Chapter Text
Merlin thinks that there might still be a pea in his ear. He wonders moodily if it might travel further inwards and kill him, as that seems if not less painful than a beheading at least somewhat less public.
At least he had met Gwen, a kind and shining beacon of goodness on an otherwise impossibly embarrassing day. Merlin had never thought he would meet a prince at all, but if he had he’s sure his imagination would never be so cruel as to conjure up Prince Arthur. Toad, Merlin thought uncharitably. Mule.
Something of that frustration must have been written on his face as he tried and failed to find the Lady Morgana’s rooms to leave that evening’s potion from Gaius.
“No love lost for the prince I imagine.” An older woman nods sympathetically to him as they pass each other. Merlin supposes the stains on his clothes spoke as well as anything, but it was a dismal thought that this might forever more be the first thing that would cross one’s mind when seeing him. Perhaps it was not too late to return to Ealdor. Not that his reputation there was much better.
“Not as such, no,” he answers dryly. The unhappy pull of her mouth was to him more serious than concern for a stranger in the stocks warranted, and seemed somehow familiar. He recalls the afternoon of the execution, and places her face in the crowd.
He remembers her.
She had wept, but had not looked away from the axe even to blink. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m looking for the Lady Morgana’s rooms, I don’t suppose you know the way?”
“They’re both up here somewhere. We’ll find them.” She gives him the impression that she is looking past him, wistful as she pats at his arm vaguely and continues forwards. He turns around and sees only the smooth stone wall behind him, as he knew he would.
Well, he thinks, hesitating. Perhaps this was only odd behavior to him. Perhaps this was just how people were in Camelot. Perfectly normal.
Merlin, who had vowed a dozen times in the past day to get into no more trouble, waits only long enough for her to turn down the corridor before following her.
After a while of this he peeks around a corner, the very picture of stealth.
She does not break stride at all as she approaches an ornate door with one straight backed guard standing vigil. Merlin himself had passed that door twice already looking for Morgana’s chambers, but hadn’t dared to ask the stern guard directions.
Perhaps she truly is just on castle business. He feels a bit foolish.
The guard collapses in a heap, and the lock on the door clicks open. She steps over him unceremoniously and shuts the door behind her. Or perhaps not.
It’s not hard to reason that these are the prince’s rooms.
Merlin flings himself from around his corner, only to stop short, wringing his hands.
There are no more guards in sight and as he half opens his mouth to shout he worries that she will hear him and flee. Or worse, silence him with whatever she had done to the guard. His mind raced, fearing a confrontation. He’s been in so much trouble already! In his indecision he takes another step towards the door, and a hurried two steps back behind his corner. What a wonderful corner this was, perhaps he might just stay here for a while longer. Maybe she only wanted to smear some awful rotten vegetables on the prince’s clothes, in which case it would be richly deserved.
Even as he thinks it he knows there’s not a chance of that—even if the prince is a toad. It’s not in Merlin’s nature to turn a blind eye, and there is no use pretending otherwise. He steels himself just in time for the door to open once more, and as she steps out into the corridor he sees she is holding a rough hewn doll of some kind.
She is stuffing something inside the hollow chest of it and crooning lowly, and Merlin’s eyes widen and teeth knock together as he feels a bleak chill run from his hair to his toes. The seriousness of this strikes him and any good humor or hope of reasoning with the witch is abandoned. Whatever it is she is doing makes him feel so ill that he can barely stay on his legs. He grips the wall behind him with both hands. A high pitched ringing has begun in his ears and he blinks rapidly, feeling dizzy. Perhaps that is why it takes him a moment to realize she is walking away again. This time towards the center of the castle.
***
Arthur is bored. He has sat silently behind Uther for hours now it feels like as his father answers petitions from his court. Lord Merek alone has been talking for several of those hours himself at this point. Morgana has pretended to fall asleep no fewer than three times already.
It is not that Arthur does not care, and it is not that Arthur does not learn from this. It is that he is not permitted to speak unless directly asked, and that his only relief is exchanging faces with Morgana as if they were both still children.
As always, Morgana knows exactly when to mock him. He sees her receive a fresh cup of wine from her maidservant, and she smiles smugly at him. She had laughed at him mercilessly for being goaded so thoroughly today, making sure he was aware he had it coming. As if Morgana’s good opinion meant anything to him. Or indeed to anyone with any sense. He turns away from her, scoffing, and peers out over the throne room.
The doors to the great room are open, and in his boredom he idly watches an old woman approach the guards. They bar her from entry of course, as no matter her business there will be no audience with the king for a beggar. He sighs.
It is because he is watching that he sees the very instant she lays eyes on him, and he sits up straighter, adrenaline spiking.
“Father,” he starts.
“Show respect, listen as Lord Merek speaks.”
“Father!” he demands more urgently, and stands as the rest of the hall turns to the sudden commotion at the doors. The guards have drawn their weapons as the crone advances, something small and soft looking held in her hands, but she is wielding it as though it is a dagger.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son!” she cries out, clenching a clawed hand around the thing and twisting. Arthur lurches suddenly, seizing impossibly as he is thrown onto the stone floor. He had fallen from horses and taken blows in training that knocked the very breath from him, but this is so much worse.
It is as though his entire body is being choked by a great snake, impotent as he cannot even raise his arms to defend himself. He thought he had no more breath to give, but one more choked gasp is wrenched out of him, as he is dragged forwards by invisible hands. He hears Morgana shrieking as though from a great distance, and feels her nails clawing into him through his clothes as she tries futilely to pull him backwards.
His father bellows, “Guards! Witchcraft!” but she does not stop. Arthur’s vision is darkening, but he sees the absolute fury on her face through the sheen of magic she is wielding to keep the guards at bay. He knows then that he is not a hostage, and she doesn’t intend for either of them to survive the day.
Spots form in the corners of his eyes and he feels as though he is falling through a well of black water. Everything is a fog, and the world seems as though it is listing and crashing sideways, even the witch.
But no, the pressure around his chest starts to relieve, and his vision starts to clear. He can see that she hasn’t been turned sideways by the world tipping, but instead she has been tackled to the floor by a boy that Arthur blearily recognized.
The guards swarm to the crone as she wails.
The horrible doll is cradled in the boy’s hands, but far more gently, and his face is pale and shocked as he stares back at Arthur.
There is the swing of a sword, and then she is silent.
***
Merlin has what he imagines must be the entire court of Camelot looking at him. He is dragged to his feet, but not overly harshly, and he tries not to look at the dead body. He’s never seen a dead body before.
The king is red with anger, but his eyes never leave the sorceress. “Boy,” he begins “you have saved my son’s life.”
Merlin is giddy with relief, and then immediately flooded with a new breed of terror. Is he supposed to say anything to that? Aren’t there rules for speaking to a king? He’s pretty sure there are rules. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be holding a cursed doll of a king’s son in front of said king, at minimum. Frantically he is grateful that at least the spell seemed to be over, now that the source was… gone. Dead. He swallows. He’s saved from answering.
“You must be rewarded. Yes.” His eyes finally lift from the witch to fall on Merlin. “A place in my son’s household. His manservant, a fitting reward.”
Looking past the king to Prince Arthur, his face is a perfect mirror of his own stunned disbelief. He clearly barely has the energy to lift his head, but he still manages to firmly mouth the word ‘No!’ at Merlin. Although Merlin feels as though he should disagree on everything the prince ever has or ever will say on principle, he cannot help but agree with him now.
“Remove her,” the king continues, apparently done with the matter.
Merlin doesn’t really know how to bow, but sloppily tries. He doesn’t really know what to do with the doll, either. What does he do now? Does he stay or leave? He feels it would be awkward to ask, and doesn’t really want to answer any questions anyway.
He spins uselessly in place twice unsure of where to go. He thinks dizzily that he might need to sit down.
A hand at his elbow halts him. Gwen’s worried face looks up at him, and he feels hopeful - rescue, at last!
“Let’s get you a drink of water, hm?” She’s speaking to him as though he might lose his mind, and since that is precisely how he feels he can only find it in himself to be grateful.
“Please,” he begs.
Behind her, Arthur has been sat upright as Uther and a beautiful dark haired lady tend to him. The prat scowls at him, and before he can think better of it, Merlin sticks his tongue out at him. The lady sees it as well, and laughs.
***
It is far later that evening, when Merlin is sitting with Gaius that he learns the identity of Mary Collins. Although he cannot condone what she did in her efforts for vengeance he thinks of his own mother, and feels a swell of pity nonetheless. Gaius speaks plainly to him that magic of any sort is not to be done near the prince.
Well Merlin could have told him that. Gaius tells him not to roll his eyes.
He goes to his own room - his own room - and lays down on his own bed. His own bed.
Despite his own fortune turning mostly for the better, sleep doesn’t come. His ears echo with the sound the sword made cutting through Mary Collin’s cries for her son. He cannot help but wonder if there was anything different that he could have done to save both her and Arthur. Bully that he was, he didn’t deserve to die for something Uther did.
Buried underneath his spare shirt under the bed, his fingers find the edge of his new magic book.
***
“We’re late, we’re late, get up get up get up!”
“We’re late? There’s nothing you ever have to do to be late to.” Arthur wraps his arms around his pillow and manfully hides. The covers yank off of him and he kicks out aimlessly, hoping to catch Merlin.
Merlin is merciless, and pinches him under his arm. While Arthur swats at him the pillow is pulled violently off his head. A roll of soft bread, still warm, is shoved in his mouth, and when Arthur blinks at it he can see Merlin has already stolen a bite. Of course.
Standing reluctantly a shirt is shoved over his head. With all the meager strength his skinny body can muster, Merlin stomps on the prince’s foot and stays there as he ties the laces.
“And what have I done now?” Arthur meets his eyes and does not blink. He can see Merlin trying to make himself heavier through sheer willpower. Arthur refuses to blink.
“Gwen told me about the laundresses,” Merlin finally hisses at him.
Arthur throws his head back and laughs delightedly, suddenly finding the morning that much brighter. “It’s been months!”
“Yes, laugh all you want, you sound like a donkey!” Merlin finally gets off of his foot in order to spin him and force a coat on. “Now hurry up, your brutes are waiting, it’s half past.”
Arthur sees the position of the sun as he squints out the window, suddenly much more awake. “We’re late, hurry up Merlin, for once in your life!” He pulls on his own trousers and heads for the door. “Ready my sword, slowpoke,” he says around a mouth full of bread.
He savors Merlin’s squawk of outrage.
At the training grounds Leon has begun the drills, and Arthur nods his thanks, stepping in. He hears a clatter of armor behind him as Merlin finally catches up. The amount he’s carrying means Arthur can barely see two annoyed blue eyes peeking over the top.
“Good morning, sire?”
“Good morning Leon. Let us begin. Merlin, find a use for yourself.” Once Merlin has a seat out of earshot with a whetstone, Arthur turns to Leon once more. “Have you heard further word about Howden?”
“Only rumors. Truthfully I’m not sure what to conclude with so little evidence,” Arthur gestures for him to continue as they observe the drills. “Well. It might just be that they need medical aid. The yield from harvests has been less these past years, they may suffer ailments for it.” A long moment stretches between them. “The woman who came to Camelot for aid spoke of her neighbor having an impossible hunger. Stealing and eating more than any one man could ever eat, and just growing thinner and thinner.”
“Hunger is not a crime, but theft is. Could it be he is smuggling the stores out somewhere, or to someone?”
“It is as likely as anything else.”
“I shall speak to my father, perhaps he will allow us to answer their plea.”
He turns to look at Merlin, laughing gaily as Gwen joins him, their dark heads bent together. Leon claps his hand to his shoulder briefly.
“Harvests go in cycles, sire. We are due a good turn.”
***
The next day finds Merlin sitting with Gwen as she patiently shows him a tricky stitch over and over. Morgana is reading to them as they work, distracting him with a truly fantastic telling that Merlin felt certain she made up at least half of. He doesn’t think Geoffrey would keep a book in the Library that said that. Or certainly not let Morgana at it if he did.
Arthur ruins everything, as he tends to do, by demanding his company to the nearby village of Howden.
“Shall I kill him for you?” Morgana asks.
“Better not,” Merlin demures. It has barely been six months since he came to Camelot, but he has learned all too well by now the sort of trouble that finds Arthur. If he complains too much and is left behind he would feel responsible for whatever poor creature inevitably eats Arthur and dies choking on his massive fat head.
Once they are on the horses he cannot help but enjoy himself. He’d never ridden a horse in his life, but now he has done so enough that he has a preferred horse. His mother would be pleased for him, and Will would laugh at him, but he can’t help but love the mare he has come to call Chestnut.
He does not dare tell Arthur.
He thinks the horse has a name already that is appropriately menacing for the king’s stables, but he and Chestnut have an understanding. She gets as many pats as she wants, maybe a carrot or two, and Merlin gets sedately carried behind Arthur’s own Llamrei no matter how poorly he rides.
“Why are we headed to Howden anyway?”
“There might be an illness.” Arthur answers him after a considering look.
“Should we have brought Gaius do you think?”
“It’s not so far that we cannot return with him if necessary.” Arthur leans his head towards Merlin’s. “It may be a couple of villagers causing trouble. I wouldn’t drag Gaius away from his books and potions when it may yet prove to be nothing.”
Merlin bites his lip. Truthfully, it never seems to be nothing. If Arthur ever felt that it was nothing it was likely that Merlin had taken care of the problem with great effort of his person for absolutely no thanks at all.
“Will we have to make camp, or will we reach the village today?”
“We’ll camp one night, it will be a short journey tomorrow.”
Dusk sneaks up on Merlin. It seems like not so long ago the summer sun stretched late into the night, but they stop early, with plenty of time before the need for sleep.
These are some of Merlin’s favorite times. Arthur always seems his best self among his men when he has purpose. Once the camp chores are done the knights take turns at watch while the rest try to one up each other with increasingly unbelievable tales. It is chill enough that they gather around the campfire, Arthur sitting next to him as they eat. The firelight casts him in an unfairly golden and flattering light, and Merlin despairs of him. Arthur laughs loudly and elbows Merlin in the ribs as Sir Osric gestures wildly and mimes a fight with Sir Robert, who is gamely pretending to be a bear. Feeling warm and full and in a very good mood, Merlin privately admits Arthur’s laugh barely sounds like a donkey at all.
As true night approaches Merlin finds a spot to settle. He can still hear the knights speaking lowly, and he can pull Arthur’s voice out of the murmurs with ease. His tone is untroubled, and Merlin closes his eyes and listens for a bit. The clover is so soft beneath him. He struggles to open his eyes for a bit longer, and as he watches the stars spin above him for a time he swears he hears a quiet Goodnight, Merlin.
They arrive in Howden after a rainless night, just past noon, while the sun is high and bright. While the village is a small one Ealdor is smaller still. Houses and gardens speckle the lowly rolling hills, and the river looks gentle. It is far too cold, but there is something about it that calls to Merlin in spite of that, and he longs for a few more days of summer so that he might have a swim.
They have caught attention of course, and as Arthur dismounts Llamrei a village man is already approaching.
Merlin shamelessly tries to eavesdrop, but they are too far away from him - as well as he has his hands full with the reins of both Chestnut and Llamrei. Who are in turns too lazy and too obedient to shuffle forwards with Merlin.
It doesn’t much matter though, as Arthur returns to him quickly. “Come, leave the horses.” With a nod a village girl takes them to a trough, and Merlin flaps his hand foolishly after Chestnut. Arthur rolls his eyes but looks amused as he turns, his back to Merlin as they follow the village man to a house nestled close to the river. “You’re Gaius’s apprentice, you tell me if you think this man is ill.”
“I’m not as good as Gaius!” Merlin exclaims.
“Well I know that, just keep your eyes open.”
As soon as the door swings open it is apparent that anyone with eyes could have known this man was ill, physician’s apprentice or no. After the beauty of the village his ravaged body seemed especially jarring. Even Arthur, who always was ready to boast of his stout constitution seemed taken aback. Merlin was not sure how he still stood and moved about, his yellowed skin pulled tight over his bones, and an unusual lump at his side, visible even through his tunic.
“Yes,” Arthur said, senselessly.
Merlin felt a tug at his own gut that he was not sure was sympathy. Something was at the edge of his senses, alarming his magic, and it felt hungry.
“Arthur,” he interrupted. He gripped at Arthur’s sleeve, feeling very childish - but not sure how to express that something here was both magic, and dangerous, and also that perhaps bringing Merlin here was a bad idea.
Arthur cleared his throat and continued, “I’m afraid that concerns have been raised about your behavior. Including an accusation of theft of food stores,” it seemed impossible that this man had eaten them all—or indeed any—himself. “If there are some in your care that you are providing for I’m sure we can make sure they are fed.”
“It was me.” The man’s voice is a weak breath. “I don’t mean to, I swear to you. I can’t stop. I eat and I eat, a-and I cannot stop myself!” He buries his head in his hands, and Merlin sees his fingernails are an alarming blue.
“You… are clearly unwell. Perhaps we can find the cause of this illness. Have any others been affected?” He turns to the village man who had led them.
“No, m’lord, at least not that I know. We sent word to all the near villages, but no one. Another woman came to try and help, but she seemed hale.”
“Not a plague then. The crops, the livestock? Does the town have a well?”
“The crops have been full, m’lord.” He speaks with the tone of someone who does not wish to complain to a man who can kill him. “Not as rich as some years, but we get by with some to spare.”
“And the woman who came, a healer?”
As they speak Merlin dares to approach the ill man, who has sunk to his knees on the ground. He doesn’t release Arthur’s shirt, but tries to get a closer look. He seems in control of himself for now, whatever else. He is still, and there is no wind in his house, but even so his tunic rustles slightly at his side, and Merlin’s eyes widen in alarm.
“Perhaps we should speak outside and let him rest!” It is a mark of Arthur’s distraction that he has not noticed or complained about Merlin clinging to him like a child with their mother’s apron strings. Merlin drags him outside and doesn’t stop until they pass through the bundle of knights and more distance besides.
“Merlin, I would have thought you wouldn’t be so heartless. He’s clearly ill!”
“He’s more than ill!”
Arthur’s gaze sharpens on him,“You believe it to be unnatural in origin?”
“I don’t know!” He wails. They are drawing attention.
“Sire?” Sir Osric appears at Arthur’s shoulder, a woman at his side.
“I can tell you what it is,” she offers, “although you may not be glad to hear it. Follow me, knight of Camelot.”
***
“If I told you this was magical in nature, what would you say?” She stands by the river, Arthur watching her carefully as she peers over the water, balanced easily on a large stone. The knights stand at a distance, but Merlin hovers, unwilling to leave. She seems amused by him.
“I would hear your reasoning,” Arthur offered.
“The land is out of balance, and unfed, so the spirits seek other sources.”
“A curse?”
“No.” She turns to him. “Usually an Alp-luachra wouldn’t venture to a village like this. They aren’t kind things, but this is unusual.” Her eyes are challenging. “It’s not a problem because of magic, it’s a problem because of the lack.”
Merlin can see Arthur clench his jaw.
“Your king unbalanced the land when he spilled the blood of so many.” She is smiling at him, and Merlin wonders if she knows who Arthur is, or if she would say as much to any knight in Camelot red. “Unbalanced the rivers when he drowned their children.”
Arthur is silent.
“Don’t despair!” She laughs at him, not totally unkindly. “Or perhaps you will be disappointed, but we can yet have a peaceful solution here. For the most part anyway. Give the man salt to eat, the Alp-luachra will shrivel and be forced out of him. From there it will die as easily as most things do.” Her blonde hair waves behind her in the sunshine. “Simple. But the river will not be healed. This will happen again.”
“And if you speak the truth, how would we ensure this does not happen again.”
“I think you might guess what I would say.” The pretty curve of her mouth twists up without humor.
He is quiet for a long moment, his throat clicks as he swallows. “You have no proof of your claims.”
“They sent for help, and you came, yes? So did I. Try the salt - it won’t kill the man, but it might save him. There is no risk but to your pride.” She turns back to the village, dismissing the both of them, but Merlin can’t seem to take his eyes off of the water.
Is it true?
“It seems opportune, that you should be here to give me this information. If this is your doing I will see justice done.” Arthur speaks and at this, her patience runs out.
“Justice! I do not fear your idea of justice, knight, and you will see the truth easily enough yourself. Or do you fear more that I am telling the truth? Hm?” The water rolls against the dark rocks. “Ask yourself why Camelot dwindles-!” She cuts herself off, furious. “Fine. Seek me out and try to kill me if you can.”
“I do not have your name.” Arthur has a temper, Merlin knows, but for now he is unnaturally still.
“Look for Morgause.” She storms back towards the village without another word, leaving Merlin and Arthur in a tense silence.
“It can’t be so.” Arthur speaks so quietly Merlin is certain he is not meant to hear. The water does not answer.
Merlin wrings his hands. He would give anything to go back to the easy peace of last night, Arthur’s happy weight pressed against his side as he laughed. “Arthur,” he begins.
“We must return to the village. A man’s life is at stake.” Arthur is brave, Merlin knows it, but he feels it anew. This is a different sort of bravery than he has seen before.
“Even if this works, it doesn’t mean,” Merlin trails off. “The other stuff.”
“Of course,” Arthur allows him the dignity of pretending to be comforted.
As Arthur walks back to join his knights, lost in his own mind, Merlin allows himself a moment to kneel by the river. It doesn’t look dangerous.
Much like with Mary Collins all those months ago all he can muster himself to feel is sorrow. Regret that such things should happen at all. Hopefully this village would recover with no loss of life, but if the magic is leaving Camelot… Merlin doesn’t want to admit his fear. Even he’s heard of the Perilous Lands.
Letting his fingers trail through the clear water, he tries his best to pour a little bit of his own magic into it instead. The bright sunlight flickering on the surface of the river casts red and gold spots behind his closed eyes. Arthur comes back into his mind unbidden, the tall, proud shape of him - but he thinks the river understands anyway.
He fancies that it is twinkling just a bit more in the sun, swelling with a bit more cheer, but maybe not. He hopes it will be safer now.
“Feel better soon,” he wishes aloud, inanely. He wipes his wet fingertips on his trousers and stands, giving one last look over the water. With that he turns to catch up to Arthur, who is ordering his men to find some salt, and to be quick about it.
The following expulsion of the Alp-luachra is not something that Merlin ever intends to revisit, but in this at least Morgause is right. It does die, and the man does live. He will recover, and no one will starve this winter, but Arthur’s eyes are tense.
They agree to stay one night, not wishing to impose for long when the village has recovering of its own to do. Arthur is put in the only room at the tavern, and Merlin sleeps on the floor. They have not spoken.
“Do you-” a pause, “You can’t-” Arthur always speaks with confidence, but he starts and stops before settling on what he wishes to say. “Tell me about your village.”
“Ealdor?”
“Usually you can’t shut up, just tell me about it. I already knew you were from Escetir, your bumpkin accent gave you away ages ago.”
“Prat.” Merlin casts his mind about, not sure what to offer. What could possibly impress Arthur, who had everything in the word laid out at his feet? “Well, it’s small. Even smaller than Howden. You have to go past the ridge of Ascetir to get there.”
“I know where it is, you fool.”
“Alright, well what do you want to know?”
“What’s it like? You have family there?”
Merlin suddenly feels far richer than Arthur. “My mother. I know you think I’m an idiot, but if I know anything at all I learned it from her.” He props himself up on his elbows to peer up at Arthur’s profile in the moonlight. He can’t help but smile, and Arthur looks down at him and smiles back, just a bit. “She taught me how to read and write, and herblore, and how to use a loom, even though I’m not very good at it. We had a goat for a while.”
“You sound like a fine daughter.” Arthur is smiling truly now. “And what did you name the goat? Don’t think I don’t know you call my horse Chestnut. Honestly, Merlin.”
“Hah,” Merlin had named the goat, but he won’t tell Arthur that now.
“And your father?”
Merlin is not exactly embarrassed to be a bastard, but he hesitates to tell Arthur that. Arthur who can trace his family line back for ages and ages, just by stepping out of his room and looking at the tapestries. His room in his castle. “Don’t have one of those.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arthur is very bad at apologies, and mostly Merlin feels poorly for bringing down their return to levity.
“It’s just a silly tale my mother used to tell me when I asked,” he offered, “but she said she made a wish for me on Imbolc, and that Brigid answered her.”
“That’s… sweet.” Merlin looks at him keenly for deception, but he seems sincere. “So you were born on Imbolc?”
“No, I was born on Samhain. When I was little I liked to pretend that all the cakes and harvest dances were for me.” Truthfully Merlin still liked to pretend that.
“Your mother sounds kind.” His voice is a bit wistful, but his smile has returned, and is soft. The moment hovers in the air, and Merlin lays his head back down. “Why did you come to Camelot? Why not stay in Escetir?”
“My mother couldn’t continue my education any further, and I didn’t really fit in anyway,” he half answers. “And-” is it treason to speak poorly about a king to a prince? “Well. Cenred has less regard for his people than he ought to.”
Instead of admonishing him Arthur looks smug. He should have known. “Of course you would prefer Camelot, anyone would.” Merlin can see the moment that the worry steals back over Arthur.
“I called the goat Fennel,” he says, instead of anything useful.
Arthur pretends to groan, but Merlin can see him bury his grin in his hands.
The next night, the men are jovial as they circle around the campfire once again, happy the creature that had caused all the trouble was dead, and that the afflicted man had lived. They jested that no one would be very impressed by the slaying of a newt, and Arthur laughed along with them.