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“What if my father's attitude toward magic is wrong? Perhaps it's not as simple as he would have us believe. Surely not everyone who practices magic can be evil.”
Arthur’s words had stolen Merlin’s breath as surely as if he’d been knocked off his horse or sustained a heavy blow to the sternum. Part of him wondered if Arthur was under a spell to be saying such things, and if that were the case, Merlin was afraid to speak lest he break it. He was silent for a record amount of time, but eventually his doubts galvanized him to speak up. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" None of his previous arguments had had any effect in swaying Arthur from his promise to meet Morgause. If anything, they only consolidated his resolve.
“I gave her my word, Merlin." Arthur's eyes flicked briefly towards him. "I can’t break my promise.”
Merlin plucked at the reins of his horse as they proceeded deeper into the woods. “You also gave me your word that you’d stop tracking mud into your room, but you haven’t shown any sign of fulfilling that.” His rejoinder was, predictably, met with silence.
Merlin wanted to believe Morgause’s intentions were noble, but he’d defended Arthur from too many magical threats over the years to trust every enchantress or sorcerer that wandered onto Camelot’s doorstep. It didn’t help that they knew virtually nothing about Morgause, other than that she was as skilled with a sword as she was with a spell. She’d claimed to know Arthur’s mother, but her words could have been an empty lure.
Their meeting spot was isolated, deep in the forest and miles away from habitation. In other words, a perfect place for an assassination attempt. Merlin’s stomach clenched with nerves as he listened to Arthur and Morgause converse in low tones. Morgause was dressed in a deep red gown that reminded Merlin of the garb Nimueh had worn the night he'd killed her. He hoped Morgause wasn’t planning on tricking them as Nimueh had.
“You said you knew my mother,” Arthur ventured. There was a plaintive note in his voice. He sounded like a lost child. Merlin’s heart ached to hear it. “Tell me about her.”
“Perhaps you would like to see her, instead?” Morgause’s voice was gentle, but Merlin thought he detected a calculated edge to it.
“I want that more than anything.”
“As you wish.” Morgause’s brown eyes flashed gold as she chanted. Her magic was weaker than Merlin’s, but it was honed and perfectly mastered. If they were forced to battle, Merlin couldn’t say with confidence who would win.
A brilliant light overtook his field of vision. True to her word, an apparition of Arthur’s mother appeared.
Merlin had only ever seen a single portrait of Ygraine, and he’d come across it by chance while skimming through a book on Camelot’s history near the back of Geoffrey’s library. The miniature gouache portrait had captured Ygraine’s eyes and her wispy blonde hair, but the artist had failed to accurately render the lines of her cheeks and brow. Her mouth in the portrait had been a thin severe line to match Uther’s, but now it pulled into a rueful smile. Her lips were slightly slanted, and it was the crookedness of her smile, more than any of her other features, that Merlin recognized in Arthur.
It could still be a trick. Even if the apparition matched Ygraine’s appearance, it might all be a conjured illusion. Merlin flexed his fingers and conducted his magic outward.
Ygraine’s specter didn’t feel corrupted or malignant. She radiated the same warm maternal affection that Hunith expressed toward Merlin.
Merlin was seized by the sudden conviction that Ygraine was real. Or at least, a sincere echo of the real Ygraine. He was so focused on inspecting the magic that had conjured Ygraine, that he failed to pay heed to what she was saying. He caught only the hindmost part of the conversation.
“To create a life, a life must be taken. Your father knew that. He enlisted the help of the sorceress Nimueh so that I may conceive a child.” Ygraine paused, eyes replete with pity. “You were born of magic, Arthur.”
Arthur and Merlin shared a collective intake of breath. The revelation visibly rocked Arthur. He staggered back, his body instinctively pulling away from Ygraine’s words, as if creating physical distance would shield him from the truth.
All Merlin could think was how much it made sense. Arthur was made from magic. Merlin was made of magic. Their destinies were inextricably linked. Kilgharrah had told Merlin that Arthur was his destiny, but a small, reluctant part of Merlin had known even longer. From the moment they’d met, Merlin had felt a tug in his magic leading him to the enormous prat that was Prince Arthur.
“No,” Arthur murmured. “That’s not true.”
“Uther sacrificed my life so the Pendragon dynasty could continue.” Ygraine offered a few consoling words. She cupped Arthur’s cheek, assured him that she loved him, then faded like a nebulous dream.
Arthur’s expression shuttered, his face studiously blank.
“Arthur, are you—”
“Fetch the horses.” His lips barely moved when he spoke. Merlin dutifully obliged.
Arthur’s posture was rigid and the line of his shoulders unbending as he mounted his horse and steered them back to Camelot.
He’s in shock, Merlin decided. The questions Merlin posed on the ride back were met with clipped answers that discouraged further inquiry. The remainder of their journey was spent in silence broken only by the clop of iron-shod horse hooves, the rustle of forest animals, and the muted shush of the wind through the trees.
“What are you going to do?” Merlin finally asked once they arrived at Camelot’s inner citadel.
Arthur didn’t respond or give any sign that he’d heard him. Merlin realized it wasn’t shock gripping Arthur in its throes; it was anger. Arthur’s anger was always quick to ignite and quick to extinguish, but the coals banking his fury now indicated no sign of burning out. Arthur ascended the stairs mutely and strode past the guards.
Merlin stared after him, clutching the reins of their horses in his hands. After a moment of deliberation, he escorted the horses to the stables. He usually lingered to chat with the stablehand, but he excused himself with little more than a friendly word.
There was still a chance that it had all been a ploy of Morgause’s, that Uther wasn’t truly responsible for Ygraine’s death. Merlin knew only one person who could provide him with the truth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be true. If Uther really had enlisted Nimueh and resorted to magic to have Arthur, then that meant Nimueh had been justified in her hatred of Uther, in her quest for revenge. And Merlin had killed her.
Merlin gritted his teeth, ignoring the dull throb of guilt in his chest. He passed Gwen on his way to Gaius’ quarters. She was clad in a soft lilac dress. A sprig of flowers was tucked behind her ear. Merlin wondered if Morgana had placed it there. He forced a weak, unconvincing smile, but wasn’t capable of returning her genial greeting.
Inside the physician’s quarters, Gaius hunched over a battered tome. To anyone else, it might have been mistaken for a book on medicine. Merlin knew it was a grimoire, a text on the subject that their kind had been burned for possessing.
The door creaked shut behind Merlin.
Gaius lifted his head. “Goodness, Merlin. Where have you been?”
He dispensed with pleasantries. “Arthur was born of magic. Wasn't he?”
Gaius stiffened. It was all the confirmation Merlin needed. Gaius was skilled at equivocating and dissembling information. He’d deceived the court and his king when he deemed necessary, but he’d never outright lied to Merlin before. At least not that Merlin knew of.
Merlin tried to keep his voice level and unaffected, but his words shook. His temples pounded as if there was a second furious heartbeat there. “Uther used magic.” Uther, the man who had haunted Merlin’s nightmares on multiple occasions. A man who murdered others for no crime other than their nature.
“Merlin,” Gaius said slowly.
“All those people he’s killed… People should know the truth about what he's done. How could you not tell me?”
The same writhing guilt that plagued Merlin was reflected on Gaius’ face. “I feared what Arthur would do if he ever found out.”
“Well, he’s found out now.”
Gaius’ expression sharpened. “You have to stop him, Merlin. Before it’s too late and he does something he’ll regret.”
Merlin pivoted sharply on his heel. It might very well already be too late.
He scrambled up the stairway and through the halls, his heart thundering his chest and boots pounding against the stone floor. He pushed his way past a pair of scullery maids, earning disgruntled glares.
What did Gaius expect him to do? Disabuse Arthur of the truth? Convince him that Morgause had tricked him when all she’d done was exhume long buried truths?
Leon stood sentinel outside the doors to the great hall. A pair of guards were stationed nearby, but they deferred to Leon’s higher rank. Merlin couldn’t remember either of their names, but their manner of speech—particularly about women—had left Merlin with a less than stellar impression of them.
Merlin reached for the door handle, but Leon flung him back. His face was apologetic but firm. “The King has forbidden anyone to enter.”
The heavy doors blocked most noise, but the muffled rumble of voices was still detectable. It was obvious to anyone with ears that Arthur and Uther weren’t engaged in a peaceful tête-à-tête. “They're going to kill each other!”
Leon’s eyes widened. Merlin could see his internal struggle as he warred between obeying his king’s command and exercising his own better judgement.
After a moment’s hesitation, Leon unbarred the door.
Merlin burst into the hall. “Stop!”
Merlin’s cry was overdue. Arthur's sword was already in mid swing. Time slowed and thickened before Merlin’s eyes like a drop of sap oozing from a tree. He could see the future laid out before him. Arthur's sword would sever Uther’s head from his body. Uther’s reign would end and Arthur’s would begin. Arthur’s first act as king would be regicide and patricide.
The people of Camelot respected Arthur because of his generosity and kind nature. He’d cultivated a reputation across the land for being temperate and compassionate. Murdering Uther meant that his ironclad reputation would be tarnished in an instant. Worse yet, Arthur would never be able to live with himself.
Merlin’s eyes flashed molten gold. The language of the Old Religion was familiar on his tongue, the words and magic eager to be shaped.
The forged steel of Arthur’s blade liquified. It dissolved into a puddle of silver-tinted goo, splashing across Uther’s face and leaving Arthur with a useless hilt.
The ensuing silence that filled the hall was deafening. Merlin blinked away the shimmering afterimage of magic. He swallowed back the electrifying taste of it on his tongue. And he tried to ignore the certainty that it would be the last spell he ever cast.
Arthur’s jaw hung open, stupefied. His gaze wasn’t on his father, but instead fixed on Merlin. No sound emerged from Arthur’s open mouth. It seemed Merlin had finally rendered him speechless. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to savour.
Uther brushed the melted sword goo off his face with a gloved hand. His mouth was a slash of fury, and beneath the silver stain of the dissolved blade, his face flushed an apoplectic red. A vein in his temple throbbed so furiously that it was visible even from a distance. “Sorcery!” The king’s bellow resounded through the cavernous hall, echoing as if it were being repeated by an invisible chorus.
There was no use denying it, or pointing at Leon and saying, It was him, not me! I swear!. Merlin had as good as tied the hangman’s noose around his neck. Under Uther’s reign, sorcery was viewed as the worst committable offense. It was more depraved and heinous than murder. There would be no trial and no defense. He’d performed magic before Uther, and the king's word was law.
Arthur’s arm went slack, before falling to his side. The hilt of the sword Merlin had destroyed with magic clattered to the ground. The fever-bright rage in Arthur’s eyes faded. Merlin felt the dimming of Arthur's gaze like the loss of the sun.
Merlin shivered, his body shaking suddenly as if he’d been plunged in icy water. Would Arthur watch him when they lit the pyre? Would he meet Merlin’s eyes as the life was burned out of him? Merlin had the power and the words to walk through fire unscathed, but he lacked the will.
He was a traitor. Arthur would never trust him again. And without Arthur, what purpose did he have?
Uther roared for the guards to arrest him. Merlin was gratified that Leon made no attempt to seize him, even though he was the closest. There was a stricken expression on Leon’s face. He didn’t attempt to intervene, but he didn’t help subdue Merlin, either. It was a small mercy, and more than he expected to be afforded.
Merlin’s arms were yanked behind his back with a force that made his joints pop in protest. His stomach roiled. Don’t puke on the guards. He wasn’t sure he could survive that one last shameful ordeal.
“I should have known.” Uther’s voice reverberated behind him. “There was always something evil about him. He must have enchanted me the night I instated him as your manservant.”
Arthur didn’t reply. Or, if he did, it was too quiet for Merlin to hear.
Merlin was marched through the corridors. He passed the same maids he'd knocked over mere minutes ago. Their aggrieved expressions were replaced with shock, and finally pity. His knees wobbled so fiercely he worried they’d buckle. He’d been arrested by Camelot’s guards before and he’d spent time in both the stocks and the cells, but this was different. He hadn’t committed a petty infraction. He wasn’t being punished to indulge a spoilt prince’s sadistic whim. He was a criminal. And unless Camelot spontaneously lost their supply of lumber and kindling overnight, he would be burned at first light.
It would probably be a public affair, to satisfy the people’s sick curiosity and serve as a reminder that sorcerers would be granted no mercy. There hadn’t been any burnings in a while, but not for lack of sorcerers.
Merlin and Arthur had caught a girl in the Lower Town using magic a short time ago. It had been a careless, indulgent use of magic to wring water from the garment she was washing. Merlin had prayed Arthur hadn’t noticed, but the tiny hitch in Arthur’s breath betrayed him. Instead of apprehending the girl, Arthur had marched on in silence, his gaze focused determinedly forward, pretending he hadn’t witnessed the crime. But Merlin knew he had.
Arthur wasn’t a sympathizer of sorcery. He’d been enchanted and manipulated and victimized by sorcery enough times to know its nefarious uses. But he was a tolerant person by nature, a counter to Uther’s cruel and exacting temperament.
Still, even Arthur wouldn’t be able to forgive this betrayal. Not after all of Merlin’s lying and treachery.
By the time they reached the doors to the dungeons, Merlin’s legs were shaking so bad he would have tumbled down the stairs if not for the guard’s grip on him. The mouldering vapours of the dungeons filled his nostrils and made his lungs spasm. He was shoved roughly into a vacant cell. The guards sneered when he crashed to the ground. The sparse straw on the ground was damp, and the walls were mildewed.
Merlin ignored the jeering comments the guards hurled his way. They’d always been bullies, the first to throw rotten fruit at people being pilloried. Merlin didn’t allow himself to cry until long after they’d left. A sob built in his throat, but when it escaped, it sounded like a strangled laugh. He wondered if news had reached Gaius yet. When Gaius had bade Merlin to prevent Arthur from doing something he’d regret, he was pretty sure Gaius hadn’t meant at the cost of his own life.
Hours oozed by. Sleep eluded him. Arthur’s shocked expression was emblazoned on the back of his lids. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was how betrayed Arthur must have felt. Merlin would miss their recriminatory bickering, their teasing insults. How Arthur graced him with small, private smiles when he thought Merlin wasn’t watching. Merlin would never get to apologize. Would never hear Arthur laugh again. And he’d never get the chance to tell him how he felt.
Merlin shifted restlessly, unable to get comfortable or warm. A crick formed in his neck. He could have alleviated the sore muscle with magic, but he didn’t bother expending the effort.
When he finally did lapse into sleep, his dreams were of smoke filling his mouth, throat, lungs. Of fire lapping at his flesh, turning his clothes to ash and his bones to char. Yet the pain of burning was nothing compared to Arthur’s contempt.
“You utter imbecile.”
Weird. Arthur’s voice sounded more frustrated than scornful.
“You dollopheaded clotpole!”
Merlin’s lashes fluttered. “Those’re my words.” He blinked blearily up at the figure outside his cell. Arthur. Merlin jerked upright. Did he intend to personally escort Merlin to his execution? He blinked again to reassert his vision. The cell’s barred window divided the moonlight into silver stripes. Dawn was still hours away. He still had time.
“Arthur?” Merlin prompted. He scrutinized his prince. A thick, leaden exhaustion rolled off Arthur, as if he’d aged years in the span of a few hours. He was unaccompanied, and it was clear no one had escorted him to Merlin’s cell.
“How did you get past the guards?”
“Sleeping draught in their cups.”
“Oh.” That was resourceful of him. “Um. So, why are you here?”
Arthur’s silence was a garotte around Merlin's throat. He tried to brace himself. Finally, after a long, knife-edge moment, Arthur spoke up. “I knew there was something about you. I could never put my finger on it, but I always knew.”
Merlin had spent the night cycling through a hundred apologies, but none captured the magnitude of his regret. Worst of all, if he had the chance to do it again, there was nothing he would have done differently.
Arthur sighed. It was a sigh Merlin had grown accustomed to hearing, but the circumstances were usually much more mundane. “Why did you do it?”
“What?”
“What do you think?” Arthur hissed, glowering as if Merlin was being deliberately obtuse.
“It wasn’t for his sake.” It was for yours, went unsaid but not unheard. “I couldn’t let you do something you’d regret.”
“And what made you so certain I’d regret it?”
Merlin rose to his feet so that his gaze was more or less level with Arthur’s. “You lost one parent already. I didn’t want to see you lose another.”
“You heard what my mother said! She’s dead because of him.”
“I know.” Merlin swallowed what little moisture he could produce. “But your reign can’t begin with patricide. Your greatest strength is your mercy and compassion, and I know you’d never forgive yourself if you killed your father.”
“You’re a sorcerer, Merlin. He’s hunted your kind. You could have killed him at any time, and yet you stopped me from doing so. Why?”
“I have no love for Uther, but I believe in you, and in the kingdom you will build.”
“Why?” Arthur repeated. His hands wrapped around the iron bars of the cell.
The easy response was destiny, but no prophecy could predict or encompass how deeply Merlin had come to regard Arthur. “Because you’re you.”
“That’s not an answer!”
Perhaps not, but it was the only one Merlin felt brave enough to give. He fumbled for a different thread of the conversation to follow. “Aren't you angry?”
“Believe me, Merlin. I am.”
“I deceived you.”
“Yes. It seems you had some self preservation skills after all. Shame you lost them earlier.”
“Huh?”
Another exasperated sigh whooshed from Arthur’s lungs. “Of course I don’t blame you for hiding your magic. That fact that you’re in Camelot as all is madness. Honestly, what possessed you to come here? Even if Cenred mistreats sorcerers, magic is at least legal in Essetir.”
Merlin blinked, confused. “Don’t… don’t you want me dead?”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you.” Arthur’s words lodged between Merlin’s ribs like a shard of ice. “How could you even think that?”
“I… wait, what?” Did Arthur find him repulsive, or not?
“All my life, I’ve been taught that sorcery is evil, that it breaks wills and commands hearts, poisons the best of men and blackens the purest souls.”
There was something questing in Arthur’s voice. Merlin knew he was expected to answer, but how could he respond to that? He wanted to soliloquize about the wonders of magic, the feats it could achieve. But what could words accomplish? “All of that is true.”
“Then why do you practice it?” Arthur didn’t sound accusatory; merely curious.
Merlin averted his gaze. He picked at a hangnail until it bled. “It’s not… practice isn’t the right word. Magic is what I am, not something I do. So if magic is evil, that must mean I am too.”
“If you’re magic, Merlin, then all my preconceptions about magic are wrong.”
He met Arthur’s deep blue stare. “What do you mean?”
“Answer me this, Merlin: who are you loyal to?”
Merlin frowned. He was loyal to his friends. To his mother. To Gaius. But mostly—“To you.”
“And why are you loyal to me? Simply because you were appointed my manservant?” There was something vulnerable and desperate in Arthur’s gaze, like a wild animal that had been cornered.
“No,” he croaked. “I’m... I'm in love with you.” The admission stuck to his throat and made it painful to swallow. “And I have been for so long.” It didn’t matter now if Arthur spurned his confession. He was sentenced to be executed either way.
“You’ve lied to me since the beginning.”
A pang of guilt wracked him. “I know.”
“Promise you’ll never lie to me again.” Arthur’s eyes blazed with an intensity that could rival a solar flare or a ball of witch fire.
How could Merlin deny him this? “I promise.” His words rang with conviction.
Arthur’s eyes danced over the lines of Merlin’s face. Whatever he gleaned from Merlin’s expression seemed to appease him. “Good. Now tell me what Morgause showed me was a lie. Tell me Morgause tricked me, and that my father never used magic. Tell me my father isn’t responsible for my mother’s death.”
“I—I can’t.” Merlin’s voice cracked. “Not without breaking my promise.”
Arthur exhaled heavily, his nostrils flaring. “He swore to me. My father swore that he loved my mother. He swore that her death was not his fault.”
Merlin deliberated his words, weighing their cost carefully. “I think Uther believes what he’s saying is true. He believes that sorcery is at fault for taking your mother’s life, even though he was warned against using it in the first place.”
“He’s abrogated responsibility for his crime! And he’s been crusading against sorcerers ever since.”
“I know.”
“I’ve watched them. The sorcerers. I’ve seen them burn and hang simply for existing. I stood by and did nothing. How… how can you say you love me?”
“Because it’s the truth. I’ve seen what kind of man you are.”
“Yes? And what am I? Besides a fool and a coward.”
“You’re the kind of man who inspires others to be better. You are noble and a bit insufferable, but you’re the furthest thing from a coward.”
Arthur reached between the cell bars for Merlin’s hand. Merlin allowed his muscles to go pliant. He didn’t resist as Arthur pulled his hand through the bars and raised it to his mouth. His lips grazed Merlin’s knuckles, warm against Merlin’s chilled skin.
Merlin’s heart thudded, before settling back to its natural rhythm. “I don’t understand.”
Arthur’s lips twitched. “When do you ever?”
Merlin’s first instinct was to return Arthur’s jibe with a clever retort of his own, but he quashed the urge. “Why did you come here, Arthur? To say goodbye? I’m going to be executed in the morning.”
“No,” Arthur said slowly, in the patient tone adults used to explain concepts to small and simple children. He brandished a ring of keys that he’d likely nicked from one of the guards. “I am going to unlock your cell and everyone else is going to believe that your magic was so powerful you broke yourself out. Then you’ll move to a land that doesn’t commit genocide against sorcerers and live a long life.”
“No.” Merlin shook his head like a stubborn horse. “I’m not leaving. Not without you.”
“That’s fine. We’ll leave Camelot together.”
“What? No. Arthur, no.”
Arthur didn’t seem pleased with his response. His confident tenor faltered. “I thought you said you loved me.”
“I do. That’s why I can’t let you throw your future away.”
“And what other choice do I have?”
“Arthur, this is mad. You know you’re kingdom is the most important—”
“Not without you.”
Merlin’s mind reeled. How could Arthur trust him and care for him after all his deceptions and bald lies? “How… how do you know I’m not using my magic on you right now? Bewitching you to think like this?”
Arthur snorted. “Are you even capable of such a feat?”
“Of course! Well, probably. How would I know? It’s not like I’ve tried.”
“See? You probably don’t even know how. It’s not like you’re a very powerful sorcerer.”
“What if I am? What if I’m the most powerful?”
“It wouldn’t change anything.” Arthur inserted the key into the lock and wrenched open the cell door.
“It wouldn’t?” Merlin hoped the catch in his voice wasn’t noticeable. As soon as Merlin stumbled into the hall, Arthur tugged him close. Merlin fell into the embrace, languishing in the security of Arthur’s arms.
“No. With or without magic, you’re still an unbearable idiot.”
“Takes one to know one.” Merlin fidgeted. “I s’pose the whole kingdom’s heard about me by now.”
“They shouldn’t have. My father’s done his best to hush it up. He’s the one who appointed you to be my manservant. He doesn’t exactly want the entire kingdom to learn of his error in judgement.” Arthur’s expression sobered. “Still, gossip has a way of spreading.”
“Faster than plague,” Merlin agreed.
Arthur scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving several gold strands sticking straight up. “If only there were a way to erase the past few hours. To make everyone forget.”
“I did read about a memory purging spell. But it’s difficult to cast. I’d need ingredients from Gaius’ stores.”
“Why, Merlin. You sound like you’ve done this sort of thing before.” Arthur’s voice was brimming with suspicion, but his lips twitched with mirth.
“Who, me?” Merlin grinned back.
Arthur’s smile diminished. “If you do cast a forgetfulness spell, will it make me forget as well?”
“Not if you hold onto me while I cast it,” Merlin answered honestly.
Arthur nodded to himself. “Great. Then don’t even think about letting go of my hand.”
“What will happen after the spell is cast and everyone else forgets the past few hours?”
Arthur’s gaze withdrew inwards. “My father has indoctrinated the people into fearing magic. Undoing his propaganda won’t be easy.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not me, Merlin. Us. Together. I don’t have to kill my father in order to overthrow him. Things will be different when I’m king. You have my word.”
Merlin’s heart fluttered. “Does this mean you have a plan?”
“Not as such.”
“Then we’ll come up with one along the way,” Merlin decided. “Together.”
Arthur pressed his lips to Merlin’s, not so much a kiss as a desperate promise. Merlin kind of never wanted to stop kissing Arthur. He would have been content to stand in the dank, musty dungeons for hours longer, if it meant being in Arthur’s arms. When they pulled back, Arthur’s breath stirred across Merlin’s face. “We're going to need Gwen and Morgana’s help, aren't we?”
“For coming up with a plan? Yeah, probably.”