Archive of Our Own

After a long, harsh winter, Camelot is slowly seeing the beginnings of a new spring. The wind has lost some of its bitter bite, and seems to howl with less ferocity around the walls of the castle and the homes below it, while the ice on the wells is gradually becoming easier to shatter by those first to arrive.

As the weather abates, Camelot begins to come back to life, those who rarely ventured from their warm hearths starting to look further than their own walls. Warm winter cloaks are still clasped firmly around the inhabitants of the castle as they traverse the chilly stone corridors, but more and more people make the short journey to visit others who have kept their doors shut against the bone-deep cold that managed to seep through the walls.

The warming of the land means less work for Merlin and Gaius, which begins almost imperceptibly. At first there is a fall in the amount of people requesting remedies for chilblains and frostbite from those forced to endure the outside elements, and then a gradual decrease in other complaints of winter-related ailments. As the population begins to move around more to get away from rooms in which all manner of illnesses have been lingering over the weeks they have spent cooped up, the fresh, cool air helps to clear blocked noses and chesty coughs - or so Gaius claims. Merlin privately thinks it's so that he doesn't have to give out more remedies, because that way he won't have to travel into the woods to search for the ingredients to replenish his stock any sooner than he absolutely has to.

Even Arthur has done less over the winter, preferring to remain indoors than to force himself, and his knights, out into the snow and ice covered training field in their armour. He did it a few times, when the company of his father and the other nobles in the castle became too stifling for him, and each time Merlin fervently hoped it would be the last; the armour became so cold that his fingers shook for an hour after removing it, and the pain of trying to warm them up slowly over Gaius' fire is not something he wishes to have to do more than once a year - less, if possible.

Then the weather breaks and things start to warm up, heralding the beginning of 'real work', as Arthur informs Merlin one morning. Merlin would take offence at that, because it's not as if he's spent the winter lounging about doing nothing, except Arthur says it as he's shrugging into his chainmail ready for the first real training session of the year and looking like a little boy with a new toy sword.

"Are you sure it isn't still too cold for this?" Merlin lifts the shoulder piece and takes extra care placing it over Arthur's head. He hasn't actually hit Arthur with it since his second week as a servant, but after a winter spent without this particular chore he's just being prudent in the interests of saving his own skin.

"Any longer cooped up in here and I'll start to go mad." Arthur rotates his shoulder and nods for Merlin to continue, satisfied with the fit.

"You weren't already?"

Arthur aims his metal-clad arm at Merlin, and grins when Merlin ducks. "You're getting better at dodging."

The clasp finally fastens with a satisfying 'snick', and Merlin turns to pick up Arthur's sword, sheath and accompanying belt. "I don't like being whacked, you know. Especially not by hard metal and your bear-like arms."
"Bear-like?"

Merlin gives Arthur a narrow look as he settles the belt at Arthur's waist. "I'm not sure whether you're insulted or flattered, so I'm not saying anything else."

"Probably for the best. Are you done fussing, or do I have to put up with this for another hour?"

"Sorry, Sire, it takes time to get your pratliness into armour that fit much better before you overindulged at all those feasts Uther laid on." Merlin dodges another swing and grins.

"You're definitely faster." Arthur makes sure his sword is hanging properly and points a gloved finger at Merlin. "And I did not overindulge. I'm just wearing more layers. For the cold."

"Of course, Sire."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "One of these days you'll realise it's a title, not an insult."

"Maybe. Now, shove off and go beat the hell out of a bunch of knights who are also 'wearing extra layers'."

"I could have you put into the stocks for that."

"But then who would help you get your armour on over all those extra layers, Sire?"

"Shut up." It's more something to say than an order; Arthur's lips are twitching as if he wants to laugh as well, but isn't sure whether he can. "I want my chambers tidied when I get back. Perfectly."

Merlin can't resist. "Yes, Sire."

Arthur looks as if he's going to add something else, but instead turns and leaves in a flurry of red cape and shiny armour. Merlin looks around the room and sighs. Arthur's room is a complete mess, because he's been holed up in there for the worst of the winter, and Merlin finds it very hard to clean up when Arthur is right there, intent on getting in Merlin's way all the time. Of course, whenever he brings this up, Arthur invariably claims that it isn't his fault, because Merlin is incapable of doing a decent job anyway, which leads to an argument and Merlin storming out to find somewhere to be that doesn't include Camelot's prat of a Prince.

Sighing, Merlin resigns himself to a morning spent clearing out the accumulated mess surrounding him, knowing that, magic or not, if he wants to do a good job it's going to take a least a couple of hours. Arthur's also somehow managed to make several holes in the hangings around his bed, and Merlin half-heartedly glares at them. He reckons that even Arthur would notice if the rips were mended so well that they disappeared, which means he's got to do it by hand, not with magic.

Glancing out of the window Merlin watches as Arthur gathers his knights in the courtyard below, shivering in sympathy at the way their breath plumes before them in the cold air, then turns away to get started at his task.

—-

Merlin should probably be more concerned that, disregarding the incident with the renegade hedgewitch, he hasn't had to defend Camelot, or indeed Arthur, from any magical entities since the start of the year. it's a little difficult to be worried about something which is ultimately good, especially when he feels better than he has done in almost a year and a half, and his magic finally seems to be obeying him.

Gaius remarks on the oddness of the lack of attacks a week later, when they're both out collecting the first herbs to push up through the winter's leaf litter. Merlin shrugs and carries on searching for a particularly hard to find plant. "It's a good thing though, right? Less magical attacks on Camelot, less chance of us all dying."

"And less chance of you getting caught using your own magic," Gaius adds dryly.

"That too."

"It is good, I'll admit, but it also concerns me. Why have all reports of magic in the kingdom stopped as well?"

Merlin shrugs. "Maybe they all hibernate." He doesn't have to look to know that Gaius is raising his eyebrows at him, and smiles to himself. "Okay, maybe not. Can't we just be thankful for the rest?"

"Yes, if you want to risk being unprepared."

Merlin frowns. "For what?"

"When they return." Gaius gathers his robes out of the way and kneels to pick something faintly yellow and sickly looking. Merlin watches his careful motions and sighs.

"You want me to look through the book, don't you."

"So long as you're careful, it can't hurt," replies Gaius, and points with the tip of his collecting knife to a rotten log a few paces away. "You'll find the fungus I asked you to get growing on that. As much as you can get, please."

Predictably it's the worst smelling fungus in the entire forest, and when Merlin cuts into the spongy flesh it releases a plume of equally foul spores which stick to his clothes and hair. "Why do I always have to get the horrible things?"

"Because you need to learn," Gaius says, standing up awkwardly. The 'and because I can make you' is implied, Merlin's sure.

"Learn what? How to control my gag reflex?" He flushes as he remembers Will telling him reasons why doing that could be fun, and keeps his head bent over the basket until his cheeks have cooled.

Anyone else would be rolling their eyes, but Gaius doesn't need to; his eyebrows speak loudly enough. "How to collect whatever you might need, even if it's distasteful to you. Now, come on. There's a lot more to collect before it goes dark."

Merlin follows Gaius slowly, taking in the way life is returning to the forest. Over the past week the weather has warmed enough that new shoots are pushing up through the earth, and he can see the beginnings of new buds on most of the trees. His magic gives him a deeper sense of what's going on, though; he can feel the new growths, the vitality coursing through the plants around him as he walks. His blood tingles as he feels the thrumming of sap, making him feel as alive as the forest and making keeping his magic under control incredibly difficult.

Occasionally he sees a tree which hasn't quite managed to protect itself from the harsh frosts, its bark warped and the pull of life not quite so strong. Merlin reaches out towards one and sends just a little of his power into the almost-rotten wood. The difference is immediate. The bark shimmers brown and straightens, becoming whole and curving protectively around the trunk. The branches shudder and thicken, sap pushing its way to the very tips and sending out buds in a matter of moments.

Merlin smiles and starts to walk again, only to crash into a waiting Gaius.

"It was ill! And it was only a tree."

"And you'll only be beheaded." Merlin scowls but sighs and shoves the hand not holding his basket into his pocket, seeing the point of Gaius' words but not really wanting to. After a while, and several plants later, Gaius asks, "Did you know you could do that?"

"With the tree?" Gaius nods. "Not until I did it."

"What spell did you use?"

"I didn't. I just...sent some of my magic into it."

Gaius gets that conflicted look on his face where he seems to want to study Merlin like a patient, but at the same time he's a little scared. "We might have to experiment with that," is all he says. Merlin stares.

"You mean, do it with intent?"

"You intended to do it that time," Gaius corrects him. "I mean try it on a human, rather than on plants and the like." Sounding exasperated, he gestures to the forest as a whole. "Merlin, if you can give a tree the ability to heal itself by sending some of your power into it, imagine what you could do for a person."

"But wouldn't that be dangerous? What with Uther's ban on magic, and all?" Merlin's sarcasm seems to go over Gaius' head, he's that distracted by the medical possibilities.

"If the patient were unconscious, say, from a traumatic wound, then you might be able to aid the body to heal faster." Gaius starts mumbling to himself, and Merlin lets him, slowing his steps until Gaius is a little way ahead and he can get away with helping out the more sickly looking trees along their path.

And then, because he just cannot leave well enough alone, it occurs to him that there must be a better way to do this that doesn't involve finding every tree or plant that could do with a helping hand one at a time. This leads to Merlin lying flat on the forest floor, covered in leaves and uncomfortably aware of a sudden blinding headache.

Gaius is leaning over him, concerned but exasperated. "What did you do this time?"

"I - ow." Merlin tries to sit up and speak at the same time, but he's apparently only got the mental capacity to do one or the other, as doing both makes his head spin and threaten to split in half, or so it feels like. He settles for sitting first, aided by Gaius, and then speaking. "I tried to send my magic through the forest to anything that needed it, instead of doing it individually.

"Hm." Merlin recognises the noise Gaius makes when he's not sure what to think and keeps quiet, shutting his eyes against the now-painful sunlight. "It should've worked. You're certainly powerful enough for it to, and I can't think of any reason why it wouldn't."

"Probably just me then."

"Most likely," Gaius smiles slightly at Merlin's weak glare and subsequent grimace of pain, and hands him some fresh white willow bark. "Chew on that until we get back, it'll help." It tastes vile, as Gaius well knows, but Merlin manages not to gag or spit it out as they walk haltingly back to Camelot.

A large cup of only slightly better tasting willow tea takes away most of the pain, although a throbbing lingers behind Merlin's eyes. Gaius waits until the creases in Merlin's forehead smooth out before asking questions.

"What do you think it was?"

Merlin curls his fingers around the cup and inhales the pungent steam, shrugging carefully. "I don't know. One minute I was sending my magic out-"

"How?"

"Sort of like plants do, with those little roots? I was just trying to get to all the trees and whatever that could do with a bit of help, and I thought that'd be the best way."

"You were trying to water the plants with your magic?"

"Um. Yes?" Gaius puts his hands flat on his workbench, looks at Merlin's wide eyes, and sighs.

"You are, without doubt, the most unusual person I have ever met."

Merlin smiles weakly. "Is that a good thing this time?"

"Possibly," Gaius says fondly. "Can you remember anything else?"

"Not really. Just sending put the magic, and then being thrown back, only inside my head, sort of? As if there was something out there that didn't want me coming near."

Gaius' voice is sharp as he asks, "Something magical, an entity?"

Merlin shakes his head, wincing at the renewed pain it momentarily brings. "No, nothing like that. It wasn't a consciousness, more like a ward designed to keep other magics out." Gaius relaxes a little, nodding to himself and reaching for his books.

"Possibly an artefact; enough sorcerers made their homes in the forest for there to be some magical items lying around, forgotten."

"Uther hasn't destroyed them?"

"How could he find them? Not everything magical looks obvious, Merlin." Gaius opens one of his older books with a crackle of parchment and a flurry of dust, fingers careful as he starts flicking through it. Merlin watches for a while, soothed by the low murmuring as Gaius searches for anything useful, and pours himself another cup of willow tea to take to his room. Sleep is starting to look like a good option, if at all possible before Arthur sends for him.

"Was there anything else?" Gaius asks as Merlin goes to leave, "Anything you saw, or felt?"

Merlin stops on his stairs and leans against the wall, forcing his aching mind to think. "I can't think of anything. One moment I was imagining my magic spreading through the whole forest, and the next..."

Gaius purses his lips and nods. "Very well. Go, get some rest. And don't forget to tell me if you recall something. Could be helpful."

"Of course," Merlin smiles as Gaius returns to his books, muttering growing louder.

There is something, Merlin thinks as he slips under his blankets, but for the life of him he can't remember what it was.
—-

"Excuse me, my lady?"

Morgana turns to see a young maid standing by her door, holding a large arrangement of bright blue flowers. "Yes?"

"The girls and me, we thought you might like these to brighten your chambers, my lady."

"They're beautiful, thank you." The girl bobs a curtsy, then places the arrangement on a tall table and leaves quickly, nodding to Gwen as they pass at the door. Morgana smiles. "Gwen, what do you think?"

"Very pretty."

Morgana gently touches the blooms with her fingertips, frowning slightly. The flowers seem familiar, but she's certain she's never seen them before. Shaking off the feeling, she leans in and smells them, inhaling the sweet scent deeply. "They are, aren't they." A wave of dizziness, not unlike an impending vision, floods over her briefly and then fades. Gwen frowns, concerned.

"My lady?"

"It's nothing, I'm alright. Come," she says, brushing aside the lingering disorientation, "what elaborate concoction am I to wear tonight?"

Appeased, Gwen rolls her eyes and pulls open Morgana's wardrobe. "Nothing too fancy. I still remember what happened the last time you wore that dress with more laces than fabric and had a little too much to drink."

"I did not!" Grinning, Morgana throws her wrap at Gwen, who ducks and smiles wider. "Such a liar, on my life. For that, I think I shall wear it again."

—-

Merlin doesn't usually get hayfever, but whatever flowers have been brought in for the feast are obviously the exception. His eyes are red and his breathing difficult as he helps Arthur into his feast attire, fingers occasionally clumsy.

"Merlin!" Arthur frowns as Merlin overtightens the laces at one of his wrists, making the skin go white.

"Sorry, sorry." He hurriedly loosens the thin leather tie, swallowing against an itchy feeling in his throat. "Better?"

"Much, considering I now have circulation in that hand. What's wrong with you tonight?"

Merlin swings Arthur's cloak onto the prince's shoulders and shrugs awkwardly. "Hayfever, I think."

"In March?"

"Gaius says some people react to different pollens, so it can start as soon as the plants begin to bloom."

"Strange." Arthur turns slowly, arms held out. "Well? How do I look?"

"Like a prince."

Arthur stops turning and looks at Merlin with the expression of a man forced to deal with the village idiot one too many times. "I should hope so. In addition to that?"

"A very well-dressed prince," Merlin smirks and ducks Arthur half-hearted swipe. "You're going to be late, my lord, and if you don't walk Morgana in on time she'll tread on your foot when dancing again."

Arthur grimaces. "What a thing to look forward to." He looks down at himself, twisting to check his cloak is still hanging nicely while Merlin suppresses a laugh, and makes his way to the door. He pauses with one hand on the frame to say: "You don't need to be there, if the decorations are making you look like that. Just come for the main part of the feast, and then you can go again."

"Thanks," Merlin says with as bright a smile as he can muster with a sneeze threatening to burst. Arthur leaves with a slight smile, which Merlin knows will fade into a mask of politeness as he greets the nobles invited to the Spring Feast.

The sneeze, when it comes, leaves Merlin feeling lightheaded and a little disorientated; one of the curtains around Arthur's bed bursts into flames, and Arthur's practice sword begins to sharpen itself in one corner.

Merlin blinks away blue spangles and frowns at the flames, which put themselves out with reluctance. The whetstone and sword subside with less effort, leaving Merlin unnerved and shaky as he scans the room for any more spontaneous magic. Satisfied, if incredibly worried, he escapes to ask Gaius for something to help him get through the feast without a repetition of that alarming incident.

—-

The feast is typical of Uther: a display of his full royal splendour and power, bound within the conventions of the event. Pagan beliefs might be frowned upon, and the old religion persecuted for its unavoidable connections to magic, but there are some traditions that not even Uther Pendragon dares to ignore. The Spring Equinox is one of them, and as such the great hall of Camelot is festooned in boughs cut that morning from the forest, flowers tied amongst the foliage and arranged on each table.

In their court finery, costumes in all manner of shades of green and blue to complement the occasion, the knights and their ladies look like a moving forest as they dance to gentle music before the feast is served. That too is simple; no fanciful dishes tonight, but instead forest fare of stews, cheeses and bread, albeit of a better quality than anything ever eaten by those who actually live in the forest. Uther might allow the celebration, but he will make sure it is still a reminder of his wealth.

Merlin takes up his position behind the royal table and thanks whatever gods might be listening that Arthur had one of his noble moments. Even with the potion Gaius had practically forced him to drink the pollen in the air makes his eyes itch and his throat contract, making it difficult to pull in enough air. He manages, barely, by not moving and staying close to the doors through which the servers bring the food, the breeze from their passing keeping the majority of the pollen away from him.

Either Arthur seems to be understanding of Merlin's discomfort, or he really is as engrossed in talking to the portly woman on his right as he seems to be, but he asks less of Merlin than he usually does at such feasts. Aside from the occasional foray to fill Arthur's goblet he doesn't really have to move away from his mostly pollen-free position.
After what Merlin privately thinks are too many courses, he helps the other servants collect up empty plates and catches Arthur's eye, hoping he really can escape for good. Arthur looks up from whatever it is Morgana is talking at him about, and makes a small 'go on' gesture with his hand. Merlin smiles sympathetically as Arthur tilts his head minutely towards Morgana and rolls his eyes, clearly conveying his continued presence and what little he can do about it.

The corridors outside the hall are cool and blessedly free of pollen and everything else Merlin would rather avoid right now, like people.

Gaius tuts at his appearance when he returns, setting aside the potion he's preparing in favour of holding his hand out for Merlin's wrist. He takes Merlin's pulse, frowning as he counts. "How much worse do you feel?"

"Like I've been used as a practice dummy for Arthur's knights."

"So it's something you've had before," Gaius teases gently, chuckling.

Merlin just looks at him. "Could this be connected to what happened in the forest?"

"Hmm. Possibly." Gaius looks thoughtful, feeling Merlin's forehead with the back of his hand. "The only thing I've been able to discover is that you might have had an adverse reaction to a tree or plant, and I imagine there were certainly enough of those in the hall tonight."

"A plant is doing this?" Merlin gestures to himself, coughing as the movement dislodges a small puff of pollen on his sleeve.

"It's not uncommon in the rest of us mere mortals," says Gaius sarcastically, "and there does seem to be some precedent for it in those with magic."

Merlin swallows thickly and sinks onto a bench. "Can you do anything?"

"I haven't found any reference to a cure, although there is something that might give temporary relief. I'm afraid you're just going to have to cope with it, and hope whatever's causing this doesn't bloom for long."

Merlin's sigh turns into a hacking cough, making his eyes water. "Great," he chokes out. Gaius rests a comforting hand on Merlin's shoulder, then returns to his work. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You should try and get some sleep, ideally," Gaius replies, fingers deft as he measures something vividly green and viscous into one of the tiny medicinal bottles. Merlin shrugs, coughing fit subsiding.

"I'll need to be awake to help Arthur when he manages to escape the feast, so I might as well do something. Besides, I doubt I can sleep; I can barely breathe."

"Very well. Here, chop this." Gaius slides him a knife and the same pungent fungus Merlin had picked, now dried and curled into tough pieces. Merlin looks at both for a moment, wondering how likely it is that he's going to cough and cut himself. Then he starts chopping, because chances are he'll be able to heal it if he does.

They spend an hour or so working in a companionable silence broken only by Merlin's wheezing breaths and occasional coughs, quickly turning Gaius' store of herbs into potions, ointments and tonics to cure all kinds of illnesses. Away from the hall and surrounded by other scents, Merlin finds his breathing easing slightly and his eyes watering less. By the time a sleepy-looking page comes to tell him Arthur requires his presence the itchy feeling in his throat has subsided somewhat as well, so Merlin doesn't grumble as much as he usually does, glad to feel a little better.

Arthur's not drunk, but he is covered head-to-toe in pollen. Merlin tries not to breathe too deeply as he removes Arthur's cloak and tunic, holding the garments as still as possible to prevent any flurries of spores as he wraps them around each other.

"Feeling any better?"

Merlin coughs in an attempt to clear his throat but only succeeds in drawing some of the pollen floating in the air into his lungs, sending an unpleasant tingling through him. "Not really. And this isn't helping; what on earth happened?"

Arthur shrugs as he climbs into bed, hair already mussed from taking off his shirt and making him look less like a prince and more like an ordinary man, accessible and touchable. It's these times, when Arthur is merely tipsy instead of drunk, warm and affectionate in the flickering candlelight, that Merlin finds himself remembering most when Arthur almost gets himself killed.

He doesn't think too much about what that might mean.

"Nothing happened; there's just a lot of pollen in those blue flowers the hall was decorated with." He scrubs a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. Merlin stares, caught, and wonders how it would look if he ran his fingers through it. "I think pollen is difficult to remove, so you might need to ask Gwen or one of the laundry maids to help."

Merlin blinks and swallows, the moment gone. There must be something in the air tonight (other than illness-inducing pollen), because Arthur never normally gives any thought to how hard it might be for him to complete one of his chores. "I'll do that. Anything else, or can you cope on your own for the rest of the night?"

Arthur throws a pillow at Merlin, which is normal, and laughs when Merlin throws it back. "Go, and take your hayfever with you."

"Sire." Merlin bows as the pillow sails towards him a second time, letting it fly over his head and hit the wall with a dull thump, then leaves, taking the pollen-covered clothing with him. Arthur's shout follows him down the corridor, but Merlin figures he can get away with it. Besides, he needs to get rid of Arthur's clothes before he chokes on the pollen rising from them.

There's no one in the laundry, not surprisingly, but Merlin can't bear the thought of keeping the clothing with him until it's daylight and he can give it to one of the maids personally, so after some thought he leaves the bundle on top of one of the counters used for sorting out garments. It'll be easily seen, the expensive red dye marking it as Arthur's even if they don't immediately recognise it. He frowns down at the bundle for a moment before leaving, a memory almost surfacing; something to do with blue flowers, and his headache of two weeks ago, but it fades without making any sense.

Gaius is asleep by the time Merlin returns, room tidy. There's a small bottle sitting in the middle of the worktable, with a note telling him to take one mouthful if his 'hayfever' stops him sleeping. Merlin reads the note by the faint light of the candle Gaius has left burning, then blows out the flame. He undresses in the weak moonlight and falls into bed, drinking down the remedy in two gulps and wincing at its bitterness.

Sleep crashes down on him as easily as any other night, although it does take him a few minutes to find a position that allows him to breathe with some degree of normality.

—-

Morgana is also asleep and in bed, but nowhere near as peaceably as Merlin. She tosses and turns, eyes moving frantically under her eyelids as she Sees fragments and hints of things that she knows, even nearly unconscious, should never happen.

Destruction, Camelot burning, flames leaping tall over the castle to bracket the forbidding sky. An unearthly scream comes from the earth itself, it seems, as Morgana sees but cannot reach a body wearing a charred red coat. The crumbling of stone sounds a death knell as scorching heat drives them back, away, out into the darkness.

Or maybe famine, crops rotting in the fields, every ruler's nightmare but no ruler to help - Uther lies in state, funeral robes stark against his sallow skin, no Arthur to be seen, only his crown resting on his father's still chest. There are few people around her, thin and weary of what life has dealt them.

Morgana shifts and whimpers, distressed by what she is Seeing but not strong enough to drag herself out of the visions. The sheets twist around her body as she fights against the pull of magic exposing her to things she knows would break the land itself, never mind the city.

Then-

A rich harvest, wagons of grain and produce entering Camelot in a constant stream as she watches from somewhere above. The people are hale and healthy, Uther looking on with the expression of a man with hard-won pride for his country. She searches, worried, tries to direct the path of the vision to see Arthur. Her heart beats frantically as she remembers fire, but then he strides into the scene with Merlin trailing him, and her heart slows.

Another time, another place. A castle by the sea, she can hear the pounding of the waves along the shore, backdrop hidden by soft night as she watches Arthur speak softly to a richly dressed Gwen, watching her leave with contentment on his face and a crown on his brow.

The bolder and clearer dreams fade, Morgana not waking though she calms as the final visions display a safe and strong kingdom. She falls deeper into sleep, and if any more images present themselves to her, good or bad, she doesn't remember them come morning.

The glow surrounding the flowers by her bed fades as the pollen clouds above them and is drawn silently away, taking with it the disturbance to Morgana's rest.

**

All over the castle the pollen gathers, controlled by a distant will that merges each of the tiny grains together into an immense swarm. Drawn from skin and clothing, bedsheets, tapestries and most of the furniture in the great hall; it is silently moved along deserted corridors until it reaches the rooms of the court physician. At the door it pauses, acting almost like a sentient being, flinching back as subtle and secret wards repulse it momentarily, until the entity controlling it gathers their power and forces the fine grains of pollen through the cracks in the door.

The cloud ignores Gaius, who sleeps on undisturbed, and moves through the air to reach the door at the opposite end of the long workroom, slipping through the gaps effortlessly.

Merlin sleeps easily enough, apart from the occasional cough, flat on his back and sheets tangled around his waist. The consciousness guiding the pollen pauses and contemplates its next action. After a mere minute of thought, it reaches out and gestures downwards with the flat of its hand.

Across the distance the mass of pollen mimics the consciousness' movement, floating downwards to cover Merlin's sleeping body. A whispered word and the pollen moves inwards, layering all the bare skin on show with a thick covering of pollen that glows a sickly white colour. It only takes a short while for Merlin to breathe enough into his body for a reaction to occur.

The spell carried on the pollen is from the Old Magic, the wild magic that came before any Druid tamed the power into ley lines and bound it in stone. Merlin's magic comes from the same source, albeit a much purer one than was used to discover the workings of the spell. His magic reacts to it instinctively, wrapping it in magic and casting the spell without Merlin ever waking up.

The result is instantaneous.

Merlin's back arches as more magic than he has ever drawn from within himself spirals outwards, shimmering with an echo of the gold that flares beneath Merlin's eyelids as it spreads like ripples from a stone dropped into water. He almost wakes as it spreads around Morgana, an anomaly the being did not know how to factor into the spell, but settles back into fitful sleep as the magic smoothes out. It hits the walls of Camelot and partially rebounds; the returning waves make Merlin speak a string of intelligible words, laden with power.

The magic fades into the landscape, sinking into the very walls of Camelot with nothing more than a brief glow, not unlike moonlight. Then—

Something breaks. Like a hair snapping when pulled too tightly, the infinitesimal build of tension for a brief moment and then a jerk of the hands holding the filament. A shudder runs through the air, invisible but powerful, as an indescribable quality changes. For a brief moment everything pauses and hangs, weightless, in a balance finer than anyone can comprehend. And then, struck by the hammer-blow of Wild Magic, it happens.

Time itself shatters.

A flood of ethereal mist rushes throughout Camelot, silent in its travels but affecting more than anyone may dare to imagine. For the most fleeting of moments the echoes, or what the echoes of things yet to happen might be, appear as ephemeral forms along the corridors and in the streets. Then the mist passes on, leaving behind no trace of its changes.

When a mirror shatters, some small shards can never be found and placed back in their original position, and so it is for Time. Some clear destinies are lost in the sundering, swept away and replaced by altogether cloudier futures, while a simpler path is laid out for a few of the unsuspecting. The pollen, having served its purpose now that the spell is complete, fades back to its original paleness, then further until it vanishes completely.

Merlin, exhausted by means he has no knowledge of, sinks back onto his bed and into sleep as his breathing eases. The being watches for another moment, the magic bound to the pollen which allowed it to watch lingering until it turns away almost angrily, if it can't bear to look at the warlock across the time and distance that separates them any longer.

Merlin wakes with another splitting headache but with a clear throat. Gaius tells him it's a fair trade, but Merlin, trying not to do anything so provocative as breathing, disagrees just a little.

—-

March slips into April uneventfully, and it isn't immediately obvious that something has happened. Only one incident catches Merlin's attention, though more for it's rarity than for any possible magical connection. He's in the armoury mending chainmail when Arthur returns from a hunting trip, cheeks glowing from the chill air and smelling of the forest. Merlin expects him to drop his weapons and leave, but instead Arthur sits by him and starts to clean his own sword.

"I thought that was my job."

Arthur looks up briefly, smiling. "A good knight needs to know how to take care of his own sword." He offers nothing more, and after a moment of watching the sure, even strokes of the whetstone (and definitely not remembering the time it had moved on its own), Merlin shrugs and returns to his own work.

They sit in silence until Arthur starts to talk about the hunt, describing how the sudden appearance of a boar had spooked Sir Mortain's horse and unseated him. It's odd, certainly, but Merlin puts it down to Arthur being in one of his peculiar moods and lets him ramble. He enjoys the quiet companionship of it, if he's honest.

It only occurs to him later that Arthur was acting in much the same way as he had on the night of the Spring feast, and this time he hadn't had anything to drink. Merlin debates mentioning it to Gaius, but then Arthur tells him to wear the Hat and in the midst of the ensuing argument he decides it's not worth the bother.

—-

A few weeks after the equinox, Morgana is starting to think she's going mad. It's either that or her visions are starting to happen while she's awake, and that is not something she wants to contemplate too much. Gwen hovers worriedly as she helps Morgana dress, frowning at the dark circles under her mistress's eyes and how her hands tremble with fatigue. "My lady-"

"Gwen..."

"Morgana, then; do you not think you should speak to Gaius? Your dreams are-"

"My dreams are no better and no worse than usual, Gwen; it is my waking hours that trouble me."

"He might be able to help, that's all."

"I doubt it." Morgana looks at Gwen's concerned expression and sighs. "But it wouldn't hurt to visit. I'll go after breakfast, does that please you?"

Gwen nods, her frown easing. "Yes, for all you take it so lightly. I don't like seeing you so pale and drawn, not when he might be able to help you."

A maid knocking to tell Morgana that the morning meal is ready negates the need for her to answer, and she escapes from Gwen's well-meant worrying with mingled relief and guilt. She keeps her eyes downcast as she hurries to the hall, avoiding looking too closely at anybody she passes. Recently all it has taken for a dreamvision, or whatever the flashes might be, to show itself to her is eye contact with another, or in one alarming instance the preceding sound of a conversation floating down a corridor.

Uther seems not to notice that Morgana is quiet and not her usual animated self throughout breakfast, focusing on the food and trying to decide how to form her explanation to Gaius. For all he appears to be sympathetic towards her...gift, dreams that can be avoided by the use of a sleeping draught are somewhat different to visions which occur when she is fully conscious. Near the end of the meal Uther asks a question of her, and Morgana looks up.
She sees Arthur looking at his father contemplatively, as though Uther has made a remark that requires thinking about before he can make a reply. But then—

She Sees - for that is what this is, she realises with a heavy heart, the Sight - a ghostly Arthur, sitting in the same place with the same clothes, the same meal, same posture, slamming his fist down in fury and leaning forward to look at an oblivious Uther, the anger in his face suddenly visible when no longer superimposed over the real Arthur's.

"Morgana? Are you well?"

Morgana blinks rapidly, willing the image away and turning her head away in shock. "I slept ill last night, my lord. I plan to see Gaius as soon as I am finished here."

Uther nods, satisfied, and returns to his conversation with Arthur. Morgana looks down at her plate with fierce concentration, desperately hoping that when she looks up the second Arthur will no longer be there, taunting her with evidence of her power in front of Uther Pendragon. She swallows hard and glances up, bracing herself for—

Nothing. Only Arthur, gesturing in a way almost designed to knock over the jug of water near his elbow. Morgana licks her bone dry lips, abruptly aware that she is shaking. "My lord, may I be excused?" Uther distractedly waves his permission, still deep in conversation with Arthur.

Morgana walks as quickly as is seemly to Gaius' rooms, no longer sure of the wisdom of keeping her gift hidden and repressing the dreams she is plagued with. Gaius isn't there when she sweeps in, but Merlin is. He looks up, startled, hands frozen in the act of grinding an herb of some description.

"I must see Gaius at once. Where is he?"

"H-he's gone to see one of the women in the town. He won't be back for a while." Morgana grits her teeth in frustration, hands clenching in the fabric of her dress. Merlin seems to recognise that she is thinking deeply, continuing with the pestle and mortar. Whatever is in the stone bowl smells sharp, its fragrance easily distinguished even over the myriad other scents in the workroom.

"Could you find me when he returns? Please?" The twitch at the corners of Merlin's mouth leads Morgana to believe that it's rare he hears a noble say please for anything, and if she were feeling her usual self she would track Arthur down and tell him off. That she doesn't want to speaks volumes.

"Of course. He'll probably be back this afternoon, unless it's a really complicated case."

"Thank you." She goes to leave but stops with one hand on the door latch, a wild thought occurring to her. "Merlin, have you noticed anything unusual recently?"

"In general, my lady, or specifically?"

"Either."

Merlin rests the pestle on the workbench and tips the contents of the mortar into a bubbling pot resting over a brazier next to him. He opens his mouth to speak but then frowns, apparently thinking better of it. "Apart from Arthur mending his own coat, and cleaning his weapons, I haven't."

"That in itself is curious, but not what I was thinking of," replies Morgana wryly. Merlin shrugs, turning away to reach down a bottle from one of the shelves.

"Sorry I'm not more help," he says, and Morgana smiles a little at the amused note in his voice. Maybe she will speak to Arthur after all.

"No matter. Just make sure-"

"To come and get you when Gaius returns, yes, my lady."

"No wonder Arthur thinks you're an awful servant, if you interrupt him like that."

"He's getting used to it," Merlin grins. "Anything else I can help with?"

"No, that was all. I'll be in my chambers, and if not then Gwen will know where I am." Merlin nods, and looks down at whatever instructions Gaius has left him, reaching for a measuring spoon. Morgana watches him working carefully, already returned to the state he seems to be in most of the time, focused on one thing and half-oblivious to everything else. She closes the door quietly and walks back to her chambers, so deep in thought she doesn't register if she passes anyone.

—-

Merlin sets down the bottle of- actually, he doesn't know what it is. He picked it at random, needing to turn away for a moment so that Morgana didn't see the sudden fear cross his face, the effort of keeping his voice light and amused. He leans on the workbench and lets his head hang down, breathing deeply to try and calm the racing of his heart. The wards Gaius researched, and that Merlin cast in the silence of nighttime, should have alerted him about someone approaching their rooms, but they hadn't even twitched when Morgana arrived. The only thing he can think of is that her magic, which Gaius will still only hint at, must protect her in some way.

With over-careful hands he sets aside the ingredients scattered over the bench, taking the pot containing the potion's base off the flame and leaving it to cool. It would be better, Merlin feels, if he were to do something that requires less concentration, just until Gaius returns and can help him check the wards. He makes sure the latch on the door is down and uses a little magic to make it stick slightly, so between it and the wards he'll have ample warning if someone else wants entrance, then sets to cleaning the room thoroughly. It's not something he does that often, and rarely with such determination, but it helps him to calm down and get his thoughts in order.

The pull which tells Merlin that Gaius is coming towards the door is less reassuring now what he knows it doesn't work on everyone. Merlin finishes setting the last of Gaius' books back onto the newly fixed and clean shelf, then turns to look down at his mentor. Gaius is standing in the middle of the floor, looking in some considerable shock at the neatly ordered herbs, freshly labelled bottles and scrubbed workbench.

"Merlin?"

"Up here." Gaius looks up at Merlin, standing on the wooden platform, now made much more stable with the use of several spells since the first time Merlin stepped into the physician's room.

"Am I going mad?" He turns slowly, taking in everything one more time. "It looks like the room is tidy."

"I, um," Merlin stares at his feet, then sighs. "Morgana walked without the wards reacting. It put me on edge, I suppose. I couldn't concentrate on the stuff you told me to make, so, ah..."

"You cleaned up instead." Gaius says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, only his raised eyebrows indicating how unlikely the situation is. Merlin nods vigorously.

"Exactly."

Gaius sighs heavily. "I thought the wards would inform you of anyone approaching?"

"They do. Normally. The only person who's been able to get in without me knowing is Morgana, and I don't know how it's possible!" He leans on the railing, tilting forward as his body tries to emphasise the point for him. Gaius frowns worriedly.

"Get down from there, you foolish boy, before it gives way again."

"It's fine. She wanted to talk to you, actually; should I go and get her?"

"I think we had better deal with the wards first, or at least begin. Now, please," Gaius says, louder this time, "get down from there."

Merlin rolls his eyes and edges his way to the ladder, saying "I made it stronger. It's fine," as he carefully gets back down onto the stone floor.

"Considering what happened with the wards, I'm not completely sure about how much trust we should put in your magic right now." Merlin opens his mouth to defend his abilities, then stops because Gaius is right, damn him.

"Can you think of why Morgana might have been able to get past them?" Merlin asks, watching Gaius peer at the labels he'd spent half an hour painstakingly copying from the old, faded tags and then a further half-hour perfecting a sticking spell to stop the labels coming off if someone (i.e. Merlin) accidentally spilt water over everything again.

"Did you do all this?"

"No, it was the other warlock who works here." Merlin smiles at Gaius' frown. "I do listen to you sometimes, you know; you were moaning about the old labels last week."

"Hm. It seems you can be trained after all." Gaius chuckles at Merlin's grimace. "Don't worry, I won't tell Arthur." He stows his physician's case away and moves to the lower bookshelf, pulling out several tomes that had felt strange when Merlin had taken them down in order to clean the shelf. "Here, take a look in these. They're where I found the wards, so there might be something."

"Is there magic actually in the books?"

Gaius gives him a sharp look. "Some teachings say that you cannot commit a spell to paper without also including some of the power needed to make it work. Why?"

Merlin shrugs, opening the first of the books. "I can feel it, that's all." It's a long moment before he hears the crackle of parchment from the book sitting in front of Gaius.

—-

Morgana paces her chamber, skirts swirling as she reaches the wall and turns abruptly. There's something niggling at her, a comment or something she saw in passing. The problem is, she reasons, starting another crossing of the room, is that considering recent events she has no idea whether what she saw was truly happening, or if it was one of the curious waking dreams plaguing her.

The window is at the end of this turn, as it has been at the end of alternating turns for the last hour or so, and Morgana pauses to look out. All she can see are a few merchants leaving Camelot with their wares and a small group of men returning from a day's hunting, Arthur not amongst them.

It irritates her, that she can't remember what it is that seems so important. She rests her forehead against the cool glass and thinks, forcing her mind to retrace her steps that day. Nothing has floated into her mind when a knock at her door brings her out of her thoughts, so she gives it up. Calling out an acknowledgement, Morgana smoothes her skirts and looks round. Merlin pops his head in, still curiously hesitant to enter a lady's bedchamber on his own.

"My lady, Gaius is back. He'll see you now, if that's okay?"

Morgana nods, smiling a little. "Thank you, Merlin."

He follows her to the physician's rooms, chatting amiably about nothing of consequence. It pulls her further out of her thoughts, and she feels her mood brightening as he recounts a tale about something in the kitchens. He steps past and opens the door for her as they reach Gaius' room, the deferential bow of his head doing nothing to hide his smile.

"I don't care what Arthur says, you're an excellent servant," Morgana says as she enters the room, smile growing.
"Only when he wants to be, my lady." Gaius is poring over a book laid on his workbench, all of the paraphernalia she had seen Merlin working with earlier cleared away.

"Arthur tells me a knight needs to know how to fend for himself, so really I'm just helping him become self-sufficient by being useless." Morgana can hear the grin in Merlin's voice, and laughs.

"I'd like to hear you justify it to him like that; you'd be in the stocks for a week,"

"I told him yesterday, my lady," Merlin replies, still grinning as he crosses the room to take Gaius' medicine basket off its hook. "I'd better get on and deliver these. Is there anything else that needs taking?"

Gaius frowns, taking the case off Merlin and peering into it. "No- oh, yes, here." He places a small phial of something faintly purple into the case, then closes it and hands it back to Merlin. "There. I presume you know where it goes?"

"Yes, Gaius." Merlin rolls his eyes and swings the strap over his shoulder before making a half-bow in Morgana's direction. "My lady."

She inclines her head in return and watches as he leaves, closing the door tightly behind him. "He isn't as bad as you or Arthur like to make out, is he."

"Not at all. He did a good job of tidying this place, after all." Gaius indicates the room at large, still intent on his book. Morgana knows that, no matter who is waiting for his attention, Gaius will stop when he is ready to. She looks around instead, taking in the freshly scrubbed floor and well-laid fire, the many books no longer haphazardly stacked but tidily ordered on proper shelves.

"He did all this? It looked dreadful when I visited this morning."

"He did." Gaius closes the tome and straightens, pulling a pained face as his back complains. "You must've made him realise how bad it was; he spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon on it."

"I didn't say anything though," she says, slowly walking along the line of shelves behind Gaius' bench and looking at the myriad neatly labelled jars on them.

"Your presence was enough, my lady. Now, what can I help you with? Merlin made it clear it has some importance?"

Morgana swallows, wondering, and not for the first time, how perceptive Merlin really is. "My dreams, they're...stronger, in a way."

Gaius lifts an eyebrow. "In a way?"

"They—they come when I'm awake, now. I see things when I'm walking around the castle, or speaking to someone." Gaius purses his lips, frowning deeply as he looks at her.

"Are you sure of this? It isn't merely a lack of sleep making you think you're seeing...ah."

"Seeing things?" she fills in dryly, and shakes her head. "I'm sleeping better than I have in quite a while."

"The visions, or whatsoever they might be-"

"Gaius, enough of this. I have the Sight." Morgana stops her slow pacing and looks him dead in the eyes, daring him to give any more excuses. "There, it is said; can you please do something other than give me a sleeping draught strong enough to send a lesser woman to the gates of hell?"

Gaius looks away and sighs heavily. "How did you know?"

"One of the maids thought it was perfume. She was unconscious for three days before coming round." The physician smiles wryly and gives her a measuring look before motioning for Morgana to join him by the workbench.

"My lady, I'm sure I don't need to tell you the dangers of this." Morgana doesn't answer; she has no need to. "Very well. The Sight is not something to be taken lightly, even in an...accommodating atmosphere. Those with the ability are often made outcasts from their homes, simply because they can see the future."

"I have no intention of making this common knowledge, Gaius, you needn't worry."

"It never crossed my mind, my lady. Now, this," he indicates the large book in front of them, "may have some of the answers. I was hoping it could tell me how to block your dreams, but..." he trails off as Morgana shakes her head firmly.

"No, not any more."

"Morgana-"

"Do I need to remind us both about Sophia? I saw it happen, and if I'd had more faith in what my dreams meant I could have prevented Arthur's near death."

"But he didn't die, my lady." Gaius speaks as one would to a fractious child, calming and placating as Morgana grows increasingly agitated.

"Only because Merlin was there at the right time!" She takes a deliberately deep breath and slowly unclenches her hands from the fists they have curled into. "I understand that you wish to protect me, I honestly do, but I don't need it. What I need is to learn how to use this magic I have. You've surely helped Merlin; there must be something you can do for me. Or," she hesitates, "perhaps you know of someone else who can?"

Gaius is silent for a long moment, head bowed in thought. Morgana understands the weight of what she has asked him to do, and what the consequences will be if either of them forgets to be careful, but for herself she is willing to risk them. For Gaius it isn't so simple; he has Merlin to think of, and the patients he tends to throughout Camelot.

Finally he nods slowly, more to himself than to her, and reaches for the book. "I know of a few things which might be able to help, my lady. Potions to clear your mind of the unimportant visions, or to send you into a deeper state of sleep in order to See more clearly."

Morgana doesn't push his acquiescence any further by asking how far he is willing to help, but instead asks: "Are they easily made?"

"For the most part. The ingredients are common enough, and readily found in the forest. Those that aren't can easily be obtained from a merchant without any undue suspicion." He smiles up at her briefly, adding, "there are some perks to being the Court Physician, you know."

"I don't doubt it." Something in his words makes her frown. "What is it?"

"The potions themselves are easy to brew - even Merlin could do it - but it's what makes them effective that could be problematic."

"And that is?"

"Magic, my lady. Words of power spoken over them at intervals during the process."

"So Merlin couldn't do it," Morgana says teasingly, and then loses Gaius' reply in a rush of grey, her ears flooded with the echoes of a thousand conversations. She blinks, and her breath catches in her throat as she Sees-

Merlin stands on the lowest step to his room, hands raised with his palms facing the room. No sound reaches her, but she sees his lips move and his eyes flash gold as furniture begins to lift itself off the floor. A broom sweeps rapidly from one side of the space to the other, gathering dust and general detritus as it goes. Morgana tears her eyes from it and looks back at Merlin, feeling her shock almost as a physical blow when she sees him leaning against the archway with an unconcerned expression.

The effort of holding table, chairs, bed, everything off the ground and at the same time directing a broom seems to mean nothing to Merlin. With no more than a flick of his fingers the furniture drops gently back into their places, the pile of sweepings in turn lifting itself into the fire.

The walls begin to blur around her as Morgana takes a good look at Merlin, watching as his eyes fade back to their normal hue. He seems unaffected by the show of power as he pushes away from the wall and begins to remove bottles from the shelves—

Before Morgana can See anything else the vision fades, the blurred edges rapidly drawing in and sending her back into the present. Gaius has a hand on her arm, shaking her gently with a concerned expression.

"I take that back," she says shakily, "Merlin is more than capable of making those potions."

—-

Arthur's getting changed when Merlin walks in, which leads to some slight, undignified flailing as Arthur hurries to get the tunic wrapped around his head off so he can see who would dare barge into his rooms without announcing their presence first. When he does emerge it's with a flushed face and feeling mildly irritated. "Merlin, do you understand the concept of knocking?"

Merlin smiles sheepishly. "Yes? But you're normally with the king by now, so I don't generally bother."

He might have a point there, but, "Regardless, you should knock, just in case I'm...I'm..."

"Getting stuck in your tunic?"

"I'm beginning to think you really do like being in the stocks," Arthur says, and has to turn away from Merlin's answering grin. He can hear Merlin clattering around, clearing the table, stacking plates and making the odd uncomplimentary remark about Arthur's untidiness that he pretends not to hear, and it all seems too...well, domestic.

Morgana's like this with Gwen, he knows; he's seen them together without them knowing he's there enough times to have witnessed the simple friendship that they have when no one has any higher expectations, but the thought of having the same sort of thing with Merlin seems ridiculous. He's never quite sure how to act around Merlin, mostly because Merlin never acts the way Arthur expects him to.

"Why aren't you with Uther, anyway?" Merlin asks, intruding in on Arthur's thoughts.

"There've been reports of a wild boar, terrorising the livestock at a few of the forest villages. I took a few men and went to investigate; the search took longer than we anticipated, and we've only just returned."

"Did you find it?"

"Sort of," Arthur says, shrugging into his coat after pointedly directing Merlin's attention to it. "Honestly, you'd think you've learnt nothing about being a manservant by now."

"I'm better than I was," Merlin protests. "At least now I can tell what you want when you make those funny eyes at me."

Arthur deliberately doesn't think about what sort of eyes he's been making at Merlin, and settles for making what he hopes is an irritated noise. Merlin smiles at him again, gaze flicking over him and nodding his approval before moving away to start pulling the rumpled sheets of the bed. "What did you mean, sort of?"

"Hmm?" Arthur's already thinking ahead, preparing his report to his father, and the question catches him off-guard partway to the door.

"You said 'sort of' when I asked about the boar; did you get it?"

"We got something, but it wasn't a boar."

Merlin stands with a pillow in his hands, looking confused. "Then what was it?"

"I don't know, and neither do the knights. It may have been a boar at some point, but I'm pretty sure boars aren't meant to have a frill of horns around their necks, or blue skin."

"Ah. No." Merlin bites his lip and stares down at the pillow he's holding. Arthur firmly ignores the part of him that wants to bite Merlin's lip for him, because he has absolutely no desire to do so, least of all in a way that would result in an equally rumpled bed.

Damn it.

"Are you done with the questions?" Merlin looks up, startled, making Arthur think Merlin wasn't aware that he's still there. "Only my father would like to ask some himself."

"Sorry," Merlin says, but he doesn't look it. "You'd better go; my curiosity will keep."

"Because I live to serve your curiosity," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but inside he feels absurdly pleased about the idea that he can tell Merlin about the process of tracking the blue creature, and the skirmish once they'd found it, and that Merlin will ask more questions than simply 'how hard was it to kill' and 'do you think there are any more'.

That Merlin will care, in short.

He makes sure to tell Merlin that he wants his favourite red coat clean for dinner that evening, just to see the amusing grimace on Merlin's face that neither of them really believe is true any more, then gets out before he says something entirely unfitting for a Crown Prince.

Keeping sight of the lines between 'servant' and 'friend' shouldn't be this hard, surely? Ah, but I didn't even realise the lines were there until I met Merlin, the logical part of his mind thinks, which is both true and worrying.

—-

Merlin barely hears the door click shut after Arthur, lost in a sudden thought. The boar had been blue, he thinks, and it jars something in his memory. He clutches at it, the sheets smoothing themselves over the mattress as he tries to remember. The flowers at the equinox feast had been blue, he can recall that much, but there's something before that, something...With a sigh and a shake of his head Merlin gives it up, sure there's something just at the corner of his memory that refuses to be pulled forward

He finishes the bed then gathers up the clothes Arthur had oh-so-helpfully reminded him to get cleaned. He makes a trip to the laundry, almost stopping to chat to the women who have taken a shine to him since they found out Gwen likes him, but the call of the kitchen is too strong.

He returns to Arthur's chambers, collects the plates and makes his way down to the kitchen to hopefully beg an extra helping of stew, or even one of the fancies meant for the nobles. He leaves the plates with the potwashers and looks for one of the friendlier cooks, but then things go a bit wrong.

One of the under cooks catches sights of him and glares, setting down her knife to sweep over and get a handful of his shirt. Merlin looks at her in bafflement as she yanks him over to where several chickens are waiting to be plucked, the din of the kitchen preventing any speech between them until she hands him a bag for (he assumes) the feathers.

She leans in and shouts, probably as much to hurt Merlin's ears as to make herself heard, "you scarper off like that again, lazy twerp, and I'll tan your hide until it can be used to make leather. Get plucking!" She returns to her chopping, Merlin shocked still as he catches "stupid boy...thinks he's an upstairs servant, does he, 'stead of a kitchen boy?" as she throws him another angry look.

One thing being a warlock has taught Merlin is that the best thing you can do in unexpected circumstances is to go along with it until either people are no longer mad at you, or run like hell. Seeing as he's in a kitchen full of people bustling around, running without being seen and probably tanned is not really an option. He settles for trying to think what might have happened and ripping handfuls of feathers from the first of the chickens.

It takes less time than Merlin had imagined for Arthur to notice he's not waiting for his instructions for the rest of the evening, because the Prince cautiously enters the kitchens when Merlin is still working on his second chicken, clearly not used to venturing into this part of Camelot. He stops one of the cooks, who frowns at him before gesturing in Merlin's general direction. Arthur dodges the ordered chaos that whirls before the evening meal is served, and finally manages to get to Merlin's side.

"What on earth are you doing?" he demands, looking at the downy feathers covering Merlin's shirt and hands.

"They seem convinced that I'm a kitchen boy," Merlin replies, and feels something shift.

Arthur looks round, like he can't remember how he got down here, then looks at Merlin. "You are a—" he starts, the words getting stuck in his throat. "You are—" he tries again, swallowing hard, but to no avail.

Merlin feels a nudge, as if someone wants to get past him, but when he glances round everyone is giving him (Arthur) a wide berth. He feels it again, a little stronger, and then a third nudge which—Merlin shivers. The third passes through him, but still pushes against something. He's got the sneaking suspicion that it's his magic, a feeling which grows when Arthur blinks, frown lightening and a slight smile curling at his lips.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you'd rather pluck chickens than wait on me at dinner, Merlin."

"Only if you're going to make me wear the Hat," Merlin replies, gathering enough of his wits to reply without giving anything away. Not that Arthur would likely notice, but Merlin is slowly learning how to lie convincingly, and any practice is useful.

"I'm not that cruel, Merlin, I've already made you wear it once this week." He slings an arm over Merlin's shoulders and leads him out of the kitchens, past the under cook. Merlin watches her warily, but when she looks up she smiles at him and says "thanks for the help, Merlin. Above and beyond the call of duty, that was."
Arthur mutters something about Merlin not knowing the meaning of the words, getting them out into the cool passageway that leads to freedom and a world without flurries of feathers or further interruptions. They're back at Arthur's chambers before Merlin thinks to ask, "What did your father have to say about the not-boar attack?"

Arthur makes a non-committal noise, searching for something in a clothes chest while Merlin stands, not really knowing what to do. "Why do you want to know?"

"Curiosity," Merlin says, and catches the tunic Arthur throws at him.

"You know, most servants don't dare ask so many questions, especially of the Crown Prince."

"Since when do I pay attention to your crown?" Arthur is silent, which Merlin takes as agreement. He helps Arthur into a fresh tunic, settling it across Arthur's shoulders before moving on to the laces at the cuffs. "Well?"

"Well what?" Arthur says irritably, but it's faked. He sighs, hand going to fiddle with the laces Merlin has just tied until he gets it slapped away. "He asked what he always asks: how hard was it to kill and might there be more around to cause problems."

"And might there be?"

"I don't know, maybe! It was a blue boar, Merlin, they aren't exactly well-documented."

"Were there no signs of a den, or whatever it is boars make?"

"A farrowing nest," Arthur replies, voice too soft for his words. Merlin frowns slightly, then notices that Arthur is staring at their hands. He finished tying the second set of laces several moments ago, and is now standing with his hands curled loosely around Arthur's wrist, thumb rubbing absent circles as they speak. He pulls his hands away, blushing hotly.

"Sorry." Merlin fumbles for Arthur's red coat, now spotlessly clean, and holds it out for Arthur, who clears his throat roughly as he slides his arms into the sleeves.

"You really are useless," he says, but it sounds like something else entirely.

"And yet you don't get another servant," Merlin replies, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Arthur doesn't look at him as Merlin straightens his collar, staring at a point over Merlin's shoulder.

"Yes, well. It seems pointless now you're almost trained."

Merlin watches him leave to join his father and the other nobles, and wonders when Arthur started acting more like a king and less like a spoilt prince. He bends to pick up the plain boots Arthur always moans about having to change for fancy court footwear, and has to clutch at the bed post to stop himself falling over as his vision abruptly goes grey.

He sees the marketplace in bright daylight, and that on its own is enough to send his mind reeling, because so far as he knows his magic doesn't include having the Sight. It reminds him of something, flickering on the edges of his memory as he grasps for it. The last remnants of Arthur's chamber visible through the images he's Seeing fade as the vision gets stronger.

People walk past Merlin, so close he's almost certain they can't see him. It becomes clear that this is the case when a man walks right through him, not noticing anything wrong. Merlin stares, shuddering at the feeling, and then forgets all about it when he sees himself. He remembers what day this is, now; his second day in Camelot, weary from the road but happy to be there at long last. The only blot on the day had been- oh. Right. Arthur.

Merlin follows himself, watches the way he had looked round in awe at the castle. He searches ahead for Arthur and the other knights, curious to see how their run-in had looked to an outsider. It doesn't take long. The poor servant holding the target comes into view first, but the other Merlin doesn't seem to notice him. Merlin frowns; he remembers looking at a stall, then walking through into the courtyard and seeing the man fall down, but he hasn't moved away.

He moves closer, steeling himself and walking right through a knot of people between himself and, uh, himself. The other Merlin is bending over the display of stone carvings, talking to the merchant behind the counter and completely messing with Merlin's memory of how the day went. The vision starts to blur and fade just as Merlin glimpses a scattering of bright blue spangles around the other version of himself, fading in and out of visibility but nonetheless there.

"No," he whispers as the image fades, and reaches for his magic, forcing himself back.

The vision solidifies again, but it takes a lot of effort for Merlin to stop it from fading again. He looks round, searching for something to make himself move on, and spots a man approaching, carrying a load of firewood. Merlin reaches for his magic again, but before he can force it out he sees his vision-self turn away and walk through into the courtyard. Moments later the sound of Arthur's voice reaches him, saying whatever it was he said when Merlin tried to stop him tormenting the other servant.

Blue spangles float in front of him, twisting in the air angrily as the edges blur and he-

-drops onto the floor, knees unable to support his weight as he gasps for air. He's never had a vision before, not even a slight premonition about the day to indicate that he might have the bloody Sight in addition to the overflow of magic he's already got to deal with. He sucks in air like a dying fish, pushing himself up with shaky arms until he feels stable enough to move himself to the chair. He sinks back into it and rubs feeling back into his strangely numb fingers.

It takes a while for him to be sure he won't just fall over again if he tries to stand up and get to Gaius; the fire which was banked high has almost burnt itself out, in fact. Merlin adds another couple of logs, reasoning that Arthur can cope by himself for once before pulling himself out of the chair and slowly making his way through the castle. More than once he has to pause and lean against the wall, grateful for the cool stone to keep him on his feet.

There's something niggling at the back of his mind, something he saw, something important that floats on the periphery of his understanding. It remains elusive all the way to the physician's rooms.

—-

It's late by the time Morgana manages to escape the great hall, pleading continued illness. She dismisses Gwen once she's in her nightgown, desperate to be on her own and work out her tangled thoughts. Picking up a brush from her bedside table, she seats herself on the edge of her bed, glad of the silence in her chambers. She brushes her hair slowly, mind returning to Gaius' chambers.

The physician had looked at her with ill-concealed shock after her vision, clearly attempting to think of a way to persuade her she was wrong about what she had seen. Merlin has magic. It seems so ridiculous, that the skinny boy who always seems to know exactly how to get into trouble should have magic so powerful that he thinks nothing of holding several very heavy pieces of furniture in the air while he cleans the floor beneath.

Morgana stares unseeing at her room, thoughts spinning. She feels...not angry at him, but instead...her eyes widen as she realises what she's feeling. Jealousy. Once named the emotion grows, filling her chest with an overwhelming urge to take the power from Merlin, that he doesn't deserve, that should be hers and not his, for she would do more with it, use it in far greater ways than he ever could—

The sound of the brush hitting the floor pulls Morgana out of the swirl of her thoughts, the desire for Merlin's magic fading as if it had never occurred to her. She hurriedly puts the brush down, hands shaking slightly as she climbs into bed and lies staring at the ceiling.

What is happening? She asks the vaulted stone. Her answer is a heavy silence, as if the castle wants to tell her but cannot.

In the end Gaius had bowed his head and told her all; how Merlin had been born with the power, how he needed no spells to use it, how many times he had used it to save them all. He had been trying to convince her that Merlin is not a threat, but she already knew. Nobody who would willingly serve Arthur when he could be the most powerful man in Camelot could possibly be evil, she'd joked, but Gaius' smile had been weak.

It had dawned on her, then, that Merlin really is that powerful; she'd thought Gaius was speaking from the viewpoint of someone with no magic himself, but as she sat and listened to him it became clear to her that this wasn't ignorance of what constituted powerful, or a boast on behalf of his apprentice (if Gaius had ever considered doing such a thing), but instead the bare truth.

Merlin can level Camelot if he chooses, and the idea makes Morgana shiver.

She had asked, hesitantly, as if the topic wasn't quite hers to intrude upon, in which direction Merlin's powers lie. Gaius had given her a long look before saying, "He hasn't got the Sight, if that's what you mean. Apart from that, well. Everything he's tried to do has worked." He hadn't needed to tell her what to think about that, and what it means.

Morgana turns onto her side and watches the shimmer of a sliver of moonlight on her wall, wishing for the dreams to stay away like she used to when she was a child. It's to no avail. As soon as she shuts her eyes she can feel them waiting for her to sleep, although why they bother when they can come during her waking moments is beyond her.

—-

Gaius doesn't know what time it is when Merlin shakes him awake, looking terrible with deep circles under his eyes and fingertips as cold on Gaius' shoulder as if he's been out in the snow, but for Merlin to risk his most likely foul mood it must be something vital.

"Gaius. Gaius." Merlin sounds hoarse and weak. Gaius makes more of an effort to pull himself out of sleep, blinking up at the blur of tousled dark hair and pale skin that he can just about see in the dim light of Merlin's candle.

"What is't?"

"Something happened earlier."

" Wh'sort of something?"

"I had a vision, I think."

That rouses Gaius fully, making him sit up with a groan. "What sort of vision?"

Merlin sits back on his heels and runs a hand through his hair, obviously almost at the end of his strength. "The day I met Arthur, except something was different. Wrong."

Gaius sighs heavily and lowers himself back onto the bed. "It's probably just the after effects of whatever that sickness you had was, causing a bad reaction with your magic."

"But-"

"If there's one thing we can safely say, Merlin, it's that you don't have the Sight. More magic than you know what to do with, certainly, but the Sight would have manifested years ago, not suddenly one night in late April." Gaius settles himself under the blankets, already dismissing the conversation in favour of sleep. "Now go to bed."

Merlin's either convinced or too tired to argue, but he nods tiredly and carefully makes his way to his own little room without further fuss. Gaius watches him go through rapidly closing eyelids, vaguely noting the way he has to lean against handy furniture and then the walls to keep himself upright. He puts it down to the lingering illness and the lateness of the hour, and falls back into sleep.

—-

Once certain that Gaius is asleep again, Merlin slips out of his room as silently as he can and through the castle, heading downwards. He's groggy and keeps a hand on the walls as he goes, but he manages enough magic to let himself pass by the guards unnoticed.

He can feel the chill breeze from the cave before he gets within sight of the stairs down to it, breathing in the smell of wet rocks and the strange, musky scent of the dragon itself. He takes the stairs slowly, trying to think of what to say. It's been months since he was last here, the lack of magical dilemmas meaning he could forgo the confusing and often indecipherable advice of the castle's largest resident.

The dragon is waiting for him, perched on the cluster of rocks nearest to the ledge Merlin emerges out onto. Seeing it in the darkness, suddenly feeling more than a little overwhelmed and insignificant, Merlin conjures the ball of blue light that has come in useful for reading at night. He sends it up to hang over them both, then steps back hurriedly as he sees the dragon rearing up, chain clanking.

"You, young warlock, are overdue."

"I wasn't aware that I was expected," Merlin replies tiredly. "You haven't been getting inside my head lately."

"I had thought you experienced enough to know recognise when you might want to consult me, but I see that that is not the case."

Merlin thinks about arguing, and decides he hasn't the energy or the inclination. "It's late, I'm ill and not entirely sure why, and apparently I've developed the Sight. Can you please, for once, just tell me what's going on?"

"You are seeing the results of your own magic, young warlock."

"What does that mean? I've spelled myself to see the future?" No answer. "It's just my magic growing? Because if so, fine, just tell me how to cope with it." The dragon simply looks at him, its eyes glinting in the mage light. "Something I've done has backfired?"

"The threads of this weaving will only be clear to you if you look properly, Emrys."

"What does that even mean?! Can you not be helpful for once?"

"This is something you must discover on your own, young warlock; your magic will continue to grow-"

"You sound like Nimueh," Merlin says bitterly, and the dragon closes its great jaw with a snap. They haven't spoken of that since Merlin returned, although he could feel the dragon's roars of anger reverberating through the stones of Camelot for weeks.

"Everything has it's time, except when it doesn't. You will live enough times over to know this."

With that cryptic comment, it does what Merlin has come to expect and takes off, the darkness swallowing it up with each flap of leathery wings. Merlin shields his eyes against the gusts and groans, wondering why he thought the dragon would be a help where Gaius wasn't.

He trudges back up the stairs and past the bored guards, nudging one of the dice with his magic more out of habit than anything else. The dragon's comments haven't provided him with even the slightest clue of what's going on, nor provoked any ideas of how he can find out, like it sometimes does—most likely without meaning to.

The walk back to Gaius' rooms passes in a blur, Merlin avoiding walking into the walls and the guards by memory and instinct as he mulls over his conversation, insomuch as it can be called that. Gaius doesn't stir when Merlin returns, and Merlin doesn't try to wake him a second time; he has the feeling Gaius would approve even less of his nighttime visits to the dragon than he'd approve of him speaking to it in the daylight.

He lies awake, body trembling with exhaustion but unable to fall into oblivion. He doesn't entirely believe Gaius that he didn't have a vision, but then again the physician has a point about the Sight. In all the cases he's heard of, mostly from Gaius' books and whispered rumours, the Sight shows itself when the bearer is a child. Merlin shivers and wonders if this actually is the Sight, or if like Gaius says it's just his unnatural illness of a month ago a slight comeback.

The dragon's words about everything having its time strikes a mark, finally, as Merlin connects it with his vision and the way his and Arthur's past, or timeline, had almost changed.

He drops into darkness before he can reach a conclusion about what it means.

—-

It's two days later, and if Merlin is feeling more confident that he hasn't suddenly developed the Sight, Morgana is being inundated with visions wherever she turns. A lesser woman would confine herself to her room and probably have a fit of the vapours, but Morgana is made of sterner stuff, not to mention incessantly curious about what's going on around the castle.

At first it seems like nothing, hearing snatches of conversation before they happen. At least it's harmless; overhearing two of Uther's councillors discussing the latest tax tallies from some of the outlying villages doesn't exactly make her heart pound like some of her nightmares, although the satisfyingly high amounts might make someone's heart race. Morgana hears the conversation when she is dressing first thing in the morning, the words sounding as clear to her as if the men are standing mere inches away.

Gwen keeps fastening her laces as if nothing is wrong, something Morgana doesn't know whether to laugh or feel superior about. That she could entertain even the idea of feeling superior to Gwen hits her a moment after the voices fade, and she hurriedly pulls Gwen in front of her to ask how she's faring on her own these days.

Much later, on her way to visit the seamstresses, she overhears the same conversation. Pausing in the corridor outside the Council room, Morgana listens carefully, feeling a quiet sense of pleasure when every word matches with what she heard earlier. It's proof that her gift is as strong as she believes it to be, although she wishes that it might show her more useful things than tax contributions. Something akin to the vision of Arthur's near-death would be more of a help, now that she knows what she's dealing with.

—-

Merlin stands behind Arthur at dinner, watching Arthur try to make conversation with the taciturn noble on his left and smiling to himself. This lasts until Arthur knocks over his (thankfully empty) cup and sends it skittering across the floor, neatly hitting Merlin's toes as if Arthur had aimed. He rolls his eyes and bends to pick it up, promptly feeling the atmosphere of the room alter into something darker and altogether tenser. He straightens slowly, looking around.

The people who should be sitting at the tables have been partially replaced by different folk, some of the servants lining the wall now in a livery of brown and gold that Merlin doesn't recognise.

He gets the feeling, stepping forward to place the cup back next to Arthur, that these people aren't exactly friendly with each other, but they're willing to push their differences aside for an evening. Arthur hasn't altered, and seems just as deep in conversation as he did before Merlin picked the cup up, sparing a glance and a nod for him as he steps back into place.

No sooner is he there, hands folded in front of himself, than things seem to bend and snap back into focus. The servants are all wearing Camelot's colours, and Merlin sees the people he knows back in their rightful places. He casts a look around the hall, looking for anyone else who might have noticed the shift, but everyone seems perfectly at ease. The nasty undercurrent has gone too, making Merlin wonder what exactly was going on. Was it a vision of the future, some meeting made in awkward circumstances? Or of the past, something he hadn't been present for?

He resolves to ask Arthur as soon as he gets chance, although that might not be until later, and possibly not 'til the morning if Arthur drinks too much. Looking at the lady on his right who he's now deep in conversation with, Merlin is surprised he hasn't been called over four times by now to refill Arthur's cup; they've been talking for half an hour and Arthur's still on his first.

Finally some of the ladies call for dancing, and Arthur's seating partner is led away by her husband. Arthur himself comes to lean against the wall next to Merlin, something he's taken to doing on the excuse that Merlin is the one with the wine. He shakes his head when Merlin tilts the jug at him, though, tilting his cup in return. Merlin lifts an eyebrow at the sight of the almost full measure of wine.

"Everything okay?"

Arthur sighs. "Just because I'm not drinking doesn't mean something's wrong, Merlin."

"If you say so, Sire."

Arthur gives him a sharp look, but says nothing. They watch the dancers for a moment or two before Merlin asks, aiming for offhand and mostly getting there: "Was there a delegation here a while ago? The servants would've been in brown and gold, I think,"

"Lord Brynmor, that'd be. He and his retinue were here that week you were ill. Why do you ask?"

Merlin shrugs, looking out over the hall. "They were talking about it in the kitchens earlier," he lies, "and I was surprised I'd managed to miss it."

Arthur snorts into his cup: "I'm not." Merlin elbows him slightly, keeping a wary eye out for Uther. Arthur leans away and smiles, taking a - small, Merlin notes - swallow of his wine. "What were they saying about him?"

Uh-oh. Merlin thinks rapidly, trying to remember what was in his vision. "Nothing much. I think one of the kitchen maids mentioned she thought their uniforms ugly-"

"Which they were."

"—and that there wasn't a very good atmosphere in the castle when they were here." From the corner of his eye Merlin can see Arthur give him a sharp look, and wonders if Arthur knows just how much the servants gossip. He thinks Arthur's going to ask what that means, exactly, but instead he looks away.

"Brynmor had started taking territory that didn't belong to him, so my father invited him to the castle and made him see the error of his ways." Arthur's tone implies that Uther had done more than that; Merlin had seen a scroll, like that of a treaty, resting between the King and the richly dressed noble sitting beside him, like a reminder. He says nothing, because there is nothing he can say, just nods.

"Thanks."

"I am always eager to rectify your ignorance," Arthur replies with a grin, then claps Merlin on the shoulder as Uther beckons him over. "Although it's taking me a long time."

Merlin watches him go and feels a chill run down his spine that has nothing to do with Arthur's comment, which barely registers. Something is wrong, very wrong, but he's got no clue what. The undercurrents in his vision had been far too angry, even if Lord Brynmor had indeed been made to sign a treaty preventing him from taking any more land from his neighbours.

—-

Three days later Arthur rides out at the head of Camelot's knights, all in their full armour. Merlin goes with them, riding with the other servants who know how to set up a war camp and cope with injuries until they can reach Gaius, and he gets the same feeling that something is inherently wrong with the situation. It's not the normal feeling of do we really have to go and fight, but something much darker.

When they do join with the enemy it's not even a battle, more of a skirmish. Lord Brynmor has obviously been using underhanded tactics to add to his landholdings, because in a pitched fight his knights have very little technique. Arthur's well-trained force makes easy work of their opponents, not even bothering to do anything more than knock them out unless they can't help it. Arthur himself takes Brynmor down, forcing the man to yield at the tip of his sword.

Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur's silence when the knights get back to the hastily-made camp, noting the blood flowing down Arthur's cheek as he speaks to his men. Arthur won't ask for any help, Merlin knows, so he takes it upon himself to grab hold of Arthur in a spare moment and make him stop.

"Hold this," he orders, shoving a pot of Gaius' comfrey ointment at Arthur with one hand, using his other to grip Arthur's jaw and tilt his head to one side. Arthur goes utterly still as Merlin carefully wipes away the mostly dried blood with a damp cloth and gentle movements, barely breathing as Merlin works.

The sounds of the camp fade as Merlin takes care not to pull at the wound, vividly aware that this is another moment in which they stand on the edge of something he isn't sure either of them are ready for. Arthur is like a statue under his hands, allowing Merlin to fuss without complaining, or shouting orders to his knights like Merlin half expects him to.

Merlin tries to focus on making sure the cut won't require stitching when they get back to the castle, instead of how warm Arthur's skin feel under his fingers, but when he comes to smooth some of the healing ointment over it his hand is shaking slightly.

"There," he says past the lump in his throat, "if you can cope with being manhandled by the skinny apprentice, then maybe some of your men won't complain so much when I try to treat them."

He's turning away to help treat a man with a nasty-looking leg wound when Arthur grabs hold of him, fingers firm around his wrist and tugging him back. "Some of them have refused to be treated by you?"

"Not exactly," Merlin says slowly, not entirely sure what's in Arthur's tone but knowing it sends a thrill down his spine. "They tell me to treat the more seriously wounded first, and that they can wait to see Gaius. It's nothing, I'm used-" He knows he's said the wrong thing when Arthur's grip tightens, eyes hard. "It's nothing," he insists. "They're allowed to want to be treated by someone with more experience than me. Aren't you always saying how useless I am?" It's intended to be teasing, but comes out slightly bitter instead. Arthur drops his wrist like he's been burnt.

"I'll speak to them."

"That's not necessary," Merlin says, more sharply than he means to. He takes the pot of ointment from Arthur's hand and turns back to the knight with the leg wound, sitting against a tree stump and trying to breathe through the pain as one of the other servants carefully pulls his breeches away from the skin. He can feel Arthur still watching him, intent gaze that Merlin doesn't know how to react to. "Is that all, or do you want me to kiss it better?" he asks, trying to grin.

The knight smiles, although it turns to a grimace when Merlin starts washing the wound out as best he can. He looks round when all he gets for answer is silence, and Arthur is gone.

"He gave you a funny look and—god, ow—left, sharpish like," the knight pants, eyes squeezing shut as Merlin carefully wipes away the worst of the blood.

"Some people just can't take a joke," he says, trying to keep things light. The wound is deep, possibly to the bone, although he won't be able to tell for sure until he and Gaius can clean it properly. "As if I'd get that close to him anyway."

"None of us would," his patient says, and then faints. Merlin sighs and gestures for two of the others to come over and heave him onto a horse, directing them to be as careful as possible with the bad leg. It's not the most ideal way of getting him back to Camelot, admittedly; it means more risk that the wound won't clot, but it's the fastest way and he needs to be on Gaius' table as soon as possible.

Merlin rides at the back, next to the injured knight - Geraint, the man riding on his other side supplies - and can only see the angry set of Arthur's shoulders as he leads the bound prisoners back to the castle. Lord Brynmor is entitled to ride, although his hands are bound to the saddle; Merlin spares a moment to wonder how badly the treaty he presumes was signed has been broken, but before he can spend more than a thought on it Geraint starts listing badly to one side, and Merlin has to help him.

—-

Back in Camelot Arthur leaves the rest of the group as soon as he's made sure Geraint is being taken straight up to Gaius, kicking the door to his chambers while he struggles out of his chainmail. The metal links fall in a cacophony of noise as he flings the whole thing in the general direction of the table, slumping against the wall with his hands pressed against his eyes.

There's something burning underneath his skin, something more than the usual mix of adrenaline and sharp arousal that he's used to having after a fight, and it's all because of that stupid conversation with Merlin.

He drops his hands and fumbles with the catches of his vambraces, angry with himself. He'd been trying to avoid Merlin once back in camp, not sure if his control over the burgeoning desire to touch would've survived in the aftermath of the battle, but Merlin's hands on his face and admonishing voice had put paid to that. And then his accidental revelation about the knights preferring Gaius' treatment...gods, Arthur doesn't know where to start with that.

Arthur shifts against the wall, spreading his legs slightly as the coolness from the stone seeps through his padded undercoat and into his skin, returning some clarity of thought. Being hard and wanting someone's touch isn't new to him, but being hard and wanting Merlin's hands on him is, but the thing is, right now Arthur can't bring himself to care.

He doesn't bother undoing the laces of his breeches; elegance isn't the issue here, and neither is making it last. He just shoves his hand down them, gripping himself tightly and using strong, fast strokes as he bites down on the ball of his other palm, needing the pain as much to stop himself thinking about Merlin as he does to push himself over the edge.

When he catches his breath there are vivid red marks in tender skin, testimony to how badly he'd wanted to imagine Merlin's hand instead of his own, or perhaps Merlin's mouth, probably still with that annoyingly teasing smile, just distorted as he swallowed Arthur down. It's the work of a few minutes to clean himself up and change into clean attire, years of practice having taught him speed and thoroughness.

Arthur puts himself back together, pulling his self-control around him and hoping it's going to be enough to keep him from doing something inappropriate as he goes to see how Geraint is faring. Never mind now; as he remembers the flash of protectiveness he'd felt as Merlin told him about the knights denying his aid, Arthur wonders if he shouldn't perhaps be worrying about being alone with Merlin, instead of about seeing him when both Gaius and a probably dying man are present.

This....might be a problem.

—-

Helping Gaius with a patient is always nerve-wracking. On his own, and in the aftermath of a battle, Merlin is finding that he can cope pretty well. The solid education in the job of a physician that Gaius is slowly giving him helps him focus on the task at hand and not on his usual clumsiness, not to mention helps him to understand why Gaius is cautionary about using his magic when he can use his hands and his head instead.

In the physician's rooms, though, it's different. Everything speeds up and seems to happen all at once, with barely time to pause between rapid instructions. Gaius clears his table and directs the knights carrying Geraint to lay him on it, already bending over the leg before he's fully set down. In the brighter light of the candles, along with the pure sunlight streaming through the windows, Merlin can see slivers of bone poking through the mess of flesh and skin that he hadn't seen in the dim forest light.

"Merlin! Merlin!" Gaius' shout brings him round, motioning for Merlin to take over pressing a thick cloth to the wound to help stop the bleeding. "Keep that tight." Merlin steps forward, careful to keep the edges of the wound covered with the cloth. Then, in a similar way to Geraint's injury, the edges of Merlin's vision go frayed and blurred, showing him Gaius moving away from the man on the table to pick a book of the shelf and flick through it, calling for- Merlin strains to hear the faint voice, thinking he catches hot water and possibly a splint before the vision fades. He looks to the shelf, shaking off the lingering fuzziness, and feels the chill again.

The book he'd seen Gaius pull out isn't there.

The physician moves away from checking Geraint's forehead for fever, towards the bookshelf, and Merlin closes his eyes against what he knows is coming. Gaius doesn't waste time in a fruitless search; since Merlin reordered the books, either it's in its place or it isn't. He simply alters his course towards a cupboard, collecting needle, thread, tweezers, a solid splint of ash and a large bowl that he shoves at a hovering knight and tells him to fill with water from the kettle hanging over the fire.

They work for at least an hour, until Merlin has lost count of how many times the bowl has been emptied of bloody water, of how many times he's wrung the cloth out or picked up a fresh one. A small basin next to Gaius holds shards of bone, more than Merlin had thought could possibly come from a wound that looked so simple. The sword- no, axe is more likely, he notes clinically, had gone in at an angle and shattered the bone instead of broken it clean through, making the wound much more difficult to clean up.

By the time Gaius gets the wound roughly sewn up and splinted, wrapped tight with clean bandages, Geraint is shaking and sweating with fever, his eyes flickering under their lids as he dreams of ill things. Merlin rests a cool cloth on his head, licking his own dry lips in sympathy. He looks over at Gaius, searching the bookshelves, and feels a rush of guilt.

"Gaius, I-"

"It's not your fault," he interrupts. "You didn't hide that book."

"But I reordered them." Merlin feels like he has to do something, take some of the blame he can see weighing on Gaius' shoulders.

"Enough, Merlin. You are not to blame for this; the book was here this morning, right where I put it. Now it isn't, for reasons I cannot fathom just yet."

Merlin ducks his head and focuses on cleaning the used cloths, scrubbing at them with the strong soap Gaius uses and practically shoving his magic at them to purge them of every last trace of Geraint's blood. He's hanging the last of them up to dry when Arthur knocks on the door, stepping through with a tight expression. "How is he?"

Merlin looks over at the injured man, teeth chattering from the fever, and sighs. "Not good." Arthur nods slowly, like he expected the news. "If the fever breaks tonight then he's got a better chance, but that's not a nice-looking wound."

"It was an axe," Arthur tells him, more for something to say as he moves to stand next to Geraint. "We know who it was; only one man in Brynmor's force uses an axe, and if Geraint dies he'll be punished."

Merlin blinks. "Is that necessary? He was only doing his job."

Arthur gives him a hard look. "A job expressly forbidden by the treaty his lord signed with my father." Merlin bites down on another comment, knowing it's not worth it. Arthur kneels by the bed they'd managed to move Geraint onto, resting his hand by the knight's shoulder. "Will you stay with him tonight?"

"What about-"

"I can manage, Merlin. He needs you more than I will tonight, although goodness knows where you've suddenly got all this competency from."

"He's a good apprentice," Gaius remarks, climbing down from the upper ledge. Arthur looks up at the physician, and Merlin sees the anger held fiercely in check for the first time.

"So I gather." He stands smoothly, casting one last look at Geraint before turning his whole attention to Gaius. "I am informed that unless the fever breaks it doesn't look good for him."

"If the fever breaks tonight, he will live. If not, there's nothing I can do but prolong his last few hours."

"It's just a leg wound!"

"It goes deep and ugly, your highness; I'm surprised he was conscious long enough to get off the field. Either there was something else on that axe blade or it just hadn't been cleaned in a while, but infection had set in long before you got him to me."

Arthur's jaw moves as he grits his teeth, hands clenching. "Right. And the chances of the fever breaking?"

Gaius looks at Merlin, gently testing him. Merlin looks down, then straight at Arthur. "Poor. I'll be surprised if he makes it to midnight." He glances at Gaius, sees him nodding, and goes cold inside.

"Dammit," Arthur swears. Then he frowns. "What do you mean, something else on the blade?"

"A poison, or something of that sort. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen it, and there are certain ones which can mimic a natural infection."

"Brynmor is a common soldier, when it comes down to it. He might prefer sneaking around at night and sabotaging defences to make his daylight attacks easier, but so far as I know he's not the sort to use that low a method."

Gaius shrugs. "It was only a thought. The fever set in so fast, which is entirely possible through natural processes, but it occurred to me."

"I think Brynmor has enough to deal with without being accused of using poisoned weapons," says Arthur with a trace of irony. "In fact, I'm due in the great hall for his audience with my father. Gaius, you should be with me to tell him how Geraint is."

"Take Merlin," the physician tells him, "I need to go deal with those of your men injured but still managing to wait politely."

Arthur gives Merlin a dubious look, but the preceding conversation has obviously given him some faith in Merlin's abilities as a healer, even if he still considers him useless at everything else. "Fine, come on. Just try not to make an ass of yourself. Or of me."

"I'll try my hardest," Merlin jokes, but it falls flat. He hesitates before following Arthur to the door, seeing the way Geraint's skin has paled to a chalky white. He takes a chance and takes Geraint's hand in his own, hoping Arthur is too preoccupied to pay too much attention. He sends a small spark of magic through the knight's body, closing his eyes and feeling.

A moment later he stands jerkily, breathing shallow. "Gaius?" he calls softly, The physician turns. "He's not going to last beyond the eleventh bell." Gaius doesn't question how Merlin knows, just takes in the set of his jaw and the thin line of his lips.

"I'll make him comfortable."

Merlin watches him soak a fresh cloth in cold water and replace it across Geraint's forehead. Arthur comes to stand by him, voice quiet as he asks, "What is it?"

Merlin answers in an equally hushed tone. "You see the pallor of his skin, and the way the shadows under his eyes look almost blue?" Arthur nods. "He won't last til midnight. Gaius will make it as easy for him as possible, but he's fading. I'm sorry, Arthur."

"You did your best, the both of you," he answers sincerely, and Merlin would be pleased about the praise if it weren't tempered by the dying man a few feet away. Merlin feels Arthur move away, and this time follows him. He makes a minor detour to pick up Geraint's sword, leaning against the wall where one of the other knights had put it, and holds it out to Arthur.

"I don't know if you'd need—well, anyway. Here." Arthur gives him a long look before taking it, something like respect in his eyes. Merlin swallows hard against the lump in his throat and gestures towards the door. "Your father will be waiting."

Arthur spins on his heel and leads the way without another word, Merlin following with a bowed head and heavy heart.

—-

In the great hall, Morgana stands to one side and watches Lord Brynmor be escorted towards Uther, head held proud even in defeat. Her lip curls slightly as she takes in his appearance, only slightly ruffled by the skirmish and his subsequent short stay in a cell. He doesn't look like a man who has recently fought for his life, or for the lives of his knights; she knows Arthur thinks nothing of putting himself at serious risk to go to the aid of one of his men, and she recognises that the lord standing before them has none of that courage or loyalty.

"Lord Brynmor, you stand here for judgement following your deliberate breaking of a treaty between yourself and Camelot a mere month ago," Uther intones. Morgana glances across as the door opens, seeing Arthur hurrying to take his place by Uther's side, carrying a sword that she identifies as not his own. He shakes his head tersely when his father looks at him, lips pressed tightly together. Merlin, standing behind him, looks no better. Uther looks back at Brynmor, face betraying nothing.

Brynmor looks from Arthur to the king, frowning. "Your majesty-"

"Silence." Uther cuts in, lessening the height difference by moving down a step. "Arthur, what of the knight?"

"Sir Geraint won't last the night, sir. The wound is deep and grievous."

"Is this so?"

Something deep inside Morgana bristles at the distrust implied by Uther as he questions Merlin, something that is fiercely pleased that Arthur used the name of the injured knight. She fists her hands in the fabric of her skirt and tries to focus, finding it increasingly difficult as a haze penetrates her sight.

Merlin nods, speaking deferentially. "It is, my lord. Gaius is certain; the infection had set in before we could get Sir Geraint back to the castle, and the wound was too bad to repair." The calm assurance in his tone has Uther accepting his words, while Arthur casts a half-frown over his shoulder towards the normally tongue-tied and clumsy servant.

Morgana's vision goes grey as Uther questions Merlin about the rapid fever, her breaths coming short and fast as the Sight shows her-

Uther commands Brynmor's death, the full price to be paid for breaking a treaty with Camelot. As a noble he receives the dubious honour of beheading, the entire court watching from around the platform. Uther stares down at the lifeless body, one hand resting carelessly on the stone rail of the upper balcony. Down below, at the head of the retinue sent from Brynmor's estates, stands a young man. He shares features with the recently deceased, but his face is harder, his hand permanently on the pommel of his sword.

Morgana cries out silently, time speeding past her until it halts, and she Sees a battlefield, knights in the colours of Camelot and Brynmor lying dead like so many discarded dolls. Her cry becomes a scream as Arthur falls in a flash of silver and red, coming to rest alongside a crown with no owner. Uther kneels with three swords at his neck, the hard faced young man looking at him with the fire of hatred and revenge in his eyes.

Uther's voice drags Morgana back momentarily, demanding Brynmor accounts for himself. She hears the lord say "-treaty only prohibited attacks—" before she gets pulled away again.

This time Uther reaches out a hand to Brynmor, clapping him on the shoulder and calling for wine to seal the new agreement. Expressions amongst the knights vary from distrust to disinterest, the atmosphere the tenseness of men who aren't sure how they are going to work together, rather than that of looming conflict. Another rush through the years and Morgana halts at a celebration of some sort- a wedding, looking at the couple at the head table.

Uther toasts the bride, a maiden of Camelot, and her groom, the hard-faced man Morgana had watched prepare to deliver a killing blow to Uther. He smiles, accepting Uther's blessing with a bow of his head and a raised cup.

A warm hand slides against her own, firm fingers forcing her own tightly clenched ones apart so they can thread through. Morgana battles to keep a mask of polite attention on her face as she squeezes Gwen's hand in thanks, the movements hidden by her flowing skirts. The second vision fades as the heat from Gwen's skin seeps into her own clammy hand, helping her heart to calm down. It seems harder than usual to shove away the lingering effects of the vision, though; Uther's voice brings that indefinable something inside her flaring out again, angry at him.

He rules so harshly, it says. He persecutes those like you when all the while you could help him make the right decisions. Wouldn't it be better if Arthur were to rule now? He would have help, you would help him, you could make him great, and in the process such power could be yours, like you've never imagined, the power to do anything-

Morgana grips Gwen's hand with a tightness she will apologise for later, and viciously pushes away the insidious little voice. It's the same one that pushed her to jealousy about Merlin's powers, and for that alone she refuses to listen to it, even if the sheer lunacy of letting herself get caught by the Sight when standing next to Uther Pendragon had escaped her notice.

She straightens her shoulders and glares at a knight looking at her with some interest, sending him into a drill pose, eyes fixed on his lord. She's missed most of the conversation, she realises; Uther and Brynmor are arguing about some point of the treaty, and seem almost at the end of the audience.

After another few minutes of conversation, at one point calling on Arthur for confirmation about part of Camelot's borders, Uther descends the rest of the steps and extends his hand towards Brynmor. Morgana closes her eyes and watches the scene against her eyelids, opening them when she hears the page running for wine. She tugs Gwen's hand forward slightly, indicating she wishes to leave. Gwen tugs back, letting go and stepping to her side.
Morgana begins to leave, before a thought occurs. She looks over at Merlin, still standing correctly behind Arthur as he confers with his father and Brynmor over the wording of a second treaty. The apprentice shows no signs that he shared the vision with Morgana, instead looking deathly bored and sending irritated glances towards Arthur for making him stay.

Morgana leaves without hesitating any further, her question answered.

—-

Arthur watches Lord Brynmor, wary for any signs that he's going to break this treaty like the previous one and kill another of Camelot's knights. Geraint's sword is awkward in Arthur's hand, the grip wrong and the length shorter than he's used to. The blade is thicker as well; it's a sword for a man who knows his strength is in his muscles, not in his speed, the way Arthur's still is.

He knows that the man speaking with his father isn't the man who committed the deed, knows that it was just another knight following orders, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to do something idiotic like challenge him, or demand reparations. It's a curious feeling, and almost entirely new, because he's used to losing knights - the force he leads now shares only seven men with the one he first took over a few years ago.

But recently he's started caring more about how and for what reason they die, and it's odd. It isn't that he's uncaring, far from it, but he's always been more...professional than this. And he doesn't know why that's changed.

No. That's a lie. He knows far too well.

Merlin cares. He doesn't train with these men, doesn't fight with them or share meals, but every time one of them gets brought to Gaius or falls on the battlefield Merlin always gets the same look on his face. He treats them gently, although not so much that they'd notice and bristle at the implication of weakness, and talks to them with a familiarity that he shouldn't be able to achieve, they being knights and he being a mere servant-apprentice.

He finds out more about Arthur's knights in the time it takes to set a broken arm or treat a wound than Arthur learns from working closely with them for months on end, and it's started to become irritating. He swaps the sword from hand to hand, ignoring both the sharp looks of Brynmor's knights and the 'why aren't we leaving?' glances Merlin keeps sending him.

Thinking about it, it's not that Merlin cares, it's that he's caring about the knights more than he's caring about Arthur. He has to be reminded about the state of Arthur's room, or that his armour needs cleaning properly, but if a knight needs a splinter removed he's there before Gaius most times. Arthur feels his face setting into a scowl and makes an effort to keep the bland court mask on his features, aware that he's probably being too harsh on Merlin but not particularly bothered.

He just—he wants Merlin to pay more attention to him, and all faults aside - and the gods know he has a few of them - Arthur's man enough to admit that much, at least.

Brynmor signs the treaty with a flourish, and Arthur moves forward to sign as witness even as he wonders why he told Merlin to stay through the night with Geraint (or as long as the knight will last, at least) when he wants more of Merlin to himself.

He has got to get a hold of himself.

—-

Gaius' workroom is silent save for the sound of two people breathing, one more laboured than the other, and the crackling of the fire. Merlin sits by Geraint's side and reads by the light of a candle, eyes moving from the page to check the knight at regular intervals, although he barely takes in a word of the herbal that Gaius had given him. The tenth bell rings loud and clear across Camelot, and Merlin puts down the book with a sigh.

He knows, with a certainty he wishes he didn't have, that Geraint won't last much longer. Gaius can do nothing more for him, and neither can Merlin; every time he sends it through Geraint's body his magic only tells him what's wrong with the knight, not what he can do to help him, as if something is stopping him from being able to fit the bone back together and burn the infection away. Gaius had tried to placate him, to tell him that it is simply a lack of training, but Merlin knows he could heal the wound.

Geraint mutters and tosses his head weakly from side to side, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. Merlin can feel his life slipping away as he moves closer, a sensation that makes him feel nauseously angry with his magic. He could cause this sort of wound with a mere thought, could rip apart the flesh and bone of a man if he chose to, send fever coursing through a body, but he cannot repair it, no matter how hard he tries to force his power to obey.

The close atmosphere of the room grows thick with anticipation as Merlin slowly takes Geraint's hand, giving him warning of what will happen.

The knight breathes his last as Gaius comes quietly through the door, Merlin's head bowed over Geraint's, one hand tightly clasping his and the other gently brushing damp hair away from Geraint's face. Merlin looks up as Gaius comes closer, slowly taking his hands away. His eyes are dry - Merlin isn't so foolish as to cry over a man he met yesterday, a man who's very duty it was to die - but he looks almost ill.

"I'll send for someone to tend to the body," Gaius says quietly. Merlin nods, turning away and covering the dead man over with slow hands.

He doesn't look at Gaius as he says, "He was supposed to marry. Enid. They proved their love to each other tenfold, and he became a great king in the east."

From the corner of his eye Merlin sees Gaius' expression become heavier, registering the weight to the words that he didn't intend to give, but now seems unavoidable. Gaius remains where he is, silent, no doubt wanting to comfort and reassure but at the same time unsure how to approach the situation. He has no way of knowing it, but in the dim, flickering light Merlin looks older, more powerful in a way that Gaius can't help but feel is not a trick of the light but instead an echo of what is to come.

Merlin stands abruptly. "Arthur wanted to know when Geraint- when it was over." His voice is rough, his expression hard as he walks by Gaius. The sound of the door shutting pulls Gaius away from his thoughts and back to the reality of a room left empty by more than simply a man's death.

***

Arthur doesn't move from his seat in front of the fire when Merlin enters without knocking. He tilts his head, waiting as Merlin closes the door and leans against it, half in shadows. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Arthur asks, twisting to look at him. "It was his job, his duty to fight for Camelot. He knew what the consequences would be."

"I didn't mean for him. I meant for you."

Arthur snorts, shaking his head against the comment. "I don't need your pity, Merlin; he wasn't a friend."

"You don't have to be a friend to mourn someone's passing. And it isn't pity; you should know me well enough to know that insubordinate as I might be, I would never dare offer you pity."

Arthur flinches as the door slams shut, standing and pacing with the sort of angry energy that makes men do foolhardy things for reasons that in the light of day might look like love, but in the darkness of his rooms look more like destiny.

—-

After that it's inevitable that things speed up. Death has a way of altering the rules in ways that mere mortals, even those as powerful as the being that set all of this into motion, cannot prevent or even comprehend.

Time is more versatile than might be imagined, and it dislikes being messed around with, too; the threads that were broken are already repairing themselves haphazardly, and as a result Merlin and Morgana are inundated with visions of what could be, should be, could have been, will never be.

Morgana fares worst of the pair. Her Sight, untrained yet already strong before the spell was cast, eagerly assimilates the wild magic's effects on Time and provides her with an abundance of dreams and images that give her insight into many events throughout Camelot. Her sleep is disturbed by new endings to conversations she's already witnessed and events that won't happen for days, or even months.

She sees good things, occasionally; meetings between lovers that were once fated never to occur instead happening because of a different timeline, stillbirths changing to celebration, rainfall which should ruin a crop instead being blown off course by winds that shouldn't arrive for another week. One incident makes her laugh out loud at the dichotomy between what she dreams and what really happens, glad that she can witness it.

In the grand scheme of things it doesn't seem like much, not against the survival of a village she Saw washed away by freak spring floods, but it matters because she is actually there to see the way Time bends and reshapes the event. During a tournament put on by Uther to assuage growing tensions between many of the nobles, for reasons he can't fathom and that Morgana suspects, one of the best horses there is spooked by a sudden gust of wind setting the competitor's pennants fluttering.

Morgana's hand is over her mouth before she can catch herself, a shocked exclamation escaping before she can stop it.

In her dream the knight atop the horse fights for control but goes down with it, landing awkwardly and spraining his wrist. The horse fares much worse, breaking two legs and gaining a long gash on its side from a piece of broken lance. In such a state it has no chance of recovery, for a war steed is useless with weak legs and the cost of keeping an animal on the hope that he might Sire future warhorses is one many knights are loath to spend.

Out in the bright sunshine of reality, though, Sir Cador treats the horse with a gentle hand and waits for it to find its own footing. Morgana lets out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding as horse and rider leave the tourney arena safely, Cador leaning down to pat his steed as a page runs up with water for both. She laughs, provoking a confused half-smile from Gwen, to which she replies with a smile of her own and a slight shrug. Gwen's smile turns affectionate, tolerant of Morgana's apparent eccentricities as always.

The feeling she gets from seeing Gwen smile at her stays with her through many nights of dreams both good and bad, from which she wakes most often to a cool hand on her forehead and a carefully reassuring expression. Morgana has woken to the fading echoes of her own voice enough times to know that Gwen must overhear things that would make anyone else pale and call for the guards, foreknowledge that should see her executed.

Should see them both executed, she realises, because there is no way Uther would not arrest Gwen for complicity in Morgana's witchery.

Whether this proves Gwen's will to survive or just her loyalty, which Morgana would like to think is as strong as the former, it still touches her and makes her stand still one evening in the middle of dressing for dinner, her hand pausing on the catch of her necklace. Gwen is pulling dresses from their chests, hands careful on the costly silks as she asks Morgana—something, she's sure of it, but all she can think of is that Gwen is protecting her at the possible expense of her own life.

She wonders if this is what it feels like to be Merlin, but dismisses the idea. Merlin has no idea that as strongly as he protects Arthur, Arthur does the same - albeit in his own way.

"Gwen?"

"Yes my lady?" Gwen replies, either missing or ignoring the pleading note in Morgana's voice. Morgana takes the dress from Gwen hands, barely glancing at it.

"Thank you."

Morgana imbues the words with all the feeling she possibly can, reaching out to Gwen with everything she has. Gwen's hands tighten on the lid of the chest she's in the act of closing, her face turned away so that Morgana cannot read what is expressed there. At length, when Morgana is about desperate enough to reach out and pull Gwen around, the woman turns, looking less than her usual composed self.

This is a Gwen Morgana doesn't know. She doesn't look sweet, or teasing, or have that look on her face that tells Morgana to stop what she's saying. Instead she seems regal, stepping towards Morgana with the air of one who understands more than she will ever let on. Morgana expects an acknowledgement of what she is saying thank you for; obviously not something blatant, but something.

Gwen simply says, "you're going to be late, my lady," and holds out her hand for the dress that Morgana realises with a start she's still holding. It's all wrong for the occasion, much too ornate and fanciful for a simple meal with Uther and the court.

She hands it back without thought, and almost blacks out from the force of the vision that crashes upon her.

She sits with Gwen in her rooms, both of them looking unchanged although she can feel the weight of several years upon her Seeing shoulders. They laugh and act the same as they do now, comfortable in each other's presence yet always mindful of stations and propriety. Morgana watches as she makes a comment that sends Gwen from her seat, a maid once more. It pulls at her heart, that they are still dancing to the same tune.

Blue flashes colour her sight as she briefly falls back into her body, getting a glimpse of Gwen's concerned face as she rushes to her side. Then she's falling again, into the grey.

This time- things are different. She stands alone in an unfamiliar court, a hall full of unknown courtiers before her and a stranger at her side, a man she has never met. The atmosphere is tense, though she can hear faint music; a closer glance at the other version of herself reveals anger held tightly in check, a dislike of her situation showing clearly in her eyes.

A future not of her own choosing, then, but one it seems that she plans to escape; Morgana knows that expression on herself, knows that though she is presenting a cool, disinterested mask to the court around her that there is ice at her heart, revenge in her every thought. It is the same face that looked back at her from the mirror when she almost betrayed Uther to his death, and it sickens her.

"I'm fine," are her first words when she knows she is completely returned from the visions, voice sounding as though it hasn't been used in weeks. Her words are belied by the way she leans heavily on Gwen as the other woman pulls her towards the bed to sit with rather less than her usual grace. Gwen favours her with a disbelieving look.

"I might not be the most intelligent person here, but I'm not an idiot," she says tartly, and moves away to put the discarded dress carefully back in its place. Morgana watches her as she drinks the sweetened wine that seems to always be there when she most needs it, rising shaking with exhaustion from a dream-filled night.

Now is not the time to push Gwen, she realises, not if she wishes to avoid a future spent alone, married to a foreign king and foreign court. This is one thread of Time that will benefit her only if she is careful, and with that resolution in mind she puts aside the possibilities her Sight has shown her and quietly accepts the gown Gwen hands to her, making sure their fingers do not touch a second time.

—-

Merlin is far less fortunate than Morgana is with his visions. The content is similar, for the most part, but while Morgana's come to her in the form of dreams, Merlin quickly discovers that his can be caused by direct contact with any manner of objects, in much the same way as he Saw Brynmor's first visit to the castle when he picked up Arthur's cup.

He makes excuses for the first few visions, but there's only so many times he can plead late nights as the reason for his sudden blankness and ensuing dizziness, not to mention the way he almost falls over several times from the force of an image.

The difficulty comes, at first, from not letting on that he has prior knowledge of a conversation, meeting or series of events. Subtlety and discretion are not Merlin's strong points, and more than once he has to hastily cover a mistake where he answers a question that has not been asked yet, or is even necessary at that point. Arthur looks permanently pained until Merlin gets himself under control and manages to repress his reactions to all but the strongest visions - most of which seem to happen around and be concerned with Arthur, which doesn't help.

—-

Time may be resilient enough to repair some strands in a way beneficial to those they affect, but warped magic is a harsh mistress. More often than not the threads are rewoven into a pattern that demands pain, despair, anguish; all manner of ill emotions from those whose mortal lives are caught up in the weaving. Whether it is the will of a higher power (higher than the being who set this all in motion, at least) to spare Merlin and Morgana the worst of the visions until they are used to having them, or if it is simply the way things fall is uncertain, but it takes a good month for the truly ill-omened visions to start sliding in amongst the good.

Morgana suffers the first one, waking with sweat rapidly cooling on her skin and the sounds of screams with a different pitch to her own reverberating off the walls.

In the following few days her dreams increase in volume and strength until she can't bear to leave her rooms, Gwen's firm hand and soothing voice the only thing stopping her from spinning into a world full of blood and fire, misery and famine. Then the rush slows, perhaps dammed up by Morgana's constant fight against in visions of a Camelot beset by all the ills imaginable, but the ones that filter through simply become clearer.

She Sees other things, things that Nature can't possibly have made; creatures with fangs and claws, wings tipped with razor-sharp feathers that slice through the armour and flesh of the knights sent against them. As she lies tossing and turning on her bed, Gwen sitting next to her with an iron grip on her hand, Morgana watches as force after force, different each time, overwhelms Camelot and puts all who live there to death. The Sight shows her a crown falling from a bloodied head so many times she becomes accustomed to seeing it in her nightmares.

Then something curious happens. Held fast by a sweeping vista of the fields outside the castle walls, watching the crops around her wither and die in an increasing circle around her, Morgana becomes aware of another presence close by. She spins, searching for another traveller to this godforsaken vision, longing to be able to fight against someone the way she cannot fight against this image of the future.

There's no one there, just decimated crops and a thin wind blowing through trees as ill-looking as the wheat.

Morgana frowns, shivering as the wind howls even though she is unable to feel it. The presence gets stronger, until it feels as if someone is standing just behind her, but again when she turns there's no one with her. It continues to build until the hairs on the back of Morgana's neck prickle; she's surrounded by something, if not someone, of great power.

The wheat stalks around her slowly start to regain their greenish-gold, almost ripe colour, snapping upright as though the vitality sapped from them has been returned, the blight removed as if it were never there. In a matter of minutes the field is back to its former glory, as are the fields surrounding the one her dream self stands in.

Someone, or something, has entered one of her visions and altered the outcome.

Morgana compels herself to remember, then turns and steps back into the grey and hopefully back to Gwen, not into another blighted future of Camelot.

***

Across the castle, Merlin carefully sets down the plain bowls Gaius uses for meals and braces himself on the side of the worktable.

He's had too many of those bad dreams for comfort, spanning several days, and this is the first one where he's seen an outcome be worth hoping for. The manipulation of the vision concerns him more than the vision itself, honestly; he's Seen enough of them to know that he can't influence them, so what could it be that made the crops flourish anew?

Morgana's presence there wasn't troubling either, her dream self a frequent sight as Merlin tumbles through dreams of Camelot at war, in the grip of famine, beset by plague. Merlin stares down at the bowl, deep in thoughts and questions he needs to ask Gaius when the physician returns. The pale dawn light barely has the strength to reach the table, hanging on the edge of the silence surrounding Merlin.

Then Arthur slams into the room, and the silence scatters to the wind. "Where's Gaius?"

Merlin blinks at him, already reaching for Gaius' extra medicine case. "Gone to tend to a breach birth, why?"

"Dammit. You'll have to do, come on." Arthur strides over, grabs Merlin's arm and unceremoniously drags him out of the room and along the corridor. Having had prior experience of what happens when he resists (mostly pain) Merlin lets himself be led. Arthur doesn't really understand the concepts of 'ow' and 'stop' when he's in this kind of mood.

Once they're riding away from Camelot, and it would be too much effort for Arthur to hit him, Merlin feels safe enough to ask: "Where the hell are we going?"

Arthur casts him an irritated look. "Collapsed mill wheel, injured miller. Enough information?"

This is why I hate him in the mornings, Merlin thinks, kicking his horse into a canter.

——-

Arthur's tense words don't even begin to describe the scene when they arrive. Merlin's toppling off his horse before it's even properly stopped, stumbling towards the man lying white-faced on a hasty pile of blankets near the edge of the river. He barely spares a glance for the wreckage of a once finely made mill wheel which looms over the cluster of people around him, half in and half out of the water.

"Let me see, move back, come on!" His impatience is matched by the hasty stepping-back of the villagers as he falls to his knees next to the wounded man, already assessing the injury. "What happened?" He addresses the question to the closest woman, who looks pale but most likely to give him aid.

"The beam supporting the wheel splintered," she says, as he pulls away ripped cloth in a way far too reminiscent of Geraint. "It collapsed and took most of the wall with it. Ioan got trapped under the rubble; I think he's got some broken ribs as well."

Merlin nods, attention only partly on her. He can see one of the ribs pressing against the skin of Ioan's side, while another has punctured a lung, going by the laboured breathing and bloody flecks at the corners of the miller's mouth. The woman speaks again: "There's nothing you can do."

It's not a question, and Merlin takes the bluntness of her words as a weight on his shoulders as he presses a strip of the man's own tunic into the gaping wound in his abdomen. Somewhere nearby he can hear Arthur helping some of the village men drag the rest of the wheel out of the river, voices raised in a chant which washes over Merlin as he works.

"No," he answers anyway. "The wound is too bad, I can't do anything."

"Could Gaius?" She asks, voice soft as she kneels and takes one of the man's hands in both of her own. The lack of bitterness or anger in her tone makes something ease slightly in Merlin's chest, although he still desperately wishes that it wouldn't be practically suicide to use his magic on the wound. He knows he can, and that's what hurts him more, not being able to help someone so obviously in need because of the risk it poses to his own life.

Forcing down the urge to just heal the man and be damned with the consequences, Merlin answers her as honestly as he can, taking refuge in what Gaius has taught him about this kind of injury. "I don't think so. A stomach wound is one of the worst; they rarely heal well, and if we tried he would most likely die from an infection anyway."

She nods, one of her hands moving to rest gently on the shoulder of the dying man. "Very well. Can you ease his passing?"

Merlin looks at her, surprised at her sad question. He can count of one hand the times Gaius has been asked to do this in the time he's been in Camelot, and the amount is probably not much higher for the entire time the physician has been working there. He feels the urge to throw up at the same time as he feels his magic try to surge to the surface, but fights both reactions down, trying to focus only on the task at hand. "I can," he tells her, thinking of the small vial in his case. "Is that what-?"

"He wouldn't want to suffer." She seems to sense Merlin's hesitation and lifts her head to smile bleakly at him, "I'm his wife, Afon. End it, please."

Almost dizzy with resisting the urge to let his magic loose on the ugly wound, and with his hands trembling slightly, Merlin fumbles his medicine case open. With a gentle hand he drops a measure of hemlock from a small vial neither he nor Gaius want to use into Ioan's mouth, massaging the man's throat to help his weak swallows as the poison is followed by water from a rough cup one of the other villagers hands down to him. Merlin kneels back to let Afon lean over and whisper her goodbyes, turning his attention towards the waterlogged pile of wood surrounded by arguing villagers and one crown prince until she touches his arm.

Working with Gaius, Merlin has started to learn how to use his magic to discover what is inside someone's body, a trick that has saved a couple of lives already when Merlin discovered injuries not visible on the outside of the body. Now, with his magic so close to the surface, he follows the exact progression of the hemlock through Ioan's body, desperately trying to get it back under control so he won't have to know precisely how long Ioan has left. When it happens, the difference between knowing a man is dead and closing his eyes with gentle fingers is startling.

A group of women approach to help Afon tend to her husband's body, their faces holding understanding for Merlin but also telling him that his duties are done, time to step aside. He stands stiffly, swallowing thickly, and nods to the eldest of them, a wizened woman with gnarled hands and eyes which look at him too deeply for comfort.

Arthur acknowledges him with a quick glance, deep in conversation with a man Merlin quickly identifies as the village carpenter, if the words he uses are anything to go by. Arthur nods his way through the bewildering array of crown wheels, layshafts and underdrifts, looking like he was born a miller and not a royal. The man grunts a final, "I'd better go check the bedstone, see if tha's damaged. Sire."

"Did you actually understand any of that?"

Arthur frowns at him. "Enough to know that this shouldn't have happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Here, look." Arthur leads him over to the side of the mill house, helping him up onto the pile of rubble that remains from the wall, and points at the main beam protruding from the heap of stone. "That's the axle, that links the wheel to the inner workings of the mill, and what drives the whole thing. Take a good look at the wood."

Merlin doesn't need to take a good look; his magic tells him what he needs to know. The life is only just fading from the huge log. "This was cut recently."

Arthur nods. "According to our friend the carpenter there, they finished replacing the old, rotten axle two weeks ago. There's no reason for this one to have split the way it did; it's completely solid."

"Sabotage?"

"I haven't seen any markings that might have been made by an axe or other weapon, and neither have the rest of them." Arthur leans against the splintered end of the axle and shades his eyes against the rapidly brightening sun, watching the villagers pulling apart the broken wheel. "Shouldn't you be helping the injured man?"

"He's dead."

"Oh." Arthur sounds shocked. "The messenger said-"

"The messenger was wrong," Merlin interrupts shortly. "The wound was too bad. I gave him hemlock."

He jumps down off the rubble to join the villagers, suddenly aching to destroy something.

Just before they leave, while Arthur making assurances of Camelot's aid, the woman who has sent chills along Merlin's spine earlier pulls him aside.

"You are behind in your studies, young Emrys," she says, her voice too youthful for such a crone. "Learn from this and you might be able to prevent more such tragedies." He glances over at the body still by the river, covered in a clean blanket, and when he looks back she's gone.

He knows better than to ask Arthur about her, knows that even if it's not worth his life then it's not worth putting Arthur in an even worse mood on the ride back by asking about strange old women who go around speaking in riddles. He casts a last look towards the wreckage of the mill wheel, now spread out to dry in the sun. The vision hits him as he turns to face the way home, grey mist descending rapidly.

It's night, that much is obvious. The previous day, judging from the complete mill house and gently turning wheel; it had been barely dawn when Arthur fetched him, so whatever had broken it must be about to happen. Merlin watches carefully, eyes flicking from house to house, to the river and the forest.

He almost misses it, so subtle is the movement in the darkness. A shadow climbs over the mill house, covering it and making it almost impossible for Merlin to see what's happening.

The next thing he knows there's an almighty CRACK, like the very earth is splitting. Merlin feels an inaudible scream in his bones as the green wood in the very heart of the new axle shatters and splinters, forced apart by glittering blue sparks that Merlin recognises as magic.

When he blinks away the last of the grey Arthur is looking at him, concern hidden beneath impatience. Merlin swipes a hand over his face and decides enough is enough. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Arthur waits for a moment before urging his horse on faster, as though expecting more. Maybe Merlin usually does give him more, babbles on about people he can't save and tragedies that shouldn't happen, but right now someone is using magic to hurt Camelot and it will stop.

—-

"Gaius, I'm sure! Someone used magic on the beam!"

"But can we trust these visions of yours, that's all I'm asking," Gaius reasons for what seems like the hundredth time in the argument. Merlin glares. Again.

"So far everything I've seen has come true, or a variation on it, at least."

Gaius waves his ladle at Merlin, unheeding of the sickly yellow colour his potion is turning without supervision. "Exactly my point, a version of your visions. We don't know if these are true visions, even-"

"What else could they be?!" Merlin starts pacing, hands gesturing wildly as he talks. Gaius eyes the sparks flying from his fingertips and takes a step back, just in case. "I know it's unlikely I've got the Sight, Gaius; at least, not in the way that Morgana has it. And don't tell me otherwise, I've seen her in my visions. But that doesn't change the fact that I've been Seeing things before they happen, or that sometimes what I See doesn't match up with the actual events."

He stops his pacing to stand opposite Gaius' books, staring blankly at them. "Geraint should have lived. I Saw his future with Enid, and all the great deeds he performed, but something made that book disappear and he died because of it. The miller today, he was strong enough for the messenger to ask for any healer, not you specifically, but when I got there he was so far gone and in so much pain I had to give him hemlock!"

The physician sighs heavily and sets down his ladle, concerned. "Are you alright?"

Merlin spins, eyes angry as he spits: "No. I want to know what's going on!"

"This isn't another griffin, or someone like Edwin, Merlin; if there is someone behind these things than they're very powerful and very clever, to be doing this without anyone noticing."

"How else could these things be getting altered?" Merlin asks, leaning against the archway leading to his room. Gaius eyes the cracks spreading like cobwebs through the stone, and bites down a comment. No doubt they'll fix themselves when Merlin moves. He marshals his thoughts and focuses on the problem at hand.

"It's possible that these are just magic's way of keeping the balance. Other things that we haven't heard about may have altered for the best, and these...deaths," he hesitates over the word, looking at the tight set of Merlin's shoulders, but ploughs on, "are simply Nature's compensation."

Merlin frowns. "Maybe, I suppose."

"There was something I read, once," Gaius continues, already trying to remember which book and which chapter, drawing away from the table to peer at his shelves. "I think it was something about magic and its links to the seasons, but..."

Merlin sighs. "Can I help?"

Already sorting through his books, Gaius glances back up, eyebrows lifted. "Shouldn't you be helping Arthur?"

"I've got time to help you," Merlin says with a shrug, not adding that he's trying to delay going to see Arthur. He's finding it unsettling, trying to be normal with him while so much else is going on. It's hard enough keeping his magic a secret sometimes, let alone this, and the more time he can spend out of Arthur's way is less time he'll have to spend lying. He takes the tome that Gaius absently hands to him and settles down to focus on the pages.

—-

When Merlin reaches Arthur's chambers, it's to find him in a foul mood. He's wrestling with the laces of his court robes, swearing as he only succeeds in tightening them. Merlin rolls his eyes and stops Arthur's angry yanks with a firm hand.

"Stand still, or I'll never be able to get them undone."

Arthur grimaces but complies, standing like a statue as Merlin leans over one wrist. "I hate the damn things."

Merlin smiles at the laces, working at them with deft fingers. "The robes or the council meetings?"

"Both." The slight chuckle Merlin can't stifle pulls some of the tension out of Arthur's body, but he's still visibly angry. "It's more the meetings, though. We lost another grain wagon to bandits yesterday, and two more villages have sent word that their water supplies have gone bad."

"Does Gaius know?"

Arthur shakes his head, twisting his freed wrist as Merlin turns to the other one. "Not yet. He will do by the end of the day, but my father wants to question their messengers first."

The robes come off in a flurry, Merlin only just managing to catch the costly attire before they slip to the floor, Arthur shedding his fine tunic with more ease and yanking his worn red one over his head. Merlin wets his dry lips and busies himself replacing the robes on their hanger, smoothing out any creases and reminding himself he's got more important things to think about than how good Arthur looks.

"Come on."

"Let me guess," Merlin says, following Arthur as he strides out of the room, "we're going to the training field."

"Armoury first." Arthur casts a slight smile over his shoulder. "I'm that predictable?"

"You're in a bad mood," Merlin points out. He has to put out a hand to stop himself skidding into a wall, so quickly is Arthur walking. He gets his balance back and hurries on, almost crashing into a waiting Arthur.

"And my bad moods always mean a trip to the training field?"

Merlin shrugs. "You like hitting things when you're angry."

Arthur tilts his head in acquiescence, leading the way into the armoury. Merlin waits while he selects a sword, hoping that this time Arthur's going to beat the hell out of a dummy and not Merlin himself.

***

It feels like an entire world away from the pain of the early morning visit to the broken millwheel as Merlin sits on the grass of the training field, legs crossed as he watches Arthur hack at a wooden target. He tips his head back under the weak sunlight, frowning as he notices for the first time that for early May it should be a lot warmer this close to midday. He glances at the trees bordering the field, frown deepening as he notes the meagre showing of blossoms.

A particularly loud shout from Arthur leads to Merlin throwing himself to one side as a sizeable chunk of wood flies off the dummy, landing solidly in the ground a mere inch away from where he was sitting. He gives it a glare, sitting up cautiously. Arthur hasn't even stopped, still going through every training pattern he knows with a fierceness Merlin's only ever seen him use when in an actual battle.

"That nearly hit me."

"It missed," Arthur grunts, swinging the sword into the dummy with a loud thunk. He yanks it out, the dummy quivering as he lets the sword hang loosely in his hand, breathing heavily. "I hate council meetings."

Merlin keeps quiet.

Arthur starts attacking the dummy again, punctuating his words with hits to alternate sides. "They're just" thud "an excuse" thud "for old men" thud "to talk" thud "about problems" thud "but not actually decide what to do about them!" THUD.

This time he leaves the sword in the dummy, standing with his head bowed and hands clenched tightly. Merlin swallows hard and fights down the part of him that wants to comfort Arthur with lips and teeth, the part that wants Arthur's energy directed at him and doesn't care if it hurts. That almost wants it to hurt. Instead he puts on his blandest expression and prompts, "Tell me?"

Arthur's frustration shows in that he doesn't disparage Merlin's intellect before starting to explain, levering the sword from the large gash in the wooden dummy and dropping onto the grass next to Merlin. "You've heard about the rise in the number of bandits around Camelot?"

Merlin nods. "Gaius has been up to his elbows in blood these past few weeks, treating people who've been attacked."

Arthur's frown deepens. "That's another thing. Usually they only attack if there's something to steal, but now they've started attacking people for no apparent reason, simple travellers and the like. Not even the bards are safe right now. They're bandits, for god's sake, out-of-work mercenaries, criminals and outcasts."

"You mentioned grain wagons are being taken, right? Maybe they're low on supplies."

"I don't think they need seven grain wagons, Merlin, not even if they're hungry," Arthur says dryly, sounding less angry. "There aren't enough bandits in Camelot to eat that much grain, our knights have seen to that."

Merlin's at a loss for what to say to that, pulling up handfuls of grass as he waits for Arthur to speak again. When he does it's in a weary voice.

"If it were just the early harvest that we're losing, things wouldn't be so strained. But with this unnatural weather it's looking as if the summer harvests will be bad, and that's a huge problem. We're already having to look at rationing what grain we have stored, which isn't going to be popular."

"What about the reports about the water supplies?"

"So far it seems to be stagnation, not the wells drying up, which is a small measure of hope. We might be able to find the source of any blockages, given time. Thing is, time's what we don't have," he adds, looking up as a page approaches them.

"My lord, the King requests your presence in the council room." The page bows deferentially, one disapproving eyebrow lifted at Merlin's apparent lack of respect for his prince. Merlin grins at him.

"Tell him I'm on my way." Arthur watches him depart, eyes vague. Merlin thinks he going to say something more on their previous conversation, but all he says is, "Take this back to the armoury and clean it," before standing and following the page at a slower pace.

Merlin waits until Arthur's inside before picking up the sword and making his way back to the castle, head bowed in thought as he walks. He's thinking so hard, head a tumult of problems, that he ends up in the middle of a fight before he even notices the raised voices. With an unpleasant jolt he recognises the scene as one he's dreamt about, a scene that ended with Gaius treating one man and the other banished.

Merlin remembers being angry that knights of Camelot couldn't show more restraint over some minor insult - the legality of a man's noble parentage, he thinks it was - and that it had such dire consequences. The argument in front of him follows exactly the same pattern he'd Seen, and Merlin turns to walk away, having no interest in watching the blows begin to fall, or the hidden dagger pulled from a boot.

He's stopped in his tracks by Morgana, standing so close behind him that he almost crashes into her. "My lady?"

She doesn't answer, just keeps staring over his shoulder at the two arguing knights. A frown appears on her pale face as she whispers "but it didn't happen like this," her words barely audible over the arrival of a couple of older knights, yelling for order and wading through the onlookers to restrain the two men at the centre of it all. Morgana blinks, two spots of vivid colour high on her cheeks, and Merlin realises this is the first time he's seen her around the castle for a while.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"Y-yes, I think so." She looks away from the scene behind him and focuses on Merlin, her eyes too bright. "You know it wasn't supposed to happen like this."

It's too late to deny it; even if he had a lie ready, Morgana would probably be able to tell anyway, and if he's honest he needs to know if he's not the only one seeing these things. "I saw it differently," he answers, knowing she'll understand.

Morgana nods, her eyes fading to a more normal appearance in the face of a fellow secret keeper. "I need to be somewhere right now, but can I speak with you later?"

"Of course, my lady."

Her smile is worth such a risky conversation, the first he's seen on her face for a long time. "How you manage to be so polite to me but not to Arthur is beyond me; I would probably forget."

"Arthur reminds me by his mere presence, my lady." Merlin bows, lifting the sword slightly. "Speaking of his highness, I'm charged with getting this cleaned. If you will excuse me?"

"Of course. I'll send Gwen to get you later."

She watches him for any signs that he was aware of Gwen's knowledge of her gifts, but if there's one thing that Merlin has learnt it's never to give away more than he must. He keeps the shock inside, bowing his head with a smile that's only slightly forced and stepping away before she can say anything else.

Of course Gwen knows, he thinks as he goes, who else would Morgana trust?

—-

Gaius is of the same opinion when Merlin returns to his rooms, pulling himself out of his books for long enough to listen to Merlin's quick explanation of the fight and Morgana's acknowledgement of their shared visions. He spares a moment to set Merlin to making a remedy for one of his patients, then returns to a weighty tome Merlin doesn't envy him in searching through.

He's just finishing up the potion when the wards tell him Gwen is approaching, a soft tap at the door following moments later. She leans around the door, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell.

"Merlin? Morgana would like to talk to you."

"I'm coming." He takes the bubbling potion off the fire and sets it to cool, knowing telling Gaius where he's going would be an exercise in futility; the physician hasn't moved since he returned except to turn the pages of his book. They walk side by side in silence until, just before Morgana's door, Gwen stops Merlin with a hand on his arm.

"Merlin- I wanted to tell you, I really did. But Morgana's been so scared, and the things she's been Seeing are so bad that I've had my hands full making sure she doesn't make herself sick with worry, or worse, and you've seemed so preoccupied—"

Merlin interrupts. "Gwen, Gwen, stop." He takes her hands in his, smiling at her. "It's okay, it doesn't matter. You, ah, you know why she wants to talk to me?"

"Yes. And I completely understand why you didn't tell me about that either, even though I am your friend and I would never tell anyone." Merlin looks sheepish as Gwen fixes him with a disapproving look.

"I'm sorry."

"Never mind, it doesn't matter either. Now, we'd better get in there before she gets angry with us both."

Morgana isn't angry so much as irritated, which might just be worse. When she's angry she makes improbable threats; when she's irritated she uses sarcasm with an edge so sharp Arthur could use it as a weapon.

Her opening comment of "I take back every nice thing about you Merlin, you're a moron of the highest order" makes Merlin bite his lip in an attempt to kill a smile, an effort not helped in the least by Gwen (standing behind Morgana, out of harm's way) grinning at him. "How long have you been having visions?"

"Since just after the equinox."

"Me too. What have you been Seeing?"

"My lady?"

Morgana sighs, looking annoyed. Merlin takes an involuntary half-step back. "My visions have tended towards conversations, arguments, things like that. Again, what have you been Seeing?"

"Events mostly, people's actions. I haven't often heard people speaking."

"As I suspected," Morgana says, nodding. "Your magic - don't look at me like that, of course I know - seems to lean more towards the corporeal anyway, so it makes sense."

"So, what, we've been sharing visions?" Merlin questions, trying to work out what it all means. "I've seen you in some of mine; has that gone both ways?"

"No. I've felt another presence in a few of my dreams, which was probably you, but I don't think I'm strong enough to have been able to actually see you. Your magic has probably been increasing the strength of your visions, whereas my Gift has simply given me an overwhelming amount of them."

"Those potions Gaius made for you a while ago, did they help?"

"The ones he tried to tell me you couldn't make because they required magic working on them?" Morgana says wryly, laughing a little at Merlin's expression. "That's how I found out. His words allowed me to See you lifting the furniture in his room and sweeping the floor underneath. You're very powerful," she adds, her voice going far away for a moment, before she pulls herself back with a visible effort of will. "They focused my visions, and Merlin, what I See isn't good. Camelot is in grave danger."

"You wouldn't happen to know who from, or how, would you?" Merlin asks with a touch of his own sarcasm. Morgana lifts an eyebrow.

"That would be far too easy, and from all I know of magic, 'easy' is not usually part of the plot."

"Then what can we do? It isn't as if there's an enemy sorcerer at the gates of Camelot, demanding revenge."

"Now that would make things easy," Gwen interjects. "Whatever you do, it'd better not involve inducing any more visions. I've had enough of that." Merlin looks between her and Morgana, taking in the way Morgana looks as close to ashamed as she likely ever will in the face of Gwen's words.

"That's probably not the best thing to do, my lady; we don't know what's causing them-"

Morgana rounds on him, eyes flashing. "And how else do you recommend we find out?" She practically yells. "We can't exactly go around asking about mages powerful enough to change timelines!"

"Morgana, calm down," Gwen pleads, reaching out to touch Morgana's shoulder in an attempt at calming her. Morgana shakes her off, moving closer to Merlin.

"You need to do something about it, Emrys, because only you have the power to stop whoever is doing this. Your magic is of the Old Religion, bound to the land, and it is the land which suffers now."

Merlin barely breathes as Morgana speaks, for it is not the king's ward that stands in front of him. It's someone different - the same woman, surely, but edged around with power and with a darker look to her. Her voice is older, resonant with the power of prophecy but more impersonal. She speaks of a destiny Merlin doesn't want, doesn't think he can fulfil, but she says it as though it is a mere step on the path of his life.

She reminds him of the dragon, in an uncomfortable way, and Merlin thinks of the great beast, suspiciously silent since his visit on the night of the equinox. Both of them are being stubborn, he supposes; he refuses to go down to the cavern and break the silence, and the dragon has refrained from summoning him. He wonders if answering power with power would make this moment any less chilling, and instead snaps "Morgana" as Gwen pulls her mistress round to face her, eyes entreating.

"Morgana, please, don't do this, come back—" Morgana flinches suddenly, her eyelids flaring wide around shocked eyes as she comes back into herself. The magic Merlin hadn't realised he was calling on flows away as the aura around Morgana fades back into the woman he knows. Gwen speaks soothing words, voice low and comforting.

After a moment Morgana swallows and looks up. "I'm sorry, Merlin. My magic has been doing some strange things recently."

"I know what you mean," Merlin tells her after a moment, feeling awkward as he makes the admission. "Something—or someone, more likely—is trying to harm Camelot, and it's affecting both of us."

Moving to seat herself in a chair, appearing as if she is still reeling from whatever power overtook her, Morgana asks, "Do you know how? Or who, for that matter?"

"Haven't got a clue. The-"

"How is that possible?" Morgana interrupts, her voice angry again. She leans forward, glaring at Merlin. "From the sound of it you've known about this for some time, and yet you have discovered nothing!"

"We've been trying," he snaps back, stung by the implication that he hasn't been paying enough attention to the problems in Camelot. "There's no mention of anything like this in the records, and I can't find a spell or a piece of magic which will affect the weather and the people at the same time, never mind across the entire kingdom!"

"Then use your magic!" she shouts, rising from her chair, her hands clenched.

"I can't," Merlin yells in return, voice harsh. "You don't understand," and Morgana flinches, because of course she doesn't, and at the back of his mind Merlin registers that the words must hurt her, but he carries on. "I have no idea what has been done, which means I've got no idea for what to look for—"

"You could still—"

"—and," he carries on as if Morgana never interrupted, "I don't know how. It isn't as if I've been able to learn that sort of thing." If she notices the bitterness in his voice she doesn't register it, eyes intense as she paces towards him.

"There has to be someone who knows!"

"And how do you suggest we find that out?" Out of the corner of his eye Merlin can see Gwen looking more and more worried, and he makes a conscious effort to calm down, to stop himself from sounding so harsh. "It isn't as if we can go looking for help, after all. Any hint that we're involved with magic and you know how Uther will react."

"If he cannot-" Morgana starts, cheeks flushed, but stops as Gwen steps forward.

"Please," she says, "arguing isn't helping." Setting one hand on Morgana's arm, she looks between them both. "You can't risk Uther hearing of this, either of you, not even if it means finding someone who knows what is happening here."

"What other options are there?" Morgana asks, suddenly sounding weary, as if her outbursts of magic and anger have used up all her energy. She sits down again, expression tense. "We need somewhere to start."

Leaning against the wall, Merlin feels all the anger drain away from him. "There are two possibilities, I suppose."

"This could be a natural occurrence," Morgana interjects. "The magic in the land acting strangely, for no reason we can know."

"Exactly," Merlin says with a nod. "But if that were the case, then there should be a record of it happening before somewhere, and there's nothing."

"If there were, Uther would have used it as another example of why magic should be eradicated," Morgana agrees darkly, then grimaces. "But if not that, then what?"

"The other option..." Merlin hesitates, because he doesn't like the idea in the slightest. "Somebody powerful wants to hurt Camelot."

"Someone who hates Uther?" Gwen suggests. "Using magic to do that would be a good way of getting revenge."

Morgana shakes her head. "I want to say yes, but it seems like this goes further than that. Why not attack now that Camelot is weakened? The crops are failing and the harvests will be poor because of it, the majority of the knights are distracted by the increase in bandit attacks, and there is dissent among the people that grows by the week. It's as if what's happening now is their goal, instead of anything further."

"If something isn't done to stop this," Merlin says slowly, because he's had this thought before, and while he's come to believe that it's the most likely reasoning behind the problems in Camelot, it's still very disturbing, "then there might not be a kingdom for Arthur to rule over."

Morgana lifts her eyebrows. "You mean, this could be directed towards Arthur?"

"Why not?" Merlin asks. "It's happened before." He waits as they both consider the possibility and what it would mean for the future, part of his mind still considering Morgana's questions and demands. "Arthur has to be King. It's...it has to happen," he finishes awkwardly, not looking at either woman. "I'll find a way, somehow."

A last remaining vestige of Morgana's magic still clinging to her makes her eyes flash and the air grow close around them before Gwen once again touches her arm, pulling her out of its grasp. Shaking, Morgana looks at Merlin and nods weakly. "That's all I- all any of us can ask of you."

He leaves quickly, to avoid any more glimpses of her future, but that doesn't stop him from seeing Gwen out of the corner of his eye, resplendent in silk and velvet, the shadow of a crown on her brow. The image stays with him for hours, making him unnaturally quiet through dressing Arthur and without his usual complaints about having to stay up late to wait on Arthur after a long post-dinner conversation with Uther.

Tellingly, Arthur doesn't mention Merlin's mood.

—-

Reasoning that telling Gaius about his conversation with Morgana would only make him worry further, Merlin keeps it to himself. He figures he's made the right decision when Gaius spends the next morning in an irritable mood, going so far as to shout at Merlin for knocking a wooden bowl off the workbench and onto the floor. Merlin picks it up and carefully sets it on a shelf where it'll be out of his way before glancing at Gaius, who has stopped chopping herbs.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I seem to be out of sorts today."

Merlin shrugs. "At least you're not throwing things at me," he says, making Gaius chuckle weakly.

"No, I suppose not." He sighs, sounding every day of his old age. "I haven't been able to discover anything useful in my books yet, and it's frustrating, not to mention potentially fatal."

"I could help," Merlin offers, feeling slightly guilty when Gaius looks surprised. "I should have offered before, I know. Sorry."

"You don't like going through one dusty book after another," Gaius says dryly. "I imagine most people your age are the same. If you do truly want to help, though, I will gladly give you some books to search through once you've finished your rounds."

"I'll ask Arthur if he can spare me for the afternoon." Merlin waits until Gaius resumes chopping the herbs before continuing with his own tasks, keeping a wary eye on the physician. He receives a few sharp comments, but keeps working, hoping that they're just another symptom of whatever is going on in Camelot, and not Gaius' real opinion of how well he does the tasks given to him. Surely it doesn't really matter how finely he chops willow bark for the headache potions?

He's glad of the respite when he's finally sent to deliver the physician's remedies to those that have requested them, and spends as long as he can out in the town before going in search of Arthur and requesting to spend an entire afternoon poring over musty tomes with Gaius. Not that he can tell Arthur that, of course. Making his way through the castle corridors, he tries to think of a good lie to tell in place of the truth.

—-

Arthur is mildly suspicious when Merlin asks for the afternoon off from his duties in order to help Gaius make enough remedies for an outbreak of illness, not least because he's heard no reports of such a thing from any part of the kingdom, but it suits his own plans for the rest of the day to have Merlin be elsewhere. He agrees, with what he hopes is the usual amount of comments about how he's sure he can cope without Merlin's pathetic help for a few hours, and tells him to take the rest of the day off for good measure.

The surprise on Merlin's face is almost enough for Arthur to think he's overdone it, but then he nods, gives his thanks and hurries off. Relieved, Arthur waits until he's well out of sight before making his way down through the castle to where Camelot's records are kept. He'd sent a servant down earlier, to see if the historian was in residence, and had discovered that Geoffrey would be out all afternoon on various errands. Likely collecting more reports to cram into the already overflowing shelves, Arthur thinks, and it's something for which he's grateful; as knowledgeable as Geoffrey is, Arthur would rather do this himself, without one of his father's councillors standing at his side and remarking on each thing he gathers from the records.

 

Pushing open the heavy door that leads into the large chamber, Arthur glances around at the rows of shelves, haphazardly filled with all manners of papers, books and scrolls. If there is a system to the disorder he can see, then it's one known only to Geoffrey, which is going to make what he wants to do rather more difficult, but he isn't going to wait until the historian returns; not only would that defeat the point of coming down here while Geoffrey is out, but it could lead to some questions that he doesn't have an answer for yet. He carefully picks his way to where Geoffrey's desk sits covered in yet more papers, and reasons that the most recent reports from the kingdom will be on there, or at least nearby, so that's where he plans to start.

Plumes of dust rise as Arthur begins to sort through the clutter on the desk, being careful not to knock into it as he moves once he notices that it's missing a leg and the broken-off stump is balancing on a bucket. The more papers he looks through, the more it becomes clear that something isn't right in Camelot. Normally the reports that get sent by various officials from around the land are sparse, generally a sheet long and covering the basic day-to-day running of the villages and towns under Uther's protection.

The ones he's finding, slowly, are much thicker, fixed together with thread sewn roughly through pages filled with varied kinds of handwriting. He searches through a couple of shelves until he finds a map of Camelot with the locations of major settlements marked on it, and tries to find a report matching to each one. By the time he's managed to gather enough for a mostly-complete view of what's going on he's covered in dust and collected several paper cuts, not to mention begun to develop a form of respect for the scribes and librarians who always manage to find the right papers when they're needed in a far shorter time than he has.

Arthur is just stacking what he needs into a pile to return to his rooms with when Geoffrey returns, carrying yet another bundle of papers in his arms. He stops short when he sees Arthur, covering his slightly shocked expression with a bow and a polite, "My lord." Apparently at a loss for what to say next, he clears his throat and moves to place his burden on the desk. Noticing the papers Arthur holds, his eyebrows lift slightly. "Can I help you with something, Sire?"

"I've found everything I need." Stepping carefully back to the door, Arthur has a thought. Turning back, he asks, "If I needed anything clarifying from these reports, who would I speak to?"

"That would be myself, Sire, or your father. For greater detail you would, of course, need to speak to the official who wrote the specific report."

Arthur nods. "Thank you. I'll return these once I'm done with them."

Geoffrey waves a hand. "Keep them as long as you need them, Sire. It is your prerogative, after all." Once on his way back to his chambers, Arthur thinks about paper cuts and dust that gets into his eyes like the worst raised by a march during summer. Poring over endless reports of taxes, petty grievances and the other minutiae of a kingdom is not something that has ever appealed to him, but he knows from his father that it is a vital part of being a ruler, and he thinks that perhaps this is a good place to begin learning.

—-

Twilight has drawn in by the time Arthur finishes reading the last of what he gathered from Geoffrey's library, the light fading sooner than is normal for the time of year. He frowns at the darkening sky visible through the window, all too aware that the reports mention the very same thing. A far cry from their usual calm records of daily life, each and every one contains, along with the usual details of tithes and the like, accounts of strange weather causing the crops to wither, animals acting against their usual nature and occurrences where a recently repaired building has suddenly collapsed. The amount of crimes committed has increased too, so it seems; far more reports contain worries about bandits and thieves than is apparently normal, or so a notation in Geoffrey's neat hand indicates.

Then there are the descriptions of things that can only, to Arthur's mind at least, have been caused by magic. Storms that spring up from clear skies to destroy crops and scatter herds, but occur only over one particular area. He reads testimonies from eyewitnesses interviewed by town officials that speak of stepping out from underneath storms, from pouring rain to sunny skies, as if there is a boundary that the weather will not cross. Such events leave fields flooded and ruined, the harvests rotten within days. Each storm seems to be several villages closer to Camelot, Arthur notes with a frown.

Such things are not natural, and neither are the beasts that have been spotted. Reading through the reports, Arthur is reminded of the strange blue creature he and his knights hunted. The descriptions before him are similar in that all the creatures they tell of may once have been ordinary animals, but had been warped by some force into things that none recognised. Some detail horns and claws on animals which previously had neither, or great increases in size and ferocity, and then there come the ones which read as if they were created by mixing more than one animal to get something entirely new and dangerous.

To his mind there is only one explanation for such happenings, and for the problems Camelot is facing as a whole: magic. Troubled by the conclusion, although not especially surprised, Arthur rises and takes a torch from the wall, holding it to the low fire until it catches, still deep in thought as he touches it to the rest of the torches around his chambers. His immediate reaction is to tell his father, to show him the reports and explain his reasoning - not that it would need much doing, the evidence is plain to see. He makes no move to seek out Uther, however, remaining where he is, a deep frown still marring his features.

A question he had asked Geoffrey earlier returns to him as he stares at the heap of papers in front of him, and it makes his frown clear slightly. After a moment's debate he comes to a decision, gathering the reports up and leaving his rooms, retracing his steps back down to the library.

—-

Although it is late, Geoffrey is still at work when Arthur pushes the door open, sitting at his cluttered desk with the light of a well-protected lamp illuminating the book in front of him. Again, he looks surprised at seeing Arthur there, perhaps more so considering it is the second time in one day, but he recovers swiftly and stands. "My lord?"

"I came to return these," Arthur says, motioning with the sheaf of reports in his hand. He hesitates, feeling slightly awkward; he and Geoffrey have never had much to do with each other, but if anyone can answer his questions, it is without doubt the historian. "I also came to ask some questions."

"I will help in any way I can, Sire. What is it you wish to know?"

"I want," Arthur begins slowly, wondering how to phrase his question, "to know how magic was dealt with before my father's reign."

Geoffrey looks taken aback, unable to conceal his surprise this time. "My lord, I hardly think-"

"This is in confidence, of course," he adds. "I simply wish to better understand how Camelot treated those who can use magic before the Purges." When Geoffrey still looks uncertain, Arthur sighs. "Surely there is nothing wrong with teaching the Crown Prince the history of what will be my own kingdom one day?"

Nodding slowly, Geoffrey says, "If you are certain, Sire, then I shall do my best to answer anything you ask of me."

"Thank you." Removing a stack of books from a chair that Geoffrey indicates, Arthur sits down, Geoffrey following suit after a moment's indecision. Leaning back in his chair, the historian looks thoughtful, looking at the stack of shelves surrounding them as if searching for a place to begin. Arthur waits as patiently as he can, aware that men like Geoffrey are not to be rushed, but barely stifled a sigh of relief all the same when the older man speaks.
"Magic, in many ways, is like that knife," he begins, pointing to the one hanging at Arthur's belt. "On its own it's just a piece of shaped metal, with the potential for many different uses. In the hands of someone who knows how to use it, yes, it can be a weapon. Or, it can be used as a healer's tool, or a cook's utensil. Good things."

"But how did we prevent people from using it as a weapon, in that case?"

"The same way as we continue to stop everyone else: the laws," Geoffrey answers, tone scholarly and instructive; Arthur is forcibly reminded of the tutors he had as a child, and has to remind himself that this is important, something he wants to know, to stop himself yawning in reaction. He frowns.

"I still don't see how you can be sure, though. It's in a sorcerer's nature, or a sorceress', to cause dissent and-"

"That is the judgement of your father," Geoffrey says, his tone turning careful. "Before the problems faced by Camelot during his rule, most magic users were peaceable for the most part, although of course there have always been those who seeks to cause strife."

"Then what did the laws say about the use of magic when committing a crime?"

"The punishments were made to fit the crime, not the way in which it is committed. A man who used magic to make his neighbours crops wither and die would have received the same punishment as a man who set fire to a gathered harvest, because the end result is the same."

"What about for more serious crimes?"

Geoffrey raises his eyebrows in a manner curiously similar to Gaius, displaying disapproval without actually saying anything. "You don't consider destroying a man's crop a serious crime, Sire?"

"You know what I mean. Murder, that sort of thing."

"The punishment for murder is death, the same as it is now, regardless of whether or not magic was used. It used to be that the only time the punishments differed was if someone used magic repeatedly in a malicious way, even when fined or punished by the sheriffs." Pausing, Geoffrey looks thoughtful. "In cases such as those, I believe their magic was taken from them by the Court mages, although I would need to check the histories to be completely sure."

Leaning forward, truly interested now, Arthur inquires, "And if they found other ways to continue their crimes?"

"Then they were be punished according to the laws, the same as before." Though his tone is serious, Arthur can detect sadness there as well, and wonders if Geoffrey lost friends when the laws changed. He continues, in a far dryer and neutral tone, emotions carefully hidden. "The laws of Camelot used to compensate for the fact that magic was tolerated, and acted in just the same way as they do now."

Resting his elbows in his knees, Arthur stares down at the intricately tooled leather cover of a book resting between his feet and sits contemplating what he has heard for a while. After a moment or two he is aware of Geoffrey moving around again, shuffling papers and making more notes, leaving him to this thoughts. There's something beginning to niggle at the back of his mind, something being pulled forward by the talk of magic, and he isn't sure he likes what it's threatening to coalesce into.

He takes his leave of Geoffrey rather abruptly, barely remembering to thank the old man before he strides out into the dim hallway. Without conscious thought his feet take him the long way back, through corridors and walkways, Arthur barely registering those he passes along the way. By the time he reaches the door of his chambers the thought has become solid, along with the anger that has been slowly rising as each piece fell into place. Slamming the door behind him with such force that the wood shakes on its hinges, Arthur stands in his chambers, unable to focus his gaze on anything.

The urge to have a weapon in his hand wells up so strongly he has crossed the room and pulled his sword half from its scabbard before he registers what he's done, looking at the lethal blade and imagining himself—With an effort of will Arthur slides the sword safely back into the sheath, trying to focus on the pure, emotional anger and not the destructive anger that would have him act without thought or reason.

He understands now, in the part of him that isn't blind with rage, how Uther could have made mistakes when it comes to magic. He automatically shies away from using that word, from admitting that his father has made mistakes, has been wrong, but after a long moment of struggling with years of loyalty he has to admit that it's the only word that fits. Reeling from this, the tactician in him withdraws from being rash, begins to think with the detachment of the battlefield.

It seems as if there is a puzzle in his head, the pieces scattered throughout his mind, and all it needed was for Geoffrey to lay the first piece down in the right place for all the rest to gather around it and form an entire picture. A series of memories spreads before his eyes; his natural balance inexplicably gone as he tripped over everything in his path, an orb of strange blue light guiding him to safety, a snake emerging from a shield, something half-glimpsed through shining water. And more than that, things he's been told, like how he must be the luckiest man in the kingdom, to still be alive after so many wounds that on any other would be fatal. Things he's overheard, whispered rumours amongst his knights of how Lancelot's sword flamed blue before he killed the griffin.

In his head, these pieces have never meant much until this moment, but now...now he can't help but see that they all began when Merlin arrived in Camelot. Before that day, there were no strange events where not everything added up, no situations which ended with Arthur pulled to safety by someone who wouldn't admit to it. It all makes a horrific sort of sense, now that he's been given that push he needed to see it. The rage begins to overwhelm the rational part of him, and for an instant he's tempted to let it, to allow it to consume him and make him seek out Merlin, to hold a sword to his throat and demand to know why he's lied for so long, kept this not insignificant detail from Arthur for all this time.

He makes do with giving his chair a violent shove, the resounding crash as it hits the floor cutting through the tumult of emotions running through him and having the grounding effect of making him feel like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum. Leaning on the table, hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turn white, Arthur forces himself to consider it from Merlin's side. It isn't as difficult as he first imagines, once the flood of anger has abated somewhat; perhaps it has something to do with his part in the rescuing of the Druid boy, but the will to remain secret and hidden no longer makes him think of sneaking sorcery and treachery.

Instead, he thinks of the determination to survive under the rule of a king who orders even those suspected of aiding a magic user imprisoned, or worse. All the same, it is still hard to pull himself entirely away from a life spent hearing of the evil intents of all who wield magic, and how Camelot must be rid of its corrupting influences if it is to prosper. Edwin comes to the front of his mind as he struggles with all he has been taught, but this time Arthur tries to consider it from the false physician's side, tries to understand how a man could be driven to such lengths by the deaths of his parents on Uther's orders.

It dawns on him, gradually, that these are his people, regardless of whether or not he is actually sitting on the throne. His father is a good king, that is something he knows right through to his bones, but now that Arthur has forced himself to look at things from a different perspective, he sees how already people are starting to look to him for guidance. It has become common for petitioners ask for him by name, rather than request an audience with his father, and People had stood vigil for him when he was sick from the poisoned bite, so he's been told. He isn't King, not yet, but already he is seeing the beginning of his rule.

As the night wears on Arthur paces up and down, turning everything over in his head; his anger, all the things that have been impressed upon him from when he was a child and which now stand on insecure foundations, Merlin's lies, when he might have used his magic, and more than that, why he might have used it.

Just before dawn he stops before the window, struck by the memory of Merlin's stricken face when his friend Will had claimed to be the sorcerer. He recognises the expression now for what it was; fear, certainly, but also gratitude for such a final act, and no little amount of love as well. Feeling slightly more settled, he finally kicks his boots off and flings himself down onto the bed, hoping for an hour or so of sleep before he goes see Merlin.

—-

Merlin feels the wards jangling and feels the urge to hide, Arthur's anger almost tangible, but he grits his teeth and carries on. He's chopping herbs for Gaius when the workroom door flies open to admit Arthur, and his knife goes flying as Arthur grabs his arm, dragging him from the table up the steps to his small chamber. Merlin stumbles through, barely catching himself from falling headlong into the opposite wall, so forceful are Arthur's movements.

"Arthur, what—" Merlin flinches as Arthur flings the door closed.

"Shut up." His tone is angry, jaw clenched and shoulders set. "You have been lying to me, Merlin, from the very day you arrived here."

Merlin's eyes go wide. "I don't-" He flinches again as Arthur slams a hand against the wooden planks of the door, rattling it on its hinges. "What did you expect," he asks instead, looking away. "When we met you were throwing knives at a servant for the sake of amusement; nothing about you made me think you were anything but your father's son, and your father-"

"Is a man blinded by his hatred for something he cannot understand or control, I know. But regardless of that he would do anything to protect Camelot, and I am the same. You should have trusted me."

"Why?" Merlin demands, voice low. "It wasn't just my life at risk; my mother would have been suspected, and all who know me in Ealdor-"

"Did it never occur to you," Arthur snarls, "that Ealdor isn't part of Camelot? Even had I seen your friend Will call down the wind, I could not have done anything except ban him from ever entering Camelot. Perhaps my father would have been stricter, regardless of our relationship with Mercia, but I do not want to be the same man as my father, not if I can help it."

"Honestly?" Merlin asks, anger rising. "No, I never thought about that. I was too scared in case anything happened to them because of me to consider the details." Exhaling hard, he looks at Arthur, who is watching him with a set jaw and tense shoulders. "I've spent my entire life hearing about how anyone suspected of helping or hiding a sorcerer was imprisoned or killed; when it comes to magic, Uther is irrational, and I couldn't take the chance."

"And after we became friends?" Arthur's voice has lost some of its harshness, but it's still cold, full of tightly controlled fury. "You've trusted me with your life; why not your magic? It amounts to the same thing, surely."

His anger fading as quickly as it rose, Merlin moves to lean against the rough wood of the beam rising from floor to ceiling, feeling in need of the support it offers him. Letting his head tilt back, he shuts his eyes against the ice in Arthur's expression. "You're still the King's son," he points out, "and every time I thought it would be safe to tell you, something happened to make me think it wasn't the right moment after all. Like your father thanking me for helping keep Camelot safe from magic." A laugh that threatens to become hysterical bubbles in his throat, and he keeps it silent only with a strong effort of will.

There is silence in the small room for a while, only broken by their breathing and the muffled sounds of Gaius moving around. Merlin wonders what he's doing, besides worrying about what's going on in his room, and attempts to distract him from Arthur's continued and slightly ominous quiet by trying to work out what each noise means. It doesn't really work, and by the time Arthur clears his throat Merlin is practically vibrating with tension.

"Look," Arthur starts, and Merlin glances up at when he notes that there is a lot less anger in his voice than there was previously, although the neutral tone still shakes slightly with suppresses emotions. "I'm angry with you, and I have been since last night when I finally worked it out. You lied to me, and you kept lying long after we became friends. I broke laws for you. I trusted you, more to the point, and you didn't see fit to return that trust. But-"

"I wanted-" Arthur holds up a hand, and Merlin stops.

"Let me finish, Merlin. I was going to say, I understand why you felt you couldn't give me that trust. I thought about it a lot last night, once I'd stopped wanting to have you arrested and thrown in the dungeons."

"For- for having magic?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, the hint of a faint smile on his lips. "For thinking I'm a complete idiot."

"But did you think about it?" Merlin asks quietly, and holds his breath as Arthur glances away. He lets it out when Arthur nods, just the once, tight and jerky.

"Honesty, Merlin." Arthur looks up at him, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. "We can carry on as...well, as whatever we are right now only if we're honest with each other. That's not going to happen if you don't trust me."

Merlin frowns, wanting desperately to just agree and finish the conversation, but he knows that he can't. "What about you being angry with me? I thought..." he doesn't end the sentence, isn't sure what would happen if he tells Arthur that he didn't expect to be trusted after all this, but has the instinct to know that it wouldn't be a good reaction.

"I am angry, but I still, for whatever reasons, trust you. I'm not sure how quick I would be to tell someone with duties and loyalties like mine a secret like yours." He folds his arms and looks at Merlin, who blinks back at him.

"I- okay," he manages to say, swallowing hard and wondering what he's done to deserve this acceptance, because he's certainly done enough to deserve the anger. "I'll be—honest with you."

"Right." Arthur lets his arms drop to his sides, some of the tension slipping away from him. Merlin can still see the anger in the lines at the corners of his eyes, and the way his hands clench and unclench every couple of minutes or so, but it isn't being directed directly at him any more, and for that he's grateful. He waits for Arthur to pull the door open and follows him down to where Gaius has given up any pretence of working and is standing waiting for them, worry on his face.

"Merlin-" he starts, looking from one to the other, uncertainty clear in his voice.

"He knows," Merlin says, feeling slightly foolish as he does so. It sounds so...simple, a matter of considerable weight dealt with in so few words.

"And I'm surprised more people don't," Arthur says, moving to stand beside Merlin, his tone slightly mocking. "If he goes around being as obvious as I believe he's been, I'm astounded that he's still alive."

"Hey, if it weren't for me, you'd have been killed by magic more times than you've been stabbed with a sword!"

"You can only be killed once, Merlin, and I'll have you know that-"

"Ahem," interrupts Gaius, obviously recovering his wits. "As thankful as I am that Merlin's secret is safe with you, my lord, could we possibly continue this conversation with the door shut?"

The door flies shut with a loud bang, although nobody moves. Arthur stares in shock at Merlin, who looks back with an equally shocked but also slightly scared expression at his action. Within a moment Arthur is standing in front of Merlin, making sure to look the other man directly in the eyes as he says in a low voice tinged again with anger: "I am not my father, Merlin."

Neither of them moves until Gaius clears his throat again, jerking a step away from each other as though burned. "Had we not better apply ourselves to the task at hand?" Gaius inquires, lifting his eyebrows. Merlin nods, swallowing hard. Gaius wonders if either of them realise they're leaning into each other slightly, as if they need the closeness.

"Do you know something of what has befallen Camelot?" Arthur asks, his self-control mostly restored as he focuses on the problem at hand.

"There's not much that I have been able to discover, but what I've gleaned from accounts in my books - although they were on a much smaller scale - it is my belief that someone has tampered with Time itself."

"How can someone affect Time," Arthur asks, incredulous. "Isn't it one of those things that cannot be altered? Like the path of the sun, or the seasons?"

"I had assumed so," Gaius admits, "but according to the sorcerers of old it was once possible to change the way Time flows. I believe that this is what has happened here, on a much larger scale than they wrote about."

"Over the entire kingdom, instead of a specific person or place?" Arthur glances at Merlin, clearly surprised.

"You know about this sort of thing?"

"I'm not entirely useless," he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. "And magic is easier than looking after you, at least."

"Very funny."

"Sire, Merlin," says Gaius disapprovingly. "Considering the dire straits some of the villages seem to be in, don't you think this is the time to work out who is behind it all, not snipe at each other?" He nods his approval as they keep quiet, waiting for him to continue. "Good. Now, This isn't a natural occurrence-"

"Obviously."

"My lord, pardon my impertinence, but you're not precisely qualified to interrupt." Gaius frowns at Arthur, who looks apologetic and motions for him to continue. "In certain instances, I would have you know, magic can warp Time in a small area, making it dangerous for humans to travel there and affecting the local wildlife so that we end up with the so called 'monsters' your people have been reporting."

"But that's not what's happening here," Merlin says, and looks impatient when Arthur glares at him for interrupting, fearing Gaius will stop the much-needed explanation. "The changes are so great, and they go so far back, that someone did this deliberately."

Gaius nods heavily. "My conclusion also. Somebody wants to harm Camelot, my lord, and it's someone with an immense amount of power under their control."

"What do you mean, so far back?"

"People's destinies are sometimes laid out in front of them, as a path that they must follow no matter what their choices in life. What's happening now is that those destinies are changing; I saw our first meeting almost change, and who knows what might have happened if that had altered."

"I might have ended up with a better servant," or maybe something else instead. He thinks he sees the words in Merlin's eyes, though, and turns away to address Gaius instead, uncomfortable in the face of things he could keep better hidden. Merlin ducks his head to hide his own smile.

"Merlin, do you remember what you did back in March, with the plants?"

Merlin frowns, thinking. "Um."

"Searching out those that were sickly after the winter, and giving them some of your magic?"

"Oh. Yes. What of it?"

"I believe that a similar process might be useful in finding the source of our problems. If you can find a single plant in the forest, you should be able to find the traces of their magic in a place where none should be evident." Gaius glances at Arthur as he speaks, and Arthur realises that he's still unsure about Arthur's claim that he won't tell Uther about Merlin's magic. Perhaps Merlin isn't sure either, but then Arthur is coming to understand that Merlin is a better liar than he's ever thought possible.

"I can try." Merlin looks dubious, like his faith in his own abilities is limited. "But it might take me a while; I still don't know how I did it before, and they might have shielded themselves against being found."

"It's taken two months to work out this much, Merlin; even if you can't find them this way, it's something else we've tried."

"Have you any idea who it might be?" Arthur asks. Gaius replies in the negative, saying:

"No one I've read about had this sort of power, and apparently the patience it takes to work something like this is rarely found in sorcerers."

"What about a sorceress?" Arthur suggests. "There is one who might have the power."

"It's not her," Merlin replies.

"But how can we be sure? She hasn't troubled us for some time, and you said it yourself you-"

"She's dead," Merlin says flatly. Gaius looks at him with an odd expression.

"Dead? How?"

"She was killed."

Arthur frowns. There's something eluding him here. "To kill one as powerful as she seemed to be would require a lot of magic, and great control over it. Could her killer be the one we're looking for?"

"No." Gaius says it as if it's not up for discussion, but Arthur's never been one to back down.

"Can you be certain? I don't see how we can disregard any possibilities, especially with the good of Camelot at stake here. Gaius, if you know who killed her, it is your duty to tell me so that we might investigate the likelihood that they are behind these changes!"

"It was me," a voice says. Arthur almost doesn't recognise it as Merlin's, so different is it. Deeper and older, somehow, with an edge to it Arthur thinks he wouldn't want to test.

"You?"

"Yes," Merlin says harshly. "Me. When you were bitten by the Questing Beast, she provided an antidote in return for my life. Except she decided she would rather have me alive, and tried to take the lives of those I hold most dear instead."

Arthur swallows hard. "So you killed her?"

"The balance required a life for yours, and I protect the people I love." The walls seem to close around them as Merlin speaks, his eyes ringed with gold. Arthur finds it difficult to breathe, wondering what he did to deserve the protection of such a person, and desperately hopes he never comes to stand opposed to Merlin if this is what he can do without thinking.

Gaius breaks the moment with a slight cough, his eyes far too understanding. "There will be time for that later," is all he says, and Arthur is glad to see he isn't the only one with pink cheeks. "Now, I have something which might help you, Merlin. Let me see..." He makes his way up the ladder to the level containing the rest of his books, muttering under his breath about his old bones and shouldn't one of them be doing this instead.

Arthur studies Merlin's profile as intently as Merlin seems to be studying the table, still wondering what exactly it is about him that makes Arthur want to do anything to see his wide smile, and make sure it stays on Merlin's face.

"Merlin, catch." Merlin's head comes up in time to snatch a small cloth pouch out of the air before it hits him, giving Gaius a startled look. He pulls the pouch's drawstrings apart and lets a large blue stone fall into his palm, smooth-edged and so brightly coloured it almost glows.

"What do I do with this?"

"It's lapis lazuli, from the Far East. It'll help you focus on what you're looking for, because trying to follow the path of someone else's magic is going to be like getting hold of a greasy weasel."

Arthur feels the urge to laugh at Gaius' choice of words, glancing at Merlin to find him biting his lip almost bloody to stop himself doing the same. Gaius starts to climb back down the ladder, turning his back to them, and Merlin leans over to whisper, "Don't laugh. And don't ask. He gets grumpy if you do."

Arthur can well believe it.

"I think, my lord, that you had better go away and stop distracting Merlin so he can get on with trying to find whoever is behind this, yes?"

"That isn't a question, is it?"

Gaius smiles, as if Arthur's said something highly intelligent. Merlin snorts with laughter. "It's his second, less subtle way of getting rid of people, right after 'can you go and get me some water'."

"Ah. In that case, I'll be leaving. Remove my distracting presence, as you say," he says. He addresses Gaius but his eyes are on Merlin, catching the slight smirk his words bring. "I expect to be told at once if you discover anything."

"Of course. Sire," Merlin answers, and if his smirk widens on the title, only Arthur sees it. Or hopes he does.

Gaius looks as if he's about to start making 'shoo' gestures, so Arthur nods to them both and gets out while he still has a shred of self control and his dignity left. He mulls over the conversation as he makes his way to the stables, intent on riding an extra patrol to a village claiming to be plagued by the same blue boar-things he'd thought he'd put paid to.

The low sense of guilt he used to feel for wanting Merlin, for wanting someone who was really the only close friend he's ever had, has been slowly fading, pushed away by the growing feeling that Merlin has the same view towards him. It's a tenuous sense, given body merely by the odd moment between them, a glimpse of something on Merlin's face, or an exchange that holds more weight than it should do. Without consciously thinking about it, the remaining guilt is rapidly becoming darker, blended with a desire so powerful it feels dirty as he thinks of Merlin being powerful enough to kill the sorceress- as he thinks of Merlin killing anyone, honestly, and gods he wants to see Merlin using his magic in battle.

He doesn't care about the last bit of guilt, not when he can imagine it, the rush of action and clash of swords, seeing Merlin in the middle of it all, untouched by anything (anyone) as he raises his hands and—what? What would Merlin do? Fire, maybe, raging across the battle, leaving Camelot's men untouched and the rest as piles of ash and molten armour? Or would he call down lightning, taking his time, maybe wearing that mocking smile Arthur remembers every single time he's seen on Merlin's face

Arthur rides out still thinking of Merlin, the knights he takes with him keeping their distance out of worry the expression on Arthur's face means he's spoiling for a fight with anyone, not just whatever is attacking the village.

—-

Gaius settles himself back at the worktable, resuming his tasks as Merlin stares down at the chunk of stone in his hand. It warms up slowly, its vibrant colour reminding him of something, the knowledge just on the edge of his memory. The sounds of Gaius' knife rhythmically chopping herbs fades away as he reaches for it, frustrated when the memory skitters away from his reaching thoughts. Then the he tilts the stone and the blue comes alive as it catches a ray of weak sunlight, almost seeming to glow, and everything coalesces.

He remembers the blue flowers at the equinox, and how every time he'd seen a hint of the strange magic wreaking havoc in Camelot it had had a blue tinge. His fingers tighten around the lapis lazuli and a grin spreads across his face, because now he knows that this is all the work of one person and one spell. With a lighter heart he tries to follow Gaius' instructions, but now the stone gets in the way as he tries to remember how he sent his magic out through the forest and replicate it, holding him to reality when he needs to break away and see things in a much larger scale.

Then Gaius says something about Arthur when he's trying to focus, and suddenly Merlin can see Arthur like he's there, riding in front of a group of knights on the road away from Camelot.

The shock of it sends him back into his body with a jolt, eyes flying open as he gasps. When he can focus again without feeling nauseous Merlin sees Gaius watching him with a curious mix of pride and uncertainty, his own work lying discarded in front of him. "Um." He wonders what he looked like, to provoke the expression on Gaius' face, but the physician simply shakes his head and returns to his work.

"If you ever take the time to learn how to use that magic of yours properly, Merlin, you'll be one hell of a sorcerer."

"And also more likely to get myself caught and killed."

Gaius's mouth quirks, almost a smile but not quite. "It'd probably be easier to hide it, if you didn't keep suddenly discovering new abilities like that."

Merlin ducks his head and looks at the stone he's still holding, tossing it from one hand to the other. "That could come in very useful, though," he answers, and hopes to hell the uses he's thinking about aren't the same ones as Gaius.

He ignores Gaius' mutterings and closes his eyes again, feeling first for the stone and then for his magic, smiling to himself as he feels his mind start to fly.

——

It's late when Arthur returns, late enough that the stablehands are asleep and there's no one to greet them as they clatter back into Camelot. He tends to his own horse, glad to have some form of work to do that isn't killing a nest of strange blue boars things while the corpses of the people they've been feasting on lie not twenty feet away, and wishes he felt tired enough to go to bed and let the slaughter fade from his mind.

Then Merlin crashes into him just as he's about to shut the door to his chambers, barely dodging the solid wood and skidding against Arthur. "I found them!"

Arthur doesn't answer for a moment, too taken up by the feeling of Merlin pressed tight against him, warm and entirely too solid for someone that skinny. His hands have landed on Merlin's slim hips, practically spanning their entire width, and he can feel Merlin's every inhale and exhale against his own chest. Merlin's hands are braced on his shoulders, the only thing stopping their noses - or lips, he allows himself to concede - colliding.

"Found who?" he finally asks, proud that his voice only shakes a little.

Merlin doesn't move away, seemingly oblivious to their positions. Maybe he is; Arthur wouldn't be surprised, looking at the way Merlin's eyes spark gold every few seconds. "The person who cast the spell!"

Oh. Right. That. "Wait, what spell?"

Merlin's hands flatten against Arthur's shoulders, moving to curl over them as Merlin looks at his neck and sighs, his hips tilting to one side as he orders his thoughts. At least, that's what Arthur hopes he's doing. "I was looking for signs of foreign magic, right? Evidence that someone else had used their powers in Camelot - magic tends to stick around once it's been used, except it doesn't do anything. Usually."

"Should that 'usually' be something I need to be concerned with?"

"Oh, no," Merlin shakes his head, eyes still bright and fixed on Arthur. "Well, right now you do, but not otherwise. It's to do with-"

He seems about to go into a long explanation of how magic works, which Arthur suspects won't make any sense at all, and since he's rapidly loosing higher brain functions he interrupts. "Merlin! The spell, tell me about it."

"Sorry. Well, I was looking for other magics, only when I looked I almost got blinded because all I could see was my magic, everywhere, sort of laid over Camelot like a blanket. Except I know I haven't used that much magic, even when I was fighting Nimueh-" A shadow comes into Merlin's eyes as he says her name, and Arthur tightens his hands on his hips. Merlin's eyes darken further as he takes in how close they are for seemingly the first time, gifting Arthur with a coy look that makes his mouth go dry. "Anyway, it's covering everything, and with Gaius' help I worked out what happened."

"Which was?" Arthur asks, and doesn't try to keep his voice level. Merlin grins.

"Someone used my magic to cast a spell from the Wild Magic over the entire kingdom, and they were sneaky about it. If Gaius hadn't remembered the bloody pollen then I wouldn't have been able to track them."

"What does pollen have to do with it?"

"It carried the spell into Camelot, because for some reason they couldn't come here and cast it themselves, and it's how they managed to get close enough to me to use my magic without me knowing." Merlin frowns as he says it, and Arthur wonders how he feels about that. It is, however, a conversation for another night.

"Can you guide us to wherever they're hiding?" he asks, pulling away to let his head clear somewhat so he can plan.

"Yes," Merlin answers with confidence. "Now I know what their magic is like, I can follow it." His frown deepens as he says: "It feels familiar, although I can't think where from."

"Is it important you remember?"

Merlin lifts his eyebrows, expression surprised. "Of course it's important. Would you go into battle without as much information as possible about who you're fighting?"

"What I meant was," Arthur says with a scowl, "is you not being able to remember going to affect anything?"

"I don't know," Merlin retorts, exasperated, "because I can't remember where I've felt this magic before. If I could, then I might have a better idea of what we can expect once we find whoever this is. I might also be able to work out who it is," he adds, voice frustrated.

"Keep trying." He glares at Arthur, who ignores it. "Right now we'd better try and get some sleep; we should be off first thing tomorrow." He wants to leave now, the energy humming through his body needing an outlet other than the warlock in front of him, but knows Merlin will most likely object-

"Actually, it'd be better if we left right away. I get the feeling that the spell is almost done, and the gods only know what the finale of all this is going to be."

"What about-"

"Gaius will make your excuses to Uther, and Morgana knows."

Arthur carefully doesn't ask why it's important that Morgana knows where they're going, and feels himself matching Merlin's sharp smile with one of his own. "Fine. Go and get the horses ready; I'll meet you there after I've got my armour."

Merlin shakes his head. "You won't need it."

"You can't be serious."

"This will be a battle of magic, Arthur, not steel." He shrugs, already turning to leave. "You can bring a sword, if it makes you feel better."

Which is how Arthur comes to be riding out of Camelot again, in the dead of night, feeling slightly under-prepared without his chainmail or shield but at the same time oddly sure that whoever it is they're about to confront, Merlin will be able to not only match but surpass their powers.

—-

They ride for hours through the pitch-dark forest until a grey light starts seeping through the trees, Merlin guiding them with bright gold eyes and the occasional quiet word until they crest a ridge and see the mountains ahead. Merlin holds up a hand, pulling his horse to a stop.

"They're close?" Arthur asks, and looks around. There's no sign of another person having camped here, even, but Merlin is dismounting.

"I don't- the trail of magic ends here, but it's like something is blocking it, not like it just stops."

Arthur swings himself down to the ground, joining Merlin on the crest of the ridge to look out at the faint signs of the dawn rising over the mountain peaks. "Could they have hidden from you?"

Merlin shakes his head, absently holding the blue stone up for Arthur to see. "Not with this. I can see magic strongly without it, but with it...there's no way they could've stopped me from seeing any traces whatsoever."

"Then-" he starts, but Merlin suddenly puts fingers to his lips and says:

"Shh, let me-"

Arthur watches as Merlin seems to listen intently, head cocked to one side as if the wind itself is speaking to him, and whatever it tells him makes his eyes glow such a rich gold that Arthur is reminded of Uther's crown, burnished and deep-coloured. He stands still and tries not to break Merlin's concentration, barely breathing until Merlin turns that fey look on him and smiles.

"I found them." His hands are warm as he takes Arthur's, and Arthur wonders how this must look to an outsider, his cloak whipped by the wind to flutter around them both, the Crown Prince of Camelot held fast by the loose grip and startling eyes of a slim young man. "Trust me?"

"If that isn't a double-edged question, I can't hold a sword," Arthur says, and tightens his grip on Merlin. "Yes, for which I expect to be severely punished."

"Not if it goes our way," Merlin tells him, then asks, with an expression Arthur wants to know where he learnt and who from; "Unless you want to be?"

And that's something Arthur should think about, maybe, or not, but Merlin chooses that moment to start bloody glowing, the gold in his eyes spreading to his skin and then to Arthur's, flowing over them both like water. Arthur feels a sharp tug and closes his eyes against the ensuing feeling of falling down, down, miles and miles until he isn't sure which way is up, isn't sure of anything except Merlin's hands and Merlin's face inches from his own.

Then he can't even see that, can't see for the black.

—-

Waking up is painful. Merlin's head feels not unlike that time in the forest, like he's been shoved back into his own body without really fitting. He reaches for his magic without thinking, and feels it much closer to the surface than it usually is, flooding through him and eager to be used. His headache lifts within an instant, along with his slight soreness from riding for so long and any tiredness he'd been feeling.

Merlin opens his eyes to see Arthur lying next to him, flat on his back with his hands folded on his stomach and sword bare on the grass, easy to hand, staring up at the sky. He's awake, that much Merlin can tell, and appears to be unharmed. He sits up carefully, legs stretched out in front of him like Arthur, although he feels in perfect health. "Arthur?"

"There's no one here, and considering you're about as good defending yourself while unconscious as you are when awake, I though I'd better stay here instead of scouting further afield."

"Right," Merlin says dryly. "Did you miss the part where I pulled us through Time?"

Arthur looks up at him, frowning slightly. "Is that what you did? Because I don't remember much of an explanation before you...well, before you did whatever it was!"

"I asked if you trusted me!" Merlin shies backwards as Arthur pushes himself up, leaning in close, but can't go any further because Arthur has an arm around his waist and one hand on the back of his neck, looking at him with an intensity that takes Merlin's breath away.

"And I do trust you, gods help me, but for me to keep doing it you've got to tell me what you're going to do. Otherwise it could cause all sorts of problems, tactical and personal, and-"

"Tactical?" Merlin interrupts.

"I'm going to need your help in battle," Arthur tells him, voice too soft for the words. "And while killing doesn't seem to be a problem for you, defending yourself is."

"And you're going to do that, are you? Keep me safe while I kill for you?"

"Yes," Arthur says, like it's not negotiable. Maybe it isn't; Merlin doesn't feel the inclination to want to test it, doesn't think he ever will.

"I can do more than just kill with my magic," he says, and it isn't in the least surprised when Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I know that; you've proven it more times than I likely know about." Arthur speaks with only a touch of irony, for which Merlin is thankful, not really wanting to go into all that right now.

"We need to carry on," is what he says instead of the hundred other things in his head, and feels Arthur bite back equally as many comments to nod gently. "Oh, wait. Can I-" without finishing, or waiting for Arthur to reply, Merlin reaches out to gently touch Arthur's temple.

Arthur doesn't flinch, but he goes very still. "What was that?"

"You'll be able to see magic now. It'll make it easier for you to follow what happens."

"I..." Arthur pauses, then shakes his head roughly. "You know, I'm not going to argue. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Merlin accepts the hand Arthur reaches down to him with a wry smile, pulling himself up and taking stock of where they are as Arthur slides his sword back into his sheath. He can feel the buzz of magic under his skin, knows that the next step is going to be almost too easy.

"Ready?"

"For what?" Arthur asks with a hint of sarcasm, but his hand is tight on his sword's hilt and he shifts his weight slightly, ready for action.

"I'm going to tell them we're here."

"Won't they already know?"

"Probably," Merlin says, gathering his magic. This time he can feel himself glowing as well as see it, the buzz growing to feel like false fire licking over his skin, tingling and hot but not burning or destructive. "But this will make them show themselves."

The magic spreads out from him in a great pool of light, and suddenly Merlin remembers this happening before, like his magic remembers being used the way his body is starting to remember sword patterns. This much pure magic being shown is a challenge, making certain his abilities will not be underestimated and forcing the figure behind Camelot's suffering to show themselves or risk being destroyed; Merlin sends the implication that if they don't answer he will rip control of the spell from them and turn them to dust as he fixes things, pushing the thought out in amongst his magic.

He can feel it the instant they're no longer alone, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and the rasp of Arthur's sword being half-drawn. Merlin lets his magic flow back into him, opening his eyes to realise why the foreign magic tainting all of his visions had felt so familiar. Even so, he needs Arthur's half shocked, half-confused exclamation to make it real.

"Mordred?"

—-

Of all the things Merlin had been imagining would happen when he finally tracked down the person responsible for breaking Time, he had never included seeing the small, scared child he'd helped Arthur and Morgana rescue, grown up and standing in front of him with a slight smirk.

"You haven't changed at all," Mordred says, thankfully using his voice and not his mind. "I was expecting you to be different, somehow."

"It's only been a little over a year," Merlin tells him, still stunned. Mordred nods, smile growing.

"For you. Obviously its been longer for me."

Merlin feels Arthur shift from shock back into battle-readiness beside him and Mordred flicks his eyes to Arthur then back to Merlin, assessing the slight change in stance. Merlin studies Mordred, taking in how he's changed. The round face and dark hair he remembers are mostly unaltered, although there is a sharpness to Mordred's features now that reminds Merlin of Arthur, disconcertingly.

His eyes are supernaturally bright, startling in their intensity as Mordred watches Merlin, waiting for Merlin to say something. But it's Arthur who speaks, and Mordred's faintly amused expression turns to disdain within a moment.

"We saved you from death," Arthur says bluntly. "Why would you do this in return?"

Mordred's mouth twists into a sneer. "You saved me because I was a child, because I looked innocent and the Lady Morgana couldn't bear to see me burnt. How many others like me died because they didn't raise such noble sympathies?"

"You would destroy Camelot for the actions of one man?" Arthur demands, and beyond the fear worming it's way through his body Merlin can't help but be impressed at the steel in his voice, the way he doesn't give an inch even when speaking of his own father.

"That man has killed dozens of people simply in the suspicion of magic, never mind proof! My people have been forced to flee to the furthest corners of the lands to save themselves, their numbers decimated but too afraid to ask for aid out of fear they would be sent back to Camelot to die!"

Merlin notices the way Mordred's hands are clenched, his whole body held taut as if preparing himself for something. He fumbles for his own magic, just in case, as Mordred continues.

"We were not traitors to Camelot, not even to your bastard of a father; even when the purges were happening we didn't strike against you, and yet those suspected of being one of us, or suspected of being connected to us were murdered."

"This 'we' you keep using, are there more of your people involved in this?" Arthur asks steadily. Mordred's sneer drops, his expression blank except for his eyes, which still burn with anger.

"No. Just me. But that," he says, smiling with a twist of his lips, "is more than enough."

Merlin flings his magic around himself and Arthur as Mordred lifts his hands, sending his power out in an almighty explosion of raw magic that near-blinds Merlin and deadens his sense to everything but the rush and throb of power. It's all he can do to stay upright as Mordred speaks the harsh words Merlin has spent so much time trying to learn, the syllables rolling from his tongue with a smoothness Merlin spares a moment to envy.

Next to him, Arthur seems to be faring little better, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the sickly green glow that is Mordred's magic and the knuckles of the hand on his sword hilt are white with pressure. Merlin reaches for his powers, trying to form a spell without having to resort to words, which he'd probably get wrong under Mordred's assault anyway. Wonder of wonders it works, and he opens his eyes without being blinded again.

"Mordred!" he yells, but he can barely hear himself over the howling of the magic and a wind that seems to have picked up from nowhere. Mordred isn't looking at them, intent on the sky as his mouth continues to frame words that makes the earth around them tremble and the air shimmer. Merlin feels himself being tugged from inside, like something has a hold on his magic, and just as he feels himself start to fall realises-

Mordred is pulling them through Time again.

—-

The next time Merlin opens his eyes he wishes he hadn't. He's surrounded by ruined walls, encrusted with what looks like soot and partly smothered in foliage. It appears to be a long-forgotten castle, from the size of the few stones still visible. Merlin can sense Mordred a little way off, and Arthur, although the latter seems curiously muted when Merlin reaches out with his magic to find him.

Instead of turning and continuing their conversation, such as it was, Merlin eyes the section of wall in front of him and tries to fit things together. Mordred's motivations are obvious, even if Arthur thinks them extreme, and he can understand why Mordred used such a round-about way to cast the spell. The confusion of a child about why Merlin nearly didn't help him escape has evidently been hoarded until it became anger, resulting in the near destruction of Camelot and everything Merlin holds dear.

His magic tells him that Mordred is slowly moving closer, although he isn't drawing on his own power. Arthur hasn't moved, which makes Merlin feel slightly worried. Arthur doesn't do motionless.

"I really expected more from you, Emrys." Mordred says, but the disdain in his voice is tempered by what Merlin thinks might be respect.

"My name's Merlin," he replies as he stands, more out of habit than anything else, then has to stop himself from trying to blast Mordred into a thousand pieces when he sees Arthur. Arthur hasn't moved because he can't, held in place by a shield of Mordred's magic that encases him on all sides, the sickly green aura resisting Merlin's magic when he reaches out to test it.

"You won't be able to get him out," Mordred tells him. "You might be powerful, but you haven't got the training."

"And I suppose you're going to offer to teach me, if I join you?"

Mordred looks slightly taken aback. "How did you-"

"You're not the first to make a proposition like that." His voice is relatively steady, even if he doesn't really feel it. The amount of power he can feel building is making him very worried.

"I could teach you, though. You'd be able to do so much more with all that power you've got, just waiting to be used properly."

"I'm not really in the habit of joining forces with people who condone what you're doing to Camelot."

"Who said they know about it?"

Merlin frowns. "The Druids aren't involved? But-"

"They held me back," Mordred snarls, "forcing me to learn only what they deemed safe and quiet, only ever giving and never taking anything in return. I was too powerful for them, too thirsty to know how to use the great gift I had."

"They were trying to keep you safe," Merlin says. "You said it yourself, even the hint of knowing a sorcerer might have got you killed."

Mordred sneers. "I'd learnt to hide myself and my magic from everyone, especially that pathetic excuse for a king, by the time I was ten. Which is more than you can do."

Merlin resists rising to the bait, knowing it's too dangerous to let Mordred see that his words are having an effect. "Like you pointed out, I don't have much training."

"And don't you want to rectify that? Think what you could do if you had more than one barely-readable book and an old man who is too afraid to tell his own apprentice that he used to be a sorcerer as well." Merlin's hands clench into fists at Mordred's pointed words, determined not to give the Druid the reaction he wants but stung nonetheless. "There are still safe havens for our kind, Merlin; you could learn without fear of death."

"Why?"

The simple question seems to confuse Mordred, a frown appearing on his face. He casts a brief look at Arthur, standing in his prison of magic the same way Merlin has seen him waiting before battles; loose enough that his muscles won't cramp, but ready to react at a second's brief notice.

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why should I want to do that, get all of that power?"

"You-" Mordred hesitates, almost visibly trying to pull his self-assurance back around him. "You could have anything you want, everything you want."

Merlin tilts his head questioningly, playing the dumb apprentice to the wise master the way he has so many times before, to Gaius' lasting irritation. The stakes are much higher right now, admittedly, but it's one of the only ploys he has left. "What if I've already got what I want? If I'm happy and content, apart from maybe wishing the idiot over there didn't get into so much trouble."

The gathering of power around Mordred increases slightly, but he makes no move. Merlin forces himself not to do anything, determined to see in which direction Mordred's plans lie.

"No one is truly content," Mordred tells him, a slight smirk curving at the edges of his lips. "There is always something that could make a situation better. Your mother, for example; being able to protect her from another such as Nimueh would be of comfort to you, would it not?"

"I protected her once, I'll do it again," Merlin replies, and is rewarded with the spark of anger showing in Mordred's eyes. If Mordred wants him to join forces then he's going to have to try harder, and by doing so will most likely reveal his full intentions; that's all that's keeping Merlin from throwing whatever he can muster at Mordred and get the hell out of there. His nerves can't take much more of this.

"And what if you can't? What if that 'idiot over there,'" Mordred jerks a hand in Arthur's direction, and out of the corner of his eye Merlin sees Arthur's stance change slightly, his attention narrowing, "as you so sweetly called him, is in a situation where he needs your help or he'll die at the same time as your mother is in grave danger? You cannot protect them both."

"I've been told I have a talent for improvisation." Well, less told and more said in a despairing but grudgingly impressed tone.

Whether there's some unseen cue, or if Mordred has simply had enough, Merlin can't tell, but the spark of anger flares into full rage, Mordred's jaw clenching and the crackle of magic in the air building to a pitch anyone less powerful would probably find excruciating. Merlin glances at Arthur and is relieved to see him apparently unaffected, held inside the walls of magic.

"Don't you want power, Merlin?" Mordred asks, and his voice resonates with the magic he's drawing on. "With a single thought you could end the oppression of sorcerers like us, and with another ensure that never again will a Pendragon be such a tyrant. You could rule Camelot yourself!"

Merlin struggles to breathe against Mordred's magic, the weight of it hanging heavy in the air like summer heat and making each inhale a gasp. He reaches for his own magic, using it to push a space around him. The press of power on his chest lessens and then fades altogether, Mordred's eyes narrow and dark with anger.

"I can barely manage to take care of Arthur, how in hell would I be able to command a kingdom?" Merlin can feel Mordred's anger as a physical thing, his magic an extension of his emotions as it buffets the outside of Merlin's small shield, seeking for a way in until Mordred gets himself under control again. His shoulders loosen and his fists unclench, his expression of rage turning to sly thoughtfulness instead.

"Not power over a kingdom, then. But something else, perhaps?" Merlin watches warily as Mordred steps a little closer, all too aware that this is most certainly not the boy he remembers. This is a man close to his own age, maybe only a year younger. This is someone who understands the world in ways a child never could, and can offer things a child would never dream of. "What about...power over someone."

"Not interested," Merlin says flatly, dismissing the idea with all the strength he can muster. He's starting to see where Mordred's going, and the magic in his voice is making it difficult to stand firm.

"Are you sure? Wouldn't it be fun to be able to command someone, make them do anything you wanted?"

"I don't-" he starts, but Mordred interrupts.

"How about...Gwen? Sweet, kind Gwen, who's already half in love with you and would be such a nice pet, so willing and accommodating. I bet you could tell her to do anything and she would, never mind using your magic."

"Stop it," Merlin demands, speaking through gritted teeth.

Mordred just smiles and carries on. "Or Morgana? All that fire and spirit, bound to your will, forced to submit. Now that would be a sight to behold. She would rage against it, angry and helpless, unable to use her own magic against you. Such control would be intoxicating, and so rewarding."

"It would be wrong-"

"Why? Because magic is wrong, because it is evil and should be stamped out?!" Mordred's face is a mask of rage, his lips twisted into a sneer and eyes flickering between blue and green, still surreal in their brightness.

"Because having that sort of control over another person is a violation!" Merlin feels Mordred's magic bending around him, still searching for a way past the shield he still holds. He strengthens it, wondering if Mordred even realises what he's doing. He looks too far gone to be in full control of his powers, which makes him even more dangerous.

Mordred takes another step closer, his control slipping further so that when he speaks Merlin can hear an echo inside his own head.

"Such morals from a man who can kill without thought, who flung an axe at a grieving man with no hesitation and who killed a sorceress of the Isle to save the son of a traitor."

"Would you do differently for those you love, in my place?" demands Merlin fiercely. He's tired of being asked to justify his actions, magical or otherwise, especially by someone he almost didn't save.

Mordred doesn't answer for a moment. He stops moving towards Merlin, a wind that Merlin hadn't noticed slowly dropping in force as he pulls his magic back and gets a firmer grip on it. The disconcerting feel of Mordred being inside his head again, albeit in a more restrained way, leaves along with the magic trying to get past Merlin's shield as Mordred seems to calm down. He's refocusing, making up for the damage Merlin has done to his confidence and his control, by not being the pushover Mordred obviously thought he would be.

"I suppose I would," Mordred says, but his tone is sly again, the way he's standing almost predatory as he looks at Merlin with eyes that are calmer, more solidly blue. "How about someone willing, then."

"Stop this. It's not going to work." Even as he says it Merlin feels a thread of doubt in his abilities twist through him. He doesn't care about finding out Mordred's motivations, suddenly; all he wants to do is end it, use the magic that has been building inside him for what seems like hours to force Time back into it's rightful paths and stop Mordred from doing this again.

"You could have me," Mordred says, as if Merlin hadn't spoken. It catches Merlin unawares, the last thing he expected to hear. He stares at Mordred, swallowing hard. Mordred moves close again, almost touching the magic Merlin has around him. "I would be willing. I would teach you magic, how to wield the power you have been given, and in return..."

Merlin's eyes open wide with shock as Mordred pushes into his mind again, the impression of how a child's rage turned into an adolescent's fantasies, image after image filled with biting kisses and ropes around wrists. At one of himself pinning Mordred down onto a bed and making him cry out in pleasure so intense it borders pain a darker edge to his magic pushes to the fore, let free by the assault of Mordred's own emotion-driven magic.

It shows him how easy it would be, to take Mordred's fantasies and make them real, make them so much more than they are now; he knows how easy it would be to twist them, to take and use Mordred in ways the youth could never imagine, show him how pleasure can come from magic. Merlin could take him, and break him, until all Mordred could do is let him.

Merlin isn't innocent, not by a long shot; Will and he had seen to that between them, and then more than a few people in Camelot have seen fit to educate him further, but as tempting as he finds Mordred's offer - and as much enjoyment as he could find in many of the dreams Mordred is showing him - there's still a part of him that won't let him forget about the scared little boy he helped to save, that fights back against the darker side of his magic..

He thinks No! as forcefully as he can, watches as Mordred takes an involuntary step back at the strength of it. A deluge of possibilities appears in his head, too many for Merlin to see properly, but the overwhelming message is one of revenge and want, of how long Mordred has tried to balance the two warring emotions and finally failed. He glares, suddenly angry at the way his blood heats and his body reacts, at the way Mordred is trying to manipulate him.

Merlin shoves with his magic, pushes Mordred away and sees him stumble, magic sparking at his fingertips as he regains his balance and matches Merlin's glare with a burning gaze of his own.

"What then," Mordred spits, "what can I offer you?"

"Nothing at all," Merlin tells him, feeling his magic fight against his control, wanting to spread out and destroy anything in its path. "I will not join you."

Mordred's anger goes ice cold within a second, literally; Merlin sees frost spreading across the earth around them, icicles forming on the few trees scattered through the ruins they stand amongst. He feels small, insignificant, all too aware that Mordred is trained and he isn't, but his instincts have served him well before and he trusts that they will again. Hopes they will.

"You could have Arthur," Mordred shouts, his magic a barely-controlled aura around his body. "You could use him however you want-" Mordred breaks off as Merlin takes a step forward, hands clenched tightly. The anger Merlin knows must be evident all over his expression gives Mordred pause, but then he gathers his wits and carries on. "He would be yours, yours to own and use, in whatever ways you wanted."

"Stop," Merlin repeats flatly. Mordred continues as if he hasn't heard.

"You could make him pay for the humiliation of having to serve him, you, the most powerful warlock this land has ever seen. The golden Prince of Camelot, brought to submission by one of the very race he and his beloved father are trying so hard to annihilate!"

"Enough."

Merlin doesn't just say it with his voice, he says it with his magic, the resulting blast resonating around the ruined walls to echo in Merlin's ears.

He pulls his magic around him, doubts and fear burnt away by the anger surging through him, and feels a shocked Mordred do the same. He gathers his magic and readies his magic to strike, fervently hoping his half-instinctual, half lucky hold on it will be enough.

—-

From inside the walls of Arthur's prison it looks like the two warlocks are battling with the very foundations of the earth, great veils of fire spreading around them as Merlin blocks Mordred's spell with a blast of wind that flattens the grass at their feet and almost knocks Mordred onto his back. Arthur can only watch and pound helplessly at the magic surrounding him as Mordred retaliates, his mouth shaping words that make Merlin turn pale and struggle to keep upright under their force.

It seems to Arthur that they get further away, less and less like the solid flesh and blood he knows them to be as Mordred lifts his hands to the sky and calls down thick black clouds, great forks of lightning throwing the scene into stark relief. Their silhouettes blur as rain begins to fall, and through the dimming light Arthur can see Merlin stumble as the rain sticks to him, thick droplets of water crawling over his body, trying to drown him as he stands.

It looks like Mordred has the upper hand, still forming words of power that are slowly forcing Merlin back against one of the ruined walls, and even from a distance, in his prison, Arthur can see that the gold in Merlin's eyes is flickering less frequently. Then Merlin yells something, the shape of his mouth distorted by the effort of remaining upright as Mordred throws pure magic at him, so much so that Arthur can't tell what he says.

What follows results in the first time Arthur is ever truly scared of what Merlin can do.

He sees Merlin straighten, throwing off the weight of Mordred's attacks as if they're nothing more than rotten vegetables - and goodness knows he's had practice at that. Arthur echoes the confusion spread over Mordred's face as Merlin starts to advance, face still pale but steps steady. The gloom lifts as Merlin throws a golden glance at the sky, the clouds dissipating at once. The weak sunlight that returns shows Arthur a rumpled Merlin, his hair mussed and clothes showing what appear to be slight scorch marks but otherwise fine.

His eyes, though, that's what holds Arthur attention. They're coloured solid gold, the bright blue Arthur knows so well replaced by a gold of such intensity that he can hardly bear to look at them. Mordred won't - or can't - keep eye-contact with Merlin, his eyes fixed on the ground as he desperately calls forth more syllables of power. It's to no avail.

Arthur realises Mordred's mistake at the same time as the Druid does, both of them taking a step back: he's underestimated Merlin, assumed that a lack of training means a lack of determination. Merlin might not have been taught how to use his magic, but he's a fast learner. Instincts, Arthur thinks, glad for his protective prison, it all comes down to instincts.

He never asks what Merlin does to Mordred; doesn't particularly want to, when the gold of his eyes flares so brightly that it makes Arthur cry out and hide his face, when he can feel the roar of Merlin's magic as he sends one final, fateful blast towards Merlin.

Sound rushes back to Arthur's ears in one great deluge, the world seeming so incredibly loud after the dead silence of his prison. Under the noises of dripping water and crumbling stone, dislodged by Mordred's attack, the crackle of a tree with its branches still on fire and the quiet crunch of grass still covered in frost, he can hear the ever-present buzz of magic.

Slowly it filters in that the buzz is building, like a far-off thunderstorm in summer bringing with it the much-needed but much-feared rains. The shock of light that had accompanied Merlin's last blow makes it painful for Arthur to open his eyes again, leaving Arthur feeling disorientated and unsure of himself. A hand closes around his wrist, gentle and startling, and he feels Merlin standing close by his side.

"Sorry," he hears over the buzzing, now lifted to a low rumbling. Arthur slowly opens his eyes, blinking away the spots in his vision as he finds it's not painful any more.

"Give me some warning next time, Idiot." Now that he can see it, Merlin's smile is weak but sure, and it does more to assure Arthur that he isn't hurt than the fact that all his limbs are still attached to his body. Merlin lifts a shoulder in response, turning away. Arthur looks around, taking in the scorch marks on the ruined walls, the blackened stumps of trees and the way several fallen stones seem to have been melted. "Are you hurt?"

"I could do with a week's worth of sleep, but other than that, I'm fine."

"You sound like you're going to drop dead," Arthur says, because he does. His voice is raspy, shaking slightly.

"Flatterer." It'd be sarcastic if it weren't for the way Merlin coughs on the last syllable, eyes squeezing shut as his body shudders. He leans into the hand Arthur rests on his back, swallowing hard after a moment or two. "It's fine, 'm fine."

"Clearly." Arthur keeps his tone light, trying not to let his worry seep through. Merlin really doesn't look at all well; his skin is shockingly white, eyes unnaturally bright even without the gold tint. He reminds Arthur of knights during a prolonged battle, pushed beyond the limits of their strength but having to find reserves from anywhere possible to keep them alive and fighting.

"We should-" Merlin starts, but his next words are lost in another coughing fit.

"Get out of here, yes, I had figured that out," Arthur finishes for him. Merlin shakes his head, still fighting off the last of his coughing fit.

"Not th-that," he says with some difficulty. "That." Giving up on words as his throat rebels, he waves a weak hand in the direction of a swirling pool of what can only be magic which has somehow escaped Arthur's notice until now. Beyond it lies the prone form of Mordred, looking almost as pale as Merlin but with the unnatural stillness of one completely unconscious - or dead.

Arthur focuses on the closest potential threat, the pool. "Right." Merlin takes a step towards the pool and almost falls as his legs give way, saved only by Arthur's swift reaction and strong grip around his waist. "Here, keep still." Arthur pulls Merlin's arm over his shoulder, keeping one of his own wrapped around Merlin's waist to steady him as they move slowly towards the pool. "Any ideas what this thing is?"

Merlin stares down at the shifting surface and shrugs weakly. "No idea. Never heard of it happening before."

"Could it have been caused by the amount of magic you and Mordred used? Gaius did say strong magic can warp an area."

"Take years, not minutes." Merlin's sentences become shorter, more clipped as he sags against Arthur, almost at the end of the energy he had left after the battle. Arthur plants his feet more firmly and lets Merlin lean against him. "But... don't know much about warlocks like me."

Like me echoes in Arthur's head as they continue to watch the pool. He knows what Merlin means is other warlocks as powerful as he is, but he pushes the thought aside. He doesn't want to be afraid of Merlin, not the way his father would have him be; fearful of subversive magic and nighttime attacks by sorcerers, always looking over his shoulder.

A long, low rumble followed by a resounding crash makes Arthur tear his attention away from the mesmerising effect of the shifting magic pool to stare upwards, frowning in confused incomprehension at the clear blue sky above them.

"That sounded like a storm," he tells Merlin evenly, feeling Merlin lift his head slowly to look at the sky as well.

"Magic, not weather."

"A problem?"

"Maybe." A slight frown appears on Merlin's forehead as another crash booms above them, louder this time. "I can shield us, I think." The frown becomes deeper, more pronounced as he concentrates, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. Arthur can feel magic around them, oppressive against him. It builds until Merlin gasps sharply, body sagging until Arthur is the only thing keeping him upright.

"You're an idiot," Arthur tells him as he shifts their position to make it easier to support Merlin's (admittedly slight) weight. "Are you sure you had the strength to do that?"

"'f I didn't, we'd be dead." Merlin coughs again, a harsh sound that now echoes faintly. "We need th'shield."

Arthur concentrates, noticing that he can't hear anything else of the storm. "How long can you keep that up without using up the last of your energy?"

"Long 'nough," Merlin says, voice hoarse. "Don' argue. Look." He gestures across the pool, to where Mordred is still lying, motionless. A thick lock of Mordred's hair shimmers slightly, the colour draining out of it. Arthur stills, really looking at Mordred. It's not just his hair; smooth skin is now covered in a fine lattice of wrinkles, sagging slightly around his chin, and his hands look more gnarled.

"He's aging," Arthur says quietly. Merlin nods.

"Look a' th'pool."

This time it only takes a brief look to tell Arthur what Merlin means. "It's getting brighter." Merlin nods again, slower this time, like the movement is almost too much for him. "Do you know why?"

"No' really."

"Merlin, right now any idea might help."

Merlin takes a deep breath, but it sounds heavy, like he has trouble pulling in the air. "It's a fail-" he clutches at Arthur to stay upright as a cough wracks his body, making him almost double over. Arthur keeps a tight grip on him and waits for the spasm to pass, unable to help wishing the situation were one where his sword would be of use. "Failsafe," Merlin tries for a second time.

Arthur nods slowly, working it out. "Mordred wanted you to join him, right? No, don't talk, you moron, just nod if I get something right." Merlin nods once, then again. "Right. He wanted that because between the two of you, you could do what he couldn't do alone, which was... control Camelot, or something like that?" Another nod. "But overall, above even wanting you to side with him, he wanted revenge. That was his motivation for all of this."

"Yeah."

"So..." Arthur feels the adrenaline kick in, his mind working faster to piece together the jumble of possibilities raised, feeling as if he's on the battlefield and having to come up with an entirely new strategy based on very limited information and in terrain he doesn't know. It's as exhilarating as it always is. "I'm guessing Mordred - if he's still alive - won't want to be stuck here, out of Time. So that," he gestures towards the pool of magic in front of them, "could be a failsafe to get him back to where he wants to be, drawing on his own strength to power the spell. Is that possible?"

"Thin' so. Make sense, too."

"That's one possibility. Another..." Arthur pauses as he takes in the ramifications of the second idea that occurs to him, and the greater chance of it being the right guess. "It could be another way to destroy Camelot. That way, even if you won he'd get the upper hand, because he'd be banking on you not knowing how to counter this. But that means he must be alive-"

"Necromancy," Merlin cuts in, voice still hoarse but full of disgust nonetheless. "Vile, but it'd work."

Arthur nods, lips twisting at the word. "So it's more likely that the pool of strange magic in front of us is designed to destroy Camelot, and us with it. No point in doing something by half-measures, not with the amount of planning that went into the first spell." Merlin nods, breathing laboured.

"He was des-desperate for... revenge," Merlin says quietly, more to himself than to Arthur. He's trembling almost imperceptibly; if Arthur weren't holding him up, he wouldn't have been able to tell.

"Is there anything you can do?" He asks, but without much hope. The state Merlin's in it's a wonder he's still managing to hold himself mostly upright, let alone work yet more magic to counteract Mordred's back-up plan. He was thorough in his plans, Arthur has to admit.

"Yes," Merlin answers. "Gaius... told me I can... use magic t'give me strength, if I need it."

"Like drinking one of his restorative tonics instead of eating a solid meal and getting a good night's sleep," Arthur says, understanding. "Doing that can be dangerous, Merlin; your body can't recover properly."

"'S th'only chance we've got," Merlin tells him, and Arthur sighs. Merlin takes that as agreement, straightening his shoulders. "I'll prob'ly faint. Get ready to catch me."

"Right."

The feeling of magic around them increases in increments, and with the increase of pressure Merlin relies less on Arthur to hold him up, until he pulls away entirely, taking a step away. His colour returns, skin losing the sickly white shade it had held since the battle with Mordred. He glances over his shoulder at Arthur, expression serious, and then lifts his hands.

On the opposite side of the roiling pool of magic Mordred's body has changed so much that he seems to be the same age as Gaius, his hair greyed and his fingers gnarled with age, but still the pool gets brighter. Merlin stumbles as it flares up, flooding their surroundings with light so intense it looks like liquid gold. Arthur starts forward, sure that Merlin's attempt to use his magic to replace his strength has failed, but then Merlin rallies.

The pool of magic spreads and forms walls around them, blocking out any view of the landscape beyond the perimeter of the shield Merlin had wrought. Arthur looks around, taking in the way the walls rise around them like panels of green-touched gold that ripple as if they're one of Morgana's silk scarves, fine as gossamer but infinitely more dangerous.

There's no sound within their protective barrier, so when Merlin says, "Hang on!", it sounds like a shout amongst the eerie silence they're wrapped in.

"Merlin, what—" Arthur chokes as the air around him is abruptly filled with magic, thick and cloying, the shield completely gone. The veils of magic spin by him as they hurtle into the whirlwind created by the rippling walls of magic that came from the small pool, protected only by Merlin's will. It feels like he's being pulled apart, like if Merlin loses control for just one second they'll be torn to pieces and scattered across Time, insignificant within the infinity spread out before Arthur as they're thrown around.

The roar of the magic presses against his ears, so loud he feels more than hears the guttural words Merlin begins to speak, the magic around them trembling and shuddering as the syllables spill from his mouth. Arthur braces himself on the still-solid ground, leaning into the wind as much as he can while it whips around him. He's not willing for wither of them to be lost in Time if there's anything he can humanly do about it. The inhuman side of things he'll leave to Merlin, who starts to shake as the magic reacts to whatever it is he's saying.

A progression of images starts to spill out of the walls of the maelstrom around them, and endless stream of people wearing the various trappings of power; swords and crowns and authority draped over them like a cloak, replacing each other one by one until their clothes become more like those of courtiers, gaudy and cumbersome, and then finally fade away with Arthur frowning at the sight of men in dark coloured clothes that look like nothing he's ever seen before.

Merlin's chanting quickens as the whirlwind starts to turn darker, closing around them until Merlin forces it back with an almost physical effort that Arthur can feel. Arthur can hear voices coming through the shifting veils of power, can see the ordinary people in every timeline now. Fragments reach his ears along with flashes of the people the sounds belong to.

A thin-faced man with long, curly hair and a silk shirt stands in the open air, his mouth moving, but all Arthur hears is "I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown", the rest of his words pulled away as the image shatters. Arthur turns his head, knowing full-well what the wooden platform the man was standing on was - or will be, rather - for. A beaming woman standing amongst lush greenery and trees that Arthur doesn't recognise tells him, cheerfully, that "the toucan is a bird of the rainforest-".

The wind drops abruptly, Merlin's voice ringing clear in the lull as the whirlwind becomes thinner, somehow, as if it's fading. The tang in the air fades as well, and it becomes easier to breathe. The faces appearing in the walls of magic blurr as they increase in speed, as if knowing that their time is up, that Arthur and Merlin have finished with their time here.

The walls shudder, snatches of ruined walls visible between them, and then they vanish with an ear-splitting crack that throws Arthur off balance, so much so that he almost doesn't catch Merlin as he collapses. Stumbling to land on one knee he gets his arms around Merlin before the warlock can hit the earth, landing in an inelegant sprawl.

Arthur awkwardly manoeuvres until he can gently lay Merlin on the ground, running through the basic steps every knight is taught to check if a man is alive or dead. He sighs with relief as he finds Merlin's breathing weak but steady, and without any other apparent objective pulls his knees up to rest his head on them as he waits for Merlin to regain consciousness.

There's barely time for Arthur's breathing to slow back to it's regular pace when Merlin comes awake with a gasp, eyes flying open to reveal gold pupils that stare past Arthur as he scrambles to kneel by Merlin's side, startled. "Merlin? Are you alright?"

"It's, oh, it's too much, I can't-" Merlin's voice is clear, the slur of exhaustion gone and replaced with an undertone that hurts Arthur's ears. He ignores it, reaching out to shake Merlin's shoulder, stopping himself flinching when the golden eyes turn to look at him.

"Merlin, what is it? What's happening?"

Merlin looks away again, body arching as the gold in his eyes flares brighter. "It's Time. Moving through me. Through my magic. Arthur, I can see it all. He used me to break time, and now it's healing. It's resetting, all the terrible things he set in motion. They're going right again, sealing over the fractures he caused."

Arthur catches hold of Merlin's hand, sensing he needs something to ground him as the magic begins to rise around them. "Everything's going back to how it should be?"

"All of it," Merlin gasps, clutching at Arthur's hand with a strength he shouldn't posses, not after all he's done.

"What about the people?" Arthur asks, thinking of what might be happening in Camelot as people's lives, perhaps their very existence changes as Merlin's magic alters timelines right across the kingdom.

"They won't remember. Only us, and Morgana. Disconnected in time, we'll remember. We can't forget this, Arthur. Can't forget what happened, even when it didn't."

They're the last words Merlin speaks for some time, too caught up in the rush of magic to be able to shape the sounds which would reassure Arthur that this display of power isn't going to be the one that sends Merlin past the point of recovery.

Arthur thinks about it, about all the people in Camelot who've ever wished for more time, wising they could just go back and do their day over, or that the hours will speed up to reach a special day, or get them out of a bad situation. They were all pulling at Time, even before Mordred's spell made it possible for their wishes to be made into reality, and Arthur pulls in an increasingly difficult breath as he wonders how much damage those wishes did.

That many people, all clamouring for more time, less time, desperate for their portion to be changed in some small way, it all adds up, and Merlin's trying to stop them?

Merlin stares past him with unseeing eyes, magic now pouring from him in waves that push at Arthur, as if to ask what are you doing here, simple mortal, don't you know you cannot help? Arthur ignores them, keeping his grip on Merlin's hand. "Merlin," he says, and then isn't sure why he spoke. Distracting Merlin at this point could very well be fatal to them both, and that's even if it doesn't cause problems in Camelot as well.

Merlin looks thinner, somehow, but not in the physical way. It's as if the more magic he pours into stopping anyone else from messing with Time the way Mordred had done, the weaker his very existence becomes. It's this, and the look of pain on Merlin's face as the magic continues to flow that makes Arthur decide he has to do something, to somehow bring Merlin back. Arthur shakes his head and spares a brief moment to wonder when he started thinking in such terms, then swallows down what little pride left he has where Merlin is concerned.

He says, "Don't do this," and with anyone else the tone would be pleading. The next words stick in his throat, getting as far as "I ne—" before stopping. He gives his pride another ruthless shove away, telling himself there'll be time for that later (maybe), and tries again, leaning closer to look as directly into Merlin's eyes as he dares with the glittering gold shining there. "I need you, Merlin. I need to you not get lost in whatever it is you're doing and come back. Hell, Camelot needs you more than I do. You've got work to do there, that no one else can do, and for fuck's sake, Merlin!"

Arthur pours all of his fear, and building anger, and exasperation into the name, and is more stunned than gratified when Merlin blinks slowly, the gold dimming just enough for Arthur to look at him properly.

"I- Arthur?" Merlin's voice sounds as if he's speaking from far away, like he isn't all back yet. "I need to..."

Arthur can see it, can see Merlin pulling himself out of whatever place inside him that was dragging him away from Arthur, and Camelot, and everything they're going to do. He adjusts his grip on Merlin, threading their fingers together, and can't quite contain his sob of relief as the Merlin's golden eyes fade until the only sign of his magic is a ring of gold around his iris, like a circlet.

"'M sorry," Arthur hears himself saying, "I didn't mean to- did I stop you fixing things?" Because somehow he'd pushed the fact that Merlin was trying to put Time right to the back of his mind, blocked it out with how much he wanted Merlin back.

Merlin sort of rolls his head from side to side, blinking slowly. "'S done," he answers, voice thick with exhaustion. "Can I-?"

Arthur doesn't know what he's going to ask, because instead of finishing his sentence Merlin just shuts his eyes and tightens his loose hold on Arthur's hand. Arthur once again feels the discomforting tug of being pulled through Time, although this time it's coupled with a uncomfortable, nauseating sensation.

He opens his eyes to find himself back on the hilltop where they left their horses, what feels like a week ago, still sitting on the ground with Merlin in front of him. Merlin who is now clearly unconscious, skin a deathly white and clammy to the touch.

Twilight draws in as Arthur sits by Merlin's side, gathering enough of his own energy to lift his lax body and move them both under the covers of the trees before stumbling towards their still-tethered horses for blankets and what food he can conceivably manage. A fire seems like an impossible task, but Arthur knows it's a necessary one; for one thing they'll need it during the night, and for another the best thing he can do for Merlin until he regains consciousness is to keep him warm.

Years of training himself to push past exhaustion, both mental and physical, allows Arthur to collect enough wood to keep the fire burning long into the night, all the while keeping a wary eye on Merlin. He may look one step from death, but Arthur can't forget the immense amount of power that Merlin had used without looking even remotely strained. It should scare him, but instead Arthur finds himself hoping that by morning Merlin will have regained enough energy to make it back to Camelot.

He falls asleep to the sounds of crackling wood and Merlin's slow breathing, feeling oddly comforted.

—-

Many miles away, Morgana stumbles as she enters her chamber, blindly reaching for something to steady herself on as the walls of the castle flicker and blur. Gwen reaches her before she can fall, warm hands and firm grip keeping Morgana from falling apart under the sudden onslaught of magic streaming across her vision.

"Can you see it?" she asks, already knowing the answer as she sinks into a chair. Gwen doesn't answer, but Morgana sense her kneeling down, her fingers threading through Morgana's own as she begins to shake. The world reshapes itself as she trembles, her surroundings fading and then becoming solid once more, until Morgana can feel solid stone under her feet, the hard press of the chair at her back.

At the same time the visions running in a near-constant stream through her mind slow to a trickle, then to nothing. For the first time in many days her head is clear of people's lives, their faces no longer the only thing she can see as she closes her eyes in relief. As one sense dims she becomes aware that Gwen's hand is no longer in hers, and the faint smell reaches her nose, growing stronger as she frowns.

There have been no flowers in her rooms since the visions began coming daily, their perfume making her ever-present headache worse, but now her bedchamber is filled with the scent of wildflowers. A vase full of them is the first thing Morgana sees when she reopens her eyes, before her gaze is drawn to Gwen, busily laying out Morgana's nightgown and checking the temperature of water sitting in the ewer.

"Right," she says, hands on her hips. "Do you want your bed warmed, or will the fire be enough? I know it's almost summer, but the nights are still a little chilly, especially with stone- Morgana?"

Gwen is by her side in an instant, her expression concerned. "It's nothing," she tells her friend, trying to summon a smile.

"I know Sir Sagremour isn't the best of company for the dinner table, my lady, but you look positively ill."

"A headache, that's all." Morgana glances down, her growing understanding strengthened by the elaborate gown she's now wearing. Her attire before had been as simple as possible, the increased power of her Sight weakening her and making her unwilling to spend more time than she had to as Gwen dealt with the profusion of fastenings and accoutrements on most of her gowns.

A warm hand against her forehead pulls Morgana from her thoughts. "You're icy cold, my lady," Gwen says, her voice tinged with worry. "Should I fetch Gaius?"

"No," Morgana answers hastily, "it truly is only a headache." She looks up at Gwen, finding it easier to smile now that she has her bearings. "There's no need to disturb him so late. A good night's sleep is all the remedy I need."

Gwen gives her a long look, then nods briskly. "Very well, if you say so. In that case, let's get you out of that gown." Morgana stands at Gwen's gesture, her thoughts slipping to other things as Gwen's nimble fingers make quick work of the ties on her overdress one by one.

Something has changed, that much is clear, but Morgana cannot let herself be certain that Merlin has succeeded in his task until she speaks to him herself. She can, however, ease some of her doubts. "There was a knight seated at one of the lower tables," she says, raising her arms so Gwen can lift her gown over her head. "I don't recall seeing him before."

"There are several new knights, my lady" Gwen answers, carefully laying the dress aside and returning with the nightgown. "What was the device on his tunic?"

"A bird of some kind. An eagle, perhaps, although he was too far away to see any more than the outline."

Gwen smoothes down the fine linen of the nightdress, nodding. "That would be Sir Geraint. His father is a king in the east, but he wishes to learn his skill at a court where his rank means little."

Relief floods through Morgana as she splashes water from the ewer over her face, thankful that at least one thing has been altered for the better. The bedcovers rest over her without the oppression that had become so familiar over the past days as she settles down, and blessed darkness greets her as she lets Gwen's gentle touches soothe her into sleep.

Hurry home, Merlin, she thinks. I have a lot to thank you for.

—-

Arthur wakes to the crackle of a fire that should have died sometime in the night. When he can summon enough energy to turn his head and look, he's greeted by the sight of Merlin on the opposite side of a blazing campfire, a castle made of dancing embers floating in from of him at eye level.

"Morning," he says, and the castle vanishes in a flurry of sparks as Merlin starts. "Feel better?" Arthur asks dryly, sitting up as Merlin ducks his head with a slight smile.

"Not really." He disentangles one of his friends from the blanket he has wrapped around him and gestures towards the fire. "That was... it doesn't seem to want to go away. The magic, I mean, not the fire."

Taking a proper look, Arthur frowns as he notes Merlin's pallor, the dark hollows under his eyes and the way he's huddling into his blanket while being as close to the fire as is possible without actually sitting on it. Arthur pulls himself together when he wonders if even doing that would have any effect on Merlin, reaching for the saddle bags he'd managed to carry over the previous night.

"Here," he directs, pulling bread, cheese and dried meat out, "eat as much as you can stomach. We'll ride back as soon as you can stand; get you to Gaius."

Knowing he's going to have to do most of the actual riding, and feeling hunger pangs as his body fully wakes up, Arthur makes light work of his own meal, and heaves himself up to check on their horses as Merlin chews slowly. Unlike their riders they seem none the worse for wear after their impromptu journey, peacefully cropping at the grass while Arthur checks over their tack.

When he returns to the fire Merlin has repacked the saddle bags, looking even more ill as he stumbles to his feet with them held tight in one hand. "Can you-" he says, holding them out. "I'll put the fire..." They both turn as the heat from the flames suddenly vanishes with a low hiss, the fire going from a strong blaze to a blackened and dead pit in an instant. "...out."

"I see what you mean," Arthur says, and has to smile at the confusion on Merlin's face. "We can ask Gaius once we return, come on."

By the time Arthur's untied the horses and mounted up, Merlin has replaced the saddlebags and is attempting to get into the saddle, without much success. Arthur judges that Merlin is not in the mood to accept any offer of help, so keeps quiet. At least until Merlin it sitting fairly upright and has his breath back. "That has to be the least graceful way of getting onto a horse that I've ever seen," he says, and bites back a smile as Merlin scowls at him.

"When you've battled a sorcerer, stopped us from being pulled apart by pure magic and fixed the very essence of Time, then you can criticise how I get on a horse. Until then, shut up and get us home."

Arthur recognises the short temper of someone too exhausted to bother with politeness, mostly from the times he's felt like that himself, and keeps his smile hidden from as he checks the knots on the rope securing Merlin's horse to his then urges his own mount forward. They'll make much slower progress this way, but it will at least lessen the chance of Merlin falling off.

—-

Even with Merlin mostly secure, they take their time, getting back to Camelot in the early evening. Any strength Merlin had recovered after a night's sleep and some food rapidly diminishes, until he's barely able to keep upright at a walking pace; trotting is pointless, he's that unsteady. Arthur makes him stop whenever it looks like he's going to keel over and fall off his horse - which is regularly. After the fifth time Merlin stops complaining and protesting that he's not that bad, honestly, because he really does fall off.

"You're a disgrace to all my attempts to teach you how to ride properly," Arthur tells him sternly, trying not to be worried at the renewed dark circles under Merlin's eyes and the way his hands tremble as he holds the waterskin.

"I don't think you've ever tried to teach me that. How to fall over when hit with a sword, yes. How to ride, no."

"Well, you're a disgrace to someone."

"No change there then."

Arthur has to wake him up so they can carry on, and shortens the rope between their horses even further. Merlin has just enough concentration left to hold on, although he still lists from side to side as they travel. By the time they're riding through the gates of Camelot he's swaying badly, and Arthur isn't entirely certain he's not using magic to keep himself in the saddle.

"Get Gaius, now!" One of the stablehands races off, startled into dropping his broom at Arthur's shout. Merlin topples off the horse into Arthur's arms a damn sight more gracefully than he got onto it, breathing shallow as he tries to stand. "Stop that," Arthur tells him sharply, more to stop himself worrying than to stop Merlin from moving. He's so far gone he probably doesn't even hear the command.

The sound of the stablehand returning makes Arthur look up from his inelegant slump on the floor, where he's trying to keep Merlin's head up. He remembers, from somewhere, that you're meant to do that when someone looses consciousness. Or is that with a wound? It doesn't matter, not really, not now that Gaius is hurrying into sight, a frown on his lined features.

"What happened?" Gaius kneels awkwardly, pulling Merlin's eyelids up to check...something, Arthur's sure, but he hasn't the inclination to ask what. "No, no, don't tell me, that can wait. Help me get him back to my workroom, will you?" This last is directed at the stablehand, standing nearby and darting the odd terrified look at Arthur, but Arthur refuses to let Merlin go.

"I can manage," he tells them, and neither argues.

Merlin looks worse, if that's possible, lying in his own bed. Gaius fusses over him for a while, leaving Arthur to sink onto a stool near the fire and collect his thoughts. Scattered as they are, he's still reeling when Gaius quietly shuts the door to Merlin's small room and comes carefully down the steps.

"My lord?"

Arthur looks up slowly, meeting Gaius' questioning gaze. "How is he?"

"Simply put, exhausted. Using as much magic as I think he did takes its toll on your body, and this is the penance."

"He's used all his magic?"

Gaius shakes his head, smiling a little. "Oh good lord no, not by a long shot. If he were trained, and able to cope with the stress of it better, he'd be able to use that much magic every day for a week and not suffer any ill effects."

"That's..." Arthur searches for words, aware both of Gaius watching him closely and Merlin's words that only the two of them and Morgana would remember. "A thought I would be more concerned with, if I hadn't seen what he used that magic to do."

After a long, weighted minute Gaius nods once, passing Arthur a cup of strong wine before returning to tend to Merlin. Arthur downs the rich liquid gratefully, feeling some of the chill fade from the inside and out as the wine and the fire warm him through. Only when Gaius carefully shuts Merlin's door and returns to his work does Arthur rise and set his cup down with a nod of thanks, deciding to notify his father of their return before heading to his own chambers.

—-

The cool early morning mist is the only thing that reminds Morgana of all that has passed in the previous weeks, its unseasonal chill slipping over her skin as she watches the training field from a distance. The knights standing within its fence joke with each other as they warm their muscles; grinning even as they prepare to mock duel with their fellow warriors.

Their faces lack the strain Morgana had become accustomed to seeing, the hard expressions of men who had tasted true battle many times over, against the brigands and mercenaries that had plagued Camelot so much of late. A small part of her is scornful of these men, their lives and very fates altered by something they would rather destroy than give thanks to.

You would make them grateful, the selfsame voice whispers; you would make them beg for mercy, make them pay tenfold for their ignorance-

"My lady," Gwen says, touching Morgana's elbow and jolting her away from the insidious pull of the malicious voice. "Arthur has returned." She gestures towards the field, where Arthur is leaning on the fence talking to Sir Percival. Morgana nods, casting as much of a smile as she can muster in Gwen's direction then starts across the dewy grass to greet him.

As she nears both Arthur and Percival catch sight of her and bow, the knight with a murmured "my lady" before he returns to overseeing the morning's training. Arthur watches him for a moment, then turns to face her.

"Morgana."

"Arthur." She hesitates for a moment over what to say, because if there was ever a delicate subject, this is it. He helped Merlin, yes, but how far that was because of his sense of duty to Camelot and how much was down to his acceptance of magic is another thing entirely. "Did he succeed?" she asks in the end, as neutrally as she can manage.

"I think so." Typically, Arthur is his infuriating self. Morgana sighs in annoyance, reminded of when Uther will be deliberately vague because he doesn't think she should know about something.

"You think so? Arthur, do you not understand how important this is?!" Aware of her raised voice, Morgana is not surprised when Arthur grabs her arm and tugs her none-too-gently away from the training field, back in the direction of the castle where Gwen is waiting.

"Of course I understand," he hisses, "but how much do you expect me to understand about magic like that? I don't have the faintest idea what he did, but I know it left him unconscious and barely able to make it back to Camelot."

Morgana reels back, stopped short by Arthur's hand still on her arm. "I didn't...I didn't think," she says, because she hadn't. "I'm sorry. Merlin's magic is different to—"

"To yours, yes, I know. And I don't want to hear any more about it, not while..." Arthur leaves the sentence hanging as he releases her, but she knows what he keeps back. Not while Uther lives, she hears in the back of her mind, and pushes it away, doesn't want to think about how Arthur is beginning to consider what will happen when he is king. "Gaius says he'll be alright, but it will take a while.

"I'll go and see him, if Gaius permits me." Morgana pauses, then; "who was it?" Arthur's expression goes hard, and he looks away. Once again she is reminded of how close Arthur is to the throne, the implacability already showing that must come from having the weight of a kingdom bearing down on him. Morgana frowns and reaches out to him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Tell me, please."

"What does it matter who did this," he asks, still refusing to meet her eyes.

"I want to know who hated Camelot enough to destroy it like this," Morgana replies, though the words almost refuse to come. Her gift fills her with a sense of foreboding, such as in her darkest visions. "Please, Arthur."

He turns his head to look at her, his eyes dark as he covers her hand, still on his shoulder, with his own. It's a gesture of tenderness such as they never share, and her heart sinks further. "It was Mordred, the Druid boy we saved."

"No," she instantly denies, a memory of the terrified little boy rising to her mind's eye. "He's a child, he couldn't-"

"He did," Arthur breaks in, voice hard, brooking now further argument. "I don't understand how, and I'll warrant Merlin only partly does, but he was older, our own age. Grown up and full of hatred."

Swallowing down the bile that rises to her throat, Morgana looks at Arthur's rigid expression and knows his words for the cold truth. She pulls her hand away and shows her acceptance, however reluctant, in one brief dip of her head before returning to Gwen's side as quickly as her skirts will allows her, something inside her suddenly wary of Arthur.

This is Arthur becoming a man she won't know how to needle and jab at until he snaps at her, his attitude one she won't know how to shatter so that he reverts to the rude and impatient boy she could always best in a verbal battle. He's becoming almost regal; a foolish thought, once upon a time, and still not the right way to describe him, but it comes close. Morgana can sense the mantle gathering around him, knows that the magic that had almost destroyed Camelot has changed them both in ways she cannot yet fully comprehend, but she also knows that the change in Arthur will soon become anathema to her.

She reaches for Gwen as they walk, linking their arms together for comfort as the thought chills her.

—-

Arthur watches Morgana turn the corner of the castle walls and disappear from his sight, unsettled by the brief conversation. It's obvious that in all of Camelot, only they and Merlin remember everything that happened while the land was contaminated by Mordred's spell; Uther had been less careworn than when Arthur had last seen him, although not by much, and it had been clear the previous night that Gaius had no idea just what Merlin and Arthur had been doing away from the castle.

Morgana having magic, albeit of a different kind to Merlin's, worries him for no reason that he can easily discern within himself. Returning to the fence to track the knights as they train, Arthur puts it down to her having kept it hidden from him, and forces himself to focus.

Geraint is in the middle of the group of knights, looking as hale and hearty as he did before the battle Arthur can recall with startling clarity. He wields the same sword Arthur took to Brynmor's audience with confidence and surety, grinning as one of the other men makes a good-natured mocking comment in his direction.

Certain that Percival can handle the rest of training, Arthur follows in Morgana's footsteps and returns to the castle. He has other things to do with his morning.

—-

Hearing the workroom door creak open, Merlin looks up from the herbal he's trying to read in an attempt to stave off the utter boredom that comes from having an alert mind but a body too exhausted to move. Through his own open door he can see Arthur stopping to speak to Gaius before making his way over to the steps leading up to Merlin's small room. He pauses just underneath the archway, hand brushing over the fine cracks that are scattered through the stonework.

He lifts an eyebrow at Merlin as he enters. Merlin shrugs. "An accident, a while ago."

"If that's what you call an accident, I suppose I should be grateful you only ever drop things in my chambers," Arthur says, a smirk on his lips. "Can't you fix them?"

"I can," Merlin answers, pulling himself up so he's on eye level when Arthur seats himself on the stool by Merlin's bed. "But Gaius says he likes them. Says they give the room 'character."

"More so than the ancient books and the obscure ingredients littered all over the place?"

"I heard that," calls Gaius' voice from the other room. The door swings softly shut, latch closing with a gentle click, although they can still hear the physician's annoyed "harrumph!" through the wood. Arthur smiles.

"Better than last time." He glances down, eyes intent on his hands. "It's just like you told me," he finally says. "It's only us that remembers, us and Morgana."

"Gaius thought that'd be the case."

Arthur stands, pacing with short, quick steps. "Why, though? Why are we three the only ones to remember what happened?"

Merlin pulls at a loose thread on his blanket, and tries to explain. It's hard, when his head still feels like Gwen has been using it as an anvil. "Morgana's power protected her from forgetting," he says simply, not wanting to get into that right now. "You and me, we were out of the flow of Time when we... when I fought Mordred. Everything that happened during that period was separate, in its own time."

"You said something about resetting Time, sealing over the cracks..."

"What I- well, what my magic did, because I don't remember having much to do with it all, was to put the timelines back how they were meant to be. Sort of undo all the changes that had happened because of Mordred and his spell."

Arthur stops pacing to stare at him. "All of them?"

"Probably," Merlin says with a shrug. He hesitates, then continues. "I don't think I fixed it all, though; something stopped me." He tilts his head as Arthur leans against the wall, trying far too hard to look nonchalant. "What?"

"Nothing." He shifts his feet around, looking for the right words, until Merlin is about ready to threaten to lift him up by his ankles unless he speaks. He'd do it, too; his headache is returning with a vengeance, and he's still so tired he could sleep for a week - given no more interruptions. At last Arthur opens his mouth. "If you hadn't stopped when you did—what would have happened?"

"I'm not sure," Merlin answers honestly. "I suppose... the magic would have tried to fix every change caused by Mordred, from the largest down to the most insignificant, because that's what I was focused on doing. It was following my desire to fix things, so that's what it would have done."

"Even if doing so had stripped you of everything, and left you dead?"

"It was reacting to me, but yes, essentially." He's expecting anger from Arthur, that this proves his father right, that magic is not to be trusted and should be destroyed. Instead Arthur nods slowly.

"The weather is still strange for this time of year, which accounts for not everything being put back to normal; I imagine it'll fix itself, going by what Gaius said before about the balance of Nature."

Merlin nods, feeling himself sinking back down into bed as sleep makes it hard for him to focus on what Arthur's saying. He barely registers Arthur's last words, spoken as he's about to leave, but they push through the fog of tiredness and fill him with relief that he did something right.

"I thought you'd like to know: Geraint is back his old self, knocking heads together on the training field."

—-

Over the following weeks the weather does indeed right itself, although as Merlin remarks it's almost impossible to tell, because there is only a slight warmth in the air before it once again turns cool at the onset of autumn. Not that he has much chance to be outside in the chill air; perhaps left with some shadow of an ailing land in his memory, Uther increases Arthur's studies in the ways of ruling a kingdom.

Naturally, Arthur keeps Merlin by his side through the long, tedious and repetitive council meetings, not to mention through the equally long and monotonous sessions spent listening to Geoffrey of Monmouth explain the finer points of the tax system. The only interesting thing that comes from them are the long rides Arthur takes to the villages within Camelot's borders, to meet the people who pay said taxes.

Along the way, they pass fields that had previously been full of withered stalks, sickly crops a far cry from the usual plentiful yields that the good earth of Camelot produced. Now the farmers toil to harvest the ripe ears of wheat, their dry, rustling stalks tinted gold by the early autumn sun. Arthur and Merlin exchange glances when more than one farmer comments that they're harvesting later than usual, but nothing seems amiss beyond the much complained-about levels of humidity.

Like with his other duties, Arthur throws himself into learning everything his father requests of him, acquiring the skills of a king with the same kind of focus and determination he shows while training. As the days become shorter and the air grows sharper, Merlin finds himself spending the same amount of time cleaning armour as he does picking up sheaves of parchment from around Arthur's chambers, stacking them into neat piles only for Arthur to scatter the whole lot once more as he searches for a specific report.

It would help, Merlin often catches himself thinking, if the records room itself had a system. Geoffrey is a prolific writer and recorder, but his method of storing his beloved papers is... haphazard to say the least. As soon as Merlin feels he can manage some magic without either collapsing or accidentally levelling half of Camelot, he asks Gaius to get Geoffrey away from his precious books for a day, and then drags Arthur down to the room.

"Merlin, I've got five reports to read before meeting with my father. I don't have time to stand in the middle of this mess, breathing in more dust than I've ever seen in my lifetime."

"That's the point, though." Merlin gestures at the chaos around them, at the precarious stacks of books and buckets of scrolls scattered between the groaning bookshelves. "How long did it take you to find those reports yesterday?"

"Over an hour. But it would've taken half the time if you'd done your job and helped me," he adds, pointing a finger at Merlin, who waves it off.

"Gaius needed help with a patient. Look," he hurries on, as Arthur taps his foot impatiently. "You were whining about how there's no system down here-"

"I do not whine."

"-so I was thinking we'd sort it all out, for our sanity and Geoffrey's health. It can't be good for him, all this dust. And yes, you do whine. Like a four year old." Merlin dodges Arthur's mock swing at him, overbalancing and almost crashing into a bookshelf before Arthur catches him. "Thanks."

"I didn't want you to die before you explain how, exactly, you think we're going to be able to sort this lot out, and still leave me with time to read those reports, not to mention so you can finish your chores before tomorrow morning."

Merlin folds his arms and waits. Arthur stares at him, face blank. Then;

"Oh."

"And you say I'm dim." Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur's glare. The corners of Arthur's mouth curve up, although he doesn't quite smile.

"So why am I here? This should be nothing, not after before."

Merlin shrugs, looking at the damaged spine of a book instead of at Arthur. "I'm not sure how much magic I'm going to be able to do without... well, collapsing again. I need someone here with me, in case, and I couldn't very well ask Morgana." When he does chance looking up, he catches the end of Arthur's smile as he hides it behind a brisk nod.

"Alright. Where do you need me?" Merlin blinks at him, biting his lip to keep from laughing as a faint blush tinges Arthur's cheeks. It's not the first thing like that which has slipped out, from either of them, but it surprises them both every time. Merlin saves Arthur any further embarrassment by motioning towards the wall.

"Over there should be fine. Just try and catch me before I hit the floor, would you?"

"I'll try," Arthur says with a smirk, and carefully makes his way between the shelves the lean against the indicated wall, well in sight of Merlin.

As soon as he has a clear idea in his head of what he wants to happen, Merlin reaches for his magic. It leaps eagerly to his fingers, golden-bright in his mind and tinged with the wild magic he now knows is a part of everything; Mordred had shown him that much. Keeping the system he'd slowly worked out clear in his mind, Merlin carefully lets his magic loose, controlling it as tightly as he can while it strains to be let free.

He's vaguely aware of dust flying around him, the shelves creaking as they straighten and strengthen themselves, no longer bowed and dried with age. Rips and stains vanish from parchments, while books are re-stitched, their pages once more secure between bindings that no longer crumble under somebody's touch. They settle back onto the shelves, each in its rightful place.

Stacks of papers are sorted into sections, each into wooden boxes that likely once had a purpose but have only held dust and the odd mouse for many years. Merlin feels his grip on the magic slipping as Geoffrey's desk begins to shift, the wood creaking as one of the legs fixes itself and the desk stands on four legs once again, not three and an old bucket.

It becomes harder to breath as the magic keeps pulling at him, his vision filled with golden flecks and growing dim. Than a hand on his shoulder yanks him away, sends his magic sinking back down deep inside of him to lie dormant. Merlin coughs weakly, gasping as he looks around.

"Much better," Arthur says dryly. "Although maybe you should've started off with something a little smaller; you've gone an odd colour again."

"Worked, didn't it?" Merlin takes in the neatly ordered shelves, the heaps of papers now discoverable without two hours of searching. He grins, feeling slightly giddy. "It did, it actually worked."

"Congratulations." Arthur steers him towards the door, as Merlin belatedly remembers the reports waiting for Arthur - and the chores he still has to do. "How are you going to explain it to Geoffrey?"

"I told Gaius to make it look like his idea, to get someone to tidy the place up."

Arthur looks sceptical. "And Geoffrey will believe that?"

"He will if Gaius tells him it's for his own health. He's a hypochondriac." Merlin smirks, and can't help adding; "That means-"

"I know what it means, Idiot," Arthur retorts, and shoves him into a wall.

—-

It's after their visit to the water mill, the same one Arthur had helped break into pieces, that he gathers enough... it's not courage, not really, because he associated that with the battlefield. Although maybe it is courage, when he thinks about it, because starting a conversation about magic is a battlefield, in it's own way; it's a dangerous topic, both in terms of his father's law and between them personally.

Still, once he's made up his mind to ask the question he's wanted to know the answer to since what occurred with Mordred, Arthur cannot let himself avoid it.

Picking the right time to ask isn't really avoidance, Arthur tells himself, it's just prudence. So it's actually almost a week after he watched Merlin speak to the miller he once gave hemlock to, in what feels like another life, a huge smile on his face as he listens to a long and complicated explanation of how the mill works as if it's the secret to life itself. Maybe it is; Arthur feels lighter as they ride away, and one look at Merlin tells him that the same is true for him as well.

The ideal moment arrives as they're sitting in Arthur's chambers, sifting through a large stack of parchments that Geoffrey had given Arthur at Uther's request; Arthur is of the opinion that now Geoffrey can find everything within ten minutes, he actually sends them more, because he thinks the extra will be useful. Merlin is suspiciously silent whenever Arthur brings this up, however.

Looking at Merlin, sitting across the table and biting his lip as he reads one of the papers Arthur had shoved at him with a growl and the order to help him get through them all before dark, Arthur readies his question. "Is it-" Arthur starts, still not sure how to ask what he wants to know. "Is it the same with all magic," Arthur finishes, hoping Merlin will know what he means.

Merlin stops biting his lip, and there's a long moment of stillness. Then; "Yes. Even mine."

He won't look at Arthur, staring down at the parchment in his hands even though Arthur is sure he's not actually seeing any of the words written on it.

"How do you resist that sort of temptation?" He's pushing, and he knows it, but he may never get another chance at this conversation.

"Sometimes- sometimes you have to weigh what you want against what you'll actually get. If I used my magic to get everything I want, what are the chances of me being arrested and executed before I have chance to enjoy them?"

"I'm not sure I could be that strong in the face of such power," Arthur says, and then isn't sure where the honesty came from. The fire behind Merlin crackles loudly in the silence, as Arthur can practically feel the words Merlin weighs on his tongue before speaking them.

"You do it every day," and Arthur stares at him. "How many princes have killed for a crown, do you think?"

Arthur starts to argue, saying "It's not the same-" then cuts himself off, because he shouldn't have to justify an action he's never contemplated taking to Merlin, of all people. Merlin looks up at him and smiles anyway, sharp and knowing.

"Power is power," he comments, shrugging. "Magical or otherwise, it's the same principle." The look in his eyes is not something Arthur has ever associated with Merlin before, age-old weariness that makes him uncomfortably aware that however well Arthur might think he knows the man sitting in front of him, he's never going to fully understand the extent of the power he wields.

Then Merlin blinks and it's gone, replaced by a considering look while Arthur struggles with yet more words. He isn't sure why he wants to speak them, but he feels like he must.

"When I was trapped by Mordred's magic, watching the two of you fight, I-" he hesitates, obscurely grateful when Merlin simply waits and doesn't try to prompt him. "I- You scared me." He holds up a hand as Merlin opens his mouth, forestalling any words. "I've been frightened. When you're seven years old and facing down a wild boar there aren't really any more emotions to choose from. But I can count on one hand the amount of times I've been truly scared, and both of them happened today, because of you."

Merlin smiles, a brief lifting of his lips. "It—that might happen again, you know," he says carefully. "I'm not- I won't do it on purpose, but it's likely I'll have to do magic on that scale again, in the future."

"What can you know of the future?" Arthur asks, although he has an idea of the answer.

Merlin glances away, then meets Arthur's eyes as he says "Morgana has the Sight. She's... seen things, visions where my magic will be needed."

"Once I'm king," Arthur says slowly, knowing he's treading on uncertain ground, "those with magic who have survived under my father's rule will show themselves again, and not necessarily as allies."

Merlin looks slightly impressed. "Have you actually been thinking about this?"

"It is going to be vitally important one day, Merlin," Arthur tells him, rolling his eyes. With the comment the heavy atmosphere dissipates, and they return to their work. Well, they appear to; Arthur's attention is still held by their exchange, and he's fairly certain that Merlin still isn't seeing the carefully scribed letters on the report in front of him.

Something has changed, something more than simply a deeper understanding between them, and it's not until after dark when Merlin is about to leave for his bed that Arthur finally grasps what it is. When Merlin steps past him to leave, Arthur stops him with a hand on his wrist, feeling as startled by his movement as Merlin looks, wide eyes turned on Arthur in surprise.

When Arthur leans in and kisses him, a soft touching of lips, all of the candles go out at once. Arthur jerks back, looking around the pitch dark room as Merlin laughs. "Sorry," he says quietly, and it's enough of a marker for Arthur to be able to kiss him again and not miss, his grip on Merlin's wrist tightening to pull him closer.

One lone candle flickers back into light, apparently all Merlin can get his magic to do while Arthur nips at his lower lip and slides his tongue into Merlin's mouth, both of them starting to smile too much for it to really work, but trying anyway.

This, more than watching Merlin destroy Mordred, or seeing the fields of Camelot full of green life once more, feels like they succeeded. Before, Arthur had stolen smiles from Merlin, feeling guilty for letting his gaze linger on Merlin when they'd been riding in the rain, fascinated by the drops clinging to pale skin. From the way Merlin's hands slip underneath his tunic, a feather light touch on his own skin that makes him shiver, Arthur suspects Merlin has felt the same.

Arthur brings his hands up to frame Merlin's face as he pulls away, keeping himself from temptation as Merlin looks at him with bruised lips, barely visible in the feeble light. There's one final question Arthur needs to ask. He looks at Merlin, who lifts an eyebrow.

"What?"

"One more question." Merlin sighs, but with a slight smile on his mouth. He tilts his hips, reminding Arthur suddenly of when they'd stood in almost the same place as Merlin explained about the spell, and makes a 'go on' motion with his head. Arthur closes his eyes, and speaks.

"You could have had everything he offered. Anything you wanted, you could have taken. But you chose me." He swallows hard, opening his eyes to take in Merlin's soft smile and clear eyes. "Why, when you could have taken power and had me anyway?"

It's a risky thing to ask, and Arthur knows he's assuming a lot, but Merlin doesn't break away.

"Because it wouldn't have been real," he answers. "And," he adds with a grin, "Gaius always says I shouldn't rely on my magic too much."

"Really?" Arthur feels all the weight he hadn't realised he's been carry lifted off him, freeing him to tug Merlin back against him. "And why would that be?"

"Too unpredictable."

"Are you implying I'm predictable," he demands, more to see the mischievous spark in Merlin's eyes than with any real heat. Merlin shrugs, still grinning.

"I've thought it, once or twice. You do have a routine, after a-"

He never finishes his sentence, the words ending in a yelp as Arthur spins him round without warning and pushes him down onto the bed. Merlin's smile grows wider as he tugs Arthur down after him, and for the first time in weeks Arthur forgets entirely about the peril Camelot had been in, how he's one of three people who remember, the strength of Mordred's hatred, and magic.

Well, perhaps not magic. He won't easily forget that, not with Merlin's eyes shining as bright as the candle and twice as golden.