Archive of Our Own

PLEASE READ THIS FIRST:
(Added 14th August 2017)

This story contains an OC with a severe learning disability. When I wrote the story eight years ago, I thought my portrayal was sensitive and humane, and that I didn't hit too many common and damaging tropes. Re-reading it today, I no longer think that.

I'm not going to delete the story, because (1) I don't think we should erase past mistakes and (2) everyone has problematic things that they enjoy (including, let's be honest, the show this fic is based on), and that's okay -- if this is one of those things for you then I don't want to take that away from you to make myself feel better. What I do want to do is flag this aspect of the text here and now. In this story, a disabled character is treated as a burden, prop and bit of extra colour rather than a person in their own right.

If you're interested in reading more about the portrayal of people with learning disabilities, then this Foundation for People with Learning Disabilities petition highlights five key changes that can be made to improve (specifically UK) media, and this essay on disabling imagery and the media by Colin Barnes has a really helpful taxonomy of problematic tropes around disability in general.

ORIGINAL STORY BEGINS HERE:

Lord Belton's death had been a long time coming, but Uther still took the news like a blow. His face tightened and in the straightening of his back Merlin could see traces of Arthur.

"My son will ride with you back to Gloucester at first light," he told the messenger, whose whites and greens were still muddy from the journey. "He will be my representative at the--" Merlin would not have caught the hesitation had it not been for Arthur's flinch. "--funeral. I charge you to bear my deepest condolences to his children, and tell them they are always welcome at my court."

The messenger bowed low and solemn, then scurried away before Uther could decide they needed to set out the same night.

"Save your sympathy," Arthur muttered with a low breath, catching Merlin wince on the messenger's behalf. "You'll be riding out with me."

"Of course," Merlin muttered back.

Arthur nodded. "Of course."

Then, as smoothly as if Merlin had conjured it, he transformed from observer to participant, from Merlin's employer to Uther's son.

"Father," he said, stepping forward to offer an arm in support.

"My son," Uther said. He did not take the arm, of course, but he stood a little straighter.

Arthur positioned himself at his father's side. "I am sorry to hear of Lord Belton's death. I know he was a dear friend to you and my mother."

At that, Merlin's eyes widened. He'd rather tell Arthur about his magic than try to get him to talk about his mother. He'd rather tell Arthur anything.

"You will serve the Beltons in any way you can, Arthur." Uther's voice was firm, almost admonishing, but Merlin could see in Arthur's face how much the words meant. "I am trusting you with this."

===

Thwen, the Belton's messenger, had made the journey in one day, but for the sake of arriving in a state fit to serve, Arthur intended to take two. This was not as much of a kindness as Merlin might have hoped; they were still pressing on at a fair pace, too fast for the sort of conversation he'd grown to expect when riding out with Arthur. Unlike Thwen, though, they were definitely going to stop for lunch. Probably. He hoped.

Wincing on his saddle, Merlin muttered a word or two to ease his horse's way. It wasn't much of a difference -- he was being careful, after all -- but if he had one less bruise than Arthur by the end of the day, he'd count it as a success. Not that he'd have anyone to tend to his aching muscles.

But soon they might break for some food. Probably. Merlin had packed some of it himself, fresh bread and thick slices of well-cured ham and cheese, just the sort of food to ease a weary traveller's journey. There were pastries, too, the little ones with the blobs of honey. With every jolt, those pastries were flaking away -- if they didn't stop for lunch soon, there'd be nothing left but mulch. Delicious, delicious mulch.

Maybe Arthur would let them break at the next clearing. Maybe they could sit on tree stumps and stretch out their legs. Maybe he could get off this wretched horse.

The horse, sensing his hostility, chose that moment to tug at the reins. He bet Arthur never had to put up with this sort of insubordination.

Mind control was a very dangerous, very awful thing, the sort of thing that helped even Merlin see why Uther might hate magic. Even with the best intentions, it was sure to go horribly wrong. It was a dreadful, evil, corrupting thing that Gauis stubbornly refused to let him study, so instead Merlin whispered the words that made the scent of bacon appear near Arthur's nose. Bacon, and roast pig, and sausages, and dripping, and--

Arthur held up his hand. "We're stopping for lunch," he called out.

Merlin didn't bother to hide his grin.

"Perhaps, sire, we might wait until we have reached the next village?" Thwen said.

Arthur frowned. "You object to the inconvenience?" He seemed less annoyed than genuinely puzzled; stopping to eat, even outdoors, should have been a luxury for a messenger.

Merlin let himself give silent cheer. Nothing was more likely to make Arthur do something than being told he couldn't. Deep in his heart, Merlin wished for Thwen to tell Arthur they absolutely mustn't eat all the pastries.

"The woods in Gloucester are not--" Thwen tailed off, looking for the word. "I am sure we are safe so near to Camelot," he said, a little weakly.

Arthur's nod was curt. "As am I."

===

That evening they pitched tents in a clearing some miles from Highworth. Thwen's protests had grown stronger as it became clear Arthur had no intention of stopping at the town to sleep.

"If another hour's progress can save your masters an hour's grief, it is worth it," Arthur said in tones worthy of Uther.

Privately, Merlin suspected that if Thwen had whined a little less, they might all be sleeping on actual beds right now, but he couldn't bring himself to blame the man. He was clearly terrified.

"It'll be fine," Merlin said in his most reassuring tones, helping Thwen lay out the bedrolls for the servants' tent. "I don't snore. Much."

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice was sharp, cutting through Thwen's forced laugh. "Attend me."

Shrugging a friendly goodbye, Merlin made his way past the fire to Arthur's rather roomier tent. From Arthur's glower, now did not seem the right time to suggest they swap.

"My wound from the solstice tournament is playing up," Arthur said, indicating his thigh. "It would not do for my father's emissary to show up with a limp."

Merlin wasn't entirely sure what he was intended to do about this.

Arthur sighed. "There's some oil. In one of the bags."

By the time he had retrieved the oil from the bottom of a bag Merlin could have sworn he'd never seen before in his life, Arthur was lying face down on the bedroll, his trousers around his knees.

"If you've quite finished," he said into a pillow thicker and more luxurious than everything in the servants' tent put together.

"Right-o," said Merlin cheerfully. He poured a generous serving of the oil onto his hands.

If the land frozen over that evening, if the tents blew away and ice rained in sheets from the sky, Merlin bet he could keep himself warm with the memory of Arthur's flinch as cold oil met exposed thigh.

He started to run his hands over Arthur's leg, smoothing the oil into his skin with steady, even strokes. Under his hands, he felt the tightness of Arthur's muscles, the knots from riding too long and too hard, from hours practising the same parries over and over, from-- There. He found the ache from Arthur's old wound, a coil of sinew under the skin, hard and awkward.

Slowly, methodically, as if learning the words to a spell, he pushed against the injury, firm enough it would have drawn a gasp from anyone but Arthur. He knew this trick, how to warm and stretch the muscle until it drew itself back into place, how to set a long, steady pace that worked with the flow of the humours under Arthur's skin.

"The Beltons came to my father's court often in my youth," Arthur said, keeping his voice even.

Merlin rolled his eyes as he continued to move his hands again and again over slick, tense skin. Of course Arthur couldn't just admit he was in pain. "Your father must have really liked Lord Belton."

Arthur shifted slightly beneath Merlin's touch, pressed back into Merlin's hands as he moved on the bed. He was warm to the touch, his humours flowing fast. "The late Lord Belton, certainly. The current, he feels, is almost as untested as me." He couldn't hide the twist of bitterness in his voice at that. "There can be more than one reason to send an envoy."

===

TheLateLordBelton, now all one word in Merlin's head, had left behind him five children.

"John's the new Lord Belton," Arthur explained in a quiet aside. They had slowed a bit for the last leg of the journey, diplomatically letting Thwen ride ahead to give the Beltons some warning of their royal guest. "I have known him only as his father's man, but Sir Hugenaut says he is very . . . dignified."

"I've never heard that used as an insult before," Merlin said.

"You don't spend enough time with Sir Hugenaut, clearly."

Merlin kept his thoughts to himself. "Clearly."

"And then there's Luke and Fric. They're twins -- when we played together, you could only tell them apart by Luke's haunted expression." Arthur smiled to himself, soft and happy. "Now I hear Luke is a scholar, and Fric is only kept from being one of my knights by his duty to his father's land."

Merlin tried to nod wisely, as if he understood exactly what Arthur meant. It was good to see Arthur smile, at least.

"I know, I know," Arthur said. "Four sons and Belton couldn't spare one for the kingdom?"

Merlin nodded some more.

"The fourth son, Din, he's a half-wit. Some families would have quietly set such a child aside, but Belton and his wife cared for Din until Helena -- that's the fifth child -- was old enough to take over."

In Merlin's village, there had been a girl born half-witted. She would sit and watch motes of dust and straw float through sunbeams, gurgling happily. At one summer, at two summers, that had been sweet. Her smile was so true, Merlin's mother used to say she would grow up to be a heart-breaker. At six summers, at seven summers, it had hurt to watch her innocent, uncomprehending gaze. When Merlin left the village, she was starting her eighth summer in her isolated world, and her parents had not aged well.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Arthur looked at him sharply. "Yes. Well."

Merlin was suddenly embarrassed by his own sincerity. "And Helena?"

"I haven't seen her in years."

Arthur's face closed off. The conversation, it seemed, was over.

===

Merlin wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to feel about Helena. Some mixture of pity and distrust, perhaps -- the former for her loss, the latter the same nagging itch he felt about every woman who made Arthur shut down like that. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't this, an immediate sense of kinship that made him want to run forward and embrace her.

She felt it too, he was sure -- the shock of recognition in her eyes was quickly covered by her glance down and away, but he caught it and smiled.

"Lady Helena." Arthur bowed to her. "My father sends his deepest condolences, and bids you remember you are always welcome in his court."

She swept out a graceful curtsy of thanks. Her dress, greens and whites and threads of silver, fanned out behind her.

"My father and I were both deeply saddened by this news," Arthur continued. "I am here willingly to serve your family in any way I can."

"I thank you, my lord," Helena said, keeping her eyes down. Her skin, which on finer days might have had the same deep umber as Gwen's, was greyed with sorrow, her dark hair stark against her face.

There was a silence. Merlin looked around the hall -- it was richly decorated, fit to receive King Uther himself, but while everything was kept brightly polished and dust free, it looked disused, as if no one had had cause to celebrate here for a long while. The Beltons' whites and greens were seen in the heavy drapes, in the jewels and candles that during a feast would make the hall look as full and bright as the night sky, but now just looked distant and cold.

"My brothers have been sent for," Helena continued eventually. Merlin admired her calm, measured tone. "If you wish to see Din--?" She did not ask it as a challenge, but she could not quite hide the way she was steeling herself for disappointment.

"My father bade me send his support and condolences to all your family," said Arthur. "I would be honoured to speak to Lord Eldin."

Sometimes, Merlin was proud to serve his prince. He felt his mouth turn up as he watched Arthur stand tall.

"Merlin, the horses. And see to my quarters. And find some more of that oil."

Even that couldn't quite wipe the smile from his face.

===

Ambling from the stables to the kitchens, Merlin was just on the verge of remembering the order he was supposed to sort things in Arthur's quarters: check the sheets first, then unpack the bags, then-- No, check the heat first, then the sheets, then--

There was a thump, and suddenly Merlin was looking up at the sky. He'd hit a solid wall of-- Oh. "Hello," he said, weakly. "I'm Merlin."

"Hello," said the solid wall of person, offering him a hand. "I'm Alfric."

Merlin clasped his hand tightly, feeling the same shock of recognition he'd felt with Lady Helena. "Thanks," he managed as Alfric pulled him to his feet. He wasn't like some, not prickly and wary around new people, but he hadn't felt so much kinship, so quickly since that first time he helped Arthur fight.

They stood there, smiling at each other for a brief moment before Alfric looked away. As the smile fell away, he looked very tired.

"Where are you headed to, Merlin?"

"To the kitchens. Any tips for charming the cook?" It was always worth asking.

"I stopped charming Poppaea when I was six," Alfric said. "But I'm sure you'll do fine." He clapped Merlin on the back, nearly tumbling him over again.

There was an awkward pause. "Yes. Right. I should--" Merlin made vague motions with his hands. "Thank you?" he tried. The Belton's house, however grand, was not nearly as busy as Uther's castle; this was the first servant he'd seen here, and he wasn't quite sure how long this good humour would last. Sometimes they were funny when they learned he was Arthur's manservant, and Arthur need him not to mess things up today. "I'm to prepare the prince's quarters."

Alfric nodded encouragingly. "Of course, of course. I'm sure I'll see you later, Merlin."

Merlin smiled at him again, only partly from relief. First unpack the bags, then check the heat, then-- No.

"Merlin?"

Merlin turned round to see Alfic looking at him with a worried expression.

"Not that way," Alfric said. "If you want to get to the kitchens, it's much quicker to cut through the house."

Merlin gave him an apologetic grin. "I didn't want to get in the way."

"No one will mind," said Alfric, a little too quickly. Then, as Merlin made no move to leave, he continued, "The grounds are perfectly safe, of course, but if you can stay inside the house, perhaps you should."

"Ah." Merlin took another look at Alfric's frown and decided not to press the point. "Right."

===

Dinner was a quiet affair, held not in the main hall but in the new Lord Belding's private dining chamber. Merlin wasn't exactly needed, but Arthur had sent him to make himself useful anyway -- he was now just standing back, trying not to get in the way of the five servants buzzing about the place trying to do two men's work ten times as well.

Just as he was going to melt into the shadows completely, Arthur arrived with an entourage of Beltons.

Sometimes, when Arthur had been such a complete, royal prat that not even Merlin wanted to pick up after him, when Uther had wound Arthur up so tight he spat and strained against anyone who came near, when drink or pride had got the better of him, Merlin had to look hard to see anything more than a man. Sometimes, when Arthur had saved the day, when he'd acted with such grace and kindness and real, true royalty that Merlin's heart caught in his throat, when his hand rested on the small of Merlin's back, Merlin had to look hard to see anything less than a king. But today was the first time Merlin had to look hard to see anything at all -- the Beltons surrounded him, even worn down by grief still looking like home and comfort and love, and Merlin forgot Arthur was even there.

Magic, he thought, dumbly, stupidly. Of course. They were magic.

Helena, with her bright eyes and brilliant flicker of a smile, she had magic coursing through her. The tall, elegant man with long sleeves over ink stained fingers, he walked as if magic crackled in every step. Alfric -- and now Merlin saw them together, the family resemblance was clear -- gave Merlin a friendly nod that could just as easy have been a word of power. The half-wit, Eldin, gently guided by his sister's hand, seemed to be watching the magic dance between them with a fierce, joyful concentration. And behind them, tall, majestic, dignified, walked a sorcerer and his consort.

All but Eldin turned to look at him with expressions ranging from shuttered curiosity -- John, that must be -- to open, calm acceptance -- Alfric.

Arthur followed their gaze. "Ah, Merlin," he said. Then, to the family, "I hope my --" He barely hesitated, and Merlin prayed he was the only one to catch the swallowed word, idiot, as Arthur stopped himself. "-- manservant has not been making a nuisance of himself. Honestly, a man saves your life once and suddenly you have to put up with badly polished armour for the rest of your life."

He was smiling easily, though, as if the buzz of magic in the air was balm to him, too.

Merlin bowed ironically, making Arthur cock his eyebrows in amusement.

"If you will forgive me, I will begin with wine," Arthur said to the family. "I would drink to the memory of your father, and the good health of your future."

The Beltons, sad and worn and beautiful, raised their goblets.

This was how magic should be, Merlin thought fiercely. The strength that carried them through the storm. This was right.

===

As the meal progressed, Arthur and the Beltons grew more familiar with each other. Alfric became Fric, Lucius Luke, and Din -- who was never Eldin after Arthur's first courtesy -- stopped having his hands guided gently away from exploring the folds and shadows of Arthur's cloak.

This was the family Arthur deserved, Merlin thought, watching with equal parts joy and wistfulness -- for both himself and Arthur -- as even in their grief, they smoothed away some of the lines pressed in deep by Uther's court.

"Do you remember, Arthur?" Alfric was saying, his voice booming out to weak but genuine smiles. "When my father caught us tying Luke's boots to the tree?"

Arthur laughed. "I've faced down dead men less fierce than that."

Lucius gasped in mock horror, his hands with their scribe's callouses flying up to his mouth. "My boots? That was you?"

Alfric laughed, and Arthur nodded in grave confirmation. "Lord Lucius," he said, not keeping his lips from twitching up. "Can you ever accept my more humble apologies for Camelot's grave assault on the honour of your house?"

Helena leaned over to whisper in her brother's ear. The new Lord Belton and his wife watched on in fond indulgence, their warmth tempered by a stately distance. They looked more like Arthur than Arthur at that moment -- their detachment, while not cold, still set them apart.

"My sister, my guide in all things," Lucius said, "she tells me I should hold out for more than an apology."

Arthur feigned dismay, a graceful gesture that cut through Merlin's thoughts with the same nagging, unworthy itch he'd expected to feel around Helena. He swallowed it down, and tried to watch without wishing he too knew the secret to easing the weight on Arthur's shoulders.

"What more can I give? My cloak, perhaps?" he said, moving to shrug it off.

Eldin made a cry of dismay, his man's features transformed into those of a bewildered child.

Helena moved to hush him, trying to distract him with a gentle, repetitive chant. As the joy in the air dulled just a little, Merlin felt unworthy for ever having been jealous.

"A trinket, perhaps," Lady Belton spoke for the first time, her voice smooth and even. She stood out among the Beltons for more than her quiet -- she was darker still than her husband, with features more slight than anyone else seated at the table. "A token of Camelot's great affection for us." There was magic in her voice, too, though it was nothing more than the magic of a mother's song, and Eldin fell silent.

"A buckle from your boot, to replace the one taken," she continued.

Even Lord Belton chuckled at that, and the mood was restored.

"Of course, of course," said Arthur, smiling half in relief. "Merlin!"

Merlin scurried forward, conscious of the family's eyes on him. "Sire?"

"Merlin, fetch my hunting boots. The good ones."

Helena, still perched next to Eldin, nodded approvingly, and a cheer came up from the twins. Looking at them now, Merlin couldn't see how anyone could ever get them confused -- he smiled as he hurried to Arthur's quarters, wondering what other exaggerated memories Arthur had of his childhood.

When he returned with the boots, the mood had shifted again. A sombre, reverent silence had fallen over the family.

"--time. He was a great man, and a wise one. The kingdom is diminished without him, and my family has lost a true friend. When he spoke, it was an honour to listen." Arthur's goblet was held high in the air. "I thank you, John, Isolde, Lucius, Alfric, Eldin, Helena, for sharing your father with us."

In the quiet, Merlin leant against the doorway, watching them drink.

===

When Merlin attended Arthur this evening, it seemed the Beltons had taken their magic with them.

"Arthur?" Merlin said after the second time his query as to the state of the bedpan had gone unanswered. "What's wrong?"

Arthur shot him a look. "We've talked about this, Merlin. Acceptable questions a manservant may ask a prince range from 'More wine, sire?' to 'How else may I serve you?' without ever, ever passing through 'What are you thinking?'"

"And what questions may a friend ask another friend?" Merlin asked, a little more sharply than he'd meant.

Arthur sighed, waving his hand in even less of an apology than Merlin normally got. "Just go away, Merlin. I'll be fine."

"So you're not fine now?"

Arthur scowled. "This is not twenty questions. This is not one question. This is go away, Merlin."

The trick to Arthur-- Well, no, Merlin wasn't sure he'd ever work out all the tricks to Arthur, but one of them was the trick of hovering just enough to be annoying until he gave up and let you have your way.

Ducking the shoe thrown unenthusiastically at his head, Merlin tried again. "More wine, sire?"

Arthur scowled some more, but didn't throw the other shoe. "If you're going to hang around here reminding me why the stocks were invented, you might as well make yourself useful. My clothes need airing after the journey. And pick up that shoe."

Merlin nodded. "Of course, sire."

"Smugness doesn't become you, Merlin." Arthur wasn't as relaxed as he'd been earlier, surrounded by the family, but his stance softened just a little, and maybe that was enough.

They sat for a while, Arthur deep in thought and Merlin equally deep in clothes. Honestly, how many different doublets did one man need? And he mocked Morgana for her wardrobe.

"I am loath to say it," Arthur said, breaking the silence, "but it seems as if the death of Lord Belton might be the best thing that ever happened to this family."

Merlin made an encouraging noise.

"Lord Belton -- the late Lord Belton -- was a great asset to my father's court, but the family was never together like this before."

Merlin made some more encouraging noises.

"For god's sake, Merlin, stop that. You sound like you're gargling frogspawn."

Well, it looked like Arthur didn't need more encouragement now, anyway.

"I spent time with them, in my youth. Before Morgana came to our court, when my father felt I needed company. They -- we -- were all younger then, of course, but as recently as last year they were . . . different."

"Yes?" Merlin tried.

"Yes," Arthur said firmly. "The late Lord Belton used to punish them, and they never knew what they'd done wrong. It was-- My father was very fond of him. He was a great asset to our kingdom."

"Very firmly against magic, was he?" Merlin asked with a sinking feeling.

Arthur spared him a nod of approval. "So you do pay attention to some Albion history?"

"No," said Merlin. "Just a lucky guess."

===

The next day, Merlin was dismissed with the vague instructions to make himself useful.

The kitchen seemed the only place full of workers, but having incurred the wrath of Camelot's more senior maids one too many times, Merlin didn't take it upon himself to begin the tasks left undone around the house.

He felt the urge to wander towards the inner chambers, but that was probably more out of a desire to bother Arthur than any supernatural insight, so instead he made his way to the stables.

"What ho," a cheerful Alfric greeted him, pitchfork held halfway between the floor and a pile of foul-smelling straw. "Come to lend a hand?"

Merlin was not entirely familiar with the workings of courts other than Uther's, but he felt something was slightly odd about this. Some of that must have shown on his face, because Alfric grinned and, gesturing with his pitchfork, began to explain.

"The stable master," he said, straw flying off to the left, "has been taken sick. It's the same trouble," he continued, straw now flying to the right and covering Merlin with a fine assortment of stable muck, "that caught my father, we think. It's been going round a lot recently, ever since my father got ill."

Merlin, stepping out of the way of the last forkful of straw as it was thrown up in the air to punctuate "ill", felt some reply was expected of him. "But the rest of your family? Are they all right?"

The house would smell better than this, certainly, and have fewer missiles.

"Oh, never better," said Alfric, taking up another scoop of straw with similar gusto. "That, at least, is a blessing."

With "blessing", straw went everywhere but onto the pile.

Alfric followed Merlin's eyes to the floor. And the horses. And their clothes. "Ah," he said. "Talking and thinking at the same time is more Luke's domain."

Merlin made to take the pitchfork from him. "If I shovel for a while," he said, "will you tell me about your father?"

Alfric did not have a face designed for distrust, but managed to give him a suspicious look.

"I want to help Arthur," Merlin said, not bending the truth more than it could bear. And once he had finished shoveling under the cheerful eye of Lord Alfric himself, he could probably go back indoors.

Their father, Alfric said to the sound of Merlin's shoveling, was a great man. Alfric didn't seem capable of sitting still and talking when there was good, honest manual labour to be done, so Merlin -- easily shrugging off any thoughts of rank Arthur had tried to hammer into him -- set him to sweeping, a task that should not cause too much mess if he got distracted from it.

While TheLateLordBelton thrived, John's wife, Isolde, was sickly and unable to conceive, Din was far harder to engage, comfort or even control, the farmland always seemed one bad rainfall away from collapse and the siblings argued more than they spoke. This last remark was preceded by a flurry of sweeping so inept Merlin found himself longing for the cleanliness and good, fresh air of the stocks. Or he could head indoors.

When their father got sick, the servants and other villagers were touched, too, but the siblings suddenly found their place together.

"I could never call it a blessing," Alfric said, "but no burden is without some song."

Merlin, deep in thought, continued to shovel.

===

The kitchen was still full of workers, the stables now empty of mess, and after cleaning himself off, Merlin resigned himself to following the pull he felt towards the inner chambers.

He opened the door to find Helena washing Din. She didn't seem surprised to see him.

"You might as well stir that bowl," she said, nodding towards a cauldron in the corner. The whole room smelled of camomile, to soothe, and motherwort, to raise the spirits. As Merlin stepped closer to the brew, he could smell a hint of rosemary, which Gauis used to increase circulation.

"I always wonder," said Helena, washing her brother's arms with long, fluid motions, "if it was my fault."

Merlin kept silent, but tried to make an encouraging face.

"Is there something wrong?" Helena said. She was looking at him with mild concern.

Merlin stopped trying to make an encouraging face. "Go on," he said.

"Oh." She sighed, but made no move to speak further.

Din took that as his cue to start making a low, keening sound and swaying his head.

Helena quickly moved her hands away from him, giving him space to sway his whole body without touching her.

"Don't be alarmed," she said, a little defensively, as she checked to see Merlin's reaction. "Sometimes he finds touch difficult."

Merlin kept on stirring the mixture. It gave him something to do.

A moment later, speaking quickly over her brother's moans, Helena spoke again. "With Luke and Fric, people say they divided the tasks in the womb. Luke reads and Fric fights. I wonder what it was of Din's I stole."

Merlin looked away.

Maria, the fishmonger's wife's sister, had died in childbirth during Merlin's first month at Camelot. He and Gauis had been up all night, tending to her and the baby. The baby had lived. Merlin had gone to serve Arthur the next day -- late, of course -- with exhaustion written clearly across his face. He'd tried to pass it off as a bad night's sleep, but Gwen had told Morgana, and Morgana had told Arthur, and then Arthur's knees had, just for the briefest of moments, looked as if they might not bear his weight.

"I am apprenticed to the court physician," Merlin said, the words tumbling out before he could let himself think. "You're not-- It doesn't work like that."

Helena looked at him with weary eyes. "They all say that. An imbalance of the humours. A weakness in the mother's blood. But what if it was me? What he left something there, and I took it?"

"There is a letting of blood," Merlin said in a pale imitation of Gauis's most authoritative tones, "after every birth. It washes the womb clean, allowing each of us our own destiny."

Din continued to keen.

"It is very kind of you to say that," said Helena, reaching across to touch Merlin's arm in benediction. "And maybe that will be true of John's child."

"Lady Belton is pregnant?"

Helena's eyes did not leave her brother's face. "Perhaps you could leave us for now?"

Head low, Merlin left.

===

He had to talk to someone. He had to talk to Arthur. And if he was going to do this to the Beltons, after all they'd been through, then he would have to tell Arthur everything.

"Sire, Arthur, I have to tell you something." Merlin bit his lip nervously. This could be it. This was it. This was where his fate would be decided -- not in the ramblings of a caged dragon or the alignment of the stars, but here, in this room, between the two of them.

"Yes?" Arthur looked up, open, trusting. He had spent the day with John, going over the Beltons' titles and deeds.

Merlin felt his heart sink. "You remember when you-- When Gwen's father was ill, and I-- And you excused my outburst? And, and Will? Will from my village, who died? And when Lancelot--"

Arthur stood. He was looking at Merlin with a kind expression, the sort of fond weariness he might offer Merlin on the training ground. "I understand," he said sincerely.

"You do?" This was, this was good. He wasn't shouting.

"I had suspected."

"You had?" Merlin caught his voice rising in pitch.

"I am honoured that you trust me with this. Of course."

"You are?"

Arthur met his eyes with a measured, steady look. "Of course. There are many in my father's court like you." He looked down for a moment. "Apart from magic, my father is very tolerant."

"I--" Merlin was hit by the worrying realisation that whatever conversation he was currently having, it wasn't the one he'd thought he'd started. He felt like one of the more hapless knights in the solstice jousting tournament, knocked off his horse before he'd even leveled his lance correctly. "I'm not sure you understand."

"Merlin, you will always be my friend. I hope you did not doubt me in this."

Merlin's mouth opened and shut a few times, no sound coming out. He replayed the conversation in his head, trying to work out what on earth Arthur thought was going on. If the entire Belton family had burst into the room naked and dancing a jig, he couldn't have been more confused.

Arthur held out his hand. Merlin's hand was halfway to meet it before he could stop himself. "No, Arthur, look. You have to know, it's-- You--"

If he hadn't been watching closely, Merlin would never have caught the flash of surprised happiness in Arthur's eyes, like a child with an unexpected present. Before he could say anything more, the emotion was smoothed away.

"Merlin," Arthur said firmly, his hand still outstretched. "I am flattered. Honestly. And if things were different--" His eyes flicked down, then up again to meet Merlin's. "You must know I cannot."

Merlin had never been so lost in his entire life. He nodded dumbly.

"Will you shake my hand?"

Merlin seized Arthur's hand in his. Whatever had just happened, Arthur wouldn't make a request like that lightly. He took Arthur's hand with a mixture of gratitude and bone-deep disappointment. Tomorrow. He'd try again tomorrow.

===

The next day, Helena sent Merlin out to gather some more herbs -- camomile, rosemary, and meadowsweet, the last of which he had not noticed her use.

"Be careful," she said, looking at him seriously. "The woods in this area are not always--" She cut herself off. "Be careful."

Merlin tried to look sincere. "Oh, I'm always careful," he lied.

She looked liked she believed him even less than she'd believed his half-remembered midwifery. "Camomile," she said again, "rosemary and--"

"And meadowsweet." Merlin smiled at her. "Yes, my lady."

She laughed. "Does Arthur put up with this?"

Merlin didn't bother trying to hide his grin. "He copes."

The woods weren't nearly as dark and forbidding as those around Camelot, and without the expectation that any minute now Arthur would want to shoot something, Merlin found himself enjoying the mid-morning stroll. There was moss growing on the trees, and he stopped to watch two woodlice fight their way across a patch of it.

"Camomile," he said to himself, "and rosemary and meadowsweet. Hah!" He bent down to pluck something from a bed of wild flowers growing at the start of a clearing. Camomile. Yes. It smelled of spring, and of the flowers his mother would weave into their thatching each morning.

Tonight, he thought to himself, tonight he would tell Arthur everything. If Arthur wanted him gone, where better than from here? And if Arthur decided to have him beheaded, Merlin fancied his chances of escape rather better here than back at Camelot. At least Arthur's rage might die down before he got back home and could take it out on Gauis.

It was then, of course, that the howling began.

"Who's there?" Merlin call out, looking around for any sign of life. "What's wrong?"

The howling continued, like a cruel imitation of Din's guileless moans.

"Who's there?"

But the howl died away, leaving Merlin clutching a handful of crushed camomile.

===

The smell of the stables had been easier to wash away than the smell of Helena's herbs, and Merlin still stank faintly of camomile when he went to attend Arthur before the evening's dinner.

"Ah, Merlin," said Arthur, as if he'd discovered something mildly useful in the bottom of one of his pockets. He had been sitting to watch the fire when Merlin came in, and hadn't yet quite come back to the present. "What's that smell?"

Merlin shook his head. "Don't ask."

"The green tonight, I think," Arthur said. Then, brushing off whatever mood it was that fell whenever he was out of sight of the Beltons: "And you will dress up to attend me."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"What happened to yesterday, and the promises of eternal friendship?" Merlin felt moved to ask. He hadn't packed the feathery hat, but that was no guarantee of anything now that Arthur had developed the habit of sneaking whole bags along that Merlin never noticed.

"You wouldn't want me to treat you any differently now, would you?" Arthur asked, and Merlin could have sworn he was smirking.

"If it meant I didn't have to dress up?"

"I thought not!" said Arthur, clapping him on the back with the sort of good-spirited amusement that never boded well for Merlin. He left his hand there for a moment, apparently deep in thought. "Now, which hat tonight? I had Guinevere pack several different colours..."

Merlin buried his face in his hands. "Is this really what your father had in mind?" But it was good to see Arthur smile, even at his expense. Not quite good enough to spare Gwen when he got back to Camelot, of course.

"Fric and Helena tell me you've been making yourself useful," Arthur said, abruptly standing apart from him. "I thank you."

Merlin felt himself flush. "I--" He wasn't quite sure what to say. Arthur had asked him to, and anyway, it had been the right thing to do.

"Yes, well," Arthur supplied. "How do they seem to you?"

Merlin thought about the howling in the woods. It could wait.

Arthur greeted his silence with an eye roll. "Typical perception and insight, I see." He pointed to another bag Merlin would have sworn he'd never seen before in his life. "Your hats await."

===

Merlin and his hat stood to the side of the room while Arthur and the Beltons drank toasts to lords living and dead. Arthur's cheeks looked flushed as much with happiness as with the wine Merlin tried not to pour too often, and the preoccupation on his brow seemed to have lifted again.

The chamber was filled with peals of laughter when the hooded creature burst in.

It was the same unearthly moan Merlin had heard in the forest, but this time it was attached to a grey, shaking figure, wasted away to nothing more than rags, skin and bone. There was the same air of magic about it -- him, it was a man -- as about the Beltons, but instead of a comforting, gentle air, the man carried with him a miasma of fear.

He moaned again, and with the moan fell forward, his hood fell back, revealing the wrinkled face of a man who could once have been Thwen.

Merlin rushed forward to help him, and Arthur stood reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

"No!" Helena shouted out. "Stay back!"

A low rumble -- Lucius -- added, "He has our father's blight."

Merlin ignored them, resting Thwen's head on his lap as he felt for a pulse. It was too late, though, and Thwen's final moan became a death rattle.

Thwen, who'd done nothing worse than ride his hardest and wish for a softer bed. Thwen, who'd laughed at Merlin's weak attempts at humour. Thwen, whom Merlin hadn't thought of in three days, so wrapped up he'd been in his own worries.

Merlin had asked Gauis, once, how long it took for every death to stop hurting like this. Gauis had given him a long, measured look. "I'll let you know."

Din laughed into the silence. It was innocent, gleeful, so much like the laugh of the half-wit in Ealdor that for a moment Merlin was transported back to the child and her bone-weary parents.

As Helena rushed forward to quiet Din, the magic in the air was so palpable it almost crackled, and she leaned back in shock.

"It's us," she breathed, and from the looks on their faces the other Beltons knew exactly what she meant. "It's always been us."

The twins rushed to their sister, now weeping into her hands, and John stood to move between his wife and his prince.

"Don't you see?" Helena asked, eyes frantic. "We're doing this."

Arthur, alone of them all, still looked confused. "John?" he said.

"Sire," John said. "My sister--"

Lucius cut him off with a low, urgent tone. "Please, sire. For the sake of our father, will you give us a moment?"

As his brother spoke, Alfric looked straight at Merlin, the appeal clear.

Merlin stepped forward, all but taking Arthur's arm. "Arthur. We don't need to watch this."

At that, Arthur flinched away from the scene, turning from Helena's body, wracked with sobs, Din's gurgle of laughter, the protective, wary eyes of the older brothers, to look at Merlin. "Merlin," he said. "If you know what's going on, and don't tell me right now." Each word could have been chipped from a block of ice.

"Arthur," Merlin tried again.

"Right," said Arthur, and left.

===

Waiting outside, a thick wooden door between them and the Beltons, Arthur reached for Merlin's head in a rough, violent motion.

Merlin managed about as much as "Wh--" before the reason became clear -- Arthur was now holding Merlin's bright red, yellow-feathered hat with a scowl of distaste.

"Merlin," Arthur said, forcing the word out with clear effort. "Today is not a day for secrets."

Merlin drew a breath. "I'm not sure," he said, because every day was a day for secrets, "but I think they have been practising magic."

Arthur slammed his fist against the door, a dull thump of frustration and dismay. "No."

"I think," Merlin pressed on, "they didn't know it."

"How?" said Arthur, more weary than surprised. "How can you not know?"

"Hel-- Lady Helena seemed pretty shocked," Merlin pointed out. "I think they got their power from the people who got sick -- maybe even caused the sickness -- and I think," he continued, "I think they've just worked that out."

Arthur put a hand to his face for a moment, steadying himself against the news in a gesture too reminiscent of Uther for Merlin's comfort. "And when did you start thinking this?"

"I--" Too many lies, all stacked on top of each other like horseshit. "I wanted you to have one last meal with them," Merlin said. Then, when Arthur did not respond to that, "You seemed so happy."

Arthur looked as if he'd been slapped. "Yes, well, that worked out well." He put a hand on the door to open it. "Coming?"

===

Inside, Helena and the twins were standing together, their hands all clasped together, facing down John and his wife. Din sat between them, watching magic pass back and forth like it was the most beautiful toy in the world. The air smelled like a smithy, magic hitting magic with the power of steel.

Helena was shaking, her eyes silvery in the light.

"She's pregnant," John was saying, his whole body protecting his wife. "Would you take that away?"

"It's wrong," Helena spoke for herself and the twins, their magic aligned against their brother. The words were as harsh as metal scraping metal, and Merlin would have flinched away if he could. "Would you take away our people's lives?"

Arthur watched them with utter dismay. He was not afraid, nor even that curious, just angry. "You say this magic is powered by people's lives?"

Merlin nodded dumbly. In front of them, John's knees buckled, and sweat broke out on his brow. It was tinged pink, as if mixed with blood. One drop fell on the white of his cuff, leaving a stain.

"Then how can they waste it fighting each other?"

Merlin, the only one who seemed to have heard him, shook his head. This wasn't what magic meant. It couldn't be.

To the other side, Lucius fell to his knees, keeping his hands over his sister's. John stood a little taller, as if a weight had been lifted, and began to smile.

Alfric was shaking, a cut forming on his cheek, close to his eye. The blood shone bright as it began to trickle down his face.

It hurt to watch, and Merlin couldn't look away. He tried to step between Arthur and the magic, thinking maybe to protect him, but he found his legs too tired to move him. He looked down, and saw his hands beginning to age. Arthur, next to him, looked suddenly, painfully frail.

"I don't want to hurt you, Luke," John said. He had wiped the sweat from his eyes, leaving a long, dark smudge across his face. "Fric, Helena, all you need to do is stop and we can be together again, just as we have been."

One of Lucius's hands slipped away from his siblings'.

Grinning, now, John pressed the advantage, raising his arms as if to deliver a crushing blow. Then, just for a second, he hesitated, his eyes flashing to Lucius's hand, which was drawing something from his pocket.

"We could," said Lucius, holding a small, metallic object in one hand. "I know how to harness the power."

Din began to clap in delight, and John slowly lowered his hands again, fighting against some strong wind. The sweat was back, darker now, and it coursed down his face, into his eyes.

Beside him, Merlin could feel Arthur shake.

"No," said Helena. "No."

As if struck, Lucius let the thing -- a buckle, Arthur's buckle -- fall to the floor. "No," he agreed.

Merlin and Arthur stood together, watching, transfixed, as John raised his hands again. Even Arthur sensed that this was it. Merlin could feel him holding his breath.

Helena, Lucius, Alfric, they sank to their knees, cuts opening up on their hands and faces and arms. Blood trickled down Lucius's long fingers, over Helena's cheeks, onto Alfric's broad arms. They were shaking together, looking up at their brother, whose eyes were now completely silver.

"John," said a quiet, even voice, with no more magic than a mother's song. "Not this, too."

Like a sparrow shot from the sky, John's hands fell to his sides. "No," he said, an echo of his brother. "No."

And just like that, it was over.

The blood didn't stop, and it was a worn, shaking Alfric who stood and stepped forward, bowing low towards Arthur. "My lord," he said. His siblings moved behind him, John holding his wife's hand tightly. She was clutching at her belly, her face carrying a pain Merlin could not begin to think about. "We accept Camelot's punishment."

Merlin held his breath, waiting for the crushing blow.

"Go," said Arthur, as hollow as a bell. "Go and never come back." He did them the honour of looking at each of them in turn, and none shied away from his gaze. "I will tell my father you grew sick and died. There was nothing we could do." He stood and faced them. "There will be no more Beltons of Gloucester."

They moved closer together, all bowing.

"I will tell them you died loyal."

At that, Helena tried to speak. "Sire--"

Arthur held up a hand. "Leave. Now."

He turned and, Merlin at his heel, walked away.

===

The house was deserted that night. The servants had fled, and only their residual fear of the king had left even two horses for Arthur and Merlin to ride back on.

Arthur lay on one of the long seats in the main hall, staring up at nothing.

"I played with them as children," he said. "They were family to me." He closed his eyes against the world. "Is there no one left to trust, Merlin?"

"Arthur--"

Arthur took a breath as he sat up, rubbing his face in a weary gesture he seemed only ever to make when he and Merlin were alone. "We are very far from home," he said. "Perhaps tonight." He sighed. "Perhaps tonight we might have something more."

And moments from the last few days fell together like a vase unbreaking, like a wound stitching itself together, and suddenly Merlin understood the conversation they had, why Arthur's hand had lingered on his shoulder, and why this, right here, this was where his fate would be decided.

It would be easy, oh so easy, to let Arthur take him by the hand. He had touched almost every part of Arthur's body before, smoothing away pain and cleaning away wounds, coaxing humours into running their course, and this would be nothing more than that, nothing more than another way of easing the pain of his one-day king. There was nothing he would not do for Arthur, in that moment, to lighten the load, but instead he had to add to it.

"First, my lord, I must tell you something."

"Yes?"

It was the carelessness in Arthur's voice that broke him, the simple, unguarded readiness to hear whatever Merlin had to say. It was too much trust for tonight, now Arthur thought Merlin had already given himself away, but would soon be left holding nothing more than a fistful of ash.

Merlin couldn't find the words, so instead cupped his hands and drew in a breath, and he let it out he made a ball of silvery light form in his hands.

Arthur let out a breath of disappointment. "Oh."

Merlin stood there, stupidly, dumbly, holding out his hands with their rotted offering.

With another breath, Arthur stood taller. He reached forward, putting his hands over Merlin's and pushing them together, making the ball of light shrink.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Tell me this tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will rail against the heavens. Tomorrow I will ask the sky who there is left to trust, when Morgana does not care to hide her dreams, when Gauis knows more about magic than any living man should, when Guinevere has never proved her innocence in poisoning the well. Tomorrow."

His hands rested on Merlin's, holding a tiny pinprick of silvery light between them. Merlin nodded his head and the light vanished.

"Tomorrow," he said. He would try again tomorrow.

Arthur drew his hands back, the movement transforming him from one-day king to something no less, to Merlin's friend. "Tonight, I ask you for something else." He kept his eyes fixed on Merlin's. "You can say no."

Merlin, with his whole body, with his whole heart, said yes.

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