Dear Gaius (part 2)

Arthur put his elbow on the table, and rested his forehead in his palm.

Reached to slide the next letter into better light and angle, and pushed the singly-folded sheet open.

Dear Gaius,

Tomorrow morning we're to set out again, searching for news of Morgana. I don't really expect there to be trouble, I mean to say, I don't have any idea of not returning, this time. I just, I wanted to write another one of these letters to you. Not just in case I don't see you again, but because… I'm not really sure how to talk to you about this. Maybe it doesn't matter, and you'll never read this anyway, but…

It's my fault. You haven't said it and I thank you for that, but I still feel like, everything that's happened with Morgana is my fault.

Arthur re-read that line several times. Understanding, and yet not. Because he felt the very same way, whenever he thought of Morgana. Of the things he could have done, and didn't – he hadn't known there was a problem til it was long past fixing. She didn't trust him, she hadn't confided in him.

Neither had Merlin – but Merlin hadn't betrayed Camelot or Arthur. Not in any way that mattered, not in any way that endangered his reign or the lives of innocents.

It's killing me to watch what Morgana's absence is doing to the king.

For a moment, Arthur was disconcerted, til he remembered, at the time his father would have been king. He remembered that year, too – his father had been extremely hard on him, and all the men. Find her. Repeated endlessly, in spite of the expenses, in spite of the drain on everyone's health and energy. Maybe a full night's rest when they returned, and as much food as they could pack inside them – but they headed right out the next morning. And Uther never listened when Arthur argued the impossibility of rescuing someone from a sorceress who'd always evaded them. Even the ruins where he'd seen the ghost of his mother had yielded nothing.

I'm glad Gwen is feeling better, though – not so tearful, these days. It helps her to stay busy, I can tell, even though we're not around much.

That, too, Arthur remembered. Feeling like it was his failure that had lost Morgana, the day Morgause and her Knights of Medhir had attacked, and that he didn't deserve Gwen's company, then.

It's hardest on Arthur, though. He blames himself, and half kills himself with trying so hard, on these patrols. Even when the rest of the men are just going through the motions because they've all decided, Morgana is dead or as good as. At least they can take a rotation off once in a while, but Arthur's always out looking. Trying.

And Merlin had been right there with him. Lean and exhausted and frost-bitten and half-drowned – but ready with whatever creature comforts of hot food and dry blankets he could manage. And a comforting word. Even, it seemed, when he'd felt as guilty as Arthur, and with far less reason. He wasn't responsible for Morgana, not like Arthur was, and had been since they were children and she had come orphaned to Camelot…

He'd be there, at Camlann, Arthur knew. Whatever he found in the Valley – even if it was nothing – he'd be at Camlann. How could he ever have doubted otherwise of Merlin?

Arthur folded that letter without reading Merlin's repeated personal assurances to Gaius, yet again. It surprised him a little, how often the younger man could say the same thing, and it lost no meaning – but rather gained significance, every time.

The next one, however, was the shortest and messiest, each line beginning dark with drippy ink, scratching til there was the faintest shadow of letters to make out what was meant. Written in a desperate hurry, then.

Gaius – I'm sorry I lost the Cup.

Arthur knew immediately what was meant with that capital letter. He remembered that headlong flight to keep the magical artifact – fairly stolen from the druids, and that still shamed him - out of the hands of Cenred's men. He remembered that he'd been shot by an arrow – and had woken to scold Merlin for caring for him instead of retrieving the priceless goblet.

Was that, he wondered, Merlin's one failing – caring for Arthur more than whatever was at stake?

But at least a year had passed, between this scrawled note and the last rambling letter. A year in which things happened – he was sure Merlin must have been in fear for his life at least once, especially considering that Morgana had evidently been working against them for quite some time, spying for Morgause. The whole year, maybe? that was a depressing thought… but also the only explanation for what had happened when they returned without the Cup. We have a traitor in our midst.

Arthur's hurt, but he'll live as long as I do. We'll try for the king, but whether we can rescue him or not, we'll meet you in the woods. After that – it's anyone's guess.

Read these. I mean them.

Swallowing hurt, and the words blurred. Merlin's heart was as true and courageous as any of his knights – and he'd never malign them with a rescinded compliment like he'd slapped in his servant's face. He'd even treated Mordred with more respect, and Mordred had left them at the first true test of divided loyalties.

When this is over, Merlin, he vowed silently, you and I will talk.

He found himself wondering how Merlin had managed to retrieve each of these notes left for his mentor, without Gaius seeing one of them. Maybe he'd left them in his room, and the old man simply hadn't had cause to go up there to look about, seeing how Merlin always returned virtually unscathed.

Dear Gaius,

I'm fine, I promise. That dizzy spell at the feast was nothing, and I'm sure the Cailleach means no harm.

And, I'm writing you another of these letters.

Arthur couldn't help a chuckle, though it wasn't mirthful. He'd been content to take Merlin's assurances, I'm fine, at face value every time. There usually wasn't opportunity to do anything else. He remembered exactly what Merlin was talking about, though – that stupid Samhain feast, having to speak the toast and pretend to celebrate when they'd just received news of Morgana, that she'd killed two of his men. He remembered that his uncle had been there, vowing his loyalty, too.

She'd gone to the Isle of the Blessed. Not to seek healing for a loved one, as Merlin had done – but evidently to offer the blood sacrifice necessary to cause more indiscriminate death. He shook his head; the difference between Merlin and Morgana was vast, and incomprehensible, to him.

Whatever we find at this village –

Arthur remembered the strained tension, creeping through the dead and abandoned. The sound that had startled them all like nervous girls – and then it was just Gwaine, crunching an apple.

Whether it has anything to do with the veil, torn or not, or the spirit world, you know you need not fear for Arthur. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him, and to fix whatever Morgana's done. Honestly, though, I don't know what I'd do without you – you have answers whenever I'm lost, and when I doubt myself, you don't. I cannot even begin to express how valuable that is to me. You believe in me, and that makes it possible for me to believe, too.

Arthur let his breath out harshly, scrubbing his eyes dry though there was no one else in the room to see the involuntary overflow of emotion.

He understood that sentiment, too, he'd felt it over and over. With Merlin. With Gwen and the knights and Gaius, but first and deepest, with Merlin. Your belief in me makes it possible for me to believe, too – and that was what hurt, today in his room, the thought that Merlin was deserting him now, of all times.

But of course, Merlin wouldn't.

He'd teased Merlin relentlessly for days after that Samhain, about how jumpy he was, mostly to cover his own anxiety. Arthur remembered how they'd talked around Merlin's courage, the first night they'd made camp on their way to the Isle, about whether their relationship could be termed friends, or not. He remembered that Merlin had been optimistic, even then.

And then his servant had tossed him aside before jumping right in the path of that one stray dorocha. Miraculously he'd survived, to rejoin them in their quest to close the veil. Arthur remembered vivid, painful relief – that Merlin was going to be with him at the end, after all. That he would die for his kingdom, but Merlin would live.

Not even a dozen steps he'd taken across that wild dark courtyard, and not a flicker of suspicion that the veil-keeper had changed her mind – Is that the best you can do? – when his surrender had been rejected as easily as Gwaine's attack had been.

Flying through the air, colliding with stone and darkness – waking to find that Lancelot's sacrifice had been accepted. There had been too much confusion and discomfort when he'd woken, and in the days to follow, too much to do in the aftermath of the fear and death throughout the kingdom, to think much on those moments after unconsciousness.

Now he couldn't help contemplating the hours Lancelot and Merlin had spent apart from him and the other knights. What had they spoken of, what had they decided… and then Merlin had healed miraculously.

It occurred to him that the straightest path they could have taken back to Camelot, would have been through the Forest of Glaestig. Dragoon's backyard.

Arthur shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. To rid himself of a niggling suspicion that the private and deeply-buried fear that his life somehow wasn't good enough to seal the veil – perhaps because he was a Pendragon? – wasn't the answer to the inexplicable events of that night.

Yet another question he'd have to ask Merlin. What happened when I wasn't looking.

That letter he folded carefully, almost reverently. These bits of parchments, the careless strokes, the cheap ink, were becoming unbearably precious.

He hesitated before reaching for the next one.

What if he didn't say anything to Merlin at all. What if he simply decided to trust… and when all this was over, they'd go for a long ride, the two of them. Away from the citadel and their various responsibilities, seeking honesty and truth in the equality of the forest tracks.

That is, if they both made it through the battle alive. If they didn't – he supposed it didn't matter much, after all, what he knew or didn't know.

Dear Gaius,

I'm not going to apologize for this one. Yes, I made mistakes, and I know it – I shouldn't have trusted Borden. But that egg, that unborn dragon, is my responsibility and no one else's – and I cannot bear that it should remain imprisoned.

Oh yeah, that. Arthur didn't thump his head on the table, he only shook it and felt his mouth turn down unhappily. He knew the reason why Merlin would claim the egg his responsibility, now – and he wished once again that Merlin had more than one person to confide in and ask advice of. He had the idea that the father-son relationship between Merlin and Gaius meant also, some rebellion for rebellion's sake.

And – that small deformed white dragon they'd seen more than once. He could guess, now, that the egg had not been lost in the collapse of the tower, which only Merlin had witnessed, when he and the knights had arrived just after, whatever had happened. He wondered if the thief had survived that day, too.

How had that dragon become attached to Morgana, though, if Merlin was the son of the dragonlord?

I don't think my life is in danger, this time – but my secrets definitely are. If I'm caught doing something I can't explain away, I just, I don't think I can lie to Arthur about this. It's not just me that I'm protecting, you see – it's that little dragon. So if I can't hide both of us, I guess I won't be coming back. In that case, tell Arthur it won't do any good to send anyone to Ealdor, or to the Forest of Merendra, for he won't find me in either place. Tell him… well, tell him the truth, I guess. Tell him that you're innocent in all of this, but that he need never fear me or the dragons, not ever for any reason. And if he ever needs us…

Arthur found it hard to breathe evenly. Merlin expected him to react as his father had – with violence or rejection. Was that why he'd stood there this afternoon and said nothing when Arthur backhandedly called him coward?

He wanted to hit Merlin. To punch him right in the jaw or the stomach, to shake him til his teeth rattled in his head. Til he fought back, and the hurt Arthur felt was physical, bruises that could be seen, and would fade. He wanted a shouting match, to release some of this frustration – with himself, mostly, if he was honest – and hear some damn honesty leap unchecked from Merlin's mouth, too.

Don't treat me like the king, anymore. Don't lie because that's what I want to hear, because of the law I'm sworn to uphold. Give me the truth, and trust me to deal justly and fairly.

Which was at odds with his desire for a bit of temper-relieving violence, he knew. And with the resolution to keep the secrets for a day when they weren't facing battle.

Arthur discarded the dragon-letter, and reached for the next one – there were four left, he could count. All right; he had the time for that. And then to decide whether to tell Gaius he'd found them – as long as he remained undiscovered in the physician's chamber – and then to decide whether to tell Guinevere, tonight. Probably enough, though not everything.

Dear Gaius,

This is it. Our first joined battle with Arthur as king – and for such a stupid reason, too. If I didn't know Agravaine was Arthur's uncle, and of course he'd have to give the best advice he had, wouldn't he? I'd wonder if he didn't want Arthur to fail, for some reason.

Arthur snorted. And thumped his head with his fist, remembering Merlin's immediate agreement to the plan that had resulted in the bandit-king's capture in the first place. Surely Merlin's risk and obvious courage – raising that wood-axe against Caerleon's whole troop before the knights joined him in that gully – merited him some say in how the captive was dealt with.

He sighed – perhaps Merlin's risk and obvious courage merited him some say in Arthur's council. Always provided they survived Camlann.

What a stupid thing to happen. We had Caerleon, Gaius, we had him captive, and we could have done anything with him. Anything more diplomatic than executing him on the spot, Agravaine had to know it.

Arthur doesn't listen to me anymore. I mean, there was never any real reason why he should – except for when I'm right – but now he ignores me, instead of arguing to find the point of the argument, and make the best decision, then. And I honestly can't tell, anymore, how he's going to react if he decides I've actually crossed the line into insubordination or disloyalty. Or treason. What he does and what he thinks… aren't the same thing. He's trying harder to be his father's son now, than he did when he was just the prince, and I'm… I'm scared for him, Gaius. I don't know how to help him be true to himself, anymore.

I guess, just like I've always done. Make sure his fool head stays on his fool shoulders. And if I don't come back from this war and he does, you can tell him I said that.

My fool head doesn't matter much anymore, anyway.

Please laugh, Gaius, when you remember me – don't mourn, or at least not for long. Don't let Gwen mourn for long, or my mother, all right? Promise me that. And thanks for everything.

He'd done something that day, too, Arthur was sure of it. That was before Merlin had begun to suspect Agravaine – long before that heart-stopping moment when Arthur had seen his uncle crossing the courtyard with Morgana, otherwise he'd never have believed it, himself.

That day when Arthur was fighting the seven-foot-tall champion of Queen Annis, and his sword had been so incredibly unwieldy, it was a like a nightmare. He'd had those, nightmares when his sword had been too heavy to defend himself, and those he loved, and bolt upright sweating and panting in his bed, trying to grip and lift and pull the sheets. That day on the field, with everyone watching, he'd been sure he was going to lose – and then the giant twice fumbled his weapon. A sword that by all rights should have been heavier than Arthur's, balanced for the larger man – but it felt light as a feather in comparison.

That phenomenon hadn't happened since, though, to the sword he carried almost daily at his hip. Curious. Arthur was willing to bet Merlin knew why. Arthur was willing to bet his life that Merlin's magic had acted to hinder his opponent's weapon, that day, and not his own.

Third to the last. Dear Gaius,

Arthur's ordered me to ready for a trip again, just him and me. He refused to tell me where, but I'm afraid I already know. The horn the old woman told us about, the one meant to summon the spirits of the dead. I think we're going to Nemeton, like we once went to Morgause. I'm afraid, though, it won't be for Arthur to see his mother again… I always hated the way Agravaine made him feel like he was no good as a king, it was worse than how Uther used to treat him. He's a good man, he just needs more confidence in the decisions that come from his heart – I know you know what I mean. But I'm afraid he's going to summon his father's spirit, and that… nothing good can come from that.

But good had come from that whole ordeal, Arthur felt; he'd seen his father and spoken to him, had recognized what made his father a good king - and where he'd crossed the line. That was the day he felt he'd first fully owned the crown and throne as his, and not just as an inheritance from his father. An obligation to do thing the way his father would have done them.

It was odd Merlin thought he had to write a letter of farewell to Gaius for that trip, though – did he think they might honestly be in danger of their lives?

Then again, they'd been attacked by Odin's men when they were on their way to meet Morgause; and looking back, it had been less than a fortnight between Nemeton and the horn, and Mithian's arrival to plead for help because Odin – and Morgana – had invaded Nemeth.

Merlin's stupid funny-feeling was so often, dead on.

Arthur wished he'd known there was a reason he could have trusted himself to trust that. A servant's fears compared to a magic-user's intuition…

It was odd how it wasn't really odd anymore to think of Merlin using magic. Warlock. Something part of him, not just a skill he'd learned like horse-riding or armor-mending.

That meant the other two letters, in chronological order, were from this year as well. And nothing at all from the first three years of Arthur's reign, at least after Morgana's defeat and Agravaine's subsequent retreat. He wondered if maybe, Merlin had gotten to the point where he didn't fear for his life, anymore – but for the revelation of his secret abilities. And then he would be banished, or escape and go into voluntary exile, himself.

That thought hurt Arthur as much as the reality of Gwen's absence at his command. No; no matter what Merlin had done, no matter how much it looked like his manservant had betrayed him in breaking the law banning all use of magic, Arthur was determined not to make the same mistake. Not to separate himself from people who were trustworthy to the core – at least not without the opportunity to listen and understand, first.

Dear Gaius,

We're riding at dawn for Brechfa. A sorcerer has attacked the garrison, evidently, and a knight was killed, so of course we're going after him.

I hate this, Gaius, truly. I don't know the man, so I can have no idea if he meant murder, or if he was simply caught unawares, and trying to escape with his life. Perhaps he has a family he was trying to hide, to keep safe. But now we're to hunt him down, and I cannot but expect him to defend himself. Which is understandable – and normally I'd be helping him as much as I could –

Arthur thought uncomfortably of the druid boy - who'd gone on that mission with them as a man and a knight. Of the druid girl who'd also killed innocent people because she'd been cursed, and Merlin had intended to save her.

He remembered Osric, a messenger killed for the magic they hadn't even seen him use, before any questions could be asked about the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Ranulf. He remembered that golden disk, and the three sorceresses in the cave – and how Merlin had felt the vitality of the grove, more so than Arthur.

But he'd told him, when Arthur had pressed for his opinion, do not accept magic back. There can be no place for magic in Camelot. Did Merlin truly believe that? That Arthur would have broken that promise, once Mordred's life was saved – or was it that he didn't want Mordred's life saved, knowing what he knew?

That was Merlin's failing, then. To value Arthur's life over every other consideration. Over magic itself.

Breathing hurt. But he had to go on doing it.

Is it my fault, then? Why does it always happen this way? At times, in the past, he'd begun to doubt the teachings of his father, to examine the conclusions of the law. And then something went horribly or fatally wrong, and he thought himself justified in retreating back into the familiarity of the blanket Ban and the black-and-white morality he'd been taught. It's just, all evil. Don't even bother questioning.

How can he possibly change his mind, when this is all he sees? When he assumes the man to be guilty of murder, before any mention of trial? Before he's heard his side of the story? How can I show Arthur the truth about magic – that it isn't good or bad, that there is no evil in magic, just in men – if I can't tell him about myself, because I would be guilty the moment I opened my mouth to say, I have magic. I probably wouldn't be allowed to say, I use it for you, Arthur, only for you – if he'd even believe me, at that point.

I don't know, Gaius. Arthur must live, that is certain. But if I must defend him with magic against this sorcerer, and I'm caught – I think I'm going to ask him for the mercy of his own sword, and a quick death. Not to come back here, or stand trial, or have anyone else even know. That would undermine his rule, and his confidence in himself…

So if he comes to tell you, Merlin was killed on this patrol. Please just accept that, and pretend you knew nothing about my magic. And don't tell Gwen anything, either. Just that I loved them both, and tried to serve them truly, to the best of all my abilities.

And of course, tell my mother –

Arthur's throat was closing, and the room blurred. He tried to swallow, to clear the passageway for air, and it hurt. Hells, Merlin – that he'd truly believed Arthur would have stood over him kneeling for the blade the way Caerleon had done, and then swing his sword… It made him ill to think.

It made him ill to remember how unjustly he'd taken another's life, with the caprice his father had shown, using power simply because he could.

But the worst was that Merlin has lost faith in him. In his ability to judge fairly and to dispense even-handed justice.

Did he believe all magic was evil, and anyone with the ability to use it to be declared a thorough liar? No. But then it followed, that he should believe some magic to be good, and any given magic-user capable of honesty and trustworthiness. And he trusted Merlin, no matter what he learned about the secrets he kept. He trusted that Merlin had done that for his own good, even if he'd been mistaken in his belief.

"I wish you'd said something," he whispered into the darkness of the backs of his eyelids, and against the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry…" The words burned in his throat. Guess I was wrong, guess I was wrong.

Damn it all, how wrong he'd been.

When he moved his hand and opened his eyes to rub tears and tiredness from them, the room was noticeably darker, the candle on the table just holding back the shadow. And his fingers shook as he touched the last unread letter.

Dear Gaius,

You'll probably tell me not to go. The boy's a stranger, he's a druid, he got all the way to the citadel kitchen without anyone noticing. It's dangerous in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, I know. But he says his sister is sick, and of course you can't go because it is dangerous. So I'm going. Arthur's going to be busy with Sarrum anyway, and I'll be back before he knows I'm gone. If I'm not… Well, if I'm not I guess I don't care what you tell him.

Arthur gazed into the corner, remembering how absolutely distracted he'd been by that bit of attempted diplomacy. How Gaius had tried to excuse Merlin's absence on herb-fetching errands – was that ever actually true? – and he'd concluded Merlin was in the tavern again.

And yet… he hadn't gone to drag his drunken manservant back himself, or order anyone else to do it. And now, after reading all of these and mounting realizations like the stairs of a tower, he couldn't remember that day, that moment right here in this room, whether he'd suspected and overlooked, or not.

And he'd been revolted by the Sarrum's talk of torturing Morgana. And the boy with the sick sister – had he been the same one who'd died in saving Arthur's life from the Sarrum's assassin? Why had Merlin brought him back here, if he was a druid? The opposite of what he'd done in trying to save Mordred.

And just at the right moment? seemed the more pertinent question.

He couldn't help remembering that Guinevere had lied about Merlin going to see a girl, or that Merlin had never explained why he was limping that night. And that had led into the realization of Gwen's enchantment, and her miraculous, magical reclamation…

How often had Merlin seen danger coming a mile before Arthur had any hint of it? And what culpability did Arthur own in Merlin's decision not to inform him, because of disbelief or contempt?

I mistreat him and he stays. And he covers the true depth of his pain, physical and otherwise, with stupid complaints that I disregard and mock…

Arthur folded the last sheet – Dear Gaius, This time we got to say goodbye – and matched it as best he could with the other pages, tucking them all carefully into the cloth pouch.

I don't understand. I don't deserve his devotion, I haven't earned a fraction of that from him. He's not a knight… but I should respect him more. I should listen more…

Standing, he made his way up three uneven stairs, and pushed into Merlin's bedroom. Simple, spare – but rich with significance. Articles of clothing left behind – and carelessly. In his hurry, and maybe a subconscious belief that they would indeed be back to continue with life as usual – or maybe a superstition that packing or cleaning was a final surrender of hope.

Candle on the table in the corner that evidently Merlin used for a desk – and dozens of these little rough cheap parchment pages, carrying recipes or sketches or notes, pinned to the wall or folded over a long string tacked horizontally for the purpose. He'd come a long way from the clumsy boy Arthur had so resisted upon first meeting and reluctant association. Now, were something to happen to Gaius, Arthur trusted that Merlin could handle the responsibilities he'd been taught. Medicine, and magic.

Because, I'm the idiot. I'm the one that can't see what's right in front of me.

Heaven grant me time to make that right…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's sleep was broken by nightmares. He sat at a campfire across from Gaius and tried to coax the old physician – who knew nothing of Arthur's trip to his quarters and descent into memories, or the letters from his apprentice - into telling him the truth and Gaius said, The truth is, I haven't sent Merlin anywhere. He knows we can't win this battle…

He tossed to his other side, tangling the sheets some other servant had packed, rustling over the mattress some other attendant had organized for their monarchs. Vaguely he thought he was probably disturbing Guinevere's rest, and hoped she wasn't having bad dreams, too.

Leon's voice echoed, It's a death trap… it's a death trap…

He dreamed of Merlin entombed in the dark, bloodied and exhausted and screaming with futile despair. Death trap… death trap… Gwaine had returned, reassuring him that Merlin could handle himself – but he was alone, then.

If Merlin wasn't coming – if Merlin couldn't come and bring with him the magic that was their only hope –

Arthur's spirit struggled, restrained within his sleeping body. Certain that he couldn't breathe, certain that he wouldn't wake in time and the enemy would come sweeping into the tent. Certain that he'd overlooked something as vital as Merlin and magic.

Help me! I can't… not by myself…

Arthur.

Merlin's voice, soothing and cool, sympathetic and supportive, and Arthur stilled to attention, focused on the voice in the dark.

I'm sorry I had to leave you. I didn't want to.

I didn't want you to, either. I'm sorry I said what I said…

Merlin didn't seem to have heard him. I hope one day you'll understand why.

I do understand. At least, I think I do.

Merlin didn't hear that either, but went on to speak of Camlann, and Arthur's plan. His confidence made Arthur sure, even if there was an old path unknown, and Merlin himself not there yet.

Find the path! Merlin urged.

And somehow they were more fully connected by their shared intensity – it was as if Arthur had opened his eyes into another dream, of Merlin surrounded by blue-white crystals, glowing and reflected in his eyes.

Merlin! Arthur pushed past the resistance of time and space to respond. To reach and grasp and keep.

His manservant – his magician – spun and almost lost his balance, stunned but fully attuned to whatever presence Arthur had achieved.

"What… is…" he sputtered stupidly – then calmed abruptly to almost-laughing, looking around himself at all the crystals. "I'm dreaming, aren't I. Wishful thinking?"

"I'm dreaming," Arthur said, impatient with the shortness of time – the day of battle dawning, or nearly so. "Don't panic, but I know. I know you're a warlock, I know you have magic in a special way that you never chose – but I know that your choice was to use it for good. To protect people you cared about – Gaius, and Gwen. Camelot. Even me, and damn if I wouldn't like to – shake you, or punch you, or…"

"Put me in the stocks?" Merlin suggested, overcoming shock just enough to attempt a deflecting joke.

"Knight you," Arthur corrected forcefully. "If that wouldn't be so absurd, all around."

"What happened," Merlin said. "Something happened – after I saw you last, in your chamber? Or else, I really am dreaming."

"I read your letters," Arthur confessed, a bit ashamed, but mostly just rushed because whatever this connection was, it couldn't last. "The ones you left for Gaius."

Merlin's mouth dropped open, as if his first reaction was to be offended – maybe then to exaggerate that and mock Arthur's embarrassment in confessing a wrongdoing. But – Arthur saw it happen – he began to remember what he'd written, and a strange and painful sort of fear began to darken his eyes.

"I want to say something to you," Arthur interrupted. "Something I already said once, and didn't mean. Merlin… Guess I was wrong. About a lot of things. About magic."

Mouth still sagging open, Merlin fumbled to land a supporting hand on the wall of the cave, and sank down to sitting.

"Listen, I know where you went and what for, and it's all right," Arthur continued. "Bring that old man Dragoon and his magic, and we'll block off that pass, and meet Morgana on something like an even battlefield. And we'll end this, once and for all, we'll bring peace and a chance to catch our breath. And do some good, something constructive that we can be proud of."

"A… bout that old man? Dragoon?" Merlin said, as if he were still overwhelmed and not certain whether to believe what was happening. "Um, there's something I should probably tell you…"

"There's tons you should probably tell me," Arthur stated. "But later. After."

"Mordred will be there," Merlin said suddenly, straightening and drawing his legs under him in preparation to rise. "If I'm a little late getting there, please be careful, Arthur. He'll kill you."

"He'll try," Arthur said, feeling quietly but determinedly lethal, himself. "You take care of yourself, too…" It occurred to him that Merlin was in a cave – the cave – very much like Arthur had dreamed just now, of prisons and desolation, and sought more assurance of Merlin's ability to arrive at the battlefield. "I'll look for you?"

"I'll be there," Merlin promised. "Me, though. Not him – the old man."

"Don't you think –" Arthur started, but Merlin stopped him with a wide grin that was incongruously cheeky, for their situation.

"I guess I was wrong, too - I don't need him, after all," the warlock said. "Wake up, now, Arthur… I'll be there soon."

Arthur blinked and everything went black and foggy for a moment. Til he dragged himself back up from the depths of the cave to Guinevere's concerned voice and the subtle candlelight on the soft nest of their transported bed.

"What's the matter?"

"Merlin," he said automatically, not sure whether he was trying to call the dream-connection back, or accept the link broken, and take hold of consciousness and all it meant for the dawning of this day.

"It was a dream, Arthur," Gwen consoled him – though he'd told her enough, last night, that really she should know better. But he was breathing hard and sweating freely, so probably she'd just said the first thing that came to her mind in waking next to him like that. "Just a dream."

Arthur took a deep breath, and let it out. And just before he grabbed a handful of bedding to toss back and leap out in search of clothing and armor, he gave her the same sort of arrogant smirk his magical manservant had just given him.

"No, it wasn't. And that's why we'll win."

A/N: Again, not an original idea, that Arthur learns Merlin's secrets by reading his correspondence/diary… Also, sorry for another pulling-up-short-of-the-fictional-finish-line kind of ending! But we can figure the fight will go their way, and Mordred won't wound Arthur mortally and Morgana won't escape the battlefield and Merlin will come as himself and – eventually – confess the truth of Dragoon. I kind of like Arthur figuring some things out on his own – but not everything.

Thanks so much to everyone who followed and favorited and especially reviewed this collection of stories! I don't have any plans to add to it at the moment, so I'm marking it complete. And in a week or so I'm going to start my next full-length fic, "The Penned Dragon", a modern take (more or less) on episode 2.8 "The Sins of the Father."

Quotations from eps. 1.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur", 4.3 "The Wicked Day", 4.7 "The Secret Sharer", 5.9 "With All My Heart" and 5.12 "The Diamond of the Day". And others, probably…