with work.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Arthur Pendragon was not having a good day.
Though, he supposed, for a normal prince that would be more unusual. Normal princes could expect their days to be generally pleasant. His days, however, rarely went to plan. Perhaps he was doing something wrong. Still, he supposed that the other princes weren’t being attacked in their own homes quite as often as he was. Sometimes, he wondered if he was cursed. If so, it was the kind of curse that killed you slowly, inch by inch, rather than striking you down outright. Death by a thousand cuts.
And Arthur had always thought he’d prefer a quick death.
He wondered which kind the council would give him.
Because they would kill him. Of that he was certain. Whether he was truly guilty or innocent, there was no way he would be spared. He was the son of the King, the only heir. To truly destroy the Pendragon line, they would have to rip it up at the roots and burn whatever remained. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was nineteen or nine. They would find him guilty by association.
And in three days’ time he would be dead. He wondered if Morgana would deal the killing blow. Take vengeance on him for a lifetime of perceived slights. He wondered if she'd feel sad after. If she'd think of him as the boy who had once made her crowns of flowers or as the man who raised arms against her.
He didn’t think like this because he’d given up. Far from it in fact. He would fight to his last breath to protect Camelot. But if the last few years had taught him anything, it was that bravery alone was not enough. One needed contingencies, safeguards to protect the people who mattered.
That thought had been growing in him for a long time—since Merlin, in fact.
Before Merlin, he had fought for duty, for the ideals of the crown, for his father’s approval. But Merlin had…shifted something in him. Turned his world on its side. The servant had been infuriating from the first moment, answering back, ignoring orders, and somehow saving his life again and again. Merlin didn’t care about titles, didn’t care about what Arthur was supposed to be—he simply saw him as Arthur.
And slowly, painfully, Arthur had started to see himself through that lens too.
Which is why, the day after the council’s arrival, Arthur sent word to Gaius telling the court physician to keep Merlin busy under the pretext of helping with research in the Royal Archives. Arthur wasn’t entirely convinced Merlin could read at the level needed to decipher historical records, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to keep him occupied and unaware while Arthur put the rest of his plan in motion.
The next step was to find a knight who could be spared without arousing suspicion. His father had ordered every soldier and knight to remain in the capital, as if sheer numbers would deter a magical council who had already managed to trap Uther in his own throne room.
Lancelot had been Arthur’s first thought, but Lancelot would never leave Gwen behind. Leon would be noticed too quickly. That left…
Gwaine.
Loyal to a fault when it came to Merlin, and pragmatic enough to understand hard choices. He was also reckless and disarming in a way that might distract Merlin from asking too many questions.
Arthur found him in the stables, chatting to a mare while slipping her treats. He was also, predictably, making eyes at one of the dark-haired stable boys. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and reprimand him. Gwaine still did not think of himself as highborn, despite his birth. He forgot that there was more to consider when choosing a romantic partner than how pretty they looked early in the morning carrying breakfast. You also had to think about whether or not they had the ability to say no. Servants did not. Especially personal servants. Not that Arthur thought about it much.
A look from the Prince sent most of the people in the stables running, apart from Gwaine who was still holding an apple out.
“Arthur,” Gwaine greeted, ignoring titles as always.
“Gwaine. A word,” Arthur said. The lack of Sir caught the knight’s attention, as did the look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Gwaine asked, tossing the apple core aside and turning to face him fully.
“I need to talk to you about Merlin.”
“Well, who else could make your face do that? What’s he done? Set something on fire?” Gwaine asked, forcing a note of humour into his voice.
Arthur didn’t rise to it. “You heard about yesterday.”
“I did.”
“Then you’ll understand why I’m ordering you to take Merlin out of Camelot. Visit his mother. Drag the journey out as long as possible. Stall as much as you can and only return when you are sure it is safe to do so.”
Gwaine frowned. “I can’t believe Merlin agreed to that.”
“I’m the Prince. He’ll go where I tell him.”
Gwaine gave him a flat look. “We both know that’s not true. And why send him away? Merlin’s been invaluable before. This is his home too.”
Arthur’s temper flared. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know he would fight to stay? That’s why he has to go. The council won’t stop with my father. Anyone who defends him or who they think defends him will be at risk. Merlin was there when they arrived, and knowing him, he’ll involve himself the moment they return. He’s already helping Gaius in the archives. You think they aren’t watching us?”
“If that’s the case, they’ll know your plan,” Gwaine countered.
“Then I hope they’ll be too busy dealing with those still here to care about who’s gone.” Arthur’s stomach twisted as he said it. “I’m sending the servants away in staggered groups. Anyone I can get out without raising suspicion. With my father stuck in the throne room, it’s easier, but there are still enough nobles who would run to him with the news.”
“And if he found out, he’d stop you,” Gwaine said knowingly.
Arthur forced a thin smile. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“Merlin will want to leave last,” Gwaine pointed out. “Which means not leaving until you do.”
“I know.” Arthur’s voice was quieter now. “And I can’t leave. Not my men. Not Camelot.”
“Not your father?” Gwaine asked.
Arthur said nothing. They both knew the answer. His silence was enough.
“So,” Gwaine went on, “you want me to ride out with Merlin, not tell him why, and keep him away while he knows you’re in danger? And you think that’ll work?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “I have to try.”
Gwaine studied him for a long moment, as if seeing him properly for the first time. This was not the same prince who had strutted through the training yard, sure of his father’s wisdom and the righteousness of his own cause. This Arthur was heavier somehow, the weight of choices he didn’t want to make pressing down on him.
“I’ll try, my lord,” Gwaine said finally. His voice was softer than usual. He clapped Arthur on the shoulder as he passed.
Arthur stayed in the stables long after Gwaine had gone, staring at the empty doorway.
He was more alone now than he’d been in years. Since before the day a clumsy, sharp-tongued servant had walked into his life and refused to leave it.
That first day, Merlin had challenged him. Defied him. And somehow, Arthur had been better for it. He’d started questioning things he’d never dared question: orders, laws, his father’s decrees. For the first time, Arthur had begun to see that loyalty to the crown and loyalty to what was right were not always the same thing.
And now, that loyalty to what was right meant sending Merlin away.
Arthur told himself this was the only way to keep him safe. That Merlin would be angry but he’d be alive. He tried to believe that Merlin’s stubbornness wouldn’t bring him back too soon. Tried not to think about the moment Merlin would realise the truth. The look of betrayal on his face as he realised his friends had lied to him.
Because the truth was, Arthur wasn’t only protecting a loyal servant or even a friend.
He was protecting the person who had changed him, who had made him want to be a better man. The person who expected more from Arthur and still thought he was enough.
And if the council came for Camelot, Arthur could face them, sword in hand, with the knowledge that at least one person who mattered had a chance to survive.
It wasn’t much comfort. But it was something.
Arthur drew a slow breath, squared his shoulders, and turned back toward the castle. There were still others to protect before the noose tightened. And if he had to play the villain in Merlin’s eyes to do it, he would.
Notes:
I would like to state for the record Arthur is using Gwen to lead smuggling the servants out which is why Lancelot won't leave yet either.
Chapter 12: Day Two: Dinner
Summary:
Merlin confronts Arthur
Notes:
This chapter is one of those that escaped me for a few attempts.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“And you just went along with it?!” Merlin’s voice cracked like lightning through the quiet glade, his fury sending ripples through the air as though the world itself flinched. His hands cut sharply through the space between them, as if movement alone could keep his temper from consuming him whole. “You allowed him to send me away?”
Gwaine swallowed the noise that climbed into his throat. Merlin yelling at him whilst still dressed as Emrys was… something else. Something dangerous. He wasn’t sure if he was more terrified or more—well. Best not think too hard about that.
“I did my duty!” Gwaine snapped, trying to muster some righteous indignation of his own. But even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. Wasn’t this exactly what he was supposed to do? Obey the future King of Camelot? Wasn’t that why Merlin had asked him to stay in the kingdom? To be Arthur’s sword when needed.
“Oh, now you care about duty?” Merlin scoffed, the words slicing deep. Gwaine felt the sting sharper than he’d expected, especially when Merlin’s expression flickered with a flash of guilt before he shoved it down again.
“I told him it wouldn’t work,” Gwaine said, quieter this time. He had told Arthur, but Arthur hadn’t listened. He never did.
“You wait until I get my hands on that…that…prat!” Merlin fumed, and for a split second Gwaine thought his friend was breathing out smoke. He wondered how they hadn’t drawn a crowd already. He also definitely didn’t think about what Merlin getting his hands on Arthur might look like. Merlin straddling Arthur, pinning him to the bed, leaning down until—
Gwaine blinked hard. Right. Merlin was still talking. He’d tuned out halfway through the rant. Fortunately, most of it seemed aimed at the blonde man who wasn't here instead of the currently-blond man who was.
Posey, perched on a nearby fence rail, was eating peanuts like she was watching the finest theatre in Albion. Her eyes darted between the two men, bright with anticipation, as if betting on who would throw the first punch.
“I need to get back. Now.” Merlin’s voice was firm enough to cut stone. He shut his eyes for a moment, concentrating, and Gwaine saw his fingers twitch, searching the air like he might find a door handle. Then as easily as he eould have his bedroom door he pulled nothingness open, revealing a view of his own chambers in Camelot.
Before Gwaine could say a word, Merlin stepped through and the portal snapped shut behind him.
Posey crunched another peanut, then offered him a handful without looking away from where Merlin had been.
---
Merlin would probably feel guilty about abandoning Gwaine…later. Right now, the anger roared too loudly. The thought of Arthur deliberately keeping him away while something threatened his life boiled in Merlin’s chest. Arthur had no right. No right to treat him like some servant who could be sent away for convenience.
The moment his boots hit Camelot’s flagstones, he tore off the glamour of Emrys. With each stride toward Arthur’s chambers, he shed the weight of that other self until only Merlin remained.
The corridor windows told him it was near sunset, though in the encampment he’d left behind, the light had still been bright. Maybe time moved differently there, or perhaps the sun itself bent to the will of those who lived there. Merlin would find out later, once he had dealt with this.
At the last turn before Arthur’s rooms, a serving girl came toward him with a tray. One look at his face and she promptly set it down on a side table before retreating in the opposite direction. The servants knew the signs of a Merlin–Arthur argument. He sometimes wondered if they placed bets on how long he’d last before getting thrown in the stocks. The fact that he could yell at the Crown Prince had ceased being gossip years ago and was now an accepted part of their dynamic. For the first time Merlin questioned what conclusions the workers of Camelot had come to about his relationship with the Prince.
Balancing the tray on one hand, Merlin knocked.
“Enter!” Arthur’s voice was weary.
Merlin slipped inside, his temper dimming when he saw the man behind the desk. Arthur’s head was bowed, quill scratching furiously over parchment. His shoulders were tense, lips chapped from worrying at them. Without looking up, Arthur waved him toward the table.
“You can leave it there,” he said absently.
“Oh, can I?” Merlin replied.
Arthur’s head snapped up. “You’re not meant to be here,” he said. It wasn’t a command. Instead it was almost a plea. The look in his eyes wasn’t annoyance at disobedience but something closer to resignation.
“Should have known Gwaine couldn’t keep a secret,” Arthur muttered.
“Yes, you should have,” Merlin said, setting the tray down with deliberate care.
“Are you going to yell at me?” Arthur asked. His voice was steady, but something fragile hid behind it.
“I was going to,” Merlin admitted. “Had a few good lines. ‘Arrogant prat’ featured heavily.”
Arthur gave a small laugh. It was the same brittle, wet sound Morgana had made earlier that day. That twisted something in Merlin’s chest. The siblings, for that's what they had always been regardless of blood, were so alike and so separate from each other. Each determined to suffer for their cause without once thinking that there was an outcome that let them be happy.
“Why?” Merlin asked softly. Why do this? Why send him away?
Arthur didn’t look away. “Because you wouldn’t have left if I’d asked you to.”
They both knew it was true.
Merlin gestured toward the table. “Come on. Can’t let it get cold.”
For once Arthur didn’t argue. He joined Merlin, and they fell into their old rhythm. Arthur dividing the food between them whilst Merlin got to work peeling the skin from an orange. The plates had been prepared for sharing, Merlin noticed. When had that started? Somewhere along the way, the kitchens had accepted that the Prince never ate alone when Merlin was near. He briefly wondered if Uther every dined with his manservant. If Uther knew that his son did.
Arthur’s gaze was lingering on his hands. “I like this,” he said quietly. “I like not eating alone.”
“You’d have missed this if I’d stayed away,” Merlin pointed out.
“I’d have missed you.”
The words settled between them, heavy as stone. They ate in relative silence. Merlin took the tomato off Arthur's plate whilst the Prince refilled Merlin's cup.
“Do you ever wish,” Merlin began, “that you’d been born differently?”
Arthur was silent for a long moment. “Every day. Sometimes… I wish I’d never been born a prince. That I could just give it all up. The name, the responsibilities. That I could simply be...”
“Be what?”
“Normal. Work a farm. Go to the tavern. Have a family.”
Merlin laughed. “You’d hate farming. You’ve never been a morning person.”
“That’s what I’d have you for,” Arthur shot back with a small smile.
“So even in your ordinary life, I’m still your servant?”
“No! You’re… you’re…” Arthur trailed off, then rose and crossed to his desk. He returned with a small wooden box. “I was going to send this to your mother. But I suppose you can have it now.”
Inside was a silver disk engraved with a small bird. It was lovely.
“It was my mother’s,” Arthur said. “Her sigil. I want you to have it.”
Merlin’s throat tightened. “Arthur, I—”
“You’re my family, Merlin. I trust no one more. I don’t know what’s going to happen in two days, but I swear I will fight to my last breath to keep you—and Camelot—safe.”
Something in the air shifted, as though the world leaned in to listen. Merlin’s magic stirred, recognising an older magic hidden in the weight of Arthur’s words. Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and drew out the small crest his mother had given him that morning.
“This was my father’s,” he said, placing it in Arthur’s palm. “I found it today at the house." Arthur looked at him with wide eyes wanting to object as if he hadn't just done the same thing.
"I will not leave your side." swore Merlin quietly, "Even if you order me away. My loyalty is to you. Past, Present, and Future. Even if you run away and become a pig farmer.”
Arthur snorted, but kept the emblem cradled safely in his palms.
They stood together, each holding the last relic of the other’s parent. The silver disk in Merlin’s hand felt warm and heavy. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
The moment was broken by Merlin yawning so wide it was a wonder his jaw didn’t pop. Two days of little sleep were clearly catching up with him. Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Come on," he said, taking Merlin firmly by the arm and steering him towards the bed. "You look awful. You’re not going to make it back to the tower, and I’m not having Gaius blaming me when you pass out halfway down the stairs." His voice was light, but the tips of his ears were burning red.
Merlin didn’t protest, letting himself be guided without resistance. Before he realised it, he was sinking into the Prince of Camelot’s bed, the mattress every bit as soft as he’d imagined. His eyes were already heavy, blinking slowly at Arthur, who was pulling his shirt over his head. Merlin tried to remember why this might be a bad idea, but the thought slipped away as soon as it came.
Arthur climbed in beside him, giving Merlin a shove to make room before blowing out the candle. Darkness settled over them, warm and close.
Merlin, teetering on the edge of sleep, barely registered the quiet words that followed.
"I wish I had never been a Pendragon. I’d give it all up and take your name if I could."
Notes:
Arthur just wants to cuddle with Merlin and sleep for a week, is that such a difficult ask?
Chapter 13: Day Three: A Talk in the Market
Summary:
Merlin remembers what he left behind
Notes:
Hello everyone! Loving seeing all the theories sprouting up about the last chapter. Hopefully we all get answers soon
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin woke up almost uncomfortably warm. This was unusual as his bedroom in the tower had few furnishings to keep the heat in, allowing for the cold morning air to rip through the brick and cause goosebumps up his neck. Right now however, he had goosebumps for an entirely different reason.
At some point in the middle of the night Arthur had apparently decided to get as close as possible to his manservant without climbing into his skin. They were pressed closely together, so closely Merlin could count the individual eyelashes resting on cheeks he was only now realising was lightly freckled. It seemed even after all this time he was still learning new things about the man he loved.
Wait.
No.
That was not—
Merlin would have bolted upright if not for the warm weight of Arthur’s arm pinning him in place.
Love?
He wasn’t in love with Arthur. I mean of course he loved him. Just like he loved Gwen or Gwaine.
…Okay, maybe those were terrible examples.
He loved Arthur like he loved breathing: not something he chose, just something that was. Which, admittedly, wasn’t helping the argument he was having with himself. Fortunately there was no one around to hear him lose it.
His movement had caused Arthur to stir, though his Prince had not woken up. Arthur hated mornings and would likely sleep another few hours unless a vengeful hoard stormed the room. Even then it was debatable. As much as Merlin would love to spend the next few hours laying in Arthurs arms he had jobs to do. The first of which, he realised with a guilty wince, was to rescue Gwaine from where he had left him last night. Hopefully Posey had looked after him or else he might need to go on a side quest to save the knight from whatever trouble he'd landed himself in.
Merlin wriggled free and began dressing in the dark. At some point during the night, both of them had shed shirts; Arthur’s was crumpled on the floor, and Merlin’s was nowhere to be found. He patted around until he found familiar material, though his neckerchief remained missing.
Creeping out of the room, he took one last look at Arthur. The man had wrapped himself around Merlin's pillow and had a slight frown on his face. It made his heart ache to see the Prince look so dejected. Before he could stop himself he went back across the room and laid a kiss on Arthur's furrowed brow. The man's face smoothed out and a rather dopey grin replaced it. Whatever nightmare appeared to have dissipated though Merlin did wish he knew what pleasant dream it had been replaced with. Probably something to do with hunting. Arthur liked that.
On the way out of the room and still carrying his boots to avoid making noise Merlin once again ran into the maid who had delivered food the night before. Her green eyes met his and they both stood frozen for a moment. She didn't look shocked to see him half dressed this early, but deliberately averted her eyes and took to examining a nearby painting. Grateful for her discretion Merlin hurried past, pulling on his boots as he went.
“Gaius!” Merlin called as he entered the physician’s chambers.
Gaius, slumped over an open book, jerked awake and fixed him with a glare.
“Where have you been?” His voice had all the disappointed weight of a father smelling ale on his son’s breath.
“Long story. I need to get back to the campsite—I left Gwaine there,” Merlin said, snagging an apple from the table.
“You left—? You mean—? Gwaine knows?!” Gaius spluttered. “Have you lost what little sense you had left? What were you thinking?”
“He found me after I came through the portal. I had to tell him. He’s fine, he won’t say anything.”
Gaius gave him the sort of glare that promised an “I told you so” was waiting for later. “You’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”
“Not today,” Merlin said cheerfully, bounding up the stairs to his room.
Now that he’d been through the portal a few times and had even made one himself, he was fairly confident he could get back without help. He reached into the air trying to find that invisible door handle.
Damn, it could never be easy could it?
He tried a few more times without success growing steadily more frustrated.
Finally he snapped, "I am Merlin Ambrose and I demand entrance."
A spark flickered from his hands and a golden doorway sputtered into life.
"Huh," he said. Grabbing his bag from where he had tossed it last night he stepped through the portal.
A pair of green eyes watched him from inside the wardrobe.
---
Walking into camp was just as magical as it had been the first time. Each visit revealed new wonders to Merlin as he passed through. New people, new species, new ordinary lives being lived while surrounded by the most impossible creations. Today the early morning market seemed to be in full swing. A man with multicoloured scales running up his face and arms was selling different seafood that Merlin had never seen grace even the royal table. An old woman in a pointy hat appeared to be hawking her knitted wares with promises of protective charms woven into the stitches. On the far end a familiar figure was just completing a purchase from a kindly-looking Cyclops.
Tyber Whyre turned at once, as though sensing Merlin’s gaze, and waved.
Merlin’s stomach dropped in sudden realisation. He’d arrived without Posey’s help to maintain his disguise. But when his hand shot to his face in panic, it met the familiar scratch of beard. Odd. Best not to question it now.
“Lord Ambrose!” Whyre called, his tone far lighter than their first meeting. “Hail and good day to you!”
“Hello, Whyre,” Merlin replied, shifting into Emrys’s more formal bearing. “You seem better than last I saw you.”
“Well, I would be,” Whyre said proudly, puffing his chest, “for I am on my way to see my Oliviana.” He held up a soft sheep toy, its eyes large and tufts made from real wool. “Not the traditional Seithfed Rhodd, I know, but perhaps it is time to make new traditions.”
The silence stretched, and Merlin felt the faint prickle of having missed something important.
Merlin’s blank expression made Whyre hesitate. “Forgive me, my lord… you were not raised by your father, then?”
Merlin frowned. “…No. He left before I was born.”
Whyre nodded slowly, his tone shifting to something almost mournful. “Then you were not taught your story. That is a sadness, truly. Too many of our young lose their roots, and with them, their place in the weave. For it to reach even the Council…” He shook his head.
Merlin bristled slightly. “There’s nothing I can do about how I was raised.”
“Of course,” Whyre said quickly. “I meant only—it must have been hard, not knowing. You see, the Seithfed Rhodd is what we give a young warlock when their magic first shows. Long ago, we Warlocks were wanderers. We’d meet only for festivals. Due to our nomadic nature our children were often born to non-magical folk. Years later, if their power surfaced, any passing warlock would take them to the next gathering to find their kin. The gift was meant as a way to ease the transition. It's usually something passed down. It says you belong here. That you have a history.”
He glanced at the sheep in his hands. “I was given my grandfather’s shepherd’s crook. But with Oliviana’s life being… less simple, I thought perhaps something new would be better. I never wanted to leave. I feared, foolishly I see now, that Thessaly believed warlocks were too wild to raise a family with. I wasted years by not speaking to her.” He stopped, suddenly aware of himself. “I keep too much of your time, my lord.”
“Not at all,” Merlin said quietly, an ache forming in his chest. “I’m sure Oliviana will love it.”
Whyre’s grin made him look a decade younger. “I hope so. Your man Ewan suggested it. Said I should think first of who matters most now, and let the rest wait.” With a short bow, he left Merlin to his thoughts.
Each day he spent at the camp seemed to unlock in him a new injustice. A new part of himself and his heritage that had been stripped away. Merlin was finding it harder and harder to remember why he had risked so much to protect Uther in the first place.
Notes:
I am deliberately using a mixture of language and culture from across Britain within the imagined cultures of Magic. In my mind the parallels are obvious but also it's just fun to research different languages. In this case, Welsh.
Chapter 14: Day Three: Out of Time
Summary:
Merlin goes back to get Gwaine
Notes:
This chapter was a pain to write as I've been struggling with writers block. Or rather, ability to sit down and do one task block. Therefore I laid down and wrote this instead.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin set off further into the camp to find his errant knight. It wasn't an easy feat. The camp felt both incredibly familiar and brand new. He would almost swear that each time he wandered around the encampment the path twisted and changed. New stalls appeared and new landmarks rose from the ground as if they had been there the whole time. It was if the very camp was trying to throw him off. It was incredibly easy to become lost in the whirls of colour.
Closing his eyes he tried to focus. Letting his magic ripple out of him and guide his feet. The air was thick with woodsmoke and something sharper. There were protective herbs burning in little iron braziers that lined the main path he walked. Each brazier carried a different scent: rosemary, sage, lavender. The soft din of voices, the clatter of pots, the cry of a child chasing another through the trampled grass, and music being played echoed loudly and joyfully. Merlin slowed, letting his eyes open and sweep across it all.
How could anyone look upon this and see danger?
Canvas tents, some patched with bright fabrics, dotted the clearing in uneven clusters. A group of women in long shawls bent over a cauldron at the centre, steam curling up into the crisp air. Nearby, two dwarves argued over the best way to tether a stubborn mule, while an older warlock with bright purple hair traced sigils into the dirt for a circle lesson, children crouched around him wide-eyed and silent.
He passed a group of younger sorcerers sparring with sparks of lightning crackling between their palms, the energy lighting their grins. One of them paused to glance at him. A boy no older than sixteen. Merlin felt the quick prickle of recognition looking at the boy. They knew him, even if they could not name him. There was something in the way the boy dipped his head, half-respect, half-curiosity.
Merlin’s stomach tightened. He hated the mask of Lord Ambrose and yet loved it all the same. It was becoming part of him as much as Merlin the Servant was, or Emrys the Warlock. Different facets of the same being. Merlin wondered if anyone could really know him anymore. Even him.
At the far edge of the clearing, the rowdier sound of voices reached him: laughter, a lute string struck off-key, the boisterous tone of men drinking as though the day’s shadows did not matter. Merlin allowed himself the faintest smile. That was where he would find his errant knight.
Gwaine, it turned out, was not with the raucous revellers. Nor was he with the collection of beautiful forest nymphs chatting up the blacksmith.
Merlin found the man about an hour later. He almost missed him due to the fact he had forgotten that the man still bore blonde locks on his head. The knight was seated cross-legged on a patch of grass with yarn wound around his forearms as an older woman nattered happily beside him. Two other women perched on chairs winding their skeins, one using the horns of a bemused Minotaur, the other keeping her strands taut with small flickers of magic. Judging by the pink flush on Gwaine’s cheeks, the conversation had been lively enough to fluster even him.
Their eyes caught across the field. Gwaine started to raise a hand in greeting, only to be rapped smartly on the crown by his captor for moving.
“Good to see you back,” Gwaine called out, grinning as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Thought I’d been abandoned to Selena and her wiles for the rest of my natural life.”
“You think we’d let you escape that easily?” chuckled the woman Merlin assumed was Selena.
“Once down, stay down,” rumbled the Minotaur in his deep, accented voice. “Learn to live in service. Happy spouse, happy house.”
“Awww, Asterius,” one of the women cooed, leaning over to kiss the tip of his horn. The Minotaur endured it with grave dignity.
Merlin couldn’t help laughing. “Will you be freeing him anytime soon? I need to get him home before someone notices he’s missing.”
“Not for another few hours, Your Lordship,” said the witch winding her yarn without magic. “Though I doubt you’ll be leaving before then either. The Council is making its final preparations for the trial tomorrow.”
At that, Merlin became uncomfortably aware of the weight of his cloak. He shifted beneath it. “Yes. The trial.” The words tasted heavy. “Will you be all right alone?”
“I’ve lasted this long,” replied Gwaine with a smile that was too sharp to be anything but a mask. It stung to look at.
Merlin frowned but let it drop.
As he left, Merlin deliberately slowed his steps, taking in every sound, every flicker of magic around him. He realized with sudden clarity that this might be the last time he’d walk through such a place. No matter what tomorrow brought, the Council was called rarely. This gathering might be the only one of his lifetime.
Only days ago, the very thought of opening using magic without fear was absurd. The idea of being surrounded by people just like him. But now...now he saw what was possible. Not just getting a chance to be openly magical without compromise, but to see a whole world that could never exist. A world where Minotaurs and humans in good humour sat at the mercy of witches knitting.
It wasn't real.
Even as it happened in front of him. A fragile bubble of happiness. A dream already dissolving even as he walked through it.
The Council’s tent was busier than he had ever seen it. Scrolls and tomes were piled high on every surface, the air thick with ink and the smell of hot wax. Morgana moved like a general among her soldiers, directing a train of elves who carried in still more documents. Cadmeus looked uncharacteristically severe as he bent over a massive leather-bound tome. Eley’am hovered in constant flux, form rippling in agitation as they spoke with Posey.
“Ah, Ambrose!” Cadmeus bellowed the moment he spotted him. “We weren’t certain you’d come. Pull up a chair. The Watchers have finished their reports.”
“The Watchers?” Merlin echoed, lowering himself beside Posey.
“Did you not read the Rules of Governance?” she asked, though the gentleness in her tone kept it from sounding too scolding.
Merlin winced. He thought of the untouched book lying somewhere in his tower room. “Er… not all of it.”
Eley’am’s laugh tinkled like glass. “The Watchers observe in our stead. When a trial is called, they arrive first. They record. They listen. So when we deliberate, we do not come blind.”
“Usually,” Posey added quietly, “we read their findings during the trial itself. But this time…there was too much. They’ve had days to gather evidence, and it fills volumes.”
Her voice wavered. Merlin glanced at her properly then, noticing the streaks of tears down her cheeks.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, waving his concern away. “It’s just…really sad.” She pushed the open scroll towards him.
Merlin leaned over her shoulder and felt his stomach hollow out.
The parchment listed objects.
A dolly.
A scarf.
A pair of boots.
Each line noted where the item had been found, its approximate value, and whether it had been sold, stored, or destroyed.
A child’s dolly—burned.
A woman’s scarf—auctioned.
A man’s boots—taken by guards.
They weren’t inventories. They were what remained of people.
The entries went on and on. Box after box. Page after page.
“There’s no defending this,” Morgana spat, voice trembling with fury. She looked almost ill, her skin tinged a sickly green. Merlin suspected he looked no better.
“We are debating,” Cadmeus said, straightening from his tome, “who else must be brought before us. Some of these men and women will be hunted down after the King’s judgment. Others must stand beside him in chains.” His tone was all relish, like a man already sharpening his blade.
Merlin’s mouth worked before his thoughts caught up. “What about the innocents?”
The room stilled.
“Innocents?” Morgana hissed. “How can anyone be innocent in the face of this?”
Merlin forced himself to meet her eyes. “Servants. Cooks. Stable hands. People who had no choice in the lives they were born to. Maidservants.” His voice softened deliberately. “I heard you were close with yours, Lady Morgana. Would you condemn her alongside the rest?”
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her gaze. Perhaps hurt, perhaps a memory. Then her expression shuttered, sharp as a blade.
“The servants are being evacuated,” Posey broke in. “The Watchers confirmed it in their last report. They aren’t the priority. The guilty are. If names come later, we’ll hunt them then.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, teeth too sharp in the lamplight.
Merlin’s chest tightened. “So the trial’s over before it begins? They’ll stand, but no words will matter?”
Cadmeus slammed the tome shut. “They’ll have the chance to argue. If they can explain the deaths of thousands, perhaps they escape.”
The silence that followed told Merlin how likely anyone thought that was.
Merlin sat frozen, the parchment still before him. He wanted—needed—Uther to pay. The man had left ashes where families once stood. He’d hunted down magic with fire and steel, never once flinching. Uther deserved this reckoning.
But Arthur. Gwen. Gwaine. The knights. If the Council decided guilt was contagious, if they deemed Camelot itself complicit...what then?
His pulse thudded in his ears. He could not stand by and watch Arthur fall. But how could he allow Uther to continue with this?
The words kept echoing in his head like a chant.
A child’s dolly—burned.
A woman’s scarf—auctioned.
A man’s boots—taken by guards.
Notes:
Merlin just wants to run away with the circu– I mean magical camp.
Also I definitely didn't edit the start of this because I forgot to check where I'd left off and didn't realise Merlin was already at the camp. My bad guys
Chapter 15: Day Three: Good Knight
Summary:
Moments before destruction
Notes:
Hey everyone! Apologies for the delay in updating, the AO3 curse hit me like a truck.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Twilight had settled by the time Merlin stepped out of the Council’s tent. The evening air felt colder than when he had entered, but his face was too numb for the chill to reach him. He had gone into that meeting believing he already knew Camelot’s sins. Years of Uther’s purges had shown him enough to fill a lifetime. But the Watchers’ reports had stripped away even the illusions he had left.
It was never just executions. It was the thousand tiny betrayals. shopkeepers accusing rivals for the price of a better stall. Husbands trading wives for coin and calling it justice. Midwives dragged from their beds because a neighbour resented the life they had saved, or couldn’t save. And the children...
Merlin’s stomach turned at the thought. Tiny shoes, a doll, a copper piece, all catalogued in neat lists beside names too young to speak a spell.
He walked slowly through the encampment, each step heavy as if the ground itself wanted to keep him there. Around him, fires were being lit and music carried over the field. Laughter sparked like flint in the dark. Cadmeus had said many would feast through the night, celebrating this brief gathering of their kind before the trial began at dawn. To Merlin it felt less like a festival than a wake.
Tomorrow he would have to choose.
Save Arthur and the innocents of Camelot, and betray a people slaughtered for generations. Stand with the Council and condemn everyone who had ever trusted him but perhaps finally end Uther’s line of blood that snaked through the streets of Camelot. He had faced hard choices before, but each of those now felt like practice for this one.
Arthur or everyone else.
The choice sat in his chest like a stone, grinding against his heart with every breath.
A burst of childish laughter broke the thought. A small blonde boy darted past him, brandishing a wooden sword while a dark-haired girl chased after him with a mock scowl. Merlin watched them weave between tents, bright and untouchable in their game. How long before the world found them? Betrayed them? Was Merlin going to be the first?
Gwaine was waiting where Merlin had left him, seated on a low rise just beyond the fires. He wore a long green scarf wrapped several times round his neck, the loose ends flicking in the breeze. He looked up as Merlin approached and, without a word, stood to pull him into a rough, steady embrace.
Merlin let himself be held. For a moment the weight of Lord Ambrose slipped from his shoulders and he was simply Merlin again: tired, heartsick, barely holding together.
“We don’t have to go back,” Gwaine murmured into his hair. “I can commandeer a flying carpet. We could be in Gaul by breakfast.”
A surprised laugh escaped Merlin, raw and unfamiliar. “Raincheck?” he managed.
“I’ll wait for you,” Gwaine said, quiet but certain. No teasing this time. Just a promise.
Merlin pulled back enough to meet his eyes. There was no judgement there, only a loyalty so fierce it hurt to look at. Gwaine would follow him into exile, into death, into anything. That knowledge was a comfort and a wound all at once. Whatever Merlin chose, someone he loved would be betrayed.
The journey back to Camelot passed too quickly. The portal shimmered open like a tear in the night, dropping them just outside the palace gates hidden from view. At a thought, the glamour hiding them both dissolved. Merlin barely noticed the words of the spell leave his lips. Once, magic had been like holding smoke. It was always slipping, always threatening to scorch him if he grasped too tightly. Now it was as natural as breathing. He didn’t command it; he was it. Magic wasn’t a tool. It was the weave of creation itself, the tapestry of the universe with threads stretching beyond time and sky. A single stitch held the heavens aloft. A single pull could bring empires crashing down.
And he could see it now. The threads glimmered faintly even in the dark, weaving through air and stone, through his own heartbeat. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Addictive.
And he loved it. And hated that he loved it.
Lord Ambrose, Last of the Dragonlords, fit him like a second skin. Merlin the manservant felt like a shirt grown too small, one he could never quite pull over his shoulders again.
No matter what the outcome of the trial, he could not go back to his life before.
At the edge of Camelot Gwaine stopped and caught his arm. “Whatever you decide,” he said, voice low and steady, “I’m with you.”
Merlin swallowed. He wanted to say thank you, or don’t, or I’m so sorry gods I'm so sorry—but nothing would come. Gwaine seemed to understand. He gave a faint, sad smile, squeezed Merlin’s arm once, and disappeared into the shadows.
Merlin stood a moment longer, staring at the familiar gates. His own small room waited beyond them, cold and lonely. The thought of sleeping there was suddenly unbearable.
His feet carried him across the courtyard before he could think, past guards who barely glanced up, through hallways lined with the banners of kings. To a door he knew better than his own.
Arthur’s chambers.
The prince was already preparing for bed. He looked up as Merlin entered, surprise flickering across his face before smoothing into something unreadable. He didn’t ask why Merlin was there. Perhaps he already knew.
Without a word, Arthur turned back the covers on both sides of the bed and climbed into his own.
Merlin hesitated only long enough to close the door before crossing the room and sliding beneath the blanket. The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing their shoulders together. Arthur did not move away.
The silence between them was thick but alive, filled with the sound of steady breathing and the faint crackle of the fire. Merlin stared into the darkness, his fingers twitching closer to Arthur’s until they hovered a breath apart. He could feel the warmth of Arthur’s skin through the thin nightshirt, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He wanted to speak. To confess the truth, to beg forgiveness, to ask for something he could not name. Instead he lay still, aching with the weight of a choice that would destroy something no matter which way he turned.
Arthur exhaled softly, almost a sigh. Their hands remained separated by the width of a whisper.
Merlin closed his eyes and let the darkness press in around them. For one night, one final night, he allowed himself to be still.
Tomorrow the world would end.
Notes:
Next chapter the trial starts...
Voting will be open until lines close
Also I saw an edit of Merlin to 'Good Boy' by Paris Paloma and it perfectly encapsulates the energy I'm going for here.
Chapter 16: Times Up
Summary:
Arthur's last day
Notes:
Arthur has to get himself dressed in this bit, and isn't very impressed
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Arthur woke up on his last day on earth in a cold bed.
That wasn’t unusual, but it still hurt.
For the last two nights he had fallen asleep with another’s breath warming his face, the faint rhythm of life beside him in the dark. Each morning he had woken alone, the air too still, the sheets too cold. He tried not to let it sting as much as it did.
He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands loose against his knees. Somewhere below, he could hear the echo of armour. His men preparing for a battle that wasn’t coming. A war that wouldn't wage. A pageant of loyalty in the face of collapse.
It was hard to know what one should wear to one's own execution.
Normally he didn’t dress himself, but today wasn’t normal. He doubted anyone would come to help him even if he asked. Pulling on his dark red doublet trimmed with gold, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked every inch the Prince of Camelot: polished, proud, doomed.
One of his father’s more desperate plans had been to disguise a servant as Arthur and smuggle the real prince out of the city. The Council had vetoed it instantly fearing that the magic confining the King to his hall would detect the trickery and punish them all. For once, Arthur had agreed with them. If he was to die, he would do it with his head high and his name his own. Not crawling away in borrowed clothes.
Inside his doublet he fastened the small brooch so that it was tucked close to his heart where it wouldn’t be seen. The dragon's eyes appeared almost to blink up at him. Arthur then slipped a neckerchief, one Merlin had left behind two days earlier, into his sleeve. Not for sentiment, of course. He just didn’t like leaving things lying about.
He could only hope that Merlin’s absence meant he had finally come to his senses and fled the city. It was the only comforting thought he had left.
As Arthur made his way through the corridors, the silence pressed around him. Gone were the murmurs of servants and the clatter of chores. Gwen had done an extraordinary job clearing the castle. His father had opposed the evacuation, declaring that “they will need every able body when the sorcerers come.” As though a washer woman would defeat a sorcerer.
The order to remain hadn’t affected the entirety of Camelot's population. Somehow the Privy Council’s numbers had dwindled from twenty to five in the last few days. They and the other nobles of the court had slipped away like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Uther hadn’t noticed, of course. The spell that kept him trapped in the Great Hall held strong. Luckily he also hadn’t realised that it was the same three servants had been bringing his meals for days. The others leaving in stages under Gwen's careful guidance. The final few who would now be fleeing the city this morning.
Arthur felt a brief stab of longing knowing he would never see her again...or at least, he shouldn’t. Which made it all the more frustrating when she appeared walking briskly towards him, a stack of papers in her arms and Gaius following close behind, looking like he’d been awake since the dawn of time.
“Does no one follow my commands anymore?” Arthur muttered under his breath.
Neither of them so much as acknowledged him.
“We have an idea,” Gwen said breathlessly, ignoring the prince’s scowl.
Arthur groaned. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve treason. I’m already due for one execution today.”
Gaius’ eyes glinted. “We think there’s a way to stop the Council...or at least stall them.”
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Stall them? What are you going to do, argue them to death?”
“Something close,” Gwen said. “Gaius found an amendment in their own laws. The "Legitimate Dispute Amendment of 1201". They can’t condemn anyone for crimes against magic unless four members vote guilty. If we can split the vote, or get them to abstain, the sentence can’t pass.”
Arthur frowned. “So your plan is just...get them to vote in our favour?”
“Our only chance,” Gaius statemd grimly. “Is if you can persuade one of the neutral members to not rule against us. Then we might turn the tide.”
Arthur folded his arms. “No magical being will ever vote in my father’s favour. Not after everything he’s done.”
“Perhaps not,” Gaius conceded, “but the representative of the magical creatures has a history of siding with the stronger party. They respect power, not ideology. If we can make them believe that aligning with you secures their position—”
“—then they’ll choose self-preservation,” Arthur finished grimly.
Gwen glanced at him, sympathy flickering across her face. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Arthur managed a weak smile. “That’s still only one vote.”
“I think the Fae might be open to persuasion too,” said Gwen. “If we can offer them something in return.”
“What exactly do the Fae want?”
“Depends who you ask,” said Gaius. “But I’d wager safety. If you could promise—”
Arthur cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Promises mean nothing if I don’t live to keep them.”
He looked between the two of them. The lines under their eyes, the weight in their shoulders. They’d both been up for days trying to save his life.
“You could have run,” he said softly. “Both of you.”
Gwen laughed. It was a short, incredulous sound. “If you think I’d leave you, you really are a dollophead.”
Arthur smiled despite himself. “That word’s catching on.”
Together they walked the long corridor to the Great Hall. Somehow the weight on his shoulders felt lessened. As though it was carried by more than himself alone.
The air around them grew heavier with every step. The closer they came, the more the castle felt like a tomb. The great doors stood open, torchlight spilling out into the corridor. Inside, the hall was alive with false grandeur. The last performance of a crumbling court.
The five remaining Council members were already gathered, dressed in robes embroidered with gold and jewels. Their expressions ranged from anger to unease. None looked like they wanted to be there.
The knights of Camelot stood in formation, swords at their sides. Arthur recognised most of them as second or third sons of minor nobles. Those who were too proud to flee or too lowborn to have anywhere else to go. It made his stomach twist unpleasantly.
They weren’t protecting Camelot. They were protecting themselves.
At the centre of the room, Uther Pendragon raged against his invisible prison.
He looked… smaller. The man who had once seemed carved from marble now looked frail, his skin grey and drawn tight. His crown hung crooked on his head. He barked orders no one followed, his voice breaking under its own fury.
Arthur didn’t answer his tirade. What could he possibly say?
Gwen and Gaius slipped away towards the far side of the hall, whispering urgently to a gathering of what appeared to be his own knights. Gods he wished they would have left. Gods he's glad they were here.
He tried not to think about Merlin.
If Merlin had any sense, he’d be halfway to the coast by now. There was nothing he could do. No stumbling into the answer or tripping over the missing piece of the puzzle this time.
Arthur hoped he’d gone. He also hoped, selfishly, that he hadn’t.
There were things he’d wanted to say. Things he’d never dared.
He’d known for a long time how he felt. The moments between them too charged, too close, to pass as mere friendship. But a prince could not confess love to a servant. Not when that servant couldn’t safely say no. The Prince was many things but he wasn't that. So Arthur had kept his silence. Protected his friend the best he could from himself.
Now, on the day of his death, he found himself praying to the old gods, the ones he didn’t believe in, to protect Merlin now Arthur couldn’t. That he would live, even if Arthur didn’t.
The murmuring in the hall stopped all at once.
A sudden rush of power rippled through the air. The torches guttered. The great tapestries lining the walls shivered as though struck by a wind no one could feel. Then a crack like thunder echoed through the chamber, followed by a swirl of purple lightning.
Arthur flinched and shielded his eyes.
When the light dimmed, the five thrones of the Council stood occupied once again.
Each figure radiated power in a different form. Morgana sat tall, her beauty sharp enough to cut glass. The child witch from before was painted in swirling blue, her eyes flint. The Fae representative glowed faintly, their translucent robes shifting like moonlight on water. The Lion was larger than life and radiated power and raw strength. However it was the final figure who had not been there three days ago that caught the Prince's eye.
He was beautiful.
Almost otherworldly. His tunic was made of silver scales that shimmered like living metal, and his dark curls framed a face so perfectly balanced between strength and grace that it hardly seemed real. A silver circlet rested against his brow, and his sharp eyes met Arthur’s with what might have been curiosity.
Arthur looked away quickly, his cheeks oddly warm.
Around the hall, no one moved. Even Uther had fallen silent.
Then the Lion spoke and the words rolled through the chamber like thunder.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” he intoned, each syllable carrying the weight of centuries. “Þis þing ys gemǣn. The trial of King Uther Pendragon of Camelot is called to order.”
Notes:
Yes it took them three days to come up with the plan 'let's convince the council not to kill us all'. No one said it was a good plan.
Chapter 17: The Circle
Summary:
The trial is called to order
Notes:
Still alive, though whoever has my voodoo doll is a sadist
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a crown on Merlin’s head.
He’d been aware of it from the moment he was summoned. It still felt like a strange physical reminder of the part he was expected to play. It wasn’t heavy, not really, yet he caught himself sitting straighter in his seat.
When the magic had tugged at him earlier that morning, summoning him to take his place as Lord Ambrose, it had washed through him like a tide. His clothes had formed, his hair and beard had grown. It had felt less like a disguise and more like getting dressed. As if he were becoming himself with every layer.
It was disorienting how quickly he had begun to think of himself as Emrys. How easily it came. When he spoke now, people listened. No one rolled their eyes, no one dismissed him or told him to hold his tongue. He didn’t fetch water or polish armour. He gave orders, and others followed.
But the crown…that was new.
He tried not to look at it. Tried even harder not to notice that Morgana, the only other person wearing one, looked perfectly at home in hers. A silver circlet rested in her dark hair, catching the torchlight. Trust magic to play favourites.
The air in the Great Hall was heavy. It felt as though even the stone walls were holding their breath. Below the dais, nobles whispered amongst themselves, their fine silks rustling like dry leaves. Even the King had ceased his ranting. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Merlin looked down at them and felt a strange detachment, as though something stood between him and the rest of the room. Everyone below seemed smaller from up here. Fragile. Like candle flames that could be snuffed out with a single breath.
He forced himself to look ahead as Cadmeus rose to his clawed feet. His voice filled the hall: deep, deliberate, and commanding.
"The Council presides. I, Cadmeus of the Tribe that Runs Through the Desert and Archduke of the Seven Mysteries, stand in honour representing the magical creatures from which all magic comes.”
As he spoke, the runes carved into the stone walls lit up, lines of soft gold running through the cracks like veins beneath skin. They began to move slowly, circling the chamber in steady spirals.
Next, Ely’am of the Seelie Court stood. Their eyes caught the light like glass, their whole form almost translucent.
“I will answer to Ely’am of the Seelie Court. We stand in awe, representing the united courts of the Fae.”
Their words echoed. Not just once, but again and again until they were overlapping in a dozen different voices. It sounded like a crowd whispering the same vow at once. As they sat, the golden runes stretched and twisted, thinning into long lines that curled across the floor.
Then Posey stood. She looked impossibly young up here, barely taller than the arm of her chair, yet her voice carried through the hall.
“I am Proserpine the Greenwalker. I stand in friendship, representing the druid tribes and those who live in service to the natural world.”
The light shifted, darkening to forest green as it spread into a wide circle beneath the dais.
Morgana rose next. Even now, there was something almost regal in the way she moved.
“I am Princess Morgana, the Bond-Breaker. I kneel in learning, representing those who study magic.”
Her words brought a low hum to the air. The runes coiled tighter, forming patterns Merlin didn’t recognise.
Then all eyes turned to him.
He hadn’t been told what to say, but as he stood, the words came anyway. Unbidden, as though someone else spoke through him.
“I am– I am Prince Emrys Ambrose, last of the Dragonlords. I stand in duty, representing the warlocks and all born of magic.”
The hall seemed to listen. Then the magic quietened, as though satisfied. The spirals glowed a steady gold. Merlin sat again, trying not to look as lost as he felt. The crown felt heavier now, pulling faintly against his head.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Gaius watching him with quiet concern, but Merlin didn’t dare meet his gaze.
The moving light slowed. The lines that had been crawling across the floor finally met in the centre, forming a circular shape. Merlin couldn’t make out what it was. Perhaps a flower, or a sun. It glowed faintly beneath the crowd’s feet, as if it had always been part of the stone.
The murmur of voices grew restless. Someone whispered a prayer; someone else cursed under their breath.
Then Cadmeus spoke again, his tone low and steady.
“We are summoned by the Ancient Laws to present judgement upon Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot and ruler of these lands, for crimes against Magyik.”
The word Magyik hung in the air. He said it as though it were a name, not a thing. The breath of it made the torches flicker.
Arthur flinched.
Oh, Arthur.
For the first time, Merlin allowed himself to look at him. Just a glance, but his eyes met blue immediately as though Arthur had been watching him the entire time. Merlin had to resist the urge to abandon the throne and go to him, to protect him. Arthur looked terrified.
Terrified of him.
That thought kept him seated.
“Who will speak for the accused?” called Ely’am.
The question echoed. For a moment, no one moved. Then a tall, red-faced man stepped forward, his rich robes brushing the floor. Merlin recognised him instantly as one of Uther’s more arrogant advisors. The same man who had once tripped him during a feast and laughed to his cronies about it.
“I am Baron Rufus of the Honourable House of Dunstain, and His Majesty’s legal counsel," the man declared loudly. “I will speak on his behalf in this farce of a trial.”
There was a flicker in the air, like static. The runes on the floor glowed red though none of the crowd seemed to notice. The Baron blinked, looking confused, as if he hadn’t meant to say the last part aloud.
Ely’am gave a thin, humourless smile.
“Did you think we would hold court without protections? No lies may be spoken here. The enchantment compels truth from all who speak while the circle is active.”
A ripple passed through the crowd. People turned to one another, whispering in fear.
“You may also not represent the accused,” Ely’am added.
The Baron’s mouth fell open.
“What do you mean? I am the highest judge in the land. I’ve earned my place. My father bought my position, I—”
He stopped, horrified, realising what he’d said. The colour drained from his face.
Merlin bit back a laugh. Morgana didn’t bother. The sound of her quiet giggle pulled Merlin’s eyes to her, and for a fleeting moment, he saw the friend she’d once been: amused, exasperated, and almost kind.
Posey leaned forward, speaking with the calm patience of someone used to being ignored.
“Only magical beings or the accused may speak during this trial,” she explained. “It’s in the rules.”
The Baron spread his hands helplessly.
“What rules? You turn up uninvited, accuse our king of crimes that make no sense, and bind us all to laws we’ve never heard of! You call this justice?”
Posey’s eyes darkened. When she spoke again, her voice was soft but carried through the hall.
“Imagine that.”
Silence.
Merlin remembered the first night he’d spent at the encampment, when Posey had introduced him to the visiting druid tribes who had come to seek audience with the council. Families driven from their forests and seperated. Their laws rewritten by men who didn’t understand what they were destroying. He remembered the bitterness in their faces, the exhaustion in their eyes. That same tone was in Posey’s voice now.
Then Arthur spoke, breaking the quiet.
“Who may represent my father?”
Merlin looked at him. Arthur stood tall, his jaw tight, but his voice was measured and respectful. There was no arrogance, no anger. Just duty. A different man to the one Merlin met on his first day in Camelot.
“Those who are magic, or those who stand trial,” Posey said again, gentler this time.
Morgana added dryly, “Though it’s said that he who represents himself has a fool for a client.”
Arthur’s mouth tightened. Around him, the nobles exchanged worried looks. Uther stood motionless, eyes blazing, caught somewhere between fury and fear. Arthur, by contrast, looked utterly defeated.
It made Merlin’s stomach twist.
He wanted to move, to go to him, to say something...anything...but he didn’t know how. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, fingers white with tension.
Then a familiar voice rang out from the back of the hall.
“I will speak for him.”
Merlin’s head snapped round.
Gaius.
The old physician stood at the back of the hall, pale and tired but resolute. He walked forward through the parting crowd, every step steady.
“I will speak for him.”
The runes lit up green.
Notes:
This feels a little slow honestly so I may write and post the next chapter sooner than planned.
Points to anyone who knows why Morgana says kneel instead of stand
Chapter 18: The Testimony of the Physician
Summary:
Gaius addresses the council
Chapter Text
“Who are you?” called out Ely’am, their voice ringing through the hall.
Or maybe it wasn’t the hall at all. Maybe the ringing was just in Merlin’s ears.
Gaius couldn’t—he wouldn’t—
Merlin’s hands clenched against the arm of his chair. It took everything in him not to cry out. The sight of the old physician walking towards the circle was so wrong that for a moment Merlin wondered if the enchantments had twisted his senses. That couldn’t be his Gaius. Not the man who’d raised him, scolded him, and protected him from himself. The man who’d helped him become the man he was today.
"I am Gaius of Ealdor,” the old man said, bowing stiffly. “Court Physician to Camelot.”
The words echoed far too loudly.
“And you are magic?” asked Cadmeus, his voice heavy with curiosity rather than accusation.
Merlin held his breath. Don’t do it, don’t—
Morgana leaned forward in her seat, eyes bright with something sharp and waiting.
Gaius hesitated. Merlin saw the muscles in his jaw tense, the tiny flinch that came before the truth dragged itself out. “I studied magic during my youth,” he admitted. “And was granted pardon for it by the King after it was outlawed due to my services to the crown.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The older nobles tried to pretend they hadn’t known. The younger ones looked scandalised. A few even stepped back as though proximity might taint them.
Morgana’s voice cut clean through the noise. “And have you practiced magic since the ban took place?”
There was a long pause. Merlin could see Gaius’s lips move soundlessly before the spell forced him to answer. “…Yes,” he said finally. His voice cracked. “But only to protect and serve Camelot against forces that normal means could not defend from.”
The murmurs returned, louder this time.
“And this was known to the King?” asked Posey.
“I do not know,” said Gaius, glancing briefly at Uther. The King stared straight ahead, jaw set, as though even acknowledging the question would be beneath him.
“And yet,” Morgana said, each word like a blade, “you stand here to defend him in a trial where he is accused of crimes against your own kind?”
For the first time, she sounded less angry and more hurt. Merlin felt the same pain he heard in her voice. He remembered that Morgana had also once trusted Gaius, perhaps even gone to him when she first suspected her powers. The knowledge that he would have known what was happening and did nothing cut deep.
“Uther is my king,” Gaius said firmly. “It is my duty to ensure he and his subjects are defended to the best of my ability.”
“And those subjects with magic,” said Lord Ambrose, before Merlin could stop himself, “what of them?”
Gaius’s eyes turned to him then, soft and sad, and that was somehow worse than anger. “I have done my best to protect everyone I could.”
A lie. Merlin felt it. Not by the letter of the spell, but by the weight of it in the air.
“So you believe there is danger to the people of Camelot?” asked Posey, voice calm but cutting.
“Yes.” Gaius drew himself up straighter. “We have been attacked many times by sorcerers, warlocks, and all manner of creatures. We even had a dragon reign terror in the town.”
Every head on the dais turned. The title of Dragonlord hung heavy around Merlin’s neck like a chain. Why would Gaius bring up Kilgharrah now?
Baron Rufus, ever the opportunist, seized the silence. “Were you not introduced as a Dragonlord?” he asked with sneering amusement. “Does that mean you were responsible for that attack?”
Merlin felt the heat rise in his chest. “The dragon Kilgharrah was imprisoned by King Uther at the end of the Great Purge, after he betrayed the Dragonlord Balinor,” he said, voice steady. “Any damage done after he was freed pales in comparison to the crimes committed against the Great Dragon.”
“And the children who died in the dragonfire?” Gaius asked.
The words hit like a blade to the gut. Merlin stared at him, frozen. How could he—how dare he—say that here? He had been there. Gaius had held him that night while Merlin shook apart from guilt, whispering that it wasn’t his fault, that the dragon would have turned on them all eventually.
And now he used those deaths as a weapon.
The air felt thinner, the room smaller. Morgana’s knuckles were white on the arm of her chair. Posey looked sickened. Even Cadmeus shifted, tail curling tightly around his feet.
Arthur’s voice broke the silence. “If Gaius is an acceptable speaker,” he said, his tone careful and formal, “may we commence with the trial?”
Merlin turned toward him. His friend looked exhausted. Polite. Almost meek. The fire that had defined him since the day they met had guttered out. It made Merlin ache just to look at him.
“As you say,” Cadmeus replied. “Gaius of Ealdor, what defence does the King of Camelot hold?”
The physician stepped into the light. He seemed smaller than before, yet somehow commanding the whole room. His eyes swept over the Council. He lingered for a moment on Merlin as if offering a silent apology for what he was about to do.
“Gracious Council,” he began, “King Uther Pendragon stands accused of crimes committed during a time of chaos. His actions, however brutal, were not born from malice but from fear—fear for his people, for his family, for the order that held our kingdoms together. The Purge was not the work of hatred, but desperation.”
Merlin felt bile rise in his throat.
Gaius went on, his voice gaining strength. “You speak of justice. But tell me, how many of you remember what it was like before Uther’s rule? The world torn apart by rogue sorcerers, warring clans, dragons unchecked, magic with no master or law. He brought peace to Albion. A peace that lasted for decades. A peace that allowed every person here to live under a single crown instead of a hundred burning banners.”
He was good—too good. He had always been a man who could sound reasonable, even when he was wrong. Merlin saw the spell twisting his honesty, forcing him to wrap his lies in truth.
“Yes,” Gaius continued, “innocents suffered. That cannot be denied. But so too would they have suffered had no one taken a stand. You call it a Purge—he called it order. A necessary cleansing to bring stability to a kingdom that was dying.”
Morgana’s hand slammed down on the arm of her chair. The hum of contained magic rippled across the floor. “You speak of cleansing as though it were mercy. Thousands died, Gaius. Children, healers, elders! You helped him do it.”
Gaius’s face tightened. “And you think I wanted to?” he snapped before he could stop himself. “Do you think it was easy to watch friends die, to see the man you once admired lose himself to vengeance? I stayed because I believed I could guide him. That I could temper his wrath.”
He hesitated, then said softly, “And I was right, in part. For every name he ordered struck from the records, I saved another. It is because of me that many lived.”
That was the moment the horror settled in Merlin’s stomach. Because the spell wasn’t rejecting his words. Gaius believed them. He truly thought his small mercies had made the bloodshed bearable.
Posey’s voice was trembling when she spoke next. “So you justify betrayal by measuring it against worse evils?”
“I justify survival,” said Gaius, calm again. “Camelot would not exist without Uther Pendragon. He did what was necessary to ensure the world you now govern did not destroy itself. He bore the weight so you would not have to.”
Silence fell like ash.
Merlin couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at Arthur. Couldn’t even trust his own voice.
Uther’s expression hadn’t changed. He looked proud, smug even. As if Gaius’s words confirmed everything he had ever believed.
Morgana’s lip curled. “Then perhaps it is time someone else bore that weight.”
Her crown glinted as she leaned back in her chair the image of righteous fury.
And Merlin, his own crown resting heavy against his temples, could do nothing but watch and sit in dumb realisation that the man he had loved like a father had just broken his heart.
Notes:
Gaius is morally grey and at least partially responsible for the deaths during the purge, change my mind
Chapter 19: A Search for Evidence
Summary:
Gaius tries to stall the trial, Merlin wants to go home
Notes:
Hello! Yes, tis me again. Shocking I know.
Comments as always are life and I love reading all of your theories
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The low muttering of the crowd had grown louder with every word from Gaius’s mouth. Merlin sat still on the dais, watching as the tension built like a storm rolling in. Across the room, Gwen stood near the back wall with her hand covering her face, shoulders tight. A few of the knights were gathered together, Gwaine and Lancelot among them, all looking uneasy. Arthur’s frown hadn’t shifted once since the trial began.
The only one who seemed energised by Gaius’s testimony was Uther. His eyes gleamed in a way Merlin hadn’t seen since before his fall.
“I did what had to be done for the sake of my kingdom!” Uther roared, voice cutting through the noise. “You have no right to try me in my own Great Hall. You will depart immediately!”
Cadmeus laughed, the sound like gravel scraping against stone. “We have every right, human. This land has been Magik's before even the stones of this castle were formed. Ha, you are even called Pendragon are you not? A name which means dragon-leader, or chief dragon. In modern tongue you would say Dragon Lord. The title you claim belongs to one sitting on this very council you state has no jurisdiction here."
All eyes turned to Merlin. He felt the weight of them like a physical thing. His stomach twisted. If he could have sunk into the floor, he would have. The fine clothes he wore too grand, too alien for someone who used to fetch Uther’s breakfast and polish Arthur’s boots. The crown resting on his head felt like an anvil.
After Gaius’s opening statement, Merlin was finding it hard to hold onto the cool confidence of Emrys. He could feel it slipping, replaced by the familiar panic of Merlin the servant, Merlin the secret sorcerer.
Why would Gaius say those things? Had he truly believed them? Was this part of some plan to help Uther, or a betrayal of his own kind?
“If the King’s argument is self-defence,” said Eley’am, drawing attention back to the centre of the hall, “we must hear evidence of this alleged risk.”
Arthur straightened in his chair. “And how are we meant to do that if only magical beings can speak?” he asked, voice taut with the effort to remain polite. “Your honour,” he added quickly.
Merlin nearly smiled. At least Arthur hadn’t lost all his spirit.
“That is not our problem,” Morgana replied with the same haughty condemnation she used to laugh at other nobles women for using.
Merlin glanced her way. Whilst the Sorcerer's focus was fixed firmly oh her former family, her eyes often flicked briefly to Gwen, who still refused to look in her direction. The look in her eyes made his chest hurt.
Gaius began arguing about what kind of evidence could be admitted, his voice steady but strained. Merlin’s thoughts drifted.
He thought of the book of law sitting back in his room. Before the thought had even finished forming, he heard the faint rustle of pages. The air shimmered beside him and, with a soft thud, the leather book dropped into his lap. Several people nearest him flinched at the sound, and his fellow council members glanced over.
Merlin tried to ignore them, staring at the book as it flicked through its own pages with impatient speed, like a tutor sighing at a slow student. It stopped abruptly, the parchment quivering slightly as if waiting for him to catch up. The title at the top of the page read: The Trial of Alfred the Cake Stealer. He skimmed the text. It was something about a king who had stolen from a Giantess, who’d convinced the Council’s representative for Magical Creatures to swear in his non-magical companion as a witness. Apparently, it had been allowed under since the council had formally questioned the servant earlier in his trial.The law was clear enough: only magical beings or the accused could be called by the defence but the Council itself could summon anyone it wished to give testimony. Once they were summoned they had the right to speak for the rest of the trial.
The book gave a small snap as though to say, Well? There’s your answer.
If Merlin wanted to, he could give blanket permission for anyone in the hall to speak in Uther's defense.
He kept his mouth shut.
"Very well," said Posey calling the Warlock's attention back to the room. "We will allow you to use written documentation and any physical evidence you can collect to support your allegation of 'self defence'." Even Merlin could hear the derision in her young voice. He knew that every one of them sitting at the dias was thinking about the same thing:
A child’s dolly—burned.
A woman’s scarf—auctioned.
A man’s boots—taken by guards.
Any physical evidence could not hope to stand up against the papers inked in blood piled on their table.
“Collecting this evidence will take time,” Gaius began, sounding weary.
“And we given you three days of time,” Morgana cut in sharply.
“Without knowledge that only magical beings would be permitted to speak,” Gaius countered, raising his voice.
Arthur seized the moment. “We have guest rooms available,” he said, clearly improvising. “Please, stay on the grounds as our guests and reconvene in the morning.”
Merlin could see what he was doing. Stalling. Gaius needed time. Arthur was giving it to him.
Morgana looked irritated. Posey looked ready for a nap. Cadmeus and Eley’am didn’t care either way. It was up to Merlin to decide.
He took a slow breath, feeling the eyes of everyone on him again.
“Very well,” he said, the order strange on his tongue. “We will adjourn for the day and reconvene tomorrow morning.”
Arthur nodded, visibly relieved until Merlin asked, “Are there rooms ready for us?”
The Prince froze.
Of course there weren’t. He’d sent the servants away days ago. Merlin could practically see him realise it.
Prat.
“Yes, my lord,” called a familiar voice before Arthur could fumble through an answer. Gwen stepped forward, graceful but stiff, every motion deliberate. “I can show you to your rooms.”
“I can guide—” Arthur started, just as Gwaine called out, “I can guide our honoured guests!”
Posey grinned. “It seems we won’t get lost, then. Bagsie the tall one.”
Both Arthur and Gwaine straightened. “She means me,” they said at once.
Merlin couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his mouth. For all the tension, some things never changed.
“I’ll return to the camp,” Eley’am said to Cadmeus. The lion-headed fae nodded once, rose, and lifted a clawed hand. The air shimmered, magic rippling like a sigh through the room.
“This trial is called to rest,” he declared, his voice echoing through the Great Hall before both vanished in a blink of light.
Morgana didn’t move. She was still staring at Gwen, her expression pure longing for just a heartbeat before she caught herself. Gwen’s jaw tightened. She turned, eyes on the floor, and curtly nodded.
“Come with me, Lady Morgana,” Gwen said, the title forced, almost painful.
“Gladly,” Morgana replied, matching her formality. But her voice trembled just slightly.
Posey watched the exchange with obvious amusement. “You two seem to know each other well,” she said, her grin sweet but dangerous. Gwen ignored her and led Morgana out without a word.
Posey turned to Gwaine, already brightening. “Come on, handsome. You can show me around.” She caught his hand and tugged him along before he could object.
That left Merlin and Arthur standing awkwardly in the echoing hall, the crowd whispering around them.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Your Majesty?”
Merlin blinked. Majesty? It still sounded absurd. But of course, that’s how he’d been introduced.
“Please, follow me." Arthur said, gesturing for Merlin to walk ahead of him out of the hall full of eyes watching him with malice. Taking the escape Merlin walked through the door, completely missing how Arthur didn't take his eyes off him for a second.
Notes:
Arthur is definitely watching Merlin's arse as he walks ahead btw
Chapter 20: The Reunion
Summary:
The break in the trial allows for a reunion, of sorts
Chapter Text
The echo of their footsteps carried down the stone corridor, the faint sound bouncing back off the high, cold walls.
In step as they always had been.
From a distance, you could almost mistake them for what they once were. The Lady Morgana and her maid, strolling through Camelot’s corridors after supper. Always whispering and laughing over things that didn’t matter. Dresses. Court gossip. Whether Arthur knew how ridiculous he looked when he pouted that Merlin was ignoring him.
Only there was no laughter now.
Gwen walked a step ahead, her back straight, her hands clasped neatly before her, a picture of composure to anyone watching. But her fingers trembled. The only sign that her calm was built on a knife’s edge.
Morgana’s voice broke the silence first. “Gwen, please—”
“The guest quarters are this way,” Gwen interrupted, without looking back.
“Gwen—”
“No.” The word rang out sharper than either expected. “No, you don’t get to call me that.”
Morgana tilted her head. “Your name?”
“You don’t get to say it like that,” Gwen said, finally turning to face her. “Like nothing happened.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” said Morgana, voice quieter now, though her chin still lifted in that infuriatingly regal way. “Or betray your trust.”
Gwen laughed short and humourless. “You drugged my drink and raided the castle while I slept in our-your bed, Morgana. I woke to find the city in ruins and the guards dragging people out of their homes. The servant accused of witchcraft sleeping in her traitorous Lady’s chambers — do you know how that looked? What they would have done to me? If Arthur had not interfered...”
"I would not have allowed–"
“Allowed?” Gwen gave a short, bitter laugh. “And what would you have done, 'Gana? Broken into the dungeons at night? Whisked me away like one of your fairytales?”
Morgana’s mask cracked. “Maybe. Yes.”
“Right,” Gwen shot back. “And then what? You’d keep me as your prisoner? Or your pet? Keep me locked up in some tower for my own safety? Keep me there until I forgot what sunlight looked like?”
Morgana’s lips twitched despite herself. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d have given you a window.”
The retort earned her a glare sharp enough to slice stone.
“You think this is funny?” Gwen demanded. “You don’t care about anyone anymore. You stand there, acting as though you’re above it all. Arthur was your brother once. Do you really mean to watch him die?”
“Uther must be stopped,” Morgana snapped.
“At any expense, is that it?” Gwen shot back. “It’s funny how that line sounds so noble when it’s your mouth saying it. You sound just like him. Maybe Uther’s more your father than you’d like to admit.”
The slap came before either realised it was happening.
The sound echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the cold stone. Gwen staggered back a step, her hand flying to her cheek.
Morgana froze, staring at her own hand as though it belonged to someone else. “Gwen, I—”
“You hit me,” Gwen said in disbelief. Then, quieter: “You really are just like him.”
“I am nothing like Uther,” Morgana hissed, the words shaking with righteous fury.
Gwen stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Aren’t you? You sit on a throne condemning a man to die in a trial that’s already decided. You look down on everyone who disagrees with you. You think power makes you right. Tell me, Morgana, once you get a taste of that do you really think you’ll let it go?”
“I won’t need to let it go,” said Morgana.
“Oh?” Gwen raised an eyebrow. “So what then? You keep it? Rule Camelot? Execute Uther, murder Arthur, and declare yourself Queen of ashes?”
“I wouldn’t—” Morgana stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes flicked to the side, unfocused. Her breath hitched.
The change was so abrupt it made Gwen falter. For the briefest moment, the proud witch looked… lost. Afraid.
“Morgana?” Gwen said softly, all anger slipping away. “What is it?”
But Morgana’s expression shuttered again, just as quickly. Her voice, when it came, was brittle and composed. “I can find my own chambers. Thank you.”
She turned sharply, skirts whispering as she swept down the hall. The torches flickered in her wake, bending toward her like flowers toward the sun. Or the storm.
Gwen stood there, one hand still pressed to her cheek, watching her go.
“Brilliant going, Gwen” she muttered. "That sure changed her mind."
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and started down the opposite corridor, the faint echo of her boots chasing the silence Morgana left behind.
But the thought gnawed at her with every step.
That look though... the flicker of panic, the stillness that followed. Morgana wasn’t just angry. She was scared.
And for the first time since the trial began, Gwen felt something other than anger or grief.
Fear.
Not of Morgana.
For her.
Notes:
...gay.
Chapter 21: The Rose Garden
Summary:
Arthur gives Lord Ambrose a tour of the castle.
Notes:
What was going on when Morgana and Gwen were fighting...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was incredibly strange being shown around his own home.
Merlin wasn’t quite sure when Camelot had become his, only that it was. Being taken through the winding corridors by Arthur while the prince explained the many portraits and statues they passed was disconcerting to say the least.
It was also surprising how much Arthur actually knew about the castle’s history. Apparently, the ugly gnome-like figure by the hall had been painted by Queen Ella, who, while a lovely woman, was a truly dreadful artist. The subject, her husband, had loved her so much he hung the painting in a main corridor and refused to let anyone move it.
Further along, an embroidery of the castle supposedly held a secret message hidden in the number of turrets.
Merlin found himself relaxing despite everything, though he made a conscious effort not to speak too freely. Staying in character required silence and biting his tongue was safer than letting it slip.
They eventually stepped into a small walled garden Merlin had rarely visited. Arthur had long ago forbidden the servants from entering it, which suited Merlin just fine. Fewer chores for him.
Now, he understood why.
The space was quiet, tucked away from the noise of the courtyard. Roses bloomed across the walls, their scent soft and heavy in the summer air. A statue stood at the garden’s centre. A woman carved out of pale stone, regal and serene. A familiar crest marked her plinth.
Ygraine de Bois. Queen Ygraine Pendragon. Arthur’s mother.
Merlin stared up at her face. He could see Arthur in every line. The proud slope of her nose, the curve of her lip, the way her hair fell as though caught by a wind that never reached her.
“She was beautiful,” he said quietly, forgetting himself.
“I’m told so,” came Arthur’s voice behind him, soft but steady. “Though I doubt anyone would’ve told a young boy his dead mother looked like a troll.”
Merlin smiled faintly. “She looks like you.”
Arthur huffed, uncomfortable.
Merlin's heart ached to look at her. The woman for whom so many had died. Did she look down from her marble plinth at the world built on her name and weep?
He turned, expecting Arthur to laugh off the moment, only to find him watching with a strange expression somewhere between wary and thoughtful. The prince’s ears had gone faintly red.
“Why have you brought me here, Prince Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin asked lightly.
“It’s customary to show guests around the castle when they first arrive,” Arthur replied.
“I’m not a guest,” Merlin said, trying not to reveal the double-truth in that. Lord Ambrose had come to judge the Pendragons’ crimes, not to enjoy their hospitality. Whilst Merlin himself… well, he had never truly been welcome here at all.
Arthur studied him for a long moment but didn’t press. Perhaps he’d learned it was unwise to debate semantics with a warlock.
“How did you gain your title?” he asked suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly. “It was what Cadmeus said in the hall, that you’re also called Pendragon, in a sense. Are we… family, perhaps?”
Merlin nearly choked. “No! No, absolutely not. The Dragonlords are people who can communicate with dragons, speak with them.”
Arthur tilted his head. “Do they listen?”
Merlin’s laugh escaped before he could stop it. “Sometimes. Not very often. Though I suppose they’d say the same about us— me. About me.”
Arthur hesitated, as though deciding whether to step further into dangerous territory. “I met another of your kind once. Balinor.”
Merlin’s chest tightened.
“He was a good man,” Arthur continued. “He died honourably.”
“I’m sure that was a great comfort to my mother,” Merlin muttered before he could stop himself.
Arthur froze. “Balinor was your father?”
Merlin sighed. “…Yes.” He turned back to the rose bed.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Arthur said quietly.
The words hit harder than Merlin expected. Simple, sincere, and entirely undeserved. He had spent so long hiding that truth, barely had time to know Balinor before losing him. And now here was Arthur, offering comfort for a wound he’d barely let himself acknowledge.
“…Thank you,” Merlin said softly.
For a moment, neither spoke. Sunlight was pooling over the roses and the faint hum of bees filled the silence. There was a strange kind of peace standing in the garden together, as if both of their duties had temporarily been suspended.
Merlin idly wondered what he was meant to do with himself now the trial had been postponed until tomorrow. Was he expected to do something for the rest of the day? Would he need to run back and forth between Emrys and Merlin all night? He was too tired to play these games. Especially if it meant seeing Gaius.
Perhaps he could fake illness...
“What of your title?” Arthur asked suddenly, breaking his reverie.
“My title?”
“You introduced yourself as Prince Emrys Ambrose,” said Arthur. “I wondered… from which kingdom you hail?”
Oh, bloody hell. He had said that, hadn’t he?
Why on earth had he done that?
“I…magic and titles are strange things,” Merlin said, doing his best to sound mysterious. “They’re more to do with rank and council position than a specific kingdom. I guard over my people, but we have no homeland.”
“Then why aren’t the others royal?” Arthur pressed. “Cadmeus, Proserpine, Eley’am... none of them bear the title.”
Since when had Arthur Pendragon been so perceptive?
“Well,” Merlin said, fabricating as he went, “Eley’am was chosen by their court, which had its own royal line. Cadmeus won his seat and has no right of succession. Druids don’t really bother with that sort of thing.”
Arthur considered that for a long moment. “So in practice,” he said finally, “you are royal.”
Merlin grinned. “Why? Planning to ask for my hand in marriage to cement the union between our realms?”
Arthur snorted. However he didn’t move away.
In fact, during during their conversation they had drifted closer and closer together. Too close. Merlin could count the freckles on Arthur’s cheek, see the green flecks hidden in the prince’s blue eyes. Eyes that seemed less interested in his explanation than in the shape of his mouth.
The air between them felt taut, humming.
Arthur’s hand twitched, as though unsure whether to reach out or retreat.
Then —
A door slammed somewhere nearby.
Both jumped as if struck.
Gwen stormed past the archway, her face pale with fury. She was heading toward the servants’ quarters, her skirts flaring behind her like a banner of war.
Arthur took a half-step forward, concern flickering across his face, before remembering he was meant to be escorting his guest.
“All is well,” Merlin said, his voice slipping instinctively into the deeper timbre of Emrys. “Go after her.”
Arthur hesitated.
“I can find my own way,” Merlin added, raising a hand. His eyes burned gold as he whispered in the Old Tongue, and a thin golden thread shimmered into being, unspooling from his palm to point the path he knew led to the guest quarters.
Arthur flinched at the casual use magic. He tried to supress it but Merlin noticed. It hurt more than he cared to admit. He had become too comfortable the last few days. It was going to be torture when he had to hide again.
"Well met, Arthur, son of Ygraine,” he said quietly.
Arthur opened his mouth, perhaps to answer, perhaps to apologise. No words came.
Merlin turned away first, following the golden thread through the rose-scented air, leaving Arthur standing before his mother’s statue. All alone beneath her unblinking gaze.
Notes:
Arthur stop being a hoe to every brunette that looks at you, I swear to god
Chapter 22: Friends and Foes
Summary:
Gwaine chats with Posey and reflects on his time in the magic camp
Notes:
This chapter got away from me a bit 😅
Also I will sometimes re-read chapters and make minor edits. These shouldn't ever change any plot points, but if you re-read something and go 'I'm sure that was slightly different'...it probably was.
Also, I finally found out how to do italics, I shall now go back and add them back in, that has been annoying me but I was too lazy to look it up
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gwaine wasn’t quite sure what to make of the small child walking beside him.
He knew better than to underestimate her but even so, it was difficult to take someone seriously when their head barely reached his elbow and they kept stopping to stare at stained-glass windows like a magpie spotting treasure.
Posey had insisted on exploring the castle. Gwaine had offered to escort her, mostly because he didn’t trust half the guards not to assume she was lost and scoop her up. Or someone who knew she was on the council trying to use her as leverage. That would end badly for everyone. So here he was, escorting a powerful magic user through the heart of Camelot.
It had been a strange few days. Stranger than usual, which was saying something.
When Merlin had temporarily abandoned him to yell at Arthur, Gwaine had been left to his own devices in the encampment. That had lasted about ten minutes before three witches had cornered him near the campfire and decided he looked in desperate need of supervision.
Salli, Selena, and Simone (or the Knitting Witches, as they proudly called themselves) had taken him under their collective wing, armed him with a ball of wool, and declared him an honorary coven member before he could protest. By the time Asterius the Minotaur lumbered over with tea and a faint expression of pity, Gwaine knew it was too late to escape.
Conversation had quickly turned to the reason they were all gathered. It was hard not to, really. The camp had been thick with whispers. Even the air seemed to hum with old magic, restless and waiting.
“It’s been so long since the Council last convened,” sighed Selena, her grey hair tied back as she wrestled with a particularly rebellious skein of blue yarn. “I was a girl then. My mother brought me. It must’ve been over a century ago.”
“And you don’t look a day over sixty,” Gwaine grinned.
“Oh, you charmer,” she said, swatting his arm with a needle.
“Not for lack of trying,” added Simone. “Most of the Council summoning spells were lost in the Great Purge. I don’t know how the Lady Morgana found the one she did.”
“Fate,” said Salli simply. “I can see the hands of Fortuna all over this.”
“That may be,” Selena murmured, “but it’s still strange. I know Lord Balinor tried to call a Council before, but the rules forbid any member from summoning one.”
“Wait,” said Gwaine, pausing mid-row, “then how did Morgana manage it?”
The witches had shared a look and then burst into laughter, bright and bell-like. It was the sort of sound that made you momentarily forget they could probably curse you into a hedgehog.
"Morgana isn’t a member,” explained Salli. “She was granted the seat by the Representative of the Sorcerers. They thought she’d be…persuasive. They were right. I’ve never seen the Council so united.”
“They don’t normally get along?” Gwaine asked, testing his luck.
“Oh, heavens, no.” Selena’s needles clacked faster. “The Fae Courts and the Sorcerers have been at odds since Pigmus the Elder taught mortals how to ward against fairy rings. Then there’s the Dragonlord and the Magical Creatures’ Representative. Those two seats have been arguing over dragon territory since before recorded history. It’s chaos. The fact they’re focused now tells you how dire this has become.”
“It’s not just about Camelot anymore,” Simone added. “It’s about the message it sends. If Uther’s Purge goes unpunished, every kingdom across Albion will think magic is fair game. The world will follow his example. The precedent set by this trial will decide who gets to use magic anywhere, how it’s governed, who’s considered alive.”
Asterius rumbled from his seat. “Cadmeus will not fight for humankind. He never has. He sees balance only in destruction. He will make decisions best for creatures at the expense of the rest.”
The witches nodded grimly.
"There is no predicting the choice Ely’am will make" Added Salli. "They can convince anyone they are on their side all the while sticking a blade in your back. It's in their nature."
“What about Posey?” Gwaine asked, glancing across the camp to where the small girl was sitting in the grass, whispering to a flower that seemed to be whispering back.
“Ah,” said Selena softly. “Posey is… one of the tragedies of this age.”
At the time, Gwaine hadn't followed.
Now, walking beside her through Camelot’s corridors, Gwaine understood what she meant.
"She’s not really a person,” Selena had explained. “Not in the way we are. Posey is a Concept. She is the living embodiment of the Druidic people. Her form changes as they do. In times of peace, she was a wise woman. During famine, a hunter. But never a child.”
“Then why now?” he’d asked.
“Because the Druids are dying before they grow. Their spirits do not reach maturity and so neither does she.”
Gwaine thought of that as Posey skipped ahead, peering at a particularly ugly painting of what looked like a gnome wrestling a chicken. “He looks silly,” she giggled.
“I think it's meant to be Arthur's grandad,” Gwaine said absently. “You can see the family resemblance.”
She turned that solemn, too-old gaze on him. “You pity me.”
He nearly tripped over his own feet. “I—what? No, I just—”
“It’s all right,” Posey said. “People pity children. Even the ones who aren’t.”
Gwaine scratched the back of his neck. “You’re very good at making conversations uncomfortable, you know that?”
She smiled faintly. “So are you.”
They walked on a moment in silence. It was strange how empty the corridors were. Usually the castle was run by a battalion of servants. Now, there were as few souls as possible here. Arthur and Gwen had seen to that.
“Do you think Merlin knows what he’s gotten himself into?” Gwaine asked aloud before he could stop himself.
Posey tilted her head. “He knows more than you think. And less than he should.”
“That’s comforting,” Gwaine muttered. “Really.”
“The Council is not united in purpose,” she continued, ignoring him. “Cadmeus believes the old world must burn before a new one can rise. Eley’am sees humankind as children to be guided or abandoned, depending on the day. Morgana seeks justice for her kind, and Emrys…” She trailed off. “Emrys does not yet know where his duty lies”
“And you?” Gwaine asked.
Posey looked up at him, her green eyes reflecting the torchlight like a fox’s. “I speak for the forgotten. For the roots beneath your feet and the spirits that still linger in the stones of Camelot. My wish is simple. That we stop killing the world before there’s nothing left to stand on.”
Gwaine wasn’t sure whether to feel inspired or terrified.
They had reached the end of the corridor, where sunlight streamed through a high window, turning Posey’s hair to pale gold. She looked up at the light as though seeing it for the first time.
“The world is shifting again,” she said quietly. “We can only hope your friend chooses the right side.”
Gwaine swallowed hard. “And what side is that?”
Posey smiled. The kind of smile that parents give to children before explaining that the world isn't as safe as it seems.
She didn't answer him.
They walked on for a while, the sound of their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Posey was humming under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like an bawdy old shanty Gwaine’s father favoured. That was until she spoke far too casually.
"So how long have you been in love with Merlin?"
Gwaine choked on air. "What-? I'm not...no."
Posey looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “You keep making faces at him.”
“I am not discussing this.”
"And you are always looking out for him..."
"Lalala," he mimed covering his ears.
“That’s because you’re afraid.”
“No!” He said it a little too quickly, a little too loudly.
Posey gave him a flat look. “Really?”
He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it doesn’t matter, does it? I know how these stories go. I’m not the one who gets the happy ending. I’m the drunk, the womaniser, the comic relief who dies heroically in act three. And I'm fine with that, really, but Merlin—Merlin’s magic. He belongs to legends. I’m just the bloke who tags along.”
Posey stared at him for a long time, her expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. Then she said simply, “You need more self-confidence.”
Gwaine blinked, caught off guard, then laughed. It was the kind that bounced off the walls. “That’s a new one. Usually people tell me to have less of it.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe you’re just confident about the wrong things.”
“Well,” he said, trying to recover some dignity, “that’s quite enough soul-searching for one evening. How about I show you to your room before you start telling me my future too?”
Posey ignored his attempt to change the subject, stepping around a stone pillar to stand in his way. Her eyes, large and far too knowing for a child, narrowed slightly.
“You know,” she said slowly, “for someone who is a self-described hedonist you’re very bad at admitting what you want.”
“That’s unfair,” Gwaine muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I admit what I want all the time. Usually it’s beer. Sometimes sleep.”
Posey folded her arms. “And love?”
He sighed, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one was listening.
“I don’t see the point,” he said at last. “Merlin’s got bigger things to worry about than me. He’s fighting for the future of magic, trying to keep Uther from turning us all to ash, and making everyone believe he belongs on that Council. And me? I’m the bloke who makes sure he eats occasionally. That’s my part to play.”
Posey tilted her head. “That’s a story you’ve told yourself so you don’t have to be brave.”
He barked a laugh. “I’m one of Arthur’s knights. Bravery is practically in the job description.”
“No,” Posey said simply, “you’re courageous. That’s different. Courage is when you fight monsters. Bravery is when you tell someone you love them, even if they might not say it back.”
He looked down at her, this strange, ageless child who spoke with the wisdom of something far older than Camelot’s stones. “You sound like Gaius after he’s had too much mead.”
She smiled faintly. “He learned it from me.”
That made him laugh again, and for a moment, the heavy knot in his chest eased. They resumed walking, Posey skipping slightly ahead, her bare feet silent on the flagstones.
They were almost at the door of the guest rooms when Gwaine spoke again. “You’re right about one thing. I do look out for him. But not because of destiny, or the world, or even because I love him. I do it because he deserves reminding that he is worth more than his duty.”
Posey smiled again. It reminded Gwaine of his mother. “Then perhaps you’re braver than you think.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to start turning this into a moral lesson, are you?”
“Of course not,” she said primly. “But you should probably wash. You smell like regret and ale.”
“Oi!” Gwaine called after her as she darted ahead to the end of the corridor. “That’s just my natural charm!”
She only giggled in reply, her laughter echoing like windchimes through the hall, leaving Gwaine smiling despite himself and wondering, not for the first time, whether any of them truly understood the story they were all tangled in.
"Gwaine?" came a familiar voice from behind him. Gwaine froze before turning with an awkward smile to face Merlin.
"Please tell me you haven't been there long."
Notes:
My goal is to have another three or so chapters complete before I go away for work next week, so all encouragement is helpful x
Chapter 23: A White Lie
Summary:
Gwaine wishes to sink into the floor
Notes:
Chapter summaries are hard, trying not to kiss Merlin is harder
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin was looking at him in a way that made the bottom of Gwaine’s stomach drop clean out.
“No,” the warlock said finally. “I’ve just got here.”
Relief rushed through Gwaine so fast he nearly lost his footing. Gods, that was close.
“I was just showing Posey to her room,” he added, somewhat redundantly, considering Merlin had been there when he’d offered that very thing.
“Right.”
A pause settled between them. Merlin’s gaze lingered a fraction too long before he looked away.
“Do you have any idea what they’re expecting us to do for the rest of the day?” he asked at last.
Gwaine laughed, shaking off the tension. “I think they were so focused on delaying the trial, they forgot it’s still the middle of the afternoon.”
Merlin smiled, faintly amused. “And they haven’t even offered to feed us.”
“Yeah—hang on.” Gwaine frowned. “How are they going to feed anyone? Arthur sent all the servants away.”
Merlin grimaced. “I just know this is going to end with me in the kitchens. I can’t cook, Gwaine, you know this. There’s a reason you keep bringing me food when Gaius is away.”
“They can’t exactly make one of the judges cook.”
Merlin’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, the joke catching on something heavier. Gwaine saw it and instantly regretted speaking.
“I suppose not,” Merlin said quietly.
“I guess it’s up to the knights to save the day again,” Gwaine went on quickly, forcing some levity back into his voice. “Hopefully Leon’s had the same thought and is rallying the troops. We might even manage sandwiches.”
That earned him a genuine laugh, and the sound of it soothed something in his chest.
They walked on together down the corridor, their footsteps echoing against stone. Gwaine found himself wondering why the castle needed so many guest rooms in the first place. Nobody stayed in Camelot long. Certainly not without causing trouble. In his experience, long-term guests tended to be sorcerers in disguise, ogres with marriage proposals, or nobles with questionable morals. Perhaps they ought to board the rooms up entirely.
The one they chose was covered in a fine layer of dust, evidence of the servants’ hasty evacuation. Merlin flicked his wrist, and the dust vanished as if it had never been. Another motion, and the hearth sprang to life.
It was beautiful, the ease of it. It was though thr world seemed to bend towards him like flowers to the golden sun. Magic clung to him like light through glass.
Gwaine couldn’t look away.
Then Merlin caught him staring, and it was like watching a door close. The openness vanished, replaced by that careful, awkward half-smile that always made Gwaine want to kick himself.
“You seem to be getting better at it,” Gwaine said, wiggling his fingers in the air in what he thought was a fair impression of spellcasting.
Merlin laughed. “I suppose so. I’ve never had a problem with power, exactly. It’s the control that’s difficult. But being around so many magical people… seeing how they use it…” He trailed off, thoughtful. “It’s like I’ve finally been given the instruction manual. It's hard to believe a couple of days ago I was struggling to remove the glamour Posey cast on me, and now...”
He lifted his hand. His features shimmered, rippling like water: Posey, Gaius, Gwen, Arthur, and then unnervingly Gwaine himself.
“Well, hello handsome,” Gwaine whistled, and was surprised to feel heat creeping up his own neck as Merlin smirked and shifted back.
“The time at the camp did you good,” Gwaine said.
Merlin’s expression softened. “I just wish I’d spent more of it with the Warlocks. There was so much I wanted to ask, but everything was chaos.”
“Speaking of the warlocks,” Gwaine said, rummaging through his bag, “I spent some time with Tyber Whyre while you were off yelling at your prince.”
“I don’t yell at Arthur.”
“Right, of course not. You just raise your voice in a deeply disappointed tone.”
That earned him a glare and a snort.
“Anyway,” Gwaine continued, “Tyber mentioned getting something called a ‘Seefred Trough’ for Oliviana. I asked about it, and he explained it was some kind of warlock thing they gave kids. I realised you probably never got one.”
“Seefred—Seithfed Rhodd?” Merlin’s eyes widened.
“That’s the one—ah, here it is.” Gwaine pulled out a small bundle of wool and handed it over. “You don’t have to keep it or anything, I just know you lost your last pair of gloves and—well…”
Merlin wasn’t listening. He was staring down at the blue-and-red fingerless gloves, cradling them to his chest like they were precious.
“My mother taught me how to knit,” Gwaine went on quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “So I thought—maybe it counts? You’re supposed to give something from your family, right? I don’t have anything from my parents, but—well, I figured this way, it’s something of mine.”
He was cut off by Merlin suddenly throwing his arms around his neck.
“Thank you,” the warlock whispered.
Gwaine stood there frozen, his brain desperately trying to keep up with the rest of him. He could feel Merlin’s heartbeat, the warmth of him, the quiet sincerity that never failed to undo him.
“Anytime,” Gwaine managed, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
When Merlin finally pulled back, he was smiling softly, almost sadly. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long before he turned toward the fire, gloves still pressed to his chest.
Gwaine missed the faint shift in Merlin’s expression then. The flicker of guilt that crossed his face before he hid it behind a laugh.
Notes:
My Gwaine/Merlin/Arthur agenda is definitely leaking though 😂
Arthur will be back soon, he is just currently having a seperate crisis caused by his situationship wearing a fake beard.
Chapter 24: The Mad King
Summary:
Arthur is summoned to speak to his father
Notes:
And update...again? Nope not me. I'm in bed sleeping, obviously.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gwen was banging pots and pans in the kitchen when Arthur entered. He hesitated by the door, well aware that startling her could end with a saucepan to the skull. This worry was entirely justified as the moment he stepped inside Gwen turned, wielding a cast-iron pan like a weapon before lowering it when she saw him.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, still eyeing the pan warily.
“I thought you were…someone else.”
“Morgana?”
That earned him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
“Did she hurt you?” he asked, suddenly aware that he’d left Gwen alone with a known sorceress.
“No,” said Gwen flatly, still glaring but now at the wall.
“…Alright then. Why are you in here?”
“Because I’m the only servant left in the castle,” she snapped. “And if the Council isn’t planning to kill everyone, we still need to eat.”
Ah. Yes. That.
In his haste to secure Camelot, Arthur had managed to overlook the minor detail of daily life. Sending the servants away was the right choice. However, it meant now the logistics of feeding upwards of thirty people had landed squarely on Gwen’s shoulders.
“Right, well, it can’t be that hard to cook for…thirty people?”
The look Gwen gave him was the exact same one that used to precede brutal training sessions when he was a squire.
Two hours later, Arthur swore he would never wish to be a servant again. Perhaps a shopkeeper. Maybe a banker. Anything but this.
Gwen ran the kitchen like a seasoned general, barking orders with frightening efficiency. The knights who weren’t on guard duty had been conscripted into service. Leon, it turned out, was a surprisingly decent baker and had been put in charge of making enough bread to feed the court. Lancelot was dicing vegetables with slow precise cuts, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. Gwaine had appeared an hour in, somehow claiming the most desirable job of minding the meat and seemed perfectly content.
Arthur himself had been rotated through every menial task available before Gwen finally banished him to the washing-up.
It was hard work, but strangely…pleasant. For a while, it felt almost like old times: laughter, noise, and the easy camaraderie of people working together for something good. For the first time in days, Arthur let himself breathe.
He wished he could freeze this moment of peace.
“Where’s Merlin?” Lancelot asked, passing by with a basket of silverware. “I didn’t see him in the hall.”
Arthur’s stomach twisted, but before he could answer, Gwaine cut in. “I saw him a few hours ago. Gaius had him researching some obscure law or something.”
“Strange that he didn’t come to the start of the trial,” Lancelot continued, oblivious to the tension building in the room.
“Gaius said he’d be more use finding information to help us than standing around watching,” Gwen said briskly, stirring a pot with unnecessary force. “Besides, you know Merlin. He’d have caused more trouble just by being there. I swear he's cursed or something,” she finished with a laugh.
“Still,” Leon added, joining in to the discussion, “it’s unusual for Merlin to follow orders. Did he seem well when you saw him?”
“Fine,” said Gwaine shortly. “Or as fine as he ever is.”
Before the conversation could spiral further, a young soldier clattered down the stairs into the kitchen. He froze at the sight of the Crown Prince and his knights elbow-deep in domestic labour.
“What?” Arthur barked.
“Sorry, my lord. Your father requests your presence. The Privy Council has gathered in the Great Hall.”
Of course it was the Great Hall. Where else would it be? Uther hadn’t been able to leave there in days.
“Very well.” Arthur wiped his hands and set down the last of the plates. Gwen’s brow furrowed in concern, but he waved her off.
The route to the Great Hall had never felt longer. Each time Arthur made this walk, it felt less like duty and more like entering enemy territory. He never knew what state he’d find his father in.
Earlier that morning, Uther had been furious. He had been spitting curses at anyone within range. And now, after meeting the Magyik Council and knowing that three of its members were still within his walls…Arthur feared what that fury might have grown into.
Upon entering, Arthur found a few familiar faces in the Great Hall. Gaius was sat apart from the rest, his expression unreadable beneath the flicker of torchlight. Around him, a cluster of courtiers twittered like frightened birds. Mostly minor nobles who clearly wished to be anywhere but near the throne.
Baron Rufus, his father’s chief legal advisor, was arguing furiously with Lord Yates, the most senior member of the Privy Council. The low growl of their disagreement cutting through the heavy air.
At the centre of it all stood Uther.
Arthur’s father looked more like a king than he had in days but there was something fevered in his eyes. His composure felt brittle, like glass stretched too thin.
“Ah, Arthur,” he said, voice deceptively calm. “Finally. Where have you been?”
“Organising supplies, Father.”
Arthur's eyes fell on the enchanted circle carved into the floor. While it was no longer glowing, he dare not assume that it was inert. He had to be careful with the words he spoke in case the truth spell was still active.
“Why was the Steward not doing that?” Uther’s tone sharpened immediately, the calm peeling away.
Arthur hesitated. He couldn’t admit the Steward had fled days ago with his wife and young daughters. “I wanted to ensure everyone was aware of our…guests.”
“Guests?” Uther’s eyes flashed. “Is that what you call them? The snakes who slither into our court to watch us choke?”
Baron Rufus seized the silence. “We should strike first, Sire. Execute the creatures before they enchant anyone else. You’re the King of Camelot—no council of sorcerers can tell you what must be done.”
Arthur stepped forward quickly. “If we kill them under our roof, it will be an act of war. Camelot would fall before nightfall.”
Uther turned sharply, the movement violent enough to make the nearest candle gutter. “And what would you have me do, boy? Bend the knee to them? Let them laugh while we cower?”
Arthur held his father’s gaze, though it took everything in him not to flinch. “No. But we must be strategic. If we can show them proof that we have acted in defence of the realm—”
“Defence?” Lord Yates barked a humourless laugh. “Magic is the offence! It poisons everything it touches!”
Uther’s expression softened disturbingly at that, as if Yates had sung him a lullaby. “Yes…yes, you’re right. It poisons everything.” Then, just as quickly, his voice rose again. “And yet they sit in my halls! Breathing my air! Judging me!”
“Father,” Arthur began, but Uther slammed a hand down on the table. The crack echoed through the hall like thunder.
“Enough!” he shouted. “Do not speak to me of mercy, or diplomacy, or reason! Every time I’ve shown restraint, magic has answered with death!”
Silence fell. Even Baron Rufus looked uneasy now.
Then, just as suddenly, Uther’s voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “But perhaps…perhaps Gaius is right.”
Every eye turned to the physician. He sat still, hands folded, but Arthur saw the way his jaw tightened.
“If we can prove the destruction magic has wrought,” Uther continued, each word measured but trembling with contained fury, “they will see we are the victims here. That we are righteous.”
Arthur seized the moment. “ We could use Leon’s records—our patrol logs. The dragon attack, the Griffin, the enchantments, they are all recorded there. I'm sure Gaius also has records of the times magic tried to poison or bewitch the crown.”
Gaius nodded cautiously. “It would demonstrate that Camelot has only ever acted in self-defence.”
“Self-defence,” repeated Uther softly, as though tasting the words. “Yes. Yes, let them see what their kind has done before they dare judge us.” Then his tone turned cold. “And if they remain blind, then they will burn beside the rest of their kind.”
No one dared speak after that.
Arthur could feel the eyes of every man in the room on him, waiting for him to protest, to steady the King, but he said nothing. There was no reasoning with Uther when his moods swung like a pendulum between grief and rage.
The discussion went on, voices murmuring strategies that sounded more like confessions. Arthur barely heard them. He was watching his father, who stood in the torchlight like a shadow half-alive, eyes flickering with a faith only he could see.
When Uther finally dismissed them, Arthur felt the tension drain from the hall like air from a dying fire. He left the room as quickly as possible, the doors swinging behind him as though sealing in the stench of madness.
Arthur took in a deep breath to steady himself, when a flash of blue caught his eye down the corridor.
Merlin stood there, hovering awkwardly at the end of the passage. Arthur’s heart jolted. He had to hold himself back from running to his friend.
“I’m so sorry, Arthur, I was caught up with—”
“It’s alright, Merli—”
“—and I was trying to find something that might help but—”
“—it’s alrigh—”
“—I wanted to be there but—”
“Merlin!” Arthur finally cut him off. That stopped the babbling in its tracks. Though that might’ve also been because Arthur had grabbed both his arms.
They were so very close.
“It’s alright,” Arthur repeated, softer this time. “I understand.”
Merlin opened his mouth to argue more when footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“Merlin,” came Gaius’s voice. It sounded more like a question than a greeting.
Arthur felt Merlin stiffen. At first, he assumed it was embarrassment of being caught in such proximity to his prince. But as Arthur stepped back, attempting something vaguely dignified, he realised Merlin was glaring straight at the old physician.
“Gaius,” he said coldly.
“Merlin, can we talk?”
“We have nothing to discuss,” Merlin replied, voice like frost. Then, turning to Arthur, he added brightly, “Is there any food? I’m starving.”
“…Yes. Come on. You can try some of Leon’s bread.”
“Leon bakes?” Merlin’s eyes lit up with disbelief and delight as they walked away.
Arthur glanced back once.
Gaius stood where they’d left him. Utterly still, utterly alone.
Notes:
Arthur is the kind of person who can burn water, change my mind.
Also can you tell that the logistics of all the servants being gone has been driving me mad?
Chapter 25: Night of Knights
Summary:
An interlude with Elyan, Percival, Leon, and Lancelot
Chapter Text
Leon
Leon had promised himself that if they made it out of this alive, he was taking a month-long holiday somewhere warm. He would tell no one where he was going, switch his sword for a tankard, and spend his days on a beach where the only sound was the waves. No duty, no blood, no pretending he hadn’t seen Merlin sneaking out of the Prince’s chambers before dawn. Just peace.
But it was hard to dream of peace when the enemy was upstairs.
He knew how to fight. Knew how to hold a line, patch wounds, and keep men alive through sheer stubbornness. But this...this creeping dread that slithered through Camelot’s corridors. This was something else. It wasn’t a battle that could be met with steel. It was a slow suffocation made all the more obvious by the dwindling of people inside Camelot’s walls. Arthur had quietly arranged safe passage for as many of the souls in the castle as he could. Leon had helped, of course. At first because it was his duty to Arthur. But now—he wasn’t sure.
It had struck him, as he guided a trembling stable boy through a side gate two nights ago, that this must be what it had felt like to have magic in Albion. To live in a constant state of dread, waiting for a knock on the door that would end your life.
And that thought had made him feel sick.
Because in that story, he was the knock on the door. The mailed fist. The one who believed he was upholding justice when all he’d really been doing was enforcing fear.
He told himself he hadn’t known. That the system worked, that the guilty were punished and the innocent spared. But he’d seen too much lately to keep lying to himself. The faces of those put on trial, the way the accusations stacked faster than they could be disproven, the way guilt was assumed before a word was spoken. He’d seen soldiers swagger through the lower town, drunk on power and cheap ale, shaking down shopkeepers for “protection.” He’d heard the laughter when a tavern girl was called witch for turning down a knight’s advances. He’d told himself it was just a few bad apples.
But watching the council trial yesterday, seeing the fury in the judges’ eyes, and the small girl standing in the place of an adult, too serious for her age. It felt like the world had tilted.
What kind of world made a child carry the weight of justice?
And what kind of man had he become, that he’d thought himself righteous in serving it?
Leon straightened his tunic and forced himself to keep walking. The corridors of Camelot were colder than usual tonight, and every shadow looked a little too alive. Somewhere above, Uther Pendragon was tightening his grip again, and the knights of Camelot—good men, loyal men—were the hand that would choke the kingdom if commanded.
Leon had never disobeyed an order in his life.
But for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could follow one.
Lancelot
Sometimes it was hard keeping secrets. Especially the kind that could get your best friend killed. The kind that made you watch everyone else stumble in the dark while you pretended not to see the trap ahead.
That was why Lancelot had spent the last few days perfecting the art of looking appropriately worried. Not too worried in a way that would raise questions, but worried enough to seem loyal, alert, and entirely uninformed. It was exhausting work.
By day, he stood guard in the Great Hall and listened to Uther spiral deeper into his own madness. The King’s voice carried through the marble like a sickness shouting for trials, purges, proclamations. Half the time, Lancelot wasn’t even sure who Uther thought he was talking to anymore. The Council? Ghosts? God?
By night, he did what he did best: he looked out for Merlin.
Unfortunately, Merlin had apparently decided to become less of a person and more of a rumour. Every corridor he checked was empty, every servant he asked gave the same nervous shrug. Gaius, when pressed, had offered only that “Merlin is working on something to help the situation,” which was about as reassuring as hearing that the castle was on fire but someone was thinking about fetching water.
It wasn’t that Lancelot didn’t trust Merlin. Quite the opposite. He trusted him far too much. He trusted that Merlin would throw himself into whatever chaos this was, probably alone, and probably without telling anyone until it was far too late.
The silence around Merlin’s absence felt heavy now. Arthur had been quieter than usual too, though not distracted in the way Lancelot expected. He wasn’t pacing or snapping or losing sleep. No — he was steady. Focused. Like someone with a secret of his own.
That was what worried Lancelot most.
He’d fought beside both of them long enough to see the rhythm between them, the strange wordless understanding that no one else could touch. When Merlin was gone, Arthur frayed at the edges. Now he seemed...okay. Though that could be because he had done the impossible and actually found the man. When they walked into the kitchen together Lancelot had felt as if a stone had been removed from his back. Now he just had to try and find his friend himself.
The sun was setting as Lancelot pushed off the wall, sword heavy at his hip, and went to patrol the grounds. He had swapped to the night shift in hopes of tracking down his errant friend. If he couldn’t find Merlin, he could at least make sure no one else did first.
Percival
Morgana being in the castle made Percival’s skin itch.
Every time he passed her door, he could feel the air tighten, like the moment before a storm when the sky holds its breath. He tried not to show it. Especially around the younger soldiers still stationed on the grounds. They were already jumpy enough, flinching at every echo in the corridors. The last thing they needed was a senior knight looking like he expected the walls to start bleeding.
The palace was being run by a skeleton crew now. Servants gone, courtiers fled, half the guards reassigned to evacuation duty. So Percival had offered to join the evening patrols. He figured it was better to be moving than sitting still with his thoughts. Lancelot had volunteered too, so they were paired together, their armour catching the moonlight as they made the long walk along the ramparts.
It should have been peaceful. The night air was cool, the stars sharp against the black sky. But all Percival could think about was the absurdity of it: guarding against some imagined outside threat while Morgana was being brought wine to her chambers like a visiting queen.
He didn’t like the other judges either. The child was clearly not human, and the man seemed to have a grudge against Gaius. Though Gaius probably had more enemies sleeping near him tonight than Percival did.
Still, the man could handle himself. The old physician had survived every purge, every whisper, every quiet knock on the door in the dead of night. If anyone could survive this trial, it was him.
And really, it wasn’t that surprising, was it? That Gaius was magical.
Percival wasn’t stupid. Healers always were, in one way or another. Back home, no one would have cared. His mother had known a bit of charmwork herself. Mostly little things to help with the harvest and healing. His sister had once mended a broken leg with nothing but words and water. It had been part of life, as natural as the river.
Coming to Camelot had been like stepping backward through time.
He’d tried to understand it, at first. The idea that magic was dangerous, unpredictable. But after a while, all he saw was the cruelty. The needless executions. The smug righteousness of men who had never seen what good magic could do.
If it hadn’t been for Gwaine — and Lancelot, and Elyan, and the others — he would have left months ago.
Now he stayed because they were here. Because Arthur trusted them, and that meant they had to stand between him and whatever was coming next.
He wasn’t sure if that made him brave or complicit. But for tonight, as the torches flickered along the battlements and the castle loomed dark and uneasy, Percival decided it didn’t matter.
He had a sword, a duty, and friends who still believed in something worth defending. That would have to be enough.
Elyan
There were some days Elyan wished his sister was less than she was. Not really — He loved her too much for that – but he wished she was a little less proud, a little less brave, a little less good. Maybe then she would have left with the other servants, instead of staying behind in a castle crawling with danger. Maybe she would have married some kind man from the lower town, lived in a cottage with a garden and never had to face the ruin that had once been her mistress.
But Gwen had always run headfirst into fires other people were trying to escape.
She thought Elyan didn’t know. Thought her big brother hadn’t noticed the way her laughter came easier when Morgana entered a room, or how she would go still and shining when Morgana spoke her name. The secret glances, the shared silences, the dresses too fine for a servant’s wages. She’d hidden them all so carefully.
Elyan had known anyway. Brothers just did.
He hadn’t minded, not then. Morgana had seemed kind. Gentle, even, when she wasn’t playing court politics. She’d smiled at Gwen like she was something rare and precious, and Elyan had wanted to believe that meant she would protect her.
And then she’d broken Gwen’s heart.
Now she was back in the castle. Alive and unrepentant, draped in silk and venom. And Gwen, his sister, was once again trapped under the same roof. Elyan didn’t know what terrified him more: that Morgana might hurt her again, or that Gwen might still love her despite everything.
He tried to keep his head down, to focus on his patrols, but every time he passed the kitchens and heard the clatter of Gwen’s work, he felt the weight of it. The memory of how small she’d looked when Morgana first turned on Camelot.
Elyan had fought wars, seen blood and fear and madness, but nothing frightened him like the thought of his sister standing in front of Morgana again. Too good to hate her, too proud to run.
If it came to it, he would protect her. From the witch, from the court, from whatever this cursed castle demanded next.
Even if that meant standing against a woman Gwen once loved.
Notes:
To be super clear Elyan isn't homophobic, he just really dislikes Morgana specifically
Chapter 26: The High Road
Summary:
Gaius gets a visitor
Chapter Text
Gaius spent the night hunched over his desk, the candlelight flickering across stacks of parchment. The documents were arranged in precarious towers sorted into how useful he thought they could be for his cause. Sir Leon had brought reports from the knights’ patrols. Gwen had gone into town and returned with papers from the Alderman’s house. Gaius himself had taken what he could from the mason’s guild: measurements of cracks in the walls, fire damage from old attacks, and estimates for rebuilds.Now came the impossible part, pulling it all together into something that would give them a chance at coming out of this alive.
The problem was for everything he found to help their narrative he found more to condemn them. For every vengeful sorceress in the records, there was a dead child. For every poisoning attempt, a burned village. Even the beasts: griffins, wyverns, and the occasional basilisk had been driven to rage by deforestation or the razing of their nesting grounds. The line between guilt and survival was impossibly thin.
Gaius had no illusions that the Magyik Council would look kindly on Camelot’s cause. He was starting to believe that that not a single one of them would side with the Kingdom.
He rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes. The fire had burned low, and his bones ached from sitting so long.
When had he gotten so old?
He had been young once. bright-eyed, idealistic, convinced he could change Uther’s heart through reason. What a fool he had been. And yet, what choice had he ever really had?
He had stayed.
He’d stayed when others fled. Stayed when the first purges began. Stayed when his friends were marched into the square and burned, their ashes carried on the same wind that cooled his supper that night. He’d told himself it was for the greater good. That someone had to be inside the walls, tending the sick, and keeping the flames from spreading further.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps it was cowardice.
He sighed and turned back to his papers. The words blurred together: Sorcerer apprehended… enchantment discovered… subject executed by fire. The same phrases repeated endlessly, different names, same outcome.
Poor Merlin. The boy’s face during the trial had nearly broken him.
It had to be done. The questions left him no other answer. When he and Merlin had been studying the Rules of Governance together Gaius had noticed something curious. Every testimony recorded in those trials seemed curiously one-sided. The accused would often reveal dawning information about their own guilt, even when there was no chance that their crimes would be revealed if they kept their mouths shut.
The only explanation was a truth spell. Not one of the minor charms, either. It had to be a binding spell, woven into the very language of the trial itself. Considering that the Fae had been members of the Council since its inception the spell was likely tied to a person's name.
He’d realised, too late, that such a spell could only be survived through precision. A word too many could damn you. You had to answer to the letter of the question, not the spirit.
And so he had. When asked what Uther's defense was, he had answered. He knew how the King would defend himself and he did his best to sound as though the threats hiding around the corners weren't just shadows on the walls. It was the only defence he could mount for the boy and the city both. But Merlin hadn’t known the plan. His poor boy had looked so betrayed.
He leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire.
Merlin had always seen the world in absolutes. Good and evil, hero and villain, magic and no magic. Gaius envied him for it. Once upon a time, he had seen the world that way too.
But now he knew better.
There was no good or evil. Only choices, and the prices they demanded.
Uther, for all his cruelty, had once been a kind prince. Gaius could still picture him: a young man standing at the castle’s edge, eyes alight with the belief that he could build a kingdom to outshine the gods. Gaius would have followed him anywhere. In some ways, he had succeeded. In so many others, he had damned them all.
“Working late, Dochtúir?”
The voice made him jump. His quill slipped, splattering ink across the parchment.
He turned — and there she was.
Proserpine the Greenwalker.
Her bare feet made no sound against the stone as she crossed the room. She was so small now, her wild curls half-shadowed by the firelight. The last time he had seen her, she’d been a woman of impossible height and joy, her laughter booming across the hills as she gave him and Hunith piggyback rides around the village green. She’d come to officiate some harvest festival...or was it a binding ceremony? He couldn’t remember. Only that she had smelled of honey and moss and had called him Little Frog when he’d tripped in the mud.
And now she was here, impossibly tiny and achingly familiar.
“Lá maith, Proserpine,” he greeted softly.
She wrinkled her nose. “No. I’m Posey now. Not Proserpine. I’m too small for that name.”
She climbed into the chair opposite him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The gesture was so very human that he almost laughed.
A strange calm settled over him. That peculiar peace one only feels in dreams. They said death came like an old friend at the end. Perhaps this was her.
Posey smiled faintly, as though she knew his thought. “Not yet,” she said. “Your duty isn’t done, Gaius of Ealdor.”
He sighed. “I am old, milady. I have little duty left in me.”
“And I am young, and have too much.” Her smile faded. “Your boy has more still.”
Gaius’s heart twisted. “How is he?”
Posey tilted her head. “Hurting. Confused. Angry. The same as the rest of us.”
He nodded. That sounded about right.
“Why?” she asked softly.
“Why what, milady?”
“Why stay?” Her tone was curious, not accusing. “You knew this reckoning would come. You are foolish, but you are not stupid. Why not run when the fires started?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “And go where? Camelot is my home.”
Posey’s green eyes glinted. “Your people are your home.”
He shook his head slowly. “No, milady. Not anymore. I’ve been away too long. I don’t remember the old songs. I’ve not honoured the high holidays. I no longer pour wine in thanks in the summer or leave bread out in the winter. The harvest just means apples now. I am too old, and far too stubborn, to change.”
Posey regarded him for a long moment, and then to his surprise she smiled. “You’re right about one thing: you are stubborn.”
She stood, the firelight gilding her in green and gold. “But I don’t believe for a moment that you’ve forgotten the songs.”
Before he could protest, she began to sing. It was not sweet or soft, but strong and clear. The sound echoed around the room and Gaius couldn't help but glance to the door as if expecting soldiers to storm in.
“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond—”
She paused and lifted an eyebrow.
Gaius hesitated, then found the words tumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, "Where we two have passed so many blithesome days…"
"On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond,” they sang together.
Her voice rose, strong and joyful — and for a heartbeat he heard not a girl but the elder she had once been. Vast and ancient and kind.
“O ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”
The words filled the small chamber, and the fire leapt higher as though listening.
And for the first time in years, Gaius felt alive.
He saw himself not as Gaius the Physician but as Guy of Ealdor again. He was a barefoot boy dancing by the bonfire with his sister, their laughter rising into the night air. He could smell the mead and roasted apples, the peat smoke curling through the stars. He could feel the hum of magic in the soil beneath his feet. Not the destructive, weaponised force Camelot feared, but the quiet pulse of life itself.
When the song ended, the silence that followed was thick with memory.
Posey looked at him gently. “You haven’t forgotten, Guy. You just stopped listening.”
He swallowed, throat tight. “And what good is remembering now? I can’t go back.”
“No,” she agreed. “But you can go forward. The boy will need you soon. And when he does, he’ll need not the physician of Camelot but the man who once sang to the fire.”
Gaius blinked against the sudden wetness in his eyes. “I fear that man is long dead.”
Posey smiled sadly. “Physician, heal thyself.”
For a moment, the air shimmered faintly and the scent of wildflowers filled the room. When he looked up again, she was gone.
Only the faint sound of the wind through the window remained. The light was starting to break the darkness.
And as dawn broke over Camelot, Gaius of Ealdor — the last of his line — whispered a prayer to the spirits he had long ignored.
“May we all find our way home.”
Notes:
Yes, I know Loch Lomond is Scottish and I have them speaking Irish, I said this was an unholy mix of cultures. Besides which I love the song. If you don't know it please give it a listen, practically every wedding in Scotland ends in a rendition of it. It's both joyful and sad, which I'd why I chose it for this scene.
Chapter 27: What's in a Name?
Summary:
The Trial resumes
Notes:
Double update! Yay! This is now officially my longest fic.
I did not think I would get this finished today but I had spite and Sprite on my side.
Comments as always are what keeps me writing. I am away for work for the next week and a bit so probably won't be writing, but please spam theories if you have any because this trip is going to kill my soul.
Best wishes xx
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The new dawn came dragging its feet.
Arthur hadn’t expected to still be alive, let alone waking up in his own bed about to face the same nightmare as yesterday. At least when you were fighting an army of the undead, you didn’t have to stop for a recess and come back the next day to do it all over again. This felt like a special brand of torture.
Though having Merlin in his bed was not.
He wasn’t quite sure why it kept happening. The first night after their almost-fight, it had felt natural to stay together. The second, Merlin had simply shown up, and Arthur had been too tired to question it. Three nights in a row, however, was becoming a pattern.
It was… nice. Waking up not alone.
Merlin usually slipped away before dawn, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and soap behind. This time, though, the other side of the bed was still warm, dark hair poking out from beneath the blankets. Arthur resisted the urge to reach over and curl around him. He looked far too comfortable.
A knock at the door shattered the peace.
“Sire?” came Leon’s voice, muffled through the wood. “We reconvene in twenty minutes.”
Shit.
Arthur scrambled out of bed, pulling on a shirt in a tangle of limbs. Steady hands caught his arms, helping him find the sleeves.
“I can dress myself, you know,” he mumbled, though it lacked conviction.
“Are you sure? Because I seem to remember—” Merlin ducked the swing aimed at the back of his head, grinning.
They dressed in a rush. When Merlin wasn’t looking, Arthur slid the borrowed neckerchief back up his sleeve. Merlin’s brooch was already fastened on the inside of his shirt, hidden but close to his heart. Merlin himself looked half-dead, fumbling with his boots and blinking sleep from his eyes. For someone used to waking at dawn, he was remarkably useless in the mornings.
Adorably—no, ridiculously so.
When Arthur opened the door, Leon was still there, already armoured and draped in his red cloak. He didn’t even blink at the sight of Merlin wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
“Will you be joining the trial today, Merlin?” Leon asked politely.
“No,” Arthur said before Merlin could. His tone brooked no argument.
Merlin turned to him, ready to protest.
“Gaius still needs your help with the documents,” Arthur said briskly. “There were too many for him to go through, he wouldn’’t have finished last night. Keep looking for anything useful.”
Merlin glared, jaw tight. “Yes, sire,” he said, voice dripping with attitude, before stalking toward the Physician’s Tower. He glanced back once at the two of them before disappearing around the corner. Arthur felt as though he took all the warmth of the morning with him.
Leon said nothing, but Arthur could feel the knight’s disapproval.
“I need him out of the way,” Arthur muttered. “He’d only distract everyone in the hall.”
“Yes, sire.”
“He’s more help doing research.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And we both know he’d do something ridiculous and self-sacrificing if he came along.”
“Yes, sire.”
Arthur scowled. It was hard to chastise someone for agreeing with you.
---
The Hall was more crowded than before. New faces. Strange ones.
Arthur didn’t recognise half the people in attendance, and the ones he did seemed…different. He could swear that he saw one man’s eyelids blink vertically. Another’s hair coiled in a pattern that looked suspiciously like horns. A small girl, no more than eight, stood beside a man and woman who might have been her parents.
Who, in the name of sanity, brought a child to something like this? (He tried not to think about how it had been a trend a few years ago to attend public executions as a family with a picnic.)
The Council were already seated, their thrones catching the pale morning light.
The young girl had her hair braided long down her back, just as Morgana used to wear hers as a child. Morgana herself looked every inch the royal, draped in violet silk, speaking low to Cadmeus, whose claws looked suspiciously red. Ely’am sat beside them, turning pages of a floating tome that drifted at her side.
And at the far end sat the Dragonlord. Prince Emrys of Nowhere.
He was incredibly pretty, Arthur thought, in the soft silver he wore. The crown on his head complimented his dark curls and his eyes were clever.
He looked a little tired.
The lines carved into the floor began to glow and spin once more as Cadmeus’s voice rang out.“Here ye, here ye, the court is now in session.”
A faint hum rolled through the air. The sound vibrated in Arthur’s ribs, like the hall itself was alive.
“You have had a day to collect your evidence,” said Ely’am. “What have you?”
Gaius rose shakily. He looked awful. His skin was pale and he looked a little like he had been crying. His hands barely steady on the papers. He could barely stand.
“I will present,” Arthur said quickly and without thinking. All eyes turned to him.
“You?” Cadmeus’s voice slithered across the room. “What of the physician?”
“I command the knights of Camelot,” Arthur said. “It’s only right that I answer for their reports.”
Morgana laughed softly, the sound like silk over steel. “You are not magical, dear brother. Or have you forgotten the rules of addressing this court?”
Arthur bit back the urge to remind her he’d spoken to the court more than once just yesterday.
“He is the son of the King,” said the young girl suddenly. Her voice was light, but something in it made the air prickle. “He may speak.”
Arthur felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Son of the King.
He didn’t miss the implication: he was as much on trial as anyone.
“Stand forth and declare yourself, Son of the King,” commanded Cadmeus.
Arthur stepped into the circle. The lines curled around his boots, glowing faintly gold.
“I am Arthur P—”
The words caught in his throat. The air seemed to tighten, pressing in.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I am Arthur P—”
Nothing. The sound simply… stopped.
A ripple of confusion spread through the room.
“I am Arthur, son of U—”
Silence again. Not just silence. The absence of sound, like the world itself had swallowed his words.
“Get on with it,” snapped Morgana, though there was a flicker of unease in her eyes now.
Arthur’s pulse thundered. The circle beneath him burned hotter.
“I am Arthur, I am—”
Nothing.
The judges leaned forward, their curiosity turning sharp. Ely’am’s voice rang out, strange and resonant:
“Who are you?”
The question wasn’t a question. It was a command that burrowed into his bones, dragging the answer out of him like a confession.
Arthur felt his mouth open. He tried to fight it but the magic was choking him. Deep in his chest, something ancient and bound gave a single, shuddering snap.
“I am Prince Arthur…” He swallowed. His heart felt like it was tearing itself in two. “…Ambrose.”
The name left his lips and echoed through the hall.
The circle flared brilliant white.
Notes:
See you in a week 😇
Chapter 28: Frozen in Time
Summary:
What happened next
Notes:
Hi all! Thank you all for your lovely comments while I've been away. I will reply to you all in the next day or so. I really appreciate the love being shown to this fic.
For that reason I've decided to write the slightly longer version of this story, so I hope you like it. We are probably about halfway through now, and there is plenty more to come.
I have plotted out the rest of this now so it's just a case of finding space to write. This one for instance was written in the back of a tank.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin felt as though he had been dunked into a bucket of ice.
What?
What did he mean—Ambrose?
He… it worked?
How?
They hadn’t—
Eyes were burning into him from every direction, and heat flushed his cheeks. A loud pounding filled his ears, drowning out thought. Arthur was frowning, touching his throat as though expecting to find some physical reason for the words that had just left his mouth.
“What is the meaning of this, Dragonlord?” asked Cadmeus. His voice was deep, the edges sharp as his teeth.
It was over.
What was he meant to do? The truth spell would compel his answer, and that would reveal not only his true identity, but also the fact that he had somehow bound his best friend to him without either of them realising. Arthur would hate him.
The murmurs in the hall were growing louder and louder until the sound was ringing in his ears.
Untrustworthy Warlocks
So damn secretive
What does this mean for the trial?
Was he helping the Mad King?
Merlin’s eyes darted around the chamber, searching desperately for some kind of salvation. They found Gwaine.
The knight had pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the wall and was already striding through the crowd.
“Lord Ambrose,” Gwaine said, bowing slightly, his tone deferential. “Perhaps I can explain?”
Every gaze in the room snapped between them, confusion clear on the faces of nobles and courtiers alike. What possible connection could there be between a member of the Council of Magyik and one of the prince’s knights?
Merlin looked at Gwaine and gave a tiny, numb nod—trusting his friend even without knowing how he intended to help.
Gwaine turned to the assembled hall, squaring his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice carried easily, practiced and confident.
“My gathered lords and ladies,” he began, “I fear Lord Ambrose has been unable to share certain information with you. As you know, the Last Dragonlord is honour bound to serve at the will of the Great Dragons. He is entrusted with their most sacred of secrets, including their gift of prophecy. His silence is not deceit, but necessity. He protects his people at great personal cost.”
“Get on with it,” called a voice from the back of the crowd, likely Baron Rufus or another of Uther's cronies.
Gwaine smiled easily, though Merlin could see the tension in his jaw. “Of course. One such prophecy concerns Prince Arthur. Due to the circumstances of their birth, the prince and Lord Ambrose are tied together in all ways. Lord Ambrose could not reveal this at the start of the trial, as he had not yet been granted audience with Prince Arthur himself.”
Merlin sat frozen, words failing him, as Gwaine continued to spin a web of half-truths and implication into something grander than legend. Stories of dragons tying together souls for the good of the realm. He had the whole room hanging on his every word, including the Council.
In his mind, Kilgharrah’s voice echoed faintly: You cannot do this alone. You are but one side of a coin. Arthur is the other.
Gwaine was making it sound as though that prophecy had bound them literally.
“As for myself,” Gwaine went on smoothly, “I have served Lord Ambrose faithfully for many years and have protected Prince Arthur at his behest.”
The truth in that statement gave it weight under the truth spell’s scrutiny, and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Whispers. Shock. Accusation.
Among the knights, confusion reigned—some looked betrayed, others horrified. Merlin’s guilt twisted painfully. Gwaine was throwing away everything he had built in Camelot to protect him.
“I suppose we must pause the trial while this is resolved,” Cadmeus grumbled, his claws tapping idly against the arm of his chair. Ely’am looked vaguely annoyed. Morgana, by contrast, looked ready to set the entire hall ablaze.
“No!” she snapped, rising from her throne. “We cannot continue to delay!”
“Lady Morgana,” said Posey sweetly, “we must investigate this connection between Prince Arthur and Lord Ambrose. This changes things.”
Morgana looked like she dearly wanted to blow up several trees ... and perhaps half the council while she was at it. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and swept from the hall. As she passed, the flames in the braziers roared to life, climbing high before guttering out in her wake.
When the doors slammed shut behind her, silence fell once more.
Arthur had not moved. He stood rooted to the spot, staring somewhere into the middle distance, expression unreadable.
Merlin forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling.
“Can we talk… privately?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Arthur’s eyes flicked toward him, cool and sharp. After a long moment, he gave a single, stiff nod and turned toward the doors.
He left the room without another word.
---
Merlin found Arthur in the rose garden.
The statue of Ygraine stood pale and watchful above him, her stone face calm even as the rain began to fall. Arthur’s expression mirrored hers — carved, unreadable, and so still it made Merlin’s chest ache.
He lingered by the archway, unsure how to announce himself. The moment was heavy with the scent of wet earth and regret.
“I thought you were joking,” Arthur said finally, still staring up at the marble likeness of his mother. “About my proposing to you to unite our kingdoms.”
“I was,” said Merlin quietly. He stayed where he was, unwilling to intrude. His magic stirred unbidden, warding him from the rain. Arthur seemed oblivious to the change in weather. He let the rain soak through his shirt until it clung to him.
Arthur gave a humourless laugh. “So then perhaps you’d like to explain why one of my knights has apparently been spying on me under your orders — to ‘protect me’ — until you decided it was politically convenient to bind us together.”
Merlin’s heart clenched. Arthur looked too young in that moment, like a boy discovering his closest friend had only been paid to play with him.
“I did not station Gwaine here,” Merlin said firmly. He knew undermining Gwaine’s quick thinking might make things worse, but he couldn’t lie. Not to Arthur. “I swear to you, I never commanded him to Camelot.”
Arthur turned to study him, eyes narrowing. He seemed to be measuring every twitch and breath, weighing them for deceit. Eventually, something in his shoulders loosened.
“That still doesn’t answer the political marriage question.”
Merlin frowned. “What question?”
“Are you here to form an alliance?” Arthur demanded. “Or worse, is there some prophecy binding us together?”
Merlin’s mouth opened, but no words came. “No....and yes,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “But it's not what you think.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “What is it, then?”
“I can’t explain—”
“You won’t,” Arthur cut in, sharp as a blade. "Because there is no explanation. We’ve effectively been married by a giant lizard, haven’t we? With no choice for either of us!”
Merlin blinked at the phrasing, but Arthur’s growing agitation demanded his focus. The rain had thickened to a downpour, drumming against the roses and the cold stone.
“That isn’t true,” he replied after a moment.
“Isn’t it?” Arthur’s voice rose, echoing against the stone and roses. “You appear in my court, my knight swears fealty to you instead of me, and somehow we are bound together by magic neither of us sought nor understood! What choice is there in that?”
The rain fell harder, turning the world grey.
“I had a choice,” Merlin said quietly. “I always had a choice.”
Arthur’s gaze snapped to him.
“I could have left,” Merlin continued, his mind running through everything that had happened since he had arrived at Camelot. The pyre, meeting Arthur the Prat, becoming a manservant, risking his life over and over for him because he– "but I didn’t.”
“Then why are you here?” Arthur’s voice broke somewhere between accusation and plea.
Merlin opened his mouth, but no answer came. A helpless shrug was all he could offer.
Arthur turned back to the statue, looking up at his mother’s sorrowful eyes. The rain streamed down her cheeks like tears.
“I thought,” Arthur said slowly, “that when I married, it would be for love. If....I thought we would have a choice.”
Merlin’s temper — or perhaps his heart — betrayed him. “Oh, so being magically bound by an ancient dragon would be fine, as long as I said 'I fell in love with you the moment I saw you' first?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded as if he were still under the compulsion of the truth spell.
Arthur turned, slowly. His eyes were wide and uncertain, but not with disbelief.
He crossed the courtyard in three long strides. Merlin barely had time to breathe before Arthur’s hands were on his face, warm and desperate, pulling him forward into a kiss that silenced the world.
Merlin froze, and then melted.
The rain stopped. Literally. Each droplet hung suspended in the air like tiny crystals, glinting in the soft light. Even time seemed to hesitate, unwilling to intrude.
When they finally broke apart both were trembling, though neither could say if it was from the cold or from the impossible warmth between them.
Arthur searched Merlin’s eyes, as if still unsure whether this was real or just another spell binding him to a destiny he never chose.
Merlin swallowed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Arthur’s mouth curved in a bitter aching way that was almost fond. “Nothing with you ever is.”
The suspended raindrops fell all at once, cascading around them like applause.
Notes:
Arthur saw sad eyes and went 'I can fix him'
Chapter 29: Confrontation, Deliberation
Summary:
Leon finds Arthur, Merlin finds the council
Notes:
Congrats to MnemosyneDeus for guessing what was gonna happen in this chapter...now I just need to extract them from my walls....
Very minor trigger warning where Leon asks Arthur if the kiss was consensual
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sir Leon was incredibly close to just going back to bed.
He was a seasoned knight of Camelot. He was disciplined, decorated, and at the peak of his career. Yet here he was, chasing through corridors after his prince, who was in turn being chased by his newly appointed dragon-bonded husband. A husband announced by a man Leon had trusted for years, who had apparently been spying on them all along.
It had not been a good morning.
The Great Hall was still chaos. The Council had withdrawn to deliberate this latest delay. The King himself had gone an alarming shade of green and was being tended to by his usual cluster of fawning courtiers. Though, to be fair, Leon could hardly blame him for once.
Leon had taken advantage of the distraction to slip away. He thought Lancelot had noticed, but the man was too busy glaring daggers at Gwaine to care.
He found Arthur easily enough. The prince always sought the same refuge when the world became too heavy. There was a small rose garden he’d commissioned as a boy that he continued to spend a lot of time in as he grew up. Officially, the garden had been a gift for Morgana, though everyone close to them knew she’d returned the gesture with a set of training blades. Both gifts had remained with the original gifter, and Uther was never the wiser. As children Morgana and Arthur had understood each other implicitly.
Now, years later, the dark haired figure standing beside Arthur was not Morgana.
Leon froze at the sight before him. Arthur and Lord Ambrose were locked in a desperate embrace beneath the pouring rain. Arthur’s hands framed the other man’s face, reverent, aching. It was a shock to see. Especially considering Leon had seen Merlin leaving Arthur’s chambers only hours before.
He silently thanked whatever gods might be listening that Merlin had obeyed Arthur’s request to stay away from the trial. He couldn’t imagine the devastation on the young man’s face if he saw this. The boy wasn't foolish, despite popular opinion. Merlin must know that he and the Prince were on borrowed time. But there was a big difference between losing Arthur to an arranged marriage to a princess, and losing him to a dark-haired magician who stood for everything Arthur was against.
When the Prince noticed him, both men sprang apart like guilty squires caught sneaking out of the stables.
“My lord. Prince Ambrose,” Leon said, bowing stiffly. He wasn’t entirely sure how titles worked in the current...circumstances, but doubted either man would care if he called them the Rear Admiral of the Exchequer at the present time. “The Council is deliberating the... situation.”
Ambrose inclined his head. “Then I’d best join them.”
Rain streamed down Arthur’s face, soaking him through, yet Ambrose remained inexplicably untouched by it. His dark curls were perfectly dry, his cloak immaculate.
“Wait—” Arthur began, but Ambrose silenced him with a look that was somehow both tender and final. He reached for Arthur’s hand and pressed a soft kiss against the back of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I have to go.”
His boots clicked against the stone as he left, disappearing into the archway.
Leon waited a moment before he spoke.
“My lord—”
“I do not wish to discuss it,” Arthur said, his voice low, brittle.
“If he… if he forced—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur snapped. “That’s not what happened. And I said I don’t wish to discuss it.”
Leon hesitated. “Then are you saying you—”
Arthur’s tone sharpened like a blade. “This seems a great deal like discussion, does it not?”
The rain had softened to a mist, though neither man moved.
“Sire,” Leon said finally, “I must object.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Object?”
Leon grimaced but pressed on. “You are under great strain, my lord, but Merlin—”
“That is enough, Sir Leon.” Arthur’s voice carried the old arrogance of his youth. “I have thrice instructed you to end this talk. Any more will be considered disobedience of a direct order. You are still a knight of Camelot, and I am still its prince.”
The words hit like a slap. For a moment, Leon saw not the man he’d fought beside, but the boy who had once barked orders to hide his loneliness.
“…Yes, sire,” Leon said quietly. “I only meant to speak as a friend.”
Arthur scoffed, though there was little humour in it. “Is that what you call yourself? Friends aren’t paid, Sir Leon. They don’t exchange gold for company.” His voice wavered, and he added, more viciously, “That’s what whores do. Tell me, are you a whore, Sir Leon?”
Leon swallowed hard. “No, sire.”
Arthur stared at him, breathing heavily through his nose. Whatever he wanted to say next died on his tongue.
At last, he turned away. “Right,” he said stiffly. “Let’s find out what the Council has decided.”
Leon followed, his armor heavy with rain. He did not speak again and Arthur, for all his fury, did not look back.
----
The Council was in uproar when Merlin entered.
They had adjourned to one of the smaller antechambers off the Great Hall. The room was usually reserved for servants waiting between courses of grand banquets. Due to this, its walls were lined with worn benches and held the faint smell of smoke and lavender polish. Now it was filled with voices. Angry ones.
Morgana was in the middle of a furious tirade, her words cutting through the air like thrown daggers.
“–clearly cannot be impartial! He should be stood down immediately.”
Her fury might have intimidated most men. Unfortunately for her, Merlin had already faced dragons, witches, and Arthur Pendragon before breakfast.
“Because you are so impartial, Lady Morgana Pendragon,” he said coldly from the doorway.
A hush rippled through the room. Even the braziers flickered lower.
If she was going to try to remove him from the Council, he wasn’t going to go quietly.
None of the others looked surprised at his return or at the name he’d just spoken. Cadmeus, however, threw back his head with a booming laugh, tossing his mane of copper hair and baring teeth that were just a little too sharp.
“Petty little humans,” he said, amused. “You fight with words rather than claws.”
“I will happily fight honourably,” Morgana sneered, drawing a slender blade from her belt.
The sound of metal rang through the chamber.
“Enough!” Ely’am’s voice cracked through the room like the snapping of a branch. The fae’s silver eyes gleamed with quiet fury. “We are forbidden from drawing blood while Council is in session.”
The tension eased, though only just.
“I don’t see the problem, really,” said Posey, speaking for the first time. Her tone was mild, but her eyes missed nothing. “So what if the Prince is no longer a Pendragon? What difference does it actually make?”
Ely’am turned toward her, expression unreadable. “That depends,” they said slowly, “on the Dragonlord.”
Morgana’s glare could have split stone. “What do you mean? Surely he can still be tried as a conspirator?”
Ely’am leaned back, steepling elegant fingers. “Not necessarily. It seems… unlikely that the Dragonlord would vote to condemn his own husband. But more than that, it draws into question the legitimacy of the entire trial.”
“Legitimacy?” Posey asked, brow furrowing.
“Yes,” said Ely’am, patient as a tutor. “If the King is found guilty and executed, his throne passes to his next heir. And since non-magical law does not recognise magical bonds, that heir is still Arthur Pendragon — or rather, Arthur Ambrose.”
Merlin stiffened at the sound of that name, but Ely’am continued.
“In effect, this Council could be seen as acting to remove a barrier to the Dragonlord’s own ascendancy to the throne. A coup masked as justice.”
Morgana’s composure fractured. “That’s absurd!” she hissed. “I summoned the trial, not Ambrose.”
Ely’am shrugged delicately. “It matters little who summoned it. Only how it appears. And appearances, my lady, have toppled kingdoms.”
Posey sighed, rubbing her temples. “This trial is too important to risk appearing political. If the verdict looks like retribution it will only feed the witch hunts. More will die.”
Morgana rounded on her. “So your solution is to let Uther Pendragon walk free?”
“No one suggested that,” Posey replied evenly. “I’m suggesting we tread carefully, or we’ll undo a century of work in one foolish morning.”
Cadmeus gave an exaggerated groan, stretching his claws across the table with a screech of metal on wood. “All this talking,” he said, baring his fangs in something between a grin and a snarl. “Let’s end the trial. Too many words, too many complications. The Dragonlord can kill the King as he wishes and take the crown. That solves all our problems.”
“You think this is a solution?” Ely’am asked icily.
“I think,” said Cadmeus, “it would be entertaining.”
“I am not going to just—” he began, but Morgana’s voice sliced across his.
“He has a lover, you know.”
The words dripped with poison.
Morgana’s smile was cruel and small. “Your precious husband. The man you’d damn us all for. He’s kept a lover for years. Everyone knows. He would cheat on you the second your back was turned.”
The room went still.
Merlin felt the air leave his lungs.
Arthur.
He hadn’t even had time to process what had happened in the courtyard before he’d been forced to return to his role. And now… this.
He drew in a slow breath. “That is immaterial, Lady Morgana,” he said at last. His voice was steady, but the floorboards trembled faintly underfoot. “The bond between Arthur and I is foretold. I can do nothing about destiny. Neither can you.”
“I make my own destiny,” Morgana spat. “Always have.”
Merlin’s smile on Ambrose's features was cruel. “Oh, really?"
He stepped forward, and the torches guttered in their sconces.
“Would you like to know what the Great Dragon said about you, Lady Morgana?” he asked softly. “Would you like to hear what he told me about your fate? About your sad, pathetic attempt to destroy the family who loved you because you could not bear to love yourself?”
“Careful,” Ely’am murmured, though their eyes glittered.
Merlin ignored them. His voice was quiet now, almost tender. “You were loved, Morgana Pendragon. Truly loved. By the very people you swore vengeance upon. You just couldn’t see it. And now you’re trying to kill them — and yourself — not for justice, not for righteousness, but because you cannot stand the weight of your own hate.”
He leaned in slightly, his magic curling through the air like smoke. “You are alone, 'Gana. And it is entirely your own doing.”
Notes:
Poor Leon, the guy is just trying to help these idiotic bisexuals
Chapter 30: Fear Leads to Anger
Summary:
The Council come up with a compromise, no one is happy
Notes:
Thank you for everyone who has been commenting and leaving lovely notes. I particularly enjoy seeing what you bookmark this fic as.
Also as a general statement, you are free to make any art of this fic that you would like, including podcasts or translations. I love to see it and will happily link and tag your work wherever I can. I also print it off and put it on the fridge like a proud mother.
However, I am also a poor, so please do not try to solicit commissioned work. I write this for free and cannot afford to pay for custom art right now. Artists should absolutely be paid, but I'm just letting you know I am not the person with the money to do that.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Morgana and Merlin continued to stare each other down, the air between them sparking with the heat of words unsaid.
Posey’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through fog.
“This is getting us nowhere,” she said, her tone clipped but weary. “We need a solution. Quickly.”
“What about abdication?” suggested Ely’am, their ethereal features furled in consideration.
Cadmeus gave a low growl of laughter. “Abdication? You mean have the prince relinquish his claim?”
“It solves the problem,” Ely’am said, folding their long hands neatly. “He denounces his father, gives up all rights to the throne. His testimony condemns the King, the trial concludes, and the issue of perception is… resolved.”
“Arthur would never do that,” said Merlin and Morgana in perfect unison. Both froze, clearly revolted at having agreed on anything.
Cadmeus’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement. “You believe the boy would choose death over betraying his father?”
“I believe,” Merlin said quietly, “he would choose death over betraying Camelot.”
Posey tilted her head. “And what of Uther? Would he reject Arthur?”
The others turned to her, confused.
Posey’s eyes swept the room as if trying to get them to follow her thoughts. “He has just learned that his son is married to the Dragonlord. We all know Uther Pendragon’s views on magic, and those who practise it. Surely it is not a leap to assume he would disown his son.”
A murmur went around the table.
“The outcome would be the same,” Ely’am said slowly. “Remove Arthur from the line of succession, and the trial cannot be accused of self-interest.”
“You can’t—” Merlin began.
Cadmeus interrupted with a rumbling growl. “You cannot have it both ways, warlock. Either the boy is yours or he is theirs. You can keep him, but only if he gives up his claim to the rest.”
Posey gave a solemn nod. “We ask them to decide. If either betrays the other, the trial ends. To disown his son for marrying a warlock of high standing removes the self-defence argument. For the son to denounce his father is to admit publicly that his father is a tyrant. Either way...it’s over.”
The room felt colder suddenly.
Merlin’s hands clenched beneath the table. He could feel the pulse of dragonfire beneath his skin. “You cannot kill my husband for the crimes of his father,” he said. “Even if he were not who he is, it would still be an unjust ruling.”
“But he is who he is,” Morgana said bitterly, leaning forward, eyes bright with malice. “And it makes all the difference. He will escape and I will die. The Pendragons will rule under another name. Do you truly think you can change him, Emrys? That you can burn the rot from his heart and make him happy as Prince Consort while you rule a kingdom that hates you?”
She rose, the movement elegant and dangerous. “You think the knights will bend the knee to the man who jist admitted to spying on them? Who has lied and manipulated them? You’ll find no loyalty in Camelot. I may only take Uther out with me...but you’ll bring Arthur down with you.”
Merlin’s hands burned, literal heat curling along his fingers like coiled embers. He had never so much wanted to strike anyone.
“Enough!” roared Cadmeus. “A decision must be reached before you all start killing one another.”
Without waiting for assent, the Representative of Creatures turned on his heel and strode out, his taloned boots clicking against the flagstones. The others followed in tense silence.
When they emerged back into the Great Hall, the world had shifted.
The hall was packed. Far more than before. Word of the Council’s deliberations had clearly spread. Merlin recognised more faces from the encampment. The Minotaur Gwaine was hanging out with, some of the shopkeepers, and even more he didn't know by name. Tyber Whyre was stood close to Arthur in a relaxed but guarded stance. He nodded respectfully to Merlin as he entered. The silver symbol embroidered on his cloak appeared many more times throughout the crowd.
It seemed Merlin's side had grown in his absence. This was getting to a boiling point. The Warlocks, for that had to be what they were, clearly were ready for a fight. They were looking distrustfully at all of the other guests.
It wasn’t unity that held them together. It was fear.
And fear was the beginning of revolution.
Merlin’s stomach tightened. The warlocks had clearly formed ranks, standing close together and glaring at every non-magical figure in the room. The knights kept a careful distance from the crowd. Gwaine stood seperate to them all, his hand near his blade and a circle of witches forming a subtle barrier around him.
It looked, Merlin realised grimly, like a coup waiting to ignite.
Ely’am’s voice carried through the hall like glass scraping marble.
“The Council has deliberated,” they announced. “We will give Arthur Ambrose a choice: renounce the throne of Camelot and condemn the crimes of your father, or remain at risk of the same punishment that will befall Uther Pendragon.”
The hall erupted.
Shouts burst from every side:
“Liars!”
“You cannot demand this!”
“They are bound!”
“Shame on you!”
The Warlocks’ voices rose above the rest. They sounded furious, betrayed. Someone threw a handful of red dust that shimmered in the air, crackling with unstable magic.
“Silence!” Cadmeus roared. The force of it shook the rafters, his claws flexing as his tail lashed once behind him. The noise died immediately.
Ely’am stepped forward again, serene and terrifying. “Uther Pendragon,” they said, “under magical law, your son is considered legally wed to Lord Ambrose — True Representative of the Warlocks and the Last Dragonlord. However, we understand that in your realm, blood is considered absolute. Before we compel your son to choose his allegiance, we offer you the opportunity to recognise his marriage and therefore, to declare that he is no longer your son and heir. If you do so, he will be spared the proceedings, but will forfeit any claim to the throne of Camelot.”
A stunned silence followed. Even the torches seemed to burn lower.
Uther’s face was expressionless. His features looked pale and carved from granite. His eyes flicked around the hall, searching the faces of his loyal subjects. The tension in his body increased when none of them spoke. No one laughed. No one called it treason or farce.
It was all real.
“And if I refuse?” he asked finally, voice low and steady, but fraying at the edges.
Ely’am met his gaze, unblinking. “Then your refusal to recognise your son’s lawful bond to Lord Ambrose will be taken as an admission of guilt. Your defence — that you acted only to protect your realm — will crumble. To deny the bond is to admit that your crusade was never about safety. It was about hatred. And in that case, this Council will find you guilty.”
“Guilty of what?” Uther spat. “Of defending my people from your kind?”
That single phrase made the air change.
The Warlocks stiffened. A low murmur ran through the crowd, growing louder. Posey flinched as if struck; even Ely’am’s calm façade cracked.
“Our kind,” Merlin said quietly, “have lived in Camelot for centuries. We healed your sick, guarded your borders, kept the crops alive when your winter ran long. And what did you give us in return, Uther Pendragon? Shackles. Hunts. Fires.”
He took a step forward. His voice was shaking. Not with fear, but with anger. “If Arthur is punished for your hatred, there will be no kingdom left to rule. The warlocks will burn the fields, the fae will close the borders, the dragons will fly again. You know it.”
The crowd trembled, the air thick with the scent of ozone.
Uther’s hand went to the hilt of his sword but his knights didn’t move. Even they knew what would happen if he drew it.
Posey rose, her voice calm but iron beneath. “This is your last chance, Uther. The Council asks you to choose. Your son or your hatred.”
All eyes turned to the King.
Notes:
The drammmmaaaaaa
Also yes the Knitting Witches are the ones defending Gwaine.
Chapter 31: Anger Leads to Hate
Summary:
Uther makes a decision.
Notes:
Warning! This chapter references Morgana’s conception from Uther's POV. It is one line, but it's icky. I am not going into any more detail than has already been written.
Also, as some of you may have noticed, this fic had been updated almost daily. However that means a couple of others haven't had the same treatment. I have one that I would like to finish off in the next week, and as it only has a few chapters to go I am going to be focusing there for the next week and a bit. Potentially earlier than that but in my mind a week. I'm just letting you all know so no one thinks I've died when this doesn't update tomorrow.
Love you all! (Please don't come after me once you've read this 😂)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Great Hall had never felt so suffocating.
The air, thick with the residue of spells and judgement, seemed to hum with barely restrained violence. Even the torches guttered, their flames shrinking as though they too waited to see what the King would do.
Uther Pendragon stood motionless at the centre of the hall, every eye upon him. The council had fallen silent after delivering their ultimatum.
Waiting.
Around the chamber, murmurs whispered like insects behind stone. The sound itched beneath Arthur's skin.
At last, Uther lifted his head.
“I will speak with my son,” he said, voice hoarse but unwavering. “Alone.”
A ripple of unease moved through the chamber.
“Sire—” began Gaius, stepping forward, but Uther’s hand cut the air like a blade.
“Alone!” His voice cracked like thunder. “Every one of you has conspired in whispers and shadows. You have your councils and your courts, your secret deliberations — now I demand mine. An audience with my son, and my son alone.”
Ely’am inclined their head with grave reluctance. “You have until the sands run out.”
They lifted their hands, and frost crept across the marble floor, spreading in a web of blue-white veins. The centre of the hall shimmered as ice bloomed upward, forming a great hourglass of crystal. Pale sand began to trickle through it, marking the time until the end.
Then walls of solid ice rose around Uther and Arthur, seperating them from the crowd. Within moments, the two were sealed off from sight, their world encased in frozen silence.
The last thing Arthur saw was Ambrose's worried expression.
Inside the frozen circle, sound returned as a dull echo, the world muffled and blue. The torches outside were distorted shapes, flickering ghosts through the frost. Arthur stood stiffly, uncertain where to begin.
“Father, I—” The words faltered. He felt like a boy again, caught stealing sweets from the kitchens, waiting for punishment to fall.
“Are you well?” Uther interrupted. The question startled him; it was the first coherent, human thing his father had said since this nightmare began.
“I—yes,” Arthur managed, though his voice betrayed him.
Uther nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “And what do you think of this Emrys?” he asked, as if they were discussing a minor courtier, or a knight’s promotion. As this was a normal day in Camelot.
Arthur blinked. “What?”
“He reminds me a little of your manservant,” Uther mused, pacing a step. “so I suppose you find his appearance pleasing enough.”
“Father!” Arthur’s cheeks coloured in confusion. “This is hardly—”
“I am not a fool, boy.” Uther’s gaze pinned him. “I have known about the two of you since he first came to Camelot. Did you think I would fail to notice the way you looked at him? The way you listened to him?”
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Merlin and I aren’t—weren’t—”
“There is no need for lies, not now.” Uther’s tone softened, almost weary. “Say what you wish of me, but I have always been glad you cared for someone, as I cared for your mother.”
Arthur froze. The mention of his mother was a rare thing. She was a ghost in the corner of every room they never acknowledged. He searched Uther’s face for mockery and found none.
“Ygraine,” Uther said, the name trembling as though it were an old wound reopened. “She was the best thing in my life. I have done… terrible things because of that love. Things that haunt me still. But I have never, for one instant, regretted you.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “I have not been a good son.”
“Not always, no,” Uther admitted, and a dry huff of laughter escaped him. “But you have always tried to be a good man. I have failed in both.”
“That isn’t true,” Arthur protested. “You’ve always been—”
“A great father?” Uther interrupted sharply, eyes flashing. “Not to your sister, I haven’t.”
Arthur froze. “…What?”
Uther’s shoulders sagged, his crown tilting slightly as though it had grown too heavy. “Morgana is your half-sister,” he said simply.
The words struck like a physical blow. Arthur’s breath caught. “What—how?”
“I betrayed my friend,” Uther said quietly, staring at the ice. “I dishonoured him. Morgana was the result. When her parents died, I took her in. My daughter though none could know it. I raised her as my ward. I could not allow my child to be raised by strangers. I had hoped that growing up in Camelot would influenceher away from these types of people.”
Arthur shook his head. “Why tell me this now?”
“Because we don’t have much time. Because when they condemn me, they will condemn her too.” Uther’s voice hardened again, the gentleness evaporating. “They will destroy our bloodline but you will be spared. The fairy and the creature may survive longer, but the child will be vulnerable. You must be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Arthur demanded, dread growing in his gut.
Uther’s gaze snapped to him. Fierce, commanding, kingly. “Your husband,” he spat the word, “is soft. Use his affection while it serves you, use his power to shield yourself. When the time comes, kill him. Take back our throne. Restore Camelot.”
Arthur stared in horror. “Father—”
“Do not interrupt me!” The old rage was back now, blazing bright. “The council think they have chained me, but I am not beaten! They think they can hand our kingdom to sorcerers and beasts. I built Camelot with blood and fire, and I will not see it handed to monsters. You will finish what I began.”
Arthur took a step back. “What you began is a war, Father. You’ve slaughtered thousands. You call it purity, but it’s vengeance! It’s hatred!”
Uther’s face twisted in madness as he drew close to Arthur, looming over him. “I did what I had to. To protect you. To protect her memory.”
“You destroyed everything she stood for!” Arthur’s voice cracked. “Mother would have despised what you’ve become!”
The air grew colder. Ice creaked underfoot.
Uther exhaled, a plume of frost leaving his lips. “Perhaps. But she would have loved you still. As I do.”
Arthur’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to see, even for a moment, the father he’d always wished for.
Outside, the ice began to glow. The sands were nearly gone.
Uther looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the heavens through the frost. “We do not have much time,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens, Arthur — remember this. I have always loved you, very much.”
The final grain of sand fell.
The ice walls began to melt, water running like tears down their sides. Light and sound returned in a rush: the roar of the hall, the murmur of magic, and the smell of smoke and iron.
Father and son stood in the melting frost, two figures caught between love and ruin.
And for a moment — just a moment — Uther Pendragon looked like both the man who might have been a good father, and the monster he truly was.
“I have made my decision,” Uther Pendragon declared, his voice carrying like thunder through the Great Hall.
The crowd fell instantly silent. Even the banners hanging from the rafters seemed to still, their crimson folds frozen mid-drift. Around him, the assembled courtiers, council members, and guards watched in uneasy expectation.
It was as though the entire kingdom had also frozen under Ely’am's ice.
“I, Uther Pendragon,” the King continued, his voice clear and steady, “do recognise the solemnity of the union between Prince Arthur Pendragon and Emrys Ambrose.”
The words struck like a hammer blow.
Gasps rippled through the hall. A wave of disbelief and confusion that shattered the stillness. Some knights took a half-pace fowards, others cursed under their breath. The murmurs of “treason,” “blasphemy,” and “madness” tangled in the air like smoke.
Baron Rufus gaped openly, colour draining from his cheeks. Gaius’s lips parted, but no sound came. Morgana’s eyes went wide; for once, she looked genuinely stunned, as if she could not trust what she’d heard.
At the centre of it all, Uther stood tall. A king once more, every inch of him the ruler of Camelot.
“Bring me wine,” he commanded. “I shall toast to the happy couple.”
A servant by the far wall obeyed. She was young, barely more than a girl, and her hands trembled as she reached for the pitcher left over from the morning meal. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the council as if waiting for someone to intervene but no one moved. All watched as she filled the goblet and brought it to the King.
Uther took it without hesitation. His grip was steady as he raised the cup high. He turned in slow succession to each side of the hall. First to the council, then to his court, and finally to the crowd.
“You have your victory,” he said softly, though the words carried. “May you live long enough to see what it costs.”
Then his eyes found Arthur. And for the first time since this began, something like regret lingered on his features.
“To Arthur,” Uther said, lifting the goblet high, “my boy. My heir. My greatest folly and my...my greatest joy. My baby.”
The words cracked slightly at the end, though whether from emotion or exhaustion, none could tell.
He drank.
The silence that followed lasted only seconds but it filled years. Uther lowered the cup, gaze still fixed on his son.Then a strange look passed over his face. Confusion first. Then pain.
The goblet slipped from his hand, shattering against the stone upon impact.
“Father?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, uncertain. He took a step forward.
Uther’s hand clutched at his throat, breath catching. His knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, the sound echoing through the hall like the fall of a sword.
“Dad!” Arthur was beside him now, dropping to his knees, cradling the man’s shoulders. But Uther’s skin had already begun to grey, his eyes rolling back. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, a sharp chemical scent rising from the spilled wine.
Someone screamed. Another shouted for help. The hall erupted into chaos.
“Poison!” cried a voice from the crowd “He’s been poisoned!”
“Get Gaius!” barked Ambrose, already moving forward, though his magic burned at his fingertips, desperate and wild.
But it was too late.
Uther’s body convulsed once...twice... then went still. His head lolled in Arthur’s arms, eyes glassy, lips parted in a faint ghost of a smile.
The crown that had sat upon his head rolled away, spinning until it clattered to a stop at Ambrose's feet.
The entire hall fell silent again, as though all air had been sucked from the room.
Arthur’s voice broke through it at last — hoarse, disbelieving. “No… no, no, no—” He pressed his hands against his father’s chest, as if he could will the life back into him.
Ambrose reached out hesitantly to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur,” he said softly. “He’s gone.”
The prince didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the man in his arms. Cradling him there like a child.
Around them, the room churned with panic. Magical beings shouted accusations whilst courtiers cried for vengeance. Some claimed it was the council. Others blamed the servants. The knights closed in protectively around Arthur, steel flashing in torchlight.
Above it all, Morgana stood motionless, her face unreadable. Her lips were pressed together so tightly they’d turned white, but her eyes...her eyes burned.
At the centre of the storm, Uther Pendragon lay still upon the stone, wine pooling beneath him like blood.
Dead.
Notes:
Dun Dunn Dunnnnnnnnn
So...see you in a week?
Bonus points for anyone who spots the inconsistency in this chapter.
Chapter 32: The Missing Piece
Summary:
Someone is missing
Notes:
Hello! Thank you for all your lovely comments and theories, I love to see them all. Some have even gotten close which is either a testament to my writing or a criticism of my predictability.
Please enjoy x
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
People said death was like sleep.
They were lying.
Uther Pendragon did not look as though he had fallen asleep. He looked as though something inside him had curdled. All colour had drained from his face, leaving his skin waxy and grey. Yellow bile seeped from the corner of his mouth and crusted at his eyes. His fingernails had gone black, his jaw locked tight, and every limb was stiffened in a grotesque imitation of life. He looked like a monster from an old wives’ tale. A creature the knights used to joke about round campfires.
Arthur couldn’t stop staring. Some part of him expected the thing on the floor, this body pretending to be his father, to lurch upright and snarl. To give him something he understood. A threat. A foe. Anything but this silent ruin of a man he had loved and feared in equal measure.
A high, thin ringing filled his ears. Everything else happened behind a curtain of fog: shouting, violet sparks cracking through the air, the sound of steel leaving scabbards. People were moving too quickly. The world had sped up and left him behind.
The only truth that reached him was simple and devastating.
His father was dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Warm arms came around him, steadying him, drawing him back from the precipice.
“Come on, Arthur,” murmured a soft voice in his ear. “Come on, love. You have to let go. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
Arthur let the voice guide him upright. His hands tried to drag his father with him. Some foolish, desperate instinct to lift Uther off the cold stone.
“Sweetheart, let go,” the voice whispered. “It’s all right. No one can hurt him now. Let go.”
Warm fingers prised his rigid grip from the corpse. Arthur didn’t cry. He felt as though he would never cry again. He simply leaned into the warmth holding him and closed his eyes.
-----
Merlin didn’t know where to put himself. The Great Hall had dissolved into a battleground. Magic crackled in the air and steel was drawn. And Uther’s body lay at the centre of it all, like a torch thrown onto dry kindling.
He should have stepped back into the role expected of him, become Abrose. Instead he kept Arthur close under his arm, shielding him from the sight of Uther’s rapidly deteriorating corpse.
There was nothing to be done for the king. Merlin had known from the moment Uther hit the floor that he was gone. The poison or whatever it was had been ruthless. Merlin knelt long enough to pull his own cloak over the body. It felt simultaneously like an insult and a mercy.
“Murderers!” bellowed Baron Rufus. He had drawn his ornate sword, a weapon Merlin suspected had never touched anything more dangerous than roast beef. The knights at his back, however, had steel meant for killing. “They’ve killed the king!”
“We did no such thing!” Ely’am’s voice boomed, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
“They cannot be trusted!” someone shouted from the far side of the hall. It was unclear whether they meant the humans, the magicals, or both.
“Silence!” roared Cadmeus.
The command thrummed with spellwork. The entire hall fell abruptly still, mouths snapping shut mid-accusation. The unnatural quiet was almost worse than the shouting.
Cadmeus continued in a lower, colder voice, “The Ancient Rules of Magyik forbid Council members from harming the accused or one another while a trial is in progress. The culprit cannot be one of us. Whoever did this has violated the authority of this court and will answer for it.”
“We must find the assassin,” agreed Ely’am, his gaze sweeping the hall.
Everyone looked about as though expecting to find a cloaked figure lurking in the shadows with a flask labelled “POISON”. Surprisingly, no such figure appeared.
“Wait,” Morgana said sharply. “Who poured the drink?”
A ripple of uneasy murmuring spread but no one stepped forward.
“A servant… I think,” called one of Uther’s personal guards, looking uncertain even as he spoke.
“That’s impossible,” murmured Lancelot from the back. It was too soft to be addressed to the room, but the truth spell pulsed violet across the stone floor, snatching the words from him.
Every head turned.
“Why impossible?” Ely’am asked, eyes narrowing.
Lancelot swallowed, visibly fighting the compulsion before the truth tore free. “The servants were evacuated days ago.”
“That’s absurd. There are servants right now—” began Lord Halden, an odious man with wandering hands and no sense of propriety.
The assembly collectively turned to look for a servant, any servant at all.
None appeared.
“Here!” someone shouted, and then Gwen was dragged forward by two unfamiliar hands. She was shoved to the front of the crowd with little dignity.
Merlin’s arm tightened protectively around Arthur.
“No!” several knights barked, stepping forward reflexively.
Gwen stood tall, chin lifted. “I did not pour the King’s drink.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Morgana snapped. “Do you fools believe all servants look the same?”
“Why so defensive, Lady Morgana?” sneered Lady Posey.
Morgana didn’t answer. Her eyes were moving across the room like a master figuring out a chess game. First to Arthur and Merlin, then to Gwen, then back again. Something clicked behind her stare.
“Wait…” she breathed. “Where’s Merlin?”
Arthur froze. His spine straightened, and he instinctively took a small step away from Ambrose as though suddenly self-conscious at having leaned on the man for comfort.
“Where’s Merlin?” Morgana repeated, louder now.
“Who?” asked Cadmeus, frowning.
“Arthur’s manservant,” Morgana snapped. “They’re practically attached at the hip. I can’t believe I didn’t notice—where is he?”
The crowd didn’t part for the missing servant.
Because it couldn’t.
He wasn’t there.
Or rather… he was.
Merlin felt the colour drain from his face as the attention swept over him.
“You think this Merlin poisoned the chalice?” Cadmeus asked Morgana. “Would you not have noticed?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Arthur said sharply. His voice had steadied, iron returning to it. The very idea of Merlin being accused of his father's murder had snapped him back to himself.
“So where is he?” Morgana pressed.
“I ordered he evacuate with the other servants,” Arthur said, meeting her eyes. He didn’t flinch as the truth spell glowed beneath them.
“And did he leave?” asked Ely’am.
Arthur swallowed. “Merlin left the castle days ago.”
It satisfied most of the room.
Not Morgana.
She turned on the knights. “When did any of you last see him?”
The knights clenched their jaws, straining against the spell until –
“This morning.” Sir Leon gasped. He looked ashamed even as the words were ripped out.
Pandemonium erupted.
“The prince ordered the assassination!” someone shouted.
“He killed his own father!” yelled another.
“They’re in league with the magicals!” others cried.
Arthur absorbed the accusations in silence, growing paler by the second. He looked exhausted.
“Use your heads!” Gwaine barked, stepping forward. “If Arthur wanted his father dead, he’d have done it before Uther disowned him and stripped him of succession!”
Merlin caught Gwaine’s gaze across the hall. Silent gratitude passed between them at his defence.
It wasn’t enough.
Two factions now raged in the smoke-filled hall: those who thought Merlin had poisoned Uther at the Prince's order, and those who thought the Councillors had used this missing servant, Merlin, to do it.
The political fault lines cracked wide open, each side sharpening old grudges into knives.
The same question rolled through the hall like a gathering storm.
“Where is Merlin?”
Notes:
No one is having a good time right now
Chapter 33: Synonymous
Summary:
The Trial summons Merlin of Ealdor
Chapter Text
This was it.
Merlin was completely and utterly, spectacularly, world-endingly fucked.
His heart thudded in his chest as though attempting to burrow out and flee the Hall without him. The Grand Court hummed with power and hostility. Uther’s body lay on the stones, covered by Merlin's cloak in a paltry attempt at dignity.
“It seems,” said Cadmeus, projecting his voice with the maddening calm of someone who had never once panicked in his life, “that we are all in agreement. We must call this ‘Merlin’ before the Council.”
Merlin felt all the air in his lungs attempt to flee his body at once.
“This is ridiculous!” Lancelot barked. “Merlin didn’t pour the wine! We would have seen him.”
“Nevertheless,” Ely’am replied coolly, “I too would meet the man everyone seems so convinced is capable of such deception.” Their tone carried none of Lancelot’s fire. It was a silk-wrapped nail hammered directly into the coffin of Merlin’s rapidly dissolving former life.
Baron Rufus puffed himself up like a toad in brocade. “I will dispatch guards at once,” he declared, clearly trying to seize leadership of the suddenly-headless human faction. He remembered himself a beat later and inclined stiffly towards Arthur. “With your permission, sire.”
Arthur opened his mouth—to defend him, Merlin hoped—but the knights surged with sound before he could speak.
“Merlin has been in Gaius’s chambers all day as ordered,” Sir Leon said firmly. “None of us have seen him since breakfast.”
“Then you’ll be able to produce him,” Morgana drawled, her voice slipping like a blade between ribs. “As Merlin is so famously obedient.”
Merlin briefly entertained the thought of throwing himself through one of the stained-glass windows.
Leon’s shoulders sagged. He looked at Arthur. It was a look of apology, promise, and resignation all in one. Then bowed his head and turned for the doors.
Merlin swallowed. Hard. Any minute now…that would be it.
Any second.
Any–
The doors creaked, then swung wide.
Sir Leon returned, and Merlin’s soul left his body.
“May I present,” Leon announced, “Merlin of Ealdor, whom I found in the physician’s chambers exactly where he ought to be.”
What.
The.
FUCK.
Merlin gaped. Gaped like an idiot. Because standing there, next to Leon, was—
Him.
His face. His ridiculous ears. His mop of dark hair. His blue shirt and battered neckerchief. Even his nervous, sheepish half-smile done with an artistry Merlin himself certainly did not possess.
“Hello?” said the impostor in Merlin’s voice. It was uncanny, hearing his own voice from outside his body like that. A perfect copy. A copy that seemed to have convinced everyone in the room that Merlin the manservant had just strolled into the Great Hall.
Except—
Posey’s hand flew to her mouth. She did not speak but her eyes sought Ambrose instinctively.
Gwaine’s hand went to his sword. He didn’t draw it, thank the Gods; half the knights already mistrusted him. If he attacked “Merlin” he’d die before he took two steps. But the tension in his stance was unmistakable.
He knew.
Posey knew.
Because they knew Ambrose was Merlin.
Everyone else? Not a flicker of suspicion.
Brilliant.
Truly brilliant.
Merlin wanted to scream.
Ely’am’s eyes glinted with ancient curiosity. “So, you are Merlin?”
“You may call me so,” the fake replied. The smile on fake Merlin's face landed as endearing instead of idiotic. Whilst the rest of his body was a mix of relaxed and slightly anxious, the imposter’s fists were clenched tightly almost imperceptibly at his sides.
The sigils on the floor pulsed, but allowed his half-truths to be uttered.
Fuck.
The Fae continued. “You serve the Prince?”
A nod came from the fake. "I have served him," he replied.
Too modest. Not Merlin-like at all. Charming in a way Merlin had never managed. This was a version of Merlin who had read a book titled How To Behave Like A Normal Human.
Posey’s eyes narrowed. Gwaine shifted like a wolf scenting a trap.
“And were you,” Ely’am asked, voice soft as frost, “involved in the plot to kill King Uther Pendragon at the behest of Arthur Ambrose, or of any member of this court?”
Fake Merlin took a breath. His fists tightened. His answer spilled out, perfect and polished. “No. I did not kill Uther upon Arthur’s orders, nor upon the Court’s.”
Merlin’s jaw clenched, but he could say nothing. To challenge the imposter would out him in front of everyone. Tensions were high enough, this deception revealed openly could shatter the final bonds of peace.
Cadmeus clapped his clawed hands together, far too delighted. “Then we must hunt down the culprit.”
A minor lord sputtered, “Surely the trial is over now?”
“Not quite,” Ely’am said, still watching the imposter with a scholar’s fascination. “We convened to judge the guilt of Uther Pendragon. Once the trial has begun nothing can stop it, not even death. We will see it through to the end.”
“Then we will reconvene tomorrow for deliberation,” Posey declared. She allowed herself a final, sharp glance at Ambrose full of dread and unspoken warning. Then she vanished in a cloud of rain. The others followed: some through shimmering portals, others slipping out like whispering smoke.
The mortal attendees left more slowly. Uther’s Privy Council stood, grey-faced and shaken, to carefully lift the King’s shrouded form and carry him out. Each bowed to Arthur as they passed. Arthur did not move.
Silence settled.
Merlin stood rooted, staring at his double now swarmed by knights and Gwen, all fussing over him. Gwaine lingered at the edge, hawk-eyed, lips pressed thin.
“I’m fine, I’m fine!” chirped the fake.
Hearing his own voice come out of someone else hurt worse than any physical wound he’d ever taken.
Leon approached Arthur, likely to offer condolences, but then froze as if struck. His eyes flicked between Ambrose and the fake Merlin.
Realisation dawned
Slow. Horrified.
Leon positioned himself subtly between the two men, protective instinct kicking in.
“Perhaps,” the knight said carefully to his group of comrades, “we should reconvene… in the kitchens.”
In the thinning crowd of the Great Hall, his voice carried far too well.
Fake Merlin’s head snapped round at the words before fixing on the prince. His bright green eyes widened in faux concern.
“Arthur?” he said, stepping toward the prince. “Are you all right? Sir Leon told me—”
Ambrose moved before he finished a word, stepping neatly into the impostor’s path, smile sharp and court-perfect.
“I believe the Prince will be retiring for the evening,” he said, crisp and cold as hoarfrost. “You can be spared your duties.”
It was deeply unnerving dismissing himself. More unnerving was the strange and vicious spark ignited inside Merlin at the sight of the fake looking at Arthur with concern that wasn't his to give. A petty, possessive part of Merlin wanted to hiss like a bloody cat.
The fake blinked at him.
“Oh. Of course.”
The knights gathered protectively around him, shooting murderous looks at Ambrose. Merlin couldn’t tell whether to feel flattered or betrayed. Probably both. Probably mostly betrayed. Gwen even patted the imposter’s arm sympathetically.
“Arthur, we will retire,” Ambrose said – in that impossibly imperious tone he had heard proud princesses use on their betrothed –swept forward in a movement that would’ve been a perfect flounce had he not immediately wilted upon seeing Arthur’s stricken expression.
Arthur’s eyes were red.
His face blotchy.
He looked broken.
Merlin’s voice softened instantly. “Come on, love,” he murmured quietly to Arthur alone. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Arthur looked like he wanted to argue, staring at the fake Merlin with a strange look on his face that made the real Merlin fee slightly sick. The Warlock took hold of his arm and gently guided him out of the room before he could voice the objections clearly building.
Half the knights stepped forward, ready to protest, ready to follow, ready to demand explanations.
Merlin flicked his fingers.
The doors of the Great Hall slammed shut with a thunderous crack.
Gasps echoed behind them, muffled by ancient oak.
Merlin didn’t look back.
He didn’t dare.
Notes:
😇😇😇
Chapter 34: Kitchen Table Plans
Summary:
The knights think
Notes:
Updates people updates 💚💚
We are about halfway through now guys!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Something strange was going on. Of that, Lancelot was absolutely certain.
Strange was hardly unusual for Camelot; in fact, strangeness seemed to be the kingdom’s preferred way of existing. But this…this was pushing even Camelot’s boundaries. This was the sort of strange that made the hairs on his arms rise, the sort of strange that suggested something vital had shifted without anyone telling him.
Because in what world would Merlin—Merlin—allow Arthur to leave alone with some mysterious, magical prince? Merlin couldn’t manage that same level of restraint with the perfectly mortal princesses Uther had paraded in front of Arthur for years, as if any of them could turn Arthur's head whilst his manservant was there.
Though, Lancelot supposed wryly, there would be no more princesses now.
Gwaine would be devastated.
Speaking of strange, Gwaine was acting oddly as well. First he had loudly declared his undying loyalty to the warlock Ambrose and now he stood glaring daggers at Merlin from across the kitchens, where the knights and the two remaining servants had congregated in tense, smoky huddles. The stare was sharp enough to send a shiver up Lancelot’s spine.
He supposed it could simply be that Gwaine no longer had to pretend anything now his loyalties had been exposed. But if he was an enemy, why had he joined them here at all? Leon had tried to block him from entering, but Gwaine had gripped his own crimson cloak—the mark of Camelot’s knighthood—and had growled that he was still a knight of Camelot until Arthur dismissed him personally. The other knights now regarded him with all the warmth of a rabid wolf. Gwaine seemed entirely unbothered by the collective hostility as he leaned against the stone wall like a man perfectly content with the world misunderstanding him.
Merlin, meanwhile…Merlin was wrong.
Lancelot had tried to rationalise his absence earlier. Merlin vanished regularly enough that it almost felt routine; Lancelot assumed he was off pursuing some magical solution he couldn’t speak of. But when the servant returned something didn’t sit right. Merlin was nodding along with Leon, of all people, listening patiently to theories on who could have killed the King.
Merlin. Listening.
Patiently.
It was deeply unsettling.
As though feeling the weight of Lancelot’s stare, Merlin looked up and offered a polite, distant smile. It was the kind you gave a face you recognised but couldn't name. A stranger's smile. Lancelot’s stomach dropped. Something was off with his friend. Not his features, not exactly, but something a little…to the left. As though someone had copied a face from memory and missed one or two tiny details.
But before he could examine the expression further, Leon’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
“––agreement, yes?” Leon asked. “Clearly this was a premeditated attack. They intended to blend in with the servants, but didn’t anticipate that they’d all been dismissed. Present company excluded,” he added, nodding to Gwen and Merlin. Gwen looked faintly ill; Merlin simply smiled as if he was just happy to be there.
“So it couldn’t have been any of us,” Percival said gravely.
“Why do you say that?” Merlin asked, far too idly.
“Because we all knew about the evacuation,” Gwaine said from the wall. The other knights jumped slightly, apparently having forgotten he could still speak.
Leon forced himself to acknowledge him. “He’s right. None of us would have thought of that plan. So it had to be someone who didn’t know.”
“So, the Council?” asked Lancelot.
“Or the courtiers,” Gwaine added, pushing off the wall to join them. The group stiffened, stepping back as though afraid he carried plague. Lancelot saw the brief flash of pain in Gwaine’s expression before he buried it beneath his usual devil-may-care grin. “They were deliberately kept in the dark by Arthur so they couldn’t whisper into Uther’s ear.”
“The courtiers wouldn’t have used magic,” someone muttered.
“Poison isn’t a magical weapon,” Merlin said suddenly and much too brightly.
Lancelot’s unease knotted tighter.
“But what motive would the courtiers have?” Leon demanded.
“Well…” Lancelot began, cheeks flushing when every gaze fixed on him. He cleared his throat. “It’s easier to claim the king was killed by an attack than executed by a trial. No matter whether or not the kingdoms believe the trial was legitimate, the story is cleaner if Uther fell to an assassin.”
“The story?” Merlin echoed.
“The courtiers will be calculating how to keep hold of their power,” Lancelot said. “They’ll want the bordering kingdoms to fall in behind Camelot. If Uther died by lawful execution, they might hesitate. But if he was poisoned during diplomatic negotiations…it becomes a rallying cry.”
“It also paints magic-users in a terrible light,” Gwen said quietly.
“Well, they’ve not exactly proven themselves reliable,” Merlin replied, tone almost flippant.
Gwen flinched. Gwaine’s head snapped round sharply.
“So what—you think the nobles killed the king?” Leon asked. He didn’t sound accusing. Only tired.
“Or the Council,” Gwaine said. “Either way, we’re in danger. Succession crises are hard enough without the threat of war.”
“Surely there is no crisis,” Gwen said. “Arthur is King now. Uther’s last words declared it.”
“It’s all luck of the dice,” Gwaine murmured. “If the nobles back him, it won’t matter whose son he is. Titles are claimed in blood…usually someone else’s.”
“So after all this, Arthur could still be king?” Merlin asked. “What about the warlock?”
The room fell silent. Every eye drifted to Gwaine again.
“Lord Ambrose is a good man,” Gwaine said firmly. “Arthur believes it. That is enough. And right now, our allegiance doesn’t matter. What matters is finding whoever killed Uther before someone strikes a match in this tinderbox.”
“So we…split up and look for clues?” Percival offered, uncertain.
“Merlin and I will examine the Great Hall,” Gwaine announced abruptly.
Before anyone could argue, he seized Merlin by the arm and hauled him out of the kitchens with surprising urgency.
A hush fell.
Leon exhaled slowly. “Well. That was—”
“Wrong,” Lancelot said quietly.
The others turned to him.
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked.
Lancelot swallowed. He couldn’t explain it. Didn’t understand it himself. But he trusted his instincts.
“I just…something’s wrong,” he said. “With Merlin.”
The knights stared, confused. Gwen frowned as though trying to see what Lancelot saw, but Merlin had already vanished from sight. Again.
Leon shook his head. “We’re all shaken. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Perhaps.
But Lancelot couldn’t shake the icy feeling creeping down his spine.
He waited a beat, then slipped out of the kitchens, following the direction Gwaine and Merlin had gone.
The corridor was dimly lit, torches guttering in the draught. Boots scuffed somewhere ahead.
Lancelot moved silently, hugging the shadows.
He couldn’t say what he expected to find.
He only knew one thing with unsettling certainty:
Whatever had just left the kitchens with Gwaine…
…was not Merlin.
And Gwaine—the reckless, infuriating, loyal Gwaine—was the only one who knew it.
Lancelot quickened his pace.
And followed.
Notes:
Lancelot has entered the chat.
Next up, Gwaine’s turn to ask some questions
Chapter 35: Goodnight, Sweet Prince
Summary:
Merlin runs into someone unexpected
Notes:
Hello, I forgot this chapter needed to come before Gwaine’s, apologies. Gwaine’s will be up next...unless I forgot another one.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The castle felt colder that night than Merlin had ever known it. The air was heavy and unmoving, as though even the ancient stones were holding their breath. He and Arthur walked the length of the corridor in silence, their steps quiet against the flagstones. Neither sought conversation, yet there lingered between them a sort of fragile peace, an understanding born out of exhaustion and the quiet shock that follows catastrophe.
By the time they reached Arthur’s chambers, Arthur’s pace had slowed almost to a trudge. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight that had so abruptly settled upon them, and he winced faintly when he pushed open the heavy wooden door. Merlin felt a sharp, instinctive urge to place a hand beneath Arthur’s elbow, to ease him inside as he had done a hundred times before. But now Arthur believed him to be Ambrose, a veritable stranger. So Merlin forced his hands together behind his back and held them there.
He remained where he was while Arthur went to sit on the edge of his bed. Merlin moved instead to the window. The courtyard lay far below, an unusually dark and hollow place. Too many windows were without candlelight. Too many chambers empty. Uther Pendragon’s death had torn through the citadel like a gale through a field, scattering everything that was once orderly and familiar.
From this height Merlin could just discern the faint glow in Gaius’s chambers. A solitary little light. He wondered how the old man fared and despised himself for caring. Gaius had been willing to hand him over. Yet some pitifully stubborn part of Merlin still hoped the physician was safe.
A quiet cough pulled him back to Arthur.
Arthur had not moved far, only lifted his head. With the torchlight falling across his face, he looked painfully young. Barely more than a boy, newly bereaved and already carrying the weight of a kingdom. Whatever fate said of Arthur’s lineage, Merlin knew the truth of his heart. Arthur would sacrifice himself a thousand times over rather than allow Camelot to fall. Duty was carved into his bones.
"Are you staying?" Arthur asked.
The question was soft, almost careful. He stared at his own hands instead of at Merlin.
"No," Merlin replied. The word came more gently than he intended. He was not prepared for Arthur’s expression, a quick flicker of disappointment that was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
It hurt in a very specific way, because Arthur trusted Lord Ambrose with barely a handful of shared hours, yet flinched from the real Merlin without knowing it.
"I should follow up with the Council," Merlin murmured. "I need to ensure you remain safe."
"And the others?" Arthur asked. He looked up now, eyes red-rimmed but steady. "With my father gone, will they try to take revenge on the rest of my people?"
Merlin opened his mouth to give the easy, comforting denial. He closed it again.
A child’s dolly—burned.
A woman’s scarf—auctioned.
A man’s boots—taken by guards.
It had not been Uther alone. Ordinary people, guards, merchants, noblewomen, servants. Hatred had spread like summer wheat. People had prospered under laws soaked in blood.
This trial had never truly been about a single king.
Arthur read his hesitation like an open book. His shoulders slumped a little.
"I see," he whispered, though he clearly did not want to.
Merlin felt a sudden ache behind his ribs. He had half a mind to stay anyway, consequences be damned, to sit by Arthur’s bed in silence until morning light returned. But that was what Merlin wanted, and he had learnt since coming to Camelot that he rarely got what he wanted.
"I will see you in the morning," he said instead.
He hesitated, unsure whether to bow. As a servant he rarely did, Arthur had always seemed faintly offended by it. He suspected he ought to show respect. Yet bowing now, dressed in rich robes and wearing a different face felt wrong. As though he were mocking Arthur. As though he were kneeling before the man he had spent years loving and serving and lying to. There was a sharp, treacherous part of Merlin that whispered Arthur should be the one kneeling, begging for forgiveness for standing by Uther, for not speaking up, for not realising that the Merlin in the hall had been a fake.
Arthur said nothing, only lowered his gaze again.
Merlin slipped out and closed the door softly behind him. He touched the wood and murmured a quick spell; a faint gold shimmer rippled outward, sealing the chamber against intrusion. The knights would assume Lord Ambrose had stayed inside. Anyone attempting to enter would be repelled.
He glanced along the corridor and realised abruptly that no guards stood watch. Usually Arthur’s chambers bristled with them. Tonight, nothing. They might still be milling about the hall in confusion. The fake Merlin was among them, and Merlin felt a cold knot twist in his stomach.
What if the creature struck at his friends? What if his absence gave it freedom?
He quickened his step.
How could he have been so consumed by Arthur that he had forgotten the greater danger?
Turning a corner, he nearly walked straight into Baron Rufus.
The Baron was waiting as though he had expected him, hands clasped neatly, posture relaxed in a way that set Merlin instantly on guard.
"Ah, Prince Ambrose," the Baron said warmly. Too warmly. "Just the man I hoped to find. Might I borrow a moment of your time?"
"You may," Merlin replied, though he made the mistake of sounding polite rather than wary.
Baron Rufus grinned, a fox’s grin, sharp and close to hungry.
"Excellent. Now, my lord, given the rather dramatic events of the day, we find ourselves at something of an impasse. The King, may his soul find rest, has sadly passed. As such, we shall require a new monarch."
Merlin blinked. "Right."
"And naturally, we are most eager for your...informed endorsement."
"I beg your pardon?"
The Baron lifted his hand in a patronising wave.
"Of course you have no desire to be entangled in the petty workings of this... parochial town. And dear Arthur will no doubt be leaving with you, to resume whatever magical duties you have planned for him. So it falls to us, the Privy Council and selected supporters, to identify an appropriate successor."
Merlin stared at him. Rufus did not notice.
"We naturally wish to respect your traditions," the Baron continued. "And avoid any...direct Pendragon heirs to prevent confusion in your court. But perhaps a distant cousin would satisfy the requirement for continuity? The common folk respond well to familiar names."
Merlin’s head throbbed. He recalled, dimly, that Baron Rufus himself was precisely such a distant Pendragon cousin.
"I understand," Merlin said blandly, "though if we are to be consistent, perhaps removing the Pendragon line entirely would be better. In which case the people could choose their new ruler."
Baron Rufus looked as though Merlin had slapped him.
"The people, my lord?"
"Yes. As they do in, how did you say it, parochial towns. Elections, I believe they are called."
"Ah, I fear you misunderstand, my lord. Elections are... quite unsuitable. The common folk are not equipped to—"
"On the contrary," Merlin said, his smile bright and dangerous, "you have explained the matter rather clearly. I shall propose it to the Council at once. Goodnight, Baron."
He stepped around Rufus and continued down the corridor, feeling a small, wicked spark of satisfaction. Behind him he heard a soft choke of disbelief.
"That is not what I meant," Rufus spluttered weakly, but Merlin did not slow.
Let the Baron chew on that for the evening. The nobles had fed on Camelot long enough. He wished he was more surprised by them abandoning their so-called principles as soon as it was clear who the stronger power was. Now they were more than ready to sell off their Crown Prince to a sorcerer. It sickened him.
He reached the next corner, pulse finally steadying, and allowed himself the small indulgence of a grin. It faded quickly, replaced by a new unease as he remembered the impostor in the hall.
He had to get back. If anything happened to the others while Merlin had been indulging in political petty vengeance...
He set off at a brisk pace.
This night was only beginning, and Camelot was far from safe.
Notes:
I had to put parochial instead of provincial because I kept humming beauty and the beast songs
Chapter 36: A Serpent in the Garden
Summary:
Gwaine confronts the imposter
Notes:
Double update! Since I had almost finished this before remembering the other chapter I've decided to post both, because I'm nice like that.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The imposter allowed Gwaine to drag him out of the kitchens and through the palace corridors with unnerving ease, as though being half-hauled along by an increasingly furious knight was nothing more than a game. His gait had a lightness to it that was almost a skip. It set Gwaine’s teeth on edge. Merlin never moved like that. It was wrong. Wrong enough to make Gwaine’s skin crawl, yet familiar enough to twist something deep in his chest.
A sharp noise echoed from around the next corner. Gwaine reacted instantly, pushing the false Merlin through the nearest door and following him inside with drawn steel. The door clicked shut behind them.
The sudden quiet was almost jarring. They stood in what appeared to be a small, walled garden. A garden that Gwaine was firmly convinced had not existed the last time he’d walked past this part of the castle. Moonlight spilled through a trellis overgrown with ivy, silvering the patch of grass at their feet. A marble statue of a sad-eyed woman. Her hands were folded as if eternally mourning something Gwaine couldn’t name. She stood sentinel over them, her stony expression seeming to judge them both.
Gwaine held his sword loosely but ready, angling it between them.
“So rough, Sir Gwaine,” the imposter murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself. There was no attempt to mimic Merlin’s usual anxious fidgeting or sheepish ire. Instead, the creature wore Merlin’s face like fine clothes, lounging in it with practised ease and a sultry sort of elegance that made the hairs on the back of Gwaine’s neck rise.
And saints help him, it was difficult not to stare. The body was Merlin’s. The smile was not.
“Who are you?” Gwaine demanded.
The creature gasped theatrically. “Have you forgotten my name already? And here I thought we were friends.”
“You’re not Merlin. And you’re certainly not my friend.” Gwaine raised his blade a fraction. “Reveal yourself, or I swear I’ll gut you where you stand.”
“Promises, promises,” the imposter crooned, stepping closer with feline poise.
“Your name,” Gwaine snapped, lifting the sword until the point hovered against the underside of the false Merlin’s chin. “Now.”
“You may call me Robin, if it pleases you,” the creature said brightly, its smile widening to show teeth a shade too sharp in the moonlight. Beautiful—unsettlingly so—but wrong.
Gwaine swallowed. “And what are you, Robin?”
“Oh, I can be anything you like, sweetheart.” The imposter leaned into the blade as though it were nothing more than a flirtatious touch. “Anything at all.”
Gwaine forced himself to concentrate on the eyes. Green, not blue. A reminder and a warning. “Why are you pretending to be Merlin?”
“Pretending?” Robin’s laugh was soft and delighted. “No, no, Sir Gwaine. I am Merlin. Can’t you tell? You look at me often enough.” The tilt of his head, the wicked curl of his mouth—none of it belonged to Merlin. “I’ve seen you, you know. Watching.”
“You are not Merlin.”
“If we’re being tediously technical, I’m not the Blackbird, no,” Robin replied breezily. “But no one else is wearing his feathers just now. The role was empty, so I stepped into it. Every character needs an understudy.”
Gwaine’s grip tightened. “You’re speaking nonsense.”
Robin gave a pitying sigh, all mock sympathy. “Come now. You’re cleverer than you pretend. Merlin is a role. A charming little act he throws on for the slow-witted and easily fooled. Just like Emrys. Just like Ambrose. There isn’t a single true identity between the lot of them.”
“You stand there in a stolen skin,” Gwaine hissed, “and you expect me to listen to riddles? Why shouldn’t I cut you down?”
“Because,” Robin purred, stepping closer still—so close the sword pressed against his throat—“if you kill me while I’m wearing this face, the character will die too. The Blackbird will never return to his nest.”
Gwaine ground his teeth.
The creature was warm. That was the worst part. A living heat pressed against him, wearing Merlin’s shape as effortlessly as breath.
“Oh, darling, don’t look so tragic.” Robin’s hand came up—slowly, gently—skimming the line of Gwaine’s jaw just barely enough to feel like a touch. “I can be good to you. So good. Better than he ever was.” The voice softened. Merlin’s voice. Merlin’s warmth. “I see you, Gwaine. All of you. The loyal knight. The steadfast heart. You gave him everything, and he left you to chase crowns and princes.”
Gwaine’s throat closed. His heart punched against his ribs.
“That isn’t—”
“I will not abandon you,” Robin whispered. “We could stay together. Always.”
The words slid into him like knives. Beautiful, terrible knives. His sword drooped before he even realised, held slack at his side.
“Don’t you want me?” Robin murmured, gaze flicking to Gwaine’s mouth before rising, slow and deliberate, to his eyes.
In the moonlight, his eyes were almost blue.
“Please, Gwaine?”
The plea was so perfectly Merlin—soft, earnest, hopeful—that Gwaine’s breath stuttered. He didn’t register how close they were until their lips brushed.
And then—
Fuck.
Heaven.
Hell.
His hand fisted uselessly at his side. His knees nearly buckled.
He’d imagined kissing Merlin more times than he’d ever admit. Usually drunk, always in private, and always followed by shame or some joke he’d tell himself to make it hurt less.
But this—
This was Merlin’s mouth on his, warm and soft and wanting—
And it wasn’t him.
It wasn’t.
Robin kissed him like a man who had read every secret Gwaine never meant to keep. Hands cupping his jaw, drawing him closer, slotting their mouths together with a tenderness that made Gwaine’s entire world spin.
He tasted like fresh water after a drought.
Gwaine broke away with a gasp, stumbling back a half-step like he’d been burned.
Robin smiled slowly, licking his lips as though savouring the moment. Savouring him.
“Oh, Gwaine,” he whispered. “You feel so much. It’s almost sweet.”
Gwaine couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
He’d never felt more cracked open. More exposed.
“Does it hurt?” Robin asked lightly. “Wanting someone who barely sees you? Loving someone who will never love you back?”
“Shut your mouth,” Gwaine rasped.
“Why?” Robin hummed. “I know all your secrets. You said them out loud when you thought you were alone. In the armoury. In the stables. In the bloody corridor outside his chambers.” His grin widened, unbearably intimate. “You’re hardly subtle.”
The statue above them watched silently, stone eyes full of pity.
Gwaine’s heart hammered so hard he thought it might bruise his ribs from the inside.
“Merlin,” Robin whispered again, brushing the name against Gwaine’s lips like the ghost of a kiss. “You want Merlin.”
Gwaine flinched.
“And for a moment,” the imposter continued softly, “you convinced yourself you had him.”
He reached up, stroking Gwaine’s cheek with a gentleness that made Gwaine tremble with rage and grief and something dangerously close to desire.
Robin’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“I could make you happy.”
Gwaine shut his eyes.
“And he never will.”
The garden held its breath, the air thick with roses, moonlight, and the suffocating weight of things Gwaine wished he had never confessed even to himself.
He opened his eyes. Met that unnatural green.
And knew with devastating clarity that no matter how much this creature wore Merlin’s skin, no matter how sweet the lies or how tender the touch—
It would never be him.
But oh, it hurt all the same.
"Get away from him!"
Notes:
Gwaine finally got what he wanted...sorta
Chapter 37: Sparks and Steel
Summary:
A confrontation between opponents, a body on the floor
Notes:
Hey all, thank you for all your lovely comments, I hope you all enjoy this one 💕
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Merlin had run through the palace at a dead sprint, scarcely aware of the servants he startled or the echoes of his own boots striking the polished stone. All he had known was wrongness. A pull in the air sharp as a burning wire, a disturbance in the familiar shape of Gwaine’s presence. It dragged at him, sickening and insistent, until his feet carried him into the quiet corridor leading to Arthur’s private garden.
He shoved the door open.
What he saw rooted him to the threshold.
Across the moon-soaked courtyard, under the sorrowful marble gaze of Queen Ygraine, stood his own body.
The sight struck like a physical blow. The man wearing his face had Gwaine trapped against the pedestal of the statue, hands cupping the knight’s jaw, thumbs brushing dangerously near his pulse. Gwaine’s sword lay discarded on the ground; his chest rose and fell in panicked, unsteady bursts. His eyes—those steady, warm, utterly dependable eyes—were wide with something between terror and shame.
Merlin felt his fury snap into place.
He stepped forward, magic rising in him like a storm breaking across the sea.
“Step back now," he repeated harshly. The words reverberated through the garden, edged with a command that was not entirely human. His eyes burned gold whilst flames curled eagerly along his fingers. The fires of the Dragonlord begging to be unleashed.
The imposter moved away slowly, almost lazily, peeling his hands from Gwaine’s cheeks with an exaggerated reluctance. Deprived of that support, Gwaine slumped back against the pedestal, struggling to catch his breath. Merlin tried to meet his gaze
He needed to check him, needed to know he was truly safe, but Gwaine turned his head away as though the sight of Ambrose was salt in a bleeding wound.
And Merlin’s heart cracked with it, even as rage clouded his vision.
“Ah, Blackbird,” the imposter purred. “There you are. I wondered if it was your song I could hear. Welcome. The party was just getting started.”
Hearing his own voice laced with such sly malice made Merlin nauseous.
“Get away from him,” Merlin said. He raised his hands higher, fire coiling tighter, no longer trembling with restraint but with the desire to burn.
“Oh, but we were having such a lovely time.” The imposter tipped his head towards Gwaine. “I don’t think he wants me to stop. Do you, darling?”
Gwaine swallowed harshly and stared fixedly at the ground.
“What have you done?” Merlin demanded.
“Done?” The false Merlin’s eyebrows lifted in theatrical innocence. “Nothing he didn’t enthusiastically consent to. The early Robin catches the knight and all that. And you were so dreadfully slow.”
A spark flared in Merlin’s chest. He would not rise to the bait. He couldn’t. Not with Gwaine still trembling on the ground. Not with the shape of his own face smirking smugly back at him.
The imposter drifted a step closer, circling like a predator measuring the distance.
“Why are you here?” Merlin asked sharply.
“Oh, you haven’t worked it out?” Robin sighed dramatically, as though Merlin had disappointed him. “A shame. I hoped you’d be a little clever. It’s hardly fun otherwise.”
The shift in Robin’s posture was subtle. Just a fraction of movement. A tightening at the shoulders. A twitch of fingers.
Merlin recognised the tell. Arthur had trained him well.
He moved instinctively, throwing himself sideways as a bolt of hard green light tore through the air. It detonated against a stone planter, obliterating it in a rain of shards.
“Robin, stop!” Gwaine shouted from the far side of the statue. He was still too far from his discarded blade to do anything but watch.
“Oh, I adore it when you call out my name,” sighed the imposter. He swept into an extravagant bow. One that happened to move him neatly out of the path of Merlin’s retaliatory blast.
The spell rebounded off the far wall.
Merlin saw it an instant too late.
It struck Gwaine square in the chest.
“Gwaine!” Merlin’s voice cracked as the knight crumpled to the ground. Merlin surged forward, but Robin was already blocking him, hurling another blast that forced Merlin back into motion.
He couldn’t reach Gwaine. Not yet. He had to trust that the soft rise and fall he glimpsed meant his friend still lived.
And so the battle began in earnest.
The garden erupted with wild light. Gold and green sparks clashing, blooming, and splintering like fireworks beneath the moon. Merlin threw force and fire, pure and powerful, the kind that came from the marrow of who he was. Robin answered with sharp, wicked magic that moved like a knife through water: precise, clever, and laced with vicious intent.
Merlin had more raw strength. But Robin had practice. The shapeshifter fought like someone long accustomed to facing sorcerers stronger than himself. He conjured illusions to mislead. He diverted Merlin’s spells with jagged twists of energy. He disappeared into swirling mist only to reappear at Merlin’s back, laughing breathlessly.
They moved across the garden in a violent dance, overturning planters, scorching hedges, cracking stone.
Merlin ducked a slicing arc of magic, rolled, and fired a blast directly under Robin’s guard. It struck the imposter full in the chest.
Robin flew backward, hit the ground hard, and skidded across the flagstones.
For a moment, the garden fell still except for Merlin’s ragged breathing.
He raised a hand, magic throbbing in his palm like a held bolt of lightning.
“It’s over,” he said, voice ringing with authority. “Stand down.”
Robin’s expression twisted, ready to spit another taunt or trick.
Then his eyes widened. Not in defiance, but in something like fear.
“Arthur…” he whispered weakly.
Merlin frowned, just before he heard the unmistakable hiss of steel being drawn from a scabbard.
He turned.
And his stomach dropped.
Arthur stood framed in the archway, the moonlight catching on the metal of his sword. His hair was tousled, his jacket thrown hurriedly over a sleep shirt, his boots half-laced. But his eyes…his eyes were sharp. Calculating. Cold.
A soldier reading a battlefield.
He took in every detail with frightening efficiency.
Gwaine motionless on the ground.
Blast marks scarred across the garden walls.
A man wearing Merlin’s face curled on the floor.
And above him—looming, armed, hands ablaze with unmistakable magic—
Lord Ambrose.
Merlin felt the exact moment Arthur’s assessment locked into place. He felt it like a door slamming shut.
Dread pooled in his stomach.
“Arthur, it’s not what it looks like,” Merlin said quickly. Too quickly. The words skidded on desperation. He could hear it. Knew Arthur could too.
Of course Arthur wouldn’t believe him. To Arthur, Ambrose was a suspicious, powerful warlock of unclear loyalties. And here he stood over a helpless “Merlin” with Gwaine unconscious nearby.
Every part of it looked like treachery.
“Arthur, he was controlling Gwaine—he used a spell—you have to stop him!” cried the voice wearing Merlin’s face.
Pitiful. Trembling.
It was a masterful performance.
Merlin saw Arthur’s jaw tighten. Saw the fury gather behind his eyes like thunder rolling over stone. Saw betrayal settle onto his shoulders like a mantle he had forced himself to wear too many times before.
Merlin opened his mouth. He had to say something—anything—to cut through the lie Robin had spun in an instant. To reach Arthur before he committed an irreversible act.
But Arthur’s grip had already shifted on his sword.
His arm was already drawing back.
His eyes were already set.
His blade was already swinging.
Notes:
That garden is seeing more action than Gwaine’s bedroom in this fic 😂
Chapter 38: Epiphany
Summary:
The consequences of sword swinging
Chapter Text
The blade swung in a clean, decisive arc.
Merlin didn’t even have time to lift a hand. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe before the sword cleaved straight through the false image wearing his face.
Robin’s borrowed features split down the middle, expression twisting from terror to wicked amusement before dissolving into a violent puff of purple smoke.
A sharp, wet hiss followed, as though the magic itself recoiled from Arthur’s strike.
“Well…fuck,” Arthur panted, lowering his sword. “I don’t suppose he’s dead, do you?”
Merlin said nothing.
He couldn’t. His lungs had forgotten their purpose; the world had tilted at an impossible angle. Reality stuttered with the same violent shock as the fading smoke.
Arthur sheathed his blade, still breathing hard, and crossed the garden to Gwaine. He crouched beside him, checking his pulse with surprising care, rolling him gently onto his back.
“He seems well,” Arthur murmured. “Just sleeping. What happened?”
Still Merlin couldn’t answer. He stared at Arthur as though seeing him for the first time. How had he known the other one was a fake?
He must have spoken the last thought aloud, because Arthur shot him a baffled look and rolled his eyes.
“His eyes were green. Only an idiot would have fallen for that. I didn’t think it wise to announce it in front of the whole Council—I wasn’t sure if it was some scheme of yours gone wrong. But then he started acting so strangely, and Gwaine was glowering at him, so I realised something else was off.”
Merlin swallowed, throat painfully tight.
“But why swing?” he croaked. “How did you know he wasn’t—just—possessed? You didn’t hesitate—”
Arthur’s expression was priceless disbelief. “Well, there can hardly be two of you, can there?”
And that was it.
That was the moment the ground vanished beneath Merlin’s feet.
A free-fall. A drop straight through the world. His chest seized, breath sawing in and out of him in thin, useless gasps. His pulse hammered so violently he could barely hear anything but blood and panic crashing through his skull.
He knew.
Arthur knew.
He’d known.
He had known.
Arthur was still talking—something about the garden, about Gwaine, about the smoke—but Merlin couldn’t make sense of the words. The world around him blurred at the edges. His ears rang. His magic lurched in his veins, frantic, confused, desperate for escape.
Then Arthur stopped mid-sentence. Annoyance flickered across his features; it vanished when he properly looked at Merlin.
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, stepping closer. “Did he hurt you? Merlin, if you’re dying after I just saved—”
“You know.”
Arthur froze. “What?”
Merlin could barely force out the words. His tongue felt too thick, his mind too loud.
“You…know who I am.”
Arthur looked genuinely confused. “I’ve known you for several years, Merlin. How could I forget your face? Even with a beard. Which—by the way—is that real? I assumed you were too weedy to grow facial hair but apparently not.”
Merlin blinked at him, momentarily derailed. “I—I don’t think I understand.”
“Nor do I, really,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “I was hoping you’d tell me the full story tonight, actually. Then you vanished. On our wedding night, no less—very rude.”
His cheeks reddened, but he pressed on with forced lightness.
“Once I realised who you were, it took time to…adjust. I always knew you had magic, but finding out you sat on this Council—well, that was a shock. How anyone trusted you to rule anything is beyond me, mind you. Anyway, after I got over that, I realised even if you were a spy, you’ve saved my life so many times you’d have to be terrible at espionage.”
Merlin stared.
And stared.
He must have died. That had to be the explanation. Arthur had killed him, and this was the afterlife, and none of this was real.
“You … you know I have magic?” he whispered.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward as though checking Merlin for head trauma. “Well, considering you’re on a magical council, that rather confirmed it.”
“No,” Merlin said, voice cracking. “You said you knew about that before…before…”
Before the council chamber. Before the trial. Before Ambrose. Before everything.
Arthur’s face shifted. Something tightening before softening in wary understanding.
“Merlin,” he said slowly, “your eyes glow gold when you cast magic. And you mutter in some creepy language. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
The world slammed sideways.
Merlin’s breath vanished entirely.
His chest locked, seized, squeezed too tight to hold anything. His fingers trembled. His vision blurred again, this time with hot, stinging tears he couldn’t blink away. His magic flared in short, erratic bursts under his skin, as if trying to escape his shaking body.
“I—Arthur—I didn’t—I never wanted—”
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
Arthur moved instinctively, hands half-reaching before hesitating inches from Merlin’s arms: uncertain, wary, frustrated, and worried all at once.
“Merlin, breathe,” Arthur said firmly. “It’s just me.”
Just him.
As though that made this easier.
As though that didn’t crush Merlin’s lungs even more.
“I thought—” Merlin gasped. “I thought you’d hate me.”
Arthur flinched.
Not dramatically. Just a small, sharp jerk of the head, and a tightening around the eyes that Merlin would have missed if he hadn’t been looking right at him.
“I don’t hate you,” Arthur said, too quickly. Then, more cautiously: “and I don’t...hate magic. Not entirely. I’m still...working that part out.”
Merlin pressed his fist to his chest, trying to force air inside.
Arthur hesitated again, then took a slow step closer.
“When we first met,” he said quietly, “you were ridiculous. Clumsy. Hopeless with a sword. And at first I thought that was it. Then I caught you using magic to polish my boots of all things. And I didn't...by then I already...so I didn't say anything.Then you kept...saving me. Throwing yourself in front of danger like you had a death wish. And I kept thinking, ‘If he’s a magical assassin, he’s really very bad at it.’”
Merlin’s breath hitched.
Arthur’s voice softened. Not gentle, but honest.
“And after a while…it stopped mattering what you were. Because you were still you. I thought, maybe one day, you'd trust me to tell me yourself. Or maybe you were trying to tell me without saying it out loud. I dropped hints, asked about magical stuff, but you just....didn't.”
Merlin stared at him through blurred vision, chest still shaking.
“I didn’t want you to know,” Merlin whispered. “I thought you’d see me the way your father did.”
Arthur inhaled sharply. Somehow both offended and guilty all at once.
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly. It wasn’t said angrily. In many ways that was the worst part.
Merlin's fear flickered into anger. He could not help it. All the strain and grief that had been tightening in him since his first day in Camelot finally broke its banks.
"Not fair? I will tell you what is not fair. Living in fear that one wrong move would put me on the pyre with hundreds of other poor souls. I read the records. Of what happened to those innocent people. Your people, Arthur. You say it was not fair that I did not trust you, but how could I?"
Arthur said nothing. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once as if he were holding back a dozen responses, none of which would land safely. Merlin was already burning and could not stop.
"You knew? You knew what I was going through? The biggest secret of my entire life and you simply…knew. I do not…I cannot…" His voice thinned. The flames of fury guttered and collapsed, leaving only smoke and exhaustion.
Arthur seemed to sense the fight draining out of him. He reached for Merlin, pulling him into a firm, grounding embrace. Merlin did not resist. The sobbing began before he could think to stop it. It tore out of him with frightening ease, as if every moment of pain in this cursed place had been waiting for permission to escape. Even the sky softened into a drizzling sympathy, rain falling as gently as it had the night they first kissed only a few paces from where they now stood.
That memory jolted Merlin just enough to pull back from Arthur’s arms.
"Wait. You knew who I was this entire time. You kissed me."
Arthur blinked, caught between guilt, confusion, and the remnants of worry. He gave a stiff nod, as if he could not quite believe the situation either.
"Why would you do that?"
"Why did you not tell me we were dragon married?" Arthur asked, sounding more defensive than he had intended. The words hung between them like a badly thrown gauntlet.
They stared at each other, the absurdity finally cracking something open. Both of them choked out shaky, half-hysterical laughter. After everything they had just hurled at one another, the sudden shift felt ridiculous. If anyone had been watching they would have made quite the spectacle, veering from fury to tears to laughter with no dignity left in sight.
Arthur wiped the rain from his brow. "This is a disaster," he muttered, though there was a faint warmth in his voice.
Merlin sniffed and gave a weak shrug. "We have had worse."
"Possibly," Arthur said. "Though I cannot think of an example at the moment."
Their laughter faded into a quieter, more fragile silence. Arthur’s gaze drifted back to Merlin with something steadier beneath it, something that made Merlin’s stomach twist in a way he refused to examine too closely.
"I never meant for you to be afraid of me," Arthur said. His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. "Not like that. Not ever."
Merlin looked down at his hands. They were trembling again. He curled them into fists and exhaled slowly. "I know you did not mean it. That hardly made it easier."
Arthur hesitated, then stepped closer. "I would have chosen differently if I had known."
Merlin gave a weak scoff. "Chosen what? To stop Uther’s laws? To save every sorcerer? To march into the council chamber and shout that magic is not a crime?"
"Yes, actually," Arthur said. It was quiet, but firm enough that Merlin’s head snapped up.
Arthur held his gaze, nothing defensive in his face now, only a difficult honesty. "I would have chosen you."
The rain softened further, pattering like an audience holding its breath. Merlin felt something twist sharply in his chest. He wanted to believe him. He wanted it desperately.
But the world was not that kind.
"You do not know what you are choosing," Merlin said. His voice felt too thin again, too familiar. "You cannot imagine what I have done. What I am."
Arthur stepped in until their foreheads nearly touched. "Then let me."
Merlin’s breath caught. The air between them had weight, almost a trembling heat. It took all his strength to look away.
"Arthur, this is not the time. There is still a trial. The council."
Arthur’s expression hardened slightly. The prince was back, not just the man. "The trial can wait. You matter more."
Merlin felt warmth rush to his cheeks and wiped another sniffle away, doing his best to look vaguely intimidating. "You cannot say things like that. It is disorienting."
"I could say worse," Arthur said with a faint smirk. "I could tell you I missed you every night you were gone with the council. That you look ridiculous in that silver crown but I liked it anyway. That seeing you walk into the hall made me forget what I was angry about."
Merlin glared half-heartedly. "You are insufferable. Absolutely insufferable."
"And you are avoiding the point."
"I am not," Merlin lied. Badly.
Arthur took his hands, gently uncurling Merlin’s fists one finger at a time. "You are Merlin. Ambrose. Whatever name you choose. You are the one I…" His voice faltered for a heartbeat, then settled. "The one I care for."
Merlin went perfectly still. His heart thudded so loudly he was certain Arthur could hear it.
He parted his lips to speak but Gwaine let out a low groan on the flagstones nearby. The fragile moment shattered like thin glass.
Arthur straightened at once. Merlin snatched his hands back as if suddenly scalded.
The warm rush in his chest was immediately replaced with guilt. He hurried over to Gwaine and knelt beside him, fingers brushing the knight’s temple. He had not cast anything lethal but, after years of experimenting in secret, Merlin knew better than to assume magic behaved exactly as intended. Gwaine remained unconscious, though his brow furrowed faintly as if in discomfort.
"We need to get him inside," Arthur said. He circled around and lifted Gwaine from the ground in one smooth motion. Merlin felt his stomach twist in a way he refused to acknowledge.
"I cannot come with you," Merlin said quietly. "I need to find the rest of the Council. They have to know something is moving through the castle wearing other people’s faces."
"You think they do not know already?" Arthur asked. Suspicion coloured his expression, an old habit Merlin recognised painfully well.
"Not every magical creature goes around pretending to be something it is not." Merlin winced at how defensive he sounded. It did not help that he was currently wearing a face that was not his own.
Arthur raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment. "Do you think that thing killed my father?"
"I do not know." Merlin shook his head. "If it had a hand in it, I doubt it was direct. But that does not rule out anything. Gwaine may have answers when he wakes. I am fairly sure they were talking before I arrived. He called him ‘Robin’."
"I will ask him when he comes round. How long will you be gone?"
"You will barely notice I have left." Merlin offered him a small smile and swept a hand through the air. A shimmering circle opened in the garden, swirling with pale gold light. Arthur jumped slightly, though he kept a firm hold on Gwaine.
Merlin paused on the threshold of the portal, glancing back. Arthur was watching him with a look he did not dare try to decipher.
"Do not get yourself killed," Arthur said.
"I should be telling you that," Merlin replied before stepping into the light.
Notes:
So...Arthur isn't a massive cheat?
Chapter 39: A Fragile Peace
Summary:
Merlin goes to speak to the council
Notes:
Hi everyone, hope you see this. I tried to post earlier and it crashed. My computer and I had words and she has promised not to do that again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The area the portal opened to felt less like a festival and more like an encampment of soldiers bracing for siege when Merlin arrived. Torches lit the area despite heavy winds. The ground squelched beneath hurried footsteps. Tempers simmered under taut voices. Everywhere he looked people were divided into knots and clusters. Some whispering urgently and glaring across firelight at rival groups whilst others were acting as though nothing was wrong.
Fracture lines were forming in the foundations of what had been built here. Doubt destroying friendships, mistrust burning through alliances.
The Council had always been held together by little more than a fragile, mutually beneficial idea of unity. It relied on every person believing that they were all working together towards a common goal. Uther Pendragon's death was threatening to destroy what he hadn't managed in life, their hope.
As Merlin passed, he caught fragments of conversations: “—never trusted the fae—,” “—it will be blamed on us—,” “—Camelot will march—,” “—the prince’s reaction?—” “—did you see the poison?—”
He kept his head down and walked. If he stopped to address every fear or accusation tossed in his direction, they’d be here until spring. And he had neither the patience nor the emotional stability for that. Not today, not after everything.
His chest tightened as another thought rose unbidden: Arthur knew.
Arthur had known.
Arthur had known who he really was. That Ambrose was a disguise. That Merlin had magic. That Merlin had been lying.
That Merlin had always been a liar.
He pushed the thought away, harshly, almost angrily. If he let himself think about the consequences of all of this... if he allowed himself to realise that no matter what his life could never go back to how it was...he would break. And he could not break. Not here. Not now. He had to try and fix things first. That was his job. He had to fix it. There were no other options.
Merlin squared his shoulders and walked on.
A little further into the encampment, a witch had conjured a projection of the day’s events: a smoky image stretched high as tent roofs, shifting and rippling in the wind. It replayed Uther Pendragon’s collapse over and over again. Merlin saw the king’s goblet slip from his fingers, heard the imagined clatter, saw the man's body strike the stone floor.
Some onlookers flinched each time. Others watched with morbid fascination. One or two muttered prayers in languages Merlin didn’t recognise. More than a few jeered and raised their glasses.
Merlin could barely look. His stomach lurched. Seeing Uther die once had been enough. He would never forget the ragged sound Arthur made when he realised something was wrong. Watching it repeated as a grotesque spectacle only made bile rise in Merlin’s throat.
He tore his eyes away and continued towards the Council tent.
The great cream-coloured pavilion at the encampment’s centre was lit from within by a hard, unnatural glow. It would seem welcoming if not for the raised voices. Merlin slowed, listening. The shouting inside was unmistakable: furious, guttural, and in a language he didn’t immediately recognise. He'd spent enough time in the camp the last few days to pick up a couple of words here and there, but this was too fast to mean anything but noise.
He stepped through the tent flap.
The scene inside was chaos.
Ely’am and Posey stood opposite each other like opposing generals. Their loud voices had the effect of rattling every object not nailed down. Crockery spun in the air like startled birds. A candlestick wobbled precariously. A bowl of fruit skidded across the table only to halt, quivering, mid-slide as Posey turned on a new word.
Cadmeus looked delighted. He lounged on a carved chair, long fingers laced together, grin baring those unnervingly pointed incisors. As if the argument were a farce performed solely for his amusement.
Morgana, by contrast, sat rigidly on a stool by the tent’s edge. Her spine was straight but her hands shook faintly where they rested in her lap. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She had been crying, maybe since leaving the hall. She looked so young.
They didn’t even notice Merlin until a china plate sailed at his face.
Reflexively, Merlin raised a shield. The plate shattered against the invisible barrier with a sharp crack, sending shards skittering across the ground. The sound cut through the tent like a blade.
All heads snapped toward him.
“Ah!” Cadmeus exclaimed, bright as sunrise. “The man of the hour. Finally here to help resolve the mess you’ve made?”
Merlin inhaled, slipped Ambrose’s steadier tone over the frustration prickling beneath his skin. “I have made no mess. The person who killed Uther did that.”
Cadmeus blinked innocently. “I seem to recall a rather tense situation unfolding before the king’s sudden decision to fall over.”
“It was being resolved,” Merlin replied curtly.
Morgana, voice clipped, added: “Uther killing himself to avoid judgement is not a resolution.”
“You believe he killed himself?” Merlin asked, startled by the accusation and the cold bitterness in her tone.
She turned to him sharply. “Do you not? I suppose you would know better than me, Ambrose. I was only raised by him. You, however, are now his son-in-law. Did you dine together often? Share warm family memories? What is the bride-price for a prince of a tyrant? How many of your people did you sell out for the privilege?”
Before Merlin could respond, Posey barked, “Enough!” Her voice cracked like thunder. Not magical, simply furious. She looked exhausted. “Fish, do you have reason to think someone harmed the king?”
“Yes,” Merlin said. “Someone has been sneaking around the castle disguised as other people, including pretending to be the prince's manservant.”
That got their attention.
“The boy we interrogated?” Ely’am asked, scepticism in every word. “He stated that he did not kill the king.”
“He was acting oddly,” Morgana said thoughtfully, leaving her chair to join the group. “But why do you suspect a swap?”
“He admitted it,” Merlin said. “Just now. He attempted to attack Arthur and Gwaine. I managed to fend him off and he vanished. During the fight he said his name was Robin.”
Posey stiffened. It was subtle but Merlin saw it. And so, it seemed, did Morgana.
“Even if there was a pretender,” Cadmeus mused, “the Truth Circle would have revealed his crimes. He said plainly he did not kill Uther.”
“No,” Morgana corrected sharply. “He said he did not kill Uther under orders from Arthur or this Council. That is not the same thing.” Her eyes flashed dangerously as she turned to Ely’am. “Come to think of it, why did you ask so few questions? And such gentle, easily dodged ones? Any competent spy could have deflected more rigorous interrogation.”
Ely’am hissed, drawing themselves taller, shoulders rolling back. “What are you implying?”
“Do you know this Robin?” Morgana asked coldly. “Are you covering for him?”
“You dare—”
“Well,” she interrupted, “if you are innocent, now would be the time to say so.”
Ely’am’s jaw clenched. “I do not have to justify myself to—”
“Why don’t we simply summon this Robin?” Cadmeus suggested with infuriating cheer. “Seems the simplest way to settle the matter. Summon the imp and force answers from him.”
Merlin blinked. “We can do that?”
“Technically,” Posey said, rubbing her temples, “we are still in session until the final judgement is delivered. We may call any witness we wish. Summoning someone previously summoned is… easier than most.”
“Well then,” Morgana snapped, “let us summon him.”
Posey’s shoulders sagged. “If we do this, we descend into a rabbit hole we may never crawl out of.”
The tent went quiet. Thick. Heavy.
“It is complicated enough,” she continued, “if the king committed suicide. But if a magical being was involved in his death before the trial concluded, then we have violated our own laws. Camelot could declare war. So could half the kingdoms in Albion. This Court could be branded as assassins. Things are delicate already. Is finding the killer worth the risk?”
Merlin stared at her in disbelief. His anger flared quick, bright, and sharp. “We said we stand for justice. Letting a killer walk free because of politics is not justice.”
“We seek justice for our own people,” Ely’am retorted. “King Uther was not ours. His death is no tragedy. Whatever the cause. I vote no. We end this now before anything else goes wrong.”
Posey bit her lip. Her eyes flicked to Merlin, then away. “I vote no,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, Fish. This is too complicated.”
“I vote yes,” Cadmeus announced grandly, flashing teeth. “Killing a man with poison is cowardice. If he wished Uther dead, he should have petitioned for the right of combat. Honour demands clarity.”
Merlin didn’t hesitate. “I vote yes.”
He needed the truth. Arthur needed the truth. And Merlin would not allow the first fragile step of honesty between them to be built on a lie.
Four eyes turned to Morgana. She inhaled sharply.
Merlin’s stomach sank.
Her gaze swept the room taking them all in. Ely’am rigid with indignation, Posey trembling, Cadmeus hungry for chaos, and Merlin standing too still, too strained.
Finally, she spoke.
“I vote yes.”
Notes:
Secrets shall soon be revealed...some of them anyway. Please feel free to put guesses in the comments
Chapter 40: Here's a Good Fellow
Summary:
The council summon Robin, they may regret this decision later
Chapter Text
Merlin stood on the far side of the council tent, arms folded tightly across his chest as he watched Posey draw the final lines of the summoning circle. The chalk rasped in steady, deliberate strokes, her hand moving with the precision of someone who had performed the ritual hundreds of times. Her tounge was stuck out slightly to the side in concentration. Morgana watched her like a hawk, every muscle taut, gaze sharp and unblinking. If Posey’s hand so much as trembled, Merlin was certain Morgana would pounce on it.
Ely’am also watched, though with a pinched expression that suggested the ritual offended their sensibilities in some way. Their mouth twitched in irritation each time the chalk hitched on a rough patch of canvas.
Cadmeus, by contrast, showed not the slightest concern. He had somehow acquired an entire roast chicken, still warm, and was tearing it apart with single-minded enthusiasm. Grease glistened on his sharp incisors as he gnawed on a wing bone. If he was troubled by the summoning of an unpredictable element accused of impersonation and attempted assault, he hid it well.
Out of all the councillors, Cadmeus baffled Merlin the most. Sometimes he seemed deeply invested in the court’s proceedings while at others he appeared almost bored, shrugging at the chaos with an indulgent air. Merlin could never guess which version of the creature would surface next. Perhaps that was the point.
The chalk scraping ceased. Posey blew a lock of hair from her face and rose, stepping very carefully out of the circle to avoid smudging the intricate shapes. Runes spiralled out from the centre, twisting around one another like vines. Merlin recognised some of them as sigils used to bind illusions and compel truth. Others were unfamiliar, older, drawn in an angular hand that spoke of traditions long predating Camelot.
“All right,” Posey said, brushing chalk dust off her palms. “Ambrose. Think of who you want to summon and call for them. It shouldn't matter whether you know their true name. The spell works on intention.”
Merlin stepped closer. His heart thudded against his ribs despite the glamour that cloaked him in Ambrose’s dignity. The idea of calling Robin back made his skin crawl. The thing had worn his face, threatened Arthur, and nearly put everything Merlin cared for in jeopardy.
Arthur. Arthur who–
He shoved the thought aside. This was not the place.
“Right,” Merlin murmured. He cleared his throat and tried to sound authoritative. “Robin. Appear.”
The circle responded instantly. Light erupted upwards in a column so bright Merlin had to shield his eyes. The air roared, then imploded with a sharp crack, extinguishing every candle in the tent.
When the glow faded, a familiar figure sprawled on the ground in the centre of the circle. Merlin’s own face looking up at him with exaggerated offence.
“Well,” the impostor said, brushing himself off, “that was hardly polite.”
The imposter stood and strutted towards the tent exit. He was promptly hurled backwards by the invisible boundary. He hit the ground with a yelp and sprawled gracelessly.
“Not polite at all,” he muttered sulkily.
Morgana waved her hand, relighting the candles and casting the fake's features into sharper relief.
“Reveal yourself,” said the real Merlin, stepping closer. “We know that is not your true form.”
The impostor grinned broadly. “Oh, you would know, wouldn’t you?” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Never mind. I’m bored of this little charade anyway.”
He winked, and Merlin’s own face stretched into a smirk before melting like wax beneath a flame. The limbs shortened, the hair brightened, the features sharpening and reforming until a completely different being stood in front of them.
He had shockingly bright, copper-red hair that stood in chaotic tufts. A scatter of freckles dusted every inch of his skin, climbing all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. His clothes looked as though they had been stitched from autumn leaves. A mix of reds, golds, and greens layered together like a walking forest canopy.
He spun once, theatrically, and bowed with a flourish.
“Who are you?” Morgana asked, her tone held just shy of dangerous.
The creature beamed. “Why, you may call me Robin, good fellow,” he announced, dipping into an even deeper bow. “Humbly do I greet such noble company.”
Cadmeus snorted into his chicken.
Merlin did not trust himself to return the creature’s smile. “Why were you pretending to be the prince’s manservant?” he asked coldly.
Robin straightened, waggling his eyebrows. “Perhaps I wished for some time alone with the princely one. A glimpse of him with sleep still clouding his gaze, curls mussed, voice all soft at waking…” He ended with a lewd wink.
Merlin’s temper surged. He wanted to throttle him.
Morgana stepped in with far more restraint. “Why were you in the castle?”
“Why, that is where the action was,” Robin chirped. “One must position oneself where things are most ...interesting.”
Merlin’s irritation sharpened. Robin was dancing around every question, slipping away like smoke. He needed to be pinned down to the truth, but phrasing questions to box in a fae was its own art, and right now Merlin’s thoughts were a tangled mess.
He glanced around for assistance, but the councillors seemed peculiarly disengaged. Posey watched Morgana rather than Robin. Ely’am studied a book, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. Cadmeus gnawed on his second chicken.
The sight of Ely’am’s book sparked an idea.
Merlin took a deliberate step back from the circle. “Let’s leave it,” he said loudly, addressing Morgana. “It’s clear he’s too stupid to help us.”
He met Morgana’s eyes and prayed she would follow his lead. Posey’s book had included numerous accounts of the fae becoming offended, often to catastrophic effect. Once roused, they did not easily let anything go. Their pride made them dangerous, yes, but it also made them predictable.
After a brief pause, Morgana nodded smoothly. “You’re right. The silly creature does not even realise who we are. We cannot expect useful answers from something so…simple.”
Robin’s complexion reddened. His fists balled.
“Oh look,” Merlin continued, savouring the reaction, “how easily he was caught. A proper spy wouldn’t be so sloppy.”
Robin stamped a foot. “I am an excellent spy! The very best! I am the most supreme Watcher ever born!”
“Watcher?” Merlin repeated, frowning.
Morgana was a step ahead of him. She turned sharply to Posey. “Aren’t the Watchers the council’s spies?”
Posey’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Yes. They are.”
“Wait,” Merlin said slowly. “Are you telling me this Robin is a spy for us?”
“Not exactly,” Posey murmured, looking anxiously towards Ely’am, who continued staring at their book with suspicious intensity.
“Ely, please,” Posey said softly. “We need to fix this.”
With a long, put-upon sigh, Ely’am lowered the book.
“The Watchers are utilised by the council once a trial begins,” they said. “They are spirits from the Other Place, bound to service. Usually as some sort of penance to the Royal Families. They are meant to observe, report, and most importantly remain uninvolved. They are summoned when a trial opens and dismissed when it closes. They are normally here no longer than a day.”
They paused, face tightening.
“This trial was extended. Far beyond its usual length. And the Watchers…were not recalled when they should have been.”
Robin laughed. It was a low, wicked sound that slithered along Merlin's spine.
“Oh, left alone, were we?” he lilted. “Abandoned to our own devices? What were we to do. Watch and not join the game? Where’s the fun in that? We merely wished to play.”
“You knew about this?” Morgana demanded, rounding on the rest of the council.
Posey winced. “I realised partway through. But there was little Ely’am or I could do. The power to summon or dismiss them rests with the High Seat of the council, and that authority was…removed centuries ago after it was misused. The Watchers operate independently of us now. We didn't even know which spirits had been sent or how many. We caught most of them the first night. But Robin—”
“—has always been wily,” Ely’am finished sourly.
Robin bowed again, this time with an arrogant flourish.
Merlin felt heat flare in his chest. “So you’ve been letting him run rampant around the castle, doing gods know what, and didn’t think to tell us?”
Morgana’s voice rose, sharp as a blade. “You must have realised early that the Merlin summoned to the hall was a fake. Why did you not seize him then?”
“And make us appear guilty?” Posey shot back. “To imply we had something to hide? No. The best option was to apprehend him quietly once the trial concluded.”
“And voting against summoning him now?” Merlin demanded.
“We wished to avoid unnecessary upset,” Ely’am said stiffly. “We believed he would cause minor mischief. The Watchers cannot cause harm.”
Merlin stared, incredulous. “Cannot cause harm?”
“They cannot physically touch another with violent intent,” Ely’am insisted, though the words carried a defensive edge.
“Oh, harm?” Robin sang, spinning lightly on his heel. “No blows may I strike, tis true...yet tongues are free, and mischief sweeter still.”
He grinned, wide and wild, eyes glimmering with delighted malice.
“And talk I have.”
---
Earlier that night, Lancelot had been following the imposter at a careful distance for several minutes when the man took a sharp turn into a narrow side passage and promptly vanished. One moment he was there, the next he had slipped from sight as though the shadows themselves had swallowed him. Lancelot slowed, scanning the corridor with a soldier’s patience. Nothing. No footfalls, no breath, no tell-tale flicker of movement.
He swore under his breath. Whoever the imposter was, he moved like smoke and left no trace. Lancelot hesitated only a heartbeat before deciding he would have to fall back, regroup, and try to warn the others. He just hoped they'd believe him. He turned on his heel meaning to head for the kitchens.
He walked straight into someone.
“Lance.”
Gwen’s voice was thin and frayed, and her eyes were already brimming with tears. Whatever composure she had managed to hold onto was moments from shattering.
“I need your help,” she whispered.
Notes:
Ely’am trying to convince people this is all fine while Robin is behind them running with matches
Chapter 41: Hate Leads to the Dark Side
Summary:
A confession is made
Notes:
Hi everyone! Love to see the comments as always
Quick reminder in case it wasn't super clear, Lancelot and Gwen are a little bit behind in the timeline compared to Merlin, the conversation they are having in this chapter is happening at the same time as the fight in the garden.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Robin’s smile unfurled across his face like a cut splitting open, every razor-sharp tooth on display. He looked delighted, almost drunk on the attention now fixed upon him.
“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels as though beginning a fireside tale, “I wandered yon castle for the hundredth hour, when what should my ears catch but the weeping of a mortal maid. Tears so sweet, they rang like silver bells. I could hardly resist lending her my company.”
His tone was light, musical, but the underlying malice made Merlin’s skin crawl.
—
“I was in the kitchens,” Gwen whispered, hands twisting into the fabric of her apron, “just after they dismissed us on that first day of the trial. I’d shown Morgana to her rooms. She was…different. And I…well, I was not myself.”
Lancelot stayed quiet, letting her speak at her own pace. She was pale beneath the moonlight, almost waxy with the strain. If he pushed, she might shatter.
“So I stayed behind to tidy the pots. Trying to keep busy. Trying not to think of Morgana, after…after everything.”
Her breath trembled. Lancelot waited.
“Merlin came to join me.”
He blinked. “Merlin?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t expecting him, but he said he’d come to check on the kitchen supplies for the trial. Said that Arthur had dismissed him but he couldn’t sleep. He looked tired but kind. He always listens, doesn’t he? He's so easy to talk to. So I told him…I told him that Morgana being back brought everything up again. What happened between us. How she’d left Camelot. How I’d spent months wondering whether I’d failed her. How maybe if I had been better, been more...”
Her voice wavered, caught between nostalgia and dread.
—
“Oh, she was heartbroken,” Robin crooned, clasping his hands in mock sympathy. “So betrayed by her sorceress sweetheart. Mortals fall to pieces over such tiny things. A kiss forgotten, a secret kept. And you can never trust a witch’s loyalty. Almost as fickle as warlock's honesty.”
Morgana surged forward, fury burning gold in her eyes. “What did you do to Gwen?”
Robin tilted his head, curls of bright red hair spilling like flames. “Was that her name? A sweet little mortal, whatever she was called. She apologised to me, you know. Or well, to Merlin. It was quite touching. Said she ought to have trusted him with the truth of her relationship with the witch sooner. That friends do not keep secrets.”
His gaze landed on Merlin then. Direct, pointed, and cruel. An arrow struck true.
Merlin felt heat crawl beneath his skin but he forced his voice to remain steady.
“What happened next?”
Robin grinned, teeth gleaming.
“Well…”
—
“We spoke for ages,” Gwen murmured, staring at her hands as if afraid they might vanish. “And then he said something…something that I still can’t get out of my mind.”
Lancelot lowered himself onto the bench beside her, moving slowly so she would not be startled.
“What did he say?”
She swallowed hard.
“He said it was no wonder Morgana had turned out the way she did. Considering who her father was.”
Lancelot frowned. “But Sir Gorlois was an honourable man. I've never heard knight nor servant speak ill of him."
“Not Gorlois.” Gwen’s voice cracked. “Uther.”
The name fell like a stone into a silent pond. Lancelot was struck dumb by the revalation. What that would mean.
“He said,” she whispered, “that he’d heard it somewhere and assumed I knew. That I was close enough to Morgana to have been told. And then he begged me not to tell anyone he’d said it. Said he shouldn’t have spoken of it.”
Lancelot struggled to process the implications. Morgana...Uther’s daughter?
“And does Morgana know?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “I can't believe she knew as a girl. She loved Gorlois dearly. She used to carry his dagger everywhere, I never saw her willingly part with it. But if she found out later…if that was why she attacked the castle…”
Her breath quickened; she was spiralling fast.
Lancelot reached out, resting his hand lightly on her arm.
“Gwen. Why are you telling me this now? You said all this happened days ago. But something else is wrong. Why are you crying?”
Gwen’s tears halted. Her face went still. Too still.
“I do not cry for that,” she said quietly. “It’s what happened after.”
—
“Oh, she was beside herself,” Robin said in a sing-song tone. “Poor, trembling thing. Fretting that her lovely sorceress would break beneath such a truth. Her heart a fragile glass bauble.”
“Robin.” Morgana’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Say what you did.”
The Fae blinked innocently. “Do, lady witch? Why, I merely told her a truth I tell you now. A shadow lurks upon a golden line, and thus the last leaf dies on the vine.”
Merlin frowned. “Speak plainly.”
“If you insist,” Robin said with a theatrical sigh. “I reminded her not to dispair, as fair Lady Morgana would not have to live with that black blood in her veins for much longer. For the vine must be pruned when a kingdom is poisoned.”
Posey inhaled sharply.
“The Pendragon line was on trial,” she murmured. Her voice as old as her form was young. “Morgana would have been bound to the verdict. As Uther’s kin.”
Robin clapped delightedly. “Exactly, my luminous druid! She would have been struck down as surely as if the executioners axe had fallen.”
The tent fell silent. Everyone understood.
Robin, sensing the shift, leaned forward.
“Oh, and she panicked, that mortal maid. Nearly ran to the witch’s chamber to beg her flee. But she knew she would never persuade her. So then I whispered of the only path that may save her beloved.”
“And that was?” Merlin asked, though dread coiled in his gut.
Robin smiled, cruel as winter.
“To end the trial before the verdict.”
All breath left the room at once.
—
“You see, Lancelot,” Gwen said, hands shaking violently, “it was the only way. The only chance Morgana had. They were neber going to find him innocent, and she didn’t deserve to die because of Uther's crimes.”
Lancelot’s stomach twisted. “Gwen…what did you do?”
“I …I went to Gaius’s chambers.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’ve helped him before with herbs. And I knew he keeps certain plants locked away. Plants that…that could sicken a man without leaving a mark. Like falling asleep.”
“Gwen,” Lancelot breathed, horrified, “stop.”
“I have to finish,” she insisted, gripping his hand tightly, as though terrified he might pull away. “If I don’t say it aloud, I’ll go mad.”
He swallowed. “Then…tell me.”
She nodded, shaky but resolute.
“I used his mortar and pestle. I crushed the herbs. Mixed them into wine. A whole bottle. My hands were shaking so much I nearly spilled it.”
She inhaled sharply.
“And then Gaius walked in.”
Lancelot froze.
“What did you do?”
“I hid the herbs behind a stack of scrolls and said I’d come looking for a corkscrew,” she whispered. “Told him I couldn’t find the one in the kitchens. He believed me. Or pretended to.”
“And he didn’t question the bottle?”
She shook her head. “He barely looked at it. He just handed me the corkscrew and told me to return it later.”
Lancelot rubbed a hand over his face. This was spiralling, fast and terrible.
“I carried the bottle to the hall,” she said. “Planning to place it on Uther’s table before breakfast. But the next morning I woke up sick with guilt. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”
“So you didn’t?” he asked, hope flickering.
“I swapped the bottle at the table,” she whispered. “Replaced it with another from the cellar. I thought I’d undone it. I that no one would be harmed.”
A sob wrenched from her chest.
“And then he died, Lancelot. He died, and I thought— I thought that I’d removed right bottle. But—”
She broke down completely.
Lancelot held her as she cried, though dread anchored itself in his bones.
—
Merlin stared at Robin, rage simmering beneath every inch of skin.
“You manipulated her into murder.”
Robin gave a theatrical gasp. “Manipulate? Oh, sweet warlock, I merely spoke truths she already feared. Mortals are so eager to leap from cliffs when nudged, forgetting they have no wings.”
Morgana’s hands trembled at her sides, golden sparks flickering at her fingertips.
“What else did you do?” she hissed.
Robin tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“Oh, you know, I cannot quite recal. It slips from me as smoke. Perhaps a jest here, a whisper there. A shove of luck, a twist of fate. Mischief, mischief everywhere. Spilling secrets, slipping keys, changing footprints in the snow. Making men shout at shadows and maidens dream strange dreams.”
He twirled in a circle, laughing.
“It's all been such fun! For what are we Watchers if not watchers of chaos?”
Posey looked sick. Ely’am looked furious. Cadmeus merely raised a brow and continued plucking meat from a chicken bone.
Merlin stepped forward.
“You have caused chaos in Camelot. Fear. Death.”
Robin beamed.
“Aye,” he said, with a flourish. “But none may say I touched a soul with violent hand. I only nudged the board and let the pieces tumble as they would.”
His grin grew wide and wicked.
“For I am Robin, good fellow, mischief-maker, whisper-spinner, and teller of truths. And in Camelot’s pretty court—”
He bowed low, leaves crackling.
“—I have been having the time of my life.”
Notes:
Be honest, who worked it out?
Though we still have some plot to uncover together... 😈
Also, because I'm nosy, how are you all pronouncing Ely’am and Cadmeus in your heads? Because I suddenly realised it might not be how I am and I wanna know if someone has a better idea so I can pretend that's what it was the entire time.
Chapter 42: Reunion, Revelation, Recovery
Summary:
Lancelot catches up with Arthur
Notes:
The timelines start to catch up with each other
Mini update while I try to make the plot tangles in my brain come out coherently and in English.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Lancelot could do nothing but hold Gwen as she cried.
Her sobs were the kind that came from somewhere deep and ungovernable, wrenching her whole body with each breath. He had fought monsters, stood against armies, faced death with a steady hand, and yet this was the thing that left him utterly helpless. There was no blade to raise against this, no oath that could shield her from the weight of what she had just placed in his arms.
Of all the things she might have confessed, this had never crossed his mind.
A bottle of wine and a moment of fear twisted into catastrophe.
And throughout her tale, the gnawing certainty eating at his insides telling him that he had failed.
Lancelot rested his chin lightly against the crown of her head, his grip firm but gentle, as though she might shatter if he held her too tightly. His thoughts churned, unbidden and merciless. He should have noticed. He should have paid attention. He prided himself on being observant, on knowing the moods and movements of those he loved, and yet he had missed this entirely.
He had missed Gwen unraveling.
He had missed Morgana’s shadow falling over her again.
And worse than all of that, he had missed Merlin.
The thought lodged in his chest like a barbed arrow.
He should have checked on Merlin sooner, when the trial was first called. When the castle began to feel wrong. When the air itself had seemed thick with secrets. Merlin had always been the quiet constant, the one who noticed everything even while pretending not to. Lancelot had trusted, perhaps foolishly, that if something were truly amiss, Merlin would tell him.
But what if Merlin never had the chance?
From Gwen’s broken account there was no doubt in his mind that the Merlin who had whispered poison into her ear was the same one he had seen earlier in the day. The same one who had smiled too sharply, whose presence sat wrong beneath the skin. The same one Lancelot had followed through the corridors, only to lose him moments later like smoke through clenched fingers.
An imposter.
A doppelgänger.
A thing wearing his friend’s face.
And if that was true, then where was the real Merlin?
The question was a cold hand tightening around his heart.
Who knew how long the false one had been walking these halls? Days? Weeks? Long enough to earn trust, to gather secrets, to twist hearts already raw with grief and fear. Long enough to do irreparable damage.
Long enough to kill.
Gods.
Merlin might be dead.
The thought nearly brought him to his knees.
He forced it aside, ruthlessly, because if he allowed himself to dwell on it he would freeze where he stood. There was no room for that now. One thing at a time. Gwen needed him. The truth needed uncovering. Panic could wait.
He drew back slightly so he could look at her, though he did not release her entirely.
“Merlin wasn’t Merlin,” he said quietly.
The words seemed to startle her more than anything else he could have said. Gwen lifted her head, eyes red and glassy, confusion etched deep into her expression.
“What?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”
“There is someone else,” Lancelot said, choosing his words with care. “A doppelgänger. Someone pretending to be him. I don’t know how long they have been here, but at least as long as he was summoned before the court. From what you have told me, I suspect longer.”
Her brow furrowed. “But…surely I would have noticed. I’ve known Merlin for years.”
“So have I,” Lancelot replied gently. “And I did not notice at first either.”
Gwen shook her head, a faint, disbelieving motion. “I don’t understand. I spoke to him. I trusted him.”
“You have barely slept,” Lancelot said softly. “You are grieving, frightened, pulled in a dozen directions at once. I doubt you would recognise your own brother at fifty paces in your current state. That is not a failing. It is human.”
She swallowed hard.
“I followed him from the kitchens earlier,” Lancelot continued. “The imposter. I was sure something was wrong. But he vanished before I could confront him.”
Gwen glanced around the empty corridor as if seeing it anew. “The only place near here is the late Queen’s garden. The entrance is kept private. Most of the castle doesn’t even know it exists. Only servants and a handful of nobles.”
“I doubt an imposter came to admire the roses,” Lancelot said grimly.
Her eyes widened as the implication struck. “Arthur.”
Lancelot was already moving.
“He might have gone there for peace,” he said. “After…after his father.”
He shot her a brief, apologetic look for the cruelty of the reminder, but Gwen did not seem to notice. Her concern had already eclipsed her grief.
“This way,” she said, turning sharply.
They moved quickly through the winding corridors, their footsteps echoing too loudly in the hush of the sleeping castle. Lancelot’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every second that passed felt like one more chance for disaster.
When they reached the concealed door, Gwen halted abruptly.
Lancelot stepped ahead of her at once. “Stay back.”
He drew his sword with a soft rasp of steel, positioning himself between her and whatever lay beyond. His mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. A body. Blood on the stones. Arthur alone with grief sharp enough to drive him to violence. Merlin lying broken among the flowers.
Too late.
Always too late.
He eased the door open, wincing as the hinges protested with a rusted squeal that felt far too loud in the stillness.
What greeted him was not what he had prepared himself for.
Arthur was kneeling in the dirt, bent over Gwaine’s unconscious form. The knight was propped awkwardly against an overturned flower pot, his head lolling as Arthur tried to manoeuvre him. The garden itself bore the marks of violence. Scorched stone. Shattered pottery. Cracked earth where magic had clearly struck.
But there was no sign of the imposter.
Arthur glanced up at the sound of the door, sword half-raised, then relaxed visibly when he saw who it was.
“Does everyone know about this garden?” Arthur asked irritably.
Lancelot hesitated, his blade still raised. “Your Majesty,” he began, “I need to warn you. There is an imposter in the castle pretending to be—”
“Merlin,” Arthur finished flatly. “Yes. I gathered that much myself.”
Lancelot blinked.
Arthur turned back to Gwaine, grunting as he shifted the knight’s weight. “Does everyone in this castle think I am blind, or is it just those closest to me? Now, unless you would like him to choke on his own tounge, I suggest you help me.”
Caught entirely off balance, Lancelot stepped forward and sheathed his sword. Together they adjusted Gwaine, easing him into a more stable position. The knight remained deeply unconscious, his breathing steady but heavy.
Gwen hovered in the doorway, her distress plain to see. Arthur looked up, caught sight of her expression, and immediately misread it.
“He’s not dead,” Arthur said in a tone of awkward reassurance. “Just asleep. Very asleep.”
To prove the point, he lifted Gwaine’s arm and let it drop unceremoniously onto the knight’s own face.
Nothing.
Arthur frowned slightly when neither of them laughed.
“Gwen,” he said more gently, straightening. “What’s the matter?”
Notes:
Please do not take first aid advice from Arthur, he is bad at it. Roll your unconscious but breathing situationship-in-laws onto their side in the recovery position after completing your secondary survey. Do not prop up on plant pots.
Chapter 43: The Order of Things
Summary:
The council discuss Robin's revelations
Notes:
This chapter marks over 200,000 words on AO3...damn. 200606 to be exact
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Well then,” said Cadmeus, bringing his clawed paws together with a sound like stones grinding. “That solves everything.”
Merlin looked up sharply.
“We kill this Gwen, send Robin back to the Seelies with a flea in his ear, and wipe the Pendragons off the face of the earth. Then we go home, and I never again have to listen to you talkers prattle on while justice rots.”
The words fell into the tent like a dropped weapon.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Morgana was the first to move.
“We are not killing Gwen,” she said.
Her voice was steady, but Merlin caught the tension beneath it, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve as though bracing herself against a blow.
Merlin nodded immediately. “That is not an option.”
Cadmeus turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “I think you will find it very much is an option, pup.”
The word struck sharper than a blade.
“I have indulged this farce for too long,” Cadmeus continued. “I have been parted from my home, my people, my sky, for too long. This trial demanded blood from the moment it was called. Anything less is an insult to those slaughtered under Pendragon rule.”
He gestured vaguely towards the centre of the tent, where Robin sat bound and grinning, as though all of this were merely theatre arranged for his amusement.
“This girl denied our dead justice,” Cadmeus said. “She chose to act alone, outside the Council, outside the law. She must answer for that.”
Merlin’s heart hammered in his ears.
He turned instinctively to the others, searching for an ally. Ely’am was still staring at Robin with undisguised loathing, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Posey met Merlin’s gaze, her expression weary and infinitely sad.
Robin, for his part, smiled.
“Do not tell me you agree with this,” Merlin said, his voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Posey, please.”
Since the trial began, she had been his anchor. The one who explained without condescension. The one who reminded him to breathe. If she sided with Cadmeus now, he did not know how he would stand against them all.
Posey sighed, long and deep, like the tide pulling back from shore.
“I do not know, Fish,” she said quietly. “This has made everything…more complicated.”
“More complicated?” Merlin echoed, incredulous.
He took a step forward before he quite realised he was moving.
“If Gwen did this, and we only have the word of a known deceiver to support that, she did exactly what this Council has been attempting to do. She ended Uther’s reign before more innocent blood could be spilled. Innocent blood that includes his children.”
Morgana stiffened beside him.
“You would have killed her,” Merlin pressed on, his words gaining momentum. “For an association she herself only discovered recently. You would have passed a verdict knowing full well she was magical, knowing what that verdict would mean.”
Cadmeus snorted. “She is Pendragon blood.”
“She was raised Pendragon,” Merlin shot back. “That is not her crime. And punishing Gwen is admitting that what we are doing is unjust.”
Posey frowned. “That is not how the Council will see it.”
“We are the Council,” Cadmeus said, slamming his claws against the stone floor. “Our authority gives us the prerogative to decide who may act and who may not. This servant girl took justice into her own hands. She had no right.”
“That is not how justice works,” Merlin said.
“That is exactly how it works,” Cadmeus roared. “And you would know that if you had been raised properly.”
The words struck him like a physical blow.
For a moment, the tent blurred.
It was ridiculous, Merlin thought distantly. Of everything that had happened in the past week, this was the thing that almost undid him. Not the trial, not the imposter wearing his face, not even the knowledge of how close they had all come to killing Morgana.
This.
The implication that he was lesser because of where he came from.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
He had been raised properly.
He had.
He was Merlin, son of Hunith, and she had taught him everything worth knowing.
She taught him that the world was cruel and unfair, that power rarely belonged to those who deserved it, and that often the bully with the biggest stick would win. But she also taught him that this did not give you the right to become a bully yourself.
She taught him kindness, and compassion, and that these things were not weakness. That you could hold your ground without crushing others beneath your feet.
Maybe he did not understand the labyrinthine politics of the magical world. He barely understood the tedium Arthur faced as prince of a middling kingdom, let alone the burden of governing countless peoples and traditions.
Maybe he was not as powerful as Posey, not as learned as Morgana, not as cunning as Ely’am, or as physically formidable as Cadmeus.
But he knew what was right.
His Mama taught him that.
Merlin straightened.
“I am a member of this Council,” he said clearly. “Emrys, representative of the Warlocks and the Dragons. I will be spoken to with respect, Cadmeus of the Tribe That Runs Through the Desert.”
The room stilled.
“No decision regarding the fate of Gweneviere will be made without her present to defend herself. That is final.”
Cadmeus opened his mouth, but Merlin raised his hand.
“I am returning to Camelot,” Merlin continued. “I will inform Arthur of what we have learned.”
A chorus of protests rose immediately.
“You cannot simply leave.”
“This concerns all of us.”
“The Council has not adjourned.”
Merlin turned slowly, fixing the room with a glare he did not know he possessed.
“Arthur watched his father die in his arms,” he said. “At the hands of someone he trusted, who was manipulated into believing it was the only way to save his sister.”
Morgana’s breath hitched.
“He deserves to hear this without an audience,” Merlin went on. “He deserves truth without spectacle. The court reconvenes in the morning. I suggest you spend the intervening hours ensuring the rest of the Watchers are gathered, because if this trial continues, it will do so properly.”
Silence followed.
Then, without waiting for permission, Merlin turned and strode from the tent.
His hands were shaking by the time he reached the edge of the clearing, but there was a strange lightness in his chest.
It felt good.
Terrifying, but good.
He did not slow as he drew the spell, familiar lines of magic unfurling at his fingertips. The portal opened with a low hum, and Merlin stepped through without looking back.
He did not notice the faint shift in the air behind him.
He did not notice the second set of footsteps.
He only realised he was not alone when the portal snapped shut and the forest silence was replaced by the echoing stone corridors of Camelot.
Merlin turned.
Someone else had come through with him.
Notes:
Merlin is a mama's boy above all