Smoke Without Fire [4/6] - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Wisest King Uther, most just father of Camelot, I write to you humbly to report of my travels to the kingdom of Spain in the South. The journey was arduous, yet through persistence and love for my country I arrived at my destination.
The king of this foul place, as your highest majesty is aware, is a man named Philip. I say that history will remember him as Philip the Deceitful. He is a teller of lies and takes pleasure in the playing of tricks. The young maiden offered to me as a gesture of future relations between Spain and Camelot is an example of his deception. While his correspondence led your majesty to believe her to be a most perfect match and possible queen, subsequent meetings with her lead me to reach an alternate conclusion. Princess Isabella is as unsuitable a match as we are likely to find, and would be sure to lead our country to ruin. Her features would also lead to unsightly future generations such that even the finest portrait-painters would shudder to record them with their brushes.
Additionally, she has a large mark on her chin that I believe to be a wart. While the connection is not direct, the origin of her family must also be taken into consideration, as it seems clear that she must be a sorcerer.
With this evidence, I suggest that your highness takes into account Spain's tretchery before pursuing this marriage arrangement further. It may be time to ask our knights to prepare their armies to complete their duty as your vassals.
I am your faithful son and ever will be. Yours,
Arthur Pendragon.
Arthur scowled at the sight of his own handwriting as he rested the quill in its ink-pot. He had always hated the way that he sounded like all the other suck-ups from his father's court. Yet there were certain writing standards to uphold - and if he wanted his father to listen to his message then he had to play along, just like everybody else.
*
Night had fallen outside before Arthur left his chambers with the letter in hand. It was sealed with a blob of red wax, the Pendragon crest pressed firmly into it while it dried.
"I need a rider who will take this letter to Camelot," he told a young stablehand that spoke the right language. It had been quite a chore trying to find someone who would look at him, never mind recognise the words he was saying. "He will be rewarded handsomely for his service, I assure you. Can you find someone for me?"
"I will try, sir," the young boy promised, bowing again and again in a way that implied that he had probably never been in the presence of royalty before despite working in the castle's stables. It certainly gave an indication of how much attention Philip paid to his horses.
Once the boy had run into the darkness, Arthur was left with far too much free time on his hands. He was too awake to sleep, despite the late hour, and his feet knew where they were going even if his mind refused to acknowledge it. Merlin's quarters. He hadn't been there before, but now, right this second, his instincts wanted to go even if his conscious mind wanted to stay far, far away.
He had to stop to ask for directions, but before long he was climbing a spiral staircase to the tallest turret of the castle. He was certain that he could feel it swaying with the breeze, but would reluctantly admit that that was more likely to be a result of his imagination than anything real.
At the very top of the winding staircase, there was a wooden door that fit badly in its frame, as if it had been knocked and blown from its hinges time and time again. Soft candlelight spilled from the gap between the door and the ground - voices too.
"... seems rather futile, that's all I'm saying. Uther will die soon in any case."
Morgana.
"We can't know that. And we really, really can't pin Arthur's future on something we don't know for certain. It's Camelot's future too."
"I know it for certain. I've seen it, Merlin, in my dreams."
"You've been seeing it for the last three years and it hasn't happened yet. Then again, if Arthur doesn't get his act together and war breaks out..."
"I don't see why you are so eager to keep the peace," Morgana said. "You can't return home until Arthur is king. War would be in your favour."
"Innocent people will die. I'm not in a hurry to allow that to happen."
Arthur knew that he should have walked in and interrupted their conversation by this point. He was eavesdropping outside the door, breathing shallowly so that he wouldn't be heard. Surely that was more like something that Merlin would do than himself. Yet even knowing that the time had long passed to open the door and step inside, he stayed outside the door, wanting to hear a little more first.
"Arthur seems rather keen on the idea of war, if his behaviour is anything to go by," Morgana said. "Isabella says that their meeting today went horribly. She thinks he hates her."
"I'm sure he doesn't hate her." Merlin sighed. "You surprised him quite a bit, that's all. He was probably distracted."
"The look on his face was priceless..." Arthur could hear the way that she was smiling quite perfectly. She always had delighted in his misery. "Perhaps I should have stayed out of sight for longer. What do you think, Arthur?"
If he'd been frozen before, he became even more motionless when he heard his name - he deemed breathing unnecessary and didn't dare to blink.
"We're two sorcerers. How long did you think you could stay hidden?" she asked. The door began to creep open, even though they were positioned in the centre of the room. It was stuffed with obscure books, ingredients and equipment in a way that made Arthur think of Gaius's chambers back in Camelot. He wondered if that served to make Merlin feel more at home.
Morgana and Merlin stood beside a heavy-set wooden table. With a cast iron pot bubbling in the centre and ingredients of all sorts spread before them, they looked like chefs - but with foreign herbs and pebbles and bones, Arthur would say that they were making the most obscure stew possible. It smelled foul.
He cleared his throat and made a half-hearted attempt at looking like he was supposed to be there. "I thought I'd best come and check that you two weren't up to any mischief."
Morgana looked surreal as she walked towards him, skirting the table. She looked exactly as she had years ago when she had fled his father's court; the anger still flamed in her eyes. "Well, Arthur, you know how magicians are... We're always causing trouble, aren't we? Dangerous, that's all we are. That's what your father would say."
"I am not my father," Arthur responded. His mouth felt stiff; his jaw wanted to lock.
Morgana reached the foot of the table and leaned against the edge of it. Merlin had remained on the other side, at a distance. Morgana's hair flew like wild water down her shoulders, completely untamed. Controlled chaos was the first thing that came to Arthur's mind when he looked at it - at her.
"But you think like him, right? You never said a word against him."
And that was an open lie. It was. Perhaps he had never been as outspoken against his father's thinking as Morgana had been repeatedly, but that was simply because circumstances were different for him. The man was not simply the king: he was his father.
"You shouldn't bait him like that," Merlin sighed at her. "You're being unfair. He's here. That's a start."
Merlin offered him a very encouraging smile, although Arthur had to confess that its effects were limited. He cleared his throat. "Thank you. It's nice to see that somebody here still has a sense of loyalty."
"I have loyalty and more," Morgana said, eyes flashing with a passion that Arthur knew better than to fight. "It no longer lies in Camelot, if it ever did."
"In Spain, then?" He was goading her, something which absolutely should not have been factored into their reunion - yet her departure had been so different from Merlin's. She had left willingly, turning her proud back upon both Camelot and the Pendragons themselves. Perhaps it was no wonder that they were at each other's throats -
- And yet she didn't rise to the bait. Her eyes clouded and fell distant, looking through Arthur rather than at him. The anger was sapped from her face, leeched away as the tension faded and her muscles went slack. She looked paler than he had ever seen her.
"Morgana?" Arthur asked.
Merlin rushed along the side of the table and reached for her arm, worried but not alarmed as he led her to sit in one of the chairs. She followed like a child too innocent and mindless to make her own decision. "It's okay," Merlin murmured to Arthur. "This happens all the time. Don't panic."
"Of course - why on Earth would I panic about Morgana going into a trance? It's such an every day occurrance..." Arthur complained; his voice didn't betray the genuine worry he felt for her. Neither Morgana or Merlin appreciated the power of the forces they played with. He trusted the pair of them; he didn't trust magic.
Morgana's chest heaved as she sucked a deep breath of air into her lungs. The distance in her eyes disappeared and she looked at Merlin first. Her ghostly hands clutched for his palm and held on with a powerful grip. Merlin covered her hand with both of his own and pressed a soft kiss to her fingertips. He whispered, "You're at home, Morgana. This is Merlin. You're in our workshop. Arthur's here. Remember?"
Her gaze, fraught like a wild animal caged, turned to Arthur. There was open panic and desperation in her eyes. Arthur took an automatic step backwards in a futile attempt to escape the intensity.
"Don't do it," she pleaded; Arthur had so rarely heard that tone from her, but each time played loud in his mind. He had heard it before he had gone to fight the Questing Beast and he had heard it seconds before his manservant, a foolish replacement for Merlin, had attempt to plunge a dagger through his heart. Where that tone went, danger followed. Arthur restrained a shiver that tried to run down his spine.
"What are you talking about?"
"The letter. You mustn't let them read it. Please, Arthur. You need to listen to me. Please."
Tears welled in her eyes and Merlin pulled her against his chest. Her chin rested against his shoulder and he stroked his fingers through her hair, looking after her. Arthur felt a door slamming between them, with him on one side and the pair of them on the other. In the years that had passed, they had used each other to patch up the missing pieces from their lives.
"Arthur, you should go," Merlin said, casting a distracted glance in his direction. His gaze soon returned to Morgana.
"It's so dark," Morgana whispered, as she stared at the flickering flame of one of the candles on the table. "So dark there."
Arthur should have stayed. He would have liked to be brave enough to do so - he could take on knights and fight monsters and wield his sword like it was nothing but an extension of his arm. He did not want to be called a coward or a failure, but he couldn't do this. He couldn't allow himself to see this.
With an element of self-disgust he followed Merlin's advice and turned on his heel. He closed the door firmly behind himself on the way out, and their conversation was now so quiet that the door effectively blocked it out. During the long descent down the winding stairs from the top of the tower, it played through his mind. Magic. Involuntary magic, visions, warnings. It was more unsettling to see it from Morgana than it had been from Merlin. He'd grown up with her; he was supposed to know everything about her.
At the bottom of the tower he burst out of the door into the fresh air of the castle's grounds. The stars were out and a half-moon shone in the cloudless sky. The night was calm and peaceful.
"Prince Arthur!"
He heard his name being called in a way that was all too enthusiastic. Arthur turned towards the voice to find two boys waiting for him. One was the young stableboy he had sent to find a rider to Camelot; he would guess that the older, taller teenager was the result.
"My brother will take the letter for you," the young boy said.
"All the way to Camelot?" Arthur asked. "It's a very long way. You'll have to cross the sea."
"I know how far it is; I have been there before," the teenager said, his voice thickly masked with a local accent. "I will take your letter."
Arthur looked down at the letter clutched in his hand. In his tight grip, it had become slightly more creased and crumpled than it needed to be. Morgana's plea rang through his mind; don't let them read it. Such warnings would be far more useful if they were a little more specific.
"I want you to take this straight to the king of Camelot, Uther. Do not let anyone else read it, do you understand? The seal must still be intact when it reaches my father."
"Yes, I understand," he repeated solemnly, but Arthur's fingers were still stiff as he had to hand over the letter. The teenager didn't smile, but his little brother did as if that ought to be enough to rid Arthur of any doubts.
"Ride fast, and wait for a reply before you return. You'll be well-rewarded." He passed a small bag of coins over to them, pressing it into the older boy's hands. "And the rest when you return with my father's letter. Go, now."
"Yes. Yes - thank you."
The two ran away towards the village, letter and money bag in hand. Arthur had to wonder if the letter would reach its destination at all, or if they would take the payment without doing the work - but he had little choice. If he tried to hire more official riders to carry the message, he had no doubt that Philip would waste no time in intercepting it to read what he had to say.
With his letter on its way, a weight felt lifted from his shoudlers. As long as he ignored the two sorcerers at the top of the tower, Arthur could pretend that his mind and conscience were as clear as the sky above him. He turned to walk back to his chambers: hopefully a good night's sleep would stop him from yawning his way through tomorrow.
*
He was woken days later by a pair of hands roughly shaking his shoudlers. "Arthur, sire," Lancelot said. "You need to wake up."
Blearily, he blinked his eyes open. No sunlight shone through the window: it was still night. "You are a cruel man," he mumbled.
"You need to get up," Lancelot said, and there was something in the urgency of his voice that stopped Arthur from merely rolling over and lapsing into sleep once more. "Now."
"What's happening?" Arthur asked as he flung back the covers of his bed and set about the task of getting dressed, which was somewat difficult in the dark while half-asleep. "Are we under attack?"
"Not yet," Lancelot muttered darkly. Arthur didn't think that he had ever heard Lancelot say anything 'darkly' in all the time he had known him: now was not the time for such firsts. He gestured with a wave of his hand for Lancelot to continue. "A letter was handed to Philip this morning. It was far from complimentary about his daughter."
Inwardly, Arthur winced. This could spell nothing but trouble - and he could only hope that Isabella herself had not been allowed to read it. While the majority of its content had been openly untrue, designed only to ensure that the marriage did not go ahead, it was still something that no young girl ought to have to read about herself. Arthur did not like to think of himself as a cruel man.
"I'll find Philip and explain it," Arthur said, though he didn't yet know what his explanation would consist of. He'd make something up. Perhaps he could accuse a stranger of fraud. "It'll be fine."
"I doubt that," Lancelot said. The kicked-puppy expression on his face would be enough to sink the brightest optimist. "Philip is exceptionally angry - I heard him yelling from across the castle when I was in bed. I believe our necks may be on the line when he gets his hands on us."
"If," Arthur corrected, half-way through pulling his boots on. "If he gets his hands on us. We are trained knights, Lancelot."
"And we are in his castle: his well-fortified castle, which is up a hill with no cover and which is probably protect by magic. It is several days' journey from here before we will even reach the sea."
"Sounds fun," Arthur said, standing up with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword where it hung by his waist. His lack of confidence was not at all displayed in the smile that he shone in Lancelot's direction. He headed towards the door with a ridiculous skip in his first step like a child on its first day of school. Hand on the door handle, he glanced over his shoulder at Lancelot and asked, "How long do we have?"
"Five minutes at most, probably less," Lancelot answered in a whisper, close behind him now.
Arthur took the news with little reaction. They needed to be glad that Lancelot had overheard the king's discovery at all instead of sleeping. They had to grasp what little luck they had and save their lives - but the question of who would be left behind burned in his mind.
"Merlin and Morgana," he said, almost to himself.
It was a stray thought that Lancelot picked up on. "They are in a far better position to come to us than we are to go to them. They can protect themselves if they need to."
Arthur grunted unhappily, but it was difficult to argue with him. Merlin had managed to escape being burnt at the stake; he needed no assistance. It burned Arthur's sense of chivalry not to go to their aid, however, especially as Morgana was still a woman despite her power and strength. She shouldn't have had to protect herself.
"Hurry, Arthur. We don't have much time."
No room for doubt or error. Arthur turned the door handle and they stepped out into the corridor. It was utterly quiet, the kind of silence that could only ever fall in the small hours of the morning in a castle. No frenzied shout or angry mob was there to meet them.
Arthur's footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, despite his attempts at creeping. Lancelot's breathing sounded as if he was on the verge of an asthma attack. All too loud; all too much.
They crept past closed doors and sleeping bedrooms, down a staircase and out to the courtyard. If they made it to the stables they might actually have a chance of really getting out of here alive.
There would be guards at the front gate, but as he crept through the shadows Arthur couldn't see anybody. The moonlight did not reflect from any helmets and he could hear no words whispered in foreign tongues, but he knew better than to let his guard down. In the last corner of shadow, Arthur crouched low and surveyed the situation. They needed to get through that set of gates ahead of them, to the stables, then down the hill with their horses. Once they'd reached the trees they would at least have some degree of cover.
With one hand raised, he communicated the plan to Lancelot in a series of gestures. Unfortunately for them both, the plan consisted of little other than 'let's make a run for it and hope for the best'.
Sticking close to the wall for as long as they cuold, they made a break for it. Running over open grass, Arthur couldn't help but wait for the plunge of an arrow through his back, even thugh he knew Philip was not dishonourable enough to kill a nobleman in such a way.
He reached the stables a few paces before Lancelot and threw open the doors, thankful that they were not locked. Inside, the horses moved restlessly as they entered. Tails flicked and hooves chattered against the ground. A groggy boy, who was no doubt one of the servants charged with watching over the livestock, began to get up from the hay he'd been sleeping on. Arthur shoved him backwards firmly so that he fell onto his arse: he had no desire to cause harm unless it was absolutely essential.
"Stay down and you won't be hurt," he warned, pointing a finger at him. Regardless of whether or not the young man spoke the right language, he seemed to understand what was being said: with wide, alarmed eyes, he stayed sprawled on the ground.
"We'll have to do without saddles," Arthur said, aiming towards where the horses that he and Lancelot had brought with them were being kept. Riding bareback was the least of their worries if they escaped. They had no supplies, no food, no water. They'd have to survive on what they could find.
He slid free the lock on his horse's stall, while Lancelot did the same with his own. The animals seemed less than pleased about being called upon at this hour. The sun was beginning to breach the horizon, but only just enough to give the sky a hint of pink.
He used the stall wall as a prop to help him onto the back of the horse, finding his balance as best as he could. His fingers tangled in its coarse black hair, finding a grip comfortable for himself while longing for real reins. With a glance at Lancelot, he found his knight prepared to leave as well. A nod of his head indicated that it was time to go. Arthur couldn't fight his sinking misgivings - it had all gone far too smoothly so far. His life was usually far more troublesome.
They left the stables and up by the main doors Arthur could see the flames of torches. His heart began to beat faster. It was almost impossible to be 'stealthy' on a horse, especially while going downhill bareback, but he made an attempt at doing so as he and Lancelot began to ride down the steep incline towards the cover down below.
No luck.
From the castle, he heard a yell in a foreign language. The words themselves meant nothing, but the meaning was clear enough: 'stop right there'. He urged his horse faster, the up-and-down fury of the movement almost enough to unseat him on the unsteady ground.
He lost track of Lancelot once they hit the start of the forest. Trees reared on either side, hemming in the darkness, and behind him he heard a clatter as other riders plunged into the forest in pursuit. Twigs and branches clawed at his face and he had to dip and duck to avoid them. His fingers hurt from clinging on so tightly and the strands of the horse's mane felt like sharp wire designed to cut his hands.
Deeper they plunged, but before he could achieve a good lead on those who chased him, he felt a rush of air as something whizzed past his skull. Up ahead, an arrow slammed into the tree straight ahead of them. Arthur was unharmed, but the arrow achieved its aim. His horse spooked.
With an alarmed whinney it reared onto its back legs, and Arthur felt the pull of inescapable gravity on him. For the briefest moment it felt like flying, suspended in the air, before reality caught him and sent him crashing to the ground.
He landed on his back and the air crushed out of his lungs. With a trample of hooves, his horse ran and disappeared into the darkness of the forest. Hazy vision showed treetops and the lightening sky above him. Arthur blinked and urged himself to get to his feet. He needed to move, needed to fight, needed to hide.
His back screamed with pain and he had difficulty getting air into his lungs, but he climbed clumsily to his feet as the riders approached. He drew his sword, gripping onto its hilt with more strength than usual as if he might be able to draw some extra power from it.
Three riders approached. If he hadn't been injured and winded, he might have fancied those odds. He grinned and made a show of confidence. "Only three of you? This is too easy. You're making me feel underestimated."
He swung his sword in display and boredom as the Spanish rider dismounted their horses. The man with the bow and arrow had discarded it in favour of a more traditional sword, and for that Arthur was relieved. Especially without his armour, he would have stood no chance against the tip of an arrow. There was a code of honour to be followed, and archery was not covered under it.
The man in the middle attacked first, but battle was nothing like it was in a tournament. No sooner had Arthur fought him back then another would be there to take his place, and he needed to be constantly alert for attacks from behind. The hit of metal against metal, sword against sword, vibrated through his arm. The sound ruined the dew-filled morning calm of the forest and birds cried in alarm before flapping away when Arthur crashed clumsily into the trunk of their tree.
Before long, Arthur was panting futilely for air. Blood ran from slashes on his upper arms and his muscles hurt from over-exertion. He didn't know where Lancelot was and could only hope that his absence meant that he had managed to escape.
"Is that all you've got?" Arthur said, even though slurred and panting it possibly didn't sound as cocky as he would have liked it to.
It was with an expression of faint pity that one of the soldiers struck at his hand. His sword dropped to the ground an he had to muffle a yell of pain as blood ran from his fingers. Instinctively he pulled his hand against his chest: his fingers were still attached, a glance down confirmed.
In the split-second that he had looked away, the men had approached. Looking up, the point of a sword greeted him so close that it made him go cross-eyed. His spirit faded. He was the bravest, most skilled knight in Camelot - and that wasn't enough.
"Do it," he ordered. He thought of his short life, and the country he would leave without an heir to its throne. He thought of Camelot and Merlin and Morgana and Gwen - and his father and all of the ways he had failed him. "Just do it."
A killing blow never came. The three knights frowned at him with confusion in their eyes, before one pointed back over his shoulder. He said a lot that Arthur didn't catch, but a name stuck out strongly: Philip.
He didn't struggle when they bound his wrists with rope, knowing that he was in no fit state to do so, and that having been bested in combat he had no choice but to go with them. By the code of chivalry, he was honour-bound to remain their captive.
*
Part Five
The king of this foul place, as your highest majesty is aware, is a man named Philip. I say that history will remember him as Philip the Deceitful. He is a teller of lies and takes pleasure in the playing of tricks. The young maiden offered to me as a gesture of future relations between Spain and Camelot is an example of his deception. While his correspondence led your majesty to believe her to be a most perfect match and possible queen, subsequent meetings with her lead me to reach an alternate conclusion. Princess Isabella is as unsuitable a match as we are likely to find, and would be sure to lead our country to ruin. Her features would also lead to unsightly future generations such that even the finest portrait-painters would shudder to record them with their brushes.
Additionally, she has a large mark on her chin that I believe to be a wart. While the connection is not direct, the origin of her family must also be taken into consideration, as it seems clear that she must be a sorcerer.
With this evidence, I suggest that your highness takes into account Spain's tretchery before pursuing this marriage arrangement further. It may be time to ask our knights to prepare their armies to complete their duty as your vassals.
I am your faithful son and ever will be. Yours,
Arthur Pendragon.
Arthur scowled at the sight of his own handwriting as he rested the quill in its ink-pot. He had always hated the way that he sounded like all the other suck-ups from his father's court. Yet there were certain writing standards to uphold - and if he wanted his father to listen to his message then he had to play along, just like everybody else.
*
Night had fallen outside before Arthur left his chambers with the letter in hand. It was sealed with a blob of red wax, the Pendragon crest pressed firmly into it while it dried.
"I need a rider who will take this letter to Camelot," he told a young stablehand that spoke the right language. It had been quite a chore trying to find someone who would look at him, never mind recognise the words he was saying. "He will be rewarded handsomely for his service, I assure you. Can you find someone for me?"
"I will try, sir," the young boy promised, bowing again and again in a way that implied that he had probably never been in the presence of royalty before despite working in the castle's stables. It certainly gave an indication of how much attention Philip paid to his horses.
Once the boy had run into the darkness, Arthur was left with far too much free time on his hands. He was too awake to sleep, despite the late hour, and his feet knew where they were going even if his mind refused to acknowledge it. Merlin's quarters. He hadn't been there before, but now, right this second, his instincts wanted to go even if his conscious mind wanted to stay far, far away.
He had to stop to ask for directions, but before long he was climbing a spiral staircase to the tallest turret of the castle. He was certain that he could feel it swaying with the breeze, but would reluctantly admit that that was more likely to be a result of his imagination than anything real.
At the very top of the winding staircase, there was a wooden door that fit badly in its frame, as if it had been knocked and blown from its hinges time and time again. Soft candlelight spilled from the gap between the door and the ground - voices too.
"... seems rather futile, that's all I'm saying. Uther will die soon in any case."
Morgana.
"We can't know that. And we really, really can't pin Arthur's future on something we don't know for certain. It's Camelot's future too."
"I know it for certain. I've seen it, Merlin, in my dreams."
"You've been seeing it for the last three years and it hasn't happened yet. Then again, if Arthur doesn't get his act together and war breaks out..."
"I don't see why you are so eager to keep the peace," Morgana said. "You can't return home until Arthur is king. War would be in your favour."
"Innocent people will die. I'm not in a hurry to allow that to happen."
Arthur knew that he should have walked in and interrupted their conversation by this point. He was eavesdropping outside the door, breathing shallowly so that he wouldn't be heard. Surely that was more like something that Merlin would do than himself. Yet even knowing that the time had long passed to open the door and step inside, he stayed outside the door, wanting to hear a little more first.
"Arthur seems rather keen on the idea of war, if his behaviour is anything to go by," Morgana said. "Isabella says that their meeting today went horribly. She thinks he hates her."
"I'm sure he doesn't hate her." Merlin sighed. "You surprised him quite a bit, that's all. He was probably distracted."
"The look on his face was priceless..." Arthur could hear the way that she was smiling quite perfectly. She always had delighted in his misery. "Perhaps I should have stayed out of sight for longer. What do you think, Arthur?"
If he'd been frozen before, he became even more motionless when he heard his name - he deemed breathing unnecessary and didn't dare to blink.
"We're two sorcerers. How long did you think you could stay hidden?" she asked. The door began to creep open, even though they were positioned in the centre of the room. It was stuffed with obscure books, ingredients and equipment in a way that made Arthur think of Gaius's chambers back in Camelot. He wondered if that served to make Merlin feel more at home.
Morgana and Merlin stood beside a heavy-set wooden table. With a cast iron pot bubbling in the centre and ingredients of all sorts spread before them, they looked like chefs - but with foreign herbs and pebbles and bones, Arthur would say that they were making the most obscure stew possible. It smelled foul.
He cleared his throat and made a half-hearted attempt at looking like he was supposed to be there. "I thought I'd best come and check that you two weren't up to any mischief."
Morgana looked surreal as she walked towards him, skirting the table. She looked exactly as she had years ago when she had fled his father's court; the anger still flamed in her eyes. "Well, Arthur, you know how magicians are... We're always causing trouble, aren't we? Dangerous, that's all we are. That's what your father would say."
"I am not my father," Arthur responded. His mouth felt stiff; his jaw wanted to lock.
Morgana reached the foot of the table and leaned against the edge of it. Merlin had remained on the other side, at a distance. Morgana's hair flew like wild water down her shoulders, completely untamed. Controlled chaos was the first thing that came to Arthur's mind when he looked at it - at her.
"But you think like him, right? You never said a word against him."
And that was an open lie. It was. Perhaps he had never been as outspoken against his father's thinking as Morgana had been repeatedly, but that was simply because circumstances were different for him. The man was not simply the king: he was his father.
"You shouldn't bait him like that," Merlin sighed at her. "You're being unfair. He's here. That's a start."
Merlin offered him a very encouraging smile, although Arthur had to confess that its effects were limited. He cleared his throat. "Thank you. It's nice to see that somebody here still has a sense of loyalty."
"I have loyalty and more," Morgana said, eyes flashing with a passion that Arthur knew better than to fight. "It no longer lies in Camelot, if it ever did."
"In Spain, then?" He was goading her, something which absolutely should not have been factored into their reunion - yet her departure had been so different from Merlin's. She had left willingly, turning her proud back upon both Camelot and the Pendragons themselves. Perhaps it was no wonder that they were at each other's throats -
- And yet she didn't rise to the bait. Her eyes clouded and fell distant, looking through Arthur rather than at him. The anger was sapped from her face, leeched away as the tension faded and her muscles went slack. She looked paler than he had ever seen her.
"Morgana?" Arthur asked.
Merlin rushed along the side of the table and reached for her arm, worried but not alarmed as he led her to sit in one of the chairs. She followed like a child too innocent and mindless to make her own decision. "It's okay," Merlin murmured to Arthur. "This happens all the time. Don't panic."
"Of course - why on Earth would I panic about Morgana going into a trance? It's such an every day occurrance..." Arthur complained; his voice didn't betray the genuine worry he felt for her. Neither Morgana or Merlin appreciated the power of the forces they played with. He trusted the pair of them; he didn't trust magic.
Morgana's chest heaved as she sucked a deep breath of air into her lungs. The distance in her eyes disappeared and she looked at Merlin first. Her ghostly hands clutched for his palm and held on with a powerful grip. Merlin covered her hand with both of his own and pressed a soft kiss to her fingertips. He whispered, "You're at home, Morgana. This is Merlin. You're in our workshop. Arthur's here. Remember?"
Her gaze, fraught like a wild animal caged, turned to Arthur. There was open panic and desperation in her eyes. Arthur took an automatic step backwards in a futile attempt to escape the intensity.
"Don't do it," she pleaded; Arthur had so rarely heard that tone from her, but each time played loud in his mind. He had heard it before he had gone to fight the Questing Beast and he had heard it seconds before his manservant, a foolish replacement for Merlin, had attempt to plunge a dagger through his heart. Where that tone went, danger followed. Arthur restrained a shiver that tried to run down his spine.
"What are you talking about?"
"The letter. You mustn't let them read it. Please, Arthur. You need to listen to me. Please."
Tears welled in her eyes and Merlin pulled her against his chest. Her chin rested against his shoulder and he stroked his fingers through her hair, looking after her. Arthur felt a door slamming between them, with him on one side and the pair of them on the other. In the years that had passed, they had used each other to patch up the missing pieces from their lives.
"Arthur, you should go," Merlin said, casting a distracted glance in his direction. His gaze soon returned to Morgana.
"It's so dark," Morgana whispered, as she stared at the flickering flame of one of the candles on the table. "So dark there."
Arthur should have stayed. He would have liked to be brave enough to do so - he could take on knights and fight monsters and wield his sword like it was nothing but an extension of his arm. He did not want to be called a coward or a failure, but he couldn't do this. He couldn't allow himself to see this.
With an element of self-disgust he followed Merlin's advice and turned on his heel. He closed the door firmly behind himself on the way out, and their conversation was now so quiet that the door effectively blocked it out. During the long descent down the winding stairs from the top of the tower, it played through his mind. Magic. Involuntary magic, visions, warnings. It was more unsettling to see it from Morgana than it had been from Merlin. He'd grown up with her; he was supposed to know everything about her.
At the bottom of the tower he burst out of the door into the fresh air of the castle's grounds. The stars were out and a half-moon shone in the cloudless sky. The night was calm and peaceful.
"Prince Arthur!"
He heard his name being called in a way that was all too enthusiastic. Arthur turned towards the voice to find two boys waiting for him. One was the young stableboy he had sent to find a rider to Camelot; he would guess that the older, taller teenager was the result.
"My brother will take the letter for you," the young boy said.
"All the way to Camelot?" Arthur asked. "It's a very long way. You'll have to cross the sea."
"I know how far it is; I have been there before," the teenager said, his voice thickly masked with a local accent. "I will take your letter."
Arthur looked down at the letter clutched in his hand. In his tight grip, it had become slightly more creased and crumpled than it needed to be. Morgana's plea rang through his mind; don't let them read it. Such warnings would be far more useful if they were a little more specific.
"I want you to take this straight to the king of Camelot, Uther. Do not let anyone else read it, do you understand? The seal must still be intact when it reaches my father."
"Yes, I understand," he repeated solemnly, but Arthur's fingers were still stiff as he had to hand over the letter. The teenager didn't smile, but his little brother did as if that ought to be enough to rid Arthur of any doubts.
"Ride fast, and wait for a reply before you return. You'll be well-rewarded." He passed a small bag of coins over to them, pressing it into the older boy's hands. "And the rest when you return with my father's letter. Go, now."
"Yes. Yes - thank you."
The two ran away towards the village, letter and money bag in hand. Arthur had to wonder if the letter would reach its destination at all, or if they would take the payment without doing the work - but he had little choice. If he tried to hire more official riders to carry the message, he had no doubt that Philip would waste no time in intercepting it to read what he had to say.
With his letter on its way, a weight felt lifted from his shoudlers. As long as he ignored the two sorcerers at the top of the tower, Arthur could pretend that his mind and conscience were as clear as the sky above him. He turned to walk back to his chambers: hopefully a good night's sleep would stop him from yawning his way through tomorrow.
*
He was woken days later by a pair of hands roughly shaking his shoudlers. "Arthur, sire," Lancelot said. "You need to wake up."
Blearily, he blinked his eyes open. No sunlight shone through the window: it was still night. "You are a cruel man," he mumbled.
"You need to get up," Lancelot said, and there was something in the urgency of his voice that stopped Arthur from merely rolling over and lapsing into sleep once more. "Now."
"What's happening?" Arthur asked as he flung back the covers of his bed and set about the task of getting dressed, which was somewat difficult in the dark while half-asleep. "Are we under attack?"
"Not yet," Lancelot muttered darkly. Arthur didn't think that he had ever heard Lancelot say anything 'darkly' in all the time he had known him: now was not the time for such firsts. He gestured with a wave of his hand for Lancelot to continue. "A letter was handed to Philip this morning. It was far from complimentary about his daughter."
Inwardly, Arthur winced. This could spell nothing but trouble - and he could only hope that Isabella herself had not been allowed to read it. While the majority of its content had been openly untrue, designed only to ensure that the marriage did not go ahead, it was still something that no young girl ought to have to read about herself. Arthur did not like to think of himself as a cruel man.
"I'll find Philip and explain it," Arthur said, though he didn't yet know what his explanation would consist of. He'd make something up. Perhaps he could accuse a stranger of fraud. "It'll be fine."
"I doubt that," Lancelot said. The kicked-puppy expression on his face would be enough to sink the brightest optimist. "Philip is exceptionally angry - I heard him yelling from across the castle when I was in bed. I believe our necks may be on the line when he gets his hands on us."
"If," Arthur corrected, half-way through pulling his boots on. "If he gets his hands on us. We are trained knights, Lancelot."
"And we are in his castle: his well-fortified castle, which is up a hill with no cover and which is probably protect by magic. It is several days' journey from here before we will even reach the sea."
"Sounds fun," Arthur said, standing up with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword where it hung by his waist. His lack of confidence was not at all displayed in the smile that he shone in Lancelot's direction. He headed towards the door with a ridiculous skip in his first step like a child on its first day of school. Hand on the door handle, he glanced over his shoulder at Lancelot and asked, "How long do we have?"
"Five minutes at most, probably less," Lancelot answered in a whisper, close behind him now.
Arthur took the news with little reaction. They needed to be glad that Lancelot had overheard the king's discovery at all instead of sleeping. They had to grasp what little luck they had and save their lives - but the question of who would be left behind burned in his mind.
"Merlin and Morgana," he said, almost to himself.
It was a stray thought that Lancelot picked up on. "They are in a far better position to come to us than we are to go to them. They can protect themselves if they need to."
Arthur grunted unhappily, but it was difficult to argue with him. Merlin had managed to escape being burnt at the stake; he needed no assistance. It burned Arthur's sense of chivalry not to go to their aid, however, especially as Morgana was still a woman despite her power and strength. She shouldn't have had to protect herself.
"Hurry, Arthur. We don't have much time."
No room for doubt or error. Arthur turned the door handle and they stepped out into the corridor. It was utterly quiet, the kind of silence that could only ever fall in the small hours of the morning in a castle. No frenzied shout or angry mob was there to meet them.
Arthur's footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, despite his attempts at creeping. Lancelot's breathing sounded as if he was on the verge of an asthma attack. All too loud; all too much.
They crept past closed doors and sleeping bedrooms, down a staircase and out to the courtyard. If they made it to the stables they might actually have a chance of really getting out of here alive.
There would be guards at the front gate, but as he crept through the shadows Arthur couldn't see anybody. The moonlight did not reflect from any helmets and he could hear no words whispered in foreign tongues, but he knew better than to let his guard down. In the last corner of shadow, Arthur crouched low and surveyed the situation. They needed to get through that set of gates ahead of them, to the stables, then down the hill with their horses. Once they'd reached the trees they would at least have some degree of cover.
With one hand raised, he communicated the plan to Lancelot in a series of gestures. Unfortunately for them both, the plan consisted of little other than 'let's make a run for it and hope for the best'.
Sticking close to the wall for as long as they cuold, they made a break for it. Running over open grass, Arthur couldn't help but wait for the plunge of an arrow through his back, even thugh he knew Philip was not dishonourable enough to kill a nobleman in such a way.
He reached the stables a few paces before Lancelot and threw open the doors, thankful that they were not locked. Inside, the horses moved restlessly as they entered. Tails flicked and hooves chattered against the ground. A groggy boy, who was no doubt one of the servants charged with watching over the livestock, began to get up from the hay he'd been sleeping on. Arthur shoved him backwards firmly so that he fell onto his arse: he had no desire to cause harm unless it was absolutely essential.
"Stay down and you won't be hurt," he warned, pointing a finger at him. Regardless of whether or not the young man spoke the right language, he seemed to understand what was being said: with wide, alarmed eyes, he stayed sprawled on the ground.
"We'll have to do without saddles," Arthur said, aiming towards where the horses that he and Lancelot had brought with them were being kept. Riding bareback was the least of their worries if they escaped. They had no supplies, no food, no water. They'd have to survive on what they could find.
He slid free the lock on his horse's stall, while Lancelot did the same with his own. The animals seemed less than pleased about being called upon at this hour. The sun was beginning to breach the horizon, but only just enough to give the sky a hint of pink.
He used the stall wall as a prop to help him onto the back of the horse, finding his balance as best as he could. His fingers tangled in its coarse black hair, finding a grip comfortable for himself while longing for real reins. With a glance at Lancelot, he found his knight prepared to leave as well. A nod of his head indicated that it was time to go. Arthur couldn't fight his sinking misgivings - it had all gone far too smoothly so far. His life was usually far more troublesome.
They left the stables and up by the main doors Arthur could see the flames of torches. His heart began to beat faster. It was almost impossible to be 'stealthy' on a horse, especially while going downhill bareback, but he made an attempt at doing so as he and Lancelot began to ride down the steep incline towards the cover down below.
No luck.
From the castle, he heard a yell in a foreign language. The words themselves meant nothing, but the meaning was clear enough: 'stop right there'. He urged his horse faster, the up-and-down fury of the movement almost enough to unseat him on the unsteady ground.
He lost track of Lancelot once they hit the start of the forest. Trees reared on either side, hemming in the darkness, and behind him he heard a clatter as other riders plunged into the forest in pursuit. Twigs and branches clawed at his face and he had to dip and duck to avoid them. His fingers hurt from clinging on so tightly and the strands of the horse's mane felt like sharp wire designed to cut his hands.
Deeper they plunged, but before he could achieve a good lead on those who chased him, he felt a rush of air as something whizzed past his skull. Up ahead, an arrow slammed into the tree straight ahead of them. Arthur was unharmed, but the arrow achieved its aim. His horse spooked.
With an alarmed whinney it reared onto its back legs, and Arthur felt the pull of inescapable gravity on him. For the briefest moment it felt like flying, suspended in the air, before reality caught him and sent him crashing to the ground.
He landed on his back and the air crushed out of his lungs. With a trample of hooves, his horse ran and disappeared into the darkness of the forest. Hazy vision showed treetops and the lightening sky above him. Arthur blinked and urged himself to get to his feet. He needed to move, needed to fight, needed to hide.
His back screamed with pain and he had difficulty getting air into his lungs, but he climbed clumsily to his feet as the riders approached. He drew his sword, gripping onto its hilt with more strength than usual as if he might be able to draw some extra power from it.
Three riders approached. If he hadn't been injured and winded, he might have fancied those odds. He grinned and made a show of confidence. "Only three of you? This is too easy. You're making me feel underestimated."
He swung his sword in display and boredom as the Spanish rider dismounted their horses. The man with the bow and arrow had discarded it in favour of a more traditional sword, and for that Arthur was relieved. Especially without his armour, he would have stood no chance against the tip of an arrow. There was a code of honour to be followed, and archery was not covered under it.
The man in the middle attacked first, but battle was nothing like it was in a tournament. No sooner had Arthur fought him back then another would be there to take his place, and he needed to be constantly alert for attacks from behind. The hit of metal against metal, sword against sword, vibrated through his arm. The sound ruined the dew-filled morning calm of the forest and birds cried in alarm before flapping away when Arthur crashed clumsily into the trunk of their tree.
Before long, Arthur was panting futilely for air. Blood ran from slashes on his upper arms and his muscles hurt from over-exertion. He didn't know where Lancelot was and could only hope that his absence meant that he had managed to escape.
"Is that all you've got?" Arthur said, even though slurred and panting it possibly didn't sound as cocky as he would have liked it to.
It was with an expression of faint pity that one of the soldiers struck at his hand. His sword dropped to the ground an he had to muffle a yell of pain as blood ran from his fingers. Instinctively he pulled his hand against his chest: his fingers were still attached, a glance down confirmed.
In the split-second that he had looked away, the men had approached. Looking up, the point of a sword greeted him so close that it made him go cross-eyed. His spirit faded. He was the bravest, most skilled knight in Camelot - and that wasn't enough.
"Do it," he ordered. He thought of his short life, and the country he would leave without an heir to its throne. He thought of Camelot and Merlin and Morgana and Gwen - and his father and all of the ways he had failed him. "Just do it."
A killing blow never came. The three knights frowned at him with confusion in their eyes, before one pointed back over his shoulder. He said a lot that Arthur didn't catch, but a name stuck out strongly: Philip.
He didn't struggle when they bound his wrists with rope, knowing that he was in no fit state to do so, and that having been bested in combat he had no choice but to go with them. By the code of chivalry, he was honour-bound to remain their captive.
*
Part Five