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The halls of the castle of Camelot are dark.
Mordred stays still for a while, aware of the noise he will unwillingly make once he moves. He is proud of the armour he wears, but it makes it impossible to remain silent. There is a spell for quieting oneself, he knows, but he has never really had a need for it. As a boy, he was quiet on his feet, and as a man, he has never needed to sneak around.
As he stands, waiting, he spots a dark shadow moving. He only notices it because he was waiting for it, and he immediately follows, before he loses the trail.
Merlin doesn’t seem to notice him, and Mordred thanks the gods for that—the other knights might trust the king’s manservant to wander around in the night, but Mordred knows him better than they do, doesn’t he? Merlin is made up of two things, he has learnt—magic and secrets. He is not sure yet which one of those takes up the largest part of what makes up Merlin.
Mordred follows as Merlin crosses the courtyard, and only has to hide himself twice. Merlin barely looks back—he has probably learnt that he doesn’t need to. He is silent and swift, and Mordred has trouble keeping up with the hooded, lean figure of Merlin.
It is ironic that he still thinks this needs to be done, Mordred thinks. Everyone in the castle knows that Merlin has the absolute trust of the king, and no one would dare lay a hand on him. At this point, it is common knowledge to everyone that Merlin can do whatever he likes.
Common knowledge to everyone but Merlin, apparently. Mordred wishes he would just see reason.
Merlin would be easy to lose in the forest if Mordred hadn’t been so intimately familiar with it. Not even his armour slows him down, and he steps over twigs carefully so as not to rouse the suspicion of Merlin. Merlin shows no signs of stopping, no matter how deep into the forest they wander, and Mordred carefully follows him from a distance.
They stop near the Lake, and Mordred crouches in the last vestiges of the forest to watch Merlin. The dark of the night shields him, but Mordred watches as Merlin falls to his knees and rests his fingers in the water—gently, like he is stroking it.
The moon reflects on the still water, and Merlin’s dark hair almost seems luminescent blue. Mordred holds his breath as Merlin murmurs something, and gold lights up the Lake. The magic is so strong that Mordred can feel it screaming to him, even far away as he is.
A woman appears—gleaming and glittering, and she rises from the water and cups Merlin’s face, kissing his cheek. It’s a water sprite, and Mordred frowns, just as she looks right towards him.
“You brought me a visitor, Merlin,” the woman says lightly, and beckons at Mordred.
He slowly rises to his feet, towards the Lake. He gazes at the woman—now that he is closer, he sees that she does not seem so old. There is a sad twist to her smile, and she still has a hold on Merlin’s arm.
Merlin’s expression is carefully shuttered close.
“My lady,” Mordred says politely, and inclines his head to the water sprite. “Emrys.”
“Why are you here, Mordred?” Merlin asks. “Did you follow me?”
“Yes,” Mordred says easily. “I stood guard tonight, and I saw you sneaking out of the castle. I decided to follow you, since you are not so easily forthcoming with your secrets. Our goals are the same, after all.”
Merlin glares at him at that final reminder. Mordred tries to keep making it. It would be easier if Merlin trusted him, and he can’t think of what he has done that Merlin fears him so—Mordred is a powerful sorcerer in his own right, but he is a druid, and this is Emrys.
The years in Camelot have made Merlin afraid, and Mordred aches for him, despite everything.
“I am the Lady of the Lake,” the woman says. “You are Mordred. I have heard of you, in the years I have spent here.”
“You haven’t always been here?” Mordred asks, and frowns. He has not met many water sprites—they don’t tend to be friendly creatures, and they are said to be oddly protective of their body of water and anyone who belongs to it. Mordred’s eyes flicker to Merlin, wondering how he came to befriend such a creature.
His question is answered a moment later. “I was not always a sprite,” the Lady says easily. “Once, I was a druid, like you. In the moments before my death, Merlin brought me to the Lake. Magic preserved me here, and allowed me to live again.”
“Freya,” Merlin murmurs—a warning?
“I am glad you found a new purpose, my lady,” Mordred says, and tries for a friendly smile.
“Sometimes, we do find another path,” the Lady says, and although she looks at him, Merlin flinches slightly. Freya turns away, and focuses on Merlin instead—she cups his face, and presses a chaste kiss against his lips. Merlin lets her, his own fingers grasping at her arm for only a moment.
It only lasts two seconds before the Lady pulls away. Merlin lets out a shuddering breath, and closes his eyes. “Have you—”
“No, Merlin,” the Lady tells him. “There are no visions or prophecies that you haven’t already heard. The Sidhe have nothing to say, and they will remain silent. You must go back and take hold of your destiny. And sleep, before you exhaust yourself any further.”
“I cannot,” Merlin says, and the honesty in his voice is raw. Mordred has never heard him speak the truth so plainly, and that is a concerning thought.
“I shall take care of him, my lady,” Mordred offers, before he thinks about it any further.
The thing that Mordred wants most—well, he already has received a fair deal of the things he has always wanted. He is alive and healthy, and he lives a comfortable life. He enjoys the challenges of being a knight, and he has the trust of Arthur, the Once and Future King that he has admired since he was a boy. He is skilled with a sword in hand and has the friendship of the knights. It should be enough for any man.
What he does not have is the trust of Merlin, the sorcerer who will return magic to Albion. He does not have the friendship of the person he thought it would be easiest to befriend—they share their secret of magic, and Merlin is cordial with almost anyone in Camelot, universally beloved. What he does not have is the freedom of using his magic and not being executed for it.
Merlin is as powerful as the storm, and Mordred doesn’t think he has realised it yet, everything he is capable of. He wishes he could help, and Merlin doesn’t let him, and it is frustrating. If only Merlin admitted his magic to Arthur, Mordred knows, Arthur would forgive him.
But Merlin fears magic, and Merlin fears Arthur.
“I don’t need your help,” Merlin says, his face drawn as he regards Mordred. “You cannot help me in any way.”
“I think I can,” Mordred says, although his heart is beating hard in his chest. He thought that proving himself to Arthur would be the hardest task—but it is Merlin that will take most to convince. Merlin has abandoned him before, and he would again.
“Merlin,” the Lady says, and Merlin’s expression softens considerably. “You are not alone. You are meant for great things, but I have always known you for your kindness.”
“We should return,” Mordred prods lightly, when Merlin doesn’t respond. “It will be near dawn before we can make it back to Camelot. My shift will have ended, and the king will be looking for you if we don’t return in time, undoubtedly.”
At the mention of Arthur, Merlin looks up. As always, something dark and uncertain glitters in his eyes. He says nothing, though, and Mordred steps forward to take his arm.
Merlin slaps him away, and turns back to the Lady of the Lake. “I might not return for a while,” Merlin says. “I must stay near Arthur’s side.”
The Lady smiles wistfully. “Then I will see you when you return. Be good to yourself, Merlin.”
Merlin straightens his back. “Bye, Freya. Come on, Mordred.”
Mordred watches the Lady for a moment longer. She nods, only once, and disappears into the water seamlessly. The lake is as still as it was before, although Mordred can feel the strong magic that lingers here. When he turns, Merlin is already making his way to the forest again, and Mordred hurries to follow.
“How do you know her?” Mordred asks, because even if Freya was a druid before she became a water sprite, it doesn’t explain how she died and why Merlin brought her here.
“She was captured eight years ago,” Merlin says, his voice near monotonous as he sweeps past a branch, keeping up a brusque pace. “Her druid clan had abandoned her, because she was cursed. A man caught her and brought her to Uther, asking to be paid for her capture. But I rescued her. I tried to get her away from Camelot, but I failed. She was injured and she died.”
Mordred swallows. “I’m sorry,” he offers. “Was she close to you?”
Merlin doesn’t look back. “I loved her,” he says. “Once.”
“At least she still lives,” Mordred says, and makes sure to walk besides Merlin. They don’t often get moments with just the two of them, and Mordred has always tried to be mindful of Merlin’s privacy in the past, heedful of Merlin’s unfriendliness towards him. “She was saved. By magic.”
“Yes,” Merlin says, and doesn’t say anything else.
“Your magic?” Mordred presses.
Merlin stumbles, for a moment, and turns towards Mordred. “No,” he says, and sounds oddly vulnerable. “I don’t—think so, anyway. I didn’t do anything, as far as I’m aware. I always assumed the Sidhe saw a reason to help her.”
Mordred scrunches his nose. “Doubtful,” he says. “The Sidhe don’t tend to be helpful.”
“No, they don't,” Merlin says, and smiles at him. When he realises he’s doing it, Merlin’s smile immediately fades again. They start walking, but Mordred grins to himself before he catches up to Merlin’s pace again.
The silence is less tense than Mordred feared after that, and they walk. The hour must have been later than he’d realised, because the sky is a pale red when they see Camelot again. Merlin must have thought the same thing, because he stops before they can enter the citadel and runs a hand over his face.
“You should gather some herbs,” Mordred suggests. “The knights will undoubtedly notice us, but we can tell them that you got up early to get herbs for Gaius, and that I offered to come along for protection.”
Merlin snorts. “I can protect myself.”
“But they don’t know that,” Mordred says, and ignores the sour feeling in his chest as he thinks that Merlin is the only one who can change that. “And we might need to explain why I came along with you.”
“You didn’t,” Merlin says. “You followed me. And I don’t think you should’ve done that.”
“You have made abundantly clear that you don’t trust me,” Mordred says sharply, “But you have given me very little reason to trust you, Emrys. I am Arthur’s knight, and I am a druid. If anyone is trying to help you, it’s me.”
“Perhaps it is your help I’m worried about,” Merlin snaps, and starts walking again. Mordred sighs and follows him. Merlin hasn’t taken his advice about the herbs, so they are empty-handed as they return to Camelot.
They aren’t bothered in the citadel itself, but they do run into Gwaine when they return to the castle. Despite the early hour, and the fact that Gwaine undoubtedly spent his evening in the tavern, he seems wide awake. He immediately narrows his eyes as he spots them coming in from the courtyard.
“Hullo, Merlin, Mordred,” he says, and leans against the wall to stop them from walking on. “A little night-time excursion?”
“Because I get so little exercise running after Arthur, you mean?” Merlin says, and grins easily at Gwaine. Mordred’s smile flickers, as Gwaine turns to him.
“You abandoned your post, Mordred,” Gwaine says, a little more seriously. “Elyan spent an hour searching for you, and we were about to inform the king that you went missing.”
“It’s my fault,” Merlin says, before Mordred can even respond. His face warms up in embarrassment, even though he knows he had his reasons. Merlin continues, “I was having a hard time sleeping, so I went outside for a walk. Mordred saw me leaving the castle and was concerned about me, so he followed me.”
Gwaine hums. “Alright, then,” he says easily, “But you owe Elyan an apology, Mordred. And next time our Merlin goes wandering off, make sure you inform someone before you follow him.”
“Yes, Sir Gwaine,” Mordred says, and Gwaine whistles as he walks off. “Thank you, Merlin.”
Merlin gives him an indecipherable look, and doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaves towards the kitchen, and Mordred sighs. The road of winning Merlin’s trust will be a long one—but Mordred is nothing if not persistent.
~*~
“You can hardly blame me for your lack of ability with a sword, Merlin. I’ve been trying to train you for years, and what have you learnt?”
Mordred is sparring with Leon, but they are taking it slowly. It is a focus on accuracy rather than speed or strength, so all their blows are measured and well-thought out. In fact, he is barely paying attention to the fight with Leon, as they are both skilled enough to do this part neatly without thinking too deeply. Arthur is watching them, but he seems more interested in conversing with Merlin.
“To duck, sire,” Merlin says, safely on the side of the training field, several swords, neatly polished, in his arms. Sometimes Mordred cringes at the thought of Merlin, the most powerful warlock he will ever meet, spending his time polishing.
Arthur barks out a laugh, and ruffles Merlin’s hair. “Barely even that. I’ve half a mind to assign the squires to help you, since you clearly have made a job of not listening to a word I say.”
Merlin winces, but bravely defends himself, “Perhaps they’ll be better teachers than you. What are you even doing, having me cower behind a shield? Shouldn’t you show me how to disarm a man, if it comes to that?”
“Hardly,” Arthur dismisses. “You’d be dead within a minute.”
“You’d be surprised,” Merlin says.
“Surprised at how fast you will die, certainly,” Arthur says, and grins. “Last time when we were raided by bandits, you cowered behind the trees and we didn’t find you until half an hour afterwards.”
Mordred had been there. Merlin used his magic to knock out several bandits, but two others had seen and followed him, causing Merlin to lead them on a merry chase. Arthur does not know any of this, though, and Merlin just shrugs, jostling the swords in his arms.
“I’ve dragged your sorry arse away often enough when things went wrong,” Merlin reminds him. “And, anyway, as you keep reminding me, I’m not a knight, so I don’t see why you need me to be able to wield a sword. I’m not going to use it, Arthur.”
Leon slowly parries one of Mordred’s blows, and he exaggerates his movements as he counters that. Leon raises his eyebrows at him, but they continue anyway, even as Mordred feels like he is eavesdropping. Merlin and Arthur are always like this, though, uncaring of who may overhear.
“I may not always be able to protect you, Merlin,” Arthur says, and the teasing tone fades. “You’ve been injured before. I’m not asking you to be a proficient fighter, but please, just try and join the knights every now and then. Any one of them would be glad to show you the basics.”
“I don’t need it,” Merlin insists. “I’ve been by your side for ten years now, Arthur. It’s always been fine.”
Arthur is silent for a moment. “One day, it might not be. Merlin, I might tease you for it, but you do understand that I can’t have you die, don’t you? If I lost you—”
“Who would remind you to pick up your own socks?” Merlin interrupts, forcibly cheerfully, and continues in a lower voice, one that Mordred has to strain to hear. “You won’t lose me, Arthur, I promise. You couldn’t ever lose me.”
Arthur’s next murmurs are too low for Mordred to pick up, and they continue their conversation in that vein, their heads bowed together. Arthur doesn’t even pretend to still be paying attention to his knights, so Mordred halts his movements for a moment.
“If the king is so concerned about Merlin,” he asks, looking at Leon, “Why does he always take him along on quests and patrols? It’s not necessary to bring a servant, and he’s clearly worried—”
Leon smiles. “We’ve often asked the same thing,” he says, and shrugs. “But I don’t think Merlin would allow himself to be left behind, so any argument is moot.”
“He could order him,” Mordred says.
“Merlin would just follow,” Leon says. “It’s easier to include him from the start. Sometimes, I think those two just need to be close to each other. Hard enough to keep them apart anyway, even at the beginning, when they were just constantly sniping at each other.”
When Mordred looks back, Arthur’s arm is around Merlin’s shoulder, and he is smiling broadly. Merlin’s eyes are bright and focused on Arthur, and his lips are tugged upwards, as if he can’t quite stop himself.
Merlin loves Arthur to the point of fear, Mordred realises.
~*~
A man is convicted for using sorcery, the week after.
Arthur speaks his sentence harshly—the pyre, that is—after the sorcerer admits to killing two knights in his attempt to come near the king. Mordred thinks it’s not even the danger to his own life that has Arthur seething, although that’s clearly the worse offence to Merlin. Merlin, who stands just behind Arthur as he makes his judgement, and whose eyes are shadowed.
Merlin, who both approves of his king’s choices and wishes he didn’t, Mordred knows.
Mordred finds him when the pyre is lit and the man’s screams have died away. The crowd is already leaving, now that the most exciting part of the punishment is over. Merlin’s ducked away in a corner, but his eyes haven’t left the man’s face for the duration of his death, the same way that Mordred’s haven’t left Merlin’s.
“This is inhumane,” he says, as a way of greeting.
“He was going to kill Arthur,” Merlin says, and still doesn’t look Mordred in the eye. “What would you have him do?”
“I understand the punishment,” Mordred says, because he does, of course he does, that’s not the point, “but the pyre is harsh. Even for you, Merlin, that’s too unkind a fate. What if it were me up there? What if it were you?”
“It would be,” Merlin says, and his face is pale as he turns towards Mordred. “He brought it upon himself. Magic shouldn’t be used for such dark purposes—it’s not for death, it’s for life—”
“Because you have never killed a man before?” Mordred snaps.
“I didn’t want to,” Merlin says.
“No, but it’s Arthur’s life above anything else, isn’t it?” Mordred asks, tiredly. “And anyone who dares touch it has to face you. You’re so afraid anything were to happen to him—”
“You know who he is, Mordred,” Merlin tells him, and Mordred sees him for who he is in that moment—a man only a couple of years older than him, bowed down by the burden of what he was asked to do. A man too in love to even consider the possibility of being rejected.
Mordred decides something, then. “I do know,” he says. “And that is why I think you should trust him, and why you need to do something about this. No more pyres for our people. Is that too much to ask, Merlin?”
Merlin casts his eyes down. “It’s Arthur’s decision.”
“Are you ever going to tell him?” Mordred asks, and knows the answer, even as Merlin pushes past him and walks away.
Merlin isn’t on his side in this—Mordred knew this, but this is the final straw. Merlin isn’t on anyone’s side, not even Arthur’s, even if he doesn’t realise it. He is his own side, making everything up as he goes along, as long as he can stay by Arthur’s side. It will tear it all apart, in the end.
If Merlin isn’t strong enough, then something else needs to happen.
~*~
It’s not as if Mordred doesn’t understand the risks involved in what he wants to do.
Merlin is right, of course. Arthur is the one to decide, in the end, and even though he’s shown far more leniency to magic than his father ever has, it’s not enough. It is supposed to be Merlin who convinces him of it, but Merlin is stuck. He loves too much, and he fears too much, and he’d rather burn the entire magical world before he lets harm come to Arthur.
And so he makes it easy for him. As long as Merlin stays silent, Arthur doesn’t have to decide the way Merlin has for years. Even Arthur’s comfort goes above the need of Merlin’s people, in this, and maybe Mordred shouldn’t hold it against him as he does—Merlin never lived with the druids. Merlin never had anyone to protect from Uther’s rage, and now from Arthur’s inaction to change the status quo.
Merlin has only ever had to protect Arthur, and has become far too desperate. Mordred can’t believe that Arthur is a bad man, as much as he has stood by and let bad things happen—but he is destined for greatness, and he sees Arthur through Merlin’s eyes. As he also sees Merlin through Arthur’s.
Mordred is perceptive. He always has been. And what he sees now is that things will not change if they go on as they have.
~*~
The Lady of the Lake comes quicker than he thought she would, when Mordred finds himself back at the lake. She rises out of the water with a weary smile, and Mordred watches her in awe.
“I know why you’ve come,” she says, and crosses her arms. She looks far away, towards the direction of Camelot, and Mordred thinks of Merlin’s words—I loved her. Once. Sprites aren’t made out of love, but out of magic, and the fact that she’s here because of both is somewhat daunting.
“Merlin,” Mordred offers.
“He’s asked about you,” she says, and smiles wryly. “I think he tries to listen, but he doesn’t really understand. He’s too entangled in his own fate.”
“I want to know why he hasn’t told Arthur yet,” Mordred says, and wonders if she’s the right person to ask. Merlin won’t answer, and Arthur can’t, and there’s no one else in the castle who might have the answers he seeks. “I know he’s afraid, but why didn’t he earlier? Did he ever tell you?”
Freya bows her head. She’s part of the water, but the way the moonlight catches her, Mordred could almost think she’s a druid, still.
“He wasn’t always so afraid,” Freya says, and locks eyes with him. “He’s a good man. The kindest one I’ve met. Merlin loves deeply, and quickly, mostly—except when it comes to Arthur. That took him longer, but the fall was even harder. He doesn’t tell me about it, Mordred. I don’t know what he thinks Arthur will do.”
Mordred slowly nods. “I am going to tell Arthur,” he says. “About my magic. And—if something happens, I want you to tell Merlin. That I am afraid that Arthur will hate me, will execute me, even—but I am more afraid of what this world will be if I don’t. And if he doesn’t.”
“Merlin won’t appreciate it,” Freya says, but her voice is neutral.
“But Arthur needs to know, doesn’t he?” Mordred asks, and looks down at the lake. He runs his fingers through the water, and watches as it ripples. Every touch has consequences.
“If this goes wrong,” she says, slowly, “you may have put everything they’ve worked for in danger. Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Mordred? Are you sure you will forgive them, if they don’t do what you think they should do?”
“I don’t know,” Mordred says lightly, and takes a step away from the lake. “But I know that I can’t forgive myself if I don’t.”
She nods. Mordred smiles at her, trying not to let his own fear shine through—his own hesitation, and doubt, and wonder. Arthur may kill him or he may not, and Mordred will have to accept that as it comes.
~*~
It’s the two of them.
Of course, it always is the two of them. Merlin is sitting in Arthur’s chair, carefully cleaning his armour, when Mordred comes in—and at that point, his eyes are strangely fixed on Mordred. He can’t have made Merlin’s life easier, Mordred reflects, and wonders how much of a concern he is to him.
“My lord,” Mordred says, and Arthur smiles at him easily. “I was wondering if we could talk.”
“Of course, Mordred,” Arthur agrees, and pats one of the chairs. “Just sit down. Merlin will scooch over, won’t he?”
“Yes, my lord,” Merlin says, and dutifully moves back so that Mordred can take one of the chairs. Mordred smiles tightly at him, and wonders how it came to this. He is in the same room of two men he admires, two men who are destined to bring about the world Mordred has dreamed of since he was as a child—and now he is betraying both of them.
In a way, it’s perfect that Merlin is here. Mordred wasn’t planning on telling Arthur with him here, but perhaps that’s how it ought to be. Perhaps they both need to be here when Mordred tries to push the both of them into a new world.
“What is it, Mordred?” Arthur says, and takes the seat on the other side. He throws a dirty sock at Merlin as he does so, and grins as Merlin rolls his eyes. “Are the other knights playing pranks again? I know you are supposed to listen to Gwaine, but if he’s—”
“It’s not that, my lord,” Mordred says, and clears his throat. “It’s about the man you executed two days ago. The sorcerer.”
Arthur’s face twists, and within a second it becomes smooth. Mordred wonders, suddenly, what Arthur thinks about magic, really. He’s only really considered Merlin’s standpoint on this, convinced that Arthur didn’t feel much guilt for the dead—he wonders if that is right, actually. If that’s really the reason for Arthur’s response.
“What about him?” Arthur says, and it’s more brusque. Mordred notices the way his eyes flits towards Merlin, but Merlin’s sitting perfectly still, his hands still on Arthur’s armour.
“I was wondering why his punishment was so harsh, sire,” Mordred says, and folds his hands over one another. “I know he killed two men, but so have others, and you’ve not let them burn on the pyre. Is the fact he used magic to do it truly so much more heinous than if he’d used a sword? Does it warrant such a painful death?”
“Those are the laws,” Arthur says. “I didn’t come up with them.”
And isn’t that the crux of the matter. “No, but you are enforcing them,” Morded reminds him. “My lord, I’ve come to know you as a just man. A fair leader. But you know who I am.”
“My knight,” Arthur says, and it’s almost painfully naive.
“A druid, my lord,” Mordred tells him. “One with magic.”
It’s Arthur he stares at, even if he wants to face Merlin—wants to jut his chin forward in rebellion, as if to show him, this is how it’s done, but Mordred’s heart is beating too fast to do any of that. All he can do is meet Arthur’s gaze as his king looks at him, giving no sign he’s just heard what Mordred has said.
“I don’t—” Arthur says, and leans forward, his face in his hands. “I can pretend not to know, Mordred. You can turn back, and we’ll never speak of this—Merlin can keep your secret, and as long as you keep it, too—”
“No,” Mordred says, and feels the anger rising in his chest. Of all reactions, he hadn’t expected this one—this attempt to maintain their easy friendship, but it’s Arthur, isn’t it, who has always been so lacklustre in his attempts to make peace with magic? He wants it, but he’s too afraid to grab it, and Mordred doesn’t know what for, because he’s the king—
And then it hits him. Merlin.
“What are you doing,” Merlin hisses, and his hands are trembling when Mordred looks at him.
“It’s not my secret to keep,” Mordred says. “It’s my secret to give up. We have lived in the shadows for a long time, and I would’ve been glad to do it longer, if only—if there was a promise. A reason why things can’t change!”
“You don’t understand the implications of what you’re saying, Mordred,” says Arthur, and his voice is hard—Mordred has never heard him like this before. Arthur rises, his hands splayed over the table. “It’s not so easy. You can have your magic, I don’t care, as long as you don’t use it. That’s the only way we can accept magic users not to turn dark. If I did as you ask, we’d have a myriad of sorcerers threatening the throne every week, and this kingdom would be plunged into chaos. Is that what you want?”
“The freedom of your people isn’t a good enough reason to risk that?” Mordred asks.
“It’s not the magic, Mordred,” Arthur says, and sighs. “It is how it corrupts.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Mordred says, and swings towards Merlin. “You can tell him—”
Merlin swallows heavily, and shakes his head. Mordred falls quiet. A part of him had hoped that this would be enough for Merlin to step in—Arthur’s acceptance or Arthur’s denial would’ve given him an in to say his word, but still, Merlin is too afraid.
And Arthur is afraid of Merlin’s disapproval.
“Mordred,” Arthur says heavily. “Last chance.”
Mordred looks at him, the convinced set of his jaw. It is clear that Mordred’s word isn’t enough—and Arthur may not be cruel, but he’s not kind either. Only one man can convince Arthur that magic isn’t the evil thing he fears it is, and that man stays silent, perfectly content to clean Arthur’s armour—and to be that armour, wordless and unappreciated in its power.
Mordred loathes him, for a moment. Loathes the cowardice Merlin shows, even if it comes from his love for Arthur.
“Thank you, my lord,” he says, and the words feel bitter on his throat as he turns around to leave.
~*~
“What do you think you were doing,” Merlin asks him flatly, slamming down the door to Mordred’s quarters. He didn’t knock, but Mordred isn’t surprised. He’s been expecting to see Merlin ever since he walked away from Arthur’s chambers.
“What needs to be done,” Mordred says, and amends, “What you are too afraid to do.”
“It’s not the time,” Merlin snaps, and turns around, hand in his hair. “You’ve no right to push Arthur this hard. You should be glad he didn’t throw you in the cells for a night, the way you startled him—”
“I should be thankful?” Mordred asks. “I promised you I wouldn’t give up your secret, Emrys. I never said I wouldn’t give up mine. Arthur is the one who is responsible for what happens now.”
“Nothing will happen,” Merlin says. “He asked me what he should do. But he’s not going to throw away all his laws for you, Mordred—he’s not going to do that for anyone!”
Mordred stares at him. “You cannot truly think he wouldn’t, if you were the one to step forward.”
“I can’t put him in that position,” Merlin insists, and sighs heavily. “I’m sorry you felt this was the only way forward, Mordred. I truly am. But this is a decision Arthur has to make for himself. We can’t make it for him—we can’t force him into it.”
“We deserve to be free,” Mordred says, and looks at him. Merlin sometimes feels like a friend, and at other times like an enemy—it’s hard to know what side he is on, most times, because even Arthur isn’t on his own side at times. Merlin is an enigma, and every time Mordred thinks he understands, thinks he will now have Merlin’s enmity, he turns around and is unfailingly kind.
Mordred doesn’t know what to make of it, really, in the light of this situation. A sorcerer so devastatingly powerful who chooses to be a servant, a protector who stays in the shadows all the time, the closest companion of a king to which he is supposed to be an enemy, and who always, always, puts his king first. Before himself, and before anyone else. Even if it will damn him.
Mordred is threatening that careful balance, but still Merlin smiles hesitantly. Maybe Merlin doesn’t know what to make of him, Mordred considers. The druid who would serve Arthur, even if it goes against his own kind. And this time without a prophecy.
They’re too alike, in some ways. And wildly different in others.
For one, Merlin is far more patient than Mordred considers himself to be. Even now, Merlin looks pained, torn in half between two loyalties. And it’s Mordred who put him there.
“We do,” Merlin says eventually. “We will be. I believe that.”
“You’ve got a part to play in this, Merlin,” Mordred says.
Merlin turns around, his hands clutched around the door so tightly that his knuckles are white. In the fire of Mordred’s hearth, his eyes reflect gold. Mordred’s breath catches at the sight of him, the powerful sorcerer who has become so powerless in his love.
“I know,” he says quietly, and disappears.
~*~
Arthur is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, which is an impractical quality for a king. However, his sleeve is usually covered by a jacket, if only because he learnt how to—if one just reaches under, you’ll see what he is trying to hide so badly.
Unfortunately, Merlin’s both very good and bad at seeing Arthur’s sleeve. Or maybe he just doesn’t care, which wouldn’t surprise Mordred either. It’s general knowledge that no one is closer to the king than his manservant, but Arthur’s in a mood, and Mordred knows why. What he doesn’t know is why Merlin is ignoring said mood, which only causes Arthur to stare at him even more angrily.
It’s bad enough during a council session, when Merlin keeps ignoring Arthur’s empty cup, and then during dinner, during which Merlin simply brings Arthur his least favourite foods. They are arguing, obviously, and they’re not being nice about it, which makes Mordred think it’ll only pass over sooner.
Merlin may snark and rebel against Arthur all he wants, but at the end of the day, he’s the sun that Merlin revolves around.
If it’s about Mordred, he can’t quite tell, but the timing of it makes him think so. Or at least a Mordred-adjacent argument. Arthur isn’t cold to him, when they speak to each other, but nor is he the same overly welcoming king. It’s not exactly a surprise, even though Mordred feels a surprising sting of abandonment when he manages to disarm Elyan and Arthur doesn’t say a single word of praise.
He thinks Leon may have noticed, but most of the other knights aren’t generally worried about Arthur’s state of mind, and if they are, it’s always assumed it has to do with Merlin rather than anything else.
Mordred can’t help but wanting to know, though. So when Arthur snaps at Merlin, “With me!” at the end of dinner, he quietly follows, instead of going back to his own chambers. He doesn’t dare use magic, knowing that Merlin might be able to sense it, but he pushes himself against the corner where they stop and prays no one else will come by.
“—what your problem is, Merlin!” he hears Arthur says, before he peeks around the corner. Merlin’s back is towards Mordred, and Arthur is too focused on his manservant to even see Mordred, and he eyes them warily.
“My problem is that you’re not telling me anything!” Merlin says. “I want to help, but you just—keep pushing, don’t you, and then I don’t even know what you’re thinking! And I know you’ve got Mordred stuck in your head, and you keep thinking about Morgana—”
“Shouldn’t I?” Arthur says heatedly. “Isn’t it a fair comparison?”
“Of course it’s not!”
“Why?”
“Because Mordred actually told you,” Merlin snaps, and takes a deep breath as Arthur blinks in surprise. “I don’t know, Arthur. It’s your decision, and I can’t make it for you. But Morgana hid it, and that’s—I don’t know why he told you.”
“I don’t care that he told me,” Arthur says, “it doesn’t make a difference. I didn’t know he had magic, sure, but it’s not—he hasn’t used it against me, and he’s proven himself to be fair. It’s not about Mordred, it’s not even about Morgana. It’s about you.”
“What about me?” Merlin says.
“You knew about him, didn’t you?” Arthur’s words are no more than a murmur, and Mordred presses himself against the wall, holding his breath. “You knew he had magic, and you didn’t tell me.”
Merlin is quiet for a moment, and he bows down his head. “It wasn’t my secret to tell, Arthur. And I didn’t want—I knew you liked him.”
“But you never did.”
“I never said that.”
Arthur’s tone brooks no argument. “Merlin. I’ve known you for ten years, and by now, I’d like to think that I know you. You get along with everyone—I will notice when you’re not comfortable with someone. It’s happened with some of my father’s knights, I know that, but you haven’t given someone such dark looks in ages. I never knew what caused it, but after Mordred’s confession—I understand. You are afraid of the magic.”
“I’m not,” Merlin protests. “That’s not it, Arthur, I’m not afraid. It’s about you, thinking that—the magic changes things.”
“It does,” Arthur says. “It’s against the law.”
“Your father’s laws.”
“My law, Merlin,” Arthur tells him. “I’ve seen how magic is used. I’ve seen how it warps people. I’m trying to protect Mordred from that. I’m trying to protect you!”
“I don’t need your protection, you clotpole,” Merlin protests, and Arthur runs his hand across his cheek. Mordred suddenly feels like he’s invading their privacy when Arthur smiles knowingly, and kisses him.
Merlin throws his arms around Arthur’s neck, and kisses back. Arthur smiles, and answers, “Well, you have it anyway. I can’t lose you.”
“It’s always been the other way around, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, pressed against Arthur as he is. Mordred slips away, leaving the two to their embrace.
~*~
It’s never been Mordred’s intention to harm either of them.
He understands Arthur more than he does Merlin, for all the similarities between him and the prophesied Emrys. Arthur is a straightforward man, and it doesn’t take too much digging to understand what concerns him—the welfare of his people, the loyalty of his men, and the affection of those he loves. He will butt heads with Merlin if it comes to the first or second point, but it will always be resolved, because Arthur loves Merlin, and Merlin always puts Arthur’s wellbeing first.
It works for them, but it won’t always. There will come a day when magic will be threatened, and Arthur will choose against it, because Merlin’s chosen him before his destiny. There may have been a point where Merlin could have told him, but Mordred thinks it is too late for him by now, and the only way forward is if it’s forced out of him.
Merlin may say he’s not afraid of magic, but he is. Arthur’s reaction against it, and his own destiny. He is afraid at what price freedom will come, because Merlin has been paying so dearly for so many years, and Arthur is the one thing he cannot afford to lose.
What he thinks to gain by waiting, Mordred doesn’t know. It’s this point at which he considers Merlin a coward, and on the road of forgetting his destiny altogether. And he wishes he could’ve done this another way—could have convinced Merlin to tell Arthur, and to show him how beautiful magic can be. Mordred even wishes he could’ve done it himself, but Arthur has shown what he thinks of Mordred’s magic.
He has played all his cards. The only option left, once again, is Merlin. Merlin, who warms his king’s bed and surely cannot lie to him forever, even if he’s somehow convinced himself to.
And Mordred wishes he could convince him, he really does. But he understands that Merlin never will, and that means there is only one option left to him. One that Merlin will not forgive him for.
It seems they were never destined to be friends.
~*~
The ride in the forest isn’t unusual. Arthur likes to escape the citadel with his closest knights, and Mordred still belongs in this group, at least. Arthur’s already grown a bit warmer to him again, clearly taking Mordred’s continued presence as a hint that he’s willing to abide Arthur’s laws. And he is, for a time. Merlin, of course, rides with Arthur.
Mordred rides in between Percival and Gwaine, but Gwaine keeps yelling ahead to bother Leon, and Percival is content to be quiet and smile at his fellow knights. It makes it easier for Mordred to fall into a complentative silence, his fingers starting to ache from how tightly he’s gripping his horse’s bridles.
He waits for the ride to near its end, but before Camelot is in sight. The dusk is already settling in, and Arthur’s laughing with Merlin and Elyan at the head of the group. Mordred laments this for a moment, this peace and unity that he may never have again after today.
“Belūce,” he whispers, and closes his eyes as all the horses and knights are frozen in place. Mordred’s horse is the only one free to move, and it neighs at the surprise. Mordred runs one hand over her mane, and raises his hand again just in time to see Merlin and Arthur turn around at the same time, an identical expression of surprise on his face.
“Mordred—” Arthur says, but he doesn’t get the time to finish whatever he means to say. Not that he could dissuade Mordred from this path. It is too late for that. Merlin’s inaction has made this necessary, and he hopes they will see that, one day.
“Becíese—” he starts, and there is nothing between him and Arthur but Merlin; there is no time for a swordfight, no branch that can come down on him without a surprise. It is them, and their witnesses, and the king that Merlin will so willingly do anything for in order to protect him.
And Merlin has one last thing to give.
“No!” Merlin all but wails, and Mordred is ripped out of his saddle by an invisible force. He’s not unfamiliar with the sensation of Merlin’s magic—it is overpowering, and it feels like his own, but a dozen times stronger and more relentless. It is magic, in its purest form, wielded by a sorcerer who lets emotion guide him. Mordred expected it, though, and when he finds himself falling against a tree, he looks up.
Merlin’s eyes are still molten gold, his eyes fixed on Mordred. Perhaps he’s afraid to meet Arthur’s gaze—perhaps he wants to make sure there is no more attack coming. Mordred can’t move, and he wryly considers his spell towards the other knights.
All in all, he thinks he’s lucky Merlin didn’t kill him at the first sign of trouble.
“I should’ve known,” Merlin says, his voice trembling and his hand still raised. “I don’t even know why I thought you’d understand. But even now—”
“You needed to show him,” Mordred says, and is halfway surprised he can still move his jaw with how tightly he’s plastered against the tree by Merlin’s magic. “It was only ever you that could change his mind. I don’t regret this.”
“Merlin,” Arthur snaps, and Mordred’s released. He breathes out deeply but doesn’t otherwise move. Merlin is pale as he turns his head towards Arthur, and he doesn’t say a word. Arthur’s lips are pressed together. Neither of them speak—the betrayal and lies sit between them, and there is no simple way to address them.
“I understand, Merlin,” Mordred says eventually. “I know you’re afraid. Of your destiny, of your powers. I know your only aim is to protect Arthur—and he is yours to protect. But this has gone too far. I could not make you tell him, but I can make you show him.”
Merlin inhales sharply. “It wasn’t your secret to share,” he says bluntly, without losing sight of Arthur. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. But I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I’ve only ever used it for you. To protect you.”
“You don’t have magic,” Arthur says brusquely. “You can’t have—why would you, Merlin, when I know how much you fear it—why would you learn it, after Morgana—”
“I didn’t,” Merlin says helplessly. “I was born with it—it’s something I’ve always had, Arthur, please, it’s always been for you. It has all been for you. Always.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. Mordred can see him reassessing his entire world view for only a second, and then he opens them again and lets all emotion drain from his face. And this is the king—not the friend, not the lover. This is cold, hard judgement, and Mordred hopes that all his bets have paid off.
That he hasn’t thrown Albion into destruction.
“Undo the spell you’ve put on my knights, Mordred,” Arthur says, raising his sword in his direction. “This can all wait until we’re back in Camelot.”
Mordred feels the magic surge through his veins, and then the knights come gasping back. They all stare in between Merlin and Mordred—they were frozen, not blind. Merlin lowers his head, and Mordred cannot help but stare at him, and wonder what he's thinking. He remains still until Gwaine roughly shoves him back on his horse, and keeps him in place.
It’s no more than he expected.
~*~
Mordred could break out of the cells easily. And yet, he doesn’t. It would be running away, and Mordred is done with that. It is what Merlin did; keep running, and waiting for a kingdom to change itself. That time is over.
It's his life or the pyre for Mordred. Both are freedom, in a way.
No one comes by for three days, but Mordred is patient enough to wait. He can sense Merlin’s magic, at times, dull and far away but present, and takes some hope from that.
When Merlin does come, he comes alone.
Dawn is spilling through the bars of Mordred’s cell, the sad little streams of pale light colouring the tiles of the floor a lighter shade of grey. Mordred has been awake for two hours, unable to sleep in the corner of his cell for longer than four hours at a time. It’s not just the discomfort; waiting is necessary, but that doesn’t mean Mordred isn’t crawling out of his skin to know what will happen.
He doesn’t want to die.
At least it means he sees Merlin coming. He sits up straighter against the walls, and eyes him with some hesitance. The fact Merlin never joined him in the cells is a good sign, but Mordred knows Arthur and Merlin—they are entwined, two sides of the same coin, dawn and dusk, life and death. The soldier and the sorcerer. It doesn’t matter what Arthur will decide, because Merlin will stay.
Merlin will always stay.
“Mordred,” Merlin says, his face blank as he comes to stand before Mordred’s cell.
“Merlin,” Mordred acknowledges. He’s sure his own defiance must be showing up on his face, but he doesn’t mind. He still stands by his actions—even if Merlin doesn’t. Even if this isn’t how he wanted it to go. Merlin didn’t want it in the first place, and so Mordred has made him an enemy.
“I’ve talked with Arthur,” Merlin says, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slides down the wall. It puts him eye to eye with Mordred, even if Mordred is on the other side of the cell. “I know why you did what you did. I… also talked with Freya.”
“You can’t always push away who you were meant to be,” Mordred says. “You are Emrys. There is no future if you cower away from your people.”
“You think you understand,” Merlin murmurs, and runs a hand over his face.
“I know you are loyal to Arthur above anything else,” Mordred tells him. “I know you are loyal to Arthur’s wellbeing, above all. You don’t want him to choose when it comes to either you or his own kingdom—you don’t want to put him in a position where he might not choose you.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t,” Merlin says, “after all the secrets. And yes, maybe.” He smiles joylessly. “And maybe not. I didn’t want to force his hand, that’s true. But Arthur wouldn’t execute me. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. It was never about—”
He looks frustrated, and Mordred raises his eyebrows. “You love,” he says, “to the point of fear.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be about me,” Merlin says eventually, and his stare bores right through Mordred. “You were right, of course. I know Arthur—I know him like I know my own soul, and maybe even better.”
“Arthur isn’t a complicated man.”
Merlin huffs out a laugh. “Oh, you might think you know him,” he says, “but if you think that, you really don’t understand Arthur. He’s the most complicated man I know. I didn’t want him to do this for me, Mordred. I wanted him to do this because it was right, because he learnt what it meant—”
“What does it matter,” Mordred snaps. “The end justifies the means, Merlin. This is what he's born for, this is what you were born for—”
“You can’t tell me why I'm here,” Merlin interrupts, and clutches his fingers around one of the bars keeping them apart. “No one can. That’s Arthur’s right to decide, and you took that in your own hands. You can tell yourself whatever you like, but I won’t forgive you for it. I won’t.”
“Even though he won’t kill you?” Mordred asks, carefully, his voice low. “Even though he finally knows, and he’s decided to spare you?”
Merlin is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how I would’ve told him,” he says. “But it would’ve been between us.”
“Is that why you never trusted me, then?” Mordred challenges. “You can’t deny it—I wouldn’t have done this, if you’d listened. If I would’ve been your friend, and I would’ve helped. You thought I wouldn’t keep your secret, and you have pushed me away for it before the thought even crossed my mind! Is that why you feared me so much?”
“No,” Merlin says. “It’s not.”
He rises up, and pats the dust off his trousers.
“What will he do with me?” Mordred calls after him. Merlin doesn’t answer.
~*~
Mordred doesn’t have to wait long. Two guards come and take him to the throne room in the afternoon, and Mordred shakes off their hands on him and walks by himself. He is still a knight, even if he is a sorcerer. They just let him—maybe they’re afraid, or maybe they sense he won’t escape. Mordred suspects it’s the former.
The throne room is nearly empty. It’s only Arthur on his throne, donned with cloak and crown. His closest knights stand beside him, and of course, Merlin. Merlin wears his usual blue, and it clashes with Arthur’s deep red tunic—two sides of the same coin. Dusk and dawn.
“Mordred,” Arthur says, and it reverberates through the room.
Mordred kneels before him, the same way he did when he was knighted. He bows his head low, and averts his eyes from the knights. He is one of them, and he is not.
“My lord Arthur,” Mordred says evenly.
“Will you look up?” Arthur says, exhausted, and stands up from his throne when Mordred redirects his gaze at him. “I’m not going to execute you. I’ve had a few days to think about it, and I’ve talked with Merlin. I am… not sure if I understand all the nuances of what has been going on, but I know you had no ill intent. Even if, as Merlin tells me, you tried to use a spell to kill me.”
“Only to make sure Emrys would protect you, my lord,” Mordred says. The way Arthur doesn’t even look up at Merlin’s name means that he’s been told a great deal already. Everything, maybe, although Mordred wonders if everything can be dealt with in such a short time.
If everything can be forgiven, after ten years of lies.
Not that it seems to bother Arthur at this moment—he lets Mordred’s words drip right off him, and Merlin doesn’t seem much tenser than usual. It pleases him, slightly, to know that he is right—but it also lances up a sharp sense of disappointment in his chest, that Merlin can stand here, after years of lies and deceit, on the free side of Arthur’s cells.
And here he is, made into an enemy.
“That is what he told me,” Arthur says, and after a beat of silence, he wryly adds, “Even though that still means you were using a spell that would have killed me. All so Merlin would give up a secret that put his own life in danger.”
“As I’ve come to understand,” Mordred says, and his eyes flit towards Merlin, “his own life doesn’t matter nearly as much as yours.”
“It does to me,” Arthur tells him sharply—a warning, then. A reminder that Merlin is free of consequences, unlike Mordred. And he knew that going in, of course, or he wouldn’t have done this. Merlin will show him—and Mordred will know he was right. That is his consolation, at the end of the day.
That Merlin was a coward, and Mordred was not.
“Are you going to put me on the pyre, my lord?” is what he asks. That is the crux of the matter, in the end. Mordred has seen one sorcerer burn, and this is his fight to make sure that man is the last. He never has to see anyone cry out like that again, or smell his clothes burning in the fire—never has to look at Arthur’s face and wonder, what will he do?
From now on, he will know.
“No,” Arthur says, and Mordred blinks.
“No?”
“No,” Arthur reiterates more firmly.
And Mordred can’t tell whose decision this was. Merlin’s face is utterly blank, and his eyes fixed on Arthur, as his hands are folded behind his back. He’s the picture of a perfect servant, if only the lack of emotions on his face didn’t betray the fact he was so full of them. Mordred doesn’t know if Merlin wants him dead, or if he wants him free.
Doesn’t know where Arthur stands on it, either, and he feels himself slipping. His understanding of them has shifted, because he doesn’t know what they talked about. They have always been a unity, and Mordred has destroyed it and rebuilt it anew.
“Then what, my lord?” he asks.
Arthur smiles tightly. “You will be banished,” he says, and at that, Merlin definitely shuffles. “But I won’t have you killed. There are consequences to dark magic, Mordred, and I know your intentions were good—but the ends do not justify the means. They never have. If we want to build a fair world, we can’t force our way there. It’s a long process, and it’s one we’ll have to be patient for.”
“I understand,” Mordred says slowly.
“I hope you do,” Arthur says sincerely, and nods his head towards him. “Things won’t always be the same, Mordred. I know you’ve no reason to believe that—but I hope you do trust that, at least. I don’t wish you ill.”
“Nor I you, my lord,” Mordred tells him, and hesitates for a moment. “And the ban on magic?”
Arthur exchanges an unreadable glance with Merlin. “That’s something I will have to think about for longer,” he says. “But I’ve seen that things are far more complicated than I once knew.”
“I’m sorry,” Mordred says, and turns to Merlin, “and to you, too, Emrys. But I don’t regret what I’ve done. I understand you more than you think.”
“We share some similarities,” Merlin says wryly. “But I’m not like you at all, Mordred. Perhaps things might have been easier if I were.” He sounds regretful, too, as if he does mean that. Mordred wonders what he looks like through Merlin’s eyes, for a moment, and analyses himself the way he has been analysing Merlin.
“I know I’m not your friend,” he says. “And I won’t say I did it for you. But I did it for everyone else who has suffered. I hope you won’t turn your back on them again.”
Merlin smiles wearily. “You know my loyalties, Mordred. If nothing else, that hasn’t changed.”
“I suppose I do know,” Mordred says, after a moment, and bows to Arthur. “Thank you, my lord.”
He turns around, at that. Arthur has spoken his verdict, and the knights have stood witness solemnly. No one stops him, and so Mordred turns around and walks away. It will be his last time in Camelot, he knows, and perhaps that is alright. He only came because of the destiny that surrounds Arthur and Merlin—because maybe he has been tied up in it, if only a bit. And that part is done. The rest is up to them.
“Let him go,” he hears Arthur say, behind him, and he knows it’s Merlin.
And Merlin, stubborn as he is, doesn’t listen. He catches up with Mordred once he reaches the castle doors, stopping in front of Mordred as if to be a physical barrier.
“You will go?” Merlin asks, insistent.
“I don’t think I have much of a choice, do I?” Mordred asks, and can’t help but smile. Merlin’s hair is ruffled, and there’s a hint of red to his cheeks. Merlin is ice cold, and calculating, and he only has one loyalty—but there is kindness to him, when it isn’t about Arthur. Mordred sometimes wonders if he was the right man for this kind of power, but perhaps he is the only man who could have borne it.
Mordred isn’t one of the gods. If Merlin is Emrys, then there must be a reason. And he should be content with that.
“No, I suppose,” Merlin says. “You asked me why I was afraid of you.”
Mordred raises an eyebrow. “Because I knew about your magic?”
“I would’ve liked that, probably,” Merlin admits, and shrugs helplessly. “I know there’s never been many people to talk to. It’s why I went to Freya, even when I probably shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have minded that so much, really.”
“Why, then?” Mordred asks, because that is the last piece of the puzzle he never figured out about Merlin.
“There’s a prophecy about you,” Merlin says, and bites his lower lip. “And I wasn’t going to tell you, because everything I’ve ever known about my destiny—it hasn’t made things easier. But I want to make sure you don’t hold anything against Arthur.”
“What is the prophecy?” Mordred asks.
Merlin’s eyes are dark. “That you’ll kill Arthur.”
As if it could have been anything else, Mordred realises. Nothing short of any harm to Arthur could have made Merlin take so many risks with him—even as a child, especially as a child. He already understood this about Merlin; and perhaps it’s Merlin who isn’t as complicated.
“I’ll try and avoid it,” Mordred says, and offers him a single nod. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Not all fates can be avoided,” Merlin murmurs, “but if there’s any that will, it’s going to be this one, Mordred. I promise I’ll help him. Even if this didn’t happen in the way it should have, I promise—no more pyres.”
“I think, Merlin,” Mordred says, “that we finally understand one another.”
And when he walks away this time, Merlin lets him.