Merlin -- Sweeter Dreams: Part IV

[tierfal]

Title: Sweeter Dreams
Part: 4
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,465
Warnings: occasional language, generally mild violence
Summary: Following a rather different ending to 2.10 ("Sweet Dreams"), Merlin and Arthur head to Olaf's kingdom of Valden to put things right. In the process, Merlin racks up an impressive series of treasonous crimes: insolence, incompetence, tripping while running for his life, and accusing the crown prince of snoring are only the beginning.
Author's Note: Author's notes are for people who have brain cells, and brain cells are for people who didn't just edit 35,000 words. Thank you for reading them! ♥


(PART 4/4)
Arthur’s gaze panned slowly around the room, and Merlin saw it again-the spark of kingship, of promise, of so much more. There was an oath in Arthur’s eyes when they shone like that, when they met all of the other eyes before them with radiant calm and quiet implacability. Watching him in moments like this-Merlin had seen it in Ealdor and on a scattering of occasions since-was like glimpsing the future and finding it secure.

They were in the hall they’d spied on before, during the lady’s birthday party, though this time its occupants were of a rather different sort. A series of missives, pleas, coaxings, and insistent knockings at closed doors had finally drawn all of the lords into one place, where now they lounged-surly, suspicious, intrigued, and confused-wherever one looked. In the set of his shoulders and those cool blue eyes, Arthur commanded them all.

Merlin felt a faint rush of pride at that. He belonged to Arthur Pendragon, to the prince whom time would make a king, and there was a reciprocity to it. He owned his part of the legend he was helping to build.

“All of you,” Arthur said, and the low current of mumbling and chattering faltered and died, “are loyal subjects, are you not? If any man here doesn’t want what’s best for Olaf and for Valden and isn’t willing to go to some lengths for his kingdom, he should leave now, with the benefit of the doubt.”

No one moved, and Merlin recognized a small, brief hint of a smile crossing Arthur’s face, the kind of clue anyone less accustomed would miss.

“Excellent,” the prince remarked. “Then I would like you all to swear a solemn oath, on your loyalty and your lives, that none of today’s events leave this room. Hands on your swords, if you have them. Swear.”

There were murmurs from every side, some of them merely curious, some more committed, and Merlin ensured that he’d seen each mouth in the room form words before he nodded to Arthur at the congregation’s head.

“What about you, friend?” Fabian asked cheerfully when the room had quieted. Merlin noticed that Captain Harper, loitering in the corner, grinned at that, and Ian rolled his eyes.

Fortunately, Arthur also smiled. “I swear on my life and my allegiance that these proceedings will not be spoken of,” he intoned.

“So what do you want?” Merlin’s big, burly knight from the hunting trip inquired.

Arthur faced him, completely unperturbed. Merlin resisted the urge to laugh a little at how deceptively blank his expression was as the prince answered, “You all must kiss the Lady Vivian.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the room exploded into screaming laughter and exclamations of disbelief.

Arthur waited, extraordinarily patiently, until the worst was over.

“She’s been enchanted,” he announced in the voice he used for shredding courage like cheap parchment. “The only way to break the spell is with the kiss of her true love, therefore all of you will contribute, and the Lady Vivian will return to normal.”

“Well, that’s no fun,” someone muttered, but Merlin couldn’t track the voice.

“I didn’t say it was going to be fun,” Arthur responded. “I said it was what’s best for Valden. Collette, if you would please bring the princess?”

Collette curtsied quickly and darted out, and Arthur folded his arms, considering the crowd of now mostly-delighted noblemen.

“Hopefully,” he said, “it is unnecessary for me to emphasize that you get one kiss each, and you had better not attempt anything-offensive.”

“Define ‘offensive,’” Lord Slander remarked.

Merlin, who was watching the very subtle shifts in the muscles of Arthur’s shoulders, would have liked to follow it to the limits of its denotation with the prince.

Arthur’s shoulders shifted quite pleasantly as he turned to give Slander a look that would have melted iron.

“That will fall to my discretion,” he said.

“What if it isn’t anyone?” the first of Merlin’s hunting trip acquaintances, Lord Valden Had an Incredible Proportion of People with Nice Hair, inquired.

“It has to be someone,” Arthur responded, “or I can’t imagine the spell would take effect in the first place. I believe it’s the case with most magic that there has to be a tradeoff.”

Merlin hadn’t thought about it quite like that. Arthur could actually be rather intelligent when he wasn’t inviting people to hit him in the head with sharp objects.

There was some unconvinced grumbling in the crowd, and then there was a bit of commotion in the hall, followed by a familiar voice raised in warning.

“You might not want to-”

The doors burst open, and Vivian exploded into the room, dressed in a very fetching powder blue.

“Arthur!” she screamed so loudly that Merlin clapped his hands over his ears.

“Vivian,” Arthur returned through a grimace.

There wasn’t time to interject before Vivian, flowing skirts and all, had barreled full-speed across the room, noblemen parting instinctively to let her pass, and flung herself at the prince. Her arms closed like a vise around his chest, and he staggered backwards at the impact, cringing. Merlin suddenly remembered that Arthur had broken his rib mere days before.

“Arthur, my love!” Vivian was crooning, already tucking her red silk handkerchief rather less than subtly down the front of Arthur’s tunic. “You have come! Shall we elope? Let’s elope. I want to elope; sweep me off my feet, and let’s go!”

If anyone swept Vivian off her feet, it would be Merlin, and it would be because her took her out at the ankles with a broom handle to get her away from Arthur.

For now, at least, the prince appeared to be coping admirably. He had managed to pry Vivian’s arms from around his torso and was currently holding onto her hands, keeping them a safe distance from his clothing, and wincing only a little.

“That sounds delightful,” Arthur said, in the tone of one discussing plagues of locust, “but first I’m afraid there’s something you must do for me.”

Vivian’s eyes went very wide, and she nodded until Merlin hoped-er, worried-her head would topple off.

“You need to prove that you love me,” Arthur went on bravely. “And the best way to do that is to let every man in this room kiss you once, and then see if you still prefer me above all of them.”

Vivian stared.

“But of course I prefer you, Snugglecakes,” she protested.

Ian went into a small coughing fit. Merlin would have joined him if he himself hadn’t been on the verge of death by means of utter disbelief.

“I don’t need to prove it,” Vivian said, her voice rising both in volume and in pitch, her full lips protruding into a pout. “I know I love you, Arthur, more than anything in my life. We should elope right now. Someone pack my bags.”

Collette looked like she would jump out a window first-which would probably be preferable to waiting around and finding out how Olaf would treat an accessory to his daughter’s elopement.

Vivian’s pretty features were set into an expression that, enchantment aside, showed a young woman who had been spoiled rotten all her life, a girl who honestly believed her wish was law because no one had ever told her different. The Lady Vivian had never learned to compromise, so she had never had to learn how to back down. Something had to be done.

More specifically, Merlin had to do something. That was essentially protocol by now.

“It’s a formality,” he blurted out as Vivian started pulling on a horrified Arthur’s hands. “In Camelot. Arthur’s just trying to make sure you’ve followed the rules, that’s all.”

The prince shot Merlin one of his rare grateful looks.

“That’s exactly right,” he said. “I’m afraid even I have to uphold the traditions of Camelot.”

Vivian frowned delicately. “But if we’re eloping anyway, who’s going to enforce-”

“Do it for me?” Arthur broke in, pleading.

“And for them,” Merlin muttered of the slavering crowd who watched the proceedings in eager silence.

Vivian gazed deeply into Arthur’s eyes for an extremely long moment-not that Merlin didn’t sympathize with that-and the prince attempted at a winsome smile.

“Oh,” Vivian scoffed, cracking a coquettish grin, “all right.”

The cheer that went up was deafening.

Naturally, the men, a collection of finely-bred nobility and well-trained soldiers, were completely incapable of organizing. Only after a great deal of shouting from Arthur and Captain Harper had they straggled into anything even remotely resembling a line, and even then, pushing, cutting, whining, and threatening ran rampant. Most of the lords Merlin was acquainted with ended up at the back of the vaguely linear cluster, which made it all the easier to watch closely as Vivian proceeded towards them, increasingly well-kissed but none too contented, shooting looks at Arthur as she went.

The prince, who had retreated to join Merlin by the wall, did his best to nod and clench his teeth in an encouraging way every time she glanced at him for consultation.

“This is a disaster,” Arthur said blankly when Vivian had made it through half of the assembled company, and certain men among them were sneaking back into the line for another go.

“Might not be,” Merlin replied. “We had to go through everyone before we disenchanted you, and Fabian and his shiny hair are at the end.”

Arthur snorted, folding his arms. “If it’s Fabian, I’m going to throw myself out a window.” At Merlin’s skeptical glance, he took offense. “I am. Watch me. Pick a window.”

“I like this one,” Merlin decided, gesturing to the paneless number at their backs. “And it’s not too far above the ground, so if you land on your head, it might fix you.”

“There’s nothing to be fixed,” Arthur muttered, and Merlin disagreed but didn’t mind.

Vivian, as it was turning out, was strikingly efficient at this sort of thing. Even enchanted, a condition that had left Arthur virtually intoxicated, she remembered whom she’d kissed and whom she hadn’t and sent those seeking second helpings summarily back to their places in line. She had worked through a truly impressive number of gentlemen to no success-at which one very young man actually burst into tears and had to be consoled by commiserating peers-and by the time she reached the last half-dozen, Arthur’s nerves were so taut that Merlin could virtually hear them straining.

The others crowded around in a vaguely circle-like clump to watch now that the competition was so reduced, the stakes so high.

Humbert, who had already pledged his heart to Genevieve, brushed lips with the Lady Vivian with some trepidation, as if he feared True Love would betray him like some kind of assassin in the dark. Merlin had to admit he sympathized, and he was glad for a relieved Humbert when the knight drew back, and Vivian was unchanged.

Lord Slander tried to bow out at the last possible moment, but the other men caught him as one and, protesting his reluctance, pushed him back towards Vivian with open hands. Sighing feelingly, he angled his head, darted in, and then reeled back, faking an extremely dramatic faint, again to be caught by the crowd, who were laughing uncontrollably this time.

Lord Very Nice Hair wrinkled his nose and kissed Vivian as if she was a poisonous snake, and Lord Big But Soft-Hearted kissed her as if she was made of white rose petals that would scatter at his touch. Neither of these affected her, and she turned to the last three men in the room-Fabian, Harper, and a very ill-looking Ian.

“Goodbye, cruel world,” Arthur said.

Fabian beamed rather convincingly as Vivian approached him, blinking, appearing not to anticipate. He raised his eyebrows, and she tilted her head, and then they drew together like two jewel-winged insects floating on the wind.

Merlin had witnessed literally dozens of kisses this morning, but this had to be the most picturesque. Vivian’s hair draped pale blonde, and Fabian’s was-as continually emphasized-shining gold, and his hands rose gently to her neck and her shoulder, cradling their smooth and lovely curves. After a crystalline moment, all present holding their breath, the nobleman and the princess parted, gazing into one another’s eyes, a gentle shift as though a ribbon ran between them.

Then Vivian blinked, smiled politely, and turned to Captain Harper, unmoved and expectant.

“I don’t believe it,” Arthur whispered. “I am going to jump out that window, Merlin. It’s better than eloping.”

Merlin would not be letting anyone jump out of a window, least of all an Arthur Pendragon who had stroked one finger down his cheek the night before.

Captain Harper paused, looked around at the group waiting silently, and then set his palm against Vivian’s jaw and sweetly covered her mouth with his.

Merlin glanced at Ian to the side, and Harper’s servant’s eyes were shrewd, his face composed, his arms tightly folded across his chest. Merlin got the sense, somehow, that it wasn’t the gesture Ian disliked so much as the possibility that Harper’s life would be altered drastically if the princess of Valden wanted him for hers.

That was love-forsaking jealousy for unconditional care. That was something Merlin understood.

Then Harper released Vivian, who looked to Ian without batting an extremely thick eyelash.

Ian was the last man in the room. Arthur’s hand leapt to Merlin’s arm and seized it, as if he needed the reminder of how much hinged on the moment that had arrived.

Ian, who was smart and bright-eyed and sardonic and obliging and really rather True Lovable, now that Merlin considered, slipped both arms around the princess and dipped her low as he kissed her warmly. That done, he deftly guided her back to her feet, already giving Harper a challenging look.

Harper licked his lips.

Arthur’s grip on Merlin had become extremely uncomfortable, and he seemed to be attempting to wring Merlin’s forearm right off.

“I’m dead,” the prince said faintly. “I’m a corpse.”

Merlin thought that had to be the fastest and most subtle bit of decaying he’d ever seen. Vivian turned, smiling brightly, and set her gaze on Arthur, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

“Darling!” she gasped. “Where shall we go? Did you bring a noble steed?”

Arthur made a break for the window, and Merlin flung himself at the prince’s arm, catching his elbow and hauling him back. He was gauging which direction was best to run, since Vivian’s slippers didn’t look particularly practical-and he and Arthur had a hell of a lot of practice scrambling for their lives, which he figured would work out in their favor here. The crowd was between them and the door, but they could probably shove through faster than Vivian could, and he supposed that if they got very desperate indeed, they could jump out the window, and he could cushion their fall with magic and hope for the best…

Vivian skipped towards them, her ringlets bouncing jauntily, and as Arthur writhed in Merlin’s grip, Merlin started thinking maybe the window was their best bet after all. Arthur had a point about preferring death to Vivian’s clutches.

Just before he let go, ready to leap after Arthur and find out what happened next, Collette stepped in front of the relentlessly approaching princess, throwing out her arms.

“Milady,” she said, her voice high but clear, though there was a tremor in her hands, “I’m very, very sorry if I’m wrong.”

From his angle, all Merlin saw of this kiss was Collette’s tense shoulders and Vivian’s fluttering hands, which waved for a moment, then paused, then tangled themselves in her maidservant’s hair.

One of the knights fainted in a clatter of armor on stone.

Vivian drew back, blinking, and took Collette’s hands, smiling warmly for a moment, pink in her cheeks, before she looked around her, started and confused.

“What in the world is all this?” she demanded, sounding familiar-sounding, in fact, like the woman she’d been before. “What are you all gawking at? And what are they doing here?” This was directed at Arthur and Merlin, who had apparently become something undesirable one might find on the bottom of one’s not-terribly-practical shoe. “My father will eviscerate all of you if he hears-”

Arthur threw his arms around Merlin and hugged him so tightly that Merlin was in serious danger of suffocating.

“Arthur-” he managed to squeeze out. “-appreciate-gesture-can’t-breathe-”

“Tough shit,” Arthur told him contentedly, ruffling his hair.

It was very possible that Merlin would have died in these tremendously anticlimactic straits had not every tapestry in the room then burst into flame.

The yells were deafening on top of the roaring and popping of the flames, and Arthur had released Merlin in his surprise, the better to start trying to delegate immediately, raising his voice above the din. Merlin seized his shoulder and pointed, however, to the figure on the balcony-the figure half-bent to watch the chaos, dirty fingers curled around the railing, dirty teeth bared in a grin. Merlin wouldn’t have needed to see the stained motley to identify the only other being in the castle who could start fires out of nothing and nowhere, and he felt Arthur’s muscles tense in recognition underneath his hand.

Trickler noticed them watching, snarled soundlessly amidst the chaos, and darted out of sight. Arthur grabbed Merlin’s shoulders, a heavy hand on each, and looked him in the eyes.

“It has to be you,” Arthur said.

“What?” Merlin squeaked, still a little breathless from the hug, though the black smoke seething from the tapestries certainly wasn’t any help.

“I have to help here,” Arthur told him, “and besides, only another magic worker’s going to have any hope.”

There was a long would-have-been-a-silence as Merlin stared at the prince, hearing his blood rush giddily in his ears.

“Another what?” his voice said shakily.

Arthur’s index finger stabbed into his chest. “Sorcerer. You. When you told Olaf you and Gaius studied magic, I started to think, and then one thing after another made sense. I’m not stupid-and, apparently, neither are you. We can have the policy debate later; track him down and kill him.”

Merlin swallowed, staring still, and Arthur paused.

“Or… whatever it is that sorcerers do. Zap him with your magic wand, I don’t care; just get rid of him.”

“You are totally bloody insane,” Merlin said faintly.

Arthur shook him, gently enough, though Merlin’s head bobbled a bit.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Arthur asked. “Destiny. This is you and me, doing what we’re meant to. So go on and do it. I’ll be here.”

With the things they’d been through, with the things they’d done, I’ll be here was enough.

Merlin grinned a little despite himself, shrugged his way out of Arthur’s grip, and ran.

He didn’t exactly know where he was headed-up, out, towards the most probable target. Trickler could have killed everyone in the hall if he’d wanted to; it had to be something more complicated, more refined that he was after. He’d passed up the chance for maximum destruction.

Merlin’s facility for navigating the castle still left something-or a great many somethings, namely ease, speed, and success-to be desired, but his feet carried him up to the level he and Arthur had found before, at the end of Collette’s secret passage. Sure enough, the door to enter had been left ajar. Merlin clenched his fists, drew a deep breath, and squeezed through the gap.

Even with a strip of light sliding in, the corridor was nearly pitch-black. Merlin waited near the entrance, curling and uncurling his fingers, loosening his hands and his tongue as he waited for his eyes to adjust. As his sight improved, he could pick out the details of the spot-like the wealth of cobwebs in the corner, thick and matted, layers built indiscriminately one over another. He was also starting to think these passages must have been for the royalty, once, not for their servants and their secret guests; the walls were lined with intricate, delicate sculpture, friezes worn low by time and trailing hands. They were encouraging scenes, at least, all maidens and brave knights and salvation from the dark, a book of children’s stories built into the walls. Merlin caught sight of a virtuous sorcerer in a very silly-looking pointed hat-not that he could talk about sorcerers in hats-and smiled. It was the young king, however, crowned and blazing like a torch in the midst of his formless enemies, that Merlin reached out and touched.

Shoulders squared, he summoned a small blue witchlight, his whisper echoing back against the walls, and started forward, beams of violet darting in the shadows that hemmed him in close.

He couldn’t help sparing thought for the pictures on the walls as he strode by-they were wonderful, and he wanted to quash the pressure of urgency in his chest and admire them all properly, one by one. Here the soldiers were facing off against some giant creature, and in the next portion, they’d bested it. The wizard was conjuring a storm, and then the king was raising his sword in triumph.

Merlin remembered himself-and remembered that Arthur was relying on him to deal with Trickler and to save who knew how much and how many. He steadied the witchlight and focused, moving forward, keeping his gaze on the passage ahead. He couldn’t afford to get distracted and let Arthur down, no matter what appeared on the shadowy walls out of the corner of his eye, not even if the images looked like they were subtly shifting…

They were subtly shifting. They were moving. They were alive.

Sword blades and reaching hands began to extend towards him from the walls, lengthening and sharpening, stone faces contorting into snarls and sneers. Merlin saw flashes of pointed teeth, of growing fangs, of blank eyes narrowing to pale, sightless slits that followed him as he ran-

For of course he ran.

Stone swords and fingers snagged at his sleeves, pricking at his skin right through the fabric, like dozens of little spears. One tore the cloth, drawing a hot, stinging line down his forearm, and he jerked his hand away, darting between the points. He could have sworn the corridor hadn’t been this long the first time; it seemed to go on forever now-he stumbled more than once, more than half a dozen times, the witchlight guttering, as he wove his shoulders through the closing gap between the spikes on either side. The blades were scraping at him, and a small but searing plume of flame burst from the mouth of a miniature dragon at his right. He dodged away, encountering the edge of a thin sword opposite, and then hopelessly corrected again. He had to move faster; he had to get out; he absolutely refused to die here at the hands of a hundred figures from a frieze.

Just as he was beginning to despair-and as the creatures on the walls were approaching an appreciable and extremely intimidating size-his staggering brought him far enough that he could just make out the strip of light left by the other door. All he needed was one last sprint-just a little further-he batted a few swords and what looked like a halberd out of the way, ducking the tail of a rather considerable snake, and forced his knees to rise, shoved one foot in front of the other, coaxed another breath into his burning lungs-

He rammed his shoulder into the door, and it gave, sending him tumbling out into the hall beyond. The proper light was blinding, and, blinking dazedly, he discovered himself on his hands and knees, staring at the tile.

“Hello, Merlin,” Trickler said.

Slowly, Merlin raised his head. Belatedly he thought that perhaps he should have taken one of the stone swords from its owner; at least he would have had a weapon, something to put between him and the murdering madman who stood before him now.

That had been an oversight.

“Hello,” he replied, following the creased boots up to the torn motley, thence up to the smirk and the gleaming eyes. “Pleasant weather we’ve had, isn’t it?”

Generously, Trickler let him get halfway to his feet before sweeping one hand and slamming him into the wall. The stone blocks smacked the breath right out of his chest, and Merlin crumpled to the floor, which wasn’t much more sympathetic. Clutching at his ribs-which felt like they were disintegrating-Merlin gathered himself up again, carefully raising his gaze to meet Trickler’s eyes. If painful experience had taught him one thing, it was that sorcerers were arrogant, complacent in the knowledge that they had power over everyone around them, and playing the part of a terrified victim might encourage Trickler to a dangerous degree of confidence.

“What do you want?” he asked, doing his best to sound helpless and plaintive. “You’ve already jeopardized so many people. What are you looking for? We can find a way to give it to you without hurting anyone.”

Trickler heaved a tremendous sigh, sending a flicker of white flame dancing over the back of his knuckles and then catching it between his finger and his thumb. “You’re missing the point,” he said. “Look around you, Merlin. Look at the life you lead. I could spend my whole life killing and never match what Uther’s done. We’re persecuted, Merlin. We’re going to disappear.”

“We’re not,” Merlin insisted, stepping tentatively nearer, carefully watching the swelling white flame in Trickler’s palm. “Things will change. We just have to stay quiet until-”

“Deny ourselves, you mean,” Trickler said. “We just have to suppress our instincts, our brilliance, our unique ability to fix things as well as ruin them. We just have to cease to be ourselves. Another injustice Uther heaps upon our shoulders, so few of us with heads above them now-when do we stop accepting this, Merlin? Do you intend to live and die a liar?”

“If it’s what’s best for Camelot,” Merlin managed, though the words sounded flimsy even to his own ears. “What do you want? If it’s a place to be free, we can find one; there are kingdoms more tolerant than Camelot. If Alined’s supported you all this time-”

“Supported me?” Trickler snarled, and white fire flared and licked down his wrist. “Enslaved me, Merlin, like your prince has done to you.” He darted forward, so quickly that there wasn’t time to flinch aside before the other sorcerer’s unencumbered hand was clenching in his neckerchief, pulling him close. “We could subjugate them all, Merlin. We could make them see us as we are.”

“Is that what you want?” Merlin asked him, shying away from Trickler’s other hand, which was engulfed in those strange white flames. “Recognition? I’m sure we could find a place-”

“No,” Trickler said. “It’s you I need. There’s something about you, Merlin.”

Merlin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to recoil, though having a fiery hand rise and hover by his cheek, the heat of the flames close and tremendous, made him favor the latter.

“I felt it,” Trickler told him. “When we fought the first time. You’re different; your magic is. It’s fuller and more powerful, even if it isn’t practiced, and that is what I need.”

Merlin swallowed. “Right. So wh… what are you planning to do now?”

Trickler smiled, pleasantly.

Then he blasted Merlin with all the force of the gathering white flame.

Another unforgiving wall broke Merlin’s trajectory, and a sputtered spell put out the worst of the flames, which fortunately seemed to have been designed more to burrow beneath his skin and burn there than to incinerate his clothing and his hair. Merlin could only imagine how difficult besting a strong sorcerer would be naked.

Actually, he’d had a nightmare like that once.

His skid had left an impressive scorch mark on the floor all the same, and Trickler was striding through it towards him as Merlin scrambled to his feet. The first order of business was a strong shield, and the second was hastily considering the third order of business, which was surviving this.

Trickler battered at the gleaming bubble of a shield with a series of pounding spells, waves of pressure, and what Merlin presumed were invisible rocks. Ripples bounced across the opalescent surface, and Merlin was thinking fast-as fast as he could manage, trying to judge the timing, which would have to be very clean indeed. He would have to abandon the shield just as Trickler was regrouping for another attack, and he would have to take the offensive in the interim.

It all sounded very simple laid out like that, but the plan didn’t account for the way Trickler’s vicious, grinning enthusiasm made Merlin’s stomach flip.

There was a long barrage of searing flames, but this kind of shield had stood up to the Great Dragon once before-Merlin gritted his teeth and held it, watching the first signs of strain appear on Trickler’s face. Just a little longer, then-Merlin’s arms were trembling, and his elbows felt like jelly-just another moment; just another two-

Trickler paused for breath, and Merlin let his shield collapse in a wink of silver, crafting fire with his tongue even as it disappeared. He enveloped his hands, clenching his fists to concentrate the heat, cultivating it, feeding it with his anger and his indignation and his hatred of his own stupid fear.

Trickler was mounting a counterattack, but one of the basic truths of magic was that simpler spells rolled off the tongue faster, and whoever started speaking first had the advantage.

Merlin released the flames and blasted Trickler down the hall.

His opponent, however, having heard him uttering the spell, knew already how best to defend, and the force of the blow had more of an effect than the fire itself. Trickler’s clothes had seen worse, and he extinguished all the flames well before they did any considerable damage, though their impact had nonetheless thrown him to the floor.

Merlin needed a new tactic, and he needed it as soon as humanly possible.

As Trickler began to gather himself to his feet, Merlin turned and ran. If he could get around a corner, Trickler would follow and give him the element of momentary surprise. Accordingly, he swung around the first corner he found, boots scraping on the tile, and waited by an open window that looked out over the roof, curved tiles sloping down towards the courtyard three floors below. He leaned against the wall, panting, and watched the juncture with the corridor from which he’d come, whispering to build a different spell this time-a rope-like spell. If he could bind Trickler, tie him up, contain him, maybe this wouldn’t have to end with death. One death was too many, and Merlin had seen dozens. Caused dozens. He’d prioritized Arthur’s life and his own, and he’d killed in the name of that preference.

That was the price of survival, he supposed.

“Merlin-”

He whirled the other way. Ian was at the far end of the hall, armed only with a dagger.

“Harper sent me to-” he began.

“Be careful!” Merlin hissed urgently. “Actually, just stay away; he’s-”

Ian’s eyes flicked past Merlin’s shoulder, and he ducked out of the way. Merlin had just enough time to turn and then flatten himself against the wall as a torrent of flame flooded through it towards the place Ian had been.

The spell was gone-it had slipped out of Merlin’s hands like water, which left him with no defense at all.

He gulped, took one look at Trickler’s face, and climbed out the window.

The roof tiles were slippery beneath his feet, the slant of them rather perilous. It was really a pity that these things were so difficult to judge from a safe distance-by the time Merlin could distinguish danger, he was always already in the thick of it, too deep to get out again.

Nothing to be done for that, though, so Merlin took a deep breath, held both arms out hoping to steady himself, and started towards the adjacent wall. If he could hop back into another window, he could always circle around, and maybe…

Maybe that thud behind him was Trickler joining him on the roof.

A faint mutter from by the window brought another stream of fire coursing through the air, and Merlin darted to the side, then stumbled. He could smell the air singed by the hungry flames as they narrowly missed his cheek, and the rough tiles scraped his fingers as he caught himself on them and tried to scramble back to his feet.

He was nearing a rise in the roof, and a momentary shield and a few deft dodges carried him up to the top-thought not without a lot of scrabbling, two bruised shins, and a few bloody knuckles as well. Balancing on the ridge, at the highest point between two slopes, he finally had the chance to look down at Trickler and reverse their roles.

Wasting no time on a proper spell, Merlin drew on the instinctive magic that hummed underneath his skin, like gold-gleaming armor as unobtrusive and as critical to him as his blood. Roof tiles broke under Trickler’s feet, sliding down and tumbling to the courtyard far below, fragments skittering. Trickler fumbled to grip at the slant of roof above him, fighting for traction as curved tiles slipped from beneath him in a continuous stream. Merlin sent more of them down, snapped them from their bearings, dissolved the mortar-more, faster, flinging one after another, flooding them down the roof. With an almost animalistic howl, Trickler toppled, losing his balance at last, and slid with the latest wave of cracked ceramic, clawing for a handhold as he careened ever closer to the edge.

Merlin caught his breath, his own hand extended and spread, as his adversary skidded towards the bottom of the roof, because Trickler was still a human being.

Albeit one with reflexes to make a wildcat jealous, Merlin noted, dropping his hand as Trickler caught the gutter and clung to it, dangling over the mass of smashed tiles but safe for now.

And it was different-killing a man when he was giving chase, when you were in danger. It was different from slaughtering someone hanging helpless and glancing at the ground below.

Maybe his hesitation would be the end of him someday, but at least there was a little less leaden weight on his conscience.

He couldn’t quite hear Trickler’s words from this distance, but he made out a flash of gold, and then the other sorcerer was releasing his grip and floating, with a strange and incongruous delicacy, towards the ground.

That was stylish. Merlin needed to learn that one.

In the meantime, he ran along the narrow tiles of the ridge, teetering dangerously as his second-most-prominent natural talent-sheer clumsiness-threw him one way and then the other. By some small miracle, he reached the edge of the roof without incident, and from his perch he could peer down at the courtyard and watch Trickler touch down on the stones.

Trickler looked back up at him, mouth moving, and then there was a firm jerk on Merlin’s body that had nothing to do with clumsiness.

He fell.

Panic leapt within him, blocking his throat, and he fought it down, forcing himself to think-to think Cushion, cushion, cushion, slow, soft, feathers, gentle, light-

The magic took care of the rest.

The wind that had been rushing past his ears and tearing at his clothes diminished and then stilled completely, and Merlin opened his eyes, which made him realize he’d closed them. The surge of magic tingling in his fingers faded, and the spell cut off, letting him fall two more inches to land sprawled on his back on the cobblestones.

Trickler was staring at him in awe and envy, but he regained awareness in mere moments, forgoing the emotions in favor of ending Merlin’s impressive little life.

Merlin crawled backward, banging his elbows on the stones, as Trickler approached-there wasn’t time to get to his feet, and there wasn’t any mercy in those eyes. He just had to-he ought to-needed-if he could-

A small rock whizzed through the air and smacked Trickler squarely in the side of the head.

Merlin stared.

He and Trickler both turned to look, and together they discovered a hard-eyed Ian, who was hefting another rock. He still carried the dagger in his other hand, angled to show that he knew how to use it, although the threatening effect was something undermined by the fact that he had Collette and Vivian behind him. A flick of Merlin’s glance, however, confirmed his desperate hope that Arthur and Captain Harper were soon to follow-there was a flash of pale red and gold in one of the windows, and Merlin’s heart and his magic both agreed it was the prince.

Ian hurled the other rock, and this one hit Trickler in the shoulder.

“What the hell is this?” Trickler demanded, twitching as the stone rebounded and clattered to the cobbles.

“Poetic justice,” Ian said.

Trickler blinked for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. He swiveled fully away from Merlin, who had been fruitlessly sending Ian and the ladies Run away now and scream if you want to looks, and then advanced towards his new adversaries, fire crackling around his open hands again.

Merlin summoned a small waterfall from nowhere, dousing Trickler’s hands, and the flames dissipated in a hiss of steam-only for Trickler to call up seething, concentrated lightning instead, without ever slowing his advance. Ian was holding up incredibly bravely, standing still with the knife out, his face composed. Over the rising panic clawing in his throat, Merlin tried to think what could subdue lightning, how he should counter, how he could save the three lunatics standing there, none of them wavering, waiting for almost-certain death-and why were they so confident? Merlin glanced up quickly, but there weren’t any archers leaning out of the upper windows, and Arthur and the Captain still hadn’t arrived-

Merlin called on his magic again, this time to pick up broken roof tiles and start pitching them at Trickler-anything to get him away from a trio of defenseless human beings, one of whom happened to be the most cherished princess in at least a dozen kingdoms.

The first tile smashed against Trickler’s back, but he batted the others aside with a shield like the ones Merlin had used. On the upside, any time Trickler was defending, he wasn’t attacking, and Merlin had just enough time to scramble to his feet.

“Could you do it?” Trickler asked Ian, whose knuckles were relaxed around the handle of the knife. “I suppose ‘could you’ isn’t nearly so interesting as… will you?”

Merlin took one step towards him, and Trickler spared him no more or less than a final spell-a cold, sibilant one that tightened inescapably around Merlin’s chest, a broad band like a closing fist. Even as he squirmed, trying and failing to catch a deep breath, it lifted him off of the ground, squeezed just a little tighter, and then dropped him the two meters to the cobblestones.

Merlin was going to feel that in the morning.

Gritting his teeth, he fought through the bursting, swelling, dizzying pain, and dragged himself to his knees. He raised his right hand, fingers spread, and forced his shaken head to wrap itself around the question of what came next.

Next, Trickler smirked viciously at Ian, who hadn’t moved.

Then Ian’s eyes glowed gold, and his lips shifted to form a barely voiced spell.

Trickler’s entire body tensed with disbelief, and Merlin sympathized. Only a quickly and desperately improvised shield protected Trickler from a rising whirlwind that felt scorching even from Merlin’s distance.

Trickler howled his displeasure-and, by the sound of things, his pain-and fell to his knees, bowing his head as his shield shuddered, thinner with every passing moment.

“Please,” Trickler gasped, his shoulders shaking visibly.

Ian frowned, lowering his hand. “Are you ready to nego-”

Snarling, Trickler flung a handful of glittering powder at Ian’s fading eyes, making the defenseless servant cry out and start scrubbing with his free hand. Trickler rose effortlessly to his feet and stepped forward, teeth bared, growling out another spell that sounded worse even than any of its predecessors.

Then Vivian wrested the knife out of Ian’s grip, stepped forward, and plunged it up through Trickler’s ribs.

“That,” she hissed, “is for enchanting me and jeopardizing the peace treaty.”

She twisted the knife, and Trickler gave a soft, wet gasp.

“That,” Vivian said, “is for making me look ridiculous in front of every man in the court.”

Blood dribbled on the cobblestones, and Trickler’s hands rose tremulously and then dropped. Vivian let go of the knife as his body crumpled before her feet, a tangle of muddied motley capped with an expression as shocked as the one Merlin wore.

And then Arthur was there, holding an arm under his elbow to hold him upright as his knees wobbled.

“When I’m king,” Arthur murmured, “remind me never to cross her.”

There was too much in the offhanded phrase-too much in the assumption that Merlin would still be there, still be at Arthur’s side, still be giving his golden prince cheerfully unsolicited advice-for Merlin to be able to laugh, but he did manage a nod and a bit of a shaky smile.

Arthur considered him. “Would you incinerate me with magic if I mussed up your hair right now?” he asked, and his voice was light but gentle.

“Yes,” Merlin said.

Arthur frowned. “I’m not sure I like this arrangement anymore.”

Harper had put an arm around Ian’s shoulders, and Collette was clasping one of Vivian’s hands in both of hers, but Merlin found himself distracted by the widening pool of blood on the cobblestones. He knew who would be cleaning that up if they’d been in Camelot, and he recoiled at the thought of putting another innocent soul in that unpleasant spot.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded as Merlin opened his hand, his fingers almost steady even now. “You look like you’re going to pass out if you do any more, Merlin.”

“I would never,” Merlin said, and then he did.

He swam in and out of consciousness enough times to remember Arthur carrying him back into the castle in both arms, his legs dangling, his head nestled in against the prince’s chest. Even half-awake, Merlin knew, with a deep and solidified conviction that warmed him from the inside outward, that he could not possibly be more safe.

-
“I think that’s everything,” Collette said, stepping back. She had just secured the last of the packs behind Merlin’s horse’s saddle, and she looked reluctant to declare that it was done.

Merlin understood that. He was reluctant to leave.

For all its perils-and for all of the pretty-haired lunatics that frequented its court-Valden had been a blessed escape in countless ways. Their time here had resembled Camelot life enough to be profoundly comforting, but the crucial differences in their responsibilities and their essential anonymity had been… liberating. Merlin was going to miss it, and he was certainly going to miss the two servants and the roguish captain who had come to see them off.

He might even miss the princess who had deigned to join them.

“You know it was all the enchantment,” she was telling Arthur for the fourteenth time that morning (fifteenth, if you counted the one where he’d cut her off at “You know” with “Yes, I do”). “I’d never elope with you. Ever. In a million years. So don’t ask.”

“Milady,” Arthur said, “there is nothing you have to worry about less.”

The prince stepped over to his mount, and Collette darted in to hug him first.

“Thank you,” she said, flushing a little. “And not just for the obvious.”

“You’re always welcome to that position in Camelot,” Arthur replied. “Or just to visit as long as you like.”

“How about me?” Harper asked, moving into Collette’s place and clapping Arthur’s shoulder warmly.

“You should stay far away from our entire population,” Arthur told him, grinning. “I need them working, not mooning over you.”

Arthur’s and Ian’s eyes met, and the prince nodded slowly, and the servant smiled.

It was Vivian’s turn, and she visibly took a deep breath before approaching Arthur. Then she curtsied low and gracefully, her head tipped and her back straight.

Arthur bowed deeply in return, and then he kissed her hand before she could sidle off.

“If you or Valden ever needs our help again,” he said, “you have it. All you have to do is ask.”

Vivian blushed prettily. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. She paused. “But you know it-”

Arthur laid a palm over his eyes and forehead. “We all know.”

Merlin laughed a little, which attracted everyone’s attention. He hadn’t expected that.

He hadn’t expected to be tackled to the stable floor by three people trying to hug him at once, either.

-
“Ow,” Merlin said as his horse jolted him for the umpteenth time.

“Gaius will make sure Trickler didn’t hurt you too badly,” Arthur assured him idly.

“It wasn’t the fight,” Merlin said. “It was the goodbyes.”

Arthur tossed his head a little, and the sunlight that filtered through the trees glinted wildly on his hair. “You should stop being so popular.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, grinning despite himself, because it was impossible to stay discontented with the prince looking like that. “So you can keep me all to yourself?”

“Obviously,” Arthur said.

Merlin was slightly disappointed to discover that he was simply too pleased to think of a comeback.

He supposed he could live with that.

-
When they burst into Gaius’s workroom, he looked up so suddenly that he dropped the vial he’d been fiddling with, and Merlin instinctually froze it in the air before it could hit the ground.

There was an excruciatingly long pause, the duration of which Gaius spent staring at Arthur in trepidation and disbelief, tensed to recoil-or maybe even to run.

Arthur coughed loudly.

“There’s no need to show off,” he said, “Merlin.”

Gaius attempted to hide his immense relief by bending down to retrieve the vial, which Merlin definitely did not imbue with momentary sparkles and a chime-like sound to earn Arthur’s reprimand.

Gaius set the vial down, and then he came over, paused, and patted Merlin’s arms from shoulder to wrist.

“Nothing broken?” he asked.

“Except his brain,” Arthur volunteered. “But you already know about that.”

With a faint smile, Gaius wrapped both arms around Merlin and held him tightly.

“Hug bruises,” Merlin gasped out through the burgeoning pain.

Gaius drew back, his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, and slowly and deliberately raised the Eyebrow.

Merlin would have felt chagrined if he hadn’t been too busy with delight.

-
Evidently, a lot of spells had been broken just before they had left Valden. For instance, the spell making Merlin more than another glorified castle slave had disappeared with the day’s sun, dropping off behind the distant hills and vanishing with the faintest glimmer of red. Likewise, Merlin and his red neckerchief seemed to have vanished from Arthur’s perception, his status as the hero of the hour dissolving into the dim contours of the usual arrangement.

He’d barely put his head into Arthur’s room before the prince said, “Run me a bath, Merlin” without even looking up from what must have been an extremely enthralling section of the tabletop.

Merlin considered making the water so hot it slowly boiled the prince alive. After all that-after the things they’d said, and talked about, and admitted, and shared-now that Arthur knew his greatest and most dangerous secret, which allowed him to hold Merlin’s fate in his hands, not that he seemed to care.

Merlin made his huge bucket extremely buoyant, to the effect that he was actually holding it down as he walked, rather than holding it up to carry it. It probably would have floated to the ceiling, steaming water and all, if he’d let go of it. He entertained thoughts of dumping it on the prince’s head and counting that as a shower.

Courtesy of Merlin’s willpower, however, Arthur’s tub filled in due time, with minimal sloshing, no less. When he’d emptied the last load, Merlin slammed the bucket down on the floor and then sat back to ease off of his aching knees, at which point the bucket duly rose into the air and hovered near the eaves.

Arthur looked up at last.

“How did you ever survive this long without anyone finding out?” he asked.

“I guess that speaks to your obliviousness, doesn’t it?” Merlin muttered.

“You’re pouting,” Arthur noted interestedly. “Why are you pouting?”

Merlin scowled at him.

Scowled, not pouted. That was an extraordinarily critical distinction, and of course one that the blockheaded prat who called himself a prince couldn’t be expected to understand.

“What are you waiting for?” Arthur asked, apparently giving up on his previous question. He gestured-munificently, he probably thought-to the tub. “Get in.”

Merlin stared at him.

“It’s been a long day,” Arthur went on, “and I swear road dust is actually attracted to you.” He paused, and if Merlin wasn’t hallucinating, there was a spot of pink in either of the prince’s cheeks. “I suppose I can’t blame it at this point.”

Merlin blinked.

Apparently this was the signal that it was Arthur’s turn to frown.

“Have you magicked yourself mute?” he asked, and a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face. “I wouldn’t put it past you. That’d be a trick; you wouldn’t be able to speak the spell to undo it, would you?”

“You can’t treat me differently,” Merlin said, surprised at the force and forwardness of his own voice. “You can’t-kiss me, and talk about-” His throat stuck, but he shoved the words through the knot, even though his voice quavered. “-true love and then-pretend it never happened. Go back to the way things were. Nothing is the way it was when we left here. Valden changed everything. You have to accept that.”

Arthur stood up and started toward him, and Merlin tensed, not sure what to expect. He held his ground, though, looking up at Arthur steadily as the prince came closer… and closer… and crouched down to look him in the eyes.

“I can’t exactly be seen doting on you, can I?” he asked.

“No one would stop you,” Merlin shot back. “Nobody would dare.”

“It would get complicated,” Arthur said. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about this.”

The idea soothed Merlin’s pride more than he expected and warmed his heart more than he wanted to admit.

“It’s already complicated,” he insisted nonetheless. “You can’t just-not even acknowledge me. That’s not fair.”

“The world isn’t,” Arthur said, and then he leaned in and kissed Merlin warmly and just a little bit softly.

“Well,” Merlin managed faintly when they drew apart, Arthur’s hand splayed on his reddening cheek, “you don’t have to make it worse.”

“Are you planning to get that bucket off the ceiling?” Arthur asked, smoothing his fingertips through the hair at Merlin’s temple.

“I was going to before you distracted me,” Merlin answered.

“I’m not distracting you now,” Arthur said.

Merlin looked pointedly into the prince’s deep blue eyes, letting his expression go hazy and infatuated, which was significantly easier than he’d hoped.

“Bucket,” Arthur said. “Ceiling. Now.”

Merlin scowled at him a little more for good measure before gradually returning the bucket’s weight, which brought it gently drifting to the floor beside them. This time, Arthur was staring at Merlin’s eyes, with something like wonder.

“That is remarkable,” he said.

“It’s normal to me,” Merlin replied, shifting under the scrutiny.

“Just goes to show that I was right,” Arthur mused. “There has always been something about you, Merlin.” Merlin wrinkled his nose, but before he could respond, Arthur was gesturing to the tub. “Go on. Get in. You must have learned how to do that in Valden.”

“Forgot,” Merlin said.

“Then I imagine you’ve also forgotten how to sleep in my bed.” Arthur’s tone was light, though he seemed to be watching Merlin closely.

“I remember that,” Merlin told him. Slowly and mischievously, he started to grin. “Though I’m not sure I want to.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide and so unhappy that Merlin felt a sharp pang of guilt even though he knew what was going to happen next.

“Why, exactly,” Arthur began, his voice clipped, his eyes narrowed, “is that?”

Merlin beamed at him. “Because you snore.”

Arthur looked appalled for a long, silent moment.

The next few moments were equally wordless but not nearly so quiet. Merlin shifted uncomfortably, wondering for the millionth time if he’d gone too far-it was impossible to tell with Arthur, who was subject to incredibly mercurial moods despite his golden heart. On top of that, the prince’s “I’m going to run you through” expression was almost indistinguishable from “I’m going to hurt myself laughing in a minute,” and on top of that, Valden had hurled all of Merlin’s conclusions about his life into the air, leaving him to scramble to collect them when they fell. If the spell was genuine-if a few words and a potion and whatever other tokens Trickler had employed could somehow simplify what was, as both Merlin and Arthur apparently knew, an infinitely complex emotion and the repercussions it entailed-

Then what? Then Merlin could test Arthur’s patience a little more without fear of serious harm? It probably wasn’t possible to push that boundary any further as it was.

He swallowed, trying to detect hints of run you through or laugh uproariously so that he could react accordingly. He stiffened, planting his feet on the floor in case he had to run, and curled his fingers just a little, because magic was fair game now.

All of his preparation proved useless when Arthur leaned forward without warning and dove on him, easily pinning him to the floor, somehow protecting his head from the stone even in the middle of assaulting him.

Merlin supposed that if that wasn’t true love, he didn’t know what was.

Arthur brought his face very close to Merlin’s their noses just a fraction apart, and his eyes blazed as he smiled thinly.

“I do not snore.”

“You not liking it doesn’t make it untrue,” Merlin informed him-bravely, he felt, given the range of Arthur’s teeth, knees, and… other weapons as well.

“I thought no one was going to stop me,” Arthur murmured back, his breath very warm against Merlin’s lips, “because I’m the pratty, entitled prince.” He ducked, his mouth ghosting over Merlin’ jaw, and held both of Merlin’s wrists against the floor with one strong hand. “Isn’t that right?”

“Something like that,” Merlin gasped, “may have crossed my mind.”

Arthur was demonstrating his best I knew what you were going to say because I own you smirk, which, unfortunately, was extremely becoming, like most of his unpleasant expressions.

Merlin discovered, however, that he could get revenge and advance his goals at the same time, to which end he arched his back, pushing his hips into Arthur’s, pressing their bodies together from collarbones to thighs.

“That’s it,” Arthur said, his voice higher and fainter than Merlin had ever heard it before. “To hell with the bath, to hell with the dirt, and definitely to hell with the snoring. You’re coming to bed right-” He hauled them both up so fast that Merlin’s head spun. “-now.”

That done, Arthur threw both arms around Merlin’s waist, picked him up, and tossed him onto the mattress, once again somehow making sure he didn’t get hurt. Even as Merlin scrambled to leverage himself up enough to see what Arthur intended next, the prince climbed up beside him and started pulling at his neckerchief.

Merlin would have been the last to endorse the image of magic-workers as witchy old crones, but he may or may not have cackled.

Just a bit.

[PART III]