Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the surface, Uther Pendragon had been a very dignified king, with little faults and many victories. This, Arthur had vehemently believed. His father had not been a kind man, he had taken little to open affection, or any affection at all, and resorted to a strict and diligent upbringing, but to Arthur, he had been at least fair.

Arthur would not dare question his father in this, even now, months after his passing, but a great many regrets he had still when looking at his past. His father had been a bitter man; he had not seen it as a young child, nor as newly-knighted man, or even at age twenty when Uther’s reign had started its untimely demise. But now, it was clear as day.

Uther, above all else, had reigned with little compassion and an iron fist. A smart man he was, making political achievement that none of his predecessors, and most likely none of his successors, would ever see come to fruition with such swiftness and efficiency. But he had lacked any sort of affection for his people.

Laws and code were vital and of much more importance than a peasant or a beggar who had done little but a harmless misstep. Arthur, prideful and supercilious as he was, or as Merlin had often so eloquently put it, may have a stick up his ass, was nothing in comparison to the broken vanity Uther had harbored.

Arthur did not like speaking ill of his late father. He still held him in grant respect and dignity but he was not above criticism anymore. During Uther’s reign he had not dared question his father much, but in the months after his death he had voiced a great many concerns about the way the kingdom was to be run.

Amid all these rapid changes and realizations, however, Arthur had held strong his ban on magic, as had he not removed the penalty of death placed on its offense.

He saw little wrong with this, still, as they rode out a spring’s early morning. The air crisp with rain long-since passed, chilly but not enough to warrant a thick jacket. Flocks of birds had begun their return onto the lands and fields, pillaging for branches and leaves, and places best suited to raise their young.

Arthur reveled in the songs they sung, no matter if they disturbed his sleep well into the hours of night or the early hours of morn when the sun had not yet dared climb up the horizon, only an auburn glow lost afar indicating its return.

Merlin by his side, as was to be expected, and Gwaine who had so graciously offered to join them. He reeked of booze still and Arthur was not entirely sure he had fully sobered up yet. It mattered not, Gwaine was still twice the knight than most his men even when intoxicated, yet he would much rather have a sober accomplice for hunting.

They rode past the creek near the mountains, mist and dew brushing at their horses’ fur and long coats, melting into the thick fabric and filling it with the promises of spring. After so many months of winter and snow, the sunlight beaming through the forest leaves crowned above the branches was a much needed change of pace, and Arthur’s reason for such an untimely and sudden hunting trip. If he had to stay one more day confined to those heavy stone walls, he would start truly going insane, he feared. Aggravaine had taken to the castle in the meantime, eager as ever to take off some of Arthur's bearings and duties himself. It provided a much needed relief.

“Something’s odd,” Merlin said, interrupting their comfortable silence as they passed down the shallow slope. He had caught up to Arthur, leaving Gwaine to form the closing line alone, his blue gaze focused on the thicket as though he feared the branches themselves would start enveloping and suffocating them.

Had this been just a year, or perhaps just a few months prior, Arthur would have dismissed Merlin’s comment as his manservant’s usual slightly odd antics. Merlin had always been a little to the left in ways no one else was.

Arthur had never been able to pinpoint what exactly made Merlin different from those around him. By all accounts he was far less skilled a knight than anyone else at the Round Table, although he had improved significantly. Clumsy to boot is what Arthur would describe Merlin as, perhaps not entirely wrong in its assessment; a dollop-head, surely, but odd in ways others were not. His clumsiness vanished during impeding danger, his insolence turned stubbornness and insistence in the face of crisis. Had it been anyone else Arthur would have had them thrown to the stocks long ago.

Merlin was well and truly odd but if there was anything Arthur had learned about him, it was that Merlin’s instincts were sharp. Sharper even than that of his best knights, and that not trusting his most devout servant’s instincts usually lead them headfirst into trouble.

“What do you reckon it is?” Arthur asked, halting his mare. Behind them, Gwaine stalled as well, although late on the uptake in his less than ideal state, almost crashing into Merlin’s stallion.

“Not sure,” Merlin murmured, his blue eyes lost somewhere afar, sunken deep into thought. “But it would be best we stay vigilant.”

“What’s going on?” Gwaine inquired from behind, riding up to Arthur’s left. “Princess spotted a nice stag?”

“Merlin’s got a feeling,” Arthur said and Gwaine shut his mouth immediately, no doubt another comment sneered at Arthur on the tip of his tongue. His most insolent knight’s expression grew serious with trepidation. Even he had learned to heed Merlin’s instincts.

“You know what it is?”

“No,” Arthur replied dryly, gripping his mare’s reigns tight. “Stay alert, we’ll move further down the slope.”

“No need.” Arthur turned to see Gwaine pointing at the sky.

The pale azure of the morning sky, a cloudless day it had been, was completely disrupted by a smoke cloud, dark and looming up against the pastel sun rays far beyond the tree leaves’ tips. Now that he saw it, Arthur picked up on the growing stench of burned wood and crops. The curling clouds were far, further even than the other river side they had crossed half an hour earlier, yet its sighting was plain for all to see.

“It must be big,” Gwaine said. “Perhaps a farm caught fire?”

“Or some bandits set fire to it,” Arthur mumbled. “I thought there were no settlements nearby.”

“There aren’t,” Merlin supplied.

They galloped up the slope north. The air grew heavy with smoke and the stench of burning, prickling at Arthur’s nose, clogging his lungs and causing his eyes to tear. The wind had changed their way, blowing the smoke into their faces. But even then, no fire should feel this seething, this threatening from so afar, so as to be felt all throughout the forest. Something was amiss, the fire had not been there a moment ago, yet when Gwaine had pointed at the sky it seemed as though it had been burning for hours already.

A herd of deer passed them, fleeing in a frenzy through the creek they had just passed, uncaring of the dangerous current as if nothing could be more frightening than the fire they fled from. The pit inside Arthur’s stomach grew wider and wider by the second. It was natural for wildlife to flee, but never had he seen deer behave quite like this; almost toppling over each other in their flight. A panic so raw and deep all care had left their minds.

As sudden as the fire and smoke had ravaged the forest, the cinders clogged the air and the ash clouded their vision, as sudden it had all dispersed into nothingness as though it had all been an illusion. Only the ash he coughed up, caught on the fabric of his sleeves remained a steady reminder of what had just been.

What they found was no burning farm, no wildfire devouring the drought of winter or bandits plundering villagers in the early morning hours, but a scorched clearing. Scorched, burned, the trees ebony black and the grass turned to dust. But no fire.

They halted their horses, unsteadiness pulsating under their skin.

“Something’s wrong.” Arthur carefully jumped off his mare and onto the scorched earth. He gazed up at the sky, clear as day.

“Excellent observation, sire,” Gwaine said but his voice lacked the usual joyful mirth.

“Very funny.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “A fire that big could not have just disappeared like that.” He glanced at the smoking ground. “It was there a second ago.”

Gwaine followed Arthur’s example, dismounting Leon’s mare he had seemingly borrowed without consent. “This used to be an encampment.” He said, pointing at toppled over pots and rocks, blackened by the flames. “No bodies though.”

“Sire, I believe we should head back. This place is dangerous,” Merlin said, awfully polite, and Arthur turned to see him still mounted on his stallion, no attempt to join them made.

Truly, Arthur wanted to dismiss Merlin’s comment as the paranoia of a frightened servant who knew little and spoke too much, but Merlin was not any servant; he had never been just anyone. Nor had ever been easily frightened despite his lack of actual skill to defend himself if things were to turn dire. They usually did.

Still, Arthur shrugged it off. “Whoever was here is gone now. There is nothing to fear.”

Merlin’s piercing blue gaze shone brightly in the morning sun, holding Arthur’s for perhaps a second too long, before begrudgingly dismounting his horse. Clearly, he had little faith in Arthur’s words but, then again, neither did Arthur.

They scavenged around the clearing. Arthur found various burned clothes, leftover raggedy cloths strewn about the grass, once garments of those who had lived here. It could not have been a temporary encampment either, there were stone ovens and foundations for cooking areas and seats.

As far as Arthur knew, Camelot held no record of people living in these woods. Safe for one exception – a people Camelot had not recognized as their own for almost three decades now. A people hidden between deep lush thicket and ancient woods, whispering of long lost gods and of flowers blossomed with nothing but thought.

“It’s a Druid encampment,” he realized.

Beside him, Merlin stilled suddenly as though frozen by some strange enchantment. When Arthur gazed at him, his eyes had grown wide. With what, however, Arthur could not say. The expression was unreadable, as Merlin’s often was, even after so many years spent devoted at Arthur’s side. Perhaps that was just another way Merlin was odd in.

Gwaine stumbled through the rubble. “Well, where are they, then? Can’t have burned to ash, we’d at least have bones.”

“Maybe they fled.”

Gwaine raised an eye brow. “And we saw and heard none of it? The fire was immense yet the clearing is small and the camp has not completely turned to ash. This reeks of magic if you ask me.”

Arthur paused. Sometimes Gwaine proved how reliable a knight he truly was. It was hard to see under all the drunken stupor and joyful jabs done at Arthur’s and the other knights’ expenses, but Gwaine, at heart, was loyal to boot, resilient and very, very perceptive.

None of that perceptiveness was keeping the icy cold creeping up Arthur’s spine, crawling into his skin and deep into his bones at the mention of the forbidden craft. Morgana’s visage flashed into his mind, as it did often when faced with magic; when faced with what had been taken from him.

Often, he asked himself if he could have saved here, somehow, anyhow, had magic not tainted her blood, transformed her grin into that of a malicious witch, and turned her gaze to ashen embers burning with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. It was hard to reconcile the vile woman who’d spoken in strange tongues and spat one malicious spell after the other at him with the laughing girl from his childhood.

The girl who’d beaten him in sword fight more often than not, despite how shameful it was to be bested by a woman, with the blade no less. The girl who’d lied to Uther’s face for him, who’d brought him remains of the feast when he’d been sent to his room as punishment and who could not keep her sharp tongue reigned in, obliged to laugh at his misery and woes in a way only a sister would do.

He supposed that is what she was, a sister in all but name up until it had been revealed they truly were brother and sister, only by then that bond had long-since been lost.

He inhaled shakily. “Magic? You think they set fire to their own camp?”

“No, I’m saying someone, or something, attacked them with magic.”

Beside him, Merlin winced before crouching in a whole-out coughing fit. “Swallowed some ash,” he choked between breaths.

Despite the heat that had ravaged the clearing not long ago, Arthur felt quite cold, freezing even, as though winter had chosen to have an untimely return this early into spring. What could possibly attack druids, a peaceful people despite their practice of all things malicious, with magic no-less and cause them to flee and leave their belongings to burn?

His feet itched to flee back like the deer had, to have him safe between the castle walls of Camelot and not think of this place no more. He could return and none would be the wiser. He could tell Agravaine it had been a fruitless hunt. Yet they kept scouting, until Merlin called them over.

“Footprints,” he stated. Arthur crouched down by his side, leaning over the flattened ground, unearthed by shoes and barren feet. Something was off about their arrangement. A fleeing person cared little for what they stepped on, for how they ran or what obstacle they encountered.

These footprints were deep, with steps not taken in a frenzy, but in a march, as though the Druids had fled walking down a path in a line. There was only little room for imagination left.

“They were captured,” Arthur murmured. “Whoever took them must have burned their camp after.”

Merlin frowned. “Captured Druids?”

“The footprints lead south,” Gwaine said, following a few steps down the clearing.

“Glevum is that way,” Merlin said. “About a day’s travel. They say Saxon ships have been sighted there.”

Arthur frowned. “Saxons? In Glevum?”

“Rumors only,” Merlin assured him with a halfhearted smile.

Rumors be damned, if Saxons were involved the situation was growing more dire by the second. Not only had they ravaged the eastern coasts for many a decade now, their influence had reached even the most secluded of areas. They plundered and wreaked havoc, no remorse was given to the ashes left behind; the men were killed, the crops stolen, the women raped, and the children shipped to the mainland to be sold to the Francs, Visigoths, or any and all who took interest in peasant children with hardened hands carved for labor.

Stretches on the eastern coasts had already fallen under their dominion and Arthur knew well how much Mercia struggled with the constant invasions. Only a month prior had he lend aid to King Bayard through weaponry and last year’s harvest.

Saxons, besides being ruthless pillagers, were also devout followers of the Old Religion, and therefore more than willing to lend Morgana their swords in her feuds against Camelot and its allies. Arthur was going to grow gray hair by the age of thirty before he knew it from the pure stress of her menacing presence haunting them from somewhere in Albion.

“Get the horses, Merlin.”

“Sire?” Merlin asked.

“They can’t have gone far, we’ll catch up to them easily,” Arthur insisted. Merlin looked like he was about to protest before shutting his mouth, much too akin to an overgrown frog. Had the atmosphere been less tense Arthur would have had him made fun of for it.

But something was so clearly amiss; this could not have been a vicious Saxon attack. Those men sought the easiest targets, the simplest ravages and victims. No bodies laid bare on the clearing, all belongings left to burn to ash, and, oddest of all perhaps, whoever had the power to capture Druids must be well-versed in the art of all things hexes and enchantments.

Saxons, while very much capable of magic, used little more than a few house-hold spells and enchantment. Much like in Albion, true sorcerers were a rarity among their numbers, even without a persecution of such vile practices.

They rode further south, halting only occasionally to assert their route and stay on track. The canopies grew thinner as they advanced, and soon the sturdy branches and ancient oaks paved way for endless stretches of moor, vast until the dancing grass kissed the horizon.

Merlin convinced them to halt and have the horses regain their strength at a nearby stream; the cold water would quench their thirst and surely they would ride faster then, Arthur, he assured. Arthur abided, although he did not miss the worry twinkling in Merlin’s blue eyes. His manservant was prudent by nature; not for himself, never for himself, but for all those dear to him he displayed utmost worry and prudence.

This hesitance was uncharacteristic even for him, and once again Arthur found himself puzzled by the man his manservant truly was. Was he afraid? Of Saxons; of magicians? Or Druids? None of these answers were particularly satisfactory for Arthur.

Merlin, for all his clumsiness, stupidity and insolence often dismissed as talk of a common fool, was many things but never a particularly fearful man. Had he had the talent for the way of the sword and a perhaps less insolent tongue Arthur would have knighted him long ago.

“Surely, they cannot have gone much further than this,” Arthur mumbled and nodded his thanks as Merlin handed him his water skin.

“Their trail led this way, I’m sure we’ll find them soon,” Merlin assured, a comforting smile on his lips that did not quite reach his eyes.

“Princess worried again?” Gwaine teased and jugged the remainder of his water supply all at once.

“Well, someone has to be.”

“Leave that to Merlin, he’s like a mother hen,” Gwaine mused, signing a dismissive gesture in Arthur’s direction. “You’ll run yourself stupid by overthinking it.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think he can get much stupider than he already is,” Merlin said and elegantly evaded the water skin thrown after him with the assurance of a man who’d not been hit by unfortunate astray objects in years.

Gwaine barked a laugh, and Arthur couldn’t help the smile that escaped his lips. He turned to Merlin, ready to throw back some insult one might call unfit for his class, only to have his grin wiped off his face.

Merlin stood still. Stiller even than he had back in the thickets before they had spotted the fires; his blue eyes were wide with unspoken alert and trepidation, his mouth slightly agape and his hands gripped tight around the water skin he had picked up.

“Merlin?” Arthur frowned. “Merlin, what–“

A swift strike pierced through the air.

There was no time to react – only a hand on his shoulder, dragging him backwards until he almost stumbled to the ground.

Arthur exhaled in shock. Gwaine’s steady grip remained as he stared at the arrow pierced into the a nearby pine tree he’d stood in front of just a second ago.

“Arthur!” Merlin’s voice called but there was little time to throw it any attention before their attackers burst out of the thicket.

Arthur’s hands were down to his sword in an instant.

They were men in thin armor, with dark garments and dented helmets marked by years of battle. Arthur would have thought them mere bandits if their calls weren’t spoken in such a strange tongue, harsh and foreign to the ears of the people of Albion – Saxons.

They charged forward. Six, seven, eight, nine men, Arthur counted. They were outnumbered by far but he had little time to dwell on it.

The first two lunged towards him, pointy swords in their hands. Arthur dug to the site as the left man swung for his right. He caught the other’s blade, drove a quick strike against it in retaliation until he felt the resistance seize as the metal clattered onto the pine needles. The man flinched backward as though burned, and fled.

His friend was much more cunning, charging forward not immediately but instead waited for Arthur to be distracted with the other before cutting through the air. Arthur was only able to evade thanks to the sturdy metal of his chain mail. He felt the strike still, a piercing pain on his left waist.

One cut to the left parried, another to aimed at his right leg, and another at his sword arm, targeting Arthur’s weak points. Had this been any other situation Arthur would have been impressed by his opponent’s ability to determine and analyze weak points so swiftly and efficiently in the heat of battle. Their attackers were smart indeed, fighting with fire in their gazes, fierce and determined. But Arthur was a knight of Camelot; he would not be bested by a mere Saxon stray.

When the man made the mistake of lunging too far to Arthur’s right, he took the opportunity and stabbed his attacker through. His blade vibrating as it cut through bone, skin and flesh. Blood trickled down onto the forest floor.

The man collapsed. Arthur swiftly turned around, ready for his next attacker. He found, however, there was none.

Gwaine’s sword lay on the ground, its’ master only few steps away at the mercy of a Saxon’s blade. Merlin crouched right beside him.

“Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.” A woman stepped in front, sword in hand and hooded coat covering her dark hair. Her accent was crude and harsh, a testament of a language learned quickly and forcibly with little care “A much fated meeting indeed. Surrender, and I shall spare your companions.”

Arthur’s hold of his blade loosened.

“Arthur, don’t!” Merlin yelped before wincing at the blow to his head. His manservant had always been too self-sacrificing for his own good, even now, when faced with his own death. But he would not die here; Arthur would make sure of it.

Gwaine beside him locked eyes with Arthur, clear defeat apparent in his gaze. His proudest knight rarely wore his woes on his sleeves; one would assume him to be lenient with his emotions as he was with his tongue and booze, and many a secret spilled at the tavern, much to Arthur’s dismay. For him to be defeated by mere Saxons was certainly a blow to his pride even though Arthur had long believed of which he had none.

Arthur dropped his sword.

It clattered onto a rock with a shrill screech before laying to rest. He lifted his hands up in surrender. “Let them go.”

The woman smiled sheepishly. “Gallant, they call you. I see what they mean now, but,” she paused, snipping her fingers to have Gwaine and Merlin not freed but at least released from the blade’s mercy, “your knightly virtues are just a step shy of folly.”

Arthur felt his hackles lift. “You have no right to keep us here.”

Their attacker didn’t reply. Instead, whatever threat he was about to throw her way was interrupted by her coarse barking toward her companions. Orders, presumably, but Arthur spoke no Saxon dialect.

He could, however, make an educated guess as what they planned on doing if the ropes were anything to judge by.

The woman stepped closer, dark eyes fixated on him like a hawk eyeing his prey. Arthur had faced many foes in his life but his throat felt dry with trepidation nonetheless.

Arthur’s hands were bound. A crude strain enclosed his wrists as the rough ropes were tied much too tight for his own liking, certain to chafe his skin until it bled.

“You’re prettier than I thought. A true noble, isn’t he?” The woman chuckled, looking at her companions in amusement. Her mindless musing was only met by aghast expression. It seemed that only she had bothered to learn the language of Albion.

The lack of response die not deter her from continuing, her voice soft and melodic despite the rough accent lacing her words. “There’s someone who’s much interested in your capture. Care to take a guess?”

Panic swelled in his throat, like water captured between his vocal cords threatening to drown him on dry land. When he spoke, his voice was coarse “Morgana.”

The woman snapped her fingers at him in awe. “Right on the first try! Well then, I won’t spoil much else of the surprise.” She turned towards one of the men to her left and hushed an order. He drew his sword and stepped over to where Gwaine and Merlin were held.

Much too late, Arthur realized what was about to be done.

Arthur lunged forward despite his bound wrist and could only watch in horror as the man hunched over the two, before a sudden sharp hit in his back caused his vision to falter. Black spots sprouted on the edges of his sight but he couldn’t stop – he had to reach them. There was no way he would leave Merlin to the mercy of these bandits. He stumbled, taking in shaky breaths as the ground below him opened up and started swallowing him whole before all was lost to him.

Arthur would be lying if he said this was his first time being knocked out. Far from it, really; he had lost track a long time ago. Not that he had ever counted in the first place, but he is certain that the amount of times he has been knocked out just in the past four years alone was one too many times above his comfort zone.

Unfortunately for him this was also not the first time he had been knocked out and come to in some backward cell that reeked of sweat and fear. The number surpassed more than he could count on his hands. He would never admit such to Merlin; they had had a long debate on this topic plenty of times. Merlin was very insistent that he attract trouble like freshly bloomed flowers do bees. Arthur was very insistent that he had the average amount of troubles of a king. Perhaps not.

And, most tragic of all, this was also not the first time he had come to with some stranger in his cell. Although thankfully that track record was relatively low, only accounting the most unfortunate happenstance of a thirteen-year old Arthur sneaking out at night only to be mistaken by a newly appointed guard as a lower towns boy who’d sneaked into the castle in the dead of night.

At least he’d had the very joyous company of Catus, a bard who had had one too many glasses of mead and an adequate ability for all things song. If only Uther hadn’t taken his guitar from him he would have been able to play a tune or two for Arthur, or so he had enthusiastically insisted at the time.

This time was stranger even because the only thing possibly stranger than being mistakenly locked up with a slightly buzzed bard, is being locked up with a teenager.

Arthur groaned as he lifted his head, temples buzzing with the echo of that god-forsaken hit to the back he had taken. Dim light filtered through a small opening to his left, caged, and his nose filled with the very welcoming stench of sweat and unwashed cloth.

Bile rose in his throat and it took every ounce of self control not to vomit right onto the wooden floor.

Arthur blinked, taking in his near surroundings. Often enough, he had found himself in caves or stone prisons but never in wooden ones. They were much less safe than their rock counterparts, much harder to maintain and much easier to set on fire with some sunlight and glasses, if someone happened to have some at hand. Unfortunately, Arthur’s eye sight was quite sharp.

The ground swayed. First to the left, then to right. A rhythmic motion, never-ending and constant, accompanied by the crashing sound of waves.

The bile threatened to fill Arthur’s throat again. “Sea?“

“It's a ship,” someone said a high-pitched voice. Arthur snapped around to its’ origin.

A small figure sat hunched near the wooden wall under the window. The astray sun beams gracing their puny cell from the hallway’s roof obscured his face at first, until Arthur leaned forward and his eyes adjusted to the shadows.

It was a child. A boy. No older than fifteen years of age, dressed in earthen robes and a hooded mantle wrapped around his thin figure. His skin was pale and a mop of dark curls sprouted on top of his head. Had his eyes not been the most striking sky blue Arthur had ever encountered, they would have been obscured be them.

“A ship?” Arthur echoed. He shook his head in confusion, his thoughts still astray and cluttered by the buzzing in his head. “Where to?”

The boy’s eyes broke off his gaze to stare at the ground, his fingers tracing the metal of his coat’s button insignia. “East Anglia.”

“The Saxon settlement?”

“Angles but yes.”

Arthur frowned. “There is a difference?”

The boy contemplated his answer for a while before leaning slightly forward, his icy blue gaze piercing even in the shadows cast by the bars of their cell. “Tell me, would you like to be referred to as Mercian?”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “I’m the King of Camelot.”

“Exactly.”

Arthur’s head turned, his alarm bells running up and down just a few seconds too late. That hit may have been more detrimental than he had first believed it to be.

The boy was not surprised by his admission to being royalty; he had known Arthur wasn’t Mercian which Arthur would sure hope was clear as day anyway, and the odd sense of deja-vu dancing around them was really riling up the remainder of Arthur’s brain that had not been completely turned to scrap by those Saxons.

“Have we met before?”

“We have,” the boy said and then did not elaborate further.

“Alright,” Arthur said, licking his lips, trying to keep face. He felt he was not doing a particularly good job. “And that was when...”

“You hid me behind a curtain for a week.”

And then it fell into place – the piercing blue eyes, the earthen robes and stoicism in his voice despite the youth in his features. “You’re that Druid boy.”

“I prefer Mordred.”

“You were one of the Druids captured by the Saxons.”

“Angles.”

“Right, right,” Arthur said, frowning at the boy’s insistence on terminological accuracy. The two seemed much the same to Arthur. “Do you know why they’re taking us to East Anglia?”

“The witch resides there.”

There was only one witch Arthur could possibly think of that would dare capture both the King of Camelot and the peaceful Druid folk, by Saxons no less. “You mean Morgana.”

Mordred nodded.

Arthur leaned back against the wooden ship wall, slumping against the hard surface. Even through the thick material he sensed the waves crashing against the boat’s basin in an ominous rhythm, tingling. East Anglia was many days travel away on horseback. There was no telling how long they would be traveling for, most likely traversing the southern seas past Kent.

Mordred had fallen silent, curling on himself in the corner again, his thick coat wrapped around him as though it could possibly protect him from the Angles or Saxons, or whatever, governing their ship right into Morgana’s ill-meaning grasp.

The boy had grown much since Arthur had last seen him; he had been perhaps eleven summers upon their first meeting, with pale round cheeks and a gaze much too fearful for his young features. Now, four years later, he should be around fourteen or fifteen, if Arthur were to take a guess. His face had sharpened much, although his cheeks were youthfully soft and round. His icy blue gaze was intense and piercing still, sharper even than it had been back then. And his hair was much longer too, unruly as though not allowing itself to be tamed by any brush or cone.

The children age too fast, his father had once said to him on the eve of Morgana’s sixteenth birthday. It had made little sense to Arthur at the time, sixteen and shitfaced as he was, he had only frowned and hummed his agreement because there was little that pleased his father more than validation of his beliefs.

Perhaps this was what his father had meant; these four years had passed quickly, swift like the winds of winter bringing with them the first frost, always weeks earlier than any farmer would like them to. For Arthur, it had been but the blink of an eye, and yet the boy had grown so much in all that time. He had known Merlin for just as long.

It felt odd recalling that youthful Merlin, barely of age, who had so insolently insulted him right upon arrival in Camelot. Arthur had not been able to stand him at the time, although even then he could admit that his loose tongue and quick, snarky remarks were a much needed change of pace.

A heavy rock settled in his stomach. Merlin and Gwaine - where could they possibly be now? They must be alive, they had to be; Merlin was like a cockroach, as unpleasant as that analogy was (Merlin had thrown a sponge used for washing Arthur’s armor when the King had first mentioned it to him. The sponge had been very wet and Merlin’s aim surprisingly accurate). Merlin persisted through all hardships they had faced despite his lack of skill in anything sword or archery.

Merlin was a constant at his side, a person so dear Arthur could not, and would not entertain the idea of either him or Gwaine being lost to him.

Had they been captured as well? Perhaps they were just bound to another cell on this vessel much like him. However, there was little reason for Morgana to demand their capture on top of his. Then again, what did she seek with the capture of the Druids?

The thought of having to face his sister soon settled like heavy rocks in his bones, dragging him down as though invisible hands were pleading for him to just accept his fate and perish on the spot to evade her grasp. The witch, as Mordred has so eloquently referred to her as, was ruthless and without mercy, unrecognizable if compared to the generous and compassionate girl she had been carved from with maliciousness and sorcery. Her treachery had been his father’s ultimate demise.

Besides him, Mordred shifted once more, clearly uncomfortable on the wooden floor of their new humble abode. Arthur himself was sore, the type of soreness that crept through one’s bones and exhausted all muscles by wrapping its tight grip around it like ivy did to his castle walls.

Bed rolls had, naturally, not been provided to them but Arthur had at least hoped for some hay or cloth, or anything that wasn’t plain dirty wood. Perhaps Gwaine was right and he truly was too optimistic for his own good at times.

He resided himself to leaning against the wooden wall, the crashing waves much too close for comfort, and watched Mordred as he drew invisible patterns on the floor. It was then, however, that Arthur first noticed the slight jingle that followed his movements, and sure enough his wrists were bound in heavy iron shackles chained to each other, eating away at the boy’s bony wrists until the skin under it turned red and purple with bruises. Iron shackles that Arthur was very clearly lacking.

“It’s cold iron,” Mordred said, noticing his starring. “So I can’t magic us out of here.”

Arthur nodded. He himself owned a great many pairs of these; their cold glow repelled all things enchantment and magic, and bound any sorcerer and their ill will into obedience until they were send to burn.

They looked wrong on a child so young; thick and heavy with crudely formed chains and metal that menacingly glimmered a sickly green glow in the gloomy light entering their cell. Arthur had been shackled before, another very unpleasant endeavor of his, but his hands hadn’t flushed red from the strain, nor had his wrists and arms turned purple with bruises so quickly unless he attempted impulsive and hasty gestures.

Now that he examined Mordred’s thin bony fingers closer, he realized they were shaking with tension. No, not tension – pain.

“They hurt you, don’t they?” he asked.

Mordred did not meet his eyes, only continued tracking the imaginary lines his brain conjured onto the wooden floor with his gaze. “It’s cold iron.”

“Yes, but I mean they hurt you physically too," Arthur said.

“It’s what they’re meant to do.”

“I thought they suppressed sorcery.”

“That too,” Mordred murmured. "Shouldn’t you know this?”

Arthur blinked, his face scrunching up in confusion. How should he know what cold iron does to those befallen by the poisonous arts? “No one ever mentioned anything.”

Mordred gazed up to him, an eye brow raised almost incredulously. It was incredibly condescending. “Maybe if you didn’t burn all sorcerers at stake they would have had the chance to tell you.”

“They know the punishment for their crimes,” Arthur replied firmly.

Mordred did not grace him with a reply.

They talked no more after that; the day passed and they saw none of their captors. Both slept through the night with the crashing sound of the waves just a wooden wall shy of drowning them in the merciless storms of the seas, and a drought forming in the back of Arthur’s throat pleading for refreshment that was nowhere in sight.

Mordred was especially without rest throughout the night. At first, Arthur believed it to be fear of their captors or the sea, or perhaps just the unfortunate accommodation of the wooden floor, but after being woken up by wincing and shaky breaths sometime in the early hours of dawn, he realized that it had been the pain stealing the boy his slumber.

Never had Arthur really thought about what cold iron did to sorcerers. He had, admittedly, been little concerned with their well-being, but now, in the face of their painful affliction, it had his mind reeling with doubt. Mordred was a Druid, a sorcerer of course, but a child as well and he did not deserve such a painful torture even if it was for something as contaminating as magic.

“Hold out your hands,” Arthur demanded an hour or so later after being unable to sleep because of Mordred strangled cries and trembling breathing.

The boy blinked up to him in surprise. He hadn’t even been aware Arthur had awoken. The pain had dulled the otherwise sharp sense of perception he had displayed just a few hours before.

“Why?” Mordred asked, suspicion in his high-pitched tone. His voice was much more strangled than normal.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Arthur assured. Mordred looked entirely unconvinced but it seemed that in the face of their unfortunate situation there was little to fear from Arthur anyway.

He hesitantly held out his arms, the shackles bound to him jingling with every inch moved.

Arthur softly grasped for them, trying his best to suppress the flinch befalling his body from touching such cold skin. His limbs were pale, entirely bloodless up until they neared the near vicinity of the iron where the skin had turned a fiery red, swollen and bloody from where Mordred had scratched away at his own body in a desperate attempt to appease the pain.

Arthur winced when Mordred flinched at the sudden touch. He encapsulated the other’s trembling fingers in the palm of his hand hoping to warm up their icy touch before reaching for his tunic with his right hand.

He grasped the thin fabric of his undershirt and tore, the cloth giving away to the sudden force with an audible tear. It was not a lot but it would have to do.

Mordred eyes were as wide moons as he watched Arthur push back the iron shackles, only for his face to scrunch up in a suppressed yelp at the sudden pain of the shackles moved upward to the yet relatively unharmed skin.

“Sorry,” Arthur winced, and wrapped the torn fabric first around the boy’s right and then his left wrist, before pulling down the shackles once more.

Mordred had fallen silent. His eyes were torn from his newly bandaged wrists to Arthur and then back to his wrists in disbelief. “Thank you,” he breathed.

“I didn’t think they’d hurt this much.”

“Gets worse with time,” Mordred replied bitterly, examining his swollen hands.

Arthur gazed at his young features, still fresh with the pain he’d just been relieved of. “Why did they capture you?”

Mordred shrugged.

“You don’t know? They didn’t say?”

“We’ve been hunted for more than two decades, at some point you don’t wonder anymore.”

Arthur was about to reply when sudden footsteps caught his attention, growing ever-closer. He whipped around to the hallway to their left, separated from then only by iron bars, and sure enough, a dark figure appeared just a second later.

It was without a doubt a Saxon, or Anglo, or whatever Mordred had called them. Honestly, Arthur could not be bothered less to keep track of their captor’s origins. The tunic was crude and dark, reminiscent of that worn by the men who had ambushed them in the woods. A hood obscured their face, revealing only blond streaks flowing down their shoulders.

An incomprehensible grunt followed, probably some nicety in Saxon, and two bowls of what could perhaps once been called porridge and a water skin were dropped unceremoniously through the bars, crashing onto the wood and spilling parts of their contents onto the floor. The ominous figure disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, back up to the vessel’s deck and into the sunlight Arthur so desperately longed for.

Mordred had already grabbed the water skin into his trembling hands and emptied half the content into his mouth with the urgency of a desperate man. Perhaps because they really were desperate men, what with their one-way ticket to East Anglia at the mercy of Morgana’s men.

After taking one last sip, Mordred brushed the wet drops on his mouth off with his sleeves before wordlessly offering the liquid to Arthur who nodded his thankful appreciation before drinking most of it himself. Never had drinking felt so freeing before, his throat reveled in the desperately needed refreshment.

He left some in case their captors were feeling less than generous. There was no telling when they would be given supplies again – or for how long they would be here.

The days stretched on in silence. Mordred, while not suffering from the full extreme of his poisonous chains anymore, was clearly in a state worse for wear and spent most of the next two days sleeping or drawing lines on the wooden floor. Conversation had never seemingly been his strong suit, and he made no attempt to exchange pleasantries with Arthur.

Arthur thought it best to leave it at that. There was little to say to a sorcerer anyway, even if that sorcerer was a young boy.

Unfortunately, the ever-looming silence sitting in their cell as a third prisoner was misery personified, whispering words of treason and nightmares into Arthur’s head.

His imagination truly was running wild. Three times he woke up from nightmares involving a dead Merlin, four times one involving a fallen Camelot and dead knights, and two times both and his death on top. Truly, an exemplary work of his mind. He tried so desperately to distract himself, to think of the sunny field of Camelot, of the farmer sowing their seeds and the children running around town with the first spring warmth raising their spirits, and Merlin sneaking out pastries from the kitchen to give to them.

But inevitably, thinking of that would have him think of Merlin and Gwaine. And inevitably, that would have his thoughts reeling like a chariot race set on deciding which thought could outdo the other in its dreadfulness.

Mordred had the tact not to mention his unrest or the words of insanity escaping him while confined to these walls of utter wretchedness.

Sometime during the third night, when the moon light spilled bright onto their prison’s floor, bound just as much by the shadows cast by the metal bars as they were, he found himself waking up in sweat with the whispers of yet another nightmare in his ear, a scream on the tip of his tongue.

His vision took a few uncoordinated minutes to adjust, before Arthur sat up, brushing the sweat off his temples. The things he would have given for a proper bath just right about now.

“Nightmare?” a voice asked and Arthur flinched, having been blissfully unaware of Mordred’s curious stare following his movements.

“Yeah,” he choked, tasting death on his tongue. Their captors really were not thorough when it came to supplying their prisoners an adequate amount of water.

“We’re nearing land,” Mordred told him.

Arthur’s head tilted in confusion, his thoughts still dulled by the terrors of his own mind. “What?”

“Do you hear the seagulls?”

Arthur frowned, closing his eyes to focus on the his ears. The crashing sound of waves breaking against the ship had been their only companion for the past few days between Arthur’s unrest at night and Mordred’s occasional painful wince. But now, barely audible past the screams of the sea, where the calls of seagulls had been suspiciously absent before.

Arthur shook his head in confusion. “We cannot be there yet. Kent must still be weeks away, at least,” he huffed.

Mordred’s watchful gaze tore away from his sorry state and gazed out onto the moon light illuminating the floor outside their cell. “They are restocking. With all these prisoners and the crew, their food supply must run short quickly. They have no more water.”

“How do you know?”

“Heard them talking.”

Arthur gaped at him as though he had grown two heads. Their captors crude mumbling was near-incomprehensible. "You can understand them?"

“Only bits and pieces. It’s similar to Saxon.”

“You speak Saxon?”

“My late master was half-Saxon,” Mordred said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Said that any knowledge to keep is knowledge to heed.”

That did sound like something cryptic enough for a Druid to say. Arthur winced as he sat up properly, his bones incredibly sore from all the nights spent on this god-forsaken floor. He was sure he would feel an ache this dreadful until he turned thirty. If he turned thirty.

“The man you were with when you came to Camelot?”

Mordred nodded. “He raised me.”

Arthur only vaguely recalled the sorcerer Mordred had traveled with; a lean man, with plain looks and long earthen robes much like the ones Mordred was wearing now. He had seemed like any man waltzing down the streets of Camelot, yet when he had opened his mouth sorcery had spilled from his tongue and it had left him burned alive.

There was little remorse Arthur could feel for sorcerers but he had truly cared for Mordred in a way a father would for a son, and perhaps that was admirable.

“Was he your father?”

“No,” Mordred said, shaking his head. “Family bonds by blood mean little to the Druids. All those of our kind are considered our family, and the elderly masters teach the children all they know.”

“Like Iseldir,” Arthur noted.

Mordred’s nose scrunched up inexplicably, as though he were disgusted by something. It was an odd expression on his otherwise soft and stoic features. “Right, him too.”

Arthur leaned forward to get a better look at the boy. The moon light spilling from above deck and into their cell painted his already pale cheeks a glassy white. He looked almost as young as he had the day Arthur first met him; afraid and so undeserving of the cruelty inflicted upon him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Arthur finally spoke.

Mordred snorted. “Are you?”

Was he truly? In a way, perhaps, for Mordred and Mordred only. For the child which had lost his guardian in such a gruesome manner and been forced to witness it, only to wind up here; at the mercy of the Saxons with the king of a land that had hunted his people for decades. He could imagine how his words might sound to Mordred.

“Loss is loss,” Arthur murmured, not once blinking away from Mordred’s piercing gaze. "No matter under what circumstances.”

"He shouldn't have had to die," said Mordred.

Silence followed them into the early hours of dawn, when the moon light’s vibrant silver turned a pale auburn and the air was crisp with the smell of dew and the freshness of a dawning day. The seagulls’ calls had grown louder and louder the closer they drew to land, and Arthur would give anything to have solid ground under his feet and those bird screeches over his head, even if they sounded like harpies feasting on their prey.

Mordred had resided himself to the very corner of the cell, seemingly adept to put as much space between Arthur and him as humanely possible in the little space they were confined in. Arthur was regretting his earlier words more and more by the hour.

Their silent seething was interrupted by rough voices hacking through the air, drawing closer until two men clothed in dark garments passed their cell, unbothered by the burning gazes of those imprisoned inside. Weapons bound to their waists glimmered in the pale ashen daylight – it must be a cloudy day.

Mordred perked up abruptly at the sound of their voices, his eyes widening in something that could only be described as naked fear. Arthur frowned; had the men caused that fright? He was about to inquire when he recalled Mordred mentioning he could understand part of their speech. Clearly, whatever they had said had been terrifying enough to ignite horror on the boy’s otherwise apathetic face.

Arthur had the notion he was not going to like what the boy was about to tell him. He asked anyway, “what did they say?”

Mordred’s widened gaze blinked up to meet Arthur’s. “Morgana’s coming.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold. “Here?”

“They must have contacted her about our capture,” Mordred whispered. “Seems she doesn’t want to wait for us to reach East Anglia.”

“Did they say when?”

Mordred shook his head. “If they did, I didn’t understand it.”

Arthur leaned backwards against the wooden ship wall. If Morgana was on her way here, the last of his hope had been snuffed out like an extremely pathetic candle. His sister would not let him die quickly, nor mercifully. At least Camelot would be in Agravaine's hands, somewhat safe, even if without an heir apparent. His stomach turned upside down, frozen to icy at the thought of her sharp fingers turning inwards as she chanted incantations, her eye glowing in an unspeakably inhumane way, seething with contempt only reserved for him.

“We have to get out,” Mordred hissed, his voice brimming in a panic induced frenzy. “We – we can’t stay here.”

“No kidding,” Arthur said. “But it’s me she’s after.”

“No, she’s not,” Mordred choked, his head in his palms. “By the gods, what did I get myself into? I should’ve never come here!”

Arthur frowned. Had his heart beaten less and his stomach not been on the brim of dispelling all its’ contents onto the wooden floor, he would have perhaps tried to calm the frantic boy down. But instead, he found himself just confused by his words.

“What do you mean? So you do know why she captured Druids?”

“Yes – I mean, no. I can’t be sure about the Druids, but I should’ve known she’d be after me.” Mordred ran his hand through his hair, his left hand tightened around the shackles binding him as though the pain might aid him in grounding himself.

Arthur blinked at him, absolutely bewildered. “Why would Morgana be after some Druid boy?”

“You don’t know a thing, do you?” Mordred’s voice stilled, and his gaze turned glassy in realization, as though the pieces of a puzzle Arthur was not at all privy to had fallen into place. He visibly deflated, his limbs going uncharacteristically still like stone. “Emrys never told you.”

“Emrys?”

“I – “ Mordred began, his voice cracking once more. “There’s a prophecy.”

Arthur’s eye brows furrowed. He had expected Mordred to say a lot of things – a prophecy was not among them. “A prophecy?”

“About a – a King and, well, me, I guess,” Mordred mumbled, the panic lacing his words earlier completely lost. His figure looked so small, so fragile at that moment. Whatever fate he had painted for himself, it seemed he had entirely resigned himself to it. “It doesn’t really matter, just that Morgana is certain I’ll join her. She’s asked me before.”

‘You’ve seen her?” He had before, of course. But Arthur preferred distinguishing between the Morgana of his childhood, and the witch plotting his downfall. Thinking of them as two different entities entirely made his life much, much easier.

Mordred nodded, trepidation in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “She hunted me down after the Druid’s kicked me out. Asked me to join her, saying it was my destiny.” His face scrunched up into a scowl. “As though I’d ever join that crazy hag.”

Arthur stilled at his words. Shocking enough that Mordred, this bony young child, was part of a prophecy, one Morgana was apparently privy too, but he had just admitted the Druid’s had thrown him into exile. What could possibly have warranted a people so accepting and peaceful they had even granted Arthur, son of the man who had hunted their people for decades, safe trespassing of their territories and even offered their wisdom, as useless as it had been to him, to banish one of their own, a child no less?

He gazed at the boy, this child, trembling with fear, and hands too slim for a healthy boy his age. Eye bags sat under his eyes, carving his otherwise youthful features with a sharp hammer of starvation. A hammer that could only come from life on the run; from life lived between roads and forests and between kingdoms and people, yet so utterly alone that even the next meal was not a certainty. Arthur mentally slapped himself for not noticing it early.

“You weren’t captured with the Druids, were you?” He asked hesitantly.

Mordred gazed up to him, his glassy gaze more akin to un-shed tears than naked fear. He shook his head.

“What is this prophecy you mentioned?”

Mordred sniffed, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. “It’s the oldest and most important prophecy of my people. About Emrys and the Once and Future King.”

Arthur mulled the names over. “Emrys, you mentioned him before.”

“He’s a warlock – a human born with magic, or of magic in this case. According to the legends he’s supposedly magic itself in the shape of a mortal man. He and the Once and Future King are destined to unite the lands of Albion and return magic to the land.” Mordred lowered his gaze, suddenly very interested in the crude markings of his shackles. “My people have been very hopeful that their time is soon upon us.”

Arthur blinked at him. The most important prophecy of the followers of the Old Religion, he had said. Usually, Arthur would pay it little mind; he did not heed the tales of sorcerers but he did heed the Old Religion, he would be a fool no to. As little as he might think of magic, as detrimental was the outcome of those who dared not listen or follow its rules, and Arthur was sure to heed it. He still had nightmares of the unicorn and the curse it had rained upon Camelot and its’ people because of his sheer foolishness.

Unite the lands of Albion was a feat unheard of; the land had been divided as long as civilization itself had held ground on it. No records of Camelot’s history books had ever spoken of a time of union, nor one where magic had been dispelled from the land. Although, Arthur considered, that time must be upon them now that more and more kingdoms had converted to Christianity. Magic and the Old Religion were outlawed and persecuted in a great many regions, and even fewer did more than tolerate their followers.

“Where do you come into play?”

“The Once and Future King is destined to die at the hands of a mortal man named Mordred,” the boy choked and suddenly things made even less sense.

“And that is why Morgana is looking for you?” Arthur frowned. “But would she not want for magic to return to Albion?”

“Don’t you get it? You’re the Once and Future King! Morgana would have a field day if she managed to recruit the one prophesied to murder you.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it again. “What?”

Mordred’s gaze stared at him blankly, all fight or emotion drained of his body, his visage more akin to that of a corpse than a young boy. "You're the king from the prophecy."

Arthur blinked. That made even less sense. “You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not. Emrys chose you, the Druids know it.”

“But wouldn’t I know?” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “This seems kind of important. I think I would know.”

“Are you sure?” Mordred’s voice was shrill and almost incredulous. “Your father outlawed all things concerning the Old Religion on penalty of death.”

“Right, right,” Arthur mumbled, licking his lips, still entirely unconvinced. “If so, why would Morgana try and murder me? She may hate my guts but even she would prioritize magic over her petty revenge scheme, right?”

Mordred raised an eye brow at him, his gaze condescending in a way entirely too reminiscent of Merlin. “Would she though?”

A second of silence passed.

“Yeah, you’re right she wouldn’t,” Arthur resigned. His sister was as stubborn as their father, much to Arthur’s dismay.

“If you must know, Emrys is destined to defeat Morgana. And if he’s by your side that means you’re her enemy, Not that she needs any convincing.”

“This Emrys fellow seems like one of a kind. Are you sure he’s real?”

“Of course,” Mordred said, almost enthusiastically. “I’ve met him personally.”

Arthur eyed the other incredulously. This tale was growing more and more outlandish by the second. “Really?”

“Yes, really. And so have you.” Mordred looked quite exasperated but, in Arthur’s defense, it was not everyday that one was told he was destined to unite the unite-able and return sorcery to a land he had outlawed it in. Forgive him if he was a little short on the uptake.

“I’ve met him? When?”

Mordred’s face turned a particularly unhealthy shade of green, much the way Gwaine looked when he had one too many glasses of mead.

God, what he would give to have Gwaine here now, even if just for one of his incredibly inappropriate and insolent comments.

“I – I can’t say,” Mordred admitted.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t. It’s not my place to reveal his identity.”

“How very convenient,” Arthur mumbled dryly.

Mordred eyed him warily, his gaze filled with apprehension. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Would you? If you were me?” Arthur inquired.

The boy’s face darkened slightly. He heaved a sigh and leaned against the metal bars, his gaze caught at the spider webs woven to the ceiling of their cell. “I guess not,” he spoke. “But for what it’s worth, I would never think of murdering you.”

“Duly noted,” Arthur replied. He had never really believed Mordred capable of violence; the boy may have a short temper and deeply-felt emotions simmering right under surface of that stoic mask he wore, like a soup on the brim of boiling only sealed by a lid, but he had never believed him cruel or vicious.

On the other hand, could he blame the boy if he did? Arthur had persecuted his people, and still enforced those laws now. He had shown little remorse at the death of Mordred’s master and admittedly, Morgana’s persuasion had played a major role in him aiding his escape four years ago. How could the boy not hate him? Was it also the prophecy? Did the boy think him his savior despite having caused nothing but misery for him?

Regardless of it all, they couldn’t stay. Under no circumstances was Arthur going to leave Mordred or himself at the mercy of that witch. Mordred may have spoken many odd and rather questionable things but he had been right; they had to escape, and it had to be very, very soon.

Slowly, Arthur heaved himself off the ground, his bones aching and his muscles protesting from the movement, entirely out of use and sore form sleeping on hard ground for many nights. He walked over to the metal bars, peeking his head out as far as he could, which was not very far, unfortunately. Perhaps Merlin hadn’t been entirely too wrong when he had called Arthur thick-headed.

The hallway was empty, dusty, only illuminated by the light filtering through the exit up the stairs, undoubtedly leading to the upper deck. Arthur could not even peak out far enough to determine whether other cells with prisoners were nearby or not.

“I could get us out,” Mordred whispered, and Arthur snapped around to the boy hunched in the corner, his robes wrapped around him in a comforting manner, clearly an attempt to calm his emotions from his earlier outburst.

"How?"

“A spell.”

Arthur barked a laugh at that. “Right, and I suppose with those shackles that would be so easy, would it?”

Mordred’s face darkened and he averted his eyes from Arthur to his bound wrist, the skin still a seething red even with the protecting cloth wrapped around his arms. “You could try it, you know.”

“What?”

“Magic.”

Arthur’s eyes widened incredulously at the suggestion. “Magic? You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

“Everyone is capable of a little magic.”

“I’m not committing sorcery,” Arthur hissed. What was this child thinking? “And I won’t hear any more of it, understood?”

Mordred didn’t meet his eyes, his bound hands wrapped tightly around the metal insignia tying his robes together as though clutching it would help them out of their impeding doom

“Well then, either you find us another way, my lord, or we face Morgana.”

Neither of them found any rest that night; the knowledge of Morgana’s inevitable arrival looming over their heads like a storm cloud ready to hail down all the heavens’ grief and rage at a moments notice, poisoning their sleep with nightmares and fear. Arthur woke up in sweat a many times, most often than not he found Mordred awake and clutching his cloak or gazing out onto the moonlit hallway.

They did not speak; there was little to talk of, both too preoccupied with their own frights and woes, and an impasse between them neither is prepared to budge for. Mordred had tried one or two more times in the late hours of the evening to convince, to plead to him for a chance to magic them out of here but Arthur would not have it.

Are you morals really so twisted, my lord? Mordred had asked bluntly. Arthur had had a great many responses on the tip of his tongue; of how magic was inherently vile and poisoned the mind, of how it had taken first mother, and then his father, and lastly his sister albeit in a different manner. But all fight had drained out of him, what was the point of arguing anymore? They only had the other for company in this tiny cell they were confined to, pointless aggravation would lead them nowhere – only worsen the ties between.

In the morning, when dawn called and the seagulls had long since seized their cries, Mordred asked him again. And again. And again, until he finally ended up brooding in the very corner of the cell, set on evading Arthur’s gaze at all cost.

Arthur would not do magic. Sorcery was a dark art; it did not matter what Mordred thought of him or what he had apparently been prophesied to do. He would not betray his father like that, nor his people he so desperately sought to protect.

But then again, were not the Druids his people as well? They lived on his land – near the border to Essetir, admittedly – but many of them donned a Camelot accent and Camelot robes among their Druid garments. They were undoubtedly his people as much as he would like them not to be – Mordred was as well. A child doomed by both his country and his people. He shuddered just at thought, glancing at the boy huddled on the other side of their cell, with stars in his eyes as he spoke of Emrys, a sorcerer seemingly destined to walk at Arthur’s side until his people would finally gain freedom. The Druids were peaceful, were they not? What right had he to condemn a people like that to death?

And what of The Witch? A sister so dear to him his heart aches whenever he thinks of the contempt in her gaze, of the bile in her voice and the viciousness at the tip of her fingers. He had thought magic to be at fault, and he still believed it so, but there was one thing Morgana had mentioned that had caught his thoughts and threaded them together like a useless garment unfit for anyone to wear; had she stayed Queen of Camelot the people of the Old Religion would no longer have to live in fear. Fear that had, by her own account, driven her to her madness. Was there any truth to it?

Arthur gazed at Mordred once more. The boy had finally fallen asleep, thankfully, the slumber would do him some good and grant him much needed peace amid it all. He was so young still, only fifteen, eleven when his master had been burned by the hungry fires of his father’s laws. Mordred would have been by his side had Morgana, Merlin and he not intervened and send him back to his people that night. Could Arthur have borne to listen to this boy’s violent cries of pain as flames licked away his clothes and melted his skin until he was nothing but charred dregs?

Did he truly deserve to condemn a child like that?

By his own laws, he would have to. But he knew at heart that on the off chance they would manage to break out, he would never condemn Mordred to burn at the stake.

But then again, if Mordred knew of the laws why had he chosen, and still kept on choosing to ward against them? To engulf himself in all things sorcery, even now when his people had all but condemned him for a prophecy at their precious magic’s hand?

Sometime during the next day, when the sun was high and the boat much too warm with the first heat of spring, he broke their silence.

“Why did you choose to study magic?”

Mordred froze before slowly turning to him, his expression unreadable. He wore that mask of stoicism so well, especially for one so young. Had he learned to done it to evade persecution - Arthur’s persecution?

“I didn’t,” he said.

“You mean your people forced you to?”

“No, I mean I was born with it.”

“You can’t be born with magic.”

“How would you know?” Mordred seethed and their conversation ended.

The echo of his words left Arthur reeling. If people were truly born with magic as Mordred claimed, had he burned people for the simple act of being born?

He could not have, right? But it was as Mordred said, how would Arthur know? Certainly not his father – a great many things of Uther’s agenda had turned out to be lies. For had Arthur not knighted commoners and made piece with magic-sympathetic kingdoms because he, unlike his father, was willing to lay aside his grievances with magic and the insistence of tradition for the good of his people and knights? For if magic was truly evil, how could Mordred not be?

Morgana’s arrival was upon them; Mordred had informed him so just an hour earlier. She would arrive in the early hours of the next day, presumably, when they would dock at the nearest shore. Arthur’s ears rang with alarm, a persistent tinnitus that no sleep or calmed breaths could tame; like a storm caught in his mind and raining down on his chest, forming heavy puddles and crushing his lungs.

Mordred sat still leaning against the metal bars, his face twisted into a scowl undoubtedly aimed at Arthur. A boy Arthur would have condemned to death either the way – be it the pyre or the mercy of The Witch.

And Arthur knew then, he had never really had a choice at all.

He rose sharply, dusting off the sweat and dirt clung to his gown after so many dies of travel, nightmares, mind-numbing conversations and a particularly ridiculous law-breaking plan as his only solution.

“Alright,” he declared, startling Mordred who gazed up to him, bewildered. “Let’s do it.”

Mordred frowned, his face scrunching up in absolute perplexity. “What?”

“Sorcery, magic, whatever, let’s do it before I get second thoughts,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice as impartial as possible, although his heart dared jump out his chest and his fingers trembled like sapling branches in a breeze. This really was his last resort.

Mordred gaped. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve got no choice, do I?” Arthur mumbled, brushing off the sweat pooling in his palms on his shirt. “What do I have to do?”

Mordred’s face, however, brightened up like kindling taking to fire. It was then that Arthur realized he had never truly seen the boy smile. “Do you know anything of magic theory, sire?”

Arthur shook his head. How would he?

But that did not seem to deter Mordred from his enthusiasm, who was more than delighted to explain. “Imagine magic as a skill that everyone has the ability to learn and that needs to be honed and learned. Kind of like sword fighting. Magic is the sword, but it does no good to those who know not how to wield it, correct?”

Arthur eyed the boy suspiciously. “Did you purposefully choose a sword analogy for me because I’m a knight?”

Mordred’s face turned crimson. “No.”

“You know that is rather patronizing.”

“If it works it works, right?” Mordred hissed. Perhaps he would have been more convincing had his ears not turned a stubborn red. “As I was saying, magic is the sword and the technique is the language of the Old Religion. Did you know that it was common tongue before the Roman invasion?”

Well, that was new. Arthur was not at all surprised it had never come up in his very thorough history lessons during his otherwise well-educated upbringing. “No?”

But Mordred seemed entirely in his element. His eyes practically sparked with wonder as though Arthur had said he would like to hang the stars onto the sky and not commit treason. “You need to channel the magic and then command it through the spell. For that, you need the correct incantation. It won’t be easy at first to use magic because you’re not at all used to it, but if we practice all night we might actually have a chance.”

“Is that why you sorcerers are always chanting?” Arthur inquired. “Are you quite literally just saying ‘Catch fire, lowly knight’ in another language and it just happens?”

“Well,” Mordred opened his mouth before his smile turned into a frown. “Yes?”

That was new. Seems like magic’s convoluted dark secrets were mere language barriers. “So, what word am I learning?”

“Ābrec. It means ‘break’,” Mordred explained before wincing. “You’ll have to be careful and concentrate on my chains, otherwise you’ll risk blowing my hands off.” He smiled at Arthur encouragingly, and seemed not entirely as phased by that declaration as one would normally be when risking their most vital limbs to be the training ground for sorcery.

“Wait.” Arthur frowned. “I thought I was going to spell us out of here?”

Mordred’s eyes widened incredulously. “What? No! That’s much too hard for someone who has never done magic before. You’re going to break my chains, then I’m going to magic us out of here.”

“Ah,” Arthur said wisely. That did make a whole lot more sense. “Is magic really that hard?”

“Depends if you have an affinity for it or not,” Mordred said. “For some it comes naturally while others will probably never be able to do more than water their crops or light a fire.”

“And for you it came naturally?” Arthur asked.

Mordred nodded. “I was born with magic. Or well, not technically. There is only one person born with magic and that is Emrys. But I was born with an affinity so strong magic came to me instinctual and I channeled it without being aware. We call those people warlocks.”

The concept sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. Magic had practically been second nature to Mordred all his life it seemed, had he really been so wrong all this time? His father would have him believe that someone like Mordred was born evil but that could not possibly be the case, especially not now when the boy was starring at Arthur with stars and moons in his eyes, entirely too excited at the prospect of sharing that which he knew with someone willing to learn, even under duress. The child would have made a fine knight had he chosen to train.

Arthur’s tongue felt entirely too dry even though he had had water not too long ago. “Alright, how do I do this?”

Mordred held out his shackled wrists and Arthur had to repress a wince at the blood that seeped through the bandages and the high-pitched jingle he had grown accustomed to. He could not imagine the pain the boy had endured in the past few days on top of being locked away with little food or water and the psychological torture of a fate unbeknownst to one looming over his head.

Yet, upon gazing at the crudely carved metal glimmering in the bright daylight filtering into their cell, Arthur wondered if he, too, would be repelled by its vicious poison once he had performed this spell. Would his skin redden like Mordred’s if he touched it?

“You concentrate on the chains and only the chains,” Mordred instructed. “Then you say the word and if we’re lucky it’ll work. If it helps you, extend your arm towards the chains, it’ll help your magic be directed more precisely.”

His magic, Arthur thought. That was not something he would like to get used to but it sounded easy enough. “What was the word again?”

“Ābrec,” Mordred bit through gritted teeth. It occurred to Arthur then, that it must be excruciatingly painful for Mordred to tell him this enchantment for it was clearly apart of the Old Religion and would be repelled by the iron bound to his wrists. He would do good to not to forget it.

Arthur extended his right hand towards the bound shackles. Sweat poured out of every pore of his body; he really was going to commit treason to free him and this boy, wasn’t he? Little good it would do him contemplating his choices now that he had already made up his mind. He swallowed, ignoring his rapid heartbeat pulsating in his ears and rushing to his head.

“Ābrec,” he said and the words sounded incredibly crude and foreign on his tongue.

Nothing happened.

He gazed up at Mordred, who nodded at him enthusiastically, a bright smile on his lips. Clearly, he had foreseen this fruitless outcome.

“Ābrec,” he repeated, this time more firmly by emphasizing the r. Nothing happened still, the chains remained as they were, unbroken and humming their poisonous bite into Mordred’s skin.

“It’s not working,” Arthur said.

“It won’t for a while,” Mordred said. “Most people need many attempts before they can do simple spells. It’s like I said, all can do it but few have an affinity for it. Why do you think there are so few sorcerers even in countries where the Old Religion is legalized?”

It seemed to be a repeating pattern that Arthur had just never really thought of it. Perhaps Merlin spoke truth sometimes and thinking really was detrimental for his health. After, or if, this entire thing ever went past, he would be sure to grant Merlin a much-needed promotion and a salary raise.

“If it helps, try imagining magic as energy, as emotions. Magic is often a manifestation of will and emotions. Think of something you believe strongly in.”

Arthur nodded. The first thing that came to his mind was fear, of course. Fear of Morgana and for the future of his people and kingdom. He had no heir as of now, how would Camelot fare without a king?

Fear for Merlin and Gwaine, wherever they might be because they were surely not six feet under, Gwaine was too stupid and Merlin to stubborn to die. They must be out in the woods looking for him desperately. They had to be.

No, Arthur needed strong emotions that invoked will or desire. He thought of his knights, and of Merlin and Gwen. Rarely did he admit to his emotions, Merlin had dearly referred to him as emotionally constipated which was a vulgar way too put it but not too far off a shot. He did truly struggle wording what he felt sometimes, much to his dismay and much unlike his sister who could channel her emotions at will. Is that how she had grown so skilled at sorcery? Had her hatred for him been that strong?

He thought of Gwen, always by his side with her larger-than-life smile and words of encouragement in the face of peril. She was not naive like people would have you believe. God knows Arthur had been scolded by her one too many times for not taking care of himself properly. No, Gwen was was optimistic not because she was innocent or naive or too easily fooled than would do her good but because she chose to be. There was little Arthur admired more than that.

He thought of Merlin, his clumsy but ever-loyal manservant who had been by his side for near half a decade now and was a good a companion as no one had ever been to him. Of Merlin who did Arthur’s chores more sloppily than any other servant in the castle and yet still held his position uncontested. Of Merlin who granted him advice that was much too wise for some country bumpkin and much too opinionated for a servant.

If he broke these godforsaken chains right now he would finally be able to kiss this vessel goodbye and return home, return to Camelot. In all honesty, Arthur had absolutely no idea what he was doing but he channeled that will, that urge, that call for his home, for Merlin, for Gwen and the Knights of the Round Table, and spoke.

“Ābrec!”

Something inside him pulled, pulled deep and with incredible force as though naked hands were clawing at Arthur’s insides.

The shackles cracked in two, a piercing shriek only made possibly by pure hardened metal cut with such unnatural force – Arthur’s ears rang still an hour later from their sudden combustion.

Mordred flinched at the sudden force, his eyes growing as wide as moons as he gaped at the ruined chains in awe, his bound wrists finally free of their days long peril.

A moment of stunned silence passed.

“Well, my lord,” Mordred huffed, breaking their shock. “It seems to me like you have quite the affinity for magic.”