Chapter Text
It was almost midnight when a cluster of dark cloaks gathered in a circle beneath the ancient canopy of the forest, where even the moonlight dared not disturb the nights happenings. The trees loomed like silent witnesses, their gnarled branches bowing inward, enclosing the clearing like a cathedral of twisting shadows. At the centre, runes had been etched into the frozen earth with bloodroot and silver dust. Wax candles guttered on stumps and stones, flickering with a flame that shifted in hue between violet and gold.
A chorus of voices rose in unison, low and lilting, chanting in twisting tongues that made the very air shudder.
"Ic clypige eow, eald Cyningas magan, geweorðod by mægen and blod.
Cume forth of eorðan, of lyfte, of isen and treow,
And gehyr min stefne.
Bringe dom ofer unriht. Bringe dom ofer cyningas mid wælhreownysse in heortan.”
The earth trembled faintly. The flames shot higher, dancing like spirits in the wind. Shadows twisted into strange forms at the edge of the light: outstretched wings, horned silhouettes, glowing eyes peering from the gloom.
Morgana’s voice rose, clear and commanding, now in the language of the present.
“I call upon the Old Council. By the blood of the land, by the breath of the sky, by the bones of the first magic, I summon thee! Witness the crimes of Uther Pendragon! Come forth and sit in judgement!”
The flames surged, then abruptly died out, plunging the woods into silent darkness.
---
Merlin should have known from the moment he woke up that today would be a terrible day.
For one thing, he had overslept. Not just a few minutes late, but completely missed the sunrise. Gaius had specifically asked him to fetch fresh snowdrops before the morning frost melted. So Merlin had burst out of bed in a panic, grabbed his coat, and sprinted out into the woods to find the flowers, nearly falling on his face several times in the process.
By the time he returned, mud-spattered and breathless, Gaius was standing in the workshop doorway, arms folded and lips pursed. The glare he shot Merlin could have melted steel.
"I'm sorry!" Merlin wheezed, dumping the slightly crushed snowdrops onto the table.
Gaius merely raised an eyebrow. "You’d better get to Prince Arthur before he decides to throw a tantrum."
Merlin didn’t have the heart to explain he was already well past the tantrum window.
He raced through the castle corridors, nearly knocking over two serving girls and what might have been a very disgruntled Leon. If looks could kill, Merlin would have been dead before he made it to Arthur's chambers.
He burst through the door without knocking and came face to face with a shirtless, irate Arthur Pendragon. The Prince sat upright in bed, arms crossed, and wearing an expression that on a child would be called a rather adorable pout, but on a grown man made Merlin want to…
…do something.
"You're late," Arthur said sharply.
Merlin opened his mouth. "Yes, sire, I had to—"
"Whatever excuse you're about to give can't possibly be as important as ensuring your future king doesn’t starve to death waiting for the most incompetent servant in history!"
Merlin bit back a retort about real starvation and nobles with overinflated egos. Instead, he settled on the safest option.
"...Yes, sire."
As he moved to prepare Arthur's breakfast, he very deliberately didn’t think about wrapping the bedsheets around the prince’s smug face. Not even a little.
Yes. Today was going to be dreadful.
---
Prince Arthur was eager to get out of Camelot. He hadn't left the grounds in nearly a week, stuck in council chambers arguing over grain stores. Grain. He could feel his brain slowly dying with each passing minute of the Lord of the Treasury's nasal complaints. Merlin, bizarrely, had taken a strange interest in the debate, to the point where Arthur had to discreetly kick him under the table to stop him from glaring.
Merlin's inability to behave in public was honestly astonishing. Still, Arthur supposed he preferred Merlin's outbursts to George's fawning. Something about that man’s whispery voice made Arthur want to leap from the castle walls. At least Merlin was...entertaining. For now.
So when a scouting knight reported signs of magic in a nearby forest clearing, Arthur seized the opportunity to investigate.
The clearing had clearly been used for a ritual. The ground was scorched in a wide circle, and faint embers still smouldered at the centre. Symbols had been scratched into the earth with strange precision, many of them unfamiliar. Arthur crouched to study the marks, frowning.
He didn’t like this. Magic this close to Camelot meant either someone foolish or someone bold. Neither option sat well with him.
Pulling out a small leather notebook, Arthur began to sketch the markings. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but Merlin had given him the book last Yule, and for some reason, Arthur had started carrying it around. It had been handed over with such a hopeful—no, idiotic smile, Arthur had taken it out of pity. Or something.
Arthur knew he was lingering longer than necessary at the edge of the ritual site. His eyes were fixed on the scorched ground and the strange, curling symbols that seemed to writhe if you looked at them too long, but his mind was elsewhere. There was something about the place that prickled under his skin. Not fear exactly, but unease, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. He would never say it aloud, but his first thought had been Morgana.
It always was, these days. Even now, months after her betrayal, her absence haunted Camelot like a ghost. Uther had grown more erratic with every passing week, his fury sharpened by grief. More executions, more accusations, more fear. Servants whispered of disappearances in the night, and Arthur had stopped counting the number of burned pyres. He wanted to believe that Morgana could still be found, reasoned with, redeemed. But if she was behind this ritual, whatever it was, then perhaps she was already lost. He couldn’t imagine his sister here; or rather he didn’t want to.
He rubbed a hand over his face, glancing once more at the markings before putting away the notebook Merlin had given him. If anyone could help make sense of this, it would be Gaius.
---
Returning to Camelot was always faster than leaving it. Before long, Arthur stood in the throne room, delivering his report to King Uther, who was pacing furiously.
Gaius stood at the side, brows furrowed in concern. Merlin loitered near him, looking deliberately casual, which only made him look guiltier. Anyone who had spent more than a week in Camelot knew that whenever Merlin was deliberately trying to look unassuming that you should walk very quickly in the opposite direction.
"And there was no sign of Morgana?" Uther demanded, not ceasing his pacing.
"None," Arthur replied, handing his sketch to Gaius. "No footprints. Just the symbols."
Gaius adjusted his spectacles and peered down. "Curious, this appears to be a fusion of several magical dialects. I see Draconic here...and Fae script...even traces of Dwarvish runes. Almost every magical tongue I know of and some I have never encounted before."
"Is that unusual?" Demanded the King, finally coming to a stop in front of the palace Physician.
"Unheard of," Gaius said grimly. "Such languages aren’t meant to be combined. Even writing them side by side can have...volatile consequences."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Explosive consequences?"
"Indeed," agreed the old man. "I’m frankly amazed you copied them down without setting yourself alight."
Arthur felt his father's eyes on him, sharp and appraising. A cold shiver ran up his spine.
"Likely because he lacks the gift to wield them," Gaius said quickly, glancing at the king.
"Who could create such a thing?" Arthur asked.
"More to the point," Uther said, striding forward, "why?"
He took the parchment from Gaius’s hand as if determined to solve the mystery himself. The moment his fingers touched it, everything changed.
The paper burst into purple fire, vanishing in a flash. Uther cursed and dropped the ashes.
Arthur drew his sword, as did the knights in the corners of the room. A loud ringing sound vibrated through his very bones. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw both Gaius and Merlin grab their heads in pain, though his father seemed unaffected.
Then came the rumbling. A deep, seismic groan echoed through the hall as five stone pillars rose from the floor behind the throne.
Before their eyes, the pillars reshaped themselves into five elaborate thrones, each more uncanny than the last. One was forged from twisted black stone, its surface carved with sharp, claw-like ridges and symbols that seemed to pulse in the dim light. Another was draped in moss and tangled vines, tiny blossoms sprouting and wilting in seconds as if the seat itself breathed. A third glittered with jagged spires of ice, so clear it looked almost invisible in places, yet cold mist curled from its edges into the warm air. Beside it stood a chair of solid oak, its grain rich and dark, worn smooth at the arms and seat by countless invisible hands. The last throne shimmered unsettlingly. It was seemingly wrought from a shifting metal that warped its shape ever so slightly with each glance, paired with deep velvet that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Together, the five seats stood silent and waiting, heavy with impossible expectation.
As the final chair settled into place, a blinding light filled the room. The very air hummed with ancient energy.
Then, a voice. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Deep, echoing, terrifying.
"Hæl wes thu, cyning Uther Pendragon. Thu bist befroren to dom."
A beat passed before the voice spoke again in modern tongue, thunderous and final.
"Greetings. This is the trial of King Uther Pendragon, charged with the crime of murder against the people of the magical planes. The Council has been summoned."
There was a long, stunned silence.
"Fuck," Merlin muttered under his breath.
Arthur didn’t disagree.