Archive of Our Own ^beta

Golden leaves spiralled to the forest floor as the wind sighed through the trees. It was one of the last fine days of autumn. Mellow sunlight flowed across the land like honey, and the scent of subtle, sweet decay filled the air. Before the week was out, Arthur anticipated the first storms would start to roll in, all wind and rain, but for now the world blessed them with fine weather for their travels.

Officially, they were out on patrol, but he had larger concerns than the threat of banditry. A well-meaning merchant had reported their suspicions that there was a druid camp out towards the east, nestled away in the depths of the Forest of Endorin. The king had taken the news to heart. He planned to send a contingent of knights out to see the matter resolved. That, Arthur knew, would end in a massacre.

Perhaps, in the naivety of his youth, he would have believed the kingdom's knights were better than that. The men who rode at his side would certainly never stoop to such depths, but the same could not be said for all who marched under Camelot's banner. Years ago, he had borne witness to their depravity first-hand; the memory still stained his nightmares even now.

Maybe if not for Merlin's revelation back in the spring, he would have made excuses rather than taking action, but everything had changed. Before that fateful day, he had looked upon the plight of magic users with increasing but distant concern. When Merlin's secret had come to light, it had all become painfully relevant. No longer was it strangers who suffered beneath Uther's tyranny, and whether he liked it or not, that made a difference.

It had been the first pebble heralding a landslide: a single shift, and it was as if Arthur's whole perspective changed. It was not a quick thing, like the blink of an eye, but a steady change that rearranged the landscape of his beliefs. At first, he had been angry at Merlin's foolishness and his secrecy both. It had taken time to move beyond that, but when he did, he found that he was not the same man he had once been.

He had feared Merlin would be altered in his eyes. Instead, it was Arthur who had changed.

Hopefully for the better.

That was why he was here with his knights, riding out to warn the druids of the fate that marched their way. Morgana had followed Merlin's lead all those months ago, revealing that he was not the only sorcerer harboured in Camelot's walls. Her dreams had confirmed that the camp's existence was more than just rumour, though Arthur could not quite shake the memory of her confusion as she confided in him – as if there was something niggling at the back of her mind.

'Promise me you will be careful?'

He pursed his lips, remembering the chill of her fingers on his hand. It had been a calm warning, all told, but it had not given him any peace since she had uttered it. Now, he found himself searching every shadow as the woods closed in around him. He kept waiting for the moment he would need to lift his blade, braced and ready to react. Perhaps that was why he noticed when Merlin tensed in the saddle at his side, the reins creaking as he tightened his grasp.

'What is it?' he demanded, looking around for anything that might have drained the colour from Merlin's cheeks. He almost reached out, clenching his fingers into a fist at the last moment. That had been happening more, lately, the desire to touch Merlin surging up within him. Nor was it limited to the usual shoves and teasing that had once marked their friendship. He wanted to simply rest his hand upon him – to offer comfort and reassurance – and his restraint grew more threadbare every day.

Merlin pulled a face. 'Just a funny feeling.'

Arthur sighed, offering his magical manservant a look. 'What kind of "funny feeling"?' It was hardly the first time Merlin had confessed to some sort of lingering unease. The trouble was that it could mean practically anything.

'Worse than that time I forgot to have your armour fixed, but not as bad as that time with the assassin.' Merlin shrugged and spread his hands, grinning as Gwaine chuckled behind them. 'I keep telling you they're not very useful. I'm not a seer like Morgana.'

'Thank the gods. One of those is more than enough,' Arthur muttered. 'Are we at least going the right way?'

'According to the merchant's report, the camp should be no more than a mile up ahead,' Leon promised. 'Though how accurate he was remains to be seen.'

'I think he was in it for the reward.' Elyan shifted in his saddle, making the leather groan. 'Whether the king finds anything or not, he still gets paid.'

Arthur grunted at that. His father was normally a pinch-purse with Camelot's treasury, but when it came to hints about magic users, he did not restrain himself. It was a risk. Arthur doubted it would go well for anyone caught blatantly lying. That was why, these days, reports were couched in the guise of rumour. It offered plausible deniability to anyone who made a false account, and Uther was far too eager to capture sorcerers to question their validity.

'Morgana already confirmed that there is a camp somewhere in these woods. This time, it might not be a wild goose chase.'

'It's not. Look.' Percival pulled his horse Venya to a halt, gesturing towards a small tumble of stones at the roadside. At first glance, there was nothing special about them, but the flowers and other offerings strewn around hinted to its original purpose. Druid shrines were not commonplace in Camelot, but Arthur still recognised the shape of one, even if it lay in ruin.

'They normally take good care of these,' Leon murmured, a frown creasing his brow. It was a subtle sign of distress, but an echo of it lingered in Arthur's heart. 'Any that are desecrated are promptly restored. Either this destruction only just happened –'

'Or there's no one around to put things right.' Dread thickened Gwaine's voice. 'Another patrol couldn't have beaten us here, could they?'

'No. The king was waiting for men to return from the west. He wanted to be sure that he had a strong enough force to oust them.' Leon swallowed thickly before turning to Merlin. 'Can you sense anything beyond this "funny feeling" of yours?'

Merlin sighed, climbing out of the saddle and patting Lilac's neck gently before he approached the little shrine. It had not been big, little more than five or six stones stacked on top of each other, but that didn't mean it was not significant. In Arthur's experience, the druids showed their worship of the old gods in small, subtle ways: hidden in plain sight. Sometimes their shrines were to the powers of the natural world in general. Others, they called upon some specific deity.

'Well?' he asked as Merlin hunkered down beside the toppled cairn.

'Be patient, you prat.' Those long fingers fanned out over the stones, and Arthur leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the gold that flashed in Merlin's eyes. It never failed to make his breath catch, and not because of fear. This time, however, he saw the hint of a perplexed frown that went along with it. Merlin's expression twisted, unaccountably grim. He reached in among the rocks, pulling something loose. Yet when he turned back his expression was as smooth and guileless as ever.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, his stomach giving an uncomfortable twist. Merlin had a dreadful habit, even now, of only telling half the story. He had a tendency to gloss over the truth, obscuring the fine details. It was an aggravating habit, and one he longed to help Merlin break.

'I don't know who they were praying to, but they wanted protection.' He held up little slips of metal, hammered thin and scribed with symbols.

'From Camelot?' Elyan asked as Arthur reached down to take one from Merlin's grasp, surprised by the weight. Not only that, but the metal was soft, bending with very little effort: lead, if he had to guess.

'I don't know. Maybe?' Merlin glanced back at the shrine before scratching the end of his nose. 'We need to be careful, though. They were scared of something, and this shrine was toppled by magic.'

His words of warning had the desired effect. Lancelot straightened in the saddle, one hand dropping to check his sword in its scabbard. Gwaine inched fractionally closer to Percival, drawing strength from his presence and giving it in turn. Elyan's shoulders straightened as if he were bracing himself for whatever lay ahead while Leon scanned their surroundings, searching for anything out of place.

Yet it was Merlin who caught Arthur's eye. He had teased him for being a coward on more occasions than he cared to count. Of course, it turned out that all those times Merlin fled from a fight, he had been trying to get space and secrecy to work his enchantments unseen. Now, he did not bother to hide anything. He stood facing the way ahead, his feet spread and planted like a knight planning his attack. Arthur saw the golden gleam in his eyes at the same moment he felt the tide of warmth ripple outwards, flowing between the trees and leaving faint sparks trailing over his armour.

There were no words to guide his power. It was rare, in Arthur's experience, that Merlin bothered voicing an actual spell to direct his intent. He'd explained once, back when they first found out, that it helped if something was particularly small or intricate, but most of the time his power did not need any instructions. It followed his whims, and more than once Arthur had thought it was a good thing that Merlin was on their side.

He may not have much experience with sorcerers as a whole, but there was something about the weight and heft of Merlin's magic that made Arthur's instincts sing. Now that he no longer hid it, there was a sense of presence and purpose that never failed to make his throat run dry. It was not that the clumsy, hopeless manservant had disappeared – Merlin still lacked anything like grace and refused to take his duties seriously. Instead, it was as if he were a gem turned to the light, and now Arthur saw facets he had never known existed.

That was what Merlin had hidden from him. Not cunning plots to overthrown Camelot or callous cruelty. He'd concealed the depths of his character, and every time Arthur learned more, he found himself hopelessly fascinated.

More to the point, he was not the only one among them who took Merlin's abilities seriously. The knights could well have chafed at the delay, sighing or talking among themselves. Instead, they all watched in silence, waiting for him to deliver his verdict. They respected him and the insights he could offer, even if he could not wield a sword to save his life.

Merlin's sudden flinch made the horses snort and stamp. It was a little jerk of movement, as if he had reached out and touched something hot. Arthur did not miss how he canted his body backwards, all uncertainty.

'Well?'

'I don't know.' He shrugged, turning back to face them. 'I can't sense any druids, but there's... something. I'm not sure what it is.' His gaze skimmed sideways, contemplating the ruined shrine. Arthur thought he saw a flicker of grief, there and gone again. 'We should probably check it out. Whatever it is, it doesn't feel good.'

'Wonderful,' Gwaine muttered, wry. 'Are we thinking big beastie, angry witch...?'

'Ghosts? A curse?' Elyan added, clenching his jaw tight.

'An army with a sorcerer at their side?' Leon shook his head and held up a hand, stemming any more theories. 'Your orders, Sire?'

Arthur watched Merlin climb back into his saddle, noting the tension of his shoulders under his tunic and the frown that pleated his brow. None of them would be content to turn their backs on whatever lay ahead. Their courage and honour would not allow it, but nor should they rush in blindly. There were plenty of dangers that lingered in Uther's Camelot, and Arthur had no intention of succumbing out here in the wilds.

'We ride on, but carefully. Keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.'

The horses huffed as they pressed deeper into the woods, following the deer paths between the boles. The wind soughed mournfully through the branches, but no bird song lilted the air. In fact, all the natural sounds of the forest had faded. Neither pigeon nor thrush disturbed the tranquillity. Even the scrabble of things in the undergrowth was absent, and the first glimmer of sweat traced frost down Arthur's spine.

'Something's wrong,' Lancelot murmured. 'Why is it so quiet?'

Even as he spoke, his mare tossed her head, stamping her hooves and prancing sideways. The other horses picked up on her distress, and Arthur swore under his breath, urging the others to dismount. 'Perhaps they can smell something. We'll picket them here rather than forcing them onwards.'

He tethered Llamrei's reins to a nearby branch, making sure she had enough slack to root through the leaf fall if she so desired. Merlin's eyes flared as he placed a ward to deter bandits and wolves alike. Out here in the wilderness, there was no telling what dangers might lurk in the shadows. It was a foolish knight indeed who put his mount's life in danger through his carelessness. Merlin's enchantment meant Arthur did not feel he had to leave one of the knights to stand guard. They could remain at his side, where they belonged.

'Stay behind me,' Arthur told Merlin, trying to herd him back with one outstretched arm. He rolled his eyes when Merlin simply scoffed and ducked around him. 'Do you ever do what you're told?'

'Not if I can help it.' Merlin's eyes sparkled, though his smile was a fleeting one. 'I think the camp's just up ahead, but something's wrong. We should be able to hear them, or at least smell the smoke of the fires.'

Behind him, Arthur heard his knights draw their swords. Far better that their blades were bared and ready. They moved as quietly as their armour would allow, skulking, rather than marching. Sometimes, a battle could be won or lost based on the element of surprise, and they may have need of such an advantage.

He flicked his fingers in mute command, knowing that his men would obey without question. Of course, Merlin had never bothered to learn the hand gestures, and Arthur sighed before grabbing his jacket and dragging him into a crouch at his side.

'Any more idea what we can expect?' he whispered, ignoring how Merlin gave a shiver as the words dropped into the shell of his ear. 'Anything at all?'

Merlin bit his lip, meeting Arthur's gaze before his eyes flashed gold once more. After long moments, he only shook his head. 'There's nothing there. Nothing alive, anyway. I don't think the druids are dead, either. They're just... gone.'

Arthur scowled, not liking that one bit. The druids were nomadic by nature, and it was possible they had moved on, but his instincts strafed their warnings across his skin. Maybe he did not have a magical bone in his body, but even he could feel the subtle wrongness lingering in the air.

With a flick of his fingers, he encouraged his knights to advance once more, wincing as the dead leaves from the previous autumn crunched beneath their boots. They were, all of them, trying to be quiet, but true stealth was challenging in such an environment, and impossible while wearing chainmail. Merlin was the lightest on his feet, and he inched ahead before Arthur could stop him, ducking out of reach before halting dead in his tracks.

The druid camp stood before them: deserted. Tents were still pitched to keep off the rain, their canvas sighing in the wind. Campfires pocked the scene, nothing more than ash. There was a chicken coop, but no sign of any birds. A cauldron of stew sat in one of the campfires, still full of food that was not yet beyond saving. Washing hung on a rope tied between two trees, capering joyfully in the breeze, and there were plates of food left half eaten. Not even the flies had arrived to have their fill, and Arthur frowned in bafflement.

'Where is everyone?' Gwaine asked.

'Check the tents. There is no way the druids would have left behind their possessions voluntarily. They have little enough to begin with. Someone must still be here.'

Quickly, the knights spread out to do as they were bid. Arthur joined them, pulling aside canvas flaps and cursing when all he found were empty bedrolls. At least there were no bodies. Blood did not stain the earth. Yet in that there would be some kind of answer. Now, he was left with the mystery of an empty camp, with no sign of where the druids may have gone.

'They did not depart in a rush. There is no indication that they were forced to flee. No cups have been spilt, and the ground remains undisturbed.' Leon's report was neatly given, but he did not bother to hide his bafflement.

'The ashes are cold,' Lancelot added from where he had hunkered by the nearest hearth, holding his hand above it before sticking his fingers in the burnt stubs that remained. 'I would say no one has been here since this morning.'

'Someone was in the middle of splitting logs.' Percival held up an axe, a piece of half-cleaved wood still wedged on the blade. 'It's like they just dropped it and wandered off.'

'Over here!' Elyan's cry hit them like a whip, and they all rushed towards him. He had made his way to the far side of the camp, easing between the tents towards its eastern edge. Here, there was another toppled shrine, larger than the last. There were more pieces of lead scattered about: prayers and hopes, but it was one stone in particular that caught his eye.

It was a fair size. He needed both hands to hold it as he scooped it up from the ground, scuffing the surface of his thumb over the letters carved into its face.

'Merlin?' he began, casting a frown in his manservant's direction. 'Why is your druid name on this shrine?'

'I don't have a druid name. It's just the name the druids call me.' Merlin scowled, no doubt hearing how foolish he sounded. His ears were red – embarrassed, not angry, if Arthur had to guess – and there was a faintly mulish slant to his expression.

'That's nice of them to pray for you,' Gwaine said cheerfully, taking the rock from Arthur's grasp. 'Asking the gods to give you patience to help you deal with the Princess here, no doubt.' He elbowed Arthur in the ribs, grinning as he scowled in response.

'I don't think they're for him,' Lancelot began, offering Merlin an apologetic smile when he glared at him. 'Those are scratched into the metal. This is carved on stone. From what I know, druids do that to dedicate the shrine to the god they're worshipping.'

Arthur couldn't help the huff of laughter that escaped him. 'Merlin? A god? He falls over his own feet three times a day! He empties my chamber pot!'

Merlin snatched the rock from his hands with a scowl. 'I can't help what the druids believe!' he protested. 'It's only some of them, anyway. I mean, they all call me Emrys, but only some of them think I'm a god, or whatever.'

The first seed of a headache unfurled in Arthur's temples, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that the gods of the old religion were more physically present than some other faiths would like. They were part of the natural world. Druids were the sort of people to worship the breeze or make something holy out of a perfectly normal oak tree. Perhaps they were right to do so. Arthur certainly found it easier to respect things he could see, rather than place his faith in some benevolent, invisible deity. But worshipping his manservant? That was...

He could not even quite say why it unsettled him so. After all, it was not like Merlin had done anything to deceive them. They had chosen him for their shrines of their own accord. If anything, he appeared to be embarrassed by the attention. Instead it was simply a challenge to see Merlin as anything remotely divine. He was wry and witty and insubordinate. He seemed to tumble from one disaster to the next. There were days that Arthur could barely fathom that he was an all-powerful sorcerer. Believing that he might be something more was a stretch.

Still, he supposed it didn't matter what he thought. It was the druids who had made their shrines, ones which now lay in ruins.

'So they were praying to you, then?' Percival said it gently, bending down to pick up a thin piece of lead. 'What was it you said? Protection?'

'Sanctuary. Safety. I don't know what from, and I'm not even sure it was for them.' Merlin trailed off, shaking his head. 'It's not like I can hear them praying or anything.'

'They do talk in your mind,' Arthur pointed out, prodding.

'That's different. And annoying.' Merlin ran his hands over the stone before setting it down once more with its brethren. 'I don't have time to answer prayers; I'm too busy rushing around after you,'

As jokes went, it fell painfully flat. Perhaps because Arthur could see his distress all too well. Merlin would give someone in need the tunic from his back if they asked for it. He had a good heart. Now it turned out the druids had been pleading for his aid, and he had not known it. Already, Arthur noticed how grief darkened that gaze, drawing a shadow across his blue eyes.

'A whole camp full of druids cannot simply disappear. There must be something more. Some clue as to where they might have gone or what could have happened to them. Spread out. See if you can find anything.'

The knights did as they were bid, and Arthur watched them go before turning back to Merlin, taking in the hunch of his shoulders and the way he scowled down at his boots. The silence unfurled between them, broken only by the sounds of Arthur's men going back through the camp, fruitlessly searching for signs of life.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Arthur gestured towards the remnants of the shrine, something uneasy curling in his guts. Since the truth had come out about Merlin's magic, things had changed. After the initial flash of horror and hurt, they had grown stronger. He had thought there were no more secrets between them.

'Because it doesn't mean anything, and I knew you'd make stupid jokes.'

Arthur could hardly argue with that. His very first instinct had been to scoff in laughing disbelief at the very notion. 'You have to admit, you don't exactly look like a god.'

'What does a god even look like? What about a prince, or a king? Take away your crown and you're just another man, Arthur.' Merlin waved a hand, dismissive, as if he could not be bothered to argue the point. 'Like I said, it's just what some of the druids believe. It doesn't make it true. I'm just me, the same as always, and I have no idea what happened to the people in this camp.'

He raked his fingers through his hair, pursing his lips so tight they bleached white. His fear was practically a living thing standing between them: an entity Arthur could almost sense. It prickled over him as well, stirring up the hairs on the nape of his neck, and he rested a hand on Merlin's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The gesture felt daring, making his heart give a dizzy little flutter, yet it eased him too, and Arthur tried not to let his thoughts dwell on why that might be.

'We'll find them,' he promised. 'We came here to keep them safe, and I have every intention of doing just that.' He swallowed hard, hoping fate did not make a liar of him as he turned back towards the ruined shrine, taking a look at the slump of the stones.

There was something strange about the way they had fallen. If someone had pushed it, they would have cascaded down in one direction. Instead, they formed an almost complete circle of debris. The rocks were not arrayed around as if they had been placed by human hands, and Arthur frowned, uncertain what to make of it.

'Sire!' Leon's voice breached the swirl of his confusion, and he turned towards his knight-commander where he hovered at the northern edge of the camp, surveying the woods with narrowed eyes.

'What is it?' He grabbed Merlin's cuff, pulling him along in his wake as he marched over to Leon's side, seeing in an instant what had caught his eye.

Here, brittle bracken had been crushed underfoot, forming a wide path deeper into the forest. He crouched down, examining the broken stems. The ground was too dry to carry footprints, yet it was too wide for a deer track and there was no beast sign. Instead it was as if people had walked, perhaps four abreast. They had not dashed through the thicket, but placed their feet with care, squashing the brambles beneath their boots rather than getting snagged upon the thorns.

'A procession?' Elyan suggesting, scratching his ear. 'Maybe they are merely attending to their rituals?'

'For so long?' Percival folded his arms and shook his head. 'Even the holiest of druids would not leave their camp entirely untended. They know it's not safe.'

'Yet it does not seem as if they were fleeing from something,' Lancelot pointed out. 'There would be more damage and disarray: torn robes snagged on branches. This appears very deliberate.'

Arthur rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, inclining his head once as he came to a decision. 'Then let us follow them, and see for ourselves that they are safe.'

They set off, pointing out various signs to one another: a bent branch here or a snagged thread there. The woods crowded close around them, slender pine and the occasional staunch oak, ash or willow. Nothing ominous lurked between the boles, but there was an expectant hush to the air. Few birds offered their voice to the tranquillity. No deer or rabbits crossed their path. Yet no sense of danger lingered. Instead, Arthur realised, there was a heavy melancholy: something sorrowful that he could not quite define.

'Oh, no.'

Merlin's denial was little more than a breath given shape before he lurched forward, breaking into a sprint. It was enough to make Arthur swear, because while Merlin could not wield a sword to save his life, he was the fastest of them all, even when the rest of them were not weighed down by armour.

'You could've grabbed him,' Gwaine complained as they shambled along in his wake.

'He took me by surprise,' Arthur grumbled before falling silent. Better to save his breath for running, rather than arguing. Merlin had vanished. He could not even make out the flash of his figure between the trees, and he cursed, praying that he had not disappeared entirely. It would be just like Merlin to get lost in the woods; Arthur was not sure his heart could take the strain.

One moment, they were dashing through the forest, the next, the world opened up, the sky arching above their heads as the land unrolled before them. Arthur staggered to a halt, horror a sinking lump of ice in his stomach as he took in the sight before them.

The druids lay upon the ground, not sprawled and fallen. Instead, they looked as if they merely took their rest, but no sleeper should be so pale. Their clothes were neat, their hands lay folded across their bellies: men, women and children. They were arranged like a starburst, and in the centre...

A beast.

Arthur wet his lips, trying to understand what he was looking at. The creature lay on its side, its flank heaving in those nasty, ragged breaths that suggested death stalked ever closer. In shape, it was a mighty buck, except no mere deer ever grew so large. On its feet it would tower over them: gargantuan. Its hide was black, the hair tipped with flaming chestnut. Vast antlers scraped along the soil, draped in golden chains and trinkets that gleamed and trembled in the sun.

Merlin stood a little ahead as if he had been frozen in place, his hands lax at his side and his shoulders slumped. Arthur's gaze clung to the line of his back, oddly slack beneath his tunic, and a twist of panic coiled tight in his belly.

Something wasn't right.

'Merlin?' He inched forward, reaching out with shaking fingertips as every instinct prickled its warning. There was no acknowledgement, and Merlin did not struggle against him or shrug off his grasp as it settled on his shoulder. He stood, doll-like and biddable, refusing to turn away from the sight before them no matter how much Arthur urged him to do just that. In the end, it was up to him to step forward, turning his back on the ghastly sight so he could look Merlin in the face.

His breath stalled in his chest, snagging beneath his ribs. Never before had he seen his magic do that. The golden gleam of his eyes, at least, was a familiar sight, but now lines of power trailed across his face like expensive paint.

There were three dots beneath the full curve of his bottom lip, and a narrow line traced the bridge of his nose. Yet more flared from the outer corners of his eyes, forming traceries that disappeared back into his curls. Tiny chains of golden light decorated his ears, far more extravagant than even Morgana's most expensive earrings.

Yet it was what banded his brow that made Arthur stare. It was no stately crown. Instead, it was a jagged circlet, both crude and beautiful. It made him think of tangled antlers: nature's struggle.

'Merlin, what –?' He shook his head, planting himself firmly in Merlin's path as he took a step forward. 'Oh no, you're not going anywhere. We need to get you out of here. We should –'

'I'm sorry, little king. He is needed.'

The voice came from Merlin's lips, but it was not his. Nor, Arthur feared, did it belong to one person. There were layers to it, human and not. It was the laughter of children and the wisdom of sages, the howl of the wind and the patter of rain. It made his ears ache, and he saw how the knights flinched, each of them breathless with horror.

'Needed for what?' Arthur demanded. 'I don't know what you want with him, but I forbid it!' Panic rubbed his voice raw, more ragged than it had any right to be. He did not sound like a prince in that moment, but a youth barely out of boyhood, made young once more by his fear.

Merlin blinked at him, and Arthur realised that even his eyelashes sparkled, as if someone had brushed them with gold dust. Now he looked, there was a faint glimmer to his skin, as well. It was as if all that power that Merlin normally wielded with such confidence had risen to the surface.

He tilted his head, the movement so familiar that Arthur's heart gave a painful pang. He had wanted to believe that this thing was simply something wearing his best friend's face, but in that moment, he wasn't so sure. Instead, he got the impression that it was something that had been inside Merlin all along, stepping to the fore.

'Do you think he is yours?' It could have sounded snide or accusing, but no sneer crossed that face. He looked genuinely surprised, as if he could not imagine Arthur ever being so foolish. 'Your servant? Your friend? To be acknowledged or set aside by your whim alone?'

'No.' A snarl rumbled beneath his denial, and Arthur swallowed hard. 'He makes his own choices.'

'Yes.' The voice speaking from Merlin's lips softened, and the sympathy was even worse. 'And this is one of them. Will you let him do what he must, or will you hold him back?'

Arthur blinked, desperate to protest, but something stilled the words in his throat. His heart wrung fretfully in the cage of his ribs, because it sounded like that voice spoke of more than this moment. There were undertones to it that pulled shadows of doubt over Arthur's mind.

'Will he be all right? When he's done whatever he has to do?'

'I do not know the price, only that he is willing to pay it. I cannot promise you anything, little king. It is you who will have to have faith.'

He sucked in a breath, wanting more than anything to bundle Merlin away from here – to drag him back to Camelot, where at least the danger was something he understood. Yet the look in those gold-washed eyes called to him. There was that same wry expression there, the one Merlin offered him time and again: an apology and a promise.

His hands fell to his sides, his arms heavy as he shifted to let Merlin pass.

'Come back to me?'

Perhaps he could have mentioned the knights, who each claimed Merlin's friendship, but in that moment, Arthur could not spare a thought for anyone else. Not when his heart, so often unheeded, cried out in the cavern of his ribs. Maybe that made him a selfish man, but he could not find it in himself to think of others. Not when fear spread its ice through his veins.

Merlin did not answer. No reassurances passed his lips as he approached the beast where it lay. It struggled helplessly, as all animals did, even when the hunt was done. Yet it could not rise and flee. The ground was stained with silver ichor, and every breath that escaped the creature's mouth was a grunt of agony. It was painful to watch it. The hunter in Arthur thought of the knife's mercy, but something deep in his soul told him that was not what this was about.

Then Merlin reached to touch the beast's brow, and the world exploded into light.

It was as if the sun had fallen from the heavens, blazing downwards to strike the earth. The ground beneath his feet rumbled, and Arthur had to turn away. He screwed up his watering eyes, cursing softly as he tried to shield himself. He expected scorching heat, but the air remained gentle and cool, and he sucked in a shivering breath before peering carefully through lowered lashes, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

Slowly, what had been nothing but a blazing orb dimmed, revealing delicate, arcing traceries. It was like a sphere woven from strands of illumination, hiding everything from view. There was no sign of the mighty deer, nor of Merlin, and Arthur moved on instinct, twitching forward.

Only a firm grasp on his shoulder stopped him from plunging his hand into the light, and he looked back to see Leon, pale and frightened.

'Sire, no. We don't know what it might do. We should –'

A faint sound caught their attention, and Gwaine cursed in surprise as the nearest druid stirred. The old man peeled open his eyes, the lines in his face deepening as he scowled in puzzlement up at the sky. Nor was he the only one to rouse. All around them, people began to wake. Children called out for their parents, reaching out to be enfolded into a welcoming embrace. Others staggered to their feet, checking on their friends. Very few of them had time for the knights standing in their midst, but Arthur saw the moment their presence was noted.

'Ah, someone help me up.' The elder stretched out a withered hand, smiling as Lancelot stepped forward to aid him to his feet, honourable as always. 'Thank you, young man. My bones are not as nimble as they once were.'

'Our friend –' Lancelot trailed off, gesturing to where the light still blazed. 'He –'

The old man's gaze slid to Arthur, no doubt taking in his face and his crest. There was recognition there, not of his appearance but of his rank. Yet for once, no terror bloomed in the druid's eyes at the sight of men from Camelot. Instead, that milky gaze drifted towards the circle's centre, and wizened shoulders sagged in a pained sigh of relief.

'Ah, so he found his way to us after all.'

'What is happening?' Arthur could hear undertones of his father's anger in his words, brought to the surface by the ragged edge of his own fear. Polite diplomacy was beyond his reach; he had no time for it. Not when Merlin had been taken from him and lost within the rippling veils of light. 'Who are you? Where is Merlin?'

'Emrys has come.' The druid's raised voice carried across the clearing, and Arthur saw how the gathered men and women sagged in relief. They looked, he realised, as if their prayers had been answered. Yet none of them turned their backs on what was happening. Instead they stood, watching and waiting, as if some great battle unfurled before them, unseen but somehow sensed all the same.

'My name is Tirinad,' the old man explained. 'The creature you found here – it is of the divine. A god given form, felled by the craven greed of a mage who sought to tame it. The sorcerer died in his attempts, but the damage was done. The god weakened, and we could not allow it to perish.'

The memory of desperation pinched his eyes. 'We prayed for help, but when none came, we offered up ourselves in an effort to sustain its failing strength. It would never have been enough, but we would have gladly perished in the endeavour. Now, it seems, we are spared.'

Arthur shook his head, shrugging off Leon's hand as he stalked closer. 'What are you saying?' he demanded. 'That you – you had to give your life to save a god, but now that Merlin is here, he can take your place?'

'No. No, absolutely not.' Gwaine shifted his weight as if he intended to dart forward and drag Merlin out by his collar. 'That's not happening. Not on our watch.'

'A single man's life would not be enough,' Tirinad warned, holding up a gnarled hand in an effort to appease them. 'Yet Emrys has always been more, from the moment he took his very first breath. He is the incarnation of magic. His strength might be enough to sustain him through the effort.'

'"Might?"' Percival repeated, shaking his head. Yet he, like the rest of them, was utterly helpless. 'You make it sound like he's nothing but a sacrifice!'

'He is far more than that. He is Emrys.' The druid shrugged, as if that answered every possible question.

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath, trying to control the urge to shout. 'I do not give a damn about "Emrys". I care about Merlin. He is not your god, or a tool of destiny. He is my friend!' The word felt pale and insignificant, but it was all he could admit. Not that it stirred any sympathy. The druids' devotion was like a wall, utterly immovable. It was almost as if they spoke a different language, neither one of them comprehending the other.

'They are one and the same,' Tirinad said at length. 'Divinity has been a part of him all his life. It is only now, in a time of need, that those particular qualities have come to light. Perhaps you do not believe in him as we do, but there is no way to call him back to your side until his task is done.'

'You're saying that's it? There's nothing we can do?'

Something sad and kind crossed the druid's gaze at Elyan's question, and his response, when it came, was little more than a murmur. 'You can pray.'

Arthur clenched his jaw tight, his head jerking to the side in futile denial. He observed the ceremonies in Camelot, the ones that even his father's Purge had not been able to wipe from the hearts and minds of its people, but did he believe? He had never been the kind of man who could put his faith in things he could not see. A strong sword, loyal friends, the warmth of the home-hearth... those were tangible and real. The gods felt like an empty promise when the fields turned to rot and the winter winds froze children in their beds.

Now, the druids stood before him, claiming that the foolish man who tripped over his own feet and awoke Arthur with trite nonsense every morning was somehow divine! He would have laughed if he had not seen it for himself. Even now, he struggled to believe it.

His armour chimed as he paced back and forth, trying to bleed out some of his anxiety. Not that it did any good. It was a living thing within him: thorns in his belly and a snake coiled tight around his heart. His knights were no better. He could hear how Lancelot's gloves rasped as he wrung his hands: an outward sign of his distress. Gwaine was cursing under his breath in a whispered litany, and Elyan's sword rattled as he choked the pommel in his grip. They were, each of them, desperate to act, but there was nothing they could do.

So it was that Arthur shut his eyes. He would not pray to Emrys; in his mind, he was a creation of the druids, no more real than the spirits they claimed walked the woods. Merlin, on the other hand, rarely left his side. He was flesh and blood, joy and laughter, hidden strength and unflinching determination. That was something he could believe in.

The entreaty that filled his mind was not to some nebulous god, but to the man who was so much more than just a friend.

Please, Merlin. Please come back to me.

Around them, a breathy wind arose. It was a whisper at first, but soon it brushed gentle fingers through Arthur's hair. Somewhere, a thrush sang. He turned to look, and though he could not see the bird, he saw how one of the druid women reached out to clutch her friend's arm, all breathless hope.

It was as if a world he had not even noticed was sleeping had begun to softly stir. A butterfly drifted past, and a flash of motion suggested a rabbit darting for its burrow. Another bird joined the first, picking up the chorus, and the woods behind them creaked softly as if the trees stretched that little bit further up into the heavens.

The light vanished like a bursting soap bubble, there one minute and gone the next. Arthur blinked the stars from his eyes, his heart lurching into his throat as the gigantic hart rose to its feet. No longer did its flanks heave with its last breaths. Pain's glaze had left its eyes. Instead, it stood there, its antlers scrawled against the sky like the branches of a tree in winter. It lifted its muzzle, the sun sliding across its pelt like living fire as it let out a bellow that felt as if it shook the sky, all triumph.

Arthur saw, with a hunter's instinct, how the muscles in its haunches bunched and flexed. He knew what a buck looked like when it was about to leap away from the flight of an arrow. The creature sprang forward, yet it never landed. Instead, it dissolved into a billowing veil of gold that whisked away on the wind. The scent of the forest filled Arthur's nose: pine and sunlight – yet he barely paid it any mind. All his focus was on the man who knelt on the ground, swaying with exhaustion but very much alive.

'Merlin!'

His knees banged on the soil at Merlin's side before he even had a chance to realise he had moved. The lingering magic rippled around him, but it did not protest his presence. It felt like a gentle hand brushing against his cheek, all welcome, but he could not find any comfort in it. Not when Merlin was the colour of parchment that had been left too long in the sun. The gold embellishments had vanished from his skin, wiped away as if they had been nothing more than a dream, and when those eyes opened, their normal blue was as shocking as a lightning strike.

'Merlin, are you all right? Can you hear me?'

'I'm here.' He sounded spent, as if even those simple words cost him more than he could bear. They were almost lost beneath the exuberance of the druids, who cried out in joy and reached for each other, their relief a living thing. Whether it was for whatever had become of the god creature or for the fact that Merlin had survived it, he could not be sure. Nor, Arthur realised, did he care. All that mattered was the man in front of him, wobbling like a newborn foal, even while on his knees.

A flash of red made him blink, and he realised Leon had shrugged out of his cloak, dropping to one knee as he bundled it around Merlin's shoulders. Percival and Elyan flanked them, watching the druids. Gwaine was demanding that someone brought water, his friendly brogue harshened by his uncertainty, while Lancelot spoke softly, a steady stream of questions flowing from his lips.

'Are you hurt? What happened?'

'What's your name?'

The new voice made Arthur look up, taking in the venerable woman who stood before them. She leant on a crooked staff, apparently unperturbed by the presence of either Elyan or Percival looming each side of her. Her brown eyes were an odd, honey-ish hue, and while the rest of her looked as ancient as the woods, her gaze was razor sharp.

'Emrys. Merlin.' He gave a miserable groan, pressing one hand to his temple. 'Gods, my head.'

The woman harrumphed to herself. 'Tirinad, make a tent ready. They'll be staying in the camp tonight. He can barely stand, let alone climb into a saddle.'

'It would be an honour to –'

'Enough.' The woman's glare could have turned a hot coal to ice, and Arthur stifled a petty flash of satisfaction when Tirinad quailed beneath the burden of it. 'His duty is done. Cylvanis is saved. Now we look after the one who remains. He is drained. He needs our care.'

Arthur moved as she reached out one gnarled hand, shifting to block her before she could get any closer. Perhaps her glare was fearsome, but his more than matched it, and this time when he spoke, he made sure he sounded every inch the king he would one day be.

'You will explain what happened here.'

'I will, Your Highness.' She inclined her head a fraction. 'First, let us get him back to the camp. Then, I shall appease your curiosity. I am Farrah, this clan's healer – among other things.'

'Seems like you're the one in charge,' Gwaine murmured, approaching with a waterskin someone had provided him and holding it steady so Merlin could drink.

Her wry laugh rolled around them. 'Perhaps, though some would argue. Here, lad. Have this. It's honey, mostly. A few herbs. Something to give you a little strength. Enough to get you as far as a comfortable bed.'

Merlin's fingers shook around the crude clay bottle, but Arthur saw how he sniffed it before knocking it back, checking she was not lying about its contents. He may be weak from whatever had happened, but he still had some small scrap of common sense.

'Thanks.'

Farrah nodded, ferreting the empty bottle away in her robe, yet she did not usher Merlin to his feet. Instead she watched and waited, giving him time and space to come to terms with the thought of standing up.

'You gave a lot,' she said at last. 'Too much, I think. I wish fate had chosen a different path, and that this task did not fall to you.'

'It had to be done.' Merlin curled his fingers into fists, flexing them as if fascinated by the way his skin fit upon his bones. 'It was dying, and it was no small god.'

'Indeed it was not. Cylvanis is the god of the wilds: the woods and the grassland, the sky and the breeze. It is a force of nature, and not one that should ever have been pushed into a mortal form. The fool sorcerer who made the attempt got what he deserved.'

'What would have happened?' Elyan asked. 'If Merlin hadn't done... whatever he did?'

Farrah looked at him, unblinking. 'If the deer had died this day, the god within it would have perished too, and I do not want to consider the consequences of such a thing.'

'And Merlin was able to help it when the druids could not because he is a god, too?' Percival sounded as if he were tasting each word.

'No,' Merlin groaned.

'And yes.' Farrah grinned, revealing the gaps in her teeth. She looked as if she were enjoying the punchline of a good joke. 'I will explain as best I can, but first, let's get this boy back to the campfire before he rattles himself to pieces. Can you stand?'

Arthur watched how Merlin's fingers curled against the ground. Those dark lashes fluttered, dipping low as he took a deep breath, apparently mustering his strength. He managed to get upright, but he moved like someone who had forgotten the shape of himself. All his usual clumsiness was a thousand times worse, and Arthur was not the only one to reach out a hand to steady him. Lancelot was right there, his palm cupping Merlin's elbow and his expression pinched with tight concern.

It did not help that Merlin's body was hunched, as if he were guarding a wound in his belly. There was no blood that Arthur could see, but that didn't mean much. Compared to how Merlin had been only that morning – bright and vivid, his usual cheerful self – it was a stark contrast.

Farrah hummed, giving him a critical look and shaking her head as she led the way back to camp. There, the druids were picking up their lives once more, though Arthur noticed how each and every one of them turned as Merlin passed, bowing their heads and making a gesture over their hearts.

It made him want to snap at them, because they did not know Merlin as he did. To them, he was just some powerful mage. They did not care that bluebells were his favourite flower or that he hated roasted chestnuts. They saw nothing of him as a man, and they offered him little sympathy. Only Farrah seemed different – more practical – as if gods and their troubles were an everyday occurrence.

'Can you sit?' she asked, speaking to Merlin with that blunt practicality of healers everywhere, 'or do you need to take to bed?'

'I can sit,' Merlin promised, and did just that, practically collapsing onto the log that stretched out by the campfire. He held one hand out to the fledgling flames as if desperate for their heat. The other, he kept cradled over his belly, and Arthur perched at his side, pressing against him in a seam from shoulder to hip.

'Are you hurt?' he murmured, resting his palm on Merlin's shoulder and ducking his head to get a better look into that shadowed gaze.

'Not really. It's – it's not something a healer could fix. I just feel...empty. Like there's nothing left in me at all.'

'That will improve, in time.' Farrah narrowed her eyes in thought. 'For now, wrap yourself in those to stay warm.' She gestured to the furs a young woman held in her arms, and Arthur tried not to notice how prettily she blushed as Merlin murmured his thanks. 'Food, too. All of you. Consider it an apology for the non-existent welcome you received upon your arrival. Had things not been so dire, we would have at least been here to greet you: an answer to our prayers.'

'We didn't come here because of prayers. You're lucky we came at all,' Merlin managed, wetting his lips. He spoke a fraction too slowly, as if he were struggling to put the words together. 'We only ventured out because we wanted to warn you that Uther planned to send a raiding party.'

'Hmmm. Prayers, in my experience, can be answered in many ways. How convenient that you received a report of danger towards us at just the right moment to aid in our current troubles.' She raised both her eyebrows and offered a shrug, apparently indifferent to the way Merlin rolled his eyes. 'What brought you here is less important than the fact you arrived in our moment of greatest need. That is what they will remember.' She tilted her head towards the druid camp as a whole. 'It's what they will tell their children, and their grandchildren.'

'Great,' Merlin muttered, sagging against Arthur's shoulder as if he were too tired to argue. Arthur bore his weight without a word of complaint, and there was a brief moment of bustle as bowls were handed around. The stew inside was rich and delicious, but it did not pass beneath his notice how Merlin only picked at the meal. There was an odd twist to his mouth, and his shoulders hunched up towards his ears, as if he wished he could hide from the rapturous glances the druids sent in his direction.

'You promised that you would explain what you meant, when you said Merlin was like the god he saved.'

Farrah settled herself on one of the upturned logs on the opposite side of the fire. The light of the flames cast its reflection in her eyes as she seemed to consider her next words. 'Everything is touched by the divine. That is what we believe. Be it a blade of grass or a pebble upon a riverbank, a mighty oak or a towering citadel. A piece of the gods lives in every person that walks Albion's lands. Some, though, have more than a mere fragment to their name. It is how our myths explain how some have magic where others do not. In our old tongue, the word for mage means "blessed".'

She twisted her staff on the ground at her feet, thoughtful. 'Not all druids believe it. In fact, there are few who remain who carry on the old ways. Yet I imagine we are not the only clan that claims you are something special, Emrys. Not all of them have faith, but they see something more in you.'

A sigh whispered past her smiling lips, as if she knew they would not believe her. 'They see what the gods gave you when you were not yet more than hope and starlight. You carry the heart of the divine, and your blood shines with their grace. It was that which let you heal Cylvanis today: a power that was spent in the effort and will replenish in time. It is the same quality that allows your magic to flow, more instinctual and easy than any other sorcerer to ever walk the earth. You are a man, true enough, but you are also something more.'

She shrugged. 'You do not need to believe it to make it true.'

Arthur swallowed, his mind a clamour of questions. Yet none of them mattered when he felt how Merlin shook at his side, as if the last of his strength had been spent just listening to Farrah's words. Those long fingers were clenched tight around the bowl in his grasp, and his face carried a grey pallor, as if his life seeped from some unseen wound.

'It doesn't matter,' Arthur decided. 'Your beliefs are your own. Right now, Merlin needs rest. You said something about a bed?'

'I did, and he should make use of it.'

'It's early yet,' Merlin protested, but his words slurred from his tongue. Arthur did not need to do more than glance at him to know he was drunk with exhaustion, pale and quivering as he tried to shoulder the strain of whatever had come to pass.

'Never mind that. Come on.' He got to his feet, grasping Merlin's wrists and helping him up, wincing as he swayed. 'Stay here,' he ordered the other knights. 'Tell Farrah what to expect from Camelot's patrol. The druids should be preparing to move on, unless they wish to face my father's wrath.'

He left the matter in Leon's capable hands as he guided Merlin towards the large pavilion Farrah had pointed out to him. More than one druid stepped forward, eagerly offering to take Merlin from him and see him settled. He declined each one with little but a curt word and a look, unable to stifle the protectiveness that surged in his chest.

These druids, he realised, were like his courtiers. Perhaps they were not bad people, but they saw Merlin as their god. They did not pay any mind to the man beneath the mantle of their belief, just as few in Camelot saw Arthur as anything but the crown he would one day wear.

Perhaps the druids would treat Merlin with respect, but their kindness would be tainted by awe. They would not tend him out of compassion, but from a desire for accolades, so that they could say they had been the one to come to the aid of their precious Emrys.

Gods, he was starting to hate that name.

'You're scowling,' Merlin murmured as they ducked through the tent flap.

'I am not.' Arthur tried to smooth out his expression, not that he had much luck. He could feel the annoyed furl of his brow and the lines bracketing his lips. 'I just don't trust these druids. They used you. They could have killed you. It's only luck that you survived whatever you did, and you're practically dead on your feet.'

He guided Merlin over to the bed, a luxury in a camp such as this. It was low to the ground but kept away from the cool forest floor. Blankets and furs draped across the straw-stuffed mattress, and he bullied Merlin down to sit on the edge before he got to work on his boots.

'Don't think the druids planned it. A god was dying. What are you doing?'

'You can't sleep in your shoes, and I don't care if they didn't plan it. They were relieved that you took their place. You could have been their sacrifice.' He yanked Merlin's right boot off before plucking at the left, finally wrestling it free. 'Get in,' he urged, peeling back the blankets and frowning when Merlin did as he was told. That was a clear sign he had given too much. Normally, he argued out of spite. He had at least expected a teasing jest about Arthur being the one to do the work for a change. Instead, there was only quiet obedience.

The furs whispered as Arthur tucked them up under Merlin's chin, trapping the heat next to his shivering body. He was not expecting the nimble clutch of Merlin's fingers around his wrist. It was more a caress than anything – something to catch Arthur's attention – and he hunkered down at Merlin's bedside.

'I'm all right,' Merlin promised. 'Just tired.'

Arthur pursed his lips, telling himself he shouldn't argue, but his fears were living things inside his chest. 'You didn't see yourself. Do you even remember it?'

Merlin hummed, nestling deeper beneath the blankets. His lashes fluttered against his pale cheeks, as if he were valiantly trying to keep his eyes open. 'Yeah. Mostly. It was still me.'

Arthur remembered the odd voice that had slipped past Merlin's lips as the gold painted his skin. 'I don't think it was just you,' he murmured before shaking his head. 'It doesn't matter now. Get some sleep. We'll need to ride out in the morning, and if you're too weak to stay in your saddle, I'll tie you to your horse.'

'Yes, Sire.' Merlin's mouth curled in the ghost of a smile, and Arthur watched as his breathing grew steadier. All the subtle tension of wakefulness fled Merlin's frame in moments. He dropped into sleep like a stone, and Arthur cuffed an anxious hand back through his hair, trying to reach for a sense of peace.

Not that it was easy to find. He had been little more than a spectator for the events of the day, powerless to help Merlin against whatever had seized him in that moment. Now, he was nothing but a silent sentry to his slumber. Perhaps he should venture back into the camp and try to speak more with the druids. Yet diplomacy was an art, and Arthur felt too raw to reach for tact. Try as he might, he could not stop thinking of these people as a threat. There was something sharp and hungry about them – and he found he did not like it one bit.

Shifting over to the tent flap, he frowned as he saw several of them loitering nearby. He could not quite shake the suspicion that they were waiting for him to depart, and determination settled like lead in his belly.

He had no intention of leaving Merlin alone for even a moment in this camp. He would like to think none of the druids would try anything nefarious, but he was no fool. Instead, he painted a smile on his lips and bade the nearest man to fetch Lancelot, making sure to mind his manners. He lingered at the threshold of the tent, his face impassive until his knight strode into view.

At least he was not the only one who seemed suspicious. Lancelot's expression may be blissfully neutral, but his eyes were sharp as he watched the druids before offering Arthur a bow. 'You called for me, Sire?'

'Please retrieve the horses and get the bedrolls. Ask the others to help you. I want our mounts nearby, and we will all bed down here for the night. There is plenty of space, and a brazier for heat.' He lowered his voice, leaning in closer so that his words would only reach Lancelot's ears. 'I do not want to leave Merlin alone among these people. I do not quite trust them.'

'You are not alone in that, Sire,' Lancelot promised. 'We will join you shortly.' He did not waste time with any more words before he marched away, leaving Arthur to turn his back on the outside world.

He folded his arms, taking in their surroundings. The tent canvas was an earthy brick-red colour. It leant the large space a warm, secretive atmosphere, and despite himself, he felt his shoulders relax. A brazier burned in one corner, belting out heat, and rugs covered the floor to keep off the worst of the chill. As tents went, it was surprisingly luxurious. He had something of a similar size to use when out on campaign. Still, it made sense that the druids would offer Merlin the finest that they had, considering that they thought he was some kind of god.

Farrah's words haunted his mind, and he dithered where he stood. If he had not seen it for himself, he would not believe a word of it, but even he could not deny what had happened back in the clearing.

There had been something other about Merlin in that moment – fey and strange. It could have been terrifying, but all Arthur felt was a bone deep fear for the man he considered one of his best friends. Seeing him like that had been more terrifying than awe-inspiring, and even now, he did not know what to make of it.

With a sigh, he stepped forward, reaching out to ease the scarf free from around Merlin's neck. The last thing anyone wanted was him choking himself to death in his sleep. The fabric whispered lovingly around the pale column of his throat, and Arthur found himself staring at the pulse that flickered in the hollow of his jaw.

The heart of the divine. That was what Farrah has said. He did not know if that was figurative or literal, but he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to feel its beat in Merlin's chest. It seemed somehow imperative to check that rhythm of life still held firm, and he moved before he could think twice.

Careful fingers plucked apart the laces of Merlin's tunic before he dipped his hand beneath the cloth. Soft hair scratched his palm, but it was the steady thump within the cage of his ribs that eased Arthur free of fear's grasp.

Merlin lived yet. He had not turned into some being made of power and vapour, forever beyond Arthur's reach. He let out a soft sigh, and if his retreat was a reluctant one, there was no one here to bear witness.

By the time the knights returned, he was warming his hands at the brazier. Winter may not have yet encroached, but the twilight carried the promise of a chill. His men entered with more quiet care than they usually troubled themselves with, and Arthur did not miss how each of them took a moment to check on Merlin, seemingly reassured to see him as normal as ever. They laid out bedrolls and murmured among themselves before joining Arthur where he stood, the six of them ranged around the basket that held the burning wood.

'It's been a long day,' Leon murmured, making no effort to hide the fatigue in his voice. Arthur knew how he felt. He had not needed to raise his blade, and yet it felt as if he had been fighting something all the same. His own fear, maybe. Tension lingered in his shoulders and back, knotting his muscles. He did not think it would fade until they were in Camelot once more.

'Yeah,' Gwaine agreed softly. 'He's all right though, isn't he? I mean, tired, obviously, but...?' He looked at Arthur like he held all the answers.

'As far as I can tell. He fell asleep within moments, but whatever he did today – I think he has good cause for his exhaustion.'

'And what did happen?' Elyan asked. 'Do we believe the druids? You saw the shrine. They worship him.' Once, he might have said it in a joking tone, making light of it, but it felt like no laughing matter.

For a little while, no one answered him. Silence drew in from the corners of the room, wrapping them all in its shroud. In the end, it was Percival who spoke, each word calm and measured. 'I can't tell you if the druids are right or wrong. All I know is that nothing has changed. Merlin is the same person he was yesterday. The same person he's been since the day he was born. We know him. So whether he's a god or not, what difference does it make?'

Arthur pursed his lips, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at where Merlin lay sleeping. Percival made a good point. Perhaps this latest revelation had shocked them all, but in the end, Merlin was still himself: an opinionated, irreverent manservant. He had taken one look at Arthur when they met and then made it his life's mission to keep Arthur's ego in check with frequent insults and occasional moments of startling wisdom.

That would never change.

'I thought they would take him away from us,' he confessed softly. In the court, he would not have dared to show such weakness, but here, amidst men he thought of as his closest friends, he allowed himself a little honesty. 'Either the gods themselves or the druids.'

Gwaine grunted at that. 'Yeah, well. I'm not about to let that happen. And nor are you.'

He said it with such certainty, and Arthur did not realise how much he had needed to hear it until that moment. Ever since finding out about Merlin's magic, through the blazing rows and the hurt of betrayal, the efforts to listen and eventual understanding, he had struggled with the idea of Merlin willingly staying in Camelot. It beggared belief. Why would a sorcerer remain in a realm where the people hated him, and where death would be his only reward if he were ever discovered?

Here, they stood in a camp of people who revered him. The druids would heap him with praise. He would never want for anything that their nomadic way of life allowed. He would not have to lift a finger in servitude ever again.

'Merlin chooses where he goes,' he managed at last, clenching his hands into brief fists before spreading his palms towards the flames. 'If he wishes to stay, I will not stop him.'

'I think, Sire, that you're fortunate Merlin is not awake to hear you say that,' Lancelot murmured, a glimmer of amusement jumping in his dark eyes. 'Merlin is still the same as he always was, and he has chosen Camelot every day since walking through the citadel's gates. He does not care for admiration or glory, as you well know. I do not see that changing any time soon.'

'Lancelot is right.' Leon shifted, his shoulder pressing against Arthur's. 'When we ride out tomorrow, Merlin will be with us. Of that I have no doubt whatsoever. Speaking of which, we would do well to follow his lead and get some rest. It is a long journey back home.'

The bustle of the knights preparing for their beds filled the tent: peaceful, normal sounds that made Arthur feel more comfortable than all the trappings of court. No one questioned him as he unfurled his bedroll next to where Merlin lay, peacefully oblivious. It was not unusual for the two of them to sleep side-by-side. After all, Merlin was unarmed, except for his very illegal magic, and he was Arthur's servant. It was Arthur's job to defend him in the event of an attack. That was the excuse that was always poised, ready, upon his tongue.

Of course, these days, it was only a fragment of the truth. Now he felt a need to be near Merlin: within easy arm's reach. Part of that was because he feared that something may go awry in the night. Another held faint worries about some of the druids, who had seemed fervent in their beliefs. He would not put it past them to creep in just to be close to the one they worshipped, and the thought sent a shiver of distrust racing through him.

No, he would guard Merlin with his sleeping presence, and he would take guilty comfort in having him so close.

When he had found out about Merlin's magic, it had shaken the foundations of the trust they had built. Today, those same cornerstones had been challenged anew. Perhaps it was a tremor of uncertainty, rather than a cataclysm of betrayal, but it had left Arthur off balance all the same. Now, he sought to reassure himself with the whisper of Merlin's every breath and the occasional snuffle of his snores.

Sleep came to him in patches, and dawn's chilly fingers pried open his lashes far sooner than he would have liked. Arthur grumbled to himself, nestling deeper in his blankets as if he could chase the dreams that might linger in their depths. Only a faint snort of amusement disturbed him, and he cracked open one eye to squint blearily at the man watching him.

'You snore,' Merlin informed him from where he lay on the edge of the bed, looking down at Arthur with weary fondness. All around them there was the general sullenness of a group of knights on the cusp of waking but not quite ready to face the morning. 'Louder than Gwaine, even. I didn't know you had it in you.'

'I do not,' Arthur argued, his voice rough with sleep. Yet it was a feeble little protest. His heart was far more interested in the shadows that still pressed like bruises into Merlin's pallor. He had slept more than all of them, yet he looked far from refreshed. The gloom of the tent made him seem gaunt, more skinny even than when he had first walked through Camelot's gates. He had the appearance of a man who had been whittled by some mighty blade, and anxiety clenched tight in Arthur's stomach. 'You look like a strong breeze might snap you in half,' he complained. 'Are you able to ride out?'

'I'll manage.'

Arthur shot him a glare, because he deeply suspected Merlin was overestimating his abilities. Perhaps if the druids' adoration left him feeling less out of sorts, he would put his foot down and insist Merlin took the time to recover. In truth, he was keen to put the camp and all that had come to pass here to their backs. Besides, neither they nor the druids could linger. Uther's men would be upon them in a day or two. They would all do well to put some distance between themselves and the scene of the crime.

He sat up with a groan, the blankets tumbling to his lap as he turned to give Merlin a more critical look. At least there were no obvious injuries, but to Arthur, he still carried the appearance of someone recovering from a long illness. Or perhaps it was more fair to say he looked like a knight at the end of an interminable battle, alive yet, but drained of all will to fight. There was something flimsy about him, and Arthur did not miss how badly Merlin's arms shook when he pushed himself upright and swung his feet over the edge of the low bed.

'I should get us all some breakfast.' He squinted as if the meek light hurt his eyes.

Arthur shot him another glare as he wrestled his way out of his bedroll and reached for his boots. 'No, you should stay there. I'll find us something to eat. Don't move.'

Merlin pulled a face, and Arthur refused to find his playful grimace comforting as he stepped out of the tent flap into a cold, clear morning. He was not sure what he had expected. Druids on their knees, perhaps, or lost to their prayers. He had not imagined he would find nothing but flattened ground where a camp had once stood and the trees all around them festooned in ribbons, shells, coins and amulets that glimmered in the morning light.

'What –?'

'You will find, Your Highness, that we druids have become very good at moving our camps. In silence. In darkness. Though this time, we have left behind more than footprints.' Farrah rose from where she sat on a stump of wood, using her staff to support her weight. At her side, a sturdy black pony awaited her, its breath steaming from its nose as it snuffled at the leaf litter. 'They are offerings of thanks. A way to make sure that others know this place is holy, after what has come to pass. Our lives were saved twice over, and we will not forget it.'

Her hand gestured towards where one of their own pots simmered gently over the campfire, the porridge within no doubt warmed through. 'Breakfast for you all, and I must bid you farewell.'

Arthur parted his lips as she took the pony's bridle. 'That's it?' he demanded, unable to stop himself. He felt strangely deflated, as if he had been braced for a fight and now found himself with no foe.

Farrah laughed, the sound far more youthful than the lines on her face might suggest. 'Were you expecting something more?' she asked with a grin. Yet there was a knowing shadow in her expression, as if she knew exactly what fears had lingered in his heart. 'We may believe that Emrys is a god. We may offer him our prayers, but his place is at your side, Arthur Pendragon. There is a bright future ahead for you both, if you have the courage to grasp it.'

Up in the tree boughs, a swinging coin caught the sunlight, making it flash. Arthur blinked, dazzled, but when his lashes parted again, the view before him was not one of a clearing in the woods.

Instead, Camelot's throne room greeted him, decked out in splendour. Happy faces smiled up at him, and he could feel the heft of the crown adorning his head. Heavy furs draped his shoulders, but he had the strength to bear their regal weight. They were his by right: his time had come.

Yet he did not stand on that dais alone. Merlin was right there at his side, dressed in fine velvet with the magic in his eyes agleam for all the world to see.

And upon his brow was a crown to match Arthur's: united in rule and in life.

Arthur reeled as the forest clearing returned to him in a smear of green and brown. It had happened so quickly, gone in the space between one heartbeat and the next, yet he knew it was more than just a fantasy. He could still feel the weight of a ring banding his finger and taste the wedding vows on his lips.

Farrah watched him, her eyes agleam as she gave a nod: a tiny fraction of confirmation.

Words caught in his throat, but they would not come. Not when his heart felt too big in his chest, practically bursting with hope. 'Thank you,' he managed at last, rough and hushed, unable to offer anything more. 'I – I don't know what to say.'

'You need not say anything, Your Highness. You saw. That is enough.' Farrah jerked her chin towards the pavilion. 'Leave the tent. One day, we will be back for it, when druids are welcome once more in these lands. Safe travels to you and your knights.'

'And to you.'

Arthur watched her go, leading her pony between the trees until she, too, had vanished from sight. All around, it felt like the woods gave a little sigh, as if the oak and pine had witnessed something more momentous than mere words. Birds sang high in the branches, and the steam from the cauldron fragranced the air with the promise of a decent breakfast.

'Right,' Arthur breathed to himself, swallowing hard as he tried to ease the giddy race of his heart. Behind him, he could hear the knights talking amongst themselves, their chatter subdued but happy as they emerged.

'They're gone?' Merlin asked, relief thick in his voice. 'Just like that?'

'Farrah offers us her farewells, and her thanks.' Arthur gestured towards the cauldron. 'Eat something. I want to get back to Camelot as soon as may be.'

The knights fell upon their breakfast with their usual gusto, and it was Lancelot who urged Merlin to eat a second helping, as if he hoped the food would give him strength for the long ride ahead. He still looked fragile, to Arthur's mind, but he seemed chirpy enough, and though his movements were stiff, he at least seemed able to help them all pack up without struggling unduly. True, he wobbled a bit when he climbed into the saddle, but he did not topple over, so Arthur took that as a victory.

He grasped the reins in his hand, his lips parted around the command to ride out, yet a glance at Merlin halted the air in his chest. He sat upon Lilac's back, his head tilted up to admire the trinkets that decked the grove. Those long fingers reached upwards, catching one of the coins where it bobbed on the end of a blue piece of string.

Light flashed, as strong and sure as the sun. It flared from every token, dazzling, and Arthur saw the gold that painted Merlin's face once more, there and gone again. Those wiry shoulders relaxed, his posture becoming less guarded as he seemed to find his strength. It was as if the woods had taken something from him, the day he healed the old god, and now, they returned it once more to its rightful place.

The sunlight tipped his dark lashes, and Arthur's heart pulsed hard in his chest, banging against his ribs and threatening to steal his breath away. He did not know if the druids were right to claim that Merlin was a god. He could not explain what had happened since they found the camp, but in that moment, he realised he did not care. Merlin was his, and if he would permit it, then Arthur would happily spend the rest of his days worshipping him.

It was no giddy revelation. The realisation did not strike at him like the blow of a mace. Instead, it was as if something growing in his chest had finally reached its fullest bloom, utterly inevitable.

The memory of his vision assailed him anew, and now, more than ever, Arthur saw the truth of it. The two of them had been walking this path since the day they met. It was not inevitable, but it was their choices that had brought them here, to journey's end.

And when he was back in the peace of his chambers, he would ask Merlin of where his divine heart lay, and he would offer up his own in turn.

Merlin glanced towards him, raising one dark eyebrow. Once, Arthur might have looked away, blustering an excuse, but this time, he did no such thing. He met that bright blue gaze, practically daring him to comment.

That full mouth curved into a secretive smile. Perhaps Arthur's intentions were written across his face for the world to see, or maybe Merlin had been gifted the same vision: a glimpse of crowns and thrones and a golden age. Either way, Arthur could not bring himself to regret it.

He tilted his head towards the waiting horizon and the future that lay beyond it.

'Home?'

And Merlin's answer sounded like a promise: now and always.

'Home.'