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“We found him trying to sneak past our guard,” explains Hebes, ushering Arthur towards the tent. The night is cold and dark and Arthur is tired, but an intruder is more important than sleep. “He was coming from the direction of Morgana’s camp.”
He holds back the flap and Arthur ducks inside, to where their prisoner has been tied roughly to a chair, the blood matting at his temple only a dark shadow in the torchlight. Arthur stops before his second foot is even in the tent. “I don’t understand,” he says.
“Sire?”
“That’s Merlin,” says Arthur. “For god’s— you woke me up for Merlin?”
“I—” Hebes flushes, looking between Arthur and the other men, a tell-tale clinking of armour sweeping through them all as they shift. “He was coming from the camp?”
“He probably went wandering,” snaps Arthur, and goes to inspect Merlin’s unconscious form. The blow to the head doesn’t look good; it’s still wet, and when Arthur takes Merlin’s head in his hands to get a better look, it shines. “He does that, he’s an idiot. Hasn’t anybody told you?”
“He’s— he’s under a truth spell, my lord—”
“Pssh,” says Arthur, and returns Merlin’s head to where it was resting, chin tucked into his scarf. “How could he possibly—”
“He told us.”
Arthur stops. He blinks down at Merlin a few times, a headache coming on, and then looks back up at the knights. His hand comes away from Merlin’s shoulder covered in mud and grit, the traces of the forest. “He told you.”
Hebes nods. “Yes, sire.”
“And then what?”
“He passed out.”
Slowly, Arthur says, “So who hit him?”
“No one, sire,” says Hebes. “He, um. He was already injured.”
Arthur looks down at Merlin again. Licks his lips. “Get the physician,” he instructs. “And—find Sir Leon.”
“Yes, sire,” says Hebes, and he jerks his head at one of the men, who follows. The other four stand around on the balls of their feet, all looking steadily ahead, and Arthur wants to yell at them, but he’s a good king, so he doesn’t. He contemplates sending them outside, but the tent is going to do very little at obscuring his words, so they might as well stay.
He crouches down in front of Merlin’s knees. “Merlin,” he says, very loudly, and then again. He shakes Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin.”
Merlin groans. Arthur sits back on his heels.
“Thank god,” he says. “I thought you’d left me forever.”
Luckily for Arthur, it comes out too sarcastic to be believed. Merlin calls him a very rude, very muttered set of names.
“Careful now,” says Arthur, glancing at the knights. “We’ve company.”
Merlin mumbles something he doesn’t catch. Arthur fishes his knife out of his boot, unfolding the blade to hold it against the ropes circling Merlin’s chest. “If I cut you free, are you going to stay up, or have you forgotten your basic functions as well as your manners?”
“You’re being very loud,” groans Merlin, which Arthur takes as permission. One of the lads, Herminde, makes a startled sound in the back of his throat. Arthur glances at him, but duty seems to win out over mortification, pushing him to say:
“Sire, it’s just— shouldn’t we— shouldn’t we be wary, at least? He might be a spy, or, or enchanted to cause havoc, or in league with the enemy.”
“Don’t be stupid,” says Arthur, derisively. “He hasn’t been round at Morgana’s having tea.”
Merlin shakes his head. “No tea. Just biscuits.”
Arthur hesitates. “What?”
“Just biscuits,” says Merlin. “With Morgana.”
Arthur licks his lips. “Merlin,” he says, very carefully. “You’ve got a head injury. You’re out of your wits.”
“Definitely,” agrees Merlin.
“You weren’t with Morgana.”
“Was,” says Merlin. “She gave me biscuits. Made my head spinny. Truth spell, definitely.”
Arthur feels bad about it, later, but he takes the knife away from the bindings. “I see.”
Herminde makes a face that looks like he wants to say I told you so but can’t because Arthur’s the king. Arthur feels a bit sick, and wishes he could go back to bed. Luckily for him, Hebes returns with Leon and Gaius (and Fergus and Dornar, how excellent) before Arthur has to decide what to do with this information.
“He says he’s been enchanted with a truth spell,” says Arthur, as Gaius works. “Morgana force-fed him one, apparently.”
“Hm,” says Gaius. He tilts Merlin’s chin up to the sky, peering into his eyes. “And just what were you doing in Morgana’s vicinity, I wonder.”
“She ambushed me,” says Merlin, squeezing his eyes open and shut. “I only went to go have a look at her forces, and she ambushed me. She’s so rude.”
“He could’ve told her everything,” mutters Fergus, behind Arthur, and Leon shoots him a worried look. Arthur turns the ring on his finger, and Leon interjects: “What did you tell her, Merlin?”
“Hm? Oh.” Merlin grins. “How bad her hair is, these days. Honestly, have you seen it? Shocking! She’s just walking around like that. Disgraceful.”
“Merlin,” says Arthur, pressing his fingers hard against his browbone in an attempt to quell his headache, “are you trying to tell me that you got yourself kidnapped and enchanted with a truth spell, and the only thing Morgana wanted was to know your opinion on her hair?”
“Well, obviously not,” says Merlin, like he thinks Arthur’s being stupid. “She wanted to know our plan of attack for tomorrow. But telling her other true stuff was easier than lying.”
“So you didn’t reveal our battle plans,” says Fergus, and Merlin frowns, a sudden flicker of genuine surprise on his face, and his eyes seek out Arthur’s.
“Of course not,” he says, and Arthur doesn’t like that, the sting of hurt lacing his voice, the betrayal that Arthur would ever need to ask. Never mind that Arthur didn’t say anything.
“You understand why we have to ask you,” says Arthur quietly, to keep the peace. Merlin opens his mouth and then closes it, swallowing whatever he wanted to say. Arthur hopes his apology is clear enough on his face.
“It’s true enough, sire,” says Gaius. “I’ve seen these sorts of things before. They’re remarkably compelling. If Merlin admits he didn’t betray any secrets, then he didn’t.”
“I believe you,” says Arthur, before anyone else can. “How do we break it?”
“You need eye of newt and dog tongue,” says Merlin promptly, and about seven sets of eyes swivel onto him at once. Arthur closes his own and takes a deep breath.
“How do you know that?” says Dornar, and Merlin goes a shade paler under the blood.
“Um,” he says. “I read about it.”
Arthur twitches.
“Stop asking him things,” he orders, before anyone can keep going. “Gaius, those supplies, do you have them? I want a cure for this by the morning.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” promises Gaius. “My medicine bag has certainly become more varied since knowing Merlin.” He pats Merlin’s shoulder, and apologetically adds, “Well, you do get in a lot of trouble.”
“Thanks,” says Merlin, a bit miserably. He looks towards Arthur, who very determinedly avoids looking at him in favour of helping Gaius with the bandages. Gaius presses the white cloth against Merlin’s head and it comes back red.
“How’d you get away, Merlin?” asks Leon, and Merlin blinks those owlish eyes. He still looks sort of out of it, but Arthur knows him very well. There’s a short pause.
“Got one over on the guards,” says Merlin, as Arthur’s heart tries to put in its resignation and apply for a healthy dose of stress leave, “Ran back here. Morgana’s not interested in me really, she just wanted to annoy Arthur.”
“Right,” says Leon, and Merlin says:
“I didn’t tell. I wouldn’t’ve. She knows I’d sooner die.”
“Of course, Merlin,” says Leon, with no small degree of warmth. Arthur holds Merlin’s head steady as Gaius tucks the bandage under itself. Their eyes meet and Arthur sees the same type of worry reflected back at him, the same understanding. Arthur clears his throat and steps away.
“Nothing’s changed,” he says, to the room. “You heard Merlin’s testimony. He was kidnapped and ensorcelled and stayed true to Camelot throughout. We will reconvene in the morning, but as it stands, the battle will take place as intended.”
There are a handful of nods, but then Hebes says:
“Sire, I— I don’t wish to overstep, but perhaps— perhaps if it is a truth spell, we might—perhaps we’d better question Merlin further. Or at least— at least ascertain that it is, in fact, a truth spell.”
Arthur looks at him. Tries to remind himself that Hebes is a good soldier and doesn’t know Arthur or Merlin very well, and that he ought to be forgiven for making an assessment that only has his king’s good health at heart. He’s not very successful.
“Merlin doesn’t lie to me,” says Arthur, clear and even. “There is no doubt—”
“Of course I lie to you,” says Merlin, choosing this terrible, horrible moment to become lucid. “I’ve been lying to you since we met.”
The tent goes very, very still. Arthur grits his teeth and does a frightfully good job of ignoring the seven hands resting on seven swords, and Leon’s nervous look to boot.
“Yes,” says Arthur carefully, “About me being an arrogant, lazy prat, I know. But you’ve not lied tonight, have you?”
He holds Merlin’s eye, and there is so much loyalty in his gaze, tempered by surprise and guilt and the kind of devotion a man would kill in service of.
“No,” says Merlin, after a moment. “Not tonight.”
“There you are, then,” says Arthur, and squares his shoulders. “I want you all to return to your stations. We’ll talk it over when it’s light out. You need your rest. That’s an order.”
They filter out of the tent, and Arthur kneels down at Merlin’s feet when they’ve gone, ignoring the way Merlin’s gaze is trying to paint swathes of heat over his forehead, his nose, his eyes. He gets his knife out again and worms it under the ropes at Merlin’s left ankle, sloppily tied but no less easier to cut.
“Don’t,” says Arthur, when he catches Merlin opening his mouth. “Don’t speak.”
“Alright,” says Merlin, very quietly. “Thank you.”
Arthur cuts the ropes around his right, and leans over Merlin knees to start on those binding his chest. It’s a waste of perfectly good rope, but he doesn’t think his fingers could undo the knots. Merlin rubs at his shoulders once they’re free, tilting his head side to side. Arthur puts the knife back in his boot.
“Come on,” he says, and offers Merlin a hand. “You need to get some sleep.”
Merlin slips his hand into Arthur’s, lets himself be pulled to his feet. He sways and staggers with the motion, and Arthur has to clasp his upper arm to keep him balanced. “Alright?”
Merlin nods, and Arthur lets go. Now that it’s just the two of them, Merlin seems less inclined to keep up with the being-out-of-his-wits act, and all too aware of what’s passed between them. He shoots Arthur a look that is both daring and defiant, perhaps because he, too, knows the answer to it.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
Arthur is so very, very tired.
“Would you tell me?”
Merlin looks at him; Arthur feels it. He chooses not to look back, thinking instead of another time, another night, where he looked at Merlin over a fire and thought why won’t you tell me what I’m missing? How is it worth this? But just like then, Merlin says the same.
“No,” he says, and Arthur nods. It’s another truth they already know: that Merlin loves him more than anyone else in the world, and it still isn’t enough.
“Come on, then,” he says, and holds open the tent flap. “I’ll even be a good sport and keep from asking you anything embarrassing.”
“Small mercies,” says Merlin. “Thanks, Arthur.”
“Of course,” he says. “Did you really tell Morgana her hair was stupid?”
“Yeah,” says Merlin, and they leave the watchman’s tent to make for Arthur’s own. “It was pretty embarrassing for her. I mean, there I was, all tied-up, and she had this whole sorceress thing going on with the crows and the corpses…”
Merlin talks the entire way back to Arthur’s tent, truth-spell and all, and he doesn’t say a single thing.