Merlin 1. In Which Gaius Gets Angry

The midday sun blazed over Camelot, trapping smoke down by the ground and creating a smog that would choke even the bravest. The guards remained in their towers, poking their heads outside only long enough to assure themselves there were no armies on the march, and the lower town, usually bustling with the fervour of market day, was silent.

The new king lay in his bed, blissfully unaware of the day's events, and so no-one noticed as a small dark haired figure slipped quietly out of the gates, trying not to cry.

In Which Merlin Leaves, And Gaius Get's Angry

It wasn't until two days after the coronation that Merlin's absence was felt. Agravaine waited in the council chamber, trying to control his pacing as the clicking of his boots bounced off the stone walls, as the temperature moved towards the uncomfortable and his impatience mounted. Ten past, quater past, half past eleven; where in the name of heaven was Arthur?

He looked up as a guard marched in, one of the many nameless and faceless sentries to be found about Camelot, and smiled sardonically as the man saluted.

"My lord, I bring a message from the King."

"Say on then, my good man." Agravaine replied with a royal sweep of his arm, inwardly amused by his nephew's new title.

"Sir, the King begs your forgiveness for his lateness- it seems his lazy good for nothing servant failed to wake him at the proper time." The guard barked, badly hidden smile obvious beneath his helm. Agravaine had no doubts those were exactly his nephew's words, and forced himself to smile back, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.

The minutes ticked by, the temperature in the room rose, but the King's uncle noticed none of it, his scheming mind assigned to the problem of Arthur's lazy, good for nothing servant. He had thought on his arrival that his main problem would be Guinevere, with her fierce loyalty to Arthur, her obvious hold over the King and her quick- for a woman- political mind. But now he saw the greater danger, for the servant Merlin, with his carefully cultivated demeanour of idiocy and ridiculously large ears, was a far larger and more insidious threat. More than ever he found himself thanking heaven for Arthurs obliviousness- had he realised the depth of loyalty, and the intelligence at his command, Arthur would have been unstoppable.

Arthur sighed as the guards pushed open the heavy doors, already longing to throw the heavy band that encircled his head out of the nearest window, priceless or not. He wondered idly how his father had worn it every day for so long, and, ignoring the stabbing pain that always accompanied his father's face, forced his face still as he entered the room.

His uncle bowed, dark head bent in submission that belonged to his father as Arthur approached, and waited silently for the King to be seated at the head of the table, blonde hair mussed and unkempt.

The silence stretched, the silence of two people who are both waiting for the other to speak first, as Agravaine stood expectant, and Arthur stared at the table as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Until a crash echoed as the doors slam open, to reveal Gaius, wrinkled face red with fury. The normally placid court physician was shouting, enraged, shaking off the guards that tried to stop him entering with bellows of anger, waving a piece of parchment like a sword in front him.

"What have you done?" He roared, looking fiercer and more threatening than Arthur had ever seen him. "What have you _done!"_

Agravaine was on him in an instant, sword point rested on the court physician's chest, but Gaius didn't even notice, slamming the parchment down in front of Arthur with a bang that echoed like a mountain falling.

_Dear Gaius,_

_No matter what Arthur says, I'm not stupid. You know I'm not, or I hope you know, and I hope you'll stay as convinced as you are for as long a time as you have left, because the gods know you're the only one who does. But being intelligent has its drawbacks, and now I think I've figured it out... I'm done. My destiny is done. I can't do this anymore, not that I was ever really doing it; I was just breaking it a little more every time I tried, and now it's shattered and can't be fixed._

_He said I was evil, Gaius. I'm glad you'll never know how much that hurt._

_So, tell Gwen I'm sorry to leave the Prat to her keeping, but I'm sure she'll do a better job than I did. Between the two of you, you can probably stop him doing something too stupid, and tell Gwaine and Percival and the rest not to let him get too arrogant (more than he already is) or you'll be able to see his puffed up head from the Fisher Kings Tower._

_As for mother...make something up._

_Much love,_

_Merlin_

Arthur stared. He couldn't stop, he just stared at the words on the page till they blurred together and Agravaine and Gaius began a furious conversation, because Merlin couldn't have _gone._ He couldn't just _leave._ Arthur didn't know what he was talking about with the references to destiny, but he didn't care, because he'd never said Merlin was _evil._ Loyal, decent, _innocent _Merlin, how could anyone call him that?

No, something else was going on here. He didn't know what; didn't have the faintest clue, but something had to be going on.

In a moment Arthur was on his feet, breaking up the argument between his two closest advisors, as both turned to face him, one old, one of royal blood, but with identical looks of anger.

"Uncle, summon the knights."

Agravaine blinked, a frown furrowing his forehead as if his king were speaking in a code he was yet to decipher.

"Your majesty, you cannot seriously be thinking..." his uncle protested, but he cut him off, anger sharper than any sword.

"Merlin is my friend, uncle. He would not just leave, so something else is going on here, and I intend to ride after him and beat him until he bloody well tells me what it is."

Gaius began to bow, to murmur his gratitude, but his uncle caught his shoulder as he made to move past him, dark eyes boring into him. "I am sorry Arthur, I truly am, because I know how much you liked him, servant or not. But you are King now. Everything is different. You cannot ride off after a servant so soon after your coronation, if it is even true that something is happening to him."

"But..." Arthur wrenched his shoulder away, but his uncle held on, fingers tight on his skin.

"And who is to say he even wants you to find him? If as you say, something else is going on here, then he left for your safety. Riding off after him is hardly protecting yourself."

Gaius could only watch, white faced, eyes glittering with so much anger it seemed he could not speak.

And Arthur felt the fight drain out of him as he collapsed on his chair, unable to meet his old tutor's eyes.

"You're right Uncle." He sighed, and felt something collapse in his chest. "We have more important things to talk about." His voice sounded hollow even to him. "Will you please excuse us Gaius?"

He didn't look up. Not till Gaius had gone, and his uncle began to speak again.

_Yeah, I know, but watching The Wicked Day and how depressing it was, I had to write this. Colin Morgan and Bradley James were pretty damn amazing, and I wanted to do something about what happens to Arthur without Merlin, and how Arthur discovers who his best friend is, without Merlin trying to stop him._

_So...review? Should I even continue?_


	2. In Which Merlin Becomes Someone New

In Which Merlin Becomes Someone New:

Merlin heard a cracking behind him but did not turn, concentrating on putting one foot on top of the other as fast as he possibly could. Camelot was behind him but not nearly far enough- he could still see the towers of the keep above the treetops and there was a tugging in his chest that seemed determined to pull him back.

As he walked, he wondered how where he would stop; how far was far enough? What was left of Cenred's kingdom? The Blasted Lands? Or even further, to the Isle of the Blessed and beyond?

Would Arthur even come after him?

A noise broke through his reverie, horribly reminiscent of the training grounds and battlefields of Camelot, and he froze, at once hoping it was Arthur and praying that it wasn't. But then the clash of steel came again coupled with a coarse laugh, and without thinking the warlock broke into a run as a woman's scream echoed over the trees.

Bandits, five of them, standing around three figures huddled on the floor of the clearing. Even from where he was standing he could see the bloodstain spreading over the man's chest, as his wife huddled a smaller figure to her and waved her husband's rusty sword frantically at her attackers.

For a moment, he paused, and wondered if he should even get involved; after all, it was no longer his destiny to protect Camelot. But after less than a second he hated himself for that thought, moving to flank them as the leader struck at the woman with a brutal punch, sending the sword flying.

"Fluge! Gár!" A cry tore across the clearing as men flew backwards, slamming into trees and fallen logs with sickening thuds. The others whipped around, swords and maces hard and dangerous as they searched for the source of the noise, but Merlin could see the nervous looks that gave each other, and the sweats breaking out on their brows. In Camelot men knew to fear magic, even those who had no fear of the law, and a desperate hope welled in the woman's eyes despite her own, inbred terror.

Another spell, another rush of men through the air, and it was all over, the bandits flat on the floor, winded or stunned or dead. One stirred, reaching for his fallen mace, but with a word he had them bound with chains that sprang from nowhere, tying them securely to the forest floor.

"Who..." the woman cleared her throat and tried again, still clutching her son even as he attempted to get up, to see who had saved them. "Who's there?"

Again, he hesitated by the edge of the trees, wondering if he should reveal himself. But then the fallen man groaned, hand reaching pathetically to staunch the tide of blood as his wife turned to him with a sob filled with agony, and his decision was made for him.

But he wouldn't be stupid this time. With a word a hooded cloak appeared, wrapping him securely in its folds and hiding his features. Thus prepared, he walked out slowly from the shelter of the woods, hands held behind him as not to scare her.

"Please be calm." He said, moving slowly but calmly towards the man, voice echoing around the clearing. "I mean you no harm."

The woman stared at him, taking in the cloak, and the confidence of his steps, fear and desperation warring in her worn features. She glanced from her husband to him and back again, seemingly caught in the terrible paradox of inviting what she most feared to save her dying husband.

In the end, it was the child who decided for her, breaking away from the safety of his mothers embrace to run towards him, barrelling into the warlock's leg with the force of a charging horse. He was a pretty child, Merlin thought, all bright eyes and soft red hair, a smattering of freckles visible as he hid his head in the soft fabric of Merlin's cloak.

And so he stooped, picking the child up as it flung his arms around him, carrying him over to his mother and handing him to her as he knelt beside the boy's father. A wind stirred and the world paused as he took in the wound, moving his hand instinctively to heal it.

The woman shrank back, covering her husband, but a groan echoed from the lips of the dying man as she brushed his wound, and she jerked away, eyes watching his every move as he laid his hands on the injury.

"Please," he murmured, half to her and half to whatever spirits were listening. "He will be fine."

"Efencume... ætgædre, eala gastas cræft ige gestricaþ þis lic forod!**" **he whispered, and felt the familiar burn as his eyes flashed gold and the magic coursed down his arm to his fingertips, spreading into the man's chest, making him spasm.

The woman swiped at his arm and he let her do it, let her tear at her husband's shirt to find the wound knitting before her eyes, the blood return to his cheeks as he opened his eyes and began to cough.

Sitting back, Merlin smiled beneath his hood, the woman gazing at him with awe in her eyes. Her husband coughed again, bringing up the blood that had settled in his lungs, but the woman paid no heed as she hugged her man, relief pouring out of her in sudden rush of hysterical laughter.

The wind came again and he rose with it, feeling it ruffle his hair beneath the hood. The child smiled at his mother's laughter, as she babbled to her husband all that had happened since his fall into unconsciousness. The man looked up, eyes grave and serious, but without the fear he had expected, and almost welcomed.

"Thank you." Was all he said, and bowed his head, bringing a flush to Merlin's cheeks, even if the man could not see him.

"Not at all." He replied, but as he turned to leave he felt a tugging on his sleeve. It was the woman, and her eyes shone like stars.

"Will you share dinner with us tonight?" She asked, and he couldn't hide his surprise. "We have meat and bread enough for four, good master, and we would be honoured if you would dine with us." Then she glanced around, at the bandits now struggling against their bonds, and began to gather up her things, harrying the man to do likewise. "Though perhaps," she added with a smile, "after we have gone a little further."

He almost refused, but his stomach made itself known, and he remembered all the food he had brought had been left when he'd heard the noise, and could be in any direction. The woman laughed as his stomach growled, and as soon as they reached another clearing began collecting firewood for a fire, as her husband sat leaned against a log, playing a simple game with the boy.

It was dusk by the time the meal was ready, and they ate slowly, the family casting occasional glances over him as if to learn more about him as the woman talked. He learned that they were on their way to Camelot to live with her brother, who had work available at his tailors. He learned that the child, named John for her father, had recently recovered from a fever, and that her husband Adam was a cobbler by trade, and hoped to help her brother expand his business. She, Isolde, was a washerwoman, and, she admitted with a laugh, a gossip of the first order, and now she thought about it, she said after a pause, she didn't know his name. None of them did.

Merlin froze, and a chill seemed to pass around the fire. The woman looked horrified and began to apologise as he raised his head, only to fall silent as the man looked up from his bowl. What was his name, Merlin thought as the silence grew uncomfortable; could he still use Merlin? If Arthur and his knights were following, using that name would be foolish in the extreme, especially with such a tale as this attached to it, and the princes newfound hatred of magic. No, he thought, safer to choose another name.

"Emrys," he said, and tried to ignore how very right the title felt as it rolled off his tongue. "My name is Emrys."

"Well thank you Emrys." Isolde replied, voice low and very solemn. "Thank you for everything."

He nodded once and laid down his bowl. The woman said no more as he turned to leave, but the child rose and pressed something into his hand. It was a pipe, simply made from a hollowed out piece of wood, but he held it clutched tightly in his hand, so tight it left marks as he turned and walked to his bed.

He was gone when they awoke.

* * *

><p>The knights, as it turned out, did not take the news of Merlin's departure well. Percival didn't respond, but rose and left without a word, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. Elyan stared silently at the sword in his lap, blinking rapidly, but Gwaine... well, Gwaine always had something to say.<p>

"You can't just let him go!" shouted the dark haired knight as he sprang to his feet, chair falling with a clatter behind him. "When you called this bloody meeting I thought we'd be going after him, not letting him vanish without so much as a word!"

"He left plenty of words, Gwaine." There was something cold in Arthur's voice, and even Gwaine winced a little at the ice in his words, as the King steadfastly refused to look them in the eye.

"But" he continued, placing the letter down for the two knights to read, "He has made it perfectly clear that following him is not what he wishes, Sir Gwaine. He wanted to leave, and even if he didn't, we cannot waste time traipsing after a runaway servant, we have more important things to deal with."

No one missed the way he glanced at his uncle, as if seeking reassurance, and no one could miss the look on Agravaine's face as he nodded. It was a look of smug satisfaction.

But Gwaine spoke again, words cool and designed to cut deep even as his eyes flashed deadly fire. "That sounds like something your father would say." He accused in a harsh voice, and it seemed the words echoed throughout the room.

Arthurs head whipped up, and now he was looking at them Gwaine took a step back, because there was something hollow behind the King's eyes, some betrayal so huge that he would never get past it.

But all he said was "Good."

And it was decided.

_It's funny, because once I figured out what I was doing with this story, this chapter came really easily. They probably won't all happen this quickly; I have various exams and work and other stuff so you'll have to bear with me, but this one was no effort at all, and I hope you enjoyed it._

_Just two questions; was everyone in character, and does Merlin's new identity work?_

_Drop me a review and let me know!  
><em>


	3. In Which News of Emrys Begins to Spread

In Which The Dragon Is Honest, And News Of Emrys Begins to Spread:

It had been strange at first; to enter a village without the attention drawn by several mounted knights. Such a sight so far from the capital was rare indeed, and, despite his relative inexperience of the world outside Camelot, a single figure travelling on foot attracted little attention, not during high summer when the outlying farms were at their busiest.

He felt he had learned a great deal in the past few weeks, smiling ruefully at no one as he sipped his drink and tried to ignore his headache. Pickpockets were few and far between but were dealt with easily enough, a simple sticking charm on his pockets had them fumbling for nothing. Those spoiling for a fight were deterred just as quickly by another useful spell; once cast, he simply became unremarkable. Not invisible, but somehow ordinary, boring, and not worth another look. Bar brawls on the other hand, were another matter entirely, and despite what Gwaine said involved one, simple rule; do not, for any reason, get involved. Any attempt to do so and you ended up face down with a swollen jaw, as the faded bruise on his cheek would attest.

But this inn was nice enough, rather like the village; clean and not too smoky with fresh ale and hot lamb stew. Merlin sat in the corner away from other patrons, hands clasped round a warm mug of spiced wine and wincing slightly as the noise drove into his skull. His hood was down for once as he relaxed, leaning back as the barmaid cleared his food with a flirtatious smile, and he listened quietly as the voices washed over him. Gossip, even here, was always a useful commodity, and anyone glancing over would have seen only an unthreatening figure sat in the shadows near the fire; thanks to a combination of magic and ale, they would feel no desire to look closer.

And that, he supposed, was the one good thing to come out of all this. Despite the pain and the sadness and the almost overwhelming urge to turn around and just go _home, _he could finally use his magic. Not openly, he wasn't that stupid, but the further he got from Camelot the less the locals seemed to care, and out here no-one blinked an eyelid if a man's eyes flashed gold for a moment or two- it was probably a trick of the light anyway.

Merlin sighed, leaning against the cold stone of the wall in an attempt to relieve his headache and sore muscles, though they were better than a week ago. The soreness he could put down to a lack of practice- he had been spoiled in Camelot, and had gotten unused to walking, but the headaches were coming on more and more often as he left the capital further behind; that coupled with his increased difficulty sleeping made it feel as if his body was punishing him.

_Merlin! _

The voice came as a crashing roar that thundered through his head and he jerked, spilling ale everywhere. He looked up desperately, hoping no one had noticed as he began to mop up the puddle, but the arrival of a minstrel and the lateness of the hour meant no one was looking his way. Then the voice came again, louder and angrier than he had ever heard it.

_Merlin, what are you doing! Where is the prince, where is your charge?_

_Go. Away. _It was a sullen thought, he knew it without being told, but he had left everything behind him for a reason, and a tongue lashing from a dragon was the last thing he needed.

_What has happened, young warlock? _Some of his pain must have echoed in his words, because this time the voice was edged with something gentler, and he felt a comforting wave beat back his headache.

Here Merlin paused, wondering what to tell him. Should he mention how badly he had failed? Did he even want to? But he had to, truth be told, because otherwise Kilgharrah would never let him be.

_My destiny is over. _His mental voice snapped, made angrier by pain and lack of sleep. _I failed, Arthur hates magic, and it's done. So I'm leaving._

A pause that echoed, and Merlin didn't dare relax, he knew Kilgharrah too well to think he would just let the matter drop. When the voice came again, it was surprisingly calm.

_Meet me in the forest._

_No._ For a moment he was tempted to command his friend to leave him alone, because he was so tired and so miserable and so sick of the whole bloody situation that only the years of watching other magic users abuse their gifts stopped him from doing it.

_You will meet me in the forest, young warlock, or you will have to explain why a supposedly extinct creature has landed in front of a tavern and demanded you come outside! Do not keep me waiting._

And the voice was gone.

* * *

><p>The Great Dragon was not happy, that much was obvious from his landing. Normally smooth as glass and just as silent, this one kicked up a stinging wind that carried dust straight into Merlin's eyes.<p>

"Now Merlin, what has happened?" Kilgharrah asked as he sat back on his haunches, a movement of surprising grace given his bulk.

Conditioned by years of living in Camelot, Merlin couldn't help glancing around before hissing furiously. "Could you not call me that? If anyone hears, I do _not_ want that name getting back to Camelot."

Amusement gleamed in the dragons golden eyes. "Very well." He replied, with what passed for a smile among dragons obvious on his face. "Emrys then?"

Merlin didn't bother to ask how he knew. Suddenly he realised how tired he was and he nodded, letting his feet carry his body forward till he was standing between two massive forelegs, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the scaly skin. It was the work of a moment to sag against them, seeking comfort.

Then he told the dragon everything.

When he was finished he forced himself to look up, only to find Kilgharrah staring at the trees, apparently lost in thought. By now he was seated on one rough foot, leaning against the dragon's foreleg like a support as the moon ghosted high above them, playing hide and seek with the clouds.

"Well?" He asked, voice carrying far on the still night.

"I understand, Emrys. Do not think I don't. I understand the need to run from something, because you cannot do anything else." The dragon turned, looking down at him, and sincerity shone in his eyes.

"But you don't like it. You think I should go back." He accused, and the dragon looked away again, warm breath falling on his skin like a summer breeze.

"You are right, Emrys, I do not like it. I feel that you are wrong, because the working of fate cannot be derailed so easily. No, do not shake your head at me, young warlock; here we can reach a compromise. Destiny cannot be denied, and if yours still lives your King will find you, one way or the other, and your entwined future will come to pass despite all your mechanisms against it. If you are right, and destiny has truly been defied, then there is nothing to stop you continuing on your own way."

"Will you still answer me if I call?" Merlin asked, relief coursing through him even as the tugging in his chest intensified. "I don't want to force you, not if you no longer feel you have need to come."

Part of him hoped Kilgharrah would agree, the part the wanted to cut all ties to his former life and be left to bleed in solitude. But another, stronger part, the part that was desperate to turn around and run as fast as he could back to Camelot won, and hope welled, that the dragon who had somehow become his friend would want to return.

Kilgharrah blinked, and for a moment Merlin felt the full weight of their bond, as dragon contemplated Dragonlord in the lonely forest clearing. "Were it only about your destiny Emrys, we would have parted ways long since. If you need me, I ask that you call."

Merlin nodded, rising from his warm perch with one last look of longing. He had never been so comfortable, not in the finest chairs and beds of Camelot where he had snuck naps only a week ago, before everything had gone wrong. But then Kilgharrah smiled, and nudged his unresisting form back down with one huge claw.

"Sleep, Emrys. We needn't part just yet."

And so Merlin slept, wrapped in his cloak on the warmth of a dragons skin, a sleep deeper and more healing than any he'd had in weeks. Totally unaware of the figure at the edge of the trees, who fled as soon as his terror allowed him.

* * *

><p>There was a clattering on the cobblestones of the courtyard and Leon jumped down, cloak gleaming scarlet in the midsummer sun. Gwaine stood not far away, saddling his horse, and for a moment Leon paused, not wanting to disturb him. Gwaine had been different in the last week, quieter, more on edge, and though everyone knew the reason, no one had spoken of it.<p>

When it came right down to it, Gwaine was Merlin's friend. He had been that long before he'd ever been a knight, and though he held his position dear, for Gwaine it would always be friendship that carried the day. Had Arthur not caught him sneaking out of his room one night and thereafter had him watched, Gwaine would have been long gone, scouring every inch of the kingdom for any hint of his errant friend.

Now, it seemed, Gwaine was making his move, here in broad daylight as the sun beat mercilessly down. Bandits had been making their presence known in the unrest after the coronation, and more and more guardsmen were being sent to patrol the major highways between kingdoms. Including Gwaine's not so subtle guard- Arthurs arrogance must have overruled his head, if he thought so small a time span would make Gwaine forget his friend.

And it wasn't only Arthur's arrogance that had grown, without Merlin here to keep it in check. No one seemed willing to mention it, not even in the barracks late at night, where the ale and gossip flowed more freely than at a tavern, but now when Leon looked at Arthur it was like seeing Uther all over again. His king was still softer around the edges, slightly, but before when people had waved and laughed to see him ride past, now they bowed their heads and moved rapidly out of the way. Merlin was never mentioned, not since a new manservant had been assigned to him, but the king could still be caught staring at his new man in vague confusion, as if to ask what he was doing, and where his lazy, good for nothing friend could be found.

But it was Gaius who had been hit the worst. The court physician seemed hardly there most of the time, drifting through his duties and responsibilities as if half asleep. Merlin had been like a son to him, and if Merlin's departure had left the rest of them reeling, it was Gaius who had lost his balance entirely.

Shaking off his thoughts before his woolgathering attracted attention, Leon moved silently towards his friend, noticing the obvious supplies for a long journey, and stood for a moment as Gwaine moved hurriedly, checking this and that till he finally deemed himself ready.

"I should report you." Leon murmured, and Gwaine whipped around, sword half out of his scabbard before he had fully turned.

A smile graced his face as soon as he realised who it was.

"Leon! Don't scare a fellow like that!" His grin was genuine, but sadness lurked behind it, and Leon raised a brow at his brother-knight as he continued. "Report me for what?"

Innocence dripped from every syllable, and for a moment Leon hung in the balance, torn by his loyalty to the king. But even he, who could hardly be called Merlin's closest friend, had noticed something was missing. Something was _off _in Camelot since the manservant had left; even the easy camaraderie between the knights had become strained. Before, Leon would never have believed it, that a servant boy could have wormed his way so thoroughly into the workings of a court, and the life of its king that his loss left a hole, but Leon was no stranger to loss, and somehow he knew that this wasn't one that Arthur would recover from.

And with surprising ease given his rigidness in following orders, Leon made his decision; if his manservant was what it took for his king to be who Leon knew with certainty he could be, then if Gwaine failed Leon would go himself to drag the man back home.

Ignoring the question, Leon asked, "Are you sure you have everything? Spare clothes?"

Gwaine nodded, tapping one of the packs lightly with one finger as relief washed over him.

"Way ahead of you my friend." He whispered as an unspoken question hung in the air, and Leon smiled.

"Of course I will cover for you. As long as I can."

Gwaine's reply was cut off as a patrol galloped into the courtyard; something hurried and almost panicked in their movements. Among the silver and scarlet of the guardsman sat a merchant, richly dressed in green satin, but the man's face was grey, his clothes torn, and his eyes were sunken as if by a lack of sleep. The patrol had been riding hard then, and in Camelot, that only meant one thing.

"Magic, your highness. I saw it with my own eyes."

Arthurs eyes hardened in way that reminded them all painfully of Uther, and he sat up straighter as if to better hear. "Do you have proof?"

It was the captain of the patrol who answered, head lowered in deference to his king. "I can vouch for him sire. I saw the evidence for myself, there's no mistaking what he says."

Arthur nodded, waving at the man to begin.

"A dragon, your highness. As clear and as real as I see you now, I swear it."

There was a clattering noise from behind; it was Gaius, he had dropped one of his vials and was staring at the man in utter astonishment. The king ignored him.

"Impossible." Arthur's voice was hard, and his eyes snapped blue fire. "I destroyed the last one myself."

Elyan interrupted, voice low but strong. "Sire, with all respect, your father only killed all that lived in his kingdom. Is it possible that one has come here from some other land?"

The king turned to Gaius, who was still staring at the merchant as if he had grown another head and seemingly hadn't heard a word from Arthur's mouth.

A stern cough and a jolt in the ribs from Agravaine made the court physician jerk, flushing, as he tore his eyes away from the merchants face. But the blue orbs glittered oddly, his voice was calm but distracted, and he kept glancing back at the merchant as if expecting him to disappear.

Or hoping he would.

"I do not know sire. Your father did indeed kill all in the kingdom but one, which you yourself ended only two years ago. But even with all the live dragons dead, dragon eggs can lay dormant for hundreds of years, and they hatch fully capable of caring for themselves. Given proper nourishment, the texts say one can reach a good size within twenty years- if one did emerge in some other kingdom it is entirely possible that it matured before coming here."

Gwaine could have sworn the physician looked away as he finished, hiding his eyes from those assembled.

The merchant spoke up, hand trembling slightly. "If it please you sire, that is not all."

"Continue then." Arthur's tone brooked no argument.

"The dragon sire, it was conversing with a man. A sorcerer, hooded and cloaked. It called him Emrys."

This time it wasn't only Gaius who was shocked; Agravaine stiffened too, as if in recognition. The movement was fast, almost too quick for Gwaine to notice, and he would have missed it had he not been standing next to the man.

"That's not possible." Gaius said, and the rest of them turned, surprised at the flat contradiction in the court physicians voice. Rarely had they heard Gaius so sure of anything.

Arthur looked hard at the court magician, his father evident in every movement. "And why is that?"

"Because Emrys is only supposed to appear in a time of great change, when the Once and Future king shall take the throne and unite Albion under one banner. He's a legend sire, a myth." But there was something else; something left unspoken that shadowed the physician's words.

"What aren't you telling me Gaius?" Arthur asked, curiosity bleeding through the hardness till he almost sounded like the Arthur of old, back only a week ago, before the last of his family had been taken from him.

Gwaine could have sworn Gaius sighed, that something close to sadness passed across his eyes. "Sire, Emrys is supposed to be the most powerful sorcerer ever to live; a being made of magic, its creature, if you will. There are some texts that say he _is _magic, in some obscure way."

Arthur frowned, his decision evident in his face before he even voiced it. "Then what we must do is obvious." He looked at his uncle, ordered him to watch the kingdom in his stead, and even Gwaine had to admit, he had never before looked so like a king.

_Btw, for those of you that think Gaius wouldn't tell Arthur this, I think he would, but only the bare minimum. If he was reticent about it, it would just look worse- Arthurs not stupid, he'd know Gaius was trying to hide something, and then he'd just get someone to find this information anyway._

_As always- does everyone sound right? Is this believable?_

_And of course the most important question- do you like it?_

_A/N, 21/10/2011: Some people have questioned why Merlin would still think Kilgharrah only cares about the prophecy because of the question he asks- a lot of the time, when people suffer a loss like Merlin has, they begin questioning every relationship they have, no matter who with. I was trying to show just how messed up Merlin is right now- he either wanted Kilgharrah to leave, so he could lose everything all at once and get it over with, or have one relationship that he knows is actually workable, and that someone does care for him. It doesn't make much sense logically, but people do it all the time in situations like this._

_Hope that clears it up!  
><em>


	4. In Which Courage Meets Magic

In Which Courage Meets Magic:

Dusk was falling when Merlin came upon the familiar bridge, wreathed in vines and sturdier than it should have been. Despite the lateness of the hour, the sun still shone golden through the leaves, and somehow Merlin felt a little lighter, some magic of the place lifting a little weight from his shoulders.

It had been almost nine days now, walking as fast as he could as far as he could, but a question now rattled in his head, adding to his now permanent migraine. Where was he actually _going_?

Because the ultimate irony was, he thought with a smile that was more like a grimace, that now that he was free, free to go anywhere he wanted, the only place he wanted was the one place that was impossible.

Groaning, he rubbed his temples and cursed under his breath, only to jerk his head up when a voice cut through the air.

"Ho there Magic! Back again?"

It was the Guardian of the Bridge, unchanged since Merlin had last seen him, and with the same habit of appearing without warning.

Merlin returned the smile, a little weakly but with genuine warmth, somehow cheered by the man's open greeting and the friendliness of his smile. As he lowered his hood, the man grinned wider, a grin filled with secrets and mischief.

"No Strength? No Courage?" The little man asked, looking down the path as if expecting them to jump out at any moment.

Unable to help himself, Merlin sighed and shook his head, hair settling in front of his eyes as the smile fell from his face. "No, no strength and certainly no courage of either kind. I've left them both behind."

"Ah." The little man replied, gesturing for Merlin to join him on the bridge. "Running away?"

He searched the man's tone for censure, taking comfort when he found none. "In the barest terms, yes."

The Guardian nodded sagely, as if Merlin was doing exactly as expected. "So you've come for your inheritance?" He asked, smile never dimming.

"My what?"

"Your inheritance. It's that way." The man replied, pointing to the other side. "Just keep walking, you'll see it."

Merlin shook his head and wondered what the punch line was, because he seemed to be missing it. "All I'm after is somewhere to go, and some of that courage you mentioned."

The little man chuckled as he stepped aside. "Worry not my friend, Courage will find you soon enough. Who knows, you might find both the things you look for."

* * *

><p>"Well your majesty, I don't know much about dragons, but something bloody heavy rested here, and there are footprints as well, just like the merchant said."<p>

Gwaine grinned up at the king; he did so love stating the obvious. But Arthur just nodded, what might be a smile lurking somewhere in his eyes as he replied in tones made for sarcasm. "The one that attacked Camelot seemed about that big, yes." He made to turn, but stopped, a frown of puzzlement on his face. "Sir Gwaine, why are you grinning?"

"Dragon, sire."

Arthur waited for the rest, and when none seemed forthcoming, asked impatiently. "And?"

Gwaine shrugged, grin growing larger. "Haven't you always to fight a dragon sire? An epic battle to the death, like in the tales?"

"Oddly enough, no. One thing the tales fail to mention is how bloody difficult it is to actually kill one." But his smile belied his words, and the old twinkling had returned to his eyes.

Shaking his head in mock sadness, Gwaine couldn't help but be glad. "You were a boring, lonely child growing up, weren't you, your highness?"

He had meant to tease, hadn't meant the smile to fall from Arthurs face like he'd been struck, hiding the flash of pain behind a wall made of stone.

"Sir Percival," he called to the giant. "Any clues as to where they went?"

"The dragon flew, sire, so we can't tell, but the footsteps continue to the west, towards the Perilous Lands."

Arthur nodded, pulling a vial of headache reliever from a saddlebag and downing it with one swallow.

"Then we follow those."

None of the knights spoke as they remounted and rode off, eyes focused on the path ahead. Arthur took the lead, having lent a withering look to Leon when he suggested a less perilous place in the convoy, and Gwaine brought up the rear, the rest of the knights spread out in between, casting wary glances into the trees. It was the perfect spot for an ambush, and all kept their hands close to their swords.

No one seemed in the mood for conversation, and so slowly, casting many careful looks at his king, Leon began to fall back, to talk to the dark haired knight who would soon be leaving them.

"Are you still planning on going?" He asked, not needing to murmur over the thundering of the horses hooves.

Gwaine nodded grimly, not looking at his friend. "This sorcerer hasn't done anyone any harm that we know of; it's not like he was commanding the dragon to 'kill, burn, destroy!' Anyway, none of us would have a clue what to do if we actually met him, we're all just humouring his highness there."

Leon didn't want to admit it, but it was true.

"When are you leaving?" he asked.

"Tonight." Gwaine replied, casting a sidelong glance at Leon. "When my watch is called, I'll wake you up and leave then."

"Thanks." Leon said acidly; Gwaine knew perfectly well he wouldn't relish the idea of an extra watch. "Where will you start? We have no idea where he went."

Gwaine gave him a look that was pure wickedness, watching for Leon's reply. "The taverns."

And Leon didn't disappoint, face stiffening in disbelief. "What?"

"Ah." He shook his head with the utmost mockery, theatrical sadness on every line of his face. "This is where you fancy folk fail miserably I'm afraid- no one in the world knows more about local affairs than a bartender, and I know how to work one better than anyone. Plus there are only two inns within walking distance of Camelot- we already know he didn't take a horse."

There seemed nothing left to say, and so rode in silence for a while, Leon thoughtful, Gwaine trying to think of the best way to ask the question he'd been burning to ask since the clearing.

Eventually he gave up on subtle and just blurted it out.

"Did Arthur have _any_ friends growing up?"

He'd been thinking, and it seemed the only reason Arthur would have reacted the way he had.

Leon shook his head, refusing to look at him. "Think about it Gwaine. He was the prince, son of a gifted but arrogant king, a king who was determined his son would never have any weakness. Do you think he had friends?" Then the knight paused, a sigh full of sympathy and regret escaping his lips, but the silence stretched out as Leon debated whether to say more. "Merlin was his first real friend, and look what happened there."

"What about us?"

Leon raised an eyebrow, and for a second Gwaine felt the sting of embarrassment. "He doesn't really know any of you yet; he knows you're noble and will fight for a good cause, but that's about it. Arthur doesn't trust people easily; there are too many toadies at court that are willing to say anything to be friends with a prince. It'll be even worse now he's king; it took Merlin years to even get somewhere close to an even footing with him, and now he feels that as soon as he let the man in, Merlin left him, and he doesn't understand why."

"But he _cares_, Leon. We know he does, we all know he misses Merlin something fierce, but why does he keep pretending like he doesn't?" Gwaine protested, checking ahead to make sure Arthur couldn't hear him. "Whilst we're on the subject, why doesn't he bloody well go after him himself, instead of leaving it to_ me_ to drag the idiot back by his ears? He's just being stupid, and for all his faults, stupid is one thing he isn't." The knight finished somewhat lamely.

"Because now, despite us, he's lonely. He's never been lonely." Leon's voice cut low and urgent between the pounding of hoof beats, and continued as Gwaine looked at him with an incredulous expression. "Alright, yes, he was lonely back then too, but he didn't mind before, and now he minds." Leon shot him a pointed look, and Gwaine was forced to remember that the nobility he knew now were not the pampered, spoiled, snobs he had painted them all as. "You didn't have friends either. But you'd mind now, if they left you without telling you why."

All of a sudden Gwaine smiled, a rueful, self mocking expression crossing his face. "This is the most womanly conversation I've had in a long time." He muttered under his breath, but whatever Leon had been going to say was cut off as they reached a bridge, too narrow for horses to pass, with a short man sitting by the side of it, toasting a piece of bread. On a fire that glowed violet in the dusk.

"Looking for Magic?" The man asked without looking up.

"Yes." Arthur replied without dismounting, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword despite the air of recognition between the two.

The man gestured across the bridge, seemingly fascinated by a small patch of black on his otherwise perfectly browned dinner. "He went that way not five seconds ago."

Without replying Arthur stepped down, eyes fixed on the man as he walked towards him, but for some reason didn't draw his sword. "You are a creature of magic." The king accused, voice colder than snow.

At that the man looked up, face unreadable. "I am. Not all of us seek to harm you Arthur Pendragon; even Dragoon meant no harm in his spell."

The knights frowned, almost identical looks of confusion etched on their faces, but none were expecting the rage that exploded from the king.

"It killed my father!" Arthur hissed, and there was the screech of steel as he drew his sword.

As the man vanished, and a figure appeared on the other side, hooded and cloaked, hands glowing with raw, potent, magic.

"Hello Arthur." It said.

_It's a heart to heart and then a cliff-hanger! Sorry to be cruel... well, not really, it was fun to write._

_And just to ward off any confusion, the scene in the clearing with the knights, and Leon's conversation with Gwaine happens at the same time as Merlin's talk with the Bridge Guardian- I didn't know if it was obvious, so I just wanted to clear that up._

_For those who want to see Morgana- she didn't really fit in here, but rest assured, she'll be in the next chapter!_

_Anyway- the same questions. You like? Believable? In character? Let me know!_


	5. In Which Some Truths Are Uncovered

In Which Some Truths Are Brought to Light, And Morgana Receives Some News:

In another part of the kingdom, far from the two men who faced each other in the twilight, there was a rider, travelling fast. Agravaine, uncle to King Arthur and wolf in the fold sped across the highway towards his destination; the humblest of huts, tucked away so to better hide the treasure that lay within.

This time he knocked before entering; he had no desire for another knife at his throat, but when his lady opened the door, dark circles marred her flawless skin like bruises, attesting to her lack of sleep. Such a fall from grace, he thought as Morgana raised an eyebrow and waited haughtily for him to speak, for this woman who had been raised in the halls of a castle, who had been the darling of its court since she could walk. But her regal tone and the precise, straight manner in which she walked would never leave her, and she would always be a queen, even if she never again set foot in Camelot.

He bowed, a smile breaking out across his face, and Morgana frowned, suspicious of his sudden joy, his haste in returning when she had seen him not a week before. She would never trust him, was unconvinced by his apparent devotion, but he was useful, could learn things inaccessible to her, and best of all, Arthur had complete faith in him. But trust, she had learned, was one thing she could live without; she was certain he watched his back as much as she minded her own when they met.

"My lady, I bring news of Emrys."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed as the corners of her mouth turned down, then flickered upwards, only to settle in a straight line; watching the conflicting emotions play across her face, he waited for a moment before he began.

It didn't take long to tell her everything, and she was smirking by the end.

* * *

><p>Sword still out, Arthur waited, watching the man on the other side of the bridge. He was taller than Arthur had expected, tall and surprisingly thin, but swathed in the thick material of his cloak, that was all he could see in the dimness of twilight. Well, that and his hands, which glowed white hot against the darkness.<p>

Arthur heard a whistle from behind him; he didn't turn, knew Elyan was firing the crossbow he was so proficient with, but no one was very surprised when the bolts turned to birds that swiftly winged away into the darkness. More bolts, and they clattered against a golden dome that had appeared from nowhere, a shield to protect its master.

Then there was a pause, another second passing, and thumps sounded from behind him; the Knights of Camelot now lay slumped on the grass, only the rise and fall of their chests proving they still lived. All without a word, or a spell or a sound from the shape across the bridge, and Arthur shivered at the power that thrummed in the air.

But somehow, even in the midst of the standoff, with adrenaline firing and his blood pounding in his ears, Arthur frowned_._ He frowned, because suddenly he was struck by a wave of familiarity,of _rightness;_ for a moment he _knew_ the figure that stood unmoving in the twilight, the figure that possessed something so powerful he could never equal it, and so wrong he could never condone it. But in that split second, he felt whole, complete, like he had never been before.

And then the moment passed, and Arthur was bereft, the aching loneliness that had begun when Merlin had left returning full force and made so much worse by its momentary absence. A shudder passed through him, and only a lifetime of discipline stopped him from collapsing, weeping on the forest floor

"What do you want, Arthur?" The figure asked, and it was as though the forest stopped to listen, the dusk chorus ceasing to hear the words of Magic.

"You are Emrys?" He asked, and a chuckle escaped the man, low and bitter enough to carry across the space that separated them.

"I am." Was all he said, words unspoken heavy on the air.

"Are you a coward, Emrys, hiding behind your shield?"

The man shrugged, or rather, Arthur assumed it was a shrug, the cloak and darkness made it difficult to tell.

"I've been called worse."

And that was all Arthur could think of to say. Emrys had not moved, but the fire in his hands dimmed as he let his shield drop, making him disappear even deeper into the shadows.

"Was there anything else you wanted to ask me? Or are you such a prat you didn't think about it?"

"Don't call me that. Don't you _ever_ call me that." Arthur all but growled, suddenly gripping the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles whitened. "Only one person is allowed to use that name, and he is not you. Do you understand me?" He all but shouted the last words, and they echoed into the night, filled with fury hot enough to burn.

The sorcerer bowed his head, but he seemed taken aback by Arthur's words. "I have to wonder," The man said, sounding so familiar and so alien Arthur's head began to spin, "what man is so special that a king permits him to use a name like that."

There was no reply as the king scowled into the darkness. Emrys sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to go on forever. "Goodbye then, Arthur Pendragon. Rest assured I have no plans to attack Camelot."

Then it was Arthurs turn to laugh bitterly. "Your kind never does."

"My kind?" Emrys queried, and Arthur could almost see the questioning eyebrow as it lifted.

"Yes, Emrys, you and all those who practice magic, who tear apart families in the name of vengeance." He couldn't stop the bitterness from spilling over, the words coating like acid on his tongue, because if, in this moment, he was being honest with himself, he wasn't just angry at magic. He was furious with the part of him that kept asking what had happened, when he had continued what his father had begun; blaming a tool for the hand of its maker. If Dragoon had used poison, would he have started hunting down every apothecary in the kingdom and putting them all to the death, accusing them of being corrupted by what they studied? Would Sir Leon, who slept so soundly behind him, be alive if it weren't for enchantment?

It seemed Emrys was thinking along the same lines.

"Ah." The sorcerer replied, sadness and regret evident in every syllable, so heavy and low Arthur almost believed it. "You blame us all for the death of your father." Something flashed in the darkness; it was the man's eyes, glowing golden, for a moment bright enough to light up the night, and Arthur felt something cold appear in his fist.

"What is this?" He asked, refusing to drop it, refusing to show fear, clenching his fist even as the rough metal of the pendant bit into his skin.

"What killed your father. A simple charm, designed to turn any healing spell into something ten times more deadly."

A simple charm, the sorcerer said, a simple answer, and for a moment Arthur paused, staring at his hand though he could barely see it, teetering on the brink of belief. But then he stepped back, away from the edge, quashing the voice of dissent with a single minded ruthlessness, because if he couldn't blame magic, then it was _all his fault_. All his fault, for trusting a murderer. With a single ruthless jerk, he threw the pendant away, never taking his eyes from the sorcerer as it disappeared into the darkness. "You lie."

A chuckle in the dark, one edged with pain. "Arthur, you've been lied to so often it's a wonder you still know what that word means." Arthur frowned, but the man continued on. "To be honest, I don't really care; all I want is to be left alone. I have no interest in destiny anymore."

"What do mean I've been lied to?" He called into the darkness, as the sound bounced off the trees so his own voice was mocking him.

There was nothing but silence, and the question slipped out unannounced, the one thing he wanted to know most desperately.

"How do I know you?"

But Emrys was gone.

_Right, I have a question, and it'll decide the rest of the story so votes would be appreciated. What do you want to happen now- does Arthur go back to Camelot, and its several years before we see them again? I'm definitely leaning towards this idea, but I need to know before I start on it if people really don't like it; yes or no, can you please drop me a review letting me know? Thank you! _

_Oh, and any other comments, ideas, questions are all welcome too!_

_A/N, 23/10/2011; Due to the lovely reviews I've been receiving, I have now been given full permission to do what I want, so we won't be seeing these guys for a while! :)  
><em>


	6. In Which Gwaine Gets Into Trouble

_A/N; There was going to be a chapter about a year and a half in, explaining some things, but after some thought I realised I didn't really need it; this is set three years after the last chapter. Sorry for the wait!_

In Arthur Receives an Unexpected Visitor, and Gwaine Gets In Trouble. Again:

_Merlin didn't get far from the bridge before collapsing beneath the venom in Arthur's voice. Tears sprang up unheeded to trickle down his face and land in the fabric of his cloak, as he cried despite all his attempts to stop it, as the breath caught in his chest and he sobbed and shuddered like a child. Something was clawing at his chest, something desperate to hurt, to tear, and for a long while he lay curled on the grass, body shaking with the force of his tears._

_But even through his grief he felt it, felt it and was glad of it with a wild, masochistic savagery, as men and women of all kingdoms huddled in their beds, heartsick for reasons they couldn't name. As creatures of magic everywhere cried out at the loss, howling their agony into the uncaring dark. There was nothing alive that did not mourn, did not bleed, as the veil of destiny tore, ripping down the middle like the most fragile of silks. _

Emrys awoke alone, sweat dripping down his face.

* * *

><p>Steel clashed on steel, pain ripped across his nerves, and suddenly Gwaine bent double, his sword falling from loose fingers to bury itself in the grass. In a moment Percival was there, mace landing with a crunch on the side of the mercenary's head, but at some point Gwaine's legs had turned to water, and he collapsed, falling sideways onto the floor as his eyes began to blur. Someone swore above him- was it Elyan?<p>

"Gwaine!" The young knight shouted to no-one as crimson coated his fingers; Gwaine's breathing was strained and the laughter in his eyes dimmed more every second. "Gwaine, you bloody idiot, what the hell were you thinking?" He demanded harshly, but he received no answer, no smart ass comment from the dark haired man who always had a response. Whose blood now covered his hands.

Percival grunted as he dispatched the last of the men; in another instant he crouched next to Elyan, steady and calm even as their friend lay dying on the grass beneath them. His gloved hand reached out to turn him over, gentle as any mother; with the other he smoothed a paste onto the wound, and a scent spiralled around them, reminiscent of cloves and Gaius' stillroom. Soon the blood flowed slower, but did not stop; instead it seeped slowly around the edges as if determined to escape and finish his friend, but Percival lifted him easily, holding the dead weight with the utmost care as he carried him over to his horse.

"What do we do?" Elyan asked, more than a little panicked by his friend's stillness, let alone his silence.

"We take him to the nearest village, and do what we can there." The giant replied as he rode away, leaving Elyan scrambling to follow.

* * *

><p>It was cold in the kings bedchamber; the fire had gone out hours ago and he'd not bothered to have it relit. The moonlight filtered in through his window, casting strange shadows on the bed, and his breath streamed in the air, each rush detailing a second in the life of Camelot's monarch. The King traced his bedclothes idly with a finger, as he sat deep in thought, stubbornly refusing to think of the dream.<p>

But his mind was unruly that night, it seemed, and soon images danced before his eyes, a tall familiar figure in a heavy cloak that he could not escape from, not matter how he tried. Each and every night the figure returned; sometimes calm, on other days burning with a sadness that seemed to echo across the years, but he never spoke, even when Arthur railed at him to leave him be; instead the figure seemed to gaze into the distance, waiting for something Arthur could not see, something so far off that looking for it was just a way to pass the time. In the beginning Arthur had tried to reach him, to persuade or threaten so he would be left alone, after weeks of fruitless effort, had lowered himself to cursing, shouting at the man who haunted his sleep. But the figure never responded, and so he resorted to waking himself as soon as the dream began; the dream never came twice in one night.

A shadow flickered as the king shook his head, thoughts scattering like the wind that picked up, rattling the window panes. Soon there would be a storm, enough to deter the most determined traveller, and at that thought, as it always did, his mind turned to Merlin, and where he might be now.

It was on nights like this, when the air was cold and the storm clouds gathered about him, that his thoughts most often went to his missing manservant; sometimes, though he hated to admit, he still found himself on the brink of calling for him, or sat down at a council meeting and fully expected to see a dark haired figure in the corner, head bowed. It was only Gwen who noticed these moments and she never spoke of them, but he knew she knew because she was always careful to squeeze his hand a little harder, to kiss him a little more fiercely.

The shadow moved again, a silhouette shifted in the corner and the king leapt from his bed, knife in hand before he even realised his actions, eyes scanning the room for any hint of other threats. But as the figure stepped out of the darkness the dagger fell from his fingers with a clang that echoed around the chamber.

"Your majesty." Lancelot bowed, dark hair almost blue in the pale light.

Arthur stared, mind shrieking at him to run the figure through, to destroy this new means a magic user had found of tormenting him, but even as the thought crossed him mind he knew he couldn't, couldn't do that to_ Lancelot_. Who was, he thought with a strange sense of detachment, completely, irrefutably, dead.

Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour and the after-effects of the dream, but somehow he couldn't summon up the anger that normally accompanied magic use.

"What are you?" He asked instead, somewhat impressed by the calmness of his tone.

Lancelot's brow wrinkled in thought and Arthur almost sagged, because the movement was so comfortable, so _familiar_, that even now emotions he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years began to tear through him. "To be honest," the man replied slowly, "I'm not really sure. I think I know what I am, but it's quite hard to explain in terms you would understand."

There was no trace of condescension in his voice; to him it was merely the truth, and somehow Arthur took comfort in that.

"You're dead."Arthur said, feeling safe in the one thing he was sure of.

"Yes." Lancelot replied before chuckling, his familiar laugh bouncing off the walls. "I am dead in the way you would term it, but that doesn't mean I can't be helpful if I choose."

Slowly, never taking his eyes of his friend, Arthur bent to retrieve the knife, the warm weight of it something real to hold on to. Then a thought struck him, a lifeline in this strange place; "Is this a dream?" He asked, and hoped the answer was yes.

He was not disappointed, even when Lancelot's eyes became indulgent. "If it helps you, then yes, this is a dream. I'm sorry to disturb you, your majesty, but I had a message that couldn't wait."

Arthur smiled at that; only Lancelot could appear as a ghost in someone's dream and then apologise for it. "What is it?" He asked, and even though he knew the whole situation wasn't real, the message seemed important.

"Magic will return to Camelot." Something changed in Lancelot's voice, something old and primal and powerful beyond measure. "With you or without you, good or evil, it _will_ return. It is up to you, King Arthur, to decide which it is." Then he paused, as his eyes fluttered closed and he swayed slightly; for some reason, it made Arthur clutch his dagger a little tighter.

"How is Guinevere?" His knight in arms asked, tone hushed. His voice was always respectful when he spoke of Gwen, but if you listened carefully, there was a touch of reverence there, as if Lancelot were afraid his lips would despoil her name.

Arthur bowed his head, emotions too complex to name warring in his head. "She misses you." He replied simply, and Lancelot sighed, acres of regret in that single sound.

"I wish she wouldn't."

And with that he vanished, leaving Arthur alone in his bedchamber, cold and a little afraid. But then, he rationalised as he got back into bed, it was a dream, so it didn't matter.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure this is the place?" Elyan whispered to Percival, staring at the hut in disbelief. "I find it hard to believe anyone lives here, let alone a famed healer."<p>

Percival didn't answer, cradling Gwaine so not to jolt him as he moved towards the shack. He didn't need to knock; the door opened as he reached it and a figure appeared, gesturing him inside without a word or hint of surprise. Elyan followed, and was immediately struck by a sense of mustiness and disuse; if this was the healers home, he didn't spend much time there.

Then the man entered too, shutting the door with a click behind them, and to Elyan's surprise, somehow managed to fill the space when two knights twice his size could not. Now, once his presence spread out to fill the room, Elyan could easily believe this man was renowned, because no man could have his air of authority, of assuredness, without a great deal of experience.

When man turned to them, he spoke without lowering his hood. "I'm afraid the two of you must leave now." And the voice was familiar, the notes of it teasing Elyan's memory even as Percival protested.

"We won't get in the way!" He replied, but the man made no answer, gesturing to the door with an imperiousness any king would envy, and somehow, without quite knowing why they obeyed him, they both moved outside.

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind them; glancing at the still form on the bed, he tried not to let it affect him. _Just another patient, _he told himself, but it wasn't; this was Gwaine. It had been only been three years since he had seen him, and those years hadn't changed him much; the beginnings of a smile still lurked around his eyes, even when his face was tensed with pain and his eyes were shut.

Turning, he bent over his patient, spelling away the shirt to see the wound more clearly, but even as the gold faded from his eyes he froze, glancing up as his friends voice rumbled through up Merlin's fingers.

Gwaine's eyes were open, the blue orbs glittering with pain, but his voice was lucid, the words that fell from it, catastrophic.

"Merlin?" He asked, brow furrowed in confusion. "Is that you?"

_I'm sorry, I said there would be Morgana in this, but she's being irritating and doesn't really fit in here, but I promise you, she will be a lot more involved very soon!_

_Please, as always, are they still believable, after all this time? Did I get Elyan right (it was surprisingly difficult to get inside his head)? And of course, do you still like it?_


	7. In Which A Knight Is Educated

_I'm sorry for how long this has taken me!_

In Which Gwaine Is Educated, and Morgana Re-emerges:

If the timing hadn't been quite so bad, and Gwaine had been in a smidgeon less pain, he probably would have laughed himself sick at the look on Merlin's face; a cross between a startled gerbil and a constipated rabbit. But the laughter had sent pain searing across his nerves, stunning him into submission; his eyes had rolled back, and Merlin's had flashed again, that beautiful gold, knitting the tissue seamlessly in less than a second.

Now, it seemed, his friend was doing everything he could to avoid his gaze, moving to the other end of the hut and making a hot drink. Quite unnecessarily, Gwaine thought from his perch by the fire, since Merlin could probably call some up with a snap of a finger, but avoidance seemed to be the main objective- Elyan and Percival had been dispatched back to Camelot with news of his injury, and they were left alone, the awkwardness in the air rising with every moment that passed.

His friend had magic.

Most of the time Gwaine preferred to think, despite the drinking and brawling and other, probably questionable pastimes he indulged in, that he was reasonably clever. Clever enough, he mused, to figure out something as simple as Merlin's secret, and now that he sat and thought about it, he was beginning to feel the first stirring of embarrassment, because really, how he had been quite so monumentally_ stupid_?

With all the miraculous escapes, the sudden disappearances, strange occurrences and unlikely explanations that happened when Merlin was around, he should have figured it out long ago, long before Merlin had ever felt the need to run from his home and everything he knew.

A lot of guilt accompanied that thought, but his musings were cut short as his friend passed him a steaming cup of something that smelled of lemon, the vapour clearly visible despite the crackling fire. Sitting opposite him with his pale hands clasped around his mug, Merlin still refused to look at him, seeming to prefer the oppressive silence to actually having to talk. Gwaine, well aware of what was happening in his friends head, waited patiently, knowing from experience how hard it was to give up secrets once you got into the habit of keeping them.

Merlin's hood was down as he stared resolutely into the flames, the reddish light flickering over the lines of his face, and it gave Gwaine his first chance to really examine his friend. His face was still thin, his ears were still ridiculous, and his eyes were still that dazzling ocean blue, but his gaze was sadder, older, and even unconsciously his shoulders were straighter, more authoritative than Gwaine had ever seen them. Something in his bearing, or was it his eyes, seemed ancient in the firelight, and if Gwaine were feeling fanciful- which, given the events of today, he felt he was allowed to be- he could have sworn he saw electricity flickering, arcing from the edge of the iris down and down into the blackness of the pupils.

Never one for subtlety, he decide to wade straight in. "So, you can do magic."

Merlin didn't look at him, but some of the sadness seemed to retreat as the corner of his lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Yes."

"Been practicing long?" He asked, with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer. "Sacrificing virgins to horned gods, or just dancing naked under the full moon?"

Merlin shot him a look filled with sarcasm, and Gwaine grinned, glad to be back on familiar ground.

"All my life." He replied, and even turned away, he didn't miss how Gwaine's eyes had widened. "I didn't ask for it, you know. My mother tells me I first used it when I was a few weeks old; my favourite toy had fallen out of my cot, and I pulled it towards me from across the room."

"So you're a warlock then, as opposed to a sorcerer." Gwaine said slyly, and was rewarded by surprise in Merlin's eyes. "Oh, I am so underestimated." He said with a grin that belied the false sadness in his words, laying a dramatic hand over his chest. "I'm wounded, Merlin, by your lack of belief!"

And Merlin seemed to relax a little, shoulders losing some of their stiffness as he continued. "I've been around a bit Merlin; in places with Kings possessing more sense than the Pendragons, and even someone as stupid as me picks up a few things." He finished, eyes and tone suddenly serious. "I know magic's not something to be feared, as long as it's respected and used properly; and anyway, you're barely in Camelot now, how bad can it be?"

Merlin smiled his old smile; goofy and brilliant, eyes shining with that familiar light, but as quickly as it flared, it died, as if snuffed out by the wind.

"It's a bit more complicated than that." He murmured, turning to the fire again, and Gwaine pulled his chair closer, sipping his drink and staring at the flames along with him.

"Tell me." Was all he said, and after a moment's hesitation, Merlin did.

It rushed out of him; Kilgharrah, the Isle of the Blessed, the Druids, Emrys, the Dragonlords, Morgana, the knowledge he had discovered in the Fisher Kings Keep and his new life as a healer; even what had happened with Uther, the one thing he had refused to think about for three years, all of it fell from his mouth in a great outpouring of information.

When he was finished, they both sat in the renewed silence, occupied with their respective thoughts. Merlin's mind was still reeling, that all his secrets now out in the open to be dissected and used against him, but he hadn't been able to stop himself; it had all come tumbling out before he could prevent it. He'd kept expecting Gwaine to react, to interrupt, to run, but his friend had said nothing, his only movement the occasional sip from his cup.

Gwaine, despite his outward display of calm, was also feeling off kilter; it wasn't every day you discovered your friend was the personification of all magic in Albion, after all. Throughout Merlin's story it had been difficult to keep from reacting, especially when he found out exactly how many times and how often Merlin had saved various combinations of the knights lives, but he'd listened, patiently, letting his friend get it all out.

Now, it seemed, Merlin was expecting questions, glancing hesitantly over as Gwaine mulled it over, choosing something that he hoped would take his mind of other, more important problems.

"Who else knows about you?" He asked, curious as to whom, if anyone Merlin had confided in. Gaius had to know, he reasoned, because it was almost impossible to keep a secret from someone you lived with, but apart from that, it could be anyone, or no-one.

"Lancelot knew." Merlin's voice was sad again, and some part of Gwaine ached to hear it. "A man named Gilli, various druids and magical creatures, and Kilgharrah."

"Druids?" He murmured, momentarily confused, but then he remembered the prophecies. "Oh, druids, of course." Then he grinned, and Merlin was confused again. "Merlin, you're famous! I'm friends with a famous person!"

"You work for a King." Merlin pointed out in exasperation, and Gwaine frowned, serious and teasing at the same time.

"I wouldn't call us friends anymore."

Merlin frowned, blue eyes fixed on the knight's face. "Why? What's happened?" His tone brooked no refusal.

And then it was Gwaine's turn to talk; his story no happier than Merlin's had been. When he was done, much later, as the sun was slipping down behind the hills and the story had finished, Gwaine turned to him, eyes grave.

"I searched for you, for a long time. Everywhere I could look, anyone I could ask, I looked for you, because we needed you back. He's not the same without you." The knight didn't need to say who _he _was.

Merlin slumped slightly even as he rose, cloak falling about him like the gentlest of protections, and Gwaine did likewise as they moved towards their beds for the night. "I can't go back." He said voice seeming to come from every corner of the room.

"You will." Gwaine replied, suddenly more certain than he had any right to be. It just made sense somehow; Merlin would go back... because he just would. Somehow, some way, he would find himself in Camelot again.

They didn't say anything else and Merlin snuffed out the candles, his mind too full to think. Gwaine sighed in forced happiness, making himself comfortable on the much larger and more relaxing patient's bed; Merlin had insisted, calling on his authority as a healer that apparently trumped Gwaine's status as a knight. Gwaine had grumbled, but eventually obeyed; this new Merlin was a lot more confident, more comfortable giving orders, than he remembered, and it took a little getting used to.

For a while there was nothing but quiet and even breathing, until Gwaine called across the dark, filled with a childlike innocence.

"Merlin? Can I ask a last, very important question?"

"All right." Merlin sighed, half annoyance, half indulgence as he lay on his back.

"Haven't you _ever _danced naked in the moonlight?"

Merlin's only response was a pillow, flying through the air to hit Gwaine in the face, and both men drifted off with amused grins on their lips.

* * *

><p>The lady who stepped through the door of the hut bore little resemblance to what Agravaine remembered; with her off on the search for Emrys, and very little to report from Camelot, he had not seen her in nearly a year, and the time had worn away at her. Her hair, once so carefully cared for, was matted, a tangled mass of black uncared for atop her head, hanging down nearly to her waist. Her skin was paler from the lack of sleep, but it was her eyes that scared him now; hollow pits of fury that he tried to avoid, so not to see what was creeping into them.<p>

"You summoned me, my lady?" He asked from where he stood, but she did not look at him, moving smoothly to place her cloak on the back of a chair; she still walked like a queen, even if she no longer looked like one. Because his lady was thinner now, her ribs clear to see through the fabric of her dress, arms slim enough to snap in half; she should have been fragile, but for the fire that burned within her, an inner blaze fuelled by hatred and rage that no one could ever mistake. "My lady?" He tried again, and she looked up sharply, as if surprised to see him there.

"You sound tired, my lord Agravaine." She crooned, voice soft velvet that hid a dagger. "Are we weary, having to watch our little king?" He mouth cut into a smirk, tilting her head the way a mother would, watching her child. But there was something very _wrong_ about the movement, something he couldn't name.

He tried to keep his voice calm, tried not to show just how much she unnerved him. "It is a little irksome, my lady Morgana. I don't see why you have waited so long to deal with him."

She was on him in a second, forcing him back against the wall with one had wrapped round his throat, nails cutting into the skin before he had time to blink. He would have recoiled if he could, from the blackness that gazed up at him, but even as her face twisted, her voice was eerily calm. "Because, my dear lord, there is no point taking Camelot whilst Emrys still lives."

Suddenly he was thrown from her with surprising strength, to land on the floor with a jarring thud. Morgana was pacing back and forth, hands tangled in her hair, and when she spoke, he wondered if she knew he was there. "Can't take it whilst Emrys lives; there is no point being queen for a day!"

Agravaine began to move backwards on his hands, away towards the door, but as abruptly as she had started the witch stopped, gazed fixed on him with unnerving intensity. "Magic will return to Camelot, Agravaine. All creatures of magic know it; the news has been whispered on the wind for some time now. As for Emrys," she smirked again, and Agravaine sagged in relief to see the rationality behind it, "he will be dealt with soon enough. I have found him."

_The plot thickens- finally :D_

_Do you like what's happening to Morgana, and how Gwaine reacted? Does everything make sense?_

_As always; anything you want to say, let me know!_


	8. In Which Morgana Begins Her Assault

In Which Morgana Begins Her Assault, And Gaius Is Struck Down:

Morgana stood high on the ridge above the village and fought down the ever-present fury that bubbled beneath her skin. As she watched, the people scurried like ants below her, packing the carts that would carry the year's taxes back to Camelot. A farmer laughed as his son fell, a mother shifter her baby as she passed her husband barrels of barley, all of them busy, and all of them somehow blind to the horrors they perpetrated. Though they had never held the axe, never fired the crossbow bolt that buried itself in the sorcerer's heart, they were still responsible, as responsible as anyone who supported Camelot's king without question, who raised no word of protest against the atrocities committed in his name.

Her father's name. Her brother's name.

There was not a day that went by that she did not feel soiled by that fact, that Pendragon blood oozed, tarlike, through her veins. Sometimes she had to fight the urge to get it out, to leech it from beneath her skin till she felt clean again, and her pale arms bore vivid red scratches as a testament to how close she would come. Maybe she was mad, as Agravaine so clearly thought. She honestly couldn't tell anymore.

But one thing she did know; she could bear it a little longer, when the all powerful Emrys was in her grasp. Idly, she wondered how many he would let die, if the King would hear and try to stop her, and she found herself chuckling at thought of both birds within her trap. The chuckles became giggles, and the giggles became laughter, high and penetrating as she raised her hands above her, entreating the heavens with her plea. Sometimes, as the magic coursed through her and her eyes were shot through with gold, she thought she could feel her sister, see her shadow on the wall and the soft sound of her laugh, heavy in the air. Morgause never stayed long, if she was ever there at all.

It was busy in the outlying village; the tax carts were departing, and so no-one heard the witch as she chanted into the wind.

"Ácræftan uncoða adúnfeallan ær ríceiu!"

* * *

><p>It was always cold in the throne room in winter; the servants tried their best, but somehow could never keep it warm, no matter how many logs they piled onto the blazing hearth. King Arthur didn't seem to notice; sitting stiff and regal in the cold winter sunlight, but everyone else huddled in on themselves, concluding their business as fast as possible before leaving for warmer climes.<p>

There was a shuffling from behind him, a door swinging shut, and the King didn't have to turn to know who it was. Everyone knew Gaius would soon be entering his sixty fifth year, and he was stooped more every day, hunched over as if by a great weight. His eyes, once sparkling bright and youthful in the wrinkled face, were tired, the twinkle long since gone, and if you watched, as Agravaine so often seemed to, you could sometimes see him sway, fighting to keep upright.

He had never been the same, King Arthur mused, since his son had fled and his heart had broken. Those new to Camelot often wondered why the king kept someone so obviously past their prime in his service, but those who dared to voice it were met with a steely glare and steelier words to leave the kings presence immediately.

In those moments, when he allowed the anger he kept tucked away to blaze forth however briefly, you could almost see Arthur, before he had been swallowed up by Camelot. Because anyone who knew the two men knew exactly why the King protected the older man so; he was doing it for Merlin. They both still did everything for him; though they never spoke of him directly or in passing, the king and court physician clung to their duties to each other as their last connection to the errant manservant.

Sometimes, as King Arthur sat listening to the latest plaintiff, he thought could hear the voice of Arthur, shouting from far away. But that voice was always ignored, the prince quashed by the king who was always in total control, and kings did not have time for such weakness. Kings did not have friends, they had knights, subjects and servants, and if a servant chose to leave, for whatever reason, then that servant was replaced and not thought of again.

Though somehow, he could never manage that last part.

His thoughts were interrupted by a thud echoed around the chamber, a thud like the footsteps of a giant, and a figure toppled forward, white hair tumbling. It took a moment, but soon the king was on his feet, shouting for the knights to carry him to the chambers that felt so empty now. King Arthur followed, Agravaine behind, but even as they left the throne room another problem came to the kings agile mind. Who was there, to treat the court physician? What healer could be gotten fast enough, who was good enough to save his last link to the past?

And it was just as well that the King, with his well known hatred of all things arcane, that he didn't know, couldn't guess, that two days ride from the palace sat two men in a small cottage, deep in conversation. One a knight, one obviously anything but, when suddenly one of them sat bolt upright, eyes flashing the molten gold that would have had the king shouting for his life.

"Gaius." Emrys breathed, and shot out the door, his companion shouting and scrambling after him.

_A/N: All I can say is sorry for the delay; what with all the work and my exams I am trying, but getting these chapters done with the speed they were done at the beginning is pretty hard, and I don't think I can manage more than one a week. Sorry!_

_Are the new versions of Morgana and Arthur realistic? I've never written anything like them before, so feedback would be appreciated!_


	9. In Which There Are Reunions

In Which There Are Reunions and Passings:

The sun rose slowly over the clouds, casting a weak winter light that hoarded warmth, giving the earth only the meagre heat it thought to spare. As always, John rose with it, taking care not to wake his wife; this was the first night the baby had slept through, and she was exhausted, her pillow covering a face that showed strain even in sleep. James, his eldest and only boy was already awake, itching for his first real day in the fields, his mop of curly brown hair practically shaking with the force of his energy. With the years taxes gathered in and the nearby roads now benefitting from a regular patrol, things were improving, and his eldest was raring to go, wolfing down his meal in seconds.

Frost still coated the wooden fence that separated the house from the fields, and it burned John's hand as he leapt lightly over it. The wind was chill, something bitter carried on it like the stench of carrion, and he tried not to breathe too deeply as he turned, hefting James up by his ribs and settling him the other side.

But something was wrong.

"Father?" The boy asked, his normally rosy skin strangely pale. Where seconds ago had been a bonny, healthy twelve year old, cheeks red as apples against the cold, now stood a wraith; skin like snow and just as warm to the touch.

"Father, I don't feel well..." The words came out slurred as he slumped forward onto his father's chest, limp as a rag doll. When John picked him up, his breath came in shallow pants, and when black ichor began to ooze down his face, leaking from both ears, that was when his father began to run.

* * *

><p>"Your majesty, you have matters to attend to!" Agravaine said for what seemed like the eightieth time, running his hands through his already unkempt hair. Arthur ignored him as he had the last seventy nine times, nodding to the men at arms who had brought in the latest physician, regal even in his worry. The last one left and the next one walked in; how many had it been, nine, ten, twenty? But all of them said the same; there was nothing that would help, nothing to be done. Gaius was old, tired, and heartbroken, and there wasn't a cure for any of them. All they could do was wait for the end.<p>

The knights who stood watch over the physician's chamber moved to let him pass, and he strode down the hall like an angel of death, face dark enough to send servants scattering left and right. When he reached the door to his rooms, he threw it open before slamming it shut with unnecessary force, snarling at his manservant to get out as he threw himself down by the fireplace.

His control over the king was slipping, he brooded, eyes hooded in the semi-dark. It had been for months; it was only because Morgana was so distracted that she hadn't begun to question him, why he was so tense, why Arthur continued to grow in power. It was a bizarre paradox, he thought with black humour, because he found himself thanking Emrys for evading her, hoping the person he most wanted gone would live long enough to continue to draw her interest, at least till Arthur could be brought back under control.

Linking his fingers, he tried to think, uncaring that his nephew, who sat not a floor above him, was thinking very different, but no less unpleasant thoughts.

His skin was so cold, Arthur thought, as the latest doctor bent over the physicians still form, eyes scanning critically. Cold and thin; how had he never noticed just how thin Gaius' skin was? Like paper stretched over bone, ready to tear any second at the slightest pressure...

The doctor straightened, and it was obvious from his expression that his conclusion was the same as all the others, even before he voiced it. Arthur fought to keep his own face polite as he thanked him, but he didn't watch as the man left the room, eyes raking his friend's prone form for something, anything, to prove he would pull through.

There was movement somewhere in his peripheral vision, voices raised in surprise and a cheer that was unfitting, given the circumstances. Then there was a hushing sound, murmurs of apology, and a grey cloaked figure sat down opposite him, taking Gaius' other hand. Gwaine's familiar voice rolled around the room, even hushed as it was, and something about it must have penetrated the fog, because Arthur frowned as he looked up, blinking rapidly.

A pair of brilliant sapphires looked back at him, so familiar and sure that for a moment the king went numb, unable to do anything but stare, anything but sit motionless and try to process exactly what his brain was telling him.

It was Merlin. His eyes could see him but it wasn't registering; Merlin his confidant, Merlin his friend, taller and straighter than he remembered, but Merlin nonetheless, pale and comforting as ever. Almost absently he began to pick out the details; his hair was longer now, almost brushing his shoulders, and he'd gained some muscle tone; not nearly enough to be mistaken for a man of action, but enough that he didn't look quite so spindly anymore. His eyes seemed bluer than ever in his pale face, great glittering orbs that glowed with...something. Something he couldn't name. He didn't want to name it, Arthur thought as he stared, but was distracted by the curious tattoo encircling one wrist, black strands inked so cleverly it was impossible to follow one without becoming dizzy. His friend's lips were quirked in a half smile, and he seemed more..._settled _ was probably the word; Merlin had always been so edgy, almost nervous but not quite, as if always on the verge of jumping out of his skin when spoken to. The nervousness was still there, but it was much less pronounced; he was calmer now, cloaked in a serenity that surrounded him like mist, and Arthur found himself wondering just what he'd been doing in the years he'd been away.

As for Merlin, he wasn't feeling nearly as peaceful as he seemed, his eyes devouring the King's face just as intently as his own was being consumed. The knights watching found themselves fighting a sense of vague unease; the scene had suddenly become somehow intimate, as if they were intruding on something they were not meant to see. They just kept staring at each other on and on in a moment that should have been uncomfortable, awkward even. As the second stretched each knight who watched attempted to shrug it off, but each caved before it, whatever _it_ was, murmuring polite excuses and leaving the room. Gwaine was last, and he looked back before closing the door behind him; still, neither of them had spoken, and Merlin's hand was half raised, as if to reach for something.

When the door closed, the snap echoed and both men jumped, flushes infusing their cheeks with colour. Each looked away, suddenly almost shy of locking stares again, and Merlin bit his lower lip in a move that almost had Arthur smiling.

The silence stretched again, awkward this time, but surprisingly it was Merlin who broke the silence first, pushing back his chair with a scrape that seemed strangely loud. Suddenly all business, he turned to Arthur, and when he spoke, it was as if he had never been away.

"How long has he been like this?" He asked, eyes never leaving his patients face.

It took a moment for the king to reply, but when he did, he was proud of how even his voice was. How cool. "No more than two days. He collapsed in the council chambers and we carried him here."

Merlin nodded. "Has anything been done since? Any attempts to wake him?"

"Nothing."

This time Merlin did not respond, his fingers and eyes moving deftly over his almost-father's prone form. Where had Merlin been? Studying medicine apparently; Arthur had watched Gaius for years and the court physician himself could not have done it better, mentally noting every symptom and comparing it to some list in his head.

When he was finished, his eyes were hidden, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"What can we do?" He said, and it was the king who asked, back in control after nearly two days in the shadows.

When Merlin looked up, there was despair clear on his face. "We can wake him up, and say our goodbyes." He said, eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

_A/N; Together at last! Sorry if the plots been a bit slow recently; I've been laying the foundations and things should pick up from here on in. _

_As a side note- I am sorry for what I'm doing to poor Gaius, I wouldn't do it if I had any choice in the matter - is it odd that I don't have much control over what's happening? This story just seems to go the way it wants..._

_Ah well, as always- please, tell me your thoughts! The most important question in my multi-chapter fics- is the writing consistent? The characters, the pacing, the quality of writing- is it all constant?_


	10. In Which There Are Moments Without Words

In Which There Are Moments Without Words:

The figure on the bed didn't make a sound as the amber liquid spilled down his throat, though it must have burned like fire in his lungs. Almost instantly old eyes opened, bright and clear and somehow unsurprised by the looks on the men standing over them

"Merlin!" Gaius' croaked, his voice weak but filled with delight as his first real smile in three years spread across his features. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it."

No one questioned what he meant, because there was a note of teasing in his voice, and it was then Merlin swayed, hit full force with just how much he'd missed him. How many times had he found some reference in a text, and his first urge had been to go find Gaius? How often had he longed to consult him, when a patient's eyes had dimmed and their breathing became strained?

There were no words for how much he'd missed his voice, rough and gravelly and stern when it woke him in the mornings, even when it scolded him, but he didn't want to hear it now, not like this. Not here, in this sickroom, when it was Gaius who lay on the sickbed and a golden haired king looked at him with eyes filled with worry. Suddenly Merlin had to fight back tears, long fingers clenching into fists beneath his cloak, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to break the skin. When he opened his mouth the words caught in his throat, and he raised his gaze to Arthur, seeking something he couldn't name.

A lot passed in that look, in silent words and understanding. They were not who they had been, both knew that, and both knew too that whatever had existed three years ago was still damaged, still torn, perhaps irrevocably. But for now, and for the man who lay on the bed beside them, the recriminations could wait. For now.

"Forgive me if I don't rise, your majesty." Gaius continued, collapsing back down after struggling for a few moments. "I'm not quite feeling quite...myself at the moment." His tone was oddly contemplative, and he was frowning, deep in thought as he settled back on his pillows, white hair spread like a fan around his head.

"Really?" Arthur asked, managing somehow to smile, to tease, as his own eyes began to shine with unshed tears. "You needn't worry Gaius, I suppose I can let it slide this once."

He was still regal, Merlin thought, still every inch a king, even as Arthur fought to keep his voice from breaking, his hands shaking with the effort it took to do so. In the lamplight, when the shadows played on his face and filled his eyes with firelight, he looked so much older, the muscle that would come with age already evident on his body. Born and raised a king, it was apparent in every line, but in that moment he was Arthur, as he smiled down as Gaius and refused to let go.

Understanding bloomed and Gaius smiled again, but this time it was bittersweet and laced through with sorrow. "I'm dying, Arthur, I can do what I like." He said, and when they glanced at each other, shock clear on their faces, his voice became rough with annoyance. "For goodness sake you two, I'm not senile! I've been practicing medicine since before you both were born, and..." He paused as his stomach clenched and tried to continue, but his next words were lost in a round of coughing, his body arching forward as the spasms racked his lungs. Something cold slipped round Merlin's chest, something that quashed the physician in him, so he couldn't move even as his mentor's breath tore his lungs apart.

Silence fell when the coughing stopped; heavy and oppressive it seemed to rob them both of speech, of movement as Gaius fell back. When his hand fell away from his lips, his palm glistened with redness.

"Merlin?"

"Yes Gaius?" The warlock replied, voice sharp with unshed tears, and when he moved to the bedside it was as if through fog; half crouching, half falling, he knelt beside the bed, so his eyes were level with those of his father in all but name.

"I've been having such dreams, Merlin, such dreams you wouldn't believe." There was a note of wonder in the old man's voice, something almost reverent.

"I can believe a lot of things." Merlin replied, as a warm weight fell on his shoulder, strong fingers curling as if to anchor him there. "What do you dream?"

Gaius' voice was almost a whisper, so he had to bend to hear it. "It will be alright, Merlin." And a tear fell on their clasped hands, but it wasn't from the warlock. "It will be alright."

"I'll make sure it is." Arthur replied, and his voice was steady, because only one of them could break down now and he couldn't have that luxury. Merlin was so tense, stretched tight as a lute string, but somehow he managed to stiffen even more as Gaius slumped without a sound, eyes rolling back in his head with a sudden, terrible, finality.

For a moment, nothing dared breathe.

Then a sound escaped from Merlin's throat, caught on the line between a whimper and a sob, so filled with agony it broke every heart that heard it. The thing in his chest was growing, shredding everything in its path and he rocked forwards, unable to stop, eyes fixed on something Arthur couldn't see. Back and forth, back and forth he swayed for almost a minute, till the hand on his shoulder moved to take his wrist, covering the tattoo. Merlin didn't even look down.

Nor did he notice as Arthur crouched next to him so they touched from shoulder to knee, warmth seeping through to skin that was suddenly cold, cold enough that he shivered at the contact even as he slumped into it. The tension left his body in a sudden rush, his head falling limp onto a muscled shoulder, and Arthur let him, as both of them stared at the face that was no longer Gaius. Arthur didn't move, even as his legs began to cramp and his feet turned to ice, his shoulders sore from the weight of Merlin's body. For a long time, the only movement in the room was the soft motion of his thumb, tracing Merlin's wrist, even as his fingers, ever rebellious, gripped it tight enough to hurt.

_Was this done right?_


	11. In Which Destiny Lends A Hand

In Which Destiny Lends A Hand:

The king awoke with a start, pulled back to wakefulness by a sound he couldn't name, a feeling close to dread in his heart. The room was still dark, and his sleep addled mind took a moment to realise just what it was that had woken him; the feeling of icy wind on his hands, the burn of snow on his frozen cheek. A blizzard had indeed blown in, a real one; it howled through the battlements making Arthur shiver despite his blankets, but no breeze stirred his hair with a freezing touch. Not a breath stirred but his own.

He frowned, and then dismissed it.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers; the air was warm, but the cold of the stone floor bit his toes when he swung out of bed, knowing he would get no more sleep tonight. Almost automatically he reached under his pillow, fingering the dagger that lay beneath it as if assuring himself it was still there, before hauling himself up towards the other end of the room.

Despite the lateness, or more likely earliness of the hour, he filled a glass of wine from the bottle left on the table, for a moment he held it up, admiring the way the firelight turned it to blood as it shone through it.

The dream hadn't come.

Sitting down by the fire, he stared into the glowing coals, trying to decipher exactly what it could mean. His sleep had been quiet, dreamless; no nameless figure awaited him in a vision, staring out at something he couldn't name. He supposed he should be grateful, he thought as he sipped the wine left by his manservant, but somehow he felt oddly empty, like he'd been let down somehow. Each night, once a night he dreamt of that silent figure; that was how it worked, how it had worked for three years, but now, suddenly, nothing. The figure had abandoned him and for reasons that escaped him, he felt its loss keenly.

Musing, or perhaps more accurately brooding, he contemplated the wine, but it didn't improve his thoughts; the blood red simply took his mind back to Gaius, lying cold in the chapel, never to move again. The funeral was tomorrow, or as close to tomorrow as the weather would allow, but whenever he thought of it something gripped his heart with bloody fingers, something that tried desperately to hurt before he slammed it away. It came again now; called up by his thoughts, it slithered, slippery and cruel, into his chest, and almost automatically he fought it back behind the iron door where he put everything else, had put everything else for the past three years. Sometimes he wondered if the vault would ever crack, and what would happen when it did, when everything spilled out all at once to drown him with his own thoughts. Maybe he'd go mad, he thought with an uncharacteristic, almost savage glee.

And then of course, to top off his feeling of unease, there was Merlin. He still didn't know what to do about him; three years ago he would have known without thinking about it, but now, he had no idea. He wanted him to stay, and he wanted him gone, far away where Arthur would never set eyes on him again; before, whenever he thought about him something had swirled in his chest, something dark and bitter and altogether furious, and it uncoiled as if summoned, magnifying the heat from the hearth. Why did he even care so much? Merlin had _left _him, gone like they had never been anything more than master and servant, like they had never been _friends._

Maybe they hadn't. Maybe he'd just imagined it and Merlin had been like everybody else; but he knew even as he thought those words he was just re-hashing the same argument he'd had with himself countless times before, in the wee hours of the morning where he'd been robbed of sleep. But somehow, no matter what conclusion he came to, no matter how many times he swore this was the last time and he would never think of it again, it buzzed in his skull like a hornet, ready to sting him at a moment's notice.

Back before, when they were simple and easily defined, he would have known what to do, because Merlin was Merlin and they were friends. But this man was different, a Merlin with eyes as old as the sea and an authority that sprang from somewhere Arthur didn't know. His authority was obvious in every step he took, in the set of his shoulders and the way he would look at you, eyes piercing every defence till he saw everything you tried to hide. The king in Arthur resented that, resented that someone with so little power could walk through the world with such assurance.

In the space between heartbeats his world turned white; snow danced before his vision, a world of shadows and brilliance, somehow realer than the flames he could still see behind the image. Unable to help himself he shivered again, dropping the wineglass with a crash that made him jerk; suddenly, inexplicably angry at himself, he pushed himself up roughly, making made his way over to the window to stare outside as if the night held all the answers.

There was little to see; the boiling clouds covered the moon and the castle was a mass of white, the snow piling on thicker every second. Soon they would be snowed in, and he was glad he had ordered those extra hunting parties in autumn; at least they had enough provisions to survive the worse winter storm. But even as he turned away, back to his bed and a deep, dreamless sleep, he saw it. Something stood in the castle courtyard, a figure almost hidden by the shadows of the wall, a figure that stood, motionless, staring out at something he could not see.

It couldn't be. Not here. Not awake.

Without stopping to think he moved, stopping only to pull on his winter boots and thick padded coat, before moving swiftly down the corridor lit only by candles. A guard saluted as he passed but did not question him, even as he strode out into the snowstorm, booted feet crunching on the newly fallen snow.

The wind howled again as he left the shelter of the arches, redoubling its efforts to freeze his blood and stop him where he stood but he paid it no mind, for some reason desperate to reach the figure before it vanished again, or he woke in his bed, alone and drenched in sweat.

When he saw who it was, he froze, just for a moment before starting again, but in that brief second something shifted inside his head, a sense of passing control. There was a strange feeling of detachment as he continued walking; knowledge that what was happening was in someone else's hands, and he was just doing as instructed. For some reason this didn't bother him.

Merlin gave no indication he was aware of his approach, eyes closed, face upturned to the sky as snowflakes settled on his face, almost invisible against the pale skin. He was oddly beautiful like that, Arthur thought, knowing he would never normally have done so, but it was the beauty of a marble statue, cold, remote and untouchable. Merlin's hair was soaked, his cloak likewise, but he never moved a muscle as it flapped wetly about him; only the clouds of fog that streamed from his nose showed he hadn't been frozen solid long since.

The king said nothing as the chill seeped into him, watching silently, watching the snowflakes catch in dark eyelashes and already soaked hair. He'd never seen Merlin so pale, and when he looked down, his slender fingers were dead white, almost blue in places like the thin crust on a frozen lake. His lips were the same colour; how long had he been out here?

"I can't feel it Arthur." The physician said finally, steam streaming from his mouth to be whipped away by the wind. "Even when I first got out here, I couldn't feel them on my skin."

He turned then, eyes startlingly blue in the world of white. "Why can't I feel anything?" He asked, and his voice was hopeless, lost like a small child.

Arthur paused, feeling without knowing how that his next sentence would be very, very important. He would never know just how so, how many generations and how many futures hung on his next words and it was perhaps best he didn't, but when he did speak, what he said was right.

It couldn't have been otherwise.

"It takes time for the feeling to come back." He said, and Merlin closed his eyes, breath escaping in one long exhale. The moment broke and Arthur was himself again, the strange sense of detachment gone as if it had never been, and he blinked stupidly in the darkness, as if from a deep sleep.

"Come on." He said, taking Merlin's hand, but Merlin snatched his had away as if burned. For a moment the king's face froze, reforming that implacable mask, and he turned without a word. Merlin followed.

Minutes later, they sat before the fire in the kings bedchamber, the grey cloak hung on a hook to one side of the mantelpiece. It was beginning to steam as the heat worked through it, as both men sat on opposite sides of the grate, eyeing each other warily and wondering what to say. Merlin had refused the offer of wine but Arthur had poured himself a glass, and he used it as an excuse not to look at the man sitting opposite him, whose cheeks were beginning to look more like skin and less like stone.

It was Merlin who spoke first, voice tired. "Do you have something you want to say to me, or can I go back to my rooms?" He hadn't needed to ask for rooms separate from Gaius' and now he was inside he felt dead on his feet, fighting to stay upright.

"That's hardly the way to speak to a king." The blonde retorted, looking over his wine with his finest regal stare. It sent lesser men quivering from the room, but apparently Merlin was made of sterner stuff, raising an eyebrow with an acerbic look.

"I'm not talking to a king. I'm talking to the prat who dragged me up here at three in the morning."

Prat. There was that word again, the word that only two people had ever said directly to him but was still oddly important; something about it, the inflections of it, teased his memory, but it was gone before he could catch it. King Arthur smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Things aren't how they were Merlin." His voice was cold, deliberately so, and the humour in Merlin's eyes died instantly.

"I am aware of that." Merlin said, voice suddenly weary. "What can I do for you, your majesty? I am of course, at your convenience." He added with a sarcastic twist of his lip, and Arthur leaned back, ignoring the sting of his words.

"We seem to have a vacancy for court physician. Would you be interested?" He asked, taking a sip of wine and deliberately not looking at the dark haired man.

When the answer came, it was unequivocal. "No."

Whatever small hope Arthur had nourished died at that single word, but then Merlin paused, pursing his lips. "But if you wish, I will stay till a new one is appointed."

"Very well." The king replied, still not looking at him, and Merlin rose gracefully, pulling his now dry cloak off of the hook. He bowed, the movement filled with sarcasm, and there was a click as the door was unlatched.

"Goodnight Arthur." The words were soft, so soft Arthur almost missed them, but he waited till the door was closed before replying.

"Goodnight Merlin."

_A/N: That was the longest chapter I've done in while; its surprisingly hard keeping up the mix explainable and as of yet unexplainable plot points- that's the dream dealt with, but I've recently discovered that foreshadowing is fun!_

_Please, let me know, is the characterisation of Merlin and Arthur believable? They're both going through some really hard times, but please let me know if they get really unlikeable!_

_Thank you!_


	12. In Which The Witch's Plan Advances

In Which The Witch's Plan Advances:

Three days after the funeral, Merlin was back in Gaius' rooms, which were, as the king had apparently ordered, to be his home for the next few weeks. Or however long it took for a new Court Physician to be found; he couldn't deny that he didn't trust his highness to do so quickly, and the idea of staying so long chafed at him. He was a physician, for heaven's sake, and he'd been practicing for more than three years; did the king really think there was no one in the Five Kingdoms who would need him, with weather like this setting in? He glared at the storm as if it were the source of all his problems, scowling as the snow continued to pile up against the window, but he knew he wasn't being honest with himself. Given where he was, yes, it would be highly illegal, but if he really had to he could get anywhere. Fast.

The weather still hadn't settled; though the snow now came in waves it still made the traditional methods of travel impossible, and Merlin was getting sick of looking out of the window and seeing nothing but swirling whiteness smothering everything. Worse still, for the most part he was trapped inside; his supplies of herbs were running low and he couldn't help feeling claustrophobic; especially when the castle was filled with people he wanted to avoid.

There was a squeal of stone on stone as he ground down with unnecessary force; the marble of the mortar had scraped against the pestle and he smiled ferociously, baring far more teeth than was strictly necessary in a grin that bordered on wolfish. He did it again, almost enjoying the screech as it grated his ears, and it became his melody as he mashed the dried lavender into something very much resembling mush.

It made him feel just a little better.

_Merlin?_ The familiar voice, normally so comforting, made him wince as the memories came crashing back. It seemed, thought the emotionless part of his mind, that this was what always happened; suddenly something would make him remember and the wind would be knocked out of him.

_Yes Kilgharrah? _He replied, and sighed as he pushed away from the bench to land on a nearby chair, forcing the air out of the cushions. Sitting down always made these mental conversations easier, as did closing your eyes; both helped prevent headaches and cramps that always resulted when the mind lost track of the body.

_Where are you? _

_Can't you tell? _ Merlin taunted, caught in a sudden wave of perverse childishness. _The Great Dragon can't find one measly warlock?_

There was a stony silence from the other end, and Merlin grinned again. He did so love provoking Kilgharrah, but this time it was tinged with a bitterness that at any other time would have made him feel slightly ashamed.

The silence dragged on with no reply, and so he continued, steeling himself for what would follow. _I'm in Camelot._

The Great Dragon didn't disappoint; shock coursed down the mental link, enough to make him wince, but there was something else behind the shock, something he couldn't name because it had been quickly snatched away.

_The Camelot you swore you would never return to? _The dragon asked, with more caution than a creature able to destroy cities alone should have been capable of.

_Gaius was dying, Kilgharrah. It wasn't exactly a choice. _He snapped it out but the words still burned, and Merlin felt the other mind recoil slightly, sorrow a sudden wave. Tears burned again behind his eyes and he shut them angrily; was glad when the dragon didn't ask more.

_Do you plan on staying? _

Merlin snorted, and knew Kilgharrah had heard. _No. I have to get back. They need me. _

Even mentally, his words were thick with sarcasm, but his friend didn't seem to notice.

_Yes, you have been gone a long time, young warlock. _But then the dragon paused. _But perhaps I should not call you young anymore, given who you are now._

His lips twisted wryly, and he rolled his eyes. _I still think it was a stupid idea of theirs._

Amusement was clear in the creature's voice, and Merlin could almost see the smile he knew graced the dragon's features. _Ah, but the choice was not yours, Merlin. Do not take it from them._

_If you like it so much..._

_Why don't I do it? _The dragon was laughing now, and even against his will Merlin felt the faint stirrings of a smile. _Ah Merlin, you have become predictable in your old age._

_Old age? _He spluttered in mock outrage, drowning his sorrow in a sudden wave of affection. _I'll give you old age you great overgrown lizard! You..._

"Merlin?" A voice echoed from far away, getting louder every second. He tried to wave it off, but it came again, closer this time. "Merlin?"

"Merlin!" This time the voice was loud and immediate and inches from his ear; in less than a second Merlin was his feet, hand glowing white hot in front of him. Gwaine looked up from where he crouched almost comically by the chair, confusion clear on his face, but he covered it quickly, expression slipping back into that familiar look of laid back nonchalance even as his dark eyes reflected the light from Merlin's hand

"Yes?" Merlin asked with deliberate calm, ignoring the fact his fingers were still glowing like miniature torches inches from the knight's nose. Then he smiled, face full of unexpected mischief as he flicked his hand with an exaggerated casualness; flames spurting from his fingers into the grate, relighting the fire that had gone out an hour ago.

Gwaine's eyes went wide, and Merlin had to fight to suppress a grin.

"I've been here nearly twenty minutes Merlin. If I'd yelled any louder I would've deafened you." The knight smiled affably, but the curiosity was obvious in his voice.

Merlin's shrugged, a move of exaggerated casualness beneath eyes of glittering blue. "I was talking to someone."

And Gwaine's eyes went even wider, so whites showed all around the pupil.

"You can do that?" He asked, voice a little breathless.

"You can't?" Merlin replied, and Gwaine laughed suddenly, relieved to see his friend smiling again.

"Ah, we don't all have your talents Merlin, some of us must rely on our equipment." He grinned, wiggling his eyes at the double entendre even as his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

Merlin couldn't help it; he half smiled, but suddenly Gwaine's grin died, his face becoming apologetic.

"I'm afraid the king wants to see you." The way he said it made Merlin frown interally; it didn't escape his notice that none of the knights referred to him as Arthur anymore. It was always his title.

Merlin's good mood was gone. "Now?" He asked, voice almost plaintive, and Gwaine nodded, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder.

"Right," Merlin sighed, as he turned towards the door. "Let's go see what his majesty wants."

To his surprise he wasn't taken to the throne room, which was usual for such things, but to the castle library, where he found the king stood round a table with Geoffrey of Monmouth, perusing scrolls made yellow with age.

"Your majesty?" He asked all politness, but he didn't bow, and he knew neither of the men had missed it.

The sovereign surprised him by letting it go, instead he nodded curtly. "Merlin, where have you been? We sent Gwaine to fetch you an hour ago."

Merlin shrugged, knowing it would annoy the king more than anything else. "Something came up." He replied, voice cold as possible. If his highness wanted formal, he decided with an internal smirk, then formal he would get.

The blonde king sighed and rolled his eyes, motioning for him to join them, and moving closer, Merlin found himself scanning the writings on the table. They were all on the same subject.

"Plagues?" He asked, looking up quizzically into light blue eyes. Both king and chronicler nodded, but Geoffrey seemed more hesitant, glancing nervously between the two younger men as if expecting them to lunge at each other.

"We'd had nothing definitive, but yesterday a patrol came back from the eastern border." The king said, pinching his nose with a wince born of fatigue. It was late, or was it early? "They report a large amount of people claiming a sickness has broken out, and there are some villages people steer clear of entirely. We'd heard things, but we thought it was just villagers spreading tales, now it seems a much more likely threat."

"Any description of symptoms?" Merlin asked, moving to better read the writing on the papers.

"A few hysterical descriptions from refugees; they seem vary somewhat, but most mention a sudden, intense pallor and a black substance leaking from the mouth, eyes and ears. Some mention a sudden sensitivity to light and sound. Death is slow, but extremely painful. Does that sound like anything you've come across?"

Scanning his memory, it didn't take long for him to draw a blank. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "Those symptoms don't sound familiar; have you heard anything similar from other kingdoms?"

It struck Geoffrey then that he wasn't really needed; something like tension seemed to crackle in the air between the king and the physician, something that made him itch to get as far from the fallout as possible. He began to back away and the two let him, oblivious to their surroundings as they stared each other down in a silent battle of wills.

In the end, both looked away together; and the golden haired king sighed as the physician bent his dark head over the scrolls.

"We've had no reports of anything; Gwaine and Leon asked at the Merchants Guild and no one seems to have anything to say." But then the king's eyes narrowed, suddenly sharp.

"What aren't you telling me?" He asked, voice harsh as a whip.

Merlin looked up, eyes deliberately blank. "There's a chance it could be magical in origin, your highness. I don't know for sure, but it's possible; you're hatred of it is well known." For a moment he hesitated, but then his confidence returned full force. "I'll go and see for myself; if it is natural, then perhaps a cure can be found."

"In this weather?" The blonde man scoffed, ignoring how Merlin stiffened at his scorn. "You won't last five miles!"

The warlocks face was set, and Arthur had a sudden image of pushing hard against a brick wall. Since when had Merlin been this bloody sure of himself?

"I am hardier than I look, your majesty." He said stiffly, and Arthur couldn't miss the bitterness in his voice. "I believe I can handle a little cold."

_As you well know._

The words hung in still air turned suddenly awkward, and the king cleared his throat. "I'll go with you." He said, and the corners of Merlin's mouth twitched.

"No you won't. You think I'll let the King of Camelot ride into a plague ridden area? Use your common sense." _Prat. _The word was clear, though neither of them said it aloud.

Arthur smirked. "I could have you flogged for speaking to me like that." He said. Merlin raised an eyebrow without looking up, but somehow the atmosphere was clearer than before.

"Not right now you can't. You need me." Merlin said with a triumphant look, rolling up one of the documents and putting it in a pocket. "So I can say what I like."

Arthur grunted, and Merlin smiled slightly. "Fine, but we're taking you to the edge of it."

"I can travel faster without you." _If only you knew, _he thought.

"No arguments. This way we're close if you need us." And the king was commanding, not asking.

Merlin held up his hands. "Fine. Go get saddled up."

"Giving orders now, Merlin?" He asked, and for the first time since he'd returned, the king and the warlock smiled at each other.

_Phew! Everything hanging together? You know the drill by now!_


	13. In Which Arthur Realises A Sad Truth

In Which Arthur Realises A Sad Truth:

The wind blew hard, throwing a flurry of snow into the cave, and Arthur swore softly, doggedly refusing to look at the man sitting by the fire. For the last hour, Merlin's expression had been set in a look; lips quirked and blue eyes glittering, it was pure, unadulterated 'I told you so' and it made Arthur want to drown him with his own potions.

But he resisted, settling for glowering at him from across the cave.

Or at least he tried to; the burning intensified and he rubbed his eyes again; they itched like mad, as if filled with sand, and he could feel a tear working its way down his cheek. Over by the fire Gwaine was doing something to the cooking pot, but at some point Merlin had shifted so he was crouched in front of him, eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong?" His words were abrupt, but there was something warmer underneath. Or at least, Arthur thought so, he couldn't be sure.

His hand flicked out in a gesture of pure dismissal, but Merlin won't budge. Not even when he looked up and gave Merlin his best regal glare, but it was completely ruined by the watery redness of his eyes. "Nothing." He said shortly.

Merlin nodded wisely, but his lips curved, his smile sarcastic and ever so slightly smug. "Ah, so you're mashing yourself in the face for the fun of it?"

Arthur kept up the glare, hoping Merlin would get the message, but still no luck and his eyes are itching again. It was like someone has thrown dust in his face and he couldn't get it out, irritating enough for his hands to come up again entirely of their own accord.

A ghost of breath touched his face as Merlin grabbed his wrists, forcing his hands down even as his head lowered so his eyes were level with Arthur's.

"Arthur. Stop rubbing, you're making it worse." His voice echoed again with that tone of command, one Arthur could respect even as he chafed under it, so Merlin kept his hands where they were, pinning the king's hands to the floor of the cave. There was a long pause, but eventually Arthur looked away, tugging his wrists from Merlin's grip. It was surprisingly strong for someone of the physicians stature, and it took some work, but he's the king here dammit, so why did he feel like a child?

Merlin shook his head and moved away, over to his bag where he seemed to keep everything, and Arthur leant back, resting his head on a rocky outcrop. His eyes still burn, but its better with them shut, and he sighed, one long exhale of exhaustion; he'd been up nearly 38 hours and it was beginning to catch up with him, a heavy ache in his muscles that was only worsened by the cold.

A cool cloth was laid over his eyes and he twitched, his instinct to rip the offending article from his face. A scent wafted from it; something cool with herbs and almost minty, and a hand came to rest on his forehead, a thumb tracing soothingly over one eyebrow in a touch of surprising intimacy. Merlin's voice came from above him, and it seemed deeper somehow, the words rumbling through the air.

"It's just the snow."

Arthur frowned, and the cloth slips a little. "The snow?" He can almost feel Merlin nod.

"More light reflects off it than you think, and it can damage your eyes if you look at it too long." Already he could feel the burning lessen, and Arthur suppressed a groan of relief. "Since _someone_ insisted on riding in full daylight, I figured bringing this ointment along was a good idea."

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

At his words there was a single, pregnant pause, where something inside him holds its breath, waiting for Merlin's reaction. His eyes were covered and so he couldn't see the startled grin that crossed Merlin's face, but he could almost feel it as a low chuckle escaped the healer's lips. For a moment both were thrown back in time, and they laugh together, a sudden burst of noise that echoed around the cavern.

They sat in silence for a while before it was broken again.

"Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Where have you _been _for three years?" Arthur asked, because the question was suddenly important; perhaps not the most vital thing he could have asked, but that could wait, if he ever voiced it. He'd often wondered over the past three years where Merlin had gone; when he'd allowed himself he'd pictured far off climes and exotic places, where the men wore turbans and there were hills made of sand. Sometimes he saw other places, made of swamps with houses on sticks, but most often he saw woods and valleys, places close to home, but might as well have been the moon.

There was a pause as Merlin settled next to him, the material of his ever present cloak brushing against his hand. The cave had suddenly gone quiet enough to hear the crackling of the fire; it wasn't just Arthur listening, Gwaine and Percival waited also waited as subtly as they knew how, each listening eagerly to what he would say.

Merlin's voice was low, but it carried across the cave without effort to the ears of his listeners. "I went everywhere. Anywhere I could, learned from anyone who would teach me." He said, and the bubbling of the stew was the only sound as the knights waited for his next sentence. "I spent a lot of time in the Blasted Lands, and it was there I realised just how many people who needed a healer, but would never get one. I can't help them all, but I do what I can."

Something spread through Arthur then, something that was at once painful and proud, bitter and sweet. Merlin sounded so _sure _when talking about what he does, confidence saturating every syllable without him even realising. The passion in his voice was overwhelming, so anyone who listened couldn't help but know exactly how much he loved his work. Gwaine smiled and returned to the stew; he'd already heard most of what Merlin had just said, but the king wasn't nearly so relaxed. Hidden from sight by the folds of Merlin's cloak, his fist is clenching into a tight ball, gouging long scratches in the dirt.

Merlin won't stay.

And the worst part is suddenly Arthur cannot find it in him to make him, to even persuade him to do so. He remembered when, twelve years ago, a circus had come to Camelot for the kings birthday. At the night's end the ringmaster had brought forth a beast, a great cat, all sleek power and magnificent muscle with a coat of sandy gold, and the court had clapped and cheered as it circled the great hall. Arthur had been captivated, and had snuck from his tutor's watchful glare to the circus tent to find it in a cage, its head resting on massive paws. Such a magnificent creature, Arthur remembered thinking, but it had looked back at him with glassy eyes, soft golden orbs filled with sadness from behind the bars of its cage, and he knew that if by some miracle Merlin agreed to return, he would be condemning himself to the same fate.

Gwaine was looking at the fire, Percival stared out into the snowy night, but the king's grimace was hidden even from Merlin, as he rolled himself in his blankets.

The next morning they separated, but not without argument. Arthur was even surlier than usual, barking out orders with his best 'you better obey me' face, but Merlin had dug in his heels; he was not letting him walk into an area rife with plague, and king or not, he had better get used to the idea. In the end they had resorted to glaring mulishly at each other, ignoring the grins Percival and Gwaine exchanged behind their hands.

Merlin had won.

The snowstorm had abated, leaving a landscape of unnatural calm, but Merlin seemed tense, lips pursed as if he tasted something sour. They rode in silence, and despite his duty as guard, Gwaine was unable to stop himself glancing often at his friend.

Shapes moved in the distance and Gwaine's hand move to his sword, not releasing it as the party of travellers came closer. They were clearly nomads, their clothing built to resist nearly any weather, but as they got closer Gwaine saw the tattoos on their bodies, swirling patterns similar to the one Merlin wore.

He glanced up to find Merlin solemn, moving to dismount with a surprising grace. The calm suddenly seemed oppressive, and Gwaine, who could talk for Camelot, found himself unwilling, or perhaps unable to speak.

The group were less than a meter away now, moving silently even on the fresh fallen whiteness, and the knight suddenly felt very obvious, perched on his black horse with these men who moved like shadows.

But so did Merlin, he realised with a start; at some point the warlock had pulled up his hood, and his feet had stopped crunching in the snow, moving over it without a sound. The air was still, the sounds of the forest lost in the blanket of white, as the group halted a few feet away, cloaks fluttering in the cold winter breeze.

Then, without a word, they bowed.

Merlin sighed to himself beneath his hood, waiting for them to straighten; had he known what he'd been getting himself into when he'd finally stopped running from them, he'd have kept right on going.

"Yes?" He asked, and their leader moved forwards, face respectful.

His voice was rough and deep, as wild as the woods and just as free. "You have felt it, Emrys?"

Merlin nodded, feeling Gwaine's eyes burn into the back of his head. The group eyed the dark haired man with wary glances, not missing the crimson that pronounced him a knight of Camelot, but respect held their tongues, and they did not ask questions.

"I doubt any creature of magic hasn't." His eyes turned dark, fed by disgust. "This is blood magic, created to taint and kill; this whole region reeks of it. Do you know anything of the source?" He asked, but dread had settled in his heart as soon as he'd felt the sour tang on the wind, and he knew their answer before they voiced it.

"The witch. She waits for you."

_A/N: I'm sorry, I know I said Saturday to some of you, but things came up and I had to do it now! Please forgive me!_

_Review?_


	14. In Which The Sorceress Claims Her Kin

In Which The Sorceress Claims Her Brother:

Gwaine shivered and tried to suppress it; he'd been standing in the snow for over an hour, and it hadn't taken long for the wind to suck all the heat from his body. Even the forest had provided little cover; the trees seemed eager to spite him, refusing their protection from the bitter chill that bit his skin through the moisture that beaded it.

One of the many things his father had failed to tell him about being a knight was how you started to sweat as soon as you put on your armour. No matter where you were, no matter how blasted cold you were you still did it, and now, standing on this godforsaken stretch of road with a group of people who didn't even have the decency to shiver, the droplets had frozen beneath the metal, forming crystals that ground into his skin with every movement. Fabulous.

Sarcasm aside, this had given him an unprecedented opportunity to observe the mythical Emrys, and he found himself, as ever, completely thrown. Ever since Merlin had told him who he was, he had been unable to help thinking of the two as separate people, two distinct, detached entities, who just happened to share the same body. But they weren't; Merlin was just a smaller part of the whole, the part the world was presented with so they couldn't see all of him. Emrys was huge and impossible to comprehend, and so Merlin was made to spare humanity from the knowledge of who he was, and what he could do.

In the short time he'd been back in Camelot, Gwaine had been researching the man as thoroughly as possible, and Emrys, if the old prophecies were to be believed, was a figure to be feared. One particularly descriptive passage had him calling down a mountain on the enemy of his king, and at that Gwaine had put down the book for several minutes, trying to reconcile the man he knew with what he was reading.

It was easier now, three years ago he would have laughed aloud and dismissed it as ridiculous, but now...now it was harder. This Merlin wasn't a servant; it was obvious in the way they looked at him, the way he moved, in a thousand small ways, it could have been Arthur standing there. It was the way they held their shoulders, the way they tilted their heads as they listened intently, and the calm that seemed to emanate from them, that made everything breathe a sigh of relief.

Gwaine had never had that effect on anyone.

In a bizarre way, he missed Merlin more now than when he had been gone. That Merlin, with hair dusted with coal both real and metaphoric, and skin milky enough to shame any maiden had been his friend, someone he knew and understood. The boy, and he always had been a _boy_, no matter his age, who had laughed easy and often, and was willing to help anyone who asked. This Merlin was outspoken and yet reserved at the same time; Gwaine watched as a smile flashed across his face, and the expression is open as ever, but now there was so much hidden behind it. So many secrets that Gwaine would never know.

A pinching sensation in his calf brought him sharply back to the present, his muscle protesting against how long he'd been resting on it. Unable to help it, he sighed, and moved onto his other foot, his hand closing casually on the hilt of his sword. His exposed, ice cold, sword. He tried to suppress it but it burst from his chest; a sound that could, despite all his later protests, be called nothing but a squeak. The metal seared like fire and he shook his hand desperately, trying to escape the sensation.

Merlin glanced up, a frown that could have graced the brow of an emperor clear on his features, and Gwaine grinned sheepishly, holding his hands out in front of him in silent apology. The nomads didn't turn, didn't look away, their eyes almost eerily fixated on Merlin's face, searching out every line and shadow. The youngest was the worst; a boy no more than sixteen summers old with hair the colour of straw, he stared at Merlin as if confronting a god in human form; eyes the colour of cornflowers brimming with awe. And more than a little fear.

Then, at some unknown signal the nomads knelt, a single unit of shadow on snow, and rose without a word, moving swiftly off the path. Gwaine followed them with his eyes, their brown and grey cloaks easy to see against the snow, till the wind forced him to blink, and they were gone.

Just like that.

Without a sound Merlin mounted his horse, and they rode in silence, the wind their only companion.

* * *

><p>Arthur growled and kicked a stone, watching it ricochet about the cave. Percival said nothing, staring out into the snow as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, and Arthur growled again, throwing himself down on his sleeping mat and shutting his eyes. It had been less than a day, and already he was frustrated, the thousand things that could go wrong playing havoc with his thoughts.<p>

He tried to picture something calming, soothing; the soft sheen of Guinevere's hair in the candlelight had never failed to settle him, but before it was even fully formed the image was snatched away, replaced by a vision he didn't understand. Two figures, black against the snowy hillside, magic cloaking them like fog, thick on his tongue.

Morgana smiled, her eyes burning with madness, raising her arms in treaty to the sky, but Emrys' didn't move, his cloak still despite the raging wind. Arthur couldn't move, couldn't speak as lightning struck him, as it was deflected by a shield that had come from nowhere, protecting its master automatically.

And then his sister turned from the other sorcerer, head tilted to the side in a mannerism so familiar it sent agony streaking through him. She smiled, and something in her face was so _wrong_, something black and terrible and burning with cold that when she spoke, her words were lost to him.

A thousand fingers began to tear at his skull, ripping him apart from the inside.

From far away he could hear Percival shouting, but it was so distant, so removed from the _agony _of the moment that the knight could have been calling from the moon.

When the blackness came, silence did not follow.

_Shhh, little brother. Shhh._

* * *

><p>Gwaine could only look on as Merlin leant over the boy, casting a practiced eye over the symptoms. The reports had not been lying; thick black tar continued to ooze from the child's ears, staining his blonde hair a rusty brown and leaving sharp trails on his pallid skin. When he breathed, which wasn't often, it was in sharp, ragged pants that wracked the boy's chest and made Gwaine ache in sympathy.<p>

Merlin looked up, his face set.

"I cannot cure this."

There was a moment of silence, and the boy's mother let out a sound like a wounded animal, eyes wild with anguish. Then she collapsed, chest heaving with great wracking sobs that spoke of pain beyond despair. Gwaine tried to reach her but wasn't fast enough, and it was Merlin who caught her as she fell, lowering her gently to the floor.

"Madam, listen to me, please."

She didn't hear him, lost somewhere in the sea of grief, rocking backwards and forwards as the boy began to stir pitifully, calling for his mother through cracked lips. It was Gwaine who hushed him, laying a hand on his forehead, and the boy quieted, till the only sound in the room was the anguished weeping of his mother.

Their eyes met, the knight and the warlock, and to his surprise, Gwaine found a request in Merlin's gaze, almost a plea for permission. It was given in a heartbeat, and without a word Merlin pressed his fingertips to the woman's temple, eyes flashing gold.

The sudden silence was deafening.

"Madam, I need you to listen to me, very, very carefully." He murmured quietly, and the woman nodded, emotions dulled by the spell.

Fighting down guilt, Merlin continued under Gwaine's watchful gaze. "I need you to keep him as clean of the ooze as you can, but whatever you do, do not put the waste where it can re-enter the water supply. Can you do that?"

The woman nodded, moving like an automaton to the room that served as a kitchen. If she was surprised to find a profusion of rags and a well that supplied boiling water, she did not show it.

"Will that help?" Gwaine murmured as they exited into the near empty village, and Merlin nodded.

"A little." He replied, not looking at him. "It should give him a little more time."

"How long does he have?" It was a question he almost feared asking, and he held his breath, waiting for the reply.

Merlin kept walking, and for a moment Gwaine thought he wouldn't answer. "Long enough for me to find Morgana."

"Will I get it?" Gwaine asked with a laugh, a laugh made harsh by fear. This wasn't an enemy he could fight with steel, and the thought of this spreading, taking village after village with it... was unthinkable.

"No." The words were emphatic, assured enough for Gwaine to glance at his friend, a frown on his face.

Merlin smiled, but there was no humour in it, eyes focused somewhere far away. "Since his royal pigheadedness insisted, I thought it would be a good idea to shield the three of you. Its blood magic, and I can't keep it out forever, but the spells should hold for another three days at least."

They had reached the fence that marked the edge of the village, and Merlin continued past the horses, on towards the hill that marked the edge of Camelot. Eyes flashed gold and suddenly Gwaine was stuck, fighting to move his feet as Merlin pulled up his hood.

As Gwaine watched a figure crested the horizon, too far away for clarity, but even at this distance he could see fire spring to life, tying another shape to the boundary stone. If he squinted and strained his eyes, the details became cleaer, and his heart plummeted downwards. Black cloth snapped in the wind, indistinguishable from the witch's tangled hair, as her brothers glowed in the winter sunlight, a soft, gentle gold.

_Review?_


	15. In Which Arthur Has a Very Bad Day

_Sorry sorry sorry sorry for the lateness of this update- having just moved house and with no internet till January at the earliest, I'm doing what I can, but updates till then will be sporadic at best- please bear with me and don't hate me too much!_

In Which Arthur Pendragon Has A Very Bad Day:

The winter sun was blinding as Arthur blinked, the scent of his own blood a bitter copper on the air. He could feel the hard scab where he'd bitten his own tongue, but the pain in his mouth was insignificant compared to the symphony of pain that played in his skull. High flutelike needles jabbed behind his eyes, the perfect counterpoint to the deeper pounding ache of the drums, which set his head exploding even as the violins ripped through his brain for the finale.

He couldn't help it, sliding quickly back beneath the surface.

The light was brighter when he woke again, but the throbbing in his temples had lessened at some point, enough that he could open his eyes. There was something cold and hard at his back, holding him upright, but now his head had finally exploded he could feel a newer hurt at his wrists and ankles, one that held him to whatever it was he was propped against.

The world was white, or rather, ivory on cream, where the sky was pale with snow heavy clouds and the ground was carpeted in it, far too gentle for the figure it supported, wrapped in blackness that was only partly material.

He hadn't seen Morgana –he refused, ever, to think of her as his sister- for over five years now, and the time had not been kind. Her curves, that lush sensual beauty that had so many lusting after her was gone, leaving nothing but ice cold angles and a glassy brittleness that, if there had been any justice in the world, would have robbed her of any good looks. But it hadn't; what was left was the loveliness of icy wastes; harsh and surreal and untouchable, where any step could be your last.

The wind had picked up, chilling him from the inside out, and dimly Arthur realised he'd been stripped of his armour and sword, left with nothing but his shirt and trousers. They lay not a few feet away, partially visible in the snow, but the fiery ropes that bound him to the stone flared up as he shifted, searing his skin till he fell back against the stone.

Surprisingly, Morgana didn't seem interested in talking to him, or even gloating over him; instead she stared over the rise, face set in a look Arthur couldn't read. It was distant as the moon and dark as its shadow, a strange mix of rage and almost calm acceptance; focused on a point far off. If Arthur squinted, he could almost see a shape in the snow, a grey charcoal smudge on fresh white paper. It had stopped at the foot of the hill, and for a moment Arthur could have sworn it was looking at _him, _even though the figure was so far away it was impossible to tell.

Arthur blinked, and it was gone, the silhouette vanishing as wind stung his eyes, but when he opened them again, Morgana stood over him, face pressed closed enough to feel her breath on his skin. Her eyes were unreadable, like a still lake in winter they reflected everything, deceiving the onlooker that nothing lay in the depths.

Did all magic users have eyes like that, or just the ones that had tried to kill him? He had never really looked, ad been more concerned with their mouths and the spells coming out of them, but from what he remembered, every sorcerer, witch, wizard, jinn, shaman, they'd all had the same look. Running the gauntlet from every shade from icy grey to almost black, each had the same inscrutability, the same mysterious sparkle that defied his understanding.

When Morgana finally spoke, it was as if she had never left.

"Hello little brother."

He didn't reply, glaring mulishly upwards as he tried to suppress his shivering. From the way she raised her eyebrow- dear god, he'd always hated the way she did that- he'd been only partially successful, but her lips curved, sharp as daggers for all their fullness.

"Am I supposed to be polite, Morgana? Is that how this works?" He asked through teeth that longed to chatter, and her smile became a grin; feral and wicked.

"Not at all little brother. I didn't have this part planned, if we're being honest; your knights I expected, but you..." She pursued her lips, fingers running gently over the skin at the nape of his neck. The gesture made him cringe. "You see Arty, you haven't really left Camelot for a while, and I didn't think you'd actually come."

Arty. He'd hated that name for years; ever since she first coined it in a squabble when they were children- it had taken a royal edict from Uther to prevent her using it in front of court officials, and she had only stopped completely when he'd threatened to get Guinevere dismissed if she kept it up.

Gritting his teeth he glared up at her, refusing to reply, to give her the satisfaction of any response at all. Something sparked in her eyes, something like wildfire but far less controllable, and he braced himself for the blow; when it came, his head cracked against the stone, stunning him again, and blood began to flow anew from the cut in his tongue.

He opened his eyes, trying to see past the spots, and saw her hand was raised again, fingers curled like claws beneath a face with no more reason that a rabid dogs.

"Is there a point to all this, Morgana?" The flat, almost bored voice carried despite the wind, and the witch whirled around, skirts flaring out like the wings of some malevolent bird. "Or are you just feeling theatrical?"

"Emrys." Morgana replied, voice as dry as her opponents, but Arthur heard it tremble, slightly, and it helped clear his head of the fog that enshrouded it. The tremor was hidden well, so well that if he hadn't grown up with her he would have missed it entirely, but he'd heard it clear enough. Her back was to him, and it was impossible to see her face, but suddenly Arthur understood; she was afraid. More than that; she was terrified and he could have counted on one hand, had they not been tied down, the number of times she had shown fear.

Credit where credit was due, despite that one slip she gave no other sign of it, standing at her full height with the grace and hauteur of a queen. The silence dragged but she seemed disinclined to speak, choosing her words with care.

Arthur studied the new arrival through half closed lids; the figure was the same as he remembered, tall beneath the grey, features hidden by the cowl of his cloak. A soft rich grey, similar to the one Merlin wore, but this one seemed somehow slightly luminescent in the winter sunlight, with a subtle sheen not unlike pearl.

The wind breathed its last as Morgana spoke and her voice cut through it easily, honey drizzled on a daggers edge. "Did you like my plague?"

There was a sigh from under the hood, breath visible in air that was suddenly cold. And then, Emrys laughed, a harsh brutal sound that managed to convey years of exhaustion and guilt, a laugh that couldn't really be called a laugh at all. But it was so familiar, and so _real _that everything inside Arthur stilled.

No. It couldn't be. It _couldn't be._

White hands reached up to grasp the grey material, stark against the grey, and the world held its breath, waiting.

Arthur had never known if it was the same for everyone; it was hardly the type of thing a person dropped in a casual conversation, but sometimes, when he most needed it, time would obligingly slow. When he'd realised just how beautiful Gwen was, when he'd first leaned towards her and hoped to heaven she responded, time had dragged, so he could see every expression flicker across her face. When Morgana had been revealed as his sister, in that moment before rage had bubbled and numbed everything, it had been the same, a time where he had been suspended in the moment, hung on a fine thread on the precipice of change. And now here he was again, standing on that boundary line, but this time he didn't know if he could pull himself back from the chasm that was beckoning.

Emrys lowered his hood, and Arthur was hurled into the depths.

"If we're being honest, no." Merlin replied, his tone the same as ever, as if Arthur's world wasn't collapsing in little pieces around him. "Firstborn sons, Morgana, really? Isn't time you moved past all this?"

The witch didn't reply- the same look of dumfounded horror that Arthur was sure was scrawled across his features was also clear upon hers. Then it faded to be replaced by incredulity, and then back to shock, only two seconds later to be banished by dawning horror that would, in different circumstances, have been almost comical.

When her reply came, it was a flat denial. "This is a trick."

Merlin shrugged, his head falling back as a breathless chuckle escaped him. The sound was so incongruous with what was happening that for a moment, Arthur could have believed it was a dream, but it wasn't, and he knew it wasn't. "You know, sometimes I wonder what they do to you in Camelot. Years you lived with me Morgana, you saw me almost every day; was I so invisible to you that you never even noticed just how little I made sense?" Merlin, _Emrys, _shook his head, clearing it of the gentle layer of snow that had settled on it, his movements still coltish, eyes still wide and clear, but internally Arthur was still reeling, only his years of training to pay attention even as the universe imploded around him making him able to follow what was happening.

Merlin was Emrys. Emrys was Merlin, and so Merlin, _Merlin,_ had magic. And that meant that it was Merlin he had met on the bridge that night, the man with burning hands, who summoned golden shields as easy as breathing, who could speak to kings as if they were equals.

And if Merlin had magic- then Merlin was evil. Simple as that.


	16. In Which There Are Recriminations

In Which Things End, and Things Begin:

Merlin watched the light die in Arthur's eyes, watched the blood drain from his already pale face, and the air left him in a rush, forced from his lungs by a cold, cruel hand. He hadn't wanted it to be like this; had never imagined once in all his nightmarish daydreams that it would happen like this.

He had thought he'd considered the worst, in the many hours he had spent alone, polishing Arthurs armour and tidying his rooms. He had thought that maybe Arthur would snarl and attack him where he stood, sword flashing with godlike wrath. In his nightmares, he'd felt the blade cut deep, had watched as he crumpled to the floor, as agony flared up inside him like a living thing, but this? This was worse.

He could have taken rage. Rage or even hatred, taken it with gratitude, because it meant there was still Arthur beneath it all, beneath the king he had become. But this figure, who leant against the boundary stone as if it was the only think keeping him upright, he wasn't Arthur, not when his shoulders slumped in defeat and he hung limply against his bindings.

But then, he thought, as time stood still on that snow covered knoll, he'd never intended Arthur to know. Not really; the reason he'd never told the prince... was because he hadn't wanted to. He hadn't trusted him. If he had, had really trusted him with everything the way Arthur had come to, then he would have known years ago. Oh, he knew he couldn't be blamed for waiting when he'd first arrived; given Uther's attitudes hiding had been an entirely reasonable strategy, but as the years had worn on, and he and Arthur had grown closer than friends, closer than brothers, he'd run out of excuses, run out of reasons; he hadn't told Arthur, because he just hadn't trusted him.

To be honest, he still didn't. Arthur's eyes were hidden from his gaze, his body hanging from the stone like a sacrifice, but it didn't matter; he knew that he wasn't enough. Everything he had done, everything they had been to each other- and gods knew what that actually was, because he had no idea- it hadn't been enough.

"You're Emrys." Morgana said, acid biting through every syllable. "_You_ are Emrys." She paused for a moment as if to let everyone absorb those words, and then she threw back her head and laughed, face twisted in a way that chilled the blood. And Merlin knew in that moment she was lost to them; what had begun as a study in bitterness quickly became hysterical, a mad, shrill shriek in a world that was suddenly silent, and all Merlin could do was watch her, and regret.

"Not really. Not anymore." He said when her laughter ended, when the tears of hysteria had stopped falling, and he kept his voice deliberately flat.

"What?" The witch snapped. She seemed to have forgotten all about Arthur, the magic that bound him to the stone growing duller to his enhanced vision.

"I left Camelot. Emrys has no purpose now- there will be no Albion, no Once and Future King, nothing." A rueful smile marred his face. "And you drew me out for nothing. I'm not your doom anymore Morgana, I would never have come for you."

"You walked away?" Morgana asked as his words sank in, and the incredulity in her voice was almost comical. "You walked away from your home, from the greatest power that any man could hope to achieve- _why? _How could you _do _it?"

She seemed genuinely curious; disbelieving, but curious, and Merlin shook his head, suddenly exhausted.

"I left for the same reason you did, Morgana." He sighed, and rubbed his hands over his eyes as if to force them to focus. "You know what it feels like; when almost everyone you know, everyone you love in this world is convinced you are evil because of an accident of your birth. To be born with a power you hadn't asked for and so you become something to be feared and hated, and you know that if anyone ever found out it wouldn't matter if they loved you, or thought of you as a friend, because _you have magic_."

Silence reigned for a moment, and Merlin took a deep breath; he hadn't meant to say all of that, but the bitterness had overruled him, stealing his words till his voice was nearly as harsh as Morgana's.

"Of course they didn't know it was me they were talking about." He said, and suddenly he raised his head and looked straight at Arthur, eyes blazing with pain. "But every time they denounced what I was it cut a little deeper till I couldn't stand it anymore."

Their gazes locked, Merlin's furious, Arthurs suddenly empty. Numb, because it'd been him who'd done that. To Merlin. Merlin the idiot, Merlin the brave, Merlin the so very wise it sometimes hurt to hear it- and he'd driven him away from his home.

Guilt cut like a razor.

Morgana seemed to have recovered somewhat; when she spoke again, her words hung like acid on the cold air. "You could have helped me. You knew what was happening to me, how terrified I was, and you didn't _help._ Why didn't you help?" She asked, and the girl he had once known bled through into her voice, lost and confused. And angry.

"I know." He said. Morgana blinked, and waited as if expecting him to say more, to attempt to justify what he had done. "I'm sorry, Morgana. I got it wrong."

"You're sorry? You're _sorry?_" Her hands curled into claws and her face twisted; wherever she was now, she was beyond hearing him. "You could have _helped me!_" She screamed from a throat raw with betrayal, and fire leapt from her hands, blazing with the wrath of the betrayed.

Arthur yelled without sound as Merlin was engulfed, the long tendrils of sooty flames smothering him completely. Somewhere at the back of his mind he could feel the ropes of flame sizzling the skin at his wrists till he could smell it burning, but it was far, far away, somewhere the pain didn't register. He began to strain against the bonds in a futile attempt to break them, but they snapped after less than a second, throwing him forward into the ground.

The cold was good- it soothed the burning pain at his joints, clearing his head, and he looked up desperately, trying to see past the snow that clogged his eyelashes. Merlin was unharmed, his golden shield surrounding him again, barely touched by the heat that melted the whiteness, scorching the earth beneath it. Relief swept through him coupled with awe, and he watched as Merlin raised a hand, scattering the flames like a cloud of gnats.

They seemed totally unaware of him, and for once all the battle strategy his father's arms master had drilled into his head had deserted him. He had no idea what to do- training in Camelot had dealt more with swords and militia than bolts of lightning, and so he turned, moving to his armour with a tread made unsteady by injury.

It was clear who would win. Morgana had the strength of rage, but it had consumed her, and her attacks were frenzied, easily dodged. Merlin's shield was hardly necessary, as he bobbed and weaved with a speed even Arthur could envy, returning strike for strike; it was clear he was stronger, and faster, but he seemed hesitant, unwilling to strike the final blow that any warrior knew was sometimes necessary.

And then Arthur realised, as he struggled to remove his frozen sword from its scabbard. He didn't want to kill her- even now, after so many years and so many atrocities, Merlin didn't want to have to end it, end _her._ He froze as the two ideas clashed in his brain; Merlin who was evil, and Merlin who refused to kill, to kill unless he had to. They struggled against each other, his urge to believe what he had always been told, and what was right in front of his eyes.

A scream came from behind to cut through his reverie, the howl of a wild animal, and a black shape barrelled towards him, born aloft on the wings of fury. Light glinted off the dagger in her hand, and Arthur lunged for his shield. But it was too far, his fingers touching nothing but snow.

The lightning arced, there was a scream, and it was over. Ash floated away on the wind, smoke swirled from what had been his sister, and through it he saw Merlin, arm outstretched- with tears running down his face. The warlock collapsed on the ground, eyes tight shut as if to stem the tide, and Arthur slumped, turning up his equipment with fingers and mind numb with weariness.

But as he pulled his dagger from the snow, he paused. Because something was bubbling up in his chest, something hot and thick and filled with fury that he was too tired to fight- something he couldn't explain, or control, something he had kept forced away for so long he'd almost forgotten it was there, a fury and agony that echoed across the hilltop. The dagger fell from his fingers, and Arthur began to run.

Merlin sat in the slush, hands pressed against his eyes, forcing the tears back where they had come from. The chill had crept through his cloak, and he could hear Arthur moving about, but nothing seemed to reach him through his guilt, that heavy, dead weight in his chest. Because everything had been his fault. Arthur knew, and still hated magic. Morgana was dead, but if he'd done it right then he wouldn't have needed to kill her; she would never have been lost. He stood on unsteady feet, gazing at the snow till the whiteness swirled, trying not to look at the melted pool of black water.

Something slammed into him.

He reeled backwards and the thing followed, a fist slamming into his face with enough force to snap his head around. His shield sprang up as it always did when he felt threatened, and sparks melted holes in the snow as Arthur rained blows across it, face twisted with fury, voice almost incoherent with rage.

"You never told me!" Another blow. "You. Lied to me!" More hits fell and Merlin let him, lying still on the cold ground as an irate king battered at his shield, months and years of loneliness finally pouring outwards. "You _left _me!" And Merlin could feel tears on his face, tears that weren't his, dripping through the shield to land on his cheeks despite the fists that still hammered against his shelter.

Then, as suddenly as the barrage had started, Arthur stilled, sliding sideways to lie next to him in the snow. "How could you leave me?" He asked, all barriers gone, all pride vanquished by exhaustion and pain, and everything stripped down to one simple fact.

Merlin had left him, and he had been alone.

Merlin turned to him, shield gone, and sighed, pulling himself up till he crouched next to Arthur, offering a hand. "Come with me." He said, and Arthur took it, fingers warm despite everything.

There was a flash, and they were gone.


	17. In Which Kings Part

When the light faded, Arthur blinked. Once, twice, and again, a frown growing on his face he gazed at the thriving market, and the somehow familiar bulk of the tower above him. Down the slope he could see the tops of houses, thatched and slated, and beyond the city walls lay fields of red and gold, a winding road giving way to dark forests ion the horizon. Around him men and women wove to and fro in blissful domesticity, oblivious to his presence, laughing and scowling and picking fruit from stalls laden with anything a man could want. Two children sat, not two yards away, pulling sugared fruit from a bag with gleeful expressions, and a dog lay at their feet, twitching and growling in the Hunt of Dreams.

Merlin stood next to him, hood down, and he wasn't looking at Arthur. His gaze rested on the people, a smile playing on his features, the infuriating benevolent smile of a god that saw far beyond the gaze of mortals. The tension was gone from his shoulders so his limbs hung loose at his sides, and now his face and form looked far too young for the burdens they carried, but for the years that clustered in the corners of his eyes.

A shock ran up Arthurs arm as a girl ran through it, laughing over her shoulder at her parents without seeing them, and his head jerked up to stare at Merlin with a look of wonderment. It took a moment, as if to remember he was even there, but eventually the warlock turned, eyes once again guarded, and held out his hand without a word. And all the normal rules seemed suspended it seemed, because Arthur took it, and let himself be led through the throng, the two of them passing through like a pair of ghosts. No-one noticed their going, or even shivered as they moved through limbs and bodies like so much mist, but suddenly Arthur released him, moving towards where a large crowd gathered.

A small boy, no older than thirteen, stood with his hands out, a soft smile on his lips. A man faced him, all crooked lines and weathered features, with limbs bent as an old apple tree, and he leant on a stick as if for support. But fire blazed in the old mans eyes, fire of violet and green, and suddenly it leapt forth from the tip of his staff, racing towards the child with a fury no one could stop. Arthur leapt forward with a cry, forgetting in his panic that none could see him, but no-one else moved, despite the gasp that ran through the crowd. Flames blazed outwards; and the child had gone. Between one heartbeat and the next the boy had vanished, only to reappear on the other side of the ring. And now his eyes were open, and Arthur could see even from a distance the power that danced and snapped in them. Not fire, like the old mans, but strong and steady as the earth; an immovable, unstoppable force.

The ground began to quake, great heaving shifts that sent onlookers tumbling to the ground, but the old tower stood, moving softly with the motion. Had Arthur been able to turn he would have seen Merlin close his eyes, to rock with it, and tendrils of light wrap round his wrist, covering the tattoo till it glowed like the dawn. But he did not turn.

"It's a tournament. They have one every year, around this time." Came the voice from behind him, and Arthur frowned through the rumbling of the earth.

"Of magic?"

A laugh, sharp and almost cynical. "Is it so very different from yours?" Merlin asked, and in that moment he was very much a sorcerer. Arthur didn't reply, half from indignation, half out the concentration needed to keep his footing.

Eventually, when the old man had tumbled to the floor and raised his hand in surrender, the shaking stopped, and the druid boy smiled, smiled at the crowd that leapt cheering to its feet. It took a moment, for the light to hit his face at just the right angle, and it was then that Arthur recognised him. "Is that..." he began to ask, but Merlin cut him off.

"Yes, that's Mordred," Merlin murmured, and Arthur frowned in question without turning his head. "He was going to be the one who killed you." He said, eyes never leaving the crowd in front of him, even as Arthur turned; suspicion a shadow in his eyes. The warlock's tongue clicked in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache, and waved away the hand that fell to the king's sword belt. "Was, Arthur. Was going to be the one who killed you. That's all gone now; Morgana's Bane, Mordred's role, the Once and Future King, all of it."

"But not Emrys."

Merlin shook his head, but a sigh escaped him, and Arthur knew defeat when he saw it. His friend's eyes were old again, old as the hills and darkness and voices in the night, and for a moment they were so very sad as he stared at the druid boy. "No, not Emrys. I had to be Emrys for all of this to start; but he's me, and I'm him, and we're the Magic. All of it, and I can't just give up being who I am."

Even as he spoke, Merlin's eyes were fixed on Mordred, till the boy looked up as the crowd dispersed, staring straight at the spot where they were standing. And then the child, who had seemed when Arthur had met him so silent and serious, smiled a soft trusting smile, and raised a small hand in greeting.

And Merlin smiled back as he returned the salute, and there is was again; the sadness was pushed back and the joy had returned, a gentle, loving look at Arthur knew very well, because it was how he felt when he stood on the battlements and looked down across his city. These people made him happy, Arthur realised, here Merlin was himself, whole and complete.

And now that Arthur looked, he could see signs of magic everywhere. The stall nearest to him boasted of 'Protective Amulets' and Arthur could see small spots of light running across the metal, like tiny sparks. Another was piled high with dusty tomes, with titles ranging from 'A Study of Runes' to 'The Alchemist's Lament.' A woman passed by him, eyes blazing gold, and her basket trailed on the air behind her, bobbing on a nonexistent breeze.

No one was pointing. No one was screaming, calling for the sentries that stood on the edge of the courtyard, dressed not in armour, but in soft brown robes, more often than not speaking with a passerby than standing guard. Had Arthur not been raised among warriors, he would have missed them all together.

It was then that Arthur understood, an understanding that explained so much.

"These are your people." He said, and Merlin laughed, a laugh so different from the one he'd used before; this was the laugh Arthur remembered, one that sent him spinning back in time to a castle far from where he stood.

"It wasn't my idea! I was just living in the Fisher Kings Tower" he said, pointing at the Keep that towered above the marketplace. "And one day a group of druids arrived and asked if they could camp here. I said no, and they bowed and said all kinds of humble things and then decided to stay anyway, and I thought fine, it's only a few of them and they're easily ignored, but apparently they were just an advance party, because after a while their whole clan arrived, all wanting to stay. Eventually they moved on; they are nomadic after all, but after that there was always someone sitting on my doorstep, and they refused to let me live like a hermit." He laughed a little breathlessly, shaking his head as if still surprised by it all.

"Then other people heard about this place and started staying too, people without magic, and I couldn't turn them away, could I? It would be as bad as..." he paused, but Arthur heard it nonetheless. _As bad as what your kingdom does._

Arthur didn't reply, raising an eyebrow in a look that said quite clearly _At least we don't kill them anymore, _and Merlin blushed slightly, bowing his head to acknowledge the hit.

"So they stayed, and for some reason every time there was a problem they always came to _me_, and then they got the bright idea of making me their..." He swallowed, throat working nervously, and Emrys, with all his composure, seemed to have deserted him; now it was just Merlin, the nervous idiot he had missed every day. "Well, they made me their king. The new Fisher King." He said eventually, tone almost challenging, but his eyes still glittered with a strange kind of delight. "It's bizarre to be honest; druids have a way of doing things so that its unofficial yet unescapable; they don't mind if I disappear off for months on end if someone needs a healer, because they can manage perfectly well without me, but I have the last word, if I want it, and I can always feel this place, deep in my bones where I cant escape it. I can always feel if they need me."

He glanced at Arthur, but if he was expecting surprise he was disappointed, because Arthur was smiling; a little wistful, a little sad, but no less genuine for it. "It's what you were meant to do."

"Excuse me?" Merlin was taken aback, surprise in every line of his face, but Arthur just shrugged, turning back to watch the people move around them.

"Just saying it makes you happy. You love these people, this place; it's obvious from the way you look at them." And then a thought struck him. "Are you the reason it's so green now? So healthy?" He asked, looking down towards the fields at the edge of the city. "Last time I was here it was all marsh and barren plain that I nearly died on."

Merlin nodded, following his gaze to the road that wound between the hills. "The land was sick when you were here. Its keeper was dying, and this place has magic in its roots, in its springs; it needed someone to care for it, someone who loved it." He laughed, fingers absently tracing the tattoo on his wrist. "I was the best it could do, I suppose, but it's happy now, and we call it Avalon with pride, even if we did borrow the name."

There was a pause, as he and Arthur stared at the horizon. The kings hands were curling into fists at his sides, as if he would prefer to fight than say what he had to, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm. "I was going to ask if you would come back with me, but I can't now. I can't ask you to leave here."

It hurt, Arthur thought, to say what had to be said, hurt beyond speech. The words were razors cutting his throat, because he would be going back alone, to be untouchable, where everything was just beyond his fingertips.

He didn't look down when a tentative hand slipped around his wrist, fingers circling like a bracelet. His fingers clenched, willing Merlin not to be kind, because if he was, there was a very good chance he would lose it, there on the stones of the courtyard, would scream so hard that even Merlin's spell couldn't hide them.

"Arthur," Merlin murmured, but he still didn't look. He couldn't. "Arthur listen to me." And his voice was low and urgent, words tumbling from his lips almost too fast to hear. "This is my home now, these are my people. But Camelot was once, was for many years, and connections like that linger, they keep a part of you."

Arthur trembled then; his whole body shuddered, and something in his stomach uncoiled, ever so slightly. "So?" He asked, and his words were barely a whisper.

"Just call me and I'll hear you; wherever I am, whatever I'm doing. I can always hear you, even when I'd rather not." He mumbled, and if Arthur had looked up, he'd have seen the tips of those ridiculous ears turning a fiery red. "You call and I come running, isn't that how it always works?" He asked, and Arthur could hear the desperate smile in Merlin's voice, the tone almost pleading for him to understand and realised, right there, that Merlin had missed him too. And wasn't that a kick to the heart, he thought, that the all powerful Emrys had missed _him, _the idiot King of Camelot who had longed for him so desperately. "Camelot's in my bones as well, right next to Avalon."

Arthur nodded, throat to tight for words, and the fingers round his wrist became many, leading him away from the market.

"Come with me. There's someone else I want you to meet before you go." Merlin said, and without warning landscape blurred again, a rush of whiteness and fog, till they stood in a clearing, water dripping from leaves made greener by the recent rain.

And there was a shape sprawled across it, huge and scaly with eyes of gold, and by now, Arthur had run out of surprise.

They sat a long time in that glade, the King, the Dragon and the Dragonlord, and they spoke of many things. And never, not even years later when two of the three were old and grey, would they tell what passed between them in that rain scented clearing.

Hours passed unheeded, but eventually, when the shadows began to lengthen and a chill crept on the air, the humans rose, bowing to the beast that rose silently into the night sky.

Neither of them spoke when Arthur turned to go, to step into the waiting spell that would bear him back to his city, but by then words were no longer necessary. In silence, Arthur opened his arms to his brother king, and in silence Merlin moved into them, arms curling round broad shoulders to bury his face in the crook of Arthur's neck. And the spell broke and they both laughed, the sound rolling joyfully through the still air, and as they stepped away, both sets of eyes were shining like the stars above them.

"Get going you idiot, or they'll start thinking your dead!" Merlin teased, and Arthur smiled slowly, wickedly, reaching out to rumple dark hair that was just begging to be mussed.

"Be polite _Mer_lin, or you can forget coming to the wedding." He grinned, and Merlin scowled, trying in vain to flatten the strands that stood every which way. "Anything you want me to say to them, other than the obvious?"

Merlin shrugged with exaggerated casualness, giving up the battle with his fringe. "I think 'I'm cancelling the ban on magic and opening trade routes with a city no-ones ever heard of' is quite enough to be getting on with. You'll probably have to convince them you're not bewitched."

"And Agravaine?" Arthur asked, worry creeping back into his eyes; his uncles betrayal had hit him hard.

"He'll be long gone." Merlin sighed, pursing his lips. "You needn't worry about him anymore."

The golden king nodded, moving to the swirling mist that waited to bear him away. His hand rose in a final salute, a gesture of equal parts sarcasm and affection, and then he was gone.

"Prat." Merlin muttered, and turned back towards the road.

_It's done! This story has finally finished- please do let me know what you thought of it as a whole, and thank you ever wonderful person who's reviewed, favourite-d, ect. You made this so much better! _


End file.
