Archive of Our Own

Parry, step, swipe, step back, step in, lunge.

Mordred watched from the bench, transfixed on Arthur’s every move. Sat next to him, Gwaine was rapidly eroding his patience; jabbering in his ear and nudging him in the ribs. Mordred offered him a non-committal grunt before turning his full attention back to Arthur. Tightening his fists around his hilt, until the point of his sword pierced the ground between his feet, Mordred held his breath.

Arthur hadn’t broken a sweat. Yet there it was—that incisive look in his eye. The spar was coming to its inevitable end. The final thrust and, yes, Elyan was down, on his back with Arthur’s blade at his throat.

“You’re in then?” Gwaine said, clutching Mordred’s arm.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mordred rejoined, resigned to being party to another of Gwaine’s schemes or pranks, the finer details of which he had completely missed. He was too preoccupied to pay heed to Gwaine; running over Arthur’s last moves in his head and committing them to memory. Mordred was determined to prove his worth beyond doubt, to best Arthur on the training field if it was the last thing he did. All it required was more focus, a bigger commitment to training and sitting as far away from Gwaine as possible.

Mordred rose from the bench with Arthur’s play fresh in his mind. Maybe it would be today. Maybe at last Arthur wouldn’t look at him as if he was still the boy he’d saved long ago.

“That’s it, you’re up next,” Arthur called to Mordred, approaching from across the field. “Gwaine, you too.”

“But I thought I was to spar with you,” Mordred said, disappointed.

Arthur smiled with his usual fondness. It was a well-intentioned, brotherly affection but was grating on Mordred’s nerves more and more lately. Arthur replied, “Not today. This muscle in my thigh here is bothering me and Gwaine looks like he’s about to fall asleep. Why don’t you put him through his paces?”

Mordred perked up until Arthur added, “No shields and training swords only,” and once again, his spirits sank. His injured shoulder would be exposed. The wound had healed well enough on the outside but the inside still bothered him more than he was wont to let on. Meanwhile, Gwaine was acting the fool, as usual, trying to disrupt Mordred’s concentration with humour. Some days his grin and wink worked. Today was not one of those days.

Taking up position in the centre of the training field, Mordred widened his stance, lifted his blunted blade and narrowed his eyes. Gwaine’s advantage was his ability to shift his sword from one hand to the other—a skill Mordred had rarely seen on many his travels. However, he did have a tendency to swing wide. Mordred could turn this to his favour by upsetting Gwaine’s balance with a carefully placed blow to the back of his knee or deep into his side, but for it to work he’d have to be quick and take him by surprise.

Wasting no time, Mordred lunged forward. Gwaine parried, slicing Mordred’s blade outwards and using the full force of his weight to push him back. Mordred used the momentum to nimbly side-step and twist away from a fast-following overhead blow.

A less observant onlooker might mistake Gwaine’s technique as lacking in finesse—far from it. Despite his tomfoolery, Gwaine’s aim was good. He wasted no time driving in hard, not sparing Mordred a hair’s breadth to get the upper hand. Every time Mordred tried to draw Gwaine’s swing wide, Gwaine retaliated harder. Before long, Mordred’s arm was burning, the muscles screaming in protest as he replied in earnest to Gwaine’s every strike. Nevertheless, he made no ground.

In his mind’s eye there was nothing but his blade and Gwaine’s, the sound of them clashing, metal against metal—and, all the while, Arthur watching him from the edge of the field. More determined than ever to tip the balance from defence to attack, sucking in vital air through flared nostrils, Mordred steeled himself.

Gwaine was red-faced and panting, as wearied from the exertion as his opponent. When the opportunity came, when Mordred thought his arm was on the verge of seizing from exhaustion, he had less time than the blink of an eye to make his move. He leapt forward, blade aloft, his right foot landing sharply on Gwaine’s lower leg. Gwaine stumbled back as Mordred ducked and turned and swept his blade in a wide curve that was going to send Gwaine tumbling—

Only Mordred’s strike was too low.

One moment he was upright, the next he was face-down on the ground, his shoulder throbbing, with Gwaine’s boot on his backside and his blade at his neck.

Arthur’s laughter was more crushing than the defeat, but the worst insult was still to come. The knights were leaving the armoury when Arthur approached Mordred, halting his exit. “You fought well today.”

“But not well enough.”

Arthur considered this, but did not dispute it. At last he said, “Let me see you with your sword.” Remaining as steady as his nerves would allow, Mordred held the blade out horizontally and moved it in slow arcs around, up and down. Arthur watched carefully, assessing without interrupting. Next, he moved behind Mordred, aligning with his stance, reaching around and placing his hands about Mordred’s wrists. “Again,” he said, his breath skimming over the bare skin of Mordred’s neck. Mordred shivered and stiffened.

Arthur was pressed up behind him, urging him to move so that he might further evaluate Mordred’s swordsmanship. Arthur’s proximity—the warmth and scent of his body, the gust of his breath—stirred in Mordred irrepressible feelings of longing, of wanting. Those feelings were not returned but Arthur was too close and Mordred could not quell them.

“Relax,” Arthur repeated for the second, or was it the third time? Mordred could hardly breathe let alone move when Arthur said, “Drop your shoulders. That’s it.”

Before it was over, there were fat beads of sweat trickling down Mordred’s spine, soaking into his undershirt. His arousal, at least, was hidden beneath the layers of his mail though even that turned out to be a small mercy. After some deliberation, Arthur took the blade from Mordred and said, “Perhaps you need something smaller and lighter.” He seemed pleased—as though he had solved the answer to a great conundrum. Mordred felt no such satisfaction.

Mordred’s sword had been made in the same design as all the other knights’, with the exception of the gargantuan Percival, who could as easily wield an oak tree as a sword if the mood struck him. However, Arthur had concluded that Mordred was too weak and too slight for such a sword. Mordred accepted Arthur’s judgement graciously, while the humiliation rolled his guts up into his throat.

 

Back in the knight’s quarters after a thorough wash, Mordred ate his evening meal in silence. He had no appetite and had to choke down his bowl of meaty stew. No one seemed to notice the absence of his conversation. There was bawdy talk at the other end of the table that Mordred ignored; his mind trapped in scrutiny of the day’s training. It didn’t seem to matter that Mordred had saved Arthur’s life not once but twice: the first time from Morgana and the Saxons in Ismere, the second by taking the spear meant for Arthur in the sacred cave of the Disir. Arthur still considered Mordred a novice. Arthur still called him young Mordred and deliberately only assigned him to the least dangerous missions.

“Are you ready?” Gwaine asked, sidling along the bench. “We’re heading out in a few minutes. If you’re coming you’ll need something warmer than that.” Gwaine was wearing a dark brown cloak over his tunic and breeches; no trace of his knight’s attire on his person.

“Where are you going?” Mordred asked.

Gwaine leaned in close, his voice lowered as he said, “The Lower Town. You know, like we agreed earlier?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention earlier.” He grimaced, trying to think of a new excuse for avoiding this particular initiation. Of all the objectionable things Mordred would endure willingly to gain standing with the knights, a visit to one of the women in the Lower Town wasn’t one of them.

“If you’re worried,” Gwaine offered, “I can give you some tips.”

“I don’t need tips. I just don’t want to...”

“All right. No pressure. It’s up to you.”

Gwaine gave Mordred a friendly pat on the shoulder as he stood. Mordred hissed and winced. The muscle beneath his scar was as tender as a fresh wound and more so after a full and intense day of weapons training on the field.

“Sorry.” Gwaine pulled open the collar on Mordred’s tunic. “You should get Merlin to take a look at that.”

“It’s late. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

To Mordred’s relief, Gwaine didn’t pursue the matter, eager as he was to leave for a serious night’s drinking. Mordred hated the tavern. It was too raucous and noisy. When the revellers took their leave Mordred headed for his bed and some peace and quiet.

There had been a time when Mordred hardly spoke at all with his mouth. Those days were long gone and he’d since had to learn to rely solely on his spoken voice. Merlin, or Emrys as he still thought of him in his head, was the only one who could speak with him the other way, the speaking without words, if he had the will to. But he never did. Unless he was compelled to do so, Merlin didn’t speak to Mordred at all.

With that bitter taste in his mouth, Mordred closed his eyes and tried not to dwell on wishes that would never be granted.

 

Mordred had been lying on the grass, eyes closed, face turned up to the sun. There was a chill in the breeze but his body was warm, wrapped tight in his green cloak; his small hand enfolded in his master’s, his father’s.

‘Tell me again, father, about Emrys.’

‘Son, you already know all there is to know.’

Yet Cerdan told him the tale again. It made Mordred’s heart sing to hear the legend of a peasant boy and the Once and Future King, of a united Albion, of a land where magic flowed freely and unimpeded as water in a stream. It had helped to numb the terror that bubbled deep inside whenever Mordred thought of Camelot and the castle and its tyrant king. All too soon, Cerdan would take Mordred with him to collect supplies from the market, showing him how to walk unnoticed, to quietly go about his business then leave as quickly as he had arrived.

Mordred was a druid and in Camelot druids were not welcome. The king would readily kill a druid child for merely existing, as surely as night followed day.

With no more than a brush of his fingers, Cerdan had sensed Mordred’s unease.

‘It is good to feel some fear. It will help you keep your wits sharp.’

‘I’m very scared.’

‘I know. But all will be well. You will see.’

Angharad had come running up the hill then, calling out, “Have you two whisperers been up here all afternoon?”

She couldn’t speak in silence as Cerdan and Mordred did. Mordred sat up at the sound of her voice, squinting into the late-day sun to smile at her. She scooped him into her arms. He was too old to be carried, but she’d lifted him onto her shoulders all the same and trudged back down the hill to the camp where dinner was waiting.

The next day, Cerdan had taken Mordred to the market in Camelot, where they were betrayed. It was the last time he saw his father alive.

Mordred might have died too were it not for the help of Emrys and the beautiful Lady Morgana. In the end, though, it was Prince Arthur who’d smuggled him from the castle and took him home to his people, far from King Uther’s wrath.

It should have been a happy ending to a sad tale. Little had Mordred known then that his sorrow was only just beginning.

 

Throughout the meeting at the Round Table the next morning, Mordred discreetly flexed his aching shoulder, to warm the offended muscle. It had been several weeks since the injury, yet its painful presence remained as keenly as if it had occurred just days before.

Gaius had explained to Mordred when he awoke in the physician’s chambers those weeks ago that the spear that pierced his shoulder was poisoned with magic and that only magic could heal it. Arthur had gone back with Merlin to face the Disir a second time to bargain for Mordred’s life. Mordred wasn’t told what had transpired during that quest; Merlin and Arthur were the only ones party to that information. But Mordred knew Arthur’s loyalty to his knights was surpassed only by his loyalty to Merlin, and that Merlin repaid that loyalty in kind. No one but them would ever know what happened in the cave.

As the meeting was closed and those present began to disperse, Merlin approached Mordred from the other side of the room. The hairs on the back of Mordred’s neck bristled as if he was a cornered animal. Leaning in, Merlin spoke quietly enough no one else would hear him. “Gwaine said your shoulder is still bothering you.”

“It’s just an ache.”

“I can give you something for it.”

“Maybe later.” Mordred stood tall, his shoulders back, his face a mask.

With noticeably less patience, Merlin said, “Come with me now. I’m heading back to Gaius’ rooms anyway.”

“I’m about to go on patrol in the castle.”

Their rising voices must have caught Arthur’s attention as the room emptied. He positioned himself between them, a hand on each man’s shoulder and said, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” Mordred said at once.

Merlin swiftly countered, “Mordred’s shoulder is still giving him some pain but he’s reluctant to let me give him something.”

“I’m due to be on patrol now,” Mordred clarified, not wanting either of them to think he didn’t respect Merlin’s abilities as a physician.

“Who’s doing the patrol with you?” Arthur asked.

“Percival.”

“I shall tell him you’ll catch him up. Let Merlin give you something for the pain. It was a serious wound. You mustn’t ignore it.”

Mordred was already feeling chastised and about to follow Merlin as he headed out the door when Arthur added firmly with a flick of his wrist, “Go on, go on. Percy can manage without you for half an hour,” as if he was speaking to an errant child.

Clenching his jaw, Mordred left, saving his scowl for the empty corridor.

Mordred’s legs were made of stone as he made his way to Gaius’ rooms. It was hard to believe he’d once idolised the legendary Emrys, had dreamed of meeting him and earning his esteem. But then that Emrys was a story, a fiction, and Mordred didn’t care for stories anymore.

As far as things went with Merlin, it didn’t matter what Mordred said or what he did. Words of goodwill, praise or hope fell upon deaf ears. From the moment Mordred’s and Merlin’s paths had crossed again, Merlin had as much as admitted that he didn’t trust him. Mordred could only surmise that was the reason Merlin feared him, looked at him like he was the enemy. The greatest and most powerful sorcerer the world had ever known feared Mordred, an orphaned druid who had spent the last eight years associating with a rag-tag assortment of gangs and bandits, trying to survive; not just hiding his magic but neglecting it. What danger was he? What possible threat could he be?

Hadn’t Mordred proved his allegiance to Camelot? He’d saved Arthur from slaughter by Saxons. Then he’d put a knife into Morgana’s back to save Arthur from her wrath, despite his love for her. Not months later, Mordred had taken a spear filled with poison meant for Arthur without a second thought. What more did he have to do to prove his loyalty, to prove he belonged?

The ache in Mordred’s shoulder was nothing beside the ache in his heart and he preferred to keep both a secret. Nothing good came from admitting to pain.

“You’ll need to take off your mail,” Merlin said curtly as Mordred entered the apothecary. He was busy pouring a foul-looking green liquid from a vial into a goblet and didn’t look up.

Mordred did the best he could. He undid the clasp on his cloak and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. He added to it his belt and chainmail collar. The hauberk was another matter. Removing it without assistance could only be done by bending forward and letting it slip down, over his shoulders and head, onto a pile on the stone floor. It landed with a noisy jangle. He offered Merlin a look of apology as he lifted the mail and shook it out, though as far as he could tell, Merlin didn’t even look around from where he was stood, with his back to him, at the table. Gaius, on the other hand, who was dozing in a chair by the fireside, muttered and grumbled before settling back to his slumber. Mordred would have welcomed Merlin’s concern were it genuinely given. His scorn made Mordred uncomfortable, made his skin prickle; he wished it were Gaius administering the treatment and not Merlin, who was doing more and more in the old man’s stead lately.

Mordred took off his gambeson but dawdled at his undershirt, at last settling on only removing his left arm from the sleeve and pushing it up around his neck. All the while, he looked around the room, at the shelves stacked to the rafters with books and bottles, jars and vials. It was a cosy and welcoming place. The door to Merlin’s room was ajar. Mordred had never seen inside it. He’d wondered about it though, when he was alone in his bed, haunted by the memory of his first nights in Camelot, when he’d lain wounded and afraid in Morgana’s chambers waiting in vain for the great Emrys to do something miraculous to save him.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day,” Merlin said, motioning for Mordred to sit on a stool at the table. “You can start by drinking this.”

More by way of an attempt at conversation than out of curiosity, Mordred asked, “What is it?”

“It’ll ease the pain, and hopefully counteract any lingering infection.”

Mordred drank the liquid in one swift gulp and shuddered; it tasted as vile as it smelled. “You’re not trying to poison me?” he asked lightly, in an attempt to ease some of the tension between them.

Without answering him, Merlin ran his fingers over the scar on the front of his shoulder, where the spear had entered. It was pink and raised but the skin was unbroken. Still, when Merlin pressed harder the pain was searing and Mordred had to grit his teeth against it, lest he cry out.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” Merlin said with more care than Mordred expected.

“A little,” he lied.

Trembling with the aftershock, Mordred blinked back the wetness from his eyes while Merlin opened a jar filled with a pungent ointment and put a thick globule on his finger. He crouched before Mordred, his expression softer now. “Lift up your shirt a bit more for me,” he said. “This will help.” Mordred saw Merlin’s eyes flick towards the right side of his chest and away again, where the swirls of ink that marked him as druid, someone suspicious, someone not to be trusted, were covered only by the thinnest linen. Merlin must have seen its outline through the cloth.

“It’s cold,” Mordred stammered, forcing a weak smile as Merlin dabbed the ointment on his scar.

His skin broke out into goose bumps while Merlin rubbed the ointment into and around his damaged skin in gentle, soothing circles, wholly and unwaveringly intent upon his task as he explained, “Muscle takes a long time to heal. Bone and sinew take longer. The spear grazed a rib. That’s probably what’s troubling you.”

“You’re a fine physician,” Mordred said. “Better than the last time you tried to heal me, at least.”

Merlin flinched, withdrawing his hand as if he’d been slapped. “A long time has passed since then.”

Mordred carried no guilt for bringing it up. Merlin had never once enquired about what had happened to Mordred—not after he fled Camelot or after he returned with Alvarr. Was that the reason for Merlin’s reticence? “Is it because I helped Alvarr? Is that why you don’t trust me?”

Merlin didn’t answer. He was stoppering his jar and his eyes were fixed firmly on that task.

Mordred continued. “I was just a boy, Merlin. I was alone and scared and Alvarr took care of me. I didn’t know he was using me for his rebellion, I didn’t understand the crystal’s power, its significance. But I do now.”

Merlin sat down on the stool next to Mordred. For the first time in days he looked at Mordred directly. His deep blue eyes were always full of sorrow and despair. Mordred hated to see it. He wondered if everyone else could see it. Or maybe he was only seeing a reflection of what was in his own heart.

“Arthur doesn’t know you helped Alvarr to steal it.” Merlin’s lowered voice was a warning or perhaps a threat.

“You never told him?”

“No. And since we got the crystal back I see no point in ever bringing it up again.”

Mordred didn’t understand why Merlin would protect him when he had such little regard for him. Perhaps it was that he was protecting Arthur. There was so much more Mordred wanted to ask, to tell, but Merlin had already stood up and was moving onto the next of his chores.

 

Mordred had been abandoned to the woods before. The first time was when Alvarr found him. He’d been wandering alone and scared for weeks, close to despair and starvation. When it happened again, when Alvarr was captured and his camp decimated, Mordred vowed he would not be defeated by solitude. Fuelled by rage, Mordred had run and run until his legs felt weak as water. He’d fallen to the ground breathing hard, choked by anger and bitterness.

In his bid for freedom, Mordred had killed two men—who would have killed him first given the chance. However, it wasn’t that horror that plagued him. It was Emrys. Mordred hadn’t understood it. Emrys had led Arthur and his men to Alvarr’s camp, Emrys had chased after Mordred and tried to halt his escape, Emrys had betrayed his own kind for the tyrant king. And thus, with childish temper, Mordred had issued Emrys his threat for revenge.

It was only Morgana’s loyalty to Alvarr and his quest to overthrow Camelot that had saved Mordred; given him time to hide from the raiding party and run for his life when the fight began. When Mordred had fled, he hadn’t looked back. There was nothing left for him in the camp—no ally or protection.

Alvarr had spoken of rallying troops to the north. In the farthest reaches of Uther’s kingdom, where the patrols didn’t go, where the land was inhospitable and harsh, other rebels gathered awaiting Alvarr’s call. Mordred had decided he would make his way there, as an orphan boy when it suited him and only as a druid if he found himself in the company of others. He wrapped his cloak tight around his shoulders and sheltered in the hollow of a fallen oak. He needed to rest. He had a long, long walk ahead of him.

 

It was a full two months after his meeting with the poisoned spear that Mordred was permitted to join the horseback patrol. He rode his charger flanked by Leon and Percival, certain Arthur’s choice of knights was no accident. Sir Leon was Arthur’s most experienced knight. He was observant, quiet and thoughtful and his loyalty beyond any doubt. Sir Percival was a mountainous man, pensive like Leon, and a veritable force of nature. They had probably been advised to watch Mordred as well as the border. Mordred made a point of riding straight and tall even when the dull pain in his shoulder nagged him, showing as beads of sweat across his upper lip and a sick feeling in his belly.

Mordred’s shoulder was healing slowly. As the weeks wore on he wondered if the troubling ache would ever completely disappear, or if a sharp turn or tumble would forever be his reminder of the scar he carried. It happened sometimes; some injuries never completely healed. Mordred would have no future—as a knight or otherwise—if he wasn’t in perfect health. With that concern at the forefront of his mind, he kept his silence and wished for a full recovery. Nonetheless, like all forms of pain, it was a burden to bear and more so keeping it hidden. Secrets were heavy things. How Merlin managed without crumbling was beyond Mordred’s reason.

Mordred passed the time with conversation. “I hear rumour you have a lady friend in the town, Sir Leon.”

“The town?” Percival sniggered. “Sir Leon does not need to stretch his legs so far. Not anymore, anyway.”

Mordred frowned, puzzled. He wasn’t sure what Percival meant.

“You shouldn’t listen to rumours,” Leon said—not without good humour—before Mordred could make further inquiry.

“Yeah, you should,” said Percival to Mordred. “I hear rumour Gwaine has not yet persuaded you try your sword at the tavern.”

Mordred turned to see him winking though it looked more like the whole side of his face was in a spasm. He replied coolly, “My sword will remain safely sheathed in its scabbard until I see fit to use it. I don’t want to tarnish my blade.”

Leon bellowed with deep, resonating laughter. Percival laughed too, saying, “Fair play, Sir Mordred, fair play.”

The patrol took the best part of the day; their progress hampered by thick, slippery leaf fall and the sodden ground beneath. It was already dark and past supper when they left the horses at the stable and shed their mail in the armoury. One of the young squires had left them trays in the knights’ quarters, laden with meat and soup and the season’s fresh apples, baked in sweet wine. They greedily devoured their fill without changing from their workaday clothes. The rich food and a goblet of unwatered wine lulled Mordred; he bade his leave from the table with a mind to have a cursory wash before slumping onto his bed.

His room had a rickety wooden door with a latch, as did all the knights. It offered a modicum of privacy. It was not designed for security. A knight’s few personal possessions were as sacred as his oath to his lord—there was no risk from theft. When Mordred saw his door open, he was not alarmed.

Stepping inside, Mordred saw a parcel on his bed. He didn’t need to remove its sackcloth covering to know what it concealed. The shape was a giveaway. He stared at it for a long while until he heard footsteps approaching.

Elyan appeared in the doorway. “Aren’t you going to open it?” He cast a glance in the direction of the bed.

“Yes. Later.”

Elyan looked disappointed. “Arthur brought it here himself. He was sorry you weren’t back.”

Mordred wasn’t. He needed a night’s sleep to be courteous in the face of his shame. “I’ll thank him tomorrow.”

“I’d love to see it, once you’re ready,” Elyan offered, still hopeful.

Arthur could have presented Mordred with his new blade at training tomorrow. It was an honour Mordred shouldn’t have dismissed in front of the king’s brother-in-law—to have had him bring it directly to his room.

With a swift change of heart, Mordred said, “All right. I’ll open it now.”

Slowly, he unravelled the cloth, feeling the cool metal beneath the rough fabric, getting a sense of its weight and balance before he saw it bare. As he handled the wrapped sword it also became evident that there was not just one item concealed in the cloth. With the sound of metal against metal, as the cloth dropped away at last, a small dagger fell onto the bed. Mordred neglected it at first for the sword in his hand, its gleam and shine catching the torchlight from the wall as he pulled it from its scabbard.

“It’s a beauty,” Elyan said. “My father was a smith. I know good workmanship when I see it. May I?”

“Of course.” Mordred handed him the sword and picked up the dagger. It had the same coiling design engraved upon the handle and a fine, narrow blade. Mordred was perplexed. It was a lavish prize, a gift, and not at all what he’d expected.

“It’s light. You’ll be like lightning with this.” Elyan sounded awed. “We’re all going to have to watch out for you now.”

It hadn’t occurred to Mordred for a single second to consider his using a smaller, lighter sword as an advantage. Arthur had though. Mordred only had an instant to regret his previous chagrin when Elyan chuckled and shook his head. “My sister was right. He’s very fond of you.”

Mordred’s heart skipped a beat. “He is?”

“None of the rest of us have had the special treatment.” There was no trace of resentment in Elyan’s words. He clapped his hand against Mordred’s arm and said, “I’ll leave you to your note.”

Mordred hadn’t seen a note. He lifted the cloth in case he’d missed something else buried in its folds. There was nothing. Then he noticed a piece of parchment on the table in the corner by the door, folded over twice and sealed with wax. Mordred sucked in a nervous breath and blew it out. He didn’t reach for the note. Instead, he placed the dagger in his drawer, beneath his linens, and sheathed the sword and scabbard in the cloth in which it had been delivered.

After a hasty wash from his bowl, Mordred was ready to retire. Only then did he bring his candle to the table and examine the king’s seal with his fingertip. With shaking fingers he lifted the note and melted the seal in the candle flame, taking care not to damage the parchment. Perhaps by some miracle, he would be able to read it.

When Mordred was a boy, Cerdan had begun to teach him to read runes. Aglain had followed in his stead. But there had been little use for teaching him any other script. There were no books for him to read and many other matters more pressing in his education. After that, while he was still a boy, when his druid life came to an abrupt end, Mordred had no teacher. Everything he learned from then on was to aid him in survival. This did not include sending notes or reading poetry.

There were several lines of writing. Mordred squinted and strained as if this would somehow reveal the meaning to him. It was useless. He recognised some letters but he could glean no meaning from the lines and curls of ink before him.

He had two choices. He could admit his weakness and ask one of the other knights to read the note to him. But what if it said something he shouldn’t share with anyone else? What if by so doing he embarrassed the king or himself? The only other choice, as unsatisfying as it might be, was to hide the note and hope that Arthur didn’t mention it.

 

Mordred awoke early, before the morning bell and before his fellow knights. He readied himself by the dusky light of sunrise, tip-toeing away down the corridor so as not to disturb anyone. The armoury would be locked until after breakfast but it didn’t matter—Mordred had everything he needed. He made his way outside, foregoing the practice field which would be wet with dew. Instead he found a quiet courtyard, overlooked by some empty guest rooms.

The air was brisk and moist; Mordred felt the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead and behind his ears. For the first time in his life he was living inside, in a building, not in a tent or a makeshift shelter. The elements could do as they chose without penetrating Camelot’s sturdy walls. Its inhabitants were warm and dry whatever the weather outside. It was a comfort, not to be cold or wet or hungry, but there was nothing like being outside, smelling the dawn air, being at one with a fresh new day. Calm and centred, Mordred lifted his sword and sliced it to his left, then to the right, up then down. He lunged forward, impaling his imaginary adversary—who didn’t fall until Mordred finished him with a cutting blow to the neck, taking his head clean off.

Arthur’s skill as a swordsman was without question. What Mordred hadn’t fully appreciated was his skill in drawing out the best in those under his instruction. The new sword was perfect. It was like an extension of his arm. He couldn’t wait to try it out on the practice field against a real opponent—one he hoped upon hope would be Arthur. Maybe then, at last, Mordred would be able to prove himself to Arthur man to man.

The morning bell rang after what felt like no more than minutes. Mordred hastened to the knight’s quarters, eager to be in time for some breakfast before the first debriefing of the day. When he arrived, skidding to a halt at the wooden doors, he was surprised to see the hall half empty. Sir Leon, already kitted out in his full knight’s regalia was talking to a group at the far end while a couple of squires were busy clearing away the remains of what appeared to be a hurried snack. Mordred snatched a hunk of bread and an apple and edged sheepishly towards the gathering.

Leon seemed to be drawing to a close. “Sir Brennis will be in charge of the inventory, the rest of you follow his instructions.”

Mordred positioned himself behind Sir Cador, grateful for once for his slighter stature. Not that there was going to be any escaping his tardiness.

“Good of you to join us, Sir Mordred. Where pray tell have you been?”

Mordred inwardly sighed with relief; Leon wasn’t angered. “I’m sorry. I was practicing some moves. I didn’t realise I was so late.”

“We were called up early. You are to join Sir Brennis in the armoury. He’ll tell you what to do when you get there.”

This was not the usual routine. Mordred had been expecting training this morning and a patrol duty in the afternoon. “What’s going on?”

“That I cannot divulge. You’ll find out what you need to in due course.”

There was a hierarchy in the knighthood. Mordred had been fortunate enough to bypass the apprenticeship that many of the novices served and had already been privileged to participate in some missions of great import as well as having a seat at The Round Table. He knew he shouldn’t resent his exclusion from whatever incident that had caused this change from the norm but he couldn’t help it. For the first time that day, Mordred felt the all-too-familiar throb in his shoulder. Not even his new sword was enough to assuage it.

 

While Mordred counted and sorted spearheads, he kept his eyes and ears open. There was no talk except the usual idle gossip which predominantly revolved around fornication and drinking. Mordred kept out of it. When there was a break for the midday meal he went for a walk. The stables were always a good place to garner information.

Two guards stood outside the royal stable, where Arthur’s destrier was housed along with several others of Camelot’s finest horses. Whilst they were animals of great value Mordred had never seen it guarded before. The doors were open a mere fraction—just enough for a tiny stable hand to squeeze through. The rest of the stables were open wide and the place was clanking and bustling with boys mucking out and others leading the steeds to or from the pastures or smith, as they always did.

Mordred slid his hand beneath his hauberk. The apple was still in his pocket from breakfast time. He marched toward the royal stable as if he’d been sent there by the king himself.

“You can’t come in here,” the guard said, paying no heed to the uniform that Mordred wore.

“But I come here every day to give Llamrai an apple.” Mordred held it out for the guards to see.

“Not today you don’t. Give it to one of the stable boys. They can feed your precious horse.”

Mordred was about to instruct the guard that Llamrai was in fact Arthur’s horse when a better idea came to mind. A skinny boy with a pitchfork was idling next to a cartload of hay. Mordred walked over to him and said, “Would you give this to Llamrai?”

The boy looked wide-eyed at the rosy apple and said, “I’m not allowed in there today—on account of the strangles.”

“I see. Well then I suppose I could eat it myself,” Mordred said. It wasn’t nice to tease the boy but worth his smile when Mordred added, “Unless you’d like it.”

The boy eagerly reached out for the fruit and didn’t waste a moment taking a healthy bite. Mordred contemplated what the boy had told him. The strangles was highly contagious. Any horse who succumbed would have to be isolated, but guards at the entrance seemed excessive. Moreover, Mordred hadn’t noticed any strange sounds coming from inside. The strangled wheezing sound of an afflicted animal, which gave the disease its name, was unmistakable.

Casually, Mordred asked, “Is it King Arthur’s horse who’s sick?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t know. Might be that other horse that the messenger came here on.”

Mordred returned to the armoury with more questions than answers. The royal stable was housing a messenger’s horse that no one was to know about. There was no disease—that was a ruse to keep the arrival of the messenger a secret. And what of the messenger? What message did he bring that had to be kept secret from all but the innermost circle of Arthur’s knights, which evidently upon this occasion did not include Mordred?

The rest of the afternoon he could think of nothing else but this mystery. By the time his day was done, Mordred was ready to burst. It wasn’t his place to ask and he knew that when the powers that be saw fit to enlighten him he would be told, if there was anything worth telling. Nonetheless, when he sat down to eat with the other knights, every lowered voice and shuttered glance felt like he was being kept out of something; that they all knew something he didn’t. Mordred couldn’t see Gwaine, Percival, Elyan or Leon at any of the tables. The earlier joy that had come from practicing with his new sword had long evaporated like the morning dew. He felt like a child who’d been bribed with a shiny coin to keep away from the adults. It surely wasn’t that way, was it? Mordred filled his goblet and drank it down in greedy gulps—as if those few sullen mouthfuls could quench his frustration.

The wine went straight to his head. Mordred refilled his cup, revelling in the heady warmth that filled him. He felt it spreading from his head and stomach to his fingertips, gradually warming every muscle in his body until he relaxed and loosened. Why should he care or worry about anything? He poured the dregs from the flagon into his cup as the table was cleared. He considered the tavern and all its wares. How stupid he’d been denying himself. Did he really think that Arthur, or Merlin come to that, would notice and somehow respect him for it? Did he honestly believe in some addled part of his brain that his chances of being invited to Arthur’s bed would be increased by this self-enforced abstinence? It might remain unspoken but everyone who was close to Arthur knew of the intimacy he shared with Merlin, as loyal and loving as he was towards his wife. His fondness for Mordred was nothing more than that of a brother, a mentor. As for Merlin—he couldn’t even stand to look at Mordred let alone grant him an ounce of affection.

There was no one to take him to the tavern. As Mordred got up the room was swaying like it had left the ground and been pushed out to sea. He stumbled back to his room set on waiting for Gwaine to return. Gwaine would take him out the Lower Town. In the meantime, Mordred would lie down and close his eyes, just for a few minutes, until the dizziness abated. He wasn’t going to fall asleep. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t …

 

It was hard to stay safe and keep his magic a secret. Mordred had to move from place to place. He’d wandered northwards alone for three weeks when the warlord and his army found him. Years before, the warlord had lost a son and a wife. In the wake of this tragedy his heart had shrivelled, but not so much that he couldn’t find a place in it for an abandoned boy.

The warlord had laughed to see the boy drinking wine like it was water. The sound of it echoed off the valley walls and shook the boy to his bones. But Mordred’s belly was full for the first time in months after he thought his luck was all but gone and this might finally be the end for him. Winter was long and harsh this far north.

The tent smelled of fur and spice. The air was warmed from a clay brazier and the warlord sat, like a true king, with his women at his side and his guards at the door. Mordred was cosseted and cocooned in a nest of pelts and blankets, lightheaded and sleepy from his meal. He enjoyed every second, knowing it was sure not to last.

Despite his youth, Mordred had learned long ago that kindness could come from the most unexpected places—as could cruelty.

 

Two days passed. Mordred kept to himself, reining in the urge to ask anyone what was going on. Arthur was nowhere to be seen; neither, for that matter, was Merlin. As each hour of each long day went by, Mordred’s concern grew. What dreadful news had the messenger brought? What terrible schemes might be unfolding behind a closed door, beyond the castle walls, in lands far away? Lips moving in conversation—out of earshot—became portents of impending disaster. Carefree smiles and laughter were a poor concealment of discord. At every turn, Mordred saw signs—in blank faces and empty chairs—that all was not well. With no update or enlightenment, Mordred’s feelings of dread grew stronger, his patience wore thin and his resolve weakened.

The final straw came on a patrol of the upper corridors of the castle. Rounding a corner, Mordred caught a glimpse of Merlin at the far end of the long passage, disappearing up the stairs, hurrying in the direction of Arthur’s chambers. Whether it was by accident or design that Mordred had been assigned this duty he couldn’t be sure, but he saw it as providence and took his chance.

Leaving his fellow knight with strict instructions not to follow, Mordred sprinted full pelt after Merlin, hoping to catch him before he reached the king. In his knight’s uniform, it took everything Mordred had to run flat out the length of the corridor and up the stairs without pause. Merlin was steps away from Arthur’s door when Mordred, gasping for breath, reached the top. He called out, “Merlin! Merlin, please!”

Startled, Merlin turned. It was at first inconceivable that Merlin hadn’t heard him clattering up the stairs behind him, until Mordred saw his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. He was gaunt and there were rings as dark as bruises beneath his eyes. Merlin didn’t say a word, but shook his head, as if to warn Mordred not to approach.

In that instant, all Mordred could think about was Arthur. He resumed his pursuit. Nothing was going to stop him now—not even the mighty Emrys.

“Please!” Mordred called out, reaching the door as Merlin disappeared, slamming it closed. Mordred heard the bolt being thrust across the barrel over the noise of his panting breaths. In sheer desperation, he banged his fist on the wood until the hinges rattled, his anguish overriding his care for the consequences of such an insubordination. “What’s going on? Please.”

The door remained unopened. Mordred slid down to his knees, his cheek pressed to the wood. There were urgent voices on the other side—Arthur and Merlin. Mordred couldn’t hear what was being said though he strained with every fibre of his being to discern a word, a sound, anything.

As long seconds stretched out without answer, finally reason and resignation prevailed. Mordred’s behaviour was going to severely diminish Arthur’s respect for him which worried him more than the reprimand he had as much as invited upon himself. With a heavy heart, Mordred pushed up to his feet—just as the door opened.

“You’d better come in,” Merlin said, the weariness in his voice more telling than his fallen shoulders and his pallor.

The rooms were in disarray. Through the archway the bed was unmade and discarded clothes lay over the screen and on the floor. On the table there was a pile of platters, half-eaten food spilling from their edges. Arthur was standing by the window looking out over the courtyard, behind his desk, his face obscured by a frame of golden sunlight.

As Mordred approached, Arthur turned and said hoarsely, “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll have your head.”

Mordred nodded. He couldn’t speak; the gravity of Arthur’s tone pressed out into the room like a slow-rolling thundercloud.

“Sit down,” Merlin said, guiding Mordred to a chair at the clean end of the table.

Arthur came over, sitting at the table’s head. Merlin joined them, in the chair opposite Mordred. It didn’t escape Mordred’s notice that Arthur, too, looked harrowed. Nor could he overlook the fact that Merlin was sitting with them, as he had never done before. When Arthur moved his arm across the table and took Merlin’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckle, Mordred’s eyes widened. Everything he’d suspected, every whisper he’d heard, every sidelong look he’d observed was borne out in that one gesture. It was Merlin who had shared Arthur’s bed these past nights; it was Merlin’s tunic upon the floor and Merlin’s cup alongside Arthur’s at the other end of the table.

“You have to understand,” Arthur said solemnly, “Camelot is not without enemies despite how far we have come in my reign. Every rumour must be treated with the same seriousness as every obvious truth. Every apparent truth must be viewed with suspicion until it can be proved with certainty.”

“Sire?” Mordred whispered.

Arthur continued, his voice barely audible above the pounding of Mordred’s heart. “Three nights ago, a messenger came from the northwest, with a scroll from Queen Annis herself. He brought news that Morgana, my sister, is dead.”

The expedition party trudged on horseback through endless mud. It spattered and sucked at the horses’ hooves and dragged down every man’s spirits. A veteran knight riding alongside Mordred close to the rear grimaced and muttered incessantly under his breath. The cold had settled like an unwelcome guest in Mordred’s bones and his shoulder quietly throbbed in futile protest. Though the older man didn’t complain out loud, the ride had to be crippling him. They’d been on the trail since dawn and were showing no signs of slowing for the dusk. Arthur was in a hurry and offered no concession—not even to the cart drivers struggling with two week’s worth of supplies.

At the border, Arthur, Merlin and handful of trusted knights were to continue on to Caerleon Castle to attend to the business they had there. The remainder would set up a garrison at a vantage point with instructions that if no word or signs of Arthur and his men came within seven days then the troops would split into reinforcements, defence of the border and a messenger party to send word back to Queen Guinevere.

No one but Arthur’s elite knew the true purpose of their visit. Mordred was included by Arthur’s good grace; he hadn’t even had to plead his cause. When, two days later, the time came to forge on from the garrison, Merlin rode at the head alongside Arthur, followed by Leon and Percival, while Mordred rode in the middle with Gwaine and Elyan at the back. They proceeded in grim silence, listening and watching for any sudden movement beyond the trees, for any signs of treachery.

Every so often Merlin would stop and look around while Arthur waited for his nod. He said he was looking for symbols on the bark, for any trace of sorcery on their route, and no one questioned it. But there was more to it than that. Mordred could sense it—from the tingle on the back of his neck—that Merlin was feeling for magic. He didn’t need a special sense, however, to detect the icy glares Merlin shot in his direction whenever there was reason to pause their progress. No one else appeared to notice yet Mordred felt it like a bitter chill piercing his chest every time he caught Merlin’s eye.

The border garrison they’d left behind consisted of a camp stationed within the remains of a long-abandoned castle. Their firelight could be seen on the hilltop above the tree line as Arthur and his elite set up camp in the shelter of a dense thicket. Merlin built them a fire of their own and they ate their fill huddled close to the flames.

Mordred was bone-weary from the ride; sluggish from the late meal and a cup of warmed wine. He hardly had the strength or presence of mind to roll out his pack. He did notice, however, that Percival was watching him, his face softened by the orange glow of the firelight. Like many robust and hardy men of his stature, his expression was gentle and kind; a man such as him had no need to make a show of his strength.

“You’re shivering,” Percival said, taking the bedroll from Mordred’s hand. “You should sleep here, next to the fire.”

Mordred was grateful for the assistance; he was incredibly tired and satisfied to rest on the opposite side of the fire to Arthur and Merlin. In another circumstance he would have liked to settle closer but his yearning for Arthur, and in some part Merlin, was dampened by the frigid air and the graveness of their mission. It didn’t need to be said aloud; this could be a trap to send them to their doom. On the other hand, it could genuinely be that they were to identify the remains of Arthur’s last living blood-relative. No matter what she had become, Arthur had loved her and, like Mordred, had continued to hope she could still be saved.

Mordred lay on his side, facing the fire’s pressing heat. Percival set up his bed behind him—a solid wall at his back—shuffling forward until Mordred could feel the balm of his body warmth through their mail and cloaks. “I don’t want to wake up next to a frozen corpse,” he said with mirth. With the temperature plummeting, Mordred was glad of his presence and his willingness for proximity. He didn’t even object to Percival’s heavy arm wrapping around his waist and holding him to his chest.

Percival’s breathing was slow and steady, a soothing sound against the crackle of the fire and distant sounds of night creatures in the forest. Mordred relaxed into his embrace and let his mind wander away from the impending woe of the days ahead.

 

Mordred had stayed with the warlord for two years. He’d learnt how to wield the sword and his tongue—month by month each with ever-increasing proficiency. However, Mordred knew his time on the northern borders wouldn’t last. The warlord had a vile and unpredictable temper. While Mordred was a boy he was no threat, but as he changed inevitably from boy to man, he noticed the warlord eyeing him more and more with suspicion.

Word had reached them in that time that the Lady Morgana had taken the throne in Camelot. The light in Mordred’s heart for that beguiling lady flickered along with his hope that the tyrant king was overthrown—no matter that he’d known deep down that her reign wouldn’t last, as well as he knew the legend of Emrys and the Once and Future King. When later came the news that Morgana had fled Camelot, Mordred knew what he had to do. He had to find her.

In the long hours of darkness, armed with a cast-off sword and wrapped in furs and leather befitting a prince, Mordred stole from the warlord’s camp. He had no idea where to find Morgana or how long it would take him, but Mordred had no other purpose, no other desire. Morgana was his only true friend and ally. No matter the rumours of her madness and her wrath, Mordred determined he would reach her and seek out the love that he knew still resided in her heart.

 

“Look at those two lovebirds!”

Arthur’s voice broke through the haze of a deep and restful slumber. Mordred smacked his lips, attempting to banish the bitter taste in his mouth. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes and rubbed the dryness from his eyelids. Percival moved and grunted from beneath him. Mordred sat bolt upright from where he’d been lying with his head in the crook of Percival’s shoulder to see Arthur, Elyan and Gwaine looking down at them laughing. Meanwhile, Percival stretched out, an oblivious behemoth making furrows in the earth with his heels, sucking in fresh, cold air and blowing it out in billowing puffs like a man turned dragon.

“You’re just jealous,” Percival yawned. “He doesn’t snore and he doesn’t fidget. I’d take Mordred over you lot any day.”

Arthur nodded and smirked, his eyebrows disappearing under his fringe, showing a brief return of his usual humour.

“Not like that,” Percival said, pushing up to his feet. “Anyway, our young lad’s saving himself.”

A furious blush burned over Mordred’s cheeks. He was about to protest—there was little else he could do under the circumstances—but they’d all moved on to packing up their things. Thankfully the cold and a full bladder had diminished his morning ardour.

“Merlin’s warmed some watered ale in the embers,” Arthur said handing Mordred a cup. “Drink up. We need to make tracks.”

Merlin was rolling up his pack. He looked over at Mordred and smiled. Mordred knew better than to seek any warmth from it. He took in the mist rising from the cold earth and the grey-white embers on the fire which looked as if they had long burned out, and sipped his steaming drink.

The final mile was the longest. It was a steep climb made all the more arduous by the damp and the gloom and the austere shadow of Caerleon Castle blocking out the remainder of the day’s insipid sunlight. Camelot seemed like a world and an aeon away when the sentry on the outer wall of the castle signalled their arrival. The first portcullis creaked open as they reached the draw bridge. Mordred and the other knights approached cautiously; their eyes peeled and their fingertips hovering over their swords. Beyond this they did not relent in their vigilance, as they continued upwards along a gravelled track to the final gates of the inner citadel.

Upon their arrival, there would be no fanfare, that much was understood. Nonetheless, Queen Annis was in the courtyard to greet them. She was wearing furs, her hair braided and her back straight. She had the stature of a woman half her age though her eyes carried in them the sadness of a troubled lifetime. As Arthur dismounted she came to him with sincere and open affection, embracing him like a mother would a long-lost son. The knights dismounted in turn but stayed close to their mounts until Arthur’s nod signalled their ease.

“Then it’s true?” Arthur said, the sorrow that had been hidden behind his stolid determination to get here showing in the weary slump of his shoulders.

“As much as it hurts me to say, yes it is.”

“Where is she?” Arthur asked.

“At present, in the vaults, in a makeshift tomb. Two guards stand at the entrance day and night. No one has been in or out.”

Arthur ran his hand over his face, clenching at his temples with his fingertips. His voice was ragged as he said, “And you’re sure it’s her?”

“Sadly, I’m as sure as if she were my own flesh and blood,” Queen Annis said with tender care.

Mordred’s stomach turned over. As much as he didn’t want a battle or to put Arthur in harm’s way, there had been a part of him clinging to the hope Morgana wasn’t really dead. There was a smaller part of him holding onto the belief that by the force of some ancient magic Morgana was lying in a deathlike stasis. It would mean she had a scheme, a plot afoot, but they had the element of surprise on their side. They had Emrys.

Merlin came to Arthur’s side and spoke quietly in his ear, heaving the strap of his physician’s bag up his shoulder as if it were filled with rocks.

Arthur asked of the Queen, “May we see her at once?”

“Of course. But you must be exhausted. Are you sure I cannot offer you some refreshment first?”

Arthur cast the knights a look of apology he didn’t owe them. “I appreciate all you are doing for me, Your Majesty, but if it pleases you, I would prefer to see her right now. We need to be sure there is no sorcery involved. It pains me to admit, there is nothing Morgana wouldn’t do to trick her way to seeing me dead.”

It was no surprise that Merlin’s, and in turn Arthur’s, thoughts had run in the same vein as Mordred’s. The bigger question was how Merlin planned to challenge his adversary in the event this remained a trap, albeit one that did not involve Queen Annis. Merlin’s only consolation was Queen Annis’ wisdom and shrewdness. She would have taken every precaution before allowing Morgana’s corpse to rest in her castle, especially since pronouncing herself an ally of Camelot.

Queen Annis turned and motioned for all present to follow. Behind the knights were four of Queen Annis’ own men. She led with Arthur at her side and Merlin close behind them. Mordred struggled to hear what Arthur and Annis said as they crossed the courtyard and made their way into the bowels of the castle. Arthur was trying to determine how Morgana had come to be here. From what Mordred could make out, her frozen body was found alone in a ruin to the east, in the borderlands between Caerleon and Ismere. A patrol had found her. Not knowing her identity, only surmising from her countenance that she might be a lady of some import, they brought her back to Caerleon Castle. It was with some horror and surprise, and not a little fear, that Queen Annis had recognised Morgana. She had her finest physician examine and clean the body and he agreed that Morgana was indeed dead; had been for some time, though it was hard to say how long given the freezing temperatures outside.

Arthur held up strong, asking his questions and listening to the answers as if he were discussing nothing more troublesome than preparations for a feast. Mordred, however, was dizzy with this revelation and had to swallow the lump growing in his throat as they began the inevitable descent into the vaults. Had Morgana died alone, and if so, when? Moreover, how had she died? What happened to this precious lady that she should end her days here, like this?

At the bottom of a circular stairway a short torch-lit corridor opened into a large room with a high ceiling. The guards at the door moved aside to allow everyone to enter. Queen Annis and Arthur stopped just inside the entrance.

She said, “If you like, I will leave you here to attend to your sister. I am sure you would like some privacy.”

Arthur nodded and motioned for the knights to wait at the door. Queen Annis left with all but two of her men, who were instructed to bring the group to their rooms when their appraisal was done. As much as Mordred was desperate to see Morgana, he had no choice but to watch from afar and wait as Arthur and Merlin approached the shroud that covered her body, lying on a stone slab at the side of the room.

Mordred shivered, not from the cold, but from the all-consuming emptiness of this inhospitable resting place. He breathed in deep and felt like he might spill his guts. Standing beside Mordred, Gwaine clamped his fingers to his nose and muttered quietly what Mordred and perhaps the rest of them were thinking. “What in name of all that’s sacred is that stink?”

Above the mustiness of old stone there was an acrid stench like nothing Mordred had ever smelled before. He was no stranger to the reek of death and neither were the others. This was nothing like it.

With his back to the knights, Arthur stood at the head of the slab with his gloved hand to his face and pulled back the shroud. Merlin was on the other side. From the undisguised look of nausea that distorted his face, it seemed the smell was coming from Morgana’s body.

Merlin opened the bag he had been carrying over his shoulder. He removed some vials, a cloth and what looked like a tiny dagger. Mordred’s view was obscured by Arthur who didn’t move from his position by Morgana’s body. It had to be her—there was no escaping that now, as much as it hurt to fully acknowledge it. All that was left was for Mordred to wonder was what had happened to her in the months that had passed since they’d seen her alive for the last time, back in Ismere. Mordred replayed the memory over and over in his head as the smell and the wait became evermore unbearable.

Merlin held the knife blade to her lips first then examined it closely by holding it up to the torchlight and swiping the blade with his finger. Speaking softly to Arthur with words too quiet for anyone else to hear, next he touched Morgana’s face, though Mordred couldn’t see anything but the matted tresses of her black hair spilling over the side of the slab. Finally, the shroud was rolled down to her waist.

Leon stepped out into the corridor, followed by Elyan, both covering their mouths and noses with their hands. Percival and Gwaine stoically remained, flanking Mordred, as they silently observed Merlin’s ministrations.

Mordred counted back the weeks and months while long minutes passed. When he’d stabbed her, beneath the Fortress of Ismere, it had been to disable her. There was no predicting what damage the wound could have caused, but Morgana was a High Priestess. Mordred had assumed she would heal herself. He had only planned to gain them the time they needed to escape. She was alive when they escaped and unless she’d been dead for over two months, she must have remained alive for some time after they’d left. After all, she’d made a journey, her last, from Ismere to Caerleon which was no small distance. Mordred turned each recollection over and over in his mind but no amount of reasoning could sway Mordred from the terrible possibility that in saving Arthur he had killed Morgana.

A hand reached out, Gwaine’s, and clasped Mordred firmly at his elbow. He hadn’t realised he was reeling until that instant. His vision was a blur. It seemed as if the ceiling was bowing in front of his eyes, sagging heavily towards the floor, and the floor was arching up to meet it. Mordred felt like he was being crushed; he sucked in a sharp breath of the fetid air and tried not to gag.

Morgana was unclad beneath the shroud. Her skin was taut and grey in the low light, shrivelled over the jut of her ribs and shoulders. Mordred didn’t remember her as being so very thin. At what must have been Merlin’s behest, Arthur turned her on her side, facing away from the knights at the doorway. Merlin proceeded to take his dagger and the vials and Mordred had no idea what he was doing, what physician’s work he was carrying out on Morgana’s frail and decimated corpse but it was unbearable to witness. Mordred couldn’t stand it a second longer. He made to turn, to leave this loathsome place and run as fast as he could up the stairs, to breathe in clean air and cry out, releasing all the sorrow that had been locked up inside him these past long days. But he couldn’t leave her, not with Merlin violating her body with his knives and his potions and his unfading loyalty to all that was against her, her kind, his kind. Without another thought, Mordred leapt forwards, crying out, “What are you doing? Stop it! Don’t touch her!”

He was held back by Gwaine and Percival. Mordred fought them, struggled against their grasp. He held back his magic with all that he had, and in so doing couldn’t stop his tears of grief from falling. His sobs were loud and abandoned; his whole body shook with the force of his distress.

Arthur spun on his heels at the cacophony behind him echoing off the damp walls and reverberating around the space as if the cries were coming from a dozen mourners, not just this one. His face, too, was streaked with tears. He ran to Mordred in a few long strides and put his arms around him, taking his head in his hand and breathing words of comfort into his ear that Mordred couldn’t hear for the sound of his blood rushing past his ears.

Mordred’s anger and torment wouldn’t abate and he sobbed with fury, “You did this—you and your father and your hatred of magic. You drove her away. You did this, you did this.” But it didn’t matter how many times he said it; Mordred knew without hearing what Merlin’s verdict would be that he was the cause of Morgana’s death. He had killed her—Mordred, and no one else.

Mordred was ruined. His knees were weak and it was only Percival holding him up as Arthur said, “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.” Arthur’s eyes were vividly blue even when filled with tears. He stood close; close enough for Mordred to see the clenching of his jaw and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Do you want to see her?” he said, before turning to Merlin and asking, “Are you done? Can Mordred see her?”

Merlin looked stricken as he replied, “I wouldn’t recommend it, Sire.”

Mordred hadn’t expected such consideration from Merlin and it fuelled the fear twisting his guts.

But he had to see her, one last time. “Please,” he implored.

Arthur said to Merlin, “Pull the shroud up to her neck.” Then to Mordred he said, “We’ll go together.”

 

The knights were accommodated in a room a corridor away from Arthur and Merlin. With the others still at their evening meal, Mordred chose the bed furthest from the door, next to the far wall. He left his tray of food untouched and lay down, curled on his side, unusually fascinated with the brickwork and the mortar. He traced it with his finger and tried not to close his eyes despite his exhaustion. Morgana was waiting for him, behind his eyelids.

Mordred’s earlier outburst had changed everything. How could it not? He’d acted impetuously, wailed like a child and then insulted his king. Arthur was grieving too. How terrible it must have been to see his sister so deformed: her eyes and mouth puffy and discoloured, the swollen bruising on her stomach and the festered knife wound in her back. Merlin couldn’t account for the smell but he didn’t rule out an infection in her wound as the origin. There were also signs she had been bleeding on the inside for some time, slowly perhaps, which would have caused her unnatural pallor and the loss of weight. Merlin was kind. He could have said it outright—Mordred’s knife wound killed Morgana. But he said he couldn’t be sure. He said it might have been a contributing factor. So then, when Mordred said bitterly to Arthur, “How will you dispose of her body? Will you throw her in an unmarked grave on the edge of nowhere?” it was no wonder Arthur’s earlier restraint had evaporated. Mordred was lucky he was only banished to his quarters.

A single set of footsteps sounded in the corridor, coming closer, making Mordred’s chest tighten. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Whoever it was came straight towards Mordred and sat down on the end of his bed. Mordred reluctantly opened his eyes—to see Merlin looking at him. He waited for further reprimand that didn’t come.

“Morgana will be cremated, here, tomorrow,” Merlin said.

It wasn’t nearly consolation enough. His reply was terse, agitated. “Then what?”

“Arthur will carry her ashes back to Camelot. She’ll go in the family crypt, in her own tomb. There’ll be a memorial for her. It won’t be a secret.”

“But still, the only person with magic allowed in Camelot is a dead one.”

Merlin, more than anyone, had to understand Mordred’s lingering bitterness. If he did, he didn’t show it. Except … there was a trace of sadness in his eyes as he said, “What would you do in his shoes?”

Mordred knew there was no right answer to this. Merlin was saying one thing but it was possible he meant quite another. After the day’s events, Mordred thought it best he keep his mouth shut. He was sorry for his thoughtlessness. He wasn’t sorry that he’d questioned Arthur’s continued uncompromising intolerance of magic.

Merlin didn’t force an answer. In the end he said, “You hurt him. But he has a soft spot for people who speak their mind. He’ll get over it. He and Morgana used to fight like cat and dog, but he loved her. He really loved her.” He paused then, and added, “Don’t think there isn’t a day that goes by when he doesn’t question if he’s doing the right thing, if he’s being a good king.”

Mordred knew that. He did. “Will he let me see him? I want to apologise.”

“Not tonight. Why don’t you come to his chamber in the morning?” Merlin must have seen the anxiety twisting Mordred in knots because he added, “Don’t worry. He’d forgive you just about anything.”

“What about you though? He listens to you.”

“Me?” Merlin smiled. “He never listens to me.”

Merlin was a liar—and a terrible one at that.

Mordred was tired of speaking words. He wanted to talk to Emrys, the way only they could, but Merlin was getting up to leave. Mordred sat and said, “I am sorry. You will tell him?”

“You can tell him yourself, in the morning.” Before Merlin walked away he glanced at the tray by the bed and added, “You should eat something.”

Mordred was nauseous and his head throbbed like a war drum at his temples. He couldn’t eat. He slumped back onto the hard pallet which passed poorly for a bed and tried settle, but Morgana’s haunting visage was an indelible menace in front of his eyelids and Arthur’s disappointment weighed heavily on his chest making it hard to breathe.

Time passed too slowly while Mordred became more and more uneasy. Hearing the knights returning before he saw the flicker of their candlelight, Mordred curled to the wall as if he was asleep. He wasn’t in the mood for talking or for the inevitable looks of pity. As their heavy breaths and snores filled the room and the night wore on, Mordred stayed awake clutching his shoulder though the ache there was a shadow against the void that filled his chest. He might have dozed for a short time, he wasn’t sure. It gave him no respite from his woe.

At last, Mordred decided he would rise and go for a walk. The dark calmed him—the quiet hours of night when the stillness of the air was like a thick blanket. He would flex his muscles and ease out the tension that had taken up permanent residence in his limbs.

Not knowing the castle as he knew the corridors in Camelot, Mordred didn’t wander far. In a matter of steps, he found himself upon the guest chamber where Arthur was resting. It was too much of a temptation not to pause there. As with the knights’ quarters, there was no door, only a thick fur skin hanging across the frame. Mordred could make out a dim glow at its edges, whether from fire or candlelight he wasn’t sure. The sun was nowhere close to breaking the horizon, the birds not yet singing. Arthur and Merlin would be sleeping. Mordred would have liked to see them, to see for himself Merlin in Arthur’s bed. The glimpses of affection Mordred had witnessed Arthur gifting Merlin must be trinkets next to the feel of his bare skin and the caress of his fingers. Perhaps the sacrifices Merlin made were insignificant next to knowing he was cherished by Arthur. And what fortune was Arthur’s? Mordred had seen Merlin smile at him, the furtive touches as he passed him, the way he put his cheek to Arthur’s when they were in private conference.

Mordred didn’t understand it—his longing, his craving for something he couldn’t quite discern. He didn’t wish to come between Arthur and Merlin, quite the contrary, yet he couldn’t deny his yearning for them both. He was torturing himself with infatuation and it was pointless. He began to turn away, to return at a more civilised hour, but he heard Arthur beyond the doorway.

“Come back to bed. I didn’t hear anything.”

“I should go and check.” That was Merlin, his voice near to the door! Mordred clamped his hand over his nose and mouth and pressed his body up close to the wall. His feet were bare, but if Merlin were to come through the furs now he would still see Mordred noiselessly escaping down the corridor.

Arthur spoke again, this time his voice close, too. “He hadn’t eaten anything when you left him?”

“No,” Merlin said. “I think he was too upset.”

Mordred froze. They were talking about him.

“Then he could still be awake,” Arthur said more urgently. “Do you think he knows we’ve been drugging him to make him sleep?”

“I’m certain he doesn’t.”

“He can’t find out, no matter what.”

“He won’t. It’s only for another week, until we get back to Camelot, where I can keep a better eye on you.”

There was a pause in their speech. Mordred’s heart pounded with violent rage. The tremor his knees travelled up to his fingers, like the earth beneath his feet was shaking and cracking, was opening up to swallow him. His eyes filled as readily as they had done just hours ago. The fleeting moment where he had been stupid enough to believe Merlin was concerned for him was silenced like a cry in a storm. He clenched his trembling fists, desperate to push through the furs and demand why—why would they do this to him? What wicked words had Merlin said against Mordred to Arthur to make him agree to this betrayal? What purpose could it possibly serve?

The answers were on Arthur’s lips before Mordred’s questions had a chance to finish forming.

“At least we know he wasn’t consorting with Morgana. Maybe there’s a chance what you saw is … wrong.”

“Gaius said the future isn’t set in stone, but the vision I saw was very clear—and it was terrible, watching him plunge the blade into your side.”

Mordred felt the world stop turning, his heart stop beating, his lungs stop breathing in vital air.

Merlin seemed to be moving around in the room. Mordred couldn’t hear enough to tell if he was pulling on his boots or simply pacing while he spoke. Merlin continued, “We can’t let our fondness for him cloud our judgement. If anything, he has even more reason to want to see you dead now. His bond with Morgana was a strong one and he said himself, he blames you for her death.”

“Those were words of grief,” Arthur urged again, his voice rising.

As the words sunk in, Mordred’s body jerked back and forth while he tried to contain his silent sobs. In the dead of night in a foreign land, Mordred’s world was shattered. He could barely stand—his head spinning and his very essence drained by what he’d overheard.

One thought haphazardly followed another. He tried to piece together the fragments of recollections that had been seemingly unrelated. He didn’t know where to begin—what mattered, what didn’t. His mind raced through glances, things that were said and done, things that weren’t.

Merlin had foreseen that Mordred would someday kill Arthur and thus was his contempt? Mordred couldn’t believe his ears. Merlin must be mistaken, or lying. But why would he lie? On top of that, and hardest to accept as truth, was that Arthur believed him. They deemed Mordred a threat—

There were muffled sounds beyond the fur. Mordred nearly leapt from his skin.

Arthur said, “I cannot punish a man for a crime he has yet to commit.” His voice was laden with sorrow and despair.

Merlin replied, “Then I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

“You can keep me safe from in the bed.”

Merlin sounded weary and that was Mordred’s only solace. As all-consuming grief overtook Mordred’s every sense, Merlin and Arthur’s voices softened. Mordred could imagine the intimacies and the tenderness that would take them back to bed—together—and it left him bereft.

Everything that Mordred held dear was an illusion. Nothing good had ever come close enough for him to reach for it and hold it to his chest. Camelot was to have been his salvation. Now that too was ruined. With icy feet and a broken heart, Mordred made his way to the knight’s quarters. Burying his face into his pillow and his grief deep in his chest, he shuddered out muffled tears until it felt as if his eyes might bleed.

As he lay in the dark and the cold, as frigid as a corpse and no less desolate, Mordred considered that perhaps it was time for him to leave. If he did, Arthur would assume Merlin’s vision was the truth, that Mordred was the enemy. Arthur would forever be haunted and wary, looking over his shoulder for Mordred’s return. Somehow, Mordred had to prove them wrong—and he could only do that by staying.

 

The next morning, Mordred went on bended knee to plead for Arthur’s forgiveness.

Arthur’s look of pity took on an altogether different meaning in light of what Mordred had heard the night before. Merlin eyed him with the same suspicion. This time though, Mordred could not hold it against him.

In the afternoon, on the slope of a hill within the bounds of the inner castle, a funeral pyre was lit. Queen Annis attended with members of her highest council. Arthur, Merlin and the knights stood alongside them, watching the flames engulf Morgana’s body which was wrapped in a silk shroud and covered in juniper branches. The smoke billowed high up into the sky and the air was fragrant with the scent of cedar wood.

Mordred recalled, standing still and silent between Gwaine and Leon, that a body takes a long time to burn. The heat was blinding. Mordred closed his eyes unless anyone should think he was crying.

On the journey back, first to the garrison on the border and then to Camelot, Mordred took his food and his tampered wine without question. In truth, the draft helped him to sleep where his grief would have surely kept him awake. It was enough that Morgana was gone. To realise he could never truly belong in Arthur or Merlin’s affections… During the many hours on horseback this solitary notion persisted in Mordred’s mind, choking out all other thoughts like bindweed until Mordred could think of nothing else.

The hours and days passed in a haze. There was brief respite on return to Camelot, as preparations were made for a memorial for Morgana. All hands were set to this task and there was scarcely time over for much else. Mordred followed his orders unthinkingly, his mind trapped in another place, searching for a way to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was deserving of Arthur’s and Merlin’s trust.

His chance came the night before Morgana’s memorial.

Mordred and the other knights had barely seen Arthur during the day, save for a hurried Round Table meeting to attend to the most pressing business at hand. Arthur didn’t wait, as he often did, to talk more informally before the knights dispersed to their duties, but instead hurriedly departed with Guinevere and Merlin in tow to his private rooms. There was a buzz of anticipation, something tangible and momentous in the air. Mordred didn’t dare to hope or wonder what it might be, what Arthur might say in his address. His intention was to use this time of heightened security to his advantage, to establish his loyalty once and for all.

While he went about his business, Mordred listened wherever he could; he looked ahead, to his left, to his right and over his shoulder. No one seemed to know what tomorrow would bring and if they did they were holding their silence. It didn’t matter to Mordred. After his final duty for the day, before he returned to the knights’ quarters, Mordred made his way to Gaius’ rooms. He didn’t expect to glean any information from the physician as to Arthur’s plans for the morrow—that wasn’t the reason for his visit.

When Mordred entered the apothecary, the old man was pottering around by the fire, stirring a pot of stew. “Good evening, Mordred,” he said warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing actually. I was hoping to speak to Merlin.”

“He’s not here, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, of course, he’s probably helping Arthur.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow. Mordred wasn’t sure if that was a cryptic answer to his query or an involuntary tic.

“Not to worry,” Mordred said casually. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

Gaius nodded sagely. “That might be wise. Sometimes he’s back very late—long after I’ve retired.”

“I understand,” Mordred said, smiling as he headed out the door and back to the knights’ quarters. He had no guarantee of Merlin’s whereabouts, and he could execute his plan with or without his presence, but if he were in Arthur’s chambers…

With their regalia hanging ready, the evening meal cleared and the next day’s arrangements prepared, the knights drifted towards their rooms. The mood was serious yet not as sombre as it might have been on the eve of a memorial. It was no secret that many of the knighthood as well as the people of Camelot were glad to see Morgana dead. Their sadness was for the king’s grief, not for the loss of a witch, who in their eyes was only bent on evil and destruction. But there was also a perceptible undercurrent of fear. Now that the news of Morgana’s demise was out, there were bound to be repercussions. Morgana wasn’t short on allies—though where they were when she’d met her lonely end was anyone’s guess.

Lights were out at the sounding of the evening bell and soon after it was deathly quiet in the knights’ quarters. Mordred closed his eyes, with no intention of finding sleep. He waited for what seemed like an age, wanting to be certain no one would hear him leaving and try to deter him from his mission.

In the morning, Morgana would be laid to rest. It was the chance for a new start for Arthur, if only he would make his peace with magic. It was Camelot’s only hope. In a single act, Mordred planned to show Arthur that he could trust magic and he could trust Mordred.

Mordred crept from his bed, slipped on his boots and went to the cupboard where he kept his linens. In the darkness, he felt beneath his undergarments for the dagger Arthur had given him. The handle was cold as the night air, the grip a perfect fit in the circle of his fist. Mordred slid it into his belt, concealing it with a loose fold of fabric from his tunic. Then, as he had done only a few nights before, Mordred slipped from the knights’ quarters unseen and made his way over familiar stone towards Arthur’s chambers.

There were guards stationed at the end of the corridor, at the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t Mordred’s intention to hurt them, only to get past them. From his position around the corner, in a whisper, Mordred said the words that would turn his breath to a gust of wind. He drew in a deep breath, poked his head out and exhaled fast and hard. The torches on the wall were extinguished in that single exhale and the commotion that followed allowed Mordred to sidle along the corridor unseen. He slipped silently on his hands and knees past the guards. At the top of the stairs, he turned the corner and with another whisper of, “Forbærnen,” the torches were relit and Mordred was on his way.

After the ascent of the final flight of stairs, Mordred took pause to regain his breath, to find some calm. He didn’t know what he would find when he entered Arthur’s rooms tonight and ultimately it didn’t matter, but Mordred had to have his wits sharp for whatever he was about to encounter. Perhaps the Queen would be keeping Arthur warm, or more likely Merlin. Perhaps, though least likely of all, Arthur was alone.

After approaching in slow and careful silence, Mordred put his ear to the door. There was no sound inside. He tried the handle and found, to his surprise, the door was unlocked. Mordred crept in, closing it behind him. The fire was still ablaze in the hearth and Mordred only had to take a few steps into the first chamber to see that Arthur was alone, asleep on the bed, the covers loosely over his hip.

Where was Merlin? Running about in secret, no doubt, having told Arthur he was frequenting the tavern. Well, Mordred was done with secrets, done with lies. As he approached, he drew out the dagger. Arthur had fallen asleep over a sheaf of papers—perhaps copies of the morrow’s speech. He was wearing a loose, white shirt and a pair of breeches, somewhere between dressed and undressed, as if he had started one task in the middle of another and finished neither.

Mordred walked lightly, ghostlike, over the flagstones around Arthur’s bed. He stood for a short while, gazing at Arthur’s face in the candlelight. One of his arms was curled beneath his head, the other lay across a scroll of parchment. He was beautiful to behold, majestic even in slumber. Mordred hesitated. He could leave and no one would ever know he’d been here. But it felt as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for him to act before it was too late.

When Mordred held the knife aloft his hand was shaking. He tried to speak, to choke out Arthur’s name, but no sound came. And so, with the point of the knife, Mordred reached towards him and grazed the top of Arthur’s knuckle.

Arthur’s eyes flew open and his fighter’s instinct took over. He tensed, as if to leap up from the bed, but Mordred was already summoning up the dormant power inside him; with a golden glare and an ancient whisper, Mordred used his magic to pin Arthur to the bed.

Fully awake, the tendons in his neck straining, Arthur growled and struggled against the invisible restraint to no avail. “What is the meaning of this?” he spat out. There was hatred and fear in his eyes—a look Mordred knew only too well.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully.” Mordred leaned over Arthur and put the tip of the dagger to Arthur’s throat.

“And you need to steal into my chambers and threaten me with a knife and with sorcery?” Arthur’s voice rose with his temper, yet there was despair also when he said, “You have always had my ear, Mordred. Why betray me now?”

Arthur’s eyes darted from Mordred to the room beyond. He was probably trying to work out how he could escape, or raise the alarm. There wouldn’t be time or need for that. Mordred would be swift.

“You’re wrong. I’m not here to threaten you. You have nothing to fear from me. I need for you to listen and it has to be this way for you to understand.” Mordred took a deep breath and released his hold on Arthur who remained perfectly still. He didn’t try to escape, didn’t call for help. It was working! Even so, Mordred kept the knife extended, letting Arthur clearly see its blade glinting in the candlelight. Then he continued, “I am a knight of Camelot and I am gladly sworn to lay down my life for you, my King. But I was raised as a druid, and yes, I have magic. I cannot deny that part of my nature. It courses as readily through my veins as the blood that keeps me alive—”

“Though not for much longer.” A hand closed tightly around Mordred’s throat, Merlin’s hand, and Mordred was unable to throw him off or to speak, to finish what he was about to say to Arthur—I could have killed you a hundred times, but I would die before I would hurt you. This was not what he’d planned. Where had Merlin come from? Had he been laying in wait?

 

Mordred felt his magic fading with his strength as Merlin’s grip grew tighter. His palms were sweating; the knife slipped from his fingers. He heard it thud onto the bed as he was dragged backwards, away from Arthur. With a look of such heartbreaking regret and disbelief, reflecting what was in Mordred’s heart, Arthur took up the blade, the one he'd had made for Mordred as a gift.

Mordred had hoped to sway Arthur when he saw that he had a loyal magic-user in his midst—a knight no less. He had also promised Merlin not to expose him, but now it seemed he would have to—for magic to stand any chance and for Arthur and Merlin to be rid of their fear and doubt.

Mordred tried with all his might to summon back his magic and to throw Merlin from him, but Merlin held him fast like he was holding a sickly child. He was using his magic but Mordred couldn’t be sure that Arthur could see it; Merlin was silent and steady, squeezing Mordred’s throat too tight for him to even choke out a whisper. Mordred began to panic. He’d put all his hopes in the element of surprise only to be surprised himself. Unless he did something drastic, Arthur would believe that Mordred, a magic-user, had come to kill him. For that treason he would be hanged but worse still, Arthur would never trust a druid or a sorcerer again. For any hope of Arthur returning magic to Camelot, Mordred had but one choice left.

He sent the message out to Merlin, to Emrys, loud and clear.

‘I am a loyal knight and I would lay down my life for my king.’

As with every time before, Merlin did not answer.

Resigned to his miserable fate, Mordred let his magic build and swell inside him until it was pressing out against his ribs and trying for release. As it felt like he should scream out loud and blow the glass from the window frames and the door from its hinges, Mordred instead pressed his lips tight together and stopped fighting for breath against the clamping grip of Merlin’s fingers around his throat. The power of his magic gripped him like a vice. It closed inwards around his broken heart and began slowly squeezing the lifeblood from it.

Mordred’s legs began to give as his eyelids became impossibly heavy. Through the curtain of his lashes he heard frantic voices.

“Merlin, let go of him, you’re strangling him!”

“I’m not, I’m not. I’m holding him up.”

Mordred slid from Merlin’s grasp, down to the floor. The next instant, Mordred was being held in Arthur’s arms and that seemed like a good place to be, where he had longed to be since he couldn’t remember when.

Arthur said desperately to Merlin, “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing, I swear. I only used my magic to hold him still. He’s doing this to himself.”

Arthur knew about Merlin’s magic. Arthur knew.

“Mordred, please, stop this,” Arthur pleaded, his voice coming out in a sob.

But it was too late. Mordred didn’t know how to stop it. He was calm, at peace, when he gifted Arthur with his last breath, saying, “I die for you gladly, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur’s hand was on Mordred’s face, touching his cheek as Mordred’s eyes became too heavy to keep them open. Merlin was kneeling over Mordred, his fingers pressed into his neck. He cried out, “His heart has stopped. He used his magic to stop his heart.”

“No! Do something. Merlin, please.”

Mordred knew he never would. But it was all right. Finally, Mordred realised he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and everything was all right.

He was certain, this last time, Merlin would listen.

With the last of his light, Mordred reached out with his mind and said,

‘Goodbye, Emrys.’

There was bright sunlight beyond his eyelids. Mordred moved his fingers and felt soft linen. He inhaled and smelled—he wasn’t sure what it was—herbs, medicine, like Gaius’ rooms. Squeezing his eyelids and blinking awake, Mordred had to wait a moment for his vision to sharpen. He looked around the room. There was a large, high window to his right, sparse furniture and the feeling of a space that was lived-in and loved by its owner. The door was ajar. When Mordred studied its grain and saw the tunic slung on the hook he knew at once whose room he was in; whose bed he was lying in.

He didn’t mean to do it—it just slipped out—but Mordred was anxiously calling out with the voice inside his head before he had a chance to censor it.

‘Emrys!’

Mordred squeezed his eyes shut again with instant regret. He was thirsty and confused. Why was he in Merlin’s bed, wearing nothing but his linen unders and—

—then it started coming back to him.

Mordred’s heart beat rabbit-fast. He couldn’t focus on one recollection, he couldn’t remember anything past being held by Arthur as he closed his eyes, knowing he was dying, and that Arthur was begging Merlin to do whatever he could to save him.

Arthur had known that Merlin had magic.

Then, in his head, Mordred heard another’s voice. ‘I’m coming. Stay where you are.’

It was Merlin! He’d answered. Mordred didn’t know what to make of it, what to make of anything. He recalled the feeling of Merlin’s magic, coiling around him, stopping him from moving. It was a painless restraint—Merlin’s control was incredible. Mordred had no such finesse; his magic came when it did like a blizzard, like a storm, like a crushing avalanche. He hadn’t planned on using it to kill himself. He hadn’t planned on dying.

Mordred had survived and that meant he’d changed nothing and there was nothing to look forward to except the noose. He felt weak, like his guts were full of water and his head was too heavy for his shoulders.

In the next room there was a loud bang—Gaius’ door being flung open—and a cry from Merlin of, “He’s awake!” Merlin’s footsteps were fast; a second later he was bounding up the steps and bursting through the door, breathless, red in the cheeks and his eyes as bright as his smile.

“At last,” he panted. “We thought you’d given up.”

Mordred gave Merlin a questioning look.

‘Are you up to talking?’ Merlin asked making his way over to the bed.

Mordred probably was, but he didn’t feel like it—not with the torment of his memories solidifying. He tried to slow his breathing.

Merlin sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s all right. Maybe I should talk and you can listen. You’ll feel better when you hear what I have to tell you.”

Mordred sniffed and nodded. He couldn’t look Merlin in the eye so he looked away, across the room, at the stack of dusty books and boxes in the corner.

Merlin put his hand on Mordred’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to do it this way, if it’s all right with you. The other way makes my stomach roll.” He laughed nervously. “I was going to say it was a bit drastic, what you did. But the truth is, if you hadn’t, well, things might not have turned out well for any of us.”

Mordred dared a glance at Merlin who offered him a brief smile, as warm as an embrace.

“We did something unbelievable—you, Arthur and me. We changed our fate.”

Merlin paused, as if the meaning of his words was self-evident. When it was clear that it was anything but, he went on, “I don’t know how you did it, stopping your heart like that. But Arthur wouldn’t let you go. He’s known about my magic for a few months—you probably worked that out—and he begged me to do something to save you. Only I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.”

Merlin paused again and when Mordred ventured another look at him, his eyes were glassy. “I’d seen a vision of you murdering Arthur, and I’d been warned more than once, that if you lived Arthur would die by your hand. I didn’t want to believe it, but my destiny is to protect Arthur and...”

Merlin stopped talking. He might have been waiting for Mordred to take it all in, though it looked more like he was trying to find the right words to explain something that couldn’t easily be explained. After a long sigh, Merlin said, “You were on the floor, dying. I took your hand in mine and when I did I could feel you leaving us. I could feel everything—how hurt you were, how you’d never intended to harm Arthur, how you much love you have for him—and I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t let you go.” Merlin sighed again. Mordred began to feel the weight of everything that had passed between them lifting as that weary breath left Merlin’s mouth. Merlin went on, “I reached inside you, with my magic, and I could see you being strangled by your magic, drifting away from me. I don’t really know how I did it, but I pulled you back.”

“Why would you do that?” Mordred said, his voice scratching out of his throat. As much as he was dreading the answer, he had to hear it.

Merlin looked so terribly sorry.

‘Please, Merlin. No more lies. Just tell me.’

“Arthur was right. You can’t punish a man for a crime he has yet to commit. I’ve kept Arthur safe all these years. In that moment I made the decision to save you, and it was my decision, I promise you, I told myself I would just have to keep doing what I’ve been doing ever since I got here no matter what you might or might not do in the future.”

It was as Mordred expected. That didn’t make it any easier to bear—Merlin would be wary of him for the rest of his days, watching and waiting for Mordred to turn on Arthur and take his life. He didn’t want Merlin there anymore, watching now as he fell apart all over again. Mordred drew his knees up and buried his face in his arms.

Merlin, however, didn’t leave. He came closer and put his hand around the back of Mordred’s neck saying, “Don’t be upset. There’s so much more to tell you and it’s good news. You’ve been unconscious for three days. A lot has happened in that time. I hardly know where to begin. Just let me tell you, everything has changed. We’re going to be fine—Arthur, you and me.”

After all the deceit and suspicion and secrets, Mordred shouldn’t have believed Merlin. But he’d been lying in his bed for three days, and now Merlin was softly stroking the back of his neck. He wasn’t running off at the soonest opportunity or hurrying Mordred away or avoiding him. Merlin was here for him and him alone and he was being very, very kind.

‘Do I have your word?’

“Yes, I give you my word,” Merlin said.

Mordred slowly calmed. Merlin waited without saying anything for a long while until at last he leaned down and whispered, “Gaius is hovering outside the door. He’s been worse than a mother hen fretting about you. Can I let him in?”

“Yes.” When Mordred briefly smiled it felt like it was the first time he’d done so in forever. It seemed to please Merlin and that in turn released some of the tightness clenching Mordred’s chest. He stretched out and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Merlin poured Mordred some water from the jug by the bed and held the cup to his lips. “Drink this. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Gaius,” Merlin called in the direction of the door, “Mordred’s hungry. Any of that stew left?”

There was the sound of a clatter at the bottom of the stairs, a cough and a, “Coming right up.”

Mordred burrowed a little deeper into the covers. Merlin’s bed was tiny—no room for more than one—but it was snug and warm. There was nowhere else Mordred wanted to be, not yet, not for a while, especially not with Merlin still sat beside him.

Merlin tucked the covers up under Mordred’s shoulders and asked, “Are you comfortable? Do you need another blanket?”

Next Gaius entered and fussed and bumbled around him, puffing pillows and making him drink a tincture to ‘restore his blood’. It was almost impossible to remember a time where he’d been surrounded by this much concern. It was exhausting. Mordred was dozing off again no sooner his belly was full and Gaius had—for the time being—deemed him adequately administered to. He slept peacefully and when he awoke to an empty room the sky beyond the big window was darkening with orange and red.

Dusk came early at this time of year. Torches lit the main corridors but even so, shadows flickered and loomed in dark corners. The care and attention that Mordred had received since he awoke earlier in the day had brightened his spirits considerably, but there remained in the recesses of his mind a black knot of doubt and worry. Merlin said everything had changed but he hadn’t said how. Mordred’s future in Camelot was as unknown to him as the events of the past three days. He wouldn’t call Merlin back or try to talk to him, wherever he was, no matter how much he craved his reassurance; Mordred was long used to facing his fate alone.

His stomach grumbled, again. Mordred thought to rise, to see if maybe there was a supper awaiting him, when there was a familiar voice greeting Gaius in the apothecary. Arthur entered Merlin’s room with bounding steps, still dressed in his mail and cloak, looking harried and joyful in equal measure. Mordred pushed up to sit, quickly running his fingers through the matted curls of his hair—not that it was going to do anything to improve his state of undress and disarray.

“Don’t get up,” Arthur said with worry. “You’ve been very ill.”

“I’m fine, Sire. Really.”

Arthur hovered at the end of the bed for a few moments before perching tensely on the edge. He put his hands on his knees, gripping them tightly, fighting a battle inside himself. He regarded Mordred, however, with gentleness when he said, “You knew about Merlin’s vision, didn’t you?”

“I overheard you and Merlin, when we were at Caerleon Castle.”

Arthur’s face took on a pained look. He bit his bottom lip. “I wish you hadn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk.” The memory was raw, the wound still open. “I couldn’t stop trying to think of a way to prove it was wrong. When I came to your chambers I was trying to show you that I could have used magic to get to you, to restrain and kill you any time l liked, but that I never would. I would die first.”

“I know.” Arthur patted Mordred’s leg and let his hand linger there. Mordred wanted to stretch out his arm, to enfold Arthur’s hand in his, to ease the creases from his brow, but his fear and lowliness prevented him from reaching that far. Arthur’s shoulders were broad and strong. A man like that—with an army at his command, surrounded by love and devotion and wisdom—had no use for Mordred’s paltry affections.

Then Arthur said, “Once again, you have proved yourself a brave and loyal knight.”

“I’m still a knight?” Hope glimmered.

Arthur paused before he replied, “Yes.”

“Sire?” Mordred felt a flutter of panic. After all the trouble he’d caused it was stupid to think there might still be a place for him in the knighthood. Even so, he’d held on to it like a lifeline since he’d awoken. If he didn’t have his position as a knight in Camelot, then he had nothing. He tried not to falter, to maintain his composure in front of his king, his beloved king.

Arthur moved up the bed closer to where Mordred sat. There was no pity on his face; Mordred clung to that. With tenderness, he reached out and took Mordred’s jaw in his hand, barely touching his skin, yet stealing his breath away. He said, “I see you every day, and still I can’t tell whether your eyes are blue or green.” Arthur looked at him studiously; Mordred let him before he couldn’t any longer and had to look away. “Now I realise it was never question of one or the other.” Arthur looked sad and sorry. “I’ve been remiss in many things no matter that I’ve tried to do what was right.”

Mordred opened his mouth to protest but Arthur shook his head and continued, “I would like you to dine with me tomorrow night, if you are well enough.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Guinevere will join us, and Merlin and Gaius. We have much to discuss,” Arthur paused, “if together we are going to allow magic safely back into Camelot.”

Mordred’s ears were deceiving him. He stared at Arthur in disbelief, unable to say a single word in response.

“Come now,” Arthur said, trying much too hard at mirth. “You didn’t see my notes when you broke into my room?”

“No, Sire. I had no idea. I cannot read the script you use.”

“Oh. Of course. Perhaps this incident could have been averted if you had known. Though Merlin tells me otherwise and he does have a tendency to be right about these things.” Arthur was speaking to himself. He was still gazing off into the distance as he got up to leave. Mordred wanted to say something to keep him for a moment longer; to convey the extent of his gratitude, not least for Arthur’s clemency. “I never thanked you, for my sword … and the dagger.”

Arthur paused at the doorway. “Does the sword suit you?”

“It’s perfect. I don’t know how you knew.”

Arthur deliberated behind a small smile before he answered. “Perhaps I watch you more than I should. But who could blame me?”

If Mordred wasn’t mistaken, Arthur was blushing.

 

Mordred arose the next morning with the sun, feeling stronger and refreshed. When he stepped into Gaius’ room, he discovered Merlin there, already up if somewhat dishevelled, warming porridge on the fire. There was a blanket over the easy chair and Merlin’s boots beside it. “You look better,” he said, smiling. “Up for going for a ride today?”

“Yes … but shouldn’t I be getting back to my duties?”

“I thought Arthur came to see you last night.”

“He did.”

Merlin was spooning the porridge into three bowls and beckoning Mordred to sit with him at the table. The fire was burning like sunrise in the hearth and Gaius was rising from his bed. They moved past and around each other as smoothly as water glides over the rocks on a riverbed. Their ease only served to heighten Mordred’s awkwardness. He was a stranger here, and up until a few days ago, an unwanted one at that. He sat, as he was bade to, returning Gaius’ welcoming smile as best as he could manage.

Merlin tucked into a hasty spoonful and asked Mordred, “Arthur didn’t explain? Your duties, my duties, they’re going to be different from now on. It’s not final, not yet, but he needs our help.”

“He didn’t go into detail. Maybe at dinner tonight?”

Merlin grinned. Mordred didn’t know what was funny. He wasn’t the slightest bit amused at being left on tenterhooks and feeling the sting of it with every single breath.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Merlin said between mouthfuls, “for all of us.”

Gaius added, “The main thing is, you mustn’t worry. You could sew barley in that frown of yours.”

“What do you expect? All this time you’ve been looking at me like I’m the enemy and suddenly I’m not? What’s changed? How do you know can you trust me now?” Mordred didn’t mean to raise his voice but it was met with looks of sympathy from both men.

“That’s why I was hoping you’d be able to manage an hour on horseback,” Merlin said. “I have something I need to show you.”

“What? Why can’t you just tell me?”

Gaius got up from his stool to put a steadying arm around Mordred while Merlin reached across the table and took his hand and said, “I promise; everything will be clearer very soon.”

Mordred felt like he’d awoken into another world. He wasn’t completely convinced it was a world in which he was going to be permitted to stay—not after all the years Merlin had regarded him with such suspicion. All the times Mordred had prayed for a single moment of care or kindness from him, to no avail, and now he was smothered with it.

‘Is this a dream? Or am I dead?’>.

“It’s not a dream and you’re alive and well. Come on, let’s get going.” Merlin squeezed his hand. His grip was firm and warm and appeared to be real—as real as the prickling on the back of Mordred’s neck and the fluttering like butterflies in his belly.

 

They took two small mares; Merlin said they weren’t going far and didn’t need to carry extra supplies. Mordred knew the woods and fields around Camelot and couldn’t imagine where Merlin was leading him. He followed with increasing curiosity as they tramped along a narrow trail. Nothing was out of the ordinary—no signs to mark out sacred sites or traces of magic pressed into the ground or lingering on the bark of the trees. Merlin didn’t pause and didn’t look back. He was headed to his destination with singular and uninterrupted resolve.

Not a few miles from the castle walls, on a grassy clearing flanked by towering trees, Merlin stopped and dismounted. Mordred followed him to a fallen log at the forest’s edge where the horses could be tied. On foot, they headed beyond the shelter of the clearing to a rugged slope, upwards on a patchwork of weatherworn rocks and rough grass, until they reached a wide, flat stone mottled with thick moss. The winter sun was low, casting long shadows before them. Mordred turned up the collar on his cloak against the bite in the air.

“Get behind me,” Merlin said, guiding Mordred further up the bank. He put his hand on Mordred’s shoulder and added, “Don’t be afraid,” before turning to face the clearing.

Mordred had no time to ask questions; Merlin took a step forward and tilted his head up to the sky. He held his arms out at his sides and bellowed, “Oh! Dracan!”

The sound Merlin made was inhuman, deafening; Mordred felt the earth shaking under his feet as it erupted from his body. The next words Mordred couldn’t discern. Merlin roared them with equal fervour; Mordred stumbled and fell back as the ground moved beneath him. When Merlin was done, he turned, chest heaving, elated, taking Mordred’s wrist in his hand, pulling him to his feet and saying, “He’s coming. Do you feel it?”

There was a sound like the billowing of flags in the distance, coming from the west, a thousand of them caught in fierce wind. With mounting trepidation he stuttered out, “Yes.”

Mordred gulped down his fear; Merlin was laughing, pointing to the horizon, saying, “Over there, beyond the trees!”

Knees shaking, eyes wide, Mordred stared out into the winter-blue sky. It was a mercy that Merlin was still holding his wrist, or he would surely have fallen over again. For flying towards them—there was no mistaking it—was a great dragon. When it reached the clearing, the sky was filled with the span of its wings. The smell of burnished metal caught in the back of Mordred’s throat and stung his eyes; all the while he trembled. Merlin, however, stood steady and unmoving.

The dragon landed in front of them, its limbs creaking from the weight of its massive frame, and bowed his head. Reverentially, Merlin said, “Mordred, this is Kilgharrah.”

Mordred was speechless. He’d heard of the Dragonlords, but hadn’t known that Emrys was one of them. Of all the things he’d seen in his life, of all the things he fathomed he might yet see—this was certainly not one of them.

Kilgharrah snorted acrid breath, reared back and began to speak, his voice deep and resonating. “At last, you’ve brought the druid boy.” He looked Mordred up and down, and seemed amused, if that were possible. Mordred couldn’t muster the nerve to be irked—he could hardly call himself a druid and he was no longer a boy. He nodded at the beast from his place behind Merlin, unable to utter the simplest greeting, not aware if indeed there was a particular etiquette for saluting a dragon.

Kilgharrah spoke directly to Mordred, saying with what was undeniably laughter, “This little sapling? The cause of a thousand whispers!”

Merlin answered Kilgharrah’s affront with no such amusement. “He has more mettle than almost any other man I’ve met.” More lightly he added, “Don’t be fooled by his fair face.”

“Me? Never.” The dragon bellowed and the ground shook again.

Mordred’s jaw dropped, as astounded by Merlin’s defence of his character and appearance as everything else that was unfolding before him.

“I want you tell him what you told me,” Merlin commanded. The power of the Dragonlords was legendary, but this was more wondrous to behold than he could have ever imagined.

“You couldn’t tell him yourself?” Kilgharrah said.

“He needs to hear it from you.”

“Where would you like me to begin?”

“Not at the beginning. We haven’t got all day. The bit about my destiny and his will be just fine.”

Mordred considered they must be old friends, to talk this way, with such familiarity and humour. That was yet another cause for wonder, and bitterness. Was Kilgharrah the one who had warned Merlin about him? The wisdom of the ancient dragons was without dispute and Merlin would not have ignored him.

Kilgharrah laughed once more. It was a mighty and guttural sound and would have been terrible were it not for Merlin whispering to Mordred behind his hand, “He likes to add a bit of drama.”

Mordred stared dumbly, too awestruck to cast his thoughts out to Merlin, let alone his voice.

The dragon raised his head and rustled his gargantuan wings. He began with what sounded like a cough. “Legend has foretold that a young warlock—”

“That would be me,” Merlin grinned.

“A young warlock was destined protect the Once And Future King, that he might unite Albion and begin a new era, a Golden Age. It was also foretold that for Arthur to fulfil his destiny you, Mordred, must not live. Side by side these two legends have endured through the ages.”

Though Mordred already knew this much, it was more difficult to hear it coming from a creature with his immense age and stature. He bowed his head while Kilgharrah went on slowly and seriously, “But a man’s fate is not carved in stone. It travels like a ripple on the water. A change in the wind, the falling of a leaf, many things can change its course, speed or slow its progress.

“Your fates may have been murmured through time, whispers and echoes from the gods to mortal men, but they did not foretell of the tender heart that has found a place for you where no such place should be.”

At this revelation, Mordred looked up and stepped forward, less afraid, more questioning. “I don’t understand,” he said, looking into the dragon’s eyes. It was like looking up at the stars. They went on forever with a gentle yet constant light. Kilgharrah lowered his head, so close that his breath gusted over Mordred’s face. This time he spoke more softly, emblazoning the words on Mordred’s soul.

“Though it takes courage to kill a man, it takes far more to let him live.”

Kilgharrah lifted his head, done speaking it seemed, though it also seemed to Mordred like he had said nothing. Mordred had questions, so many questions. “What happened to Morgana?”

“The witch? A slow death by her own poison,” Kilgharrah said with disdain. More kindly he added, “It started long ago and was ended by a tender heart of great courage.”

Kilgharrah reared back and stretched out his wings.

“That’s all you’re going to get from him,” Merlin said. “I should let him go.”

Mordred had no choice but to watch Kilgharrah flex, crouch and jump, flying away in the direction from where he’d come while the ground shuddered beneath him.

Even after Kilgharrah disappeared from view, Mordred couldn’t take his eyes from the horizon, couldn’t move his feet from where they were planted, albeit unsteadily, on the ground. Merlin took him by the shoulders, stepping into his line of sight and saying, “You’re shaking. Do you want to sit for a while?”

“All right.”

Merlin sat down next to Mordred, shoulder to shoulder. Merlin was rarely like this—still, calm, peaceful. Mordred waited for the trees in the distance to stop swaying before he turned his head towards him, chancing a look, only to find Merlin doing the same. In that brief glance, it was easy to see how Arthur had become smitten. Beyond Merlin’s deep blue eyes, the curve of his cheekbones and the full sweep of his mouth, he was radiant and simply—there was no other word—beautiful.

Kilgharrah had spoken in riddles. Mordred was hopeful Merlin was able to decipher them and that he’d be more open to talking now. He asked, “The tender heart and the courage—was Kilgharrah talking about Arthur? Has Arthur changed my fate?”

“Yes, definitely Arthur, but not only him. All of us—together.”

Mordred didn’t know exactly what that meant—together. It was too much to dare to hope that Merlin or Arthur could look at him as he looked at them. He resolved to keep his feelings to himself, grateful he was alive and that the dark cloud hanging over him had lifted. It was going to be difficult, though, particularly around Merlin. When Merlin had been surly and dismissive, Mordred was able to shut away his feelings for him; protect his heart from rejection. Now every expression of warmth from Merlin was a painful reminder of what he couldn’t have.

“We should be going back,” Mordred said as he stood up and set a lively pace down the hill.

“Mordred, wait,” Merlin said, chasing after him and catching his arm. “I’m really sorry that things were … how they were. I didn’t like it, not for a minute.”

Mordred tried to laugh it off, like he didn’t care. “I never knew what I’d done for you to hate me so much.”

“I never hated you.” Merlin looked sincere and sorry. He’d done everything he’d done because of his love for Arthur and his unerring belief in their destinies. In a way, knowing that should have made it easier, but somehow it only hurt Mordred more.

Mordred pulled away from Merlin’s grasp, saying, “Arthur’s lucky to have you.” He needed to get back to the horses, he needed to get back to Camelot and make sure his kit was clean. He should probably report to Sir Leon, too, and let him know he was fit and well. It was freezing out here, and if he didn’t pick up his pace he was going to catch a cold and—

“Mordred. Stop.” Merlin was right behind, reaching out and turning Mordred, capturing him in his arms. He held him tight and close and said, “You are wanted. More than I can say.”

Mordred didn’t know how Merlin knew. He buried his face in the heat of Merlin’s neck, breathing in the scent of him on his scarf, letting Merlin try to soothe him with the rub of his hands over his back. He didn’t realise he was pounding Merlin’s chest with his clenched fist until he heard Merlin gasping, “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

Merlin meant it. His apology filled the air around them, swathing Mordred in whispers of regret that caressed his skin, lifting him until it felt like he might float away. But Merlin didn’t let him go. He brought his hand to Mordred’s face, cradling it, and said, “When I first met you, you were so little and so scared. I wanted to help you get better and escape, but Kilgharrah told me I mustn’t. When Arthur took you through the tunnels, I was supposed to let you through the grate, but I laid in my bed with my hands over my ears, trying to pretend I couldn’t hear you calling me, begging me for help. After I gave in, I hated myself for being weak, but I hated myself more because deep down, no matter what I’d been told, I knew it was against everything inside me to hurt you.”

Mordred didn’t move, except to slide his arm around Merlin’s waist and lower his head to his shoulder. Merlin inhaled shakily and carried on. “After that, I tried to put you out of my thoughts. It was easier not to think about where you were, or who was looking after you. I hated myself for that too. Then in Ismere, when I saw how you’d grown, that despite everything you were generous and strong, it made me angry at myself, at you, at the gods. The things Kilgharrah had said, the visions I’d seen, began to feel much more like something possible. I didn’t know what to do. I was watching you but I couldn’t bring myself to really look. And it didn’t help that Arthur wouldn’t stop talking about you, how you’d changed and what a good knight you were becoming.”

“What about now?” Mordred ventured, pulling back to see Merlin’s flushed face, his eyes teary and red.

“I’m looking at you.” Merlin laughed, nervous and sad. “There were times I fooled myself I was jealous—that you’d become a knight, that Arthur thought so highly of you—but it wasn’t that. Everything he could see in you, no matter how hard I tried not to, I could too. Heaven knows, you have every right to be angry with me, and I have no right to expect anything, but you should know I care about you very much.”

Mordred didn’t feel angry and he was going to say it but this time, when words failed him, it felt completely right not to speak. Disregarding what he’d told himself not moments before, he rolled up onto the balls of his feet and pressed his lips firmly to Merlin’s, closing the space between their bodies in an urgent plea.

Merlin’s answer was fervent and fast. He pushed Mordred down onto the grass and kissed his face, his eyelids and along the tendon in his neck. The ground was warmer than it ought to have been for the time of the year. Merlin hadn’t spoken the spell but Mordred felt it, the tingle of magic under his back, holding him in an embrace as sure and enticing as Merlin’s. The chill in Mordred’s bones left him as his blood ran high, his vigour renewed with the promise in Merlin’s touch.

All the times Mordred hadn’t understood what was in Merlin’s heart vanished. Merlin’s breath was hot on his neck and the unmistakable hardness of his cock was pressing against Mordred’s thigh. Mordred held on and rolled his hips into the contact. The friction was breathtaking but at the same time left him wanting, clutching at Merlin’s tunic, trying to find his skin, to touch his back, his belly, anything he could get his hand on.

“What do you want?” Merlin asked, brushing his fingers downwards over Mordred’s tunic, towards the bulge in his breeches. “Show me.”

Mordred encouraged Merlin’s hand to go where it was already headed. It was over quickly—Merlin’s fingers snaking under the cloth of Mordred’s linen and taking him in his fist, caressing Mordred’s needy flesh until he shuddered and spilled.

While the rush of Mordred’s climax subsided, Merlin looked down at him, eyes bluer than the sky, adoring and sultry. He kissed Mordred and ran his fingers through his hair. Mordred might have lain there for an eternity, luxuriating in Merlin’s attentions. Merlin didn’t rush, didn’t err from his hold or the whispering caress of lips, though Mordred could feel the swell of his cock pressed to his thigh.

At last, Mordred reached down, cautiously closing his hand around Merlin’s hardness and said, “Can I?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes. By the gods, yes.”

Merlin’s breeches were opened with a murmur and Mordred took him in his grasp without another moment’s hesitation.

 

That evening, walking on a cloud of happiness, precipitated by an awe-inspiring meeting with a dragon, an unexpected but passionate encounter with Merlin and a cheerful reunion with his brother knights, Mordred entered the throne room beaming. Arthur, Guinevere, Merlin and Gaius were already there, sat comfortably around a table laden with cold meats, fruit, bread and wine.

Merlin got up and guided Mordred to his chair, his hand lingering more than was necessary on the small of his back, close enough Mordred felt his breath skim the skin on his neck when he leaned in and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Well. Extremely well.”

Wine was poured, plates were filled and greetings were exchanged. Guinevere sat to Mordred’s left, next to Arthur, who was at the head of the table. She said to Mordred, “I’m so glad you’re better. We were very worried about you. Gaius said you nearly died.”

“It’s a risky business,” Merlin added from across the table, “turning your magic in on yourself.”

“Yes, but it was an accident,” Arthur said, first looking pointedly at Merlin then more sympathetically at Mordred. Out of all of them, Arthur had the most right to ire and yet he had none. He did indeed have a tender heart.

Mordred said, “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, yet again.”

“There’s no need to apologise. What’s done is done and we have a huge task ahead of us. All I want is for you to be strong again. I can’t execute my plan without you, Mordred. But that’s for later. You ought to be told of what you missed while you were lazing around in bed.”

Guinevere swiped Arthur with the back of her hand, without even looking in his direction, while Merlin grinned. He was maybe glad not to be at the receiving end of Arthur’s teasing for a change though Mordred found he didn’t mind it—not one bit.

“You would have been pleased with Morgana’s memorial,” Guinevere said. “There are many people in Camelot who remember her when she was compassionate and just, and Arthur reminded everyone of that. But he didn’t shy from denouncing the suffering she caused.”

Arthur’s courage was indisputable. Guinevere went on to describe the quiet murmurs of unrest amongst the people at Arthur’s revelation—that Morgana was dead and her ashes were returned to Camelot. They were echoed when he promised to open discussions on allowing the practice of the old religion, and in turn sorcery, back within the kingdom. Naturally, the people were afraid and unsure, but Arthur was undeterred. He reminded them that freedom should not be a luxury for the privileged few and that all of Albion’s people, not just Camelot’s, deserved to be able to live peacefully and without fear of persecution. To smooth the way, there were festivities and feasting, long into the night. Arthur had hoped the ruckus would have been sufficient to rouse Mordred, but alas he had not awoken for a full day after.

Guinevere further advised Mordred that he would be able to visit Morgana’s final resting place—the family crypt in the depths of the castle—and pay her his last respects. Morgana had played an essential part in saving Mordred’s life when he was a boy and for that he would be eternally grateful. She had loved Mordred once, too, as he loved her, and the space she left in his heart would not easily be filled. Guinevere understood. The shadows beneath her eyes showed her grief where her carriage did not. They had all lost Morgana a long time ago but the recent sorrow of her soul departing was no less acute.

When Mordred asked, “You were good friends once?” he was surprised at Guinevere’s candid reply.

“There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t see her laughing behind her hand in an alcove, waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting passerby.” Her smile at the remembrance was enchanting, her darks eyes alight. “I choose to remember her that way,” she added more solemnly.

“I think that’s very wise,” Mordred said and he sincerely meant it.

While they ate their fill of mouth-watering culinary delights they went on to talk of lighter matters. Merlin regaled them with stories of his run-ins with the cook, and his long held belief that had she been born a man she would have made a fine knight, such was her talent at wielding the ladle. With high and resonant laughter, Guinevere wholeheartedly agreed. It was a cheering sight to behold, to be part of, and before he knew it Mordred found himself laughing along with the rest of them.

The meal was completed with a flagon of sweet wine and a delectable tray of candied nuts, the like of which Mordred had never tasted before. Then, amongst the steadfast warmth of old friends and new, Arthur began to share his plan and his vision for the future.

“In the past few months it’s come to my attention that I have amongst my closest friends, not one but two sorcerers. Not to mention, Gaius.” Arthur smiled wryly. “Yes, Gaius, I know you still have a few tricks up those big sleeves. Given the legacy my father left me, you can imagine I was more than a little shocked. Upon reflection I have come to see it as a sign, a message I would be unwise to ignore.”

The privilege that Mordred had been granted, to be witness and party to what Arthur was revealing, made his chest swell. He glanced around the table at Guinevere, Merlin and Gaius, curious as to how much they knew already, or whether, like him, they were waiting with baited breath for what was coming.

“I see this as an opportunity to truly unite all of Albion, to bring lasting peace. Merlin, my dear friend, as much as I value your talent as a manservant, I would be remiss in not utilising your skills elsewhere. To that end, I am promoting you to the position of King’s High Counsel. Which I think means you’ll be doing almost everything you do now, only not in secret, and you’ll get a new livery.”

If his grin was anything to go by, Merlin seemed pleased—and surprised.

Arthur continued, “Mordred, your experience as a druid is invaluable and I should never have underestimated or overlooked it. Whilst I value your talent as a knight, it is only a part of who you are. If you agree, I want to divide your time between training as a physician and a sorcerer, alongside Merlin, with Gaius, as well as acting as counsel in negotiations with the druids. Your training with the knights will be scaled back but not discontinued. You are young, but not too young for me to trust you as an emissary for the kingdom.”

Mordred was stunned. “Sire, it’s an honour.” Then the thought of all the books and the treatises came rushing in to blow out Mordred’s rising flame of hope. His face fell as he said, “But there is the matter of…”

“The reading?” Arthur replied. “Guinevere and I have discussed this.”

Guinevere took Mordred’s hand and said kindly, “Between us, we’ll teach you to read, and in return you and Gaius must teach us all you know of the ways of the druids, so that we are ready when negotiations begin.”

“It would be my honour, your Majesty,” Gaius said.

Mordred added, “And mine too.”

Arthur smiled and slammed his goblet to the table. “Then it’s settled. Time is of the essence. There are reports that our old adversary Alvarr is gathering an army and plans to march on Camelot in the spring. He must have heard of Morgana’s death by now. There are no doubt rumours that it was by my hand that she died. Alvarr will use whatever means necessary to further his cause, fair or foul, and will stop at nothing to fuel his rebellion.”

Merlin must have kept his word, as Arthur showed no sign of knowing about Mordred’s past association with Alvarr. However, a good deal had changed in the past days and Mordred trusted that he could speak freely. “Sire, I know Alvarr. I met him, spent some months in his company many years ago, when I was still very young. He took me in after my druid camp was destroyed. I didn’t know at the time he was nothing more than an outlaw. I will tell you everything I know about him, anything that might help to prepare us.”

Arthur looked saddened as he said, “You’ve been through so much.”

“We all have, Sire.”

As the night wore on, many more confidences were revealed. Apologies were given and promises made. Mordred refilled his cup several times—losing count after the third—but his was a snail’s pace next to Arthur and Merlin. By the time the last was emptied, everyone gathered was toasted and merry, regrets cast aside for hope renewed. When Guinevere began to sing it was to rapturous applause.

Mordred couldn’t remember an evening ending with such frivolity after the seriousness of the business to which they had attended. He soaked it up, the laugher and the joking and the ease with which these companions sat together; different backgrounds, ages and abilities, yet united by the love for their home and their king.

Arthur was an easy man to love. He was unfailingly loyal. His teasing and bluster covered what the dragon had so rightly called it—Arthur’s tender heart. But what the dragon had not mentioned was the capacious volume of that vessel.

Mordred didn’t know what arrangement it was that allowed both Merlin and Guinevere to lay between Arthur’s sheets. It seemed there was no jealousy or resentment. Mordred wondered if Merlin would tell Arthur of their tryst, and if so, what bearing it would have on their friendship.

Watching Arthur scruff Merlin’s hair and pull him to his side, it was clear their bond was one of deep fondness as well as love and admiration; it was irresistible, watching them together. Though he tried not to imagine their private intimacies, Mordred’s mind wandered where it shouldn’t go. The image haunted him and had sometimes entered upon his dreams, leaving him hot and hard and desperate for release.

“Are you all right?”

Mordred was startled from his daydream. “Yes, Gaius. Perhaps a little tired.”

“You look flushed. I expect it’s the wine,” he chuckled.

“I can’t believe I look anywhere near as flushed as Merlin,” Mordred pointed out. Indeed, Merlin looked like he’d been roasted under a hot sun and tossed about in a gusting wind.

There was laughter and agreement while Merlin pouted. Arthur, who remained remarkably coherent, said, “I think it might be a good idea for my errant manservant—”

“I thought I was the King’s High Counsel.”

“Ah, yes, so you are. Also you’re very drunk and you should probably go and sleep it off. Mordred, do you think you could help Gaius get Merlin back to his room? Guinevere and I are ready to retire.”

Mordred went to Merlin’s side, extracting him from his chair, and pulled Merlin’s arm around his neck. In turn, Merlin planted a wet kiss to Mordred’s cheek in full view of everyone present.

Mordred gasped, felt the heat rise, tightening, burning over his scalp. Arthur simply laughed. If he held the slightest hint of vexation, he didn’t show it, but said, “Stop showing off, Merlin.” Even through the fog of too much wine, Mordred could see clearly enough the knowing look that Arthur cast in their direction. Merlin had already told Arthur!

Yanking Merlin unceremoniously out the door with Gaius a step behind them, Mordred tried to regain his composure in the bite of the corridor’s brisk air. In great haste, Mordred virtually dragged Merlin away and across the castle, while poor old Gaius had no choice but to keep up the pace of his young and mortified companion. There was only one consolation; he needn’t have feared his impassioned coupling with Merlin had any ill-bearing on their friendship.

In the calm and cool of Merlin’s room, Mordred dropped Merlin onto his bed. He was barely done hauling his legs up from the floor when without warning, Merlin swiftly removed his boots with his magic, sending them flying off his feet and hurtling into the wall opposite. As the dust settled, Mordred sighed with relief that he hadn’t been standing in their path.

“Good night, Merlin,” Mordred ventured, unsure of the meaning of such a vigorous gesture.

“I’m not that drunk,” he said.

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to be feeling unwell in the morning.”

“That’s not what I meant. Come here. Sit.” Merlin patted the bed beside him. “This bed might look extraordinarily small, but it is in fact bigger than it looks once you’re in.”

Mordred couldn’t help but laugh at Merlin’s graceless charm. “Are you suggesting I stay?”

“No. Well, yes.”

Mordred wasn’t sure. It was sudden, not unwelcome, just overwhelming. He was used to being alone, he wasn’t used to this attention; he wasn’t used to being the object of another’s affection. He took a step closer. He worried his bottom lip.

Merlin looked up, eyes wide and arms open. He didn’t seem the slightest bit drunk as he said seriously, “I’m scaring you. I don’t mean to. It’s just that the last thing I want is for you to doubt me.”

Without him saying it, Mordred realised Merlin was asking to be forgiven.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Mordred made up his mind he did want to stay. Still, he felt compelled to ask, “What does Arthur think about this?”

After barely a moment’s consideration, Merlin replied, “Is there room in your heart to love more than one person?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is your answer. No single person can be all things to another all of the time; that’s how it is for us. I’m lucky to have Arthur, as I’m lucky to have you and more so when I think how close I was to losing you.” Merlin removed his jacket and worked at untying his scarf as he said, “You don’t have to stay. I’ll care for you just the same if you do or you don’t.”

Merlin stripped to his linens, and without further consideration, Mordred slipped from his clothes and climbed in. Contentment washed over him and through him, as Merlin wrapped his arm around his chest saying softly against the shell of his ear, “See, you fit perfectly, right here.”

 

Industrious days turned to weeks and the worst of the winter came, bringing with it hoary frost and long, dark nights.

On one such evening, Mordred was sitting by the fire in Arthur’s chambers, a lambskin blanket about his shoulders and a book on his lap, when Merlin swung open the door and marched in like he had something dreadfully important on his mind. Only he didn’t say anything. He simply proceeded to the bed and began to fuss over the pillows. Arthur didn’t remind him he no longer needed to attend to such matters, but got up from his place at his desk, where he’d been looking over the ledgers for the food store. He barely cast Merlin a second glance as he went to his fireside chair next to Mordred.

“Nice of you to join us, Merlin,” Arthur said, agitating a glowing log with the poker, sending sparks spiralling upwards into the chimney breast.

Merlin grinned in their direction, with the unmistakeable glint in his eye of impending mischief.

Mordred was used by now to this game they played, teasing and cajoling each other, seeing if one could get the other riled. As Mordred saw it, Arthur always ended up faring worst, even though he said the most horrid things imaginable. To Merlin, it was like water off a duck’s back.

Mordred was an outsider in these duels and he closed his book, concluding it was time for him to leave. However, Merlin came directly over to him, gesturing dismissively at the aged volume in his hand and huffed, “Don’t tell me. He’s getting you to read Ovid.”

“Yes, actually.”

“Arthur, you are so predictable.”

Mordred awaited Arthur’s parry.

“It’s funny and it’s better than those dusty old physician’s books Gaius gets him to read,” Arthur retorted. “Am I right, Mordred?”

“Yes, Sire,” Mordred confessed, uneasy about getting drawn in. If it came to taking sides he wouldn’t know which to choose and there was no pleasure being stuck in the middle.

In truth, neither type of volume was yielding the desired results. Guinevere’s tutelage had been the most productive, as she taught Mordred his letters and words using maps and ledgers and inventories. This way Mordred was learning something useful about the running of the castle and the lay of the land while also improving his scholastic abilities. Guinevere said he could progress to books if it pleased him when he was more confident.

Merlin had returned to the bed, to pulling off the cushions and turning down the covers. Arthur continued to sit, twisting the hair on the back of his head, staring studiously into his lap. He was quite deliberately not looking at Mordred.

He must have been embarrassed to tell Mordred to leave. That must be it. Somehow, despite the very obvious arrangement that Merlin and Arthur shared, Arthur was uncomfortable about putting it into words. Seizing the pause in the banter, Mordred arose and said, “It’s late. I should be going.”

Arthur stood too, looking apologetic. He took a step towards Mordred and said, “I … Rather, we were quite hoping you’d stay.”

Mordred glanced over at Merlin and back at Arthur and didn’t know what to make of it. His mouth must have been hanging open as Merlin put his hands on his hips and strode towards them. He said to Arthur, “You haven’t talked to him about this, have you?”

“No. I … It’s just that … There didn’t seem to be a good time,” Arthur replied at last, throwing his hands up.

Merlin shook his head. “Utterly useless. Honestly. It’s plain embarrassing—that’s what it is.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“It’s all right. I can go,” Mordred said.

Merlin approached Mordred and put his face in his hands, kissing him sweetly and chastely on the lips. He said, “Arthur has been trying to pluck up the nerve to ask you to stay. I think he was secretly hoping you’d make the first move but I told him you wouldn’t.”

“You talked about me?”

“We often talk about you.” He winked. Then his face softened and he said, “I know you haven’t had much practice, but we’ll take good care of you. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. If you want me to leave, and for you and Arthur to be alone together that’s fine, too.”

“No, I want to stay, and I want you to stay.”

“Good. See, Arthur. You only had to ask.”

Merlin went back to turning down the bed, while Arthur came to Mordred and said, “In here, in this room when we’re like this, you must call me Arthur, all right?”

“Yes.” Mordred swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry.

Arthur reached for Mordred’s hand and took it in his. “You can leave any time you want, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You already said.”

Merlin cut through the awkward silence that followed. “For pity’s sakes kiss him.”

Unlike the first time Mordred kissed Merlin, when the moment was a frenzied rush of hurt and hope and consolation, Arthur’s was an unhurried exploration. He nuzzled into Mordred’s neck until it tickled him and Mordred was wriggling and laughing and shrugging his shoulders; he traced his fingers along Mordred’s lower lip, gazing at him with so much longing. By the time Arthur guided Mordred to the bed, Merlin had magically warmed the air around it. He was already down to his linens and was waiting, reclined on a pile of plump pillows.

“Like what you see?” Arthur said to Merlin.

“If you’d left it much longer I’d have had to see to myself.”

Arthur huffed dramatically before he climbed over Merlin, pinning his wrists above his head, biting and kissing him with fierce passion. Merlin arched into it, baring his neck, while he pushed his hips up, rubbing his growing hardness against the solid column of Arthur’s thigh.

Mordred wasn’t sure what to do. He felt unprepared for this, too inexperienced to join in without direction. Fumbling with his tunic and kicking off his boots, Mordred lingered at the edge of the bed, watching Arthur toy with Merlin’s nipple with the tip of his tongue. The sight of them together, the sound of Arthur’s low moans and Merlin’s whimpers, made Mordred’s cock swell with immediate fervour.

As Arthur knelt up and Merlin playfully waved his fingers to divest him of his shirt with magic, Mordred let his breeches fall to the floor, uncomfortably aware of the patch of dampness already blooming over the front of the thin cloth of his unders. Arthur was a fine, strong figure of a man and it was arousing to see him on his back, removing the rest of his clothes; his thick, rigid cock bouncing upwards as it was freed. Mordred was mesmerised. Then Merlin reached out for him, his fingers brushing over his belly. “Come here,” he beckoned.

‘I want to watch you and Arthur.’

Mordred hadn’t meant to say it, with his mind no less, and the shame spread burning like wildfire over his cheeks and the breadth of his shoulders. Merlin, however, seemed to think nothing of the request. He pulled Mordred to his side, put his lips to Mordred’s cheek and said quietly, “I think Arthur would very much like to know what you want.”

It was difficult to say out loud, not least with Arthur gloriously naked and draping his thigh over Merlin, rutting into his hip with unabashed pleasure. “Can I watch you together, first?” Mordred asked with hesitance, his eyes keenly trained on Arthur, waiting for his response.

Arthur pushed up, straddled Merlin and ran his fingers over Mordred’s thigh. “Are you sure? You’re here because we want you here; we want you to share this time with us.”

“I really do.” Mordred didn’t want to say more and it seemed he didn’t need to.

Arthur tugged at the laces on Mordred’s linen, freeing his erection. He asked, “Can I watch you touch yourself, while I’m fucking Merlin?”

Arthur’s request, not to mention his nakedness, further spurred Mordred’s arousal. He shed the last of his cloth, resisting his natural inclination to cover himself with his hands, to worry that as in so many things he would not measure up to the other men.

There was no further time to contemplate his manhood, as Merlin took him for a searing kiss. Unrelentingly, he plunged his mouth and when Mordred was released, Merlin was also naked, legs spread, while Arthur slicked his fingers with oil. Mordred had never done it, fucked a man or a woman, or been fucked either. The few encounters he’d had, until Merlin, involved quick hands and a grappling race to the finish. Merlin had been patient and determined not to hurry a thing. Mordred was glad for the consideration—he wasn’t used to baring so much of himself. Thus far, he’d been enthralled enough by the startling bliss of having Merlin’s mouth around his cock and in reciprocating the pleasure.

Arthur put his finger, only one at first, into Merlin and pushed with a slow rhythm, while he stroked his own cock with his other hand. Merlin looked rapt, his long, lean legs spread wide, encouraging the motion with the rock of his hips. Mordred watched their loving exchange, moving like lapping waves on a shore, unending and constant. It stirred his loins, though it wasn’t nearly as arousing as when their passion took on a wilder motion, when Arthur knelt between Merlin’s thighs and slid his cock inside him, pushing deep and hard while Merlin moaned out his approval.

Mordred knelt beside them, loosely stroking his cock, as self-conscious as he was, letting his hardness jut out for Arthur and Merlin to see—and look at him they did, between their undulations. Arthur no longer held back his feelings for Mordred, telling Merlin to, “Look at him, Merlin. Look how gorgeous he is.” Arthur reached out and touched Mordred, slowly, gently running the backs of his fingers over the druid ink on his chest, over his belly and along the length of his cock, smiling his pleasure that Mordred was gasping from the stirring sensation of his caress.

“I told you so,” Merlin breathed. “You see, Mordred?”

Mordred was encouraged. His shyness faded as the desire to join in with Arthur and Merlin’s love-making grew ever stronger. When Arthur bit out, “I’m close,” Mordred dared to take Merlin’s rigid cock in his fist, to rub quickly and firmly up and down its length.

Merlin urged him, a litany of half-coherent words, “Yes, like that, like that, don’t stop,” stuttered out between his panting breaths. He arched and cried out as he climaxed, spurting and spilling thick, white streaks over his stomach and onto Mordred’s wrist. Arthur followed hotly behind him, his hips stilling and jerking as his entire body tensed.

A bead of sweat trickled down Arthur’s temple and his muscular shoulders gleamed from the exertion. Merlin’s mouth was half open, his lips full and red, and his dark lashes blinking heavily. They were flushed and panting; the musky smell of their sex filled the air. Certain he would spill quickly, so intense was his desire, Mordred put his hand to his cock. Arthur saw at once and halted him, closing his hand around Mordred’s wrist. “I want to do it.”

Hungry for the attention and the release, Mordred let Arthur guide him to the middle of the bed. They lay on their sides, face to face, while Arthur settled Mordred’s leg over his hip. He pushed his hand between Mordred’s thighs and cupped his balls, rolling them in his fingers, massaging the tender, aching flesh until Mordred was sure he couldn’t take another moment without pulling on his cock. He gripped the pillow; he gripped the muscle on Arthur’s flank and pushed his hips towards the contact.

Merlin was curled behind Mordred, his arm around him, seeking out his nipples. Each brush of his fingertip was a rousing spark on Mordred’s skin, making his cock pulse with wanting. He whimpered without inhibition. Into the back of Mordred’s ear, Merlin whispered, “Are you ready to try something new?”

Mordred could hardly think. He trusted Merlin and he trusted Arthur and they said they’d take good care of him. He just wanted to be touched, he wanted to come. He needed to come. He managed to rasp out, “I need, please, now.”

Arthur’s voice was a beacon. He said, “Look at me. Breathe.”

Mordred opened his eyes and Arthur was there. Between tender kisses Arthur said, “Merlin’s going to put his finger inside you, like I did to him.”

Mordred dug his fingers into Arthur’s side and nodded, unable to speak.

The breach was smooth and painless, Merlin’s finger sliding gently in and out. The sensation was gently arousing and Mordred murmured his enjoyment as Merlin went deeper. Arthur was smiling and holding him, kissing him and lavishing him with sweet endearments. “Almost there, love. You’re going to like it so much. You’re doing so well.”

When Merlin’s finger was buried and Mordred felt the span of his other fingers on his backside, there was a jolt, a flash of pleasure that made Mordred gasp out loud. Merlin was laughing softly behind him, and Arthur was wriggling down the bed, mouthing over Mordred’s flesh like he was mapping every inch of him with his tongue and his lips.

Mordred put his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck as Arthur’s mouth reached the tip of his cock. When Arthur sucked gently around the head, Mordred almost sobbed. It was so good but not enough. He wanted to pull Arthur closer, to push his cock all the way into the wet heat of his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could, if he was allowed, but the urge, the need. With Merlin still fingering him, Mordred nudged his hips forward. Arthur didn’t waver; he gripped Mordred’s thigh harder and continued to suck him down with lustful moans. Mordred took it as permission, fucking Arthur’s mouth, as Arthur had fucked Merlin’s hole. His balls filled, drawing up, and the inevitable approached. “It’s coming.”

Taking pause, Arthur licked the length Mordred’s cock, looked up at him and said firmly, “I want every last drop. Don’t hold back,” before swallowing him down again in one swift motion. The pressure was ecstasy. Mordred was overcome, arousal spiking over his skin, pleasure on the inside and the outside, and all too soon the climb and crash. Keening with the release, Mordred reached his climax, pulsing hard over and over while Arthur sucked and lapped up his spend, until his cock was softening in Arthur’s mouth and the feeling was toomuchtoomuch. If Merlin hadn’t been holding him, gentling him down, Mordred thought he might have cried.

Mordred was trembling, sated—and altogether, entirely, completely, blissfully happy. Arthur came back up the bed and kissed him again, the salty tang of his release still on his tongue, while Merlin pressed his lips to Mordred’s neck and to his shoulders. They held him close, unrelenting in their affection. Mordred was overtaken as, at long last, he finally knew in his heart what he previously hadn’t dared to believe. He was precious and he was wanted.

It didn’t feel like he was being too bold when he ventured, to Arthur and Merlin, “Next time, can I …?”

The words were hard to finish when he didn’t know what he should try first.

“Yes,” Arthur said fondly. “Anything and everything you want.”

It was cold and musty in the crypt. The sun shining in the sky above the castle, thawing out the vestiges of winter, would never be able to reach down and warm the walls of stone that stood beneath the ground. There was no natural light and no sound. Anything could be happening above but down here there was nothing but slumber.

Mordred laid a bunch of golden daffodils on Morgana’s tomb and regarded the stone casket that held nothing but an urn filled with her ashes. He liked to think she would have been proud of him. He tried not to dwell on regret as he was sometimes wont to do. There was hope aplenty and his heart was lighter these days, like the spring, filled with the promise of yet better things to come.

Soft footsteps broke the silence and Mordred looked up to see Merlin approaching. He stopped at the archway and leaned against a pillar. He was wearing his long coat, something like the one Arthur wore, though the cut was sharper and the cloth a rich, dark chestnut brown. Mordred thought it made him look elegant and had told him so, which made Arthur double over with laughter. Arthur was outnumbered that day and learned the hard way that mocking two sorcerers at once would be at his peril. Mordred smiled at the recollection.

Merlin said, “Are you ready? They’re waiting for you in the courtyard.”

“Yes.”

There were creases of worry on Merlin’s brow that needn’t have been there as he smoothed over the shoulders on Mordred’s cloak and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. “Percival will look after you.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I know. But it doesn’t hurt to have reinforcement.”

“The druids know me. They’re expecting us and I’ll be able to let them know of my arrival a mile out of their settlement. They’ll make sure the way is clear.”

“If you need me—”

“You’re needed here.”

It was true. Rumour of Alvarr’s uprising was rife along the northern borders. If Arthur was to convince the rulers of the Five Kingdoms to join him in his quest to lift the ban on magic throughout Albion, he would need to do it during peacetime. Merlin could be dispatched to quash a rebel army, of that there was no doubt, but it wouldn’t look good for Camelot if Arthur were to deploy such a tactic before the leaders convened and an entente agreed. Mordred’s mission, to convince the druids of Arthur’s intent, to invite them to join in negotiations, was also a matter of urgency. That Arthur had entrusted this task to Mordred was an honour beyond compare.

The knights were assembled in the courtyard while Arthur and Guinevere stood at the bottom of the pale stone steps. The wind had picked up the long curls of Guinevere’s hair and Arthur was pushing them back from her face. She saw Mordred first and lifted her hand to wave to him. Mordred donned a smile and descended from the main corridor, calling out cheerily, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” It wouldn’t do to show his nerves or how his heart ached already at the mere thought of leaving Camelot without Arthur or Merlin.

Arthur turned and held out his arms. He held on so tightly Mordred could hardly draw in a breath as Arthur whispered, “Be safe. I won’t rest until you come back home to me.”

As he was freed from Arthur’s embrace, Mordred said surely, “When I return it will be with good news.”

He couldn’t look back at his loved ones as he took to his mount and rode out of the castle gates.

Merlin wouldn’t let him off so easily. He sent his voice out through the ether, calling after Mordred, ‘Take care. I’m going to miss you.’

Glad that Merlin couldn’t see his face, Mordred sent him his affectionate reply.

An hour out, when the trail had levelled and a gentle pace was set, Mordred removed his glove and reached inside the small pocket on the side of his saddle. He touched the folded parchment but didn’t remove it. It was safe where it was and he knew the words by heart; he’d read them every day from the moment that he could. It was a reassurance, to have Arthur’s words travel with him. Words that were gifted with a sword and a dagger, by a king of tender heart and great courage, who had placed his faith and trust in a druid boy he hardly knew.

My dearest Mordred,

You are a fine swordsman and a fine knight. May these blades speed you to becoming the finest, may your heart guide you to becoming all that you are meant to be.

Your humble servant,

Arthur