Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Uther. You are aware of what year this is?” one of the elders on the council spoke up, his wrinkled face drawn and blank. His name was Lord Henry, a plain-faced noble without a child or wife, whose only goal in life seemed to be the running of the kingdom, and making sure that Uther knew exactly what he was doing at all times.

Uther turned to face him, frowning. Lord Henry stared back calmly, as though not seeing the obvious disdain in his king's face.

“There is no need to remind me.” the King replied coldly. “I am very aware. I placed my most personal knights in charge of gathering the names.”

“Then you know you must begin the drawing soon.” Lord Henry pressed, ignoring the pierce of the younger king's dark eye. He flicked a gaze around the room, dramatically searching for an eavesdropper, though there obviously were none in the presence of the King's court. “Whispers are beginning to spread – rumors.”

The King folded his hands, clearing his throat. “I have the date for the drawing set, Lord Henry. Let matters unfold. We will have our Champions by noon tomorrow.”

“This year, your son will be at risk of being chosen.” put in another weary man. This one had a scar curled across his jaw, with witty dark eyes that seemed to always be laughing, though his injury pulled his lips down into an ugly scowl.

Uther's eyes were drills as he turned to him. “He is. And if Arthur is chosen, he will bring the Pendragon family glory. If he is chosen and does not, he is not the man we want as king.” The other men of the council went quiet, watching the stone-cold King with solemn eyes and knowing this was a man who would send his son into the games for the sake of ''honor'' and ''pride''.

“Are we clear, then? The Drawing shall be tomorrow.” The King dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and immediately the men rose to leave, some hurrying while others too their time gathering papers or robes of feathered quills. Uther hid his annoyance in a mask of blank indifference.

Left alone in his chambers, Uther turned his eyes to the tall glass bowl that stood outside, on his balcony. It was a piece of fine craftsmanship, with its gilded gold feet and graceful, clear neck. It had no certain shape he knew, all soft curved lines and smoothed-over corners. Powered by the levers and pulleys that had been set up on the castle's walls, it churned the names within like it itself was water. Inside its crystal body, hundreds of names were scrawled on torn scraps of parchment or thin scraps of cloth. Within the mechanism was the label of every man or woman in his kingdom over eighteen, including his own son's name.

Uther had not been bluffing when he'd quickly waved away his councilman’s concerns for the prince. It was not the job of the Council to feel sympathy or pity, nor empathy or curiosity. His son, if chosen, would participate in the Games as any other man would.

But Uther was not a heartless man. Morgana had left him not long ago, and he had loved her dearly, still feeling her betrayal like a wound to his very soul. He did not think he would want to lose his only son. A Pendragon's luck is not so bad as to have my son's name drawn from the many within the cup. Uther thought calmly, silently watching the paper shift it's way within the machine. I will not lose two children to fates of death or worse.

---

“I'm sorry, father, but I cannot agree with this.” Arthur stated firmly, standing his ground in front of his father, “These Games sound barbaric and unnecessary. Why should Camelot condone these acts or murder?” The prince stared his father down, trying to appear respectful despite his shock and outrage at hearing what was planned for this year. He attempted to look as impressive and decided as his father, but Arthur was only half-dressed as he'd woken up only a half-hour ago. They were alone in his chamber. Mostly alone, he amended, seeing Merlin folding his shirt into a drawer. The black-haired servant looked unhappy, his blue eyes flicking warily over to the two royals, and for once Arthur found himself siding with the other man over his own father, though he dared not say that aloud.

“The Games of Five Kingdoms have been around since Camelot's founding, Arthur, it is not as though I came up with them myself. They were created to keep the kingdoms in peace and allegiance, in a sort of friendly competition. Two Champions are chosen to represent us, and we send them to the Arena to battle for Camelot. It is a tradition, a tournament of sorts.”

“You send innocent men and women to their deaths. It's unjust.” Arthur protested, “Tell me, father, how old were our last Champions?”

“Eighteen and twenty.” Uther responded coldly, his posture going from relaxed to defensive in the span of one swift shift of his foot. “I would Watch your tone.”

Arthur bowed his head, trying to appear ashamed while inside he was furious. “Father.” his voice was tight, so he attempted to relax. It wasn't easy. Finally, feeling a bit more in control of his emotions, but no less appalled at the turn of events, he raised his eyes back to Uther. “Why wasn't I informed of these Games earlier?” 

“The rules forbid the discussion of the Games unless they take place within the year. It was meant to keep Kingdoms from raising all children as Champions.” Uther replied evenly, though his voice was curt, provoking no further arguments.

“Father this isn't right, if you reconsider-” Arthur tried once more, blue eyes fiery with horror at the aspect of seeing young men or women tearing each other apart. He imagined some of his younger knights, being unlucky enough to have their names drawn and having to hear, via letter or paper or messenger boy, of their bloody deaths.

“Arthur Pendragon.” Uther was using the tone he used when commanding armies. Arthur jerked into attention, knowing his fight had been lost, yet wishing he had fought a bit harder. “You will report to the courtyard with the knights and servants tomorrow morning. You will wear your ceremonial armor, you will be early, and you will not bring this up again.”

“Yes, Father.” Arthur's mouth tasted like candle wax as he said it. Uther turned on his booted heel and stormed away, face set in a cold, unfeeling mask. The door slammed with a resounding noise as it shut, and Arthur glared at it until the curtains stopped fluttering in the wake of air Uther's departure had left.

The prince uncurled his fingers, not remembering having curled them into angry fists, and saw the imprints of his fingernails on his palm. “Dammit.” he cursed, dropping onto his chair behind his desk with another noise of frustration. Merlin looked up at him from across the room, already discarding the laundry to come to him. He was a useless servant, Arthur thought, not for the first time.

“You were right, Arthur.” the servant informed him calmly, coming to a halt in front of the large oak desk. Arthur looked up. Merlin looked determined and focused, his bright blue eyes less cheery than usual, but still wondering and thoughtful. Arthur flicked his own eyes back to the paper in front of him, glaring at it as though he could burn a hole through it.

Arthur gripped his quill too tight as he pressed the tip to the page. “Thank you.” he said curtly, hoping the big-eared servant would take the hint and drop it.

Of course, Merlin didn't.

“But you were.” Merlin pressed, “Right, I mean. These Games are wrong, inhumane. Maybe you can convince Uther to stop them. Maybe-”

“Merlin, I appreciate the thought, but you saw my father. His mind is set. There is nothing I can do but support the chosen champions best I can.” Arthur cut him off, looking up. His eyes were sad, and it seemed a look of understanding passed between the two men as Merlin went quiet for a moment, pondering.

“I hope you don't get chosen.” Merlin told him, honest and guileless as ever, looking down at the sitting prince.

Arthur's eyes widened, his mouth parted in surprise. The littler servant stared at him, face open and caring, and he felt a smile tug his lips up. “I doubt that would happen, Merlin, but the thought is returned.”

“You'd be happy I was gone.” Merlin snorted, waving him off with a flippant hand.

“I wouldn't!” Arthur looked affronted, “Servants as awful as you are hard to come by.” He flicked at the waving hand with his quill, watching Merlin snatch it back with a playful scowl.

Merlin rolled his eyes, “Of course, sire.”Arthur smiled and turned back to his paper, knowing the speech needed to be finished.

---

The next day dawned ice-cold and blindingly bright. Merlin was slow, his feet heavy like his heart, as he drew the curtains back from the window in his bedroom and then trailed slowly to the courtyard, where it seemed as though all of Camelot had tried to squeeze. Wiggling and using his elbows as levers, he scrambled through the press of bodies gathered until he found himself at the base of the balcony, awkwardly crushed between Gwaine and Lancelot.

“Morning, Merlin. Chilly, innit?” Gwaine yawned, not at all bothered by the crowds of people around him. His hair was fluffy and messy from sleep and he looked drowsy, but there was also a hunted look to his eyes, the kind of glint they got when he was preparing for battle. Merlin swallowed nervously, thinking for the first time how easy it would be for someone he was close to to be chosen for these suicidal games.

Please don't let Gwaine be chosen. He prayed silently, turning pleading eyes to the machine churning above them. He added quickly, Nor Lancelot or Percival or Leon!

Lancelot was more awake than Gwaine, his hair brushed neatly and his chain mail straight and careful, as opposed to haphazardly thrown over his frame like the sleepy knight. “It's not a very good morning, is it?” he sighed, following Merlin's gaze towards the balcony. "I hope it's no one we know." he admitted, sounding guilty.

Arthur arrived, coming out of the doors in front of them, his cape tugged by the breeze and fluttering about him with a quiet noise. He was dressed in his ceremonial armor, of course, as Merlin knew he would be, which had been freshly polished. Merlin flexed his sore hands in remembrance of sitting there for two hours carefully scraping off dust or dirt and filling in any minor scratches to the now-shining metal. Arthur nodded to them and came to stand amongst the knights, directly in front of Merlin. A quick glance over told Merlin that the armor was put on mostly correct, but as he drew closer Merlin saw minor mistakes he'd made in strapping on his heavier shoulder guards.

As he came to a halt, Merlin went immediately to correct the straps. Arthur allowed him to undo the buckles without a comment besides, “Where were you this morning?”

“Gaius had me preparing traveling bundles of herbs for the Champions. They're supposed to keep them energized on the journey to whatever Arena is chosen for this year.” Merlin answered honestly, hands already flitting to readjust the shoulder straps and re-tie his cape. “You managed without me, it seems.”

Gwaine chuckled, “Can't the Princess even put on his clothes?” The teasing was his usual remarks, but all three other men could hear that his heart wasn't in it. Everyone was tense and worried, their eyes drawn to the giant container holding their names as if magnetized.

They all fell silent when a loud trumpet blared above them. Uther's servant, a little squirmy boy younger than both Arthur and Merlin, looked petrified. He lowered his horn and stepped to the side as the king stepped out onto the balcony and took to fidgeting in the background.

From their positions, the knights and Merlin had to crane their necks to look up at the box. Uther began talking, his loud, commanding voice echoing across the chilly silence that the courtyard had fallen into. “Ladies, Gentlemen, Knights and Nobles!” he called, false excitement in his voice. “We've gathered today to pick the names of Camelot's two champions!”

There were no cheers, only unhappy murmurs of ''wrongs'' and ''phony tournament'', and even one brave soul Merlin couldn't identify who snapped a hidden, "Murderer!"

Uther's face seemed to darken at the lack of agreement in the faces of the crowd, but even as Merlin watched the King's face became indifferent once more. “Remember now – there can be but one volunteer!” he looked around before plunging one gloved hand into the tall glass thing. “Our first Champion!”

His face paled dramatically, his eyes widening. Those farther away could not see, but those closer began to murmur worriedly amongst themselves, wondering what could have so broken the king's careful shell. Merlin himself saw the King's lips form words, once, twice, and he could read them quite clearly. He just prayed he was reading them wrong.

“Arthur Pendragon.” he said finally, voice ringing once more. The crowd fell silent.

Eyes swiveled like beacons, staring at the prince. Arthur himself had frozen, eyes wide with shock, but as Lancelot nudged him a little bit, he snapped back into his old self, walking slowly up the stairs that had been built in a hurry just for this occasion. Each cheaply hammered wooden stair creaked, but didn't so much as wobble as he climbed up to his father, silent as a wraith. Everyone watched in calm quiet, not daring to break it in case they were chosen instead. A few people looked minorly relieved at their almost-freedom, but there was still one more Champion to be chosen.

Already horrified and feeling panicked, Merlin felt another weight drop heavily onto his heart. Guinevere. He looked around and finally spotted her, standing close to Elyan. She looked as though someone had hit her, her chapped lips parted but not moving, her usually so soft and warm brown eyes welling with salty tears. He quickly turned back, not able to stand the look of terror in her face.

Seemingly numb now, Uther Pendragon shook hands with his son, a grim look on his old face, and then raised one of Arthur's hands, like he'd just been winner of a tournament. Merlin felt sick, watching the color of Uther's eyes harden to stone as he dropped his son's arm and reached back into the glass container.

Merlin had already known exactly what he was going to have to do. He was going to volunteer for Arthur, because that was what needed to be done. Arthur was a valuable soldier, a brave knight, and a prince that Camelot desperately needed. Merlin was a servant with magic that was so illegal he'd be killed if anyone knew. It was obvious what needed to happen, even if he didn't take his destiny to protect the blonde man into account. From that moment of clarity, where he accepted that he was going to go to his death, alone with a stranger, things went from horrid to impossible.

“Guinevere Pellinore!” Uther called, his voice wavering slightly not because of the name he spoke now, but because his only living – as far as he knew – child was standing beside him like a cold stone statue, blue eyes blank.

Merlin almost fell to his knees, reaching up and knotting his hands in his short black hair. Lancelot tensed as though he'd been electrified, his eyes wide with horror. "No!" he hissed, "NO!"

Gwaine grabbed the taller knight as he surged forward and clapped a hand over his mouth to still the protests. “Lancelot, shut up. Not now. I will volunteer-”

Guinevere walked past them then, her appearance making Gwaine's words die in his throat. She stepped with aching slowness, her feet whispering over the stones. The once so strong daughter of the brave blacksmith looked like a lost little girl, her hands gripping her skirt until her knuckles were white as bone. She climbed the stairs, and Merlin thought she looked like a ghost already, her skin like ash beneath the dark tone. Arthur looked as though someone had ripped his liver from his gut and fed it to him on a fork as she brushed past him, hair lifted slightly by the wind. Merlin covered his eyes as he saw the pain in the prince's face, and thought of a way to protect him. Only one volunteer, those were the rules...

“I volunteer!” he shouted, voice ripping from his throat the way it had when he'd first learned he was the last of the Dragonlords. Gwaine and Lancelot stopped their tussle and turned, eyes horrified.

“Merlin, no-” Gwaine began, but Merlin was already at the base of the stairs, Uther beckoning him forward. There was a slightly hopeful look in his eyes, as if he suspected that Merlin might save Arthur. The little servant didn't look back, fearing the faces of those he knew.

The warlock's heart twisted with sudden sadness, realizing that he had just sealed his absolute death. He climbed the stairs with sure feet, not really seeing anything anymore. He wondered vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, if he was going into shock. “I volunteer.” He said again, quietly, to the King alone, and his voice sounded funny even to his own ears. "I do."

"What is your name, boy?" The king asked lowly, to him alone.

"Merlin." the warlock replied. "Merlin... Emrys."

Arthur was looking at him, his mouth open in unhidden shock, his eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of fear and anger. “Merlin... what are you doing? You-”

Uther held up a hand, silencing his son. “Who do you volunteer for, Merlin?” he asked, and his voice carried across the silence like a drum. It was quiet enough that one could hear the rasp of chain mail on leather or cloth from down below. For a heartbeat, Merlin was torn. He could save Arthur, of course. Right then and there. But that would break the prince, knowing that he'd been left behind while the girl he loved and the servant who was his best friend were sent to fight for their deaths. Really, there was only one solution. 

“I volunteer... for Guinevere.” he said, raising his head proudly. Arthur looked at him as though he'd just promised the sun to the sky, or world peace. Guinevere looked stricken, her face ghastly.

“No. No, Merlin, no-” she protested, shaking her head and holding out her slim hands. Two gaurds came forward from the inner parts of the castle and took ahold of her arms, gently pulling her away.

Uther looked at him in slight disappointment, ignoring Gwen completely but dipped his head, “So be it! Merlin Emrys will replace Guinevere Pellinore in the Games of Five Kingdoms!”

The King gestured, and Guinevere was taken down the stairs again, protesting with tears running down her cheeks. Ignoring her with the face of one who is blank to the world, Uther grabbed Merlin's arm, his grip rough and the leather cold against even through the fabric of Merlin's plain blue shirt. He stood the pale boy to his left, Arthur on his right, and raised his arms. “Camelot, greet your new Champions!”

There was scattered applause. Mostly, there was a grim and painful sound of arms crossing. Merlin swept his gaze over the people that had become his friends – his family, even – the last few years.

Gaius was no where to be seen, probably still back in his chambers finishing up on the traveling herbs, but Merlin could imagine his face when he found out his ward had volunteered for his own death. He'd be heartbroken. He'd be worried out of his mind the entire time Merlin was in the arena, and his aged heart would fill with pain when he realized Merlin would not come back. When he saw Merlin today, come just to say goodbye, his face would crumble and Merlin would be reminded that Gaius was an old man who had seen a lot of death, a lot of tragic pain. Merlin would hug him, and Gaius would promise that he'd have his favorite meal on the table when he returned. Merlin would shake his head, a slow smile blooming across his face.

Elyan caught his eyes as he scanned the crowds, and there was a bittersweet smile on his face. He gave Merlin a slow nod. Merlin didn't know him well, but it seemed like he was saying ''Thank you''. Percival and Leon stood with some other knights a distance away. They were saluting he and Arthur the Camelot way, looking proud, and Merlin felt honored, lowering his eyes.

When he looked up again, Gwaine stared at him as if he'd never seen him before, lips open wide and eyes huge, all tiredness gone from his lithe frame. He shook his head, looking sad but proud at the same time as Guinevere finally made it down the stairs and threw herself into Lancelot's arms. Lancelot's look of intense relief and adoration for the dark girl in his arms was damaged only by a sudden, hard grief. Merlin knew why.

None of the people below looked at him as though he was coming back.

It was okay. Merlin didn't believe he was coming back either. At least, not if he had any say in it.

Chapter Text

“Merlin!” Guinevere's fury was evident, but her voice cracked through her crying. “Merlin! Why would you do that? Why would you volunteer?!”

Her dark face was streaked with enormous tears, causing little curls of her wild dark hair to stick to her cheeks. Guinevere shoved Lancelot off and stomped forward, raising her arms. She beat at Merlin attacking with her hands balled into fists, thumping him hard on the chest, punctuating her curses and frustrated sniffles with attacks. The pale servant caught her wrists, looking down at her with a warmth and affection that was bright in his eyes but shadowed with a numbness those around him had never seen before.

“Merlin...” Guinevere sobbed, dropping her head forward so that her forehead rested on his chest. His skin was cold, and her tears chilled him further, causing him to shiver slightly. “Merlin... you idiot...”

Lancelot gently took one of her hands in his own, his long, calloused fingers engulfing Gwen's small hands. With a long look at Merlin, he gently pulled her away, cradling her with warm arms as she sagged, trembling with tears.

Gwaine looked at him with a quiet, thoughtful expression and solemn eyes. Merlin thought he looked older and tired that way. “What were you thinking?” he sighed finally.

Merlin shrugged, feeling a chill of cold air dive down his loose shirt as he did so. “I just knew that Gwen couldn't go into the games.” he smiled a sad smile, one that didn't reach his eyes and looked pained. Gwaine shook his head, brow furrowing as though the answer displeased him.

“Why would you volunteer, Merlin? You should have let someone who could possibly defend themselves-” Lancelot cut himself off, looking slightly ashamed. “Not that you can't take care of yourself, Merlin, but-”

“It's not myself I'm worried about.” Merlin murmured honestly. “I've got to go now. Uther told me we'll be leaving tonight... I should get ready.”

“Merlin!” Gwen gasped, pulling away slightly from Lancelot, but keeping her fingers tightly intertwined. “Merlin, please, promise you'll be careful.”

Merlin's smile was a bit watery this time. He stepped forward and took her face in his slender hands, brushing his thin fingers over her soft, dark skin. “Aren't I always?” he laughed weakly, before turning to Lancelot. “Good- oof!” the ''goodbye'' was crushed from him as Lancelot embraced him.

“Thank you, Merlin. You're a good man, a better man than I.” his voice was rough, and he clapped Merlin roughly on the back, the way the knights did. Merlin coughed out a laugh again, shaking his head.

“You would have volunteered.”

Gwaine was next, grabbing Merlin firmly by the forearm and tugging him into a sloppy hug. “Exactly. So why didn't you let us?”

“Camelot needs knights like you. When Arthur comes back-” Guinevere seemed to choke, turning back into Lancelot. Merlin continued, swallowing thickly. “When Arthur comes back, he'll need you to be there.”

Gwaine bowed his head, going silent. Merlin shook his head, unhappy with the usually rowdy knight's quiet demeanor. Guinevere stilled, her eyes bloodshot and wide as she turned her face from Lancelot's chest to look at Merlin. Lancelot, too, looked startled.

“You are the best knights in Camelot. Show Uther what Camelot is meant to be – what it is destined to be.” Merlin balled his hands into fists. “Keep things like this from happening.”

“We will do everything in our power.” Lancelot vowed, tightening his hold on Guinevere.

Merlin nodded, “I know.” he agreed calmly. “I'll miss you.”

Gwaine turned his face away, unable to speak, his tongue flicking out to silently wet his lips as he glared at the flagstones beneath them. Lancelot blinked slowly, conveying all his words into a single, solemn look. His gratitude, his admiration, and his absolute awe all filled Merlin with a sense of pride and honor, despite the fact that he walked to his death.

Merlin turned on the heel of his floppy boots and didn't look back, feet heavy on the stones beneath them.

---

“You will win this tournament.”

“Yes, Father.” Arthur bowed his head, still a bit shell-shocked but hurriedly trying to revert to his old self. His father did not like shows of any sort of weakness. Arthur took a calming breath. “I will try my best.”

“No, you will win.” Uther insisted, his eyes a bit wild when Arthur looked up. “Camelot needs their prince.”

“Yes, Father, I have said-”

“Arthur, listen to me.” Uther interrupted, holding up a gloved hand. “With Morgana's disappearence, you are the soul heir to the throne. You must return.”

Arthur felt as though he'd been punched. It wasn't love that made his father insist on his return, on his safety. It was Camelot's well-being. Arthur knew that the kingdom must come first, but he would have thought – given that he was Uther's child, his son, not just a name on a deed to the castle, that perhaps he'd have been caring.

He should have known better, of course. Uther had never shown compassion or sympathy before. It shouldn't change now that his remaining flesh and blood had been sentenced to a bloodbath.

Arthur chewed his cheek bitterly, bowing his head once more to appear respectful. “I will seek to return with my utmost power, Father.” his anger spilled, a bit, into the last word, and he hastily bit his tongue.

“See that you do.” Uther said sharply, turning on his heel. “And Arthur?”

Arthur looked up, wondering if Uther could see the bitterness in his eyes and set of his lips, or the hope that had unintentionally sprung into his eyes when his father said his name.

“... Do not fail me.” he said finally, after seeming to hesitate and think over the words. The last shred of  Arthur that had been wanting an emotional goodbye from his father melted away.

“Yes, Father.” he repeated mechanically, for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. Never had he been so discouraged or unhappy by his father. He wondered if he was wrong in his emotions, but could not bring himself to feel guilty.

Uther left the room without looking back, and Arthur sat down on his bed feeling ten years older and a thousand times too tired, or perhaps like a tiny little boy having just had thier bottom whipped hard, while their father told them they'd done something wrong, which was odd, considering Arthur hadn't exactly volunteered for this.

He put his head in his hands and stared at the whorled wood that made up the floor, not weeping but grieving in his own way, with a tight set to his lips and jaw.

“Dammit.” he growled, tangling his fingers into his sheets on the outside of his thighs as he fought back his anger and frustration.

He fell back onto his mattress, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

---

“Ah, Merlin, you're back.” Gaius observed, gesturing towards the table, “Do me a favor and cork those bottles, will you?”

Merlin stopped short in the doorway, his stomach feeling like ice. Had no one reported to Gaius the circumstances? Gaius didn't know? He hadn't turned around from where he was holding a little pink vial over an open flame, but now he turned, bushy eyebrow raised in a slightly annoyed look. Something on Merlin's face must have given his fear away, because immediately Gaius set the vial down and turned fully, concern in his face.

“Merlin?” he stepped forward, wiping his wrinkled hands on his bright red robe. “Are you alright?”

“I'm going to die.” Merlin choked, and suddenly he realized that though his cheeks were dry of tears his throat was torn to shreds, feeling scratchy as though he'd been crying for hours. His legs were shaking, his fingers numb, but he couldn't seem to move.

Gaius seemed to fall apart in the span of a second. His old eyes, so kind and strong, shattered like glass. His lips parted, his eyebrows shoved together, his shoulders dropped. The tool in his right hand fell, clattering to the floor with a sound much to loud in the silence that followed Merlin's whispered tell that he was not okay.

Merlin wasn't sure when the physician had moved, but thin arms encircled him in a surprisingly tight grip, catching him hard and tight. Merlin could do nothing but stand there, allowing the elder man to hug him in a way he'd never been held before. “Merlin.” Gaius sighed, “Oh, Merlin, my boy. You were chosen.”

Merlin felt the need to correct him, to say he had basically just signed up for suicide, that he had had a choice and had chosen Arthur and Gwen over himself, immediately, without thought. He parted his lips to say it, but no sound came out. Gaius rubbed a hand in fatherly affection between Merlin's sharp shoulder blades, soothing him.

“You have magic, Merlin. Maybe you can come back from this, of course you can.” the old man talked faster than usual, and Merlin could tell he was worried, tell that he was trying hard not to break down, not when his ward needed him most. "I'll find you some defensive spells, something for safety."

Merlin found his voice, hiding in a shallow alcove at the back of his mind made of regret and fear, and pulled it free. “Gaius... the other Champion...”

“I know you don't want to kill anyone, Merlin, but if you use magic in self-defense then-”

“It's Arthur.” the name fell from his tongue like it was a coal that had taken residence in his throat. Anguished and horrified and fear-struck, the simple word dripped like the biggest secret of his life out into the open, and he stared at empty air, as if he could see the six letters spinning in the little dust particles blown in through the sunlight streaming through the window. 

Gaius had seated himself, pulling a book from beneath a few others to flip through hastily. Now he froze, his fingers ripping the page as his arm went taunt. “No.” he breathed, turning huge eyes back to the young warlock. “Oh, Merlin.”

Merlin nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the ground. “Gaius, I cannot let him die.”

“You are willing to give your life for him... even in a tournament such as this, that you could possibly win.” It was a statement, not a question. A solemnly stated, whispered statement. Gaius knew. He knew Merlin would do so, again and again, with no change, if he was forced to live this day on loop for years.

Merlin risked a look at Gaius's face and saw the lines deepen around his dark eyes in sadness.

“Yes.” he murmured, unable to elaborate any further, unable to explain himself though he very badly wanted to.

“Arthur is a lucky, lucky man to have a loyal servant such as you, Merlin. He is quite possibly the luckiest man in the entire world. And he doesn't even know it.”

Merlin shook his head. “I only do what my destiny has told me.” he said quietly. “And apparently, my destiny now is that I must die.”

Gaius smiled sadly, his lopsided smile that showed warmth and affection. Merlin wondered if it was possible to die from heartbreak. Gaius placed a hand on Merlin's thin shoulder, his fingers weathered and old but firm. “I love you, Merlin. You were a son to me.”

“And you a father.” Merlin felt something hot sting his face and realized that the dam had broken. His tears began to fall, rolling hot down his cheeks. “I'm so sorry, Gaius.”

“Do not be sorry for being such a brave man, Merlin. I am proud to have known you.”

Gaius embraced him once more, and Merlin buried his face into the red of his robes, his shoulders wracked with sobs.

---

“Arthur.”

He sat up quickly quickly shoving all the dangerous emotions into the center of his being, her voice dragging him up from the fog the frustration had created in his head. She was standing in the doorway, her eyes blood-shot and puffy, her nose still twitching with sniffles. There were dried tear streaks down her face, and she looked on the verge of crying again. Arthur felt guilt, despite the situation not being entirely his fault.

“Guinevere.” he greeted her, and was surprised that his voice sounded steady and calm. He'd have thought it to have been rough – it stung like a bee. “I didn't hear you come in.” She looked hesitant, her brown eyes dark. He offered her a very forced smile that he hoped she didn't notice was a bit tight. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, a choked laugh bubbling like poison wine from her chewed lips. “Of course I'm not.” her voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat, “Oh, Arthur, you're the one who deserves the concern. Are you alright?”

Arthur stretched his smile a bit wider, knowing that he was lying through his teeth at her brilliant face as he spoke, “I'm fine,” he said, “Bad luck is written in the Pendragon blood, it seems.”

Guinevere reached up and rubbed at her eyes. Arthur saw it come away wet and knew his lies were failing. He let the smile fall from his face, crumbling into a melancholy sort of droop as she gave him a watery look. “I can't lose you, Arthur.” she whimpered, looking like a lost little girl, instead of the strong, capable, blazing blacksmith's daughter Arthur had come to know.

Grief was etched into every pore on her face. Ice-cold fingers reached into Arthur, squeezing the air from his lungs until he stood in a shocked, panicked breathlessness before Gwen's torn form. He had caused the lines of worry around her usually glittering doe eyes. He had hammered the cracks into the broken smile she now offered him. The pang of sadness hit something inside him and broke it.

He drifted from the bed and held out a hand, taking her fingers in his and entangling their hands while maintaining a slight distance between them. It felt like miles. With a quiet sniffle, the servant girl looked up, brown eyes wet as river mud.

“I can't lose you, Arthur.” she coughed out, and he could watch his reflection in the tears running like rain down her cheeks. “Arthur, I love you!”

The thing inside him that he thought was broken cut clean in two. The upper half soared, rusing into elation and euphoria, but the other half plummeted, shattering like a broken lance in his stomach and making his entire being ache. He knew what he needed to do, knew that it must be done, but still he didn't want to do it. He couldn't force the words past his lips for a heartbeat, until he saw felt soft fingers – calloused from sewing, and cleaning, and skillfully creating weapons with her father – but still soft, squeeze his as if to say, I'm here for you.

He felt himself shatter all over again, but he pushed the words out anyways. “No, Guinevere.” he said steadily, locking his eyes on hers. “No, you don't.”

She looked horrified. “Arthur, I-”

“You may love me, Guinevere. Maybe you love me enormously. But not entirely – ah, no, no, please don't cry.” He raised his free hand and brushed her tears away with gentle fingers. “Guinevere, I love you endlessly. I do, honestly, I've never loved anyone like I love you.” he cupped her cheek in his large hand, his skin pale against hers. She stared at him, mouth open and wordless. “Your heart it split. Split evenly enough that... that if I somehow don't come back-”

“Arthur!” Gwen protested, but Arthur shook his head, brushing his rough thumb over the skin of her cheek.

“-You have someone you can hold, and who will hold you right back. Lancelot loves you, Guinevere. He loves you just as I do.” as her silent protests, her pleading eyes, he felt his voice catch. He wanted so badly to kiss her, to capture her bitten lips in his own and wipe her tears away with his caresses, but he knew if he started he would never stop, would never be able to leave. Doing this, he knew, would help her. This would keep her whole. “Go to him, Guinevere. I know you love him, too. He will be there for you. He will love you, where I cannot.”

“Arthur... Arthur please...” the well holding her tears seemed to overflow. They spilled down her cheeks hot and heavy and fast, and Arthur pulled her, pressing her to his chest in a protective embrace.

“My Guinevere...” he allowed himself to say it, just once, and then he bowed his head, touched his lips light as feathers across her brow. “Stay strong, love.”

She sobbed into his chest and he held her, just this once, and swallowed down the tidal wave of emotions in his chest in favor of rubbing circles in the space between Gwen's shoulder blades.

The door banged open too soon, a young guard Arthur didn't recognize at all stood there. “It's time to go, Prince Arthur!” he squeaked, then backed up, looking frightened, “Oh, I'm sorry, you're majesty.... I didn't mean... please forgive me...”

“It's fine. I will be out in one moment.” he ordered. The shaking guard nodded, hurrying away.

“Goodbye, Guinevere.” Arthur told her finally, looking down into her big brown eyes one more time and seeing himself in them. “Take care.”

“Come home.” Gwen breathed, and then she released him, turning and walking away. He rubbed his face once, twice, and then followed her out the door, turning his back to her as he walked after the guard.

He really wished each step hadn't felt like a door slamming shut behind him and locking.

---

Merlin arrived, escorted by two guards in bright red, with elegant dragons thrown proudly across their chests. He greeted Arthur with a tiny nod, and a look of understanding passed between them. They would talk more on the ride.

A chariot, tall and sweeping and elegant, but pitch black, stood waiting for them, pulled by two gigantic horses. Merlin climbed in, feeling Arthur accidentally bump him on the door as the prince was hustled in behind him.

“Sorry.” the prince muttered, scooting to the other side. It wasn't cramped, exactly. It was actually rather large, with plenty of leg room. But the old man seemed to radiate an aura of anger and cold, stark attitude that neither Merlin nor Arthur wanted to poke at. So instead they sat side-by-side on one bench, leaving the old man on the other alone.

“Hello, young Merlin. Arthur.” the man greeted, once the door shut. Merlin started, his chest tightening in shock. He knew that voice. He knew that voice. Arthur looked at him oddly, a bit of concern mixed with the blankness of his gaze.

The old man grinned, and his teeth were oddly pointed behind his ruffled red and gray beard. He had wise, ancient eyes that glittered somewhere between brown and gold, and his clothing was mottled crimson and brown, as if he couldn't decide on one color and went with both. “My name is Kilgharrah.” he said calmly, almost taunting Merlin. “I'll be your trainer for the Games.”

And with that, the old man turned towards the window, signaling the end of the conversation.

Chapter Text

The old man drifted into sleep after two hours of painfully awkward silence. No sooner had his breathy snores started up than Arthur rounded on Merlin, brows pulling down in his anger. “You volunteered. You.”

Merlin frowned, “Yes, of course I did. I couldn't let-” Arthur cuffed him over the head, the worn leather of his black gloves stinging against Merlin's ear. He gave a yelp of protest, glaring. “What was that for?”

“You can't fight, Merlin! This is suicide!” Arthur thumped his head again and Merlin glared, scooting away as far as the chariot would allow. Arthur slid after him, cornering the servant. “What were you even thinking?”

“I was thinking I couldn't let you choose between living or letting Gwen die.” Merlin retorted, holding up his hands as if preparing to block another of Arthur's hits. Arthur stared at him in absolute shock.

“I wouldn't have let her die.” Arthur said softly, maybe not even talking to the dark-haired man beside him. For the first time, Merlin noticed how different he looked. The lines around his mouth and eyes, usually crinkled in a good-natured smile or a terrible, cocky smirk, were draw taut and hard, relaying how much Arthur was inwardly going through. If Merlin hadn't known him as well as he did, he wouldn't have noticed a thing. His eyes were broken, too; shattered walls of ice that were rapidly coming down, crumbling. “I would have made her the victor, Merlin. Of course I would.”

“But I can't let you die.” Merlin replied, voice just as low and soft. Arthur started, looking at him as if he hadn't expected that at all.

“What?”

“I can't let you die, Arthur. Too many people need you.” Merlin continued, forcing his voice to sound matter-of-factly even while inwardly he fell into turmoil. The resentment he felt toward the situation was enough to drive him mad, but he remained as composed as Arthur, creating a shell to hide within.

Arthur suddenly went rigid, his eyes turning to lightning. He leaned into Merlin's space, grabbing the front of his baggy red shirt and the edge of his neckerchief and pulling them practically nose-to-nose. “Did my father put you up to this?” He asked, voice monotone and cold.

Merlin leaned away, bewildered by the wild look in Arthur's eyes, “What? No!” His expression shifted from wide-eyed to affronted in the span of a blink. “You think I came here because I was ordered to?”

Arthur seemed to deflate, sighing. “No, that's right. You never follow orders.” He dropped Merlin's shirt and leaned his head back against the cushions of the chariot. He sighed again and closed his eyes, breathing in through his parted lips and out through his nose. “I was hoping, I guess, that you weren't stupid enough to have volunteered on your own free will.”

“I'm not being stupid!” Merlin protested, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to scowl at his prince. “I expected you'd want your knights surrounding you when you came back. I couldn't let any of them volunteer either.”

There was a long moment of silence before Arthur cracked his eyes, sliding his gaze towards Merlin. “What are you talking about? Me going back?”

“Well, obviously you're going to have to win, right?” It was disorientation that turned down Merlin's brows now, and he tilted his head, staring at Arthur with obvious misunderstanding.

“Well what about you?” Arthur shook his head, “I can't just let you die.”

Merlin dropped his gaze to where his hands were folded in his lap. His knuckles were white, so tightly entwined were his fingers. “Of course you can, Arthur.” He said, even while inwardly he screamed that no, Arthur couldn't, because he didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to keep being a servant, a servant for Arthur. It didn't matter what he wanted, though. This was only logical. “I'm just a servant, you're the prince, of course you'll go-”

“Merlin.” Arthur hissed, obviously fighting the urge to shout. Neither wanted to make the old man – or, dragon, as Merlin knew – awake. Even so, Merlin leaned away, startled by the fire in Arthur's eyes. They'd been broken before, but now they were just angry. “I am not a prince. Not anymore. We go into this as equals.”

Merlin stared, “But Arthur-”

“No! Merlin, for once in your life, listen to me. We go in and we both try to win. I'm not going to kill you.” He gave a bitter, wry smile, “I'd hope you'd return the favor for me, though how you could manage to kill me, I don't know. Maybe you'll strangle me trying to tie a cloak on or something.” He gave a huff of laughter, and Merlin felt a pained smile light up his own face. Arthur's hand came up and clapped Merlin's shoulder in a brief show of companionship.

Merlin wanted to cry again.

His tears were pushed back, however. He had a job to do; the same job he'd always done. Keep Arthur Pendragon safe. And he would do it, whether the prince knew it or not. “Equals, then.” Merlin agreed, tasting the words on his tongue as he said them. It was odd. “Does this mean that, technically, I have a day off?”

Arthur gave a dry snort of laughter, “Sure, Merlin. Go ahead and take two.”

Merlin grinned, the look of happiness quickly fading as the old man in the corner raised his head and gave him a mocking, toothy grin. Arthur turned, looking over his shoulder to meet the yellow-brown eyes evenly. “Who are you?”

“I've told you already, boy. My name is Kilgharrah.”

“No, I mean yes sir, I know that, I'm trying to figure out-”

“Who I am?” The dragon shook his head, “You might very well find out, young prince. The...” The shapeshifter's head tilted to the right slightly as he gave Merlin a long, searching look. “The young man beside you knows me, don't you, Merlin?”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably, shrugging when Arthur turned his confused gaze on him. “I've met him.”

“Well, who is he?”

“Little Pendragon, they used to call you.” Kilgharrah sounded almost nostalgic. “The Little Pendragon is born! They were all so pleased by your coming.”

Arthur stared, still not understanding. “You were in Camelot, then? When I was born? Are you a retired knight or something, come to train us?”

“So many questions.” Kilgharrah leaned his head back, “I fear none of them might be answered. You need not know about me, only of me. I was the last champion of Camelot.”

Merlin shook his head, “That's imposs-”

“Hush now, little Merlin. Now is not the time to reveal all you know.” His eyes shifted between the two, the knowing look making the ancient lines around his eyes seem even deeper. Arthur was looking at Merlin, almost wary now, not understanding how the two could possibly know each other. “Let me speak, and you will find out your destinies.” Merlin tensed then, and Arthur gave him another odd look, arching one blonde eyebrow as if that would pull all the words from Merlin's mouth. On the contrary, Merlin bottled up more. That was mildly concerning to Arthur, as he knew that whenever Merlin got nervous or lied he babbled for about twenty minutes until someone shut him up.

“You will arrive at the chosen arena,” Kilgharrah began, and Merlin was relieved to hear him speaking things that weren't riddles about 'two sides of a coin' and whatnot. “You will not see inside the area you will be fighting in. You'll have stylists clothe you and primp you. You will be interviewed, for the whole of the kingdom to see.”

“How will they see-”

“How else would they see you, little dragon?” Kilgharrah asked, cutting Arthur off entirely as he once again shifted to get more comfortable on his side of the chariot. “There are magic mirrors in every king's room, and the image will be shown in every mirror everywhere once activated.”

“Impossible. My father hates-”

“Yes, we very well know.” The shapeshifer's voice was sharper this time, “I'm beginning to think you're the brighter side of the coin, Merlin, and that is very sad indeed.” Merlin stifled a snort of rude laughter, suddenly impressed with the dragon sitting across from him. “He will allow this, just once, I think. Or do you believe he honestly does not care for his only son?”

Arthur's eyes darkened, “Magic is-”

“-a tool.” Kilgharrah shook his head. “You will see the rest of your future when you arrive at the arena, boy.” He turned his face to Merlin. “This was never meant to happen. You've changed the entire plot of your destinies.”

Merlin paled slightly, shaking his head. “I haven't...”

Kilgharrah shook his head grimly, “Oh, but you have.”

---

The chariot bumped to a halt a good time later, and Merlin gave a groan, his eyes flicking open in mild confusion before he remembered. He sat up, rubbing his cheek where it had been pressed against Arthur's shoulder. Kilgharrah was up and alert, his yellow-brown eyes gleaming as he stared at the door. Merlin yawned, still sleepy, and prodded Arthur.

The prince sat up, blinking his blue eyes blearily before, it seemed, he remembered. He was suddenly very much awake, and that horrible brokenness was back in his eyes. Merlin wanted to tell him to go back to sleep, or run or something, anything to get that hopelessness out of his expression.

“You must look confident, sure of yourself, Little Pendragon.” Kilgharrah's croaky old voice filled the small cabin, though he'd hardly raised his voice above a whisper. “The day you met the young Merlin, you had enough arrogance to fuel armies. Draw from that store today.”

Arthur looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise at the knowledge the odd man possessed. Merlin watched him swallow thickly, probably biting down several more questions as he schooled his features into something more presentable to those outside the chariot – if there were people outside the chariot, that was. Merlin couldn't hear or see anyone, but he had a feeling they were there. This bubble of Arthur and Merlin couldn't last forever.

The door swung open almost as if by Merlin's sad thoughts alone, and although it appeared no one opened it, there were certainly a good few number of people waiting outside. Screams went rocketing through Merlin's skull as Arthur tossed one leg, then the other out of the chariot and climbed from their sanctuary. He had on that cocky smirk he'd worn when Merlin had seen him for the first time, and none but his closest companions would have noticed that it was slightly off-kilter.

He heard the soft rasp of gravel under Arthur's boots as the prince hit the ground, and flicked his eyes up, momentarily blinded by the rage of the sunlight against his eyes. It was high in the sky, and glaring clearly through a blue as clear as the water of the lake, back in Camelot. For a moment, Arthur stood there in the doorway, and the sun turned his blonde hair to gold flames and licked a glowing halo about his head, but then he stepped to the side, and the image was gone.

Merlin came next, and try as he might he could not manage a smile. He hoped he didn't look too terrified as he stepped out, summoning every ounce of courage as he looked around. There were a good hundred people all lined up on either side of the gravel path, all screaming their names and reaching out, as if touching him or Arthur was something huge, something magnificent. A little girl in the front caught the leg of his pants as he brushed by, and he blinked down at her in surprise, only pulling away when the need came for it.

He and Arthur walked the path at a funeral pace, Arthur grinning with false bravado and brushing his hands along the palms of some of the men and women, smiling down at children or bowing his head politely to young women. Merlin could not manage his easy confidence or acting, and simply looked around him in a sort of shell-shocked surprise, neither smiling nor scowling.

There was a sudden shade and Merlin looked up to find them stepping under the awning of a building. The castle was made of polished white-gray stones, weathered and old but polished and shined until, mysteriously, Merlin could see himself in them. He didn't know what kind of stones could do that, but these did. His distorted reflection stared back at him with haunted blue eyes.

He and Arthur appeared to be alone as they walked uncertainly down the hall, the dull roar of their fans at their backs. “Where are we?” Merlin breathed, not really expecting an answer. The question, whispered as it was, still sounded too loud for the empty entrance hall.

“I have no idea.” Arthur answered, apparently having heard. His voice was just as soft, though the deep baritone rang off the walls just as Merlin's had. “Who... do you know those two?” He asked, and he raised his arm just slightly to gesture. Merlin followed his line of sight to two small figures at the end of the hall. There were two people there, one slim and tall and the other stooped like a worn-down house.

“Those would be your stylists.” Kilgharrah's breath was hot and unexpected on Merlin's shoulder, and he nearly shrieked at the sudden closeness of his stench. His breath smelled like sulfur, or burning hair. Merlin couldn't decide. Either way, it was sickening. “They've come to aid the destiny you've torn apart, Merlin. They will dress you nicely for the nightmare you will soon face.”

Arthur actually looked angry as he shifted away from Kilgharrah. “None of this is Merlin's fault. You should stop treating it like he caused this mess.” He said, rather sharply. Merlin looked at him in vague surprise, not having expected to be defended with such anger. “I don't believe in destiny.” He swallowed, the only acknowledgment of how nervous he truly was. “But if I did... I'd believe that destiny was something you could change, if we tried.”

Kilgharrah looked mildly impressed, but mostly tired and amused. “As you say, little prince. We'll see how long this bravery farce can last.”

He stopped walking, and Merlin would have stopped too if not for the stooped old man at the end of the hall. He beckoned him forward with one frail, spotted hand. “The boy comes with me. You take the prince.” He informed the willowy girl on his left.

The wisp of a lady bowed lowly, “With me, please, Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

Arthur frowned, shooting a glance at Merlin that may have held mild panic. “We are separating?”

The girl's eyes were distant and misty, and gray as fog. Merlin wondered if she were blind, or if her gaze was simply like that. “Only for a moment, your grace.” She held out a dainty hand, gesturing to a half-open door on one side of the hall and waiting for Arthur to move.

Merlin's heart thudded in his chest so hard he feared it might just burst free. At least then, he supposed, he wouldn't have to play the Games after all. “I'll see you, then.” He said to Arthur, awkwardly, as the old man took a firm grasp of his wrist and began to pull him away.

“Take care, Merlin.” Arthur responded, a bit too quickly, all the words out fast. Merlin nodded and then the door slammed shut in front of his face.

He stood there and glared at it for a moment.

“Emrys...”

Merlin whipped around, because no, people here wer not supposed to know that name. The old man stared at him, his brown eyes sad and his wrinkled face creased mournfully already. “You should not be here, Emrys.”

Merlin clenched his fist, feeling his fingernails dig into his palm. “No one should be here. These games are barbaric and wrong.”

The old man looked surprised, and then a bit guilty. Merlin glared at him, feeling a torrent of anger slam around inside him. “I suppose you are right.” He agreed slowly, “But you – you especially – are not meant to be here. Your destiny-”

“Well maybe you druids and dragons aren't so good at reading destinies as you thought!” Merlin snapped harshly, biting the words out bitter and sharp as glass. His breathing was roughened, sucked through his teeth as it were, and he felt angry tears building in his eyes.

“Mayhaps we are not.” The old man looked offended, but Merlin didn't apologize. The balding man turned, his feet silent on the tiled floor as he glided across to the wardrobe that took up the entire back wall. “My name is Arinai, if you care to know. I am your stylist for these Games.” He reached out a gnarled hand and rubbed his dry fingers across the carved wood of the closet.

Merlin remained silent, fuming. He refused to speak, not trusting his voice.

The old man – Arinai – continued. “Do you know what Camelot is known for, throughout the rest of the kingdoms?” Merlin expected he probably did, but he continued his stubborn silence, his jaw clenched tight. Apparently the question was rhetorical, for Arinai went on like he'd never though he'd get an answer. “Most from the kingdom would say the fighting prowess, the glory of the knights.” He gave a shaky smile and pet the wood again. “They are wrong. Famous Camelot is famous for two things – their hatred of magic...” He rolled his brown eyes over, stared at Merlin darkly. “And the name of Pendragon.” He shook his head, “Try as the bad king might, they have magic in that name. The magic of dragons.”

Merlin stared blankly. The old man met his gaze, and opened the wardrobe.

---

Arthur stood there quietly, his face carefully blank, as the young woman looked him over. Her name was Sophie. Such an ordinary name, for someone so soft and mysterious. She was analyzing him, he could tell, but she said not a word. She just stared at him with her strange eyes. “You are a prince.”

Arthur inclined his head. “I was. Not here. Here I'm going in as an equal to everyone else. And equal to Merlin.” He said the words calm and politely enough, but there was sadness underlying his tone.

“You're a brave, brave soul.” She breathed, and Arthur didn't know if she was talking to him or not. She turned around slowly, her soft, pale pink skirts fluttering about her heels as she did. She walked over to the wardrobe in the corner with smooth, gliding steps, almost seeming to float across the tiles. She was quite beautiful, Arthur reflected, with her soft brown hair tied up in ringlets. He didn't know what to say in reply to her dreamy comment, so he kept quiet.

“Would you like to know what your kingdom brings to mind, when mentioned?” Sophie asked softly, unknowingly almost echoing her partner stylist.

Arthur's brow furrowed, “My father used to say we were best known for our knights.”

“Your father was a fool, but he isn't far from correct.” Her soft, drifting voice turned harsh for a moment, but she was back to her distant expression in an instant. “Camelot is known for a name. The name of their kings and queens. Camelot is known for her Pendragons. And where there are Pendragons, there is hatred of magics.”

Arthur opened and then closed his mouth, not really sure where this was going. The girl smiled at him, not quite kindly, but rather as if he were a nice gown she'd love to wear, or a pet dog or cat.

“You're wondering why this matters, aren't you, your grace?” She asked, and her tone was almost mocking beneath the pillow of sing-song-y gentleness. Arthur met her gaze unflinchingly, though she disturbed him quite a bit. She closed one thin, fragile hand around the handle of the wardrobe and tilted her head, smiling coldly again with lips painted pale pink. “Stylists are meant to dress you so that the millions of people watching can recognize you in their mirrors.”

“So that's a real thing, then? The magic mirrors?”

Sophie smiled her disturbing, vague smile again and nodded, “Of course.”

“But it's outlawed-”

“Hush now, Prince of Nothing, and listen while I speak.” She cut him off, tugging the wardrobe open with a small graceful flourish. “My partner and I designed yours and Emrys's costumes together. I should hope you like them.”

“His name is Merlin.” Arthur stated firmly, gazing in frank disgust at the costume before him while Sophie smiled her Cheshire grin and waited. What sort of sick agreement was it, that called for champions to be dressed up pretty before they were sent to their deaths? What had his ancestor been thinking?

“Do you like it, my lord?” Every title she used was mocking and cruel. Arthur ignored her.

“It will do.”

“It will do nicely, I think.” Sophie agreed. And then she pulled it out and turned to him.

Arthur allowed her to help him dress.

---

Merlin stepped out of the room feeling awkward and unsettled. He was also extraodinarily self-conscious and uncomfortable. But the old druid – the sylist for these death games – had insisted. What did he have to lose, anyways, he thought bitterly. He was going to die. Dignity hardly mattered. He'd seen himself in the mirror, and, frankly there was not much to see. He could barely recognize himself as the boy from Ealdor when confronted with the face in the mirror, as blank as the face remained. The irony of his costume, however, did not pass him by. He would be terrified, if it weren't for the fact that Arthur would think it just a costume, just a role for him to play. He thought these thoughts staring at a drawn, tired face in a little glass mirror until Arthur came striding from his room. Poor Merlin openly gaped. They were hardly dressed similar at all. It wasn't very fair.

He hid inside the cloak he'd been given and wished very suddenly that he'd disagreed with the stylist's insistence. He looked a fool.

Arthur was dressed not very differently than he would be any other day, but for the armor was pure white trimmed with gold. It was unpractical, Merlin supposed, as it reflected light like the moon itself, but it was beautiful. His cape was the same as always, a brilliant scarlet that flowed around his shoulders and fluttered about his ankles, the gold dragon of his family stamped clearly and shining, like a target on his back. His hair was artfully tousled, sticking up in a way that would make a girl swoon and make older women want to smooth it down and coddle him. The white gold made his blue eyes look brighter some how, his skin soft and tanned. He looked beautiful.

Merlin was sure he'd be cast in his shadow.

“What are you wearing?” Arthur queried, looking like a Greek god as he tilted his head and attempted to study Merlin. The servant shook his head, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders so he was enveloped in the bright red fabric that matched Arthur's but for the crest. “Oh, come on. You saw me!”

“You are wearing the same thing you wear everyday, sire.” Merlin retorted, “That's hardly fair.”

“What, is your armor baby pink or something?” Arthur snorted, “Come on Merlin, it can't be that bad!” Arthur snatched for the clasp of the cloak and Merlin shied away, dodging with a quick grace. His bare feet were cold against the tiled stones beneath them, and he nearly slipped.

Merlin wished he was wearing baby pink armor. That might be better. He opened his mouth to snap something witty in reply to Arthur, but Kilgharrah had returned, his eyes sweeping over them slowly.

“Ah.” He blinked slowly. “I thought they might take that approach.”

“What approach? They didn't change Arthur at all!” Merlin protested, well aware that he was probably whining.

“Hush, little war-” The Great Dragon smoothly cut himself off and gave a wry grin at the pale horror in Merlin's eyes. “You will thank the stylists, if you come out alive. If not... well, they did attempt to make you memorable.” He gave an almost sad smile. “If it is any consolation, I would remember you forever. We are kin, you and I.”

Merlin flushed, unsure of how to respond. He didn't have to, and Arthur was not allowed to speak either, though he looked ready to burst with questions, because Kilgharrah turned and began to walk, calling for them over his proud shoulders.

Merlin and Arthur shared a long look. Then they stepped forward as one and followed the Great Dragon.

---

There was a wagon set up at the top of the steps. It was plain, wooden, though carved carefully to display scenes of a castle. A castle both men instantly recognized as home, as Camelot. Arthur stepped into the open cart first, his cape flashing about him. He looked every bit the prince he was, the King he could be, and Merlin's heart ached as he climbed into the cart and stood at Arthur's shoulder.

As if summoned by the thoughts of Arthur's royal status, the willowy girl – Sophie – came hurrying up the steps with a dark oak box in her hands. “Prince of Nothing!” She called, mockingly, “You have forgotten your crown!”

Merlin watched with a throat thick with emotion as she pulled from the box a crown and set it upon the prince's head. That was no crown of Camelot, Merlin realized. That was a crown of -

“Your head is adorned with dragon scales.” Kilgharrah sounded somewhere between irritated and amused. Merlin didn't look at him. He stared with rapt attention at the rough gold-brown scales sewn into a beautiful circlet.

Arthur reached up and touched the crown, looking awed yet disgusted. “I had been told all the dragons were dead.”

Kilgharrah laughed, loud and wheezing, “Oh, dear prince, everything is not as you've been told.”

Merlin smiled to himself softly, and as it faded, he wondered if that would be the last time he ever smiled. That would be sad, to smile never again. He forced the grin back on his face, turning with Arthur to look at the smirking Dragon for advice, but it was the girl who spoke.

“Em- Merlin. Put your arms down, child. And raise your hood.” She ordered in her soft voice. Merlin hesitated, but at the urging look in her gray eyes he dropped his arms, allowing the cloak to fall open. His chest was bare underneath. Over his collarbones and chest were scrawled delicate runes and markings, tales of magic untold. He was thin, sure, but hard muscle smoothed his stomach flat, and he was not so tiny as one might have thought, though pale indeed. His trousers were low-slung black leggings, resting low on his hips. On the left hipbone, another false tattoo had been drawn, disappearing under the leather of his leggings.

Arthur was blatantly staring, “What the bloody hell are you meant to be?” He demanded, looking to Kilgharrah and then Sophie, as if he expected them to have the answers.

“Merlin is a sorcerer.” Kilgharrah said simply. Merlin nearly threw up.

“Are you all insane? That won't make people love him!”

“We shall see, little Pendragon. Now turn. Put your backs together.” Kilgharrah instructed. Slowly, angrily, Arthur complied, thought Merlin could feel in the hard line of his back that he was still dismayed at Merlin's appearance. Merlin didn't blame him. He had to look like some sort of ghost, so pale he was. They held still, and were shocked when the wagon moved, pulled by an unseen force towards the opening doors a few feet away.

“And Merlin,” Sophie called, apparently having one last piece of advice. Merlin turned his head, met her gaze. “Only when you get to the end should you remove your hood. Otherwise, keep your head lowered. Meet everyone's eyes when they look at you... but do not seek anyone out.”

Merlin turned his face away, feeling silly and a little stupid.

They entered the parade of carts, and the screaming began.

Chapter Text

The parade may have lasted five minutes, or it may have lasted an hour. Merlin didn't know for sure. The time had seemed to stretch and wind and dance around him as the roars of cheering crowds shattered his eardrums and the chariot rattled beneath his bare feet silently, never jostling its passengers.

Merlin had done as he was told. He hadn't moved his head but a few inches, and yet whenever a face came into his sight he'd met their awe-struck gazes full on, never smiling but simply staring. He remembered the faces. There had been two little girls – one blonde with green eyes, the other a dark-haired child. Mostly there were screaming men and women, with tangled nets of styled hair and faces colored with the paste of berries. Gaius would have been horrified to see so many herbs go to waste, but here they seemed to be in abundance, tossed about casually in headbands and flower crowns, where back in Camelot the physician would spend hours cleaning and preparing them. Merlin shook the thought away even as the ache threatened to overwhelm him. Thinking of Gaius won't help him now.

They stood still, their backs pressed together, until the cart rolled to a stop. Merlin turned first, the simple shift of footing sending his scarlet cloak swirling about his bare feet and calves. It was annoying, but he kept his face carefully void of any emotion, as he had the entire parade. One tiny mistake, and he would break down crying or something. He could not show fear.

Remembering what he'd been ordered to do, Merlin reached up and pushed back his hood, letting it pool against his shoulders and staring up at the man. He feigned indifference, though he felt as though his skin physically burned from all the eyes on him.

“Welcome, to the fifteenth Champion Games!” The old man was wrinkled and nearly bald, ancient even by warlock standard. Neither Arthur nor Merlin recognized him, but the crowd wailed again. “We know the rules. Two Champions are sent from each kingdom in our alliance. The champions are sent to fight, in an arena chosen by out Gamemakers. Everyone in the kingdoms will be able to watch, in the surface of every mirror.” Merlin flashed back to when he was a small, small child. His mother had covered up their mirror for a full two weeks, and beaten him with a switch for trying to peek. It made sense now.

“We greet our Champions!” The old man crowed, looking pleased beneath the hundreds of wrinkles scrunching his face.

Merlin carefully kept his eyes on the man speaking, though Arthur, beside him, looked around. Merlin nearly jumped when Arthur suddenly went rigid, as if the breath had been punched out of him.

“Merlin.” He hissed, at the same time Merlin whispered, “What?”

“Look, there.” Arthur grabbed his wrist, tugging slightly, and Merlin slowly turned his head, dreading what he'd see.

In the cart on the end farthest from them, two women stood. Both were tall and shapely and beautiful, with the same hard features and looks of cold indifference. They were wearing matching black gowns of the finest fabrics, like a pair of mourning princesses. On their heads were crowns of black iron fashioned into thorns. Each wrist was manacled stylishly, the chains locking them together, but also trailing behind them, even dangling off the back of their cart. Merlin had recognized them too, and maybe he'd fallen into shock, because he found he didn't make a sound, nor did his expression change, though inwards he had turned frozen.

The girls that stood in the chariot were none other than Morgana and Morgause.

---

The parade ended, and the carts wheeled off again. Arthur was dropped off at his room, and Merlin at the one right next door. The room was gigantic, as large or larger than Arthur's back home. The sheets were red as his cape, folded expertly and smooth of any wrinkles. Other than the bed, a wooden chest was the only thing in the room, but there was a small washroom near the back with a tub full of hot water that he gladly sank into. It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed a hot bath, as he usually didn't have time to sit and soak. But tonight he didn't have that time either, he thought. He wanted... needed to talk with Kilgharrah about strategies to protect Arthur in the coming Games. Nevertheless, at the sight of the steaming water he dropped the cloak immediately, letting it pool on the floor. His tight pants soon followed, and he sank into the water to rub the black marks off.

After his wash he climbed out of the cooled water and glanced doubtfully back at the pants and cloak still lying abandoned on the floor. He grabbed a towel instead, and went with a barely-there hope in his chest to inspect the enormous wooden box at the end of the bed. Inside, he was relieved to find many a tunic and pairs of britches.

Relieved, he removed a plain red shirt and a pair of brown pants not unlike his own had been. Distantly as he dressed, he wondered where his own clothes had wound up. He turned around and found a single piece of folded cloth tied on the doorknob.

It was his neckerchief, he realized upon crossing the room. The blue one he'd worn before.

Instinctively, he tied it on, and then stepped out in the hall.

A fist nearly connected with his forehead upon doing so, but Arthur hurriedly dropped his hand before the knock could connect. “I was just coming to find you,” The prince greeted. Merlin smiled softly and nodded,

“I got as much, seeing as you just tried to knock on my forehead.”

They walked until they came to a large room set with a table and chairs, covered all over with foods Merlin had never dreamed of tasting. The table was covered with turkeys splattered with gravy, hams covered in strange yellow fruits and cherries, every fruit he'd even seen and many he hadn't, bowls of vegetables smothered in sauces Merlin couldn't even name. And yet, when Merlin sat down and picked up his fork, it all tasted the same.

“I thought she was dead.” Arthur said quietly. He was not eating. His fork made chirping noises against the gold of the plate as he pushed the meal around in mindless patterns.

“We all did, Arthur.” Merlin lied, keeping his eyes on his plate as he speared a piece of ham. He didn't bring it to his mouth. He had known she wasn't dead. Morgana wouldn't be that easy. But if he was going to die soon anyways, what did a few more lies to his prince matter? He finally set down his utensil and looked at Arthur across the table.

The prince had also recently washed, it seemed. His hair was still wet at the ends. But it was the sad look in his eyes that made Merlin's heart ache. He'd finally gotten over Morgana's traitorous turn, and here the Games were tearing that wound open too. Merlin was angry and hurt all at once.

“Do you think.... do you think, if I'd been a better friend to her, I could have stopped her leaving?” Arthur asked, still not looking up, though Merlin could see his blue eyes flicker around guiltily.

“No, Arthur.” Merlin decided firmly, pushing his plate away. “You did the best you could. So did Gwen-” Merlin abruptly shut up. That had been the wrong thing to say. Arthur looked like he was trying to pretend he hadn't just been punched in the gut. Merlin wished he could take his words back. There was a long moment of silence. Merlin dared not break it, not wanting to crack the tentative ice on which he was walking.

“Was she always bad, then? Always this ready to hurt my father?” Arthur demanded finally, and though his voice was rougher and angrier, he didn't look as if he were about to cry, so Merlin decided he might be alright.

“I don't know.” Merlin replied steadily, “But I do know that there isn't anything you could have done. Nothing you can do now, but win these Games.”

Arthur looked up, now with annoyance creasing his blonde eyebrows. “Merlin – ”

Kilgharrah chose this moment to walk into the room, his steps unhurried but purposeful. He settled at the head of the table and stared at them both with his wizened gold eyes. “The destinies you both share are about to become a great hindrance.” He said mysteriously, and then plunged his fork into the roast beef by his chair and began to eat.

Arthur glowered at the man, “What do we do now?” He demanded, “When do the Games actually start?”

Kilgharrah looked up, but didn't speak. He finished what was on his plate without ever taking his eyes from Arthur, watching the prince squirm uncomfortably. Merlin almost asked the question again, wondering if the humanized dragon was going deaf. Finally, though, with a final swallow, the dragon spoke, his voice the same as ever.

“Patience, little Pendragon. I would not be in such a rush to enter the Arena.” He shifted around on the chair until he was more comfortable, much like he had done in the Chariot. “The Games will begin at the end of this week. Tomorrow, you two will begin training.”

“What training?” Merlin piped up, plate ignored as he tuned his full attention on the shapeshifter.

“A room will be set up and tomorrow you will enter it. They will have weapons there, and plenty of survival stations. You as well as your opponents will be expected to practice and learn, until the day before the Games.”

“We'll see our enemies?” Arthur looked faintly green.

“All week. Alliances will be made. All will be broken. There is only one winner. There has only ever been one winner. But alliances will come about all the same.” The dragon rumbled thoughtfully, chewing on a blackened piece of meat with apparent relish.

“Why?” Both boys asked at the same time, and then shared a startled glance.

“That is how the Games have all been, children.” He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet, looming over them. “I'd suggest sleeping.”

And with that, he spun and stalked from the room.

Another tense silence fell over them.

“I will see you in the morning, Merlin.” Arthur muttered softly, rising to his feet. Merlin nodded fractionally and rose as well, turning to head for his room.

“Sleep well, sire.”

“Arthur, Merlin. My name is Arthur. I'm not a prince anymore.” Arthur stated firmly, locking his gaze on Merlin's back as the younger man opened the door to his room. The servant looked back and smiled faintly.

“Of course you are.” He said, quiet and soft as a prayer. “You will be, until your father is dead. And then you will be king.”

“I may die in the coming days.”

“No you won't.” Merlin promised, and then his eyes fell and he turned back to his room. The door was shut before Arthur could formulate a reply.

---

Arthur lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with a blank mind. It had been hours since he laid down, surely, but he remained as awake and alert as if he were on the battlefield already. It didn't matter than he was exhausted emotionally and physically, he was too wired to even close his eyes. Eventually, though, they were weighed down.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but then he dreamed.

Arthur walked through a desert, the heat hot on his back. He was wearing a plain red tunic and brown cloth pants that tied at the front. His feet were wrapped in simple leather boots and they slipped and sank into sand until he was panting, sweat rolling down his temples and neck. His back was blistered and burned, he knew, but the tower he could see shimmering in the distance remained out of his reach.

Morgana appeared, the blonde Morgause at her side, and they cackled at him, tossing their beautiful curls. He reached for them, seeing that they seemed to be standing in a circle of ice, but they danced away cheerfully, taking the cool water with them. He growled in frustration. Then they began to scream, and cracks appeared on their hands and faces, until their skin began to peel, bright and red. He felt his own throat grow hoarse with screams of terror, and he turned, forgetting the tower, desperate to escape the image of his half-sister and Morgause peeling apart like that.

He began to run, a sense of panic racing through him.

The sun was still hot, and his throat was dry and rough enough that he couldn't use it to shout when he stumbled over something and went sprawling, the hot sand burning his hands. He rolled over and sat up, then looked to see what had tripped him.

He wasn't hot anymore. He was suddenly very, very cold, from the ends of his toes to the tips of his ears. “No!” He rasped, horrified, scrambling backwards in a sort of crawl. “No, no!”

Merlin's body lay before him, intact as it had been when Arthur had seen him off, though his chest was still and his eyes were closed. There was no visible injury to him, and he looked almost peaceful. But Arthur had seen enough dead to know that Merlin would not be opening his eyes. He had a hand thrown across his chest, the other lay crookedly beside him, at his hip. In his palm there was something, a token or coin... Arthur leaned forward to see it better.

His fingers had just brushed Merlin's cold, dead ones, when a shout cut through the dream.

“Rise and shine, sire!”

The greeting was so familiar, so real, that for a moment Arthur lay there, eyes shut tight, willing away the images of Merlin's dead body. It was a dream, all of it, right from the moment of him hearing his father explain about the barbaric games.

But he opened his eyes, and he knew that it wasn't. Merlin stood by the door, though, unharmed and with sleep-messy hair that made Arthur squeeze his eyes shut as the memory of the limp body returned.

He crossed the room in two steps and crushed Merlin to him. Merlin started, and then returned the hug, looking almost pleased.

“Dammit Merlin, I – ” He broke off. The time for ''I don't want you to die'' was past. If Merlin didn't know that by now, it would mean nothing anyways. Instead he pulled away, hurriedly scrubbing his face with a rough, calloused hand and shaking himself to clear his head.

“What are you here for?” He asked finally, when he could trust his voice not to break.

“Kilgharrah sent me.” Merlin said, “We're supposed to get dressed and report to the training center.”

Arthur nodded, and then sent Merlin a tired smile, “You know, when you woke me up like that, I almost thought we were home.”

Something in Merlin snapped out of place, just then. Arthur saw it in the glassy look in his eyes. It seemed almost against his will when he replied, quiet as last night, “I wish we were.” But then the moment was gone, and Merlin was himself again, grin just a little off. “Anyways, he wanted me to wake you up. So we could walk down together.”

“Sure.” Arthur nodded, padding with quiet bare feet to the box of clothing. Merlin was wearing a red shirt with Arthur's crest across his back, he noticed as he pulled out a matching top. “Are we meant to be matching?” He asked, turning to look at Merlin.

“I think so. This was what the Great -” He paused, then swallowed nervously, “I mean, this is what Kilgharrah wanted us to wear. These are our training costumes, apparently.”

Arthur nodded, tugging the shirt over his head. It got stuck. He struggled, feeling his face heat up beneath the soft fabric as he wriggled. Merlin walked over and straightened him out, and then set about lacing the front, as he had millions of times before.

The ritual hurt anyways.

They walked out of the room and down the hall. They wandered for a good deal of time in confusion until they spotted a young pair from a neighboring kingdom walking confidently down a narrow hall and followed. They entered the training room, and even Arthur was forced to look impressed.

There were weapons lining the entire back wall, from ceiling to floor, and mats where girls and boys practiced wrestling. Small tables were set up, and adults Merlin did not recognize were teaching about plants and knots and fishing hooks.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Arthur asked, and Merlin turned to look at him. He didn't look pleased, but he did look calmer. Merlin figured it was because the fighting was something he knew, something he could do.

“No, Arthur, go ahead.” Merlin said, knowing that it was what the prince needed. Arthur nodded curtly, and drifted off towards a rack of greatswords that Merlin wasn't sure he could even lift.

He spent the day learning all sorts of knots, and then fired a crossbow or two. He wasn't terrible with knives, and throwing them he wasn't bad at at all. He dueled with Arthur for a few minutes, but the prince put him on his backside three times in a couple seconds flat each and he laughed before he gave up on that.

Both he and Arthur tried very hard to ignore the pair of female tributes that stared at them with eyes like chips of ice. Five minutes before the end of practice time, their attempted ignorance fell to hell.

“Hello, brother.” She sneered, her pretty face twisted into an ugly scowl. Merlin, returned to Arthur's shoulder, braced himself for attack. “I see you've dragged your sad little servant with you even here.” She turned to Merlin, looking equally angered. “How are you, Merlin?”

The hate in her voice shocked Merlin, but then, it shouldn't have.

“Leave him out of your taunting, Morgana.” Arthur ordered quietly, stepping forward. He stood with a shoulder protectively in front of Merlin, as if shielding him from the twisted girl's view would save him. “It's me you're mad at.”

“That's very true.” Morgana agreed, tossing he wild black hair. “But I hate him too, see. So I'll say what I like, thank you very much.”

“What do you want?” Arthur demanded, cutting straight to the point. His arms folded across his chest.

“You both dead, for starters.” Morgana growled, her voice like a worn string of a lute – at any moment, it would snap. “Preferably in a messy, painful way.”

“I never wanted you hurt.” Arthur whispered, softly, and Merlin felt the ache throb through his heart again.

“Well. Your wants apparently don't always come to be, Brother. So go to hell.” She turned, her black skirt swirling about her ankles like she was a fallen angel. She was still beautiful, but a crazed danger surrounded her now. Like thorns on a black rose.

“I'll shake your hand when I arrive.” Arthur retorted, grabbing Merlin's arm. He stormed from the room, dragging the servant with him and not releasing him.

Only once they stand outside the doors to their rooms did he drop Merlin's arm. And then he punched the wall, splitting his knuckles and roaring a curse. Merlin stood calmly. He held out a hand finally, sensing the calm return to Arthur as the prince sighed in resignation.

Arthur stretched out his fingers and then allowed Merlin to inspect the cracks in his knuckles. Merlin holds Arthur's large hand in both his own. The Pendragon had larger hands, with callouses formed from grasping swords. His fingers were blunter, more rounded, where Merlin's were thin and nimble. “A bandage will do, I suppose.” He decided, gently pushing Arthur's fingers into a fist and then uncurling them.

“Great.” The prince muttered. Merlin scanned Arthur's face, but the prince withdrew and pulled his fingers away from where Merlin still held them. “I'm starved. Let's eat, Merlin.”

They sat down and ate in silence. Merlin found that all the foods he had wanted to try so badly back in Camelot tasted strangely of dust here.

Chapter Text

 Three days into training, Merlin found a small door in the wall. It was hidden behind the sword dummies, invisible except when Merlin stumbled and his fingers caught the narrow slit that was meant to be a doorknob. Merlin pried it open and ducked inside. It led to a weights room covered in dust, where weights lay scattered about the floor or tossed carelessly on the benches. Some of the larger weights and bars were broken or bent, a couple covered in rust. Merlin stepped quietly across the room and realized he couldn't hear anything from outside. Not even the yelling match that had been going on between the young girl from Odin's kingdom and the woman from Olaf's could reach through the dust-coated walls.

“I could use my magic here.” Merlin muttered, looking around with a sort of wary determination. He set his gaze on the least damaged set of weights, a blunt metal dumbbell sitting on a wooden stool. The magic swirled inside him instantly, and it moved. It flew across the room and slammed into the wall. Merlin flinched, expecting a loud banging noise, but it just hit the surface with a dull thud and fell to the floor. Merlin's brows contracted and he drifted over warily, reaching up a hand to touch the wall. His nimble fingers brushed through a layer of about six inches of dust, but finally connected with soft padding much like Arthur's mattress.

A sort of giddy excitement stole over him as he turned and saw no one even coming to look for him. He was safe here. He could practice in peace. If he used his abilities enough, perhaps he could become strong enough to get Arthur through without a single injury. He very determinedly ignored the fact that getting Arthur through would also result in him dying. Now was not the time for such thoughts. There would never be a time to think like that.

He spent a good deal of time just moving things. He tossed them about and threw the weights around while he sat on the stool, boots just barely scuffing the floor.

He chucked a larger weight, one labeled with a big '10' that Merlin has taken to understand is one of the heaviest, into the air. He caught it again midair, and the effort it took to keep his hands in his lap and not reach out like he usually did actually made him gasp.

His noise was not the only one to echo around the room.

For a moment Merlin sat, his face pale and horrified. In the next moment he was on his feet, the weight clattered to the ground and he was spinning to face the person in the doorway. A boy stood there, with curly black hair and wide, cornered eyes. He wasn't a day over twelve, if that. He looked small and fragile, wearing the flowy white training shirt.

“I didn't – that wasn't me.” Merlin lied quickly, blabbering, “I came in and it was floating, I don't know – ”

You're a sorcerer.

Merlin clapped a hand to his ear, startled. The voice hadn't come from outside, but rather echoed around in his head like one of his own thoughts. “No!” He quickly shook his head, “I'm not!” The little boy smiled, and he turned around. Across his back was stamped a strange tree, much like the Pendragon crest marked Merlin. After a moment of bewildered staring, Merlin understood. “You're a druid!” He blurted, out loud, without thinking about it first.

The boy turned back around and met Merlin's gaze with his own. I am. He said, in Merlin's head again.

“Can't you talk? With your mouth, I mean.”

I can. I prefer to communicate this way. It helps keep private conversations from the ears of others. He blinked slowly, wise gray-white eyes almost hypnotic. Merlin shook his head to clear it.

“Please don't tell anyone what you saw.” He murmured quietly, looking away from the boy proudly wearing his symbol of magic. He must have sounded a fool indeed.

Why not? The boy asked. A wry smile tugged his pale lips up, Are you afraid they'll kill you?

Merlin looked surprised and embarrassed as he turned back to the boy, “I... I suppose it does sound stupid, when you phrase it like that. A bit late for secrets, I guess.” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his head self-consciously.

I won't tell anyone, Emrys. It is your choice to hide your magic, not mine. The druid boy gave a little bow, and Merlin shuffled forward a step, reluctant to part the company. It was then he realized what the boy had called him and recoiled, horrified.

“You know me?”

All druids know the face of Emrys. You are the hope for our race. The boy looked over his shoulder, It is a shame you are here. I would have liked to see the world you brought about. Alas, there is only one winner.

Merlin wanted to apologize and regretfully inform the druid that it wouldn't be him, either, but he decided that is may not have been the best course of action. Instead he remained oddly quiet as the druid boy walked quietly towards the door, his feet silent on the mats below them. Finally, as the boy was exiting the room, he called out, “Wait! What's your name?”

The boy looked back at him with his startling eyes. I am Mordred.

---

Arthur felt the sweat run down his face and allowed the tip of the sword to drop at the same time as his opponent's, grinning at the man in front of him. He was a huge man with dark skin and a neatly trimmed beard, though he had no hair on his head. His name was Myror, and he was from Odin's kingdom, his companion a tiny imp of a girl with darling gold curls and vivid green eyes named Vivian.

Arthur had been sparring with him for a good number of minutes. He wasn't particularly an expert swordsman, not like Arthur, but he used tricks and cheats that would have killed Arthur, had he been anyone but an expert.

He'd fought nearly everyone here, and inspected everyone twice, hoping to get an advantage by seeing them in action. Myror, though he appeared big and lumbering, was fast and silent. He'd been a mercenary assassin back home, if the tales were to be believed. Arthur numbered him as a threat.

Helios, a champion from Olaf's kingdom, was an equal to Arthur in swords, and knew how to use a whip as well. He was dangerous as well, and his slight companion with the braids – a woman named Nimueh, had an air of danger around her, too. He'd labeled them as threats as well, and checked them off on the list.

The others were less skilled, as far as Arthur saw, or too young to pose any real threat, as was what he'd decided with Kara and Mordred, the small children from a kingdom he didn't recognize. With the obvious exception of Morgana and Morgause, he had decided he'd narrowed down the threat to a group of three or four.

The bell chimed not once, but twice, signaling the end of training, and Arthur instantly snapped out of his distant thoughts and looked around, seeking Merlin. He spotted him near the sword dummies, though he didn't have a weapon. Arthur walked over, tossing the sword back on the rack with carelessness born of his blood.

“This is exhausting.” He admitted. Merlin looked equally tired, though pleased with himself. Arthur found that odd, considering the black mood Merlin had been in since he first began his ascent to stand at Arthur's shoulder after volunteering for Guinevere. “What are you looking so happy about?”

Merlin started, obviously surprised at Arthur's attentiveness, and then his shoulders bounced in a shrug. “I've found something I'm good at.” He offered, looking smug.

“Oh? And what is that? Tying knots?”

Merlin scowled, “No. Something good, Arthur. I think we'll have a chance out there.”

“Well of course we will. You'll have me.” Arthur snorted, ruffling Merlin's hair. “Let's go, now. I'm starving, I want something hot to eat.”

Merlin's stomach rumbled. “Oh. I'm hungry too.” Merlin blinked down at his abdomen as if it surprised him and Arthur laughed, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he looped his arm around his friend. They trudged off down the hall, both studiously pretending they didn't notice the ice-cold glares Morgana and Morgause sent their way as they retreated to their rooms.

Kilgharrah was waiting for them, a crust of burnt oat bread on his plate that he was gnawing on appreciatively. When he saw them approach, he dropped the half-eaten meal and rose, looking at them intently. “We will be seeing your entrances today, after you return from your scorings.” He announced, gesturing to the enormous mirror placed on the wall. Arthur and Merlin stared at it as if it might leap off and kill them.

Arthur broke the silence. “Scorings?”

Kilgharrah, having dropped back into his seat and taken to chewing on a tough-looking piece of venison, looked up. He sighed, dropping his food again as he folded his fingers. “I forget how young you boys are. You know nothing.”

“We know plenty.” Merlin retorted, “Just not about some stupid Games.”

Kilgharrah appeared to not have heard him. “After eating, all of the champions will report to the training room. They will be called in one by one to demonstrate something you have been working on. Scores will be give tonight, after we watch your entrances. The higher the score, the deadlier the opponent. You would do well to watch, and perform your absolute best when you enter the room with the judge.”

“They're rating us?” Merlin shook his head, looking disgusted. “Like some turkey for the Harvest Festivals, or a pumpkin at a faire?”

Arthur agreed silently, but he didn't voice his complaints. He sat down and ate, tearing the meat off chicken legs. Merlin dropped down with a sigh of defeat across from him and began to nibble on some strawberries. In seconds, though, he was devouring an entire plates worth of roast beef, looking almost starved.

---

Evening fell quickly, and after a wash – Merlin was unused to having the luxury of a hot bath at his command, and was going to take advantage of it in his last days – the servant found himself meeting Arthur at his door. The prince looked nervous, his eyebrows scrunched low over his dark blue eyes and his lips curled downwards in a frown.

They walked shoulder to shoulder back down the long hall to the training room, their steps matched but unhurried. Neither particularly wanted to go back to the rooms, to have judges stare at them while they performed like traveling mummers.

“What are you going to show them?” Merlin asked finally, if only to break the silence. His pale skin looked even paler, his cheeks slashed with shadows in the flickering, inconsistent light cast by the odd torches lining the walls.

“I don't know, really.” Arthur shrugged, “I could swing my sword around, I suppose. Throw a few lances or knives. What about you?” He nudged him, grinning, “Going to try for pity, because you're such an idiot?”

Merlin scowled playfully back, and a bit of the tension that had been thick and crackly between them since their names had been called eased away. “I'm not an idiot, thank you very much.” He said, tilting his chin up to look more dignified. His head fell when he realized he really had not idea what to show the judges. His knife throwing wasn't bad, and he might be able to use magic subtly enough to make it even impressive, but Merlin doubted that he'd get very high scores. He frowned. It didn't matter anyway, what was he worried about? One person would come out of this tournament, and it would be Arthur.

“Maybe I'll throw knives.” Merlin offered, when he saw that Arthur was still looking at him expectantly.

“I saw you throwing them yesterday. You've gotten better.” Arthur praised and slapped him roughly on the back, hard enough that Merlin staggered forward a couple of steps.

“Ow,” Merlin muttered, shooting a glare at Arthur. The prince laughed, catching up in two swift strides as they rounded the corner.

Morgana and Morgause caught sight of them first. “Oh, would you look at them! The great prince Arthur has something to laugh about!” Morgause sneered. Her blonde curls were tied back in a neat ponytail, but they swept around when she shook her head disdainfully all the same.

“Something funny, your grace?” Morgana catcalled, while a couple of other tributes snickered. “Because, as most of us are about to die, I'm sure we'd all love to hear the joke of a mighty mighty prince.”

Arthur's smile faded quickly, replaced with a look of careful indifference as he took his position at the end of the line. He didn't look at his sister. Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder in an offer of support, but Arthur shrugged him off, closing his eyes tightly.

“Arthur, darling, has someone cut out your tongue?” Morgause cooed, leaning around the plump stable boy from one of the kingdom's Merlin would never remember to glare at Arthur with her piercing eyes.

“I'm sure he thinks you talk enough for everyone here.” Merlin retorted snappishly, without waiting for Arthur to even blink. The prince opened his eyes and looked at him in surprise. Morgause looked shocked that someone so below her would threaten her, but then she seemed to see Merlin, and her expression hardened in her angular face. She was opening her mouth, no doubt to deliver a stinging reply or rebuke, but Morgana was suddenly there, her expression cold and uncaring as she wrinkled her nose at Merlin.

“Needing a little servant boy to do all your chores, Arthur?” She tossed her wild hair and looked at the line of champions watching the argument with huge eyes. “You see this? The prince of Camelot won't even deign to speak with me. Rude, isn't it?”

“Not quite so rude as you leaving your family for – ” Merlin began, only to get cut off when a hand connected solidly with his cheek. He saw stars and tasted blood for a moment, but when the pain faded Morgana was still there, her cheeks flushed and gaze livid.

“I have no family in Camelot!” She hissed at him, raising a hand to slap him again. He stared at her in shock. He hadn't expected the rage and revulsion in her gaze.

Arthur caught her slender, pretty wrist before the blow could land. Merlin looked up in surprise – he hadn't seen him move. Arthur looked down at Morgana with his mask back in place, the one he sometimes wore when fighting a battle he found unnecessary. “You had a brother, and a father that loved you more than he ever loved me.” He said, and his voice was cool and steady. Merlin had thought it would shake.

Morgana snatched her arm away. “I want to see you rot in Hell.” She snarled.

“I will shake your hand personally when I reach the fiery depths.” Arthur replied, and by his expression he may as well have made a promise.

The girls stalked off, and Morgause was called into the training room seconds after. Morgana didn't look quiet so scary or intimidating alone. She looked small, and afraid. Merlin stared at her, noticing how she didn't even look around but simply bored her gaze into the stone tiles. She was called in shortly after, and Merlin turned away, leaning back against the wall and staring at the stones above his head with a silent plea in his mind.

“How is your face?” Arthur asked quietly, speaking only to Merlin. Merlin cracked open his eyes and turned to him.

“What?”

“She hit you.” Arthur pointed out, reaching forward and touching Merlin's cheek where he'd been slapped. The warlock shrugged,

“I barely feel it.” He said. It was half-true. He felt oddly numb inside, but the throb of the solid blow Morgana had landed did sting across his skin. Arthur frowned at him doubtfully, but dropped his arm.

“You should be fine. There will be a bruise, though.” The prince looked as if he wanted to say more, but then his name rang out, clear as water across the stone hall.

Arthur rose to his feet and walked across the hall, leaving Merlin alone but for the echo of his brown leather boots.

---

The moment Merlin entered the training room, he was struck by how big it truly was. The left wall, which had been a tarp-covered, forbidden part of the room, was open now, revealing a high balcony. On the balcony sat a council of old and young men, all of which stared at Merlin expectantly, like he was some dog come to beg for a bone or a table scrap.

Kilgharrah had told him to walk in, stand presentable, and state his name and kingdom. So he did, all with his eyes fixed on the stone railing that kept the judges from falling to the floor. “Merlin... Emrys. From Camelot.” He recited, as he had done with poetry back in the little school taught by his neighbor when he was seven.

The men nodded, but they didn't seem to care much. Food had just been brought to them, and they looked much more interested in the roasted turkey than in Merlin's performance. The young warlock could not tell if it angered him or not.

Merlin looked around. There were knives laid out on the table, but judging from the gouges in the targets around the room someone had done that already. He didn't know what to do, really, until he saw a pair of maces, lying almost as if in an afterthought, on the floor by the weapons rack. Memories of fighting Arthur the first day they'd met surfaced, and he found one in his hand before he realized he had moved. He looked up to see if he had the council's attention.

They all stared at him, some in horror. The youngest had a hand clapped to his mouth, and he seemed to be biting his finger. The elder men, all whitened or grayed, were all very pale. Food fell from forks that had been halfway carried to mouths. Merlin took a small step back, frightened, wondering what he'd done.

It was only then he realized that he hadn't moved from his place in the center of the room.

He'd pulled the mace to him unconsciously.

Using magic.

“Thank you, for your consideration.” Merlin blurted, before he even was dismissed. He turned and shot through the open door like a frightened mouse.

Arthur caught his arms, and looked vaguely startled to be doing so. “Whoa, whoa! You alright?”

Merlin looked up at his best friend and took a shuddering breath. A thousand thoughts crashed through his mind, some insane – as in telling the prince right then and there, or crying, or screaming and running away – and some melancholy and aching, like the memory of fighting Arthur with the maces.

He smiled anyways. “Of course, I'm fine. I think I really... blew them away.”

“Good. Because I sure as hell didn't have their attention. Someone brought them pudding while I was beating up the training dummy.” Arthur laughed, the sound almost forced, and wrapped and arm around Merlin's thin shoulders again, squeezing. “Come on, Merlin. Kilgharrah wishes for us to watch the mirror tonight, and I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted, so the sooner the better, I say.”

Merlin nodded. He followed Arthur down the hall quietly, leaning into the strength of the man beside him just a little because his own legs seemed to be turning to butter with horror.

---

And now, we greet our champions. The words scrawled themselves across the frosted face of the mirror like someone had heated it with their breath and written it with a finger in neat, swooping handwriting. Arthur sat on one of the soft wicker chairs, positioned between Kilgharrah and Merlin, and stared, mystified completely. He'd never seen magic used for something so... casual, before. It was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. He didn't truly know whether to be angry or amazed.

The words faded as if melted away, and the mirror suddenly cleared and showed an image of a set of double oak doors. Arthur recognized them as the ones the cart had pulled them through four days ago.

The doors busted open and the first chariot came rolling out. In it were Morgana and Morgause, dressed in their black gowns with their chains and crowns of iron thorns. Arthur clenched his fist on his chair, but made no comment, though he felt Merlin staring at him worriedly.

The next chariot held Myror and Vivian, looking intimidating. They were followed by others that went unrecognized by Arthur, and then Tristan and Isolde – the thieves. Helios and Nimueh tailed them, and finally, finally Arthur and Merlin rolled into view.

He himself looked confident, sure and arrogant. The crowd loved him. They reached and tossed flowers that never quiet made it. He devoured the joy they throw at him, wishing his own subjects loved him as much as these strangers did. Arthur remembered the blood rush. It had been like battle, but he hadn't had an opponent to face. Not then.

He was demanding attention by the crowds, but at his back, Merlin stood silent and still like a specter from Hell or Heaven. Arthur watched in the mirror as, one by one, random people in the crowd fell silent, mouths open as they'd been about to shout but eyes wide and dazed. They stared at the little servant with unhidden desire, and Arthur realized why.

There was only one word for what Merlin appeared to be, in the image set before him. He looked mysterious. His black hair was hidden completely in the shadows of his hood, and his high cheeks were casting dark shadows over his jaw and neck. The cloak swirled about his feet and he looked every bit the part of dangerous, deadly. But there was something else, something that wrapped the mystery closer, made it fit the thin servant like a tailored shirt.

He looked alluring.

The tattoos on his throat and chest did not look ridiculous to the people watching – they looked stark and bare, but hypnotizing. Wrapped in nothing but a scarlet cloak and tight leggings, Merlin may not have been leaving much to the imagination physically, but his eyes – caught in images as mirrors flashed about him – were dangerously blue and deep. He was a spirit of wrath, detached, uncaring. He was cold and smooth, and the people of this cruel castle were unworthy of his attention.

That was the aura Merlin gave off.

Arthur was undoubtedly impressed.

The chariots pulled to a halt and the man rambled through the speech Arthur had heard before. He looked to Merlin, now expecting to see the mysterious spirit he'd see in the mirror, but the smallish man that sat beside him was still the scrawny pale farm boy with ears that were a bit too big, and a face too angular to be masculine. Arthur shook his head and scolded himself inwardly for imagining Merlin any different. He was very tired indeed.

“The scores are from zero to twelve.” Kilgharrah informed Arthur as he yawned and leaned on one hand. He was obviously not as impressed with the parade as Arthur had been. “Ten is the highest anyone has ever reached.”

Arthur turned his eyes to the magic mirror and waited.

Morgana Pendragon. The first name was scrawled out, in pleasant lady's handwriting. Arthur felt a strange sense of anger when he saw his name, his name beside hers. She deserved less. 8. The mirror added. Arthur realized, with a sense of belated stupidity, that it was her score.

The mirror was swept clean. Morgause was next, and she proudly boasted an eight as well. Others Arthur knew by face and not name wrote themselves across the mirror, and vanished just as silently. The thieves had both received sixes. Myror an eight as well.

The two youngest champions, the little boy – Mordred, and the girl with the frightened eyes, Kara – both scored nines. Arthur stared for a moment, and twisted in his chair to ask Merlin if he knew what they were good at, but Merlin did not look surprised.

“Arthur, look. You're next.” the servant pointed, as if sensing Arthur's eyes on him as opposed to the screen.

The prince turned. 10. The mirror told him. He grinned, pleased. That was the highest score yet, which meant that he had a greater chance of survival than anyone.

Merlin's name swirled across the top of the mirror. It was just his first name, as if he had a reason to withhold his last name.

The score appeared, and Arthur recoiled, not understanding.

12.

The mirror seemed to freeze for a moment. Or it might have been Arthur's imagination. He was so shocked that for a moment he couldn't even turn to look at Merlin. Then the mirror swept clean and he saw his own face, reflected back to him. His mouth was open. He looked like a dumbstruck donkey.

“Oh.” The soft noise seemed much too loud in the profound silence that fell, and Arthur whipped around to stare at Merlin in shock.

“What did you even do?” He questioned, unsure if he was angry and jealous or just plain confused.

“I...I did some mace work.” Merlin mumbled. He didn't meet Arthur's eyes, and the soft blue Arthur had found so captivating earlier flicked about.

Merlin was lying.

Arthur was suddenly positive. He didn't feel angry. He was hurt. Merlin was his best friend, his only true companion, and there he sat. He fidgeted and mumbled and refused to look at him. Arthur's hands slackened on the arms of his chair.

Merlin was lying to him.

“Damn. Maybe you should teach the knights, instead of me.” Arthur laughed. It sounded forced even to his own ears, but Merlin finally looked at him. “With a score like that. Holy hell, Merlin, you've been holding out on me during training.”

Merlin smiled. It looked sad. Arthur returned the expression, and wondered what exactly was so awful Merlin didn't want to tell him.

Chapter Text

“Today you will be presented to the multitude of kingdoms whilst speaking in your interviews.” Kilgharrah didn't bother to greet them properly. He was seated in his usual high-backed chair at the table, and grease from a turkey leg ran down his bony hands. Merlin noticed with a sense of vague amusement that his fingernails were long and pointed, like claws.

“Interviews?” Arthur raised an eyebrow as he took his own seat and scooped up an apple. Kilgharrah grunted, holding up a pinky in a signal to wait as he took a giant mouthful of food. He narrowed his eyes at Merlin as the boy sat down across from Arthur, but Merlin didn't look up. The servant reached forward and picked up some cheese and nibbled on it without much appetite.

Kilgharrah finished and dropped the bone onto his plate. He cleared his throat and Arthur quickly turned his eyes to him, looking abashed for having been staring in plain question at Merlin.

“The interviews are your last chance to make yourselves loved. If you are loved before the games, oftentimes you will receive helpful gifts within them. Food, water, perhaps medicine.” He sucked on a finger, licking the grease off, and watched Merlin and Arthur attempted to hide almost identical looks of disgust. “Caesar Flickerman will ask you questions and mock you, and you must present yourself in a way that will make people desire to help you.”

“So we have to put on an act for all these people?” Arthur looked uncomfortable, “I don't like this.”

“Well, I very much doubt you'll like dying.” Kilgharrah returned cooly, picking up another haunch of meat and beginning to devour it greedily. “Your stylists will be in your rooms when you return, to get you presentable to the crowds.”

“More costumes?” Merlin frowned. “Will I at least be clothed, this time?”

“You did well last time, young Merlin.” Kilgharrah waved his hand, “You should be grateful they molded you into something desirable.”

“You did catch a few eyes.” Arthur agreed, grinning at his friend. “I thought you looked particularly like a prat.”

“Hey! That's my insult, you don't get to use it.” Merlin's eyes were bright, though, brighter than they'd been in days. Arthur shook his head, but his smile was genuine when he looked at Merlin again. “Besides, if anyone looked prattish, it was you! You and your sparkly armor!”

“I looked noble.”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, “You looked like a very nice princess.”

“Merlin! I did not!”

“You did so. Shall I call you Princess then, milady?”

“You know what, Merlin, I think you've been looking in a mirror lately! The only one at this table who looks particularly like a princess is you. You're the one with the girlish face!”

“Am I a pretty princess?” Merlin asked patronizingly, allowing the insult to flow smoothly off his back, like water from a duck. He batted his eyelashes and Arthur actually laughed, legitimately, for what felt like the first time in years. It was like something that had been building between them, an uncomfortable barrier, had crumbled down. Arthur was relieved, he didn't think he could have take much more of the careful dancing around each other.

“Not particularly.” He retorted, the smile still ruining his false anger. “But prettier than some, I suppose.” Merlin giggled, and Arthur forgot all about the tension and the secret Merlin was hiding from him last night.

“If you're done?” Kilgharrah grunted, obviously displeased at their goofing off. He didn't look angry, however, he looked rather amused.

“Oh! Yes, Kilgharrah, sorry.” Merlin apologized quickly, popping a grape into his mouth as he attempted not to smile.

“You have an hour to yourselves before your stylists arrive, do with it what you will.” Kilgharrah waved his hand, and then he stood and lumbered away, without so much a goodbye.

The hour passed entirely to fast.

It felt like seconds, but then Merlin stood in front of a mirror, frowned at himself and wondered why he and Arthur have had such terrible, terrible luck.

He was dressed in another pair of black pants, but the ones he wore now were strangely tight and yet flowing at the same time. He felt as though he was wearing a pair of hose, but in the mirror they draped around him like one of Guinevere's scarves. The soft fabric was like midnight, changing color just slightly as he turned to inspect the clothing from all sides. The same material made up his shirt, a flowing tunic studded with tiny pale diamond-like stars. It shifted from dark blue to black the same as his pants. His cloak was strange, slit down the middle so it hung like a strange scarf down his back. He was even wearing fancy black boots, like Arthur was forced to wear sometimes to royal parties or weddings. His hair had been left mostly alone, though it fell in his face and tangled around his ears now since he hadn't so much as cut it in months. It was brushed, he remembered, but it did not seem to do much good.

There was a thin cord wrapped around his wrist, and a small square baggie of strange soft powder rested against his palm. The cord, whatever it was, ran up his sleeve and down the front of his soft outfit, all the way to the end of his pants, where it looped into the hem of his flowy trousers. He had been instructed to crush the powder in his hand when he came to the right point in his interview.

He hoped that the powder wasn't some sort of poison. If he died before h even reached the arena, he'd be humiliated and disappointed.

“It is time.” Arinai announced, standing solemn as a shade near the door. He reached out a spotted hand and turned the door handle, pulling and holding it open. Merlin frowned and nodded, walking slowly for the door. “I would wish you luck,” the old druid murmured, “But I don't believe you will accept it.”

Merlin blinked at him slowly, but shrugged instead of answering. He left the room and stood awkwardly by the table, unsure of what to do next. Kilgharrah appeared sometime later, in what could have been minutes or hours. Merlin had lost all track of time with his nerves.

“You may as well go on, young warlock.” the dragon told him with a yawn and a stretch, “Arthur left already.”

Merlin attempted to disguise the look of hurt the news brought and nodded quickly. He quickly rose to his feet and hurried off. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and seemed to go on for miles before he came to where the champions were just disappearing into the waiting room. Kilgharrah had warned him they'd be on a huge stage, with millions looking on. But for now, they were to be cramped into this small room.

Arthur greeted him with a small, terrified smile as he walked in and he dropped down in the high-backed chair beside him. “Well at least you're fully clothed, this time.” He appraised, looking Merlin over. “Though what exactly you're supposed to be, I don't know.”

Merlin shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine.” He informed the prince. Arthur wore armor again, this time gold and red. His crest splashed across his back again, and his crown was the same as before – dragon scales. Merlin almost went on to tell him about the packet in his hand, with the gray powder he was meant to smash in his fist. “You left me.” He said instead, ignoring that he sounded childish and petulant.

“I didn't mean to,” Arthur assured him quickly, looking guilty, “Sophie just... she angered me, and I stormed off. Wound up here.”

Merlin tilted his head curiously, “What did she -”

Helios of Olaf's Kingdom. A voice echoed around the room, completely cutting Merlin off. It sounded more like a rumble or rocks falling or something than any truly human voice. Arthur and a few of the other champions jumped, startled. A mirror on the wall wavered and an image of two fancy, padded things that were more extravagant throne than chair appeared. A strange man in obnoxiously red clothing spun and danced around cheerfully, like he was having the time of his life. Seconds later the tribute called Helios appeared, striding onto the stage like some strange proud animal.

“This is so strange...” Arthur shuddered, “All my life magic has been used in secret. And now here, they throw it around like it's nothing.”

“Maybe, to some, it isn't that big of a deal.” Merlin said softly, looking around.

“Of course it is, Merlin. It's sorcery. It's a tool for evil. My father always said so-”

“Your father was a liar and a fraud, Arthur.” Merlin said, too sharply, his hand clenched into a fist on the arm of the chair.

Arthur looked stunned for a moment, as if Merlin had hit him, and then angered, “What?”

Merlin closed his eyes and sighed, seeming to deflate. Not now, he couldn't tell him now. It would wait. “He spoke of peace, and then did nothing to stop these games from happening.”

Arthur lowered his eyes, “Perhaps there was nothing he could do.” He said, but the anger had been leeched out of him.

“There is always something he could do.” Merlin murmured quietly.

Morgana, her beautiful hair a mane of black tumbling down her bare back in graceful waves, slipped onto the mirror like a wraith, pale and cold. Merlin actually stared at her for a good three or four seconds, not really recognizing her. In place of her royal gowns and stones, she was in rags. Torn, filthy – though probably only in appearance. She looked small, nearly skeletal.

He made no comment, sensing Arthur's tension, and watched.

“Morgana Pendragon!” The little man said, and vaguely somehow Merlin remembered that his name was Caesar. He grinned again, enormously, and grabbed her hand, shook it and then bowed extravagantly and gave her knuckles a kiss. “You look, well, I feel that lovely just wouldn't fit.”

Merlin heard people laughing. The audience Kilgharrah spoke of. He thought. Caesar asked a good many dull questions that had the audience laughing or talking amongst themselves in a hush. Finally, though, he seemed to get to the important part. The big finale, or something.

“Your brother is in these Games.” Caesar said, and he stroked her hand gently, as if wanting to console her. “That must be a blow for you. How did you feel, when you heard?”

“I have no brother here.” Morgana said with a little sad smile. Merlin saw the gears turning in her head, imagined her plotting, and understood what was about to happen before it was said.

Caesar looked confused. “But, Arthur-”

“Is someone truly your family if they do not want to be?” Morgana pulled her hand away, her face downcast, hair falling into her eyes. She continued to feign the look of someone hurt and upset. “I... I am sorry, Caesar. Can I ask you a question?”

“Oh! She seems to be taking my job from me, folks!” Caesar laughed loudly, but nodded, patting Morgana again. “Go on, dear.”

“Imagine finding out you had a brother.” Morgana said, and her voice echoed soft and pleading about the room. “But then, imagine your father being disgusted and disappointed. Being furious. Being horrified.” She curled her fingers into fists. “Imagine your brother looking at you with all those emotions written plainly across his face.” She looked up, and her lips trembled. “Imagine them throwing you out, tossing you into the wild, leaving you to die. Because you're different. You're not... you're not trueborn. I'm something terrible, aren't I, Caesar?”

“I'd say definitely not!” Caesar looked extremely upset, his strangely colored eyes that keep changing color going wide. “You are a beautiful, charming woman, Morgana.”

“But if my father and brother hate me, then how could I possibly be...?” She wiped at a tear Merlin didn't actually see fall. The hourglass behind them ran out, and she is waved away. She left with an apologetic hug, a pretty curtsy, and walked away with her back straight and proud.

Merlin unclenched his fingers from the chair and looked to Arthur to see the horror in his eyes. The abject terror. He reached out and grabbed Arthur's wrist, squeezed, attempted to bring him out of the stunned stupor he apparently had been forced into.

Arthur looked at him, and there was a wetness to his eyelashes that had not been there before.

“She was wrong, Arthur. You did none of those things.” Merlin said quickly, assuring, soothing. Arthur pulled his arm away.

“Perhaps not intentionally... but she believes I did.”

Merlin did not know what to say to that.

Silence fell and they sat without speaking, name after name rumbling through the room. No one called came back out, and Merlin began to feel an underscore of panic. What if the arena is behind that door, and we've been lied to? He thought wildly, Am I about to die? Arthur's name was called while he was having this mental breakdown and his hand shot out, circling the prince's wrist like a manacle, the armor cool and familiar against his palm despite its unfamiliar colors. “Merlin?”

Arthur blinked down at him in concern and confusion and Merlin released him, flashing a tiny smile and looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry...” He said sheepishly, “Just, uh... good luck?”

“Oh. Yeah, you too.” Arthur smiled charmingly and clapped Merlin on the shoulder with the hand the warlock had just released.

Then he turned and left Merlin alone.

Arthur walked onto screen with the grace and pride born from years of smiling and indulging. He took his seat and Caesar looked a bit uncomfortable. Silence fell.

“Get this prat off the stage!” Someone in the audience shouted, and Arthur's false smile, already waning, dropped off completely. Merlin noticed as his hands clenched tighter on the chair. More screams followed, and Arthur sat and took them, face carefully blank in a way Merlin knows means he was hurting. Suddenly he wished he'd crushed Morgana completely in one of the rockfalls he'd caused.

“Murderer!” Someone shouted, and Arthur didn't react.

“Bastard can't even save his own sister!”

“Camelot's in for a rough time when this idiot becomes king.”

"He's worse than his damned father!" At this, Arthur flinched. Merlin's heart thudded painfully for his friend. This was wrong. This was too much.

Caesar eventually managed to get the crowd under control. Unfortunately, it happened right as the shrill whine for Arthur's time limit went off. Arthur stood and walked off stage.

He hadn't said a single thing.

Chapter Text

 Merlin... The voice echoed around his head and called him towards the stage. For a moment, he refused to move, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought down his emotions. Arthur had just been humiliated. Humiliated, lied about, and ridiculed. And he hadn't even tried to defend himself.

Finally, Merlin decided on his plan of action and rose to he feet, graceful as the black swans that sometimes swam in the streams outside of Camelot. He walked swiftly towards the doors and onto the stage, where the crowd sat in silence, brooding, angry.

“Hello there, my boy!” Caesar cried, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly before he even sat down. He was obviously trying to make up for letting Arthur be shamed. Merlin pulled his hand back a little too sharply and Caesar's strangely colored eyes flickered for a moment with unhappiness. “Merlin! Merlin. That's a strange name, if I ever heard one.”

Merlin shrugged, “My mother seemed to think it was alright, and I'm fairly fond of it.” He said honestly. Some part of him ached, wondered if his mother was watching right now and crying herself to sleep at night knowing her son might die. Caesar gives a loud, rambunctious laugh that makes Merlin want to throw up. How dare he joke and giggle, when he'd let Arthur sit there and suffer abuse?

“Tell me, Merlin, you don't look like a knight, nor royalty. Not a lord. We're all wondering, since you came into these Games like a specter. Who are you?”

Caesar touched his knee, as if trying to soothe him, and Merlin pointedly crossed his legs. “I'm just me.” He answered, and wondered if that was ''mysterious'' enough for the Great Dragon.

“We're all very impressed, I daresay.” The crowd clapped and cheered. “But still, curious. Where are you from, Merlin? What were you, before these Games?”

“I'm from Ealdor, originally.” Merlin replied, his voice soft with an underlying steel as the honest truth spilled from his lips. “But I think Camelot is my home. Because Camelot is where I found the best man I've ever known.”

“Oh?” Caesar wiggled his eyebrow, “A love, then?”

“No, no.” Merlin said quickly, shaking his head. A reddish glow highlighted his pale cheeks despite his best efforts, but hopefully under the powder his stylist covered him with, it wouldn't matter. “A friend.”

“Come now, Merlin, don't leave us all in a wonder. Who? Who?”

“You would not believe me if I told you.” Merlin said, and he looked out at the audience, blue eyes even softer than his voice. Vulnerable. “I was a servant, before I came here.” Caesar waved his hand, urging the magic user on. Merlin licked his lips and continued. “My master, originally, was the biggest prat I'd ever seen. I first met him when he was terrorizing a young man. I, like an idiot, interfered. We fought – with maces.” Merlin could have laughed. As it was, he smiled to himself, and every face in the audience was trained on him. But his time was running out, and he needed to hurry. “I beat him, and he put me in the stocks. But then later, I saved his life, and his father made me his manservant. Which basically meant I had to do all the things that my master did not want to.” Merlin gave a wry smile. He hoped Arthur was listening. “I was horrified with the circumstances.”

“Understandably.” Caesar said, grinning. The audience laughed.

“But something changed, after a while. I began to see the man beneath the shiny armor and lordly commands. A prat, yes, but a good one.” Merlin rolled the bag of powder in his hand between his fingers, thinking quickly. “I was poisoned, once.” He admitted, “By something that only had one cure. A rare flower that only grew in one cave, fairly far away. My master went to his father, asked for help, and his father denied him. Ordered him not to go.”

Merlin gestured to himself, “He went anyways, obviously. He saved my life, and spent the night in the dungeons for it.”

Merlin smiled. Everyone was looking almost teary-eyed. “That man became my best friend soon after that. Did he really need to save me? I was a servant. But he did, he disobeyed his father and went against everything he knew for me. And I think that he is good and kind, underneath all the prickles and thorns he has to display for royal appearance.”

Caesar had tensed, hearing that one word Merlin had let slip. “Royal...?”

“Oh, yes.” Merlin said, and he stood up, seeing his timer rapidly counting down. “I am the servant of Prince Arthur Pendragon.” Merlin smiled softly, “I wouldn't change that for the world.”

He crushed the bag in his palm and the world went red.

He was on fire, burning alive. Merlin wanted to scream for a moment, but he realized he felt no pain. The fires roared around him, burning up his clothes, but he remained unscathed. The people in the audience, even Caesar, were crying out, wailing, but they abruptly fell silent. The flames had died.

Merlin spread his arms.

He was a dragon. Or, at least, he thought that was what they meant him to be. Where his clothing had been black, red and gold now shone, stark against his pale pale skin. His draped, flowing sleeves now hung off his arms, ribbed, in what he assumed were wings. Fires still licked at his hair, warming his cheeks, and he looked out across the audience.

Without another word, he turned and walked off the stage.

---

Arthur cornered him the second he stepped off the stage. “What the hell?” The prince didn't even yell. He just gaped at Merlin, like he was seeing him for the first time. “Merlin, what the actual hell?”

Merlin blinked at him stupidly, not understanding. He suddenly realized he hadn't exactly asked Arthur if it was alright to tell about him going against his father. That might have made him look even worse, in some people's eyes. Merlin felt instantly guilty, and frowned. “I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to embarrass you, I only wanted to – ” Arthur grabbed the front of Merlin's shirt and jerked him forward. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, ready to be hit, but the arms just encircled him, pressing him closer until his cheek laid flat against the cool metal, and he opened his eyes again, shocked. Arthur was hugging him. “Arthur?”

“You idiot. You just painted an enormous target on your back.” The prince muttered. He was scolding him, Merlin knew, but his voice broke on the last word and Merlin looked up, startled. Arthur had tears in his eyes that he valiantly hid. Merlin returned the embrace and laughed.

“I thought it was a given I'd be with you.” He grinned, “I'm still your servant, remember?”

Arthur pulled away. He held him by the biceps and looked into Merlin's eyes. “You are much more than that, I think.” He disagreed, “Come on. We need to eat. Tomorrow, we fight for our lives.”

Merlin followed. He always followed.

In the corner of the room, the young druid boy watched with narrowed eyes.

---

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin when hot fingers rapped across the back of his head, slapping him the way Arthur sometimes did. The grapes he'd had in his hand rolled across the table, and Merlin looked up and saw Arthur laughing. Kilgharrah, however, was far from amused.

“You are either a truly brave child, or an idiotic fool.” the Great Dragon said, his yellow-brown eyes nearly in flames. His lined mouth was set and sealed, lips pressed together until they were almost white.

“What have I done now?” Merlin said, rubbing his head to take the sting from the assault.

“Arthur. Leave us.” the Great Dragon ordered, not taking his eyes from the warlock before him. Arthur's smile faded and he began to frown.

“Sir, with all due respect, Merlin just--”

“Go.” He growled, and Arthur gritted his teeth, rose, and left. The door to his room slammed, and Merlin felt like something in his chest slammed too.

“I don't understand you, one moment your--”

“My young, foolish warlock...” Kilgharrah's anger was gone the moment Arthur left the room. Now his great yellow eyes were old and sad, and the press of his lips fell to a tremble. “You have made a decision you failed to tell me of.”

Merlin's mouth opened and closed just once. The dragon looked like he was younger somehow, though still wise beyond the years of both the Champions dragged here. “I... I don't know what to say.”

“You are planning to die, are you not, young warlock?”

Merlin lowered his eyes. “Yes. I am.”

Kilgharrah rumbled low in his chest. Merlin didn't know what that meant, and so he said nothing. The old dragon took a seat beside him, reaching up and gently touching Merlin's soot-smudged cheek. It was dry. Merlin was not about to cry. He was done with tears.

“I will miss you. The world will be once again Hell with no partner by my side. I have come to enjoy your calls.” Kilgharrah said. Merlin looked up again, surprised. He had expected argument, a tantrum even. This ancient creature before him hadn't fought at all, only looked at him with his big sad eyes and soft, low voice. “I think I may chose to finally move on, if you truly go on with your plans.”

“No, Kilgharrah, you can't!” Merlin reached out and grasped the dragon's shoulder, “A world without dragons is far worse than a world without me. Please, you mustn't...”

“Oh, little warlock. How little you know of your own worth. The last of the Dragonlords, and the last of the dragons. It is only fair we go as one.” Kilgharrah bowed his head, and Merlin threw his arm around the frail body he hid in.

“Oh, Kilgharrah, I am sorry!”

“Be not sorry, my young warlock. It is not your fault that fate and destiny have fought so viciously for you. Sometimes, we have no choice but to bow our heads and humble ourselves to the fine lady of death.” Kilgharrah wrapped Merlin up as well, patting him gently.

Merlin still did not cry.

Moments later, Kilgharrah sent him away to his room, and he fell into the bed without washing, stripping off his red and gold robes only because they discomforted him. He was asleep within moments.

Kilgharrah stepped outside, onto the balcony. There was a good stretch of air and sand before the magic force fields would stop him. He leaped into the night sky, spread tawny wings, and soared.

Below, the grass bent beneath the weight of his grief.

---

Arthur awoke to a rough hand grabbing his bicep and hauling him bodily from the bed. “Dress.” the man ordered. His face was hidden behind a mask, and he wore pure white robes and boots. Arthur felt a surge of irritation, an instinct to snap back and order the man from his room, but it was gone as suddenly as it came as instead his heart plunged into his stomach and filled his veins with water colder than a mountain spring.

Today, he would begin to fight for his life.

“Dress.” The man said again, in his monotone voice.

Arthur complied. There was one set of clothing left, a plain red shirt and brown pants with a drawstring at the front. A pair of laced boots sat at the foot of the trunk. He pulled the clothing on and looked at the man for instruction.

“You may take one token into the arena.” The white-robed soldier said plainly again. Arthur looked around, and then remembered. He walked quietly to the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and dug through to the pocket of the tunic he'd worn on the evening he arrived.

His mother's token felt heavy in his palm as he picked it up and placed it carefully in his pocket. The man nodded, turned, and led the way from the room, holding the door for Arthur. Arthur stepped through and immediately looked for Merlin, but the man in white grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced his head down. “Look at your feet. Walk.”

Arthur complied, once again biting his tongue. The white soldier dragged him along until he reached an empty room, shoved him inside, and slammed the door behind him. It clanked, locking solidly, and Arthur looked up and around.

There was nothing around him. Nothing at all but worn gray stone. He turned, confused, and there was a strange noise behind him, like an intake of breath.

He turned around, and a swirling pink light sparkled back at him, churning like a whirlpool. He stared, mesmerized, until the walls began closing in.

He jumped through the light and began to fall.

---

A portal, some part of Merlin's brain registered as he hit the ground on his hands and knees. That was what he had just fallen through, the glowing green light. A portal. He scrambled to his feet as a rumbling voice announced,

Let the Game of Champions Begin.

He looked around. Stone. All stone, with sprigs of grass here and there. They were in a canyon of some sort, a passage between two tall walls of rock that stretched up and up, leveling off miles above his head. Fallen stones lay around him, covered in moss, and dotting the walls were little caves. He saw two people rolling around, kicking and screaming at each other, but they were too far away for him to see who they were.

There was no one really near him, he realized as he surveyed his surroundings with an odd sort of calm. For a moment, he was relieved.

And then he stopped breathing.“Arthur!” He screamed, all the held breath coming out in one shout. His call rang around the stone walls, mocking, and he covered his mouth. Idiot. Idiot they were going to hear you...

There was the sound of a hunting horn, and Merlin looked around in horror. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean that someone wasn't coming. He began to run, blindly, heading for the wall. Having his back to something would mean no one sneaking up on him, at least, so he ran.

Halfway to the wall, his foot collided with something to soft to be a rock. He stumbled, going down again on his hands and knees, hard. He spun, hands up in defense to see what tripped him.

It was a body. Helios, Merlin thought his name was. He scrambled backwards on his hands and feet, away from the torn throat of the large, dangerous man. The wound wasn't clean, like what would have come from a dagger, it was messy and terrifying. Brutal force had killed that man, ripped out his throat, and Merlin didn't want to stick around and find out whom had killed him.

He got to his feet again and moved, quickly, as the horn sounded two more times. He was calmer, now, remembering. Kilgharrah had said there would be a noise announcing the death toll. Was that the horn that sang its song now?

He wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, so he walked quickly, trying to find shelter to hide himself. He still saw no one, though the first two he'd seen, the ones that had been scuffling around, were gone. He kept his eyes open for them, too.

But mostly, he looked for Arthur.

Chapter Text

Arthur landed hard on the balls of his feet and immediately rolled to absorb the impact, as he'd been taught. He stumbled upright with slightly less grace than was his normal, but as he was terrified out of his mind he decided it was nothing to be ashamed of.

He took in his surroundings as fast as he could. The rocky terrain looked familiar, though he couldn't remember ever having actual been there before. He froze as he recalled a trip very long ago, back when he was just beginning his training and his father took him out to check borders. The Pass of Camlann, he remembered. It was in the mountains, narrow and easily defended, his father had said.

His thoughts were shaken away as a horn sounded, and he snapped back to the present. There was a mountain of weapons and supplies not a hundred meters from him, piled high enough to almost reach his shoulders. He dashed for it immediately, but someone barreled into his side before he got to his destination.

He fought back, rolling over and grunting and striking out blindly. Whoever his opponent, they had a grip on his throat and weight on his hips. He bucked and tossed the attacker off, following through and pinning the man's arms down.

“Arthur! ” Arthur's head whipped up and he looked around, momentarily forgetting that his hands were pinning down the man beneath him. He jumped to his feet and turned in a circle, probably looking like some confused dog chasing its tail.

“Merlin.” He breathed out in a whisper, recognizing the voice instantly. His heart clenched painfully as he realized his stupid, clumsy servant was out here in these death games. For all that that shout meant, Merlin could very well be dying at the hands of some disgusting brute. Arthur sucked in a horrified breath at that thought and continued scanning the scattered rocks and sheer cliffs for any side of his friend, turning in circles over and over.

A fist connected with his jaw and he stumbled, nearly going down to his knees. He spun back around, feet sliding into a smoother, stronger position and bringing his hands up to defend himself as the man swung again. He couldn't even remember his opponent's name, just that he wasn't from one of the larger kingdoms. His skin was golden-brown and his arms were thick with muscles, but his fighting was clumsy and untrained, so Arthur suspected he was some poor farm boy or something.

He ducked another messy swing and brought a fist up hard into the other man's stomach. He heard the suck of desperate air and swung his leg in a smooth follow-up. The farm boy's knee gave a sickening crunch and down he went, screaming.

Arthur hesitated, staring at the boy. His conscious told him not to kill him, but leaving him there with a shattered knee was as good as killing him as well. He couldn't just bring him, though. He didn't know the kid, and if it had to be him or Merlin or even Arthur himself... Arthur knew who he would choose.

He only paused for a second more. The horn that he suspected kept the death count crowed again. It wasn't the announcement of the farm boy's death, but Arthur wasn't about to stand there and wait to see if the killers were close. His battle instincts kicked in. He wanted the high ground, and the caves in the craggy walls might offer some sort of shelter. He looked around his terrain, searching for other people. Two had disappeared into the cave far above his head, to the left. Four were dead. He could see three circling each other, two that appeared to be on a team and the third cowering back. He saw one rushing away, towards some fallen stones that seemed miles away, but even from this distance Arthur knew it wasn't Merlin. He could only pray Merlin was one of the twenty victors left.

He left the kid on the ground and took off in the direction of the weapon pile, letting instinct guide him while he mentally attempted to gather whatever he could remember about the Pass of Camlann. The weapons had been scatted and kicked around, and blood splattered around showing the fierceness of the initial battle. He didn't even stop, grabbing blindly at weapons as he ran straight through, ducking to avoid a lance thrown clumsily from another opponent. His hand closed tight around the hilt of a longsword and he settled for that and kept running, thanking his father for the harsh training he'd had since childhood. The man who had thrown the lance was coming at him again, this time with a pitchfork he actually seemed to know how to use.

Arthur wondered if he was a farm boy as well, maybe even from the same kingdom as the other boy. He didn't have long to contemplate it before the man was stabbing at him and he was forced to bring his sword up and deflect the blow. The man wasn't finished, though, grunting and pushing harder. He had a lot of brute strength behind his frantic blows and was obviously fighting to kill. Arthur wrapped both hands around the hilt of his blade and fended him off, cutting him but not trying to kill, trying to fend him off.

“Arthur? Arthur!” The voice cut through his concentration and his blue eyes came up, relief shattering across his chest like a slap of icy water when he saw the familiar face looking back at him.

“Merlin,” He breathed, relieved, and the pitchfork cut across his wrists, knocking the sword from his grip. He grabbed after it, missed, and looked at his opponent.

The man brought the pitchfork up and stabbed blindly, grunting and baring teeth behind his black beard. The metal prongs of the tool sparked against the hard stone beneath them as he lunged forward and Arthur spun expertly out of the way. Arthur brought his heel down hard on the back of the man's ankle and watched him crumple, and then went to pick up his sword. The man struggled to his knees, teeth bared, and Arthur, picked his sword up, twisting to look at Merlin, thinking the farmer would stay away now that Arthur had properly shown him that he had no chance.

The farmer picked up his pitchfork and chucked it. Merlin screamed, and Arthur hit the ground with a cry.

---

Merlin slowed, and then stopped completely. His blood roared in his ears, his chest constricted, and he stared at the unmoving form of his best friend without breathing. Arthur's eyes were wide and a pale blue the color of ice on the lake. His face was pale, his hands slack.

Merlin stared at him, and then he slowly raised his huge eyes to the pitchfork, levitating in mid-air.

Equal distance away from Arthur on his other side, the druid boy stood. He looked small and fragile in his soft red shirt, without the green cloak he'd had on before protecting him. His eyes, Merlin could tell even with the yards between them, were glowing gold, fixed on the pitchfork as it floated there, suspended. As Merlin watched, it rotated slowly, pausing for a fraction of a second when the points were directed at his chest. Then it moved on, and without the slightest pause, drove into the gaping farmer's chest and knocked him flat.

Merlin didn't need the horn's blow that sounded to tell him that the man was dead. He raised his eyes back to the druid boy, and the boy met his gaze. You owe me now, Emrys. He said, with the fleetest image on a smile.

Merlin ignored him and the ill tidings the words brought and instead rushed to Arthur's side, falling to his knees beside him and looking concerned.

“Arthur?” He asked, reaching out. Arthur's hand circled his wrist and pushed him away, and the prince pushed his torso up and glared. Merlin offered a tiny smile, and tried to block Arthur's view to the body lying crumpled on the ground behind him.

“Merlin, move!” Arthur shouted, shoving him off and scrambling to his feet, sword in hand. Merlin opened his mouth to protest, and fell silent. Arthur was staring at Mordred.

“You know magic. You're of the Druids, aren't you?” He said, and his tone was carefully neutral.

“I am. And you are a Pendragon of Camelot.” Mordred said the words aloud, and then pointedly turned his eyes to the the body lying a few feet away. “You got very lucky, didn't you?”

“You did that.” Arthur locked eyes on the boy and didn't bother following his gaze. Merlin rose to his feet as well and hovered at his best friend's shoulder, feeling uneasy. There was a tension like lightning in the air that made his stomach turn.

“I did.” Mordred tilted his head and his cool smile came back.

“You saved me.”

“This time.” Mordred took a step back, and his feet even in the heavy boots were silent. His eyes flashed gold and Arthur tensed up, pushing Merlin behind him with one hand while bracing for attack. “Perhaps not next time, Prince Arthur.” Without another word, he turned and ran away, bounding up rocks like a little sheep, leaving Merlin and Arthur alone. Immediately Merlin rounded on Arthur.

“You could have just said thanks,” he mumbled while looking his prince over. “He saved your life.”

“He's a sorcerer.” Arthur retorted, and Merlin's hands stilled where they were prodding a bruise, but only for a heartbeat.

“Yes, that is true.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. Arthur frowned, looking at him curiously, and Merlin forced a cheery smile. “Well, we're both alive, how pleasant.”

He refused to add ''for now'', though the words had been on the tip of his tongue. Arthur nodded, understanding the unspoken, and straightened up. He pulled away from Merlin's hands and gestured for the cliff, where the caves opened up on the craggy wall like gaping wounds. “We should take to the high ground. It will be safer if we have shelter.”

“There were two people fighting on that ledge.” Merlin warned, and pointed. “They disappeared after the first horn sounded.” He gestured back the way he came, “And, ah, I stumbled over a body back there...”

“So that's... at least three, dead, right?” Arthur frowned. He counted them off on his fingers.

“Four in all, I believe...” Merlin murmured, glancing back at the last body they left.

“Ah.” Arthur nodded, “Okay. Well, shelter with a wall at out back is the best best then. Let's go.”

---

They walked close to each other, jumping slightly and going on the defense at every sound. By the time they reached the bottom of the cliff face where the fallen rocks were largest, there had been five more deaths. That meant that of the twenty men and women that had come in, only eleven were left in all.

Merlin wondered if Morgana was alive. Somehow, he knew she was.

“We'll need to climb,” Arthur said, and Merlin jumped. There had been silence for most of the walk, besides the necessary.

“Yes, well, obviously. Did you think there'd be stairs?” Merlin asked, looking at the jagged cliff side. There were plenty of hand holds, but even the lowest of the caves was far enough up that a fall from it would kill them, turn them into smears on the stone beneath them. It would be a difficult climb. It would be easy for him to lift Arthur and himself up into the shelter of the cage. Levitation had been on of the first spells he'd learned, it would be so simple...

Arthur nudged him towards the wall and the train of thought abruptly ended, leaving him with an ache in his chest to confess everything to his friend, the magic, the... everything. “Don't push, that's rude!” He squawked instead, to keep the words in. Arthur snorted, but his lips turned up and Merlin grinned.

“Well you're just standing their gawking like an idiot. Go on then! Don't tell me you're scared of a little height like that.”

I've ridden dragons, sire. A cave far from the ground is nothing. He wanted to say. He didn't. He grabbed hold of the wall with his long narrow fingers and began to climb. Soon he was panting, muscles strained and aching as he dragged himself another foot from the ground. He was past the point of going back, and looking down only made him dizzy. His fingers ached and the palm of his left hand was bleeding, leaving little smears that he wiped under a floppy boot when his foot reached the handhold.

“Almost there, Merlin. Don't fall now!” Arthur called up from beneath him. He sounded just as strained as Merlin felt, which made the servant feel a little better, at least.

They were vulnerable on the rock, backs open to arrows and whatever else came their way, so Merlin climbed as fast as he would and subtly used magic to make the hand holds larger, the stone easier to grip. Finally he threw himself onto the ledge of the cave and lay there panting a moment.

“Merlin, not that I'm not pleased you made it, but your arse is in my face and, well, move it.” Arthur's hand slapped across his backside and he yelped, rolling out of the way and then crawling back to help.

Arthur grabbed his hand when offered it, and Merlin tugged him onto the ledge with all the strength that remained in his shaking limbs. The prince sprawled across the stone floor, elbowing Merlin in the ribs as he scrambled up.

“Ow.”

“Well I told you to move.” Arthur retorted, already looking around the cave though he hadn't moved from his belly-down position on the floor. “I think its empty.”

Merlin turned his face towards the cave and tried to listen, but Arthur already managed to get upright. His leg shook as he stood, but he did, sword held out expertly as he crept into the shadows. There was a bush growing right outside the entrance, but it was really more a collection of sticks than anything resembling life. After deeming the place safe, Merlin settled down against one wall and slumped there.

“Arthur, sit down.” He tried to sound firm and really sounded more exhausted. He watched Arthur stalk his way around the cave, running his hand along the wall.

“I'm searching for false exits, Merlin. Camelot has a few passages--” He stopped, like he realized he probably should not have said that when he knows the world is watching.

“I know,” Merlin said, to save him the problem. He stretching out horizontal then, sliding down the rough cave wall and not even caring. He itched with dried sweat but couldn't be bothered to figure out how to fix that. He was tired. “But you'll only tire yourself out walking around all night.” He grinned, “And then I'll have to save you if anyone attacks!”

Arthur looked at him. “You're right. Then we'd be truly doomed.” He said seriously before sitting down against the opposite wall. The darkness gathered until Merlin couldn't see the back of the cave. Merlin wondered if whomever controlled these games was making time pass faster because it had been noon when they'd been dropped in here, and already night was gathering.

They sat in tense silence. Merlin pulled the fringe of his fraying sleeve, wrapped the thread around his fingers until they turned red and then unwrapped them. Arthur looked out across the Pass with a carefully blank expression.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, and Merlin looked up, surprised. Arthur had been nearly silent since Mordred had saved his life, seeming to withdraw into his own head. Merlin had seen it sometimes in the worse battles, he'd seen Arthur close himself off for a while as if that would help the grief and pain of killing. He had assumed it would carry on for longer.

“Arthur?” He whispered back, unwilling to break the spell of quiet that had fallen over them. The only light that night were the stars and moon, glimmering down half full, and Arthur's hair looked silver in the half-light.

“What... what do you think of magic?”Arthur sounded cautious, his words hissed quiet through the night.

Merlin blinked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I have been raised to think it is evil, that those who use it are evil, that it can never be used for good,” Arthur explained, “But... since getting here, I have seen it used so casually...”

“And you are wondering why Mordred saved your life, as well.” Merlin realized, propping himself up on his elbows from where he'd laid down, brushing stones from his way.

Arthur seemed to bristle, “You know his name?” He asked, leaning forward. The scabbard rasped against the stone, loud in their quiet. He winced at sat back.

“I met him during training.” Merlin admitted, “He was strange, but not evil.”

“But... he is a druid. The druids... killed my mother.” Arthur spoke haltingly, like he didn't quite believe his words either, like he needed Merlin to say that they had done it, that the druids were evil. Merlin looked at him and realized he had no idea what to say.

“I do not know who killed your mother, Arthur.” Merlin said, “But I do know that it was not every druid's fault that she is dead. Perhaps some are good. Perhaps Mordred saved you because you deserve to be saved.”

“I've killed druids. He had no reason to save me.”

Merlin's smile was soft, fragile. “Everyone who sees you should see the brilliant man you are. Most do not. But perhaps some do, Arthur, and perhaps the druid boy was one of them.”

Arthur did not say anything, but his blue eyes could have told stories, the way Merlin understood them.

Merlin lay back down. “Sleep, Arthur. The day will dawn tomorrow, and you will need the rest.”

“I think I'll keep watch for a while. I will wake you when its your turn.” His words were quiet.

“Alright. Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur was quiet for a long while, so long that Merlin did not believe he would answer. Finally, just as Merlin relaxed into sleep, he murmured back: “Goodnight, Merlin. Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

Merlin woke to a hand on his mouth and immediately began to struggle, but almost instantly the blue eyes striped with shadows from blonde fringe became familiar and he froze, tilting his head. Arthur pulled his hand away and pressed a finger to his own lips, signaling silence. Merlin nodded, and Arthur went through some complicated motions with his hands.

Merlin stared, not understanding, and Arthur rolled his eyes before pointing hard at the cliff. Merlin made a muffled noise of understanding just as he heard a scraping noise, like metal against stone. There was someone climbing up the cliff. Arthur tilted his head, and Merlin nodded to show that he knew what was going on.

The prince scooted back, crouching still. His boots made soft noises against the carved stone, but without the jingle of chain mail Merlin was used to Arthur was nearly silent. Merlin sat up and then rolled his way onto his heels so he was squatting, ready to fight or flee as the situation called for it.

“If they come over, get out of the way. I'll protect you,” Arthur whispered, and Merlin frowned, opening his mouth to say something, but a hand appeared over the edge and he fell silent, locking his eyes on the face that came up over the edge.

The face was young, a good few years younger than himself, even. She was pretty, with messy curls of brown hair dirtied from a night of running or climbing, probably. The moonlight made her seem ghostly as she stared in horror at them, but neither Merlin nor Arthur made any movement.

The sword in Arthur's hand drew the girl's eyes, and so her gaze flicked between it and their faces. “Please, please don't kill me,” She said, pleading with both voice and her wide eyes. She was really quite beautiful, Merlin thought, but something gentle. Her face was rounded and soft. Fragile. She would not last long in this arena of violence.

“We won't,” Arthur said, even as Merlin continued staring. The prince sheathed his sword and held out a hand, and the girl stared at it.

“You can take it,” Merlin said, coming to kneel by Arthur's side. “He won't let you fall.”

Her hands were shaking on the stone, arms trembling as she held her self up by sheer will alone. Finally, just as she seemed about to fall, she grabbed Arthur's hand. There was another rasping noise as they tugged her up and Merlin quickly cataloged the pair of daggers tucked into a make-shift belt around her waist and the crossbow strapped to her back. The girl may have been pretty and vulnerable, but she carried an arsenal.

Arthur steadied her as she straightened up before them. She was dirt-smudged, and there was a tear in her pants that revealed pale skin beneath, but she looked overall healthy and alright. “Thank you,” she said, curtsying towards Arthur and then to Merlin. Merlin continued to watch her. There was something about her he did not yet trust, despite her shaking limbs and terrified eyes.

“What is your name, my lady?” Arthur asked, purposefully stepping back so she wouldn't be crowded by the cliff side. Merlin remained at his shoulder, a silent but watchful shadow. The girl eyed him for a moment before she once again turned her eyes towards Arthur. She tugged on her lips and looked to her feet.

“They call me Kara. I have no need to ask your name, sire...” She curtsied again, and Arthur looked almost pleased, before remembering himself.

“Please, I'm just Arthur.” He said politely, and then he brushed against Merlin's arm. The warlock stopped staring at the girl with narrowed eyes and instead turned his eyes to Arthur. “This is Merlin. He's... my friend.”

The girl's eyes lit up like fireworks then, but only for a heartbeat. Merlin swore he must have imagined the delight and hope in her green-blue eyes, because the next second she was swooning, falling to the side on legs that would no longer hold her. Merlin caught her as she fell and lowered her gently to the ground, kneeling by her side.

“Sorry, oh I'm sorry...” She pressed a hand to her head, “I'm so tired. I haven't slept all night.” As Merlin set her down gently, letting her face rest in his lap as he sat and held her carefully, she smiled at him with clear joy, and whispered, “Hello Emrys.”

His heart sank a little, but he said nothing about the girl being a druid. It would not help her case at all. He glanced up as Arthur brushed against his shoulder. The prince was kneeling beside him, looking worriedly over the girl as if trying to decide what to do with her. It was obvious – or, he thought it was obvious – that she was weakened and not a fighter.

“Has.... do you know how it's going out there?” He asked gently, looking down at her with a carefully guarded expression.

The girl's face hardened at Arthur, and though Merlin knew why it was obvious Arthur didn't. He probably thought she was just afraid, did not want to talk about what was happening outside. She answered though. “Indeed, sir, I do. It's most terrible.”

“How... how many have died?” Arthur's voice was brittle, like if she pushed him he would break. Merlin looked at him and saw the clench of his jaw, and understood that his friend was afraid. He realized that Arthur was afraid that Morgana was dead. After everything, he still loved her dearly as a sister. Merlin's shoulders sagged with pity.

“Nine died in the initial bloodbath, sire. I saw three more die before me as I climbed, but luckily they had no arrows or bolts, and could not hit me.”

Merlin suspected it was less that they had no ammunition and more that her magic had repelled all shots fired at her. It would also explain her exhaustion. Arthur did not seem satisfied with her answer, though Merlin thought it was more than enough.

“Do you have names? Names of those who died?” the prince pressed, desperate.

Kara's eyes narrowed fractionally, and Merlin saw anger in their depths. He felt his magic stir within his chest, ready to defend Arthur should she throw any magic at him. But she only threw words. “Indeed. The rogue girl, Isolde, she was killed. The man who came with her, her lover, was quite distraught.”

“And?” Merlin asked, curious now. He had thought Isolde would last longer because she seemed strong and fast. If she had died, the bloodbath in the arena had been fierce.

“That girl, the beautiful, delicate one. Vivian. She is dead.”

Arthur made a sad noise, and at Merlin's curious look, elaborated. “She was a princess. King Odin's youngest daughter. Not an heir, but a friend. I used to play with her when she was very young.”

“Her friend, the brutish assassin one, avenged her. He killed Helios, the man that slayed her, by ripping out his throat with his fingers.” Kara shivered, “It was terrifying.”

“I saw his body.” Merlin remembered the man with the torn throat and felt sick. “It was awful.”

Kara nodded mutely, looking faintly green.

“And the others?” Arthur pressed, and Merlin nudged him slightly to calm him down.

“If they had names I did not know them.” Kara said cooly, “They were not among the ones I sought to know.”

“My sister--”

“She's is alive, and so is the blonde woman that walks with her. They were responsible for more than half the deaths in the fight. I have never seen magic used so cruelly.”

Arthur seemed to deflate. “Yes. Of course.” Kara said nothing else, and neither did Merlin, though he did lay his hand on his friend's shoulder, seeking to soothe through touch alone.

Eventually, after letting Kara rest for a few more moments as he gathered his things, Arthur turned to Merlin. “We should go. If this girl found us here, more will soon follow, especially if she was seen climbing.”

Merlin nodded and rose to his feet as well, gently putting Kara's head on the stone instead. She was sound asleep her breathing soft and deep. He stepped over her as Arthur headed for the opening of the cave. Leading to the left of their cave was a narrow catwalk, perhaps two feet across at its widest. It curved around the cliff side, and then led steeply downwards towards the ground below.

Making their way down the catwalk was simpler than scaling back down the side, and safer too since they weren't at as great a risk of falling. Merlin led the way down because Arthur insisted on watching his back. Merlin had protested greatly, but in the end he contented himself with the knowledge that if anyone were to come up on the path, they'd be met with him and his magic as opposed to Arthur's sword, which would be at a strict disadvantage here on the ledge where they would hardly move.

“You know, since we got here, you haven't been as big a prat as usual.” Merlin offered, grinning to himself. He managed to glance back for half a second before turning fiercely back around to focus on where his feet landed.

“Well thank you, I have tried so very hard not to be considered a prat by your standards.” Arthur snorted sarcastically, “Your opinion is of the utmost importance. It's terribly essential for my self esteem.”

“Well there's no need to be rude, it was meant as a compliment, you arse.” Merlin retorted, but he was smiling despite himself.

“I'll show you arse!” Arthur whooped, and a moment later Merlin's backside stung from the flat of his blade.

He squawked indignantly and bounced forward a step, grabbing at his bottom and glaring over his shoulder. “Arthur!”

Arthur had dissolved into helpless laughter, sagging against the cliff wall and clutching his stomach, sword held in a loose grip with his other hand. “Oh, oh god, Merlin!” He barked out another laugh and Merlin tried to scowl.

“That's not funny!” He cried, whacking Arthur's arm, and Arthur doubled over laughing then, sword stuck point-first in the stone like a walking stick.

“It is, though! Merlin your face was hilarious!”

“I take it all back. You're an arse and a prat and I hate you.” Merlin told him seriously, and then he happened to look up.

If Merlin hadn't looked up, he wasn't sure what would have happened.

As it was, he did. He looked over Arthur's shoulder, and saw Kara – Kara, the girl they had saved – raising the crossbow she'd had thrown across her back. She cranked it, and Merlin saw the bolt being pointed directly between Arthur's shoulder blades. At the distance she stood, hardly a couple feet up the catwalk, it would rip through him in a heartbeat, kill him instantly. Merlin saw it, and he didn't even have to think about what he should do.

“Arthur!” The name tore from his throat so hard it hurt, completely covering the twang of the crossbow, and he wasn't sure why Arthur reacted so quickly because it wasn't like the prince ever actually listened to Merlin, but then he did. Arthur dropped like a stone, very nearly falling off the cliff as he slammed first to his knees and then flat on his belly, as if to ensure he was low enough to dodge whatever attack Merlin was warning him of, and Merlin felt a relief like cool water on a burn wound.

He began to speak and then his words choked off. Arthur looked up at him, and his blue eyes went wide as coins, looking almost like silver in the morning light. Merlin gaped at him, and Arthur was on his feet, ignoring the girl struggling to reload behind him, ignoring everything.

Merlin thumped to his knees. The stone probably left bruises on his fragile pale skin, but he felt none of it. He looked down slowly, dragging his eyes away from Arthur's, because Arthur's eyes looked so frightened.

The crossbow bolt stuck out of him almost comically. It hadn't hit his heart, just a bit lower, right below the rib cage. It hurt. Merlin looked back up at Arthur and reached out with one shaking hand. Arthur reached for him too, but Merlin was suddenly very tired, and so he sagged against the cliff side. He gasped tried for Arthur's name but his voice was too wet and blood specked his lips. Arthur took up his sword and turned around on the cliff, unsteady on his feet, sword out and deadly, a roar of rage tearing through him like he was some beautiful god of vengenge. Kara ran, and Arthur screamed after her, cursing her. Merlin heard it all through what felt like cotton, stuffed in his ears.

His eyelids lowered and all he could see was stone, feel the cut of it on his high cheekbones, grunt as rock-hard hands grabbed his arms, tugged at him, squeezed him. His head lolled back and he saw Arthur, everything in his vision was Arthur, from his soft, sweaty golden hair streaked with dirt to the beautiful beautiful blue-gray of his eyes, like the early morning sky on Merlin's birthday.

Merlin reached up and touched Arthur's cheek, though he couldn't remember telling his fingers to do so. His hand left bloody marks there, like war paint, smeared down from Arthur's wet eyelashes.

“Merlin!” Arthur cried, but Merlin's head simply lolled forward, dropping limply on Arthur's shoulder. He coughed and it hurt, hurt so badly, and with blurred vision he saw red spots paint Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's fingers fit around the crossbow bolt, two above and two beneath, and the blood spread over Merlin's white shirt beneath them.

Arthur, big brave Arthur with the stormy eyes and beautiful face, shook like the smallest of all the leaves in a torrential storm, tears rolling down his eyes as his friend's blood painted his hand's scarlet. “Merlin! Merlin! Merlin! Don't you close your eyes! Merlin!”

Merlin did not hear him.

Chapter Text

Arthur was not thinking clearly. He continued to talk to Merlin, repeating his name, pleading with him to open his eyes. Merlin was limp as one of the dolls Morgana used to have, his head lolling back, the hand that had smeared blood across Arthur's cheek now resting on the stone beneath their feet. Arthur wondered if the girl would come back and shoot him too. It would be fair. He had been the one the arrow was meant for, not Merlin. Not sweet, untrained, fragile little Merlin.

Arthur curled his hands into Merlin's shirt and he shook him, just once. More blood soaked the shirt Merlin wore and Arthur stopped immediately, tears stinging his throat and eyes. “Merlin please,” He pleaded again, cradling the servant's face between his palms.

Merlin did not reply. There was no color in his cheeks. Arthur wasn't sure he knew what to do in this situation, because it was Mer lin and for God's sake Merlin was never ever supposed to be the one dead in his arms.

The crossbow bolt was not barbed. It wasn't poisoned. Arthur took it out with as much care as he could, tossed it behind him so he wouldn't have to look. Merlin's flesh was torn beneath his hands and he wanted to throw up. He knew nothing about healing but what he had learned in battle, and so he shredded Merlin's blood soaked shirt and pressed it over the sluggishly bleeding wound, pretending that it was the mountain shaking and not his hands and Merlin's blood welled hot and sticky across his fingers. “I'm... I'm going to save you. I will. Merlin please, please don't die. Wake up...” He whispered the words through gritted teeth, pressed harder on the wound so that the backs of his fingers were bathed in red too. It didn't seem to be helping.

“ Stop bleeding! ” He shouted the words, desperate, but Merlin was never one to follow orders, not even when they mattered like this. He gave up on staunching the bleeding and wrapped his hands around Merlin again, one on the back of his head, the other carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Please, Merlin, don't leave me.”

He looked around desperately, but there was no cure, no miracle to save Merlin and Arthur was too helpless. Merlin's head fell back again, baring his throat to the skies as Arthur reached back with one hand, grabbed his sword in a white-knuckled grip.

He would kill her, he decided. He would kill her, and Merlin would be alright. Merlin would be fine. And that terrible woman who had done this would be dead.

Some part of him told him that that wasn't how it worked, not at all, but he didn't care. He picked Merlin up with ease and carried him carefully back up the catwalk, holding him close like he was something precious because he was, he was Arthur's best friend his only friend. It was never supposed to be him dead.

Arthur set him down in the cave, hoping that a familiar place might help Merlin feel better when he woke up. Because he would wake up. It didn't matter that Arthur hadn't felt the steady flutter of a heart when he grabbed his wrists. None of that mattered, because Merlin was going to live forever, if Arthur could help it. Merlin was going to live.

“You'd better catch up with me, you useless servant.” Arthur snapped, not even wiping his hands of Merlin's blood. His palms stuck disgustingly to the hilt of his sword and he did not care. “If you don't wake up and find me, I'll have you cleaning the stables for a week. For... for a year. You stupid servant.”

He nodded sharply and turned to the entrance of the cave. Merlin sprawled on the stone floor where Arthur left him and did not move. His chest fell still, and gravel dug into his ridiculous cheekbones, and lay there like a corpse.

A horn sounded, but Arthur did not hear it.

Arthur stepped out of the cave and looked. To their right was the path they'd taken just that morning, and he knew Kara was no longer there. On the left, however, was an even narrower path, one that may not have been intended to be walked upon anyways. Farther down the face of the cliff, inching along, was Kara.

She was with the druid boy, the one who had stopped the pitch fork from impaling him. Arthur did not care about that, was too far gone to care about that, because all he could see was that girl, the crossbow still in her hands.

He spun the sword in his hand once, sure his grip was right, and then began to move. The path was not large enough for one of his boots, much less both, but somehow he managed. He moved along it, sending chunks of rock tumbling down with each step, and the druids farther down looked up in surprise.

The boy raised his hand and Arthur's fist clenched in the wall behind him because damn it, if they cast a spell now Arthur was doomed, he would die and how could he help Merlin then?

The rock broke off beneath his white-knuckled grip with a snapping noise and he very nearly fell. The druid boy's hand closed into a fist and the stone beneath Arthur's feet crumbled as well. He jumped, slipped, fell, and his hand barely caught the ledge. Coarse stone ripped his palm and his fingernails were torn back from the hasty grab. His sword went spiraling down to the ground and he cursed himself. He gritted his teeth and gripped the tiny hand hold harder, seeing the druids – for the girl must be one too – running again. The girl paused, turning around and raising both her hands. Arthur couldn't hear the words over the blood roaring in his ears but he saw her red lips move. His other hand tossed the stone he somehow still had in his other hand. It was a desperate throw, really, and he'd never actually been very good with aim, but the rock smacked into her anyways.

She stumbled, instinctively going up on one foot since the stone had hit her foot. The stone crumbled beneath the weight of her, just a few missing pebbles, and her balance was gone. She shouted, arms flailing, and the druid boy returned. Even from his position dangling on the cliff Arthur saw him paling, heard his desperate scream.

“Kara!”

He grabbed her shirt but it tore in his hands. Kara fell backwards off the cliff. Arthur watched in what felt like slow motion as she fell, her arms thrown out wide. She didn't scream as she fell, just looked at him with eyes still half-gold from the fury of her half-finished spell. Arthur dangled there and pressed his forehead to the cliff side but he still heard it when she hit. The thud was so final. It seemed so loud.

He looked back up and the druid boy was standing there, staring down. His mouth was open in horror, his body still frozen as it had been when he'd tried to hold her. Her shirt had been white, like Merlin's, and a scrap of it was crushed in the boy's fist, flapping slightly in the wind that stirred Arthur's hair. It looked like a flag. A white flag, like he was surrendering.

The hunting horn blew, long and hard. The boy looked up and his eyes were gold as coins, and Arthur knew for sure that he was definitely not surrendering.

“You killed her,” though his voice was soft, Arthur could hear him. He wondered if that was magic, too, or if it just so happened that the world had gone quiet to grieve the young girl Arthur had just killed. Arthur tried to heave himself up, to stand, and nearly slipped. Arthur settled for holding on with both hands and wondering what he was going to do. He presumed he was going to die.

“You killed Kara. I loved her,” the druid boy clutched the white scrap of cloth in his fist, held onto it like he hadn't been able to hold onto the girl. “My name is Mordred. I am of the druids, and I am going to kill you, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur had no doubt that this was true. He was helpless. The boy had magic, he would have no problem killing Arthur while Arthur dangled there, like a mouse held up by a cat for inspection. Mordred raised one hand, his eyes flashing brightly, and Arthur screwed his own eyes shut, hoping it would perhaps be quick, or perhaps miss entirely so he could go back to Merlin and make sure he stayed safe.

“Well isn't this sad,” someone called up to them, a girlish voice, and for a moment Arthur wondered if somehow Kara had managed to survive the fall. He opened his eyes, looked down best he could but could not see who was speaking. Mordred, though, could. He took one glance down and his hand swung from Arthur to whomever had spoken beneath them, and Arthur realized why he knew the voice to be familiar.

“Oh Brother, I must say, desperation suits you much better than a crown.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Morgana.

---

Merlin took a gasping breath, and woke up, and the sky was absolutely beautiful. It was a sunset, he thought, or a dawn. Oranges and pinks and purples streaked through the blue like something magnificent. It was possibly the most beautiful sky Merlin had ever seen, such a perfect blend, and he stared at it for a long time.

He felt no pain, nothing. It felt like he was floating on his back in the lake, but his clothes were not wet. He sat up, and he was sitting in sand that was softer than anything he had ever felt, softer than Guinevere's dresses or Arthur's sheets. It was so fine he could barely hold it in his palm, as it filtered through his fingers like water.

He looked about. Before him stretched an endless sea, going on an on until it met with the purple horizon. On either side stretched more sand, on for a mile or so before it curved back. Merlin twisted his head to look over his shoulder, and saw rolling green hills, and a tall, tall tower in the center. In the distance, past the tower of dark stone, he could see the end of this place, and more water, and he realized he was on an island.

Which was, of course, not the arena.

He was so happy for a moment. His heart felt lighter, his smile easier than he'd even lived it to be. He felt like someone had filled him up, when he'd been empty. He wondered if this were the afterlife. Was he dead? He supposed he was, which was a shame, because he truly had wanted to tell Arthur his true identity before he died. He had very much wanted...

The elation drained out of him like he was a glass of wine to a drunk. Arthur.

He walked for a while, searching for a boat though he wasn't sure what good it would do. He could see no sun in the sky, just a wide expanse of cloudless color that seemed to be stuck in the beautiful image it presented. Merlin began to walk faster when it seemed he got no closer to the water, and eventually fell to his knees, gasping for breath and still the same distance from the water. Just a few feet away.

The magic uncurled like a sleeping cat from within him when he reached out, but nothing happened.

“You won't get out of here like that, Merlin.” A sweet girl's voice told him, the hints of laughter in her voice anything but cruel. Merlin turned, ready for a fight, and then his hands fell loose and limp at his sides.

“Freya.” He breathed, a tiny amount of the happiness returning to his chest. She smiled at him, her fragile, doll-like features beautiful.

“Hello, Merlin. It has been a very long time, hasn't it?” She stood before him in a gown like something a princess would wear, long and beautiful. It was a soft green that turned her eyes to amber. Her face was clean of dirt and beautiful like he'd never seen it, her hair silken and neatly rolling across her shoulders. She held herself with a pride and confidence she'd never had when she lived, and yet she still seemed shy and uncertain when she smiled at Merlin.

“I... Have I died, Freya?” Merlin asked, and Freya's smile was soft and fond.

“Oh, sweet Merlin. Not even a hello? I've missed you terribly, you know.”

“No, I mean, of course I am happy to see you!” Merlin hurried to reassure her, striding forward. “You look so... so good. You are happy?”

“I am,” Freya told him, gently taking his hand. “My death cured me. I am no longer a monster.”

“You were never one in life, either, Freya.” He told her seriously, kissing the tips of her fingers. Still, a lingering doubt stirred inside his chest. This was not right. He was meant to be in the arena. “Where are we, Freya?”

“This place has many names.” Freya murmured. “Some which are forgotten. I call it Avalon. It is a place reserved for those truest of heart, and I do not usually tread here. But I have been allowed to come here. For you.”

Merlin studied her, frowning. “You... I do not understand.”

“Merlin, you are dying.”

Merlin felt like someone had set little balls of snow in his stomach. He had hoped against it, of course, but somehow he supposed he had always known it would end like this. Him, catching an arrow for Arthur. Still, he wished it were not true. His smile stayed, though it no longer reached his eyes.

“Of course I am.” He said quietly. Freya brushed his cheek with her fingers and Merlin appreciated the comfort, but stepped back nonetheless. Freya's eyes were sad and sympathetic as they looked at him.

“I'm so sorry, Merlin.” She took his hand again and he wondered why the same sparks no longer activated when they touched.

Possibly because you are dying, something told his mind, and he looked away from her, looked at the water that lapped at the sand but did not come closer.

“I am not. I saved Arthur one last time, at least.” He said, feeling proud despite the hollowness that had settled inside him with her announcement. “Stupid clotpole.” He murmured fondly.

Freya smiled, but something flickered in her eyes, and Merlin took note of it. She stepped back onto the green of the grass, and with his hand still cupped in hers he followed her forward a step, the toes of his boots just touching the edge of the sand. “Yes. You saved his life. Come now, Merlin.”

Merlin hesitated. The look in her eyes at Arthur's name confused him. “Freya, do I not get one last look? Can I see him? Please?”

“I am not sure that is a good idea, Merlin.” Freya smiled, and it looked wrong. Merlin's discomfort increased, and he slipped his fingers from her hand. “He will be fine.” She assured him, but Merlin was nothing if not stubborn.

“I want to see him.” He said firmly. He turned towards the ocean, waved his hand, and the still water became his mirror. Freya grabbed his sleeve.

“Merlin.” She said firmly. “You don't want to see him. Let yourself be happy. Come with me.”

Merlin shook his head, “I can't, Freya. I have to know he's safe.” He looked at the water, still as glass and awaiting his command. Never had he felt like the magic that flowed through him was so perfectly attuned to his will. Never had he felt so certain that he was right.

He spread his fingers, and whispered, “Show me Arthur Pendragon.”

The water did as he told. Arthur was on the cliff side, hanging by hands that were covered in dried blood. He had no weapon. The druid boy was shouting at someone, but there was no sound, and then flames licked up the side of the cliff. Arthur's face creased, he pulled up with his arms to keep his boots from the tongues of fire below him.

The image shattered, and Merlin surged forward. The same invisible force kept him away from the water, and he struggled against it. “Arthur!” He rounded on Freya, saw her thin pressed lips and big sad eyes.

“He needs me, Freya. He needs me!” Merlin pleaded, “I have to help him. Let me go to him.”

“I do not control that, Merlin.” Freya whispered. “I'm meant to help you.”

“Then let me go to him.”

“It doesn't work that way, my love...” She stepped up close and held his cheeks as she gazed into his blue eyes. They were desperate, pleading. She smiled again. “Oh sweet bird, you do not love me.”

Merlin blinked, “What? I, Freya – ” Freya shook her head. The touch from her hands faded though it didn't seem that she had moved. Merlin looked down at her and she faded, her arms turning to mist first, and then the rest of her. “No! Freya, come back!”

Her soft eyes faded last of all, and the mist washed over Merlin ice cold. “No! Come back!” He turned, saw that the waters had turned angry, splashing and throwing themselves to the beach. Merlin wasn't sure why but he knew he needed to get to them, and so he threw himself into the invisible force again, pushing and pushing.

“I have to go to him!” He cried, “Please! He needs me!” Thunder cracked. Rain fell. The sand stuck of his floppy boots and splattered his trousers and still he fought, struggling against the forces that pulled him back. “He needs me!”

He saw his reflection in the water and did not recognize himself. His eyes were gold as he fought the magic pulling him from the sea. The words that tore from his throat were desperate and hoarse. He fought. He pushed.

He threw himself forward, and fell back again. The sand stuck to his back, buried itself in his hair, and he laid there for a moment, tears mingling with rain that beat his face. He struggled upright again, hands clawing at the sand, and shouted for Arthur again. The sea showed him the image, distorted. It was closer to the prince now, close enough to see the beads of sweat roll from his scowling, grimaced face. Close enough to see the flames in the reflection of Arthur's blue eyes.

“I will not let him die!” Merlin screamed, throwing himself into the force. Gold fire ripped out around him, from his hands, from his legs, from everywhere. He roared, his throat tearing at the volume he screamed, and his vision filled with gold.

I have to help him.... He thought, and then he thought no more.

Chapter Text

A long time ago, Arthur had gone hunting with his father. They’d had complaints come to the court, all speaking of a wild boar scaring off all the other animals, down deep in the woods south of the castle. He had been maybe twelve when they’d set off after it, and he hadn’t in his young mind understood just how big and scary it would be. All he knew of wild boars was that they were a type of large pig, and he’d seen pigs before in the castle pens. They were fat, lazy animals. The idea that one could cause trouble to even a half-trained, twelve-year-old prince was beyond his imagination.

It had taken only a few hours to track the boar down. There were seven of them – he, his father, and five knights against this animal. He had no doubt they’d win. They’d caught up to it at its den, and his father had instructed their hunting group to circle the boar. He wanted them to draw it out and give it no room to charge. Arthur had been set up between two of his father’s best knights, and they'd shown him how to hold his lance so that if the boar did come charging at him it would impale itself on the pointed end.

They’d expected the boar to charge for what appeared to be the biggest threat. They had, Arthur guessed, expected it to be stupid. It was meant to charge for one of the burly knights, not the somewhat scrawny crowned prince. The beast had not only snapped his lance in half, but even in its dying throes its momentum had been enough to knock Arthur flat on his back and break his arm.

Arthur remembered the way he and the knights had circled the boar. The flames circled closer still, and Arthur knew they'd be even more deadly. More painful, more cruel.

Crown princes had become so much like hunted boars.

He wondered if, like the boar, he might be able to take someone else down with him in his death.

The fire still lapped at his heels like an overeager puppy, and he could feel the leather of his boots growing uncomfortably warm. His fingers bled. The stone he clung to dug painfully into the crease of his fingers, so sharp and rough that even callouses built up from years of sword fighting would not protect him.

Mordred was yelling words Arthur couldn’t understand, probably hurling spells at Morgana. It appeared Morgana did not care, as Arthur hadn’t heard her cry out of sound upset yet. In fact she was taunting him. He couldn’t see her without risking an even less stable hold on the cliff, but her words reached him easily enough.

His fingers slid in his own blood and he coughed on smoke. It would be easier to let go, he reckoned. At least he would not have to live without Merlin, then. The sudden, sharp and clear image of his friend lying bloodied and broken, alone on a cave floor punched him hard in the chest and made him want to release the wall. But Merlin had died for him. Merlin had wanted him to live.

The smoke was starting to get to him. His throat felt too tight, and his breathing was rapidly getting beyond his control. He struggled to pull himself up, and managed for a moment to get one hand over the ledge. His fingernails cracked and pulled back as he grasped desperately for a handhold, but there was not one to be found. All the larger rocks rolled away under his grasp, and he slipped back into his position from before. A frustrated yell tore his smoke-ruined throat even further as he fought to maintain his hold.

“Little brother, won’t you just give up already?” Morgana was laughing at him. He could hear it in her voice. She was playing, having a grand time of his desperate attempts to live.

He refused to spare her the words. Chest heaving with breaths he couldn’t get into his lungs, Arthur dragged himself up again, keeping his toes just out of reach of the flames that were circling closer, closing in on him.

The boar had been smart enough to find the weak link. Arthur didn’t have to be clever like Morgana, he only had to be smart as a boar.

His eyes watered, but he scoured the cliffside for some escape route yet again. There had to have been something he was missing.

The fire seemed brighter on his left, on the side of the cave where Merlin was…. The ledge was thicker in that direction. There was a possibility...

But what was the point of a world without Merlin?

He forced that thought away because damn it Merlin wanted him to live, and heaved himself up, scooting his hands further left. The heat was instantly washing over him twice as hot and he nearly fell, scrambling back to his position.

Morgana, below him, cackled.

The fire that ripped up the cliff side was growing too close for comfort. Arthur's arms strained to hold him away, and his lungs and eyes screamed. “Morgana!” he yelled, “Stop this!”

“You're not the king of me, Prince Arthur .” Morgana called back, her voice echoing around the ravine. Mordred hurled another spell at her and she shouted something back. Arthur saw Mordred fall back against the wall, clutching at the blacked skin of his arms. In Morgana's distraction, Arthur heaved himself onto the ledge. It was not wide enough to sit or stand, and he slid back down almost immediately. His left leg plunged into fire and he shouted in pain. 

Morgana laughed.

“Why must you do this?" Arthur shouted, "We were friends once, weren't we?"

"I was a ward in a castle that hated me." Morgana snapped back, "You and your father proved how much I meant to you. Nothing, I was nothing."

"I loved you,” Arthur yelled, voice wrecked. He would not last much longer on this cliff; Morgana’s flames licked at his arms already. “I could love you again. Stop this, before you do something you cannot come back from. Please, Morgana.”

“Lying has never been your strong suit.” Morgana growled back, “You should stick to swinging your sword. You're worth nothing anywhere else. Lie not to me -- you never loved me. Neither did Uther. Both of you were more interested if a piece of metal to sit on your ridiculous, empty heads--”

“ Uther loved you. ” Arthur roared, through with reason. “Uther loved you terribly, sister. He loved you more than anything. More than his castle, his crown, his knights. He loved you more than Camelot.” His jaw clenched, and he admitted. “More than me.”

Morgana went silent and then screamed. “Liar! Die!”

The flames surged towards him. Arthur closed his eyes, and let go of the wall. If he were going to die, he’d go his own way. Morgana would not get the pleasure of killing him before he hit the ground.

The wind was cold after the inferno of the cliffside. With his eyes closed, Arthur imagined he was simply riding. His horse was flying through the grass, Merlin’s own mare keeping pace with him as they tore across hills and valleys, on their own endless adventure.

He spread his arms, and plummeted towards the ground.

--

Merlin was surrounded by orange light. He was burning. He must have been in Hell.

He was in pain.

He rose to his knees and held himself together through will alone, and then he threw out his hands, palms down. Blue light flared around him, and the orange rushed away like mice sent scattering at the first wave of a cat’s paw.

The blue surrounded him, swirling angry and fierce and stormy. He got to one knee, and looked up, and the flames were still there. He was in a cave. There was blood coating his front like a second skin. There was a crossbow bolt on the floor beside him.

He looked at it, and it glowed gold before dissolving into ashes that were soon swept away by the swirling blue light around him.

He got his other leg beneath him and stood. He was swaying more than the grasses in fields he used to cross with Arthur on horseback. He swayed like a dancer, and then he stabilized. The blue light rushed back into him, and he took a gasping breath. His mouth tasted of rust.

“Arthur,” he tried to say, but it might not have been what he said. His voice sounded strange. Deeper, rougher. Ancient.

The flames threatened him again, inching towards him. He was in a cave, and they wanted to come in. He threw out one hand and the flames were gone.

He had never felt magic like the magic that was boiling through him. His blood felt thick as molten gold, pumping slowly, spiraling through him. His stomach churned, faster even than the blue lights had been, but he did not feel sick.

He felt powerful.

He stumbled as he tried to walk, but grace rapidly returned as his limbs remembered what they were meant to be doing. His heart felt funny, beating too fast or too slow or just different . Everything was wrong, but it was fixing itself slowly.

When he reached the entrance to the cave, everything inside him was instantly wrong again.

Arthur had never looked so beautiful as he did here, flying.

Not flying, falling, his mind supplied. Yours, fix it, fix it, he’s yours and he’s going away.

He didn’t even manage to open his mouth. His soul thought: No, wrong, repair this, and then his whole body surged again with blue light, laced with gold like lightning.

Power surged out of him, and the wrong fixed itself.

Chapter Text

Merlin was not entirely in possession of all of himself. All he knew, in the moments after his eyes opened and he was not cloaked in sand and storm but in blood and fire, was that he must save Arthur , and so he did.

His steps were not his own. He did not remember requesting that his body move, but he moved. He prowled like a jungle cat or dragon to the edge of the cave, his cave now, and saw Arthur falling.

A coin has two faces. Merlin decided that the fates would not cause the coin to fall this way. Arthur would live.

He. Would. Live.

Arthur had been falling one moment, and the next he was ripped through the air until he was floating in front of Merlin. It had been so fast, one would have missed the movement had they blinked. It had been so fast, Arthur could have been at risk of dying of a snapped neck, but Merlin was careful. His magic wrapped Arthur up, cradling him, smoothing over his skin and wrapping possessively. Arthur glowed warm and gold.

Morgana shouted in outrage, and Arthur stared. Merlin looked him over, saw the scorch marks on his boots and arms. In the back of his mind he registered spells being thrown at him, Morgana throwing everything she had, Morgause lending her strength to the fight as well, but none of them hit. Merlin had one hand raised, his long fingers moving like he was petting the air, and the spells not only missed but disappeared. They dissipated, like they had never existed at all.

“Arthur,” he said in that same deep, scary voice that he did not rec ognize as his own. Or perhaps it was his own, but it wasn’t his voice now. It simply would be, or had been . He did not know, or remember, or care. “Arthur.” he repeated.

“M-Merlin -- what -- you ---” Arthur was stuttering. His eyes were wide, and very blue. He had not moved, not even tried to. He was staring. His pulse was visible in his throat, and for a moment Merlin focused on it, watched it flutter. Arthur was scared. Terrified.

Merlin crashed back into himself and gasped like a drowning man discovering air. He grabbed Arthur when the other man seemed about the fall again, and they both stumbled back into the relative shelter of the cave. Arthur regained his footing just as Merlin’s eyes rolled and he slumped, nearly braining himself on the side of the cave.

“I thought you dead.” Arthur whispered, grabbing Merlin’s face. He clutched at his jaw, then his cheeks; thumbs brushing over Merlin’s ridiculous sharp cheekbones. “I thought you dead, and I…”

“Sorry,” Merlin murmured, once again regaining his own footing and standing on his own. He was exhausted, and yet that powerful magic still coursed within him. He could do whatever he wanted, he thought. He could level armies, burn castles to the ground. He could take on every druid alive, every soldier, every knight.

He could destroy worlds, if he wanted.

Instead, he clutched at the front of Arthur’s ragged shirt and looked at him, and it all came rushing back, everything since he’d woken up and not been on the island. “I -- you saw me. You saw my--”

“Magic.” Arthur said, voice different from before. “I saw your magic Merlin. You’re -- you’re a sorcerer.”

“Y-Yes.” Merlin’s voice cracked. It was smaller and higher and so much less than it had been before. “I…”

“ We are not finished.” Morgana was suddenly there, at the entrance to the cave. Merlin realized he’d forgotten about her. He had been so focused on Arthur falling and then confused and disoriented by his own… otherness, that he had forgotten she even posted a threat.

She looked even more crazed than usual. They’d been in these games for a day and a half, but her hair was wild and tangled. Blood splattered her white shirt, and her pants were ripped in both knees.

Despite the display Merlin had just put on, Arthur shoved Merlin behind him. He settled in front of him like he always had, Merlin just over his shoulder, and took a fighting stance.

He didn’t even have a sword, but he put himself between Merlin and Morgana anyways.

“Leave us, Morgana.” Arthur growled, “I do not want to hurt you.”

Morgana sneered, “So noble of you, but I want you dead. If you will not fight back, I’ll simply kill you.”

“You will not,” Merlin said coldly, “Leave, Morgana, or I will kill you. ”

Arthur looked at him. Merlin did not let his eyes stray from Morgana.

Morgana threw her head back and laughed, “ You , Merlin? So you managed to learn a little magic trick. I’ve trained with magic for years while you played lapdog to an undeserving prince. I’ve killed dozens with my magic, my sister probably just killed the druid boy outside.” She held up her hands and lightning crackled across her fingers. “We have destiny on our side. Arthur is meant to die. You are not meant to kill me.”

She threw her hand out, clearly intending for Arthur to be hit, but Merlin threw his hands out as well. Morgana skidded back three feet before she caught herself. She looked stunned. “How -- you’re just a servant.”

“No,” the druid boy stepped into the cave as well. His arms were burned badly, and there was blood all over her shirt. “That is Emrys.”

Morgana looked afraid. Merlin had never seen her face look afraid like that, not since she was free of magic. “Yeah,” Merlin said, “I suppose Emrys is my name as well.”

“There's no way. It isn't true. I would have known you. I would have known it was you .” Morgana looked even more wild, a feral anger taking over her eyes. “How dare you? A magic user kept servant by him ? You're less than a lapdog, you're a bitch , a useless whelp, pathetic, how dare you serve him?”

“Arthur is good.” Merlin murmured, “You do not understand. I am a manservant. My magic does not change that I would be happy to serve until the day I die. I would stay by Arthur until I cannot breath, until death claimed me for the next life.” Merlin paused and lifted his blood soaked shirt. There was a white scar on his stomach in the shape of a an arrow head wound. “And perhaps even death will not stop me from serving who is and who shall always be my king.”

“Merlin.” Arthur said softly, and Merlin stopped talking. He suddenly felt bared, and confused. It was all true, yes, but he felt that he'd given some sort of secret away.

Morgana screamed at him, and her magic was again powerful and dangerous as she hurled it at him. while Merlin distracted her, Arthur took a swing. His fist missed by a hair as she lurched out of the way. She knocked Arthur away, slamming him back into the wall of the cave behind Merlin. Merlin threw up a magic shield as she threw more fire at him.

When he was six, Merlin had used magic and caught the apple orchard on fire. He had been crying and scared, and thought himself a freak or monster. Merlin’s mother had found him hiding in the garden, trying not to touch anything else. He’d been crying, and she pet his hair until he stopped enough to tell her what happened. After he had, she had explained.

“You have magic, Merlin. It’s a rare but lovely gift.” She said, “A gift that will make you very special.”

Merlin’s mother had called it a gift.

Morgana had no mother. Her father called magic a curse, a sickness, a disease that corrupted and killed and twisted even good people into nightmares. Morgana had proven him right, but when that was all she knew Merlin was not sure she could have ever proven him wrong.

She never even had a chance.

Merlin thought he could have given her one. He could have, if he'd been less selfish. He hadn't wanted to share his secret, hadn't wanted to risk his neck. He would never forgive himself for Morgana’s fall from grace.

Mordred drew close as Merlin fought off Morgana’s magic. Merlin didn't know if he could take them on together. He was tired already, and felt oddly uneven, like he hadn't eaten in months. But though he was hungry, yes, there was more to his empty feeling.

“Merlin!”

Merlin looked away from Morgana in time to see Mordred hurtling towards him with a knife. He threw out a hand to knock Mordred away, but Arthur intercepted. He was twice Mordred’s size, and knocked the boy to the ground, where they rolled locked into a fight.

Merlin saw that it was beginning to storm outside their cage. Morgana's hair stuck to her face and slender neck as she was soaked through.

“I'll kill you,” Morgana roared, “I'll kill you, and Arthur, and anyone else who gets in my way.”

Merlin saw then, with a painful clarity, that she wouldn't stop. She would chase them to the ends of the earth and beyond in her mad grasp for power. Merlin could beat her back a thousand times, and she would never learn, never stop. It was commendable, in a savage, terrible way. It was tragic.

Merlin would not let Arthur be anyone's prey.

He stopped playing defense, in that moment. The power surged through him, arching through his veins and he shouted, the noise tearing from his throat. “ Fulmen ignis!”

The lightning struck her before he'd finished speaking. She screamed. He watched as she jerked, dying in a flash of light as gold as the rings in his eyes. It was blinding, scorching his eyes but he couldn't look away. He had to watch.

He had done this to her. He had not kept her from breaking, and then he had killed her.

She fell at last, after what seemed an eternity of screaming. Merlin lowered his hand. Her body was laced with the tattoo of a lightning victim, black lines crisscrossing pale ivory skin. She was still.

She was dead.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Merlin did not have time to feel guilty nor mourn Morgana. As soon as she thudded to the ground, Mordred yelled something in the Druid language and threw Arthur through the air, sending him crashing into Merlin. They both went tumbling, and Merlin barely kept Arthur’s head from cracking hard against the wall. Instead his chest took the brunt of the hit, as Arthur knocked them both flat.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried when Arthur didn’t immediately surge to his feet and back into battle. But it appeared Arthur was only stunned, as the prince staggered roughly upright a moment later, shaking his head.

“Sorry, Merlin. What happened to…” He trailed off, “The… the lightning. Morgana--”

Merlin shoved himself in front of Arthur as Mordred sent a wave of force their way, intending to flatten the prince. He threw up his hands, eyes gold, and Mordred stumbled back instead.

Arthur gripped his shoulder suddenly, almost painful. “We are going to have such a conversation when this is over.” He swore, and Merlin could only feel pleased that Arthur was suggesting they’d live long enough to have this conversation.

Mordred backed up again, heading for the cliffside. He tripped over Morgana’s body, and Merlin wanted to be sick. “This is all your fault, you know, all of it.” The druid boy sneered at Arthur. “Morgana. Kara. These damned games. If your family hadn’t made this promise ages ago it wouldn’t be a problem now, would it, Prince Arthur?”

“I am not my family.” Arthur said, and Merlin looked at him in shock. Arthur did not face him, but kept his eyes on Merlin. “I am not my sister, nor my father. I am…”

“The Once and Future King.” Merlin said, “Arthur is going to bring a new dawn to Albion.”

Arthur shushed him with one hand raised. “I do not know about that. Especially not now. All I know is -- yes, it may have been a Pendragon on the throne when these games were created. But that does not mean I would ever choose--” The stone beneath their feet suddenly heaved, and several cracks appeared. Rocks began to fall around them, and the entire cave shuddered. Mordred fell, but before his backside could hit rock he vanished. It was either a teleportation spell, or he’d just suddenly winked out of existence. With how much Merlin had been wishing the boy was gone, he was nervous that it was the second.

They did not have time to worry about that now, however, because it seemed the entire canyon wall was coming down. Merlin deflected a rock from coming down right on Arthur’s head and felt the sting of it on his own arm. He was exhausted, suddenly, the energy pouring from him like he was a tub that had been punctured and sprung a leak.

“We must go!” He shouted, grabbing Arthur’s hand. He wasn’t prepared for the intense feeling that shocked up his arm like fire, and gasped when Arthur suddenly jerked away.

Arthur focused on his eyes for a moment and Merlin wondered what he saw that brought such a frown to his face. But then the look was shielded behind his Commanding Face, the one he wore to battle. He darted past Merlin, shouting for him to follow. They stumbled towards the front of the cave, ground uneven and trembling. Rocks fell around them, and a rain of small ones cut a groove in Merlin’s cheek as they fled.

Merlin crashed into Arthur’s back as he stopped. He almost complained, but there was nowhere for them to go. The pathways to either side had fallen away, and the cave was still crashing down. He looked down as cracks began to appear on their narrow ledge.

“Do you trust me, Arthur?” Merlin asked, shouting over the rumble of breaking rock. Arthur looked at him like he didn’t. Like it was an actual decision he had to make. Merlin’s side ached where the arrow had punched through him, but his heart hurt more from the conflict in the blue eyes staring at him.

“I…” Arthur took Merlin’s outstretched hand in his own. His hand was warm and soft against the soft tissue of Merlin’s inner arm. He’d been expecting leather from Arthur’s gloves before remembering he wasn’t wearing them. He didn’t even have the sword he’d managed to grab from the pile of weapons left.

He gripped Merlin’s forearm. “I trust you.”

Merlin leaned back off the edge of their crumbling ledge, and dragged Arthur into a fall. The wind tore past them. Arthur looked horrified, a shout of anger and fear tearing from his throat but Merlin closed his eyes and shouted, the words dragging up from his core, pulling through him. It felt like a fish hook had gripped his belly button and torn out his insides. It was pain, the pull of it, but he gave himself over to it. Once more, he thought, for old time’s sake. For The Once and Future King, for Arthur, please.

Not for Arthur, young warlock. Said the soft, old voice, For you. For the Dragonlord, for the Magician, for the greatest warlock of all time.

Something caught around him like a cage. Arthur collided once more with his chest, hand still entangled within Merlin’s own. If Merlin had had any air in his lungs, it would have exploded out at the impact of the bigger man against his chest and belly, but all the air he had had gone into his shouting.

“Merlin? Merlin! ” he vaguely registered Arthur yelling, but he was so very tired. The black was welcoming, and knowing that Arthur was safe for the moment, Merlin gave in and slept.

--

Arthur could not move, which was terrifying at any time but altogether more frightening when given the situation. Merlin lay beneath him, possibly crushed, his head lolled back like a doll. He was pale, and his eyes were closed, and though Arthur could tell from how tightly they were pressed together that Merlin was breathing, it was slow and shallow and weak. He was clearly unconscious, and Arthur could do nothing to help him.

He could not do anything at all besides squirm a bit, and all that managed was to get him more firmly pressed against Merlin from shoulder to knee. There were huge, leathery toes wrapped around him, each ending in a claw that could easily carve him in half.

“Dragons, Merlin. Dragons. Did you do nothing but lie to me all these years?” Arthur had been attempting bravado, arrogance, even mirth. It came out broken.

Broken like Morgana’s body, like Kara’s before her, like--

“Shall we settle on the ground now? Everything has stopped shaking, your majesty.” The dragon carrying him sounded amused. Arthur could not see its face nor anything besides the ground a hundred feet below. He felt sicker by the second.

“I-- y-yes?” Arthur was not sure how one was supposed to talk to dragons that had you squashed up against your manservant in one … paw? Foot? Gods, he didn’t even know the correct terminology for a dragon’s anatomy, how was he meant to associate with one?

“As you wish, young lord.” The dragon began to descend, and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. The sight of the ground flying up towards him would never leave his brain, but he didn’t need to watch it all the way down.

The jolt when the dragon landed gave him the cue to open his eyes. Merlin was the first thing he saw, still with his head back, neck bared, unconscious. Just unconscious, he’s still breathing. Arthur repeated to himself.

The dragon carrying them lowered them gently to the ground before releasing them. Arthur raised up on his hands and knees, hovering over Merlin, searching his face worriedly. There was no crease of pain on Merlin’s face, but he hadn’t so much as stirred during the flight once he’d fallen unconscious.

“He is alive, little king, and he shall remain so… for a very long time, I think. Longer than you would believe, at any rate.” The dragon said in that familiar old voice. Arthur turned to look at it at last.

“Thank you.” He said, always one for manners. When it was him against a dragon without a weapon. “You -- are you the, the Great Dragon? The one the legends say was chained beneath my keep?”

“I am.” The dragon settled into a laying position, lowering his head. He had gold scales, but his eyes distracted Arthur. “I have another name, one you might know well.”

Arthur stared at his giant eyes with mounting understanding. “Kilgharrah.”

The dragon laughed, and smoke curled from his nostrils. Arthur stepped in front of Merlin instinctively, and the dragon cocked his head. “Not so oblivious as many would suspect, little Pendragon.”

“You lied to me as well, then.” Arthur said instead, “You and Merlin. Were you in this together? Some idea where, where he lives? Were you -- were you hoping I’d die?”

“ I was.” Kilgharrah admitted. He lowered his snout until it was nearly level with Arthur. Arthur could feel the heat it was capable of unloading upon him. “If someone chained you up for decades upon decades, would you not want them to die as well? But that is not the destiny of Albion’s greatest king.”

“I’m -- Merlin wanted me dead too, then?” Arthur had to know. If it were true, he would … he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t be able to stay here.

Kilgharrah looked away. “No… my young Dragonlord never wanted that. Not from the moment he volunteered. He was going to protect you. He was going to make you the one to live.” Kilgharrah locked eyes with the prince again. “He was willing to die for you, Arthur Pendragon. Never say that he wanted you dead.”

“He lied to me. For years.” Arthur whispered, “ Years. I’ve shared -- I’ve told him everything. Secrets I should not have even told, told anyone, I told him. I told him everything. ”

Kilgharrah’s eyes were curious. “Hmmm… not everything, I think.”

“Secrets of the crown, I’ve told him!” Arthur shouted, fists bunching at his sides in his fury. He belatedly remembered he was being watched by all of Camelot, all of Albion, and then realized he didn’t care. He’d die soon anyways, probably. What did it matter? “He was always there, always listening. And he lied to me!”

Kilgharrah shook his great head. “Enough of this, tiny prince. You can complain for millennia, but it does not change the fact that a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. You are one coin, you and Merlin.”

“What in hell’s name is that supposed to mean?” Arthur sputtered, throwing up his hands, “I’m -- I’m meant to just, forgive him? After all he’s done?”

Kilgharrah surged to his feet then, wings outspread and beating, and Arthur remembered that he was speaking to a creature hundreds of years old, that could kill him with one breath. “All he’s done, little prince? All he’s done?! ” The dragon leaned forward, once more capturing Arthur’s gaze and holding it. “You know nothing that he’s done for you. Years he kept you safe, watched over you, sacrificed for you. You do not understand. But you will. You will. ”

Kilgharrah touched the end of his nose to Arthur’s forehead. Before the prince could run, or duck, or do anything other than freeze, he was seeing things he had not ever seen.

Branches falling -- not falling, thrown or cracked because of Merlin’s magic. Sickness and soreness healed because of a clever, secret touch. Battles won because of Merlin’s subtle tricks or warnings. Merlin was there, always helping, right down to bathwater that was warm well past when it should have turned to ice with it’s sitting time. He was always watching Arthur, and Arthur was sure he’d never been looking when Merlin looked at him like that.

Merlin never looked at him like that, it was impossible. He felt a surge of disbelief that Merlin could ever look at him with such besotted, awe struck eyes -- and then Arthur’s face came into the picture as well.

The image made Arthur stagger in the real world because surely, surely he’d never looked so indignified. So…

Oh.

The dragon was laughing. As Arthur returned to himself, blinking in shock and disbelief, the dragon laughed. He stumbled back, tripped over Merlin’s foot and landed hard on his backside. “I -- I’m not -- I --” He stuttered, flailing for an excuse and failing because of course he was.

Merlin sat up slowly. His eyes were vividly blue when Arthur met them. He looked drunk for a moment, swaying slightly before he steadied himself. As soon as he recognized Arthur, he seemed to shrink into himself a bit more. “A-Arthur? Are you -- are you alright?”

Arthur stared at him.

“I’m truly sorry Arthur, I really am. I should have told you. I wanted to. I almost did, sometimes, but I’d been hiding it so long and telling you was so terrifying.” Merlin wrapped his hands in the drawstring of his pants, twisting and pulling until his hands turned red.

Arthur grabbed his jaw. “Damn you,” he snarled, and Merlin’s eyes filled with tears, so Arthur kissed him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

They looked over a meadow. It stretched wide and familiar, dipping down in the distance into a hill that would lead them into the city. There were flowers blooming in the tall golden grass -- pale blue poppies, marigolds, daffodils and bluebonnets. They swayed with a gentle wind that made the grass hiss like snakes. It was the epitome of spring.

Last they’d been here, a long year before, it had been winter. There had been snow, and the grass and flowers had all been dead.

Merlin said quietly, “We’ll start wars, you know.”

“I know.” Arthur said back. His horse shied closer to Merlin’s, and Arthur gently reined him in before their legs touched more than a gentle brush. “But I cannot abandon her no more than I could you.”

“Oh?” Merlin pushed his lips in a pout. On a girl it would have been cute or cheeky, but he looked ridiculous. “So I’m no better than a bunch of bricks, stacked pretty for your royal highness?”

Arthur snorted, reaching across the short distance of their mounts and shoving Merlin. Merlin almost fell off his horse, and Arthur laughed at the thought of him being the world’s most powerful magic user. “It’s not the bricks, Merlin, it’s what’s inside of her.”

“I know,” Merlin said softly, “It will be nice to see our friends again.”

Arthur silently agreed.

***

Merlin had frozen beneath Arthur’s mouth, but within a moment he was clutching at Arthur’s back, fingers curling tight in the filthy white shirt he wore. His mouth was desperate, hard, and after a moment he realized he could taste tears. They were not just his own.

“I thought I’d lost you for good this time,” Arthur said as he pulled back, “I don’t give a damn about the sorcery. I don’t give a damn about anything except you. But I must -- I have to ask -- Do I even know you, Merlin?”

Merlin hiccuped from the crying, which was probably supremely unattractive but he couldn’t help it. “Better than anyone, Arthur.”

“That’s hardly saying much; you don’t have many friends.” Arthur said shortly, and Merlin opened his mouth to retort but was met once again with Arthur’s lips. He found he did not mind, and curled closer, kissing him again. Arthur’s hands alternated between cradling his cheeks and wiping away tears, and carding through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Merlin kept his own hands wrapped firmly around Arthur, clenching in his shirt as though afraid he’d break away.

Distantly, Merlin was aware of Kilgharrah moving away, muttering something about finding weapons and food while the humans were stupid. The thought was quickly dismissed when Arthur’s fingers scratched through Merlin’s hair.

Arthur pulled away again first, breathing heavily and deeply. “I’ve just lost the crown, for your information.”

“Probably all your beautiful princess suitors, and the money as well,” Merlin agreed, “I’ve no idea why you decided to do that.”

“Neither have I.” Arthur responded, and Merlin kissed him this time, dragging his head down to meet him halfway, tongue darting out to touch.

Arthur laughed against his mouth, “Oh, right. This. This is why,” he murmured against Merlin’s lips, tilting their heads for a better angle. Merlin huffed out a laugh as well, and Arthur pulled him closer.

Merlin suspected this death game arena was not the best place to be aggressively snogging the crown prince of Camelot, but wasn’t sure he could pull himself away any time soon. Arthur held him close, fingers near painful on the back of his neck, and one drifted down to clutch around his waist and pull him tight.

They broke apart at last, both panting. Arthur wiped his mouth, and Merlin felt flushed.

“I’ve loved you for months, Arthur, but I never told because I was worried about the magic…” Merlin trailed off, because Arthur had suddenly gone rigid. “Ar…” His eyes fell to where Arthur’s hand moved, away from his neck and down, clutching at his…

His chest.

A sword had been shoved through his chest.

Arthur made a choking noise, reaching for Merlin with an aborted movement. Merlin saw nothing but the tip of the sword, pointing at him like it was a threat, like it wasn’t shoved through Arthur, like it wasn’t soaking with blood.

The sword ripped out with a noise Merlin would never forget, and Arthur slumped forward into Merlin’s arms. Blood coursed over them both. Merlin started to hyperventilate. “ARthur?! Arthur!”

“You’re a traitor, Emrys, a murdering traitor--”

Mordred did not get to finish speaking. Merlin looked at him, saw him standing there in righteous fury and anger, hurt swirling in gray eyes, and then the boy was gone. He turned to ash instantly. The great dragon was soaring towards them at speeds Merlin had never seen him fly, but it wasn’t he whom had killed the druid boy.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, desperate, hands pressing and pulling. He lowered Arthur to the ground, pressing his hands to the front of the wound, “Arthur, please, please don’t -- don’t die.”

“ Mer lin,” Arthur coughed, blood trickling down his cheek. It came out of his mouth. Merlin was no doctor, not a healer like Gaius, but he knew that was bad. It was all bad. This was all horrible this wasn’t real it wasn’t. “Merlin, stop…”

“No!” Merlin snapped, pressing harder. Arthur wheezed. Blood welled around Merlin’s hands, but that was nothing. Merlin already had blood on his hands. It was fine. This was fine. “Arthur, please, tell me what to do…”

“Merlin,” Arthur choked on the words. He coughed up more blood, and it ran down his lips. Merlin touched their foreheads together, tears stinging his eyes and throat too tight. “I.. want you… to always be you.”

“Arthur, shh… you’re going -- you’re going to live, just don’t speak…” Merlin found it hard to breathe. It was strange -- he hadn’t gotten the sword in his chest. But it damn well felt like it.

“Kiss me.” Arthur ordered, not a request but a demand. Merlin felt more blood pour over his fingers as he met the blue eyes looking at him.

“I can’t let you die…” he whispered, “Please…”

“Your eyes…” Arthur rasped, “They’re gold…” He reached up weakly, one hand clutching at Merlin’s neckerchief. “Please… please Merlin…”

Merlin was crying again. He leaned in and kissed Arthur, regretting all the times before because they had led to this one. Arthur kissed him softly this time, his lips just a ghost of what they’d been before. It seemed impossible to go from one emotion to the next so fast. He should have known. It was not in his destiny to be happy.

But it was his destiny to be powerful.

He released Arthur’s mouth, but kept one hand pressed to his cheek, streaking it with blood. The other pushed hard against the wound in his love’s chest.

“Kilgharrah!” He roared, and the dragon’s great head was at his side in a moment.

“I cannot heal him, young warlock, this was always meant to--”

“ No ,” Merlin snarled, not sure which language he spoke, “Lend me your strength, dragon. I am Emrys, I chose my path. We will die my way.”

The Great Dragon blinked in surprise, and then sadness, but he lowered his snout to Merlin’s outstretched hand anyways, lowering himself to the grass.

“Merlin, what--” Arthur coughed, and more blood poured out of him, “Don’t -- not for -- not for me…”

Merlin kissed him again. Gold light flared around them, brighter than Morgana’s flames, brighter than the light that had whirled around him on Avalon. Brighter than anything that had come before. The Great Dragon fell back and away. Merlin curled himself closer to Arthur, sprawled across his chest. “Together, sire.”

Arthur clutched at him, “I love you.”

Merlin did not reply. The light had reached them. It scorched blindingly white for a moment, and then it was gone.

There was no victor in those games.

***

They looked over a meadow. It stretched wide and familiar, dipping down in the distance into a hill that would lead them into the city. There were flowers blooming in the tall golden grass -- pale blue poppies, marigolds, daffodils and bluebonnets. They swayed with a gentle wind that made the grass hiss like snakes. It was the epitome of spring.

“You are a king men would die for, willingly, with pride. You are a king of his people. And your people need you.” Merlin had the bluest eyes Arthur had ever seen, and they’d never looked more determined than they did now.

“How odd,” Arthur said, “They need me, but all I need is you.”

“Well,” Merlin’s mouth crooked up, his eyes shining, “I suppose they need me too. Greatest warlock of all time, and all that.”

“And yet the worst manservant. Ever.” Arthur tapped his heels into his horse’s sides, urging him forward. “When we settle in, I want you to muck out the stables and bring me a bath. Hot, now that I know it isn’t even a challenge. And after you’ve finished that, you may clean my boots.”

“ Arthur! ” Merlin protested. He gave chase as Arthur urged his horse faster. “Arthur, you cannot expect me to continue--”

“--And after that, I’d like dinner. Oh, and one last thing, Merlin!” Arthur did not let up. He raced faster, his horse’s legs stretching for every inch as Merlin’s smaller horse dashed after.

“Yes, sire?” Merlin called forward, grin spreading wide on his face again.

“I want you to stay beside me. Forever.”

“Forever, my lord?” Merlin caught up as Arthur slowed again, letting his horse fall back beside Merlin and setting their pace at a light canter. Arthur cocked his head to the side as Merlin spoke. “Yeah… yes, sire. Forever sounds. Just about right.”

Arthur smiled, and Merlin followed him down the hill towards what must have been their destiny.