Chapter Text
The blooming pain pulled Arthur back to reality. He was no stranger to the feeling—the roll of his stomach, the tightening of his lungs, the spots clouding his vision. Above his head, the tree canopies reached for the blue and orange of the summer sky and bird song filtered through the branches with the beams of dawn’s light.
“You’re awake,” someone said.
Arthur couldn’t place the voice. He took a breath. The forest around him tilted and hot pain gnawed at his left leg, and when he tried to sit up, his muscles seized and cramped in protest. Arthur groaned, closed his eyes, and pressed his hand to his forehead. Something heavy and stiff clung to his leg.
“Come on, don’t try to move,” the person said, his voice low and gentle, as if he was soothing a spooked horse. “I’ve done what I can to manage the worst of the damage, for now. I need Gaius to examine it before I do anything else.”
When Arthur blinked his eyes back open, the voice stood two paces to his right, and he was not just a voice (obviously), but a handsome man nearing a decade his senior. Against his midnight black hair, his eyes were as blue as the sky.
“Oh,” Arthur managed. His throat burned and his mouth was dry. “Gaius?”
The man pressed his lips together and nodded. “If I set it wrong, we might have to rebreak it to heal it properly. Better to wait. I’ve sent for a ride back to Camelot, I’m sure Gwaine or Percy will be here before too much longer.”
“Right.” Arthur didn’t remember a Sir Gwaine or a Sir Percy, and although he usually had the names of the new recruits memorized quickly, he supposed they could be new. All the same, he was sure he’d never heard those names, even in the newest round of recruits. If they were knights, even. Perhaps those men and the stranger in front of him were Giaus’ new assistants. Not ten days ago, Arthur had heard Giaus discussing taking on an assistant with Morgana when he brought her tonic. The physician was getting on in years and a younger man who could travel and manage the laborious tasks more easily would benefit the kingdom.
Said younger man was currently with the horses, busying himself with the saddle bag. His brow furrowed in concentration as he dug inside the sack and he bit his lower lip as he searched.
Arthur looked around again—if he could find one piece that suggested where he was or how he got to this place, then he could puzzle out the rest. They were tucked near a rocky outcrop in the forest, with a babbling creek to his right. His horse stood next to the stranger’s horse on his left. In front of him were the ashes of a fire. “How long was I out?” Arthur managed to ask, wincing as his voice scratched.
“Since last evening, but that’s to be expected for healing. I kept watch.”
Arthur searched his memory, but only fog appeared. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall what battle had injured his leg. In fact, the more the world came back to him and the less the darkness of sleep clouded his mind, he truly couldn’t find any memory of coming to the forest at all. No—the last memory he drew upon was dining with his father and Morgana. Outside, the trees were bare and autumn’s rot lingered in the cool breeze. He reached for his head. “I don’t,” he started to say.
At the same time, the stranger yelled, “Here it is!” He held a small vial full of a thick purple liquid up to the sun.
“What is?”
“Something for the pain. Here you go, Arthur,” he said as he unstoppered the glass and pressed it into Arthur’s palm. “Bottoms up.”
Arthur did as instructed. The liquid was not as awful as he expected—instead, it was sweet, like a syrup. The moment he swallowed, relief flooded his body. The pain in his leg eased; his mind sharpened.
Pain had a way of making the world hazy. It pushed everything, save the overwhelming physical sensation, into the background. Arthur was no stranger to encountering pain—many times he’d taken hits and falls. He greeted it like a familiar yet unpleasant acquaintance, always gritting his teeth while it sat with him.
Only when it departed could he think clearly and see the world for what it was. The stranger, he realized, called him Arthur. No title, no formalities. Only his father and Morgana would call him that.
The moment that thought crossed his mind, several others followed in rapid succession: this section of woods was entirely unfamiliar; he’d just taken whatever was in the vial; and a splint symbolized his leg.
Cold fear crawled over Arthur as he reached for his waist. Not only was he armour-less, but his scabbard did not sit on his waist. Instead, both his chainmail and sword sat piled near the trees, out of his reach. He was injured, defenseless, and had no clue where he was.
Somehow, he had trusted the stranger entirely. Even now, as discomfort wormed through his skin, there was something familiar about the man who was now tending to a pot on a small fire. Arthur searched his face, and fear did not greet him. He was dressed finer than a physician would (if that was indeed what he was) but not as fine as a nobleman. He was no bandit or mercenary—the man was slight, almost wiry. If anything, Arthur would place him as an artisan, but the thick scar visible on his arm suggested otherwise.
“What’s going on?” Arthur finally asked. As much as possible, he poured power and influence into his voice. He was the prince—he was not asking. He was demanding to be informed.
The man chuckled. He was cooking something, apparently, and couldn’t be bothered to look at Arthur. “Not the sharpest this morning, are you? But what else is new?” He stirred the pot once more. “Porridge is almost ready. The others should be here before long, I imagine.”
“No—That’s not what I mean.” Arthur’s mouth felt dry and his head, warm. He curled his fingers into a fist. “Who are you?”
The man froze. Slowly, he set the ladle in the pot and turned. “Did you hit your head?”
Arthur reached for his head instinctively, but his fingers did not find any bump or gash. “What—no.”
Before Arthur could say anything more, the man was at his side, his hands running through Arthur’s hair.
“Stop it! Get off!” Arthur tried to shove the man back, but he simply swiped Arthur’s hand away.
“Relax! I’m checking to see if I missed anything.” The stranger’s hands kept moving along the bone of Arthur’s skull. The stranger only frowned. “I can’t feel any deformities, but I didn’t think you hit your head.”
“Of course my head is not deformed,” Arthur shot back. He tried again to push himself to sit straighter. It was still difficult to accomplish with the bulky bandages on his leg, but at least this time his gut wasn’t threatening to upend itself over his lap. “Explain what’s happening.”
The stranger huffed. He stretched his chin, which up close Arthur could see had a few days’ worth of stubble lining it. “There were reports of a Black Annis in the woods. Took three children from the nearest village.”
Arthur frowned. He had never heard of a Black Annis before, but it couldn’t be any good. “Did I kill it?”
The stranger shook his head. “No—I’m not sure if one is even really here. Something was off about the stories. We came to investigate. It should’ve been a routine stop. This—this was supposed to be no big deal, Arthur.”
There it was again—his name, only his name. The stranger spoke it so softly, it sounded like a devotion.
“But we were wrong. We hadn’t walked in to scout a monster. We walked into a trap. There was an ambush—two sorcerers and a dozen men. One of the men knocked you off your horse. It was a nasty fall, but you kept fighting. Well, until the sorcerer got you, but I could’ve sworn that it was only a simple stunning spell.”
Arthur tried to make sense of it all. Overhead, the sun climbed higher in the sky and the orange of the sunrise began to fade into bright blue. “Then what? You fought off two sorcerers and a dozen men?”
“You got two of the men.”
“So, you fought two sorcerers and ten men?” The man seemed competent enough, but even the best knights couldn’t fight off ten men and two sorcerers. Even if they fought dirty, it simply couldn’t be done.
The man’s Adam’s Apple bobbed. “Yes, Arthur. I did. Easily, once I got over the first shock.”
Arthur scoffed. Apparently, he was stuck not only with a broken leg but a delusional rescuer as well. His story still didn’t explain who he was, or why he was riding with Arthur in the first place.
“Who exactly do you think I am?” the man asked.
“I don’t know!” Arthur threw his hands to the side. “I asked you already. I made it clear. I don’t know who you are. I’ve never seen you before in my life. So tell me: who are you?”
The stranger quieted. “My name is Merlin,” he finally said, and Arthur had to admit the name (unusal as it was) suited him.
“I was your manservant for many years.”
That wasn’t right. Arthur hadn’t kept a manservent for more than a year, and he’d certainly never seen this man befoare in his life. He would know; his face was memorable. Besides, the story made no sense. “You’re telling me I rode into a fight with a manservant? And no knights?”
“I’m not your manservant anymore. Haven’t been for a few years now.”
Arthur pressed his lips together. Although the world in front of him was now sharp, when he tried to recall the past, he found time to be as slippery as the fish in the creek he’d tried to grasp in his hands as a child. Had he had a manservant for several years? There was something familiar in that statement. It was as if he were trying to recall the details of a faded dream.
Another sharp bolt of pain struck him again, but this time it was not from his leg, but his head. Arthur gasped and pressed his hand to the side of his head to try and make it stop.
“Arthur? What is it?”
As quickly as the attack had come on, it faded once more. His heart had sped up and still thundered in his chest. The birds, too, sounded particularly loud. “I’m fine,” Arthur insisted.
“Right.” The man—Merlin—raised a brow. It was an expression rather like Gaius, perhaps he wasn’t lying about that.
“So what,” Arthur said, still trying to put the pieces into place, “I rode out with a physician’s assistant?” That made less sense, even. Perhaps this Merlin would be a member in a party, but how could Arthur have justified taking himself and a physician in training, two valuable members of Camelot, on a horribly dangerous quest without any assitance?
“Arthur,” Merlin said quietly. “I’m your Court Sorcerer.”
Arthur’s stomach flipped. The noise of the birds and shifting branches was drowned by a wave of anger ringing in his ears. “Magic,” he spat.
Enchantment—that’s what it was. That was why nothing made sense. This Merlin had messed with his mind. Arthur should have known better; he’d trusted so easily. Magic, surely, had poisoned his thoughts. Even now, what dark shadows were playing tricks with his wits?
Arthur tensed. The drumming of his heart quickened. He tried to shuffle back, to increase the space between himself and the sorcerer, but it was still quite impossible to move with his leg injured and splinted.
“Arthur—”
“Stay back.” Arthur’s nostrils flared. “Stay away.”
“I’m an ally. I promise.”
At the moment, Arthur had no armour, no sword, and no way to even make an escape. He was an injured hare, cornered by a fox.
“The others will be here before long. Your knights—they’ll explain everything. They’ll corroborate my story. When we get back to Camelot, we’ll speak with Gaius.”
In Arthur’s boot, a familiar weight pressed against his calf: his dagger. The sorcerer may have removed his sword and armour, but he had missed the hidden weapon. Arthur had to thank fate that it had been his left leg that was injured, not his right, or he’d have been left with nothing.
“And Gaius, what would he say?” he asked as he began to plan out his move in his mind.
Merlin began to explain what Gaius would help with. As he spoke, Arthur did not waste a moment. His move had to be quick, like a snake, if he wanted to get out of here with his life.
In one swift movement, Arthur reached for his dagger and lunged toward the sorcerer. His leg exploded with pain as he leapt, but the distance was not far, and his blade struck true.
He buried the dagger to the hilt in the sorcerer’s chest.
Merlin’s eyes widened. He reached uselessly for the blade and lifted his hand, covered in his own blood, to see. “Arthur,” he whispered. His eyes flared gold, his lids fluttered, and the sorcerer fell back with a wheezing gasp.
His still-golden eyes stayed fixed on the sky. The man did not move. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
The birds screeched and a gust of wind pushed Arthur’s hair back. It was cool on his face. His leg screamed with pain from the movement, and he struggled to draw a proper breath in. His action saved his life (of this he had no doubt) but it had taken more energy than he had to give.
Arthur fell to the dirt beside the dead man. He breathed heavily. Sweat dotted his forehead and his leg—his stupid leg—was a maze of pain.
When the worst of the waves of nausea subsided, Arthur took stock of it all: he had no idea where he was, magic had altered his mind, his leg was broken, and he had a dead sorcerer at his side.
Great. Just lovely. He huffed and rolled to his back. Birds danced in the canopies and a white rounded cloud teased away the sun. What a way to begin the day.