Smoke Without Fire [2/6] - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Five Years Later
"It cannot be more than another day's journey," Lancelot assured him as they tethered their horses for the night. He clapped his hand against his horse's neck. "If we ride well, we ought to reach their castle before the sun sets."
"You're becoming quite the optimist, Lancelot," Arthur observed, part praise and part criticism. In his experience, optimism only led to trouble.
"I'm afraid that one of us has to be." Lancelot smiled but dipped his head in nervous deference. He had only been back in Camelot for a few short months and still acted at every moment as if he expected Uther to cast him from his court. "You carry more than enough gloom for both of us."
"And can you blame me? Why on Earth would I want to marry a pampered Spanish princess? She sounds awful." Arthur knew that it was a last-ditch effort by his father to side-step the tensions that had been brewing between their countries: they were set to boil over into either marriage or war. If he was honest, Arthur was rooting for the latter option. While he and Lancelot had been sent to help the marriage contract be drawn up, it was doubtful how much 'help' Arthur actually planned on offering.
"You haven't met her yet," Lancelot said, ever the peace-keeper. "She may be wonderful."
Arthur felt quite confident that she was going to be extremely far from 'wonderful'. Worst of all, he was fully confident that it didn't matter. If this marriage was what was best for Camelot then it didn't matter to his father if the princess looked like a smacked camel. He wasn't the one that would have to live with her for the rest of his life.
"We'll find out tomorrow," he sighed, defeated. He unpacked a woollen blanket from the back of his horse, unrolling it upon the forest's floor. They'd slept like this for several nights; it didn't become any more comfortable, regardless of how many nights passed.
When he lay on the ground, long after Lancelot had drifted off and their fire was beginning to burn itsef out, he looked to the sky above them. Most of the stars were blocked out by the heavy trees. Listening to the peaceful in-and-out of Lancelot's breathing, Arthur couldn't help but long for Camelot as sleep eluded him. It was perhaps true that the castle seemed more quiet than it ought to at times, especially since Morgana had left in the night two years ago, but it was undoubtedly better than this dark boredom.
Between two trees at a distance, across the clearing from where they slept, a ball glowed. It was a faint circle, no bigger than a man's palm. The light was dimmer than their dying fire, but once Arthur had noticed it he couldn't look at anything else.
Perhaps a trick of the light; perhaps a burst of the brave moon through a crack in the branches above. The uncertain bristling of the hairs on his arms told Arthur that it was nothing so mundane. Magic, his heart whispered. Magic.
His hand, hidden in brown leather gloves, reached for the hilt of his sword: his grip was as solid and proud as it had ever been, unwilling to yield before the power of a sorcerer.
"Who goes there?" he called out, sitting upright, but the only answer came from the solitary wind as it whistled through the branches and laughed with the leaves. Between two trunks, the glow continued.
He didn't call for Merlin. He'd long since stopped hoping.
"Reveal yourself, sorcerer, and you'll come to no harm." He climbed step by step to his feet. The point of his sword remained trained upon the ball of light, never wavering. On his feet, he crept forward: cat-like and cautious. Merlin may have been a friend and Morgana like a sister, but that was no reason to trust magic blindly. "I am Arthur, crown prince of Camelot: reveal yourself or suffer the consequences."
In response, the light winked at him, flashing in and out before it disappeared altogether as if it had never been there in the first place. All that remained was flat, grey darkness.
Holding a useless sword, Arthur had nothing to do but fumble his way back to his blanket, ungainly in the night as his eyes offered little help and the dead fire even less. His boot bumped against Lancelot's foot; the knight stirred, whimpered, then drifted back to sleep.
"We'll have to train that out of you," Arthur muttered as he dropped back to his forest bed, walking up the blanket on his knees to a more comfortable spot. The fire, dead now, offered neither light nor heat, only a few orange embers that stubbornly burned on. He should have stayed awake, a guard, but he lay down nonetheless: feeling safe, protected, he slept on through the night.
*
The shaking of his shoulder was gentle but he growled at it all the same and rolled onto his front: mornings were a particularly cruel time of day. "When I am king, mornings will be abolished," he declared, mumbling the words against his arm.
"Sadly, you are not yet king." Lancelot sounded entirely too awake and reasonable. Inside, Arthur cursed him thoroughly. "If we want to get to the castle before nightfall, we need to leave soon."
Arthur let out a long groan and hid his blond head beneath his arm. "What if I don't want to get there?"
"Then I must assume that you want to spend another night on the forest floor."
Arthur groaned again, louder this time. "I need a third option," he muttered.
"The third option is that I leave you here to be eaten by wolves. It really is your choice, sire."
"They all sound equally tempting." He rolled over onto his back and glared at the green-leaved sunlight above him. It was already too bright and too warm. Lancelot must have allowed him to sleep for as long as he possibly could. "Okay, I'm awake."
He sat up sharply and within half an hour they were making progress once more, step after step.
The sun was high behind the castle when they finally approached it. Its many turrets were black in silhoutte, with the windows lit up by firelight. It was huge, climbing up to the sky, and perched atop a steep, rocky hill.
"Camelot is bigger," Arthur grouched immediately. Their horses began the long climb up the hill. "A lot bigger."
"If you are determined not to like this place then of course you're going to hate it. Try to have an open mind."
"My mind is as open as it is ever going to be. I just want this over with."
"'This' may be the rest of your life. This is marriage we're talking about."
"In which case I hope that I die soon," Arthur declared with a sweeping wave of his arm.
"If this marriage does not happen then you may well get your wish," Lancelot warned gravely, always a little too serious for his own good.
"You sound like my father," Arthur sighed.
"Then your father has more wisdom than you'd like to acknowledge. He is the king."
Arthur snorted. He'd long since stopped caring for the thoughts of his father. "He is a murderer and nothing more than that. After what he did to Merlin... There is no way to defend him."
In this case, Lancelot didn't even try. 'Merlin' was the one trump card in every argument: Arthur hated playing it. Having to think about it at all was an obscure form of torture, that black mystery in his past. There were times, now, when he could hardly remember him. His face was faded but - more than that - Arthur found that he could no longer perfectly recall the sound of his voice or his particular way of phrasing things.
'Prat'. He remembered that at least.
After they'd dismounted, thundering on the heavy wooden doors at the top of the hill helped to release some of that old frustration. His knuckles hurt beneath the leather.
A slot at eye-level was ripped open, revealing nothing more than a set of very suspicious eyes and a hint of a metal helmet - either that or the guard's eyebrows were extremely low and metallic. After days in the forest with no one but Lancelot, it was a relief to see another soul, even if it was only a small section.
Less relieving, however, was the babble of foreign words that shot through the door.
"What?" Arthur asked, after a baffled glance over his shoulder at Lancelot, who stood two paces behind him with their horses. "I'm English. I don't understand you."
More babble. He sounded like a wild ape to Arthur's untrained ears.
Frustrated, he tried to raise his voice: perhaps the volume alone would help the meaning to penetrate his brain. "I am Prince Arthur from Camelot. Camelot. Let us in."
Another hit of babble came through the door. Arthur groaned and rested his forehead against the wood, wondering if it was too soon to declare the entire trip to be a huge failure.
"Sire, may I?" Lancelot asked, pushing the reins into his hand before he had a chance to respond. A gentle shove at his shoulder eased him away from the door.
When Arthur was out of the way, Lancelot smiled nervously and swallowed before he made eye contact with the guard through the slot and -
And started babbling too.
Arthur's eyes widened and he groaned in frustration as the two began to converse through the door. When the slot to the window was closed once more, his eyebrows arched as he gestured for an explanation. The entire exchange between the two had taken under a minute.
"I have travelled far in the last five years," Lancelot offered, abashed, as explanation for his linguistic skill. "Now stand back - he's going to open the doors."
"You are an endless mystery, Lancelot," Arthur said, before he began to lead the horses out of the way. The sun was nothing more than an orange half-circle that watched them from the horizon. It was twilight, crawling towards night. The stars were out - the moon as well.
The doors opened and they were swept inside by green-cloaked guards, their horses taken by stable-boys. Torches burned on the walls to light and warm the corridors they were led through. Arthur didn't know where they were going, but he refused to ask Lancelot to find out: by speaking Spanish, Lancelot was quite clearly attempting to sabotage his attempts to sabotage this marriage.
In the heart of the castle, two dark wooden doors were pushed open to reveal the great hall: it was, Arthur thought sullenly, a lot less 'great' than the one in Camelot.
A table ladden with food stretched before them. Empty seats on either side - and a crowned figure sitting at the head. His grey beard was thick and bushy; his chest was roughly the size of a mill. He looked like he might crush a person accidentally simply by brushing against them in a corridor. Watching them, his brown eyes glinted.
"One of you is to be my future son, yes?" he asked in an accent so thick that Arthur could hardly understand it.
The king's gaze had already alighted hopefully on Lancelot, appraising him with his hands steepled atop his stomach. Arthur forced himself to step forward, bowing to show the respect due to a king. "I am Prince Arthur," he said.
The king considered him, still sat at his table. He leaned against the tall back of his chair. "King Philip," he said, as if they had travelled all this way without knowing who it was they aimed for. "We have had word of your approach. Chambers have been provided."
"Thank you for your hospitality," Arthur said. "It's been a very long journey."
"And yet one you did not need to make." He smiled, all teeth and wide-eyes. "I did not ask for you in my last letter to Camelot."
Arthur returned the smile: just as stiff and razor-sharp. "I wished only for the opportunity to become acquainted with my bride before our wedding day."
The king slowly sat forward in his chair and picked up his golden goblet of wine. He didn't drink it yet, merely swirling it around as he held on. When long moments had passed, he shook his head and said, "No."
Arthur blinked, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"
"I have heard of you and your way with women. Isabella is a gentle girl. Until I am assured of your character and intentions, there shall be no... acquaintencing."
"You cannot be serious," Arthur spluttered, but this man did not seem like he would be a fan of practical jokes. "My intentions are nothing but honourable, I assure you."
"This is only a - what do you say? - precaution. When I trust you, you will meet my daughter. Not a moment before."
We'll see about that, Arthur thought, but he had no choice but to agree to his face, even while he was already working out potential plans to grab even one illicit minute with the woman he might spend the rest of his life with.
"In the meantime, sit. Eat. After your travels, you will be hungry. I have other matters to attend to: tomorrow, we will talk."
"Certainly," Arthur agreed as he sat down at the table with the food. It was the last thing that he actually wanted to do, but he knew well the merits of compliance. For the love of Camelot - if not for the love of his potential bride - he had to make an attempt at a good first impression. He may not have wanted to be married to the king's daughter but, equally, he wanted what was best for Camelot. That was not antagonising a much more powerful nation.
Lancelot sat opposite him and the king left abruptly, seemingly unwilling to spend any more time than was necessary around them. Alone in the dining hall, Arthur pretended not to hear the lock of the door. Only a precaution, and an understandable one regardless of how unwelcome it was.
"I really do hate Spain," he muttered.
For once, Lancelot didn't try to make him see reason.
*
They were treated lavishly and given wonderful living quarters. There were servants at their disposal and rich meals to enjoy. Riding, hunting, fishing. All in all it was an enjoyable break from the plain life in Camelot, filled with empty routine and royal duties.
And, yet, one entire week had passed, and despite his best attempts he had not yet managed to catch a single glimpse of Isabella.
Disguising himself as a servant; lurking outside her chambers; dogging her father's footsteps... All of the more simplistic plans had been quite easily waylaid by the king and his men. Clearly, Arthur had realised, this called for something a lot more devious.
"Sire, I really do have doubts about this," Lancelot hissed at him. They were crouched behind a tall wall in the gardens. The sun was beating down, much hotter than it ever did back home, and the gardens were beautiful and green. "We are bound to get caught."
Although he was undoubtedly right, Arthur refused to acknowledge as much. "The gardens behind this wall belong to the princess herself. With the sun out like this, she is almost defintiely going to be there, right behind this wall. All I want is one glimpse."
"Perhaps if you are patient then the king will relent..."
"I have been patient." An entire week had passed and all attempts to even discuss the marriage had been stubbornly avoided. They were wasting time; Arthur felt that they were being laughed at and toyed with. If the Spanish weren't serious about this then he saw no reason to continue to play Philip's game. "We are knights. We weren't designed for patience."
With that, he got to his feet and reached for the wall. There were cracks between the stones and strong vines, enough to create rare hand- and footholds. As quietly as he could, though even that was punctuated with grunts of frustration, he began to climb. It made his fingers ache and his fingers turn red. His foot slipped half-way up, but Lancelot's hands were there, unexpected, to help hoist him up and hold him.
At the top of the wall, Arthur's fingers scrambled against the rough stone for a firm grip, dislodging moss as he did so. Once he held tight, he looked up across the garden. He'd expected to see a prim-faced princess on the neat green lawn, surrounded by fawning ladies-in-waiting.
What he saw instead was almost enough to make him fall to the ground.
Sitting there, surrounded by lush grass and protected by the shade of a blossoming tree, was Merlin.
There was a thick book on his lap and a frown of concentration on his face, creasing his brow. His skin was still as pale as milk despite the Spanish heat. There was a red cape on his shoulders, in-keeping with the latest fashion - and, through some miracle, Merlin didn't look half as ridiculous wearing it as Arthur would have imagined. There were boots on his feet of expensive black leather, and his tunic was made of a far finer material than Arthur had ever seen him wear. He no longer looked like a servant: he looked like a courtier.
"Arthur," Lancelot hissed, strained with the effort from holding him up. Arthur wobbled dangerously when Lancelot shifted his grasp. "Do you see anything?"
"Shh," Arthur hushed, flapping a hand at him. While it was Merlin, no doubt about it, he couldn't say it aloud. Not yet. If he said it, Merlin might disappear in a lick of flames.
"Arthur. I can't hold you up forever," Lancelot whispered.
Merlin had a frown on his face as he read. Arthur had never seen him reading before, although having smuggled his book of magic to him years ago he was aware that he must have had some degree of literacy. Unusual, for a simple country boy, but there were undoubtedly far stranger things than that about Merlin. It was an enchanting sight all the same, and one that Arthur would have been content to watch for a great while longer - if Lancelot's grip on him hadn't started to waver and wobble dramatically.
"Lancelot, hold still!" Arthur snapped, as quietly as he could manage.
Not quiet enough.
As he was about to fall entirely, Merlin's head shot up. A golden gaze connected with Arthur, all-seeing. His eyebrows rose in a sharp, pencil-thin line: he didn't say a thing. He only stared.
Sheepishly, Arthur raised a hand to wave at him. It was a pitifully small gesture - but how else was he supposed to greet a living ghost?
"There's a gate along this way," Merlin called after he'd closed his book with a snapping thump. "Unless you're scaling walls for the fun of it, in which case don't let me interrupt."
Arthur sighed through his nose. "Does this look particularly 'fun' to you?" he said.
"Arthur, sire, I really can't do this for much longer," Lancelot interrupted. His uncertain grip, shuddering, lent an air of truth to his words.
"Put me down," he huffed, taking pity on the poor man.
The order was obeyed with even more speed than usual. His feet thumped down, and Lancelot stared at him with an earnest question in his eyes.
Unsure of what else to say, Arthur spread his arms to gesture at the gardens around him. "It's Merlin," he said. "Forget the princess: we've found Merlin. The gate is along this way."
He gave Lancelot no time to process the revelation or to start asking questions, instead charging down alongside the wall to where the wooden door was tucked into an alchove. It was almost entirely overgrown, with ivy and other green tendrils beginning to weave a complicated pattern over its rusted hinges. When Arthur reached for the handle, the green cords began to wriggle and writhe like angry snakes.
He held a hand against Lancelot's chest to stop him from charging forth to do anything brave or stupid - or, knowing Lancelot, stupidly brave. The plants disentangled themselves before their eyes. Left afterwards was a clean, new doorway. The rust had vanished and there was no lock. It opened without a single squeak.
He had expected Merlin to have disappeared in the short amount of time it had taken to reach the door, like a drunk hallucination or a heat-induced mirage. When the door opened, he was fully prepared to be faced with immaculately trimmed grass, bright flowers, and nothing else.
Yet there Merlin was, waiting. He had his book beneath one arm, thick and heavy, and his face was painted with a smile that seemed nervous - as if he was expecting Arthur to shout at him at any second.
And Arthur should have shouted.
He really, truly should have, after all of the unnecessary worry and grief that Merlin had put them all through. Even disregarding himself, Merlin's fake death had been a burden on so many others - Gwen, Gaius, his own mother. Arthur should have yelled until his ears began to bleed. Instead, for once, he was caught speechless. Crowded close behind him, it would appear that Lancelot was similarly affected.
When no yelling came forth, Merlin's smile widened and then his arms did too. They stretched open and Merlin gestured to draw Arthur in. "Get over here, you great lump."
Hugging, it had to be said, was an incredibly unroyal thing to do, as was passively allowing himself to be called a 'great lump' without making a single attempt to defend himself.
He didn't care. When he grabbed hold of Merlin, hugging him tightly with his eyes closed, he wasn't a prince greeting a servant: he was a man reunited with his best friend. Melin hardly smelled the same, with the scent of earth and toil absent from his clothes, but he was same size and shape and when he sighed, "Oh, I've missed you," by Arthur's ear his voice was just as it ought to have been.
The moment when they should have let go came and went - and Arthur held on for a little while longer, his arms more stubborn than his mind. He fancied that smoke still lingered on Merlin's skin.
"You're alive," he mumbled somewhere in the vacinity of Merlin's neck.
"Looks like," Merlin agreed. "'though if you keep squeezing me like that I might not be for much longer."
Holding onto him with a hand on each upper arm, Arthur reluctantly pulled back enough to let him breathe once more. "Still a wimp, I see."
"Still a brute, I see," Merlin mimicked with a smile that looked as if it must have hurt his cheeks.
When Arthur was able to let go of Merlin, he was edged out of the way for Lancelot's own reunion to take place. More hugs, more high-running emotion. It's a good thing the girls aren't here, Arthur thought. This would take all day.
"It's been five years," he snapped once the smiles were gone. Merlin winced, but it had to be said: this was one subject that they couldn't ignore. "Why?"
"Why?" Merlin repeated. "Because it has? I don't know. I 'died' and I had to stay dead for as long as your father was king. I found refuge here with Philip. I'm safe here."
"Clearly not 'safe' enough to write a single letter. Forget me: what about Gaius? He was like a father to you."
Merlin's arms folded in front of him, book to his chest like an ineffectual shield. "Gaius knew," he said after a long - too long - pause.
Arthur stared at him, silent. His only response was to blink. Gaius had mourned with them, moved on with them. He hadn't said a word other than the occasional vague and hopeful mention that they couldn't know for certain that he had died, that they couldn't take anything for granted.
"He was the one to suggest I ought to come here. Magic is legal. It's encouraged, even - for the nobility, anyway." His gaze slipped away from Arthur to Lancelot instead, both of them sharing a life now: both of them peasants living in a world beyond their own. It was something Arthur knew he would never have the opportunity to understand. "My mother contacted him for me. When I first escaped, I went home."
"And you must tell us how you accomplished such a feat," Lancelot said: he seemed over-eager to smooth away any arguments as fast as he could. "That must have been some truly powerful magic."
As they listened, Merlin told them of his frantic search for a spell that would help. "I had to use a bunch of them in the end. A glamour so no one could see what I was doing; protection so I wouldn't actually be burned; then disappearing altogether at the end. I wasn't even that good back then."
"You were good enough, anyway - and we are thankful for that. When I heard the news..." Lancelot's words faded and he shook his head. Arthur could remember being there when he'd found out, watching his face fall as the news had sank in. It had been like feeling it for himself all over again: a fresh wound while the old one was still healing. "Gwen will be delighted."
Arthur found that it was difficult to focus on the actual words that were being said. He could only remain staring at Merlin as he talked, at his mouth as it moved. Whenever his eyes blinked, that simple reflex alone was something to be marvelled at as a true miracle.
He was so lost in it all that the years of combat training and well-honed instincts faded from his mind. When a heavy hand clamped upon his shoulder, his only response was for his eyes to widen in open and blatant alarm.
"I see you've managed to uncover my little secret," Philip boomed by his ear. He chuckled, a sound oddly reminiscent of an earthquake. "I wanted to keep him from you for as long as I could."
"Merlin and I have actually already met. He was my servant several years ago." Arthur had to struggle with a prickle of jealousy: Merlin had stayed here with Philip for five years, while he had only worked for him for a year at most. In that way, Philip had far more of a claim on than Arthur did or could.
Philip smiled. "I know of Merlin's history. Forgive me: I felt it necessary to conceal his presence from you. With Camelot's reputation, it seemed to be the safest option for a sorcerer."
"Merlin has nothing to fear from me," Arthur asserted - but he could say no such thing about his father. If he ever learned that burning hadn't worked, he would try any other method to make sure Merlin stayed dead. It was only a matter of desperation that had led him to negotiate in the first place with a country that accepted magic. The years had changed nothing about his mind set. Even losing Morgana had had no effect.
"I find it difficult to take the word of a Pendragon on such matters." Philip smiled a wolf's smile, too hostile to make an attempt to reciprocate it.
"I've told you before, your highness. Arthur is not his father. He is a good man," Merlin said; it sounded as if this was an argument that they had had many times before, judging from the drawn-out way that Merlin sighed his words. He tried to imagine them going around in circles, bickering the same way as he and Merlin had done ever since they had first met. Arthur's jaw clenched; it felt as if this was something Philip had stolen from him, willingly or not.
"You are a good friend to me, Merlin," Philip said. "This does not mean that your word means more than the centuries of history between my kingdom and his."
"If that's the way you feel then I fail to see why these negotations are taking place at all," Arthur snapped. "I may as well leave now."
"Perhaps that is true," Philip responded without pausing for a single beat.
Merlin silenced them with a hand on both of their arms. "I think we need to take a break before your tempers run any higher. The last thing I need is for you two to start fighting. Lancelot, will you take Arthur inside? I'll come and find you as soon as I can."
Arthur could feel himself scowling and was utterly powerless to stop it. He was on the brink of digging in his heels and refusing to move, but Lancelot was looking at him expectantly - and Merlin's blue gaze was pleading.
"Don't be too long," he said before he allowed Lancelot to take him away, leaving Merlin and the foreign king behind them to talk. Arthur's mind was already set: when he left for home, Merlin would be coming with him.
*
Part Three
"It cannot be more than another day's journey," Lancelot assured him as they tethered their horses for the night. He clapped his hand against his horse's neck. "If we ride well, we ought to reach their castle before the sun sets."
"You're becoming quite the optimist, Lancelot," Arthur observed, part praise and part criticism. In his experience, optimism only led to trouble.
"I'm afraid that one of us has to be." Lancelot smiled but dipped his head in nervous deference. He had only been back in Camelot for a few short months and still acted at every moment as if he expected Uther to cast him from his court. "You carry more than enough gloom for both of us."
"And can you blame me? Why on Earth would I want to marry a pampered Spanish princess? She sounds awful." Arthur knew that it was a last-ditch effort by his father to side-step the tensions that had been brewing between their countries: they were set to boil over into either marriage or war. If he was honest, Arthur was rooting for the latter option. While he and Lancelot had been sent to help the marriage contract be drawn up, it was doubtful how much 'help' Arthur actually planned on offering.
"You haven't met her yet," Lancelot said, ever the peace-keeper. "She may be wonderful."
Arthur felt quite confident that she was going to be extremely far from 'wonderful'. Worst of all, he was fully confident that it didn't matter. If this marriage was what was best for Camelot then it didn't matter to his father if the princess looked like a smacked camel. He wasn't the one that would have to live with her for the rest of his life.
"We'll find out tomorrow," he sighed, defeated. He unpacked a woollen blanket from the back of his horse, unrolling it upon the forest's floor. They'd slept like this for several nights; it didn't become any more comfortable, regardless of how many nights passed.
When he lay on the ground, long after Lancelot had drifted off and their fire was beginning to burn itsef out, he looked to the sky above them. Most of the stars were blocked out by the heavy trees. Listening to the peaceful in-and-out of Lancelot's breathing, Arthur couldn't help but long for Camelot as sleep eluded him. It was perhaps true that the castle seemed more quiet than it ought to at times, especially since Morgana had left in the night two years ago, but it was undoubtedly better than this dark boredom.
Between two trees at a distance, across the clearing from where they slept, a ball glowed. It was a faint circle, no bigger than a man's palm. The light was dimmer than their dying fire, but once Arthur had noticed it he couldn't look at anything else.
Perhaps a trick of the light; perhaps a burst of the brave moon through a crack in the branches above. The uncertain bristling of the hairs on his arms told Arthur that it was nothing so mundane. Magic, his heart whispered. Magic.
His hand, hidden in brown leather gloves, reached for the hilt of his sword: his grip was as solid and proud as it had ever been, unwilling to yield before the power of a sorcerer.
"Who goes there?" he called out, sitting upright, but the only answer came from the solitary wind as it whistled through the branches and laughed with the leaves. Between two trunks, the glow continued.
He didn't call for Merlin. He'd long since stopped hoping.
"Reveal yourself, sorcerer, and you'll come to no harm." He climbed step by step to his feet. The point of his sword remained trained upon the ball of light, never wavering. On his feet, he crept forward: cat-like and cautious. Merlin may have been a friend and Morgana like a sister, but that was no reason to trust magic blindly. "I am Arthur, crown prince of Camelot: reveal yourself or suffer the consequences."
In response, the light winked at him, flashing in and out before it disappeared altogether as if it had never been there in the first place. All that remained was flat, grey darkness.
Holding a useless sword, Arthur had nothing to do but fumble his way back to his blanket, ungainly in the night as his eyes offered little help and the dead fire even less. His boot bumped against Lancelot's foot; the knight stirred, whimpered, then drifted back to sleep.
"We'll have to train that out of you," Arthur muttered as he dropped back to his forest bed, walking up the blanket on his knees to a more comfortable spot. The fire, dead now, offered neither light nor heat, only a few orange embers that stubbornly burned on. He should have stayed awake, a guard, but he lay down nonetheless: feeling safe, protected, he slept on through the night.
*
The shaking of his shoulder was gentle but he growled at it all the same and rolled onto his front: mornings were a particularly cruel time of day. "When I am king, mornings will be abolished," he declared, mumbling the words against his arm.
"Sadly, you are not yet king." Lancelot sounded entirely too awake and reasonable. Inside, Arthur cursed him thoroughly. "If we want to get to the castle before nightfall, we need to leave soon."
Arthur let out a long groan and hid his blond head beneath his arm. "What if I don't want to get there?"
"Then I must assume that you want to spend another night on the forest floor."
Arthur groaned again, louder this time. "I need a third option," he muttered.
"The third option is that I leave you here to be eaten by wolves. It really is your choice, sire."
"They all sound equally tempting." He rolled over onto his back and glared at the green-leaved sunlight above him. It was already too bright and too warm. Lancelot must have allowed him to sleep for as long as he possibly could. "Okay, I'm awake."
He sat up sharply and within half an hour they were making progress once more, step after step.
The sun was high behind the castle when they finally approached it. Its many turrets were black in silhoutte, with the windows lit up by firelight. It was huge, climbing up to the sky, and perched atop a steep, rocky hill.
"Camelot is bigger," Arthur grouched immediately. Their horses began the long climb up the hill. "A lot bigger."
"If you are determined not to like this place then of course you're going to hate it. Try to have an open mind."
"My mind is as open as it is ever going to be. I just want this over with."
"'This' may be the rest of your life. This is marriage we're talking about."
"In which case I hope that I die soon," Arthur declared with a sweeping wave of his arm.
"If this marriage does not happen then you may well get your wish," Lancelot warned gravely, always a little too serious for his own good.
"You sound like my father," Arthur sighed.
"Then your father has more wisdom than you'd like to acknowledge. He is the king."
Arthur snorted. He'd long since stopped caring for the thoughts of his father. "He is a murderer and nothing more than that. After what he did to Merlin... There is no way to defend him."
In this case, Lancelot didn't even try. 'Merlin' was the one trump card in every argument: Arthur hated playing it. Having to think about it at all was an obscure form of torture, that black mystery in his past. There were times, now, when he could hardly remember him. His face was faded but - more than that - Arthur found that he could no longer perfectly recall the sound of his voice or his particular way of phrasing things.
'Prat'. He remembered that at least.
After they'd dismounted, thundering on the heavy wooden doors at the top of the hill helped to release some of that old frustration. His knuckles hurt beneath the leather.
A slot at eye-level was ripped open, revealing nothing more than a set of very suspicious eyes and a hint of a metal helmet - either that or the guard's eyebrows were extremely low and metallic. After days in the forest with no one but Lancelot, it was a relief to see another soul, even if it was only a small section.
Less relieving, however, was the babble of foreign words that shot through the door.
"What?" Arthur asked, after a baffled glance over his shoulder at Lancelot, who stood two paces behind him with their horses. "I'm English. I don't understand you."
More babble. He sounded like a wild ape to Arthur's untrained ears.
Frustrated, he tried to raise his voice: perhaps the volume alone would help the meaning to penetrate his brain. "I am Prince Arthur from Camelot. Camelot. Let us in."
Another hit of babble came through the door. Arthur groaned and rested his forehead against the wood, wondering if it was too soon to declare the entire trip to be a huge failure.
"Sire, may I?" Lancelot asked, pushing the reins into his hand before he had a chance to respond. A gentle shove at his shoulder eased him away from the door.
When Arthur was out of the way, Lancelot smiled nervously and swallowed before he made eye contact with the guard through the slot and -
And started babbling too.
Arthur's eyes widened and he groaned in frustration as the two began to converse through the door. When the slot to the window was closed once more, his eyebrows arched as he gestured for an explanation. The entire exchange between the two had taken under a minute.
"I have travelled far in the last five years," Lancelot offered, abashed, as explanation for his linguistic skill. "Now stand back - he's going to open the doors."
"You are an endless mystery, Lancelot," Arthur said, before he began to lead the horses out of the way. The sun was nothing more than an orange half-circle that watched them from the horizon. It was twilight, crawling towards night. The stars were out - the moon as well.
The doors opened and they were swept inside by green-cloaked guards, their horses taken by stable-boys. Torches burned on the walls to light and warm the corridors they were led through. Arthur didn't know where they were going, but he refused to ask Lancelot to find out: by speaking Spanish, Lancelot was quite clearly attempting to sabotage his attempts to sabotage this marriage.
In the heart of the castle, two dark wooden doors were pushed open to reveal the great hall: it was, Arthur thought sullenly, a lot less 'great' than the one in Camelot.
A table ladden with food stretched before them. Empty seats on either side - and a crowned figure sitting at the head. His grey beard was thick and bushy; his chest was roughly the size of a mill. He looked like he might crush a person accidentally simply by brushing against them in a corridor. Watching them, his brown eyes glinted.
"One of you is to be my future son, yes?" he asked in an accent so thick that Arthur could hardly understand it.
The king's gaze had already alighted hopefully on Lancelot, appraising him with his hands steepled atop his stomach. Arthur forced himself to step forward, bowing to show the respect due to a king. "I am Prince Arthur," he said.
The king considered him, still sat at his table. He leaned against the tall back of his chair. "King Philip," he said, as if they had travelled all this way without knowing who it was they aimed for. "We have had word of your approach. Chambers have been provided."
"Thank you for your hospitality," Arthur said. "It's been a very long journey."
"And yet one you did not need to make." He smiled, all teeth and wide-eyes. "I did not ask for you in my last letter to Camelot."
Arthur returned the smile: just as stiff and razor-sharp. "I wished only for the opportunity to become acquainted with my bride before our wedding day."
The king slowly sat forward in his chair and picked up his golden goblet of wine. He didn't drink it yet, merely swirling it around as he held on. When long moments had passed, he shook his head and said, "No."
Arthur blinked, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"
"I have heard of you and your way with women. Isabella is a gentle girl. Until I am assured of your character and intentions, there shall be no... acquaintencing."
"You cannot be serious," Arthur spluttered, but this man did not seem like he would be a fan of practical jokes. "My intentions are nothing but honourable, I assure you."
"This is only a - what do you say? - precaution. When I trust you, you will meet my daughter. Not a moment before."
We'll see about that, Arthur thought, but he had no choice but to agree to his face, even while he was already working out potential plans to grab even one illicit minute with the woman he might spend the rest of his life with.
"In the meantime, sit. Eat. After your travels, you will be hungry. I have other matters to attend to: tomorrow, we will talk."
"Certainly," Arthur agreed as he sat down at the table with the food. It was the last thing that he actually wanted to do, but he knew well the merits of compliance. For the love of Camelot - if not for the love of his potential bride - he had to make an attempt at a good first impression. He may not have wanted to be married to the king's daughter but, equally, he wanted what was best for Camelot. That was not antagonising a much more powerful nation.
Lancelot sat opposite him and the king left abruptly, seemingly unwilling to spend any more time than was necessary around them. Alone in the dining hall, Arthur pretended not to hear the lock of the door. Only a precaution, and an understandable one regardless of how unwelcome it was.
"I really do hate Spain," he muttered.
For once, Lancelot didn't try to make him see reason.
*
They were treated lavishly and given wonderful living quarters. There were servants at their disposal and rich meals to enjoy. Riding, hunting, fishing. All in all it was an enjoyable break from the plain life in Camelot, filled with empty routine and royal duties.
And, yet, one entire week had passed, and despite his best attempts he had not yet managed to catch a single glimpse of Isabella.
Disguising himself as a servant; lurking outside her chambers; dogging her father's footsteps... All of the more simplistic plans had been quite easily waylaid by the king and his men. Clearly, Arthur had realised, this called for something a lot more devious.
"Sire, I really do have doubts about this," Lancelot hissed at him. They were crouched behind a tall wall in the gardens. The sun was beating down, much hotter than it ever did back home, and the gardens were beautiful and green. "We are bound to get caught."
Although he was undoubtedly right, Arthur refused to acknowledge as much. "The gardens behind this wall belong to the princess herself. With the sun out like this, she is almost defintiely going to be there, right behind this wall. All I want is one glimpse."
"Perhaps if you are patient then the king will relent..."
"I have been patient." An entire week had passed and all attempts to even discuss the marriage had been stubbornly avoided. They were wasting time; Arthur felt that they were being laughed at and toyed with. If the Spanish weren't serious about this then he saw no reason to continue to play Philip's game. "We are knights. We weren't designed for patience."
With that, he got to his feet and reached for the wall. There were cracks between the stones and strong vines, enough to create rare hand- and footholds. As quietly as he could, though even that was punctuated with grunts of frustration, he began to climb. It made his fingers ache and his fingers turn red. His foot slipped half-way up, but Lancelot's hands were there, unexpected, to help hoist him up and hold him.
At the top of the wall, Arthur's fingers scrambled against the rough stone for a firm grip, dislodging moss as he did so. Once he held tight, he looked up across the garden. He'd expected to see a prim-faced princess on the neat green lawn, surrounded by fawning ladies-in-waiting.
What he saw instead was almost enough to make him fall to the ground.
Sitting there, surrounded by lush grass and protected by the shade of a blossoming tree, was Merlin.
There was a thick book on his lap and a frown of concentration on his face, creasing his brow. His skin was still as pale as milk despite the Spanish heat. There was a red cape on his shoulders, in-keeping with the latest fashion - and, through some miracle, Merlin didn't look half as ridiculous wearing it as Arthur would have imagined. There were boots on his feet of expensive black leather, and his tunic was made of a far finer material than Arthur had ever seen him wear. He no longer looked like a servant: he looked like a courtier.
"Arthur," Lancelot hissed, strained with the effort from holding him up. Arthur wobbled dangerously when Lancelot shifted his grasp. "Do you see anything?"
"Shh," Arthur hushed, flapping a hand at him. While it was Merlin, no doubt about it, he couldn't say it aloud. Not yet. If he said it, Merlin might disappear in a lick of flames.
"Arthur. I can't hold you up forever," Lancelot whispered.
Merlin had a frown on his face as he read. Arthur had never seen him reading before, although having smuggled his book of magic to him years ago he was aware that he must have had some degree of literacy. Unusual, for a simple country boy, but there were undoubtedly far stranger things than that about Merlin. It was an enchanting sight all the same, and one that Arthur would have been content to watch for a great while longer - if Lancelot's grip on him hadn't started to waver and wobble dramatically.
"Lancelot, hold still!" Arthur snapped, as quietly as he could manage.
Not quiet enough.
As he was about to fall entirely, Merlin's head shot up. A golden gaze connected with Arthur, all-seeing. His eyebrows rose in a sharp, pencil-thin line: he didn't say a thing. He only stared.
Sheepishly, Arthur raised a hand to wave at him. It was a pitifully small gesture - but how else was he supposed to greet a living ghost?
"There's a gate along this way," Merlin called after he'd closed his book with a snapping thump. "Unless you're scaling walls for the fun of it, in which case don't let me interrupt."
Arthur sighed through his nose. "Does this look particularly 'fun' to you?" he said.
"Arthur, sire, I really can't do this for much longer," Lancelot interrupted. His uncertain grip, shuddering, lent an air of truth to his words.
"Put me down," he huffed, taking pity on the poor man.
The order was obeyed with even more speed than usual. His feet thumped down, and Lancelot stared at him with an earnest question in his eyes.
Unsure of what else to say, Arthur spread his arms to gesture at the gardens around him. "It's Merlin," he said. "Forget the princess: we've found Merlin. The gate is along this way."
He gave Lancelot no time to process the revelation or to start asking questions, instead charging down alongside the wall to where the wooden door was tucked into an alchove. It was almost entirely overgrown, with ivy and other green tendrils beginning to weave a complicated pattern over its rusted hinges. When Arthur reached for the handle, the green cords began to wriggle and writhe like angry snakes.
He held a hand against Lancelot's chest to stop him from charging forth to do anything brave or stupid - or, knowing Lancelot, stupidly brave. The plants disentangled themselves before their eyes. Left afterwards was a clean, new doorway. The rust had vanished and there was no lock. It opened without a single squeak.
He had expected Merlin to have disappeared in the short amount of time it had taken to reach the door, like a drunk hallucination or a heat-induced mirage. When the door opened, he was fully prepared to be faced with immaculately trimmed grass, bright flowers, and nothing else.
Yet there Merlin was, waiting. He had his book beneath one arm, thick and heavy, and his face was painted with a smile that seemed nervous - as if he was expecting Arthur to shout at him at any second.
And Arthur should have shouted.
He really, truly should have, after all of the unnecessary worry and grief that Merlin had put them all through. Even disregarding himself, Merlin's fake death had been a burden on so many others - Gwen, Gaius, his own mother. Arthur should have yelled until his ears began to bleed. Instead, for once, he was caught speechless. Crowded close behind him, it would appear that Lancelot was similarly affected.
When no yelling came forth, Merlin's smile widened and then his arms did too. They stretched open and Merlin gestured to draw Arthur in. "Get over here, you great lump."
Hugging, it had to be said, was an incredibly unroyal thing to do, as was passively allowing himself to be called a 'great lump' without making a single attempt to defend himself.
He didn't care. When he grabbed hold of Merlin, hugging him tightly with his eyes closed, he wasn't a prince greeting a servant: he was a man reunited with his best friend. Melin hardly smelled the same, with the scent of earth and toil absent from his clothes, but he was same size and shape and when he sighed, "Oh, I've missed you," by Arthur's ear his voice was just as it ought to have been.
The moment when they should have let go came and went - and Arthur held on for a little while longer, his arms more stubborn than his mind. He fancied that smoke still lingered on Merlin's skin.
"You're alive," he mumbled somewhere in the vacinity of Merlin's neck.
"Looks like," Merlin agreed. "'though if you keep squeezing me like that I might not be for much longer."
Holding onto him with a hand on each upper arm, Arthur reluctantly pulled back enough to let him breathe once more. "Still a wimp, I see."
"Still a brute, I see," Merlin mimicked with a smile that looked as if it must have hurt his cheeks.
When Arthur was able to let go of Merlin, he was edged out of the way for Lancelot's own reunion to take place. More hugs, more high-running emotion. It's a good thing the girls aren't here, Arthur thought. This would take all day.
"It's been five years," he snapped once the smiles were gone. Merlin winced, but it had to be said: this was one subject that they couldn't ignore. "Why?"
"Why?" Merlin repeated. "Because it has? I don't know. I 'died' and I had to stay dead for as long as your father was king. I found refuge here with Philip. I'm safe here."
"Clearly not 'safe' enough to write a single letter. Forget me: what about Gaius? He was like a father to you."
Merlin's arms folded in front of him, book to his chest like an ineffectual shield. "Gaius knew," he said after a long - too long - pause.
Arthur stared at him, silent. His only response was to blink. Gaius had mourned with them, moved on with them. He hadn't said a word other than the occasional vague and hopeful mention that they couldn't know for certain that he had died, that they couldn't take anything for granted.
"He was the one to suggest I ought to come here. Magic is legal. It's encouraged, even - for the nobility, anyway." His gaze slipped away from Arthur to Lancelot instead, both of them sharing a life now: both of them peasants living in a world beyond their own. It was something Arthur knew he would never have the opportunity to understand. "My mother contacted him for me. When I first escaped, I went home."
"And you must tell us how you accomplished such a feat," Lancelot said: he seemed over-eager to smooth away any arguments as fast as he could. "That must have been some truly powerful magic."
As they listened, Merlin told them of his frantic search for a spell that would help. "I had to use a bunch of them in the end. A glamour so no one could see what I was doing; protection so I wouldn't actually be burned; then disappearing altogether at the end. I wasn't even that good back then."
"You were good enough, anyway - and we are thankful for that. When I heard the news..." Lancelot's words faded and he shook his head. Arthur could remember being there when he'd found out, watching his face fall as the news had sank in. It had been like feeling it for himself all over again: a fresh wound while the old one was still healing. "Gwen will be delighted."
Arthur found that it was difficult to focus on the actual words that were being said. He could only remain staring at Merlin as he talked, at his mouth as it moved. Whenever his eyes blinked, that simple reflex alone was something to be marvelled at as a true miracle.
He was so lost in it all that the years of combat training and well-honed instincts faded from his mind. When a heavy hand clamped upon his shoulder, his only response was for his eyes to widen in open and blatant alarm.
"I see you've managed to uncover my little secret," Philip boomed by his ear. He chuckled, a sound oddly reminiscent of an earthquake. "I wanted to keep him from you for as long as I could."
"Merlin and I have actually already met. He was my servant several years ago." Arthur had to struggle with a prickle of jealousy: Merlin had stayed here with Philip for five years, while he had only worked for him for a year at most. In that way, Philip had far more of a claim on than Arthur did or could.
Philip smiled. "I know of Merlin's history. Forgive me: I felt it necessary to conceal his presence from you. With Camelot's reputation, it seemed to be the safest option for a sorcerer."
"Merlin has nothing to fear from me," Arthur asserted - but he could say no such thing about his father. If he ever learned that burning hadn't worked, he would try any other method to make sure Merlin stayed dead. It was only a matter of desperation that had led him to negotiate in the first place with a country that accepted magic. The years had changed nothing about his mind set. Even losing Morgana had had no effect.
"I find it difficult to take the word of a Pendragon on such matters." Philip smiled a wolf's smile, too hostile to make an attempt to reciprocate it.
"I've told you before, your highness. Arthur is not his father. He is a good man," Merlin said; it sounded as if this was an argument that they had had many times before, judging from the drawn-out way that Merlin sighed his words. He tried to imagine them going around in circles, bickering the same way as he and Merlin had done ever since they had first met. Arthur's jaw clenched; it felt as if this was something Philip had stolen from him, willingly or not.
"You are a good friend to me, Merlin," Philip said. "This does not mean that your word means more than the centuries of history between my kingdom and his."
"If that's the way you feel then I fail to see why these negotations are taking place at all," Arthur snapped. "I may as well leave now."
"Perhaps that is true," Philip responded without pausing for a single beat.
Merlin silenced them with a hand on both of their arms. "I think we need to take a break before your tempers run any higher. The last thing I need is for you two to start fighting. Lancelot, will you take Arthur inside? I'll come and find you as soon as I can."
Arthur could feel himself scowling and was utterly powerless to stop it. He was on the brink of digging in his heels and refusing to move, but Lancelot was looking at him expectantly - and Merlin's blue gaze was pleading.
"Don't be too long," he said before he allowed Lancelot to take him away, leaving Merlin and the foreign king behind them to talk. Arthur's mind was already set: when he left for home, Merlin would be coming with him.
*
Part Three