Chapter Text
Morgana is running out of time.
Or at least she thinks so. The castle stretches out past her, long and impossibly taunting, you will not get there first. Pitch-black. She will.
Morgana doesn’t pause for a torch, knowing these corridors blind, having memorized them with Arthur better than name or swordplay. Arthur, who is arrogant and insufferable and golden-hearted, who claims he doesn’t care yet would never let harm’s way come near her. Arthur, who could be drowning.
Outside of his chambers, Morgana bumps into someone, stumbling, yet gentle hands drop whatever they’ve been holding and catch her, an even gentler voice coaxes, “Hey, Morgana, are you all right?”
It’s Merlin.
“Arthur,” she says, frantic. Maybe the name alone doesn’t explain her nightmare, but the horror entangled into it does.
“What of Arthur?” Merlin asks, frowning a little. “He’s sound asleep, I have just left him.”
“He is?” Morgana echoes in disbelief, the image of Arthur underwater still fresh, razor-sharp. “But that’s impossible. I saw him gone—”
Merlin’s face softens. “Come,” he tells her gently, taking her quivering hand and leading her to the door of Arthur’s chambers. Carefully, he twists the knob open, and both of them peak inside. “See, he’s well. Snoring too.”
And indeed Arthur is, sinking into his pillows and covers, the room dim save for the slant of firelight sneaking through the door. Morgana nods at last, her hammering heart slowing down at the scene. Merlin’s smile is another reassurance.
“It was just a nightmare,” Merlin says, not unkindly, when Arthur is out of sight. “You can tell me all about it if you want to.”
“And you will not think I’m mad?” Morgana asks, the slightest hint of accusation in her voice.
“Far from it,” Merlin promises. “We all get nightmares, Morgana.”
Following Merlin, she wants to object, to tell him that her nightmares never stay as just that, that the darkness is invincible. No matter how much she tries to outrun it, to fend off sleep and the terrors twined in it like vines, its claws are always an inch faster, viler, and the press is all too excruciating. Especially when it comes true.
Behind Morgana’s eyelids, someone is always hurt or worse, and oftentimes it’s Arthur, almost as if tragedy chases only him.
Merlin presses a finger to his mouth as they slip past a sleeping Gaius and into Merlin’s room. On the bed, Morgana pulls her lilac nightgown close, and turns to him. “There was a girl.”
“A girl?”
“Fair and cunning. She pulled Arthur into a lake, and stood over him as he drowned,” Morgana explains. “He couldn’t fight her, he just—gave in.”
Fear slithers up Merlin’s spine. “Do we know her? Is she in Camelot?”
Morgana shakes her head. “I have never seen her in my entire life, but she still felt so real.”
Merlin relaxes a little. “Perhaps you’re only worried about him. We all are. Arthur wore the crown too early.”
“They will want to tear him,” Morgana says, heated. “Every enemy Uther has made will come back to take their vengeance on Arthur.”
“It’s a good thing he has us then,” Merlin tells her, smiling to lighten up the mood, certain as if he has become an expert on the matter. The chronicles of saving Arthur Pendragon.
“I would go and tell him, but I know it will be fruitless,” Morgana scoffs. “He will not believe me, he will just make fun.”
Merlin shrugs, grinning. “I haven’t been calling him a prat for nothing.”
“Serves him right,” Morgana agrees, at last smiling.
“And yet,” Merlin adds. “I promise you that if this girl shows up, or anyone else who means Arthur harm, I will stand by your side. You can count on me, Morgana.”
“You are a true friend, Merlin,” Morgana says as she stands up. “Thank you for everything.”
“You are welcome,” Merlin says softly.
On her walk back to her bedchambers, Morgana cannot help but think that if this peasant boy from Ealdor hasn’t stumbled onto their lives, things would have taken quite a turn—for the worse.
–
Arthur doesn’t have the chance to register the first ray of morning light before his chambers are soaked in it.
Merlin, insolent as he is, pushes the curtains apart with enough enthusiasm to make Arthur groan. “Rise and shine!”
“How many times do I have to get it into your thick skull to be a bit more quiet in the morning?” Arthur asks, voice muffled by the pillow he’s just pressed over his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sire,” Merlin deadpans. “You would rather wake up to a lullaby and a kiss on the cheek?”
Merlin dodges the pillow before it even comes, knowing Arthur’s reflexes all too well by now. He grins stupidly. “I really am getting the hang of this, admit it!”
“The only thing I will admit, Merlin, is that I would rather wake up to less you, and more sense,” Arthur growls, fully pushing his blankets off.
“Now that’s a lie,” Merlin says, full-on confident. “Besides, I had to wake you up early so that you wouldn’t miss any of the celebrations.”
“What celebrations? The feast doesn’t start until later this evening,” Arthur asks as he gets off his bed, certain that any chance of further sleep is lost to the bathing sun and this menace.
“You see, this is where you’re wrong—again,” Merlin points out just because he can. Before Arthur could retort, Merlin grabs his wrist—as if you can just grab the king’s wrist—and pulls him to the window.
“What are you even ravening on about—”
But the scene unfolding outside his window stops Arthur dead in his tracks; the courtyard, once full of candles and anguish just the night before, is now full of roses—red roses, Arthur’s color, extending over the citadel and the lower town.
“I thought I agreed to a feast, not a parade—”
“And only a feast we were preparing,” Merlin replies, smiling fondly. “We didn’t go against your wishes, Arthur. But this isn’t the castle’s doing. This is your people choosing to shower the kingdom in roses to celebrate their king, to light it with love. Yours reflected in theirs.”
Arthur’s heart warms, his past desire to avoid banquets and feasts in his name dwindling, driven once by sheer grief. It is well-acknowledged that Camelot loves Arthur; the prince who stood up against his own father to lower the taxes imposed when he’d seen suffering in his people’s eyes, who competed in countless tournaments in their name, earning a victory after another, who rode out time and time again into the heart of danger, not knowing whether or not he’d come back, but knowing he’d do everything in his power to eliminate whatever threat was coming their way. While Uther hid behind his castle’s walls, Arthur was always on the frontlines, and the frontlines of his people’s hearts he’ll always have.
“I will fetch breakfast, my Lord,” Merlin says, still as fond, when Arthur remains too stunned to speak. “Today marks the beginning of a bright reign, and I don’t want them to say I don’t keep you well-fed.”
Arthur smiles despite himself.
–
Later in the afternoon, Morgana slips past Arthur’s chambers door, unnoticed.
He’s standing with his back to her, too busy barking out orders to Merlin to be aware of anything else—too hung up on him beneath all the pomposity, she believes.
Merlin sees her first, out of her black mourning dress and into a stunning ivory one, and smiles brightly. The horrors of last night are washed away from her face, the new day’s light and Merlin’s steadfast promise a direct influence.
She gestures for him to hand her Arthur’s ceremonial sword, and just as Arthur turns around to ask for it, she holds it out for him. “Despite looking foolish most of the time, I must admit that the king looks kingly today.”
“Morgana,” Arthur says, surprised, as a wave of guilt instantly hits him. He hasn’t paid Morgana a second thought after Uther’s death, hasn’t gone and seen her, too stuck in his own sorrow.
“Hello, Arthur,” she says, smiling as Arthur takes his sword from her. She gazes at his window, where the roses are visible. “I see Camelot is painted in a different light today.”
“A good one?”
“A better one,” Morgana answers. “For all your faults,” she adds with a shrug.
Arthur chuckles, presumptuous and stupid and touched. “Leave us,” he says, gesturing to Merlin.
“Want a pep talk before the feast without Merlin around to hear it?” she teases.
“Very funny,” Arthur replies with a roll of his eyes, then he focuses. “I just wanted you to know that father’s death changes nothing for you. Your place in the court is the same.”
I have already lost once, the words hang in the air between them. I can’t bear to lose again.
“Unless you wish to leave,” he adds stiffly.
“Perhaps,” she says before grinning. “But who else would knock sense into your rather senseless head? Besides Merlin, of course.”
“He does not—”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, your Highness,” she tells him with the exact same nuisance as Merlin’s. “I will see you at the feast.”
And just like that, Morgana departs, leaving him astonished at an audacity that could only be hereditary.
–
In Camelot, festive music flows; the ballads of King Arthur sang with the sweetest notes, reaching far and wide. The smallfolk, overcome with joy, could swear it is heard in all the Five Kingdoms. At the head of the table Arthur sits with his knights and Morgana on his right and left, a sheathing of the best sort, their own pride a force breaking through Arthur’s seemingly unbreakable heart, a flickering light in the devouring dark, where this chair and this crown are a gutting reminder of his loss.
Then there’s Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, easy as that, his face close to Arthur’s, an easier smile on it—the faint light turning a blinding halo that consumes the grief entire. “More wine, my Lord?”
Arthur nods, hiding the wave of—unbelievable—disappointment at the loss of Merlin’s hand behind his goblet as he sips.
When the court jester finishes his performance of eating fire and the cheering dies down, Leon stands up, holding his own goblet and tapping it twice. “A toast,” he begins, smiling proudly. “To Camelot’s most deserving king. There is not a man alive who would give more to it than Arthur would, or us to him. In peace and under the banners of war, god forbid, we pledge our lives to our one true king. Long may he reign!”
Arthur exchanges a sincere smile with Leon, his First Knight and first friend, as he rises up himself. “You honor me, Sir Leon—as does everyone present. Let it be knights, countrymen, or friends and lovers. Camelot flourishes not only with its king but with its people first and foremost. From its faithful lords to its faithful servants, all equally important to its prosperity, and prosperity I promise you. It’s the least you deserve. To the citizens of Camelot!”
The chants which follow are loud and genuine—inspired, Merlin thinks, pride swelling in his chest. For all his flaws, Arthur is an inspiring leader. The Great Dragon wasn’t wrong. Merlin’s heart wasn’t wrong. Arthur is the Once and Future King.
“You look proud of him,” Gwen says, grinning.
Merlin can’t help but answer honestly. “What is there not to be proud of?”
Yet before Gwen could say more, the doors of the throne room open. Morgana feels it in her heart before she sees her—the impending doom. Emerging into the feast is the split image of the horrid girl in her nightmare, an older man following shortly behind; they’re both holding strange staffs, ornamented with twinkling blue stones.
Morgana clutches Merlin’s wrist in a death grip, and color drains from his face.
“My Lord,” a guard addresses Arthur, bowing as he hands him a seal of nobility. “This is Princess Sophia and her father, Prince Aulfric, envoys from the kingdom of Tír-Mòr.”
Tír-Mòr, Arthur recalls with a distant memory his father calling it a reputable kingdom, a possible ally he’s never gotten around to secure.
“Your Highness,” Aulfric says, bowing with Sophia. “We come to deliver our king’s blessings to your rule.”
Then he gestures to a servant behind him, carrying a wooden box larger than his own weight, certainly bearing gifts.
“That is generous, Prince Aulfric,” Arthur tells him, smiling. “Camelot will certainly answer with hospitality. Allow my servants to offer you refreshments, and we can talk further if you would like to join our feast.”
“We would be delighted, your Highness,” Sophia is the one who answers this time, her voice a lullaby.
When she looks at Arthur with a smile of her own, she does it with the intention to entrance him there. Many mortals have looked at her face and fell victim to ardor with one glance, needless of a spell.
Except that Arthur regards her with courtesy, and nothing more. Even when they sit down, he’s more indulged with her father in conversation than her.
“It’s a beautiful melody, don’t you agree, your Majesty?” Sophia asks, snapping Arthur out of his discussion with Aulfric.
“It is,” Arthur agrees, realizing belatedly that she’d like to dance, and standing up. “Would you honor me with this dance, Princess?”
“The honor is mine,” Sophia replies, grinning as she takes Arthur’s extended hand.
Merlin’s eyes are glued to Arthur’s, even when he’s being shoved from one table to another, serving drinks. If there’s truth to Morgana’s dream, it’d be highly unlikely for Sophia to try something in a room full of guards and knights, yet he doesn’t like to trust his—or Arthur’s—odds very much.
Arthur doesn’t fail to notice him. And it’s strange and yet befitting—that standing between his arms is an exquisite girl, fair and bright-eyed and noble born, taken by the glide of their dance and his innate charm, but that his mind is wandering somewhere else, somewhere at the far end of the room, where a total fool is pouring wine to high lords and ladies, making them laugh at his stupid jests, that Arthur is hit square in the chest with a want to hear Merlin’s laugh, to tease and bite back at whatever he’s said, to pull him by the waist to the dance floor, swapping Sophia with him for all to see.
Arthur doesn’t know where it begins and where it ends—all this want. What to do with it. Where to put it. Because his hands are full, and yet not. Because its tug is inevitable, Merlin a magnet and Arthur gold steel. Because dropping a princess in the middle of a waltz for the sake of a servant is deranged, but otherwise how-how-how would it end.
“My Lord?” Sophia calls, following the trail of Arthur’s gaze and landing on Merlin.
Momentarily, her face twists at the conclusion that Arthur is staring at his manservant instead, that it would be useless to try and tempt him when he won’t be tempted—at least by her.
In the same moment Merlin turns around to answer a guest’s call, she grips Arthur’s shoulders tighter. “My Lord?” she repeats, her eyes flashing a crimson red.
In a split-second, Arthur looks at her like he could look at no other, bewitched. Over the sound of music, no one could hear her chant; other dancing couples providing a distraction for her magic. Deep down, while Arthur doesn’t understand the language of the Old Religion, he knows that nothing good comes out of it. Just magic.
Lured in, Arthur doesn’t know how he didn’t notice Sophia’s loveliness before—
“Arthur!” Morgana cries, grabbing his elbow and pulling him out of the dance, breaking Sophia’s spell. Merlin is there in a flash.
Everyone turns to look at the scene, the music dying down—Sophia separated from Arthur mid-dance as he drops her hand; a mortification of the worst sort.
Arthur turns to Morgana, feral. “What are you doing—”
“Are you blind?” Morgana half-yells. “Did you not see what she was about to do to you?”
Irritated and embarrassed, Arthur asks, “And what would that be?”
“She was just about to—”
Enchant you. But Morgana never gets to finish her sentence. In one moment Sophia is well, and in the next she pretends to faint.
Arthur catches her.
–
In Sophia’s room, Arthur and Morgana argue in the corner.
“What the hell,” Arthur emphasizes again. “Did you think you were doing?”
Morgana sets her chin. “Protecting you.”
“From what, Morgana? A dance?” Arthur presses, heated. “I have danced with you countless times before if this is what your outburst is about—”
“Arthur Pendragon, do not flatter yourself. I could care less who you dance with,” she snaps. “You could dance with a hundred noble ladies or Merlin himself, and I would not bat an eyelash.
Arthur flushes—because how on earth could she know. “Then what is so different about Sophia that you felt the need to humiliate her?”
“She meant you harm,” is all Morgana says.
“And how do you know that?” Arthur asks, confirming her suspicions; he doesn’t remember the enchantment, the unnatural red of Sophia’s eyes.
Morgana contemplates telling him. I saw the future, she wants to say, and it’s bleak and void of you. Arthur will declare her mad, laugh off at her night terrors. After all, he’s done it before. Or worse—
Magic is rotten, and so are those who practice it.
She swallows. “It’s a gut feeling.”
“A gut feeling?” Arthur repeats, fed up. “For God’s sake—”
“My Lord, there’s no need to worry,” Gaius says, examining an allegedly unconscious Sophia with Merlin and Aulfric at his side. “The princess is all right. I believe her traveling journey merely exhausted her, but she should wake up just fine tomorrow morning.”
With another crossed look, Arthur abandons Morgana’s side and moves to Sophia’s bed. “That’s a relief, thank you, Gaius. And prince Aulfric—” he turns to her father, ashamed. “You must accept my sincerest apologies for how my court behaved at the feast. I assure you Morgana bears no ill-will towards you daughter, it was just a—big misunderstanding.”
“I believe it is not I who deserve the apology but my daughter,” he tells Arthur, tightening his grip on his staff.
“And an apology she will receive,” Arthur promises. “I will see to it myself.”
Aulfric nods curtly before the rest of them excuse themselves and leave, Gaius’s eyes lingering on his staff longer than they should’ve.
–
In Gaius’s chambers, chaos erupts.
“My Lady, you must calm down,” Gwen tells a pacing Morgana. “She can do nothing to harm Arthur within the castle walls—”
“She can, and she will!” Morgana cries out. “You have seen her at the feast circling him like a serpent.”
Merlin is standing over Gaius, who is flipping through his books in search of Aulfric’s staff. He asks Morgana, “And you’re quite certain her eyes flashed a different color? That it was magic?”
“They flashed a burning red,” Morgana affirms, halting. “And it was magic, dark and evil. I just know it.”
Merlin’s stomach lurches.
“Even if Sophia is daring, she knows she is exposed,” Gwen tries to reason. “It will be some time before she attempts something else.”
“Or she will strike again exactly for that,” Morgana argues. “Because she’s running out of time, and she has to take Arthur away before we stop her.”
“No one,” Merlin stresses with a rare darkness. “Will take Arthur away. If she or her father try anything else, they will have to face me.”
Gaius coughs in warning.
“We must not give them the chance to try anything else,” Morgana says, looking Merlin straight in the eye. “You must not allow his affections to wander somewhere else.”
For a moment, Merlin doesn’t understand. “I—what?”
“He likes you,” Morgana tells him bluntly. “More than he’s ever liked anyone, and I have known him for a long time.”
Merlin laughs in a this-is-absolutely-deranged way, but Morgana’s face doesn’t waver, and so the laughter stops. “You can’t possibly mean that.”
“I actually do mean that,” she insists. “Gwen?”
“Morgana has a point,” Gwen says, shrugging helplessly. “You are the only one who can put Arthur in his place. It must be for a reason.”
“I’m just his servant! He wouldn’t look at me like that—”
“Yet you are not saying you do not look at him like that, are you, Merlin?” Morgana presses.
“I do not,” Merlin persists, crossing his arms. “Do I even have to explain why? He’s a prat, he almost cut off my head with a mace. In fact, he’s the king of complaints, not of Camelot. Do this, Merlin. Do that, Merlin. Where the hell is Merlin? Oh, is Merlin having a moment of peace? Let’s ruin it for him—”
Morgana interrupts him, smiling. “Oh, is Merlin poisoned? Might as well defy the king and his guardsmen, and go on an impossible mission to retrieve the antidote, knowing well enough I could either die or be charged with treason. The usual dynamic of a royal and a servant—quite causal, really.”
Merlin flushes at the memory, remembering how his magic soared beyond consciousness and distance, and reached Arthur. Wrapped itself around him like armor, and how it has never been in sync with anything or anyone else more than him.
“Well, if you’re all done arguing, I believe I know what we’re dealing with,” Gaius cuts in, saving Merlin. “It’s the sidhe.”
Merlin turns to him. “The—what?”
“The sidhe,” Gaius repeats. “They are masters of enchantments, best known for their immortality. I believe the lake Morgana dreamed of is the lake of Avalon, the entrance to the land of eternal youth. One doesn’t glimpse it unless one is on the brink of death.”
“And Arthur is what—some sort of a ritual sacrifice to that Avalon?” Morgana asks, outraged.
“I can’t be sure, Morgana,” Gaius tells her sympathetically. “All I know is that if Arthur sets foot into that lake, he’ll never come out again. It’s quite uncommon, after all, for the sidhe to walk amongst mortals, and so Arthur must possess something they truly desire. We mustn’t keep him out of our sight.”
Sick with worry, Merlin says, “I will go check on him.”
Then he bolts.
–
At the crack of dawn, a knock wakes Arthur up.
For a moment, he ignores it, pressing his head deeper into the pillows, hoping that whoever it is will go away. But it persists, and he calls out a muffled “Merlin!” in the same instance he remembers that Merlin has already gone off to his own room. Arthur pushes his covers off with a dangerous vendetta against the person knocking. It better be important or else—
“Princess Sophia,” Arthur addresses, astounded, the moment he opens the door, his anger dissolving in a flash.
Sophia smiles, and Arthur doesn’t know if it’s the sleep still clung around his mind like a fog, or if there’s something sinister about it, about her. “May I come in, my Lord?”
Arthur steps aside to let her in. “Of course,” he says because what else is there to say, then asks carefully, “Are you all right? Gaius assured me you were—”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she says, turning around half-way into the chambers. Arthur shuts the door, following her. “I realize I must be intruding on you at such an hour, but I needed a private audience.”
Arthur’s eyes flicker to the peculiar staff she’s holding onto. “What for?” he asks just as it starts to glow, then Sophia is painted in a new light—innocence stripped, eyes malevolent.
“This,” she hisses, close to a serpent; her hand springs out, and clutches Arthur’s in mock tenderness.
For twenty years, Arthur hasn’t been acquainted with anything remotely tender; he’d lived off the breadcrumbs his father gave him when danger came too close, a pat on the back or a clipped smile—when Uther wouldn’t bother coming down his throne, the dream-like embrace of a mother he’s never had yet always yearned for, all the sweet talk of noble ladies snuck into his bedchambers, cut off by their mouths conjoined because what more there’s to give.
But a few months ago, everything changed. Merlin stumbled into his life, a mace stupidly in hand, and a heart equal in courage—and Arthur hated him. Or that’s what he told himself, when Merlin would smile, radiant as moonlight, proud at something Arthur did, and allowed it to linger; when he’d offered to hold him and meant it, Arthur’s refusal a sheathing against what he doesn’t know, just because he doesn’t, the possibility scarier than a battlefield; when just yesterday, right here, Merlin enveloped him in tenderness raw and entire. . . because there’s so much more to give.
And this, the tight grip of Sophia’s hand on his as she pushes him onto his own bed, chanting in a foreign language, could never be it.
The world flips off its axis, Arthur watching her dismount it from behind a screen, dazed under her spell. It invades his heart, and steals his will; his sword is in reach, laying beside the nightstand, yet his hands are stiffer than stone, his guardsmen are standing outside the door, ready to tear it down if Arthur signals so. If only he could find his voice—
But why so. For passing minutes, there’s just Sophia, more beautiful than a daydream, hovering over him in her golden gown, speaking softer than the twilight breeze slipping in. “You are not in love with that serving boy, you’re only ever in love with me. . .”
“I’m only ever in love with you.”
Sophia squeezes his hands tighter. “There are those here who do not want us to be together.”
“I would never let them come between us.”
“This will not be enough,” she tells him. “We must get out of here. Go somewhere far away, so that we can be together.”
Arthur nods mechanically. “Till death do us part.”
“Till death do us part,” Sophia affirms, sealing the spell, her mouth closing on Arthur’s in a kiss.
“Arthur!”
The bedchambers’ door slams open, Merlin storming in. He almost chokes on a breath at the intrusive red in Arthur’s eyes, taking hold of what is not theirs, tarnishing it. Merlin isn’t jealous by nature, he’s all grace and selflessness, yet his gut curls and coils at the scene, the last scraps of blue—of Arthur—washed away, and it’s same sweeping protectiveness again, the way it was in the courtroom with Lady Helen, past duty and glory and destiny, innate as magic.
“Get away from him,” Merlin threatens as he steps closer.
“She will do no such thing,” Arthur snaps, standing tall and mighty. “You, get out.”
“Arthur, listen to me. She cast a spell on you, you are enchanted—”
“I told you people will try to keep us apart,” Sophia says, and Arthur’s anger boils.
“I said,” Arthur stresses, vicious, as he turns to Merlin. “Get out.”
“She wants to kill you—”
“I?” Sophia echoes, and Arthur looks at her as if she’s the sun and the moon altogether. “I would never. You know that. He, on the other hand, would. He wants to destroy you. To destroy us.”
Fed up, Merlin grabs Arthur’s elbow, snapping him out of her trance. “Arthur, look at me. Tell me where exactly you see terror or malice or a heart that would not die for yours.”
Momentarily, Arthur feels conflicted; he cannot pinpoint such a thing, Merlin his searchlight, his lionheart, yet Sophia has said—
Merlin looks at him dead in the eye, piercing through the glimmering red. “You know me. You know there’s not a single bone in my body I would not break for yours, a single thing in the world entire that I would not lay at your feet. I’m more than your servant, I’m your—”
Before could finish the sentence, a blinding force erupts from Sophia’s staff, hitting Merlin. He flies across the room, back colliding with the wall before he crumbles to the floor, silenced.
“Merlin!”
The name is ripped out of Arthur’s throat in shock and agony, his hand stretched towards Merlin, eyes flickering back to their familiar blue.
“I will have your head for that,” Arthur snarls, turning towards her.
However, Sophia is quick enough to chant again, slamming her staff onto the floor, reactivating the spell with more effort than expected.
Aulfric comes into the room, demanding, “What is taking you so long?”
“We bumped into an obstacle,” Sophia explains, looking at an unconscious Merlin.
Aulfric hums. “Good thing it’s taken care of then. We must not keep the elders waiting.”
And so they whisk Arthur away.
–
Merlin jolts awake.
Gwen and Morgana have been calling his name, trying to see if there’s any life left in him after Sophia’s blow—and in truth, he doesn’t know how this is even possible. Had it not been for the magic thrumming in his veins and beneath his feet, similar to a drumbeat, he would have been long dead. But he can’t bring himself to care, all that he can think of is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
“Where is he?” Morgana asks as if on cue.
“Gone,” Merlin replies, horrified as Gwen helps him to stand up. “They couldn’t have gotten far—”
When Merlin tries to move out of Gwen’s hold, a terrible ringing sound almost makes him lose his balance.
“Easy, will you?” Gwen says, concerned. “You have been hit pretty hard.”
“There!” Morgana points when she leaps to the window, watching Arthur’s silhouette pass through the citadel’s gates.
Without another word, Merlin ignores his aching head and springs, with Morgana and Gwen on his heel.
The heart of the woods stretches wide and almost infinite, the three of them jump over loose branches, barely keeping Arthur in sight. At last, a lake like no other emerges; glinting creatures are flying over it, smaller than a palm. Merlin realizes this is Avalon.
Aulfric is negotiating with the sidhe, something about his own crime of killing another sidhe, about sparing Sophia from exile so that she may to become immortal again—
“The gates of Avalon remain closed to your daughter unless the life of a mortal prince be offered up to them.”
Right then, Sophia pulls a spellbound Arthur into the lake.
“We offer you what is better than a prince, a king!” Aulfric exclaims. “We offer you Arthur Pendragon!”
Merlin could swear there’s a feral hunger in the sidhe’s eyes, a cruelty which taints their beauty, promising evil.
But he isn’t yours to take, is Merlin’s first thought as he lungs into the lake. Before Aulfric could strike at him, Morgana picks up Sophia’s discarded staff with the intent to knock him out with, yet instead it lights up at the touch of her hand, a blinding force shooting out of it and into Aulfric’s chest, turning him into fluttering ash.
“Father!” Sophia screams, letting go of Arthur.
Morgana hits her with the staff’s magic, unclear of what is happening but not at all unwelcoming, before Sophia could pull any tricks.
Deep into the water, Merlin’s heart is ruled by fear; distantly he could hear the sound of clashing, worries for Gwen and Morgana, yet he keeps looking for Arthur, hardwired. When he finds him at last, Merlin pulls him out in defiance of a destiny he does not yet know, showing teeth.
And just like that, in the security of Merlin’s arms, Arthur breathes again.
–
Arthur wakes up gasping, as if still underwater.
It’s plain as the sun that he remembers drowning, and as Merlin, Morgana, Gwen, and Gaius hover over him, they dread what else their king may remember.
“How do you feel, sire?” Gaius asks, breaking the haunting silence.
“Like hell, my head—” Arthur says, rubbing his forehead. “What happened?”
Morgana treads carefully. “What do you remember?”
“There was a girl, and a lake, and—” Arthur begins, navigating through his confusion. “She tried to drown me.”
“We have been deceived, Arthur,” Gaius tells him regretfully. “Sophia and Aulfric were no royalty of Tír-Mòr. I have looked into our records, and found out that the kingdom was ransacked by raiders. The royal household was slaughtered. They must have faked their seal of nobility.”
Memories rush into Arthur’s head like a tidal wave: the feast, his dancing with Sophia, Morgana shouting—
“You knew,” he realizes, turning to her.
“Something about that serpent-like Sophia did not set right with me,” Morgana replies, masked. “You were crowned just the day before, and they reached Camelot just in time, almost as if they set off even before the coronation began.”
“And that is the truth, Arthur,” Merlin adds on. “They needed the life of a mortal prince to buy another of immortality, and they chose you. Apparently, when you became king, they decided to go on with their plan still, certain that the life of a king is even more valuable. It’s why they pulled you into that lake. Like a sacrifice.”
“And how did I even get there?” Arthur asks, outraged.
“You were enchanted,” Merlin tells him softly. “You were not yourself. We had to go after you.”
“You fought not one but two sorcerers?” Arthur asks in astonishment. “You three? How is that even possible?”
For a moment, silence threatens to take over again, to draw suspicions, and so Gwen spares Morgana.
“I’m the daughter of a blacksmith, you can’t expect me to know how to forge a sword yet not wield one, and Morgana can duel anyone to death if she wants to. You know that,” she says. “Meanwhile Merlin—”
“—pulled me out,” Arthur finishes, then looks at Merlin. “You pulled me out.”
Merlin shrugs, smiling. “I did not want to lose my job.”
Arthur pauses, processing, he has barely been king for two days, and there are already conspiracies in motion. “Well, I owe you all my life,” he says eventually. “It was dangerous to go after these sorcerers, and if I had a shred of will left, I would have prohibited it—and yet it was a heroic act. I cannot deny that.”
“You’re welcome,” Morgana replies to the unsaid ‘thank you,’ with Gwen smiling.
“What matters most is that you’re well, sire,” Gaius says. “I will send up a draught for your headache. It’s a side effect of the spell, nothing to worry about.”
One by one, they start to leave—but just as Merlin is about to do so, Arthur catches his wrist.
“She attacked you,” he says.
“It’s alright,” Merlin tells him when it’s anything but alright. He could recall Arthur snapping out of Sophia’s spell momentarily, screaming his name, raw and scared. Arthur has been scared for him enough to break out of magic’s hold, the essence of true power, and Merlin has been trying not to make something out of it. Yet here they are.
“No, it’s not,” Arthur objects, Merlin’s wrist still in-between his hand, soft. “I thought you were dead. I thought—” he halts at the one thing he knows he cannot speak.
I thought I’d lost you.
“Well, I’m still very much alive, and in service,” Merlin says, grinning heartily.
“I don’t understand how that came to be,” Arthur tells him as he lets go of his wrist. “But whatever it was, I cannot say I’m not glad. Such—devotion in a servant is hard to come by, for all your lazy ways.”
“I’m tougher than I look, is all,” Merlin replies, which is not a lie; the pulse of magic in parallel to his blood a solid proof. “You just have a habit of discrediting me, my Lord.”
Arthur looks at him with something akin to wonder, the way he’d done after their very first fight. “But there is something more. I just can’t quite put my finger on it, still not yet.”
Merlin sits by the edge of the bed, with that same cordial smile. “But I’m easy to read,” he protests, and in part, it’s true. He would have still helped Arthur, even without magic, the only difference would be that he wouldn’t have lived to do it again. “You were in trouble, and I got you out of it. There’s no higher motif, no mystery to solve. It’s just the way things are.”
“But it’s not nothing,” Arthur insists. “It’s brave and loyal. . . like a knight. But you’re braver than a knight, Merlin, tenfold as loyal, because a knight is bound by oath, and you’re not. What could possibly bind you?”
My heart, Merlin wants to say—and in that exact same instance, as if Arthur has heard him, he reaches out and touches Merlin’s chest, palm spread over his frantically, faithfully beating heart. “It was not hers to touch, to—”
Take, Arthur wants to say, almost shuddering at the thought, that the only real friend he’s ever had, out-of-line and loudmouthed as he may be, could’ve been swept away by an evil force overnight. Just like that. One day Merlin is here, and the next Camelot is as lonesome as it once was.
“I’m right here, Arthur,” Merlin reminds him. It remains yours. “She didn’t succeed.”
Arthur nods, knowing he’s overstepping. Perhaps tomorrow he could blame it on the aftereffects of the enchantment, and go back to being impossible. But now he caresses Merlin’s chest once, and withdraws. Merlin knows it’d be ridiculous to wince, but he almost wants to. Then it hits him with stark clarity that this is what he left Ealdor for, this imprint of wholeness in the ghost of Arthur’s hand, this inexplainable warmth to the coldness he fled. Once he’d wondered why he was made that way, all that blood and bones and magic, and now he knows. He was made for Arthur, the lionhearted asshole with the mace.
“No, she didn’t,” Arthur echoes. “But you are forbidden from trying anything as foolish again.”
“I will think about it,” Merlin teases.
“Merlin—”
“I don’t care what you have to say, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, adamant. “No matter the cost, I will never let any water take you away.”
Merlin sticks to his promise.
–