Chapter Text
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| Poster by eos-rose. |
Aslan’s camp was a marvel of colour, song, and joyous revelry, but Arthur’s troubled mind observed only garish excesses and shamelessly incongruous behaviour unbefitting a wartime situation. Even before they passed through the outermost borders of the camp, he was bristling with frustrated indignation. Were these people really so sure of their victory? They had been enslaved to the witch’s will for a century and lived in fear of her long before that. Did this mean nothing to them? He could not be sure of what could be considered a normal lifespan for any given creature in Narnia, but it seemed obvious that the witch was not only exceptionally long-lived (possibly immortal, which was something he really didn’t want to think about), but also very hard to kill. After all, the people of Narnia would have surely risen up before now if there had been any hope of defeating her. Perhaps this Aslan fellow truly would make the difference, but the mere arrival of spring and the shattering of a single spell hardly justified such foolishness.
If Arthur knew anything about sorcerers—and he certainly ought to, considering how frequently they attempted to destroy him and/or his kingdom—then it was likely that the witch was only biding her time and waiting for the right time to strike. There would be a battle. And these foolish revellers would be caught off guard, because they were too busy celebrating their good fortune to realize the danger.
Merlin could be hurt now, even dea— Arthur stumbled, shying away from the thought with a sick feeling heavy in his belly. Merlin could be bleeding for these people at that very moment, and yet they had the gall to laugh and dance in Arthur’s wake as he led the beavers to the centre of the camp atop the gradually sloping hill, where he knew Aslan and any of his appointed advisors must be waiting. All manner of talking beasts and creatures straight out of storybooks and more recent nightmares (dear heavens!—was that a unicorn prancing behind that griffin?) lined his path, as if observing a spectacular parade. It took all his willpower not to lose his temper. The only creatures that looked even remotely sombre and moderately aware of what was to come were the strange half-human, half-horse hybrids (centaurs, he mused, recalling the Greek tales travelling bards had entertained him with as a boy) with their massive bows and freshly-filled quivers of arrows on hand and ready; however, even they looked on Arthur with a sort of vacant awe and unjustified hope that left him bristling and unaccountably angry.
He was here for Merlin. That was all.
By the time he reached Aslan’s pavilion, stationed by what must have been the infamous Stone Table (which didn’t look like much—why it was spoken of as if it held any great significance was well beyond his comprehension), Arthur was so twisted up inside that he was caught off guard when the great Lion emerged from within and looked at him with such ancient, knowing eyes that he suddenly found his knees had gone a bit trembly. This was no ordinary lion, no talking beast as the others in this strange world. In those eyes he saw the rise and fall of nations, of worlds, and of entire universes. He saw all the sins and virtues of life: modesty and extravagance; chastity and lust; temperance and gluttony; charity and avarice; diligence and sloth; forgiveness and wrath; kindness and envy; humility and pride; hope and despair. He saw all the wealth and wisdom of a god.
His knees hit the ground before the Lion’s massive paws of their own accord, the shock of the impact jerking him back to his senses. When he looked up again, the Lion did not seem nearly so oppressively larger than life—in fact, it seemed really quite ordinary, or as ordinary as a talking lion could be. The beast’s eyes were laughing at him.
Arthur scowled inwardly, and might have jumped to his feet (he was a prince of Camelot—he kneeled to no one!) had he not noticed that all the other people around them were in various stages of prostration around them. He needed this Lion, however much he might dislike admitting it. He could swallow his pride for Merlin’s sake. It rankled, but he could do it.
“Welcome, Arthur, Son of Adam,” the Lion invoked, voice rumbling deeply through the still air. “I have been waiting for you. But I had expected two of you. Tell me, where is the second.”
“He has been captured by the White Witch,” Mr Beaver said gravely.
“That is grave news, indeed,” said Aslan.
The hush that had settled over the camp when Aslan had emerged became thicker, almost cloying, as the news settled over the crowd like a fresh blanket of frost. Perhaps now they would begin to take their predicament more seriously. Not that a change of attitude would much improve Arthur’s mood now.
“Sir,” said Mrs Beaver, “surely there is something that may be done.”
“All that may be done shall be done,” Aslan murmured cryptically. His eyes seared into Arthur, as if he could read all his secrets. Arthur shivered, feeling exposed, and pulled the still-damp fur tighter around him. “In the meantime, let a feast be prepared for our new arrivals.” The crowd thankfully began to break up then, though Arthur was not best pleased to find he’d been left alone with a beast that could potentially strike him dead with a single blow of his paw before Arthur even had a chance to recall the sword at his hip. Nice kitty... “Come, Son of Adam,” the Lion rumbled, amused, “and I will show you a far-off sight of the castle where you are to be king.”
And Arthur, for lack of any other options, followed the Lion to the eastern edge of the hilltop. There a beautiful sight met their eyes. The sun was setting behind their backs. That meant that the whole country below them lay in the evening light—forest and hills and valleys and the winding tail of the great river leading to the sea. At that very point where the river met the sea was a great shining beacon, almost like a star, but Arthur quickly realized that it was not a star at all. It was a great white castle, standing tall and proud in the light of the setting sun, the fading brightness reflecting from its many windows.
“That, O Man,” said Aslan, “is Cair Paravel of the two thrones, in one of which you must sit as High King. The other throne, as you must surely know, is for your companion, Merlin, who shall rule under you.”
So, that was Cair Paravel.
There must have been some magic in the castle itself that it could be standing after what Arthur assumed must have been at least a hundred years of disuse. He recalled that the beaver had mentioned once as they walked that the White Witch had never once dared to hold court there. Even at this distance, Arthur found it enchanting. He very much would have liked to see it up close, only...
“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Arthur said with a tired sigh. “I have no intention of being king in this place—and certainly Merlin is not suited to ruling, were I willing to part from him. I am here because Merlin asked me to be here.” And Arthur explained about the faun Tumnus, how Merlin had been so terribly desperate to save his friend, and how Arthur had not the heart to refuse him, though he should have. Then he went on to describe his newfound hatred for the witch, and how she had made this fight personal when she stole away his truest friend. “So you see,” Arthur finished, “this kingship and prophecy business is of no interest to me. Because I made a promise to Merlin, I will see this thing through and do what I can to help you defeat this witch, but beyond that I will not be so bound. My main priority is to see that Merlin is rescued and to return us both to where we really belong. I am the only son of Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot. I have a duty to my father and my own people to return. Surely, as a king yourself, you understand the importance of duty.”
“Well spoken, Son of Adam,” said Aslan. “I, too, wish to keep my loved ones—my people—safe. Though I wonder if you do not speak so hastily when you claim young Merlin would be unsuited to ruling. As you describe him, he seems a kind and compassionate man—”
“He is a fool,” Arthur interrupted. “A kind one, yes, but a fool nonetheless. And regardless of Merlin’s capabilities, the fact remains that I am not willing to part from him.”
“You love him.”
“I—I what?” Arthur gaped, forcing a chuckle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If you do not love him, why are you so intent on keeping him, regardless of his own wishes?”
Arthur bristled. Surely Merlin would never really consider leaving him. He wouldn’t stay, if given half a chance, would he? A sarcastic voice in the back of his head that sounded very like Morgana piped up assured him that no, of course, Merlin would never choose a life of luxury and respect over an occupation that routinely saw him being thrown in the stocks, mocked for a mental disease called kindness, and forced to do any dirty job that a certain spoiled royal could think of. Flexing his fingers tensely, Arthur stared at the castle on the horizon wistfully. “Do you really think he’d be happier here?”
The Lion was silent a moment. “I cannot know your friend’s heart,” Aslan said at long last, “but I suspect he feels much the same for you as you do for him. He would likely be happy to follow wherever you may choose to go. Though I think, perhaps, you might reconsider your decision. I fear I have not made myself entirely clear: there is no need for you to choose one kingdom over another. Time flows differently in Narnia. No matter when you choose to leave us, when you return to your world you will find that no time at all has passed since the moment you stepped into Narnia. You will not have aged. You will not have failed in your duty to Camelot in any way. On the contrary, I think your time here will have made you better prepared to rule, when the time comes.”
“I...” Arthur wet his lips, uncertain how to react. “That is...”
“There is no need to decide now. Think on it.” The Lion’s eyes were kind and sad all at once. “Think, also, on the fact that a love that would never be condoned in your world would be most welcome here. You could have your Merlin openly as your lover and your equal here, without fear of ridicule or retaliation. Should you choose to wed him, not a soul would gainsay you. Narnians are a simple folk. They will accept and adore you both as you are. For whatever time you remain with us, you will have no reason to hide.”
Arthur struggled for words, mind whirling. To think he could hold Merlin close without fear of consequences, to sit beside him on twin thrones, to marry him and make his claim legal and binding. These were the things he had wished for in his heart of hearts. Could it really be within his grasp? Could he trust this Lion? Was there some hidden catch?
He would have asked questions, but just as he found the words to express his hopeful incredulity, the sound of a blaring horn reached his ears. “What is that?”
“The Queen’s scavengers have scouted us out at last,” replied Aslan, and began a slow loping gait along the outskirts of the camp at a pace that Arthur could comfortably keep up with.
There were three wolves.
The alarms had been sounded before they could do much damage. A cursory scan of the area suggested that the beasts had intruded upon the privacy of some bathing nymphs (now sobbing quietly into the shoulders of their dryad cousins, shaken but unharmed), taken a bite out of the faun that had sounded the alarm (his leg was in bad shape, but he seemed in no imminent danger), and proceeded to kick up a mighty fuss. Toothy grins met their arrival. Inhuman glee glowed in their eyes.
All along, their purpose had been to stir up a commotion and bring their enemies running to greet them. Such arrogance.
Arthur recognized the one that lazily introduced himself as Maugrim as the leader of the very pack that had attacked at the waterfall and stolen Merlin away. Reflexively he discarded Merlin’s coat and staff and reached for Rhindon, but a meaningful look from Aslan stilled his hand.
Right, then. Negotiations first. Personally, he would rather strike down the villainous scum and ask questions later (what capacity for patience and mercy he might have otherwise offered had been stripped of him when Merlin had been stolen), but this was not his army and he was not the one in charge here.
“Why have you come?” Aslan demanded.
The wolves seemed to find this amusing. “I should think that would be obvious,” Maugrim said, tongue lolling mockingly. Yellow eyes settled on Arthur. His grip on Rhindon tightened. “We are here for the remaining Son of Adam.” The crowd twittered in outrage. Arthur gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. The stupid wolf proceeded as if he did not notice the outcry. “He is no good to you alone. The prophecy is as good as thwarted. Give him over to us, and My Lady will be merciful.”
“We,” Aslan said coolly, “shall make no such concession.” The Lion went on to say more, but Arthur did not hear a word of it. In his mind, seven terrible words echoed in a terrible refrain.
The prophecy is as good as thwarted.
“Do you mean to say that Merlin is dead?” he interrupted, heart thudding painful in his chest.
Silence settled over the area. Aslan’s eyes were sad on him.
The head wolf’s lips curled into a laughing sneer. “No,” Maugrim growled, “but he may be soon. Come with me, Son of Adam, and he will be returned to you—”
“Unharmed?”
“Alive.” The wolf paced closer. “The Queen is really rather fond of him. He screams so beautifully.”
Arthur flinched. Gods, Merlin. “What has she done to him?”
Maugrim shrugged as his companions snickered wickedly behind him. “That is neither here nor there. The point is that if you come now, My Lady will allow you to take him and return to your world. Provided that you swear never to return.”
“Liar!”
“Deceiver!”
“Don’t believe a word of it, Son of Adam!”
The crowd roared its disapproval, and Arthur took a deep, steadying breath. “How do I know you speak the truth?”
“You don’t. But can you really afford to deny me?” His voice went hushed and cruel. “If you refuse, I can assure you that your precious Merlin will die slowly and in great pain. Moreover, when it is all over, I have been promised the first taste of his soft, succulent flesh. I wonder: will he taste as delicious as he smells?”
That was all it took for Arthur’s self-control to break.
“You will not touch him!” he cried, and Rhindon did sing in his hand as it sliced through the air.
“Stand back,” Aslan called. “This is the Son of Adam’s fight! Back! Back!”
He and the wolf circled each other cautiously in the circle that cleared for them. He could hear the crowd chattering and sense their unease, but anger burned through his veins—and fear, too—and he knew he had to win this. For Merlin, whose faith in Arthur had never once faltered. For the beavers, who had been kind. For all the people of Narnia, who had bowed to him despite his own reluctance.
Merlin was alive. He felt it in his bones. So, too, was he certain that once the Queen had her matched set of would-be saviour-kings, that this fact would no longer hold true. He was no stranger to political games and pretty lies. She would kill them both—and gladly. And this wolf and his kin would defile their carcasses with ravenous greed.
He thought of Merlin, prone on the ice and being dragged to his doom.
He leapt forward just as Maugrim lunged for his throat.
They landed in a painful pile of steel, fur and aching limbs in the centre of the clearing. It was over quickly. A mangy dog was no match for a man of his skills.
“You should not have touched him,” Arthur whispered as the wolf’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and its thrashing body stilled. “I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” and to preserve the life of his friend and lover, he would do far worse than kill. Pushing the heavy body off himself with a muted grunt, he found the crowd staring at him in startled awe.
The remaining two wolves cowered under his glare and fled.
“Shall we pursue?” a centaur piped up, brandishing his spear pointedly.
“Yes,” Aslan said. “They will go to their mistress and lead us to the other Son of Adam. A rescue is in order.” Then he called forth all matter of winged creatures—a pegasus, a griffin, several other beasts Arthur didn’t recognize—which immediately gave chase.
Arthur was disheartened at being left behind. If anyone should be haring off on an insane mission to rescue Merlin, it should be him. He might have followed, but Aslan positioned himself meaningfully in his path and refused to budge.
“They will bring him back safe and well, if they can,” Aslan said. “Have some faith—and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a new day, and we have much to do.”
Arthur ate only because he could feel Mrs Beaver’s worried eyes on him. The feast laid out before him could have put the kitchens of Camelot to shame, but even the sweet cakes and ripe fruits were bland and tasteless on his tongue.
When he was led to a resplendently furnished pavilion by a few giggling nymphs, pretty and wide-eyed, he could not bring himself to feign any interest in the comfort they wordlessly offered. Slumber embraced him quickly, but his rest was fitful and plagued by horrifying visions of Merlin broken and crying out for him.
Arthur stirred several times in the night to find his pillow damp and eyes burning with something other than exhaustion.
With the dawn’s first blush, Arthur found himself rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wandering toward the edge of the camp with no particular purpose or destination in mind. The camp’s early risers offered wordless nods of acknowledgement as he ambled on his way, and one grinning faun tossed him an apple as he passed, but he otherwise remained unmolested. Perhaps they sensed in him the unsettled nervousness quivering beneath the surface. Or perhaps they knew where his feet would take him, even when he did not.
He found Aslan and a select number of followers gathered on the hill where Aslan had shown him his first glimpse of Cair Paravel the evening before. Settled in the tall grass at their centre was a familiar silhouette. The rescue party had returned. More importantly, against all reasonable expectations, they had been successful.
“Merlin,” he gasped, and broke into a run. Shoving carelessly between two of the nameless onlookers—or, rather, healers he soon realised—he fell to his kneels at Merlin’s side and would have pulled the startled young man into his arms with no regard for their audience had it not been for the bruises and the blood. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” Merlin rasped thickly. He attempted to grin at him through cracked lips, only to break into a fit of coughs, the hacking sound wet and grating to the ears. Arthur had heard coughs like that before. It never boded well. Long hours of screaming and torture could do that to a man.
Certainly Merlin looked well worked-over. Not only was he too pale by far, but new bruises had joined the ghastly green-tinged one Arthur himself had bestowed. Four long, thin cuts ran scabbed and bloody down his right arm. His left hand curled uselessly against his shuddering chest, fingers twisted into unnatural angles. And those were only the obvious injuries.
“What did she do to you?” Arthur said, wetting his lips anxiously.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
It was official. Merlin truly did have a grave mental affliction.
Arthur glared balefully. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Running gentle hands down the body he knew so well, he identified at least three fractured ribs (a fourth had likely only been severely bruised), some grotesque burns at Merlin’s right hip that the fool had so valiantly tried to hide from him, and a (thankfully clean) break in his left femur. “I’m going to take her apart,” he hissed lowly, once he was sure the worst of the damage had been identified.
The healers behind him murmured their grim approval of this plan.
Merlin’s blue eyes just looked sad. “Arthur...”
Arthur silenced him with a kiss, fingers cupping Merlin’s cheeks carefully as he ignored the younger man’s startled gasp at such a public display of affection. He cared not one whit who saw. If Aslan had not lied, their audience would not be overly offended. And if the opposite were true—well, he had not yet accepted his place as their king. Let them judge him if they would.
Pulling back, he noticed that the healers had all politely averted their gazes—but Aslan was looking directly at them with all the compassion and understanding in the world. It was unnerving.
“Have you not the juice of the fire-flower?” asked Aslan.
Arthur’s hand flew to the vial still dangling around his neck. The cordial! Of course! Hastily, he unscrewed the vial and pressed it toward Merlin’s lips with a determined glare. “Argue all you want,” he said. “Maybe you’re not at death’s door, but there is no way I’m leaving you like this for a moment longer.”
Merlin looked rebellious, but obediently parted his lips and swallowed down the drops Arthur poured onto his tongue with nothing more than a disgusted cringe at the taste. “That’s disgusting,” he whined, but already the colour was flowing back into his cheeks and his voice was not nearly so raw. “Why must medicine always taste like cat piss?”
“Know a lot about the taste of cat piss, do you?” Arthur snorted, a small smile playing over his lips as the bruises aged and faded, the cuts stitched easily together, the burns faded to nothing, and the bones settled back into place of their own accord. He could approve of magic of this sort.
It was something of a relief to see all evidence of the violence of two nights past gone at last, though he would have rather seen it healed under other circumstances.
Fascinated with the suddenly, blessedly whole state of his body, Merlin pushed himself into a sitting position and flexed his no longer shattered hand before him with a slow blink. “Huh,” he said. “It only hurts a little. Like the muscles are too tight. But I... I thought I’d never use it again.”
“I thought the fire-flower was supposed to heal him completely.” Arthur bit his lip and glanced at Aslan, but it was one of the healers that broke in.
“I’ve never seen the fire-flower in action before,” the centaur explained solemnly, “but I have been led to understand that it is less than perfect at healing bones. Some residual pain and tenderness is to be expected. These symptoms are nothing to be concerned over and should heal with the fullness of time.” He darted his eyes to Merlin. “I would recommend that Your Majesty rest your body well in the mean time. Any undue strain may exacerbate any lingering issues. Bed rest and light exercise are in order.”
“But the battle—” Merlin started to argue in another clear fit of idiocy.
Arthur clapped one hand over Merlin’s mouth. “I’ll see to it that he doesn’t overexert himself,” he promised. If he had it his way, Merlin wouldn’t be going anywhere near the coming battle. He had failed to keep his friend safe before. He would not fail again.
The witch would pay dearly for her transgressions.
Arthur slept better with Merlin beside him. He did not stir again until well nigh noon.
It was well into the afternoon when the witch’s messenger—a pinch-faced dwarf—entered the camp. He sought to arrange a meeting between his mistress and Aslan. His request was granted.
Arthur didn’t like the way Merlin shrank back behind him when the witch stepped into sight, the once jovial people parting fearfully in her wake. She didn’t look like much—or, at least, she appeared human enough. Her skin was perhaps a few shades too pale and her eyes unnaturally blue, sparkling eerily in the sunlight, but otherwise she had the appearance of any ordinary lady of the court save that her flowing white gown was far too pristine given the amount of filth and mud she must have been exposed to in her travels. There was something disconcertingly familiar about her, but Arthur supposed that once you have known one witch you knew them all. His father had often said as much.
Frankly, Arthur didn’t give a damn that she was young and pretty and carried herself like a well-bred maiden. When Merlin fingers fisted the back of his shirt anxiously, all he wanted to do was strike her dead. The impulse almost got away with him when she met his glare with a sweet smile that slowly curled into a vicious sneer before she turned her attention to Aslan, pointed fiercely at the trembling youth still cringing behind Arthur, and cried, “You have a traitor there!”
Traitor?
“Are you still so intent on vengeance?” Aslan asked quietly. “Has the boy not suffered enough?”
“It will never be enough,” the witch seethed.
“My Lady Nimueh—” Aslan began placatingly, but the usurper queen would have none of it. Arthur frowned, baffled and confused, and reached back to grasp one of Merlin’s clammy hands in his. Nimueh. He had heard that name before. But where?
“Have you forgotten the deep magic?”
“The deep magic from the dawn of time?”
The witch smiled coldly, gesturing past Aslan to the Stone Table. “You know what is written there, on that very table of stone. You know the magic that was put into Narnia at the very beginning. You know that every traitor belongs to me as my lawful prey; and that for every treachery I have the right to kill. You know that,” her finger waved accusingly, “human creature is mine! His life is mine!”
“Arthur,” Merlin gasped behind him, squeezing his hand tight. “I am so sorry.”
Arthur shook his head, taking a few angry steps toward the witch, who eyed him with arrogant satisfaction. “I don’t know anything about your filthy blood magic,” he spat, “but Merlin is no traitor! Whatever claim you imagine you may have on him is purely false! I have known this man for two years. I know his heart well—and I have never encountered anyone more loyal and true than him. He could no sooner contrive treason than—than perform sorcery!”
White teeth flashed as the villainous woman threw her head back and shook with laughter. “Oh, you poor, blind fool!” she snorted. “You have no idea, do you?” She approached him with a sly pout, leaning forward so that her body was pressed along the length of his and whispered breathily in his ear. “I was not always of this world. I was once of yours. I knew your mother, your father.” Slowly, he pulled back, so that he was staring directly into her uncanny blue eyes. “We’ve met too, remember?”
“No,” he said, flat and unmoved.
“Oh, no?” she tutted, shaking her head sadly. “I’m hurt. We had such an enlightening meeting, didn’t we? You were so gallant, rushing to the rescue of a lost damsel in distress—trusting her to help you travel through a cave that she shouldn’t have known anything about.”
Arthur gasped in realization. “You!”
“Yes, me,” she laughed, cat-with-canary smug. “Such a foolish boy you were. I see that much hasn’t changed.”
“Why, you—!”
“I knew Merlin well, then,” she interrupted, brushing aside Arthur’s exclamation with a casual wave of her hand. “Better even than yourself, some might say. Merlin is twice a traitor. He betrayed me when he went back on a bargain and struck a blow intended to kill me,” her pink lips curled, “never mind that he got the magic all wrong and sent me to another world instead; and our people when he refused to ally himself with the Old Ways and stop your dear father’s reign of terror. And he betrays you each day he uses the very magic you so callously execute others for.”
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “No,” he insisted. “You’re lying.”
She pulled away, smile still locked in place even as her unnaturally blue eyes swirled with rage and hatred. “That man,” she said loudly, “is a warlock and a traitor. If you don’t believe me, then why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Arthur turned slowly, looked into Merlin’s shattered expression, and knew. “Merlin.”
“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispered. “I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you...”
“Shut up!” Arthur shouted. He couldn’t deal with this. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. “Shut up! Do not speak again until I bid it!”
“You see,” the witch said, running slender fingers teasingly down Arthur’s chest. “A traitor, like I said. Your princely duty demands that he be executed anyway. Why not let me have him and save yourself the trouble?”
“You will remove your hand from my person, witch,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. “And you will leave unsatisfied. Merlin’s fate is none of your concern. I will determine due punishment. You will not have him.”
She laughed again and stepped around Arthur to address Aslan once more.
“You know the law. The traitor’s blood is forfeit to me, as the law states; else the whole of Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water!”
“It is true,” rumbled Aslan. “I do not deny it.”
“I will not permit him to be taken,” Arthur said, aware of Rhindon at his side. Traitor or not, sorcerer or not, Merlin was his. No one would be allowed to harm him without his permission.
Aslan nodded thoughtfully. “Wait, all of you,” he demanded, “I will speak to the witch alone.”
The witch followed Aslan into the Lion’s pavilion, leaving behind a crowd of anxious and fearful people. Arthur returned to his place at Merlin’s side and refused to acknowledge the quiet, crocodile tears.
“Arthur,” Merlin tried once, reaching for him, but Arthur shook him off and glared him into silence.
Merlin did not try again.
The witch looked entirely too pleased when she and Aslan emerged from the pavilion; however, she had relinquished her claim on Merlin—and that was enough for now.
When Aslan insisted that the encampment relocate into the woods, well away from the Stone Table, he suspected that something strange was happening. After Aslan called him forth for a private discussion, he knew it was so.
“The witch and her army will almost certainly fall back to her House and prepare for a siege,” Aslan said without preamble. “You may or may not be able to cut her off and prevent her from reaching it, so you must have two battle plans ready. One plan is for assaulting her castle. The other is for fighting her and her army in the forest, for it will be difficult to know where she will decide to engage.”
“Yes,” Arthur blinked, nodding thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
“You must post scouts at all outlying points so that she may not catch you off guard.”
“I had considered that,” Arthur said. “But you speak as if you will not be there yourself, Aslan. This is your army.”
“Circumstances may arise to prevent me from being present for the coming battle; therefore, I am leaving full charge of my army to you. They will serve you well, and faithfully.”
Never mind that the army consisted of peace-loving folk, most of whom Arthur doubted had ever raised a fist in anger in the entirety of their lives. “I see. If that is your wish, then so be it.”
“Come. It is time you made the acquaintance of the centaur Oreius. He will be your finest general.”
“Why?” Arthur asked quietly, pouring himself a liberal goblet of spiced wine, studying the liquid ripples with disinterest. He could hear the rustling of cloth behind him as Merlin shucked his shirt and trousers in exchange for the soft cotton pyjamas that had been left for him. For once, he had no desire to turn and pull that lithe body into his arms and ravage all that naked skin.
“I was born this way,” Merlin said, finally. “I can no more stop being a sorcerer than you can stop being Uther’s son or Camelot’s prince. The magic is a part of me. I don’t think I could live without it. Though...”
“Though?”
“I would try. For you. If you wished it.”
Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “What am I to do with you?” Merlin wasn’t evil; of this, Arthur had no doubts. Executing him was out of the question. But could he let him go? Astonishing displays of idiocy would not distract the people of Camelot forever; in retrospect, it was amazing that Merlin’s secret had not been exposed sooner. Exile might be best. Many things were suddenly making a lot more sense. “I knew you couldn’t have knocked me out with a blasted branch.”
“Huh?”
“Sophia.”
“Oh. Yes. That.”
Arthur sighed again. “If I sent you away and commanded that you never again step foot in Camelot, would you listen?”
“Probably not.”
“Even if it could save your life?”
Merlin was silent a moment. “I could never leave you. Cast me aside, if you must, but nothing could compel me to leave you at the mercy of my less forgiving peers. You’re a stunning knight, a good prince, and one day you’ll be a great king, but for now you need my help. You’re no match for the sort of magic Nimueh and her ilk send against Camelot on a nearly daily basis. Not alone.”
He sipped at his wine and mulled this over. What should he do? What could he do? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. “Go to sleep, Merlin. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
More rustling, this time of blankets and soft sheets. Then, hesitantly, Merlin said, “For what it’s worth, I do love you. I never lied about that.”
“Good night, Merlin,” Arthur said, firmly but not unkindly, and shuffled through the maps spread out before with single-minded determination. He had a lot to think about.
The forces of darkness laughed and jeered in the flickering torchlight as their Queen’s knife first sheared the Great Lion’s golden mane, reducing him to the likeness of little more than a mangy, oversized alley cat.
Blackthorn the Dwarf, the Queen’s own personal servant, did not laugh. He had worshipped the thought of Aslan’s salvation, once—before Her Majesty had taken him into her service and given him new life, new purpose. If he were being honest with himself, he had never truly relinquished that youthful fantasy. How naive he had been to think anyone could bring joy back to Narnia.
Tonight marked the end of dreams.