Empires Gleam - Chapter 8 - alacrity (2024)

Chapter Text

One morning in June, Arthur came awake comfortably, like emerging from a warm bath, to find Merlin pressed tight along his side. Arthur nudged him, but Merlin only snuffled in his sleep.

Had Merlin been sleeping lately? Merlin's nightmares followed no discernible pattern. On any given morning, Arthur might be blindsided with a quiet sharp-eyed Merlin who said things that made his heart hammer and seemed as remote as a distant star.

Arthur could never be sure what awaited him. Except on the rare nights when he kept Merlin in his bed from dusk ‘til dawn. Then he could be certain he would wake to a saucy pliable Merlin who usually consented to exchange suckjobs and be fed half of Arthur's breakfast afterwards.

Arthur stroked a hand down his side, pressed kisses into his hair.

"Merlin, come on. I can't go to training like this."

Merlin grumbled and flipped over face up, so that his lean stomach was revealed.

Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and stroked himself idly, looking at Merlin in the early morning light, at the long lashes against his pale cheeks, at the elegant curve of his neck, his dark nipples, the trail of hair leading to his co*ck, twitching awake.

Merlin put one arm around Arthur's back and tucked himself in close. He hummed encouragingly, his hand massaging the top of Arthur's arse, his eyes closed against the sun.

Arthur had pictured many things with Merlin, but this particular fantasy had never even occurred to him, so mundane and decadent. Arthur had brought himself off dozens of times in that bed, but never with such living breathing provocation stretched out before him as Merlin, sleepy and soft, and yet so invested in Arthur's happiness that he was rousing himself to bite lazily at Arthur's neck in that way he liked.

Arthur stroked his co*ck and let his imagination rove over all the things that he might like to do to Merlin and with him. He let his eyes linger the way he so rarely allowed himself in the cold light of day. Arthur drank Merlin in, the sight and the smell and sound of him, like the most riveting dirty picture come to impossible life.

Which is to say that, in fairly short order, Arthur came all over Merlin's stomach.

As Arthur hopped out of bed and began to dress, Merlin opened one eye in his general direction.

"Hey," he protested, gesturing to himself. "You could at least–"

"No time, Merlin, sorry," teased Arthur.

"No manners," grumped Merlin, but his cheeks were pink and he made absolutely no move to clean himself up.

Arthur left him there, cross and covered in come, in Arthur's bed. He whistled all the way to the training grounds.

Later, in sweet revenge, Merlin pushed Arthur down into the ornate chair at the big desk which he used to write official royal speeches, and sucked him off, slow and plush and agonizing. He pinned Arthur's hips down when they canted up involuntarily and prolonged it until tears sprang to the corner of Arthur's eyes.

But just as Arthur was about to find his release, Merlin pulled off with a pop and then shimmied languorously up from his knees to kiss Arthur full and sloppy on the mouth.

And Arthur had a sudden vision of spending weeks like this– months– years– in an escalating game of sexual oneupsmanship with Merlin, who was even now rubbing his co*ck insistently into the crease of Arthur's inner thigh and grinning with a red mouth like an evil succubus sent to seduce Arthur off the path of virtue.

So he groaned, flipped Merlin onto the bed, said, "okay, you win," and proceeded to give Merlin everything he'd ever wanted.

"Ready? Pull!" shouted Arthur, drawing his bow.

Merlin flicked a hand and a clay disc ricocheted into the air. Arthur took the shot and felt in his bones that it was flying true towards the target. But at the last second the disc zinged out of the way and the arrow landed harmlessly in the grass.

"Sorry? Should I go easier on you?" asked Merlin, with an innocent smile.

Arthur glared. “I can't handle anything you’ve got, Merlin.”

Merlin smirked and crooked a finger to pick up Arthur's arrow and float it back to him.

"Again," sighed Arthur. "Ready? Pull!"

This time, the arrow hit the clay disc dead on, but Arthur knew enough about Merlin now to anticipate the second surprise disc. He whipped a dagger out of the top of his boot and threw it, managing to hit the second target mostly by sheer luck.

Merlin's jaw dropped open.

"Arthur, ye gods," he said.

"That's what happens when you’ve been trained to kill since b-" said Arthur, but was cut off by Merlin's mouth landing hotly on his.

Afterwards, when they were lying on the grass, letting the night air cool their heated skin, Merlin asked, "Do you want to tell the others about this place?"

Arthur looked around the aerie, at the neat acres of mossy grass, the high stone walls covered in thick ivy that looked a hundred years old, the blossoming trees, the cosy outbuildings. He took in the whole massive arena, ringed with iron braziers, a fire burning merrily in all of them, giving a warm tone to Merlin's skin that matched his eyes, which were more often gold than blue here.

"Not right now. But eventually," he conceded. "Only because it seems a shame to let all your hard work go unappreciated."

Merlin pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder, pleased as a cat at this simple compliment.

"But not now, right?" Merlin said. "It's too– too– convenient to give up."

"Right. Exactly," said Arthur, with a shiver. Convenient. That's all it was.

Then there was the quiet summer morning when the unicorn stepped out of the trees.

Merlin looked at Arthur's raised crossbow, looked at the unicorn, remembered a labyrinth and a beach and a riddle of poison.

Arthur put a finger to his lips.

Merlin tackled him into the dirt.

“Wow, unnecessary,” said Arthur. “I wasn’t going to shoot it. I remember the story of the prat and the unicorn.”

“Couldn't risk it,” said Merlin. “Can't rest my whole fate on whether you are or are not a prat.”

He was lying heavy on top of Arthur, panting.

Arthur said, “You know, I’ve heard that unicorns only appear to virgins. If you’re so worried, we could make sure that neither of us ever sees one again.”

He grinned, thrust his hips suggestively, and reached up for a kiss.

Merlin tasted salt on his tongue and remembered the smell of the sea, sitting across from Arthur, two goblets between them, deciding who would die to save Camelot from the unicorn’s curse.

Tomorrow, instead of making a noble sacrifice for each other’s lives, they would probably trade furtive kisses in the armoury.

And– momentarily– horribly– Merlin wished he’d let the unicorn die.

“No!” Merlin pushed off Arthur and got to his feet roughly. “It’s getting late. Let’s get back.”

He felt the pressure of Arthur’s gaze, but avoided it all the way home.

The castle of Essetir always reminded Nimueh of a spiky black wolf, skulking defensively behind high stone walls pockmarked with hundreds of narrow balistrarias for archers.

It was the work of mere moments to achieve a private audience with the king. Here, at least, her name still carried some weight.

"High Priestess!" said King Cenred, rising to take her hand. "I thought you were dead."

"I have made it through another season, it seems," replied Nimueh, frostily.

"For which we are glad, indeed," said Cenred, mollifying. "You look quite the same as when we first met, what, it must be twenty two years ago! I was newly crowned and you were with Camelot's delegation, come to pay your respects. How things have changed, but you are as beautiful as ever."

Cenred was no fool. He called for refreshments and threw in a few more compliments. Nimueh, ensconced now in a comfortable velvet chair and drinking the finest Essetirian wine, thawed to him as he played upon her vanity.

“A new threat arises in Camelot,” said Nimueh. “A powerful warlock who lives in the castle.”

“Has Uther relented then? He accepts this warlock and sanctions magic once again?”

“No, he remains as senseless as ever.”

“Then how?”

“The warlock disguises himself. He has the audacity to claim the name Emrys, from the druidic legends. He takes the appearance of an elder, but no sorcerer of such power and imprudence could have survived The Great Purge and yet escaped my notice. I have sent beast after beast to test him and they have all been turned back with nary a casualty.”

Nimueh heard her voice rising and rising, and saw Cenred’s lip curl in contempt.

She knew what he thought of her. She had been Camelot’s greatest witch and now she was reduced to sending wyverns and wilddeoren to torment the feeble defenses of her dead best friend’s widower and child. Obsessed with a pathetic personal vendetta, twenty years out of date, just like Uther.

She calmed herself. She played her trump card.

“The warlock has given Excalibur, the unfailing sword, to Prince Arthur.”

Cenred sucked in a surprised breath.

“I came only to forearm you, Sire. Camelot has posed no threat to Essetir for many years, but it would be a very different neighbour if ruled by a brash young warrior king with a powerful warlock as his puppeteer.”

There was a long silence.

“I know,” said Cenred, reluctantly. “You’d better come and see.”

There were not many now who still practised the Old Religion, but those that remained in Essetir lived in a fortified abbey in the foothills below the castle, where a few Low Priestesses still went about their work.

Nimueh knew that Cenred had little interest in them, as their powers were confined to practising healing arts and maintaining a record of such small visions as were still Seen nowadays. Still he treated them with adequate respect and provided them with the funding required to care for the sick and elderly.

As he escorted Nimueh through the abbey, the Low Priestesses regarded her wide-eyed, fear and fascination intermingling, like house cats who had spotted a panther prowling through their kitchen garden.

In the central courtyard, a motley collection of sorcerers were practising their spellwork. There was something wrong with their magic. It made her skin prickle.

They stood to attention as Cenred and Nimueh approached.

“High Priestess, you are most welcome,” said the older woman. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Nimueh inclined her head gracefully. This was her domain, after all. “Thank you. I do not have the same pleasure. Your name, mistress?”

“Mary Collins,” said the woman. “And may I introduce Edwin Muirden and Sir Valiant of the Western Isles.”

The men bowed in turn. The three of them looked as gaunt and weary as if they were on the edge of magical exhaustion, but the spells they’d been practising were the simple conjurings taught to children

“Your magic,” Nimueh began. “What happened to it? It feels… hobbled?”

“He took it from me,” said Mary Collins. “He made me swear an oath.”

“He bound me. He imprisoned my magic within me,” said Edwin.

And then they were all talking over each other.

“I can feel it within me, but I can no longer touch it.”

“He said we weren’t allowed to use it to harm Arthur or anyone under his protection.”

Nimueh plucked this morsel from the stream of words. “Who said this?”

“Emrys, the warlock who protects Arthur. He does not respect the old ways. It is a crime to bind another’s magic. But he is ruthless.”

Nimueh saw the problem at once: an oath of power could not be formulated in such careless words. “You will never, by action or inaction, direct or indirect, use your magic to cause harm to Arthur Pendragon or to any under his protection.” How utterly foolish, how vague and yet all-encompassing.

Could lighting a campfire to heat your tea cause harm to Arthur? Perhaps it could, if the fire was left unattended and sparked a forest fire and that fire threatened a village and that village contained one individual that Arthur considered under his protection. Could catching a rabbit cause harm to Arthur? Could healing a child cause harm to Arthur? Perhaps, perhaps.

The magic could not know. And so it strained against the boundaries of the oath, spinning a hundred futures into existence, drawing down on its wielder’s magical reserves, becoming more and more unpredictable and exhausting. An oath like this would kill anyone upon whom it was laid. It would decimate them slowly and meanwhile it would drive them mad with frustration and grief.

What kind of a sorcerer would lay an oath - nay, a curse - of such cruelty and recklessness upon another magic user?

Nimueh turned to Cenred, who was watching the conversation unfold with an impassive expression.

“He’s more dangerous than I ever imagined.”

“We must prevent his ascension to power,” agreed Cenred. “But still, I cannot go to war with Camelot over one sorcerer. Not without a reason.”

“The winters are harsh in Ealdor. We barely have enough food as it is and if Kanen continues to pillage, our children won’t live to see another summer. Please, we need your help.”

Hunith was dressed simply and her hands were chapped from rough use, but Arthur saw more true elegance in her bearing than in many a simpering courtier.

Merlin and Gaius stood off to the side behind her in identical poses of dignified attention, backs straight and hands clasped behind their backs.

Uther sat on the throne, slouched on one armrest, listening intently. Today he wore thick leather gloves embossed on the forearm with the Pendragon sigil; the gauntlets of a man who never got his hands dirty.

“Ealdor is in Cenred’s kingdom,” said Uther. “Your safety is his responsibility.”

Standing beside the king, Arthur did not envy either his father or Merlin’s mother the weight of responsibility they bore in this terrible interview.

Her voice did not tremble as she retorted, “We’ve appealed to our king, but he cares little for the outlying regions. You’re our only hope.”

Arthur could not remember his own mother, but it required no stretch of the imagination to know what Merlin was feeling upon seeing her again. The knowledge of her suffering weighed upon him, and yet could not eclipse the quiet, fierce joy with which he watched her now.

Uther sighed. “I have the deepest sympathy for you and would have this barbarian wiped off the face of the earth.”

“You’ll help us?” asked Hunith.

“I wish I could,” said Uther.

“Surely we can spare a few men?” Arthur interjected.

“Resources are not the problem.”

“Then what is?” asked Morgana.

“Ealdor lies beyond the border with Essetir. For an army of Camelot to enter it would be an act of war.”

Hunith dropped to her knees. Merlin’s eyes sharpened to ice.

“I know you’re a good king, a caring man,” implored Hunith. “I’m begging you, help us, please.”

“The accord we struck with Cenred was years in the making. I cannot risk hundreds of lives for the sake of one village. I’m afraid Camelot cannot help.” Uther sat back with finality.

Morgana stepped forward, an impulse of compassion overtaking her, and helped Hunith rise and escorted her out of the king’s presence.

Arthur left the hall as soon as possible in the aftermath. He needed to say just the right thing and he had only the walk from the throne room to the physician’s quarters to formulate it.

Merlin was already packing, shoving in items seemingly at random, eyes glazed and unseeing.

“Your mother must be exhausted,” said Arthur, quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

Merlin did not respond, in favour of adding two wooden serving spoons and a book about tortoises to his satchel.

Arthur wisely refrained from interrogating this, and merely continued, “She had a long journey. Morgana will see to it that she freshens up and perhaps the two of you can have supper. She must be tired and starving. She cannot travel any more tonight.”

Merlin paused, his gaze swimming back into focus.

Arthur stepped into the room and put a steadying hand on Merlin’s back. “Go and have supper with your mother. Come upstairs afterwards. We’ll work out a plan to save your village. Trust me. Go on.”

Merlin stepped deeper into the circle of Arthur’s arm. Arthur held him tight, savouring a type of closeness that was surprisingly rare, despite the other physical aspects of their relationship.

“I trust you,” said Merlin. “See you after supper.”

The city of Camelot was bigger than Hunith remembered. She’d never had occasion to go into the castle before. Had never been escorted through its cold stone halls by armed knights. Had never seen the throne room, with its high arches that made the king’s voice echo like thunder; a clever acoustic trick by its architect.

“The city changes you.” That’s what Will had said, when he came to help Hunith around the garden, after Merlin had gone away.

“He’ll always be our Merlin,” said Hunith, because that’s what you said to a lad of 17 who missed his best friend.

Merlin was quiet over the supper table. Warm though. Solicitous. Nervous. He tried to butter her bread and then dropped it and then magicked it clean under the table.

Hunith waited. She told herself it was the patience and wisdom of motherhood, but in truth, she hardly knew what to ask this strange young man to bridge a year of distance between them.

So they talked of her life back home and his life in Camelot, and their old acquaintances and his new ones.

Hunith asked, “Are you happy? Have you made friends? Are you being careful?”

And behind those questions were a dozen questions, a hundred, that were impossible to ask or even to know to ask. Have you always been so tall? Have your eyes always been so haunted? Have you always hugged me like your heart was breaking?

But Merlin did seem to be happy in a new, cautious sort of way. He was full of stories of his new friends. Hunith would have thought him quite mad - exaggerating to impress her, perhaps, with his tales of working directly with the Prince - except that Lady Morgana herself had helped Hunith clean up from her journey.

As she listened to Merlin chatter, all about what “Gwen said” and “Morgana thinks” and “Arthur says, Arthur thinks, Arthur wants,”, she felt the all-too-familiar well of fear that had been her constant companion as mother to a precocious little sprite of a son who happened to have untold arcane gifts.

Magic was not outlawed in Essetir, but Ealdor was a border town and its trade with Camelot was more frequent than most. The price of a captured sorcerer in Camelot was so high and enticing that it was not unheard of for hunters to scoop up a magic-wielder and take them to the city to claim their reward.

Hunith could see that Merlin’s magic was different. It was not the hedge magic that many everyday people used to make their burdens a little lighter.

Merlin’s magic was lightning in a bottle. Just like his father’s.

Balinor, too, had once spoken with ease of the great lords and ladies of their time. He’d grown up at court, a nobleman’s son. He’d been at the royal wedding, with King Uther and the newly minted Queen Ygraine resplendent on the dais, while sorcerers performed feats of awe, Nimueh led the Priestesses in a series of blessings, and then– then–

Oh, the flight of the dragons.

Hunith could still remember how his eyes lit up when he told her these stories, set in a world so different from their modest cottage in Ealdor. It was hard to imagine her beloved, scruffy and unshaven as he was then, soaring through the air on his great dragon, leading a flotilla of five others behind him.

It was even harder to imagine that it was all gone now – all of them slaughtered, the sorcerers and Priestesses and dragons and dragonriders – and that all this unfathomable destruction had brought this man, the Dragonlord himself, to her sleepy village.

Their time together would be brief. Soldiers from Camelot were seen one evening and he was gone before sunrise.

But here he was, or a part of him at least, in the young man across the table from her.

“Mum, you rest up, alright?” Merlin said. He kissed her gently on both cheeks, as he’d been wont to do as a child. “I’ll go and see about this grand plan that Arthur and Morgana are cooking up. Get some sleep. Don’t worry about anything.”

Don’t worry. Well. Merlin and Balinor might have their gifts, but it was surely Hunith who was called upon to do the impossible everyday.

It was, of course, Morgana who laid out the plan.

Merlin, Lancelot, and a small company of Greycloaks would accompany Hunith back to Ealdor. Lancelot would help the villagers raise a highly visible defense against Kanen’s bandits: a militia of ordinary farmers defending their homes. Meanwhile, Merlin would drop a boundary ward around all of Ealdor, deterring this group of bandits and preventing future incursions, so that he could rest easy knowing that his mother was protected. And if anyone found out about Camelot’s involvement, it could be played off as local lads who went back to protect their home, not a sanctioned military maneuver.

“The risk, of course, is sending the Greycloaks. Word may spread that they belong to Arthur’s private cadre, even though they aren’t noble. To mitigate this, Arthur will not be going to Ealdor. He will stay in Camelot and do something very showy and ostentatious, so that everyone can see he was not involved. We have debated this plan at length . And we have all agreed that this is the most sensible course of action and we are committed to the plan, which will only work if everyone trusts each other and plays their part. Isn’t that right , Arthur? ” finished Morgana, with a meaningful glare.

Arthur’s face was as grim as an oil painting of a thundercloud by a melancholy teenager, but he nodded.

So it was that Arthur’s one true love set off on yet another heroic adventure with his gallant knight friend. Never mind that Arthur would have given a king’s ransom to see Merlin’s village and whatever clues to Merlin’s complicated history it contained. Never mind that Arthur would have valued endearing himself to Merlin’s mother, just in case her approval could sway Merlin’s recalcitrant heart.

And certainly never mind, oh no, not one bit, that in all the confusion and haste, Merlin had quite forgotten to kiss Arthur goodbye.

“Well, Morgana,” he said, after the company was out of sight. “How shall I make an arse of myself while they’re gone?”

Arthur knew that Morgana pitied him because she did not say, “why, Arthur, just go on as you usually do.”

Instead, she asked, “Would you prefer an archery tournament or a joust?”

“Archery.”

“I’ll have Geoffrey send out the proclamation.”

“Will you compete in the tournament? You should. You might even come in second to me.”

Morgana grinned. “Oh, this will be fun.”

Naturally, that meant it all went terribly wrong.

Arthur was going to win this tournament even more handily than usual. All that practice with Merlin at the aerie was certainly proving itself worthwhile. He could only hope that all of Merlin’s practice was serving him equally well, wherever they were now.

He was watching from the sidelines, having a whispered discussion with Leon about whether any of the competitors were worth recruiting into the royal archery corps and peacefully drinking a cup of juice from the refreshment tent, when he was tackled to the ground. Seconds later, an arrow thwacked into the boards right where he’d been standing.

There were gasps all around him and he distantly heard his father’s shout of alarm. Arthur looked up blearily, entirely expecting to see Merlin, who made rather a habit of body-checking Arthur these days. Instead, there was an unfamiliar man with unfortunate facial hair hovering over him.

The tournament had paused. The King was shouting. Arthur got to his feet, covered in sticky drink.

“You’ve saved my son’s life,” said the King to the moustachioed newcomer. “Your name, my good man?”

“Cedric, Sire. Only doing my duty, Sire.”

“Such a deed as this merits something special indeed,” said Uther. “You shall be rewarded with a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“Thank you, Sire, thank you,” said Cedric obsequiously. “I desire nothing more than… to serve.”

“No, no ,” said Arthur. “Father, no, absolutely not, I have no need of a manservant.”

“Nonsense, my boy. What finer story could there be - this boy saves your life and goes on to become your most loyal servant. The songs really do write themselves, what,” said Uther.

That night, Arthur stood stiffly by the window and watched in absolute dismay as Cedric stoked his fire and laid out his bedclothes. He turned to look out the window instead. It was unbearable and made all the worse by imagining what Merlin would say when he came back to find this marauder in their bedchamber.

He turned to look out the window instead and heard Cedric fumbling and clattering around behind him for a few long minutes.

“Will that be all, Sire?” came the meek question.

“Get out,” said Arthur, curtly, and sighed with relief when the door slammed shut behind him.

George had been run off his feet all day and it was nigh on midnight before he got his own supper.

There was so much to do when the nobles took it into their heads to have a last minute archery tournament. But now the visiting courtiers were asleep and only a few of Camelot’s core staff were still in the castle.

He took his bread and cold chicken up to the north parapet for a bit of peace and quiet. He ate quickly and then uncapped a flask of whiskey. This was a rare treat, but it had been such a long day.

He took a swig and leaned back against one of the hundreds of carved gargoyles that decorated the castle walls.

There was a horrible sound of grinding masonry above him and then a gnarled stone hand came down and took the flask out of his grasp.

George looked up.

The gargoyle rotated its head to look at him.

George screamed.

“Vengeance shall be mine,” thundered Cedric, from the top of Camelot’s tallest tower, as the eldritch swarm of gargoyles swirled in flight around him. A flash of lightning illuminated his stupid moustache.

“Come on, this guy?” said Arthur, exasperated, as they watched his erstwhile new manservant from the big windows of the throne room. “I said I didn’t trust him, Father.”

Uther waved a hand in grudging acceptance. “On this one occasion, I concede that you had the right of it. Now, Gaius, what have you learned?”

“It is the curse of the sorcerer Cornelius Sigan, Sire. He has brought those creatures to life and turned the castle against itself.”

“But surely that cannot be Sigan himself?” said Uther. “He is long dead.”

“He has found a kind of immortality by using an artifact to preserve his soul. He lives again to seek his revenge.”

“Fascinating,” said Uther. There was something thoughtful in his voice that made Arthur turn suddenly back to him with a dawning dread.

“A shame that such things are the provenance of evil men only,” said Uther. “A real ruler might do the world a lot of good with similar tools.” He sighed regretfully. “But alas.”

He turned to his men. “Send men down to the barracks and the armoury to prepare themselves. Arthur, secure the castle. We have many guests staying as part of the tournament. This room is defensible. We will barricade it.”

“Yes, Father,” said Arthur. He looked around the throne room. Of his preferred knights, only a few of noble blood were permitted there. “Leon, Percival, Galahad, Owain, with me.” That would have to be enough. This would be a dangerous day to be accompanied by knights who were loyal to his father.

As they ran up the stairs, they could hear nothing but the crash of falling stone, as gargoyles continued to unpeel themselves from the crenellations of the castle, taking flight one by one to join the swarm around Sigan.

Morgana’s door was open. She was waiting for him. “Arthur, thank god. I’m fine and Mordred’s here. But Gwen went downstairs half an hour ago. And Bronwen’s with her.”

Owain gasped and Arthur nodded to him. “Go find them. Percy, you too. Get them somewhere safe, a room with no windows, and get all the servants together. Protect them. Leon, Galahad, do the same for the courtiers. Get them to the throne room.”

“Lady Morgana, allow me to assist you,” said Leon, stepping forward.

“No, I’ll take Morgana myself,” said Arthur, desperate for a private moment to talk to her. “Go get the other courtiers.”

“No, Sire, it’s safer if we all stick together. Morgana, come with us,” said Leon.

Morgana shook her head at him. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

“My lady,” said Leon, more imploringly than the situation really called for. Morgana’s mouth quirked up into a wry half smile.

“Leon, go, that’s an order!” exclaimed Arthur, shoving down the hallway.

From the higher vantage point of Morgana’s windows, the gargoyle swarm looked worse than it had from below, each beast the size of a man and twice as heavy.

“What do you think? Do you know a way to stop this spell?” Arthur asked her. “We won’t be able to hold the castle for long.”

Uncharacteristically, Morgana was wringing her hands. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. I wouldn’t know where to begin turning them back to stone. But maybe Gaius could find something in his books?”

“No, he’s shut in with the King. We won’t be able to get him alone.”

“If I could get close to the sorcerer, I might be able to do something,” suggested Morgana. “Convince him to stop? Or… or kill him, if it comes to that?”

“That’s way too risky while he’s so well protected. And anyway, I can’t ask you to do that. You can’t kill anyone,” said Arthur. He wanted to mean it, he did, because you couldn’t ask someone wearing a damask dress and flowers in her hair to go kill a man on a rooftop. Except that he would. And she would.

“Of course, I can,” said Morgana, frightened but determined. “I think so anyway. I’ve never tried to work a spell powerful enough to kill someone, but I might be able to, if I have to. For Camelot.”

“As a last resort,” said Arthur. “Damn and blast it. We need Merlin.”

“By the time word reaches him and he travels back here - what, two days? We’d never be able to hold out that long.”

“No, not days,” said Arthur, thinking of their coins. “He could get back here in the blink of an eye. I know it. We just have to reach him. Someone needs to get out of the castle, past the creatures, and ride for Ealdor. One of the younger knights could take the message.”

“If it’s just a message…” said Morgana, in a tone that Arthur knew well. She was coming back from the edge of terror, composing herself, forming an idea.

“Mordred, on the first day we met, you called to me inside my mind.” She went over to him. Knelt down so their eyes were level. “Can you use your power to call Merlin?”

“No, it’s too far,” Mordred said. “Miles and miles, across the whole country. I can’t.”

“I believe you can,” said Morgana. “You must try. Before we send anyone out there.”

“I will try.” Mordred clenched his hands in the coverlet. His eyes went faraway. “But it might take some time.”

In the distance, there was the tinkle of glass, screams, and the heavy thud of stone on stone. It sounded like a breach.

“Faster would be better,” said Arthur, and Morgana glared at him.

“Get out,” she said. “Go hit something. We’ll stay here and do the real work.”

Arthur went, breathing a sigh of relief. Merlin would know what to do. And if this whole ordeal brought him back from Ealdor a few days early, well, that was entirely worth it.

As soon as he could formulate an excuse, Gaius fled the throne room and rushed back to his chambers. There had been a spell in a book. He could almost remember it. It might be the key to undoing Sigan’s work.

Gaius could not perform it. His magic had been fine and robust once, but it had atrophied within him, starved of light and practice. With every execution, with every lie to forestall his own death, he had imagined it shrinking within him. And he’d let it. Wanted it to die.

But he could prepare the spell. And someone else could. Someone else…

This was another thing that he tried not to think of, but there was no escaping it now. He would help Hunith’s son to save them. Even after railing against Merlin’s cavalier use of magic, he would now, in the moment of crisis and of truth, enable the boy to do what Gaius himself dared not do. The hypocrisy of it was a familiar taste on his tongue.

He searched through his books, focused, feverish, as he tried to remember the magical tutelage of his childhood.

Then he heard the growling emanating from under the table. The growl picked up, a steady sound that escalated until it seemed to bypass his ears and sink directly into his hindbrain. He looked down. Hippocrates’ mouth was open in snarl, teeth glinting in the low candlelight, and his eyes were glowing red.

“No, no, good boy, Hippocrates. Stay down. Stay. Be good. Good boy,” Gaius murmured. He moved slowly, gathering the nearest books, backing away. He continued saying nonsensical soothing things, but Hippocrates had emerged from under the table. His tread had become so heavy that he left marks in the stone as he advanced.

Gaius flung himself into his bedchamber, shutting the door just as Hippocrates lept. He heard the crunch of unnatural teeth into the wood.

Hippocrates had been one of the stone guardians of the castle, before Merlin’s spell had turned him into Gaius’ beloved dog. Now Sigan’s spell had taken him back. The door shuddered in its frame as Hippocrates threw his full weight against, biting and snapping.

Gaius braced his back against the door; put his hands over his face. He tried not to get attached these days. Not after he’d lost everyone and everything so many times over. But he’d been charmed by Hippocrates’ perpetual expression of polite disdain and amused by his tendency to chase Merlin and the rest of the young lads.

Now, Gaius would find the spell to return the stone to its true form and Hippocrates would be gone too. Just like everyone else.

Gaius wedged a chair under the door handle and got to work anyway.

Gwen cursed herself for suggesting they get fresh herbs. Now they were trapped in the kitchen garden with a gargoyle between them and the scullery doors. It took a step towards them, then another, not quickly but relentless. It looked exactly as it would have on the walls of the castle, even had a slash of moss growing along its shoulders, except for red eyes that made two hypnotizing pinpricks of light in the darkness.

They had to run. There was no other way, but where could they find shelter if they left the environs of the castle? It was a long way to the lower town. The gargoyles were slow, but they would easily catch a woman in the late months of pregnancy.

Gwen tugged Bronwen’s hand urgently, but she seemed frozen in place.

“Please, Bronwen, you must come. We have to run,” she begged.

The gargoyle was only a dozen paces from them now, pounding heedlessly through the garden beds, the smell of mint rising as it was crushed underfoot.

Bronwen took her eyes off the gargoyle for just a moment, looked deeply at Gwen, and seemed to come to a decision. She put one hand over her belly and stretched out the other towards the gargoyle. Roots sprang up from the garden beds and wrapped around the gargoyle’s lower limbs. It kept moving, and they stretched and snapped.

Sweat broke out on Bronwen’s brow, but she persisted. She spoke a word of power that Gwen did not understand and more roots followed, thick and knotted, so quickly that the gargoyle could not snap them as fast they ensnared it in a tomb of wood.

The scullery doors opened. Owain and Percival burst through, shouting their names.

This time, when Gwen tugged her hand, Bronwen moved. The two girls sprinted towards the castle and the doors closed safely behind them.

Owain caught Bronwen up. “Was that you?” he asked, in between kisses and exclamations of relief. “Did you trap it like that? Well done, my girl.”

But Bronwen was looking at Gwen and Percival in mute suspense.

“Oh Bronwen, that was marvellous,” Gwen said immediately, answering the unspoken question in the air. “You saved my life. I can never thank you enough, but I’ll start by keeping your secret forever. Percy will too, right?”

“You won’t tell? For my sake? For our child?”

“Of course not,” said Gwen.

“No, we won’t reveal your magic,” said Percival, gently. “Speaking for myself, it is not for the sake of your friendship with Gwen, nor even for your blessed child. But because it isn’t right for you to be punished for something you were born with.”

“Ah,” said Bronwen, a little weepy. “I can tell that you’re not from around here.”

“We must seal the citadel,” said Uther.

“There are people on the drawbridge, Father! We can’t leave them exposed and at the mercy of those creatures.”

“I have to protect those who have a chance,” said Uther, waving at the courtiers, huddled together in the throne room. Dust was raining from the ceiling as the castle shook under the onslaught of the gargoyles. “We must save ourselves or we all shall fall. Where are you going?”

“I’m not leaving them to die.”

“I forbid you to leave,” commanded Uther. “It’s suicide. You will stay within the walls of the castle by order of your King. Guards, barricade the doors. Cover the windows.”

Arthur rounded on his father, infuriated by this show of cowardice, ready for a showdown, ready to die on this hill. He would defy his father. He would not cower in a throne room, among simpering aristocrats, while his people were under siege. He would take command. He would–

“Arthur, make haste,” shouted Leon, just outside the doors. “The co*ckatrice has woken.”

He would be no good to anyone if the king turned against him. Arthur remembered how easily Merlin had yielded their first fight and how it had taken the sting out of the defeat. He swallowed his pride and dropped on one knee before the king.

“Sire,” he said. “I’m the only one who can defeat the co*ckatrice. I’ve done it before.” He clasped both hands over the hilt of his sword, in a parody of a supplication. “Please allow me to serve your kingdom.”

There was a susurration of approval around them. Arthur knew he made a fine chivalric picture: merely a humble knight, not a brash power-mad prince. He kept his eyes downcast.

“Very well, my son,” said Uther, mollified into acquiescence. “Go and drive those creatures out. Take back our castle.”

Arthur left without a further word. He did not look at his father. He did not look back at all.

“Take arms, good citizens,” Tristan was bellowing. “Take up your– your–”

To his left, there was the almighty clang of cast iron connecting with stone. A gargoyle’s head shattered. Fiona let out a vengeful screech of glee.

“Fine, good,” Tristan continued, undeterred. “Take up your frying pans and meet the foe! For Camelot!”

Mordred’s face was pale and sweaty, and Morgana could see the rapid movement of his eyes under his closed eyelids. Searching. Searching.

“Stay focused. You’ve almost reached him. I can feel it. Just a bit further,” she whispered, encouragingly. “Mordred, you’re doing so well. Keep going. You can do this. I believe in you.”

His hands were hot. His forehead, burning. Every sinew of his small body strained.

Then he collapsed like his strings had been cut.

“He heard me,” said Mordred, breathless with exhaustion and brimming with pride. “Merlin is coming.”

Merlin arrived in Arthur’s bedchamber at unusual velocity.

He hadn’t brought anything with him. He’d simply dashed off a hurried explanation to his mother, Lancelot, and Will, and then he’d reached out and folded the world around him so that the space between Ealdor and Camelot collapsed into a single step.

It was a doozy of a step though, and he careened into a misplaced chair before he caught his balance.

Merlin noted that Arthur’s boots were also in the wrong place and there were dirty dishes on his desk. Outside Arthur’s window, Cedric cackled madly into the night sky as gargoyles swooped down and pulled huge chunks from the castle walls.

“Who is the world’s worst manservant now, huh, Arthur?” Merlin said to the empty room, unable to resist tugging the bed coverlet back into order.

He headed out blindly towards the nearest commotion, which turned out to be Tristan, all by himself, backed into a corner by two enormous double-headed gargoyles. They were the particularly ugly ones that usually loomed over the castle parapet.

Tristan had lost his sword, but both his hands were outstretched and his eyes were golden. Sharp ice-tinged currents of air blasted from his fingertips. They might have been enough to freeze the gargoyles for a few seconds to evince an escape, but as Merlin watched, they flagged in their intensity. Tristan’s limited magical reserves were being quickly depleted.

On the wall behind Tristan’s shoulder was one of the protective runes that Merlin had etched into the castle walls during his early, lonely, midnight prowls through the castle.

If Merlin triggered the magic contained in the rune, it might be enough to stop the gargoyles without giving away his own secret. He reached out with a tendril of power and activated his booby trap.

Tristan shuddered, feeling the wash of magic around him, and was immediately drawn to the stone with the rune etched into it. It was – quite stupidly, Merlin reflected – placed on the wall right at eye level and it was glowing with octarine light.

Tristan gasped, but did not hesitate. He put his hand right on top of the rune, drew upon its power, and sent both gargoyles flying with a blast of arctic wind.

“What the hell was that?” Merlin crossed the distance between them, touched his own hand to the stone, and found the rune was gone.

“A lodestone,” said Tristan, bewildered, defensive. “I don’t know where it came from… Listen, Merlin, about my magic. You mustn’t tell anyone. Please. I don’t usually have such power. But I have children.”

Merlin’s first instinct was to promise to keep Tristan’s secret and to jolly well keep his own. He repressed it. He was getting better at listening to the voice of his conscience, which sounded rather like Gwen going on about truth and trust and self-determination.

“I put it there,” Merlin admitted. “Though I didn’t know it could do that. What did you call it?”

Tristan’s mouth fell open. “You? But how– and does the Prince–” he started, but then he shook himself. “Another time, we shall have a beer and tell tales, my friend.” He clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “I called it a lodestone because that is what it seemed to me. A cache of power.”

That made sense, in a way. Merlin was constantly being surprised by all the things he didn’t know his magic could do.

“Nice trick there,” he said to Tristan. “I’ll take you up on that beer when this is all over. Bet you always keep them nice and cold.”

“Yes, ‘tis my particular talent. And it’s about all I can do, without your enhancement,” said Tristan, sheepishly.

Merlin’s mind was racing ahead. He was thinking about Tristan’s talent. And the sorcerers that his wards had revealed all around the castle. Gemma, the laundry maid. Freddy, the boy who collected the eggs. Half a dozen others that he’d worried over through endless sleepless nights, even though they showed no inclination to cackle. And of course, there was Morgana. Even Mordred. And there was the solution!

Mordred, can you hear me?

Merlin! You’re here!

Can you speak into the mind of any magic user? Not the evil one. But all the others?

Yes, I think so.

Pass on a message: tell them to look for the lodestones. All over the castle. Every alcove, every corridor. Tell them to use their power. Stay safe, but fight back!

Tristan, who was well on his way to becoming a soppy patriotic idealist ever since the day that his prince had cuddled his young son, said, “Tell them, fight for Camelot!”

For Camelot! said Merlin to Mordred.

For you! Mordred shot back.

Merlin didn’t hesitate. No. For Arthur.

The silent rallying cry swept through the clandestine magical underbelly of the castle.

For Camelot! For Arthur!

Now that Gaius knew what to look for, he saw the lodestone at once, a simple rune of protection glittering above his own bed. He could not say how long it had been there, but knew that Merlin must have snuck in to etch it. A foolhardy, overconfident, stupid thing.

Gaius touched the rune and felt the answering surge of magic beyond his wildest dreams singing in his veins. A sentimental, wonderful, generous gift of a thing.

Was this how Merlin felt all the time? No wonder he could never stop using it. If Gaius had anything like this, he would never have stopped either.

Gaius held the magic. He readied himself.

He started weaving the spell of protection upon the dog before he even opened the door, but Hippocrates leapt at him with a snarl, landed heavily, and sent Gaius stumbling to the floor.

With the breath knocked out of him, Gaius waited for the crush of powerful jaws around his throat. It never came.

Hippocrates licked his cheek inquisitively and then kept on licking at the salty tears that began to spill down Gaius’ face.

Arthur had managed to use his mirrored shield to turn the co*ckatrice back into stone, but it wouldn’t keep. Sigan’s spell held the entire castle in its sway and Arthur could see the monster’s clawed toes already twitching as the magic worked to reanimate it.

Yet, the tide of the battle was turning. There were fewer gargoyles in the air now; fewer screams of fear in the distance. Cornelius-Sigan-or-Cedric was still up on the roof, but the storm had been snuffed out. Had Mordred’s call for help worked? How would Arthur know?

Galahad trotted around the corner. “So, hey, this is gonna sound really weird, but I just saw a gargoyle back there being pecked to pieces by a flock of chickens.”

Arthur threw back his head and laughed. Oh yes. Merlin was back.

And so the people of Camelot fought: sorcerers and servants; greycloaks and knights; everyone who had not been admitted into the dubious protection of the barricaded throne room. They took down the stone army with swords and frying pans and the peculiar zing of unique talents made enormous by Merlin’s lodestones. Thus empowered, the hedge magic that was quietly used to make gardens grow, to keep fires lit, and keep animals calm, became an impenetrable thicket of thorns, and sizzling fireballs, and a squawking maelstrom of murderous chickens and homicidal goats.

It was a strange night, with the manic topsy-turvy air of a masquerade, as the strictures of society gave way to the simple expediency of survival.

Arthur met Merlin climbing the tower steps to the roof where Cedric was perched.

“Good trip?” Arthur inquired, politely. “Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah, the usual,” said Merlin, with playful indifference. “How were things here?”

“Same old, same old. Hired a crazy sorcerer to work for me.”

“Missed me that much, did you? Gone a week and you needed to find a replacement.”

They’d reached the door to the roof. Eerie light spilled around the edges.

“Yeah,” said Arthur, dropping the pretence. He snaked an arm around Merlin’s waist and smacked a kiss to his surprised mouth. “I missed you.”

Merlin smiled, pleased, shy. “Yeah? Me too.”

“Together?” said Arthur.

“Together,” said Merlin.

They kicked down the door. Cedric didn’t stand a chance.

After the soul of Cornelius Sigan had been released to its eternal rest, Merlin cast the spell to return stone to stone.

He watched as the gargoyles froze in place where they were. A few fell from the sky, smashing everything in their path.

Beside him, Arthur surveyed the damage. “The clean up on this is going to be hell.”

Merlin agreed. There were grotesque new statues all over the grounds, placed at random in paths and in buildings. It was one thing to have a single evocative co*ckatrice about the place. Hundreds of half-smashed gargoyles seemed quite a tasteless doubling down on the design concept.

“So here's what I’m thinking happened,” Arthur began. “Once we got to the top of the tower, I heroically stabbed Cedric in the heart–”

Unconscious and unharmed at their feet, with his hands and magic both bound, Cedric whimpered.

“–and then the spell came to an end, reversing all the damage and putting everything back where it should be. Nice and clean. No backbreaking labour for anyone,” he finished, hopefully.

“That’s absurd. Magic doesn’t work like that,” protested Merlin.

“Ah, but who can say how magic works?” asked Arthur, airily. “Certainly not anyone in Camelot.”

“That’s true.”

“Plus, you need the practice. So, what, you made a simple wall at the aerie. It would be much harder to restore all the carvings and sculptural details here. Could you even handle it?”

“I can’t believe you think that’s going to work on me,” said Merlin. He was grinning though.

“You’re right. It’ll be easy for you. Boring, even.” Arthur faked a yawn. “You know what, I’m going to bed. I don’t even want to see it.”

Merlin bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, I’ll show you ‘boring’.”

He spoke the words of power to bring the stone to life, extending his mental reach to encompass the entire grounds of the castle, to the very furthest gargoyle, looming on the wall right above the market town. They’d really been just in the nick of time.

“Not you,” he murmured, as the co*ckatrice stirred hopefully. “Not you either.”

“Hmm?”

“Hippocrates wanted to come too, but I told him no walkies right now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Shh, I’m concentrating.”

As Merlin’s brow furrowed with effort, the gargoyles began to plod towards the castle. As they went, they righted overturned carts and gathered up stones, cleaning up. He didn’t want to send them into the air again, just as everyone was calming down, so he let them look a bit silly as they lumbered and began to climb up to their positions all around the castle. He flexed his fingers. It was quite hard to keep so many things moving at once. The pink hint of dawn crept over the horizon.

Arthur really did yawn then. Merlin knew that he’d had a long tournament day and an even longer night of battle, but was still pricked by indignation. What a remarkably short journey from the dreamy whisper of Merlin, you’re miraculous, to dozing off while Merlin made the earth dance to his tune.

Miraculous had been the right word for that perfect first kiss. Just the two of them, beyond reality and responsibility, joined in an embrace that defied the bounds of time itself. There had been many kisses since then and more besides, but that first one was different. Now they were just letting off steam. Sparring. Bickering. Keeping it interesting.

When Arthur got bored... when Arthur inevitably moved on to something real with Gwen… well, Merlin would let him go to his destiny with grace. Merlin would keep nothing of this brief heady affair, but the memory of touches and whispers and endearments, and those he would hoard like a dragon.

A surge of feeling rocked through Merlin and out his fingertips. The spell faltered.

“Merlin, you’re shaking. Stop if you need to.” Arthur steadied him, taking some of his weight. “Is it too much?”

“No, it’s not that,” Merlin gritted out. “It’s the castle. It doesn’t want to go back to the way it was before.”

When he closed his eyes, he could see the shape of what it wanted. Or what he wanted? Or was it one and the same? The spell changed. All of a sudden, it flowed effortlessly.

Merlin opened his eyes. The sky was pale now. The early light revealed the smooth gleaming facade of the castle, the restored windows, the clean courtyard, and all of the stone gargoyles back on their plinths and perches and parapets– except, they weren’t gargoyles anymore. They’d become dragons. Dragons with wings arched atop the towers; dragons breathing stone facsimiles of fire on the balustrades; dragons coiled around the columns; dragons glaring out protectively over the drawbridge; dragons of stone, poised in expectation of the king that would be.

“Oh, Merlin,” whispered Arthur, in exactly the dreamy tone that Merlin prized above all other treasure.

And the sun rose upon a new day in Camelot.

Morning carried the distinct air of chagrin.

Revelations that were clear and sharp in the sheltering anonymity of the night became faint and illusory in the glare of day. A national hangover.

In the great dining hall, breakfast was served late, which didn’t matter because almost no one came down to eat anyway.

The king and courtiers, having cautiously emerged from the throne room once things had gone completely quiet for three quarters of an hour, were still abed late into the afternoon.

Sleepy servants drifted through the corridors, tidying a discarded sword here, a torn tapestry there. Soon there was no proof that anything had been amiss at all.

So if there was something you thought you’d seen or done or heard deep inside your mind in the desolate hours of the deep dark night; if you’d committed treason and saved lives; if you’d seen your friend hold fire in their palms and rain it down on a ghoulish spectre plucked from the land of nightmares; you may as well have dreamt the whole thing for all that anything looked different this morning, well, then that wasn’t the sort of thing you talked about, not aloud, not over tea and toast, not before someone else mentioned it first.

Later that day, after a nap and an ugly conversation with the king, Arthur went up to Morgana’s chamber, and found Merlin, Gwen, and Mordred already there. He helped himself to a scone and jam.

“I don’t know what you’re all looking at me for,” said Merlin. “ My part of the plan went smoothly. We sent the bandits packing and implemented the protection. Lancelot and Will, that’s my best mate y’know, got along like a house on fire. And my mum made these honey oat squares - man, they’re great , I missed those.” He sighed happily. “Good times.”

Arthur almost dropped his plate. Will, my best mate. Excuse me, what. Who?

“Aww, Merlin, I thought I was your best friend,” pouted Gwen.

“Of course you are. Will is grandfathered in. When we were kids, he was the first person I ever told about my magic, except for Mum, and he was great about it. He’s grown up so well too,” said Merlin, oddly paternalistic. “Stands up for what he believes in. He’s going to do such great work with Lancelot, training up the village militia.”

“So what kind of adventures did you and Will get up to?” asked Arthur, nonchalantly, as if the winds of jealousy had not just kicked up a howling tornado inside his chest. He wasn’t especially proud of this reaction, but Merlin made him feel like he was always looking over his shoulder for a ghost. Who was Merlin thinking of when they were out racing on horseback? Who had first wrestled Merlin into a Fantailler fighting stance? Whose name was Merlin biting back when Arthur was sucking his co*ck?

“Now is not the time,” interrupted Morgana. “We have a lot to catch up on. Uther could call the court at any minute. A quarter of the castle staff have just been revealed as sorcerers. Not to mention that some little fool decided to redecorate the whole place.”

They traded information about who had been where and seen what. Tristan. Bronwen.

“She was amazing,” gushed Gwen. “And to think Owain knew the whole time. It really must be true love with them.”

They listed out other names, so many that Morgana had to go get a pencil and parchment.

“Galahad, I think,” said Arthur. “He kept running ahead. By the time Leon and I caught up, the gargoyles had mysteriously smashed. He said a tree branch fell on them. So, gotta be, right?”

“Yes, that is actually a very common trick among secret sorcerers,” said Merlin, pink-cheeked.

“Mordred, is there anyone else to whom you spoke? Any courtiers?”

“Nobody who was in the throne room,” said Mordred. “But your list is missing Gaius.”

“I always forget. He never uses it,” mused Merlin. “But this time was different.”

“That’s a lot more people than I expected. So many sorcerers and so many witnesses. But no one who I can immediately say is more likely than anyone else to betray the secret to Uther.”

“That’s going to be important,” growled Arthur. “I was just with him. He’s mad as a hornet’s nest. Raving about the threat of sorcerers and how he's been complacent. We must redouble our efforts to stamp out magic and so on. He didn’t complain about the dragons though, did he? Doesn’t mind a bit of magic when it makes him look good.”

“He noticed?” squeaked Merlin, which earned him universal disdain.

“I think everyone in the world noticed,” said Gwen. “Very pretty, Merlin, but not exactly subtle, was it?”

“The King said he thought they were a fitting tribute to the Pendragon name, but he was saving face in front of the court. He’s definitely suspicious that there was more magic involved than the original curse.”

Arthur was still seething about Uther’s handling of the crisis. His doubt about his father’s judgement was, by now, a well-watered plant, lush and growing.

They went in circles for a while, trying to sketch out the possible risks. Someone would tell and all the servants would be executed. No one would tell, but they’d keep using magic and they’d slip up accidentally. On and on.

“There’s too many moving parts now,” said Merlin. “I’ve officially lost my handle on it all. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“That gives me an idea,” said Morgana. “I’ve been thinking about how all sorcerers seem to have their own particular strength. I think mine is scrying into the future. I’ve been having these dreams and– anyway– I figured out how to control it.”

“Isn’t that sort of dangerous?” asked Arthur.

“I want to try, Arthur. I should have done more during the battle. I just stayed up here while everyone else was so brave. But I– oh, Merlin, I owe you an apology. You’re always so quick to defend us when anything happens. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to do something like that myself. I couldn’t think of a single way to stop Cedric. And now I understand– I want what you said– to keep everyone in Camelot safe. You were right. There are some sorcerers who do mean us harm. Even though I was also right and there are a lot of sorcerers who are just ordinary people doing their best.” Morgana blinked back the wetness in her eyes. “Let me do what I can to keep them safe.”

Merlin accepted the apology with a brief squeeze to her forearm. Gwen fetched a large shallow bowl. Morgana filled it with water. Her eyes went dark as she peered within.

Arthur sat back and watched with interest. Magic was so fascinating and useful. Even his father thought so, much as he hated it, particularly evident in the way he’d gazed wistfully at Cedric on that roof.

Smoke began to rise from the surface of the water, wreathing Morgana’s face and hair.

Arthur sometimes wished he could have just a little spark of it, just to see what it was like. But most of the time, he was glad that it was not a burden he bore. It weighed so heavily on Merlin and Morgana, and even on Mordred.

Remembering, he turned. “Well done, Mordred,” he said. “Your powers have grown so much. You called Merlin and you got the word out about the lodestones.”

“I saved everyone,” said Mordred, smugly.

“You really did,” allowed Arthur, not rising to the bait. “The whole castle could have been destroyed without your help.”

Mordred squirmed with joy and embarrassment, embattled by a teenager’s need to be seen and yet never be the center of attention.

“I told you, didn’t I? That my destiny lay in Camelot. Now I’ve fulfilled it.”

“Gosh, already?” teased Arthur. “And you’ve only just turned thirteen. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Mordred. “There are lots of destinies. Nobody gets just one.”

Merlin’s tone was cutting. “What does that mean? Who told you that?”

There was a great eruption of smoke and Morgana emerged from the mists, coughing. Her kohl eyeliner had begun to run and smudge and the steam had taken the sleekness from her hair. She looked crazy-eyed and wild-maned. Arthur opened his mouth to make a joke, but then saw Merlin’s stricken face. Merlin said nothing though. His eyes flitted from Mordred to Morgana again and again, but he just hunched his shoulders defensively.

Morgana took a handkerchief from Gwen and dabbed at her makeup.

“Okay, Merlin. So tell me again how your part of the plan went smoothly.”

“What? It did,” said Merlin, nonplussed.

“Again. So you went to Essetir, got the job done, and didn’t attract any attention? Didn’t obviously violate any peace treaties?”

“Yeah, basically. Defeated the bandits, laid down some wards. Took a couple of hours tops. We’ve just been hanging out for a few days. Helping out Mum.” He trailed off. “Oh, no. Why?”

“Because I just saw that King Cenred of Essetir and a phalanx of a hundred knights are on the road to Camelot.”

Arthur rocked up from his reclining position. “They’re coming here? So many?”

“They’ll be here by morning.”

“They’ve sent no word ahead of them!”

“No, I rather think it’s meant to be a surprise.”

That night, Arthur sat at his desk, politely pretending to write, while George performed his closing duties.After an interminable period of time, he finished, bowed to Arthur, and went out with an armload of dishes and laundry.

Merlin slipped in the door soon after. The hour was very late and they’d have to be up early to prepare a show of strength to meet Cenred’s party. Yet Merlin didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get on with it. He was fussing with things around the room, as always, rearranging them just how he liked them.

“Stop that,” groused Arthur. “We haven’t, for ages. Don’t you want to?”

“I just have to fix this one thing,” said Merlin, moving bits of armour around with a proprietary air.

Arthur shoved him gently onto the bed.

“This would be so much easier if you were my manservant,” speculated Arthur, flopping down beside him, and reaching into Merlin’s trousers. “You could maraude around here and tidy to your heart’s content. I could summon you to my presence whenever I was feeling the least bit horny. Three, four times a day probably. I’d have you on the table every morning before breakfast. I’d make you draw a bath every night, just to pull you into it with me.”

He gave Merlin’s co*ck a few long strokes, warming up. “If you were my manservant, I’d boss you around all day long and then get down on my knees for you at night, just to make things even between us again. Bet you’d like that, huh?”

Merlin’s hand clamped around Arthur’s like a vice. Arthur looked up in surprise and found that Merlin was far further gone than expected. His face was tipped away from Arthur, flushed red and hot. His eyes were screwed tightly shut.

Arthur watched in bemused astonishment as Merlin brought himself off in half a minute, rutting wildly into Arthur’s hand until he spilled. It was too fast and too desperate. Out of proportion to what they had been doing. They were both still fully dressed, and Merlin had come all over his own shirt.

Merlin’s eyes drifted open and refocused on Arthur as if from a million miles away.

Then Arthur recognized it: Merlin had been all worked up, chasing a release that didn’t have much to do with the present moment, because Merlin had been carried away by a fantasy.

The thought was like a slap.

Arthur pulled away from Merlin sharply and rolled over on his stomach. Merlin sat up and yawned, dragged off his soiled shirt and threw it somewhere. Then he followed Arthur, draping an arm and a leg over him, snuggling up, smiling like a dope.

“Who were you thinking about?” Arthur asked, spine rigid, face half hidden in the pillow.

Merlin froze. Guilty. Caught. “Hmm?”

Arthur said nothing. He couldn’t bear to ask it again.

“You, just you,” Merlin said, breathing warm against the back of Arthur’s neck. “I only ever think about you.”

This was the only acceptable answer, of course, and oft repeated by false and wayward lovers throughout the ages.

“If you say so,” said Arthur, cold.

Merlin tugged Arthur into little spoon position, curled around his back, rucked up his shirt, and splayed one of his big warm hands flat on Arthur’s chest, like an oath sworn over Arthur’s heart instead of his own.

“It’s only ever been you for me,” he murmured, soothing. “I’m here for you. I want you so much. How could there be anyone else? No way. It’s always you, Arthur.”

“Okay, okay,” said Arthur, softening back into this beguiling embrace, into the honeyed reassurances he craved.

He hadn’t heard a lie in Merlin’s voice. But then, he hadn’t wanted to.

Welcome to the great city-fortress of Camelot in the hallowed light of a sun-dappled August morning.

March through acres of open wheat fields in full view of anyone guarding the city wall. Enter the prosperous market town, redolent with the clamour of trade. Look up at the gleaming white stone of Camelot castle, with its jaunty red pennants fluttering on every turret, displaying the golden dragon rampant sigil of the Pendragons.

Witness the mighty display of Camelot’s fabled knights, marching in intimidating battalions around the grounds of the castle, with armour and lances and swords polished to such a shine that it was hard to look directly at them without shading your eyes.

Riding at the head of the Essetirian regiment, Cenred heard the gasps of dismay and mutters of uncertainty behind him. This shining well-defended castle was not a place that you wanted to enter as an enemy.

Two days ago, Nimueh had drawn him into a vision of a castle under siege from a ghoulish army of gargoyles, courtesy of a few nudges to an impressionable young servant and an old sorcerer’s curse. They’d set off immediately.

Now, he was glad that he had not told anyone of Nimueh’s vision, nor brought her along with him. She was a wild card and unreliable, so it seemed. Even without knowing that their king had expected to find a castle in ruins and ripe for the taking, the men were worried.

Cenred’s heartbeat was loud in his ears. He no longer had a plan, but there was no turning back now.

The heralds trumpeted their entrance, as Cenred and a few of his advisors were met and escorted to the throne room.

King Uther Pendragon was sitting on the throne, perfectly at ease, smiling that cold snake’s smile of his. At his right hand, his son, as leonine and golden-haired as promised in those sycophantic songs currently popular in every tavern and court in the land. At his left hand, his beautiful young ward, fair and green-eyed, with combs of pearl and ruby tucked into her elaborate flowing braids. All three of them were dressed in red.

So they’d been expecting him. At the very least, they’d seen the regiment coming from a distance and dashed upstairs to change into some suitably regal colour-coordinated outfits. But could the display of Camelot’s military outside have also been put together so quickly? And what of the repairs to the castle after the gargoyles had destroyed it? It could be nought but magic.

“Welcome, King Cenred! Welcome to Camelot!” boomed Uther, his voice echoing.

Cenred inclined his head in greeting, while the rest of his retinue bowed.

“Well met, King Uther. It has been too long, my old friend.”

“How good of you to drop in for a visit,” continued Uther. “And to bring so many of your closest friends with you.”

Cenred kept his head high and his expression bland. He had expected to arrive as conqueror, but walked into the lion’s den instead. This was delicate.

“Simply a training exercise,” said Cenred, dismissive. “One must give the men somewhere to go. Can’t have them parading up and down the castle grounds all day.”

“No? I’ve found it to be rather effective,” Uther drawled. “We’re training too, as you doubtless noticed upon your arrival.”

Prince Arthur smirked at that, so Cenred knew that the readied battalions had been his doing, perhaps at the behest of the damnably mysterious sorcerer of his.

“While I’m here, though,” said Cenred, as if it were only now occurring to him. “We did have a little skirmish along the border the other day.”

“Is that so?”

“A misunderstanding, I’m sure. Easily cleared up.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Uther. “Where was this skirmish?”

“In a village called Ealdor.”

“Hmm, Ealdor, Ealdor. Rings a bell, but I cannot place it,” said Uther.

“You might recall, Sire, that a peasant woman came from Ealdor to petition you to intervene in some bandit trouble,” supplied Morgana, respectfully. “You declined to help her. For the sake of the peace treaty.”

“There you have it,” said Uther. “I declined.”

“She found another benefactor, perhaps,” said Cenred. “The knights who fought off those bandits were well-trained.”

Uther side-eyed Arthur in silent, suspicious enquiry.

Surprisingly, it was Morgana who answered. “They could not be knights of Camelot. As you can see, our ranks are quite unbroken. In fact, our knights were all competing in an archery tournament. Every single one accounted for in the lists.”

“Quite so,” said Uther.

“And you’ve seen no other trouble recently?” said Cenred, and then cursed himself inwardly. Uther and Arthur seemed quite oblivious, but he saw Morgana’s face grow grim with understanding. He’d tipped his hand.

“What can you mean by that?” she asked, breezily. “What other kind of trouble were you expecting us to be in?”

“No, indeed. Just because I am troubled by invaders does not mean that you have been similarly besieged. May I trespass upon your hospitality tonight, that we might discuss this further?”

He saw Uther hesitate and added: “Most of my men shall decamp to the fields outside the city, of course. They’ll leave on the morrow. I’m sure this little jaunt across the countryside was quite the treat for them, but they must return to their work.”

Morgana snorted a little, soft enough to be barely noticeable, but derisive enough to be unladylike. Cenred assessed her, pretty and insightful and impetuous, and the kernel of another plan formed in his mind.

“I must confess: there is another reason,” said Cenred, cautiously, when he and Uther were seated side by side at a banquet that night. “You’ll forgive an old fool for wanting to arrive with a bit of pomp and circ*mstance. It has been a long time since I went courting.”

“Courting?” said Uther, with real surprise for the first time today. He relaxed back into his chair.

Yes, this could work.

“That little skirmish got me thinking that perhaps it was time to solidify the alliance between our two kingdoms. Now that your ward has come of age…”

Uther followed his gaze over to Morgana, who was looking all that was best of dark and bright in the flickering candlelight. Cenred knew there could be no more tempting offer. Three of the five kingdoms boasted their own princesses - Elena of Mercia, Mithian of Caerleon, and Vivian of the Western Isles - but Cenred was the only unattached male monarch around, beside Uther himself. If he were affianced to Morgana and then Arthur to one of the other princesses, Camelot would secure two unbreakable alliances.

“Perhaps a walk after dinner?” suggested Cenred.

“Perhaps,” said Uther.

“Appropriately chaperoned, of course.”

“Of course,” Uther acquiesced. Cenred could practically see the wheels in his head turning.

Morgana proved a more wily conversational partner.

They walked in the fragrant rose garden for a quarter of an hour without Cenred getting much beyond demure pleasantries out of her.

Cenred exerted himself to be charming and was rewarded at last with a tart reply.

“I’m flattered that you think I'm so beautiful,” said Morgana, wry, forthright. “But I believe you’d quite forgotten my existence until you saw me today, so I cannot have been your original object in coming. All this fuss over some little border town. Why should you care? Were you merely looking for any pretext for an incursion?”

“Do you think it minor then?” he asked, matching her candour. “A whole village walled away from me with spellcraft?”

She gasped.

Cenred smiled. “Did you think I would not know? Not everyone is ignorant of the old ways.”

“I– I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you not?” he said, calmly. “Then perhaps I have misjudged you.”

He could see that this appealed to her vanity as all the compliments about her beauty had not. She liked that he had guessed that she knew more than she let on.

“You did not tell King Uther that magic was involved in the skirmish in Ealdor,” she said.

“Well, my old friend can be easily provoked to rash actions when the threat of sorcery is invoked. I prefer a more moderate approach. Magic can be a useful tool, like a knife.”

“Though you’d still object to being cut with it,” said Morgana.

Cenred laughed. “Indeed.”

“So you’re here to ensure that Camelot’s… knife is still sheathed?”

“Broadly, yes, though I hesitate to push this metaphor any deeper in the presence of a lady.”

To his delight, she blushed, and he wondered if anyone had ever really dared flirt with her under Uther’s gimlet eye. The sun dipped below the horizon, elongating the shadows amid the rose trellises.

"Let us come then to the heart of the matter," he said, intimately, softly. Their servant chaperones did not seem to be close enough to hear their conversation, but it was as well to be cautious. "There is a powerful sorcerer here in Camelot and I must uncover their intentions. I do not wish for a war, but neither can I allow parts of my kingdom to be carved up and annexed without retaliation.”

“And if such a person exists and if you are able to discover them, what shall you do?” she asked. There was just that edge of something in her voice– a tremor, a knowingness, a real fear– to make him pause with suspicion. A sorcerer close to the prince. A sorcerer whose true face was not an old man.

“I shall offer them sanctuary, of course.” He extended his arm and she took it as they walked on. “Imagine a place where magical talents need not be concealed. A realm where a sorcerer might live and learn and weave their spells freely, without the spectre of persecution. Essetir embraces magic. I offer safety, protection, and the freedom… to be who you truly are.”

The temptation was evident in her eyes. The allure of a life unrestricted by Uther's oppressive laws hung in the air, perfuming it like the scent of the roses. Cenred, sensing her internal struggle, pressed on.

"Camelot may see magic as a threat, but in Essetir, it would be celebrated, not hidden in the shadows. Allow me to show you. To earn your trust.” His warm gaze lingered on her lips. “And, if I am very lucky, to earn your regard and, someday, your hand.”

She turned her face up to the new moon. In its pale silvery light, it was hard to tell whether he’d caught her - her magic? Her attention? Had he guessed right?

"Consider my offer, Lady Morgana," Cenred murmured, his voice a velvet caress. "Essetir could be your sanctuary, and I, your willing ally."

He touched her cheek and she allowed him to kiss her, close-mouthed, chaste but intent.

A few days later, Arthur stood in the throne room with his father’s words ringing in his ears like a bell tolling the kingdom's descent into darkness.

"Citizens of Camelot!" King Uther's voice boomed through the hall. "We have witnessed the threat that magic continues to pose to our kingdom. It is time to reaffirm our stance against sorcery and those who wield it."

The gathered courtiers exchanged uneasy glances. There could be no good to follow this.

"I decree a bounty of 50 gold pieces on the head of any proven sorcerer. Furthermore, I have called forth a witchfinder," Uther continued. "A relentless seeker of sorcery who will root out every last trace of magic from our kingdom."

Arthur's heart sank. A witchfinder roaming their halls, scanning for any hint of magic, turning citizen against citizen. A witch hunt in a castle full of frightened servants whose magical talents had recently been revealed to each other.

"Father," Arthur spoke up, his voice calm and measured. "Are you certain? A witchfinder will sow chaos and division at a time when we need to stand together.”

Uther’s eyes flickered over to King Cenred, who was listening with an expression of bland interest. Over the last week, he had habitually claimed the seat beside Morgana that Leon usually occupied.

“It is necessary, Arthur. We cannot allow the taint of magic to poison our kingdom any longer. The witchfinder shall root out every last sorcerer, no matter the cost."

The cellar underneath the great kitchen of Camelot castle was a high-arched room for the cold storage of winter provisions. Its shelves were mostly empty now, with the harvest not yet brought in.

There was an enormous round workhorse of a table in the centre, piled haphazardly with drying herbs and burlap and odds and ends for some project or other. Its surface was pocked with the scars of careless practical use.

Merlin had spent many comfortable days down here, sitting and working and gossiping with the other servants.

But it had never felt as eerie as this.

As midnight approached, more and more people slipped in. “Finally,” Gwen hissed, closing the big door behind the last arrival. “People are already nervous.”

The dim candlelight flickered over their faces.

The tension in the room only grew as Arthur dropped the hood of his plain grey cloak. He stood at the front of the room and a natural circle of deference left a gap around him; an echo of the supplicants before the king in the throne room above.

Arthur turned to Merlin, at his right hand, and said, in a loud carrying voice, “Merlin, can you make it so that no one can interrupt us or overhear us?”

Merlin waved a slow theatrical hand and an octarine line of magic circled the perimeter of the room. The gesture and the colour were entirely a show that said, You are safe here. We're in this together.

“Morgana,” said Arthur, turning to his left. “Would you mind if we had some more light?”

Merlin appreciated how he’d left this order deliberately vague, in case Morgana did not want to reveal herself.

But she merely smiled and opened the palm of her hand to reveal a tiny orb of light. It darted up into the ceiling and then multiplied a hundredfold, a rippling ocean of stars overhead. Her smile widened at the low gasps of shock and interest.

In the almost day-bright light, things no longer seemed so ominous. The room was full of familiar faces: all the servants who had committed or witnessed sorcery that fateful night. There were a few knights as well. Owain and Galahad and Percival. And Leon, who met Merlin’s gaze evenly.

“Thank you all for inviting me to this meeting,” said Arthur, which was an absurdly polite royal way to describe Gwen’s panicked message about a secret gathering of frightened servants. “I know that my father's proclamation today must have been terrifying. And I wanted to tell you— I want to reassure you of— I want you to know–”

Arthur stopped and sighed. He rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“Look, this isn't working,” he said. “I can't stand up here and tell you what to do, as if I have any right. Let's sit. Can we sit?”

He threw himself into a chair. In the pause that followed, Gwen sat down purposefully, directly across the table from him. This seemed to grant everyone permission, and there was a scramble for seats on chairs and crates, all pulled up in a close circle. It was not unlike the way the servants usually used the space to work side by side on their various tasks.

“That's better!” said Arthur, much more cheerfully. “Now, truly, I only wanted to start by saying thank you. You all fought so bravely to defend Camelot from the gargoyles. Many of you put yourselves in grave personal danger by revealing your magic in order to save your friends and our home here. I want you to know that I see what you did. I have been told of it. If I were– if I had my way, you would all be rewarded generously. Indeed, placing a bounty on your heads seems like rather poor recompense.” He gave an ironic, uncomfortable laugh. Merlin could see his hand clenching and unclenching reflexively under the table, and longed to be able to take it and squeeze it in reassurance. “It is my desire that you should all be kept safe until– until–”

He could not say it, but they all heard it just the same. If I were king. Until I am king.

“But until then,” said Morgana, taking pity on him. “Perhaps we might just talk a little. I would love to know how so many of you have magic. I thought it was quite gone from the land. But here we are. I– well, I’ll start. I have had strange dreams my whole life. But a year or two ago, they started becoming so vivid. Like visions. They started coming true. Then Merlin came, and he taught me how to control my magic. So that's me.”

“I have had magic since I was born. My mother said I was making pigs fly before I could walk,” said Merlin, to general laughter. “She sent me to Camelot, because Gaius was the only person in the world she thought could possibly put up with me.”

“I am Mordred, fourth warlock of the druid order of Ashkanar. If you have magic, I can speak into your mind.”

“Once, as a child, I wanted to go skating and, before I knew it, the duck pond behind my house had frozen over,” said Tristan. “This was a few years before the Purge, of course, else I'd be dead. Mostly, now, I use it to preserve food a little bit longer.”

“I use it in gardens,” said Bronwen. “I can grow anything at all. It doesn't matter what the soil is like or the temperature. Everything grows for me.”

“She’s been a marvel,” said Fiona, the head cook. “We used to have a whole cadre of sorcerers dedicated to the gardens. The feasts we had then! Pumpkins as big a carriage. And I had a son.” She stopped, an infinitude of tragedy contained in that past tense, and then collected herself. “Now, I look after the young’uns.”

“She gave me a job in the laundry, where I can do this all day, with no one the wiser,” said Gemma, sending a splash of water into the air and catching it again.

“I can talk to any animal at all,” said Freddy, who was not yet fifteen. “My grandfather was a Dragonrider!”

It went on and on and on. Glorious tendrils of magic infusing all their lives, unknown, this whole time. Horrifying gaps in the narrative, where families had been torn asunder, murdered, burnt at the pyre. Merlin felt elated and sick. And here he’d thought he was the only one with secrets. He’d thought he was alone.

“I was the Court Sorcerer,” said Gaius, very quietly. He looked quite as devastated as Merlin felt. A hush fell over the room. “I studied under the High Priestesses. I took my rites with the Druids. I rode with the Dragonriders. I learned everything I knew in the court of King Aurelius. And then I became advisor to his son, my oldest friend, Uther. And when he was driven mad by grief over the loss of the Queen, I stayed. I tried to curb his temper. It wasn't enough. He ordered the deaths of everyone I had ever known. Our friends and tutors. The noble families we’d grown up with. The dragons. My wife, Alice. And still I stayed. I gave up magic. I tried to advise mercy. I thought I did it for the best. But I was complicit in everything. In truth, I was a coward.”

“You’re not!” said Merlin, hotly. “You did what you could. You saved who you could. You survived.”

“There are worse things than death,” said Gaius, with such self-loathing that it hooked into Merlin’s ribs and curled up there to be considered later. For the first time, he realized what Gaius was to him now: a peer.

“Most of you are too young to really remember what life was like in Camelot before the Purge. What we’ve lost. Once, magic was revered. The most powerful sorcerers rose to prominence among the nobility. They were the ones who were caught first. I did not know then, but now I see that there is so much more magic in the world than we ever dreamed. People with smaller gifts who were more easily able to hide. I’m glad. I’m so glad.”

Merlin could have wept. “We have a second chance,” he entreated. “Right now. Right here. All of us.”

“Yes. We do. Oh, my boy, you have done something here that I never could. I did not think I would live to see this day again. But when I felt your power in that lodestone, I felt hope.”

“I felt it too,” said Tristan.

“And I.”

“Me too!”

Merlin ducked his head, overcome. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arthur lit up with pride.

“Yes, certainly, me too. But there’s a witchfinder on the way,” said Gwen, ever tactical. “What are we going to do when he gets here?”

“He won’t get here. I’ll stop him. You have my word on that,” said Merlin. He was confident he could get to Aredian before he ever made it through the castle gates.

“Quite right, we will stop him,” said Arthur, with just a hint of grumpiness. “So there’s just the bounty to worry about.”

“It’s a lot of money,” said George, worried. “Someone is bound to tell. And then we’ll all be burned at the stake. Merlin first, probably.”

“I would depose my father from his throne before I let any one of you go to the pyre,” snapped Arthur. In the shocked silence that followed, he gave a rueful smile. “Of course, I hope it will not come to that. I would rather that we all keep this quiet for now, to keep everyone safe, while I learn more about magic and figure out a way forward.”

“I can make a binding oath, so that no one here can ever betray the secret,” offered Merlin.

Arthur shook his head. “No. I have seen you bind people with a magical oath, but they meant to do us harm. I couldn't do that to my own people.”

He looked around the room. This was the light side of the moon of Arthur’s jealous streak, Merlin knew. Once he had decided that something or someone belonged to him, they became his to protect and keep and brood over like a mother hen forever.

He raised his voice. The royal tone was in full effect now.

“No doubt Merlin could fix it so that anyone who breaks faith with us comes down with pustules or grows a pair of donkey ears. But I would not wish you to feel coerced by his power or my own. I will not bind you to my judgement, but ask that you exercise your own and follow me only if you think it is right. You have all proven yourselves honourable and courageous and true. I would ask for nothing more than your word. I would ask you to swear an oath on nothing more extraordinary than– than– this table where we sit as equals.” His palm came down on the wood with a smack.

"Go on then," encouraged Tristan.

Arthur had been working on a new knight’s oath. He had wanted something that adhered to higher ideals than simple fealty to a liege lord. But it wasn’t finished yet. Merlin himself had been quite instrumental in distracting Arthur from his duties over the last few months.

Arthur began anyway: “I swear to dedicate my life to the greater good. I will place character above riches and concern for others above personal gain. I will defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will uphold justice by being fair to all.” He trailed off, thinking.

“I will speak the truth at all times and forever keep my word,” said Gwen, taking up the cause. Arthur smiled at her, so wide and glowing that Merlin’s heart leapt into his throat and tried to choke him.

“I will never boast, but cherish humility instead,” said Merlin, just to earn himself the dubious pleasure of Arthur’s renewed focus and annoyed eye roll.

“I will honour and respect women, and refute prejudice in all its guises,” said Morgana, which was entirely typical.

‘I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship,” contributed Leon.

“I will abhor gossip–” said Owain.

“--neither partake nor delight in it,” continued Bronwen.

“I will be generous to the poor—” said Percival.

“–and to those who need help,” said Fiona.

“I will forgive when asked, so that my own mistakes may be forgiven,” said Gaius.

This is a tale that will grow in the telling. Merlin can see it already.

Later, when such things can be safely spoken of.

Later, when they can swear it again, cast in the colourful light of the stained glass windows of the throne room.

Later, when Geoffrey of Monmouth takes down the testimony of those who were there.

Later, when Malory writes of it, when Tennyson does, when White and Eliot and Twain take up their pens with alacrity; the great bards of every age compelled to tell and retell the golden, chimeric, bittersweet story of Camelot.

Later, it will become a speech that flows fluently from Arthur's tongue, immortal and immortalized, delivered with the dignity of the divine right of kings.

But it will never sound better than it does the first time: in that cellar, in a dozen plainspoken voices, uncertain and teasing and talking over each other; bound together in a fellowship of their own making.

“I will live my life with courtesy and honour from this day forward,” finished Arthur. “This is the oath of the Round Table and we shall, all of us, take it to heart.”