Fic: Of Recoil and Grace; everyone; PG-13 (2/4)

[kepp0xy]

Part One



VIII.

He rotated his wrist, swinging the sword down in a precise arc, opening the bandit from clavicle to pelvis before twisting to face the last -

"Damn - !

He had made his approach faster than Arthur anticipated. Dropping his left arm to deflect the blow from his ribs, Arthur readied his right to deliver his own -

Instead, the man before him grunted and fell slowly forward, landing immobile and prone on the ground.

Arthur looked up and locked eyes with Lancelot, straightening after throwing his dagger.

Momentarily dumbfounded, Arthur could hardly believe the sight of him - his hair and beard were long, shaggy, and the disrepair of his clothing... His eyes, though, were so haunted, his expression wounded. Arthur's brow twitched; this was not the Lancelot he had envisioned was wandering Albion these years gone.

"Thank you," Arthur said finally and Lancelot inclined his head warily. "You saved my life," he added. It was a lie, but a peaceable one.

One which Lancelot, it seemed, was not keen on entertaining as he shook his head with a half smile. "That's hardly true, my lord," he said quietly, gesturing to the fallen men scattered around them for emphasis.

"Well, you saved me from the inconvenience of injury, then," Arthur conceded, and watched as Lancelot moved forward.

There was a pause as he stooped to pry his dagger from the attacker's back, before he spoke, directing his comments to the forest floor, "I hear congratulations are in order."

Arthur held himself carefully as Lancelot rose slowly, until they stood eye to eye, opposite one another. There was no hostility in Lancelot's gaze; perhaps a little resignation and a kind of tentative acceptance.

For a breath, Gwen stood as spectre between them, causing a low ache in the pit of Arthur's stomach. He shook his head, and she vanished. "Thank you," he said, perhaps a little gruff, but he met Lancelot's gaze evenly.

The forest was loud between them for just a moment before Arthur made a face and scowled, questioning, "Where have you been, Lancelot?" thinking, The kingdom needed you and has need of you still, trying not to feel bitter that the man had not returned to Camelot with the news of his ascension.

"Since last we met, I travelled north," began Lancelot, irreverent of Arthur's thoughts and offering no apology. But when he opened his mouth to continue, something caught in his throat and a swift hardening of his features drew him up short, causing him to fall silent, and Arthur saw as Lancelot's eyes shifted from the present to the past.

A fresh wound ran down the length of his left cheek, his nose had been broken - possibly twice - and not set to any standard a proper physician would keep. There was still hope in his eyes, though it seemed somewhat dim, as though burdened by witnessing the stains of humanity, not the purity of it.

"Do they not know hospitality in the north?" Arthur asked quietly, pitying now.

The question snapped Lancelot back with a visible jolt, and he smiled humourlessly. "They offer hospitality for those who offer them aid," he answered with a small nod, "But I did not accept it..." He looked at the ground and frowned, before looking up again with a wince, apologetic. "Call it a penitence."

Arthur opened his mouth to demand what Lancelot could possibly have done in his lifetime which warranted that level of contrition. He was cut off, "The better question, sire, is why Odin's brutes set upon your travel party."

Arthur busied himself, wiping his sword clean and decisively not thinking of Odin's son when his understanding of the king's grief had deepened painfully upon ascending the throne; again since he wed Guinevere.

But Lancelot persisted, taking a step closer, tone more inquisitive than accusing, "Why risk setting upon Camelot's new king, to whom so many of Albion's leaders pledge at least tentative allegiance?"

"Odin has his reasons," Arthur said quietly, raising his chin and looking past Lancelot's ear. "It is a tale for another time."

He watched Arthur intently. There was a disconcerting understanding in his expression, and without thinking, Arthur wondered aloud, "What have you seen, Lancelot?"

Lancelot winced, and dropped his head on the same pretence Arthur had used earlier: he wiped his blade. Briefly Arthur lamented that they had not previously had the opportunity to form a deeper bond between them; there was mutual respect and deference, trust on the battlefield, but of secrets and motivations... Not yet.

It was something that could be forged with time, however. If Lancelot did not run again.

"Also a tale for another time," Lancelot said quietly as he moved to sheath his knife, minutes later.

Ceasing any further discussion, Merlin dashed into the clearing, grasping painfully at a stitch in his side - then drew up short, and swayed worryingly with his mouth a muted exclamation of shock when he spotted Lancelot.

"Hello, Merlin," Lancelot greeted, smiling somewhat warily and causing Merlin to make a funny jolting motion before his face cracked in two.

He stumbled forward unhesitatingly to embrace him. "Lancelot!"

Arthur smiled grimly at Lancelot's plain shock before he cleared his throat. "The others - ?"

"Mostly fine," Merlin said, turning swiftly. "In a panic over you, of course."

"They have no need to be," Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes.

"That's exactly what I said," Merlin responded gravely. "And I said it would be no real loss if something did happen to you. Though they seemed to take issue with that assessment."

"Indeed," Arthur said sourly, beginning to stalk in the direction Merlin had come.

He sensed the hesitation behind him, and did not bother to turn, calling, "Come on! We haven't got all evening. And you too, Lancelot."

"Sire, do you think that's wise -

Heaving a sigh of long suffering, Arthur turned slowly, holding his patience as best he could - he would not watch Lancelot walk away again - and narrowed the focus of his decision into the scowl he turned upon the man. "Your place is in Camelot. Sir Lancelot."

IX.

Lancelot smiled into his mug, enjoying the rediscovery of being in the presence of familiar warmth as Merlin chuckled heartily across from him.

When he looked up again, he tipped his nearly empty cup, displaying the disgraceful state to his companion. "Have you more lager?"

Merlin's grin was fast, familiar and fresh - then a mystifying gold filled his eyes and Lancelot nearly dropped his mug at the unexpected weight as it instantly filled.

Juggling it to keep from losing the lot, he barked out a laugh of delight. "You scamp!"

"You asked for more," Merlin retorted cheekily, still grinning toothily.

"True," Lancelot said slowly. With an appreciative nod of his head, he took a generous pull of the honeyed mead.

"I've been talking all night," voiced Merlin thoughtfully after a moment. "Tell me of your travels."

A heaviness pressed his contentment aside, settling imposingly low in his belly. He had done what he had needed to do to stave off his melancholy and guilt, to continue breathing. There were things he had witnessed, had taken part of which he had no desire to remember, let alone relate, and even being asked so simple a question was bringing with it a flood of images he had no care for.

In a weak attempt to displace the burden of them and the weight in his belly, Lancelot shrugged. "There isn't much to tell," he said quietly. "I helped defend a number of villages, saved a few in trouble - maid and lad alike. Fought against beast and man using sword and dagger..." He shrugged again, "Just... Survived."

Realising belatedly that he had dropped his gaze into his drink once more, Lancelot looked up, somewhat chagrined.

Merlin watched him closely, the set of his features compassionate, understanding. Lancelot stared, eagerly taking in the warm acceptance until Merlin cleared his throat and said lightly, "Much of the usual, then."

Lancelot chuckled, surprised and eased, and inclined his head. "As you say."

There was a brief pause as they each took deep drinks from their mugs. Then Lancelot gestured to Merlin. "Arthur knows of your magic," he said, taking comfort in the distraction and smiling at the obvious pleasure the statement gave the sorcerer. "Do you practise openly?"

"Mmm, no," Merlin muttered over the lip of his mug, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "We're still working on revising the laws. Camelot's people know by gossip that change is coming, but Arthur insists it be a slow process."

Lancelot tilted his head and winced sympathetically at the bitter thread in Merlin's voice - who straightened in response, looking guilty. "There are no more imprisonments," he added quickly. "And I can practise privately without fear."

"It's something, then," Lancelot said bracingly.

With a jerked nod, Merlin agreed, "Yes. Something."

They fell silent again, Merlin avoiding his eye. But Lancelot refused to lose what little comfort and familiarity he was regaining; it was as water to a thirsty man, and he would not relinquish the flask.

So he smiled a little, and invited, "Go on, then."

"What?" Merlin asked warily, looking at him from the corner of his eyes.

Lancelot chuckled. "Show me what you've learned!"

Merlin's head lifted, his smile grew slowly, but once it reached its beaming zenith, it lifted the entire room.

Lancelot felt warm.

It had taken more effort than she anticipated to enter Camelot's borders unbeknownst to its protector.

Taking position against one of the elder trees on the hill crest looking down onto the kingdom, Morgana idly wondered if she would have been able to get so far as the city if she had wanted to.

The sun was dropping lower, pink saturating the smudged clouds, and the walls and turrets of the castle turned a warm colour which made her unexpectedly miss her rooms of stone. She quickly shook her head; she had need of many things, but having to walk Camelot's streets in order to witness the celebrations was not one of them.

Her eyes tracked the huddled shapes of a couple dashing into the castle gates, being called up short by a pair of guards before bowing their way in. Morgana recognised them. A pair of travelling magicians, entertaining in their craft if not at all powerful, who had stayed with her people eight months past. She knew well of their hope when the first rumours of Camelot's announcement filtered into the more distant places.

She imagined there were those who sat fearfully in snuffed rooms, waiting for some inevitable evil to befall the kingdom with the first celebration in nigh on twenty-eight years to allow magic; and she imagined those children who had seen some trick or heard some tale, desperate to be a part of the joviality but banned from attending for the lingering distrust of their parents, who would attend the events themselves nonetheless. She imagined those closer to the fortress itself, the wealthier of Camelot's peasantry, who were more curious than keen.

The courtyard, she was sure, had stalls and tables set up all around. They were allowed to be open with their abilities now, but there were limits upon them, certain things they still were not allowed to do.

They were no threat, but still they were kept chained - if not by metal, then by law. Her lip curled, her hands fisted, and for a moment she was tempted to make her way as a shadow into the midst of it all and free her kin in a dramatic display of some kind.

Crack - Morgana jumped - BOOM

An explosion erupted directly above Camelot, bright and blinding and so loud the trees around her trembled.

Without thinking, she took a step followed immediately by another, swept up with the instinct to be amidst the people, to aid and protect -

But then the sound faded, her eyes adjusted to the blinding brightness, and Morgana saw.

Made of shimmering light and flame, the familiar Pendragon crest, lustrous in red and gold, began to fade from where it hung suspended by nothing in mid air. Entwined simply within the design, a chain of some lavender flower, the effect magnificent, not deprecating.

A new crest for a newly formed house. Gift from Merlin on the eve of their most sweeping reformation.

Stung, Morgana sneered and stepped back to lean against the tree once again.

"You knew exactly what to expect," hailed a voice to her right. Morgana did not turn or offer her eyes, staring instead straight ahead and wondering at the look of delight which would be on the faces below.

She did speak. "I wondered when you would say something." The sound of fabric told Morgana that her sister shifted, she imagined an elegant shrug. The silence then bothered her, so she asked, "Mordred?"

"Sleeps," Morgause answered, grave. "He will have nightmares tonight."

"Many will."

The next silence was not as heavy, and Morgana let it sit between them as they looked into the valley. Distantly, there came the sound of cheers and singing.

"Is their party a success?" Morgause asked after a horn sounded, though to what significance Morgana could not guess.

She lifted one shoulder and dropped it as though with nonchalance. As though Morgause did not know why Morgana had come; as though she always hovered on the hill which crested the kingdom. "A marginal one. It suits their needs for the time being."

"You wish you were down there," Morgause said simply, and Morgana resented her for a moment.

"I could have been there," she retorted sharply. "I said no."

"You gave no response at all," Morgause corrected, though her tone was as benign as ever and Morgana's resentment ebbed away. "You haven't heard anything more from them?"

Hurt flowed in the raw space the resentment vacated and Morgana did look away from Camelot then, meeting Morgause's open stare. "None."

Before either could say more, a second explosion sounded, painting the sky in yellows and blues and increasing delight amongst the gathered of the kingdom as a pony danced in the sky, made too of light and fire.

"Let's go."

They turned as one and the forest was left to itself.

X.

His head is down when she enters. Morgana is well familiar with that look: the furrow of his brow and the purse of his lips which pulls his face into a pout.

But this is no inane plea from a farmer which Uther shucked off upon Arthur as in years past; his disregard of her entrance is indication enough of the intensity with which he studies the document. Something of some grave import. From this distance, she just makes out the familiar, delicate curve Gwen lent to her calligraphy. Something about the kingdom itself, then.

"A beard, Arthur?" she says to announce herself, taking enormous satisfaction when Arthur jumps and drops the parchment near enough to the candle flame that the edge is singed and he beats down upon it to prevent the burn spreading.

Aside from this nonplussed display, however, Arthur only raises his chin and meets her gaze steadily. And does not speak, much to her irritation.

So she smiles, as she once had done when teasing him, to disarm him. "Does Gwen like it?" she asks, a little coy, to nettle and titillate.

But the look which crosses Arthur's face is far from enticed. His frown softens a moment, and perhaps she has succeeded in disarming him if not in the way she intended, because he says fondly, "She says that to look at it gives her a rash."

Instead, Morgana finds herself nettled, lashing out silkily, "Reminder of the one you gave her between her thighs?"

And regrets it as his eyes harden, unimpressed and unmoved. "Is there a reason you're here?"

"Not going to call for the guards?"

He snorts and raises a brow, and she's always hated that expression. "What, you mean to say they aren't already dead?"

"Please," she says with a wave of her hand and a dismissive smile. "I hardly needed to cast a spell to slip past them in the first place. I was led to believe standards had been raised under your reign."

"In some areas," he responds solemnly, and leans back in his chair. "Is there a reason you're here?" he asks again.

Morgana studies him as he waits. She licks her lips, and his eyes stay trained on hers; each word she spoke, while perhaps not ones he liked to hear, did nothing to rile him. It seems almost the opposite as he sits and waits, patient; perhaps a little bored.

She changes tactics and straightens her stance. "I have come to find out whether we have your support," she says evenly, trying not to show how vulnerable she feels in asking.

But Arthur sits, and his brow lifts the higher before he snorts and leans forward, elbows on the table. "Camelot's support with what?"

Tossing her head, Morgana shrugs her shoulders. "When the time comes for it."

"I see," he responds slowly, dropping his hand to the table to drum his fingers across its uneven surface. "And was that meant to be in return for your aid with the magical treaties, or for some kind of exchange in the future that select few can know of?"

"Your treaty was fine without my aid," she responds quietly, acidic bitterness beginning to bubble low in her stomach. "And do not mock the ability to see the future, Arthur. It could be dangerous for you."

"The treaty may have been fine," he replies, disregarding her warning. "But we could have had your support, Morgana. You are ..." he trails into silence and suddenly no longer meets her eye, staring at a point on the wall behind her.

Something warm and unwelcome eases some of the tightness in her body, and Morgana fights the response.

"Regardless, this is about the future, not the past," she persists, taking a step forward and drawing his eyes again.

The look is not reassuring, but rather unrelenting and unforgiving. "I will have to confer with Guinevere, as she stands as stewardess for Camelot now."

Her jaw clenches as her hands tense and Morgana struggles to nod. "I understand," she just manages.

"But I believe her decision will be as I suggest," he continues, heedless to her discomfort. "That as this is about the future, it ought to be dealt with when a need arises. That it is the cause, not the one who asks for aid, which will be important then."

A wave of fury roils through her and all the candles extinguish in a puff. The moon has not risen, so they are left in perfect darkness. Morgana whispers, "Do the sins of Camelot's past owe me nothing?"

There is silence, then the shift of booted feet on stone floor and the drag of the old wooden chair Arthur sat upon as he makes to stand. There's a scuffling sound, and then quiet whispers of materials passing against one another, and Arthur says evenly, "Not when you offer Camelot nothing."

Before he has the chance to strike the tinder to relight his own candle, Morgana goes.

XI.

Gwen has little time for the Lady Edwina, but even so finds herself straining to listen when she overhears the words "giant rats," amongst the woman's nattering as court dissolves.

Bells ring faintly in the back of Gwen's mind.

"I promise you, Ann," Edwina whines, "I have seen at least three of them. If their droppings in my favourite shoes weren't evidence enough -

Gwen frowns, lifts the cumbersome material of her skirt and takes a hurried step forwards. "Lady Edwina?" she calls.

The lady turns slowly, languid in her huge girth. "Yes, your majesty?" she asks in tones of false reverence after dipping into the requisite curtsy, which Gwen still so despises.

"I couldn't help but overhear," Gwen begins, choosing to ignore the pointed glance Edwina gives to Ann at this, who in turn grimaces apologetically at Gwen. They had sat side by side skinning potatoes and chopping carrots on more than one occasion. "Is there a problem with your rooms?"

Edwina's eyes widen and sparkle malice as she jumps at the chance to whinge to Camelot's queen about the castle's shortcomings.

Several long minutes later, thoroughly irritated, Gwen slips down servant's passages and is knocking on Merlin's door.

First, only a heavy thump and cough respond, finally Merlin calls, "Come in?"

Gwen throws the door open, a scolding perched ready on the tip of her tongue, but clouds of shimmering sky blue smoke drift across her vision and she finds herself distracted.

"Gwen!" His greeting is so warm and pleasant that Gwen can't help a smile.

She crosses the threshold fully, shutting the door behind her gently.

"Experimenting?" she asks curiously as Merlin makes his way to a whistling teapot, set upon no fire or heat source Gwen can see.

He nods, making two mugs float to himself, before pouring out the steaming brew. Then he glances up, scowls at the clouds, and grumbles, "They're meant to be more..." He puffs out his cheeks and blows as a drift breezes too close to him. It evaporates in streamers of glistening colour.

Gwen is thoroughly enchanted. Possibly her mouth hangs open a little bit.

She makes sure to snap it shut as Merlin turns to face her. "Anyway, why do I have the pleasure, my lady?" he asks cheekily, two chairs trailing behind him as he moves towards her.

Taking her seat and accepting her tea, Gwen straightens her shoulders and forces her brow into a firm line. "Lady Edwina."

Beyond a telling twitch of his lips, Merlin's expression remains benignly curious, his brows lifting inquisitively.

"She complains," Gwen continues at his silence - she can definitely see a mischievous twinkle in his eyes now - "Of a giant rat infestation in her rooms."

And he chortles into his mug.

"Did she find the droppings in her shoes?" asks Merlin gleefully after a brief pause.

"Merlin!"

"The rats aren't going to hurt anyone, Gwen," he says, unconcerned and still chuckling.

"That really isn't the point..."

His brow drops, the laughter leaving his face as quickly as he'd blown the magical cloud into nothingness, and he counters darkly, "You should have heard the things she was saying about you."

"I have," says Gwen with a roll of her eyes. "Hardly inventive."

"Maybe not, but she is a guest here." Merlin's eyes meet Gwen's and there's an edge of protective indignation that warms her. She has no need of his protection, certainly not from Edwina, but she's touched nonetheless, and smiles gently at him as he continues, "The harpy has no cause to disrespect you."

"Be that as it may," Gwen says reasonably, "Please disenchant her room."

Merlin looks contemplatively into his mug and the steam momentarily takes the comical form of a rat. Then he looks up again, smirking.

"Only if you tell me - did she find the droppings in her shoes?"

"Merlin!" Gwen groans, momentarily distressed at how her exasperated huff of his name sounds so exactly like Arthur's.

"Did she slip her foot in the slipper -

"Oh, honestly -

"It's got a really repugnant scent -

"Really I -

"And I instructed the rats -

"Instructed them?!"

He laughs, mirthful, nodding ecstatically. "To make particularly large deposits -

"You didn't!" gasps Gwen, and then it all becomes too much, and she dissolves into peels of laughter, imagining the bitter cow's face upon her enormous toes sinking into a pile of stinking rat shit.

When she catches her breath again, Merlin is recumbent in his chair, looking smug and watching Gwen over the edge of his mug as he takes another sip.

Gwen releases a long breath through her lips, then looks at him expectantly.

"The spell's been lifted," he replies easily, and flashes her an enormous grin when she says primly, "Thank you."

XII.

Sir Kay offered Gwen an extravagant bow, extending his hand with a flourish.

Lancelot smiles from his spot, leaning against a column, a little bit in shadow; he knows exactly why Kay asked for her accompaniment in that exaggerated way. It is the same reason all the knights -

Yes. There.

Gwen's eyes rise to heaven as she smiles, a little abashed. Highly revered though she is, the queen is still the treasured darling of the court at events such as this, and she never seems to get used to the pomp surrounding her.

He knows that if he turns his head a mere fraction, he will find Arthur watching Gwen with Kay, an amused, tender smirk on his face the while.

But Lancelot does not turn. His eyes stay on Gwen. For just this moment, as in no other, she is his.

"Will you ask her to dance?" asks a smudge of darkness amongst the shadows to his left. Lancelot warily inclines his head in greeting without pulling his eyes from Gwen: now smiling indulgently as Kay talks animatedly to her as they go through the steps of the dance.

"You are not welcome here, my lady," he finally says softly.

Morgana spreads her hands in an appeasing motion. He imagines that she smiles winningly at him, in the way she was famed for in her years in Camelot's court. "It's obvious you want to," she continues, heedless of his implicit warning, with tone as velvety smooth as the rich cloth doubtlessly shrouding her from curious eyes. "Gwen would want you to ask. And it would not be suspect at such an event."

Lancelot shakes his head. "The time for that has passed," he murmurs. Then takes a breath, forces himself to look away and turn: faces Morgana fully, looking directly into her eyes for the first time in many years.

"We have all made our decisions," he says calmly. "It's time we learned to live with them."

He knows why she's here as well as she does. And he will not be manipulated because she had her heart broken. They had all had their hearts broken, one way or another... And by one another.

Anger flashes white hot across her face, his fingers tighten over the hilt of the dagger tucked in his waistband - then her lips curl in a chilling imitation of cheer.

"I hope it eats at you," she says pleasantly, and with a gust of wind, he's alone.

Many knights dance with Gwen that night. Her eyes find his as she bows under Gawain's arm and she smiles. With affection.

Lancelot forces himself to smile back, and as soon as she looks away again, he leaves.

Beads of dew burst cool beneath the pads of her feet. Each grass stalk bent to allow her passage before springing back to act as guardian to the next trespasser.

Everything seemed to her as though it glowed - tree leaves danced to no breeze she could feel or rhythm she could hear, and the air itself seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

It was the same, every time she returned home. She felt as though instantly cleansed, regardless that the smudge of sweat may still tingle her scalp or the grime of travel rub her neck.

Morgana turned to her stallion, taking her boots down from where she had hung them earlier, and caressed his nose affectionately. He offered a single nod of his enormous head before turning from her and wandering towards the pasture lands.

"My lady!" cried a voice cheerfully and Morgana spun on her heel. A young girl with long pleats in disarray stood before her and curtsied clumsily in the way she fancied may happen in a court, her sage green frock coming away damp with dew. "Janine said you'd not return until dawn!"

"Ala, you've grown," Morgana replied warmly and the girl, pleased, flushed as red as a ripe tomato. "I finished earlier than anticipated," she said quietly, offering her hand to the girl.

"One of us left," Ala told her sadly as they walked through the forest.

"I saw," Morgana said quietly. She had always been aware of Gerard's dedication to Freya, but had thought him one of the forest folk, not the water. "He'll visit though," she added soothingly.

"I hope so," Ala said gravely, then started swinging their joined hands in a broad sweeping arc. "He was ever so good a storyteller."

"He was," Morgana agreed sadly. Sometimes it seemed their numbers only ever shrank.

They emerged into a clearing bordered with many tents of pelt, and a scattering of wooden dwellings for those trusting in permanency, forgetting tyranny. Beyond the small forested clearing, an old stone battlement, abandoned by long forgotten kings and renewed by sisters of magic.

The southern edge of the village bustled - around cooking fires and over blades or hides. Spells flitted with cheering frequency and the air was tinged with the scent of herbs from potion and food alike.

All activity stilled when Morgana stepped into the camp, Ala tugging her hand free to dash to her mother's allotment. Morgause appeared as from nowhere to pull her into a tight welcome embrace, supported by a musical susurrus of "My lady" as some bowed or nodded their welcome. Once released, Morgana nodded with a smile for them to take their ease.

"Morgana - " Morgause began but got no further as a small group of women and men emerged from the meeting tent.

"Faradin," Morgana greeted as though they were familiar, extending her hand as the leader's eyes widened in surprise before he chuckled appreciatively.

"Your skills of Sight are famous, my lady," he said, bowing over her hand.

"Yet ever a surprise," she replied dryly, before gesturing towards the tent once more.

As they entered, Morgause held her gaze long enough for Morgana to share her wariness.

"You hold our same beliefs," Faradin said by way of beginning and Morgana felt herself bristle slightly at his presumptive tone, despite the peace being home always brought her. "There should be no laws to govern magic," he continued, oblivious, "But for those we set ourselves."

Morgana glanced at Morgause, but her sister only carefully watched Faradin and his consorts.

"This is what we believe," Morgana agreed cautiously.

A woman Morgana had not Seen stepped forward from the middle of their group. "Do you not sometimes wonder, Lady Fae," she said, voice soothing, melodic, "If a more... aggressive approach ought to be taken?"

Movement from the corner of her eye told her Morgause had looked to her sharply, but Morgana studiously kept her gaze on the new woman.

"Upon occasion," she conceded slowly. "But violence is not the way of the Fae."

She denied the lamenting undertone of her voice.

The woman glanced at Faradin and then offered a smile so innocent seeming that Morgana wondered at its veracity.

"We think not of violence, my lady," she continued softly, "But of infiltration."

"The Lord Emrys' net has a hole," Faradin confided with some satisfaction.

Swiftly, something like eager vindication pumped hotly through her and Morgana tilted her head, ignoring Morgause's obvious frown. "Continue," she invited evenly.

Faradin smiled, lips curling in something akin to malevolence, and spread his hands wide, palms up. "We would require certain guarantees before we continue, of course."

"Such as?"

"We know King Arthur was once viewed as a brother to you; you grew up in his father's house."

Morgana stayed silent.

The woman glanced at Faradin, then touched his elbow as she made to speak. "What my brother meant to say with greater tact, my lady, was that we know well how deeply the family bond can go."

Eyeing the woman closely, Morgana raised her chin slightly. "What is your name?"

"Erika, my lady," she replied, flushing across her throat under Morgana's scrutiny. Morgana almost smiled, surprised to find herself endeared.

"I understand your concern," she said icily instead, "But it isn't necessary. King Arthur has made his intentions clear and is unwilling to make allegiances. The Fae owe him and his kingdom nothing."

"But as his sister - " Faradin insisted.

"I am now of the Fae. Not Albion."

The small tent was quiet as the newcomers considered this. Then Morgause spoke.

"The Fae do not, however, make their own allegiances without knowing the exact circumstance and terms."

Faradin nodded. "Of course. I begin by assuming you know Emrys has apprentices and students... Among that number, one of our own resides."

"Already?" Morgause asked with a frown.

Erika nodded. "For six months now."

While Morgause's brows rose in the expression Morgana had learned to read as impressed, Morgana's own brow dropped.

"Can your person be trusted?" she asked sceptically. "Merlin has his own charm which has... fooled... many in the past."

"That will not happen," Faradin said briskly, dismissively.

At Morgana's disapproving frown, Erika said quickly, "The girl has her own ... personal reasons for volunteering. Emrys was responsible for her father's death."

"Who was her father?"

"A man called Edwin," Erika said sadly, but Morgana shook her head.

"Edwin was killed by a blade." And for that, Morgana had little regret.

"A blade thrust by magic!" someone from the back cried shrilly.

Though still doubtful, Morgana slowly inclined her head and asked instead, "How did Edwin come to have children?"

"An affair of sorts," Faradin responded, cagey. "But he was ever good to his daughter, promised to return once he had exacted his revenge on Uther." Faradin paused to take a deep breath, his hands clenching until his knuckles turned white at his sides. "But the rat Emrys prevented it," he spat.

Silence descended and finally Morgana looked over at Morgause. Her sister only lifted her eyebrows slightly, her lips tightening, before Morgana nodded nearly imperceptibly.

"You will stay in our camp tonight," she said decisively. "We will discuss this again, in greater depth, tomorrow, after rest and feeding."

Faradin scowled, obviously on the verge of protest, but Erika inclined her head, curtsying to Morgana, saying, "Of course, my lady."

Her people followed her example, dropping into curtsies or folding into bows.

Morgana left with Morgause.

XIII.

It began with an argument. It had started simply, after Gaius had been consumed by another would-be painful coughing fit.

"I can stop this," Merlin voiced, surprised, as he looked up from his book.

Gaius shakily brought water to his lips, drinking greedily. The cool liquid swirled down his throat, past the furious agitation in his chest, and eased the tightness marginally. He closed his eyes a moment, cast a prayer of thanks to whichever gods might have been listening that he was so near the end, and sighed around the cup's lip.

Lowering it more steadily now, Gaius squinted towards Merlin and responded in a voice so low and hoarse, "You've already stopped the pain, Merlin."

"Not the coughing," Merlin said, smiling widely, voice unexpectedly cheerfully chiding. "The illness!"

There was a painful twist in his chest, and Gaius looked at Merlin, hesitating a moment, pitying, before he spoke. "I'm dying, Merlin," he husked gently.

But Merlin only waved his hand dismissively - so nonchalantly that Gaius felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with his malady. "I've done it before," Merlin said easily, heedless. "You told me it was true: the power over life and death. I mastered it years ago! I should have thought of this sooner."

"Don't -

But Gaius got no further, coughs shuddering cruelly through his shrunken frame, the wooden bed he laid on shifting and protesting in agony with each hack.

Merlin lunged forward, conjuring more water in a familiar flash of gold and handing Gaius the cup. He wrapped his long fingers around the physician's brittle ones, guiding their hands upward until the cup edge was pressed to Gaius' lips and he could guzzle frantically.

"It is an exchange," Gaius finally choked, not nearly as firmly as he wished.

"I know," Merlin replied, bemused.

Horrified, Gaius jerked to face him more fully, but Merlin only laughed easily.

"Don't worry, Gaius! How many enemies does Camelot have? It would be doing the kingdom a double service."

"This isn't something you can do so unthinkingly! Consider the consequences!"

Merlin slowly sobered, the laughter fading from his features as he eyed Gaius warily. "I have," he said seriously, brow wrinkling as he began to frown. "You live longer, and Camelot loses a foe. I don't see a down side."

"It is never so simple, Merlin -

Another fit racked his body and Merlin's hand settled huge and warm across his back, rubbing soothingly until the coughing stopped and he withdrew.

"Don't you want to live?" he asked quietly, pained.

Gaius shook his head weakly, gasping, "Not at such a price." He lowered himself back against the pillows, limbs trembling, his heart pounding at the exertion. It seemed so long ago he could parry with Merlin easily; he remembered the time distantly, as though through images conjured from a fireside tale when he was a boy. "Not at that price," he amended, reaching trembling hands down to pull his blanket up.

Hesitating, Merlin's shoulders and spine curled inwards, defensive and childlike. Gaius watched, pitying but unrelenting, waiting for the time when Merlin accepted his words and they could move on from this foolishness.
But his stomach plummeted when Merlin shook his head. "No," he murmured. Then, more strongly, "No."

Gaius' reaching hand was too slow to catch Merlin's back as he made to stand, and began a jerking progress back and forth beside Gaius' cot. "No. You just don't realise you want to live," he said, and Gaius wasn't sure if Merlin was actually speaking to him, or acting out some internal dialogue, oblivious to Gaius' presence. "You suffer too greatly, and have forgotten what it's like to live without pain."

"I suffer no longer, Merlin!" Gaius cried. That was not entirely true; Merlin knew it and disregarded the interruption.

"Once you're better again," he continued, sounding a bit delirious, "You'll be glad, then, that you're still alive."

Gaius reached a hand out, and caught the edge of Merlin's robes in a weak pinch. "Merlin -

"I will not be dissuaded, Gaius," he said fiercely, throwing a pleading look over his shoulder, at odds with his fierce determination.

Watching one another, Gaius finally sighed, and slowly released the hem. "All right," he said sadly, a twist of remorse deep in his belly with the easing of Merlin's shoulders.

Then - "Do you leave immediately?" he asked urgently, as the boy - young man, sorcerer, he corrected himself quickly - turned towards the hook upon which his coat hung.

"I don't see any reason to delay," Merlin replied, sharply. "Your time isn't short, but why wait?"

"Why indeed," Gaius repeated quietly. His heart began to pound, which made him light headed, and his throat closed with fear. But as Merlin swung his jacket over his shoulders, Gaius swallowed resolutely. "Before you go, can you do one thing for me?"

"Anything," Merlin said, turning back worriedly, eyes scrutinizing him closely, as though looking for signs of suffering.

Tugging his blanket higher as a wave of nausea roiled through him, Gaius gestured towards his cabinet. "A draught, please," he said weakly. "Something to help me sleep."

"There's no need -

"Please, Merlin," he interrupted, clenching his hands as tightly as his deteriorated muscles would allow. "Let me sleep through this."

An expression of something unreadable passed across Merlin's features - perhaps akin to self disgust - before he nodded stiffly and strode forward, fingers nimbly picking through the vials.

"The deep red one," Gaius clarified on a gasp.

After another minute or so, Merlin returned to Gaius' side, pressing the bottle into his withered hand. "I haven't seen this tincture before," he said slowly, almost suspiciously.

Gaius did not meet Merlin's eye, forcing as nonchalant a shrug as he could muster when his body fought his every move with the desire to tremble in fear. "It is a particularly potent one. For dire situations."

"This is hardly dire," Merlin countered quietly.

Gaius made no response, popping the cap from the bottle and tipping the saccharine potion into his mouth, forcing his protesting throat to swallow it down.

"If you are to go, go now," Gaius said, coughing a couple of times around the vile taste.

Merlin's gaze lingered nervously on Gaius' face, but he nodded and grinned a little ruefully. "I'll see you soon."

"You won't," Gaius wheezed after Merlin vanished, and laid his head back onto his pillow. He would not have long to wait before the poison took effect. He closed his eyes; he would not have Merlin find him staring.

The chill ran down Merlin's spine with the first step he took on the Isle of the Blessed; a charm he had put upon Gaius with the first hints of illness, to alert him to the physician's passing, should he fail to find a cure.

The bottle was still clutched in Gaius' hand upon his return and with the murmur of three words, Merlin knew its potency. Once the last breath has left the body... Not even Merlin Emrys could revive the dead.

Merlin dropped as a stone beside Gaius' bed, and reached blindly for the old man's hand. Pinched between the bottle and his palm, a folded piece of parchment.

It ended with a note.

XIV.

Lancelot finds himself far more comfortable at occasions such as these, amongst his peers, than he ever is at court functions. There is an ease and freedom which stands in stark contrast to the strictures of the court that he can never quite accustom himself to.

He goes through familiar dances, bounding and calling with the rest, before even attempting a few he doesn't know. Midway through his third laughing instruction, a swift hush passes through the stables, accented strikingly by the fiddler losing his rhythm with painful discordance.

Lancelot turns, sees that many of his fellows have bent into bows or dropped into curtsies and he follows suit immediately.

Then she says, in her gentle way, though her voice carries across the room, "Please stand. Please."

The sound of rustling materials fills the space, followed by another pause, before there's a surge amongst the assembled, and Gwen is surrounded by smiling, chattering townsfolk. Lancelot grins at her when their gazes meet, and her eyes widen in surprise before she beams with pleasure.

He denies the warmth that pools in his stomach, allowing himself to be led into another dancing lesson by Geraint's youngest sister.

"I don't see you nearly enough, Sir Lancelot," she says behind him a couple of hours later.

He twists awkwardly from the makeshift bar, gripping his mug tightly. "The life of a knight is a busy one, my lady," he says, smiling warmly.

"Oh, I am aware." Her lips turn upwards, but her tone is strangely heavy and a shadow crosses behind her eyes before she shakes her head as though to clear it. "But it is no excuse," she adds, in falsely stern tones.

"I apologise, my lady," he says, offering a playful bow.

Gwen crinkles her nose in response. "It's Gwen, Lancelot."

"You are a lady now," he points out teasingly.

"And you are a knight. Shall I always call you Sir Lancelot?"

He winces and likes her knowing smile. "Fine, Gwen."

She says no more on that topic, easing up to the bar as a space vacates beside him. "Who are you here with?" she asks, signalling to Jack for a glass of wine.

"I'm here alone," he says - too quickly - but in tones that were, at least to his own ears, mild.

Her smile is fleeting and a little sad before she clarifies, "I meant, are you here with the bride's party, or the groom's?"

Cursing his heated cheeks, Lancelot clears his throat. "The groom's," he says then takes a deep swallow of mead. "He's one of the knight's younger brothers - a woodworker by trade."

"Of course," Gwen breathes, wincing. At his raised eyebrow, she says, "Sir Kay. How could I forget."

He only just manages not to laugh at her, settling on grinning instead. "Indeed," he agrees with a grave nod, "You only have the kingdom to run, my Queen. Nothing so onerous."

Her expression turns wry and a little bashful and she gives him a look tinged with exasperation. "I was sorry to arrive late," she says regretfully instead. "I almost missed wishing the newly weds well."

Lancelot does chuckle at that. "It is true: they were very eager to leave."

Gwen smiles indulgently. "I remember well what that is like," she says fondly. Then her expression freezes and she glances at him, nervous and chagrined, and he only just manages to hide his grimace.

He tries to be at ease, for her mistake had to have been made due to her feeling comfortable in his presence; he would not sabotage that. "I heard your celebrations lasted well into the night," he manages, not choking.

"They did," Gwen agrees after a moment, studying his face. She relaxes a little. "It was the peasantry mostly. The nobles melted away after two or three hours."

"If there are any who know how to celebrate properly, though..." he says, forcing a smile.

Gwen smiles back, genuinely, and nods. "It is our... former peers."

Lancelot nods firmly in turn, and leans forward over the bar table. "Another drink, Gwen?"

She glances down at her emptied mug in some surprise and laughs. "I suppose so."

Lancelot nods for two more, and when they arrive he reaches for his goblet at the same time she does.

Possibly his fingers graze hers, then pause to linger.

Possibly Gwen jolts slightly beside him, and he imagines something warm and old pouring low into her belly.

In the stables, people toast and drink, they talk and sing. Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot join them.

XV.

Morgana plopped down on the rock and sighed dramatically. "I'm tired of this," she said definitively when Mordred lowered his hand and looked at her curiously.

"Today was your idea," he said quietly, bemused, slowly walking to come to a halt before her.

"I know, but I've grown weary of it." She took hold of her skirts, and slid languidly from atop the rock to settle on the grass, leaning back against the stone.

For a moment, Mordred looked at a loss, gazing awkwardly between Morgana and the trees surrounding their glade. With a wave of affectionate pity, Morgana smiled and patted the ground beside her. "Sit, Mordred," she invited warmly. "We needn't master the spell today."

He stood for another moment, irresolute, and Morgana could almost read his thoughts from watching them turn on his adolescent face: he was closer to mastering the spell than she was... He was nearly there...

But this Morgana knew: if there was one thing, a single person for whom he would set aside his near manic pursuit for magical knowledge, it was her.

And he sat.

"Good," she said, meeting his eyes and smiling contentedly before he looked away from her to fiddle with the grass between his fingers.

Morgana tipped her head back, resting against the cool stone, relishing the contrast of the warmth the sun pressed against her cheeks, and enjoying the symphony of the forest around them. The swish of leaves, songs of birds, snap of twigs beneath the paws of travelling creatures...

"Are we just going to sit here?" Mordred asked suddenly, and Morgana heard the impatience beneath his carefully inquisitive tone.

With an internal sigh, regretfully abandoning her preoccupation, she straightened and looked upon him with mischief. "No, we're going to play a game."

"A game?"

"Yes," Morgana said definitively, then leaned closer to him conspiratorially. "And you're going to teach it to me."

Mordred recoiled at this declaration and Morgana stilled. "But I don't know any games!" he said lowly, voice wavering a little nervously.

Unexpected. Morgana tilted her head, thinking fast. "The druids don't play games?"

He shook his head, eyes still wide as a sow brought in for slaughter. Morgana's stomach twisted painfully. "Surely the children played -

"They did," he interrupted, shifting uneasily in the grass. "But the elders spoke of magic and the way, the power of the world... I stayed mostly with them. Close to Aglain."

Morgana blinked, collected herself from the surprise and shrugged her shoulders in feigned easiness. "Never mind, then. We'll play something from my childhood."

To this, Mordred perked, twisted towards her. Twenty-three with eyes shining with the tentative excitement of a six year old. "You played games?"

Hiding her frown of sadness, Morgana nodded, striving to keep her eyes light. "With Arthur mostly." It only hurt a little to speak of him in this context; memories from childhood she had mentally gilded as in gold. "I always won, though he would claim - baselessly - otherwise."

Choosing to ignore the dark shadow which crossed Mordred's face at this account, Morgana raised her hand to him, fingers curled and thumb straight up, as a knight may stand at attention.

"And now, I intend to continue my flawless record of perfection," she declared, correcting his hold when he tentatively fit his larger hand with hers.

"This is called a thumb war," she said with appropriate sobriety, then smiled with unabashed wicked joy at Mordred's hesitant grin.

XVI.

"I long for the days when I could ride in trousers," Gwen grumbled beside him, raising in her stirrups and readjusting her skirts for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

Arthur bit down on a smirk as Merlin openly sniggered just behind them.

"You have no idea what it's like," Gwen said sternly, twisting in her saddle to face him. Arthur - silently - had to agree and imagined it must be bloody uncomfortable for Gwen to complain. He leaned over, surreptitiously tugging the dress down where her motion had caused it to slide up, revealing her calf above her boot. She let out a soft sigh of irritation, then said, "Thank you," before saying lightly to Merlin, "Perhaps you should ride in your robes, Merlin -

She froze. Her body began to turn, slowly, until she was facing forward again, unnaturally straight, stiff -

"Gwen...?"

She made no response. Her eyes glazed, then shut, and she began to rise from her horse until she floated above them. Her body was a line, then it began to arch slowly, her spine bending, sending out delicate popping noises indicating the cracking only of joints -

But if she were to bend much more -

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted in alarm, jumping from his horse as the knight escorts converged on them.

"I'm - trying - !" A fast glance revealed Merlin with grit teeth, hand extended, flexed so that tendons and veins rose as pulsing mountain ranges across his skin.

Arthur whirled to look up, relieved to see that Guinevere no longer continued the aching curve backwards, though she was still stuck in a dangerous arc.

"Where?" Arthur growled.

Merlin twitched. "Somewhere..." His head tipped marginally, "... Left."

"Protect them!" Arthur snapped to the knights who made to follow as he started into the forest.

As though led by some force - which may well have been the case - Arthur moved, dodging trees and jumping stones until he came upon a small figure in a green cloak.

"... Mordred?"

Eyes of gold opened to look at him and Arthur lowered his sword slightly in surprise.

"King - Arthur," the boy said, teeth as tightly clenched as Merlin's had been.

"Is... Is this your doing?" He had never done anything to slight Mordred; could hardly believe Gwen had ever had the opportunity, let alone the desire. If it was Mordred, the attack was entirely unanticipated; unwarranted as far as Arthur could fathom.

The boy, though he neared manhood quickly, gave a jerked nod, his grimacing mouth tightening into something of a malicious grin.

"Why..." The question died fast in Arthur's mouth; the initial shock had worn off and he was left with fury.

He didn't give a damn as to Mordred's reasons.

Arthur stepped forward, raised his sword pointedly and fought to keep his breathing even. "Release her," he growled.

"No," Mordred gritted out.

"Release. Her."

"You'll have - to - kill me," Mordred responded, breathless. Closer now, Arthur could see he was trembling. He may have spared a moment's grim satisfaction that Merlin was countering him so effectively, but the popping of Gwen's spine still sounded sharply in his ears.

"I don't want you dead," he muttered roughly, though the longer Mordred persisted, the less true those words became.

Mordred only snorted, then suddenly fell heavily to his knees. "I will not - release her," he gasped. "Emrys - grows tired."

"So do you," snapped Arthur, but for all he knew, Merlin was the worse. He had only recently returned from Avalon exhausted. "Release Guinevere, as I once released you."

There was no flicker of recognition or the weakening of will. Instead, Mordred only sneered, and shut his eyes as though to summon greater power.

There was a cry from the men behind, and Mordred's sneer grew pronounced; Arthur's panic peaked.

"Mordred!" His sword was at the sorcerer's throat before he thought the motion through. "Release Guinevere. Now!"

"Arthur!"

As Arthur turned to face Morgana, Mordred fell to his side as a collective shout of relief echoed from the trail behind him.

Morgana was at Mordred's side instantly, her hands stroking and cupping the boy's cheeks. She looked up, accusing, irate... Hating.

Arthur, chilled, grit his teeth as he watched, his hold instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword. "He was trying to kill Guinevere," he told her lowly.

"Don't be ridiculous," she hissed, shifting Mordred protectively in her arms. "He has no reason to do any such thing. But you... You were going to kill him!"

"I was not -

Morgana laughed. Loudly, harshly. "Says the man with his sword at a boy's throat!"

"Morgana -

"Morgana?" a weaker voice breathed, cutting across him, and Mordred shifted pitifully in her hold. Her head snapped down and she cooed something to him, her hand passing across his brow soothingly.

Then she looked up, met and held Arthur's gaze in an ice cold fury, and said, "I will not forget this, Arthur Pendragon."

As she whispered the words which brought up winds, tearing at her and Mordred until they vanished in a tempest, Arthur was certain he saw Mordred smirk at him in something like triumph.

Part Three