Archive of Our Own ^beta

Druid elders used to tell stories of monsters in the dark. They’d let their fire dim, casting shadows over the lines of their faces. They’d whisper in hushed tones of creatures to be afraid of—a lesson in caution for the children. Powerful creatures, they’d say, would tear the land apart, would spill blood just as easily as the skies pour water. The children would gasp and shake as the elders’ words reached their ears.

Mordred was one of those children once.

But what he didn’t know was that Emrys would be the monster of this story.

As always, it begins and ends with a patrol. Even as one of the newest knights, Mordred’s stomach already recoils at the thought of patrolling with the king. His fortitude is not easily worn down, but a few months into his knighthood, he has already seen several assassination attempts, countless bandits, a spare sorcerer bent on ruination of the Pendragon line, and adjacently heard of two separate poisoning schemes.

Mordred once asked the other knights if the sheer multitude of attacks on the king’s person was something to worry about. Arthur had just dismissed them after training and Merlin, just in earshot of them, struck his whetstone against Percival’s blade a little harder. They were all loitering near the armoury, boasting about their best achievements of the day.

Gwaine laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s been a few more attempts recently, but just chalk it up to being a new king.”

“We also just retook Camelot not too long ago,” Leon added, “Arthur’s position as king is tenuous to the power-hungry sorts.”

Mordred nodded. Merlin, who apparently finished his duties, walked over to them and handed Percival his sword. Percival thanked him kindly. Mordred’s eyes locked on Merlin and he grew still. The full brunt of Emrys’ attention was still something Mordred was unused to.

“Arthur’s well protected,” Merlin said, smiling wryly. “I’ve ensured it.”

And that, Mordred was plenty sure of. He had not seen the full extent of Emrys’ powers, but the ease in which Merlin deflected any potential threat was enough to soothe any worries.

Elyan simply snorted, bumping his shoulder into Merlin’s. “Proud of how clean Arthur’s armour looks, huh. Spit shine and all.”

Merlin’s gaze flickered towards Mordred’s for a fleeting second then jumped back to Elyan. “It takes ages, of course I’m proud,” he said, grinning.

This particular morning weeks ago strikes Mordred as he mounts his horse, settling into his steed as he waits for the rest of the knights to get ready. Arthur’s well protected, Merlin said. Mordred thinks only he and Merlin know the extent of that protection.

But today, the king will ride out to patrol the borders near Bayard’s kingdom without Merlin.

Gwen stands on the stairs, one hand in Arthur’s and the other resting on her stomach. She stands out from the rest of the grey backdrop, donned in a rich, red dress, holding the affections of the king. Arthur brings her hand up to his lips and parts a kiss on her knuckles. She lets her fingers linger, fixing Arthur’s hair. Mordred looks away, the intimacy of it making him feel as though he’s intruding. His eyes lock on the other knights who are doing the same.

“Stay safe,” Gwen says.

“Always.”

Mordred peeks at them as Gwen takes her leave, letting go of Arthur until the last possible moment. Arthur turns to them and coughs lightly.

“Right then. Time to go,” he says. “Mer—”

Arthur stops himself, hand stilling over his horse.

Even Arthur feels Merlin’s absence keenly. Arthur has already halfway turned to face his left, as if his body itself is trying to find Merlin’s. A frown twists his lips.

“Merlin’s not joining?” Gwaine asks.

“Hunith took ill,” Arthur says, climbing on and grabbing hold of his reins. “He’s making sure her affairs in Ealdor are in order before he brings her to Gaius, so he’ll be a few days.”

“Where’s Ealdor?” Mordred asks, curious about Emrys’ hometown.

“It’s a bordering village,” Leon says, “in Essetir, just beyond the ridges of Ascetir.”

Mordred nods, tucking this information in his mind, and he’s not thinking straight when he asks, “Should we wait for Merlin before we scout the borders?”

“I can handle a few days without my manservant, Sir Mordred.” Arthur scoffs. “Now come along. We’re wasting daylight chatting about Merlin for God’s sake.”

Can he handle it though? Mordred wants to ask. Arthur is plenty capable of besting any swordsman. Mordred has the phantom bruises of his losses against the king to prove that. But sorcerers? Magical creatures? Who knows what the goddesses have in store for Arthur in the next few days?

The rest of the knights quickly follow Arthur as he heads out of the gates, red capes billowing behind them.

Mordred throws aside his lingering concerns and signals to his steed to move. He reaches the others in no time and keeps his eyes out for the unexpected.

Well, as it turns out, the unexpected comes to them in the shape of a rather powerful sorcerer. Nowhere near Emrys’ strength or even Morgana’s, but considering Mordred is less equipped at hiding his magic, they are at a severe disadvantage.

For all of Mordred’s own powers, his is instinctual. Rough around the edges. He doesn’t know how Merlin did this and managed to keep it a secret from everyone, let alone his friends. Sure, the threat of burning on the pyre is enough for most people who desire to live to keep quiet about sorcery, but it must not have been easy.

The room—dungeon would be apt if they weren’t above ground—is dimly lit, a sliver of moonlight pries through the cracks of the crumbling walls. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the attack, doesn’t even know where he is. Taking a quick glance around, the other men are strung up with shackles, hands above their head, feet bound as well. Mordred stands nearest to the holes in the structure that allows him to breathe in slightly clearer air and not dust and rodent remains.

His own cape is gone, and with a quick glance, so are the others, but they’re still in chainmail which is still good for them. Mordred tugs at his cuffs, hoping to break free using magic. Blood rushes down his arms as they strain against the wall. He turns away from the others and mutters a spell underneath his breath. It doesn’t budge. “Damn it all,” he whispers, a little louder. Cold iron. Of course.

“Could’ve saved you the time,” Gwaine says, waving his shackled arms up. His wrists are bloodied, bruised black around the edges. “I even tried to break my thumb to get out, but this thing is tighter than a—”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. He’s nearest to the door on Mordred’s side of the room. “Now if any of you have a single plan, now’s the time to tell me.”

They were barely on their way to Mercia, still technically on Camelot lands at the edges of the forests of Ascetir when the sorcerer ambushed them. It was marginally successful, considering all the sorcerer’s lackeys died in battle, but in a surge of strength and rage probably on behalf of his fallen allies, the sorcerer knocked them all out with a screaming chant. Mordred barely had time to think of a counter spell that wouldn’t out him as a magic user when the wave hit him.

“It’s only one man,” Gwaine says. “We bested the rest.”

Elyan counters, “A sorcerer, though.”

Gwaine attempts a shrug. “A man nonetheless.”

“Well, we’ve been here for at least a day.” Leon looks passed Mordred, squinting. “All of us were knocked unconscious for the ride and hunger hasn’t set in yet.”

Arthur hums. “Mordred, can you see anything outside?”

Mordred stands on his toes, peering out of one of the bigger holes above his head. Broken walls overcome by nature and plenty of green covers his limited field of vision. “Not much, sire. Looks like an abandoned castle.”

Arthur takes it in for a few moments. “My guess is that we’re in Essetir.” He turns to Gwaine. “Remember Jarl?”

“Oh that slimy bastard.” Gwaine barks out a laugh. “We’re in his old haunt then?”

“We’re too far from any place remotely close to an abandoned castle.” Arthur shifts his weight and Mordred hears the clank of his cuffs. “Good news: we’re closer to Camelot.”

“And the bad news?” Elyan sighs.

“These bloody cuffs are practically magicked to our wrists.” Gwaine shakes his hands loudly. “Feet, too. A man can’t even piss like this with dignity. How cruel.”

“You have dignity?” Elyan says.

“I’d kick your arse from here to Camelot—”

He probably would’ve said more, but the heavy clatter near the door makes everyone freeze, backs straightening and mouths thinning.

The sorcerer looks worse for wear. He has managed to procure a walking staff and is leaning heavily on his right. Stray bandages cover the man’s arms. He’s fatigued. Good, Mordred thinks. The journey to bring several bodies through the terrain while keeping them unconscious has taken a toll.

“Ah, I thought I heard noise,” the sorcerer says. “You’re finally all awake.”

“What do you want?” Arthur bites out. “My head on a spike? Money? My kingdom? I’m not easily swayed, you know.”

“That I know for certain. And as much as I’d love to see you die, King Arthur, I want something more precious than that.” The man shuffles in more, locking eyes with Mordred. “Though if I can’t get him, maybe killing off the king’s knights would do.”

“Get who?” Arthur grits out.

Mordred’s heart pounds in his ears.

“Emrys, of course.”

The rest of the knights stay silent and Mordred thinks that his heart is going to fall right out of his chest. From Mordred’s limited view, Arthur just leans against the wall, making even being chained up a royal act.

“And who exactly is this Emrys?” Arthur asks.

“You don’t know?” The sorcerer gives Mordred a surprised look. “But you have knighted a d—”

Stop, Mordred yells in his mind, his last ditch attempt to preserve his hidden identity. The man must also be a descendent of druids because he pauses. They do not know what I am, nor Emrys’ identity.

The sorcerer limps towards Mordred, slow and loud in the quietness of the room. He comes to a halt in front of Mordred and the weight of the rest of the men’s stares makes him clench at his cuffs.

But you know, the man thinks, do you not?

Mordred doesn’t deign him a reply.

“My apologies, King Arthur. It seems I’ve been mistaken.”

“Will you let us go?” Arthur asks.

“Hm, not quite.”

The sorcerer speaks a spell Mordred has never heard before and presses his thumb against the middle of his forehead. He tries to fight the onslaught of the man’s fingers pressing deeper and deeper into his skin, reaching into his own memories. Despite Emrys’ own coldness towards Mordred, he feels a kinship and a duty to keep his identity a secret. He supposed after years of hearing of the legend of the great Emrys that he would always have this humbling feeling in his chest whenever he’s in his presence. Mordred manages to fight off the sorcerer’s mental attack, but one memory slips past his grasp.

“Stop!” Arthur struggles against his chains as do the rest of the knights. “What are you doing to him?”

It was his first venture into Camelot with his father and Mordred took ill. He doesn’t remember much from this moment exactly, just bits and pieces—it comes to him in a flash: Emrys’ aura settling his; warm, pale hands holding his sickly body; Morgana’s distressed yell. In the grand scheme of things, this memory wasn’t much but it’s enough for the sorcerer to step back and grin.

Mordred breathes harshly as their contact ceases.

“Mordred, are you all right?” one of the knights asks. He must be disoriented because he can’t even tell who that was.

“Fine,” he hacks out. The lingering touch of the man’s grimy fingers sends him trembling. He glowers at the man—Thane, Mordred manages to glean from the man’s own thoughts—and clenches his jaw. Mental attacks are a two way street and Mordred is powerful enough to fight him off and gain something from it. “For a druid, you’re quite violent. Aren’t you, Thane.”

Thane’s hand grows white around his walking stick. And for a druid, you’re certainly a traitor. Aren’t you, Sir Mordred.

“Ah, so you’ve managed to take as much information from me as I did you,” Thane says. He clicks his tongue and tilts his head, giving Mordred a look that won’t bode well for him. “Sir Mordred, I am giving you the duty of bringing Emrys to me.”

“He knows just as much as we do.” Leon, goddesses bless this man, tries to save him from this fate.

Thane raises a brow. “Well then, dear knight, you better hope he knows more because if he doesn’t come back within the next three days, I’m killing off every single one of you. One for each day. Sounds fair, doesn’t it? And I’ll be saving the king for last, of course.”

Arthur attempts to bargain, “Three days is not—”

“It's a good incentive for Mordred here, though, isn’t it.”

Mordred purses his lips.

Thane mutters a quick spell and his eyes flare a dull gold. The chains around Mordred’s hands fall and the cuffs on his feet unlock itself. His arms ache at the change and he stumbles a little. The cuffs are still on his wrists, but it’s markedly better than before.

“You’re not going to take these off?” Mordred says, eyes boring into Thane’s. Not being able to use magic would make his journey difficult.

“I’m not stupid.”

“Says the man who wants to bring Emrys here while his king and his knights are trapped.”

“He will listen to me.”

By the goddesses, this man has lost his mind. Thane sounds so sure of himself too.

“Take your leave, Sir Mordred. I’m sure those”—he points at the cuffs—“won’t be too much of a deterrent. You have three days.”

Then in a flair of dramatics, Thane shouts a spell and Mordred lands outside the castle where the horses graze the grass. He manages to get up and call his steed. It’s tricky maneuvering himself up, but he does it.

If Arthur’s right and they’re in Essetir, Mordred can traverse along the ridges of Ascetir near the borders and ask for directions to Ealdor. He just hopes he can get to Merlin in time. Mordred spots the mountainous range and turns towards it.

He has a warlock to get.

Mordred rides through the night until daylight breaks the horizon. He’s sweating and heaving, legs burning from the rough ride. Having his wrists and magic still bound together makes it worse. He’s desperate for a night in, but the threat of his friends’ deaths hangs over him. Adrenaline keeps him awake for the time being. He’s stopped twice: once to feed and water his horse and also himself, and the other to ask for directions. The barkeep was wary of him. Dishevelled man in chainmail, still bound by these infernal cuffs, and no distinguishing mark of a kingdom means trouble, but Mordred has no time to waste.

A few well-meaning folks tried to jiggle the locks on his cuffs, but since none of them had magic, he had to awkwardly set his arms below the bar. And after asking a few people about the whereabouts of Merlin’s hometown, one tradesman took pity on him and told him he was a few hours away from Ealdor. “There’s a big tree. Real old, you can’t miss it,” he said. “Once you see it, Ealdor lies just behind it. Now what’s got you in a rush to find a village as small as theirs?”

“My friends are in trouble. I have to find this man who’ll help me.”

The man slapped his shoulder. “Best wishes to you.”

“And to you as well.” Mordred nodded and left quickly.

That was a few hours ago. High noon dies mercifully and when he sees the big tree—the man was not lying, thank the goddesses—Mordred almost falls off his steed in relief. His arrival makes most of the village’s inhabitants come out to watch him.

Merlin stands frozen until Mordred dismounts.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asks tightly and Mordred flinches at the bluntness. “Mordred, where is he?”

Despite his tone, Merlin takes him into his home, waving off the rest of the town. His eyes narrow once he sees Mordred’s own wrists.

“Cold iron,” Mordred says, wincing as Merlin pokes at it.

Wordlessly, Merlin’s eyes glow brightly and the cuffs fall off immediately.

“Thank you.”

Merlin just nods and reaches out a hand. His bag flows into his palm easily and Mordred marvels at the ease. He grabs a salve and bandages and tends to Mordred’s wounds. “Tell me what happened.”

“Uh,” Mordred begins, then falters. “We, we were ambushed. Thane, the sorcerer, managed to bind us and take us to this abandoned castle. Arthur said something about Jarl?”

Merlin’s eyes widen in recognition. “I know exactly where that is. Good. How did you escape?”

“I didn’t,” Mordred says. Merlin’s fingers still for a moment. “Thane is keeping the rest of the knights hostage until I bring him Emrys. I have three days until he starts killing them. Well, two days now that the sun’s going down.”

Merlin’s jaw clenches and he finishes bandaging Mordred’s wounds with quick, perfunctory movements.

“Merlin, he...he knows I’m a druid. He did this incantation that reveals memories and I—well, I don’t think he saw your face, but he knows I know you. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“I could’ve lied better or, or I—”

Merlin shakes his head. “Enough people have lied for me, Mordred. You do not need to risk your life for my own deception.”

A woman walks through the door. Merlin’s mother. Mordred rises and bows, if a little shakily, to her. “You must be Hunith, my lady.”

“I’m no lady. Hunith is just fine,” she says, laughing. She’s pale around the edges and Mordred remembers she’s to be taken to Gaius. Realising he’s sat on one of the only chairs, Mordred ushers her to take a seat. She smiles gratefully and takes her son’s hand in hers. “You are…?”

“Mordred,” he says, bowing his head in respect.

“Now, Mordred,” she says, “is Arthur in trouble? No, it’s no surprise really. Considering you came here instead of Camelot, I assume you know…”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Well,” Hunith breathes out. “I suppose I’ll journey to Camelot alone. It’s what I planned to do anyway, but Merlin here is a worry wart.”

Merlin’s own smile is right around the edges. “Mum, look at what happened to Arthur. I’ve got a right to be worried.”

“I know, cariad.” She pats her hand on his cheek. “Are you going to ride off into the night recklessly or let this poor man rest first?”

“Mum,” Merlin starts, rolling his eyes, and it’s so different from Mordred’s own perception that he just wants to watch them interact more. The legendary Emrys himself acting like a growing boy with his mother. Far from the terrifying and awe-worthy accounts from everyone else’s mouths. Merlin gives Mordred a look and sighs. “I was going to go without Mordred.”

That hurts.

“You’re tired and I’ll wager a bet that you haven’t slept properly in a few days. You must rest,” Merlin explains.

“I’m not staying here if you’re going. I don’t even know what Thane would do if I don’t show up.”

Hunith stands and presses her palm, gentle and soft, on his arm. She squeezes it and gives him a smile. “You two will rest tonight. It’s no use to anyone if both of you have to go and one of you is sleep weary and the other isn’t thinking clearly. Tomorrow you can go save the king. Now excuse me, I’m a bit tired. I’ll tuck in early.”

The house is small enough where Mordred can see Hunith’s own shadow laying down. He whispers, “Your mother is wise.”

“She is. Now, c’mon then. There’s not enough room, so both of us will have to share the floor.”

Merlin gets a spare bedroll ready and heads out to grab some more food. He and Mordred get their fill and watch as the sun dies down, kissing the horizon once again.

“I know the route. It’ll only take us half a day if we ride fast enough.” Merlin settles in his own bedroll. Out of the corner of Mordred eyes, a faint glimmer shines in the night and all the candles go out. “We leave at first light, though. I don’t want to waste more time.”

“What are you going to do about...well, you know, your identity.”

Merlin lets the silence fill the air. “Usually, I’d use an aging spell. Dragoon the Great, is the name.”

“Usually?”

“Do you ever tire of hiding, Mordred?”

“Every day.” His voice is solemn. “You would reveal yourself to Arthur like this? The knights?”

“It’s better to do it on my own volition than to wait for tragedy to strike.”

Mordred softens his tone. “Arthur has been kind to those with magic, especially lately.”

“I know.” The fondness Merlin exudes is palpable. “I do not wish to lie any longer.”

“So you’ll save the king in a blaze of glory?”

Merlin huffs out a laugh.

“I was hoping for something a little subtler than that. If we can catch Thane before he does any of the knights harm, we can limit the injuries sustained.”

Mordred lies there and breathes easily through his nose.

“Good night, Emrys.”

“Good night, Sir Mordred.”

He and Merlin take off as the day begins. Merlin wished his mother a safe journey and hugged her tightly. He managed to pay off one of the neighbours to help Hunith reach Camelot despite her instance that she didn’t need one. It was one weight off Merlin’s shoulders, though.

They rarely spoke and they rode through the borders with surprising swiftness. Merlin’s blue cloak flaps in the wind as they near the old castle. Mordred distantly thinks that Merlin looks like royalty himself, like the legends depicted him: strong, powerful, regal.

“Do you remember which part of the castle you were in?”

Mordred shakes his head. “Thane transported me outside.”

“He must be powerful,” Merlin muses. “How did he best you?”

“I didn’t know how to do magic that wouldn’t out me as a sorcerer.”

“Fair enough.” Merlin nods, looking at the ruins with a keen eye. “We’ll have to search the whole castle.”

“You take the left and I the right?”

Merlin agrees. “Now if you find them before I do just—”

—speak to me like this, he finishes.

Merlin doesn’t wait for a response. He murmurs a quick spell at both their feet and heads in, the hood of his cloak covering his head and obscuring most of his face from viewing. Mordred soon follows and keeps one hand on the spare sword Merlin packed as he searches the rooms. Merlin’s incantation must have been to quiet their footsteps because his boots don’t make a single noise.

It doesn’t take him that long to find him because he hears hushed whispers and Mordred starts running. His hand hovers over the lock and it opens for him and the whispers stop.

Mordred pushes the door open and expects to see Arthur first, but the space where he was is empty.

“Mordred!” Gwaine shuffles. “That was quick. Where’s this Emrys bloke?”

“Where’s Arthur?” Mordred asks instead.

“Thane took him. Said he didn’t appreciate Arthur’s tone. We,” Leon begins, looking concerned, “don’t know where he is.”

Panic floods his veins. He doesn’t know how to break them out without magic, doesn’t know the incantation. But then he thinks of Merlin, of him not wanting to hide anymore. And Mordred wants to channel that courage, so he says, “Please do not hate me for what I’m about to do.”

The knights all mutter in confusion but Mordred raises his palms and his eyes flare gold. He thinks release and magic does his bidding. All their chains open and the knights stare at him, shocked.

“If you’re going to report me to the king, can we at least find him first?” Mordred asks, impatient. They all glance at each other and nod. Mordred leads the knights, going left to where Merlin would be and—

The ground rumbles beneath their feet for a quick moment and then they hear him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing to him?” Merlin’s voice is cold. Colder than even Mordred has witnessed and Mordred can barely recognise him. They all run in and the scene unfolds right before his eyes.

Arthur stands, if what he’s doing can even be called standing, strung up by metal. His chainmail is gone and so is his shirt. He’s been flogged. It’s a surprise that Arthur’s still conscious, able to spit blood onto Thane’s clothes.

“Emrys,” Thane breathes out. “At last…I get to finally meet you.”

Thane takes a step forward, ignorant of his growing audience.

Gwaine murmurs behind him, “That cloak looks familiar.”

“You think hurting the king will get you in my good graces?” Merlin stands firm. “Threatening the knights?”

“Emrys, you have enough power to create your own kingdom where magic can live free and true.”

“You tempt the Fates.”

“Damn the Fates!” Thane’s eyes are wide and crazed. “Damn the prophecies! I have lived too long under Uther’s rule. I can bear it no longer.”

“Arthur reigns with honour,” Merlin counters. He steps closer to the man and, whether it be bravery or stupidity, Thane does not back down. “Even if I wanted to create my own magical kingdom, what makes you think I’d let you step one foot in?”

Merlin’s eyes glow brightly under his hood. Magic tendrils race across his fingers, trailing up his arms. Merlin lifts one hand and Thane chokes as he’s being raised up by an invisible force. His walking stick clatters to the ground.

Mordred’s breath catches in his chest.

“You hurt my king,” Merlin says coolly.

Thane thrashes in his grip and Merlin lets go. Thane struggles to breathe on the ground, but he chants lowly then gets progressively louder. Wind rushes through the windows, breaking the remaining glass, trying to catch Merlin off guard. But all it does is tear the hood from his head.

“Merlin?” Arthur gapes.

Someone gasps behind him, but Mordred is too enthralled in this magical display to notice. This…this is Emrys.

Thane has enough power to conjure up a storm, but the lightning that manages its way into the room fizzles out the closer it gets to Merlin.

Emrys’ eyes haven’t stopped burning gold once.

Thane has a moment of realisation and turns towards Arthur instead, cutting off the ropes, making him collapse to his knees. Mordred and the knights yell out and Merlin almost burns with rage that Mordred can feel even from the doorway. Thane simply brandishes a dagger and presses it against Arthur’s throat, spilling blood.

“Well if you won’t do what I ask, I might as well kill him now,” Thane says, almost laughing.

“I’m warning you,” Merlin says, his voice tightly controlled. “Touch him again and you won’t live to see the next day.”

Thane grins and his eyes flare a dull yellow. Swords—the knights’ swords, Mordred notices—float in mid-air and rush towards Merlin, but he swats it like a fly, sending them scattering towards the knights safely. But Thane presses against Arthur’s wounds and he lets out a soft groan.

Arthur’s moment of weakness is barely audible, but Merlin has always been tuned to Arthur on a level Mordred can never hope to understand. Merlin stalks forward and shoves Thane away.

Emrys turns to him and Mordred unconsciously steps back at seeing the tightly bound fury in Merlin’s body, ready to snap. Mordred doesn’t want to be near him when it happens. Emrys’ eyes burn like a thousand suns and Mordred wants to run. He shouts an order, “Mordred, get Arthur and the knights out of here.”

Mordred doesn’t move for a second. Terror freezes him to the ground.

“Now.”

Mordred grabs his sword and sheathes it, gesturing for the others to follow. Elyan and Leon each take one of Arthur’s sides and gently tries to pull him up. Arthur groans and Mordred gives them directions to leave the castle. Mordred looks back and Merlin’s taking the castle’s walls apart, shoving Thane in a stone cage. He squeezes Thane until the man cries out in pain.

The last thing Mordred hears is Merlin’s words: “You desire your own magical kingdom so much, you’ll get to die in this castle.”

Mordred runs out and Merlin catches up with him.

“Emrys—”

Merlin holds out a hand and Mordred’s question dies on his lips. Merlin stops in front of the castle, his back towards Arthur and the rest of the knights. He crouches down and hisses out an incantation.

Mordred watches with morbid fascination as the ground splits open, starting out as a crack that extends and widens, revealing the depths of the land. It looks like a gaping wound, empty and growing, and the castle starts to fall in it. Stone by ruinous stone, the land eats up it up like a ravenous beast.

Emrys stands slowly and Mordred suddenly remembers how the Druid elders spoke of monsters—they would tear the land apart, cold as can be. For all of Merlin’s kindness, for all his soft heart, Mordred knows what his power is capable of and it terrifies him to the core.

When the last stone falls, the ground groans and Emrys spreads his arms wide, fingers sparking gold. He moves to press his hands together and the ground pulls itself back. Merlin strains and he starts to sweat, but the land seems to want to reunite. Merlin’s hands press against each other just as the land’s seams disappear, leaving a green and lush field in its wake.

Merlin turns around and the exhaustion seems to hit him. The knights all stare at Merlin, baffled and awed and and just a little bit fearful. Merlin walks towards Arthur and Leon and Elyan almost back away, but something in Merlin’s eyes must be saying something because they stop.

Arthur hasn’t spoken a word.

“Arthur, can I heal you?” Merlin asks, one hand hovering over Arthur. “Please. I’m…I’m not really good at healing spells, but you’re hurt.”

With one shuddering sigh, Arthur nods and closes his eyes. A gesture of trust or resignation, Mordred can’t tell. Merlin asks Elyan and Leon to let Arthur sit, then he utters a spell. Light shines from Arthur’s back and he gasps.

Arthur blinks slowly and he stands up, shakily but with returned strength. Gwaine hands him his shirt, but Merlin takes it instead, helping Arthur dress with gentle hands, so unlike moments before with the castle. Arthur lets him, but he still hasn’t spoken a word aloud. At least, not since he said Merlin’s name back there with Thane.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, more like a question than anything.

Arthur grabs his sword from Leon’s hand and sheathes it. “You have magic.”

The statement hangs in the air like an executioner’s axe.

“I was born with it,” Merlin says, tired. “I use it for you, Arthur.”

Leon and Elyan look to Arthur for guidance, for what they should do. Gwaine is a few steps away from shoving Merlin into an embrace, but Mordred catches Gwaine’s eyes and tells him to wait. Arthur’s gaze never leaves Merlin.

“Merlin…” Arthur sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose in between two fingers. “Let’s go home.”

Merlin blinks rapidly and Mordred can’t stop the hope blooming in his chest.

“You’re not going to banish me?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“Kill me? Burn me on the pyre?”

Arthur pulls Merlin into a hug and says, “I could never do that, even if duty bound me to do it.”

Merlin’s arms wrap around Arthur’s tightly and his voice shakes when he asks, “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m furious at you for lying to me for so long,” Arthur says easily as Merlin winces. “I feel obligated to ask Hunith if she knows how much of an idiot you are for staying in Camelot while my father reigned.”

Merlin laughs, wet around the eyes, and pushes Arthur away. “My mother sent me to Camelot, you prat.”

“And you stayed there.”

“Well, I couldn’t really leave you,” Merlin says, softening. “You’d be lost without me.”

Arthur doesn’t deny it which makes Merlin grin like a lunatic.

“Now please tell me you didn’t let our horses fall in with the castle because I’ll put you in the stocks for that.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Of course, I didn’t. You fawn over Hoegan like a prize possession.”

Merlin puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly, almost splitting Mordred’s ears. The horses which hid behind the trees throughout the whole debacle, come out and trot towards them. They all get ready, mounting their steeds and getting any and all their wounds checked out by Merlin. The sun shines down on them as they move out.

An hour or so of riding back towards Camelot, Gwaine asks, “Do you think anyone’s gonna notice a whole castle’s missing? Merlin, mate, you might’ve overdone it.”

Arthur snorts and the rest of them laugh along with him.

Mordred catches Merlin’s eyes as he grins bright.

Thank you, Emrys, he thinks.

Merlin blinks. For what?

Mordred tries to put it into words but he can’t. Shaking his head, he repeats himself, Thank you.