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Chapter Text

PART I: BELTANE

The celebrations of Beltane echoed through Camelot's streets like a heartbeat finally remembering its rhythm after too long holding silent. Bonfires blazed in the lower town, their flames leaping toward stars that seemed brighter than Arthur remembered, and everywhere he looked, people laughed and danced and embraced with the particular abandon that came from surviving terrors they barely understood.

Arthur stood alone on the battlements, watching it all from a distance that felt appropriate. The crown had been on his head for less than a week, and already its weight seemed to have settled into his bones, reshaping him into someone he didn't quite recognize yet. Below, his people celebrated the turning of the season and the promise of new beginnings, unaware that their king stood apart from their joy, counting days instead of dancing.

Three hundred and fifty-four days remaining.

The number had become a constant companion, ticking away in the back of his mind like a heartbeat he couldn't silence. Every morning he woke to it, every night he fell asleep calculating how many sunrises remained until he could ride to Brocéliande. The kingdom demanded his attention, and he gave it willingly, throwing himself into the work of reform and governance with a determination that left his advisors both impressed and slightly concerned. But beneath it all, the counter continued its relentless march.

The evening air carried the scent of woodsmoke and May blossoms, sweet and heavy with the promise of summer to come. Arthur breathed it in, trying to find peace in the familiar rhythms of the season. Beltane had always been his favorite festival -- the celebration of life returning after winter's death, the ancient acknowledgment that darkness could never hold sway forever. Now that symbolism felt almost too apt, too pointed in its reminder of what he was waiting for.

Are you celebrating too, wherever you are? he wondered, his thoughts drifting across the narrow sea to a forest he'd only seen in dreams. Can you feel the turn of the seasons from within your tree? Do you know that spring has come?

The questions received no answer, but Arthur hadn't expected one. Not yet. The forest spirits had been clear -- Merlin slept too deep for words, too lost in the struggle between corruption and healing to hear anything from the waking world. But that didn't stop Arthur from speaking to him in his mind, a constant stream of observation and feeling that had become as natural as breathing.

The kingdom is stable. The council accepted me faster than I expected -- Geoffrey's influence, mostly, and Leon's unwavering support. We're already discussing magical policy, though progress is slower than I'd like.

A burst of particularly enthusiastic cheering rose from the lower town, drawing Arthur's attention to a group of young people weaving through the crowds with flowers in their hair. The Beltane traditions included more than just bonfires -- tonight, courting couples would jump the flames together, sealing promises of future unions. Tomorrow, some would wake in meadows wrapped in each other's arms, having celebrated the season's fertility in the most ancient way possible.

Arthur's chest tightened with loneliness so acute it stole his breath. He should be down there, participating in the celebrations his people expected their king to honor. Instead, he stood alone on cold stone, aching for someone who slept across an impossible distance.

I miss you, he thought simply. Every moment of every day, I miss you.

The admission felt both terrifying and liberating. For so long, he'd fought against recognizing these feelings, hiding them even from himself behind masks of duty and propriety. Now, with Merlin gone and the truth of his heart laid bare, Arthur couldn't pretend anymore. Didn't want to pretend.

He loved Merlin. Completely, desperately, in ways that defied every expectation he'd been raised with. And he would spend every one of these three hundred and fifty-four days earning the right to say so out loud.

"Sire?"

Arthur turned to find Leon approaching with the careful respect that had become more formal since the coronation. His First Knight carried a goblet of wine, extending it with a slight bow that Arthur accepted with genuine gratitude.

"You should be celebrating with the others," Arthur said, though his voice lacked any real reproach.

"So should you," Leon countered gently. "The people notice when their king keeps apart from their joy."

Arthur sipped the wine, finding it surprisingly good -- something from the southern vineyards that Merlin had always claimed to prefer, though Arthur suspected that had more to do with the wine's affordability than any genuine discernment of quality. The memory brought a sad smile to his lips.

"I'll make an appearance before the night's end," he promised. "I just needed... this. A moment to think."

Leon nodded, understanding in his weathered features. Of all the knights, Leon had known Merlin longest, had watched the peculiar friendship between prince and servant evolve into something no one had words for. If anyone could understand Arthur's current state, it was him.

"He'll come back," Leon said quietly. "Merlin has a way of defying expectations."

"I know." Arthur drained the goblet and handed it back. "But the waiting is harder than I expected."

They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the fires below paint shifting patterns across the cobblestones. After a while, Leon spoke again.

"The druid delegation arrived this afternoon. Iseldir sent his regrets -- his duties keep him with his people -- but he's sent a representative in his place. A man named Ruadan, perhaps ten years your senior. He seemed... cautious, but hopeful."

Arthur filed away the information for tomorrow's council meeting. The integration of magical advisors into Camelot's governance was his highest priority, but it couldn't be rushed. Too many old wounds needed healing first, too much distrust on both sides.

"And Ceryndra?"

"Already installed in chambers near the magical archives, along with her companions. She's been reviewing the texts that survived Uther's burnings, cataloging what remains." Leon paused. "She asked about Merlin. Wanted to know if we'd heard anything."

The question Arthur had been dreading. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth. That we're waiting, same as everyone else."

Arthur nodded, grateful for Leon's discretion. The full details of Merlin's condition -- the corruption he'd absorbed, the risk that healing might consume his humanity -- weren't common knowledge. Only the inner circle knew the stakes, and Arthur intended to keep it that way until there was something definitive to report.

"I'll speak with her tomorrow," he decided. "And with Ruadan. If we're going to build a magical council, we need to start somewhere."

"The first steps are always the hardest," Leon agreed. He glanced toward the stairs. "I should return to the celebrations. The men expect their captain to demonstrate his drinking prowess at least once before dawn."

Arthur managed a genuine smile. "Try not to shame Camelot's martial reputation."

"I'll do my best, Sire." Leon bowed and departed, leaving Arthur alone again with his thoughts and the distant sound of revelry.

The wine had warmed him slightly, easing the chill that had settled into his bones. Arthur knew he should follow Leon's example and join the celebrations, at least briefly. A king couldn't remain forever apart from his people, no matter how his heart longed for solitude.

But first...

He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow, reaching for the connection he'd felt in his dream after the coronation. The forest had said Merlin dreamed too deep for words, but perhaps presence alone might offer some comfort. Perhaps, if Arthur focused hard enough, he might touch some echo of awareness across the impossible distance between them.

I'm here, he thought with all the conviction he could muster. Wherever you are, whatever you're fighting, I'm here. And I'm waiting.

The night offered no response, but Arthur thought -- perhaps imagined -- he felt something shift at the edges of his consciousness. A flicker of warmth, there and gone so quickly he couldn't be certain it had existed at all.

It would have to be enough. For now.

That night, Arthur dreamed.

The Forest of Brocéliande stretched around him, illuminated by a twilight that never seemed to fade into true dark. The colors were impossible -- violets and indigos bleeding into deep, bruised crimsons, the leaves shimmering with an internal luminescence that cast no shadows. The air thrummed, a constant, low-frequency vibration that resonated in his teeth and bones. It was the sound of raw magic, untamed and ancient, breathing around him.

And there, in the center of the grove, stood the oak.

It was colossal, a titan of wood and leaf that made the ancient trees of Camelot look like saplings. Its bark was silver-grey, marked with spiraling patterns that seemed to shift when he looked at them from the corner of his eye, like sentences written in a language he couldn't quite read. The roots dug deep into the earth, massive knuckles of wood that anchored the world.

"Merlin?" he whispered.

Arthur reached out, his hand trembling, and pressed his palm against the rough, warm bark.

It didn't feel like wood. It felt like skin heated by a fever, pulsing with a slow, heavy beat that matched the rhythm of his own blood. It felt alive in a way that was overwhelming, a vast consciousness condensed into a single point of contact.

"I'm here," Arthur said, his voice cracking. "I told you I'd come. I'm here."

He pressed his forehead against the trunk, closing his eyes, reaching out with every scrap of emotion he possessed. He expected... he didn't know what he expected. A voice? A feeling? A sense of Merlin's presence, familiar and comforting? A snarky comment about how long it took him to get to sleep?

Instead, he felt a storm.

Deep beneath the bark, buried in the heartwood, there was a sensation of titanic struggle. It was not a conscious thought, but a feeling of writhing darkness, of something jagged and poisonous fighting against a relentless, crushing pressure. It felt like being held underwater, like the burning in the lungs before the inevitable intake of fluid. It was pain, raw and unfiltered, and a sense of being torn apart and stitched back together over and over again.

There was no Merlin. There was only the struggle.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, panic flaring hot and bright in his chest. "Merlin, answer me! Fight it!"

The pulse against his hand remained steady, indifferent to his panic. The struggle continued, a silent scream trapped in amber.

Arthur King, voices murmured from everywhere and nowhere, the forest itself speaking in harmonics that resonated in his chest. Once and Future. You have come seeking your other half.

"Is he there? Can he hear me?"

He struggles against darkness that would consume him. The corruption of the Eye fights hard against cleansing -- it carries ancient consciousness, malevolent awareness that does not surrender easily. The voices softened with something like sympathy. Your presence here... it may reach him, in the deepest places. But he sleeps in pain, and pain distorts perception. He may not believe what he feels.

The words struck Arthur like a blow. "What do you mean, he may not believe?"

The corruption whispers lies. Tells him he is abandoned, unloved, that the truth revealed in the caves has destroyed all hope of reconciliation. He fights not only the Eye's malevolence but his own despair.

Arthur's heart clenched. He pressed both hands against the bark, desperate to push through whatever barriers separated them. "Then I'll make him believe. Every night, if that's what it takes. Every single night until he understands I'm real and I'm not going anywhere."

A worthy oath, the voices murmured. Speak to him as you would if he stood before you. Hide nothing. Fear nothing. Your voice may be the anchor he needs to remember why he fights.

So Arthur talked.

He told Merlin about the coronation, about the weight of the crown and the strange grief of burying a father he'd loved and feared in equal measure. He described the council's cautious acceptance, the plans for magical integration, the hope that was slowly replacing fear in Camelot's streets.

He talked about missing Merlin -- the ache that never quite faded, the constant awareness of absence that colored every moment. About lying in chambers that felt too empty, reaching for presence that wasn't there.

"I don't know if you can hear me," Arthur said finally, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite control. "I don't know if any of this reaches you. But I'm here. And I'll be here tomorrow night, and every night after. Whatever you're fighting, you're not fighting it alone."

The bark pulsed warm beneath his palms. Brief, barely there, gone so quickly he might have imagined it entirely.

But it felt like acknowledgment. Like someone, somewhere, had heard.

Arthur woke with tears on his cheeks and hope he refused to surrender.

The first challenge of Arthur’s reign was not an invading army or a magical beast, but a table.

Specifically, the Council Table, and who sat at it.

Arthur had sent the invitations immediately upon his return -- formal missives to Iseldir of the Druids, and a request for Ceryndra and her circle to remain in the citadel as advisors. He knew, intellectually, that integrating magic into the governance of Camelot would be difficult. He had not realized just how deeply the roots of his father’s fear had burrowed into the stone of the castle.

When the first official session of the King’s Council convened three days after the coronation, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. It was a physical thing, a wall of silence dividing the room.

Lord Marrok, Lord Gaheris, Sir Leon, and Geoffrey of Monmouth, and the other Lords and Ladies of the court sat left of the throne. They wore their velvets and their chains of office, looking stiff and unyielding.

On the right sat the newcomers: Ceryndra, looking regal and entirely unintimidated in robes of deep forest green; two of her senior sorcerers; and while Iseldir had sent word he could not leave his people yet, the druid emissary Ruadan stood with quiet dignity beside Gaius, who -- to no one’s surprise -- had stepped forward to enthusiastically support the restoration of magic to Camelot.

Arthur entered the room, Excalibur at his hip, the crown upon his head, and felt the eyes of every person in the room land on him -- weighing him, measuring him against the ghost of Uther.

"My lords, ladies," Arthur said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "We have much to discuss. The harvest reports, the restoration of the lower town, and the integration of our new defensive measures."

"This is irregular," Lord Marrok said immediately, his voice tight. He was a good man, loyal to the Pendragon line, but he had lived through twenty years of the Purge. His eyes kept darting to the staff leaning against Ceryndra’s chair as if expecting it to turn into a snake. "To have... practitioners... seated at the High Table? During matters of state?"

"Matters of state now include the magical community, Lord Marrok," Arthur said evenly. He resisted the urge to rub his temple where a headache was already forming. "We cannot govern a people we refuse to acknowledge. Magic is part of Camelot now. It always has been, we simply chose not to see it."

"Acknowledging them is one thing," Marrok countered, his face flushing a mottled red. "Granting them influence over policy is another. Your father-- "

"My father is dead," Arthur cut him off. The words were not shouted, but they carried a finality that silenced the room. He leaned forward, meeting Marrok’s gaze. "And his policies nearly destroyed us. We are trying something new. We are trying to survive."

"It is dangerous," Lord Gaheris muttered, refusing to look at the druid across from him. "Magic is unpredictable. Chaotic. How can we trust their counsel when their allegiance is to a force we cannot control?"

"So is rainfall," Ceryndra spoke up, her voice cool and melodious like water over stone. She didn't rise, but her presence seemed to fill the room. "Yet you build cisterns to catch it, and irrigation to guide it. You do not banish the rain because you fear the flood."

Gaheris bristled, slamming his hand on the table. "Are you comparing your dark arts to weather, madam? Weather does not have a will. Weather does not conspire."

"I am comparing power to power," she replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "We defended your walls three days ago, Lord Gaheris. My shield caught a fireball that would have incinerated your chambers while you slept. Was that chaotic? Or was that loyalty?"

"Enough," Arthur commanded, placing his hands flat on the table. The wood vibrated under his palms. "We are not here to debate the merits of magic. That debate was settled on the battlements when we fought side by side. We are here to integrate it."

Marrok stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "I cannot, in good conscience, participate in a council that invites sorcery into the heart of government. It goes against every oath I swore to Uther. It is an insult to his memory."

The room held its breath. This was the moment Arthur had feared -- the fracture. The moment when he lost the old guard before he had fully secured the new.

He looked at Marrok, seeing not a traitor, but a man afraid of a world he no longer understood.

"I accept your position, Lord Marrok," Arthur said, keeping his voice respectful but firm. "You are excused from this session. But know that you are welcome to return when you are ready to serve Camelot as it is, not as it was. The door will not be barred."

Marrok hesitated, looking for support from the other lords. Leon stared straight ahead, his loyalty to Arthur absolute. Geoffrey was busy scribbling notes, looking unbothered. Even Gaheris remained seated, though he looked sour.

Finding no allies for his protest, Marrok bowed stiffly and stormed out of the chamber.

Arthur let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Right. Does anyone else wish to leave?"

Silence stretched out, tense and fragile.

"Then let us begin," Arthur said. "Geoffrey?"

The old archivist cleared his throat, peering over his spectacles. "Actually, Sire, regarding the seating of magical advisors... there is precedent for this. During the reign of Cameron the Just, three centuries ago, there was a position known as the 'Advisor on Arcane Affairs.' It fell out of use during the Great Winter, but the legal framework exists."

Arthur looked at Geoffrey with surprise and gratitude. The old man had served Uther faithfully, but his loyalty to history -- and perhaps his fondness for Merlin -- ran deeper. "Thank you, Geoffrey. Find those records. We will use them as a foundation."

It was a small victory, messy and uncomfortable, but it was a start. They established a rotating schedule: the magic users would meet with the Small Council separately to discuss specific magical needs, and then joint sessions would be held weekly to foster integration.

As they began to discuss the logistics of crop rotations and magical assistance for the harvest, Arthur found his mind drifting to the forest across the sea. He pictured Merlin sitting in this chair, perhaps rolling his eyes at Gaheris's blustering or offering a quiet, insightful comment that cut to the heart of the matter.

I’m trying, he thought at the empty space at his right hand. I’m trying to build the world you wanted. But gods, Merlin, I wish you were here to tell me if I’m doing it right.

When the council finally dispersed, Arthur found himself lingering in the empty chamber, staring at the chair where Merlin should have been sitting.

If the Council chamber was tense, the training grounds were a disaster.

"Watch where you're pointing that!" Gwaine yelled, diving behind a weapons rack as a bolt of blue energy singed the feathers of his helmet.

"Don't swing a sword at my head and I won't have to deflect it!" the young sorcerer, a lad named Oisinn who looked barely old enough to shave, shouted back. He was pale, trembling, and clutching his staff like a lifeline.

Arthur stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, Leon beside him. Below, twenty knights and ten battle-sorcerers were attempting the first joint training exercise. It looked less like a military drill and more like a riot.

"It's not going well," Leon observed with characteristic understatement, watching as a shield wall collapsed in confusion when a sorceress tried to reinforce it with an earth wall and accidentally tripped the front line.

"No," Arthur agreed, wincing as Percival accidentally knocked a sorceress flat with his shield while trying to protect her from a practice dummy. "They're terrified of each other. The knights are waiting for the sorcerers to turn on them, and the sorcerers are waiting for the knights to run them through."

"It's instinct, Sire. Muscle memory. For twenty years, a knight seeing magic meant 'attack.' For the sorcerers, seeing a knight meant 'run.' We can't undo that in a week."

"We need to break that instinct," Arthur said, gripping the railing. "If we're attacked again, hesitation will kill us."

Down in the yard, the tension finally snapped. A burly knight, Sir Bors, got up in Oisinn's face after dodging another stray spark. "You call that protection? You nearly blinded me! Keep your sparks to yourself, wizard, or I'll show you where to stick that staff."

The yard went silent. Hands drifted to hilts. Fingers curled into casting shapes. The air crackled with sudden, lethal intent.

Arthur tensed to intervene, to shout an order, but movement down below stopped him.

Gwaine, dusting ash off his cape, stepped between the hulking knight and the terrified boy. He looked at Bors, then at Oisinn’s wooden staff, and a wicked, familiar grin spread across his face.

"Actually, Bors," Gwaine drawled, his voice carrying across the silent yard, "I think you’re just jealous. His staff is longer than your sword."

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence. Even the birds seemed to stop singing.

Oisinn, the young sorcerer, blinked. He looked at Bors, then at his own staff, and then at Bors’ practice sword, which was indeed a shorter arming sword. A slow, terrified grin touched his lips.

"It's not the length that matters, Sir Knight," Oisinn piped up, his voice shaking only slightly but gaining strength from Gwaine's presence. "It's the enchantment you put on it."

Gwaine roared with laughter, clapping the boy on the back. It was infectious. Percival snorted, then Elyan, and suddenly the tension that had been strangling the yard dissolved into bawdy chuckles. Even Bors looked begrudgingly amused, sheathing his sword with a shake of his head.

"Right," Arthur called out from the balcony, seizing the moment before it could fade. "Since you all have so much energy for conversation, let's run the drill again. Gwaine, you pair with Oisinn. Show them how it’s done."

It wasn't perfect. There were still flinches, still moments of hesitation. But the fear had broken, replaced by the universal soldier’s language of mockery and shared hardship. They weren't enemies anymore; they were just men and women trying to survive the King's drills.

The dream walks became ritual.

Every night, Arthur would lie in his chambers and reach for the connection that had formed unbidden in that first dream. Most nights he found it -- found himself standing in the ancient grove, hands pressed to bark that pulsed with life, speaking into silence that felt less empty than it should.

He told Merlin everything. Council politics and training exercises. Gwaine's terrible jokes and Leon's quiet competence. The way Gwen was, as usual, handling her position of Head Steward as if she were born for the position. The progress of magical integration, measured in small victories and occasional setbacks.

And he told Merlin the things he'd never said aloud -- the fear that he wasn't ready to be king, the grief that still ambushed him at unexpected moments, the loneliness of a crown that set him apart from everyone except the one person who'd always seen past it.

"I need you to come back," Arthur said one night, pressing his forehead against the warm bark. "Not just because Camelot needs its protector, though it does. Because I need you. I need someone who tells me when I'm being an idiot. Someone who sees Arthur instead of just the king."

The bark pulsed warm beneath his touch -- acknowledgment, he hoped, that Merlin was listening, even if he couldn't respond.

"The forest spirits said you might not believe I'm real," Arthur continued. "That the corruption whispers lies, tells you I've abandoned you. I need you to know that's not true. Whatever Morgana revealed in those caves, whatever you think I must be feeling about your secrets -- none of it changes what you mean to me."

No response. There never was, not in words. Just that faint pulse of warmth, like a heartbeat too distant to properly hear.

"I was angry," Arthur admitted. "When I first learned everything. I won't lie about that. But I've had time to think, and your mother has helped me understand things I was missing. The impossible positions you were in. The choices you had to make when there were no good options."

He was silent for a moment, gathering thoughts that still felt too large for words.

"I forgive you, Merlin. For all of it. The secrets, the lies, the times you protected me without my knowledge or consent. I understand why you did it. And I need you to forgive yourself, so you can stop fighting whatever guilt the corruption is using against you and focus on coming home."

The warmth pulsed stronger -- brief, almost desperate, then fading back to its usual barely-perceptible hum.

Arthur held onto that moment. It felt like progress. It felt like hope.

As spring deepened into the lush green of early summer, the envoys began to arrive.

The first foreign delegation arrived three weeks after Beltane -- Princess Mithian of Nemeth, accompanied by her father King Rodor and a retinue of nobles and advisors whose studied neutrality couldn't quite hide their curiosity about Camelot's new direction.

Arthur received them in the great hall with full ceremony, crown heavy on his brow, throne rigid beneath him. The formal welcome felt strange without Merlin's presence nearby, without the comforting weight of knowing his Court Sorcerer stood ready to counter any magical threat that might emerge. But the show must go on, and Arthur had learned to perform his role with conviction even when his heart lay elsewhere.

"King Arthur." Mithian's curtsey was perfect, her smile warm but carefully calibrated. "Nemeth congratulates you on your coronation and offers our sincere condolences on the passing of King Uther."

"Princess Mithian. King Rodor." Arthur descended from the throne to greet them personally, abandoning formality for the warmth that came more naturally. "Camelot is honored by your presence. Please, consider our kingdom your home for the duration of your visit."

Rodor was older than Arthur had expected, grey-bearded and weathered but still possessed of the sharp eyes and straight bearing that spoke of a warrior in his youth. He clasped Arthur's arm in the greeting of equals, though his expression remained unreadable.

"We've heard interesting rumors about changes in Camelot," the older king said, direct in ways that Arthur appreciated. "Magic welcomed at court. A sorcerer named official advisor. Druids consulted on matters of policy."

"Not rumors, Your Majesty. Fact."

"Bold choices for a young king." Rodor's tone carried neither approval nor condemnation -- simply acknowledgment. "My own kingdom has never shared your father's... intensity regarding magical matters, but neither have we openly embraced the Old Religion. I'm curious to see how your approach develops."

The first evening's feast served as both celebration and evaluation, each side studying the other while maintaining the pleasant fiction that this was merely diplomatic courtesy. Arthur found himself seated beside Mithian, whose intelligent conversation proved both engaging and revealing -- she questioned him skillfully about his plans for magical integration, her interest clearly genuine rather than merely political.

"You speak of your Court Sorcerer with particular warmth," she observed during a lull between courses. "This Merlin. I've heard rumors of his deeds."

Arthur's chest tightened at the casual mention. "He saved Camelot more times than I can count. Often at great personal cost."

"And now he's... away, I understand? Recovering from some manner of magical injury?"

"In a manner of speaking." Arthur chose his words carefully. "He'll return when he's ready. And when he does, Camelot will be ready to receive him properly -- not as a secret kept hidden, but as the hero he's always been."

Mithian studied him for a long moment, something knowing in her gaze. "You love him."

It wasn't a question. Arthur felt heat rise to his cheeks despite himself.

"That obvious?"

"Only to someone paying attention." Her smile held no judgment. "Nemeth's traditions are older than Camelot's, and not all of them shared Uther's... perspectives on such matters. My grandfather had a champion who never married, though he was never without devoted companions. History finds ways to remember what it chooses to remember."

The implication was clear, and Arthur felt something loosen in his chest at the casual acceptance. "The treaty between our kingdoms..."

"Will be signed regardless of your personal arrangements, Your Majesty. Nemeth values stability and wisdom in its allies. You've demonstrated both." She raised her goblet. "To Camelot's future. Whatever shape it may take."

Arthur drank, gratitude warming him more than the wine.

The weeks that followed brought a parade of delegations, each requiring different approaches and yielding different outcomes.

Lord Godwyn arrived from Gawant with his daughter Elena, the princess Arthur had once been pressured to marry. The memory of that awkward courtship still made him wince -- Elena stumbling over her own feet, speaking with her mouth full, generally behaving in ways that had baffled everyone who knew her reputation for grace and intelligence.

"It was a sidhe," Elena explained during a private audience, her manner now as elegant as her reputation suggested. "A changeling placed in me as an infant, meant to manipulate events for the fairy court's purposes. For years I couldn't understand why I felt so... disconnected from my own body. Why I'd intend to do one thing and find myself doing another entirely."

Arthur listened with growing horror as she described the possession. "And Merlin...?"

"Freed me." Her smile was radiant with gratitude. "I didn't know at the time -- didn't know what he was, what he'd risked. But the night before our almost-wedding, my mind suddenly cleared, I found myself sitting in a heap on the floor, and your manservant was there offering a hand to help me up. For the first time in my life, I felt like myself. I've only recently connected that timing to rumors about your Court Sorcerer's identity."

Another debt Arthur owed Merlin, another secret kindness performed with no expectation of recognition or reward. The list grew longer every day.

The treaty with Gawant was signed easily, both parties recognizing mutual benefit in formalized alliance. Elena departed with genuine warmth, her parting words carrying hope that Arthur would find his own happiness now that hers had been restored.

Lord Bayard of Mercia proved more challenging, since the man's natural caution made him slow to commit. But eventually, patience and persistence yielded results. Mercia joined the growing alliance, their considerable resources pledged to mutual defense.

Young King Cynric of Escetir was the most surprising visitor. The nephew of the dead King Cenred, he had inherited a kingdom with a reputation for aggression and treachery, a legacy his uncle had cultivated deliberately. But Cynric himself seemed determined to forge a different path.

"I never wanted this crown," he confessed during a private walk through Camelot's gardens. "Cenred was... not a man I wished to emulate. His cruelty, his ambitions -- they brought nothing but suffering to our people and enmity from our neighbors."

Arthur recognized something familiar in the young king's struggle -- the weight of a predecessor's sins, the challenge of building something new from tainted foundations. "We don't choose our inheritance. We only choose what we do with it."

"Easy words." Cynric's smile was rueful. "Harder to live. Half my nobles supported Cenred's wars and resent my attempts at reform. The other half are waiting to see which way the wind blows before committing to anything."

"Then perhaps they need to see that reform is possible. That a kingdom can change its nature without losing its strength." Arthur gestured toward the distant training grounds, where knights and sorcerers continued their awkward integration exercises. "Camelot is trying something unprecedented. We don't know if it will work, but we know that the old ways weren't working. That's worth something."

The treaty with Escetir was signed the following day, marking a transformation in relations that would have seemed impossible mere months ago. Cynric departed with promises of continued communication, his expression carrying hope that Arthur understood all too well.

Not all responses were positive.

King Odin of Cornwall sent back Arthur's invitation with a single line scrawled across it: Blood debt remains unpaid. There will be no alliance while my son's killer sits on Camelot's throne.

Arthur stared at the message, memories of that tournament flooding back. He'd killed Odin's son in fair combat, in a fight he hadn't chosen but couldn't refuse. It had been legal, honorable by every standard of knighthood. But that didn't change the fact that a father had lost his son, and no amount of honor would heal that wound.

He filed the refusal away without hope of changing it. Some grudges were too deep for diplomacy to bridge.

Deorham's King Alined sent a mocking letter that made Geoffrey sputter with indignation, dismissing Arthur as a "boy king playing at reform." Queen Annis of Caerleon responded with polite but firm declination, her message carrying the subtext that she was waiting to see whether Camelot's changes proved genuine or merely cosmetic.

And from the northern kingdoms -- complete silence. No responses to envoys, no acknowledgment of messages, nothing but the cold dismissal of a land they apparently considered beneath their notice.

"They see us as southerners," Geoffrey explained during a late-night strategy session. "The northern realms have always held themselves apart, proud of their ancient lineages and unconquered histories. Uther's Purge didn't reach them, so they never felt the need to engage with our policies regarding magic. Now..."

"Now they're waiting to see if we're worth noticing," Arthur finished grimly. "How do we change their minds?"

Geoffrey was silent for a long moment, scrolls rustling beneath his weathered fingers. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his features.

"Your Majesty, have you ever heard of a bard named Aneirin?"

A messenger arrived three weeks before King Olaf was expected, bearing a letter written in the king's bold hand:

"King Arthur, I am pleased to accept your invitation for treaty negotiations. My daughter Princess Vivian is eager to visit Camelot again, as she has spoken of little else since our last visit. I hope we can reach terms beneficial to both our kingdoms. - King Olaf of Norway"

Arthur read it twice, trying to parse the odd emphasis on Vivian's eagerness. He didn't remember much about the princess from their previous encounter -- something about peace negotiations between multiple kingdoms, though the details were frustratingly hazy. He'd been so focused on the political tensions that individual guests had blurred together.

"Do you remember Princess Vivian?" Arthur asked Gwen during their morning meeting to review the week's schedule.

Gwen's expression did something complicated. "I remember her."

"What was she like?"

"Rude," Gwen said immediately. "She insulted her chambers, insulted me to your face, and generally acted like Camelot wasn't grand enough for her refined tastes."

Arthur frowned. "And now she's eager to return? That seems odd."

"Very odd," Gwen agreed, but something in her tone suggested she knew more than she was saying.

"Is there something I should know?"

"Probably several things," Gwen replied. "But let's see how the visit goes first. No sense borrowing trouble before it arrives."

King Olaf arrived with considerably more fanfare than most visiting dignitaries, his entourage including not just guards and advisors but what appeared to be half his court. And at the center of it all, Princess Vivian rode a white horse with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for tournament champions.

Arthur greeted them in the courtyard with appropriate ceremony, offering the traditional welcome to visiting royalty. Vivian dismounted with practiced grace, her elaborate gown somehow remaining pristine despite the journey, and curtsied deeply.

"Your Majesty," she breathed, her voice carrying a breathy quality that made Arthur immediately uncomfortable. "How wonderful to see you again. I've thought of nothing else for months."

Arthur blinked, caught off-guard by the intensity in her eyes. "Princess Vivian. Welcome back to Camelot. I hope your journey was pleasant."

"It would have been tedious beyond bearing," Vivian said, moving closer than protocol strictly allowed, "except I knew I'd see you at the end of it. That thought sustained me through every difficult mile."

"That's... nice?" Arthur managed, taking a subtle step backward. "King Olaf, perhaps we could -- "

"My darling Arthur," Vivian interrupted, reaching out to touch his arm with possessive familiarity that made his skin crawl. "Surely we can dispense with such formality. After all we've been through together."

We've been through nothing together, Arthur thought desperately. I barely remember meeting you.

King Olaf cleared his throat with the long-suffering patience of someone who'd dealt with this behavior extensively. "Vivian, perhaps let King Arthur breathe. He has other guests to greet."

"But Father, I haven't seen him in nearly a year!" Vivian's protest carried a whining quality that grated. "Surely Arthur wants to spend time with me. Don't you, darling?"

"I... have duties," Arthur said weakly. "But I'm sure someone can show you to your chambers-- "

"I want you to show me," Vivian insisted, pressing closer. "Like last time. Remember how you brought me food and flowers? It was so romantic."

Arthur had absolutely no memory of doing any such thing, but Vivian's intensity was making it difficult to think clearly. Behind her, he could see Gwaine making frantic gestures toward where Gwen stood, and Gwen's expression had gone from knowing to alarmed.

"Your Majesty," Gwen said loudly, stepping forward with the kind of deliberate interruption that suggested emergency. "I apologize, but there's an urgent matter that requires your immediate attention. Something about the... drainage system in the lower town. Very urgent. Possibly catastrophic if not addressed immediately."

Arthur seized the excuse like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. "Of course. Catastrophic drainage. Can't ignore that." He turned to Olaf with an apologetic expression that wasn't entirely feigned. "King Olaf, please forgive me. Sir Leon will see you and Princess Vivian to your chambers and ensure you have everything you need."

"Take your time," Olaf said, and Arthur could have sworn he saw relief in the older king's eyes.

"But Arthur-- " Vivian started.

"Princess Vivian, I’m sure you want to rest from your journey," Arthur said, already backing away. "We'll speak at dinner."

He fled before she could protest further, Gwen falling into step beside him as they hurried toward the castle interior.

"Thank you," Arthur breathed once they were safely out of earshot. "What in all the hells was that?"

"We need to talk," Gwen said grimly. "Somewhere private."

They ended up in Arthur's study, Gwen closing the door firmly behind them and checking to ensure no servants lingered nearby.

"She's under a love spell," Gwen said without preamble.

Arthur stared. "What?"

"Princess Vivian. She's enchanted, like you were. A very powerful love spell, from the look of it." Gwen's expression was serious. "And it's focused entirely on you."

"But..." Arthur's mind raced. "How? When? Why would someone enchant her to-- " He stopped. "Wait. You said, 'like you were.' What did you mean by that?"

Gwen's expression shifted to something between sympathy and amusement. "You really don't remember, do you?"

Arthur managed to not snarl in spite of his growing exasperation. "Remember what?"

"The last time King Olaf visited. There was a jester named Trickler, who was actually a sorcerer working for King Alined. He enchanted both you and Vivian to fall in love with each other, hoping to start a war between Camelot and Norway."

Arthur felt his stomach drop. "I was under a love spell?”

"For two days," Gwen said. "You spent the entire time mooning over Vivian, professing your undying devotion, completely out of your mind. King Olaf challenged you to a duel to the death, which you accepted because you were convinced you'd die for love."

"I did WHAT?" Arthur's voice came out several octaves higher than normal.

"You fought him. Nearly died, actually -- broken rib, exhaustion, complete inability to focus because you kept staring at Vivian in the stands." Gwen's smile was gentle despite the horror of what she was describing. "It was... actually kind of terrifying to watch."

Arthur leaned against the wall, trying to process this information. "How was it broken? The enchantment?"

Gwen's smile widened slightly. "The Great Dragon told Merlin that only true love's kiss could break it. Merlin, the great fool, thought you were in love with me and insisted that I kiss you, but of course nothing happened. So then..." She paused, feigning casualness. "I convinced Merlin that he had to do it."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. "Merlin kissed me?"

"Just a peck, really. Very quick, very awkward. You snapped out of the enchantment immediately."

The memory hit him like a mace upside the head. Not the memory of the kiss itself -- that was lost to the enchantment -- but the moment of waking up.

The tent flaps snapping in the wind. The smell of dust and liniment. The sudden, jarring return of clarity, like surfacing from deep water.

He was sitting on the bench. He was sweating. And Merlin was standing right in front of him.

Merlin, looking furious and terrified and breathless. Merlin, whose face was bright red, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Merlin, who was breathing hard, staring at Arthur with wide, frantic eyes.

Arthur remembered blinking at him. "What's wrong with you?" he'd asked. "You look like you've got heat exhaustion. Go dunk your head in a bucket."

And Merlin... Merlin had glared at him. A look of such profound relief and irritation. "You're a clotpole," he'd muttered, turning away to hide his face. "A complete and utter clotpole."

Arthur slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

"Merlin," he whispered.

"He saved you," Gwen said softly, crouching down beside him. "Just before you went out to fight Olaf. Merlin... he argued with me. He didn't want to do it. He was terrified it wouldn't work, or that you'd know. But he did it. He kissed you, the spell broke, and you went out and won the duel."

Arthur stared at the stone floor. He felt like he was seeing the past year through a kaleidoscope that had suddenly snapped into focus.

"He kissed me," Arthur said, his voice trembling. "To save my life."

"And it worked," Gwen pointed out. "Which means..."

"It was true love," Arthur finished. The words were barely a breath.

He thought of the years of banter. The insults. The casual cruelty of their station -- Arthur the Prince, Merlin the servant. He thought of Merlin standing in that tent, his heart hammering, knowing how he felt, believing Arthur would never know, and having to perform that act of supreme vulnerability just to keep Arthur alive.

And then Arthur had woken up and made a joke about it.

"I didn't know," Arthur said, his eyes burning with sudden, hot tears. "He never said a word. He just... carried it. All this time. He loved me, and I treated him like..."

"You treated him like your best friend," Gwen said gently. "And he knew that. He didn't do it for credit, Arthur. He did it because he couldn't lose you."

"But Vivian," Arthur said, his mind snapping back to the present. "If the spell was mutual..."

"Yes, Merlin only broke the spell on you," Gwen said grimly. "Vivian... she's still enchanted. I hoped it would wear off with time, but it's been nearly a year, Arthur. A year of living in a false reality."

Arthur stood up. The grief and the guilt were still there, heavy in his chest, but they were eclipsed by a sudden, fierce determination. He couldn't thank Merlin. Not yet. Merlin was far away, sleeping in a tree.

But he could fix this. He could clean up the mess Merlin had left behind.

"Get Ceryndra," Arthur commanded. "Get the Council. We are going to break this spell."

The Magical Council convened in the small antechamber within the hour. Ceryndra listened to Gwen's explanation with a grave expression, her staff glowing faintly in the dim light.

"A love spell left to fester for nearly a year," Ceryndra murmured, shaking her head. "That is... cruel. It warps the mind. It rewires the heart until the victim cannot distinguish the enchantment from their own soul."

"Can you break it?" Arthur asked.

"Not with a counter-spell," Ceryndra said. "The magic has rooted too deep. It requires the original cure. True love's kiss."

Arthur flinched. "I can't... I don't love her. And she doesn't love me. That's the problem."

"It does not have to be romantic love," Ceryndra explained, looking at Arthur with ancient, knowing eyes. "The legends are often misinterpreted. True love is not just passion. It is sacrifice. It is the bond that puts another's well-being above one's own. A mother for a child. A brother for a brother. Or..." She looked toward the door where King Olaf was pacing. "...a father for a daughter."

Arthur turned to look at Olaf. The bear of a man was distraught, wringing his hands, looking helpless in the face of his daughter's madness.

"He loves her," Arthur said. "More than anything."

It took some convincing. Olaf was a warrior, a man of iron and blood. The idea that a kiss on the forehead could break a sorcerer's curse sounded like a fairy tale to him.

"It is not magic, King Olaf," Arthur told him, placing a hand on the older man's shoulder. "It is truth. Your love for her is stronger than Trickler's lie. You have to believe that."

They brought Vivian into the room. She swooned when she saw Arthur, reaching for him with desperate hands.

"Arthur!" she cried. "My sun! My stars! Why do you keep me from your light?"

Arthur stepped back, guiding Olaf forward. "Vivian," Arthur said gently. "Look at your father."

"Father?" Vivian blinked, looking at Olaf as if he were a piece of furniture. "You are in the way. Move, old man. I must be with my beloved."

Olaf flinched as if struck.

"Do it," Arthur whispered to him. "Just love her. That's all you have to do."

Olaf took a breath that rattled his chest. He reached out, his great, scarred hands trembling, and cupped his daughter's face.

"Vivian," he choked out. "My little bird."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. It wasn't a ceremonial kiss. It was a desperate seal of affection, a pouring of his entire heart into the child he had raised.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Vivian gasped. Her body went rigid. The glassy, euphoric look in her eyes shattered like a dropped mirror. She blinked, once, twice. Her pupils contracted.

She looked at Arthur. Then she looked at her father. Then she looked down at her own dress.

"Why is it so hot in here?" she demanded, her voice shrill and perfectly, wonderfully annoyed. She pulled away from Olaf, dusting off her sleeves. "And why am I wearing this? It's hideous. Father, you know I hate yellow. And this room... it smells of damp stone and horse."

Olaf stared at her. Then he let out a roar of joy that shook the tapestries, sweeping her up into a hug that lifted her feet off the floor.

"Father! Put me down! You're crushing my silk!" Vivian complained, beating on his shoulders.

Arthur leaned against the wall, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

"She's awful," Gwen whispered beside him, smiling as Vivian began to berate a servant for the lack of iced water.

"She is," Arthur agreed, watching the reunion. "She's completely insufferable. But she's herself."

Olaf signed the treaty that afternoon. He didn't even read the clauses about magical regulation. He just signed it, hugged Arthur again, and practically skipped to his carriage, happy to have his difficult, demanding daughter back.

As the dust of their departure settled in the courtyard, Arthur stood alone on the steps.

He touched his lips, thinking of a kiss that had saved his life.

That night, Arthur lay in his chambers with emotions churning through his chest like storm waters. The revelation about Merlin's kiss had settled into his awareness with weight that wouldn't be dismissed.

He reached for the dream-walk with desperate need for connection, for the comfort of Merlin's presence even if consciousness remained out of reach.

The grove materialized around him, and Arthur went immediately to the oak, pressing his hands against bark that had become his anchor.

"I learned something today," Arthur said, his voice rough with emotion. "About the last time Olaf visited. About Vivian's enchantment, and mine."

He pressed his forehead against the warm wood. "Gwen told me you kissed me. That it broke my enchantment because..." He stopped, steadied his voice. "Because you loved me. Truly loved me. And I had no idea. I was so oblivious I told you to go cool off because you looked overheated."

Arthur laughed, but it came out choked. "I wish I'd known. Gods, I wish I'd known then. I don't know what I would have done with that knowledge -- probably something stupid, probably pushed you away out of fear or confusion. But I wish I'd known that you'd been carrying that for so long. That you loved me enough to break dark magic with a kiss you must have dreaded giving."

The connection pulsed steadily beneath his hands, carrying that distant sense of Merlin's sleeping presence. Underneath, corruption writhed as always, fighting the oak's patient healing.

"I hope by now that you know I love you too," Arthur said quietly. "I'm saying it now even though you can't hear me, because I need to say it. I love you. I've loved you for longer than I understood, and when you wake up, I'm going to tell you properly. I'm going to tell you I know what you did, what you've always done, and that I finally understand."

He fell silent, just breathing, feeling the pulse of the tree and the distant struggle of healing magic working its slow cure.

"I miss you," Arthur whispered. "I miss you so much it feels like missing pieces of my own soul. But I'm building something worth waking up to. I promise. And when you do wake up, when you come home..." He stopped, gathered courage. "When you come home, I'm going to kiss you properly. With full awareness of what it means. And you're going to know, without any doubt, that I love you. That I've always loved you, even when I was too blind to see it."

For a long time, there was only the silence of the forest and the grinding struggle deep within the tree.

But then, a sensation.

It wasn't just warmth this time. It was a ripple in his mind, faint and distorted, like a voice heard from the bottom of a deep lake. It was a pressure against his thoughts, a questioning touch.

...Ar...thur...?

It was a word. It was his name.

Arthur’s heart hammered so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. "Merlin! Yes! I'm here!"

The presence in the tree shifted. It felt sluggish, heavy with sleep and pain, but it was there.

...dream...?

The voice was strange... layered, dual-toned. It sounded like Merlin, but overlaid with something else. The hum of the magic, the creak of branches, the sound of wind. It was two voices speaking in perfect unison.

"We're both dreaming," Arthur said, pressing his face against the bark. "But it's real. I'm here. I'm right here."

...heard... you... the dual-voice whispered. Hear you....

"Good," Arthur laughed, a wet, broken sound. “Because I’ve been talking to this tree for months now, it’s about time you said something back.”

A sensation washed over him then. It wasn't a word. It was a feeling. Amazement, overshadowed by fear.

...real... this whole time?

Arthur swallowed at the pain and uncertainty he heard in that voice. "Yes, Merlin. Yes, I am real, I’m here, and I will be here every night until you are free. So don’t you dare stop fighting, do you hear me?"

... hurts... so much...

Arthur clenched his fists and pounded them once, sharply, against the tree’s trunk, angry at his own helplessness. “Merlin, listen to me. I am your king. I know you can defeat this corruption, and I order you to keep fighting.”

There was sharp spike of surprise, followed by hesitant relief.

Yes... sire, Merlin replied, infusing the title with the light mockery only he could get away with.

Then, as if the effort of communicating had drained him, Merlin’s presence withdrew slightly, fading back into the deep, rhythmic struggle of the healing sleep. But it didn't vanish completely. It left a lingering warmth in Arthur's mind, a tether that hadn't been there before.

"Sleep," Arthur whispered, feeling more hope than he had in a long time. "Rest. Heal. And I swear, I will be here for you when you wake up."

PART II: LUGHNASADH

A week later, Arthur sat alone in his chambers, staring at the stack of treaty proposals that had arrived that morning. Three more kingdoms interested in negotiation. He should have felt triumphant.

Instead, he felt hollow.

In the dream-walks of the past few nights, Merlin's presence was merely a whisper of deep-seated pain. Arthur had spoken for hours to the silent oak, pouring out his frustrations about council meetings and legal reforms, hoping his voice might draw Merlin out again, enough to speak.

There had been no response.

A knock at the door pulled him from his brooding.

"Enter."

Geoffrey swept in to the council room, followed by a young man Arthur didn't recognize. The stranger was perhaps slightly older than him, mid-twenties, dark-haired and lean, dressed in the practical but well-made clothing of a traveling bard. He carried a lute case across his back and had the quick, observant eyes of someone who made their living reading audiences.

"Your Majesty," Geoffrey said with barely contained excitement, "may I present Aneirin ap Gildas, lately of Rheged. He arrived this morning in response to your summons."

Arthur rose, studying the young bard. "Master Aneirin. Thank you for coming so quickly."

Aneirin bowed with practiced grace. "Your Majesty honors me with the invitation. Though I confess, your letter was... intriguingly vague about the commission's nature."

"That's because it's unlike any commission you've likely received before." Arthur gestured to the chairs by the fireplace. "Please, sit. Geoffrey, join us."

Once they were settled, Arthur leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "I want you to tell a story. Camelot's story. The true history of what we've been through these past years -- the purge, Morgana's tragedy, the battles we've fought. All of it."

Aneirin's eyebrows rose. "That's... ambitious, Your Majesty. Most patrons prefer their histories edited for glory."

"I want the truth," Arthur said firmly. "The difficult parts especially. I want people across Albion to understand what we've endured, what we're trying to build, and why it matters."

"Even the parts that don't reflect well on the crown?"

Arthur met his gaze steadily. "Especially those."

Geoffrey cleared his throat. "His Majesty believes that understanding can breed compassion where fear has bred hatred. If the kingdoms hear Camelot's full story -- including our failures and losses -- they may see us as something other than the enemy Uther's purge made us."

Aneirin sat back, fingers drumming thoughtfully on his knee. "You're asking me to create something that's part historical account, part political argument, part... what? Apology?"

"No." Arthur's voice was quiet but intense. "Not an apology. An explanation. And an invitation. I want them to see that we're not the same Camelot we were under my father. That we're trying to be better."

The bard studied him for a long moment. "There's something else. Something personal in this request."

Arthur felt his throat tighten. Of course a bard would sense the undertone. They were trained to hear what wasn't said.

"There's someone," he admitted carefully, "who sacrificed everything to protect this kingdom. Who's suffering even now because of that sacrifice. I want... I want people to understand what was given. What it cost."

"Emrys," Aneirin said softly. "The rumors have reached even Rheged. The Court Sorcerer who saved Camelot and now sleeps in some distant place, lost to healing magic."

"Not lost," Arthur said sharply. Then, softer: "Not lost. Just... far away. But yes. Merlin's story is part of this. Perhaps the most important part."

Aneirin and Geoffrey exchanged a glance that Arthur couldn't quite interpret.

"Very well," the bard said finally. "I'll need several days with you, Your Majesty. And with anyone else who can provide firsthand accounts. This isn't the sort of tale I can cobble together from secondhand rumors."

"You'll have whatever time you need," Arthur promised. "And complete access to everyone in the castle. I've already instructed my knights to speak with you freely."

"Then we should begin immediately." Aneirin pulled a leather journal from his bag, already flipping to a fresh page. "Start at the beginning, Your Majesty. Tell me about the Great Purge."

The next five days passed in a blur of storytelling.

Arthur spent hours with Aneirin, recounting the history he'd witnessed and participated in. The bard was a skilled interviewer, asking probing questions that drew out details Arthur hadn't known he remembered. Geoffrey sat in on most sessions, occasionally correcting dates or adding historical context.

"My father truly believed he was protecting the kingdom," Arthur said on the second day, staring into the fire in his chambers. "A sorceress named Nimueh told him the price of my birth, warned him magic demands balance. He agreed anyway, hoping the cost would be paid by someone else. It was my mother who died for my life."

Arthur's voice was heavy with old grief. "He couldn't accept that it was his choice, his gamble that killed her. So he blamed all magic instead. Every spell became the enemy. Every magic user became the person who'd murdered Ygraine, when the truth was... the truth was he murdered her himself, through arrogance and desperation."

"You don't share his view of magic." It wasn't a question.

"No." Arthur's voice was firm. "I’ve learned that magic is a tool. Like a sword, it can protect or it can kill, depending on who wields it and why. But it can also heal wounds, help crops grow strong. It can keep food from molding, it can do something simple and beautiful like make flowers grow.  My father couldn't see that distinction. He killed innocent people rather than face his own guilt."

Aneirin's pen scratched steadily across parchment. "And Morgana? She was his ward, yes?"

Arthur's expression clouded. "My sister, though we only learned that truth near the end. She had magic. Was born with it, we think. Lived in terror of my father discovering it. And when the truth came out..." He paused, struggling with the words. "Merlin made an impossible choice to save the kingdom. One that haunts him still."

"Tell me," Aneirin said gently.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Morgause, Morgana's half-sister, cast a sleeping spell over all of Camelot. Everyone fell unconscious -- everyone except Merlin and Morgause, because they were the spell's caster and the one she'd protected. Morgana was the spell's anchor, though we don't think she fully understood what that meant at the time."

"The only way to break it was to break the anchor. To... to poison Morgana." Arthur's voice dropped. "Merlin did it. Brought her water mixed with hemlock. Held her while she choked on it, weeping. She felt so betrayed -- her friend, one of the few people she'd trusted with hints about her powers, poisoning her."

"She survived?"

"Barely. But Morgause took her away while she was still recovering, still reeling from that betrayal. Took her to the Dark Tower and... broke her. Used mandrake root to make her hallucinate terrible things, used the Silver Wheel to enslave her will. By the time we saw Morgana again, she wasn't the same person. She'd been twisted into a weapon."

Arthur looked at Aneirin directly. "Make sure that's in the ballad. That Merlin carries the guilt of poisoning someone he cared for, even though it saved thousands of lives. That Morgana's transformation started with a betrayal born of impossible necessity. And that she was enslaved afterward, her choices stolen by enchantment. There's still hope for her redemption -- both of them deserve that hope."

On the third day, Aneirin interviewed the knights.

Gwaine spun tales with his usual dramatic flair, making their adventures sound both more thrilling and more ridiculous than they'd actually been. An encounter with a band of bandits, emboldened with a charm that put their targets to sleep, had left all the knights unconscious, Gwaine among them, until a horse fly bit his hand and woke him.

"And then Merlin -- absolute twig of a man, mind you -- he just walks up to this bandit twice his size and says, 'I'd really rather you didn't kill my friends.' No weapon, no armor, just standing there looking mildly annoyed. The bandits were so confused, and the large one actually lowered his sword."

"What happened then?" Aneirin asked, grinning despite himself.

"Merlin knocked them out with magic." Gwaine's smile was fond. "Didn't even blink. Just -- " he made a casual flicking gesture, " -- and down they went. Then Merlin woke the rest of the knights, and made up some story about how the bandits’ sleeping charm backfired on them.”

Leon provided more sober accounts of battles and strategy, but even his military precision couldn't hide the affection in his voice. "Merlin always positioned himself between Arthur and danger. Always. Even before we knew about the magic, we noticed it. He'd trip at exactly the right moment to knock Arthur out of an arrow's path. He'd distract enemies at crucial moments. We thought he was clumsy and lucky."

"He was neither," Aneirin observed.

"No. He was the most deliberate person I've ever known. Every stumble was calculated. Every 'accident' was precisely timed. He spent years making us think he was useless while saving our lives daily."

Lancelot's contribution was quieter but perhaps most revealing. "I was the first to know about his magic. He used it to save my life when we'd only just met, and then he looked at me with such fear -- not for himself, but afraid I'd tell someone and Arthur would be forced to execute him. He trusted me with the truth anyway."

"That must have been difficult," Aneirin said. "Keeping such a secret."

"The difficult part wasn't keeping the secret." Lancelot's expression was distant, remembering. "The difficult part was watching him carry that burden alone. Watching him trust Arthur with everything except the truth. Knowing that if Arthur knew, he wouldn't condemn Merlin -- but Merlin was too afraid to take that chance."

On the fourth day, Hunith sat with them in the gardens.

She spoke of Merlin's childhood, of a boy born with power he didn't understand and a mother who loved him fiercely despite her fear. "He could do things before he could walk. Toys would float to his crib. When he cried, the whole house would shake. I didn't know what to do, how to teach him when I had no magic myself."

"You sent him to Camelot," Aneirin said gently. "To Gaius."

"I sent him where I hoped he could learn to control his gift. Where he might find purpose." Hunith's eyes were distant. "I never imagined... I hoped he'd apprentice as a physician. Live a quiet life. Instead, he found his destiny."

"Do you regret it?"

"Every day," she said simply. "And not at all. He saved thousands of lives. Protected a kingdom. Found love. But he's suffering now, and I can't reach him. What mother wouldn't regret that?"

Aneirin set down his pen. "You said love. You mean King Arthur?"

Hunith smiled, sad and knowing. "I mean my son has looked at Arthur Pendragon the way I once looked at his father. And Arthur looks back the same way, though he's only beginning to understand it. Whatever they call it -- friendship, brotherhood, duty -- underneath, it's love. The kind that rewrites your entire world."

"His father?" Aneirin's interest sharpened. "I hadn't heard Merlin's father mentioned."

"Balinor," Hunith said softly. "The last dragonlord. He lived in Ealdor for a time, after Uther's purge began. We loved each other, but when Uther began hunting him, knowing he was the last of the dragonlords, Balinor had to flee. I was already with child, but I never told him. It was safer that way -- for all of us."

"Did they ever meet?"

"Once." Hunith's eyes filled with tears. "Years later, when the Great Dragon attacked Camelot. Merlin sought Balinor out, desperate to stop the destruction. Balinor was bitter, broken by years of hiding and loss. But Merlin reached him somehow, reminded him what it meant to be a father. They had mere days together before Balinor died saving Merlin from a sword strike when they were attacked by Cenred’s men."

She wiped her eyes. "The dragonlord gift passes from father to son at death. Merlin inherited the power to command dragons in the moment his father died in his arms. He'd finally found him, and then lost him just as quickly."

On the fifth day, Arthur found himself alone with Aneirin again. They'd covered the major events -- the attacks, the soul stone -- but not yet the darkest parts. Arthur had been avoiding them, but he knew they were essential to understanding Merlin's sacrifice.

"There's more," he said abruptly. "Things that are difficult to speak about, but necessary."

Aneirin set down his pen, giving Arthur his full attention.

"The Great Dragon," Arthur began. "My father imprisoned him beneath the castle after the purge, kept him chained for over twenty years. When Morgause cast the sleeping spell, Merlin was desperate to save everyone. The dragon offered information about breaking the curse, but demanded a price -- Merlin had to swear on his mother's life to free him."

Arthur's hands clenched. "What choice did he have? Let everyone die, or make a terrible oath? So he swore it. And later, when circumstances allowed, he kept his word. He freed the dragon."

"And the dragon attacked," Aneirin said quietly.

"Yes." Arthur's voice was heavy. "Twenty years of imprisonment, of rage – the dragon burned villages, killed innocent people. Merlin was desperate to stop him but couldn't. A dragonlord's power was the only thing that could command him, and there were no dragonlords left."

"Until his father died."

"Until Balinor died in Merlin's arms, passing the gift to a son he'd barely known." Arthur looked at Aneirin directly. "Merlin stopped the dragon. Commanded him to leave and never return. But the people needed a hero, needed to believe their prince had saved them. So Merlin told everyone I'd killed the dragon, let me take credit for his magic."

"He carries the guilt of those deaths," Aneirin observed.

"All of them. Every person who died in those attacks -- Merlin blames himself. The oath he was forced to make, the dragon he was forced to free, the father he barely knew who died to give him the power to stop it. All of it weighs on him."

Arthur's voice dropped. "That's why you need to tell this story carefully. Not to excuse his choices, but to help people understand the impossible positions he was put in. The way every option was terrible, and he chose the least terrible one every time. The guilt he carries for it."

Aneirin was quiet for a moment. "These are the darkest parts of the story. The parts that show how much he suffered."

"Yes. And they need to be told, because they lead to understanding what happened at the end. Why he ran."

"Tell me about the Eye of Balor."

So Arthur did. He recounted Morgana's trap, Hunith's kidnapping, Merlin's desperate choice to wear the bracer that severed him from his magic. The caves, the confrontation, Morgana's revelations about the hemlock and the dragon.

"I was devastated," Arthur admitted. "Not angry, just... overwhelmed. All these secrets, all these impossible choices he'd made alone. I looked at him and he saw disappointment in my face, even though what I felt was grief for his suffering."

"And then the bracer broke."

"And then the Eye's corruption flooded into him. I destroyed the Eye with Excalibur, but that made it worse -- all its malevolence poured into Merlin because he was the only vessel powerful enough to contain it. He fought it. Teleported us all to safety. But he could feel the corruption trying to twist everything he loved, trying to use his feelings as weapons."

Arthur's voice broke slightly. "He looked at me, and I saw terror in his eyes. Terror that he'd hurt me, hurt everyone. So he ran. Transported himself across the narrow sea to Brocéliande, to an ancient forest where he thought the magic might help him fight. He was trying to protect us, even while he was being consumed."

"And Morgana sealed him in the oak."

"Morgana tried to imprison him, but the forest itself intervened. Transformed her spell into healing. The oak draws out the corruption slowly, purges it while teaching his magic to exist alongside his humanity. But it takes time. A year and a day."

Arthur met Aneirin's eyes. "He's been asleep for one hundred seventy-three days now. Fighting to remain himself. Fighting to come back to us. And I need people to understand -- not just what he did, but what it cost him. The guilt, the grief, the terror he felt before he sealed himself away to keep us safe."

Aneirin sat back, his expression thoughtful. "I have the facts," he said slowly. "But I'm missing something. The heart of it."

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your Majesty, you've told me what Merlin did. You've recounted his heroism, his sacrifices, the impossible choices he made. But you've been very careful not to talk about how you feel about any of it."

"My feelings aren't relevant to-- "

"They're the entire point," Aneirin interrupted gently. "Forgive my bluntness, Sire, but you didn't commission this ballad for political reasons alone. You did it because you need people to understand what Merlin means. Not just to Camelot -- to you specifically."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

"You're asking me to publicly declare -- "

"I'm not asking anything," Aneirin said. "I'm observing that you already declared it. Every time you speak his name, your voice changes. Every story about him, you remember details no one else mentioned. You know exactly how many days it's been since he left."

"One hundred seventy-three," Arthur said before he could stop himself.

Aneirin's expression gentled. "Your Majesty, I'm a bard. I know a love story when I hear one. The only question is whether you want me to tell it as it is, or pretend it's something else."

Arthur stared at the floor, his heart hammering. To have it spoken aloud by someone outside their intimate circle felt both terrifying and strangely liberating.

"If I acknowledge it publicly," he said slowly, "there will be consequences. Political complications. People who'll use it as a weapon against us."

"Yes," Aneirin agreed. "There will also be people who see it as hope. Who hear that their king loves someone with magic, and think perhaps there's a place for them in this new Camelot after all."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. He thought about Merlin, alone in that oak, fighting to remain himself. He thought about all the nights he'd poured his heart out in dream-walks, holding nothing back because Merlin needed to hear the truth.

If he could be that honest in dreams, why not in waking?

"Put what you see in the song," Arthur said finally. "I won't deny it. If you can tell from the way I speak about him that I love him, then... then let that be part of the story. The truth of it."

Aneirin smiled. "Thank you, Your Majesty. That's all I needed to hear."

Three days later, Aneirin presented his work.

Arthur sat in his chambers while the bard sang through the entire piece, just the two of them and Geoffrey as witness. It was structured in movements, each section flowing into the next like chapters in a book.

The opening described Camelot before the Purge -- golden and peaceful, magic and humanity in harmony. Aneirin's voice painted pictures of festivals where sorcerers lit the night sky with conjured lights while children laughed and danced below.

Then came the darkness. But here, Aneirin had crafted the verses carefully, placing blame where it belonged:

"The king desired an heir, his queen desired a child,

The sorceress named the price: a life for life must pay,

But Uther in his pride thought he could cheat the wild,

Agreed and hoped another soul would be the one to pay.

But magic keeps its balance, takes what must be given,

And Ygraine paid the cost her husband tried to hide,

Yet Uther could not bear the guilt of what his choice had riven,

So blamed all magic for the death his arrogance had tied."

Arthur felt tears prick his eyes. This was the truth his father had never been able to face. The responsibility he'd transformed into genocide.

The ballad chronicled the First Purge in devastating detail -- pyres burning, families torn apart, the smoke of funeral fires darkening the sun. Arthur felt the weight of his father's sins settle over him like a shroud.

The next movement chronicled Arthur's youth -- a boy trying to be good enough, strong enough, worthy of a father who seemed carved from stone. Learning to fight, to lead, to carry the weight of expectation while wondering if there could ever be more than duty.

Then Merlin's arrival. The music shifted here, becoming lighter, tinged with hope. Aneirin sang of the clumsy servant who couldn't walk across a room without disaster, who spoke to the prince with startling honesty, who somehow made Arthur laugh for the first time in years.

The ballad traced their adventures in verses that captured the affection beneath the bickering. Merlin tripping at precisely the right moments. Merlin standing between Arthur and danger with nothing but a ridiculous grin. The way Arthur trusted him with matters of state while Merlin trusted Arthur with his life.

"And if the prince did not see the magic in each rescue,

The servant bore that secret like a thorn beneath his heart,

For love means sometimes silence, sometimes sacrifice,

Sometimes giving everything and calling it duty's part."

Arthur's breath caught. The romantic framing was subtle but unmistakable.

The ballad continued through the major battles -- the knights joining one by one, each getting a verse that captured their essence. Gwaine's irreverent courage. Lancelot's quiet nobility. Leon's steadfast loyalty. The brotherhood they built despite Uther's increasingly erratic rule.

Then came the sleeping curse, and Aneirin's voice dropped to something haunting:

"When Morgause cast her spell of endless slumber deep,

And all of Camelot lay trapped in cursed sleep,

Young Merlin faced a choice no man should have to make:

Let thousands die in dreams, or one betrayal's path to take.

The dragon, chained and bitter, offered him the cure,

But demanded freedom's price -- an oath upon his mother's life,

What choice had Merlin then, with death at every door?

He swore the terrible oath and bought the cure with future strife.

The only way to break the spell was breaking Morgana's heart,

The anchor of the curse, his friend who believed in him,

He brought her hemlock water, played the poisoner's dark part,

And held her while she choked, his eyes with sorrow dim.

He did not ask forgiveness as she looked at him betrayed,

The girl who'd shared her secrets, shown her magic with pure trust,

Now dying from his hand -- the price that had to be paid,

To save a kingdom sleeping, the shine of friendship turned to rust."

The world blurred before Arthur and he felt the wet streak of tears on his face. He'd known the story, but hearing it sung -- hearing the agony of Merlin's choice immortalized -- was overwhelming.

The ballad continued through Morgana's survival and disappearance, then into darker territory:

"But promises made in desperation still must be fulfilled,

And Merlin freed the dragon from his prison's chain,

Twenty years of rage in the dragon’s heart was filled,

And innocent people died beneath the fiery rain.

Merlin could not stop him, had no power to command,

For only dragonlords could make the ancient creatures heed,

And Balinor the last was hidden in a distant land,

A father Merlin never knew, a father born of need.

They found him bitter, broken, hollowed out by years of flight,

But Merlin reached his father's heart with desperate, honest plea,

And Balinor remembered what it meant to stand and fight,

Died saving son and kingdom, gave his gift to set them free.

The power passed from father's death to son who barely knew his name,

And Merlin stopped the dragon with a grief-torn, newborn voice,

But let Prince Arthur take the credit, take the hero's fame,

For Merlin always preferred the shadows to the world's choice."

Geoffrey was wiping his eyes now. Arthur couldn't stop the tears streaming down his face.

Then came Morgana's tragedy, sung with aching tenderness:

"The girl who'd choked on hemlock felt betrayed beyond repair,

And Morgause found her sister, took her to the Dark Tower's keep,

Fed her nightmares through the mandrake, poisoned her despair,

And bound her with the Silver Wheel while Morgana's soul did weep.

She could have been a healer, could have been a friend,

But chains of silver bind the soul and break the strongest will,

And when we see the enemy, remember this my friends:

Sometimes the one who strikes the blow is victim also still."

The final movements built toward the climax. The Soul Stone's attack. Merlin's sacrifice described in visceral detail -- his soul ripped away, his body kept alive by magic alone. The horror of Emrys, powerful and empty. Arthur's desperate journey to save him.

And then, the moment in the cave. Aneirin sang it with aching tenderness:

"The king faced choice between the power and the man,

Between the force that could reshape the world at his command,

And the fumbling, faithful servant who had walked beside him all these years,

And Arthur chose the person over glory close at hand.

'Give me Merlin,' said the king, 'not Emrys, not the might,

Give me my friend, my counselor, my heart's most precious treasure,

For all the power in the world is nothing but an empty light,

If I must lose the one who taught me love's true measure.'"

Arthur's chest felt like it might crack open. He'd said something like that, yes, but hearing it sung back to him -- hearing the love in his own words made explicit -- was overwhelming.

The ballad continued through Merlin's restoration, the revelation of his magic to the court. Then Uther's death and Arthur's coronation -- verses that acknowledged grief and responsibility equally.

Then came the Eye of Balor. Morgana's trap. Hunith's kidnapping. The bracer and its terrible cost. The caves and Morgana's revelations -- all of it laid bare in verses that emphasized not Merlin's deception but his impossible choices:

"'See how your servant poisoned me,' dark Morgana cried,

'See how he freed the dragon, let innocent people die,

See how he kept his secrets, kept his magic hidden wide,

See how he betrayed everyone with every single lie!'

But Arthur saw the truth beneath the accusations made:

Not betrayal but impossible choices forced by circumstance,

Not lies but silence purchased with guilt that never fade,

Not deception but a servant who never had the chance.

Each secret Merlin carried was a burden borne alone,

Each choice he made was terrible -- no option free from pain,

He poisoned friends to save thousands, made each grief his own,

And carried guilt for every death like unrelenting rain."

Then the climax -- the bracer breaking, the Eye's corruption flooding in, Arthur striking the Eye with Excalibur:

"The king destroyed the ancient eye to save his dearest friend,

But dying malice needs a vessel, needs a place to go,

And all the Eye's accumulated darkness found its end,

In Merlin's vast and magic soul -- the only one who could hold such woe.

He fought it. Gods and stars, he fought with everything he had,

The corruption whispering poison, trying to twist his love to hate,

He saw Arthur's face and thought he saw disappointment sad,

And chose to flee rather than let darkness seal their fate.

'I won't hurt them,' Merlin swore through agony and fear,

'I won't let this corruption use my love as weapon's edge,'

And teleported far away though Arthur called for him to stay near,

Seeking ancient Brocéliande and healing's desperate pledge."

The ending verses described Morgana's spell transformed by the forest, Merlin sleeping in the oak, Arthur's determination to bring him home. The final warning rang out clear and strong, but it was the penultimate verse that struck Arthur's heart:

"Now Emrys sleeps in sacred oak across the narrow sea,

His magic purging corruption while he fights to stay the man,

He carries guilt for hemlock, for dragon, for each painful plea,

But Arthur waits to tell him: 'You're forgiven. Come home when you can.'

For love means understanding all the terrible choices made,

Love means seeing guilt and saying: 'I would choose you still,'

Love means waiting patient while the healing sleep doesn't fade,

Love means: 'Come home to me, and I will love you through it all until...'"

The last verse completed the thought with its warning about harming Camelot, but Arthur barely heard it through his tears.

The last note faded into absolute silence.

Then Arthur spoke, his voice rough with emotion. "It's... it's perfect. Aneirin, you've captured everything. The pain, the love, the impossible choices. You've made people see him as I see him."

"I only told what was already there, Your Majesty," the bard said quietly. "Your story. His story. Camelot's story."

"The romance is... very clear."

"Yes." Aneirin met his eyes. "Is that a problem?"

Arthur thought about Merlin sleeping in that distant oak. About the dream-walks where he'd already confessed his love a hundred times over. About the kingdom they were building together, even separated.

"No," he said finally. "It's the truth. Let it stand."

Geoffrey spoke up for the first time. "The political implications -- "

"I know." Arthur straightened, pulling himself together. "Some kingdoms will object. Some will see it as weakness. But some will hear it as hope. And right now, we need hope more than we need unanimous approval."

He looked at Aneirin. "When can you perform it publicly?"

"Lughnasadh is in three days. The harvest festival. The entire court will be assembled, plus commons from the city."

"Perfect." Arthur stood, squaring his shoulders. "We'll make it part of the celebration. And Aneirin -- after you perform it here, I want you to take it to every kingdom in Albion. Sing it in castles and villages. Let everyone hear Camelot's truth."

The bard bowed. "It will be my honor, Your Majesty."

The night before Lughnasadh, Arthur lay in bed and reached for the dream-walk.

The sacred grove materialized around him with familiar ease. He placed his hands against the oak's bark, feeling the faint warmth of Merlin's presence within.

"Merlin," he said softly. "Tomorrow we're premiering the ballad. The story of Camelot, of us. I'm... I'm nervous about it, if I'm honest. It makes everything public. Our history, our friendship, my..." he swallowed. "My love for you."

No response, but he thought he felt a flutter of attention. Merlin was distant now, his consciousness spread thin, but perhaps still listening.

"I wanted you to know -- the bard didn't hide your pain. He told it all. The hemlock, the dragon, the impossible choices. Your guilt and grief. But he told it with such compassion, Merlin. He made people see that every choice was terrible, and you chose the least terrible option every time. That you carry the weight of those deaths not because you're guilty, but because you're good."

He pressed his forehead against the bark. "I'm proud of it. Proud of our story. I hope... I hope when you wake, you'll hear it and know that I understand. That I forgive you for every secret, every impossible choice. That I would choose you still, guilt and all."

The warmth beneath his hands pulsed once, very faint. It might have been wishful thinking.

Arthur smiled anyway. "Rest well. I'll tell you how it goes tomorrow night."

---

Lughnasadh dawned bright and warm, the kind of perfect summer day that seemed designed for celebration.

The great hall had been prepared since dawn. Every surface was decorated with harvest garlands -- wheat sheaves, late summer flowers, ribbons in gold and green. The court assembled in their finest clothing. The commons were admitted as well, packing the galleries and standing room until the space was filled to capacity with perhaps three hundred people.

Arthur sat on his throne. The knights lined the dais, standing at attention. Hunith sat in the front row beside Gaius, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Gwen stood with Lancelot near the dais in her capacity as head steward, their hands discreetly intertwined.

The feast had been magnificent, the harvest bounty displayed in abundance. Now, as servants cleared the tables and people settled in anticipation, Geoffrey stood.

"My lords and ladies, honored guests, people of Camelot," he announced in his carrying voice. "His Majesty has commissioned a special performance for this Lughnasadh. Master Aneirin, bard of Rheged, will present a new work -- the story of Camelot, told true."

Aneirin stepped into the center of the hall, carrying no instrument. He wore simple but elegant clothing in deep blue, his dark hair tied back. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the anticipation build.

Then he began to sing.

His voice was clear and strong, trained to carry through large spaces without losing nuance. The opening verses painted Camelot's golden age with such vivid imagery that Arthur could almost see the festivals his father had described from before the Purge.

The audience sat transfixed, but murmurs rippled through the crowd as the ballad shifted to Uther's choice and Ygraine's death. Arthur heard gasps, whispers of shock. Some faces showed understanding -- finally, an explanation that made terrible sense.

The Purge verses brought open weeping. Arthur saw people clutching each other, saw old grief reopened but also, perhaps, beginning to heal through acknowledgment.

But Aneirin's voice swept them along relentlessly, through shadow into the faint light of Arthur's childhood, then into the brightness of Merlin's arrival.

Arthur saw smiles when the ballad described their early bickering. He saw people nodding knowingly at the description of Merlin's "clumsiness." Several knights were grinning outright, clearly remembering the reality behind those verses.

The adventure verses brought laughter at the right moments -- Gwaine's exploits were particularly well-received. But there was weight beneath the humor, the constant refrain of Merlin protecting Arthur, Arthur trusting Merlin, the bond between them growing stronger than steel.

When Aneirin reached the sleeping curse and the hemlock, the hall fell completely silent. Arthur watched faces in the crowd transform -- shock, then understanding, then grief. When the bard sang of Merlin holding Morgana while she choked, several people covered their mouths.

Hunith was weeping silently, remembering her son's anguish over that choice.

The dragon verses hit with similar impact. The impossible oath, Balinor's death, Merlin's inherited grief -- all of it laid bare. When Aneirin sang of Merlin letting Arthur take credit for the dragon's defeat, Arthur heard someone whisper, "He gave everything, even the glory."

Morgana's tragedy held everyone breathless. By the end of those verses, many were weeping -- not just for the innocent victims of the Purge, but for the broken girl who might have been saved, who might still be saved.

The Soul Stone section, familiar to many who'd lived through it, still moved people to tears. When Aneirin sang of Arthur choosing "the man over the might," Arthur saw people glancing at him with new understanding.

His face burned, but he kept his expression neutral, regal. Let them see. Let them understand.

Uther's death was acknowledged with respect but not glorification -- a king who'd done terrible things from terrible grief, whose son had chosen a better path.

Then came the Eye of Balor. Morgana's revelations. The bracer's terrible cost. And most devastating of all, Merlin's corruption and flight:

"He saw Arthur's face and thought he saw disappointment sad,

And chose to flee rather than let darkness seal their fate.

'I won't hurt them,' Merlin swore through agony and fear,

'I won't let this corruption use my love as weapon's edge...'"

The hall was utterly silent. Arthur could hear people breathing, could feel the weight of collective grief.

When Aneirin sang of Merlin's guilt -- for the hemlock, for the dragon, for every terrible choice -- and Arthur's forgiveness, his determination to bring Merlin home, the love between them was unmistakable.

The warning in the final verse rang out like a bell:

"Now Emrys sleeps in sacred wood across the narrow sea,

And Arthur rules in Camelot with justice and with grace,

But any who would harm this land should know and heed my plea:

When Emrys wakes, his fury shall rain down on any who threaten this place.

For love is strongest magic, stronger than any spell,

And love will call him home again when healing work is done,

So harm not this kingdom that the Once and Future King does guard so well,

For Emrys and his Arthur's fate are woven into one."

The last note faded into absolute silence.

Then pandemonium.

The hall erupted in thunderous applause, people on their feet, stomping and cheering. Arthur saw servants weeping. Knights standing taller, visibly moved by their depiction. Common folk clutching each other, their faces showing wonder and pride.

But it was the variety of reactions that struck him most. An elderly woman in the gallery wiping her eyes and nodding as if something had finally been explained. A young man with his hand over his heart, clearly seeing himself in Merlin's impossible choices. A merchant's family embracing, looking at Arthur with something like hope.

Gwen was crying freely, pressed against Lancelot's shoulder. Hunith had her hands over her mouth, pride and grief warring on her face. Gaius looked decades younger, as if a weight had been lifted.

The knights were grinning like fools. Gwaine was actually whistling, while Lancelot looked at Arthur with approval and understanding.

Aneirin bowed deeply, first to Arthur, then to the assembly. The applause continued for several minutes, wave after wave of it crashing against the stone walls.

Finally, Arthur rose. Silence fell immediately.

"Master Aneirin," he said, his voice carrying across the hall. "You have given us an extraordinary gift. You've captured our history -- all of it, shadow and light together -- and turned it into something we can carry forward."

He looked out at the assembled crowd. Commons and nobles, servants and knights, all watching him with rapt attention.

"This is who we are," Arthur said. "Not perfect. Not without tragedy or failure. But trying. Building something better than what came before. And at the heart of it all -- " his voice caught slightly, but he pushed through, " -- at the heart of it all is the bond between this kingdom and the man who has protected it at such terrible cost to himself."

"Merlin made impossible choices. He carries guilt for decisions no one should have had to make. He poisoned a friend to save a kingdom. He freed a dragon to break a curse. He let innocent people die because the alternative was worse. And he ran from us not out of cowardice, but out of love -- because he was terrified the corruption would twist that love into something that would hurt us."

Arthur's voice strengthened. "When Emrys wakes, he will return to a Camelot that knows the truth about him. That understands what he gave. That forgives him for every impossible choice, because we see now that there were no good options -- only terrible ones and worse ones. And he always chose to bear the terrible himself rather than let others suffer."

The crowd was utterly silent, hanging on every word.

"He will return to a kingdom that welcomes him home with full hearts and open hands. That tells him: you are forgiven. You are loved. You are wanted, guilt and all."

Arthur’s voice nearly broke on those words. He looked down, took a deep breath, then looked at the bard.

"Master Aneirin, I charge you with taking this story to every corner of Albion. Let every kingdom hear Camelot's truth. And let them know -- " he met the bard's eyes directly, " -- let them know that we stand ready to forge alliances with any who share our vision. Who believe that magic and humanity can coexist. That understanding can grow from honesty. That love is stronger than fear."

More applause, thunderous and sustained.

Arthur sat down, his heart pounding. He'd done it. Made their story public. Made his love for Merlin unmistakable to anyone with ears to hear. Made Merlin's suffering and guilt known, so that when he woke, he'd know he was forgiven.

There would be consequences. Political complications. But as he looked out at the faces in the hall -- the hope and joy and understanding he saw there -- he knew he'd made the right choice.

That night's dreamwalk brought something unexpected.

Arthur had been speaking for perhaps an hour, describing the reaction to the ballad, when he felt the pulse of warmth shift beneath his palms.

He felt it before he heard it. A question, pressed against his consciousness like a thought that wasn't quite his own. Hesitant, barely there, but unmistakably reaching.

"Merlin?" Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. "Is that you? Can you hear me?"

The question pressed again, carrying confusion and desperate hope in equal measure. And then --

Arthur?

The voice was stronger than last time, still strange, doubled somehow, two tones speaking simultaneously, overlapping but distinct. One was Merlin's, rough with exhaustion and something that might have been disbelief. The other was something else, something that resonated with power Arthur had felt before in caves of trial and moments of magical crisis.

"Yes! Yes, it's me. I'm here." Arthur pressed his hands harder against the bark, trying to push his certainty through whatever barriers separated them. "Can you hear me?"

A long pause.

Then, tentatively: How do I know? The doubled voice carried anguish that made Arthur's chest ache. How do I know you're not just... not just something I'm imagining? The corruption shows me things. Creates hope so the despair hurts more when it turns out to be lies.

Arthur's heart broke at the raw fear in that voice -- the fear of someone who'd been tormented so long they couldn't trust even the possibility of rescue.

"What can I tell you that would prove I'm real?" he asked. "Something you couldn't know, something the corruption couldn't fabricate?"

Silence stretched between them. Arthur waited, barely breathing.

Tell me something that happened after I left. Something I couldn't have seen.

Arthur thought frantically. "Your mother is safe. She's living with Gaius in his chambers. She spent the first week cooking for everyone, driving the kitchen staff mad by insisting she could do it better. She tells stories about you as a child -- apparently you set the barn on fire when you were three, trying to make the milk warm itself."

A sound filtered through the connection -- something between a laugh and a sob.

She told you about the barn?

"She's told me about a lot of things. She wanted me to understand you, Merlin. Wanted me to see the whole picture, not just the moments of crisis." Arthur's voice softened. "And she wanted me to tell you that she's proud of you. That she's always been proud of you. That nothing you've done could ever change that."

I don't... The doubled voice fractured with emotion. I don't deserve--

"Stop." Arthur made his voice as firm as he could manage. "I've spent months talking to a tree, telling you things I should have said years ago. I'm not going to let you convince yourself you don't deserve to hear them."

You don't understand. The things I did... the choices I made... Arthur, you know now. You know about the hemlock, about the dragon, about all of it. How can you still...

"Because I understand why you did those things. Your mother explained. The sleeping curse, the hemlock, why there was no other option. The dragon bargain, the promise sworn on her life, the impossible position Kilgharrah put you in." Arthur swallowed hard. "Every terrible choice you made, you made trying to protect people. Trying to protect me. That's not something to hate yourself for. That's exactly who you are."

You don't know who I am! The doubled voice carried bitterness that cut like a blade. You don't know what it's like to have magic that can do almost anything and still watch people die because you weren't fast enough, weren't smart enough, weren't willing to pay prices that might have saved them.

"Then tell me." Arthur cut through the spiral of self-recrimination. "Not now, but when you wake. Tell me everything, every burden you've carried alone. And let me help you carry it. That's what I'm asking for, Merlin. Not perfection. Not a hero without flaws. Just you, whole and present and willing to let me love you despite everything."

The silence that followed felt different than before -- not resistant, but processing. Considering.

Why? The question carried genuine confusion. After everything Morgana revealed... why would you still want...

"Because none of that changes what you mean to me. It just explains things. Contextualizes the man I already loved." Arthur pressed his forehead against the bark. "I was angry in the caves. I won't pretend otherwise. But I've had time to think, and what I keep coming back to is this: you spent years protecting me, protecting Camelot, sacrificing pieces of yourself that you'll never get back. You deserve forgiveness, Merlin. Even if you can't forgive yourself yet."

The warmth beneath Arthur's palms pulsed stronger, as if something in Merlin was finally, tentatively, reaching back.

I don't know if I can believe this is real, the doubled voice said finally. Part of me still thinks I'll realize it was all illusion again. That I'm still alone, fighting battles that never end.

"Then I'll come back tomorrow. And the night after. And every night until you can't doubt anymore." Arthur managed something like a smile despite the tears on his dream-cheeks. "I'm stubborn, Merlin. You know that better than anyone."

A sound filtered through -- something between a laugh and a sob. Clotpole.

The word was so perfectly, quintessentially Merlin that Arthur's heart cracked open with relief. "There you are. That's the Merlin I know."

I'm so tired, Arthur. Fighting all the time. The corruption doesn't stop.

"Then rest. As much as you can. But know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

The connection was fading -- these dreams never lasted as long as Arthur wanted. But before it dissolved entirely, he caught one final whisper:

Thank you. For not giving up.

"Never," Arthur promised fiercely. "I'll never give up on you."

The morning sun beat down on the training field where knights and magic users had gathered for what had become a daily ritual. Two months since that first disastrous session, and the transformation was remarkable.

"Shield wall!" Leon commanded, and the response was immediate and coordinated.

Four knights locked shields in tight formation while two magic users behind them raised barriers that shimmered with golden light. The barriers extended seamlessly from the physical shields, creating a defensive line that combined steel and sorcery into something greater than either alone.

Leon nodded approval, then signaled to Gwaine's team positioned across the field. "Attack!"

Gwaine's mixed unit advanced -- knights moving in practiced formation while their magical partners provided covering fire. Concussive blasts struck the shield wall, absorbed by layered defenses. Then Cadell, the druid who'd clashed with Sir Geraint during that first session, created an opening with a perfectly timed illusion. The defending knights turned toward the phantom threat, and Gwaine's team exploited the gap with coordinated precision.

"Hold!" Leon called, stopping the exercise before actual contact. "Reset!"

Both teams disengaged, already discussing what had worked and what needed adjustment. Arthur watched from the sidelines, Percival beside him, and felt cautiously optimistic.

"They're actually good," Percival observed. "Not just competent. Actually good."

"They've learned to trust each other," Arthur replied. "That's what makes the difference."

Sir Geraint was demonstrating a defensive stance to Cadell, explaining how knights read body language to anticipate attacks. Cadell in turn showed Geraint the subtle gestures that preceded different spell types, giving the knight precious seconds to adjust position.

"Again!" Leon commanded. "This time, Brennan's team defends, Kay's team attacks."

The exercises continued through the morning, each iteration showing the gradual integration that had developed through weeks of persistent training. There were still mistakes -- Eira accidentally singed Sir Brennan's cloak again, prompting good-natured ribbing -- but the fundamental mistrust had dissolved into working partnership.

By midday, when Leon called the session to a close, knights and magic users dispersed together rather than separating into isolated groups. Gwaine was engaged in animated discussion with Ruadan about the theoretical limitations of magical shields. Sir Kay shared his water flask with a young sorcerer who'd exhausted himself during the last drill.

Small things. But they mattered.

The Magical Council sessions had found their rhythm as well, though not without persistent friction.

Lord Marrok, who had eventually returned to the council after two weeks of soul-searching, shook his head firmly. "Any leniency sends the wrong message. Magic must be regulated strictly."

"Regulated, yes," Ruadan countered. "But proportionally. A woman who uses magic to light her hearth fire is not the same threat as a sorcerer who attacks with intent to harm. Our laws should reflect that distinction."

"And who decides where to draw the line?" Marrok challenged. "Who determines which magic is minor and which is dangerous?"

"That's why we're here," Arthur interjected. "To establish those guidelines together. Magic users understand the abilities and their risks. Traditional councilors understand the concerns of those who've feared magic for twenty years. We need both perspectives."

Geoffrey cleared his throat. "I've drafted a preliminary framework based on historical precedents and current proposals." He distributed parchments around the table. "Three tiers of magical offenses: minor, serious, and severe. Each with appropriate penalties ranging from fines to imprisonment to, in extreme cases, execution."

"Execution should be removed entirely," Ruadan said firmly. "Magic users have been executed for existing. We can't continue that practice."

"Even for murder committed through magical means?" Lord Marrok demanded.

"Murder should be punished regardless of method," Gwen said reasonably. "But the penalty should be for the crime -- murder -- not for the magic itself."

The debate continued for hours, voices rising and falling as they hammered out details. It was exhausting work, made harder by deeply held beliefs on both sides. But slowly, painfully, they were building framework that might actually work.

By the end of the session, they'd agreed on preliminary guidelines for minor offenses. Small progress, but progress nonetheless.

The legal reforms proceeded with similar difficulty.

"The First Rule of Knights," Arthur announced during a full council session, "stated that nobility was a prerequisite for knighthood. This rule has been functionally obsolete since I knighted Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan -- all men who proved their worth through action rather than birthright. Today, I'm making that obsolescence official. The First Rule is hereby abolished."

The reaction was mixed. Progressive nobles applauded. Conservative ones muttered about declining standards. But Arthur had three common-born knights standing behind him, their presence a living argument against aristocratic exclusivity.

"Merit," Arthur continued, "not bloodline, will determine who serves Camelot in positions of honor. This applies to knighthood, to council positions, to any role where ability matters more than ancestry."

Lord Marrok stood slowly. "Your Majesty, I must protest-- "

"Your protest is noted," Arthur interrupted. "And dismissed. This is not subject to debate. It's done."

Marrok sat back down, jaw tight with displeasure, but he didn't leave this time. Small progress, Arthur thought.

The reforms to magical offense penalties followed similar patterns -- opposition from conservatives, support from progressives, and Arthur pushing through changes despite resistance because they were right.

"We will punish genuine crimes -- assault, murder, theft committed through magical means -- but we will stop criminalizing existence."

"And what of the appeal process?" Geoffrey asked.

"Established," Arthur confirmed. "Any person condemned to death or life imprisonment will have the right to appeal to a review council composed of both traditional judges and magical advisors. We will ensure justice is actually just."

Each reform faced opposition. Each change created friction. But Arthur persisted, remembering Merlin's years of secret protection, remembering all those who'd died for the crime of being born different.

This was what they'd fought for. This was the kingdom worth building.

The ballad spread like wildfire. It left the hall that night on the lips of servants and knights. It traveled to the taverns of the lower town. It rode out the gates with merchants and travelers.

By the time the first leaves began to turn gold, Aneirin was gone, traveling the roads of Albion. And with him went the truth.

The Northern Kingdoms heard it. The enemy kings heard it. The message was clear: Camelot was not weak. Camelot was protected by a King who wielded a dragon-forged sword, and a Sorcerer who was sleeping only until he was needed. And they were one soul in two bodies.

Arthur ruled. He reformed the laws. He trained the army. He broke the old traditions that strangled the kingdom.

But he lived for the nights.

The dream walks became his sanctuary. The connection grew stronger with every passing week.

Arthur...

"I'm here."

...hurt... it hurts... the pulling...

"I know. I know it hurts. But you're getting it out. The tree is taking it. You're winning."

So tired... want to stop...

"Stay with me. Just a little longer. Don't let go."

The responses were becoming more frequent. The double-voice was still there, Magic and Man speaking in unison, a chorus of two, but the confusion was fading. There was a rhythm to it now. A nightly ritual of comfort and endurance.

Summer burned hot and bright, and then began to fade. The green of the forest deepened. The air grew crisp.

The wheel turned. And Arthur waited.

To be continued...