Archive of Our Own

Prologue

The young man, scarcely more than a boy really, steps forward into the great stone hall. It's a warm day outside, but here, between the columns, there is still a pervasive chill, and a gloom that has nothing to do with the thin sunshine streaming in through the small, high windows. It's always cold here, the boy has been told this, so he doesn't do more than take a deep breath, before venturing forth into the cavernous room.

He was expecting grandeur, and he thought there would be people; courtiers, servants, and the like, but he sees instead an empty throne room. The walls are bare of anything excepting the occasional intricate tapestry, and the floor has an expensive carpet laid, so the boy's footsteps make no more noise than a passing mouse. It's meant to be intimidating, the boy thinks, and he knows it works. Camelot's conspicuous wealth is on display, in the carpet and the tapestries, and their ruler's power is evident in the lack of guards. But the boy has been invited today, he has been granted an audience, even if he didn't request one, so he steps forward bravely - because no-one argues with such polite requests. No-one.

The boy wants to believe the room is empty, but he knows better than that. So he is only mildly surprised when a figure leans forward from the shadowed throne. He doesn't jump, and merely swallows once, before belatedly making his bow.

"Your Majesty."

There is a snort, and then a beckoning finger. "Come forward - Taliesin is it?"

The young man - Taliesin - nods, and then moves forward again, almost shuffling on the glorious carpet, uncertain, and ill-at-ease. He thought he wouldn't be frightened, he'd promised himself that he wouldn't be awed - a man in his profession must come to all, king and commoner alike, with the same open heart, and ready tongue. But instead, he finds that faced with the reality, it is almost impossible not to react, not to be intimidated by all that this man has achieved, and almost single-handedly.

There is the glimmer of sharp blue eyes above a long, greying beard. Fleetingly, Taliesin wonders why he doesn't have a barber in to trim it, why he doesn't take more care of himself? And then is horrified, because it's not his place to be making such judgements, such observations. Except that it is, by right of his profession, as bard, as storyteller, as crier of the news. By all of these things he has earned the right to question, to notice, to use such things in his own tales. Judiciously edited, of course, as his own master once laughingly told him. Kings are apt to be hasty in their tempers, after all.

This one isn't hasty though, is he, Taliesin thinks. This one considers everything, looks at all angles, and then uses the minimal necessary force - and his people are grateful for that. Uneasy, he can't deny, but grateful.

"You come highly recommended, you know," says the King, "I have searched for one such as you for a long time - throughout all my kingdoms."

And Taliesin nods and smiles, but his heart sinks a little more into his boots.

"I am happy to serve, your Majesty," he says, and there's another disbelieving snort, but this time, Taliesin can see the King's eyes, and there's a twinkle there, a very reassuring twinkle. He risks a smile.

"It's all right, I won't eat you," the King says, "Whatever you might have heard. I have need of a tale. I want you to tell it around and about, and keep telling it until all who hear it know it to be as true as the ground they stand upon. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course, your Majesty," says Taliesin, but he wonders. "What is the tale, please?"

"It's the story of King Arthur."

Taliesin looks at him politely, waiting for more. "Who?"

His Majesty, High King Merlin, Sorcerer and Ruler of a United Albion, leans back with a sigh, and presses the bridge of his nose.

"And therein lies our problem." His mouth curves into a bittersweet smile. "Let me tell you about Arthur..."

Merlin will never forget what happened that day. It's seared into his memory, something so visceral that he dreams it all again sometimes, and wakes himself with shouting. Sometimes in his dreams the Dragon whispers to him of things he could have done, things he should have done, and Merlin writhes. They were two sides of the same coin, they had a destiny.

And then Arthur died.

Such a stupid thing, such a petty insignificant end that Merlin still wants to scream, to rage. Because it was all his fault. It's not as though Gaius hadn't warned him enough times, but he'd been young, and headstrong, and thought he knew everything. Merlin wants to shout at his younger self to wake up, to stop being so mindlessly, needlessly arrogant. To realise what it is he is about to lose.

Merlin had been caught. A petty use of magic while grooming Arthur's spare mount - what was its name? Sable, that's it - and Merlin can still hear the clatter of the brushes as they fall to the ground; the gasp of horror from Sir Anselm, one of Uther's knights, not Arthur's; the tramp of his boots as he went to tell the King.

Merlin can still feel the dry throat as he'd waited, head down, for them to come. He'd contemplated running - of course, he could have got himself away, with careful misdirection - but then he'd thought of the open road, and his mother's agonised face. He'd thought of exile forever, and most importantly, he'd thought of Arthur.

Merlin had thought Arthur would be able to help, would be able to persuade Uther to relent, would be able to save him, like they had so often done for each other in the past. He'd believed it, even as he'd had been taken to the deepest dungeon and heard the heavy key turn in the lock. Even as Uther came to visit him, with hatred in his eyes, and venom on his lips, Merlin had believed in Arthur.

It consoles Merlin little to know that he would have been correct. Probably. Possibly. Even as one day turned into two, and then three, all without his execution being obviously planned, Merlin believed in Arthur. He tried to feel something in the few wafts of fresh air that made their way to him, tried to sense something in the dust that danced in the few shafts of light that succeeded in their journey down from the tiny, distant window, but he failed. And the guards weren't talking to him, however much he tried, until eventually Merlin had stopped trying, particularly when it looked like they might want to attempt a few more up close and personal methods to get him to stop talking. Merlin remembers he'd felt lonely, missing his friends. Even Gwen hadn't succeeded this time in sneaking in to see him.

Really, he'd had no idea.

Merlin had known, of course. He hadn't known that he would know, if that makes any sense, but when the time came... It was like something had been ripped from his chest. Even now, even all these years later, Merlin can lift his hand to his breast and feel the hole. It seems like he can.

It had been bandits, no more than that. Arthur had been on patrol, and not even a distant patrol either, because he'd been sticking close to the castle for Merlin's sake. That's what Gwen said later, and it sounded like Arthur, Merlin agreed. So there Arthur was, on patrol, with a pair of knights, no more, and these bandits decided to chance their arm. Not literally, naturally - taking on three of Camelot's finest? In open, honest combat? No, they hadn't been stupid. They'd fired arrows. From deep cover. Arthur's chain-mail should have taken care of it, but that's where the bandits had been lucky, or unlucky, depending on the point of view. One had caught Arthur under the arm, as he'd lifted it up to brush away a branch, more than likely, and it had driven in deeply, through his armpit and into his chest, where for ease of movement the chain was absent. A chance blow, the unlikeliest event. Merlin didn't see the slow motion tumble, as Arthur fell from his horse, but sometimes he thinks he has, he's dreamed it so often.

Merlin had felt it, that moment, that pain. Perhaps he'd felt Arthur's torment before, but usually when Arthur had been hurt, Merlin had been there - and he'd never noticed that he felt something especially different. But down in the dark, in the quiet, with nothing else to distract him... It was like a sudden blow, hot and cold agony, and Merlin remembers he'd jerked himself to his feet with Arthur's name on his lips, the walls spinning, as he fell from his horse, the ground rushing up, and then it was too late. He'd felt nothing.

It was funny, Merlin knew. Until that second, he thought he'd had troubles, that his worries couldn't get larger, or more important. It's funny how wrong someone can be.

And Arthur's laughing, throwing his head back, turning to talk to Sir Gruffyd, brushing aside a branch, and Merlin's on the horse behind him, smiling, but hiding it. Can't be having His Royal Prattishness notice that he's that amusing. Especially after Merlin's been dragged out on patrol - for absolutely no reason, other than Arthur wanted to make him suffer. Merlin had better complain about something soon, or Arthur may think he's enjoying himself, and that would never do.

Then out of nowhere there's a whistling sound, high and whining, like a mosquito, and Merlin's heart freezes. Luckily it's instinctive, stupid, but instinctive, and Merlin stops time with a wave of his hand. There's an arrow, heading straight for Arthur, its metal tip parting the air, as though it's straining for flesh, inches from his unprotected armpit. Arthur is poised, still laughing, beginning to frown at the noise, and the early sun is hitting him just so, until he's golden in the light. Merlin wants to touch, he wants to run his fingers through the ruffled hair, he wants to slide them along the parted lips. Sir Gruffyd is beginning to look round, he looks startled. Their horses are balanced, quite unnaturally, like statues, like a painting. All this Merlin notices, feels, thinks, in the seconds it takes to whip the arrow aside about six inches, so it will careen harmlessly over Sable's head.

Time starts again seamlessly, with Merlin's hand outstretched, as though gesturing a warning. There proves to be a sorry looking group of bandits trying their luck from ambush. What luck they have, however, proves to be bad, because Arthur and Gruffyd make short work of them, while Merlin stays on his horse, and persuades it that it doesn't want to run away.

He sometimes wishes he could be more help. More obvious help. Arthur taunts him about his uselessness all the way home, and Merlin fumes quietly, because with Gruffyd there he can't answer back. It's funny, but the memory of Arthur's hair in the sunlight stays with him a lot longer than the jumpiness from the scare.

In the aftermath of Arthur's death, Merlin remembers that shock had kept him still, and grief had kept him angry. He's the first one to admit that he probably wasn't thinking very rationally. In the confusion - a castle in shock, its people in disarray - Gwen managed to sneak in and visit him. Merlin had known her news, of course he had, but he hadn't known it. He'd swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat had threatened to choke him, before he drained it away into fury. They were meant to be together - he and Arthur. It wasn't meant to end this way.

And that's when Uther caught them. Why Arthur's paranoid grieving father had chosen to visit a sorcerer in his cell, when his only son's body was cold in the chapel, only the Fates can say. But Merlin has thought about it over the years. Uther was suffering as Merlin was, and, unlike Merlin, he had a convenient scapegoat to hand. Gwen being there, against his express orders, was merely icing on the cake. Or the straw that broke Merlin's back anyway.

Merlin can still see the flecks of saliva on Uther's lips as he'd ranted outside the bars. As he'd threatened to behead Gwen as a Sorcerer's Apprentice on a block right next to Merlin's. That he'd see her head roll, just before his own. Merlin knows now that Uther was hurting, was taking it out on Merlin, and anyone else to hand. But at the time...

A threat to Gwen, or Morgana, or Gaius, was probably the only thing that could have got through to him at the time. Merlin still wonders if maybe it would have been better if it hadn't. If things had been different. But that's another of those things he's been making amends for, over the years.

Even as the spittle from Uther's furious lips fell on Gwen's cowering form, Merlin felt something snap inside. He'd been hiding for so long because his mother had wanted him to, and Gaius counselled it, and because this was one way to protect Arthur. It allowed Merlin to stay with Arthur. And while all the reasons were still there, most of them were negated by now. Certainly the most important of them was as cold and still as the marble upon which he lay.

Merlin had waved his hands and the barred doors had flown open as though they'd never been locked. He does feel guilty, sometimes, given what happened later, but the look of surprise and horror on Uther's face had been worth it. When Merlin recalls it, he is shamefaced but still defiant. He still thinks he had no choice.

The walk to the surface had been a gamut of escalating challenges. Uther had not allowed Merlin to just walk free. Merlin, for his part, had been desperately trying to make sure that no-one was seriously hurt, which was a more difficult proposition than merely escaping. He remembers that Gwen had trailed behind, like a small scared ghost, and that he'd been protecting her too, all the while. He remembers being worried that Gwen would never talk to him again.

The air had been crackling with energy by the time Merlin emerged into the courtyard, and his hair was standing on end; his eyes felt like they were on fire, not just flashing gold. He'd been fed up, and full of righteous anger as it was, and then he'd seen Sable, Arthur's mount, still accoutred for patrol, not even her stirrup leathers taken in, and it had hit him again. That hole where Arthur had been, that he would never again fill. He might have wept, thinks Merlin, he might have allowed himself to mourn. But he didn't. He didn't.

Instead, the anger had filled him up, filled him like a goblet is filled with wine, until it overflowed. His anger at Nimueh on the Isle of the Blessed was like a summer storm to winter's harshest tempest. He... let go. He lost control.

Merlin has promised himself that he will never do it again. He's kept his promise.

The wind howled and lightning crackled, arching down from a clear blue sky. People were screaming and running, horses were panicking, knights were holding on to anything solid in order to remain standing, and Uther... Uther pulled out his sword, and ran at Merlin, pushing against the press of the wind, leaning into it, his insults lost in the maelstrom. Surely, it wasn't his fault? Merlin doesn't really know...

Because even as Uther rushed at Merlin, to kill him, to murder him, Merlin instead lifted Uther high into the air, the wind whipping about him, but out of harm's way, his sword no danger to anyone. Certainly there was no danger of it stabbing Merlin in the back any more, which at the time was all he cared about. But Merlin is certain that however angry he was, however much the magic that crackled around him ached to put an end to all this, however much he was deeply hurting, that he didn't do anything else, that his magic was completely under his control, that it was mere coincidence alone, an old man over-stretched, made weak with grief and loss, made apoplectic with fear and loathing.

For as Merlin held Uther high over his head, his eyes blazing gold, and as he whipped his gaze around, and bared his teeth at all the cowering courtiers, even as he did this, Uther clutched at his chest, and gasped, and choked, and died.

A weakness of the heart, Gaius said later. It could have happened at any time. Uther, after all, was an old man.

But Merlin doesn't think that anyone else in the entire kingdom believes that. In the eyes of his people that moment is when King Merlin began his new reign. In the eyes of the world he is a Regicide. He is a Usurper.

In all the long years since - Merlin has grown accustomed to the feeling.

"How is he doing?" Merlin asks, his voice hushed, as though he can disturb things, even from outside the door.

Gwen smiles, but absently; she looks tired. Gaius is still within, or Merlin would be asking him.

"He's very weak," says Gwen, refolding the towel in her arms in a nervous way. "Apparently such troubles of the heart can come on suddenly, Gaius says. It could have happened anytime. It's a miracle he's alive."

She looks around suddenly, as though she fears to be overheard, as though it's disloyal to talk about King Uther in this way, and Merlin catches her hand as it plucks at the material.

"Don't worry, Gaius will do everything he can. And at least Arthur's with him, at least he gets... he gets to say goodbye."

They share a glance that is completely in sympathy. Perhaps Uther's illness doesn't trouble them as much as it should, but they both care about Arthur. As soon as word was sent, Arthur rode like a demon back to Camelot, and he hasn't left the King's bedside since. The King's heart is finally giving out, and Merlin ignores the whispers that want him to make light of it, murmurs that say at least it proves that the King actually has one. Inappropriate humour is Merlin's stock in trade, but not now. Even Merlin knows better than that.

"How's Morgana?" Merlin asks, after a few seconds of silence. It's belated, but heartfelt. She loves Uther as much as Arthur does, for all that most of their interactions are stormy. Gwen gives him a wan smile.

"As might be expected. She's staying strong."

By that Merlin assumes she's not dissolving into a heap of maidenly tears, although surely no-one would expect that of Morgana. He quirks a wry grin, but wonders. It's hardly as though Merlin expects her to be like other courtly ladies. He wonders what else it is that Gwen is hiding. Her dreams, probably. Merlin hopes they are good ones.

They both jump guiltily apart, as the door to the King's bedchamber crashes open. Merlin has time for the fleeting thought that maybe he's exchanged inappropriate humour for inappropriate guilt, before he's looking into Arthur's eyes. He swallows. Merlin doesn't need to be a seer to know that Uther must have passed away. The grief and anger in Arthur's eyes is terrible. He plucks Merlin up by the sleeve and begins to tow him towards his own chambers. Over his shoulder he can see Gwen, standing like a stone in the current, as a stream of people leave the room. He sees Gaius shaking his head, he sees Geoffrey, off to record the event, off to inform the heralds and to bring the flags down low. Then his vision is cut off by buttressed walls, as they turn the corner.

Arthur doesn't stop until they reach his chambers. Merlin tries to pluck up the courage to say something, anything, but fails miserably. The trouble with being a tactless incompetent servant, is that sometimes, he wishes he wasn't.

Arthur only lets him go as he closes the door. Merlin stands by the table, looking at the fruit bowl, incongruously wondering whether it's easy to learn to juggle. Whether magic would make it harder or more simple. Whether it would take that horrible look off Arthur's face, if he learned.

"We're going hunting," Arthur announces, and drags his bag out from under the wardrobe.

"If you say so, " says Merlin, and moves forward to begin to pack the bag.

"Damn you, Merlin - I say we are, so we are!"

"I'm not arguing - Sire." There, that should get him.

"But you obviously don't agree. Of course you don't, you never agree with me. Don't you understand, I need to get out of here! I need..."

Merlin watches Arthur. He's too pale around the mouth, and too flushed in the cheek. He's shaking, very slightly.

"Everyone is looking to you - your Majesty," Merlin says, gently, "It's awful and horrible, but you can't leave. Not now. Not yet. There are preparations to be made, and people who will want to see you. I've fended off about five nobles already, and they're just the start."

Merlin moves forward, until he can see Arthur's white knuckles as he clutches at the leather of the bag. Greatly daring, holding his breath, he places a hand on the Arthur's sleeve.

"Arthur? I'm really sorry. About... everything. I'm sorry for your loss."

And with a sudden move, like he is when he's hunting, silent and swift, Arthur rounds on Merlin. It's as though he's going to attack him, and Merlin almost takes a step back. Instead, Arthur stares into his eyes for a second, before slowly lowering his head, until he's resting his brow against Merlin's shoulder. It's an easy thing, they're much of a height, Merlin's even a little taller. He doesn't do anything more however, as though that's all he will allow himself, his hands still hanging by his sides. Merlin is aghast, his fingers still caught in Arthur's sleeve, fumbling for words, or a gesture - anything. Then Merlin takes a deep breath. He's being ridiculous - this is Arthur. It's not as if he'll ever ask for what he wants, it's not as though he can simply let himself. Merlin finds his arms moving to curve round Arthur's slightly bowed form, sliding his hands up across his shoulders, the linen of his shirt feeling smooth and warm, the flesh beneath taut with grief and loss. Pulling him into a hug isn't difficult, if he doesn't think about it. Hugging Arthur is easy.

Soft blond hair is tickling his lips, and Merlin tries not to think. He turns his head, buries his mouth in Arthur's hair, and closes his eyes.

It was Morgana who bowed to him first. In that windswept courtyard, scattered with debris, she came walking down the steps of the castle like a queen. Merlin remembers thinking that it should have been her standing there, instead of him, but then being grateful that she didn't have all that hatred to deal with, all the staring eyes. She curtsied before him, her skirts spreading out like a pool of water, her head lowered. It was instinctive. Merlin had reached forward and lifted her up. It was wrong, having Morgana bow to him.

But it was enough. First one, then another and another, servants across the courtyard were kneeling, and then the knights, Uther's first, then some of Arthur's. Their eyes looked bruised with grief, and Merlin understood - he knew how they felt. But as Morgana whispered into his ear, he understood other things. He took their homage as his right, and he tried not to trip over his own feet, as he walked from the scene. He left Uther to be picked up by his own men, to be laid in state in his own chambers, and he want straight to the chapel, there to hold vigil by Arthur.

It's rulership by right of combat, said Morgana. You don't think Uther had any other right to this kingdom, do you? He stole it from Ulfric before him. Why do you think Uther always wanted Arthur to be the best on the field? He knew this day was coming.

I didn't kill him, Merlin had said, and Morgana had pursed her lips, had turned away.

It doesn't matter, she'd said, and Merlin knew it to be true.

He'd let her go, he'd let her begin to put in place all the necessary shifts in power, to allow the transition to be as smooth as possible. He'd let her do all that, as he stood by Arthur's side for the last time, watching him sleep. He could have been still alive, Merlin had thought, he'd looked so peaceful, too pale perhaps, but then, Arthur always worked so hard. For the last time, Merlin stood by his Prince's side, and then Gwen had met him, her arms full of clothes, and Merlin had turned away.

He stood still, as Arthur had for him, and he'd let Gwen dress him in robes fit for the King he now supposed he was. They were heavy, but Merlin wasn't really surprised.

The trumpets blare, in one single great blast of noise. Merlin would wince, since he's closest to them, even if they're not facing him, but even Merlin knows he has to put on his game face today. His cheeks ache with smiling so much, and he's not even faking. Today is a glorious day. Today is the day that Arthur is crowned King in Camelot.

In serried rows before them on the steps outside the throne room, stand Arthur's knights, resplendent in shined armour and new surcoats, devices blazing in the sun. Behind them the servants are brilliant in matching livery, and not a stupid hat among the lot of them. Behind them are the townsfolk, their numbers swelled by the hundreds that have come in from the outlying villages to celebrate the coronation, and they're all, the whole lot of them, cheering Arthur to a man, to every man, woman and child. There's no reluctance, no hesitation, just outright happiness on their faces, reflected on Merlin's, on the King's entourage, and on Arthur's faintly smiling lips.

On both sides, in positions of honour, carefully placed to see all the pomp and ceremony, to see the people's loyalty, and Arthur's strength at arms, are the representatives. Ambassadors and diplomats, lords and princes. All the vassals that need to swear their fealty afresh to the new King, all the witnesses sent from foreign Kingdoms, all the gentry of every land. They're making a brave show of their own, there's enough velvet and lace fluttering together to almost put the royal pennants to shame. Almost.

But Merlin thinks there's no sight finer than that of Arthur himself. His armour gleams richly in the sun, and Merlin should know, since he did more than polish it by hand, it's as sparkling as magic can make it, and that's pretty damn sparkly. On his new scarlet surcoat, the Pendragon device is sewn in real gold thread, and every single servant in the castle had a hand in it, every single one has set a stitch, even Merlin, so that they can all feel part of this moment, all one, all together. And that almost brings a lump to Merlin's throat. Because that's what Arthur's reign will stand for, he hopes, he prays. Arthur stands for them all, and they are so happy, they are so grateful, all looking forward to the future. For everyone is under Arthur's protection, at last.

Merlin began his reign by having breakfast. He could feel the uneasiness of the land, uncertainty spreading out as fast as rumours had legs, and he knew that there were rumblings and shifts in the power struggles of their neighbours. Merlin had wondered how long it would take them to mobilise, to test his powers, his boundaries. He wondered who he'd have to fight first.

But before all that, Merlin had breakfast, every morning, with Morgana and Gwen. Gwen was there for propriety, and to serve them, but as soon as the door shut, she sat down and tucked in as eagerly as either of them. It was the only time they had for one another. Merlin recalls that they'd laughed, after a while, at silly things, hiding their giggles behind their napkins. It was magical, it was a blessed time.

Merlin remembers very well when Morgana had her first vision. One morning, he'd just been bracing himself to dress formally, and go and face the Council. They had been expecting a report from the outlying scouts, days late, and Merlin had been considering some sort of scrying, to impress those who might still doubt him, when Morgana had winced, and put her hand to her forehead.

My lady, Gwen had said, and rushed to her side.

Morgana, are you all right, Merlin had asked, had leaned forward, and watched as she'd stared at him. I'm fine, she'd answered, it's nothing. It's just a dream I had. Arthur was... She'd shaken her head. It's nothing.

Merlin had stared at her, wondering. He'd asked Gwen, later, to find out what the dreams were about. It was easy to convince Gwen to do it. She was worried about Morgana, and it hadn't taken her long to become accustomed to Merlin's magic. She'd said that it explained more than a few things. Now Gwen seemed convinced that Merlin's magic could solve everything, could solve all of Camelot's problems. That it was the only thing standing between the kingdom and ruin. Gwen's faith could be exhausting some days, Merlin had discovered. He wondered if that was how Arthur had felt, all the time.

He'd changed his mind after she'd begun to report what Morgana had seen. Morgana was a Seer, and as far as Merlin understood it, her dreams had an alarming propensity to come true. But Morgana wasn't dreaming the future, she couldn't be - she was dreaming of Arthur. She was dreaming of Arthur, as if he'd lived, as if he were the King, and not Merlin, what he would have done, how he might have acted.

It had torn Merlin's heart in two, it tormented him with might-have-beens. He'd hated the dreams at first, and he'd almost told Gwen to stop asking, but the thought of losing his last link to Arthur, to that happy time - to his destiny, even - was too much to bear. He found he lapped up the stories, the tales, how Arthur had laughed at the Ambassador from Gwynedd, who couldn't handle his mead and decided to juggle with the contents of the fruit bowl at the feast held in his honour. How Arthur had changed the rule that only nobles could be Knights, and watched his ranks grow with the best and brightest. How Arthur had marched to defend the Kingdom from those who would test him.

We have that in common, at the very least, Merlin had thought darkly, and went to draw up his battle plans.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Merlin! What did I do to deserve such a useless manservant!"

Merlin looks up from tightening the buckles of Arthur's vambrace, and gets the full force of a stormy blue gaze, full pouting lips, and the slightest hint of unease under the irritation. He blinks. Then he looks down again quickly, in case the downright fear in his own eyes is picked up on by Arthur.

It is the eve of Camelot's first battle since Arthur's succession, the first skirmish in a war that Merlin suspects will be a protracted test of Arthur's skills as a fighter, and as a King. And it's stupid really, it's not like Merlin has to worry, it's not like Arthur isn't actually good, or anything. But there's still a little voice in his head that tells him there's always accidents, there's always chance...

"Sorry," says Merlin, who isn't sorry at all. He isn't even sure what Arthur's complaining about. He waits a beat and then adds, "Look, are you sure - let me come, I've been practicing, and you need a squire..."

"No," says Arthur, heavily, "I don't. No one in their right mind expects you to fight. In fact, our own side is grateful that you're staying right here. Given your clumsiness, the last thing we need is you on the battlefield, skewering yourself, or worse, someone else, when you trip over your own feet."

"Thanks for that," says Merlin, but he can hear the affection in Arthur's tone, the hint of ease that this kind of banter gives him.

Merlin's glad he can help, but he still wishes he could be out there today. Well, not actually wishing it per se, more scared of not being there. He wants to protect Arthur, and how can he do that when he's stuck in this stupid tent, polishing armour, and just waiting?

Of course, he could tell Arthur he can chuck fireballs about like a demented clown. He could...

Merlin doesn't want things to change. He'd meant to tell Arthur his secret as soon as he'd been crowned, but then one thing had led to another and before he knew it, well, now it feels too late. What on earth will Arthur say? What will he do? Will he ever forgive him?

Merlin stands up and steps behind Arthur. He begins to pleat the corners of Arthur's red cloak, so that it will flutter properly as he charges. He wishes Arthur didn't have to be such a symbol, so obviously and wholly Arthur - it feels like dressing him up as a target and then waving delightedly to the enemy, look, look, he's over here... He's fussing, and he knows it, but Merlin doesn't want to let Arthur go.

"Come here," says Arthur, and turns to face him, the silk of his cloak sliding away through Merlin's fingertips.

Merlin doesn't know what Arthur sees in his face, but the stormy look softens. He grasps Merlin by the shoulders, fingers digging in, bleeding warmth through Merlin's shirt. "I'm coming back, you idiot," he says, and Merlin nods. Of course, he is.

And then they're kissing, as suddenly as that, smoothly, as though they've done this for years. Merlin's arms are lifting up and clutching at hard chain-mail, and it's ridiculous, it's such a bad time for this, and that's totally Arthur all over. Merlin opens his mouth tell him so and Arthur slides his tongue in, and then all Merlin can think about is warm, and impossibly good, and more.

When the kiss comes to a natural end they're both breathing hard, and Merlin's hands, and feet, and for some reason, the tip of his nose, are tingling. They rest there, both of them, still standing in the middle of the tent, foreheads leaning together, just exploring this new thing, that nevertheless feels wholly inevitable.

"Arthur..." Merlin whispers, determined that now, finally, he's going to tell him about his magic, because it seems to be the time for revelations, and surely Arthur will understand. "Arthur, I've something I have to tell you..."

Arthur pushes him back a little, then gives him a sunny smile filled with such mischief, and hope, and sweetness, it takes Merlin's breath away.

"Later, Merlin," says Arthur, and grabs his helmet, "I've got a battle to win."

And strides out of the tent.

Merlin stares after him in something like shock, a familiar feeling of irritation creeping over him. Typical Arthur, high-handed, arrogant, impatient...

"Prat," whispers Merlin, like a prayer, and closes his eyes.

Merlin had promised never to visit the Dragon again. After the incident with the Questing Beast, he'd sworn that he wouldn't, that the creature could rot in its cavernous prison for all he cared, but things change; he'd found such promises didn't mean that much once Arthur died.

Merlin had been toying with an idea, something that was ridiculous, of course, and fantastical, and absurd, but something that made his hands sweat, and his heart beat faster. Maybe the beast had a solution, or at least could tell him it was impossible. Things were different now, so very different. Merlin had never wanted to be King, it was the loneliest job on earth, and he was bad at it, Merlin was sure. It was never meant to be Merlin's anyway, it wasn't his destiny.

It was a stupid idea, he knew, but maybe... Maybe the Great Dragon could help bring Arthur... back.

The notion had kept occurring to him, even when he was sat on the throne, and the crown was heavy, and the farmers with their disputes were so badly frightened that their knees were knocking together. This couldn't be right. And so he'd gone to see the Dragon, not to ask his advice, no, of course not, but to... talk. That was all.

He might as well not have bothered though, because even when Merlin was standing in his cave, torch held in a defiant hand, and his chin high, the bothersome lizard didn't want to converse. It wanted to laugh instead, it wanted to pronounce incomprehensible declarations, and it wanted to smirk.

I know why you're here, young warlock, it had said. I know and I will not help you. The river does not flow backwards, not even for you. Especially not for you.

But this wasn't meant to be, Merlin had cried. This wasn't my destiny, I thought we were two sides of the same coin.

The Dragon had huffed its amusement. Perhaps it was false coin then. No-one can see all there is, not even I, there are too many paths. You must be content with power, and not with love. Your destiny has changed.

But...

I do not care, said the Dragon, and raised itself and baited its wings. Merlin ducked his head against the drafts. I do not care because you have brought magic back to the land, and that is all that matters to me.

It had curled its tail about itself then and Merlin had stared at it in its smugness, helpless and angry. Well, not quite helpless.

You will never see the sun, he'd said. Not while I sit upon Camelot's throne. How much good does the magic do you then?

It had not roared, or blown fire from its mouth, or shown any signs of impatience.

You will learn, it said, you will learn and I can wait.

And Merlin had thought that it might be right. He would learn, and he would prove it wrong. If his destiny had changed, then it could change again.

Details might be a long time coming but Merlin rather thought that the plan was born that night, in that very moment. It crystallised like diamond, hard and unbreakable and so very, very sharp.

"Merlin," says Arthur, and pokes him in the shoulder.

Merlin, who wasn't really awake, thank you very much, but is now, oh yes, grunts and rolls over. There's not that much room in any bedroll on campaign, and sharing only one, as they are, makes things doubly difficult. He tries not to whine as more of the precious heat is leached out from between them and into the tent.

He cracks open one eyes, and sees that his Majesty, King Slave-driver, is sat up in bed, no less, which is a waste, and he's frowning too. Merlin just wants to bury into the bedclothes again, and hopefully into Arthur's warm side. It seems perverse and annoying of Arthur, although entirely typical, that now he's awake, he expects the same of Merlin.

Lazily, Merlin drifts his hand a little southwards, just to see if Arthur's distractible, only to have his hand captured, and turned over. Arthur runs his fingers over Merlin's palm in a gentle caress, that tickles, even as Merlin's own heart turns over with a sudden surge of affection. It wakes him too, which is more likely the purpose.

"What?" he asks, at last, and grabs for that tickling hand, only to bring it to his mouth, to suck wetly on a finger, listening for the intake of breath, sharp and poorly hidden.

"The messenger isn't here yet."

There's light shining through the pale canvas walls, which means it's after dawn. That wakes Merlin up some more. The teams of messengers that run back and forth between Camelot and... where are they at the moment? Esktir, Merlin thinks. And then is ashamed that he cannot even remember whether or not he is in the Kingdom of his birth. The teams run back and forth, at night, to foil potential attacks upon them, passing along the army's messages. They keep the supply lines open, they carry news, they carry orders, when Arthur needs them to. They arrive with the dawn. Trust Arthur to be wakened by their lack.

"Bugger," he says succinctly, and is rewarded with Arthur's wry smile.

And that is all they have time for, as the camp suddenly erupts into chaos, the sound of shouting far too close, and the clash of metal harshly immediate. Merlin has a sudden visceral sense memory of fighting off bandits in Ealdor, the feel of a sword in his hands, the scent of fear and sweat in his nostrils. The drag of grief for Will's death heavy in his limbs. There is a sudden tang of smoke in his nose and he can't tell for one bewildered second if it's real or just a memory.

Then Arthur is up, and out of the tent, only pausing long enough to pick up his sword. Terror sends Merlin after him, thanking some good spirit or another that it's cold enough they are forced to sleep in shirts and leggings. Cursing that it's not so cold, or yet so dangerous, that they have to sleep in armour.

Stumbling out of the tent Merlin sees what he's thought about for so long, what his heartsick imagination has conjured up all these weeks. Arthur is a whirling mass of limbs and lethal metal, trying to keep the attackers - King Cendred's men, of course, crept up on them in the night, a coward's attack, but Merlin can't deny its efficacy - from getting near enough to touch him. Trying to do the work of full chain, and a plate hauberk, all by himself, as the camp is torn apart around them. Arthur's beautiful though - Merlin thought he might be, even as he realises he has no time to gape, no time at all.

There's men in armour coming at him too, and he's fleetingly glad that the same armour, or lack of it, allows him to tell friend from foe. He parries, then ducks, and then jumps back, his style as crude as ever, as he looks for an opening, and tries not to get skewered himself. He pulls the tent down on his opponent using magic in the end, too frantic to find anything more subtle, and then whips his head around, searching for Arthur. It's not a moment too soon - Merlin's heart is in his throat as he realises that Arthur is furiously fighting on two sides, not realising that another knight is coming up on his blind side. It's too late, the knight's sword is already heading for Arthur's kidneys, it's moving in slow motion, Merlin can see every nick on the blade, every droplet of blood from kills already made. He won't be in time.

Time speeds up. He will be in time. There is no other acceptable outcome. That sword is something Merlin needs - he will have it now, thank you very much, and he wills it so, throwing up a barrier with his other hand in case it comes pointy end first.

The call is urgent, Merlin will give it that - the knight's sword wobbles slightly, as the man clearly tries to force it to do something it no longer wants to do, before it is wrenched out of his hand. The meaty sound of the pommel smacking into his palm is sweet music to Merlin's ears, and he lets out a sigh he hadn't even realised he was holding.

Then - smack, smack, clang - suddenly swords are flying at Merlin from all sides, first a few, then a few more, then dozens. If it wasn't for his barrier he'd have been a pin-cushion in seconds. As it is, he still looks like some kind of weird metal hedgehog, and that's not... going to be easy to explain. Merlin focuses on the world outside of sword attraction and locks eyes with Arthur, who is glowering at him with empty hands. Merlin refocuses again - it's not just the swords of King Cendred's men that his spell has grabbed, apparently it's everyone's. Merlin swallows. Everybody is staring. Everybody is quiet. It can't last.

There is a heavy bong noise, followed by a clatter. A score of other objects begin winging their way towards Merlin, a cook-pot, a spit, a metal spoon. Their impacts make him stagger, he feels enveloped, overwhelmed. It's a bit odd this - almost like spiky armour of his own. It might be useful if he could actually walk under the weight, which he can't. Typical, really. His spells are no more reliable than they've ever been, and now everybody knows. At least Arthur is safe, that's all that really matters. Oh hell. Oh Arthur.

Merlin desperately looks back to where Arthur is standing, his face inscrutable, his expression grim, or blank, or murderous. Merlin can't tell any more.

"Bugger," he says for the second time that morning, his heart in his boots.

And that's when Arthur begins to laugh.

Morgana, Merlin had asked. Tell me more about your dreams.

Morgana had looked askance at him, and hissed, not here, Merlin. Are you mad? What are you thinking? Somebody might overhear. She'd looked aghast, mortified. Guilty.

I think that magic has returned to the land of Camelot, Merlin had replied. I think that it's returned to Mercia and Esktir too, he'd added, to be scrupulously fair, which was as far as the conquering armies had gone. I think it doesn't matter what people think any more.

Maybe for you, Morgana had said, and Merlin had smiled, because it was funny. He hadn't wanted to topple the rightful Kings of Mercia and Esktir either, but he'd had no choice. They'd marched against Camelot, and Merlin had defended himself. He imagined that parts of Esktir's army were still picking themselves up from wherever the storm had blown them.

His own people whispered in corners even more now, about their great Sorcerer-King. He expected it was all good, because they assumed he could listen in. If he chose to, he could, it was true.

Morgana, he'd said again, patiently. Tell me your dreams. And Morgana had.

Because Merlin didn't only send out conquering armies. He also sent out scholars and scribes. He sent out traders. He'd made it known there was a welcome at Camelot for magicians, for enchanters, for wizards and warlocks, for bards. He began to read, and to study.

Merlin had decided. He knew that Camelot would never be what Arthur would have made it, but it could be the next best thing. Merlin could use the information from Morgana's dreams to let him know what Arthur would have done. The Dragon had claimed that he couldn't bring Arthur back, but... his deeds? The world he would have left? Those Merlin could provide. So the ranks of their knights swelled with those of commoners, and then the armies marched out to battle after battle, Merlin at their head, ready to sweep away all opposition. Arthur was forced to defeat eleven other lands, Morgana told him, becoming the High King almost by default. And so Merlin conquered eleven lands. He didn't become High King by accident, unlike Arthur. He became High King by design. He enforced peace, and civilization, whether it was required or not.

And then he came home, to Camelot, and he went to Arthur's tomb. Morgana had told him that Arthur knew of Merlin's magic, learned of it in battle, and had forgiven him easily in the end. So Merlin confessed all he had done, all he planned to do, telling it to the stone, to the effigy of Arthur carved on the tomb's lid, whispering his hopes and dreams into Arthur's ear, as ever.

The stone was cold, but that was all right. Merlin was cold too.

"It's good to be heading home at last," says Arthur, before blowing a breath out that steams a little in the chill air of autumn. "Don't you think, Merlin?"

His horse is ambling alongside Arthur's, content enough to be there, rather like Merlin himself. It means that he's not paying attention, not enough anyway, because he's worrying instead. So Arthur shifts in the saddle slightly to bump his knee into Merlin's.

"Merlin? You're dreaming again - honestly, I've never met someone who could fall asleep with their eyes open like you can. It's uncanny."

Merlin shifts, looks at him, looks away. Feels stupid.

Arthur blows another breath. "Oh for goodness' sake, I didn't mean magical uncanny - I just meant... strange, different. Like your ears. They're not magical too, are they?"

Merlin sighs, relaxes, and gives Arthur a smile. He knows he's being paranoid. But the closer they get to Camelot, the more jumpy he's becoming. The army has learned to accept him over the months of campaign, he's saved a lot of lives with his magic, he knows. He's caused a lot of enemy deaths too, although he's minimised them where he can. They've taken numerous surrenders, and Arthur has had fealty sworn to him by more lordlings than Merlin can count. But this is different. This is Camelot.

"I can't help it," Merlin says, at last, "When I left here I was just your body servant, and squire. And now... it's different."

He looks over again. Arthur's looking fierce, and probably doesn't even realise it, Merlin thinks. It makes him smile again, more genuinely.

Arthur changes the subject, something Merlin's noticed he often does when he feels uncomfortable. "Your metal attraction spell, how's it going?"

After the first use, which was pretty spectacular, Merlin admits, he's been forced into other tactics. In the heat of battle, attracting everyone's weapons is not as useful as it might be. Arthur has told him to practice it, and attempt to get him some fine control. It's not working so far, so he shakes his head.

"Not refined enough, sorry. I've got it so it doesn't attract more valuable metals like gold and silver, but every scrap of iron in the vicinity - bang - sticks like glue. I'm worse than a lodestone."

Arthur laughs, "You do look pretty funny with a cauldron on your head, I'll give you that. Well, it's still useful for emergencies, even if you never get it right." He smirks at Merlin. "Pity I can't have a sword made of gold or silver. It would be too soft, of course, but imagine facing an entire army holding the only sword? I'd be like that one-eyed man in the country of the blind."

Merlin snorts. "You're already King, what more do you want?" But his mind is busy working.

"Arthur? Can we stop by the lake on the way home? Just the two of us?"

Arthur stares at him. "If you want. Although after all these months on a bedroll, I thought you'd be happier to head straight back to freshly drawn baths and a real bed for a change. There's no accounting for taste."

"Am I drawing that bath?" Merlin asks, distracted suddenly by a fresh concern.

Arthur opens his mouth to tease him, probably, and call him a useless servant, then shuts it again. Merlin watches, fond and exasperated in equal measure, as Arthur thinks about it.

"I suppose not." Arthur looks disconcerted. "You're my official Court Sorcerer now. You ought to have a... tower, I suppose. Would you like a tower, Merlin?"

"Huh." Merlin stares at Arthur through his lashes. "The only tower I want to climb is..."

He snickers as Arthur whacks him with his riding glove.

"No, I don't want a tower. But I want a room near to yours, if that's all right. I mean, we don't want you all unprotected from evil sorcerers in the night, now do we?"

"I think that can be arranged," says Arthur, and his tone is as fond as Merlin's own. "In fact, I think it's likely to be a suite. If I visit, I don't want to feel like I'm slumming it, now do I?"

Merlin rolls his eyes, and then draws the horse to stop. "Here's the turning for the lake. You might want to let the army know what you're doing - you know, in the unlikely event that they'll miss you."

Arthur glowers a little but does what Merlin says, and then it's just the two of them riding together, a few miles from home. Merlin feels like the breaths he takes are deeper and longer, as though, just for a short time, a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur grins like a boy.

"So - why exactly are we riding to the lake again?" Arthur asks, after a time, although it doesn't seem to be an urgent enquiry. Merlin wonders how he can explain.

"It's a long story, but there's this sword you see..."

Morgana told him about the sword that Arthur wielded. How it would have become almost as famous as he was. Merlin might have found that ironic, except for the image that her words brought to mind, a visceral bright picture of Arthur laughing and swinging Excalibur around his head. He wished he could have had the sense memories to go with it, the taste of Arthur's lips, the feel of his skin. She hadn't wanted to say, but Merlin had known, had understood from things only half spoken of, that he and Arthur... That there would have been love between them. The Dragon had even said as much. Merlin regrets so many things.

When he'd found out that the other Merlin had retrieved Excalibur for Arthur - in the world as it should have been - Merlin had gone by himself to the lake. He'd stood on the bank, and stared into the choppy grey water, and then he'd raised his arm. With scarcely a ripple, the sword he'd helped to forge flew into his hand, almost as though it was meant to be there. Only Merlin would know that it was never meant to be his, that it was shaped for another's hand. Well, Merlin would know, and Morgana. And the Dragon, he supposed.

As his temporal power had grown, Merlin tried to remember when it was that he and Morgana had first drifted apart, when he and Gwen had first been reduced to the most painful of smiles. Was it when he had been away on his years of campaign? He wasn't sure it mattered that he remembered, but still... It bothered him.

Perhaps it had been around the time that Merlin had met Viviane? Merlin had been as good as his word, all of the magicians, and enchanters, and warlocks he could ever have wished for, all who would previously have been executed for their crimes, had flocked to High-King Merlin's Court. There had been such a coming together of knowledge and learning that Merlin, with satisfaction, could hope that the words 'Golden Age' might be applied in later centuries. It was certainly some kind of a legacy.

But Viviane was different. She was an enchantress of some far Eastern land, a Moor, and she had travelled longer and further than any other. It was a meeting of true minds, Merlin knew. Viviane's mind wasn't closed to some of the possibilities that Merlin saw, and although her power did not match Merlin's in terms of its raw strength, she certainly made up for it in the cleverness of her ideas.

Of course, Morgana had some notion that her ideas were dangerous, but Merlin didn't see how any pure knowledge could be harmful - it was how things were put to use that made it so. Uther and his attempted genocide had proved that for Merlin beyond any shadow of a doubt. Morgana even tried to make out that Viviane had been banished from the court of her Sultan because of her experiments, but Viviane had only laughed when Merlin mentioned it. She'd suggested slyly that it wasn't she who was jealous. What use was power such as Morgana had? Prophecies that only showed a forgotten future? Merlin had laughed at that, a rusty sound, that hurt his throat, because he didn't laugh much any more.

It was Viviane's suggestion that finally showed Merlin what he should do with Excalibur. It hung on his belt, beautiful and unused. In battle Merlin never wielded such an ordinary weapon, not even a magical blade like Excalibur; he didn't need to. But what about after you are gone, Viviane asked one day. What will happen then, my dearest Merlin?

I shall keep it for the future, Merlin had said, I shall keep it for when the future has need of such heroes.

Such heroes as Arthur? Viviane had said then, and smoothed down her dress demurely, but her eyes were bright black like a jackdaw, like a crow. How will they know of Arthur? He is only a dream in the mind of a woman.

No, Merlin had said. He's more than that, and I will prove it to you.

Merlin had set it up then. The great stone menhir, lying across its scarcely more shaped plinth. He'd set it up, and then he'd called upon Camelot's subjects to come together to witness this shaping, his legacy. The sky crackled, but no rain began to fall, and the crowd stirred uneasily. His people - Arthur's people - watched as Merlin poured his heart and soul into the plinth, to hold and protect, for as long as it needed to. He ringed it and suffused it in magics that would search out all the qualities of a King, like honour and courage and leadership. And qualities that mattered nearly as much, such as humour. Such as compassion. And then he'd taken Excalibur from his belt and he'd plunged it into the stone.

I will never sire an heir, he'd said. But I would not leave this land without a King. Whosoever can draw this sword, from this stone, shall be my heir. They shall be the True King of Albion, and all will honour them.

The people had cheered, raggedly, but Merlin's heart had still lifted, at least a little.

He'd watched Morgana in the crowd. He couldn't tell if her frown was from puzzlement, or disapproval.

"So, remind me again why we decided to grow beards?" Arthur asks, rubbing his hand over golden stubble.

It has grown out thick and even, but looks finer than that, thanks to his blond hair. Merlin's, on the other hand, has grown out patchy, like some bushy kind of plant that has decided to colonise certain parts of his face, and besides that, it itches. Merlin thinks it's typical.

"Because we wanted to project an image of maturity and wisdom, remember? With you being High King, and everything," he says.

Arthur snorts at that, and they catch each other's eye, and then instead suddenly they're laughing, leaning on each other's shoulders, Arthur's knuckles curled into the base of Merlin's skull.

"No hope of that," Merlin mutters into Arthur's hair, and is poked with a bony finger in response.

"It tickles," says Arthur, after a moment, "When we're... You know. My thighs might get a rash."

"I do not believe you." Merlin stares at him, his eyes wide. "What about my thighs? Or my face, come to that?"

"Well, yours don't matter as much as... Ow."

"As your trusted adviser, I advise you to..."

The door to the ante-chamber opens and they break off. A slightly nervous-looking servant stands there, all knees and pimples. Merlin stares at him and wonders if he was ever quite that young.

"I'm sorry, sire, my lord, but I've been sent to ask you if you have an answer for the council."

The boy's voice doesn't waver, which Merlin is proud of him for, but Arthur shakes his head. "Tell them - soon." The boy closes the door behind him.

"So," says Arthur, his voice deeper, more rueful, "As my trusted adviser, what do you suggest? The council wants an answer, and I can't keep putting them off forever." He gets a far away look in his eye. "Well, I could have another war, I suppose, or arrest the lot of them, but it's a bit drastic."

Merlin looks at him helplessly. "I can't tell you what to do - not in this. I knew it was coming, of course. I'm surprised we've had as long together as we've had. I... promise I won't stand in your way."

Arthur is staring at him, and Merlin realises he's holding his breath.

"What are you talking about?" asks Arthur, looking baffled. "Unless you mean... You do! You idiot, if you don't stop playing the bloody martyr, I won't be responsible for my actions!" says Arthur, and his brow is lowered, his mouth setting into a distinctly mulish slant. Merlin remembers a time not so many years ago when Arthur was like this all the time. His heart squeezes in his chest and he reaches out again, draws Arthur in.

"I have a plan. I always have a plan," murmurs Arthur against his shoulder, and Merlin rolls his eyes, even if Arthur can't see him do it. "Of course, you do."

"I'll marry Gwen."

"What?" asks Merlin, helplessly, and then pushes him back so he can look Arthur in the face. "What the hell?"

Arthur looks at him with that faintly impatient, oh-Merlin-do-keep-up kind of look. "It's all arranged. She's an old friend, and she wants to help us out. The council want some kind of princess, of course, so we'll just discover that Gwen is one, in disguise, and that you've overturned the foul sorcery that was keeping her from speaking about her dear, dead father - oh, the King of Cornwall or something. They don't really want a princess, anyway, they just want me to have an heir."

Arthur is looking irritable, but his hand is still curled into Merlin's hair, and his fingers are tense against Merlin's neck.

"Arthur..." Merlin says slowly, "If I find out you've made her do this..."

The old lines of arrogance fade out of Arthur's face. "I wouldn't, Merlin. You know I wouldn't. We were just talking about it one day, joking really, and well. It made a certain kind of sense. I asked her to think about it properly first. She offered."

He means it, Merlin can tell. He thinks Gwen isn't under any pressure. Absently, Merlin rubs his chin against Arthur's arm, and watches as his eyes soften.

"I couldn't tell you," Arthur says, "I thought you might... misunderstand. I thought you might hate us."

"Never." Merlin pauses to think about it. "Never," he says more firmly still.

"Gwen understands," says Arthur, "And there's so few who do. I wanted something - somebody - we could all live with."

Can they live with it, Merlin wonders. Or will there be hidden costs, or unrecognised pain? He can think of half a dozen problems, just off the top of his head. He's a trusted advisor, after all. He should be advising. But this way, he'll get to keep Arthur. He'll still share, but he's been prepared for that ever since the council began to agitate for Arthur's marriage in the first place. He's a selfish bastard, is what he is.

Merlin sighs, just as simply as that, and Arthur breaks out into smiles. Merlin's never been able to resist Arthur.

"I just hope we don't live to regret this..." says Merlin, at last, as he follows Arthur from the room.

Morgana didn't want to share her dreams with Merlin any more. Gwen didn't want to relay them. She said it felt like spying. Merlin had nodded and said, fair enough. I'm not going to force you.

He was lying though.

One day, before dawn, with the courtyards empty and the air still in a breathless hush, Morgana and her maidservant were arrested by guards. They were taken to the top of the tallest tower in Camelot, and there they were installed in rooms of apparent comfort, if you could ignore the bars on the window and the locks and bolts on the door. Merlin wasn't present, because he'd discovered a level of cowardice in himself of which he was previously unaware. He did scry on them though, for his curiosity was never so easily kept at bay.

Morgana didn't shout or swear or struggle, as he'd feared. She walked with dignity, like that Queen she should have been, Gwen scuttling along at her side. He watched as she cast about her in the tower for some weapon, or scheme. He watched as she sat on the bed, arms around Gwen, and her eyes were large and dark, like mirrors, or pools. Like windows into the soul, but the soul that Merlin was interested in wasn't Morgana's, and she knew it. Arthur. It had always been about Arthur. Merlin didn't just want news of him, he was desperate for it, like a starving man for food, for every word he could coax from her lips. Morgana had to know that he wasn't going to let things go so easily, and therefore, as Merlin had realised not long before, he could no longer trust Morgana not to run away.

He had confessed his plan to Viviane, at last, who had laughed, her teeth flashing pearly white in the sun.

You seek to bring life to a dead man's dream, Merlin, my dear. You should as soon seek for that dead man's life instead, for the little it will profit you. Can you not let this go?

Never, said Merlin, and Viviane had sighed, and nodded.

Merlin could not make Morgana speak, of course, but he could scry on her as she slept, and he could hear what she spoke to Gwen. He'd thought about asking, about begging, and he'd thought about Morgana's mouth twisting in disgust, and of the insults that would no doubt spill from her lips. He'd wondered if he would feel as Arthur used to feel when Morgana abused him, if it would bring them closer together, but he supposed not. Things, after all, were hardly the same.

Then Merlin realised why Morgana had refused to tell him her dreams, why Gwen had become a silent ghost, who flinched when she passed him in a corridor. As he listened to Morgana in one of her nightmares, it had become all too clear. It was disjointed, but the gist was discernable. If he had lived, Arthur would have married Gwen. He would have set her up as his Queen.

Merlin thought about it. He thought about sweet Gwen thrusting a dagger into his heart one dark night. He pondered on why Arthur would have married Gwen, of all people, of all the reasons he might have had. He could no longer ask Morgana, because he could no longer trust her answers. He thought on the wisdom of keeping two hostages who could plot together, rather than one alone, and he thought of ensuring his own safety with that of another's, dependant on the first's good behaviour. He decided it was a risk worth taking.

Morgana screamed, and Gwen wept, and Merlin was sorry for it, but determined. He left Morgana in her high tower, and he brought Gwen down low, and then he married her. He dressed her in fine silks and velvets, and he called her Guinevere, declaring her to be the King of Cornwall's daughter, long promised to the land of Albion. If there were any among the castlefolk who recognised the banished servant Gwen, then they kept quiet, and that was as Merlin desired it.

He did not desire Gwen. He gave her every luxury, except freedom, but he didn't intrude upon her. Sometimes, despite the thickness of Camelot's walls, he fancied he could hear her crying in the night, but in the end it was only that. A fancy.

Merlin couldn't hear Morgana at all.

"Agravaine and Lamorak are fighting again," says Merlin, as he makes his way into Arthur's room. He shuts the door carefully behind him, so nobody else will hear when Arthur's forehead thumps onto the desk. Merlin waves his hand and the inkwell stands up and the ink pours back in. There's no need to be wasteful, and Arthur might actually want that list of grain supplies.

He waits a second, and when Arthur shows no sign of movement, Merlin walks over and rests his hand in the short hairs at the base of Arthur's skull. "They claim it's an issue of precedence, but it isn't really. Lamorak is sleeping with Agravaine's mother, and Agravaine can't stand the idea. It's not a problem otherwise, Morgause is a widow having some fun with a younger man, but Lamorak isn't subtle about how smug he is in front of Agravaine, that's all. Mind you, Agravaine has brothers. I hear Gawain, in particular, doesn't have much of a sense of humour when it comes to his mum."

Merlin's hoping for smile, but he doesn't get one. Arthur still seems harried.

"I don't go looking for gossip for just anyone, you know," he tries, and Arthur looks up. There it is, there's that smile. Merlin bends down for a kiss, and Arthur's mouth goes soft and lush under his.

"It's just one petty problem after another," says Arthur, at last, "Not only issues of precedence, but of inheritance, of marriage portions, of borders. You'd think they'd never settled a dispute on their own in their lives. It was easier when we were still at war."

Merlin stares at him. "Well, yes, that's true. They had less time. You had less time. They could have been killed. Or you could. I'll take a squabbling peace over that likelihood, any day of the week."

Arthur rubs a hand through his hair. "But that's just it. You don't have to take it, I do. And if one more petty lordling tries to tell me that he needs to sit above Sir Gobian, rather than below, because his second cousin on his mother's side gives him a greater claim to royal lineage, then I don't hold myself responsible. I'll snap, Merlin, I swear it."

He is rather tense, Merlin has noticed, and proceeds to do what he can, rubbing his fingers into Arthur's shoulders, digging at the knots there.

"Shame they're not all the same, like us peasants," he says, glibly, and lying too, as Arthur's snort testifies. There's nobody so status conscious as a bunch of servants, after all, as Merlin should know. As apparently so does Arthur, although that's no surprise. He's always known more than he lets on.

"Merlin..." Arthur has tensed again under his hands. "That might be the answer."

"I'm not turning them all into a bunch of peasants, however tempting it is. Or frogs, before you ask."

Arthur turns in his chair, and tips his head up, his eyes are pale and blue, fathomless. He looks more noble and more vulnerable than Merlin's ever seen him, but his smile is wickedness itself. Merlin has a sinking feeling...

"I'll make them want to be the same. I'll make them bloody well aspire to it, when I've finished. My most noble order of honourable knights will be seeking out what it is to be chivalrous, and do you know what they'll find?"

"Umm. It's not a trick question is it?" asks Merlin, finding Arthur's glee infectious, as always, but still wary.

"There will be a place for them, that will be no higher or lower than any other. Not even I will be placed above them - and they'll fight for their right to be seated there, I guarantee it."

"That's great, that's wonderful, are you actually going to tell me what it is?"

Arthur pushes himself up, out of Merlin's grasp, and spreads his hands on the table. "I will look around and... For pity's sake, Merlin, I know you're not this dim."

Merlin will kill him in a minute. He really will. "Just because I don't have an all-seeing window into that blond fluff you call a brain, does not mean that..."

"A round table, Merlin. Where no man shall sit higher or lower than another. All shall be equal, but they'll have to earn their place. It'll be brilliant! And you will fashion it for me, won't you?"

Merlin sighs. Arthur has a manic twinkle in his eye, the kind that Merlin knows means that he won't be dissuaded from whatever mad scheme he's come up with this time around. He makes a show of rolling his eyes, of huffing and crossing his arms, but they both know it's an act. It's rather a good notion of Arthur's actually, thinks Merlin. It will be like a competition, something to keep all the nobles occupied, without it being obvious. It might even work.

Although, Merlin rather has his doubts about it distracting Lamorak. After all, he's met Morgause...

Merlin was drowning. He was buried in ritual, in pomp and ceremony. He was the Great Sorcerer-King and had to be treated as such, and he looked back to when he was merely Arthur's servant with such fervent nostalgia, he thought he would scream from the pressure. It wasn't enough any more, recreating what Arthur would have made, had he lived. He needed more.

Viviane's words haunted him too, that he 'should as soon seek for that dead man's life'. He wondered what Viviane had meant. He turned it over and over in his mind, considering it from every angle. Did Viviane mean for him to bring Arthur back from the dead? The spectacle of the Black Knight still haunted him - he didn't want Arthur as that sort of shade, desecrating all that he was. Perhaps she had merely meant that it was pointless carrying on as he was - with which Merlin was in agreement. The trappings of state didn't interest him, the only person he wanted was long since passed away, and yet he was as caged as Morgana.

Ah, Morgana. Merlin had decided he still couldn't trust her, or Gwen, and so he used his magic to ensure she was fed and clothed appropriately, but no servants were permitted entrance, and he didn't allow her visitors. He hoped the solitude wasn't too irksome, and yet... He'd found he was angry with her, for defying him, for holding back the only thing he cared about, so perhaps it wasn't so accidental after all.

All those wars, all these years, Merlin had wondered if he was becoming a little bit callous. Human life certainly didn't seem to hold the reverence for him that it had once commanded. It was so easy to destroy... Or save. Like Arthur. If only he'd known then all the magic he knew now, then things might have been very different. In Morgana's dreams, it still was.

Why was Morgana dreaming of a future that couldn't possibly happen? Merlin hadn't questioned it until now. She had power of her own, Merlin knew, which was nowhere near as strong as his own magic, of course, but that wasn't the point. It was different. It implied that she had a link to something that Merlin couldn't begin to access. But Merlin wasn't sure that mattered. After all, he had access to Morgana.

Maybe Viviane was right. Maybe he did need to seek for that dead man's life, maybe he could even... change things.

So then it was that Merlin began to research. The court was still stuffed full of all kinds of purveyors of magic and sorcery, so maybe Merlin just needed to look harder. To delve into darker mysteries. It was difficult, but he managed to block out everything else except this hunt. He banished all the chattering courtiers he could. He caused a giant round table to come into existence, so he could easily keep an eye on the rest of them. He studied until his eyes were dry and staring from their sockets. It was unnatural, but he forced himself - Merlin never had been any good at research.

His beard grew long, and somewhere along the way, it turned grey. Merlin ignored that too. It seemed to him that the kingdom didn't need him as much as he'd thought - a few threats and everything seemed to run exceptionally smoothly. But he restrained himself to threats, because he thought, he rather thought, that Arthur wouldn't have liked it if he'd actually hurt anyone. Knowing what was almost inevitably coming, Merlin swallowed. He had a feeling... He knew that couldn't last.

It was simple in the end. These things usually were, Merlin had discovered. His best magic was always what came naturally, and there was nothing and no-one that came to him more naturally than Arthur. Morgana was indeed the key - combine her link to the Land-That-Never-Was, with his own raw power, and he could change the world. He would change the world.

He had never wanted to live in a world without Arthur in it anyway.

"Arthur?" Merlin asks, from his place stretched out on the ground, his head pillowed on Arthur's thigh.

"Mmm?"

"This is all really lovely, of course. The picnic, the beautiful clearing, the bluebells, the bearskin cloak you brought, which I thought was a bit funny at the time, because it's not that cold."

Merlin lets his hand fall to his side, to ruffle the glorious black fur that they're lying on. He's not denying, it's been a wonderful afternoon.

"The sex was fantastic..."

"When is it anything else?" demands Arthur, his fingers threading through Merlin's hair, and Merlin stretches himself, the better to appreciate it.

"I said it was fantastic, you prat. It's been wonderful. But. It's not my birthday."

"Can't we just have a pleasant afternoon to ourselves? I know it's not your birthday."

Merlin glances over at the horses they'd ridden, and watches them swish their tails in the sunlight that dapples the leaves. They look happy too. A lazy afternoon, a bit of good grass to lazily chew. Randomly, Merlin wonders what it would be like to be a horse, wonders if he should try it out one day. He has the spell, he thinks. Although Arthur doesn't need to know, because he'd only worry.

Merlin snuggles himself into Arthur's leg, so he can look up at Arthur where he's propped on a saddle-bag. The muscles under his cheek are tense. "It's not your birthday either."

Arthur makes a snorting noise, that Merlin assumes offers some sort of protest, or is just trying to avoid the point. He blinks at him.

"However lovely escaping our responsibilities may be," says Merlin, "I'd just like to point out that to get you to relax, I usually have to tear the quill from your fingers, or the sword from your hand. What's wrong?"

"Who says anything has to be wrong? Honestly, you are the worst Court Sorcerer I've ever had. Can't we just... be."

Arthur won't catch his eye, and Merlin considers him speculatively. For a King, Arthur is a surprisingly bad liar. "I'm the only Court Sorcerer you've ever had, so I think that makes me the best, actually. Come on, it can't be that bad."

The birds are singing above them, and there is a gentle breeze cooling limbs that are pleasantly sweaty, but Merlin feels an inner chill. Arthur is never this reluctant. He thinks through all the border problems, all the in-fighting among the nobles, and none of it seems to warrant this level of concern. The silence stretches, but Merlin waits. Really, it's up to Arthur now.

"Guinevere and Lancelot are in love with one another, have been for years, and now Guinevere would like to stop being Queen so she can go off and have a proper family - and I quote, 'like you and Merlin'."

Arthur still won't look at him, but Merlin can see how this might have been weighing on his mind. He strokes along Arthur's flank, watching with interest as the goose bumps spread. He reaches for Arthur's other hand, tugs at his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he says, simply.

There is a huge sigh, and finally Arthur shifts, looks down. He looks worn out, Merlin thinks, and a great wave of tenderness washes over him. He crawls up Arthur's body, rests his chin over his heart for a moment.

"You said," Arthur continues, "You said it would cause trouble, asking Gwen for a favour in this way. You said it would bite us in the arse."

"I don't think I used quite that analogy," says Merlin, mildly, feeling the strong pulse of Arthur beneath him, "And I think I worry too much."

Arthur's eyes open comically wide, but before he can say anything, Merlin swarms up the rest of the way and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy. He draws back, and smiles at Arthur, as he gapes. It's nice to surprise the man sometimes - because of the all the possible problems? This is not the worst one. Even if Arthur obviously thinks it is.

"It's all right. Gwen deserves her happiness too. We'll work something out."

He means it too. They owe Gwen a good deal. And it is a problem, it's true - the nobles will believe that Gwen is betraying Arthur, and be outraged. But on a 'the barbarians are revolting' level of panic?

It's sort of nice to worry about two friends in love.

Merlin wondered exactly when Gwen had conceived her plan. Of course, it was always possible that she'd had the notion all along, but Merlin rather thought not. He'd loved Gwen, he thought, once upon a time, in his own way, and if there was one thing he knew she wasn't, it was a deep thinker. Gwen was all impulse and feeling, Merlin had loved that about her.

So he supposed her plan had been born when she'd set eyes on Lancelot again, when she'd seen how his eyes had brightened at her approach, how the touch of her hand caused his pupils to blow wide and dark. She was the Queen now, and she had power, of a sort, and Merlin - well, Merlin would be the first to admit that he hadn't been paying attention.

There were rumours abroad in the land, stories about how their Sorcerer-King had grown strange and dark. How he conducted evil rituals in secret, how he ate alone and never saw anyone because his magics were twisting him, that he was afraid of ordinary people's gazes. The stories were really quite inventive, Merlin thought, and they probably explained things. The things that happened later.

His studies had yielded fruit, that was the thing, and Merlin had succeeded. Well, not actually succeeded, not yet, but he knew what he must do. That had to count. And, to be truthful, ruling the kingdom had lost all real meaning for him in the face of the enormity of the plan. It was lucky really, it had been an accident, but Merlin was well on his way to victory already, and he hadn't even known it.

In order to make Morgana's dreams come true, he had to make Morgana believe them to be true. He had to use her gift, so he had to make her believe everything her power showed her, and once she did, there would be a hairline fracture in the reality of the world. And once there was that crack in existence, then he could pour all of his power through it, he could use his own magic as a bludgeon, like a mace or a morning-star, use it to take that crack and make it a chasm, a gaping tear, and then pour himself through into the fabric of the world, soaking his soul into the land, taking Morgana's dream, and his own fervent desires, and making it all true, making it all real. Or at least, that was the plan.

Sympathetic magic was a powerful thing when it was magnified properly. He hoped.

Merlin looked down at his hands, which had become spindly and were even beginning to show age spots. He stroked his long beard. He shrugged at these signs of the years passing, of the accelerated wear his body was suffering, because they were hardly important, after all, and then sent for the best bard in all his lands. The boy that arrived was named Taliesin, and turned out to have some magic of his own. Merlin was quite pleased - it could only help. He paid him more than generously, and told him the tales he must tell, all about Arthur, the greatest King that Albion had ever seen. Told him to tell the stories of Arthur up and down the kingdoms until the people knew them backwards and forwards, until they had soaked into their minds and skin, until everyone knew of Arthur, and the reality of him was normal, a fact. Until his lack of actual existence didn't really matter. Taliesin was curious, naturally, but Merlin didn't tell him why he required his services, of course. Somehow he felt that the populace wouldn't understand, for all they'd cheered his victories not so very long ago.

And all of this was why it came as a bit of a surprise when he looked up one day to find that Gwen had ran away with Lancelot. He supposed he should have been shocked and horrified, but he hardly felt as betrayed as his courtiers thought he ought to be. He briefly even felt happy for them as a couple, but he pushed that hurriedly away before the bitterness of guilt could set in. He couldn't stop, not now.

The army they raised came as more of a shock, but Merlin thought about it, and decided that in their position it was the logical thing to do. He considered how easily he had brushed aside armies in the past and wondered at their naiveté, but put it down to Gwen's romanticism, or perhaps their over-estimation of his own deterioration. Besides, he didn't care, they could play with petty politics all they wanted as far as he was concerned.

Morgana was the only thing that mattered now.

The reality of Arthur is a constant surprise. Sometimes Merlin looks back and wonders how he's got here, how he can be so lucky. The moon shines through the windows onto the velvet bedspread, and makes patterns on the floor; Merlin idly watches them shift, as he waits. He should be asleep, he knows it, but he's exhausted, not sleepy. His eyes will be blood-shot tomorrow, and his apprentice, Viviane - a sweet girl, who's travelled far, and suffered much - will cluck her tongue, and make him her own special tisane.

Arthur is late to bed, and Merlin cannot sleep without him, and that's just the way it is after all these years. Although he will pretend to be dead to the world when Arthur finally arrives, because he doesn't want to be a burden, or make Arthur's life any harder than it already is. That's the kind of little things they can offer one another.

The door opens, with a quiet creak, and Merlin hurriedly shuts his eyes. He listens to the soft sounds of clothing being removed, the slight thump of a belt hitting the floor, a metallic clink which will be Excalibur being laid to one side - but within easy reach, always. However peaceful the realm is, Arthur never lets himself forget. In the safety of darkness and moonlight Merlin lets himself smile, and anticipate.

It's all he can do not to sigh as the sheets are pulled to one side and the mattress moves and dips, the feathers shifting, as a heavy-set body crawls in. A muscled arm slides over his belly, cool to the touch, his own flesh cuddled under the quilt and warm with his own body heat. With that slight shiver, Merlin lets himself open his eyes, lets himself move closer, and mould his form to Arthur's. He peers into the night but Arthur's face is in shadow, Merlin can't tell if Arthur's looking at him or not. He considers whether he should ask. What has kept Arthur up so late, and can he help? Is it sorted, is it all right? He would ask, except that Arthur would have told him, if he could have helped, if there was anything he could do, and he hasn't. He's slid an arm around Merlin instead, and he's holding him close. He's rubbing small circles into Merlin's hip with the pads of his fingers. Wordless still, Merlin tips his chin up, and Arthur leans forward, into the moonlight, and they kiss, as familiar and wonderful as always. He tastes of late-night wine, and the sourness of woodsmoke. His beard tickles Merlin's lips, and so he licks them as he draws back a little. Arthur smiles.

Then languorous movements become more urgent, Arthur leans over Merlin, stroking down his sides, his arms, his belly. Merlin twitches, wanting more, reaching up to draw Arthur down, to get more contact, but he holds himself off, bending down to suck and nip at Merlin's throat, his neck, always moving, restless with desire, laving one nipple, then the other. Merlin arches, and his arms go around Arthur, hanging off him for an endless second, their cocks brushing in delicious anticipation, hot and heavy, before finally Arthur follows Merlin down, down into the depths of the bed, breathing hard into his jaw. Blindly, Merlin turns his head, seeking and finding Arthur's mouth again, demanding entrance this time, and sucking on his tongue.

Arthur has pressed a heavy thigh between Merlin's own, and Merlin pushes up into it, bracing himself, curling his leg around Arthur's knee. Arthur groans, deep in his throat, and Merlin pants into his hair, still as soft for all it's greying at the temples these days. He sweeps his hands down Arthur's back, pausing at the dip of his arse, fingering at the soft skin there, dipping lower, as Arthur's breath speeds up. Merlin circles Arthur's hole, but he doesn't push in far, stays teasing and light, until Arthur pushes at him harder, rubbing their cocks together, desperate for more, for friction, clumsy with urgency. Merlin goes to shift, to move, to find the oil, but Arthur won't let him, grabs his hand as it quests and brings it to his lips instead, kisses it.

"Too tired," he whispers, and Merlin smiles up with understanding into half-lidded eyes. "Like this."

And Arthur turns Merlin's hand over and kisses the palm before sucking a finger into his mouth, and Merlin shudders, and thrusts up. Arthur is a hot velvet hardness, that feels fantastic next to his cock, and it's beautiful, to get that perfect rhythm, finally, slippery with sweat and urgency, in the crook of Arthur's hipbone. It's even better, as Arthur moves above him, beside him, one leg braced, the other pressed up tight between his cheeks, to feel every inch as Arthur urgently shoves himself again and again into Merlin's belly.

As Arthur comes, he stills, holding himself taut, gasping Merlin's name, and with the tension and the flood of warmth between them, Merlin feels poised, as though on a high pinnacle and he's flying, flying. Merlin jerks once, twice more, and follows, one hand digging itself hard into the generous curve of Arthur's arse.

They relax back down into the sheets without parting. Merlin is somnolent, satiated, his eyelids are drooping, but he has just enough presence of mind to murmur a word, that he doesn't risk in passion, but will to clean them afterwards. Arthur's thumb moves up to swipe at the corner of his eye. He has always been fascinated by the sweep of golden colour that characterises Merlin's magic, and Merlin turns into the caress, his hands moving up and down Arthur's back, lazily, like petting an animal. He truly is tired now, and Arthur's weight is a comfort, his scent and the feel of his skin all telling Merlin that he's home now, at last, he can relax.

He hears Arthur's breathing deepen, becoming heavy, a prelude to a snore, and Merlin turns his head, pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead, smoother now than in busy daylight hours, his cares lifted. His heart is full to over-flowing, but his body is pulling him down at last into sleep, and so with Arthur's fringe tickling his nose, Merlin finally closes his eyes.

It was cold in the tower. Merlin hadn't thought that it would be, because there was a magical fire crackling in the grate that warmed or cooled depending on the weather. He had paid attention to Morgana's comforts, after all. Then he looked around and saw that every window was thrust wide open, and that the wind was howling through with every breath, flapping his robes about his ankles, and stirring his beard. It was funny, he hadn't noticed that when he'd scried upon her.

Morgana was not immediately visible, and that could have been worrying, if Merlin allowed himself to be frightened. He refused to think about it, so close to success as he was, but felt his heart hammer against his ribs anyway when he saw her at last, dressed in a nightshirt and leaning dangerously far out of the window. It hadn't occurred to him that Morgana might try to... kill herself. Not Morgana. If that was, in fact, what she was doing.

He didn't even think about it. Invisible forces threw her back across her bed and all the casements banged themselves fast shut. The rustle of the wind and the distant noises of the castle gave way to sudden silence, and Merlin winced. He hadn't been that out of control of his power in years.

Morgana laughed. Lying on her bed, her hair tangled over her face, she made no effort to get up, or even move. Her black hair was liberally streaked with grey, and that looked wrong to Merlin; somehow he had expected her to be the same, as young and wild and beautiful as he remembered. He didn't want to think about how many years ago that had been.

At last, said Morgana, from behind her hair. I thought you had forgotten me. I thought you had forgotten even your precious Arthur. I had thought... I would die here, without even my revenge.

Her voice was a twisted croak, like a seagull, or a crow. She pushed her tresses up and away, and her eyes gleamed from their sunken depths, full of hatred. Merlin swallowed. He couldn't help it; his guilt was a roaring beast that he could no longer keep at bay. Morgana had been his friend once, his loyal advisor, his confidant, and yet he'd treated her like this.

Merlin knew that, truthfully, this was why he had never visited. That this was why he hadn't wanted to think about it too hard, why Morgana's name had been forbidden to the court. He still felt guilty, but - and this was the thing that people underestimated about him, he suspected - Merlin had never let guilt stop him doing anything. He took a deep breath, and let it out again in a sigh.

You won't have your revenge, Morgana, he said, at last, realising there was regret in that, for she surely deserved some. But it won't matter to you, and that will have to do.

And then, even as she lunged across the room with her long fingernails extended, her teeth bared in a scream, Merlin whispered words of power, and time slowed, then stopped. He looked out of the window at the army that Gwen and Lancelot had brought to his very gates, now as frozen as the rest of Camelot, and he shrugged. Then he plucked Morgana out of the air, laid her on the bed, before lying down beside her. And then he began.

He wrapped them both in his magic, like a blanket, like a warm and soothing bath. It was easy, this part, making Morgana feel loved, for it was even true. Merlin loved all that she could give him, all her memories of Arthur, of everything he missed so terribly, and even as his magic wrapped her up, and let her feel the depth of his feelings, Merlin was seeking, probing, desperate for a way in. He had learnt many spells, arts that suborned the will, or controlled the body, but what he wanted wasn't quite like that, he was attempting his own variation, his own concoction - something subtle, yet powerful, that would allow him to... Ah, there it was. Something that would allow him, finally, to see the world that Morgana saw.

Merlin was barely aware of his own body, but he could tell its cheeks were wet with tears. It was as though a misty window had opened, as though he was finally being granted a glimpse into a promised land. Finally, he could see Arthur again, after an eternity alone. There he was, at last, caparisoned as if for war, and there was the other Merlin, by his side, his beard not nearly so grey, his face upturned to Arthur's as he sat in the saddle of a warhorse. They were smiling. Arthur was so beautiful, Merlin felt as though his heart was breaking.

But he couldn't allow himself to get distracted, this wasn't a pretty picture, this was a serious business. Morgana's gift acted like fingers wiping at that window, brushing the mist away, but Merlin needed more, he didn't want to watch anymore. Carefully, oh so delicately, he formed those fingers into a fist, that he wove around with his own power, and then he struck, once, twice, three times. Reality shivered, and Merlin felt his merely human heart thumping far too fast. But it didn't matter what happened to him, instead he watched as the barrier between worlds shook, reverberated, and then trembled into stillness. He had failed.

But wait. Merlin rubbed up against the barrier, for all the world as though he were some sort of giant cat, revelling in it, spreading himself as thin as he could go. He pulled Morgana along willy-nilly now, her presence necessary, but no longer as essential. And there, there it was, the tiniest crack. The smallest, most infinitesimal flaw. It was all he needed, all he'd hoped for. He leaned all of himself, all his power, on that crack, and then he pushed.

Distantly, Merlin was aware of his old body spasming, and then falling still. Even more distantly, he was aware of Morgana's doing likewise. He might have wondered what would happen to them, he might have wondered if Gwen would weep over Morgana, having arrived too late, he might have wondered if Viviane would recover their bodies, and persuade the court that they should let her hide the mad Sorcerer-King away, lest his soul should come back someday knowing the future. He might have wondered all of these things, but he didn't.

Instead, the world turned upside down.

Instead, the universe splintered, shards of reality spinning out of control, around him, over him, through him. Beautiful images, that hit with the force of a thunderbolt. Arthur laughing, Arthur angry, Arthur covered in blood, Arthur with wine stains round his mouth, Arthur sleeping, his eyelashes a delicate fan. Always Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. If Merlin could have laughed or shouted with joy, he would have done it.

Everything spun, a kaleidoscope of myriad possibility, and then Merlin pushed again...

Epilogue

Morgana gasps awake and then stares around, her heart thumping, hoping no-one else has seen her so undone. There is the sound of laughter on the breeze, probably coming from the kitchen gardens, and the leaves above her are rustling gently, but there's no-one nearby. Morgana leans back against the trunk of the tree, and smoothes her skirts down reflexively, as she recovers her composure. She's sitting on a picnic blanket, on a glorious summer day, but she's sitting there alone. She can only be grateful.

The sun shines above her, and Gwen's sewing basket is by her elbow. She picks up a scrap of silk and runs it through her fingers, to try and calm herself, but she knows it's not working. Some might call the scene idyllic, but Morgana can only see the shadows the sun casts, and she's shivering on one of the warmest days of the year. It was the dream, of course, a terrible one, Morgana knows that much, but she can only remember fragments, and it's fading away already. She knows that there was some terrible injustice done, some terrible cruelty, and that there will be vengeance. There will be a price paid.

She swallows as the awful isolation and loneliness drift away, to a melancholy that merely dims her eyes. She wishes Gwen were here, for the company, for the comfort, so when the sounds of voices drift closer to her bower she looks up eagerly, happy for anything to distract herself from the fading nightmare. The two men have yet to see her, because they have eyes only for each other, and they're arguing again, Morgana can tell, even if she's too far away to hear the specifics. Arthur is striding along the path under the castle walls, gesticulating wildly, and Merlin is following with a smirk on his face, and she'd smile, because the sight has become such a familiar one in the last year, except... Except for the dreadful anger that is welling up inside, causing her hands to shake and her vision to become dark and terrible. There's a ripping sound and Morgana realises that she's torn the scrap of silk she holds. She raises her hands, and they are shaped like claws, the better to rend and tear, to have her revenge...

Morgana whimpers, and clutches her hands together, folding them in her skirt. She wants Gwen suddenly, more than she's ever needed her before, she misses her, as though she hasn't seen her for years, not a mere hour, and the isolation swoops within her, deep and hollow and aching. She breathes slowly, hoping it will pass, and an endless time later it does, eventually, leaving her badly frightened, her body shaking.

Morgana has never had a vision this intense, this visceral before. It's worse even than the time when she saw Arthur mortally wounded, and she made a fool of herself on the steps of Camelot. She wants to leap up, to check on Gwen, to run far away, or to hide herself in a deep place, but instead she sits quietly, getting hold of herself again. She won't allow her visions to control her like this, she is Morgana, the daughter of a knight, the ward of a King, and she is mistress here. She won't allow herself to run mad.

Distantly, she can hear laughter again, but the tone has changed, it sounds mocking. She shakes her head to clear it. She's not tired anymore, and it's time to go back inside. Maybe she can ask Gaius for a different philtre this time, something stronger, something that will help with this new problem. For Morgana is unaccountably nervous and on edge, she feels like she's not totally herself. Inexplicably, she feels as though she's somehow more than herself.

And she has to sleep again sometime.